The Tudor Bride (20 page)

I looked at Mistress Scorer, who shrugged and moved her hands slowly apart to indicate a considerable interval of time. Fortunately Catherine could not see her, but I knew anyway that her real trial had barely begun and I prevaricated. ‘In a few hours, Mademoiselle, when your babe is in your arms, you will not remember how long it took to arrive.’

Catherine scowled at me and shook her head. ‘Not “it”, Mette, “he”,’ she said. ‘How long he took to arrive.’

As if calling it male could change its sex at this late stage, I thought, but I said, ‘Of course,’ crossing my fingers as I went to the door. ‘I will fetch that drink.’

With the shutters closed, we lost all track of time and in due course Catherine lost all awareness of how long her body had been wracked by the progressively more violent contractions of her womb. Whereas at first she had made little sound, eventually she began to cry out with each new onslaught and then, clutching at my hands and staring at me with wide, agonised eyes, she began to beg for it to be over. Time and again I wiped her sweat-beaded brow and whispered soothing words into her ear, resolutely quashing my own surges of alarm in order to show her only calmness and compassion.

‘All is going well, dear Mademoiselle,’ I crooned again and again. ‘Soon, very soon, it will be over and you will be a mother.’

‘Of a son, Mette, of a son. The mother of a son,’ she repeated through cracked lips, as if simply by saying it over and over again she could make it so. Cracked lips, I thought. Where were all those balms and potions? I raked the room with my eyes, spied Margery whispering in a corner with Eleanor and impatiently beckoned her across. However it seemed the much-vaunted emollients were meant only for the actual delivery, not for the comfort of the poor labouring mother. Making no secret of my irritation at hearing this, I asked Agnes to find some of Catherine’s cosmetic lip lotion in her toilette chest.

We had been informed by this time that Bishop Beaufort had arrived from Winchester and waited in the great hall with the Royal Steward, the Lord Chamberlain and a posse of heralds and couriers who would convey news of the birth to Westminster and on to the king in France. I was interested to note that, unlike the French court which insisted on certain officials actually witnessing a royal birth, the English tradition restricted the birthing chamber to women only, although I had asked Maître Boyers to stay near at hand in the ante room, just in case. I vividly recalled the tragic stillbirth of my own first child and his subsequent burial in unhallowed ground for lack of instant baptism. I knew only too well that there was always a danger in childbirth that either mother or child or both might need the urgent services of a priest.

The midwife kept making secret examinations under the covers and nodding with satisfaction until at last the labour began to show signs of reaching a conclusion. Instead of moaning and writhing, Catherine seemed to acquire renewed strength, pulling herself up on the pillows and shouting at us in French and there were plenty of people to shout at. Apart from myself, Agnes and the two midwives, the room now contained the Duchess of Hainault and the Dowager Duchess of Clarence, all the ladies-in-waiting and several tiring women, scurrying in and out with fresh logs and pails of warm water.

‘Mother of God! What are you all doing standing around?’ Hoarse though her voice was, the queen conveyed her message unequivocally. ‘A prince strives to be born and you all do nothing but stand and gawp at us like idiots? Jesu protect us. Mette – tell them all to go away. You will help me as you always have, and Agnes, where is Agnes? Ah the pain! Blessed Marie save me, I can take no more.’ Suddenly she hurled the covers back and tried clumsily to scramble off the bed in some desperate attempt to escape the unrelenting spasms. I rushed to catch her in my arms and stop her falling to the floor, holding her fast and rocking her like the only mother she knew and all the while I glared wildly over her shoulder at Bet Scorer who was placidly arranging the tools of her trade on a cloth-covered table nearby; a sharp silver knife, a strip of clean linen and a round silver bowl.

‘Always silver for a royal birth,’ she declared, favouring us with a gap-toothed smile. ‘All is well, your grace, do not fear. It will not be long now. Mothers often shout a good deal just before the babe arrives and sometimes in much worse language than Master Chaucer’s.’ A coarse chuckle bubbled from her lips and she turned to beckon to her assistant who hovered at a respectful distance. ‘Bring those salves of yours now, Margery. It is time to ease the baby’s way.’

Catherine suddenly caught a glimpse of the knife and screamed afresh. ‘No! Dear God no! Blessed St Margaret save me from the knife! Mette, do not let them cut me!’

Margery approached the bed and punctiliously dropped a curtsy. ‘The knife is to cut the cord, your grace. Have no fear, Mistress Scorer is very skilled. She will not touch you or the baby with it.’ She showed the queen the earthenware bowl of fragrant balm she held carefully in both hands. ‘And this will make it easier for the child to push his way out. He will slip into the world like an eel through a pipe. He is ready to come now and you must use all your strength to help him on his way. Rejoice, my lady, for you are about to give birth to England’s next king.’

Whether it was the confident way she assumed that the child would be male, the invigorating aroma of the pale-green balm she waved enticingly under Catherine’s nose, or the calm, reassuring tone of her lilting country voice, Margery’s words seemed to settle Catherine’s panic so that she relaxed against me and allowed me to place her gently back against the pillows which Agnes hastily plumped into a heap.

‘Where are the witnesses?’ Mistress Scorer enquired, turning to gaze around the now-empty room. ‘Do we not need official witnesses at a royal birth?’

Agnes and I exchanged glances as we stripped back the heavy covers of the bed to allow the midwife freedom to perform the delivery. ‘She is right,’ whispered Agnes, dumping a heavy quilt on the floor. ‘The royal ladies have retired at the queen’s bidding, but they should be here; should I fetch them back?’

I nodded, turning away from the bed where Catherine had reluctantly settled back against the pillows, cooler now that only a fresh linen sheet covered the mound of her belly. ‘Yes, fetch them,’ I whispered, ‘and warn Maître Boyers. Her confessor should be near at hand, just in case.’

I need not have whispered, for by now Catherine had retreated into a world where only she and the midwives and the new life within her held any significance. Bet Scorer lifted the lower end of the sheet and Margery began applying her salve, all the while holding a muttered conversation, the gist of which I caught as I stood behind them, soaking another pad to wipe Catherine’s brow.

‘I can see the head, Mistress, but there seems to be something shiny all around it, like a halo,’ Margery was saying, bent over Catherine with a note of awe in her hushed voice. ‘Jesu, what can it be?’

Bet Scorer peered over her shoulder and made the sign of the cross. ‘It is the Veil!’ she murmured breathlessly. ‘I thought it possible since the waters had not broken. The babe will be born behind the Veil. It is the sign of a very special birth. I have seen it only once before.’

I was greatly relieved to see that Catherine appeared oblivious to the midwife’s words.

‘The old saying goes that a child born with the birth-caul still intact is blessed with spiritual gifts; a healer or a mystic, but priests say it is the work of the devil so we will say nothing of it, Margery, do you understand?’ She too cast a glance at Catherine, whose face was congested with the effort of the next big push. Even so, the midwife’s next hasty instructions to her assistant were issued in the same cautious whisper. ‘When the head emerges fully, I will break through the caul to let the child breathe and, God willing, there will be no harm done. Do not show the babe to anyone until you have completely removed it. This is just a normal birth, remember that.’

Margery nodded. ‘I will remember, but I will also never forget, for the child’s face seen through the Veil is a truly wondrous sight.’ She left the end of the bed then and moved up to speak to Catherine, leaning close to speak in the same low, persuasive tone she had used earlier. ‘You can work as hard as you like now, your grace. All is well and in moments your son will be born.’

Catching sight of me, Mistress Scorer beckoned me closer and said softly, ‘Have plenty of that linen waste ready, Madame. The waters are about to break and there will be a flood.’

While I stood ready but alarmed, hands full of the absorbent linen, I stared at the translucent caul which covered the emerging baby’s face. I could see why it was called a Veil, for it bore an eerie resemblance to the fine gauze used in ladies’ headdresses. In the flickering candlelight the gently moving liquid-filled bubble glowed around the crown of the baby’s head and looked, as Margery had said, wondrously like a halo. ‘It is a miracle,’ I breathed. ‘Like an angel being born.’

The midwife smiled grimly. ‘Indeed,’ she nodded. ‘But if you value your life you will keep your mouth shut about it – for ever.’ She spoke in a low, conversational tone, but her words chilled my blood. ‘We must be very careful now, Madame. As I break the caul, you must place those soft pads on either side of the mouth to prevent the fluid rushing down the baby’s throat when it breathes. Pray that the first breath will come quickly and cleanly. Above all, we do not want the child to choke.’

I did as she told me, whispering an earnest prayer to St Margaret and the midwife gently stroked the liquid under the caul away from the baby’s mouth and broke through the delicate mucus skin with her fingernail. Fluid gushed out and I hastily wiped it clear of the babe’s small mouth with the absorbent linen. As the translucent caul slipped back, the baby took its first gasp, only a few tiny bubbles of fluid frothing around its lips.

‘God be thanked,’ I murmured. At Margery’s urging, Catherine made one final effort and the rest of the child’s body slipped into my waiting hands. Bet swiftly tied the cord and sliced cleanly through it with her silver knife, then Margery was beside me with a big, soft napkin and we carried the little body reverently and laid it carefully on the midwife’s table, ready to wipe the rest of the mucus clear. Freed of the caul, the skin glowed pink and smooth against the snowy white linen, unblemished by the usual marks of childbirth, and the baby uttered small, healthy whimpers.

‘A boy, your grace,’ I said with difficulty but Catherine did not hear me.

‘Is it a boy, Mette?’ she called fretfully from her pillows, her voice hoarse from her enormous effort as Bet drew the sheet down to cover her while they waited for the afterbirth.

‘God is good,’ breathed Agnes, who had been waiting at the table, unaware of our recent agitation. She made the sign of the cross. ‘Beautiful!’

This answered the queen. ‘But I know it is a boy,’ she said joyously. ‘Show them, Mette! Show everyone the new Heir of England!’

Solemnly I carried the baby across the room and watched the Duchess of Hainault, pale and wide-eyed, take one long look at the naked infant and nod acknowledgement of her witness before turning into Eleanor Cobham’s arms and fainting clean away. The Dowager Duchess of Clarence, herself the mother of six, was more circumspect in her reaction; bowing her head in acknowledgement she crossed herself and smiled.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Bet swiftly scoop the birth remains into the silver bowl, which she covered with a cloth. Later, I found the bowl empty. I know now that I should have wondered why it was empty and should have enquired where the caul and the afterbirth had gone, but at the time Bet and Margery took charge of washing and wrapping the baby while I sponged Catherine clean and found her a fresh chemise to wear. When she was once more lying back against the pillows, I took the baby to her. The room settled into a hushed silence and I felt a surge of love and relief as I laid the precious bundle in her arms, my face wreathed in smiles.

‘It is a male child, your grace, just as you prayed for and predicted. May God and His Holy Mother be praised. Here is your perfect prince.’

I
thought that the closeness I had enjoyed with Catherine during her delivery might have reminded her how much history we shared and reinforced the importance of our ties of love and loyalty. However, as soon as she was recovered from the physical strain of giving birth and had enjoyed a good night’s sleep, she immediately asked for the Duchess of Hainault and, within minutes, Jacqueline was back at Catherine’s bedside, passing on all the praise and acclamation of the court. Before she arrived, Catherine suggested in a tone that brooked no argument that I should go and get some rest, thus ensuring that I was not present during the duchess’s visit. Agnes told me later that Eleanor also frequented the bedchamber as the bearer of a constant stream of tonic drinks and herbal restoratives which she had been busy preparing with the duchess’s encouragement and the help of the midwife’s assistant, Margery Jourdemayne. I was not called to the bedchamber again until the following morning. Catherine floated on a cloud of elation and approbation, but I felt a terrible sense of anticlimax, berating myself for remaining loyally at the queen’s side until her first child should be born, when I could have been in Paris assisting my own daughter as she prepared for the birth of her second.

The lowest point came two days after the birth when I prepared the baby for his baptism. From the vaults of the Treasury I had acquired the royal christening robe, a tiny and exquisite gown of the finest white silk embroidered with swans and antelopes and other emblems of Lancastrian heraldry. It had been worn by King Henry and all his brothers and there was a new white silk chrism cap to cover the head of the baby once he had been anointed with the holy oil. Catherine had embroidered the cap herself with pearl beads and little crowns and it would be given to the Church a few days after the christening ceremony in gratitude for the little boy’s purification. Although he had not yet been given a name, it was generally accepted that he would be called Henry after his father and grandfather. Of course Catherine would not be attending the baptism because she would not be churched and purified herself until a month after the delivery so, as the nominated godmother, the Duchess of Hainault would carry the child to the castle chapel at the head of a procession which would, by tradition, include the midwives and ladies who had officiated or been present at the birth. I naturally expected to be part of it.