Daughter of Time

October 1537

Hampton Court

The court has been drunk with merriment in the days since the prince's birth and in spite of the numerous celebrations that have heralded his arrival, I find my greatest pleasure comes not from watching the masques or the jousts but watching this tiny infant sleeping in a contented slumber in his crib.

The King has decreed that none may approach Edwards rooms without his formal consent, other than the Queen, Elizabeth, and myself. Therefore, I often find myself in the nursery, watching him sleep, helping to change his swaddling clouts, and then proceeding to the Queen's chamber to tell her of the time I have spent with her son.

However, as I approach the Queen's rooms this afternoon, all is amiss. The Queen's door is ajar, and as I poke my head around the solid oak door and peer into the outer room, the door creaks as it moves. Lady Cromwell, the Queens sister appears from the inner chamber that secludes the Queen. 

"Your Grace, I am sorry but I cannot allow you in," She explains as she comes before me. "The Queen has a fever and is very weak. She can see no-one."

"How bad is she?" My voice is strangled by fear.

Lady Cromwell's face tells me all that I need to know. It is bad. Very bad. "Her Majesty is in the hands of God."

"I shall pray that God shall spare her, " I say feeling those tears threatening to show themselves

Lady Cromwell flashes me a sympathetic smile. "Take comfort, Your Grace." She says, as though she is comforting both myself and her, "If good prayers can save her life, then she is not likely to leave us, for there never was a Lady so popular with rich and poor men alike. I am told Englishmen from all walks of life are praying for a happy outcome."

"Pray God it may be so," I say fervently, crossing myself.

"Amen," she concurs quite absently. Closing the door behind me. I turn on my heels and walk in almost a sprint to the chapel and throw myself on my knees before the altar repeating my prayer. "Please good lord I beg of you, spare the life of the Queen, and send her back to us."

I am woken out of my slumber by Susan, gently shaking my shoulder "Your Grace, Lady Hertford is here."

She need not say more. We both know that for Anne to call on me so late at night, must mean that the Queen is nearing her end. I pray that I may be wrong, though I know it unlikely.

Susan hands me my robe, and I emerge from my bedchamber, into the presence chamber where Anne stands. Her hands are clasped at her front, against the rich dark green material of her velvet gown. Even by the dim glow of candlelight, I can see that her face is pale and her eyes are red.

She curtseys to me "Your Grace, please forgive me calling on you at such a rude hour, but I am afraid I bring bad news that cannot wait. I regret to have to tell you that the Queen has died."

Oh God no. That kind gentle soul I had grown to love as well as I had loved my natural mother. Poor lady. I regret I was not there. I should have been by her side. I cross myself. "May God bless her, and take her into his mercy." The clarity of my voice is obscured by emotion. She was so good. Poor Edward will grow up never knowing his mother. Poor child.

Suddenly I realize, Elizabeth! Elizabeth will have to be told. Poor child, to have lost two mother figures in the space of two years. She must hear this from me. Not Anne, who I know does not much care for her. I must tell her.

"I must go to the Lady Elizabeth," I say heading immediately for her chamber. "I must tell her." I stop myself. "Though perhaps, I should allow her to sleep, and tell her in the morning."

"That is perhaps wise, Your Grace" Anne nods.

"And the King? How is the King?"

"My husband tells me that he is preparing to go to Windsor. The Queens' funeral Cortege shall remove there in three weeks time, as according to custom, and headed by Your Grace as chief mourner, of course."

Of course, I am to be the chief mourner. As the next senior female lady of rank after the Queen, I must be her chief mourner. God give me the strength to carry out my duties as Her Majesty would have approved.

The thoughts of the gentle Queen Jane, and knowing she is gone weigh on my emotions again and I can feel my tears returning. I allow Anne to leave; mumbling my condolences for her loss, for it is not only Elizabeth and I who have lost someone beloved to us. Anne, her husband, Sir Thomas, and Lady Cromwell, have all lost a sister this night.

The chapel's air is mingled with the scent of embalming spices, which prick the senses and give a morbid preview of what lays ahead.

The only lights in the chapel on this gloomy day, are the candles that are permanently lit around the mourning black-draped walls. The grey sky echoes the sentiments of the day.

At the altar, high on the bier, lies the coffin of Queen Jane, the black fabric flowing onto the chapels tiled floor.

I reluctantly move in closer. The smell of the spices becoming stronger as does the chilling thought that ahead of me, lies the body of my stepmother.

I must not baulk at the duties that I have been assigned today. Queen Jane never balked at what was right and neither must I. She gave the King such pride; she reconciled him with me and welcomed me to court so warmly and with much affection. By giving birth to the much longed-for heir, she has secured the throne for the next generation of Tudors.

This last thing I can do to demonstrate much I am indebted her, for all her kindness to me, and the risks to her position she took to have me restored to what was rightfully mine. I will do my duty.

Clad in my black mourning clothes, with the prominent white hood, to signify that the Queen we bury today, died giving birth to the Sire of future Tudor Kings, I lead the court in mourning, my train carried by Lady Rochford. I move to the head of the coffin for the last prayer before we journey to Windsor.

The heretic Cranmer blesses the Queen one final time. We pause for a moment and the procession makes ready to take the Queen on her final journey, which I, as chief mourner, will head.

The Queen's black-draped coffin leads us out of the chapel and is placed before my horse that is also draped in mourning black velvet.

With all the pomp and majesty that this day can summon, the solemn procession to Windsor sets off, headed by me, with twenty-nine of the Queen's ladies marching behind, showing the number of years that she lived. All twenty-nine of us, united in grief at the loss of our beloved Queen Jane.