Chapter 28
TWENTY-EIGHT
“Thomasin?”
The voice was vaguely above her, somewhere distant, as if heard through fog.
“Thomasin!”
She opened her eyes, her dream receding fast. Lady Elizabeth was leaning over the truckle bed in the great chamber where she had passed that night. The older woman’s hair looked dishevelled under a hastily placed cap, her eyes tired.
“What is it? Is the child coming?”
“The first false pains are upon her, the ones that precede the birth. Will you come?”
As Thomasin hurriedly dressed, she realised it was still early in the morning. Around her, other women lay sleeping or blinking in the dim light.
They hurried through into the inner chamber where Anne was lying in bed in a white nightgown, her dark hair streaming around her shoulders. Mary was sitting beside her, clasping one of her hands. The scent of ambergris steamed on the fire.
Lady Elizabeth drew up on the other side of the bed. “I sent Nan for the midwives. How are you?”
Anne nodded and gritted her teeth. “Another.”
“That’s it; these are preparing your body ahead of time. It will not be long now.”
“Is there anything I might bring you?” Thomasin asked.
“The image,” Anne half-whispered, “St Felicitas.”
“The picture of the saint,” explained Mary. “It is here somewhere.”
Thomasin had seen it before. In fact, she had been surprised to see that Anne had saints’ images and relics in the chamber in spite of her reformist views.
She might have read Tyndale and be in favour of translating the Bible, but when she was in pain, Anne still clung to the same talisman used by her mother and grandmother.
Thomasin found the image, a painted piece of wood depicting a young woman draped in yellow robes, which had been lying upon a chest in the corner, and hurried it over to Anne. Anne’s fingers grasped it and pressed it to her lips.
“God in Heaven, St Felicitas, patron saint of boy children, send me the strength to endure this.”
The pain seized her again; her head went back and her body tensed.
“When did this start?” asked Thomasin.
“At dawn. It is often the way; that seems to be the weakest hour.” Lady Elizabeth leaned over to smooth the hair off Anne’s glistening brow.
One of the midwives entered — the shorter, dark-haired one that Thomasin had noted on her arrival, by the name of Mistress Blackwood. She looked as if she had dressed hurriedly.
“So, we have begun?” she asked, looking earnestly down at Anne, who was then unable to answer her, but stared back with wild eyes.
“Since dawn,” said Lady Elizabeth, “still far apart, though. And not too regular yet.”
“We are a way off yet,” said the midwife, nodding. “Has she eaten?”
“She will take nothing.”
“No, that is no good.” Mistress Blackwood spoke directly to Anne. “You must eat something and keep up your strength. This ordeal may last another day or two; you need to be strong for it. Send to the kitchens.”
“I will do so,” said Thomasin, hurrying from the room, through the waiting spaces and out into the large chamber.
“Is the baby coming?” asked Nan Gainsford, approaching her by the door.
“Not yet, I don’t think. The midwife thinks it may still be another day.”
“Heaven be praised — today is not an auspicious day for the birth.”
“What do you mean?”
“The sixth of September. The astrologer drew up a chart, did you not know?”
“A chart?”
“Based on the position of the planets and stars. The last good day was September the third, a royal date for a truly blessed child, and the next is tomorrow, September the seventh. Above all she must deliver before the eleventh, because that is the day that the child would be cursed.”
Thomasin privately dismissed such nonsense. “So long as it arrives healthy and strong. Now, I have instructions for the kitchens.”
She spoke briefly to the guards at the door, who were primed ready for this moment, one of whom departed at once.
“Should we inform the king?” asked Bess Holland, who looked sideways at Thomasin, never having forgiven her for their argument years ago in Catherine’s apartments.
“If you would,” Thomasin replied curtly, before turning and heading back to Anne.
Back in the chamber, Anne was bracing herself again through the pain.
“These are coming sooner, I think,” said the midwife. “Once you’ve finished, my lady, I would like your permission to examine you and see where we are.”
Anne’s body tautened as some invisible power moved through it. She arched her back and threw back her head until she relaxed again.
“Now,” said Mistress Blackwood, turning to Thomasin, “lock and bar the door and admit no one; I am about the examine the queen.”
Thomasin drew the bolt and stood before the door, while the midwife removed the covers that had been lying across the queen. She averted her eyes while Mistress Blackwood’s swift hands lifted her nightgown and made their quick examination, before covering her up again.
“There is still much time to pass. You have not yet begun the process of dilation, and there has been no signs of your waters breaking yet. Try to rest as much as you can and eat when the food arrives.”
“Rest?” said Anne. “This is not labour?”
“This is pre-labour, the warning. Your time is not far off. Likely tomorrow you will hold your child in your arms.”
“Tomorrow?”
“It seems a long time to be in pain but it is the Lord’s way, and worth the safe arrival of a child.”
“It was thus with me,” said Lady Elizabeth, “and your sister. Never fear; the time will pass. We are here with you.”
Anne seized her hand again and squeezed it tight. “Pray with me.”
They all clasped their hands together as Anne mumbled her prayers, even Thomasin and the midwife. Occasionally, mid-word, she would pause, bracing herself through pain, and then resume. Their concentration was broken only by the eventual knock upon the door, signalling that food had been brought.
Thomasin opened the door, allowing Nan and Margaret to bring in the dishes that had come up from the kitchen. Anne was able to take some wine and pastries. After that, her pains seemed to recede, so she lay down upon her back.
“I will sleep for a little while, if I can. Mother, Mary, you may leave me awhile. I will keep Thomasin beside me in case I need anything, but you are due a distraction.”
Lady Elizabeth was unconvinced. “Are you sure you wish us to leave? I will be no trouble, just quiet in the corner.”
“I will not be able to sleep knowing you are all here. Go and have some wine, some conversation. See a different space; hear the news. Thomasin will call if need be. That will be well, Mistress Blackwood, will it not?”
“Indeed, quite well. I shall remain in the waiting space on the other side of the door, but you two ladies should take the opportunity.”
Thomasin nodded. “You two have been in here all night; it is only right.”
“Very well.” Lady Elizabeth eased herself up slowly from the bed. “But we shall only be in the great chamber, so do not hesitate if the situation changes.”
Thomasin watched her and Mary go, then took the chair by the bedside. It had been supplied with a golden cushion, but the back was still hard and straight. The room was suddenly very still once the door had closed.
Anne pulled the covers up to her chin. “I wish I could simply sleep and wake to find my babe here.”
“I think that must be the wish of all mothers-to-be.”
“If I am to die, Thomasin…”
“No, do not speak in that way. You are not going to die.”
“No, listen to me. I must speak. For all my prayers and efforts and strength, I know that women do die in travail. It would be wrong not to think of it. I do not wish to alarm my mother with such talk, but I can trust you with my wishes, Thomasin. I know it.”
“Of course you can, my lady.”
“I know that my father brought you from Suffolk to be with me at this time, that he has given you special instructions to stay by my side and offer your good sense.”
Thomasin blushed. “It was my honour to accept his commission.”
“Just as he asked you to accompany my mother at the time of my coronation. But, Thomasin, I think you are more than a woman whose services can be bought. I know you to be of sound common sense and good nature, of shrewd judgement and wisdom well beyond your years. Your friendship with Thomas More alone speaks of that.”
“I do my best, my lady.” Thomasin had not realised Anne had been observing her so closely.
“Listen, should my son survive me, he must be brought up in the reformed faith. He must have the right teachers, the right confessor and priests in his household — only trusted men who have rejected popery.”
“The king will see to all this, I am sure.”
“But he may not go far enough. My son will rule over a reformed country, and he must be prepared for it. His tutors must be chosen carefully, men of learning and kindness, who will support the translated Bible and reject the old vices. He will be a great king, Thomasin, a great king, but he will have his troubles following on from all that has happened. He must not reconcile with the Pope but lead his country bravely and truly, and often alone.”
“I am sure he will, and you will be there to guide him.”
“And in his infancy, surround him with only the kindest ladies, who will love him as their own child, and let no one speak harsh words to him, nor scold him, but keep him on a firm regime of study, exercise, play and prayer.”
“Of course, my lady. All that will be done.”
“But I will not have him sent to Ludlow. It is a foul, dangerous place full of pestilent airs, which caused the king’s brother to lose his life — that Arthur who was once husband to Catherine.
Let him be raised at Hatfield or Eltham, where the air is cleaner, and let his household move often to preserve him from plagues and the sweat, and his linen be boiled to kill the lice, and his walls whitewashed with lime. ”
“My lady, all this will be done and more. You are worrying needlessly.”