After Sir Thomas had stepped aside, the chamber parted to allow Henry through. He came thoughtfully, steadily, having been in the position of expectant father before, but still with an air of anticipation and hope. This time, after all, it was going to be different. If the ghosts of Catherine’s lost infants circled around him now, he pushed them roughly aside, and threw himself into the present moment. Anne tried to kneel before him, but he raised her to her feet and took her in his arms, leaning forward to kiss her forehead in a public gesture of love.
“My beloved wife and queen, soon England will blessed, thanks to your travail. God be with you, and in all you shall do. We shall pray for you daily.”
He offered her his arm, and together they made a stately procession out of the hall and along the chamber to the door leading to Anne’s inner rooms. Here, Archbishop Cranmer pronounced a final blessing, and they each took a pinch of spices from a gold dish and let them fizz upon their tongues. Then, witha final look at the court, Anne passed through, with Thomasin and her ladies following, and the door was closed behind them.
For a moment, there was silence. The queen and her twelve women stood alone. The chamber was deathly still as they listened to the departing feet of the court outside, echoing along the corridor until the last pair had disappeared. No one knew quite what to expect — how Anne would react now that they were enclosed. Thomasin watched her from the corner of her eye, a slightly drooping figure, cradling her girth.
Lady Elizabeth laid her hand upon her daughter’s arm. “Now, we wait. Pray God it will not be long.”
“It will be as long as it will be,” said Anne, lifting her chin in triumph. “I am ready.”
The first day seemed to stretch the longest, Thomasin thought. They took it in turns to read from the Book of Saints’ Lives, or to sing or sew or play cards and chess. Finally, the knock on the outer door announced the arrival of dinner trays, and Thomasin and Nan Gainsford jumped up to receive them. As they ate, Thomasin looked round at the ladies with whom she would share the confinement. The rota ensured there would always be a minimum of six women at Anne’s side during the waiting period. Once her labour began, the midwives would be called for. Lady Elizabeth and the three Boleyn aunts were the eldest: experienced mothers who knew the signs and could offer sage advice. Mary, Lady Kingston, was also more advanced in years, but the others were young, even those like Mary Carey, who were also mothers, as well as the childless women, like Thomasin and Jane Boleyn.
“A lute,” said Anne one afternoon, looking up from her bed. “Which among you can play the lute?”
“Not so well that I would inflict my playing upon your poor ears,” said Mary Boleyn, laughing although there was an edge to her voice.
“Would that I could have brought my lute player in here,” Anne said, sighing, “but alas, he is a man.”
“I can play the lute,” offered Lady Kingston, picking up the instrument from where it lay in the corner. “Never let it be said that we need a man on occasions like this!”
A ripple of applause ran through the chamber as she started to play a gentle melody and the women settled down to listen.
When the third night came, it was the turn of Thomasin and Jane Boleyn to sleep in the women’s chamber. They slipped out of the sealed-up rooms with sighs of relief, and headed down to the main hall, where supper was being served. As they entered, George Boleyn saw his wife and summoned them over to his table, where he sat with Henry Norris.
“Be seated with us. How does my sister fair?”
“Well enough, my lord,” said Jane softly. “She bears her waiting patiently. All is calm in her chamber.”
“Well, that is something, for all is afire outside of it!”
“What can you mean?”
“The king is in a fury. You mark that he is not dining in the hall tonight?”
Thomasin followed Jane’s eyes up to the empty dais.
“He is taking sup in his private chambers, after berating Chapuys all day for the evil rumours coming out of the Empire.”
“What rumours are these?”
“I cannot remember them all, but none are to Anne’s credit, of course. Norris, you were there — what do you say?”
Henry Norris nodded his darkly handsome head. “There is all manner of nonsense being spoken abroad, that the king is mistreating Lady Catherine and her daughter, to which he has already drafted a letter of reply; also that he must take her backas his wife or be excommunicated and damned and England will be invaded by the Emperor, but all this we know. Worse than that, the Pope will summon all Christian princes to make war upon us, and it is said in Flanders that the king is abused by his new wife and the gentlemen of the court run wild among the women, doing as they will because of his example.”
“This is heavy indeed,” added George.
“They say the king is in thrall to Anne and never leaves her side, and that he dare not go out into the streets for fear of what the people will say to him!”
“Now that is plain ridiculous!”
“But it is said! And what is said is believed. Some say that Anne’s child has been born dead and others that she has been brought to the bed of a monster.”
Thomasin and Jane exchanged glances.
“The king is in a fury, as you can imagine,” said George, leaning in closer. “I never saw him in such a rage, so Cromwell is taking down all his letters to the princes of Christendom announcing the healthy birth of a prince. They’re ready to be dispatched as soon as the little fellow arrives. And a splendid joust is planned for the christening.”
“It would be good if none of these rumours reach the queen,” said Thomasin. “Her lying-in affords her protection from these cares.”
