March 1473. Convent of St Vincent, England.
Jane Woodville stroked the wisps of Madeleine’s hair as she pushed, murmuring encouragements into her ear. In the tight, darkened room in the Convent of St Vincent, near the English city of Watford, the Queen was giving birth to her seventh child after having just lost her sixth.
“Hail Mary, full of grace,” the nuns that surrounded her pray. Some were assisting her and others kneeled before her bed, praying and beseeching the Lord to keep safe this woman, the consort of their most gracious King and mother fo his children, to keep safe this new heir. “The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.”
“Am I cursed?” Madeleine chocked out. She was sprawled on all fours on the bed, supporting her weight with her elbows and her knees, her hair hanging around her field of vision like a brown curtain. She was sweaty, skin warm and her pains were blinding, deafening. White, hot pain. She could barely think beyond it. “Will all my children die?”
“No, Your Grace,” said Jane Woodville, rubbing her back soothingly. “Just one big push and you will be done.”
“I can’t,” she cried. “It’s too soon.”
“No, it’s not, Your Grace,” said Margaret Beaufort, one hand on her ankles. There were no midwives in there, only her ladies and the nuns would help her. They had assumed Kings Langley would have one present, or in the close by villages. Now, it was all in the hands of the Lord. “It’s the right time. You and the child are ready. One big push, that’s all you need.”
Her position gave some freedom to the rise and fall of her chest, allowing her to breathe more easily than she had in the previous eight and a half months. Madeleine took one deep breath and closed her eyes, a scream torn from her throat as she pushed, uncaring of who watched her or who heard her, uncaring of her status and dignity as Queen.
“Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. “ She could feel her entire body tearing into two, something as warm and slick as blood trickling down her legs. “Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Jesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen.”
“That’s it,” said Jane Woodville, pressing a cool rag to the back of her neck. Madeleine let out a breath and then took in another one, letting her head fall forward as she continued to push. “You’re nearly there, Your Grace.”
“I can see him,” someone said. Madeleine thought it was a nun, for she did not recognize the voice. The words encouraged her and she let her eyes fall close, her body and head heavy as she took in another deep breath. When her stomach started to cramp again, she pushed with all of her strength, tightening her fists on the coarse sheets of the bed. “He’s coming, Your Grace. You can do it.”
“Please, Lord, save him. I can’t lose him too,” she thought, or said. Madeleine could feel her entire body stiffening, her head aching as she held her breath and pushed, feeling as the baby slid out of her in a mix of blood, fluids and perfect flesh.
The relief of the pain and pressure was immediate and she sagged on the bed, her legs giving out as she dropped down. Her ears were still ringing from her own screams when she heard the loud cry of healthy lungs opening up for the first to the world and tears burned her eyes.
Madeleine turned on the bed, laying her back against the stiff mattress. She was covered in a thick sheen of sweat, flushed and sore all over. She couldn’t feel her legs, her thighs were trembling, but still, she raised her eyes to Lady Richmond, who was cleaning her baby with fresh water from the basin while another nun offered her clean linen to wrap the child in.
“Is it a boy?” she asked, weakly.
It was Jane Woodville who answered her, still stroking her hair and pressing wet rags to her skin. “It’s a girl, Your Grace,” she said. “A beautiful and healthy girl.”
Madeleine didn’t hesitate to stretch forward with her arms, despite her exhaustion. Her tears slid down hotly from her cheeks and eyes, pooling beside her face on the mattress and mixing with her sweat.
“Let me hold her,” she begged. “Give her to me.” Lady Richmond placed her daughter atop her chest and Madeleine cried even harder, pressing a shaky kiss to the baby’s mucus-covered forehead. Her face was still swollen and wrinkly, her arms red and spindly, but Madeleine could see how perfect she was, how beautiful. She had Edward’s nose, wisps of golden hair covering her head and a perfect chin.
“She’s beautiful, Your Grace,” said Jane Woodville, placing another sheet of linen atop mother and daughter.
Madeleine nodded, trying to wipe away her tears and the snot that had escaped from her nose. She pressed another kiss to her face, observing as she slowly began to stop crying, pressing her cheek against her chest. No one said anything when she pulled down the neckline of her dress, offering the child her breast, but she could feel their gazes on her.
“The Virgin gave her to me,” said the Queen of England as her daughter slowly began to eat. It ached in a way she didn’t think possible, probably because she wasn’t used to it, but she did not care. “To dull the pain of my loss, the Virgin blessed me with a new child.”
“What shall you name her, Your Grace?” asked Jane.
Madeleine chuckled, still crying. “Is it not obvious?” she asked. “See the new daughter of your King, Jane.” Madeleine pressed a kiss to her little face. “Mary of York.”
