Page 62 of The Queen’s Witch

“What is it?” Anne demanded, just as the first pain struck. “No! No!” She knew; she had miscarried once before.

Emma, pale as skimmed milk, kept her head. “Elyn, go to the queen’s privy kitchen—walk, do not run, do not look as if anything is wrong—and fetch Nan Cobham. She will be sleeping in a chamber off the kitchen passage.”

Nan Cobham, a woman who came and went often enough to be accepted as part of Anne’s household, was nonetheless a mysterious figure. Rumor said she was a destitute nun that Anne had taken on from charity, or a distant feeble-witted relative, or even a witch. I knew now that she must be a midwife.

By the time I returned with Mistress Cobham, Emma had Anne in bed upon a lying sheet, a cloth to bite between her teeth, water heating on the hearth. Emma had not removed from the carved wooden chest any of the swaddling bands or tiny caps that Anne had embroidered with such care. This baby was not yet four months along. If Nan Cobham could not stop the child from coming, it would not live.

She did what she could as Anne’s pains increased. Emma assisted, her face terrified for both baby and mother. I did what I could, silently weaving cunning-woman spells to stop labor, to ease pain. None of them had any effect. I was not Mother Redcap, saving infants and their mothers at Blickling Hall.

And not even a thrice-braided Sister holds power over a death bent on happening.

The sun had not yet risen when Anne gave a cry that could not be stifled by the cloth between her teeth. In a great gush of blood, the stillborn child spilled out of her. A girl.

The tiny creature was wrapped in a white cloth. Anne wept. Emma attempted to soothe her. Nan Cobham was sent away, her role to remain unknown. And I was sent to fetch a page, who would fetch the marshal of the queen’s household, who would fetch Anne’s confessor, who would fetch whatever officials were needed to witness the stillborn child, who would, finally, fetch the king.

“He must come to me again!” Anne cried, the last thing I heard as I left that bedchamber of blood and grief.

No public announcement was made of Anne’s miscarriage. No funeral bells tolled for the poor, small creature who had taken not even one breath. The court knew, of course. And what the court servants knew, soon all of London knew. But the end of the pregnancy was kept as quiet as possible, lest people say that it was retribution from God for the death of Bishop Fisher.

They said it anyway, but everyone at the palace pretended, at least publicly, that the pregnancy had never been. They were all so good at pretending, save Emma, Lady Lee, and the king. Emma always favored hard truths. Lady Lee sought to comfort Anne, who would take no comfort. And Henry seemed to tire of pretense. He did not visit the queen’s apartments to console her. He did not visit at all.

Anne recovered quickly in body. She returned to walking with her ladies in the gardens, calling for music, dancing, and gaming.

On a night in July, after a dinner so lavish and varied that it lasted hours, the court moved to the great chamber. Immediately the musicians, Mark among them, began to play. Evidently there was not to be dancing tonight; small tables had been set for cards and dice. The king seated himself and motioned for three of his gentlemen to join him.

Anne hesitated a moment, then stood by the table to watch the play. Others joined her. She called for a goblet of wine, and I crouched beside her to taste it.

The dicing game had rules I did not know. The king seemed to be winning: Happenchance, or were the courtiers deliberately losing? Was it possible to purposely lose at dice? Another thing I did not know.

Each time the king won, murmurs of approval and subdued cheers came from the watchers. Subdued because Henry did not seem to take pleasure in his winnings. His fleshy lips stayed set in a straight line, and the brows above his small blue eyes drew down in displeasure. He kept his gaze on the table until a courtier approached and cleared his throat.

Henry looked up.

“Your Majesty, it is done. A quick, clean stroke.”

“What speech did he give?”

“As you wished, he was ordered to be brief. He said only”—the man hesitated, then plunged on—“‘I die the king’s good servant, and God’s first.’”

Thomas More. Five days ago More, once King Henry’s close friend and trusted adviser, had refused a final persuasion to swear to the Oath of Supremacy. He was convicted of treason. Now he was dead.

Henry threw down the dice and rose so abruptly that his chair fell backward. He turned on Anne. “It is because of you the honestest man in my kingdom is dead!”

He stalked from the room amid hasty bows and curtsies, ladies and courtiers dropping like so many scythed weeds.

Plague came to London, and the court moved to Windsor Castle. Preparations began for the start of the yearly Progress, which this year would leave from Windsor and travel west nearly as far as the Welsh border. Anne was to travel with the king. Emma and a few of Anne’s ladies would accompany her.

“You will remain here,” Anne told me. “His Majesty does not wish you to be with me. He will not insult our hosts by implying that any of them would poison a guest. And we can trust all who travel with us.”

“But, Your Grace—”

“Enough! You will wait here at Windsor for my return!”

I curtsied. Their return would not be for months. The harvest would again be poor from bad weather, and again Henry’s subjects would blame Anne for the rains and cold. She might well be in danger. And I would lose months where I might persuade her to thrice braid as my Third, circumstances desperate enough as they were.

Then she spoke again, and hope lifted me like airy wings. “If on my return I should decide to accept this ritual of yours, what would be needed?”

“A . . . an officiant. Someone qualified to conduct the ritual.”