“Very well, but the fire needs tending to; you know I must keep warm for the sake of our prince.”
I kneel at the hearth, poke the embers back to life and toss on a few small logs. “That should last a while.” I light a taper and move around the room, igniting the candles. Yellow warmth floods slowly up the walls, deepening the shadows, blackening the night sky outside the window. “There, that is better.”
Henry blinks at me, his eyes shrunken and reddened, and I realise he has been weeping. “Oh Henry,” I whisper and, moving closer, I draw his head to rest against my belly. “I am so sorry, my love, so sorry.”
And I am indeed sorry. I try to imagine how it must feel to lose a sibling. In my youth I lost two brothers, but they were infants, not yet grown into people, they were not companions in my nursery. If it were George or Mary, I would be broken. I cannot begin to imagine how I would feel.
A sibling shares so much, sprung from the same womb, the same nursery, nursed at the same breast, taught to speak at the same knee. Siblings are each part of the other, and losing one is like severing a part of oneself. “Tell me about her, Henry. I never really knew her, although I was part of her household when she went to France to wed the old king.”
He shifts beneath my hands, turns his face into my velvet skirt, his breath hot against my loins. Then he sits up and pulls me down to lounge awkwardly against him. The babe shifts, pressing against my ribs, but I do not move away, sensing Henry’s need is greater than my own comfort.
“I remember the day she was born …”
Henry’s voice is hoarse in the dim light as he recalls his infancy playing with Mary and Margaret at Richmond. “She was always a brave child, getting into trouble, earning us all a scolding. She was the baby and everybody’s darling.”
“I know she was beautiful …”
“It was said in her youth that nature never formed anything so beautiful …”
“Yes.” To be honest I had always considered Mary’s good looks to be spoiled by a proud and haughty expression, but since she never liked me, perhaps she kept that visage strictly for me.
“She was so cross when I insisted she marry the old king of France.” He gives a little chuckle in remembrance and I am comforted that, as I had suspected, talking of her is leavening his grief a little. “She told me once that she led him such a merry dance his poor heart gave out sooner than it should have. She was a minx …”
I risk a giggle, and his hand tightens on mine, his rings digging into my flesh.
“And then, once she was widowed, she wed a man of her own choice, without your leave.” I laugh through my words but he sobers, releasing his grip.
“Yes. And my best friend too. By God, I was angry with them. I shouldn’t have been. I should have realised how they felt but how could I, when I’d not yet known you and what love can make a man do?”
We both fall silent, remembering our own battle, the obstacles we have overcome. The logs in the grate shift and settle, the embers glowing red in the growing darkness. I stretch my limbs. “Shall we go to our bed, my love?”
It is hours later, in the deepest darkness of the night, that I become aware that Henry is sobbing again. I turn to him and put my arm across his chest. “Shh, do not weep, Henry, do not weep.”
His grip on my arm is like a vice and his voice sounds ghastly. “They are all dying, Anne, my parents, my friends, my sisters. Soon I will be the only one left. The last Tudor. I must have a son, Anne. You must give me a prince.”
“Hush, My Lord, I will do. In just a few more weeks you will have your son, I swear it.”
21st August 1533- York Place
As the time for my confinement approaches, I summon my household ladies and present them with a book of prayers. They are lovely little objects, the enamelled gold cover containing a wealth of devotional wisdom. Each lady sinks to her knees as I place the book in her hands and bid her be good and virtuous and, above all, pious in my service. “While it is good that we should be joyous and embrace life’s delights, do not indulge in idle pleasures. Modesty is paramount. I will not tolerate unchaste behaviour in my household, so look to your prayers and embrace Christ’s Gospel.”
They stare back, glassy-eyed. Already I know whom I can trust, and whom I need to watch. “On the common table in my chambers you will find a copy of the English Bible. You are free to read from it each day ... as I shall.”
The ladies form into groups, murmuring their pleasure and stroking the sumptuous covers of the books. I smile and settle myself in a chair, summoning a girl to bring a drink.
I do not let anyone know quite how exhausted I feel. My unborn son is sapping my energy, my ankles are swollen and I feel listless, especially in the summer heat. Henry suggests that we cancel the summer progress and stay at Greenwich instead, and I embrace the idea of giving birth in the palace where Henry himself was born. Today, I gratefully suck in the air that trickles through the open windows, knowing that soon I shall be confined within my chamber, shut away from the world, away from Henry, to await the birth of my son.
I close my eyes, lay my head against the back of the chair, and imagine holding him in my arms. His tiny fingers clenching mine; his little mouth; his closed eyes. I can picture it quite clearly and cannot help but smile. Once I have given Henry his heir, the people’s attitude will change toward me. The mother to the Prince of Wales will be greeted with glee. Henry is already planning the celebrations that will be held throughout the land. A time of great joy awaits not just Henry and I, but all of England.
It is almost time for me to go. The chambers are hung in readiness with arras of gold and silver, and thick carpets have been placed upon the floor. I will be sealed in, the light dimmed, the air carefully controlled, just one window left ajar to let in a little fresh air. The high-canopied bed is hung with drapery, and the Royal Jewel house all but stripped of its finest cups and bowls and crucifixes. All has been prepared, but I don’t want to go.
I am plagued with unbidden memories of Mary screaming as she battled to bring little Catherine into the world. She was young then, and I am old to be a mother for the first time. As the day fast approaches I spend more and more time on my knees, praying for my own safety and that of my son.
Over the next few weeks my peace of mind evaporates. There is something about being captive in this swollen body that makes me afraid, vulnerable. I detest being at a disadvantage, I cling to Henry, pine when he is gone, and look anxiously for his return.
I have been sitting here waiting long enough. I get to my feet, signal to my ladies to remain where they are, and go in search of him. I pass through chamber after chamber, guards snap to attention, doors are thrown open at my approach.
He is nowhere.
Panic begins to rise. I feel I am in a waking dream where, try as I might, I cannot get home. I pass along a little used corridor, up a sweeping stair and freeze, stand motionless, when I hear his muffled laugh. I know that sound. Many times have I heard that low, amused chuckle. A chuckle that speaks of desire … and of lust.
I am panting slightly when I turn the corner.
Henry jumps away from her like a boy caught with his hand in the pantry. She sinks to her knees, her face almost in the rushes, and I am consumed with murderous hatred. I want to kick her, send her bouncing down the stairwell. My heart is thumping, the sound of it thudding in my ears, unbalancing me. For a moment I hover on the brink of consciousness.
“Anne …” Henry steps forward, reaches for me, but I tear my hand from his grasp.
“How dare you?” I scream, when at last I find my voice. “How dare you?”
The white-faced woman doesn’t get up, her hands are clenched together and I can see her veil trembling. “Get out,” I hiss at her, “before I have you whipped.”
As she skitters down the stair, I turn my rage back to my husband, my lips taught, eyes narrowed. At this moment I hate him, more than I have ever hated anyone. How dare he do this? The whole court will be laughing,
making a mock of me, laying odds on how long it will be before he has her in his bed.
“Anne …” he repeats, but his tone is less contrite now. Struggling to assert himself he scrabbles for control. My whole body is trembling with rage. I thrust my face toward him, give him the full force of my fury.
“There is no room for three in this marriage, Henry,” I say, making it quite clear that I mean what I say. For a long moment we glare at each other, neither of us willing to be the first to back down.
Somehow he is tarnished by his lack of faith. His blue eyes are less bright, his face slack, his self-assertion dented, but I know him too well. I can sense his fear but I know it is not for me, it is for his child, his prince, upon whom the continuity of his dynasty pivots.
I wonder if I mean anything at all.
He clears his throat, looks at me with distaste as he begins to bluster. “You would do well, Madam, to remember your place and learn to behave as your betters have done before you.”
“Turn the other cheek, like Catherine, you mean?” I want to claw his face, gouge out his eyes, but some small part of me remembers my child, and I will not have him harmed. Besides, Henry is not just any man. He is the king and therefore unassailable.
Henry looks down his nose, as only a Tudor can. “I have raised you high but I can cast you down again, like that …” He clicks his fingers, the sound quivering in the outraged air.
There is no love in him, no remorse, no pity. His deception makes me worthless. I have never felt so low, so abused. I wonder how far it has gone, how long I have been sharing his affections unknown. I should have guessed that my matronly state would never hold his interest. I have lost him, and soon I must leave him and be shut away, closed off from the male world while I wait to bring forth England’s heir.
Until I am churched I will be forbidden to leave my chambers. For the first time, I wonder how Henry will amuse himself while I am risking my very life for the Tudor cause.
26th August 1533
The Chapel Royal is hushed, only the sound of Lord Burgh, My Lord Chamberlain’s prayer keeps me focused. Already I have the urge to clamber up from my knees and hasten to Henry, beg him to take me with him, back to our chambers, back to his hearth. But I am queen now; I can no longer give in to childish anxieties. I lift my chin, close my eyes, and pray for the strength to vanquish fear.
Afterwards, in my great chamber, they stand me beneath a canopy, bring me spiced wine, and the Lord Chamberlain leads us all in another prayer, asking God to send me a good hour. It is a prayer that I join in most devoutly, for the safe delivery of our prince is paramount.
Then the men in our company depart. As Henry kisses me, George bends over my hand, bids me farewell. The Lord Chamberlain bows low, his nose almost on my slippers. I am in a sort of daze. The heavy doors close and I am contained within a feminine world where there are no courtly games, no George to extinguish my doubts, and no Henry to convince me of his love. The walls are oppressive. I want to shrug it all off, escape into the country where I can breathe again. But with Henry’s son big within me, all I can hope is that the child comes soon.
7th September 1533
Something wakes me. I stare at the canopy for a long time, wondering what is wrong. It is not quite light yet, the gentle tic-tic of my women’s breathing is the only sound in the gloom. I long to throw open the casements and lean over the sill to fill my lungs with fresh night air. But there are rules even a queen must follow.
I fidget my legs, kick back the counterpane, and throw a pillow onto the floor. My throat is parched and I contemplate waking Nan to fetch me a drink, but I am so tired of their gentle company, I cannot bear to hear any more platitudes. Swinging my legs from the mattress, I lean over and grasp the handle of the jug and fill a cup. The wine is tepid and does not refresh me. I put the drink down again.
My belly juts forward like the prow of a ship. Placing both hands upon it, I stroke it lovingly. Come on, little prince, I urge silently. We are eager to meet you. But he makes no response.
Fumbling with my foot for my slippers, I creep to the window and draw back the hanging just a little bit. The grey striped dawn promises a fine day ahead. I lay my head on the mullion and reflect that soon, no doubt, Henry will be riding out with the hunt. I picture him galloping across the heath in the sunshine, his eye on the game, his blood coursing through his veins, his mind empty of me.
I sigh deeply.
“Are you all right, Your Majesty? Oh, come away from the window, the night air is full of danger.”
I turn toward the voice and as I do so, I feel a little pop in some unspecified area of my anatomy. Warm fluid gushes down my legs, making me gasp and clamp a hand against my womb. We both look down at the spreading puddle on the floor. A slow smile blossoms on Nan’s face.
“Let’s get you back into bed, Your Majesty, and I will send for the midwife.”
At first I congratulate myself that the pain is not so very bad, and I am relieved I will not have to resort to screaming. A brazier is lit and they burn ambergris, musk, and civet, fragrant herbs thought to soothe and aid me in my travail. Before they bring me some light refreshment, they settle me back into bed, and Mary, still in her nightgown, runs to fetch a cooler jug of wine.
“It won’t be long now,” she says as she pours it out and hands me the cup. She perches on the edge of my bed. “Your son will be here before you know it.”
Her voice trembles with excitement and as she speaks I am aware of a tightening sensation in my back, the top of my thighs, my loins aching and grating. Since I have been experiencing such things from the moment my waters were breached I expect it to ease off soon, but this time it grows stronger, tightening until I can scarcely breathe. When I am certain my spine is about to snap in two, I thrust the cup at Mary and gasp, bringing up my knees as sweat beads my forehead.
Mary nods to the midwife, who takes her place and asks permission to lift my shift and feel my belly. Then to my horror she anoints her hands with goose grease and asks me to part my thighs. I glance at Mary, who moves forward and offers me her hand. While the midwife makes her examination, I cling to Mary as if she were a rock in a stormy sea. “It’s all right, Anne. Don’t worry. All will be well.”
The midwife withdraws her fingers, pulls down my clothes, and smiles. “He’ll be along anytime now. Just a few more minutes and you’ll be pushing him into the world.”
There is nothing ceremonious about this ritual. After the pageantry of my coronation, the grand ceremony of my confinement, I had half expected my child would come forth miraculously, sparing me the pain and the indignity that other women suffer. I am a queen, after all.
But if I thought the initial pain was bad, when the actual birthing begins I am helpless, tossed in a sea of misery. How did Mary stand this? Mary, who faints if she scratches her finger with a needle? Somewhere in the midst of my travail, a new respect for my sister is born.
“Come on, Anne,” she says. “If I can do it, so can you. Think of Henry, and concentrate on how happy he will be when you present his son to him.”
She gives no sign of resentment that the birth of her own son went unremarked by his father. She kneels by the bed, her hand my only hope, and I focus on her eyes, breathe when she tells me to, and pant when she orders it. My body is tortured, every muscle an agony of torment, until I think I can bear it no more.
Each respite is welcome and in between the pains and the pushing, I flop back against the pillow and wish I were somewhere else, sure that this birth will be the end of me. It will pass, I tell myself, and I have to believe it. This will not last, not forever. I breathe deeply, cast my thoughts on other things but, just as I am imagining dining alone with Henry, or riding to the chase with George, or dancing in a pageant, the agony returns, slicing through my happy daydreams and lurching me back to reality.
Little by little, I can feel the bulge in my nethers begin to move. With each pain I groan like a heifer, strain with each sinew of my body,
and focus my mind on expelling the obstruction from my womb.
Nan brings a flannel, dabs my forehead with cool, cool water. I stick out my tongue to try to moisten my mouth, but before they can fetch me a drink, the pain takes me again.
I am stretching, tearing, my mouth open, and my voice hoarse with yelling. My women cluster around the bed, each one trying to find a way to ease me; make an end to it. And then the midwife grips my upper arm. “Get up,” she says. “Squat like a milkmaid.”
With clumsy movement, I am hauled to my feet and helped into position. Immediately, the pain abates a little, the pressure off my spine. Something shifts inside. When I push again, I feel a jolt and his head pulsing between my legs.
The midwife forages beneath my petticoat. “That’s it, push again,” she yells, glancing up at me. Her face is red, her brow as sweat-drenched as mine, and there is blood on her veil.
I grit my teeth, hang on to Mary’s hand, throw back my head and push long and hard, screeching as I do so. For long moments I hold my breath and strain to bring forth my child. And quite suddenly, in a great rush of limbs and liquid, my son slips from my body and into the midwife’s waiting arms.
For a few moments I lie back, gasping on my dishevelled pillows, not really believing what I have done. My body is exhausted but my mind is alive with triumphant joy. Then the midwife takes the child, hands it to my women, and continues to fuss around my petticoats, prodding at my belly. I crane my neck, watching the women rub my son’s limbs and swathe him in linen. In the end I can bear the suspense no more.
“Bring him to me,” I demand. Mary turns with him in her arms, hesitates. “Come on, I want to see him,” I say, and she takes a step forward, stops again.
“Anne …”
Only then do I notice that the expression on her face does not match mine; she is not sharing my joy. My body floods with horror. “What? What is wrong with him?”
The Kiss of the Concubine: A story of Anne Boleyn Page 16
