The Baker's Daughter Volume 1

by Bonny G Smith

  The king’s party clattered into the palace courtyard, and a dozen grooms and ostlers ran out to meet them. Dr. Butts, Archbishop Cranmer and Edward Lee, Archbishop of York, had been awaiting Henry’s arrival and stood with grim faces as the king dismounted.

  Henry searched their faces. “Is it born? Is it a boy?” he asked breathlessly.

  The men exchanged an uneasy glance. “It is proving a most difficult confinement, Your Grace,” said Dr. Butts nervously.

  “But all is as it should be, is it not?” asked the king.

  “Yes, yes,” Dr. Butts hurriedly replied. “A babe is born at the moment it is ready and not before, I am afraid.” Despite the chill in the air, he mopped his brow. “The midwives assure me…”

  Just then a piercing scream rent the quiet. Henry winced. He had no desire to listen to the means by which his heir would be born; he only wanted to hear of the results.

  “I am mired to the eyes,” he said. “I must bathe, and I have not yet broken my fast. Stay vigil with the queen and let me know as soon as there is any news.” He was heartily sick of it all, the waiting, the wondering; he just wanted the child to be born.

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Cranmer replied. “We will send word as soon as there is any news.”

  Just as the men were turning away, Henry said, “Are the pr…are my daughters in the palace?”

  Archbishop Lee replied, “Yes, Your Grace, the ladies Mary and Elizabeth arrived in good time from Hunsdon.”

  “Humph,” he grunted. “Well, it cannot be much longer.” Neither Katharine nor Anne had had protracted labors. Besides, it was the end that was important, not the means.

  # # #

  Lady Seymour bathed her daughter’s brow with a cool cloth. She regarded Jane dispassionately; the outcome was in God’s hands and His will would be done. Worry was useless and sapped one’s strength.

  “She is weakening,” whispered Mistress Loftus, the chief of the midwives attending the queen. She shook her head. “And no wonder, poor poppet. Two days and two nights! Has she asked for anyone? Has she asked for His Grace?”

  Lady Seymour bristled. “No, nor will she do. Such a sight is not for his eyes.” Jane lay small and pale, her open mouth hanging slack, her gown drenched with the sweat of her labor. The room was hot and stuffy.

  “There is naught that you can do, my lady,” said the midwife. “Why not take your ease for a few moments? I will send for you if there is any change.”

  Lady Seymour hesitated only for a moment and then nodded. She had earned a brief respite. But she hated leaving the birthing chamber; as soon as she did so, a bevy of vultures would descend upon her, asking for news. The clergy, the council, her own sons were keeping vigil without; to most, the mysteries of childbirth were an unknown quantity. Poor people had not the luxury of so many servants, and many a farmer attended his own wife at such a time, or at least assisted, if there were none other to perform the necessary tasks and errands attendant upon a birth. But there were almost as many people in the queen’s chamber as there were without. As she slipped out the door, the first face she saw was Mary’s. There was no one else about.

  “I have sent them all to the hall,” said Mary, to Lady Seymour’s wordless query. “For form’s sake. This is not France!” she said scornfully. In France the queen must give birth in public, a barbaric custom in Mary’s estimation. She wanted none to witness Jane’s wretchedness, made manifest at that moment by a wrenching cry. Only married women and midwives were allowed into the birthing chamber, but Mary had refused to leave her post by the door and only deserted it briefly for the most necessary of errands.

  # # #

  “What of His Grace, the king?” asked Lady Seymour.

  Mary shrugged. “His Grace has gone back to Esher,” she said. “The business of government must still be attended to.” But she knew why her father had left Hampton Court. He could not bear to be around any form of illness or infirmity, even that of a beloved wife. He wanted no part of Jane’s ordeal. “The royal heralds have been sent to London with the news of the queen’s labor, though. The prayers of the people will help to…”

  Just then a piercing scream split their ears, and both women hurried into the chamber.

  The midwife was bloody to the elbows, Jane was being supported by two sturdy women and her face was contorted in a paroxysm of agony. Her breath came in short, rasping gasps, but otherwise the room was eerily quiet.

  “The babe comes!” cried the midwife. “Oh, Your Grace, push, push! All soon over now, dearie!” The midwife was so distraught and distracted that she did not even notice her own slip. She had attended many a noble birth, but this was her first royal one, and she swore, even as she gripped the baby’s bloody shoulder to help it along, that never again would she attend a queen…never. The risk was too great. For who would be blamed if mother and child did not survive? The midwife, of course! She had never lost a mother or a child, which was why she had been chosen from among a host of midwives to attend this birth. But never again…

  All of sudden Jane gave a blood-curdling scream, there was a whooshing sound and Edward Tudor gave his first bellowing cries.

  The midwife cried, “Oh, Your Grace, it is a boy! A fine boy!” and promptly burst into tears.

  Jane, who had been only semi-conscious and barely aware of anything, allowed herself to be gently laid back by the two strong women who had been supporting her in her last throes.

  Mary stood like a statue, too stunned to move or speak. Only Lady Seymour seemed unaffected, and it was she who took her grandson and laid him on the table prepared with strips of linen and wiped the blood and congealed fluids from his face, and from his little body. The midwife finally remembered herself, and while the women ministered to Jane, wiped the mucous from the baby’s mouth and cleansed it with wine. When the child was clean, she swaddled him and handed him to Mary. The baby’s hands had been left free and Edward waved a tiny fist at her. Instinctively, Mary placed a finger inside his starfish hand and was astonished at the strength of the grip. Then the baby’s eyes opened; they were slate blue, and they regarded her solemnly. In spite of herself, in spite of all that this child meant to her hopes, her plans, her dreams, with that one look she fell in love and was lost.

  # # #

  “Are you pleased, Henry?” whispered Jane, who lay back on the great bed. The king sat beside her, holding her hand.

  “Can you even ask?” he said, with tears in his eyes. The rush of sheer ecstasy that he had experienced upon hearing, for second time in his life, that a queen had borne him a healthy, lusty son, was almost unbearable in its joy. It was as if the sun had burst open and showered a million stars down upon him where he stood. And when he had held him for the first time in his arms, his little Edward, he had had to turn away and hide his face the emotion was so great. Lady Seymour, whom he had to admit, if only to himself, he did not much like, had been given the honour of presenting her grandson to the king.

  Instead Henry had turned and addressed Dr. Butts. “He is well-formed and healthy?” he enquired. How could one tell when the babe was wrapped so tightly in his swaddling clothes?

  Dr. Butts had smiled and replied, as if the credit were due solely to himself, “He is perfect in all things, Your Grace.”

  Just then a thought struck Henry. “And the queen?”

  “Tired, most certainly, Your Grace, but that is only to be expected. She sleeps. You may see her when she wakes. Mistress Loftus!” Dr. Butts turned to summon the midwife, who was hovering in the background. “The child wants to suckle, methinks.” Edward had begun to cry lustily, which instead of confounding the king, only made him smile the more.

  “Where is Lord Beauchamp?” asked Henry, surrendering the little bundle into the arms of Mistress Loftus, who took him and had turned to seek out the wet-nurse. “No, good mistress, stay for a moment,” said Henry.

  Cranmer had been standing just behind the king and he answered, “Your Grace, Lady Beauchamp’s time has also come upon
her. Lord Beauchamp has gone to sit vigil for her.”

  Henry knew a fleeting moment of guilt, in that far from sitting vigil for Jane, he had escaped back to Esher, which was as far away as he dared go while her ordeal was upon her. He had first heard the news that he was the father of a prince from the lips of a royal courier whilst playing at mumchance with his bedchamber gentlemen, who had followed in his wake. He had rewarded the courier with a purse so heavy that it was unlikely that the man would ever want for anything when he got to old to ride in the king’s service. And that, just for delivering the message! How much more did he owe to this dowdy woman, who had been the first person ever to lay eyes on his precious son, and who was the person responsible for bringing him into the world?

  “Archbishop, my purse is light just at this moment. See to it that our good Lord Beauchamp rewards Mistress…?” Henry looked over at Dr. Butts again.

  Dr. Butts bowed and said, “Mistress Loftus, Your Grace.”

  “…Loftus,” Henry said, inclining his head at the old crone, for so she seemed to him. “A pension, methinks,” he said, and turning to Cranmer, “See to it.”

  Mistress Loftus was too stunned to reply but, baby and all, she dipped a creaking curtsey, and immediately revised her stand on the attendance of royal ladies in childbirth. That did bring to mind a reply adequate to the situation, and she said, “May I wish Your Grace many more such!”

  Henry smiled and said, over the din of the now insistent cries of the hungry baby, “You may. Indeed, you may!” It was over; his son, his son, his precious prince was finally born, healthy and whole, and the queen, his little Jane, was resting after her travail. No, indeed, one son was not enough; of course there must be more.

  Just then Lady Rochford appeared, inclined her head at the archbishop and the doctor and turning to face Henry said, “Your Grace, the queen is awake and asking for you.”

  And so here he was, holding Jane’s hand and marveling every time the thought crossed his mind that now he had an indisputably legitimate son, a prince for England as fine as any there had ever been. Jane’s face was pale and her lips were white; her eyes seemed hollow with fatigue. He wanted to celebrate, to shout and hear music. He was not one for the sick room. “You must rest,” he said solicitously. He patted her hand and withdrew from her side.

  Jane was glad when he went. She was more tired than she had ever been in her life. She just wanted to sleep and sleep. But first she had one last labor to see to.

  “Lady Rochford,” said Jane. “Bring my desk.”

  Without protest Lady Rochford brought the wooden stand and set it on Jane’s lap. Once she had done so, she placed another pillow at Jane’s back to prop her up.

  Jane took up the quill and nibbled the feathered shaft. “You may withdraw,” she said without looking up. There had been many glorious moments since the king had first cast his eyes upon her. Over and over again she had had occasion to exult in her good fortune. But this…this was triumph, this was her moment of complete victory. She dipped the quill and wrote, “To the Most Esteemed Members of the Privy Council, from Jane the Queen, greetings. Right trusty and well-beloved, we greet you well, and for as much as by the inestimable goodness and Grace of Almighty God, we be delivered and brought in childbed of a prince, conceived in most lawful matrimony between my lord the king’s majesty and us…”

  # # #

  No sooner had the royal heralds returned from bringing the news to London that the queen was in labor, than they were sent riding post haste to every corner of the realm with the news that the king was the father of a fair prince and England finally, after all these years, had an heir. The country went wild with joy; bonfires were lit, bells were rung until the people were deaf from the constant pealing, Te Deums were sung in every church in the land. In London, a solemn procession consisting of the Lord Mayor, the city aldermen, the masters of the guilds, the livery companies and the clergy made its way from Westminster Abbey to St. Paul’s cathedral, singing hymns, carrying torches, and giving thanks to God with tears streaming down their faces. The streets were decorated with tapestries, bunting, and garlands of fall flowers. When the mass was over, a full two thousand rounds were fired from the Tower cannon in celebration. Free barrels of ale and hogsheads of wine were placed on every street corner, some provided by the king and some provided by his jubilant subjects. The celebration lasted long into the night, and no work was done at all the next day; there wasn’t a clear head within five miles of the capital on the day after the birth of Prince Edward.

  Three days after his birth the baby prince had been christened in a magnificent ceremony. The entire court of four hundred people had been hastily assembled and at midnight, had gathered in the queen’s chamber. Jane was still too weak to rise, but she had continued to eat her quails, which even Mary had not the heart to deny her after her agonizing delivery. In the great bed she sat, propped up by cushions covered in fine silks and cloth of gold and silver, wearing a crimson mantle edged with fine white powdered ermine. The bed hangings had been changed to a rich crimson damask lined with cloth of gold. The king sat beside her in Jane’s favorite green upholstered chair. If the chair brought back fleeting memories of Anne, Henry did not acknowledge them.

  All of a sudden a hush fell over the room as Gertrude, Marchioness of Exeter and aunt by marriage to the king, came in carrying the prince. He wore an elaborate christening gown of golden silk, embroidered with silver thread and encrusted with hundreds of tiny seed pearls. A cap of white wool, from which diamonds glinted in the torch light, covered his head.

  Lady Exeter curtsied wordlessly to the king and queen, turned and was followed out of the chamber by all the nobility of the land. In a torchlight procession they made their way to the Chapel Royal. Those not carrying torches carried thick, white tapers in holders of gold.

  At first all that could be discerned was the rustle of silk and the ghostly shuffling of feet on the floors as the silent procession progressed from room to room, corridor to corridor. And then as they neared the chapel, the sound of angelic voices could be heard, first as a mere whisper, an echo, and then stronger and stronger. The chapel was filled with the heady scent of frankincense, which in turn filled the senses of the congregation.

  The chapel itself was small, intimate, and breathtakingly beautiful, with its magnificent ceiling of intricate plaster and timber, carved as fine as lace; between these shone the startling cerulean blue of its surface, studded with hundreds of golden stars. The effect was almost overwhelming; eyes were filled with the unearthly exquisiteness of the chapel in all its glory, the sounds of angel song filled the ear, heads filled with the aroma of the smoke from the golden censers; and the emotion of the moment was overpowering in its awesomeness. For why, after all, were they here? Before them at the royal baptismal font was England’s heir, he for whom so much blood had been spilled, so much injustice done. But none thought of that now as Archbishop Cranmer made ready to begin the ceremony, himself almost overcome with emotion at the splendor of it all.

  Four peers of the realm held the canopy over the royal infant, while the earl of Arundel carried the train of the magnificent christening robe. Mary followed, wearing a cloth of silver kirtle over a gossamer white silk gown studded with pearls and diamonds. In the glow of the firelight, she looked almost as if she were ablaze. Lady Kingston carried her train, followed by the prince’s uncle, Lord Beauchamp, who carried Elizabeth in his arms. Elizabeth had been given the honor of carrying the chrisom with which her royal brother would be christened. She clutched it tightly in both hands.

  The dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk, and Mary, were to stand as godparents to the infant prince. As they gathered around the font, Cranmer began the solemn ritual, and at just the right moment, Edward cried out; it was believed that if the child cried when the holy water was poured over its head, that he had been imbued with the Holy Spirit by the virtue of such, and that the cry was the Devil abandoning the soul, which was now joined with Christ. Solemnly, Eli
zabeth stretched out her little hands to Cranmer and presented the chrisom, which Cranmer used to dry the baby’s head.

  When the ceremony was over, the prince was taken to his chamber and put to bed, while the rest of the party made its way back to the queen’s chamber, to the joyous sounds of the royal trumpets. Mary felt a tiny hand slip into hers, and looking down, saw Elizabeth’s upturned face.

  “You did very well, sister,” she said. Elizabeth had taken very seriously her responsibility to present the chrisom at just the right moment, and felt better for having her older sister confirm her success in the performance of her duty.

  As was the custom, neither the king nor queen had been present at the ceremony, but they waited for the return of the revelers, who were greeted with refreshments. For the nobility there was Hippocras and sweet wafers; for the commoners and servants, for all were included in the happy celebration commemorating Prince Edward’s entrance into God’s church, there was wine and manchet bread.

  Jane sat propped up in the great bed, greeting one by one those in the long line of people wishing her well. The celebration lasted long into the night, for no one departed until all had congratulated the queen and kissed her hand. But finally the ceremonies were over and only the king’s intimates remained.

  Mary sat on the edge of the bed and studied Jane’s face. “You are not looking well, Your Grace. I fear me this has all been too much for you.”

  Jane smoothed the soft fur of the ermine edging her mantle. “It is true,” she said, “that just today I am a little tired.” She smiled wanly, and her eyes seemed very bright. “But, Mary, this is what I have walked through Hell for, is it not?” This was her reward for all the worry, for all the fear, for the pain and agony. Now was her time. Now would she be safe, safe and secure, and able to enjoy the privilege of being queen. She, who had never even dreamed of reaching such lofty heights; she who had been plain and shy and scorned by her contemporaries. Now that she was the mother of a prince, now that she had given Henry his heart’s desire, now would the real reward be hers.