The Heir and the Spared

Chapter Twenty-Three

Misery.

Sarah tried not to complain, but she had never felt such discomfort for so long a time. For weeks already, she had felt ready and impatient for her baby to arrive. It did not seem possible that she could have any more room for her growing child. In the privacy of her room, she looked in dismay at the pale pink marks that striped her swollen belly. Indeed, everything was swollen, including her hands and feet. It was impossible to find a comfortable position to sleep, or even to sit. She was sore. She was exhausted.

Then there were the pangs. They were more irksome than truly painful. The first time she'd felt them, though, she had thought it was time, that her baby would soon be born. Yet Queen Mary, who had been having her hair curled at the time Sarah first felt the pangs, had assured her that these were only a small glimpse of what was to come. It was only her body preparing for the real event. Sarah had sighed, at once relieved yet disappointed.

Sitting in the wooden chair by her bedside late one night, she rubbed circles over her belly, praying that the child would stop kicking her in the ribs and go to sleep. Then, there would at least be a minute chance that she might find some rest.

A light tap came on the door, and she was glad that the queen had moved to the king's apartments for her lying-in. Philip. Sarah was also glad that she had remembered to leave the door unlocked on the chance that Philip came, for it would take far too much effort to waddle to the door and unlatch it - even for Philip.

After a moment, he opened the door and slipped inside.

"No baby yet?" he asked.

Sarah felt tears spring to her eyes immediately. They were senseless tears, tears solely of weariness.

A fortnight ago, she had asked him to make sure that he had all of his things prepared; if she gave birth to a living boy who was given to Mary, and any suspicion was aroused, they might have to flee quickly. Yet both weeks had passed, and there was, indeed, still no baby, boy or girl.

"I wish you would not ask," she mumbled; "see for yourself."

"Oh, my Sarah," Philip crooned. He came to kneel beside her, and bestowed light kisses on her swollen feet. "I'm sorry, my love. What can I do?"

"Nothing," Sarah replied miserably, almost too miserable to even wish to be comforted. Sympathy, perhaps, was all Philip could offer. Still... "Well... Perhaps you could rub my feet," she murmured, the slightest hint of hope entering her voice.

"Anything." He took one of her tender feet in his hands and began to massage it gently.

With a sigh, Sarah closed her eyes and leaned her head back. His touch was heavenly. It was, perhaps, the most pleasure he had ever given her, and that was saying something.

Philip was quiet for a time, and Sarah was glad of it; perhaps he had finally learned that he was liable to say something that would make her angry or sad, given the moods that she'd been in of late. She loved him, of course, but something this late stage of pregnancy made her vulnerable to moods that were unusual for her. Despite her normal attention to detail - without which she certainly would not have earned a place as the queen's maid - she had become absent-minded.

In the silence, and with some of her discomfort temporarily assuaged, she had dozed off. She woke again with a start.

"Philip!"

He started as well. "What? What? Is it time?"

"No." Sarah's shoulders sank for a moment; she could only wish. Actually... it had finally occurred to her that she could do a right bit more than wish. "Bess - Bess would know what to do." She glanced down at Philip, still kneeling faithfully at her feet. "Could you get Bess for me? Please."