At the Mercy of the Queen: A Novel of Anne Boleyn (13 page)

“Now—it’s hardened now!” she cried.

“Sniff, Your Grace, sniff hard. Now, Madge, get that feather and tickle her nose. Come on, woman, tickle!” said Dame Brooke.

Madge kept one hand on the queen’s belly and with the other, ran the peacock feathers under the queen’s nose and even up inside. Suddenly, the queen sneezed hard and the sneezes kept coming until she’d sneezed four times in a row and then she yelled once again, a prolonged scream that sounded as if she were being torn asunder. Then, Madge heard a slap and a small, mewling cry.

“Someone take the babe!” commanded Dame Brooke as she handed up a bloody, wiggly thing from beneath the groaning stool. Madge motioned for Lady Boleyn to grab one of the clean towels from the bed. Lady Boleyn did so and took the squirming babe from Dame Brooke’s hands.

“Here comes the afterbirth—take it, Madge, and bury it in the courtyard—that will protect the babe from the evil eye,” said Dame Brooke.

Madge received a bloody bundle. She wrapped it in a clean cloth and set it beside the door. She would bury it later. The queen was pale but still seated as the midwife treated her from below.

“Is it a boy? Do I have my prince?” said the queen.

Madge had hardly thought to look. She glanced at Lady Boleyn who shook her head.

“You have a fine, healthy daughter, Nan Bullen,” said Dame Brooke. “A fine girl with the king’s own red fuzz atop her head.”

“Oh no! It cannot be! I have promised Harry a son—I have failed him,” said the queen. “No, no, no! He’ll put me away! He’ll put me away!”

“Now, now, dearie, calm yourself. You can get into your bed now, Nan Bullen. You are all fixed up. Love that yonder babe—for, though sons be fine for fathers, there’s nothing better than a daughter for a mother,” said Dame Brooke.

The queen rose slowly, awkwardly, and crawled into her bed. Lady Boleyn had bathed the child and anointed her with almond oil, then swaddled her tightly in the strips of cloth made for such purpose. She then lay the babe on the queen’s chest, next to her heart. The queen held her daughter and patted her, cooing soft words. Soon, mother and daughter were asleep.

In a mere ten days after entering her confinement, the queen had given a relatively easy birth to the child all Christendom had been awaiting. To her complete disappointment, the baby was not the much longed-for prince, but a princess. The king visited her immediately after the baby had been cleaned and swaddled, blustering into the hitherto forbidden rooms, waking his sleeping family.

He had been so confident of a son that announcements and invitations to the christening had already been printed, and extra S’s had to be added so that the documents were changed from “prince” to “princess”. When he came to the queen’s apartments, he immediately cleared the room of everyone but Madge, who sat on her pallet beside the queen’s bed.

Madge could feel the energy in the room when he entered. She saw the queen’s quick intake of breath as she awoke and heard the scurrying of feet as the king ordered everyone to leave.

“You may stay, Lady Margaret. Your tongue never wags, I’ll warrant,” said the king as he gazed not at Margaret, but at his wife.

“Sweetheart,” he said kindly.

“Oh my love, I am so sorry,” said the queen, tears coming in a rush.

The king sat down beside her and held both her hands.

“No matter, no matter. We are yet young. There will be more babes. A son next time.” He gave her tender looks that Madge was happy to see—it seemed there was still love in his heart for his queen.

“We shall name her Elizabeth for my mother. And yours,” said the king. At that moment, a small cry came from the nearby cradle. “Ah, she likes her name!” The king gently lifted his daughter and brought her to his burly chest. She cried a bit louder. He patted her, then touched the tuft of red hair on her head. “You are your father’s daughter, sweetheart. Yes, you are!” he said. The baby cried even louder.

“If Your Grace will hand her to me, I shall feed her—I believe she is hungry,” said Anne.

“Feed her? Woman, surely you know queens do not feed their young! Lady Margaret, go to the other ladies and find a suitable wet nurse,” ordered the king. Madge got up immediately, smoothing her dress as she did so.

“But Your Grace, I am her mother—surely it is I who should give her nourishment?” said the queen.

“Madame, you will need to get her a brother as soon as you can. This, above all else, is your concern,” said the king in some anger. “You promised me sons, a castle full of boys ready to carry on the Tudor dynasty. Your mission from God is to get them! If you die trying, you must give me a son!” The king’s voice had risen as had his color. He turned to Madge. “Go, Lady Margaret! Go!”

Madge did not need to be told again. Off she ran, out of the innermost rooms to the outer chambers where the women gathered, playing cards, reading, stitching, and passing the time as best they could. She found Lady Bryan who went to fetch the wet nurse, for Lady Bryan had already made proper arrangements. She knew the king’s mind in such matters as she had been in charge of the other princess years ago. Madge returned to the ladies’ chambers and moved to an open window, a welcome relief, the air fresh and cool.

Fifteen

Madge enjoyed more and more freedom from the queen’s presence as the weeks prior to Her Majesty’s churching passed. The queen was busy with the princess, Elizabeth, and His Majesty, who visited them daily. Often, the queen sent Madge out on some pretended errand so that the family could enjoy one another without the eyes of the court upon them.

Madge sought out Cate and together they would walk in the gardens or take Shadow to the grazing fields nearby, though getting to those open places took half an hour or longer.

“How does Her Majesty?” Cate said as the two of them found a hidden spot in the garden.

“Happy—in love with her new babe and the king. She has never looked more comely and she has had a change in spirit, too. No longer ill-tempered but sweet and full of smiles. Of course, she worries that she has disappointed His Majesty and she often says strange things—like the king will rid himself of her if she does not produce a son. I try to soothe her but oft times, in the lonely night, I hear her crying,” said Madge, reaching to scratch Shadow behind the ears.

“And the king?” asked Cate.

“His Majesty makes merry with the little princess. His eyes are for the queen and no one else, though I have heard him sigh and moan when the queen talks about the princess. His longing for a son is not abated. What of you, Cate?” said Madge.

“If you ask of Lord Brandon, as your smile tells me you do, he has proven himself, indeed, a scoundrel,” said Cate.

“How so?” said Madge.

“Have you not heard? He has stolen his own son’s plighted wife and married her himself! And she not much more than a child—twelve or thirteen, I’ll warrant. They say his son is heartbroken. Humph—it had not been five months since the king’s good sister died, yet off goes my lord Suffolk as if he were a young buck. Humph,” said Cate.

“I had not heard this news! Bad blood—those Brandon men—bad blood!” said Madge.

“I am evermore glad I did not succumb to the duke’s wishes. Oh, he did try me, Maddie—more than once! But I held onto my virtue. Take that as a lesson,” said Cate.

“Good Cate, I never doubted your virtue—I can only hope to follow,” said Madge. “I begin to see that few leave court with virtue intact—I intend to be one of them, if I must grow fingernails as long as spikes!”

*   *   *

In early October, a few days before the queen was to be churched, Her Majesty invited several of the king’s favorites, along with His Majesty, to dine with her and her ladies in the outer rooms of her apartments. Madge was in charge of procuring music and selecting the dances for the occasion while Lady Jane Seymour and Lady Rochford, wife of George Boleyn, made the rooms beautiful with bouquets of colorful leaves and late-blooming flowers. Madge had met Lady Rochford only once and found her arrogant and aloof. It was said that she and her husband were often at odds. Madge could see why this might be so—her cousin, George, was full of life, loving to play at cards and to carouse the streets of London. But Jane Parker, his wife, had a dour expression and listless eyes. She and Mistress Seymour made a hapless pair—sad, gray turtledoves sitting fatly on the branch while the queen, a bright cardinal, twittered and chattered with great liveliness.

Madge discussed dances and songs with Master Smeaton. They had devised an order of song that would tell the story of the king and his lady love, something they hoped would please both king and queen.

“Your ideas are clever, Lady Margaret. I did not know you had such a head upon your pretty shoulders,” said Master Smeaton.

“’Tis easy when I work with you, sir. Your own knowledge of music and the dance are considerable,” said Madge. She smiled up at him and felt the warmth of his brown, brown eyes. “Tell me, sir—have you a mistress here at court?”

“Nay, I am the son of a sheepherder and only my talent keeps me here. I first came to the Royal Children’s Choir as a small boy. Because I could sing and learned to play the instruments with great speed, the choirmaster recommended me to His Majesty and here I have been since,” said Master Smeaton.

“Is life here to your liking then?” said Madge.

“Oh lady, there is no place on earth I would rather be. I love to sing for the king! I love the food and the pretty people, the rich tapestries, the gold plate as it glitters—all these things have I grown to cherish. The king himself has given me fine clothes and he gave me this,” said Master Smeaton as he held up his hand to show a small garnet ring. He kissed the stone and looked lovingly at the king. “’Tis my most prized possession.”

“I am glad you have found a home here, Mark. Many would not find such a welcome,” said Madge.

“I have no property, no rank, no gold—nothing but the king’s delight in my music. There is safety in that. I do not meddle in the intrigues of the court. I only wish to sing and please my king,” said Smeaton.

As the chamber ladies made ready for the evening, the queen’s apartments bustled with activity. Even Jane Seymour’s pasty cheeks took on a peachy tone as she arranged and rearranged the table settings and centerpieces. Madge made certain the rushes were fresh and the center of the floor clear of tables so if the queen and king wished to dance, they would have room to do so. Finally, all was in readiness, and Their Royal Majesties entered from the queen’s privy chamber.

Madge curtsied low and watched as silk slippers with golden embroidery passed on the floor in front of her. She noticed the king’s feet were twice the size of his wife’s. To her dismay, they stopped in front of her. She kept her lowly position.

“Dear cousin, arise,” said the queen as she took Madge’s hand to help her stand.

“Your Majesty is lovely this eve,” stuttered Madge, aware of the king’s presence just a few inches away.

“Aye, that she is, Mistress Madge. We shall have a new prince soon, God willing,” laughed the king, his eyes never leaving his wife’s face. His face was flushed with wine and desire. Madge felt her own heart beat faster. He filled her with fear and awe.

“God willing, my love—yet you must be patient a little longer! I am still unchurched!” said the queen, a strange smile on her lips.

“Vixen,” whispered the king and Anne turned to him, grabbed his meaty hand, and kissed it, giving it a lick with the tip of her tongue as she lowered her great eyes, then raised them to his. Madge could hear the intake of his breath.

The royal couple continued down the row of maids and groomsmen, greeting each warmly. At the very end of the line, closest to the door, Madge heard the queen welcome Master Arthur Brandon. Madge could not believe her ears—she could not imagine how Sir Churlish could have wormed his way into this private affair. Before she could ponder on it, however, she felt a rough hand on her elbow, guiding her to the corner of the room where few people were congregating.

“Milady Margaret, your hair is a shimmering halo—the modest covering of an angel. Will you join me in a game of trump?” Sir Henry Norris held onto her arm so firmly she had no choice but to accompany him. He reeked of something sour, yet sweet, a heavy scent that almost made Madge ill. She stopped in front of a small gaming table and turned away from him, looking at the ladies and gentlemen milling around the chambers. Master Smeaton was tuning his lute while servants brought in sweetmeats to tempt the appetite.

“I play not well, milord. Another would give you better sport,” said Madge, still not looking at him.

“Nay, nay, lass—you will do quite nicely. Come. Sit,” he said as he pulled out her chair and almost shoved her into it.

Madge tried to sit gracefully but the force of his arm caused her to teeter for a moment. Finally, the chair settled firmly on the floor. Madge watched as Sir Norris took the seat opposite from her and began to shuffle the large cards.

“You will note, mistress, I am quite adept with the cards. You should be on your guard,” he said, his thin lips pressed in a smile.

“I am always on my guard with you, sire. And with every man at court,” said Madge, trying to keep her voice pleasant, though this man, above all save the king, made her uneasy.

“Ah, you cousins—such
virtuous
women,” said Norris. His voice oiled its way into her ears and she felt somehow violated.

“My queen instructs all her ladies to have a care of their chastity, for to lose such is to add insult to Her Majesty, who wishes to have good ladies at her court,” said Madge, looking at the cards in her hand. She could hear the strumming of the lute and she knew Master Smeaton would begin to sing anon.

The room grew quiet, all in readiness for the music. No one spoke except Sir Norris, who continued, despite evil looks from the others.

“Virtue is overvalued, mistress. If you would be my lady, and I had your virtue, I would make you my own—shower you with jewels and other meaty tidbits,” he whispered loudly. At this, Madge rose abruptly and joined Lady Rochford and Lady Seymour on the outer edges of the group surrounding Master Smeaton. Soon, his strong sweet voice took her away from the castle, back, back to the open fields of the north country. She closed her eyes. Her breathing loosened and she could feel the tightness around her throat release a little. When the song was finished, Madge opened her eyes.