Greenwich, October 1523
Perhaps God heard Marie’s prayers, for her belly swelled with child within weeks, as though her child’s spirit had been up in Heaven, just waiting for its new parents to be reconciled before it deigned to come to rest in the world.
Henry, of course, was cockahoop, especially when her belly ballooned so fast that the royal seamstresses were hard-pressed to sew panels into her dresses fast enough to keep her comfortably and regally clothed. It seemed he couldn’t tire of parading her before the Court, praising her fecundity to the skies.
Maria and Lionel were whisked up from Eltham and shown off at every opportunity, hailed as proof that the future of England rested secure.
Little Maria blossomed, thrilled beyond belief to be back with her parents. Marie tried to curb the little girl’s vanity, but even she wasn’t totally immune to her vivacity and charm. She did so love having the children about her and Maria had always been more her child than Henry’s. It was hardly unexpected that she would spoil her a little, if only with her time and affection and not materially. So while Henry fussed over Lionel and took him for many a ride on the back of his destrier or his great Irish hunter, proudly proclaiming to all who could hear that the boy would soon become the greatest rider in Christendom, she spent hours with Maria and her companions, hearing their lessons and playing with them.
She also encouraged Maria in her music, the little girl’s playing being one of the few things that could soothe her in her discomfort.
For she was in discomfort. Even though she was only, as far as the midwives could make out, a couple of months along at most, being due almost exactly on Lionel’s third birthday, she already had a belly as large as a woman at least four months gone with child and the weight seemed almost unbearable at times. Nor could she lie comfortably, but rather, had to toss and turn irritably for hours before her exhaustion would finally allow her to succumb to sleep. Not only that, but, although she had mercifully escaped the morning sickness this time, she was constantly emotional and craving venison at all hours of the day or night.
All of this combined to make her extremely miserable, and, one morning, she startled Henry by bursting into tears during one of his visits for no apparent reason.
“Sweetheart! What is it?” He sprang to his feet and pulled her into his arms, “Don’t cry, darling, please. You mustn’t distress yourself. Think of the child. Don’t cry. Don’t.”
“I’m sorry!” she sobbed, “I’m just so uncomfortable. So tired. I can’t sleep and all I want to eat is venison. I feel like my body isn’t my own any more. I just want it to be May. I want my body back!”
Henry was lost for words. “But darling,” he stuttered, “Surely it’ll all be worth it when you hold our boy in your arms. He must be a mighty strapping lad to give you such a fine belly so early.”
“I don’t care! I want him out!”
Marie began to wail as piteously as a child, as though she were Lionel when he had refused to take a nap and was overtired and fractious. Henry almost scolded her; she was a grown woman after all, but then he reminded himself of her condition and forced himself to be patient.
“All right, darling. All right,” he soothed, “I’m going to send for Dr Linacre. He can make you a calming draught and you can sleep for a while. And we’ll see if he can think of any way we can make you more comfortable.”
She sniffled and nodded into his chest. He held her gently, rocking her back and forth to keep her quiet, until Dr Linacre arrived.
