Free The Rose Without a Thorn by Jean Plaidy

pregnant.
    The Duchess talked of it while I rubbed her legs.
    “This could save everything. It is God’s answer to our prayers. True, it will not be the same … he is not a man to stay constant. His fancies stray and many are standing ready.” She laughed mirthlessly. “I think of those Seymour brothers … a fine pair they are. Mischief-makers, both of them. Edward is a rogue, and so is Thomas. They have always been enemies of the Howards. They are seeking advancement through this …”
    It was all rather vague, and I dared not ask for clarification since this would be the quickest way to silence her. But there was a good deal of gossip going on, and I was able to glean something of the situation, so I soon learned that the King was enamoured of one of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting. Mistress Jane Seymour was not of significantly high birth, but she had those two ambitious brothers. Anne Boleyn, lady-in-waiting to Queen Catherine, had ensnared the King. Now it seemed it was the turn of Jane Seymour, lady-in-waiting to Anne, to do the same.
    My grandmother had gone back to Court to be near her granddaughter when she gave birth.
    Oh, for a son, we prayed. Only God could give Anne that.
    Alas, he did not listen to our prayers, or only partly. It was very dramatic, I understood. The Queen had burst in on her maid, Jane Seymour, and the King. They were in each other’s arms and certain familiarities were taking place. How Anne must have hated that woman and longed to be rid of her, but naturally, she coulddo nothing about the matter, for the King would not allow her to be dismissed: and Queen Anne, who once could have demanded anything from him, must now stand by and suffer the humiliation of seeing another preparing to take the place which had been hers—just as Queen Catherine had had to do before her.
    Queen Anne was so angry that she gave vent to her rage and the King shouted at her that she must perforce endure what others had before her. Poor Anne, she must have seen the end in sight, and the only way she could avert the fate which had fallen to Queen Catherine was to have a son. And that was not in her power, except by prayer, which was not always reliable.
    It was certainly not in her case. There was not even a daughter like the Princess Elizabeth. The shock of that encounter between herself, the King and Jane Seymour brought on a miscarriage. It was the end.
    The Duchess returned to us, sad-hearted and defeated. She could no longer delude herself into thinking that all would come right. There was no son. The King was tired of her whom he had once desired sufficiently to defy the Pope and break with Rome; and now she was no more to him than poor, sick, tired Catherine of Aragon.
    The Duchess had been with Anne when she lay in her bed, sick and frantic with worry, and during one of those sessions when I was rubbing her legs, she talked of the occasion.
    “She was in need of comfort. She had lost her child … a sadness for a mother at any time, but when so much depends on it … Oh, he was cruel. The anger in his little eyes … his tight, straight mouth. And it was worse, because the child had been a boy. Oh, if only she had not come upon them … if only she had not lost what she so needed. But how could she help it, poor soul? She knew how he had behaved with Queen Catherine—and, alas, she had helped him in that, one could say. But he was cruel. He may be the King, but I will say it. He said, ‘You shall have no more boys by me.’ And there she lay, sick, deserted, my poor, poor child.”
    Through the spring the gloom persisted. It was exactly three years since those glorious days when we were preparing for Anne’s coronation. I remembered my grandmother’s pride and joy because of our connection with the new Queen. The atmosphere had changed a great deal. It would have been better now if we were not related to the Queen. The Duke was very gloomy. He came to the house more frequently. I gathered that he