“I have read it, twice over—the entire book!”
Anne was awed with the secret message, searing in indictments, scandalous in generosity. Why had she waited to read it? If it undid the world, so be it. The book belonged in the hands of the people, no matter what chaos it loosed.
Something did trouble her, deep within. Something lodged in her spirit that she couldn’t dismiss. She didn’t know what to do with it, this thing that thrilled to hear the secret words, but felt fear when she considered her new happiness. She had it all—the blessing of an heir in her womb, the gift of the crown for her family and name. Why did she not rejoice in these blessings? Why was there no ease?
Henry grunted and sat on the edge of her bed, looking out the window. Hampton Court was so quiet these past few weeks with so many of the women gone and Wolsey dead.
“What is it, Henry?”
“Do you not wonder, Anne?”
“What?”
“Do you not wonder why things happen as they do? If they are not signs from God, indications of His pleasure or fury, what are they? How are we to read our days?”
Anne set the book aside.
“I do not know. But I am learning,” she said, taking her time with these next words. “I am learning to think less of my days and trust more in God’s purpose.”
Leaning over to kiss her belly, he pressed his hands deep into the bed to steady himself.
He recoiled in horror.
Charging from the room, he began shouting. Anne could hear much yelling in the halls. She threw back the coverlet to rise and go after him and saw she had been lying in a pool of blood.
The cramps were constant. She found it hard to breathe. The pain stabbed and stabbed without stopping. She was panting, writhing to find a position that eased the muscles and kept the baby inside.
Dr. Butts was helpless, standing at the side of the bed with a look that she had seen only once before. It had been in the French Court, when the king had sentenced a thief to hanging. His family had stood motionless and without expression, as he was dragged away. If they ever cried, no one knew.
The pressure came, the force that crushed all reason and objection. She had to push. She grabbed for Dr. Butts’ hand to save her, as her muscles contracted, pushing.
“Dear God, make it stop!” she screamed, pushing again.
“Mercy! Mercy!” she cried out, to anyone who would listen, anyone who might help.
With one more push, he was delivered.
“Oh, God!” Anne cried, reaching for the baby, but Dr. Butts had already snatched him, rubbing him furiously, muttering wild prayers under his breath. Anne couldn’t hear the words—was he praying for the child or his own life?
He stopped and his shoulders dropped. “What have you done?” he whispered.
Anne’s heart contracted sharply, fear shooting through her body. Dr. Butts turned to her, slowly, holding out the infant, its face shrouded with linen wrappings.
“Catherine died a few hours ago.” He said it as an accusation.
Anne held her hands out for the baby. Its face should not be shrouded, she thought. It won’t breathe well.
“Thou art surely a witch!” Dr. Butts said. “I will not die for your sin.”
He laid the baby on the bed and ran from the room. Anne thought she was going to faint, but no one was offering her water or wet rags to wipe her face with. Her vision sharpened, and she saw there were servants in the room, pressed against the walls. No one was moving.
She would not faint. She took a deeper breath, dragging the baby closer up the bed. It was not moving.
“No, no,” she whispered, peeling back the linen, piece by piece.
It was a boy. But he was not as a child should be; his arms were shriveled and his head was bulging in one area. She could not bear to see him and threw a linen over his still face before she screamed.
The servants moved with a collective will, moving towards the door, keeping themselves as far from her as possible. No one met her eyes. Anne began to sob. She looked with clouded, stinging eyes, and pain was everywhere. Nothing was the same. The turtledoves calling from the courtyard pained her ears; the gold of the room stung her eyes. She was too far from home.
“I want my brother!” she wept.
The last of the servants leaving heard this, his face changing when she said it.
She was taken by barge to the Tower, through the Traitor’s Gate. People were running to the water’s edge to see her, screaming obscenities … some in Catherine’s name, others in God’s.
As she was led along the stone path, she heard unimaginable screams.
The guard smiled. “Seems your brother is already here.”
“My brother? Why? What has he done?”
The guard laughed, his grip on her arm bruising her. “They’ll work him hard through the night, and take confession tomorrow.”
“This is madness!” Anne began struggling, trying to break free and run towards the screams. “George!”