Chapter 29
TWENTY-NINE
The chamber had been tidied and fresh linen placed upon the bed.
Lavender was scattered around, pastilles burned and all the signs of Anne’s labour removed, save for its human result.
Dressed in fresh white linen, her hair brushed smooth and tucked under a white cap, Anne cradled the child to her breast, where it lay motionless, its pink rosebud face soft in sleep after its long ordeal.
The queen had wiped away her tears and set her expression into one of proud resolve.
Her child was heathy, and she had survived: that was all that mattered.
The women waited, the air heavy with expectation, the predictable words unspoken. They were united by the hours of suffering, the fears and pain, the struggle and the release. In the distance, the chapel bells chimed out their news in rhythm with the local churches thereabouts.
“Hark, he comes, he comes,” said Mary at the door, listening to the noise in the outer chambers.
Thomasin fell back into the shadows as Henry entered.
She dared not look at his face, but immediately, she could see there was something in his movements that spoke of disappointment.
No one in the room could have been in any doubt about it.
He did not hurry to Anne’s side, eager and full of delight, nor question her about the birth, nor gaze upon the child in awe.
He approached slowly and respectfully, as if he had all day to look upon his daughter for the first time.
Whispers had already reached them that the birth announcements had been altered and the jousts cancelled.
“Your daughter, my lord,” said Anne, when he did not speak.
Henry leaned over and looked dispassionately at the bundle in her arms. “Very good. It is healthy?”
“Yes, she is. Strong and healthy.”
He gave a curt nod. “By God’s Grace, sons will follow.”
“It was a straightforward delivery, my lord,” said Mistress Blackwood, without being asked. “There is every sign that the queen will bear more children.”
Henry did not acknowledge her. “You must rest.”
Then he turned and walked from the chamber. The door closed behind him, leaving the women stunned, but not surprised, at his coldness.
“He will need time to adjust,” said Lady Elizabeth, “but there will be sons in the years to come, and this little one is as lusty as we could desire.”
“Do you have a name for her?” asked Mary Boleyn.
“It could only be Elizabeth,” Anne replied, “for both our mothers.”
“Little Elizabeth.” The child’s grandmother smiled down at her. “Not yet an hour old, and I wonder what mighty future awaits you.”
“Here,” said Mistress Lewis, “let me put the babe in the cradle. The queen must sleep.”
“No,” said Lady Elizabeth, “I shall hold her and be quite content. All of you, go. Leave us.”
Thomasin followed the other women out into the great chamber, which was abuzz with noise.
The king had just passed through, leaving them in no doubt of his mixed feelings, and the servants bringing in fresh supplies were already gossiping.
Snippets of disaster and disappointment flew about the place, and speculations of all kinds about the future, amid heavy sighs and the occasional tear, both of relief and despair.
Thomasin could not bear to stay. Excusing herself to the guards, she stepped outside and kept walking.
There was a strange mood in the palace — one which she might have anticipated, but it still caught her heavily as she progressed through its corridors. Whispers chased about the place; glances were exchanged and heads dipped as she passed by.
“Is it true, miss?” asked a passing boy who was carrying wood. “Or is the child rightly formed?”
“All rightly formed and perfect,” snapped Thomasin. “Who says otherwise?”
“Not me!” The boy held up his hands. “It’s what they whisper in the kitchen.”
“Kitchens be damned! All they need do is prepare the food! If the king hears of this…”
The boy sped away, afeared of where his mouth had led him, but the damage was already done: Thomasin was tired and hungry, and her mood had soured.
She had to get away from all this until it settled.
The gardens were too busy, filled with the well-wishers, local people who had brought gifts to the palace — cheeses, rabbits, pies, apples and rosewater.
Likewise, the chapel would be full of those giving thanks in the traditional way.
Instead, she headed for a particular corner of the walled garden, which she recalled as being secluded.
It should be draped with the last of the honeysuckle at this time of year.
Thomasin’s instincts had proved correct.
There were two maids drying laundry in the near corner, but her little niche was empty, hidden from the main paths, and the pleasant seat awaited her.
It was only when she sat down, away from the eyes of the court, away from Anne’s pain and Henry’s coldness, that she allowed her tears to fall.
All the emotion of the past two weeks and the tension from waiting and the fear of the outcome released themselves in a flood.
Thomasin simply put her face into her hands and wept.
Thomasin went to dine in the great hall that evening.
Despite all the gossip and glances, she found it easier to get lost among the crowd than it was to return to Anne’s chambers and bear the weight of disappointment that clung about them.
Her commission had been fulfilled: she had remained at Anne’s side throughout the confinement and birth, calming and guiding her as best she could.
Soon, Thomasin could pack her bags, collect the handsome reward that Sir Thomas had promised, and make her way back to Suffolk, to Giles and Green Hollow.
And yet, she wondered, why did she feel so empty and bereft, as if she had failed?
Various figures came in to dine. She watched distant lords and ladies take their places and drink their wine.
Cromwell came in briefly, hurrying through his meal with an abstracted air.
The French ambassador, Du Bellay, was laughing with some women in a corner.
Bishop Gardiner sat solemnly eating his meat, alone and unwilling to speak to anyone.
Sir Thomas Wyatt seemed to drink his way through gallons of wine while barely touching a morsel of food.
Other faces came and went, but there was no sign of Henry, nor of Thomas Boleyn.
Thomasin hurried her meal and headed outside, where dusk was already falling.
A group of young women ahead of her in the corridor were about to leave court for the day. Thomasin listened to their chatter as she walked behind them, most of it awed with their surroundings, but then snatches of more unpleasant whispers reached her ears.
“Quite undone by this… He may put her aside … not another divorce … the old queen.”
“Ladies,” said Thomasin, unable to stop herself, “if you must come to court, at least learn not to slander your queen in public.”
“But we…”
“The queen has just given birth. Mind your idle tongues!”
The women hurried away, red-faced, leaving Thomasin’s anger still burning in their wake.
“Idle tongues?”
Sir Thomas Boleyn had come up behind her silently. She felt an odd mixture of emotions in his presence, exhaustion and relief knitted together with caution.
“You have done well, Thomasin. You have served me well.”
“I have done my duty to Anne.”
“You must be exhausted.”
“Yes, it has been draining.”
“You must be ready to return to Suffolk.”
“At this moment, my lord, I am fit only for my bed.”
“Might I keep you a few more moments before you retire? I heard the king visited Anne’s chamber. Did he show his disappointment?”
“Not openly, but it was plain to see in the restraint of his manner.”
“He is beyond disappointed, but he tries not to show it. The astrologers who predicted a son have all fled the palace. How did Anne take it?”
“Stoically. She did not let him see her tears.”
“That is good. With God’s grace, she will conceive again soon and a son will follow. In the meantime, she has a healthy daughter. She has much to be thankful for.”
“I think she will see it, when she has rested.”
He moved closer. “Have you given any more thought to my proposal?”
“I have had little time to think of much else beside the queen, my lord.”
His grey eyes glinted in the shadows. “Did it not stir something in you, seeing the child arrive, Thomasin? Did you not long for it to be you lying there, delivering your own son or daughter?”
“Not while the pains racked her, but afterwards…” She had to admit that he had a point. She had been holding her maternal feelings at bay, her own desires subjugated in the service of a new mother.
“Afterwards, when you saw the love between mother and child — the relief after the ordeal?”
“Yes, I admit that was a tender moment.”
“Why wait, Thomasin? Your husband has not given you a child in four years. A year from now, you could be a mother.”
“My lord…”
“I have begun this wrong. I should have told you from the start that I have conceived a passion for you. Your beauty and intelligence and good sense set you apart from the other women.”
Suddenly, he reached for her and she was in his arms. Too tired to fight, she let him hold her for a moment, then gently put his arms away from her.
“Do you not think that your feelings for me might allow it?”
“Under other circumstances, perhaps, but I am a happily married woman.”
“And I say again, that need not prevent us. Instead, our shared happiness might make you complete. A child, Thomasin — think of it.”
He did not realise just how much she had thought of it.
“My lord, my mind is addled from lack of sleep. Please let me retire. I have done your bidding.”
“But you have not fulfilled my wish.” He stepped away from her. “I understand, Thomasin, but I still hold out hope. Think what advantages your child might enjoy, being related to the future king or queen.”
“I must bid you goodnight, sir.”
“I hope we may speak again tomorrow.”
“I shall need to discuss the arrangements for my departure.”
“Not so hasty, not so hasty. There is the christening, too. I would have you at Anne’s side.”
“Very well. But now I bid you goodnight.”
The garden path was strewn with rushes. Thomasin picked her way lightly along it behind the procession that was making its way through to the chapel beyond.
The Mayor of London and his aldermen had arrived, dressed in their scarlet robes, along with a number of leading citizens in their best clothing, as well as barons, bishops, lords and earls.
Anne was absent, as custom dictated, remaining in confinement until she was churched.
Beside Thomasin walked Lady Elizabeth, dictating a slow pace, with Mary and Jane behind, followed by the other women of the queen’s household.
The sun came out briefly, brightening the path before it retreated again.
But surely that glimmer had been a good sign; there was hope for Anne and her daughter.
The chapel was hung inside with Arras tapestries and at the front, a silver font was draped with cloth of gold, a crimson cloth hanging above and a red carpet beneath it.
Taking her place at the side, Thomasin watched the rest of the procession.
The Earl of Essex came first, with a gilt-covered basin, then Exeter and Dorset, carrying a lighted taper and a dish of salt.
After that came the old Duchess of Norfolk, Anne’s step-grandmother, carrying the baby wrapped in a purple mantle with a long train that was carried by Sir Thomas Boleyn.
The Duke of Suffolk had arrived at Greenwich especially for the occasion, walking alongside Norfolk and his daughter, young Mary, who was carrying a chrisom of pearls and precious stones.
George Boleyn was one of the four chosen to carry a canopy above the baby as they grouped around the new Archbishop of Canterbury, who proceeded to bless and christen the child.
“What is to be her name?” he asked softly, listening as the duchess whispered in his ear. Cranmer then anointed the infant’s tiny forehead with holy water. “In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, I baptise you, Princess Elizabeth.”
Anne’s women waited behind to gather the gifts and bring them up to her chamber, along with dishes of wafers and comfits, and jugs of hippocras.
Servants bore burning torches to make the way gleam brightly, as Elizabeth was laid in Anne’s arms before being returned to her cradle, carved with roses, vine leaves and ripe fruits.
“Soon you will be up again,” said Lady Elizabeth, “dancing and merry, as you often are.”
“Yes,” said Anne, without expression, “I shall.”
But Thomasin saw that there was a new note of fear in her eyes.
“Where is the king? Why does he not come?”
Her mother looked around. “I am sure he is busy with the guests. All the dignitaries that came by barge from London will be departing. Then he will come.”
The moments stole away. The torches burned low so that the servants carried them away and the jugs were empty.
Finally, the women heard a heavy tread upon the floor outside. Henry looked jubilant, his cheeks flushed as he entered, full of wine and the good wishes of his kingdom.
“That is that,” he announced. “The child is christened, the guests have departed and we must resume. When will you schedule your return? You can be churched here in the chapel. Cranmer will do it. I am thinking of a progress during these autumn months, around the southern counties. What do you think?”
“When she is quite recovered, my lord,” urged Lady Elizabeth. “There is no cause for haste.”
“Shortly,” said Anne, smiling winningly, “that would be most welcome.”