Betrayal (25 page)

***

              Dan said, as he turned to pace George’s office, “Again, to be really honest, George, I don’t know what to think.  I have to admit I have my doubts that hypnosis will really help. But I am no expert on hypnosis, or nightmares for that matter and Lydia has found it a pleasant diversion so I can’t see the harm.”

             
“A pleasant diversion?”

             
“That’s how she has put it when she described a regression a couple of weeks ago. It was an age-regression to her childhood. Saw great-grandma again or something like that,” Dan finished, suddenly embarrassed. Then making a show of looking at his watch he moved toward the door.

             
Recognizing the younger man’s ill ease George Seelye pushed his chair back from his desk. “These can wait,” he said, motioning to the pile of unfinished work. “Let’s go have that coffee. I suddenly feel ravenous.”  Then, resting his hand on Dan’s shoulder, he steered him out of the office and to the elevator.

***

              The weeks before Christmas melted into a meld of the festive and the harried. Lydia’s excitement grew with each passing day. It seemed that almost daily from the week of December 10
th
to the 17
th
parcels arrived in the mail from relatives spread near and far. Lydia danced a merry quickstep as she placed the newest arrivals beneath the tree. “With Dan’s large and loving family,” Lydia said to the black cat peeking out from a pile of gaily wrapped Christmas presents, “I feel spoiled, yet…” She paused, straightening up from her knees. Lydia’s gaze was drawn to the photo framed in a whorled pewter frame. A frown of sadness caressed her lips as she looked at her father’s portrait. She had no photographs of her mother, but even so Lydia knew she took after her. She moved to the mirror over the fireplace. Taking a deep breath she held up the photo beside her face, trying to see her father’s face in hers. It was a ritual she did periodically, especially at this time of year. She found the holiday season trying; for it was at Christmas she missed her parents most. While she freely admitted she had no memory of her mother, Lydia liked to pretend she did and it was at Christmas that her self-told lies were harder to believe.

             
Dan’s large family was very close and gifts were exchanged with everyone, and while they made sure not to leave Lydia out, theirs were the only presents under the tree, aside from a few from patients.

             
Lydia heard Dan enter the living room and then his step in the hall. Over the years Dan had learned to leave Lydia alone with her memories. It was several minutes later when Lydia found him in the kitchen, snacking on fruitcake.

             
“There you are; I wondered where you’d gone?” Lydia said, wrapping her arms around his trim waist.

             
“Now, of course, you know, I couldn’t leave this alone,” Dan said, indicating the partially unwrapped light fruitcake on the countertop. “Ever since Marjorie told me Mrs. McKinley had brought it in, I’ve been drooling to have a taste of it.”

             
“A taste of it,” Lydia teased, “It’s half gone already.  Christmas goodies are for Christmas,” she chided.

             
“In your house maybe, but not in mine. My uncle was a country doctor who reaped the benefits of a small town practice, and those benefits included homemade confections of all types, and tradition demanded not one crumb go to waste. And so,” he continued, cutting another slice of fruitcake, “The race was to the swift.”  He smiled as he licked his fingers after devouring his last bite. “You were dreaming again last night,” he said. “A particularly upsetting one if my waking alone in bed says anything.”

             
“Not a dream so much as a memory,” she paused. Dan waited. Lydia’s eyes darted around the room; she drew in a deep breath before she finally spoke. “I was thinking about the last session I had with Alan.”

             
“You haven’t said much about it.  To tell the truth I’ve been curious, but much too gentlemanly to ask,” Dan said, executing a deep bow.  “But if at last, you wish to tell me, I’m all ears.”

             
Lydia smiled nervously.

             
“All right, all right, not exactly all ears but you get the message, don’t you?”

             
“Yes I get the message, and I suspect that in part was why I couldn’t sleep last night.”

             
“Why? Did something come out you don’t want me to know?” Dan asked; his face clouded.

             
Lydia immediately regretted broaching the subject. Unsure of how much she wanted to reveal, she remained silent. Reaching out her hand she caressed Dan’s face. “None of it is important,” she said as she kissed his cheek.

             
Responding to her kiss Dan encircled her with his arms. Lydia nuzzled her head beneath his chin. The stubble of his five o’clock shadow catching the fine wisps of her hair.

             
“You are not hiding anything from me, are you?” he asked between soft kisses.

             
“Not hiding, just not ready to share. Can you see the difference?”

             
“It’s all the same to me. I still don’t know what went on,” Dan said dropping his arms, stepping back from their embrace.

             
“So you’re angry?”

“Yes, a bit, if you must know, I am getting quite fed-up.” he snapped as he left the kitchen.

              Lydia sighed as she turned to the sink and began to wash the breakfast dishes. Lydia’s thoughts turned to the remembered scene at Greenwich. Staring into the soap bubbles she didn’t hear the front door close.

EIGHTEEN

SEPTEMBER 7, 1533

             
Elisabeth moved quietly up the narrow staircase carrying a poultice of comfrey and feverfew beneath her apron. She lingered at the top of the stairs for the King’s physicians to leave her lady’s chamber.  “Best not stir their fires,” she whispered as she crossed herself.  “Soon enough to tell how much damage they have done.”

             
When at last the doctors crossed out of the chamber Elisabeth hurried in. She groaned at the stifling darkness. Rushing forward she pulled open the heavy brocade curtain allowing the bright morning sun to shine through the high mullioned windows. For the moment the Lady Anne slept quietly. Elisabeth busied herself putting the apartment in order. At her mistress’ bedside she knelt praying to Saint Margaret, the special patroness of women in labor. She applied the poultice to the sites of the doctor’s blood-letting, seeking to undo the harm the excessive bleeding had done to Anne’s already weakened state.

             
“Water,” a feeble whisper called from the heavy bed. “For God’s sake give me a sip of water.”

             
“Here my lady,” Elisabeth said offering the pewter wine cup.

             
“Who speaks?  Who is here with me?”

             
“’Tis Elisabeth, your grace; I beg pardon for my clumsiness in waking you.”

             
“Pull the bed curtains open that I might see you. But first, have the leeches gone?”

             
“Aye my lady, there be none but you and me in the chamber. Shall I call Lady Rochford?”

             
“Whatever for, we have no need of her.  I will birth my son just we two.”

             
“No, my lady, the birth of a future King demands witnesses. ‘Twill seem like market day and you the prized cow, for on display you will be. No King may be born in solitude, there must be witnesses. No question must be allowed to cloud this triumphant birth.”

             
“I will birth a son, won’t I, Elisabeth?”

             
“If, God allows it, yes. Pray God he does.”

             
“Oh Elisabeth, the pains begin again. Hold my hand. Promise not to leave me. Ayyeee. Promise to care for my son.”

             
“No need your grace; you will be a tender and loving mother.”

             
“Promise me,” Anne’s pained reply.

             
Elisabeth protested.

             
“Promise me, ayyeee.”

             
“Yes, my lady, I promise. Now sweet lady a sip of this will ease thy pain. Your boy will be hearty and strong for he labors for life. I must call Lady Rochford, your hour grows near.”

             
“No more doctors. No more bloodletting.”

             
“No more, my lady. Put your mind at ease. Your babe will rest in your arms very soon.”

             
“The King, my husband, where is he?”

             
“He rides from Westminster even as we speak, for there is naught that could keep him from his son’s birth. Ease thy mind and heart, all is well.”

             
The birth screams frightened Elisabeth and she worried that the labor was overlong.  Lady Rochford pushed open the heavy oak door, blinded by the mid-day sun.

             
“Why wasn’t I called? Where is the mid-wife? Why isn’t she here?” Jane tossed her questions like so much wood upon a fire. The sparks of her anger barely concealed. “I asked you a question. Why wasn’t I called? Answer me, girl.”

             
Elisabeth dipped a deep bow where she stood at Anne’s bed. She held a wet rag pressed to Anne’s parched lips.

             
“Will no one answer my questions? Am I to be ignored?”

             
“Oh Jane,” came the feeble voice from beyond the bed curtains. “Ayyeee, the pain is unbearable. Send for a priest, for I fear I may die.”

             
“Hush, dear sister, every woman feels the same. You have no need of a priest. Women have always felt as you do. You must be strong. You must not behave a coward. It is most unbecoming.”

             
“Unbecoming?” screamed the young Queen. “Did you say unbecoming? You, who have never borne a child, how dare you sit in judgment of me?”

             
“There, there, Anne,” fussed Rochford. “One need not be a duck to know how to swim.”

“Duck? Swim? What are you talking about, Jane? I want a priest. Do not deny me this, my last confession.

“Confession, what need have you to confess? Your duty is to give birth to the King’s son, that he may one day wear the crown of England and France. That, sister, is your duty and now is your time to do it.”

Elisabeth dabbed the sweat from Anne’s fevered brow. The pains were more frequent, lasting several minutes, leaving Anne exhausted. Elisabeth wished someone would heed her lady’s request for a priest, but no one did.

***

              By mid-afternoon the King and his courtiers had arrived at Greenwich to pace anxiously in Placentia Palace’s Great Hall.  Henry’s mood was raw and not even Will Somers could bring a smile to his face, though the Jester tried every trick he knew.

             
“I grow tired of waiting,” the King complained. “When will my son be born?” He asked no one in particular. “How does the Queen? She is not wearied of her work? She labors yet to bring forth my son? Answer me someone!” he shouted.

             
“Yes, your Majesty, we believe all goes well.”

             
“You believe! You believe! You are my Court physicians, you must know how the Queen fares. I must know if she is strong enough to give birth to my son,” Henry shouted, balling his hands into tight fists.

             
“This is women’s work, your Grace. Your lady is strong of body and stout of heart and you must believe in the grace of God,” counseled Thomas Cranmer.

             
“My lord Archbishop, I did not question God’s grace for He has seen my lady grow great with child. I only beg to be released from this torment of not knowing that it has reached its most satisfactory conclusion. Send to the Queen’s chamber for news. ‘Tis a small favor, I ask of you.”

             
“I will go myself, Majesty,” the Archbishop replied, dipping a deep bow from the waist.

             
“On the wings of angels, Thomas, fly on the wings of angels.”

             
“Aye, sire, may they surround us all.”