Philippa Gregory's Tudor Court 6-Book Boxed Set (126 page)

“We should get a midwife,” I said.

“No!” Anne hissed like a snake. “Don’t you see? If we call in that crowd, we tell the world. At the moment no one knows for sure whether I am with child or not; it’s all rumor. I can’t risk them knowing I lost it.”

“This is wrong,” I said flatly to George. “This is a baby we are talking about here. We can’t let a baby die for fear of scandal. Let’s move her to a back room, a little room, nothing fine. And cover her face, and draw the curtains. I’ll get a midwife and tell her it’s a maid at court. Nobody important.”

George hesitated. “If it’s a girl it’s not worth the risk,” he said. “If it’s another girl, it’d be better dead.”

“For God’s sake, George! This is a baby. This is a soul. This is our kith and kin. Of course we should save her if we can.”

His face was hard, for a moment he did not look like my beloved brother at all, he looked like one of the iron-featured men at court who would sign the death warrant for anyone, provided that they were themselves secure.

“George!” I cried. “If this is another Boleyn girl she has a right to live as much as Anne or me.”

“All right,” he said reluctantly. “I’ll move Anne. You get a midwife and make sure you’re discreet. Who will you send?”

“William,” I said.

“Oh God: William!” he said irritably. “Does he have to know
everything about us? Does he know a midwife? How will he find one?”

“He’ll go to the bath house,” I said bluntly. “They must need midwives there in a hurry. And he’ll keep his mouth shut for love of me.”

George nodded and went to the bed. I heard him start to whisper an explanation to Anne in a tender low voice, and her murmured reply, and I ran from the room to the back door of the palace where I expected William to stroll in at any moment.

♦   ♦   ♦

I caught him on the threshold and sent him out to find a midwife. He was back within the hour with a surprisingly clean young woman, with a small sack of bottles and herbs.

I took her to the little room where George’s pageboys slept and she looked around the darkened room and recoiled. In some grotesque moment of fancy George and Anne had raided the palace costume box to find a mask to hide her well-known face. Instead of a simple disguise they had found a golden bird face mask, which she had worn in France to dance with the king. Anne, panting with pain, half-lit by guttering candles, lay back on a narrow bed, her huge belly straining under the sheet and above it a glittering gold mask with a face like a hawk, a great gilt beak and flaring eyebrows. It was like a scene from some dreadful morality painting with Anne’s face like a depiction of greed and vanity, with her dark eyes glittering through the holes in the proud gold face at the head of the bed, while below her vulnerable white thighs were parted over a mess of blood on the sheets.

The midwife peered at her, taking care to touch her very little. She straightened up and asked a string of questions about the pains, how fast they were coming, how strong they were, how long they were lasting. Then she said she could make a posset
which would put Anne to sleep and that might save the child. Her body would rest and perhaps the child would rest too. She did not sound hopeful. The expressionless beak of the golden mask turned from the woman to George’s drawn face; but Anne herself said nothing.

The midwife brewed up the posset over the fire and Anne drank from a mug of pewter. George held her until she leaned back against his shoulders, the dreadful gleaming mask looking wildly triumphant, even as the midwife gently covered her up. The woman went to the door and George laid Anne gently down and followed us out. “We can’t lose her, we can’t bear to lose her,” George said, and for a moment I heard the passion in his voice.

“Pray for her then,” the woman said shortly. “She’s in the hands of God.”

George said something indistinguishable and turned back to the bedroom. I let the woman out of the door and William escorted her down the long dark corridor to the palace gates. I returned to the room and George and I sat either side of the bed while Anne slept and moaned in her sleep.

♦   ♦   ♦

We had to get her back into her own room, and then we had to give it out that she was unwell. George played cards in her presence chamber as if he had not a care in the world and the ladies flirted and gamed and diced as if everything was the same as usual. I sat with Anne in her bedchamber, and sent a message to the king in her name that she was tired and would see him before dinner. My mother, alerted by George’s loud insouciance and my disappearance, came to find Anne. One sight of her in a drugged sleep with blood on the sheets and she went white around the mouth.

“We did the best that we could,” I said desperately.

“Does anyone else know?” she demanded.

“No one. Not even the king.”

She nodded. “Keep it that way.”

The day wore on. Anne started to sweat and I began to doubt the wise woman’s posset. I put my hand on her forehead and felt the heat burn against my palm. I looked at my mother. “She’s too hot,” I said. My mother shrugged.

I turned back to Anne. She was rolling her head on the pillow, and then without warning, she lifted up, curved herself inward and gave a great groan. My mother ripped back the covers and we saw the sudden flood of blood and a mass of something. Anne dropped back on the pillows and cried out, a heartbroken pitiful cry, and then her eyelids fluttered and she was still.

I touched her forehead again, and put my ear to her breast. Her heart was beating steadily and strongly, but her eyes were shut. My mother, her face like stone, was bundling up the stained sheets, wrapping them around the mess. She turned to where the fire was burning, a little summertime fire.

“Stoke it up,” she said shortly.

I hesitated, glancing to Anne. “She’s so hot.”

“This is more important,” she said. “This has to be gone before anyone has even the slightest idea of it.”

I put the poker into the fire and turned over the hot embers. My mother knelt at the fireside and ripped the sheet into a strip and laid it on the flames, it curled and burned with a hiss. Patiently, she ripped another and another, until she came to the very center of the bundle, the awful dark mess which had been Anne’s baby. “Put on kindling,” she said shortly.

I looked at her in horror. “Shouldn’t we bury . . . ?”

“Put on kindling,” she spat at me. “How long d’you think any of us will last if everyone knows that she cannot carry a baby?”

I looked into her face and measured the power of her will. Then I piled the fire with the little scented fir cones, and when they burned up brightly we packed the guilty bundle onto the flames and sat back on our heels like a pair of old witches and watched all that was left of Anne’s baby go up the chimney like some dreadful curse.

When the sheet was burned, and the sizzling mess gone too, my mother threw on some more fir cones and some herbs from the floor to purify the smell of the room, and only then did she turn back to her daughter.

Anne was awake, leaning up on one elbow to watch us, her eyes glassy.

“Anne?” my mother said.

With an effort my sister turned her gaze up to her.

“Your baby is dead,” my mother said flatly. “Dead and gone. You have to sleep and get well. I expect you to be up within the day. Do you hear me? If anybody asks you about the baby you will say that you made a mistake, that there was no baby. There never has been a baby and you never announced one. But for a certainty, one will come soon.”

Anne turned a blank look to her mother. For a moment I was seized with a dreadful fear that the posset and the pain and the heat had driven her mad, and that she would forever look without seeing, hear without understanding.

“The king too,” my mother said, her voice cold. “Just tell him you made a mistake, that you were not with child. A mistake is innocent enough but a miscarriage is proof of sin.”

Anne’s face never changed. She did not even protest her innocence. I thought she was deaf. “Anne?” I said gently.

She turned to me, and when she saw my shocked eyes, and the smuts on my face, I saw her expression alter. She understood that something very terrible had taken place.

“Why are you in such a mess?” she asked coldly. “It’s not as if anything has happened to you, has it?”

“I’ll tell your uncle,” my mother said. She paused at the threshold and looked at me. “What has she done that this should happen?” she asked as coldly as if she were inquiring after a broken piece of china. “She must have done something to lose her child like this. D’you know what it was?”

I thought of the days and nights of seducing the king and breaking the heart of his wife, of the poisoning of three men and the destruction of Cardinal Wolsey. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”

My mother nodded and went from the room without touching her daughter, without another word to either of us. Anne’s empty gaze came back to me, her face as blank as the gold hawk mask. I kneeled at the head of her bed and held out my arms. Her expression never altered but she leaned slowly toward me and rested her heavy head on my shoulder.

♦   ♦   ♦

It took us all that night and the next day to get Anne back on her feet again. The king kept away, once we gave out that she had a cold. Not so my uncle, he came to the doorway of her bedchamber as if she were still nothing more than a Boleyn girl. I saw her eyes darken with rage at his disrespect.

“Your mother has told me,” he said shortly. “How could such a thing happen?”

Anne turned her head. “How should I know?”

“You consulted no wise women to conceive? You tried no potions or herbs or anything? You invoked no spirits and did no spells?”

Anne shook her head. “I would not touch such things,” she said. “You can ask anyone. Ask my confessor, ask Thomas Cranmer. I have a care to my soul as much as you.”

“I have more of a care for my neck,” he said grimly. “Do you swear it? For I may have to swear for you one day.”

“I swear it,” Anne said sulkily.

“Get up as soon as you can and conceive another, and it had better be a boy.”

The look she turned on him was so filled with hatred that even he recoiled. “Thank you for that advice,” she snarled. “It is something that had occurred to me before. I have to conceive as swiftly as possible and it has to go full term and it has to be a boy. Thank you, Uncle. Yes. I know that.”

She turned her face away from him to the rich hangings on her bed. He waited for a moment and then he smiled his grim hard-faced smile at me, and went away. I closed the door and Anne and I were alone.

Her eyes, when she looked at me, were filled with fear. “But what if the king cannot get a legitimate son?” she whispered. “He never did it with her. I will get all the blame and what will happen to me then?”

I
N THE FIRST DAYS OF
J
ULY
I
WAS SICK IN THE
mornings and my breasts were tender to the touch. William, kissing my belly in a dark-shaded room one afternoon, patted me with his hand and said quietly: “What d’you think, my love?”

“About what?”

“About this round little belly.”

I turned my head away so he could not see me smile. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Well I have,” he said bluntly. “Now tell me. How long have you known?”

“Two months,” I confessed. “And I have been torn between joy and fear, for this will be our undoing.”

He gathered me into the fold of his arm. “Never,” he said. “This is our firstborn Stafford and a cause for the greatest of joy. I couldn’t be more pleased. A son to bring the cows in or a daughter to do the milking, what a clever girl you are.”

“D’you want a boy?” I asked curiously, thinking of the constant theme of the Boleyns.

“If you have one,” he said easily. “Whatever you have in there, my love.”

♦   ♦   ♦

I was released from court to meet my children at Hever in July and August while Anne and the king went off. William and I had the best summer we had ever spent together with the children, but when the time came to go back to court I was carrying the baby so high and so proudly that I knew I would have to tell Anne the news and hope that she would shield me from my uncle’s rage in my pregnancy, as I had shielded her miscarriage from the king.

I was lucky when I arrived at Greenwich. The king was out hunting and most of the court with him. Anne was sitting in the garden, on a turf bench, an awning over her head and a group of musicians playing to her. Someone was reading love poetry. I paused for a moment and took a second look at them. They were all older than I had remembered. This was no longer the court of a young man. They were all seasoned in a way that they had not been when Queen Katherine had been on the throne. There was a hint of extravagance and glamour about them all, there were a great deal of pretty words being spoken and a certain heat in the group which was not all late-summer sunshine and wine. It had become a sophisticated court, an older court; I could almost have said corrupt. It felt as if anything could happen.

“Why, here is my sister,” Anne remarked, shading her eyes with her hand. “Welcome back, Mary. Have you had enough of the country?”

I kept my riding cloak loosely about me. “Yes,” I said. “I have come seeking the sunshine of your court.”

Anne giggled. “Very nicely put,” she said. “I shall have you trained as a true courtier yet. How is my son Henry?”

I gritted my teeth on that, as she knew I would. “He sends his love and duty to you. I have a copy of a letter he has written to you in Latin. He is a bright boy, his schoolmaster is pleased with him, and he has learned to ride very well this summer.”

“Good,” Anne said. Clearly, I was not worth tormenting for she turned from me to William Brereton. “If you cannot do better with ‘love’ than ‘dove’ I shall have to award the prize to Sir Thomas.”

“Shove?” he suggested.

Anne laughed. “What? My sweetest queen, my only love, I long to give you a hearty shove?”

“Love is impossible,” Sir Thomas remarked. “In poetry as in life, nothing goes with it.”

“Marriage,” Anne suggested.