It had not been easy to find such a candidate but, happily, Elizabeth fulfilled all of these qualities. Furthermore, she had just weaned her second son, little Henry Brereton and, despite the fact that Elizabeth was some three years older than I, I felt this maturity could only count to her advantage. A second cousin to the King, her son was a comely child, which I knew because I had made it my point to have him in my company. He was robust, with stout little legs and already toddling despite having only just passed the first anniversary of his birth. All these qualities were in order, yet I was an anxious mother-to-be, and I needed reassurance.
As the four of us sat and pleasantly conversed, sipping lightly spiced wine, both my mother and then Nan cast me a look indicating their approval. I sighed with relief. Now, truly, all was in place. It was only a matter of waiting.
In the pre-dawn hours of Thursday 7 September, I awoke with a low ache in my back. I had felt well until now, though I had occasionally experienced what I thought were the beginnings of labour, only to be mistaken. This ache was persistent, so I signalled Eleanor, who slept in a bed alongside mine. She placed warm cloths against my lower back to ease the discomfort, but I could tell by her expression that she believed my time had finally arrived. After a while, she had me arise and walk about the chambers.
By now all the ladies were fully awake, cups of warm posset being passed about, the hearth well stoked and the rooms readied. A birthing chair was moved into the main chamber while the pallet bed was prepared with new sheets and a covering of white linen. I went to my prie-dieu and, though I could not kneel, selected a book of hours then clutched the devotional to me as I walked and walked the chamber floors. At the hearth, Eleanor Paston was stirring a concoction which she had me drink to ease my cramps, and I was glad to do so for the contractions of the birth process had undoubtedly started. I desperately wanted to lie down, but Nan and Eleanor urged me yet to walk, saying it would help the baby move into place and shorten the labour. Anne Zouche trod the floor with me, and Jane the Fool, though plainly apprehensive, held my hand and tried, albeit somewhat unsuccessfully, to make me laugh.
I walked, then rested, and all the while my contractions grew stronger. The ladies comforted and encouraged me, but nonetheless, I trembled. Every moment in my life which heretofore had required me to be bold and fearless paled in light of what I now faced. I loathed that I was losing my grip on any sense of control until, eventually, I was helped to the pallet and laid upon it, legs apart and acutely conscious that I presented a most undignified posture for a Queen of England. Meanwhile, my women were on all sides uttering soft reassurance, aiding as my engorged belly assumed complete dominion over my being. It did as it was going to - royal frame or no: muscles pulling upward in waves that felt as if they would lift me to the ceiling. After each contraction I lay panting and dry-mouthed, trying not to cry out – for it was not pain, exactly, but the immense force of my body performing this ancient ritual all on its own which rendered me helpless and frightened.
I heard my ladies calling to me, encouraging me, smoothing the hair on my head, and then, as my body began to quake uncontrollably, I heard Nan tell me to bear down. Eleanor’s strong arms were kneading my belly now, helping the baby to move, and there were ladies at my shoulders and back, supporting me into a sitting position while I gritted my teeth and pushed with all the strength I could muster.
Through a haze, I heard my voice cry “God’s blood, I will tear end to END …!” but Eleanor retorted severely, “No you will not, my lady! Keep PUSHING!” whereupon I made an effort more mighty than any I ever remembered in my life.
… and suddenly it was done.
With immense relief, the child slipped from my body, and the pressure ceased. I took a great gasp of air and collapsed against the sweat-soaked pillows.
No one said anything.
Jesu! Did the baby live?
I heard the cry then, and instantly I knew.
I had been delivered, not of a boy-child as that wispy-bearded old fraud, astrologer Robyns had, oh so confidently, predicted … but of a daughter.
She was washed and smoothed with rose oil, as was I by my beloved ladies. They wrapped her snugly in her swaddling cloths then Nan Cobham carefully handed her to me murmuring, “Your Grace, you have a beautiful daughter. She is perfect in every way. Never have I seen a lovelier baby. I bear great happiness for you and His Majesty the King.”
“Thank you, Nan,” I whispered and reached to take my infant – my baby girl – into my arms. I was numb from the experience of birth although it had been uncomplicated, as they go, and I felt blessed for that.
Holding my daughter, I coddled her, and simply gazed into her face, rosy pink and seemingly, God be willing, full of health. Her fluff of hair was bright ginger, just like Henry’s. Her eyes were wide open, peering up at me with an uncanny curiosity and awareness. I instantly melted with love.
As her tiny body snuggled ever closer to mine we contemplated each other – mother and child; I could not imagine her to be any other than who she was. Strangely and after all, she was precisely the baby for whom I had longed during my pregnancy.
I realized then, with a start, that I had somehow known, even from her first stirrings, that our child would be a princess.
Henry had been immediately informed of the birth but decided I was to have the evening to recover before he visited. That night, I slept soundly even though my body was aching. Lady Elizabeth Brereton sat up with the other women and suckled my child, comforting her when she fussed, allowing me much needed rest. Very early on the following morning, she was brought to me, and I spent a goodly while holding her, cosseting her, and becoming acquainted.
I was taken aback, really, to find how pleasurable it was to rock her in the crook of my arm. Her warmth, her gaze of awareness, her tiny, perfect humanity caused me to throb with maternal love for her. As our eyes met, I was infused with a determination to protect her, to be responsible for her wellbeing, and shield from her all evil. It seemed that she understood and that she gained from my touch the reassurance she needed, for she was content and quiet. At any moment, I would hear the sharp rap on the door of the chamber, mere seconds before my husband would sweep into the room to greet me and meet his daughter for the first time.
Contrary to the way I had always envisioned this meeting to go, now I was filled with misgiving. The palms of my hands were damp with sweat, my mouth dry. What bearing would he assume? Would his face be red, as it was wont when he strove to hide his anger? Or would he be ominously quiet – scowling even - which was a portent of retribution when he was displeased? I considered the possibilities, knowing all too well his dark moods, and though when we last parted it had been with an abundance of love and good will, I could not pretend he would be pleased with the birth of a daughter. After all, I had nigh to promised him a son.
But then I grew resolute. The more I speculated, the less apprehensive I felt: instead I became heated and indignant that he – or anyone! – might dare diminish the magnificence of my daughter’s entry into the world or disregard the fact that she was a royal princess, mighty in her own right.
Quickly I assembled a mental array of sharp retorts I would launch when Henry challenged me. King or not, he would rue any word he uttered about my child which was less than commendatory. My breath came quicker, and I felt my ire rise as I imagined our encounter. In agitation, I arranged the soft blankets swaddling her, fluffed her shock of hair, and then smoothed mine, which was loose and arranged about my shoulders.
The expected quick knock preceded Henry’s entry, and his immense presence – I had almost forgotten how his countenance filled a chamber. His eyes sought mine as he came to my bedside, and I was ready – jaw clenched – to defend my child.
We regarded each other silently for what seemed a long while. Finally, he reached out and stroked my cheek, then gestured for the baby to be handed to him. His expression w
as calm, and as I placed the sweet bundle in his large but slightly awkward grasp, I softened just a bit.
“She is beautiful, is she not, sweetheart?” I hazarded rather more tentatively than I had intended.
He drew her closer and peered into her perfect face. His eyes rested long on her pronounced tuft of bright ginger hair: I held my breath … and then a broad smile spread across his features. She was his issue, even though a girl-child, and her wide-open eyes observed him with a keenness exceptional for a tiny infant.
“She is indeed,” he said. “She is gifted with extraordinary beauty indeed.”
“Your Grace, I am pleased that you think so. I surely am. Look how serenely she studies you. She knows you are her father, and already feels secure in the protection of your strong arms. As I know she will always be.”
His gaze left the baby’s and met mine. “She will be safe with me, my Anne. You have done well, darling. Shall we bestow our tiny beauty with the name of Elizabeth? Let us honour the memory of my lady mother and your beloved mother who share that name. There can’t be anything more fitting for our princess.”
I exhaled quietly. “I thank you, Henry. It’s perfect. I had hoped that would be your wish.”
He smiled then. “My other wish, wife and Queen, is for your swift recovery. I have missed you greatly. And now that we have produced a gorgeous daughter we must become reacquainted with each other. Our next child will surely be a son.”
He squeezed my hand tightly, and I smiled in return while relief flooded me as he bent low to brush upon my brow a tender kiss. “I shall visit you and Elizabeth again very soon, my lady.”
But as Henry straightened, and before he turned to take his leave, plainly I saw the look on his face. His lips smiled.
But his eyes?
They were bleak.
Thomas Cromwell arrived later that day bearing the official pronouncement of Elizabeth’s birth, which by tradition came directly from the Queen and would be ceremonially presented to my Lord Chamberlain, Lord Cobham. It was Cobham’s duty to proclaim the new arrival, and forthwith commence celebrations. The churches would sing a Te Deum in Elizabeth’s honour; bonfires would blaze in the town squares accompanied by wine which would again flow from the fountains for the people to drink and rejoice. Little wonder that they would love me, their queen, on this day.
The document had been drawn up for some weeks, written out by the scribes. It was only that, now, a small correction was required.
The letter S would be added to the word Prince telling everyone that the King and Queen had produced a daughter. It would now read ‘Princes’.
I scanned the parchment page, reading the words: “By the Quene
Right trustie and welbiloved, we grete you well. And where as it hath pleased the goodnes of Almightie God, of his infynite marcie and grace, to sende unto us, at this tyme, good spede, in the delyveraunce and bringing furthe of a Princes, to the great joye, rejoyce, and inward comforte of my Lorde, us, and all his good and loving subjectes of this his realme…”
My heart swelled with pride, knowing that this was the first important decree in Elizabeth’s life. It mattered not to me that the document needed correction. The final phrases admonished the people to give, “with us, unto Almightie God, high thankes, glorie, laude, and praising; and to praye for the good helth, prosperitie, and contynuall preservation of the said Princes accordingly.”
I mouthed the words silently and felt tears of gratitude and joy burn behind my lids, then swallowed past the lump in my throat and instead focused on a matter of practicality. “Thomas, are preparations for the christening well in hand?”
“Yes, Milady. It will be a beautiful event, with all suitable solemnity; as grand a christening as has been seen in many, many years. I will provide you with every detail before the day so you may imagine what it will look and sound like as if you were to be there.”
“Thank you, Thomas, although I surely wish I could attend in person,” I grumbled. “Does it not seem to you heartless that a woman must stay entombed in these dark rooms for so long, both before and after the birth? And miss her very own child’s christening? It certainly does feel so to me. Sometimes I wonder who created such dictums that we must all blindly follow. I presume, at least in this case, that it must have been a man?”
A wry smile briefly creased Cromwell’s face. It spoke more of his true opinion than had he made overt comment, but Thomas was a prudent man and well understood his place, so he merely rose, bowed low, and offered, “I will return within a few days, Your Grace, with a complete schedule of the proceedings for your review. Until then, please remain well, and I offer my sincerest felicitations to you, and to the Princess Elizabeth.”
And with that, he backed out of the door.
In between visits from my beautiful baby girl, I received guests. One of my new and highly favoured silkwomen, Mistress Joan Clerk, was to call in the early afternoon to show me the progress she had made creating my Elizabeth’s christening robes, a break in my closeted monotony that I looked forward to with delight.
Meanwhile, a ridiculous counter-suggestion had been made by some of the elder stateswomen. They proposed that Elizabeth should establish a custom by wearing the christening garment which had attired Mary, the previous English princess to have been baptized. Upon inquiry, I learned that the robe was of Spanish lace, made by Katherine’s Spanish needlewomen. It was implied that any and all of Henry’s children should be christened in that same gown.
I had attended to them quite politely as the idea was presented by the Dowager Duchess, Lady Norfolk. Not halfway through her speech, though, I ceased listening, albeit doing my very best to maintain a pleasant expression. The instant her mouth stopped moving I shot her, along with the other ladies who accompanied her, a look intended to convey that my imminent decision was final and that no further discussion on the topic would be tolerated.
“Thank you most kindly, ladies. I see that you have given this notion a great deal of thought. How generous of each of you. However, there will be no consideration whatsoever of Elizabeth donning the robes worn by Mary. On the contrary, Elizabeth’s gown may well begin a tradition to be followed by other, yet to be born, children of Henry’s and mine. But my child, our true Princess, will certainly not wear a Spanish gown unrepresentative of the beautiful craftsmanship of our skilled English seamstresses! Furthermore, I feel certain that, if asked, Mary’s mother would balk at providing me with the garment anyway, and instead will keep it well hidden – as, for that matter, would I if I were in her circumstance. And lastly, ladies, an old Spanish gown of pale, washed-out lace would do absolutely nothing to show off my child’s exceptional beauty. So, no, I have seen to it that her first significant garment will flatter her- will complement Elizabeth’s Tudor hair and colouring - so that all who observe her will plainly see her conspicuous likeness to her handsome father, the King. But again, I thank you for your visit.”
With a brief nod to each, they were dismissed and out, with downcast eyes, they filed one by one.
Spanish, indeed! Cobbled together by Katherine’s ungainly outfitters! I think not.
Mistress Clerk was a rare talent, and I felt fortunate to have made her acquaintance. She had previously sewn gowns for several noblewomen from north of London, in Essex. Living in Braintree, she had apprenticed with some of the best and most notable seamstresses and silkwomen in an area widely known for its expertise in fine craftsmanship. Once I had commissioned a gown from her, on a trial basis, and examined the result quickly produced, I had been left awestruck by her fine workmanship and even finer sense of colour and fabric. Indeed, I’d immediately requested that she move to London for a position as a regular provider of clothing for me, and for Henry, and now she would sew for my child as well.
She entered my chamber with a graceful curtsey, and efficiently lifted from her large sack various materials and pieces of partial
ly completed garments. A lovely lady, witty and vivacious yet respectful, I enjoyed spending time with her looking over and selecting beautiful swatches of luxurious silks and velvets and discussing items which would comprise a new wardrobe for me and gowns for the infant Elizabeth. It afforded a welcome respite from my continued lying-in, which had begun to feel extremely wearisome.
I held my breath in anticipation while from a linen wrapping, Mistress Clerk carefully lifted a magnificent creation of deep, rich purple silk velvet - Elizabeth’s royal christening robe. Although only partially complete, one could already see that this gown would prove extraordinary. Lined with incomparable crimson satin, when I reached out to touch it, I was amazed by its supple softness. I sighed with satisfaction as my fingers stroked the splendid texture of cloth falling in folds like violet liquid. Its neckline had the beginnings of silver and gold embroidery, delicately placed: the entire gown to be edged in a fluff of white ermine. There even came with it a tiny matching cap, also satin lined, which pleased me because it was as smooth and soft as my baby’s skin, and would cause no chafing or discomfort for her.
How elegant she would look in this, her first important frock! Needless to say, she had to be beautifully garbed at all times, and thus would come to know the importance of conveying the right personal impression through her attire. I could be certain of that because I would instruct her, just as I had been taught when I was a mere girl in France.
On the morning of 10 September, my chambers were astir with activity: everyone preparing for the christening. I, on the other hand, sat propped in bed as I had been for the past four days … and God’s eyes but I was in a foul humour! So much so that most of the women who were serving me, and the nurses who were to prepare Elizabeth, gave me a wide berth. And who could blame them? My head pounded with a relentless ache; my breasts were sore and swollen with unused milk even though I had been tightly bound with linen to suppress the milk flow, and my temper verged on the uncontrollable – just as it always had at certain times of the month, but far worse.
Truth Endures Page 8
