216 Days (Violent Delights Book 12)

Chapter 16: The siege according to Catherine of Valois, December 6, 1421

My child makes its bloody way into the world with little fan fare. I wake up at the usual time, but am not hungry. The baby is due tomorrow by my calculations. But it decides to come a bit early.
The pain starts at noon. It's not terrible, just sharp. I have been longing for this day. And after nine long months I'm ready to have this thing out of me. More than ready in fact. I think we both are.
Midwives come. The room is shut up. The pain gets worse. And worse. And I cry for my mother. I want my mother there. For a weird moment I want him there. There's some vague fondness for the strength of my husband's arms. Not my husband, the father of this child. His tough strong arms, thick as they wrapped around me. His quiet promise not to hurt me.
Now that is broken. His child hurts me. His child did not hear his promise to be gentle with me. And his baby is not gentle.
I don't strain long I know. I'm all bloody. I don't recall the last time I was this filthy and sweaty. I just want it over. I want to jump out that window. And in some weird way I want to pretend he's there. Outside the doors. Waiting to hold me. Something. Of course I know he's not. I'm doing this alone. Not alone the people who really care about me are here. But he did this to me. It's his fault as well I'm like this.
And our son is born. Son. I barely know it's over when I hear the midwives say to me, "It's a boy."
Then the baby starts screaming. Pathetic, mewling cries. I'm in pain and bloodied. Agnes hugs me as I sob.
"He's fine," the midwife says, wrapping the child in a fresh blanket.
I hold out my arms. Do I have to hold him? I suppose. I don't really want to.
"No," I shrink back my arms, "Take it away."
They do.
I still hear screaming. I can still hear it screaming.
Agnes and Jeanette clean me up. I fall asleep for a couple of hours. I'm woken by the screaming from down the hall.
I get up and wrap up in a robe. I should see it I suppose.
The nursery is set up sparsely. I didn't ask them for anything so it's whatever this child's shrewd father ordered. Which is the necessities. A few nurses. A neat if simple cradle I'm sure was used for other royal children. A tapestry with english writing on the wall.
One of the wet-nurses, a girl almost, is holding the baby. They all start, to see me.
"It's fine. I wanted to see him. Why is he crying?" I ask.
"He's eaten, he's just crying," the wet nurse says, weakly, holding out the child.
"No, he's fine," I say. When I think of taking him all I think of is dropping him. I look down at the baby. Small, patchy though his skin is fair like mine. Cheeks red from crying. A soft, fuzz of pale blonde hair. How when his father's dark and so am I? My brothers are a paler brown but not blonde, and all of Henry's brothers are dark.
The baby sobs pitifully. I cannot stand the sound.
"He just cries, some babies do," one of the nurses says, as I must wince.
"Shh," I say, laying a hand on the baby's chest. It does nothing. Poor creature. I don't know why we're surprised he's yet to stop screaming. There are probably monsters just rattling around in his head. Forever seeing demons in the shadows, like his father does. So I bore another mad Henry.
"Prince of England and of France, you don't like that do you?" I ask, looking down at the child as he sobs. Like he's protesting being born in general. Protesting that his father and I so callously conceived him. Well, that was our error. I admit this child should not be here.
"What do you shorten Henry to, in English?" I ask, looking around at the nurses. My english is broken but it's there, and they're all english.
"Harry, my lady," one of them says, "Or Hal."
"Call him Harry, don't call him prince. He should get to be a baby," I say. Haunted by the demons in his mind already. I wonder, do they all go mad right away or does it take a bit? "My parents always had the staff call us by our names, the nurses. I was Kate then. He should get to feel real somewhere."
"Very good," the governess says.
"There little Harry? See, you're all right," the wetnurse tries to encourage him to nurse. He reaches out a hand for me, soft little baby fist red with rage, as she puts his face to her breast.
"Go on," I say, tapping his fist. Your father doesn't like those either apparently, but you need to eat. God, what a mess. And where is this poor scrap's fucking father? Is he going to have a peaceful night's sleep not knowing what we brought into the world? He shouldn't get to. I'm torn apart. Forever stained forever spoiled. I'm the mother of this child now and I just want to run away. And he does get to run away. I pray he has a miserable night. His son is fresh in this world and he's across the sea someplace doing as he pleases, leaving us alone. Like I'm a common whore. A womb and not a wife. And his child has less of his attention than men give their bastards. He disgusts me.
But then so does his son. The baby nurses then immediately sets to crying again. So this Henry can't be happy either. Neither of them can be unless they're making everyone around them miserable.