It was like a nightmare. Was this the tender lover who had always sought to placate me during my outbursts of temper, the man who had sworn eternal fidelity and worked with such determination—and world-shattering consequences—for seven long years to make me his Queen? And in less than seven months he was tired of me!
I lay looking up at the ornate canopy. I had never been so bewildered in my life.
Then I thought of the child stirring within me. He could do me no harm … not while I carried the heir. This child was what he wanted more than anything…more than he wanted me or the simpering maid of honor he was pursuing.
His words would be reported all over the Court. I could imagine the sniggers of my enemies.
But I carried the heir. I would be the mother of the future King.
I had never loved Henry. But I was already loving the child I carried. The child would be my salvation.
I did not see Henry for three days after that incident. I was glad. I was very uncertain how I should behave toward him. I could not forget the ominous threat behind those words. During those few days I thought more often of Katharine than I ever had before and with different emotions. I had considered her an obstinate woman who refused to make life easier for us all because she would not go into a convent. What anguish had she suffered when he had made it clear to her that he wished to cast her aside? He could not have spoken to her as he had to me. He had not “raised her up”— not the daughter of Queen Isabella and the mighty Ferdinand; she was of nobler birth than he with his dubious ancestry. He could not lower the daughter of kings; it was different for one whose great-grandfather had been a mere merchant of the city of London. Katharine had had powerful relations to guard her; and yet she had been thrust aside by the power of the King.
These, I told myself, were foolish thoughts. I must try to be rational. He was merely having a little sport while I was incapacitated, to while away the time until I was myself again. Jane, with her sly comments, had aroused my anger and without thinking I had flared up—which I was afraid was not uncommon with me.
All would be well when the child was born.
September had come—the month for which we had all been waiting. The birthplace of the child was to be Greenwich Palace, and great preparations were being made.
When I arrived in my barge, people lined the banks to watch me. The cheers were half-hearted but at least there were no hostile manifestations. I suppose even my enemies had some respect for a pregnant woman.
The chamber I was to use for my confinement had been hung with tapestries depicting the history of the Holy Virgins. Here I should bring forth this most important child; in it was a very fine bed which Henry had given me some weeks before. It was ornate and exquisitely decorated and had belonged to a French Duke; I think it came into Henry's possession as the spoils of war. It was the finest I had ever seen. In this chamber was another bed over which was a crimson canopy. This was where I should receive those who came to see me and the infant after the birth.
Heavy and elaborate drapes were drawn across the windows to shut out all light; they gave the room, in spite of its luxurious fittings, a somewhat somber look.
When I arrived at Greenwich, I was taken by a large company of courtiers including my ladies to my chamber where I took communion. Then I was conducted to my lying-in chamber. It was all very ceremonial, for everything must be done in accordance with tradition.
Notices had already been prepared announcing the birth of a Prince. This might seem premature but the soothsayers and prophets had, almost without exception, proclaimed that the child would be a boy. There was only one man who had dared say it would be a girl, and he was so unpopular and had incurred the King's wrath to such a degree that no one else dared mention that disastrous possibility.
The King had come to see me just before I went to Greenwich. There had been a certain restraint between us and if I had expected some humility from him I was disappointed. He had made his point. He would act as he wished, and it was my duty to remember that he was the King and all my honors had come through him.
He kissed me coolly on the cheek and said: “You must not excite yourself. You must remember the child.”
“I think of nothing else,” I replied.
“Then that is well. I have been considering his name. It shall be Henry…Henry IX. That sounds well to me… but that is in the future… far in the future. He has to grow up first. Or Edward. That is a King's name. I have not yet decided.”
I had expected him to ask my opinion, but he did not do so, and this was a further indication of the changing relationship between us.
But at this time I could think only of my journey to Greenwich and what awaited me there.
There I lay in that darkened chamber. My pains had begun. It was a long labor but during the exquisite agony of childbirth my spirits were upheld by what this child would mean to me. Nothing could alter the fact that I should be the mother of the King. Henry's infidelities would be hard to bear, but I should be safe… secure; and once I had my son I would make sure that I regained my ascendancy over him.
At last I heard the child's cry. My baby was born.
I lay back exhausted. It was over. I had attained the very peak of my desire. I was drifting off into an exhausted sleep.
I opened my eyes. A woman was standing by my bed. It was the midwife.
“The child …” I said.
“Your Grace, the child is strong and lusty.”
“Oh, praise be to God. I want to see him.”
“Your Grace has given birth to a fair lady.”
“No,” I cried. “It must be a boy.
“A beautiful child,” went on the midwife. “A strong and healthy little girl.”
“No, no,” I cried. “No, no, no.”
“I will bring her to you. She is a little love.”
I shook my head. I could not bear it. A girl! Katharine had had a girl and much trouble she was causing.
“It's a mistake,” I said.
The midwife was silent.
I lay there. But the prophets… the soothsayers… they had merely said what the King wanted them to say. They had dared say no other. I had failed. Already he was tired of me. And all I had done, after all the trouble, was to produce a girl. Katharine had done that before me.
I felt the tears on my cheeks.
Henry came into the apartment.
What was he feeling? What would he do now? Would he upbraid me for failing? I was too tired to fight.
He looked at me.
“A girl,” he said, with some contempt.
I did not answer. I just lay there with the tears running down my face.
Then I looked at him, so big, so glittering, so powerful. “I have failed you,” I said. “I believed I could give you a son. God is against me. Everyone is against me. I am hated and reviled. There is no one to care for me. It would have been better if I had died in the ordeal.”
There was a strong streak of sentiment in Henry. He had never before seen me like this… humble, broken and desperately unhappy.
He came closer and took me in his arms.
He said gently: “This is a blow to us both. They had promised me a son. But be of good cheer. There is time, Anne. We'll get our son yet. The child is strong and healthy, and God has shown us that we can get healthy children. He does this to test us. He will give me a son, I know.”
I said again: “I have failed. I was so sure that I could please you.”
“How now,” he said. “All is well between us two.”
I said: “No …no more…”
There were tears in his eyes. They were glazed with memories.
“All shall be well,” he said. “I would rather beg from door to door than forsake you.”
This was balm to me.
My spirits recovered. It was only a setback. Heaven knew we had had those in plenty.
I felt my spirits rising. I, who had overcome so much, would overcome this.
As soon as he had gone, I ordered that the child be brought to me. When I held her in my arms I loved her, and in my heart I wanted her no different from what she was. She was perfect.
I said to the ladies who crowded around my bed marveling at the perfections of my daughter: “They may now with reason call this room the Chamber of Virgins, for a virgin is now born in it on the vigil of that auspicious day on which the Church commemorates the nativity of the Holy Virgin.”
I was happy. It was true my moods had always changed quickly, but this was a complete reversal—from despair to great happiness.
Henry had declared his continuing love for me; and I had the most adorable daughter.
Life was good again.
The disappointment was forgotten. Preparations for the child's christening were going ahead. The notices which were being sent out had to be altered by adding “ss” to the word “Prince.”
This ceremony was to take place on the tenth of the month—four days after the birth.
It was wonderful to hear of all the splendor which was being made ready to honor my daughter—exactly the same which would have heralded the arrival of a son.
She was to be named Elizabeth, which seemed appropriate because it was the name of both my mother and Henry's. She was to be christened at Grey Friars Church, which was close to the palace. The church was hung with arras, and sweet-scented herbs were strewn all along the way to it. All the highest in the land were present; and Mary Howard, who was betrothed to the Duke of Richmond, Henry's illegitimate son by Elizabeth Blount, carried the pearl-and-jewel-studded chrisom. The Dowager Duchess of Norfolk carried the baby, and over them was a canopy held by my brother George, two of the Howards and another recently ennobled member of our family, Lord Hussey.
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