Chapter Eighteen
But that your will is such to lure me to the trade,
As other some full many years trace by the craft ye made.
~Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey
October 11, 1537
Throughout the day, Jane paced about her rooms, hands on the small of her back, as ladies gathered about, fanning her, offering bites to eat, small sips of wine, ale, mead, cider—anything Jane requested. The king came, hugged, kissed her, prayed for safe delivery of their child, and then just as quickly left. His eyes showed as much fear as Jane’s, and I suspected he needed to be away from the medical setting—and his wife, who was in obvious pain.
The midwives surmised Jane was, in fact, in real labor, as opposed to pre-labor, which was also confirmed by the king’s physician. The baby had turned—thank God!—and was starting to descend somewhat, but little else had happened. The birth canal was still not opening.
“My lady.” One of the midwives bowed in front of me.
“What is it? Is everything well with Her Majesty? Is it time?” I was busy instructing the servants on preparations for the impending labor.
“No, my lady. I thought I might inquire of you for some help with this situation.”
I pursed my lips. “Yes?”
“I have a hunch that Her Majesty may be impeding the progress of the birthing.”
“What do you mean by that?” I started to grow annoyed. I waved the servants away and with another wave bade the midwife come closer so our conversation would not be overheard.
“She is working herself up into a frenzy. Her nerves are frazzled. She is full of fear. When a woman experiences those feelings, she cannot concentrate on the birth and let her body do its duty naturally.”
I nodded in agreement. Jane looked more nervous as the minutes passed, and I felt an almost compulsive instinct to ply her with loads of wine and make her drunker than a lord on the day he lost his virginity.
“What do you suggest?”
“Would you speak with her? Perhaps tell her to climb into bed? I think rest is what she needs now or she won’t have the energy to endure the pain and rigors of labor.”
I nodded and ordered her to give instructions for completing the tasks I had been working on.
Jane stood by her window, rocking from side to side, her hands massaging the small of her back.
“Majesty,” I murmured. But for all her reaction I could have shouted. She jumped, her hand coming to her heart, the other hand steadying her balance against the wall.
“Anne, you scared me.”
I curtsied deeply, trying to instill some calm into the queen by remaining quiet and respectful. “My apologies, I did not mean to startle you so.”
Jane walked toward me or, rather, wobbled. “What says the midwife?”
How had she known the woman had come to talk to me? I smiled at her, a teasing tilt to the corner of my lip, and was surprised and pleased when Jane returned it.
“Come to bed, Jane. Let me put some hot compresses on your back and have the ladies rub your feet. You will feel much better.”
“I just do not want to, Anne. ’Tis nothing against the midwife or you. But lying in bed only makes me worry more. At least when I am pacing, I concentrate more on keeping my balance than what is to come.”
I understood where Jane was coming from, but I also believed the midwife was correct. Though the pacing was keeping her from worrying, it was putting too much strain on her.
“Ah, look here, your sister has brought you some soup,” I said.
Jane licked her lips as Beth came into the room with a steaming bowl.
“Come sit in bed, and I shall be happy to pamper Your Majesty by feeding you.” I winked at her.
“Very well, but I shall resume pacing when I have finished.”
“Of course, Majesty.”
I waved Elizabeth Seymour over to place the tray of soup and extra-strong wine—with a sleeping draught added to help her relax—on the table beside the queen’s bed.
I fed Jane slowly, and we talked of dancing and tapestries.
Soon, the bowl was empty, as was the mug, and Jane’s eyelids drooped closed.
But the nap only lasted an hour, and she sat straight up, moaning, and clutching her belly.
More strong wine was given, and the mixture seemed to calm Jane somewhat, but the pains were coming stronger and fiercer. Elizabeth brought quail eggs, hoping to entice the queen, but Jane refused the food, and more of the draught was ordered. Her pain was intense, but the baby did not seem to want to descend, nor was her body progressing further. The midwives informed me her birth would be a long, arduous and painful task.
Birthing little Eddie had been painful, a tremendous feat, but nothing compared to Jane’s birthing. She was in agony, and all of us suffered along with her, wishing we could make things different.
In the presence chamber of her apartments, messengers, ambassadors and multiple other courtiers stood awaiting the news of a successful birth. Their feet shuffled back and forth. They whispered, yawned, stared into space as they counted the ticking seconds that went by until their eyes crossed. Yet again, I was forced to tell them nothing had happened.
Jane’s pains became worse. She screamed, tore the sheets from the force of her grasp.
The midwives turned to Elizabeth Seymour, the Lady Mary and myself, who attended her. “Lay her on her side where we can rub her back and her belly.”
Midnight had passed, and all of our ministrations still had done nothing to relieve the queen of her burden. Jane’s face was pale, dark-blue circles stained beneath her eyes. Her eyes themselves were glazed, her mouth and brows pinched in pain. Her hair, skin and chemise were drenched in perspiration. I bathed her face with a cool, wet cloth, but it seemed to do little. The air in the room was stifling.
“Your Majesty, you must sit up,” the midwives suggested.
But she could barely get into the position herself. Mary, Elizabeth and myself helped our queen to sit. We held her hands, rubbed her with cool cloths. The midwives told her to push with all her might. And push she did. She screamed, she panted, she pushed. But nothing.
After several hours, Jane fell back against the bed, unable to go on. She was limp, drifting in and out of consciousness. What were once strong screams and yells as she worked were now only whimpers.
Dawn was fast approaching.
“Majesty, do not give up!” I urged.
“I cannot continue.” Her voice was barely a whisper, more of a breath. “I have failed.”
The physician was called for his opinion. He felt her pulse, her forehead, touched her belly. When he’d completed his examination, he turned toward us.
“The queen is weak. She may not make it through this ordeal. Her heartbeat is slow. No fever yet, but if the baby is not born soon, she will take a shock and the fever will come soon after that.”
“Do not say such things!” Lady Mary all but shouted, her hands coming to her mouth, which opened in horror.
Elizabeth Seymour rushed to her sister’s side and wiped a cool compress along the length of the queen’s neck.
The physician started to glare in her direction but quickly remembered himself.
“It may come to it, that we have to decide between the life of the child and the life of the mother.”
“No!” Elizabeth and I shouted in unison. Mary stood, her mouth still agape in silent horror.
The midwives nodded solemnly.
I glanced back at Jane, who looked near death. Between her legs, blood seeped onto the bed.
“She is bleeding,” I stated, my voice flat.
One of the midwives rushed to Jane to examine her.
“The babe’s head is there! I can feel it!”
Everyone rushed back to the queen’s side. “Your Majesty, please,” we all pleaded. She only turned her head from side to side, murmuring things we could not understand. She was delirious.
“See to the king,” I ordered the physician. None of us would be made to make the decision on who lived or died if it came to it. “Pray,” I ordered the servants, the midwives, ladies-in-waiting, Elizabeth, Mary and those who loitered in the queen’s presence chamber.
We all prayed until the clock chimed five in the morning. The physician returned.
“The king says we save the queen.”
I do not think I was the only one taken aback by his statement, for certainly there were times when it was thought that Henry cared only for his future offspring and not the vessels that bore them. My heart quickened at the thought, mayhap this volatile master of the realm had a tender heart after all.
“I am ready,” Jane said weakly, surprising us all as she opened her eyes and gazed around. Her pale flesh had taken on some color.
She pushed herself up on her elbows, held out her hands to Elizabeth and I. We slipped our hands into hers, and then she started to push. This time, there was renewed vigor inside her, emanating out.
She pushed, she shouted, she prayed. And within thirty minutes of her new spark, the baby finally slid into the world. I tried to ignore the large gush of blood that came after, but I could not help it. Was there really supposed to be so much blood? I did not remember that much blood when baby Eddie was born…
Jane fell back against her pillow, a smile on her deathly pale face.
“A boy!” came the shout of someone, I cannot remember who, followed by the lusty cry of a babe, which made my heart clench and I yearned for my own little boy.
“Give him to me.” The bundle of pink flesh was swaddled and thrust into his mother’s waiting arms. Jane nodded. “Beautiful prince.” She kissed his forehead and nose. “What day is it?”
“Why, it is the twelfth day of October, Majesty,” a midwife answered.
“Edward. We shall call him Edward, for he was born on the eve of St. Edward’s day.”
She handed the babe to a waiting nurse and fell limply against the pillows, her eyes closing. For a heart-stopping moment, I thought she’d passed, but then I watched the rise and fall of her chest—slow as it was. Relief flooded through me, but along with it an icy sense of foreboding crawled its way up my spine. The midwives fussed furiously with Jane, waiting on the afterbirth, cleaning up the blood that ceased to end its flow. Tittering things I could not hear, their eyebrows scrunched in worry.
But then it hit me, as did the cheers resounding throughout Hampton Court.
The queen had born a son.
Good Lord, hallelujah! A son! A prince! We had succeeded. A Seymour would be crowned king!
October 13, 1537
How was it, with so much joy, there could also be so much sadness?
This morning I woke with a start, rushed through my ablutions and morning prayers, skipped breakfast and kissed Edward on the brow in his library before rushing to Jane’s apartments. I’d sat with her all through yesterday after her prince was born, and her condition had appeared to only worsen.
I feared the worst… Yet I could not voice those fears. It could not be possible. Jane was what the kingdom needed, especially now that there was a prince!
“Lady Mary, you are here,” I said on a breath as I entered. “How is she? Is she awake? Are there any changes?”
The room was lit by a fire and a few scattered candelabras. Still, no sun shone through the windows, as they were closed tight and covered. The air was thick, musty, hot. The scent of blood, sweat, and other bodily odors strong. I lifted the nosegay of dried lavender around my wrist to my nose, inhaling deeply.
“I did not want to disturb them.” Mary inclined her head and set down the orange she was piercing with cloves.
“Them?” I peered into the queen’s bedchamber and found the king on his knees, his hands clutching Jane’s. He was whispering to her fiercely, and she, eyes open, was whispering back. The way his back shook… could it be? Was he crying? My heart lurched, and palms began to sweat.
I came to sit beside Mary, my index finger on my lip as I contemplated all that had happened. The king truly did love his wife. Something I’d never expected.
“How is the little prince this morning?” I asked.
Mary smiled, a wistful look coming over her countenance. “He is perfect.”
Poor girl. Most likely she wished the little babe was hers… At the age of one and twenty, she should have had several babes of her own, but still all plans for her had fallen through. And, to be honest, I was doubtful that any would come to fruition in the near future. The king liked to keep himself the strongest, and with so many supporters of Mary, and that the marriage she would contract in would most likely be with a super power, King Henry had a right to be fearful.
Imagine Mary, riding all decked out in silver armor, with her powerful prince by her side as they stormed on London, taking the city, the country, the throne, by force.
But Jane had promised Mary a husband… If she lived…
“What is it?” Mary asked, leaning forward.
I shook my head slightly and patted my knees. “Nothing, my lady, just thinking of the beautiful little prince and our own great queen.”
Mary inclined her head. Whether she believed my tale or not, I knew not. But my thoughts on a takeover lingered. If, and I discretely crossed myself, if the queen were to be taken up by the angels, the Seymours’ power would once again be in danger. The Howards would thrust whomever they could under the king’s nose for him to wife, and Anne Bassett was only a passing fancy. Cromwell, the slimy bastard, was pushing for a German alliance against France and the Empire. Perhaps then, when things were so completely in chaos, a proposal for the Lady Mary’s marriage was due.
As if prompted by my traitorous thoughts, King Henry barreled into the room. We jumped to curtsy before him. With the heat and thick air of the room already, the stench from his leg seemed to reach me stronger than it usually did. I sucked in a deep breath of lavender scent and tried not to gag. I would have to change my nosegay on the morrow to a different flower, for I feared the scent of lavender would now forever more be associated with rotting flesh.
His face was red and puffy, clear confirmation of my earlier guess at his tears.
He nodded to his daughter, and then his red-rimmed blue eyes locked with mine. “Lady Beauchamp, a word?”
I stood with a nod and walked toward him. He held out his arm, and we walked out of the chamber and down the corridor toward his own private suite.
“My wife, the queen… she is not well.” His voice was gruff, as if he tried with all his strength not to shed more tears.
His gait was slow, and although he tried to hide it, I was well aware of his limp.
Unsure of how to respond, I simply shook my head. “No, Majesty, but with your great physicians…”
“Nonsense, they will only bleed her, as if the woman hasn’t lost enough blood already.” His meaty arm beneath my fingers stiffened, and his voice lowered. “I saw them carry the sheets out to be burned.”
I nodded. There was no denying it, and he would have only called me out for being false.
“I cannot lose her. She is my phoenix.” He stopped and gazed at a beautiful new painting, recently completed by Hans Holbein, that hung in his throne room.
The portrait was of Jane on a white horse, a phoenix taking flight from her hands. Beneath her on the ground knelt a thinner, more fit King Henry, his hands raised up to her. The portrait said it all, and I had been blind to it before. The king idolized his wife, knelt before her.
“She is the mother of my son,” he whispered, fingers running along the lines of her painted face. “She is still as pure and white as a summer rose. There is no one in all of England who could match her goodness.”
I wished to come up with something clever, something comforting to the king. But all I could say was, “And there never will be.”
“Majesty, if it pleases you, might I have a word?” Cromwell slinked from seemingly nowhere, and the king quickly snapped from his despairing mood to kingly strength.
Ordinarily, I would have been quite irritated at the interruption from Cromwell, whom I could never quite figure out. But the change in Henry was tangible, and I surmised the Lord Privy Seal was the perfect distraction for keeping his mind away from his ailing wife.
I excused myself and hurried back to Jane.
October 14, 1537
The king was in an outrage.
They had bled her last night.
No one had sought council. The physicians had taken it upon themselves to bleed the queen, even though they had known it was against the king’s wishes, for he’d hoped for her to be treated with the latest herbal remedies. As the patron of the Royal College of Physicians and an avid supporter of herbal treatments, the king was insistent on most of his court using holistic remedies.
Why they would have done such a thing, no one knows, for just after supper Jane had come around, eyes clear and bright, begging an audience with her babe and her king. The king in his merriment had had musicians brought in—all thoughts of churching put out of his mind—and he himself had serenaded his wife.
She had grown tired quickly, and we had ushered everyone from her presence. The king had winked at me as he left. “Keep her well for me, Lady Anne.”
I had inclined my head and curtsied.
This morning she was weak, her skin ashen. Even her lips were white. Her body was working so hard to recover from her three days of labor and the bleeding. She lazily opened her eyes to myself, Edward, her sister Elizabeth and brother Thomas, who’d all come to see to her this morning. The latter fairly frothed at the mouth at seeing me, and it was all I could to keep Edward from pummeling his brother into the ground.
The king shouted and raged at the physicians in the rooms down the hall. Every now and then, we heard something crash. Those men might feel the length of the hangman’s noose before this day ended. Their only defense was they were certain it would have cured her. Imbeciles.
“Tomorrow my prince will be christened,” Jane whispered.
“Thanks be to God,” we whispered.
Her limp hand came up to hold Edward’s, and the small twitch in her fingers said she had squeezed his hand for comfort.
“I want to be there,” Jane said.
“I will see it done.” Edward nodded.
“I want the Lady Mary and the Lady Elizabeth there,” Jane said, referring to Henry’s two other children.
Edward nodded again, flicking his worried gaze toward me.
“Mary will be godmother,” Jane whispered.
I tried not to hide the surprise at her choice. Having Mary as the godmother could not have fallen better into my way of thinking if I had told her to do so myself. Mary would be brought even closer to her father and the throne. Sometimes, Jane’s astuteness and stubborn streak to see her will done pleasantly surprised. It was also a sign that Catholicism was still in the heart of our precious queen.
October 15, 1537
The very next morning as the bells from the king’s chapel at Hampton Court chimed loudly, Jane was wrapped in furs and placed in a velvet litter to be carried to the king's chapel. She was not as pale, but deep, purple circles marred the flesh beneath her eyes. The whites of her eyes were sallow and her lips still nearly white. She shivered and shuddered a lot. Licked her lips constantly as if severely dehydrated, but she smiled at everyone. Had a kind word for each person she passed as well. She’d look up and then be drawn back to the bundle of perfection in her arms. Her prince. Her savior. Her glory as a Queen of England.
Behind her were the long line of courtiers in attendance for the christening of Prince Edward. King Henry strode, proud, his chest puffed out, beside his wife, and behind him was the Lady Mary who would be godmother, her arm interlocked with that of Archbishop Cranmer, who would preside over the ceremony as well as serve as the new prince’s godfather. Thomas Seymour carried Anne Boleyn’s daughter, little Lady Elizabeth, who, for some reason, preferred him. I found it fitting, considering he hated her mother so very much. Behind Tom was Edward, myself and Elizabeth Seymour, followed by the elite members of the king’s council and their spouses.
The only other procession to rival this one had been when Jane had entered London in state.
People milled about, begging for alms, and Jane’s dainty pale hand came from out of her draped litter to toss gold pieces into the crowds.
Inside the chapel, Jane was taken from her litter to stand beside the king for Mass and the christening. However, she began to wobble at first and then almost swooned. I could not look at the floor, for I had an enormous fear that beneath her feet I would find a puddle of blood.
“Jane!” the king shouted, catching her in his arms. “This is too much for the queen. Get her to the litter. To bed with you, my wife. Rest, get well. Our son, the prince, needs you. England needs you. I need you.”
He kissed her pale cheek, and she was soon away, a retinue of ladies behind her. I started to follow, but Edward held me back.
“We must support our prince, Anne.”
There was no doubt that I did not support the prince and future king, but I also supported his mother, the Queen of England. And I wanted to go back to her! Did he not realize how much she meant to me? I had grown to rely on her steadfastness and goodness, and here he was, holding me back. I glowered up at him, but he paid me no heed, for once standing on his own two feet. Rather than cause a scene, I remained where I was and crossed myself, saying a silent prayer for Jane’s well-being.
Two thousand shots were fired from the Tower, and even as far away as we were, we could hear their distant cracking. Bells rang throughout the countryside, cheers went up, and bonfires were again lit from the border of Wales and Scotland to the English Channel and North Sea.
Even with all the fanfare, and it was a most joyous occasion indeed, did no one remember the poor ailing mother of the prince?
October 19, 1537
Jane shivered. Her body wracked by fever. We covered her in furs, we pressed cool compresses to her head, but none of our ministrations seemed to abate the chills.
“Wine,” she called out in her sleep, and we brought it to her lips.
“Stuffed quail!” she shouted, and there laid before her was a meal fit for her—the queen.
“Sugared plums…” She trailed off.
I was amazed at her appetite, and with each delicacy she asked for, she received and ate with gusto, her chills ceasing for a moment or two.
I left Jane’s rooms for a short time, ensuring she had enough servants and ladies to see over her. I happened on Cromwell, who spoke with Jane Rochford in the great hall, on my way to see Edward before he left on progress to his new estate, for yesterday he’d been entitled Earl of Hertford, making myself a countess. To my chagrin, his brother Thomas was knighted and promoted to the king’s privy chamber, as were several others. I was very pleased that Elizabeth Seymour’s marriage to Cromwell’s son Gregory was arranged. If it hadn’t been for my ill queen, I would have been overjoyed at the amount of prestige and recognition with which we’d been honored in a matter of one day.
“They call for sweets and rich foods with sauces. That cannot be good for her,” Cromwell stated, his eyes sliding to me as he spoke.
Lady Rochford’s back was to me as she continued to speak. “Not at all! The physicians are in total disagreement and wish to bleed her, which is by far the better choice. It’s all Lady Beau—”
“My Lord Cromwell. Jane,” I said, not deigning to give her the proper recognition due her title.
“Countess,” Cromwell said, and I watched Lady Rochford’s brows rise as she recalled my new elevated status.
“You were saying?” I implored.
“Nothing of concern,” Lady Rochford quickly sputtered.
But Cromwell was a bit more solicitous. “I am concerned with the diet which the queen is being served. Having just come from labor and now encumbered with childbed fever, is it not prudent she be eating a diet rich in minerals?”
“That is not for me to decide, Cromwell. I am confident you’ll agree that what the queen and king want, we are here to provide.”
“Ah,” was all he said, his eyes roving over me, assessing my position perhaps.
But from then on, I did try to see to it that Jane was served more fruits and vegetables.
October 21, 1537
My quest for fresher, mineral-rich meals for the queen lasted less than two days. The queen fell into a delirious fever and then quietly fell into unconsciousness and could not be roused even for a drop of water to be placed on her lips.
Henry had herbalists working on medicines for Jane that he himself concocted. Astrologists were asked to foretell the future of the country. Every man, woman and child was ordered to pray.
I knelt before Jane, my knees already sore, bruised and bleeding from hours of praying. I gripped her frail, hot hand in mine and prayed all the more.
October 24, 1537
“Murder!” the king raged, and even went so far as to hit one of the physicians.
The older man fell backward, blood trickling from his lip as the ferocious king lunged forward to take another hit.
Several men of his chamber grabbed onto the savage king, who so very much resembled the lion his first wife had dubbed him. They held him back, settled him, while a few others ushered the shamefaced physicians from the queen’s chambers. I heard the groomsmen whisper to them never to return to court, lest the king be reminded of their injury to himself—the death of his wife.
Dead.
The queen was dead.
The clock ticked just before midnight, silencing everyone as the last rattled breath escaped her body. The castle was silent, except for the battle cry that ripped from King Henry’s throat when he heard the news.
I collapsed, numb, in a chair by the hearth. Unable to think, unable to move. Edward looked on, stone-faced, as though the death of his sister had little effect on him—or so he tried to hide it. He stood behind me, his warm hand resting on my shoulder. I couldn’t bring myself to comfort him. Blaming him partially for Jane’s death. He’d wanted so badly for her to become with-child. And so had I. Another death on my head. I shied away from his touch. It was not his comfort I wanted. In fact, in my time of sorrow, I desperately yearned for the touch of another… Anthony. Months since I had seen him or thought of him. And yet, when death was once more upon us, I thought to escape its horror in the throes of delirium. To take away the pain. To release my nightmares on a moan of climax. I shook myself from my demented, disgraceful thoughts and focused on waking life.
Why, of all people, would God see fit to take Jane?
Just barely two weeks had gone by since Prince Edward had been born. Before that, Jane had been alive, well, vibrant. Now she was dead, her body not yet cold, and lying so very still atop her bed.
I took a deep, shuddering breath. Tears had not yet come. Ladies-in-waiting, ambassadors, courtiers and court ladies milled about the queen’s presence chamber. Everyone around me appeared just as stunned. We knew she’d been sick with childbed fever, but her case seemed so rare. Never had it been heard before for a woman sick with the fever to awake and demand great meals she would eat with gusto.
Perhaps there was truth to Cromwell’s words. If her requests had been denied and instead filled with rich fruits, vegetables, grains, she would have been able to recover her strength, but instead the sweets, sauces and strong wine had weakened her system.
Abruptly I stood, Edward’s hand falling from my shoulder.
“Anne,” he murmured.
“I must go to my chambers,” I mumbled before excusing myself and half walking, half running to my chambers down the hall.
As I broke through the door and rushed toward my bed, the tears began to fall.
I hadn’t just lost my queen, I had lost a dear friend. For although Jane had been a means of rising up in the world, she had also been my companion. A sweet innocent foray into the depths of goodness.
I collapsed onto the bed, the tears racking my body. I shook, I sobbed. Unguarded, I let my grief take over.
I had looked forward to our children growing up together, strolling in the parks as the cherubs gathered and presented us with posies. Reveling in the success she’d had in giving the king a prince, a success that two previous wives had not achieved. To celebrate all she’d accomplished in so short a time.
But now she was gone.
One minute there, and the next, rising up into the heavens just as her phoenix motto had done.
Anguish wrenched at my chest. God had swept down and taken her from us. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. The Lord said we must heed his call, we must trust in him, believe what he did was for the best, but I could not help doubting that his taking of our most beloved queen was good. It was not good. She was needed here!
Was this not the third queen I had seen die in as many years?
God save the queen’s soul! Or had he already forgotten her?