As Anne tried to pass the unborn child, Gwynnie pressed the chamber pot forward when it was needed, trying her best not to look at anything that spilled into it.
She wasn’t sure how long she was there. Seconds turned to minutes, and perhaps the minutes even turned to hours, but Gwynnie stayed throughout and kneeled beside the bed, holding up the chamber pot when she could.
“It is done.” One of the physicians stepped back some time later, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. “Your Highness, I am sorry, but —”
Queen Anne raised a sharp hand in the air. That movement was enough to halt his words. She didn’t want to hear it. They had all seen what had passed; they had seen she had lost the child.
Anne turned her face to the pillow, masking her pain from the world.
Numb, Gwynnie stepped back.
“Get rid of that,” the physician instructed one of the ladies-in-waiting, and she took the chamber pot out of Gwynnie’s hands. “The king must be told,” he said to the elder lady-in-waiting, who had spent most of the time mopping Queen Anne’s brow with a damp cloth. “He must know.”
Gwynnie collected some of the bloodied sheets together and moved to stand beside them, under the pretence of tidying up.
“Has he woken?” the lady-in-waiting asked the physician. “From what I hear, he has still not opened his eyes. Not since that stallion rolled over him.”
The physician stilled, his hands falling to his sides.
“Are you telling me the king shall not wake again?” she asked.
He looked away abruptly. “Take those for cleaning.”
The lady turned to Gwynnie and dismissed her with a wave of her hand.
Gwynnie dropped the bloodied sheets into a large barrel in the laundry room. It was now dark beyond the windows, with the only light to keep her company coming from a tallow candle she had lit and placed over the fire. Try as she might, she couldn’t start a fire. Too much rain had come down the chimney and the damp wood in the fireplace prevented any chance of it lighting.
With shaking hands, Gwynnie returned to the barrel and added lye to the water, knowing the sheets would have to soak after what had passed.
The door opened and Emlyn entered the room. To Gwynnie’s dismay, she too was carrying bloodied sheets, but these had not come from Queen Anne’s room.
“Has the king woken?” Gwynnie asked her mother.
“No.” Emlyn shook her head. “They’ve had me changing his sheets, preparing a bath that would not make him wake, and cutting linen into strips to bind his wounds.” She sat down wearily on a chair, the sheets still in her grasp. “His eyes are closed, and if you believe the physician who watches over him, his mind is elsewhere.”
Gwynnie took the sheets from her mother, added them to the barrel and began to stir everything together with the lye. “They’re whispering about who will be next king already.”
Emlyn looked at Gwynnie, her eyes wide. “Or queen,” she whispered. “There’s Princess Mary, his daughter by Queen Catherine.”
“I thought she had…”
“I know.” Emlyn waved a hand in the air.
Catherine had been removed from the line of succession, they all knew that, but who else was there? Princess Mary hadn’t been spoken of in the palace since the news of Queen Catherine’s death had broken.
Gwynnie stopped stirring the barrel as a sudden thought struck her. “Surely not…” She couldn’t bring herself to say the words.
“Fitzroy cannot be king. He is illegitimate, Gwynnie. The king’s advisors would not allow the son of a dancing courtier, Bessie Blount, to take the throne. Any claim he made would undoubtedly be challenged.”
Gwynnie was not as certain as her mother. She recalled how many men had gathered around Fitzroy in the tiltyard. They had hung on Fitzroy’s every word at the joust. And he had men like Renard dancing to his tune, happy to jump like puppets at the flick of a string.
And an illegitimate claim to the throne had triumphed before. Was not William the Conqueror once known as William the Bastard?
“I am not sure,” Gwynnie whispered. “Somehow, it would not surprise me if Fitzroy made a claim to the throne.”
Emlyn sat forward in her chair, the movement making the wood creak beneath her. “We shall have to wait and see what happens next.”
CHAPTER 16
“Is he awake?” Tombstone asked.
Gwynnie overheard the familiar voice and scurried back. She’d been walking down a narrow lane in the palace grounds, carrying a tray of doucets she’d been asked to take to the queen’s rooms. She held the tray of pastries against her chest and flattened herself to the wall, straining to hear the words.
“He is,” Pascal replied.
Gwynnie sighed, startled at the relief she felt filling her chest. She hardly cared for the King of England, but she’d rather he was on the throne than his murdering son.
“It took two hours to revive him, I’m told.” Pascal sighed heavily.
Gwynnie craned her neck, peering around the corner of the lane to look at the two men speaking together in low tones.
Tombstone and Pascal stood facing each other, with the early morning shadows cast over their faces. Pascal was restless and exhausted, judging by the way he continuously yawned.
“King Henry is awake, but depending on who you ask, his health varies.”
“Has he been told about the queen?”
“Not yet.” Pascal shook his head. “His health is delicate enough as it is. So many children … so many sons have been lost over the years.” He shook himself, making his jowls tremble. “I think the court wishes to delay the news for as long as possible. At least one good thing has come from this flood. It will be days before London hears of the queen’s condition. I would not wish to be the man to tell the king of this grave news.”
