Thomasin went to enter Anne’s room, reaching for the door handle.
“She’s sleeping. Don’t go in.”
“Are you sure? I’m meant to be by her side.”
“I think she will manage for a little while without you. After all, she has her mother and me.”
“Very well.” Thomasin turned away.
“When are you going back into the country?”
She did not answer Mary, but joined the other women in the large chamber, and picked up some sewing.
TWENTY-EIGHT
“Thomasin?”
The voice was vaguely above her, somewhere distant, as if heard through fog.
“Thomasin!”
She opened her eyes, her dream receding fast. Lady Elizabeth was leaning over the truckle bed in the great chamber where she had passed that night. The older woman’s hair looked dishevelled under a hastily placed cap, her eyes tired.
“What is it? Is the child coming?”
“The first false pains are upon her, the ones that precede the birth. Will you come?”
As Thomasin hurriedly dressed, she realised it was still early in the morning. Around her, other women lay sleeping or blinking in the dim light.
They hurried through into the inner chamber where Anne was lying in bed in a white nightgown, her dark hair streaming around her shoulders. Mary was sitting beside her, clasping one of her hands. The scent of ambergris steamed on the fire.
Lady Elizabeth drew up on the other side of the bed. “I sent Nan for the midwives. How are you?”
Anne nodded and gritted her teeth. “Another.”
“That’s it; these are preparing your body ahead of time. It will not be long now.”
“Is there anything I might bring you?” Thomasin asked.
“The image,” Anne half-whispered, “St Felicitas.”
“The picture of the saint,” explained Mary. “It is here somewhere.”
Thomasin had seen it before. In fact, she had been surprised to see that Anne had saints’ images and relics in the chamber in spite of her reformist views. She might have read Tyndale andbe in favour of translating the Bible, but when she was in pain, Anne still clung to the same talisman used by her mother and grandmother.
Thomasin found the image, a painted piece of wood depicting a young woman draped in yellow robes, which had been lying upon a chest in the corner, and hurried it over to Anne. Anne’s fingers grasped it and pressed it to her lips.
“God in Heaven, St Felicitas, patron saint of boy children, send me the strength to endure this.”
The pain seized her again; her head went back and her body tensed.
“When did this start?” asked Thomasin.
“At dawn. It is often the way; that seems to be the weakest hour.” Lady Elizabeth leaned over to smooth the hair off Anne’s glistening brow.
One of the midwives entered — the shorter, dark-haired one that Thomasin had noted on her arrival, by the name of Mistress Blackwood. She looked as if she had dressed hurriedly.
“So, we have begun?” she asked, looking earnestly down at Anne, who was then unable to answer her, but stared back with wild eyes.
