If I were a true-bred court lady, she thought crazily between pangs, I would ask this gardener to take his hands off me and show no pain on my face at all. He half-sat, half-leaned her on the bench where she and Anne had been, and raced off saying something back over his shoulder. What had he said? Another pain seized her, and she heard herself scream. Truly, this was it, this was her time. Where were the men in her life when she needed them? Her father should be here for the birth of his first grandchild. Was Will on his way? This baby was not early. He should be here, too. Damn the king! Damn him who could send maids five months from his court just because they conceived and their waistlines no longer suited his roving hands.
The next pain swept over her like a huge wave and her ears rang, drowning out the garden sounds and all thoughts. Then mother, Semmonet, Michael and some other man were there. They carried her into the dark house and to bed.
It seemed she had long drifted on waves of pain and exhaustion. She screamed for them to take the bedclothes off and begged them for cool water to drink. Her body was not her own. She tried to hide from its strange revolution in the corner of her mind, but the agony pursued her, and she screamed again. There were two midwives, mother and Semmonet. Father had said two midwives. There must be two to make sure the child was delivered safely. How she hoped the child was a girl and had the identical look of a Carey to spite her father. How many hours on the sundial in the garden? Why could the tearing pains not end?
They told her to push, and she did with all her might. It helped, but the pain swept her back, so what did the tiny respite matter? How could women do this all the time? Claude. Poor Claude and the Spanish Catherine! All those dead children after so much pain. Please, God, do not let my baby be born dead. “Mother! Mother! Water!”
Elizabeth held the goblet to her lips and she drank greedily, spilling half the water down her chin and neck. It felt good. The only thing that felt good. “You are doing fine, dearest Mary, just fine. Push harder next time.”
She bore down as hard as she could. When she dared to open her eyes again, she could have laughed at the crazy sight of her legs spread and the midwives peering at her intently, if another pain had not washed her laugh away. What was it that Staff had said to her that night? When you spread your thighs for the others, think of me.
“It crowns, lady. Push harder, hard,” the voice came to her.
Crowns, who cared about crowns except Henry and father? Push hard, push, push!
A huge black wave rolled over her, and she felt herself break in two jagged pieces. Then there was a loud cry, and she no longer felt the need to scream. Would they leave her alone now? She was so exhausted.
“Mary, Mary, everything is fine.” It was mother’s voice, mother crying and shaking her shoulder.
She opened her eyes. They had let light into the room, and it almost blinded her. But there in her mother’s arms lay a child. Her child, with a tiny red face screwed up to a pouting circle at its mouth and one balled-up fist against its cheek.
“It is a son, Mary, a beautiful, fine son.”
Mary smiled in her mind and opened the fingers of her hands as Elizabeth Bullen placed the tiny bundle next to her on the vast bed. She touched the little hand. “Father and Will decided his name is to be Henry, mother. Henry Carey.” She wanted to hold the babe to her, but she drifted off, floating on the bed in helpless exhaustion.
The utter joy which coursed through her with the milk which suckled the babe was unbelievable. She held him carefully to keep him secure and to be certain he would not break. He had little reddish-golden fuzz on his head and his eyes were the clearest blue, although mother said all babies looked so for the first weeks. It would please father and probably Will, too. The babe’s coloring could be construed to be pure Tudor, but was not so far from the Carey looks. So let them wonder.
Will Carey and several other riders came pounding into the courtyard the morning after the baby was born. Will looked so in awe of the tiny bundle of reddish gold that Mary felt a jab of guilt for cursing him for his absence. The king, no doubt, the king had kept him. George had come, Anne said probably just to escape his wife’s flapping mouth for a few days, but father would follow later in the day. The king had sent his good wishes and a silver christening spoon. Mary enjoyed the proud comments and pleasure of George and Will, and then she slept again with the baby’s cradle next to her bed.
She was famished that afternoon and downed a huge bowl of frumenty while Anne sat by the bed and repeated all Will, George and their comrades had been telling her of life at court.
“George is so unhappy, Mary. I tell you, if father tries to marry me to someone as silly as Jane Rochford, I shall run all the way back to France! Oh, by the way,” Anne added as she took a swift peek in the cradle on her way out, “that man you spoke of, the tall and charming Will Stafford, came with Will. You are right. They are fast friends. See you when father arrives.”
Mary put her spoon on her emptied pewter plate. Staff here with Will? However did they both get away? Would he come to see the baby or think it was only for the family to see? Suddenly, for the first time since the birth, she thought of how she must look. Her stomach was so much flatter but, even tightly bound, she had a long way to go to get back to her normal waistline. “Mother! Semmonet!”