Have another chapter! Also, it's my birthday tomorrow and reviews would make a lovely early present... *puppy dog eyes*
Chapter XX
Five months down the line, however, Henry was no longer quite as enamoured with the idea of his impending fatherhood. He had always assumed that women blossomed during pregnancy; that they became softer, more generous, as the child swelled within them. But, he discovered to his horror, Anne did not. Indeed, in his eyes, she did the exact opposite. As far as he was concerned, she became a demanding harridan, one he dreaded spending time with and yet could not avoid.
It began with the fact that she refused to sleep alone or in the company of one of her maids. She would insist on his spending the night with her. This, in itself, he would not mind, had she not also insisted on his waiting on her hand and foot at all hours. And then there was the nausea. Countless mornings, Anne would wake retching, and Henry who hated nothing more than inglorious bodily fluids, would have to rub her back and croon soothing nonsense into her hair as she did so.
But on reflection, the morning sickness wasn't the worst of it. For as long as she was suffering that, Henry could at least console himself with the thought that Anne was at least as miserable as he was, if not more so. But once that passed and her demands, rather than lessening, became not only more frequent but also more demeaning, Henry's bitterness increased. It was made all the worse by the fact that Anne, nerves already on the raw, refused to hear even the slightest murmur of discontent. Even a sleepy grumble in the early hours of the morning could send her flying into a passion.
"Henry, fetch me another pillow," Anne groaned, tossing irritably beside him. Sleepily, Henry reached out to pass her the one beside him, but she shoved it away angrily.
"Not one of these! The lace on them scratches and anyway, they're not stuffed properly. Get me one of the ones from the divan over there. They're better padded."
Sighing inwardly, Henry rolled over and sat up, narrowly avoiding a frustrated kick in the process.
"Does your back ache, breila?" he murmured, trying his hardest to sound sympathetic. Not an easy task when it was three in the morning and he'd hardly had a wink of sleep. It seemed to him as if, every time he was close to dropping off, Anne would start awake, calling for something.
Anne didn't dignify his question with a response, only huffed and glared pointedly until he swung himself out of bed and fetched the required article, which was, to all intents and purposes, identical to the one she'd rejected so fiercely not half a minute previously. He bent over her solicitously and arranged it exactly to her liking in the small of her back, which took some time, as she kept writhing and fussing that it wasn't quite right, much like an over-tired child who didn't want to take a nap might. At last she was quiet and Henry straightened up again.
"Are you sure you wouldn't like me to move back to my own rooms, Anne?" he asked tentatively.
Anne's eyes, which had just been drifting shut, snapped open. She looked up at him with a gaze of poison. Poison laced with a healthy dose of suspicion.
"What? And have you miss out on a moment of this? I think not! By the Virgin, you got me into this position, Your Highness. You can damn well help me see it through."
"No, no! I didn't mean I wanted to escape!" Henry hastened to placate her, sliding back on to the bed and taking her into his arms, "You know I live to serve you. I was only thinking of your comfort. You might find it easier to sleep if you had more room to stretch out. If we weren't sharing a bed."
"I want you here."
Anne's tone brooked no argument. She rolled out of his arms, "Since you're awake, get me some of those damsons from the kitchen. The Welsh ones stewed in mustard. I'm hungry."
"Madam…" Henry retreated into formality to hide the way his stomach churned at the mere mention of her current craving, "Is this truly wise? It's so late and Your Grace has eaten precious little else for weeks. Surely a more soothing food might help you sleep better?"
"Are you disobeying me, Lord Southampton?" Anne's voice turned instantly to ice, "I warn you, I am tired of husbands who disobey me."
At her words, Henry blanched and all but ran to do her bidding. This wasn't the first time Anne had likened him to the Prince of Castile. It usually heralded a rage so great that he feared for their child's safety. And that was paramount, for only a girl could secure his family's rise irrevocably.
Anne had shut her eyes again, but her ears were pricked. At the sound of his hurried footsteps, she called after him.
"So, you've learnt to curb your tongue. Good. Go. Your daughter is hungry."
Her voice still held bite, but it was much softer than before and anyway, her words lightened Henry's step. His daughter.
"That's who I'm doing this for. My daughter," he reminded himself. For everything would be worth it once he'd sired a healthy daughter. Every lost minute of sleep; every demeaning errand. It would all be worth it once he held his Princess in his arms. All of it.
"My brother tires of playing the Queen's nursemaid," Mary Plantagenet whispered to Elizabeth Paston as she saw Henry enter Anne's rooms with the step of a man who looked to be going to the gallows rather than the cocksure springing stride he had been using just six short months ago.
Unfortunately for Mary, Susan was sewing not six feet away and her sharp ears caught the whisper.
"What did you just say, Lady Mary? Would you care to repeat that to me?"
Mary flushed, "No, Lady Lincoln," she said hastily, but Susan shot her a stern look, "I think you do. Or should I ask Mistress Paston what you said?"
There was a note of warning in Susan's voice and Henry's youngest sister knew better than to challenge one of the Queen's favourite ladies, even if she was said Queen's sister by marriage.
"I said my brother tires of playing the Queen's nursemaid, Lady Lincoln," she muttered reluctantly, "He thought being Prince Consort would be love and games all day long. He didn't consider the long-term consequences."
Mary didn't hesitate to add this last. Henry might be her favourite sibling, but she wasn't blind to his faults. Not now, not the way she'd been when they were children. She knew his pride was dangerous, even if it was partly deserved. Upsetting the Queen by balking at having to dance attendance upon her when she was in such a delicate condition…Well, that was something Mary was only too happy to distance herself from if she could. Poking fun at her brother and making it clear that she didn't share his feelings was one way to do that.
"I see. And you, Lady Mary? Do you regret the fact that your first year as the Queen's sister is not a merrier one?"
"Oh no, Lady Lincoln," Mary lied glibly, "I understand the importance of securing the Succession. Of course the Queen must take care now that she finds herself with child. The birth of a healthy Princess of Wales is paramount and it is an outcome I pray for daily."
Susan shot Mary a searching glance, but having no true reason to find fault with the girl's words, let the matter be.
"You might try reminding your brother that Her Grace never asked for her first husband during her pregnancy with His Highness Prince Richard," she said at last, "Compared to the Prince of Castile, he is in a particularly fortunate position as regards our mistress's trust. He would do well not to jeopardise that."
Mary nodded, "I'll remember, Lady Lincoln."
Susan inclined her head in acceptance of the young girl's words, then softened as an amusing thought quirked at her lips.
"If your brother already balks at Her Grace's attempts to involve him with their unborn child, how much worse is he going to find it once she is confined and can barely let those she trusts out of her sight for fear of dying of boredom?"
Despite herself, Mary caught Susan's eye and smirked at her words.
"Perhaps it is as well we have a few months before he has to find that out. I shan't tell him. That would simply ruin a perfectly wonderful surprise."
Henry drew rein in the tiltyard, exhaling, just as his horse was blowing from the exercise. Unable to stop himself, he shot a bitter glance up at the crenelated towers of Windsor above him. It was one of England's prettiest castles, but he found it hard to enjoy it now, even in the glorious autumn colours of mid-October. Part of the reason Windsor was so wonderful was that it was set among some of the country's finest hunting grounds. And he wasn't allowed to enjoy them.
Anne was confined to her apartments, mere weeks away from birthing their daughter and miserable because of it. That would have been bad enough, but she seemed determined to curb his enjoyment of these golden autumn days as well. He wasn't allowed to stir from either her apartments or his own without telling her why; without asking her permission. And gaining her consent for anything in the outdoors was no easy task. Riding in the tiltyard was just about possible, but he wasn't allowed to stray any further afield. As she had done in the first months, she wanted him at her side, or at least within easy calling distance, at all hours.
Oh, he had found her dependency charming at first, even endearing. After all, what man didn't like to play a handsome knight born to serve his lady from time to time? But by now, the novelty had long since worn off and he was beginning to chafe under her seemingly pointless restrictions. He didn't see how he could bear them much longer. Yet there were still three weeks, at least, before the babe would greet the world. Or so the midwives said.
"Your Highness? Shall we ride again?" Tom FitzHerbert asked, neatly catching the new practice lance a stable hand threw him as he spoke.
Jolted out of his musings, Henry nodded and swung his horse around. The beast had recovered somewhat while he'd sat lost in thought and now Henry took a moment to admire the raw power that rippled beneath him. A fine sorrel hunter this one. He'd been Anne's gift to him just after they married, before she'd found herself with child and decided that, if she couldn't ride, then she'd clamp down on his leisure hours as well.
Why she'd even forbidden him from riding out with his own cousins the other day. His own cousins! Even if Anne was afraid he'd be unfaithful to her, which he wouldn't, then she need not worry about him bedding his own cousins. Half of them were children, and even those that were grown, well, they were his kin, for heavens' sake! He might not always be reverent in his speech, but he was more conscious of the laws of affinity than to try to bed his own first cousins!
As if Tom could read his mind, he remarked "It's a pity Her Grace wouldn't let you ride out with us the other day. Leander's too marvellous a horse to be wasted in the tiltyard. He's begging for a good run."
"Aye, don't I know it," Henry said shortly, "But who am I to defy a royal command? Especially when the Queen is so near her time?"
He was careful to keep his voice neutral, but Tom knew him well enough to be able to read his displeasure in the set of his shoulders and the line of his jaw.
And even the best will in the world couldn't keep a sigh from escaping Henry's lips when Anna Lovell came scurrying out of the palace in search of him.
"Your Highness? Her Majesty is asking for you."
"Very well, Mistress Lovell. I'll come at once."
Signing to the nearest stable hand to take his reins, he swung himself from the saddle, "My apologies, Tom, but our rematch will have to wait."
"Of course, Your Grace. Duty calls," Tom half-bowed in acknowledgement and Henry turned to go inside. He groaned inwardly when he realised that Anna Lovell had lingered, looking positively gleeful. This did not bode well. Mistress Lovell was a thoroughly poisonous creature who delighted in others' misfortune.
"Yes, Mistress Lovell?" he snapped.
"You'd better hurry, My Lord. Her Grace is in a foul mood," she chirruped.
Henry didn't respond. Though he did quicken his step as much as he could without appearing to be hurrying. Perhaps if he was quick enough, he'd manage to avoid Anne's wrath this time.
It was a forlorn hope. No sooner had he entered the room in which Anne was sitting than she hurled a pillow at his head.
"Where have you been? I sent for you ages ago!"
Biting his tongue on a retort – a pillow he could dodge, but there were also silver candlesticks easily within her reach – Henry bowed silently, while Anne raked him up and down with piercing eyes.
"You've been riding," she accused, "I thought I forbade you to go riding? I need you close."
Anne hated how peevish she sounded. She really did. But she was just so much more miserable with this pregnancy than she'd ever been with Richard. She was easily twice as bloated, she was uncomfortably warm, despite it being so late in the year, she was bored to tears by being stuck in these rooms and oh! how her back ached! She didn't ever remember being in this much pain before Richard was born.
And there were so few people she dared vent her misery on. Everyone else expected her to play the gracious Queen, because apparently that's what her mother had always done when she'd been with child. Anne was beginning to hate those words.
The child turned just then and she couldn't stifle a groan. Henry's face softened and he came over to her, wrapping an arm around her and resting his palm on the bulge of her stomach.
"Are you being naughty and not letting Mama rest, hmm? Is that why she's so irritable today? You know, Princesses are supposed to be gracious, not naughty. Would a hug from Papa help, do you think?"
Despite herself, Anne smiled as Henry talked to their unborn daughter and she shifted up on the couch to make room for him. He settled himself behind her, arm around her waist to support her. He used his free arm to rub her back as hard as he knew she liked it. After a few moments, she exhaled and leaned back into him.
"It will all be worth it in the end," he whispered, not sure which of them he was trying to convince. Anne turned her head to peer ruefully up at him.
"I've not made the past eight months easy on you, have I? I am sorry, you know. I just wanted you to feel connected to our little girl, that's all. I never asked John for anything, back when I was carrying Richard."
"She's ours. How could I not be?" he soothed, determinedly ignoring the reference to her first husband, as he so often did, and patting her ebony hair where it reached her hips, for here, in the privacy of her chambers, she often flouted convention and wore it loose, claiming the weight of it piled beneath a hood gave her headaches.
"When she's born, when our little Matilda's born, we'll have a family portrait painted," Anne breathed, "You and me either side of her cradle and Bessie and Richard holding hands. We'll show England her golden future."
Henry nodded, desperate to maintain the fragile peace of the moment. As such, he barely dared move or breathe, much less protest Anne's choice of a name for their daughter. Moments like these had happened so rarely in recent months.
It was at times like this, he reflected, that he remembered why he loved Anne. She was so loving and generous, even in spite of her fiery spirit. He bent his head, intending to kiss her tenderly.
And then she stifled a most unbecoming wail and squirmed, ducking away from him.
"Breila?"
"I'm sorry, cariad," she replied, smile tight, "This isn't a good moment to get swept up in passion. Would you mind?"
She held out a hand for his arm and he offered it automatically. It was only when she hurried in the direction of her close stool, dragging him with her and crying out for her ladies' aid as she went, that the penny dropped. For the thousandth time in recent days, Henry had to bite back a surge of revulsion. Why did pregnancy have to involve so many bodily fluids for God's Sake?!