“It is time. I can see the crown of the head,” said the midwife, her voice earnest and deep. “Push now, as hard as you can. Push down for your child.”
Anne’s moans rose high and delirious. With her eyes tightly shut, her head thrashed from side to side in pain, her fists gripping the hands of her mother and sister.
“Almost there; the head is coming. Here we are.”
In a rush of fluids, the child was born. Thomasin saw it drawn out, streaked with blood, and gathered into a cloth. Mistress Lewis cut the cord with a sharp knife and tied the knot.
“Is he well?” asked Anne, lifting her head feebly.
“A healthy child indeed, perfect in every way.”
At that moment, the infant let out a lusty cry. Thomasin found her eyes welling with unexpected tears.
“Let me hold him, please,” said Anne.
Wrapping up the loose ends of the blanket to catch the waving feet, Mistress Blackwood brought the baby round to lie upon Anne’s chest. Her eyes feasted upon it in wonder.
“There, my lady, you have a perfect daughter.”
“Daughter?” Anne’s black eyes went blank.
“That is right. A daughter. A perfect baby girl.”
TWENTY-NINE
The chamber had been tidied and fresh linen placed upon the bed. Lavender was scattered around, pastilles burned and all the signs of Anne’s labour removed, save for its human result. Dressed in fresh white linen, her hair brushed smooth and tucked under a white cap, Anne cradled the child to her breast, where it lay motionless, its pink rosebud face soft in sleep after its long ordeal. The queen had wiped away her tears and set her expression into one of proud resolve. Her child was heathy, and she had survived: that was all that mattered.
The women waited, the air heavy with expectation, the predictable words unspoken. They were united by the hours of suffering, the fears and pain, the struggle and the release. In the distance, the chapel bells chimed out their news in rhythm with the local churches thereabouts.
“Hark, he comes, he comes,” said Mary at the door, listening to the noise in the outer chambers.
Thomasin fell back into the shadows as Henry entered. She dared not look at his face, but immediately, she could see there was something in his movements that spoke of disappointment. No one in the room could have been in any doubt about it. He did not hurry to Anne’s side, eager and full of delight, nor question her about the birth, nor gaze upon the child in awe. He approached slowly and respectfully, as if he had all day to look upon his daughter for the first time. Whispers had already reached them that the birth announcements had been altered and the jousts cancelled.
“Your daughter, my lord,” said Anne, when he did not speak.
Henry leaned over and looked dispassionately at the bundle in her arms. “Very good. It is healthy?”
“Yes, she is. Strong and healthy.”
He gave a curt nod. “By God’s Grace, sons will follow.”
“It was a straightforward delivery, my lord,” said Mistress Blackwood, without being asked. “There is every sign that the queen will bear more children.”
Henry did not acknowledge her. “You must rest.”
Then he turned and walked from the chamber. The door closed behind him, leaving the women stunned, but not surprised, at his coldness.
“He will need time to adjust,” said Lady Elizabeth, “but there will be sons in the years to come, and this little one is as lusty as we could desire.”
“Do you have a name for her?” asked Mary Boleyn.
“It could only be Elizabeth,” Anne replied, “for both our mothers.”
“Little Elizabeth.” The child’s grandmother smiled down at her. “Not yet an hour old, and I wonder what mighty future awaits you.”
“Here,” said Mistress Lewis, “let me put the babe in the cradle. The queen must sleep.”
“No,” said Lady Elizabeth, “I shall hold her and be quite content. All of you, go. Leave us.”
