Author's Note: I got really depressed while writing an historic fiction about Anne Boleyn that doesn't break with history, to any great extent, (meaning she will suffer her historic fate). So, I cast around for ideas to cheer myself up, and decided to try my hand at Alternate Universe, again (I had so much fun with my other AU story). I am extremely nervous about this fic, so constructive criticism is most welcome, if you care to do so. Thank you, and I hope people enjoy this.
Chapter One: She Delivered Her Saviour.
Princess Elizabeth glares at the chair leg with a fierce intensity that is so reminiscent of her father, King Henry, that Queen Anne can't help but laugh. The little Princess was impervious to her surrounding carers, however, and continued to glare at the chair leg, as though she were about to ask it to step outside, and settle their dispute like real men. She reaches out with one little hand, and grips the offending furniture, making her pudgy knuckles whiten, and hauls herself off her bottom and up on to her feet. Queen Anne, and her attendants fall silent. As one, they all lean forwards in unison, with a silent question poised on all their mute lips. 'Will she?' They all ponder. 'Will she take her first steps?'. Silently, each woman in the room urges the Princess onwards, none more so than Queen Anne herself, who's hands are clasped tight, her breath stuck in her throat.
Elizabeth, her face as red as her hair, now, wobbles as she lets go of her support. Madge Shelton, quick on the uptake, rushes over to the infant Princess with her arms out stretched, to catch her should she take a tumble. But, even by the time Madge closes the gap between herself and the child, she can see her assistance is quite unnecessary. With legs of jelly, Elizabeth takes her first, wobbling steps across the rushes that line her mother's Privy Chamber floor. Anne gasps as her heart bursts with pride and the whole room breaks into rapturous applause as the Princess swiftly finds her feet, toddling across the flagstones. Anne slides cautiously from her chair, careful to mind her bump, and gets down on her knees to be level with her daughter.
"Elizabeth!" Her voice rings across the chamber, and the little girl suddenly stops, her bright, blue eyes dart about the chamber, searching for the source of the noise. "Elizabeth, come to Mama sweeting!"
Anne claps her hands together, trying to give the toddler a clue, and throws her arms wide open again. As Elizabeth totters around to face her mother, her little face lights up in a beam. In a sudden surge of excitement, she starts to rush, and loosing her delicate footing, she topples onto the cold, hard flagstones.
"Bessie!" Anne gasps, and her mother's protective instincts kick in immediately as Elizabeth's shrill cries fill the air.
Anne, weighted down by her swollen stomach, pulls herself up as swiftly as she can to rush to the aid of her fallen child. But, as she goes to move forward, the blood rushes to her head, feeling faint she swoons, and trips. Instinctively, she throws her hands out in front of her to catch her fall, but she still hits the ground with a sickening thump, and a guttural grunt.
"Your Majesty!" The women cry out as they rush to her side, and start levering her back up.
Anne groans as a pain twists its' way up her belly, clawing at her insides and snatches the breath from her body.
"I can't breathe!" She gasps, clawing at her belly. Someone, she thinks it is Nan Saville, rushes from the Chamber, calling for the Physician at the top of her lungs.
Anne's eyes widen in wild desperation as she doubles over with the pain. A great wave of nausea washes over her as she grapples at her voluminous kritles, reaching between her legs, fully expecting to feel the hot, fresh blood tipping from within herself. She is dry, and she finally sighs deeply with relief. As she is finally lowered into a more comfortable seat, the nausea returns with a vengeance, and she gags and wretches. Acrid vomit hits the flagstones, splashing over Madge's skirt hems, and shoes.
"Good lord, Madge, I am so sorry," She pants, wiping her mouth unceremoniously with the back of her hand. The pain subsides along with the nausea, leaving her fatigued, but exceptionally relieved. Madge waves her apologies away as she lifts the Queen's legs to lie her flat on the chaise lounge.
"Majesty, drink this," Madge pushes a goblet of strong wine into the Queen's hands. "It will calm your nerves, and help preserve the baby."
Henry's profile is illuminated by the flickering flames of the fire that burns in the Queen's bedchamber. He stands, silent and ominous, as the physician fusses over Queen Anne; bombarding her with questions, when all she wants is to be allowed to go back to sleep. Henry casts the odd nervous glance over his shoulder, trying to catch what's being said between his doctor, and his heavily pregnant Queen. Giving up, he rubs at the dull ache that pulsates between his eyes, and swallows down the irritation that swells up in the pit of his belly.
After what seems like an eternity, the Physician finally emerges, the man wears his relief on his face. He makes a low, sweeping bow to the King, and wrings his hands with glee.
"The heartbeat is strong, your majesty," He simpers up at Henry. "Provided the Queen takes plenty of rest, and takes no more excitements, or exertions, all should be well."
Without so much as a word of thanks, Henry waves the man away with a twirl of his hand. He stands, still silent, now with his back to the fire, so that Anne can only make out his slender outline. As the door clicks shut behind the physician, Henry paces forwards in slow, measured steps.
"How could you have been so foolish?" He asks, his voice icily calm, and looking down at Anne's prone body, stretched out on the bed.
"Don't you think I feel bad enough, already?" Anne retorts as tears of guilt spring into her eyes. She levers herself up in the bed, to see him the better. "My Lord, I can only apologise. I can't undo it."
Henry sighs as his arms fall limp at his sides. "Move up," He states baldly as he lays himself beside her on the bed. "Forgive me, darling. I was just so scared for the baby, and for you."
Relieved, Anne shuffles over to lay her face against his broad chest. Another argument, skilfully dodged. After having already suffered one miscarriage, another would have been disastrous. Henry would be justified in his anger at her having jeopardised this baby.
"I'm so sorry," She breathes the words into his chest, feeling the reassuring hammer of his heartbeat against her flushed cheek. Just as the rhythmic thud is lulling her to sleep, his voice jolts her back to consciousness.
"There's something I want you to do for me?"
"Anything, my love," She replies sleepily.
"I want you to go straight into your confinement. I know it's early, but it would be safer for the baby, and for you."
Confinement. An exclusively female world in which expectant mothers are shut away in a world of cloying, but benevolent, dictatorship. The windows are blocked, shutting out the sunlight. Tapestries of fluffy, mindless animals are hung around the walls, to give the babe something nice to look at as it slides it's way into the world, and takes it's first glance around. It is a brainless world where even certain topics of conversation are forbidden to the expectant mother. To compound it all, no matter what the weather, a blazing fire will burn morning, noon, and night. Nice in the winter, but oppressive, and stinking in the summer. It is insufferable, but, it is also necessary. And, she did say that she would do anything for him.
"Of course, Henry. First thing tomorrow," Anne skilfully masks the resentful sullenness from her voice, and consoles herself in the depths of her body's promise of sleep.
Confinement turns out to be every bit as dull as Anne remembers it to be. She lies flat on her back, her view mostly blocked by the vast, swollen expanse of her belly, and swelters in the heat of the fire. But, it starts earlier than expected. She awoke in the early hours of the morning, or so she thought, but it was impossible to tell when the windows were permanently blocked. The twisted sheets that were snaked about her legs were wet through, and it was more than simple sweat. Her waters had broken.
No sooner does the realisation hit her, than does the gripping, searing pains of labour begin. Her scream brings out the whole room. Ladies burst into life, from where they were dozing on little pallet beds. Water is fetched, cloths are torn into strips, and Anne writhes in agony, her body contorted with the pulsing of her contractions. She feels like her belly is ripping itself in two, like there's an earthquake happening right inside her, and she will simply cave in on herself.
"Breath Your Majesty," A familiar voice soothes in her ear. Mary, her sister, newly reported for duty appears at her side, and Anne's new world of pain is punctuated with a ray of relief.
"Oh! Mary!" She gasps.
Mary, a mother of two herself, hoists Anne's knees up, positioning her for optimum birthing comfort, if comfort is the word for such an occasion. Meanwhile, Nan dabs at her inflamed brow with cool water, a blessed relief in the intense heat that hangs over the whole chamber like a foetid cloud.
Anne gathers herself. She stores up her energy, drawing strength from the waves of contractions that grip her body, and begins to violently bear down on herself. Pushing with all her might. Pushing like she was trying to force a breeze block through a needle's eye.
Despite the pain, soon she cannot even scream. Within hours of the labour beginning, she is simply too exhausted. She wants to let go, to slide into a deep, dark oblivion. But every time she feels her grip on reality loosen, another great tidal wave of pain will wash right over her, dragging her kicking and screaming back into the real world.
Mary, sensing her sister's distress, and therefore danger, leaps up on to the bed, and gets behind Anne.
"Push, Anne!" She calls out loudly. "Push!"
Anne doesn't need to be asked twice. She hunches up, and bears down once more, pushing with all her might, and finally, a shrill, wavering scream bursts out of her. Nan discreetly peers between the Queen's bloodied thighs.
"It's crowning, Your Majesty!" She cries, her eyes wide with elation.
"Come on Anne," Mary urges. "Keep it coming, Anne. Come on, push!"
"God's death, Mary!" Anne screams out as she pushes down again. "I'm doing the best I can!"
Another contraction, and Mary grips Anne's hand. Anne digs her nails deep into Mary's flesh, causing her to wince as the contraction builds. But, unlike the others, this doesn't subside. It seems to build, and build until Anne feels she shall surely die. She wants to call for a priest, to have her last rites read to her. But suddenly, in a great rush, something large, and wet slithers from between her thighs, and water, mixed with blood and fluids, rush down her legs in a torrent. Then, relief. No pain. No pushing. Just sweet, blessed relief the likes of which only newly delivered mother's would understand.
The moment seems to draw itself out as the midwives bustle with the baby. Cords are cut, and the babe is washed, and held high in the air for Queen Anne to see, as a thin, piercing cry like the mewling of a cat fills the room. Her baby has drawn it's first breath, and is crying. It is alive, and healthy.
"A boy!" Anne gasps, tears choking all other words that rush to her lips. Tears of joy, relief, love and happiness cascade down her cheeks. "A boy!"
All around her, the Ladies gush their congratulations. They pet her, and rub her back. Mary kisses and nuzzles her. But all Anne can see is her baby boy. He is the only thing that exists as she reaches out, and cradles him close to her heart. His pink, scrubbed face is just visible beneath the swaddling blankets.