The Boleyn Prince

June 1536

Hampton Court

"It has to be a boy. It has to be a boy," Anne Boleyn muttered to herself through the contractual pain of labour she had been enduring for hours. A son was what was needed now. More so than ever before.
She had already borne one daughter and lost two others. Her husband, King Henry VIII of England would not tolerate another failure.
For all their famous passion and long road to the altar, Henry had quickly turned his face from her once she was his wife. For seven long years, she had kept him mad for her. Part infatuation, part conviction that their union would give him what he most desired more than even her – a son.

She had won him back following the birth of their daughter, Elizabeth. She had weathered his disappointment after losing their second child. But the relationship was never the same. Another public failure would result in her utter destruction. She knew it. She had already seen the warning signs. The King was much taken with that pale-faced wench, Jane Seymour in her service. Her spies told her he had been writing letters to her and sending her money and gifts. The same overtures he made towards Anne when he had begun pursuing her nearly ten years ago.
Only a few months ago she had discovered Jane flaunting a locket to her other attendants with the King's portrait in it. That little hussy was trying to replace her, setting up a rival faction, luring her enemies over to her side and if she bore another daughter or worse still, a dead baby, Jane might very well succeed.

This child was her last card in the game, and she had to play an ace. Only when she had felt the child quicken, that treasured quiver of life from deep within her womb had she felt confident enough to announce her pregnancy. For as long as there was hope, Henry was still hers. A third failure and those enemies who had called her a French whore and worse, would supplant her with that English Seymour dullard.

She had come so close to nearly losing this child. Months ago, the King had fallen from his horse at a joust and come close to death. The shock had struck her with such a force that she had almost miscarried. She had done everything in her power to preserve her pregnancy. Shutting herself away from the court she had waited seven years to rule.

A son was the greatest prize that her fickle husband could secure. Only a son would guarantee the smooth succession of the Tudor crown for another generation and keep civil war at bay. But for Anne, a son was much more than an heir to his father's throne. He would be her protector against her enemies. Those morally ambiguous men who loathed her, the daughter of a country knight, for daring to rise so high and displacing their beloved Katharine of Aragon, Henry's so-called wife of nearly twenty years and mother of his eldest daughter, Mary.

Thoughts of that pale-faced girl still had the ability to anger Anne, even while gripped in the agonies labour. Both she and Henry had thought his daughter would be easy to control. However, she had proved to be just as obstinate as her mother. For three tumultuous years, both Katharine and Mary had steadfastly refused to recognise Anne as Queen. Katharine had gone to her grave stubbornly declaring herself to be the one true Queen of England, whilst Mary still professed herself the only true Princess of England.

Anne would have liked nothing better than to have done away with both of them herself. Sickness had claimed Katharine's life earlier this year after a protracted exile. Yet, despite Mary's continuing ill health, she still refused to die. More than that, she had powerful kin. Her cousin was the Emperor of Spain. A seasoned warrior with wealth, armies and ships that vastly surpassed those of her husband. Neither of them could risk alienating the Emperor.
"Not until my son arrives, at least," Anne thought hopefully, as another painful contraction gripped her.

Thoughts of Katherine and Mary fell from her mind as a force of pressure began to build in her pelvis. Having already given birth once before, Anne knew the moment had come. She took in a deep breath and pushed as hard as she could, screaming in agony as she felt her child's head be delivered from her slender body. She offered up a silent prayer that it be a boy.

"Just once more, Your Majesty," her midwives called to her. "Just once more!"

Gripping the silken ropes tied up in the beams of the ceiling, Anne summoned what remained of her strength, considerably weakened by the day-long labour. "Once more," she told herself. "Once more and then he's here. I can do this. If only for the reward of having my revenge."

She raised her head; her tangled mass of sweat-soaked hair clung to her face and bore down. Her chin pressed firmly into her chest and let out an almighty scream as the rest of the baby was delivered. Its vigorous cry confirmed that it lived.

She did not crumble straight away. She needed to know it was a boy. That she was safe. Her head was spinning, her arms trembled propping her up. She flashed her women a look from her dark eyes, but their smiling faces confirmed it.

"A healthy fair prince, Your Majesty!" The fat little midwife exclaimed with delight.

Only then did Anne give way to her exhaustion. Collapsing amongst the soft mound of silken pillows, she let out a strangled laugh of relief.

"I did it," She congratulated herself. She was safe. The mother of the next Tudor King would never be put aside. Henry would devote himself only to her. Her enemies would be dealt with. And Jane Seymour, Katharine and Mary could go to hell!