It was only in these last weeks of her pregnancy that she began to worry about the possibility of her baby being a girl. Henry had always referred to it as a son, and she too had come to think of it as a boy. But what if it wasn’t? Henry had done all that he had sworn to do: he had broken with Rome to marry her, and had her crowned with as much pomp as if she were a reigning monarch. It was now up to her to seal her part of the bargain by presenting him with the son that, at forty-two, he needed more desperately than ever, not only to ensure the succession, but also to justify the risks he had taken on her account. The blessing of a male heir would show the world that God smiled on their union, and would undoubtedly bring many waverers and dissidents over to their side—and it might silence, once and for all, that infuriating woman at Buckden!
So much hung on the sex of the child. That it might not be a son did not bear thinking about. And so she grew daily more anxious, when she should have been enjoying the calm euphoria of these last weeks before the birth.
The wretched Nun of Kent had chosen the day of Anne’s coronation to prophesy doom for the King and his new Queen. This time the authorities had pounced, and Elizabeth Barton had been brought before Cranmer to be examined.
“He should not have let her go with just a warning,” Anne complained. “She’s already ignored it.”
“Sweetheart, do not excite yourself,” Henry exhorted, all concern, as they sat down to cold chicken, a raised pie, salad, and a dish of cherries in the banqueting house that stood on the hillock overlooking the privy garden. “I had her re-arrested this morning, and Cranmer examined her again. She’s admitted that she never had a vision in her life.”
“What will you do with her?”
“Let her go. She’s been discredited, out of her own mouth.”
“That won’t deter her. Mad or not, she’s never held her peace before.”
“If she spouts more sedition, she will feel the full force of my displeasure,” Henry declared. “But let’s not speak of unpleasant things. You do not want to agitate the babe. I am of the belief that what a woman thinks or feels can affect the child in her womb—it stands to reason.”
“I don’t know about that,” Anne smiled, “but this one leaps about as if it’s practicing for the joust! Feel!” She guided Henry’s hand to her belly.
“By God, here’s a future king to be proud of!” he chuckled. “Darling, I know I can’t be there with you when our son is born, but I want to be near at hand. I’m not going far on my hunting progress this year; I’m keeping near to London.”
“That is a great comfort to me,” Anne said, reaching across and squeezing his hand.
He smiled at her. “I’m ordering that prayers for your safe delivery be offered up in every church, and I will ask my loving subjects to pray to Jesus, if it be His will, to send us a prince. I’ve consulted the physicians, and they all assure me that the child will be male.”
How did they know? They had never examined her, merely inquired how she was feeling and exhorted her to take care of herself. Childbirth was women’s work! She had already engaged a midwife, who was even now in residence at court, guzzling rich food and idling away the days in luxury. But she had come highly recommended by Lady Worcester.
After they had finished their meal, Henry took Anne to see an astrologer he had summoned. She had heard of William Glover, for he was celebrated throughout the land for foretelling the future. He was not the first of the seers Henry had consulted; he was as anxious as she was about the baby’s sex. Of course, they had all assured him that it would be a boy, but the pronouncement of this Glover, with his great reputation, would carry special weight.
He was a raven-haired, thin-faced man with bushy brows, completely immersed in a world of his own. He showed them charts of celestial configurations, then looked into his glass and paused for a very long moment before turning to Anne.
“I see your Grace bearing a woman child and a prince of the land.”
She was shocked.
“Two children?” Henry barked. “A prince and princess?”
“No, your Grace. I see only one child.”
“How can a woman child be a prince?” Henry countered.
“My vision does not reveal that.”
“You’re a charlatan!” Henry accused him. “Everyone else says it will be a son!”
“Lord King, I know only what my glass tells me,” Glover insisted.
Henry dismissed him, glowering.
“Don’t let him upset you, darling,” he said to Anne, when the man had gone. “He’s a knave!”
“Indeed he must be,” she agreed, wanting to forget the episode. “Henry, I have been thinking about the Prince’s baptism. Are there special christening robes and bearing cloths in the Royal Wardrobe?”
“Maybe. Katherine used a very rich triumphal cloth she brought from Spain to wrap up our children for baptism.”
“Do you think she still has it?” It would be sweet revenge to wrap her son in that cloth.
“Probably,” said Henry.
“Will you ask her for it?”
He grinned wolfishly. “It will be my pleasure.”
—
Back came the prompt answer. It had not pleased God that Katherine should ever be so badly advised as to assist in a case as horrible as this.
“How dare she!” Anne raged.
“Darling, as she rightly says, the robe is her personal property. I don’t think I can press the point.” As usual, Henry was hopeless in the face of Katherine’s malice.
“But it’s a snub.”
To her astonishment, he rounded on her. “We should not have asked in the first place. Anne, I have more pressing matters to worry about. I’ve just heard that the Pope has annulled all Cranmer’s proceedings and declared our marriage null and void, making it appear to all Christendom that we are living in adultery. Worse still, he has threatened me with excommunication if I do not put you away by September.”
“You must ignore him!” Anne cried. “You don’t need him now!”
“I intend to ignore him!” Henry shouted. “God, who knows my righteous heart, always prospers my affairs.”
But she could see the fear that belied his bullish words. In the eyes of the faithful, he was a schismatic adulterer who might soon be cut off from God. And his enemies would be waiting to pounce…It was more imperative than ever that she bear him a son, to show that God smiled upon him.
—
“The King danced many times with Lady Carew last night,” Jane Rochford said.
“They are old friends,” Anne replied, handing the basket of silks across to Nan Gainsford. Gossip had it that Lady Carew had bedded with Henry before her marriage to Sir Nicholas Carew, but that was long ago, even before Bessie Blount’s time. Yet Jane was looking at Anne with a sly, gloating expression, as if to say, I know something you don’t.
“What is it you wish to tell me, Jane?” she asked briskly.
Jane seemed reluctant to speak, but Anne suspected that she was enjoying this. “I did not like to say anything—after all, it probably means nothing, but…well, with your Grace being with child…”
“What, then?” Anne demanded to know. The other ladies and maids were looking from one to the other.
“I saw him kiss her,” Jane said.
It was like a punch, winding her. “Kiss her? What, beyond what is courteous?”
“It looked more than courtesy to me,” Jane replied.
Anne searched the shocked faces around her. “Did any of you see this?”
Nan Saville looked guilty. “Yes, your Grace.”
“Just the once?”
“I saw him kiss her three times,” Jane said.