Like Fire and Powder (Violent Delights Book 18)

Chapter 17: the end, according to Elizabeth of York

Henry does marry me in a week. My wedding dress for some mysterious reason is very tight in all places. And I don't care. He kisses me in the church. And now he can kiss me wherever he likes.
Henry still carries me to bed on our wedding night. And we lie on the bed and talk for hours, looking at my tiny belly, talking about our child, and our future. Then he kisses me till we're both tired enough to finally sleep.
About two weeks after the wedding I quit hiding how pregnant I am, which is good because I'm very pregnant. My dresses need to be loosened. I'm sick every morning. The entire world is pleased I'm clearly carrying a wedding night baby.
Spring does come, and the sweating sickness is all over England. Henry must travel, and I go to the country. Cecily comes. I can't travel with the sickness nor with my pregnancy.
As spring blooms so does my belly. The midwives confirm a quickening in early spring, and I finally switch to dresses with no bodice. Henry writes me often as he tours England, officially. I write him in return. I'm once again locked up in a country house.
But this time I'm free. No court to please. No eyes on me. I don't have to be everyone's beautiful princess. I'm myself, and my baby which is growing in me. I watch myself expand, as my child gets bigger and bigger. And I walk in the woods, and have quiet. I talk to my baby and tell it about it's father, and the beautiful life we'll have. Despite being married I don't have to wear my hair up. I write lists, and work on my budget. I order toys for the baby, plenty of toys, and fine linens. Henry has already arranged rockers and nannies.
And by the time Henry returns to me I'm quite huge. I think he's surprised at the change, but he grins, taking me in his arms despite how wide I am, and kisses me. Then he kneels in the dust to kiss my belly. He tells me of his plans to build us a house, just for the children and for us to stay with them. Where they'll be safe and sheltered from court. And have a life of security, neither of us knew.
Our Arthur is born at the end of September. He graces with a couple of weeks. I'm heavily overdue and miserably pregnant, but I appreciate the delay as we passively claim our baby was terribly early.
I'm sick after the birth. Henry stays by my side, visiting our beautiful son, and then sitting with me for hours. He doesn't go to the baptism I'm so ill, holding my hand as I sweat with fever.
I recover, and Arthur is strong and healthy. I'm not crowned Queen for another year. Once I recover from the illness I'm still heavy from the pregnancy and I inform Henry if I'm doing something in public I'm going to be slimmer again. Henry coyly informs me we won't have the money for months so I can take my time.
I'm crowned queen the following fall. And after the danger of my first childbirth we're not eager for another child. But of course one fine spring day not long after Lent has ended, because we're not that clever, I'm once again throwing up every morning. And by summer my belly has once again begun to undeniably swell. This time I stay little and round all summer, which aids our only falsehood which is that we didn't conceive in Lent which of course we did. I don't stay little though. By the time winter comes I'm quite huge, and Henry again orders me linens, and expands the nursery, hiring more nurses and getting doctors to stand by should I be ill again.
This labor is longer, and harder than before. But after pains all night long, on a cold November morning I'm blessed with a beautiful baby girl. She's littler than our Arthur, and when she's born she doesn't cry so the midwives try to slap her.
"Give her to me, give her to me," I say, taking my bloody baby in my own sweaty arms. My daughter stares up at me, eyes big and pale like her father's. Annoyed at being born so early in the morning. She coughs a bit and gives the smallest cry.
"Hello Margret, you're tough, aren't you? Yeah, we're tough," I say, softly, kissing her sweet face. She whimpers a bit, as they ease us back to bed.
"Bring the king, let him see his daughter," I say, I'm tired, and weak suddenly. And I want Henry here to see this beautiful little girl he gave me.
He comes of course, he was waiting with his men. He beams at the sight of us, kneeling by the bed and taking my hand in his to kiss it. I'm again feverish and exhausted.
"I love you," he says, kissing my fingers.
"I love you too. Do you like your daughter?" I ask.
"She's perfect," he says, looking at her carefully, a soft smile on his lips, "You're both, so so strong."
I am ill after that birth. But I recover, slowly. We have more children, and more trials. I only fall pregnant every few years or so, which is rather a good interval we think, for me to recover, and for us to actually avoid conceiving. After our first two we have nice summer and winter babies, not conceived in Lent or any other fast when we're meant to be chaste. And we go on hunts, and play with our children, and we laugh, and play games late into the night. I teach my sons how to play cards, and my daughters and I dance underneath the shooting stars.
Our precious Arthur, our first born baby, leaves us far too soon. Henry breaks down in court, sobbing uncontrollably when he's given the news. I comfort him and remind him that we have another son and daughters who need us. He goes to work arranging for our son's funeral. Then I leave to go cry myself for my first born baby. I collapse sobbing, and my ladies fetch Henry who lifts me off the floor and carries me to bed, cradling me in his arms just as he did the day I told him I was carrying that child.
We don't win them all. We were never going to. But we are happy. Tragedy strikes. Life goes on. And above all else we have each other. That is all we can hope for in this world.
I fall pregnant for the last time in the summer of 1502. We don't know it's the last time. We never know when the end is coming.
It's an easy enough pregnancy. My seventh and while we know the child may not be well we are cautiously hopefully, and glad of another baby.
I deliver early in February. Pains come before my confinement. And as with Arthur I fall into a deep fever. Henry refuses to leave my side, gripping my hand, mopping my face himself. Our daughter is ill as well. I hold her when I'm able, but mostly I sleep.
"Don't go," Henry says, face pressed to mine.
"I'm so happy here," I say, tucking a hand into his hair, now streaked with grey, "My love."
"You are my life," he says, tears no his cheeks.
"It was such a good life. It was worth it," I say, "I am proud to be your queen."

The End

Henry VII and Elizabeth of York were married for seventeen years.

Theirs is considered one of the happiest royal marriages, against the odds. Henry was known for buying Elizabeth presents, and the family often spent time together, playing games and enjoying the holidays. Henry was equally close with his sons and daughters, as was Elizabeth.

Elizabeth died after childbirth, at the age of thirty seven. Henry would be inconsolable for days, refusing to leave his room or bed or speak to anyone. His mother had to force him to rise.

He would never remarry.

Jasper Tudor lived twelve years after Henry took the throne, dying peacefully in his sleep surrounded by family.

Henry VII would live to the age of fifty two, also dying peacefully after a brief illness.

Margret Beaufort would survive her only son only two months, dying at the age of sixty five.

The Duke of Exeter's true fate is unknown to this day.