Raglan, June 1527
“Lord Pembroke, you have a daughter.”
George spun round at the words, his heart catching in his throat.
“A…a daughter?” he croaked, scarcely daring to breathe.
It wasn’t that he and Kathy hadn’t intended to have a big family, but six years into their marriage, Edmund remained their only child. Kathy had miscarried early in her second pregnancy only a couple of weeks after Marie had given birth to her miracle triplets – indeed, the physicians had told them to blame that miscarriage on the stress of having to tend the fractious Marie in her confinement and then dance attendance at the endless festivities than followed.
George had never told his older sister that, of course. She’d only have blamed herself, and what was the point in that? She couldn’t have been expected to know. Indeed, Kathy’s miscarriage had been so early that no one had even known Kathy had been carrying at all, save themselves and perhaps Kathy’s maids, who would have noticed the lack of bloody clouts to wash each month.
The other miscarriages, in September 1525 and May 1526, had been harder to hide, particularly the September one. Kathy had been further along, and the emotional toll of the disappointed hope had been even more crushing than the first one.
The situation had not been helped, of course, by his father writing ever increasingly pointed notes from Dublin, hinting that a single son might not be enough to secure the Boleyn legacy and when on earth would George see to doing his duty and providing Edmund with a baby brother?
By the time Kathy confided in him that she was pregnant for a fifth time, George had begun to lose hope that they ever would. He might be naturally optimistic, but three miscarriages in as many years had sapped him of much of that buoyancy. He’d scarcely been able to bear watching as Kathy swelled, yet again, with his child. He’d spent what felt like most of the six months between Kathy whispering the news in his ear and the midwife’s appearance at his door on his knees in the chapel at Raglan, pleading with God to spare them the disappointment this time, to stop being so cruel as to taint their lives with false hope.
He’d never quite believed that his prayers might actually have an effect. Not until the faint screaming in the halls above had stopped and the midwife had appeared at his door.
The portly woman nodded, “Aye, Lord Pembroke, a bonny little lassie. And a hungry one she is too. She came out screaming for the breast and never stopped until we let her latch.”
George felt his jaw drop. Without quite realising what he was going to do before he did it, he caught the midwife in his arms and kissed her full on the mouth.
“Mistress Owen, you’re as welcome here as the Angel Gabriel!” He bellowed, before releasing her and whirling for the door.
He galloped up the stairs two at a time and crashed through the door, startling Kathy and the wet-nurse, though not, he was amused to see, his as yet nameless daughter, who seemed to respond to his rude entrance by suckling all the harder as her wet-nurse yelped and scrambled for a wrap to preserve her modesty.
George paid the buxom woman no heed, tumbling to his knees beside Kathy’s bed and snatching up her hand to kiss it fervently.
He couldn’t speak. He didn’t need to speak. The way Kathy’s free hand gripped his dark curls as she ran her fingers through his hair told him well enough that she knew what he was thinking, because she was thinking it too.
“Matilda,” she whispered huskily, and he glanced up at her, a silent question in his eyes.
“Matilda,” she repeated, “Our daughter’s a warrior. She’s proved that by living where her siblings have died in the womb. So, let’s name her for a warrior’s Queen. Let’s name her Matilda.”
No sooner had George understood what Kathy meant than the name seemed so perfect for their little girl that he couldn’t think of any other. He glanced over to where the wet-nurse still perched on the window seat, seeming to sway slightly with the force of their daughter’s hunger, before looking back at Kathy, nodding.
“Lady Matilda Boleyn. Lady Matilda of Pembroke. It’s perfect, love.”
Then he rose and kissed her properly, holding her silently in his arms until, exhausted from the birth, she had drifted off to sleep.