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June 28, 1491
-ELIZABETH OF York tried to breath, clutching both sides of the bed. She forced herself to not look down, and focused her eyes above her, at the ceiling. She tried to form a prayer, but the pain numbed her senses.
"Push, your Grace, push, push," the midwives called, and Elizabeth did as she was bid, like she had her whole life. She tried not to scream-she thought it unseemly of a Queen to cry out in pain-but a pained gasp escaped her lips.
"Your Grace, push," the midwives called again, their voices tremulous. Elizabeth felt their clammy hands on her legs and feet. She felt horribly exposed-but now wasn't the time to contemplate such vanity. So she pushed again, straining, feeling cold sweat trickle down her back. A nearby midwife placed a hot towel on her glistening forehead; Elizabeth clenched her fingers on the flimsy bedcovers.
"Push, your Grace, push," came the call again, and this time Elizabeth did scream. The pain seared through every ounce of her body. She felt her lustrous hair stick to her back; felt sweat gather a-fresh on her forehead.
"Just a little more, your Grace, just a little more now-" And just as Elizabeth felt as if something was tearing her right in two she heard a loud cry echo in the air, and she fell back onto the bed with a weary shudder. Her breath came out ragged.
Elizabeth wanted to inquire if the child was a boy-but all that escaped her mouth were shaky gasps for air. "A boy, your Grace," the midwives said, beaming, holding a bundle out to her. "A lovely, healthy boy." The Queen couldn't hold in her benign, beautiful smile.
She saw the baby was certainly lovely and beautiful; he had roses on his cheeks, and a fire in his lungs, as he cried and cried in his mother's slender arms. "The second boy, your Grace," the midwives cooed. "You are very blessed."
"Thank you," Elizabeth said softly, graciously. "Truly." She smiled down at her son, who was reaching out his chubby little arms to her. The Queen was tired, weary and more than a little pale, but to the onlooking midwives, she looked as serene and as beautiful as the Virgin Mary. "My husband shall be pleased, I should think." "Very much so, your Grace."
The boy cried out again, his cheeks reddening. Elizabeth smiled. "I shall name him Henry. Is that nice?" "Oh, very, your Grace. He'll be a great man, just like his father."
Elizabeth peered at her son knowingly. "Hmm. I think he shall be greater."
YOU ARE READING
The Six
Historical Fiction'Divorced, beheaded, died; divorced, beheaded, survived." In this way, the six wives of Henry VIII were remembered not for how they lived, but in the way they died. It is impossible to know exactly what they were thinking or had to go through, in h...
