by Jean Plaidy
He was making me feel that now I had become Queen I had to remember constantly that he was the King, so that after my coronation, ironically, I had become less important than I had been before. Then I had been so essential to his happiness; my outbursts of temper had been painful to him, and his great desire had always been to bring me back to a sweeter mood. Now he would walk out and leave me and later make no reference to the matter and still behave in a somewhat lordly way as though saying: I have made you my Queen, but I am the King and you are still my subject.
He did not actually say this, but he was not a man to cloak his feelings, and one could often read from the expressions which flitted across his face; his little eyes would harden, his little mouth grow cruel; and the color in his big face would deepen to a rich purple. These were the signs which could terrify his subjects. I had never allowed them to frighten me but in the past they had rarely been directed against me.
I was in my eighth month—longing for the time to pass. Pregnancy in August is even more trying than in the cooler months. I was beginning to think of the child—not so much as a future King but as my baby. Sometimes for hours I would talk of little else. I gathered women about me who had shared the fearsome but exhilarating experience of child-bearing. I made them talk to me. I enjoyed the discourse.
I longed for September. I would hold my son in my arms, and Henry would be as he was before. He would be so grateful that I should be assured of his devotion forever; and it would not be long before I regained my ascendancy over him.
It was Jane Rochford who planted distrust and suspicion in my mind.
I think she delighted in it. In spite of the fact that she was my sister-in-law and a member of that family to which I was bringing great good fortune, she hated me. Envy was the key to her character. Most people have a sprinkling of it in their natures, and it had always seemed to me the most deadly of all the seven deadly sins and the one from which most others erupt; but with Jane it was the theme of her life. She was envious of George while loving him passionately. I did not realize then how deeply she hated me and that it was mainly because of my brother's love for me.
So she delighted to whisper this secret to me.
She began by gazing at me in perplexity, beginning to speak and then stopping. “Perhaps I shouldn't …Only I thought…and after all…we are sisters… and if anyone should… perhaps I should be the one…”
I cried impatiently: “What are you trying to say?”
“Please don't ask me to go on. And you in your condition… This month has been so trying. I thank God it will soon be over. September is almost here.”
“Jane,” I said firmly, “tell me what you are trying to say. I command you.”
She hung her head as though suddenly aware of my exalted position, but I noticed the satisfied turn of her lips.
I took her by the shoulders and shook her.
“Well… then… since you insist. The King is seeing a great deal of a certain lady. They are saying he is seeking her out. And she is giving her
self airs.”
“Who told you this?”
“Your Grace, the whole Court is whispering of it.”
“I don't believe it.”
“No, no,” she said soothingly. “It can't be true… and you just on the point of giving birth to the heir.”
“There are always those who will gossip in the Court and see what does not exist outside their evil imaginations.”
“Oh 'tis true, 'tis true. But I just thought…I thought you would want to know what people are saying.”
I said: “Thank you, Jane, for telling me. It's nonsense but one should know what is being said.”
I dismissed her then. I wanted to be alone to think. So it was true. He was seeing someone else. All during those waiting years I believed he had been faithful to me; now that we were together, as soon as we had reached the desired state, he had already begun to stray.
I could not believe it. Not so soon! And in a week or so my child was due.
Was Jane lying? I did not think she would dare. She was sly and delighted to plant uneasiness in my mind, but I did not think she would dare lie in such a matter.
My anger against Henry grew with every minute.
I was always impetuous and perhaps more so than ever now. My fury seemed to be choking me; the only way I could keep a little calm was by thinking of the baby.
A little later I saw Henry. He was not alone, though only one or two of his friends were with him. I could not wait. He came over to me, leaving them in a corner of the room. He asked after my health and I burst out: “And you, sir, how is it with you and your mistress?”
He looked at me in astonishment, his little eyes narrowed. I should have been warned. But I had many lessons to learn and I had not yet mastered one of them.
“Do not feign innocence,” I cried. “It is all over the Court. I will not endure such conduct. Here I am … in this condition…”
“Madam,” he said coolly, “you forget to whom you speak.”
“I speak to my husband,” I retorted, “who should have more concern for me and our child… than to chase my servants.”
I had never seen him look like that before. His face was pale for a moment before the color flamed into it. Then he spoke. “You will close your eyes as your betters did before you.”
I was stunned. I had expected him to deny the accusation. I would not have believed him, but I would have accepted his assurances of eternal fidelity and told myself that this would be a warning to him. That I had not expected such a reaction showed how little I knew him or understood the situation to which I had been brought.
He seemed to have forgotten the listening courtiers—as I had temporarily—but I remembered afterward.
He then said something which sent a shiver through me. He had taken a step toward me, and his expression was almost threatening. “You ought to know that it is in my power in a single instant to lower you further than I have raised you up.”
And with that he turned and went from the room, his companions following him.
I went to my apartments in a daze and sank onto my bed.
It was like a nightmare. Was this the tender lover who had always sought to placate me during my outbursts of temper, the man who had sworn eternal fidelity and worked with such determination—and world-shattering consequences—for seven long years to make me his Queen? And in less than seven months he was tired of me!
I lay looking up at the ornate canopy. I had never been so bewildered in my life.
Then I thought of the child stirring within me. He could do me no harm … not while I carried the heir. This child was what he wanted more than anything…more than he wanted me or the simpering maid of honor he was pursuing.
His words would be reported all over the Court. I could imagine the sniggers of my enemies.
But I carried the heir. I would be the mother of the future King.
I had never loved Henry. But I was already loving the child I carried. The child would be my salvation.
I did not see Henry for three days after that incident. I was glad. I was very uncertain how I should behave toward him. I could not forget the ominous threat behind those words. During those few days I thought more often of Katharine than I ever had before and with different emotions. I had considered her an obstinate woman who refused to make life easier for us all because she would not go into a convent. What anguish had she suffered when he had made it clear to her that he wished to cast her aside? He could not have spoken to her as he had to me. He had not “raised her up”— not the daughter of Queen Isabella and the mighty Ferdinand; she was of nobler birth than he with his dubious ancestry. He could not lower the daughter of kings; it was different for one whose great-grandfather had been a mere merchant of the city of London. Katharine had had powerful relations to guard her; and yet she had been thrust aside by the power of the King.
These, I told myself, were foolish thoughts. I must try to be rational. He was me
rely having a little sport while I was incapacitated, to while away the time until I was myself again. Jane, with her sly comments, had aroused my anger and without thinking I had flared up—which I was afraid was not uncommon with me.
All would be well when the child was born.
September had come—the month for which we had all been waiting. The birthplace of the child was to be Greenwich Palace, and great preparations were being made.
When I arrived in my barge, people lined the banks to watch me. The cheers were half-hearted but at least there were no hostile manifestations. I suppose even my enemies had some respect for a pregnant woman.
The chamber I was to use for my confinement had been hung with tapestries depicting the history of the Holy Virgins. Here I should bring forth this most important child; in it was a very fine bed which Henry had given me some weeks before. It was ornate and exquisitely decorated and had belonged to a French Duke; I think it came into Henry's possession as the spoils of war. It was the finest I had ever seen. In this chamber was another bed over which was a crimson canopy. This was where I should receive those who came to see me and the infant after the birth.
Heavy and elaborate drapes were drawn across the windows to shut out all light; they gave the room, in spite of its luxurious fittings, a somewhat somber look.
When I arrived at Greenwich, I was taken by a large company of courtiers including my ladies to my chamber where I took communion. Then I was conducted to my lying-in chamber. It was all very ceremonial, for everything must be done in accordance with tradition.
Notices had already been prepared announcing the birth of a Prince. This might seem premature but the soothsayers and prophets had, almost without exception, proclaimed that the child would be a boy. There was only one man who had dared say it would be a girl, and he was so unpopular and had incurred the King's wrath to such a degree that no one else dared mention that disastrous possibility.
The King had come to see me just before I went to Greenwich. There had been a certain restraint between us and if I had expected some humility from him I was disappointed. He had made his point. He would act as he wished, and it was my duty to remember that he was the King and all my honors had come through him.
He kissed me coolly on the cheek and said: “You must not excite yourself. You must remember the child.”
“I think of nothing else,” I replied.
“Then that is well. I have been considering his name. It shall be Henry…Henry IX. That sounds well to me… but that is in the future… far in the future. He has to grow up first. Or Edward. That is a King's name. I have not yet decided.”
I had expected him to ask my opinion, but he did not do so, and this was a further indication of the changing relationship between us.
But at this time I could think only of my journey to Greenwich and what awaited me there.
There I lay in that darkened chamber. My pains had begun. It was a long labor but during the exquisite agony of childbirth my spirits were upheld by what this child would mean to me. Nothing could alter the fact that I should be the mother of the King. Henry's infidelities would be hard to bear, but I should be safe… secure; and once I had my son I would make sure that I regained my ascendancy over him.
At last I heard the child's cry. My baby was born.
I lay back exhausted. It was over. I had attained the very peak of my desire. I was drifting off into an exhausted sleep.
I opened my eyes. A woman was standing by my bed. It was the midwife.
“The child …” I said.
“Your Grace, the child is strong and lusty.”
“Oh, praise be to God. I want to see him.”
“Your Grace has given birth to a fair lady.”
“No,” I cried. “It must be a boy.
“A beautiful child,” went on the midwife. “A strong and healthy little girl.”
“No, no,” I cried. “No, no, no.”
“I will bring her to you. She is a little love.”
I shook my head. I could not bear it. A girl! Katharine had had a girl and much trouble she was causing.
“It's a mistake,” I said.
The midwife was silent.
I lay there. But the prophets… the soothsayers… they had merely said what the King wanted them to say. They had dared say no other. I had failed. Already he was tired of me. And all I had done, after all the trouble, was to produce a girl. Katharine had done that before me.
I felt the tears on my cheeks.
Henry came into the apartment.
What was he feeling? What would he do now? Would he upbraid me for failing? I was too tired to fight.
He looked at me.
“A girl,” he said, with some contempt.
I did not answer. I just lay there with the tears running down my face.
Then I looked at him, so big, so glittering, so powerful. “I have failed you,” I said. “I believed I could give you a son. God is against me. Everyone is against me. I am hated and reviled. There is no one to care for me. It would have been better if I had died in the ordeal.”
There was a strong streak of sentiment in Henry. He had never before seen me like this… humble, broken and desperately unhappy.
He came closer and took me in his arms.
He said gently: “This is a blow to us both. They had promised me a son. But be of good cheer. There is time, Anne. We'll get our son yet. The child is strong and healthy, and God has shown us that we can get healthy children. He does this to test us. He will give me a son, I know.”
I said again: “I have failed. I was so sure that I could please you.”
“How now,” he said. “All is well between us two.”
I said: “No …no more…”
There were tears in his eyes. They were glazed with memories.
“All shall be well,” he said. “I would rather beg from door to door than forsake you.”
This was balm to me.
My spirits recovered. It was only a setback. Heaven knew we had had those in plenty.
I felt my spirits rising. I, who had overcome so much, would overcome this.
As soon as he had gone, I ordered that the child be brought to me. When I held her in my arms I loved her, and in my heart I wanted her no different from what she was. She was perfect.
I said to the ladies who crowded around my bed marveling at the perfections of my daughter: “They may now with reason call this room the Chamber of Virgins, for a virgin is now born in it on the vigil of that auspicious day on which the Church commemorates the nativity of the Holy Virgin.”
I was happy. It was true my moods had always changed quickly, but this was a complete reversal—from despair to great happiness.
Henry had declared his continuing love for me; and I had the most adorable daughter.
Life was good again.
The disappointment was forgotten. Preparations for the child's christening were going ahead. The notices which were being sent out had to be altered by adding “ss” to the word “Prince.”
This ceremony was to take place on the tenth of the month—four days after the birth.
It was wonderful to hear of all the splendor which was being made ready to honor my daughter—exactly the same which would have heralded the arrival of a son.
She was to be named Elizabeth, which seemed appropriate because it was the name of both my mother and Henry's. She was to be christened at Grey Friars Church, which was close to the palace. The church was hung with arras, and sweet-scented herbs were strewn all along the way to it. All the highest in the land were present; and Mary Howard, who was betrothed to the Duke of Richmond, Henry's illegitimate son by Elizabeth Blount, carried the pearl-and-jewel-studded chrisom. The Dowager Duchess of Norfolk carried the baby, and over them was a canopy held by my brother George, two of the Howards and another recently ennobled member of our family, Lord Hussey.
I wished that I could have been there. I wished I could have seen the Bishop of London performing the c
eremony with all the rites of the Church of Rome. Cranmer was her godfather, and the Duchess of Nor-folk and the Marchioness of Dorset her godmothers. I should have been so proud to hear Garter-king-at-arms crying out: “God, of his infinite wisdom send a prosperous life and long to the high and mighty Princess Elizabeth.”
The procession from the church to the palace was lighted by five hundred torches, but around my baby walked gentlemen carrying flambeaux, and thus they came to my chamber.
I held out my arms to receive my little one, that high and mighty Princess Elizabeth.
And I rejoiced in her. I could not have cared more for a son.
I wanted to keep her with me to be a mother to her, and for a few days I did so. I loved her more every day. She was a beautiful child—perfect in every way. The ladies said that, in truth, they had never seen a more lovely girl.
Henry regarded her with interest, in which there was only just a faint resentment because she was not a boy; even he was not immune to her charms, and I could see that he was beginning to be fond of her.
He had changed since that occasion when he had made it clear to me that his feelings for me had altered. I heard no more of the woman he had been pursuing. It had been whispered that she was the wife of Nicholas Carew, a very attractive woman, not averse to a little flirtation, and her husband might well not object if he were looking for favors. However, it had blown over and I could tell myself that it was, after all, forgivable. We had suffered a great deal of stress, and I, far gone in pregnancy, had not been a very bright companion. If that were all, I had little of which to complain.
He was now attentive, visiting me often, talking of the future and the brother our delightful daughter would have.
Those who had thought the King's love for me was dead now had to change their views.
He was looking forward to my return to normal life. He had been lonely, he said, without me. It was as near to an excuse as he could bring himself to make for that temporary infidelity, and having suffered a big fright, I did have sense enough to accept it.