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She pulled back the rich covers of the bed and slid to the ground. Livia saw how her belly was standing out taut under the nightgown.
“My back aches,” Mary Beatrice said.
“Then lie down, lie down, I will rub it…”
“I can’t settle,” she said and took a few steps to the fireplace. “Get someone to make the fire up,” she said. “And open the window. It’s so fusty in here.”
“I’ll get someone to bring firewood,” Livia said. She went quickly from the room to her own apartments. Her page boy was there. She gave him a note for Dr. Reekie and told him not to wait for a reply. There would be no reply. Then she hurried back to the royal bedchamber.
The queen was prowling around the room. But suddenly, she stopped, put a hand on her belly, and cried out.
“Was that a pain?”
“Lord! Yes. A great pain.”
Livia glanced at the clock, noted the time.
“Is it starting?” the queen asked her.
Livia spread her hands and gave a pretty laugh. “My dear, I’ve only had one child and that so long ago, I can hardly remember. Shall I send for the midwife?”
“Yes, send for her, and I’d like something to eat.”
“Some pastries? Some little cakes?”
She shook her head. “New-baked bread, hot from the oven,” she said. “The kitchens should be baking bread for breakfast, get me some.” She thought for a moment. “And cheeses,” she said. “And some meats.”
“You are hungry?” Livia opened the door and sent the guard running for the maids.
“I am starving!” the queen exclaimed. She prowled about the room for a moment then she suddenly stopped and put a hand to her belly. “Ohhhh,” she gave a great groan. “That was like the world turned.”
Livia looked at the clock: it was less than an hour since the last pain. “I think it may be starting,” she said.
“Send someone to tell the king. The king has to send for the witnesses.”
“And we must dress you.” Livia went to the cupboard and got out the queen’s best nightgown, ruffled with white lace, and an embroidered robe and a fur stole. “And I’ll send for the girl to comb out your hair.”
The women of the bedchamber arrived, and Livia dropped into a curtsey as the king entered.
“Princess Anne is still at Bath,” he fretted.
“She should be here,” Mary Beatrice said, turning to him.
“I know. We all thought you had another month. I pray it’s not coming too early.”
“Amen!” Mary Beatrice crossed herself.
“And the Archbishop of Canterbury? Is he here?” She stopped, and flushed at her mistake.
The Archbishop of Canterbury was in the Tower of London, imprisoned by the king, for refusing to order the king’s speech to be read from every pulpit. Seven bishops were imprisoned with him; the king was openly at war with the church at the very moment that he needed their blessing on his son and heir.
“Oh, I suppose he doesn’t matter,” she said. “As long as our priests are here.”
Father Petre entered the room and stood beside the king, so close that their shoulders brushed. “I have notified the rest of the Privy Council,” he whispered. “Are we not too early?”
“Hold my hand,” Mary Beatrice demanded, as James stepped awkwardly closer to the bed. “Hold me in your arms.”
“You keep back,” Livia hissed to Father Petre. “You know what they’re saying about you.”
