The Lady in the Tower (50 page)

Heavy and elaborate drapes were drawn across the windows to shut out all light; they gave the room, in spite of its luxurious fittings, a somewhat somber look.

When I arrived at Greenwich, I was taken by a large company of courtiers including my ladies to my chamber where I took communion. Then I was conducted to my lying-in chamber. It was all very ceremonial, for everything must be done in accordance with tradition.

Notices had already been prepared announcing the birth of a Prince. This might seem premature but the soothsayers and prophets had, almost without exception, proclaimed that the child would be a boy. There was
only one man who had dared say it would be a girl, and he was so unpopular and had incurred the King's wrath to such a degree that no one else dared mention that disastrous possibility.

The King had come to see me just before I went to Greenwich. There had been a certain restraint between us and if I had expected some humility from him I was disappointed. He had made his point. He would act as he wished, and it was my duty to remember that he was the King and all my honors had come through him.

He kissed me coolly on the cheek and said: “You must not excite yourself. You must remember the child.”

“I think of nothing else,” I replied.

“Then that is well. I have been considering his name. It shall be Henry…Henry IX. That sounds well to me… but that is in the future… far in the future. He has to grow up first. Or Edward. That is a King's name. I have not yet decided.”

I had expected him to ask my opinion, but he did not do so, and this was a further indication of the changing relationship between us.

But at this time I could think only of my journey to Greenwich and what awaited me there.

There I lay in that darkened chamber. My pains had begun. It was a long labor but during the exquisite agony of childbirth my spirits were upheld by what this child would mean to me. Nothing could alter the fact that I should be the mother of the King. Henry's infidelities would be hard to bear, but I should be safe… secure; and once I had my son I would make sure that I regained my ascendancy over him.

At last I heard the child's cry. My baby was born.

I lay back exhausted. It was over. I had attained the very peak of my desire. I was drifting off into an exhausted sleep.

I opened my eyes. A woman was standing by my bed. It was the midwife.

“The child …” I said.

“Your Grace, the child is strong and lusty.”

“Oh, praise be to God. I want to see him.”

“Your Grace has given birth to a fair lady.”

“No,” I cried. “It must be a boy.

“A beautiful child,” went on the midwife. “A strong and healthy little girl.”

“No, no,” I cried. “No, no, no.”

“I will bring her to you. She is a little love.”

I shook my head. I could not bear it. A girl! Katharine had had a girl and much trouble she was causing.

“It's a mistake,” I said.

The midwife was silent.

I lay there. But the prophets… the soothsayers… they had merely said what the King wanted them to say. They had dared say no other. I had failed. Already he was tired of me. And all I had done, after all the trouble, was to produce a girl. Katharine had done that before me.

I felt the tears on my cheeks.

Henry came into the apartment.

What was he feeling? What would he do now? Would he upbraid me for failing? I was too tired to fight.

He looked at me.

“A girl,” he said, with some contempt.

I did not answer. I just lay there with the tears running down my face.

Then I looked at him, so big, so glittering, so powerful. “I have failed you,” I said. “I believed I could give you a son. God is against me. Everyone is against me. I am hated and reviled. There is no one to care for me. It would have been better if I had died in the ordeal.”

There was a strong streak of sentiment in Henry. He had never before seen me like this… humble, broken and desperately unhappy.

He came closer and took me in his arms.

He said gently: “This is a blow to us both. They had promised me a son. But be of good cheer. There is time, Anne. We'll get our son yet. The child is strong and healthy, and God has shown us that we can get healthy children. He does this to test us. He will give me a son, I know.”

I said again: “I have failed. I was so sure that I could please you.”

“How now,” he said. “All is well between us two.”

I said: “No …no more…”

There were tears in his eyes. They were glazed with memories.

“All shall be well,” he said. “I would rather beg from door to door than forsake you.”

This was balm to me.

My spirits recovered. It was only a setback. Heaven knew we had had those in plenty.

I felt my spirits rising. I, who had overcome so much, would overcome this.

As soon as he had gone, I ordered that the child be brought to me. When I held her in my arms I loved her, and in my heart I wanted her no different from what she was. She was perfect.

I said to the ladies who crowded around my bed marveling at the perfections of my daughter: “They may now with reason call this room the Chamber of Virgins, for a virgin is now born in it on the vigil of that auspicious day on which the Church commemorates the nativity of the Holy Virgin.”

I was happy. It was true my moods had always changed quickly, but this was a complete reversal—from despair to great happiness.

Henry had declared his continuing love for me; and I had the most adorable daughter.

Life was good again.

The disappointment was forgotten. Preparations for the child's christening were going ahead. The notices which were being sent out had to be altered by adding “ss” to the word “Prince.”

This ceremony was to take place on the tenth of the month—four days after the birth.

It was wonderful to hear of all the splendor which was being made ready to honor my daughter—exactly the same which would have heralded the arrival of a son.

She was to be named Elizabeth, which seemed appropriate because it was the name of both my mother and Henry's. She was to be christened at Grey Friars Church, which was close to the palace. The church was hung with arras, and sweet-scented herbs were strewn all along the way to it. All the highest in the land were present; and Mary Howard, who was betrothed to the Duke of Richmond, Henry's illegitimate son by Elizabeth Blount, carried the pearl-and-jewel-studded chrisom. The Dowager Duchess of Norfolk carried the baby, and over them was a canopy held by my brother George, two of the Howards and another recently ennobled member of our family, Lord Hussey.

I wished that I could have been there. I wished I could have seen the Bishop of London performing the ceremony with all the rites of the Church of Rome. Cranmer was her godfather, and the Duchess of Nor-folk and the Marchioness of Dorset her godmothers. I should have been so proud to hear Garter-king-at-arms crying out: “God, of his infinite wisdom send a prosperous life and long to the high and mighty Princess Elizabeth.”

The procession from the church to the palace was lighted by five hundred torches, but around my baby walked gentlemen carrying flambeaux, and thus they came to my chamber.

I held out my arms to receive my little one, that high and mighty Princess Elizabeth.

And I rejoiced in her. I could not have cared more for a son.

I wanted to keep her with me to be a mother to her, and for a few days I did so. I loved her more every day. She was a beautiful child—perfect in every way. The ladies said that, in truth, they had never seen a more lovely girl.

Henry regarded her with interest, in which there was only just a faint resentment because she was not a boy; even he was not immune to her charms, and I could see that he was beginning to be fond of her.

He had changed since that occasion when he had made it clear to me that his feelings for me had altered. I heard no more of the woman he had been pursuing. It had been whispered that she was the wife of Nicholas Carew, a very attractive woman, not averse to a little flirtation, and her husband might well not object if he were looking for favors. However, it had blown over and I could tell myself that it was, after all, forgivable. We had suffered a great deal of stress, and I, far gone in pregnancy, had not been a very bright companion. If that were all, I had little of which to complain.

He was now attentive, visiting me often, talking of the future and the brother our delightful daughter would have.

Those who had thought the King's love for me was dead now had to change their views.

He was looking forward to my return to normal life. He had been lonely, he said, without me. It was as near to an excuse as he could bring himself to make for that temporary infidelity, and having suffered a big fright, I did have sense enough to accept it.

I was feeling stronger each day. I had my baby beside me; I had the attention of the King. All was well. The next child would certainly be a boy; and then all would be perfect.

As I lay in bed, I often thought of the injustice done to my sex. Why should not the child sleeping in the cradle be as great a monarch as any man? She could not, of course, lead her armies in war—but wars were folly in any case and rarely brought good to either side; and perhaps if there were more women rulers, then there would be less of that foolishness.

I had attained my ambition to win a crown; now I had something else to work for: my child.

She must be proclaimed Princess of England—a title which had hitherto belonged to the Princess Mary.

I anticipated trouble from that quarter. The girl was devoted to her mother, which was natural, of course; for so long she had thought of herself as heiress to the throne, and no doubt she had been thinking she would be Queen from the time when it seemed unlikely that her mother would have another child. Now she was about to be set aside that another girl might take her place.

At this moment that little baby, the Princess Elizabeth, was heiress to the throne for there was no Salic law in England as in France, and a girl had a chance of reaching the throne unless a boy was born to take it from her. That always filled me with irritation.

I had never realized before that I had strong maternal instincts. How different one becomes when one is a mother! I wanted to be to her all that a mother should. I did not want to hand her over to nurses. She was mine.

In the new confidence inspired by Henry's devotion, I declared I would feed her myself, and I started to do so.

Henry was annoyed. It meant of course that I had Elizabeth in the royal chamber, for she might require attention at any time and I must be at hand to give it. I saw a return of that cold anger which I had glimpsed not so very long ago.

“I never heard the like,” he said. “A Queen to make herself a nursemaid!”

“This is my daughter…
our
daughter.”

“The child shall be with her nurses.”

“But I wish…”

“
I
wish her to go to her nurses.”

“
I
want her with me.”

“You forget your state,” he said. “You have risen too high. You do not understand the ways of royalty.”

“You speak as though I am some kitchen slut.”

“Then pray do not behave like one.”

“Is it sluttish for a mother to love her daughter?”

“It is the duty of the Queen to remember her state.”

I wanted to scream: Very well, you do not want my daughter here. In that case I shall go with her. But I had had one example of his cold anger. Now and then would come to me the memory of those cruel eyes and the
words: “I have raised you up. I could so easily lower you.” And I felt a tremor of fear.

I heard myself say in a quiet voice: “Very well, she must go to her nurses.”

“’ Tis the best place for her,” he said; he came to me and put an arm about my shoulders. I smiled at him, returning his kisses; but my heart was filled with misgivings.

In spite of his refusal to have her in our bedchamber, Henry gave a great deal of attention to Elizabeth's household. He approved as her nurse the wife of a gentleman named Hokart; he said the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk should be her state governess, which gave the old lady a very fine residence and 6,000 crowns a year. This seemed a good choice as I was a connection of the Howards. Another concession to me was the selection of Lady Bryan, whose husband was a kinsman of the Boleyns, to be her governess. I was delighted, for I knew Lady Bryan was a good woman. She had, as a matter of fact, been governess to the Princess Mary, so she was accustomed to the position.

I was very sad though when, at the age of two months, Elizabeth was sent to Hatfield, which was to be her home; with her went those people whom the King had selected.

I had to reconcile myself to her departure and promise myself that, whenever possible, I should be with my child.

In the meantime there was trouble with Mary.

She must now renounce her title that Elizabeth might have it.

She was a pale girl—delicate-looking—so that her boldness was amazing. She was defiant and seemed to care nothing for the wrath of the King.