Chapter Text
Chapter 1
A Distressed Queen
January 1536, the Palace of Whitehall, the city of London, England
Gazing into the semidarkness, Queen Anne of England lay on a large wooden bed, draped in rich red brocade. She had been brought back to her spacious bedchamber by King Henry VIII after she had discovered Lady Jane Seymour sitting in his lap and kissing him with hunger, as if they were tasting some forbidden fruit. A low fire cracked in the hearth, irritating her.
The luxurious interior was not soothing to her doleful mood at all. The bedside tables were adorned with marble sculptures, all the matching chairs upholstered in golden turquois. Heavily gilded and fancifully ornamented with embellishments of epical topics from Homer’s Iliad, the mahogany furniture was arranged about the area. The walls were covered with fabulous frescoes, depicting ancient goddesses and gods, as well as several paintings by Hans Holbein.
Anne lamented aloud, “Henry cares not that I’m eight months along in my pregnancy.”
As if deliberately trying to humiliate his consort, the monarch spent a lot of time with the woman whom he had promised to serve in the same way as Lancelot did to his Guinevere. The monarch considered himself entitled to have numerous mistresses. Henry can think only of luxuries, of beauties, of festivities, of all kinds of entertainment, of his infamous hunts with that damned Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, when he indulges into affairs, and of his Jane.
Anne had stood at the doorway for quite some time before making her presence known. She would never forget the gut-wrenching sight of her husband kissing Jane possessively, of the wench responding with ardor instead of her fake sweetness and shyness, which the hypocritical maiden displayed to the world. Anne had watched Henry and Jane break their kiss and look into each other’s eyes with devotion, as if to imprint their faces upon memory.
Anguish had surged through Anne. She had been jealous of Henry to Catherine of Aragon, while the Great Matter had dragged on for years, but never before had she been as hurt as she was today. She had always been wounded by the ruler’s infidelities, for she loved her husband too much, and her jealousy had given Henry many headaches. A thick fog of loathing enveloped Anne’s entire being at the thought that Jane had pretended to be a sweet maiden. Anne would not have let Henry parade herself in front of Catherine if the dead woman had been with child.
The part of Anne’s heart that had been previously intact was bleeding like a fatal injury. The sight of the lovers’ adulterous kiss was a mortal blow to Anne. She had lashed out at them, and then Henry had scooped Anne into his arms, endeavoring to calm down his fuming wife, but she had continued punching him in the chest until she had lost all her strength. Henry had carried her to the queen’s quarters, asking Anne’s ladies-in-waiting to take care of her.
The monarch had castigated his wife for not behaving as a dignified queen. Like an evil deity, his words had pushed Anne further towards destruction, and she had wept for an hour. Anne eyed her finger with a ring featuring an oval-cut diamond surrounded by sapphires – Henry had gifted it to her on the day of their wedding. Anne averted her gaze, unable to contemplate the ring which she now perceived as a symbol of empty promises and hollow love.
She removed the item and threw it away, struggling to believe that Henry had betrayed her with Jane – a woman who was nothing compared to Anne. It was beyond her understanding why the monarch was so drawn to the simple, undereducated, and meek girl, without fire and spirit. Despite his betrayals, Anne still adored her spouse, but Henry worshipped himself more than anyone else. Henry Tudor is himself the greatest love in his entire life, Anne concluded.
Tears stung her eyes, and she brushed them away with a palm. “Henry, you pledged to be mine forever. You said that London would have to melt into the River Thames before you stop loving me. Instead, your feelings began to fade when I gave you Elizabeth.” The blanket covered the queen up to her chest. She put a hand on her swollen abdomen, feeling her baby move. “You are a boy. One day, you will become a handsome and strong ruler of England.”
The darkness, together with layers of mist, descended upon London like veils, and there was the similar inky gloom in Anne’s soul. She predicted that her tenure as queen was nearing its end: Henry would replace her with Jane, or she would die in childbirth. To her astonishment, the thought of death was a welcoming one for the first time, because it could give Anne peace that was denied to her in real life. The confidence that her babe was a boy was a precious reward.
Rivulets of tears trickled from her eyes. “Henry, you might replace me with this strumpet even if I give you a healthy son. You can go to any lengths to get what you want.”
The name Henry sounded in her ears like a horrendous curse. He was the most powerful man in the realm after he had appointed himself Head of the Church of England. He had changed Anne’s life after she had agreed with her father’s demands to attract the king’s attention. Henry had courted and treated Anne as queen while having still been married to Catherine of Aragon. He had been her entire world, but in the end, he had broken her heart into countless smithereens.
The worst was that Henry did not feel guilty. The ruler firmly believed that he could do whatever he wished. Everyone had to satisfy his wishes and desires. Henry Tudor was a selfish man, one who had many other things to do rather than care about his pregnant wife. Anne was not Catherine: she was more intemperate and bold. She should have behaved like Catherine, but she doubted that she would be able to watch Henry flirting with and bedding other women.
During their courtship, King Henry had told Anne how beautiful she was, heaping praises and compliments upon her, that he would have painted her to immortalize her loveliness if he had been a painter. The monarch had said that he heard lingering music of perfect bliss while looking at her. Over time, Henry had turned immune to Anne’s allure, and now he wanted Jane. Once their love had been a blessing, but now it was a lethal poison slowly killing the queen.
Will tragic Gods on the Mount Olympus have the solemn feast of the sacred fire, in which I’ll be burning to ashes while they will be celebrating my demise? She would gladly have lived a long life with Henry and their children, but she knew that if she had given Henry a son and kept the position of a queen, she would be entirely broken. If she perished in labor, she would leave a majestic legacy – Princess Elizabeth and a great prince. The unfading glory of untimely death in childbirth suddenly seemed to Anne more appealing than the doubtful glory of queenship.
Suddenly, Queen Anne felt a sharp pain shooting through her abdomen. “Argh!” Her eyes widened in horror as she saw the increasing red pool beneath her body on the white sheets. “No, no, no!” she cried in despair. “No, my boy… my boy,” she moaned in fear.
The door flung open. Anne’s loyal ladies-in-waiting entered. Lady Margery Horsman and Lady Elizabeth Holland, commonly known at court as Bess Holland, sprinted to the bed, their faces pale at the sight of blood-stained sheets. Years ago, Margery had served to Catherine of Aragon, but she had long become one of Anne’s closest friends and staunch supporters. Bess Holland, who was the daughter of the secretary of Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, was the queen’s lady-in-waiting and perhaps a spy to her lover, for she was Norfolk’s mistress.
“Your Majesty, what has happened?” Bess stopped near the bed.
Margery stood nearby. “Bess, go and find Doctor Butts! Quickly!”
Bess blinked in shock. “Is it a miscarriage?”
“Go! Now!” Margery shouted, pushing the younger woman away from the bed.
“I’m running.” Bess stormed out of the queen’s apartments.
“My boy!” The queen felt more blood pooling out of her. “The Lord, let my child live,” Anne entreated as she curled herself into a ball in the desperate attempt to stop the bleeding.
Margery took away one of the blood-stained sheets. “Bess went to fetch the physician.” She grabbed a clean sheet and covered Anne with it. “Please stay calm, Your Majesty.”
Anne was not listening. “My boy, I beseech you to stay with me,” she pleaded the creature inside her. She was feeling weaker as the blood continued flowing out of her body.
Margery seated herself on the bed’s edge. “Madame, I beg of you to take a hold of your emotions. You will need a lot of energy as soon as the doctor comes.”
The queen nodded. “I know, Margery.” Then a wave of torment ripped through her, and she screamed before saying, “My waters have broken. The baby is coming. Find a midwife.”
“Indeed, Your Majesty. Wait a little bit.” A terrified Margery Horsman jumped to her feet and approached one of the queen’s maids, who immediately departed the chamber.
Margery settled herself on the bed. A maid gave her a bowl of water, and she moistened a piece of cloth, then wiped the sweat from Anne’s forehead. As Margery’s gaze locked with Anne’s, she discerned the mortal dread in her mistress’ eyes. Though some eight-month babies survived, the likelihood of a child’s survival was lower than that of a babe carried to term.
Pain shot through Anne’s midsection. “It hurts so much.” She slipped into blackness.
When the queen regained her conscience, she found herself lying upon the bed with her legs widespread. The blood was no longer seeping out of her body anymore, but Anne was still in awful pain, feeling contractions. She could see her maids hurrying in and out of bedroom.
“My child,” Anne wailed, clutching her abdomen helplessly.
“Don’t do this, Your Majesty,” Margery beseeched when she and Bess took the queen’s hands in their own. “You are in labor and must work hard to give birth to the baby.”
“Your Majesty, push.” The midwife neared the bed and placed her hand on Anne’s belly.
“Is my child alive?” Anne inquired, her eyes full of hope.
The midwife tipped her head. “Yes, it is. I can feel the baby moving.”
Gritting her teeth against a tide of agony, Queen Anne pushed, gathering all the strength she possessed. As minutes were swiftly passing, the contractions were becoming stronger, and she continued over and over again, but unfortunately, no serious progress was achieved.
“It hurts too much,” Anne complained, her voice exhausted.
“Your Majesty must endure,” the midwife assured, masking her worry with a smile.
Anne let out a sigh as the pain subsided slightly. “Has someone told the king?”
Bess Holland inclined her head. “I’ve already notified His Majesty.”
“Was His Majesty alone when you found him?” Anne wanted to know.
Nobody dared reveal the harsh truth: the monarch had asked Bess to take care of the queen, saying that he would wait for the news in the company of Lady Jane Seymour. Bess had been shocked to see the ruler dressed in a night robe when he came to talk to her out of his bedroom, furious that he had been disturbed. Then Jane had appeared, having immediately returned to the royal bed. Bess had shared the information with the others after returning to Anne’s suite.
Anne figured out the meanings of their grim expressions – King Henry was with Jane. Her heart was breaking at the thought that her husband was with his accursed mistress when his wife struggled for their child and her own life. She had never despised Henry more than now.
Anne riposted, “His Majesty is our lord and master, and all women belong to him. Whores make the life of their sovereign pleasurable while their wives carry their children.”
Margery Horsman bent her head down and whispered into the queen’s ear, “Your Majesty, please do not hurt yourself. Think about your baby and yourself.”
Anne’s expression was pained. “He does not care for me and for our son.”
Margery brushed a strand of hair from Anne’s forehead. “He does not deserve you.”
A contraction followed, and Anne’s next scream was heartbreaking. “Does he deserve a love of any woman?” she inquired as the excruciating sensations receded.
“No, he does not,” Margery asserted with conviction.
The distant sounds were heard: the aristocrats were gathering near the queen’s chambers. The court buzzled with the tidbits of her labor. Anne could wager all of her money and estates that everyone expected a stillborn child and the monarch’s following anger. The excitement of Anne’s defeat and the victory of Jane were vying for supremacy within the walls of the palace.
“Oh God!” This delivery was more painful for Anne than before. My labor is dangerous. The pain in her abdomen was as sharp as the tip of a sword driven into her flesh.
§§§
It was against the protocol for physicians to attend the childbirth. However, Doctor Butts was summoned to the queen’s rooms to examine Anne who shuddered in convulsions and was bleeding. Butts declared that Anne was indeed in labor. The doctor helped to stop the bleeding and forced the queen to wake up, so Anne could continue bringing the child into the world.
The physician was astounded that her labor had started early. After the queen’s miscarriage over a year ago, Butts had supervised over the queen’s health since she had conceived. Butts had feared that she would not carry the baby to full term, but the examinations had not revealed any complications in her pregnancy. Nonetheless, Queen Anne was in premature labor.
When Thomas Boleyn, Earl of Wiltshire, and his son George Boleyn, Viscount Rochford, appeared in the antechamber that was part of the queen’s quarters, they found Doctor Butts there, with Lady Margaret Wyatt and Lady Anne Shelton. Jane Boleyn, Lady Rochford and the wife of Anne’s brother, were also there. Soon Sir Thomas Wyatt, Sir Henry Norris, and Mark Smeaton tried to enter the suite, but they were denied access. The crowd assembled outside.
His expression inscrutable, Thomas Cromwell, the royal chief minister, was also among the courtiers. Anne was no longer his friend because of their disagreements over the Dissolution of the monasteries. Anne had even dared threaten to send him to the scaffold. Anne Boleyn is my sworn enemy. I’ll contrive a plan to annihilate her. Given the ruler’s affection for Jane Seymour, Cromwell would fabricate trumped-up charges of adultery and high treason against Anne.
Everyone bombarded Doctor Butts with questions about Anne’s ordeal and the chance of the baby’s survival. The physician replied that the risks of difficult childbirth were high, warning them that the baby could be either stillborn or could die soon after the delivery.
Thomas Boleyn snarled, “Anne must give birth to a healthy prince. It’s her duty!” There was no word about the queen’s survival, as if he did not care for his daughter at all.
With a scowl, George Boleyn protested, “She is your daughter!”
Boleyn barked, “Keep silent, George. Obey me.” A grave silence ensued.
“Have the queen’s labor really started?” Cromwell broke the silence at last.
Boleyn studied the agitated countenance of Doctor Butts. “Can it be a false alarm?”
The physician shook his head. “No doubt Her Majesty is already in labor.”
“Will Anne survive?” George questioned, sadness creeping into his voice.
Butts sighed grievously. “I’m sorry, but I cannot guarantee this.”
“The baby must live, and only it matters,” Wiltshire claimed. This was a thing of primary importance to the Boleyns and Howards. He clenched his fists in exasperation, for Anne had been a complete fool to react so emotionally towards King Henry’s latest indiscretion with Jane Seymour. He had already learned the truth from one of his spies in the queen’s household.
“The baby will be born a month before the term,” the physician explained. He was shocked that Wiltshire appeared to be so indifferent for his daughter’s fate.
“Some children survive in such cases,” Boleyn pointed out.
“Not all of them,” Butts remarked. “Pray for Queen Anne and her baby.”
“Let’s hope for the better.” In reality, Cromwell did not want Anne to have a healthy son, which would mean that the Boleyns would become more influential and smugger.
Thomas Boleyn approached George, and Mark Smeaton immediately stepped aside, giving the Boleyns enough space for some privacy. “Any child would better survive.”
George breathed, “Even if it is a daughter, Father?”
The Earl of Wilshire nodded. “If it is a robust girl, His Majesty would not be as angry as he would be if the baby dies. It would buy us some time before Anne can conceive again.”
The Viscount Rochford glanced away, his hands nervously gripping his doublet’s collar. “I hope so much that Anne and her child will both live.” He was disgusted with his father.
“It is Anne’s fault that the child can die,” Boleyn hissed between gnashed teeth.
“Anne might perish.” George discerned the annoyance in his father’s brown pools. “You heard what Doctor Butts had said: he cannot ensure us that she will be all right.”
“The baby must live,” Thomas flung back. “I’m indifferent to everything else.”
George huffed, “Father, Anne is your daughter. Don’t you care for her?”
“Why in God’s name are you so worried about Anne now when we can lose everything we have been fighting for years?” Boleyn’s voice was a furious whisper, yet still it felt as if it were echoing in the air. “She pledged to give His Majesty a son, and she must deliver on her promise at any cost. Otherwise, our liege lord might set her aside, and then we will lose power.”
The icy chill of betrayal froze George: in his father, he did not recognize the loving parent whom the old man had once been. “I’ll not disturb you anymore,” he uttered as evenly as he could, although wrath bubbled inside him. With a shallow bow, he went to Mark Smeaton.
“I’ll go to our liege lord.” Boleyn pivoted and strode to the king’s chambers.
Cromwell smirked. “The division among the Boleyns. Who could imagine that?”
Doctor Butts shot a scornful look to him. “Are you satisfied, Master Cromwell?”
The chief minister glowered at the physician. “It’s none of your business, Butts.”
Near the queen’s apartments, the people gossiped, and new nobles arrived. Those who were from the Boleyn faction wore concerned expressions; many were worried about the queen. Some – the secret supporters of the Seymours and the former partisans of Catherine of Aragon – were delighted, anticipating the end of the Boleyns with the demise of Anne’s new child.
§§§
Now King Henry was in his living room with Lady Jane Seymour as they sat in matching, ornately carved armchairs. This chamber was part of his large apartments. A half-empty decanter and two goblets of wine stood on a walnut table between their chairs, and a pile of cards was there. While waiting for news, they had played cards; Jane was a skilled gamester, to his surprise.
The wall tapestries portraying hunts and other outdoor activities caused him to wish that he could go to countryside with Jane to hunt. The king admitted, “It would be great to go to some of my hunting lodges together, Jane. You are such a fine horsewoman.”
Jane smiled: she was not well educated, but she liked riding. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
After he had carried Anne to the queen’s chambers, the monarch had found a distraught Jane in the corridor. Initially, he had not intended to take Jane’s maidenhead. In his quarters, he had offered Jane wine. It should have been a perfect day when Henry kissed Jane, but Anne had ruined everything. Upon their arrival in his rooms, Henry had scooped the girl into his arms. To console Jane, the king had whispered endearments to her, but Jane had wept harder. They had ended up near a huge bed canopied with red brocade curtains, and then it had happened.
Tonight, King Henry had deflowered his new mistress with indescribable delight. He had seen blood-stained sheets after he had entered her and gently made love to her. Jane’s innocence made Henry cherish Jane most passionately: the Seymour girl adored him so unconditionally that she had gifted her virtue to him. Yet, part of Henry did not like that Jane had surrendered to him quickly. In contrast, Anne had rejected his proposal to be his maîtresse-en-titre.
“Your Majesty!” Jane’s voice jerked Henry out of his reveries.
The monarch glanced at her with a broad smile. “My Guinevere!”
“My Lancelot!” his mistress purred, her lips curved in a grin.
Henry surveyed his paramour. Her demure countenance a bit angular, there was a quiet and elegant grace in Lady Jane Seymour. He knew that she did not like her beige brocade gown of a lady-in-waiting in the French style, but she looked enchanting to Henry, with soft gray eyes and silken, long, blond tresses streaming down her back in waves shining in the sunlight.
“I regret that I am not married to you,” admitted the monarch. “You have given me your heart, soul, and body, but I’m sorry that I cannot not make you an honest woman. However, I want you to know that in my eyes, you are not like my other mistresses.”
Jane’s mouth opened in amazement, then she smiled. “Oh, Your most gracious Majesty!”
Damn, he was shackled to the very woman who had caused nothing but countless troubles in their tumultuous marriage. “You are a very good woman, Janie. My innocent flower!”
After Henry and Jane’s coupling, they had briefly fallen asleep until Lady Bess Holland had knocked on the door of the antechamber, and the groom had awakened the monarch. Bess had requested an urgent audience because of Queen Anne’s situation. Growling that he had been disturbed, the ruler had left the bed and hastily donned his robe. Henry had been shocked when Bess Holland had apprised him of the queen’s ongoing labor, his spirits plummeting.
Jane was utterly captivated the monarch’s overwhelming presence and majesty. Splendidly habited in a doublet of crimson velvet, wrought with threads of gold, Henry looked every inch a majestic royal. His red silk hose matched the ensemble, as did his rather wide girdle, ornamented with rubies. His cap of scarlet damask was adorned with diamonds and a small red plume. His broad countenance had an attractive and burly look in the thoroughly English way. Yet, there was something both ruthless and tender lurking in his aquamarine eyes, and Jane noticed it.
“Sire, you carry the best York and Tudor features in your magnificent appearance.”
Henry was flattered. “You have voiced what everything knows! I’m the King of England!”
The king waited impatiently. Finally, Lady Margery Horsman appeared in his quarters.
Margery bobbed a curtsey and looked down, hiding her disgust. “Your Majesty.”
“Rise, my lady,” Henry allowed. “How long will Anne’s labor continue?”
Margery notified, “The midwife does not think that it will be an easy birth.”
“What is really happening?” the king questioned, his voice dripping with anxiety. “The childbirth with our daughter Elizabeth was long, but I suppose this time it should be swifter.”
Margery distinguished worry in the monarch’s eyes. “Not every delivery is quick, even if it is not a first child. Doctor Butts and the midwife agree that this delivery will be difficult.”
Despite their quarrel today, the sovereign of England found himself extremely concerned not only about his child, but also about Anne. He turned to Jane, suddenly buffeted by pangs of contrition that he had been with his lover while a heartbroken Anne was suffering. His new affair had caused her consort’s current ordeals. I do not wish Jane to be in the same room with me.
A frown creased Henry’s forehead. “I hope we will be able to avoid unwelcome surprises. I do not want anything to happen to Anne and our dearest child.”
Margery dipped his head. “I pray that Her Majesty will cope. May I return to the queen?”
The monarch permitted, “Go take care of the queen. If you have news, visit me anytime.”
“I shall,” Margery promised. She then curtsied and exited.
Henry swung his gaze to Jane, and his anger somewhat abated. His features split into a grin at the sight of his mistress. Jane was not seductive and graceful, but she was lovely because of her innocence, shyness, and sweetness. The submissive and meek Jane was a balm to Henry’s heart after his arguments with Anne and her disobedience. Jane was not as passionate as Anne, but Henry was exhausted of Anne, needing a safe haven from the hurricane in his marriage.
Jane assured, “Your Majesty, everything will be all right.”
His smile vanished. “Anne went into labor before the term, and I fear the bad outcome.”
“Queen Anne is young and strong,” Jane stated rather coldly. “Soon Lady Margery will bring good news that Your Majesty has become the father of a precious Prince of Wales.”
Jane Seymour glanced down, at an oval-cut rubies necklace upon her bosom; it was one of Henry’s many gifts. I regret I allowed the monarch to take my maidenhead in my vulnerability. The queen’s outburst caused me to tremble like a leaf in the arctic wind. She was afraid of Anne Boleyn since she had started serving in the queen’s household months ago. Every time Jane’s eyes locked with Anne’s, the queen’s piercing gaze made Lady Seymour shudder in terror.
Jane Seymour had become a royal mistress, even though her family had taught her to keep the lustful ruler at arm’s length. However, Jane had fallen in love with the handsome and regal monarch who had noticed her among many lovely female courtiers. Finally, Jane had given in to her desires. What do the new developments in my relationship with the king mean for me and my family? My brothers will be enraged upon learning that I lost my main weapon – virginity. Now I have nothing to keep his attention to my humble personality, Jane lamented silently.
Jane Seymour had first been shocked when her father and brothers had initially suggested that she could replace Anne on the throne. As the ruler’s affection for her was growing, she had begun to believe that she was destined to save England from the godless harlot and give Henry a son. She would have done her best to have the bastardized Princess Mary Tudor restored to the succession. However, Jane had destroyed her chances to become the queen tonight.
“Jane, we should not have been together. You ought to leave right now.”
Jane was disappointed that the ruler was so worried about the whore. “Your Majesty, I can stay with you if I can make your time more pleasant. If only I can do something for you, I–”
The monarch interrupted, “Leave. I do not need you here.”
“As Your Majesty wishes.” She rose to her feet, then curtsied.
“We should have been discrete today,” Henry continued, his head inclined, as if in defeat.
A perplexed Jane placed her hand on her mouth. “Your Majesty is the powerful King of England, and you have the right to do what you want,” she purred in a honeyed tone.
He directed his scrutiny at Jane. “Go to a chapel. Pray for our queen and my son.”
“As you command, sire.” She backed away to the door.
“Don’t say anything about this evening, even not to your relatives.” His voice was void of the warmth that had been present in it when he had been full of lust for Jane.
Jane stopped in the room’s middle, her chin lowered to her chest. “I’ll act as Your Majesty wishes.” Feeling hurt, she did not understand why he did not yearn to have her with him.
“Get out of here.” Henry took a full goblet of wine and emptied it in one gulp.
Jane brushed away tears that trickled down her cheek. Chagrin and embarrassment flooded her in torrents, and she did not find an appropriate reply. She wished only to run away from the royal quarters. Where will I go? My relatives must already know about my intimacy with the king. Bess Holland must have already informed the queen’s ladies, and her family could have heard the rumors. She pivoted and wanted to leave, but stumbled into Thomas Boleyn.
Boleyn shot Jane a fulminating glare. “I beg your pardon, Lady Seymour.”
“I apologize,” she repeated. Then she fled from her lover’s quarters.
The Earl of Wilshire scanned the chamber, fuming inwardly at the realization that the king had bedded Jane. He then realized that Jane had failed her family and lost her innocence, and his cunning mind commenced creating a crafty plan how to use this scabrous circumstance.
Tomas neared the sovereign of England and sketched a bow. “I thought that Your Majesty might want my company,” he started cautiously. “I can leave if you wish.”
Henry shook his head. “Don’t.” His voice was low and perturbed.
“As Your Majesty orders,” Thomas obeyed, a smile quivering in the corners of his lips.
§§§
It was late afternoon of the next day, but there was little progress in Queen Anne’s labor. Margery Horsman and Bess Holland came out of her chambers several times, but every time the information was that they had to wait for longer. Once Margery informed King Henry that his wife’s life was in danger, but they endeavored to save both the mother and the child.
The sun had set behind the River Thames. The labor had already lasted during the previous evening, the previous night, and the entire morning until midday. King Henry and his entourage waited in the presence chamber tapestried with scenes of Tudor monarchy, with green-brocaded couches and whimsically carved, oak chairs scattered around the room. Queen Anne’s screams of pain were so bloodcurdling that shivers of apprehension slithered down everyone’s spine.
Dressed in a blue damask doublet decorated with diamonds, King Henry sat in a high-back armchair near a window, staring out into the winter gardens silvered by layers of snow. Henry was surrounded by Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, and Anne’s relatives – Thomas Boleyn, Earl of Wilshire; Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk; and George Boleyn, Viscount Rochford. More courtiers crowded at the opposite side of the room, and the atmosphere was gloomy.
Norfolk and Wiltshire feared that Anne’s failure would not let them accumulate power. For many such as George Boleyn, Thomas Wyatt, Mark Smeaton, and the queen’s close friends, Anne’s ear-splitting screams prophesized her demise in childbirth, and their countenances were twisted in anguish. The Seymour faction concealed their malicious smiles and dreamed of the queen’s new failure to deliver a son, which could mean her replacement with Jane Seymour.
Henry beheld the firmament from the window: it was steel-gray, but cloudless, which was unusual for this time of year, as though it were a good omen. The ruler shuddered as he heard a howl of agony from Anne’s rooms. He craved to rush to the queen and provide his wife with his moral support, but it was against the rules, so Henry stayed in the presence chamber.
The fear of losing his queen clutched at his heart, forcing him to contemplate the situation that had led to Anne’s torments. He was filled with a stinging shame at the remembrance of how he had bedded Jane. His indiscretions with the Seymour woman had been the chief reason for Anne’s ordeal. Henry should not have left his consort in her rooms after he had taken her there: he should have stayed and assured Anne of his affections instead of going to Jane.
My spouse must have controlled her emotions. She is my consort and cannot dictate to me what to do and how many mistresses I have. If his queen was unable to perform her conjugal duties, the king had the absolute right to have a lover because his word was the law. Henry still needed Jane, but his worry about Anne made him realize that he still felt something for his wife. He also blamed Jane for Anne’s crisis because Jane had tempted him to kiss and bed her.
At another heart-rending scream, Henry shuddered with his whole body. Charles Brandon climbed to his feet and stalked to a table, then took a goblet and poured out cognac. Charles headed to the monarch and handed a goblet to Henry. In the past hours, Charles had often given Henry such cups. Henry and Charles did not talk; all other aristocrats in the room were as quiet as a tomb. The ruler smiled sadly at his old friend; then he sipped wine and kept staring out.
The longer Anne’s labor continued, the more the ruler’s ardor towards Jane cooled off. Anne fiercely struggled during the delivery, which was a stark contrast between the meek, weak Jane and the strong, willful Anne – Henry discovered that he adored Anne more than Jane. A shriek coursed through the air, and Henry groaned as if in pain; his goblet clattered to the floor. Charles Brandon approached and picked up the cup from the floor. As his eyes met Henry’s, the Duke of Suffolk discerned Henry’s amorous sentiments towards Anne in his friend’s orbs.
At the sound of Anne’s another scream, Henry was about to jump to his feet and run to the queen’s suite. Charles neared his sovereign and put a comforting hand on the king’s shoulder.
“Your Majesty,” Charles addressed gently. “You will not help Her Majesty.”
The monarch gazed at his friend with lifeless eyes. “Charles, this awful ordeal has already taken for too long. I fear that something bad might happen to Anne and our child.”
Suffolk had no doubt that Henry was still in love with Anne. “Your Majesty… Henry,” he whispered in a personal manner. “The queen is stronger than other women, so she will cope.”
The king smiled at his subject, grateful for the reassurance; hope stirred in him. “Thank you, my friend. I pray that you are right, Charles, for their fates are in the Lord’s hands now.”
A groom brought a chair for Suffolk so that he could take a seat next to the ruler. Charles settled himself there. “Henry, the childbirth might take many hours.”
Henry was desperate and frightened. “I don’t want to be deprived of Anne and our baby.”
Brandon heaved a sigh: Anne’s grip on the Tudor monarch would never disappear. Henry’s mental agony reminded Charles for the first time of the great love and fiery passion which had once existed between the royal couple. “You will not lose them, Henry.”
George Boleyn and Mark Smeaton were playing piquet; the others busied themselves with a game of dice. Someone’s quiet conversation betrayed the impatience to receive the news about the queen’s situation. Thomas Wyatt neared Henry and Charles and politely offered them to ask the servants to bring some meal, but Henry refused, for he was neither thirsty nor hungry.
Thomas Boleyn strode over to the ruler. He halted nearby and dropped into a bow. “Does Your Majesty need something? May I help you in any way I can?”
Henry shook his head. “How much longer will it continue?”
“Your Majesty, we should wait,” the Earl of Wiltshire advised, struggling to keep his voice steady because he was also extremely nervous, though for different reasons. It was the mission of Anne’s life to give the king a son. Yet, there was a small part of his cold heart that feared to lose his daughter, but if they had to choose who would live, Boleyn would vote for a baby.
“Everything will be all right, Henry.” Brandon’s voice sounded persuasive.
From the window, Henry watched the snow-blanketed crowns of trees, wishing for spring to come. “Catherine had numerous pregnancies, but none of her labor took as many hours as Anne’s current one. Anne miscarried once, and she had a serious bleeding yesterday.”
Boleyn recalled Anne’s last miscarriage when something unknown had caused the death of her unborn child; he had cruelly accused the queen of murdering the baby back then. “Your Majesty! This time, Anne will produce your strong and much-needed male heir.”
“I pray you are right, Lord Wiltshire.” Yet, the ruler’s voice lacked conviction.
“Let’s hope for the better.” Suffolk’s eyes darted between the Earl of Wiltshire and the king. He hoped that Boleyn would leave soon because he despised the old man.
Wiltshire bowed, and Henry waved a dismissive hand. He heard Brandon’s sigh of relief.
§§§
The queen’s bedchamber, with a low and doleful fire cracking in the fireplace, embodied a place of gloom and torment – something akin to a purgatory on earth. Despite everything, the progress in Anne’s labor was insignificant. Anne thought that she would die of unbearable pain, for she had never experienced such agony before. Anne was pushing hard, assembling the last vestiges of her waning strength, performing everything the midwife instructed her to do.
“Something is wrong,” Anne murmured in a hoarse voice.
Lady Bess Holland took a fresh cloth and pressed it to the queen’s forehead, wiping the sweat from Anne’s brow. “Your Majesty is doing so well. You need to be more patient.”
Queen Anne wanted to answer something, but another contraction overcame her, stealing her breath. “I feel that I’m dying. I cannot push anymore. I just cannot.”
Hiding her dread behind her encouraging smile, Lady Margery Horsman brushed away the dark curls, soaked in perspiration, from her mistress’ forehead. “Think of your child.”
Anne tossed her head on the pillow. “I have no more strength left.”
“No, don’t say such things,” Bess pleaded with alarm.
Margery squeezed Anne’s hand. “Soon Your Majesty will have your son in your arms.”
The queen let out a bitter laugh. “If my baby and I die, Jane Seymour will be happy.” She trailed off as pain shot through her again. “That wench will gladly dance upon my grave.”
“No, it will not happen!” Bess denied. “Your Majesty will live and prosper.”
Margery wiped the gathering sweat from Anne’s brow. “Your Majesty is doing so well.”
Anne grinned. “Such a good lie to inspire me to keep going.”
“Madame, try harder,” Margery persuaded, although inside her heart was breaking.
“I hate this,” Anne whimpered as another wave of torment assailed her. As it lessened, she raised her head, her face paler as the blood drained from it. “I cannot endure it anymore.”
The progress was not achieved during the next hours. The pain in the queen’s abdomen was dreadful, and Anne prayed aloud for her child’s survival; her ladies prayed with her. As a new contraction came, the queen pushed her child out of herself with all her strength, but nothing came out. The midwife lifted Anne’s chemise and rubbed her belly with ointment.
Anne felt the fingers of lethal sleep crawling along her skin. She heard lamenting voices of her ladies, but she did not see their frightened expressions. The midwife commanded Anne in a harsh tone not to sleep and keep pushing further, but the queen shook her head, her eyes closed. The midwife slapped the queen across her face, immediately giving Anne a heartfelt apology and again ordering to push. Anne endeavored to continue, losing the count of minutes and hours.
After some time, the queen turned her head to a window. It was dusk outside, so the whole day had passed. “I cannot do it anymore. I’ll die, but save my baby for heaven’s sake…”
“Your Majesty, take several breaths and try again,” Margery counseled.
“I cannot!” Anne lamented. “Such pain and no progress. What is wrong?”
Margery plastered a faux smile on her countenance. “Your Majesty, it will be over soon.”
“Your Majesty ought to be patient.” The midwife strode to the bed. “Childbirth is always painful.” She placed her hands on the queen’s swollen stomach to feel the placement of the child. Then she sighed, praying to the Almighty that not everything was as bad as she thought.
Anne huffed in irritation. “Something is awfully wrong.”
Margery Horsman and Bess Holland both looked at the midwife anxiously. All the other maids also contemplated the woman in ghastly anticipation, with which the air was charged.
“Your Majesty ought to stay calm,” the alarmed midwife assured the queen.
Anne laughed, then groaned in agony, then laughed again. “Do you think that I’m a fool? I will not cling to your encouraging words as an idiot. The baby must be in a wrong position. It can be the only reason why the labor is not progressing normally, and why it hurts so much.”
“Your Majesty, please don’t panic,” pleaded Margery.
“Regardless of anything, you must push,” the midwife instructed sternly.
Margery Horsman eyed the midwife, signaling that they needed to talk. Margery stood up, and Bess took her place on the bed, tending to their queen who started writhing in agony.
“What is going on?” Margery asked the midwife when they found refuge in the corner of the chamber. “Her Majesty has been pushing for hours, but we do not see even the child’s head.”
The midwife explained, “The child is in a breech position. It might come out buttocks or feet first, which is bad in both cases. Usually, babies turn to a normal position – a head-down position – closer to their mother’s due date. It did not happen in the queen’s case.”
In a tattered voice, Margery muttered, “What will happen to Her Majesty?”
The old woman was sorrowful. “If nothing changes within the next few hours, Her Majesty will be totally exhausted. She is already almost falling unconscious. We can try to turn the child. It will be torturous for the queen and risky, but it is the only chance to save them both.”
Margery bemoaned, “Will we have to choose between the baby and the queen?”
The midwife tipped her head. “It is possible, Madame, and I’m sorry to say that.”
A crestfallen Margery blanched. “Oh God! Oh my dear Lord!”
The other woman pledged, “I’ll do everything I can.”
“We must know His Majesty’s decision.” Margery let out a sharp intake of breath. Henry had waited for the birth of a healthy son for too long, and she feared to hear the ruler’s answer.
“Indeed, you should ask our liege lord.” The midwife’s voice was shaking.
“I’ll go talk to the king,” Margery pronounced evenly, but her scrutiny conveyed her fright.
§§§
Lady Horsman hurried to exit the queen’s apartments. Outside, many courtiers bombarded her with questions, but she silently squeezed her way through the throng. Near the king’s rooms, the herald announced her arrival, and she strode across the presence chamber.
King Henry and Charles Brandon sat like statues, staring out, into the garden. As Margery entered, a deathly hush fell, and everyone stood up, looking at the queen’s chief lady-in-waiting. Margery sent tiny smiles to George Boleyn, Thomas Wyatt, and Mark Smeaton, who were all apparently worried about the queen. Margery passed Thomas Boleyn, Thomas Cromwell, and Thomas Howard, not even curtseying to them; she came directly to Henry.
Margery bobbed a curtsey. “Your Majesty,” she commenced.
Henry jumped to his feet. “How is Anne?” he inquired in a tremulous voice.
“Your Majesty, I have no positive news,” Margery informed so quietly that only Henry and Charles could hear her. “The labor is so complicated because the child in a breech position.”
Henry’s eyes widened. “What does it mean?”
Margery sighed grievously. “If there is no progress in the next several hours, we will have to try to turn the baby, which is perilous for the lives of both the queen and the child.”
“Will it aid?” All-consuming terror enveloped Henry like a cloud. “And what then?”
“We might resort to extreme measures,” muttered Margery, and her expression manifested consternation. “To rescue the baby, we will have to cut it out of Her Majesty’s womb.”
“No,” Henry choked out, his visage as white as a gravestone.
There were tears in Margery’s eyes. “Your Majesty, it might come to that.”
“Can you do something else to save them both?” The ruler’s voice was barely audible.
“Doctor Butts and the midwife believe that removing the child out of the queen’s womb might be our only chance.” Margery’s eyes brimmed with tears, and she swallowed a sob.
Nobody in the room dared ask anything, although all perplexed eyes were glued to them. The ruler’s horrified expression told them that everything was worse than anticipated.
“I don’t want to make this choice,” whispered Henry. “I cannot.”
The monarch yearned for Anne Boleyn to live. All at once, his love for Anne overwhelmed his heart again, but this time he did not burn in flames of passion for her – he was drowning in an ocean of bottomless grief. My Anne cannot leave me and Elizabeth alone, he persuaded himself. His brain refused to imagine such a monstrous calamity befalling upon himself and England.
Margery was astonished to see genuine tears of despair in the ruler’s aquamarine pools. “I’ll come to Your Majesty for your final decision.” She curtsied and departed the room.
The Duke of Suffolk declared for the courtiers, “You all need to calm down! Queen Anne is alive! Pray for her and the prince in her belly! Pray as hard as possible!”
The monarch stepped to Brandon and pulled him into an embrace. “Charles! Anne might be dying,” he muttered with a heart-rending desperation in his intonation. “With my child.”
Charles hugged the ruler more tightly, his arm wrapped around Henry’s back. “I’m so sorry, Henry.” He had said the truth: he loathed Anne Boleyn, but he did not wish her dead.
“It is Jane Seymour’s fault,” hissed the king between clenched teeth. “It is only that pale whore’s fault.” At present, he hated Jane Seymour with a murderous abhorrence, wishing that Jane would have been dying with their bastard instead of Anne with his legitimate baby.
Charles Brandon was not amazed to hear such things: the monarch always blamed others for his own transgressions. “Of course, Your Majesty,” he feigned his agreement.
Henry pulled away from him. “Jane was such a dear and lovely creature. However, if I lose Anne and my son, or if one of them dies because of Jane’s seduction of me, she will pay for her carnal sins,” he vowed in a firm, rough voice. The intimidating sound of these words could made anyone shudder inwardly. “I’ll destroy this slut and her family without any remorse.”
Charles bit his bottom lip to prevent himself from reminding Henry that the king himself had wooed Jane. “Your Majesty always knows what to do as our wise sovereign.”
“Jane and her family will suffer if Anne breathes her last,” the Tudor ruler vowed.
Charles implored, “Your Majesty, please let’s hope for their salvation.”
The King of England and the Duke of Suffolk embraced again, and nobody disturbed them. The queen’s family stayed aside, knowing not to enrage Henry. Finally, Henry drew back from Charles, who extended his hand to his liege lord and walked him to a chair. The courtiers stared at the ruler, but the monarch roared that everybody must keep silent and pray for the queen.
Charles brought more wine for his liege lord, who swallowed the contents of the goblet in one draught. Henry and Charles continued sitting near the window until the sun disappeared behind the horizon. Soon the folds of grim darkness cloaked the earth, and a full moon hung in the night sky. At dawn, the ruler stood up, requesting that his best friend accompany him to his quarters where they could wait in a companionable silence, not being watched by anyone.
Never before had King Henry felt so utterly lonely and so hollow, like a trapped soul inside of a desperate heart. He was accustomed to being surrounded by nobles who flattered him and danced to his whims. The monarch had not been oppressed by a sense of acute loneliness because he had always craved for company of his old friends and beautiful women. In childhood, some of his most pleasant hours had been spent during the long rainstorms in spring or in autumn when the former prince watched rain. Now I need nobody, except for Charles Brandon.
§§§
The night was chilly and gloomy, and the cold wind hit London, blowing from the Thames. The next morning, the sun rose, flushing the delicate flesh rosy colors in the cold sky above the city, and the day passed as quickly as a flash of silver light. Then the sun perished in the world of shadows, and the darkness was again descending. It would rain heavily later because the leaden storm-clouds were scudding across, so far keeping their wetness to themselves.
Fluids of anticipation pulsated through the palace: everybody expected the end of Queen Anne’s life, some with malignant satisfaction while her friends with grief. The passage of time nearly extinguished the hopes of the Boleyns and Howards, as well as those of their supporters. The Seymour family and the former supporters of Catherine waited for the passing of the harlot.
In her apartments, Queen Anne still endured the ordeal, but she no longer howled in pain because she had no strength left in her tired body. Anne passed out twice during the second day, and Doctor Butts was called to arouse the queen from her slumber. The queen’s ladies-in-waiting beheld the pale woman on the large royal bed with funereal eyes. The labor had already lasted for too long, but the child was not born yet. The maids often left the queen’s suite to bring more bowls of hot water, and to speak to Doctor Butts who waited in the adjacent chamber.
At night, Anne could not rest because of the pain. She continued pushing, but the baby did not want to come out. A colossal weight of anxiety about her child rested upon her, but she was as helpless as a fly in a spider’s web – the web of mortality. Margery summoned Doctor Butts, who bowed to the queen and motioned the midwife to approach.
The physician explained what they had to do. “I’m sorry, but it is the only chance.”
“Yes.” The queen nodded numbly, shuddering in fear.
The midwife placed her hand upon Anne’s stomach. The woman felt the baby inside of her, but Anne released a spine-chilling scream. However, they could not give her time to recover from the pained shock, and the midwife positioned both of her hands on the abdomen. As the old woman pressed hard, Anne howled like a wounded wolf again. The midwife continued pressing on the belly, manipulating the baby into a head-down position. Another scream erupted from the queen, and then a dead silence followed, but then the midwife repeated her actions.
Anne could feel the baby’s movements, and she smiled – the child was still alive. Then the midwife stepped aside, and Doctor Butts put his hands upon Anne’s abdomen.
Butts declared, “Now the child is in the right position.”
“Push, Your Majesty,” the doctor enjoined. He did not leave, for the situation was critical.
“Your Majesty can do this.” The midwife massaged the swell of Anne’s stomach.
Margery Horsman sat on the bed’s edge. “Madame, take deep breathes and push.”
Anne shook her head slightly. “I cannot,” she whispered.
Margery took a clean cloth and dabbed at the sweat on Anne’s brow. “You have to endure this to save yourself and your baby.” She managed a smile. “You are so strong.”
Bess Holland joined, “You cannot give up now. Otherwise, all our efforts will be useless.”
Queen Anne was so weak that she barely heard the faint whisperings of her ladies. She glanced at Margery quickly, the strange faintness in her head and the soft peacefulness of her expression frightening the queen’s chief lady-in-waiting. “I will try,” Anne promised.
“Your Majesty, please push,” Doctor Butts ordered, his voice firm and demanding.
Queen Anne thought of King Henry and of their obviously doomed romance, which they had shared in the past. Something in these remembrances instigated her to continue bravely, using the rest of her fading strength. She would bring the baby into the world even at the price of her own life. Anne had to save her own child because England needed her dearest son to live.
Anne did not fear to die. I’ll give my life for my baby boy, who will be the King of England one day. The queen imagined the spirits of death in the wailing of the wind outside the palace, in the laments and prayers of her maids, in the pain wracking her body. In an hour, the midwife said that the baby would be born soon. Anne’s head was swimming in a vertigo of fatal dizziness when Anne suddenly felt something leave her body, and then she heard a loud wail.
“It’s a boy!” The midwife began swaddling the child. “He is alive and healthy!”
Doctor Butts smiled. “Your Majesty has accomplished such a victory!”
Blinded by tears, her vision blurry, Anne distinguished only the outlines of the midwife’s figure. “Do I really have a healthy son?” she whispered, her voice bearably audible.
Margery assured, “Yes, Your Majesty. You have given England the Prince of Wales.”
“Congratulations, Your Majesty,” Bess said with a smile.
Anne’s lips stretched into a grin. “I want him to be named William.” Tears trickled down her cheeks: tears of happiness that her son was alive, and those of heartbreak that she would not see her children grow up. “He will rule England as King William the Third after Henry.”
Suddenly, Queen Anne doubled over with pain, feeling the hot and sticky liquid seep out of her. The pool of blood beneath her body was rapidly increasing in its size, soaking the bed sheets. A smile of infinite irony, endless sorrow, flitted and faded from her pallid countenance: she had birthed the future Tudor monarch and was destined to sacrifice herself for the future of her country. I feel the music of death in my blood, but I do not care that it is so close.
Margery failed to ward off her panic. “What is going on?” she blurted out, her eyes darting between the queen’s body and the physician. “Doctor Butts, please save Her Majesty!”
Bess gasped. “Help Queen Anne! It is your duty!”
The midwife handed the baby to one of the queen’s ladies. Then she was near the bed in three strides. “Her Majesty has a substantial bleeding. We have to stop it now.”
The high voice of Doctor Butts rang out through the chamber. “Bring bowls of fresh water and my medical beg from the adjacent room! I need my instruments quickly!”
Queen Anne wriggled in agony, and Doctor Butts attempted to restrain her movements, assisted by Margery Horsman and Bess Holland. The physician talked incessantly to the queen, but the blood kept flowing out of the queen’s body. The queen’s smile, which horrified others, was peaceful and resigned. Anne’s crimson blood – the symbol of her great sacrifice – was everywhere on the bed and on the floor, and Anne’s clothes were stained with it.
Anne looked into Margery’s grief-stricken eyes. “Margery, promise me that you will look after both William and Elizabeth after my death,” she half-demanded, half-implored.
Margery clasped Anne’s hand in hers. “Your Majesty! I do swear that I shall look after and love your children as if they were my own,” she forced the words to come out.
Anne’s smile was wan, fading like her own life. “Thank you.”
A panicking Bess studied the queen. “Madame… Your Majesty… You cannot…”
“Henry,” Anne whispered. Her gaze lingered at Bess. There were some things the queen had to tell him before God took her to heaven. “Bess, ask the king to come to me urgently.”
Lady Bess Holland rushed out of the bedchamber. Lamentations and sounds of weeping handmaidens filled the air; the flames in the hearth were gone, as if signifying the inevitable tragedy. Only Queen Anne was smiling with a blend of triumph and odd contentment.