Tudor Pavanne: Of Friends and Babies

Pregnancy affects everyone, even Queens. Even Queens legendary for their graciousness. As the months wore slowly on, Catherine became snappish and withdrawn, sometimes spending hours in her own private rooms with but one or two companions – and more and more, that companion was Belle. The two women would sit together quietly for hours, hardly saying a word, while Catherine worked on her latest sewing. Belle began work on a sampler of her own, just to have something to do, and was surprised to find her stitches slowly improving. At this rate, she might even end up with a decent souvenir to hang up on her wall when she returned.

Not all of Catherine's time was spent closeted, however. She would also spend long hours in interviews with either Henry or her confessor, Fray Diego. Belle could tell these became more and more distressing as time went on; the Queen would return trembling and pale, lips pressed together in frustration.

After one such session, Catherine sat in the weak winter sunlight streaming from her window, hands trembling as she tried to concentrate on her stitchery. Belle caught her stabbing the needle so ferociously through the thick fabric that she inevitably jabbed her own finger, crying out softly and putting the wounded digit to her mouth, mortified at the tears that came to her eyes.

"What is it?" Belle asked her softly. "What is wrong, Your Highness?"

Catherine's eyes were huge and troubled. She started to speak, but then bit it back, shaking her head, her meaning clear.

Belle considered, then put a gentle hand on her friend's arm. Speaking in halting, poor Spanish, she told her, "Si yo no comprendo, no puedo repetir." If I do not understand, I cannot repeat. Dredging the words up from memory, she added, "No mujeres, no hombres... y no Dios." No women, no men, and no God.

Understanding dawned in Catherine's eyes, and with it the fearful, desperate desire to have one person to trust with her innermost thoughts. Slowly, haltingly, she began whispering in Spanish, then suddenly the dam burst and torrents of words flooded quietly out. Belle didn't understand more than one word in ten, but names stood out: Fray Diego, mi papa, Henry. Belle remembered from the bits of early chapters of Jared's book (which she had smuggled back under his nose and kept hidden away with her med kit and the Time Jumper in the bottom of the trunk Catherine had given her for her burgeoning wardrobe) that Catherine was bound to represent her father, the King of Spain, and his interests to her husband. Apparently she was under a great deal of pressure from Fray Diego to do a better job of it, but Henry wasn't listening. Belle kept any hint of comprehension off her face, however, so Catherine felt safe to continue pouring out her troubles to a sympathetic but mute ear.

The incident brought the women even closer together, which – although it made slipping away to meet Henry increasingly difficult – also brought Belle into even more foreign territory than she was already in. Never before had she had a close female friend and confidante. It was going to be hard to leave when her time was up.

^..^

The good part was that Belle had arrived near the end of the year, in time for a real Tudor Christmas. While it was quite different from what she (and multitudes of film makers) had imagined, nevertheless, the seemingly-endless series of balls, pageants, feasts, and yes, even the hours-long religious services were like a fairy tale come true. Belle occasionally felt herself grinning and calling herself Cinderella.

At last the long-awaited day arrived, when the Queen woke her household on New Years Day itself with word that her birthing pains had at last started. One look at her sunken eyes and white, pinched face revealed that they had actually started many hours before, but that Catherine, true to form, had been suffering in silence until well along and it was close enough to morning to wake everyone, still groggy from the festivities of the night before, which of course had lasted well past midnight.

The next few hours passed in a blur for Belle. With zero experience, never even having witnessed a birth before (she retreated again into mysterious Pig Latin chanting to deflect suspicion on that score, reminding everyone how alien she actually was), she knew she couldn't help at all with the practical side. Catherine, however, wanted her around, and ignoring the sidelong jealous glances of her other women, insisted that Belle stay at her bedside, cool damp cloth for her forehead at the ready, holding the Queen's hands through the long delivery.

At last the baby was born: a boy, to everyone's ecstatic welcome. The King was duly informed, and arrived after a decent interval (to allow the Queen to compose herself) to view his heir and congratulate and thank his Queen. He caught Belle's eyes momentarily on his way out and quirked an eyebrow. Later, after Catherine had fallen asleep and the baby ensconced in the nursery, Belle slipped out to their trysting chamber, and they celebrated the birth in their own fashion.

Belle waited for a few days until she felt she could do the job without getting caught. First she established a habit of holding the Prince whenever she could, sitting near Catherine with him in her arms. She practiced handling the empty syringe when alone in her small chamber just off Catherine's own, until she could bring it out of a pocket, mime surreptitiously giving the shot in her lap, and return the needle without jabbing herself. When she actually did it, five days after the boy's birth, it went like clockwork, the needle slipping through his swaddling clothes and then back into her pocket without anyone seeing a thing. She'd waited until he was getting a bit fussy anyway, wanting to be fed, so his sudden outraged squall surprised no one, and after handing him to his wet nurse, she slipped out to her chamber and put away the syringe without attracting a bit of attention.

A tiny smile of triumph crossed her lips, and she leaned against the back of her door for a moment, giddy with relief. She'd done it!

^..^

That night, just before going to bed, she opened her trunk again and pulled out the Time Jumper. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes a moment, then pressed the recall button.

The backlight was still white. She was still in Alpha.

Well, I suppose it might take a while for the change to really happen.

And that's when it hit her. How long WOULD she have to stay here? How long WOULD it take for the time stream to really be changed? Babies and children could die for any reason, at any time, not just from pertussis. How old would the Prince have to become before history was sufficiently different for a timestream split? Her giddy triumph faltered and slipped, slapped in the face with uncertain reality.

Oh, God. Am I going to have to wait until Henry dies and the boy succeeds him? Or until he was supposed to have divorced Catherine and left the church?

Frantic now, she pulled out the paperback she had smuggled back and opened it up to the timeline in front, then sat staring openmouthed at the page, unbelieving. Henry the Eighth married Anne Boleyn in 1533. It was now January, 1511.

Am I going to have to live here for another twenty-two years? Damn you, Jared! What have you done to me? What have you gotten me into?

When will I be able to go home?