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October 24, 1537
-JANE'S EYES flitted wildly around the dark, dank room.
Where was she? What was she doing here? Jane felt a lump in her throat, sweat gathering on her back and on her forehead, she felt a throbbing pain between her thighs, on her chest, and all over.
She felt famished, thirsty, hot and feverish.
Jane was vaguely aware of people bustling around her; were they her ladies, physicians or what? Jane found she couldn't think straight; and she was beginning to get terrified.
"H-help," she tried saying thickly, her voice fatigued. She felt as if she was in pain for quite some time...but she...she needed to...
"Your Grace," a female voice said, worriedly. Jane struggled to sit up, but she found people were holding her down.
"Don't get up, your Grace," the voice said again, and she felt a damp cloth being pressed into her forehead. "Just rest, just rest. You'll be fine."
My baby. The memory, the thought, the realisation that she had born a baby...a baby son...it hit her smack in the head.
Jane struggled again. "My son, my son," she said as loudly as she could. "I want my son. Edward. Edward, my baby. My son."
The voice came once more, soothing and calm. "His Royal Highness Edward is doing very well, your Grace. He is safe, alive and healthy. He left you in good terms. Be calm now, you shall see him soon. The whole of Christendom is celebrating."
Jane squinted; all she could see were misty figures shuffling around her bed, washing her feet, feeling her forehead and palms, and replacing the damp cloth on her sweating head.
"My son," she said again. "My son. Where is he?"
"He is safe," the voice said once more, this time with a trace of worry. "She is growing delirious," another voice said softly. "That is bad," a male voice said gravely, "That is terribly bad. Get me the priest."
"Henry," Jane cried suddenly, trembling from heat and fever. "Henry, my love, my husband. Where is he? Where is my Henry? Where is my son?"
"He'll be here, he'll be here, my Queen, shh now, shh. Rest." Someone rubbed her shoulders.
Jane shook free. "No! Where is my son! I want my son! Henry! Henry, where is our beautiful boy?" More hands held her down, and she heard an old voice recite prayers in Latin.
She couldn't take it anymore. She felt so hot, so tired and so terrible. Jane felt the fever pulse through every vein of her body, racking it furiously. She tried to cling onto something, anything...but all she could remember was holding a small, white little bundle in her arms, with a tall, handsome figure standing beside her and clinging onto her hand and laughing and grinning.
Jane screamed. "Where is my son, I want my son, my son, Edward, Edward! Henry, my love, my sweet, I am yours to obey and serve, your will is mine..."
The prayers went on, and the ladies held Jane the Queen down tightly.
With a sudden cough and a jerk, and one last pained cry, Jane's head fell against her damp pillow.
Where is he? Tears of pain, of confusion, of sadness and grief filled her eyes. She looked wildly around the room. Where is he? Where is my husband?
Another spasm of pain rocked Jane's weakening body. It began to shut down.
She remembered her baby, healthy and chubby and squalling, arms flailing...
"My son," she said softly, pain overtaking her. Jane struggled to keep her eyes open; for surely that was what Henry wanted her to do? Stay alive and be their son's good mother? Stay alive, and keep being good friends with the Lady Mary, and little Elizabeth, both of who had no mothers left in the world?
Jane gave one final, inaudible murmur which the ladies-in-waiting didn't hear, over their frantic whispers and the priest's prayers.
And with that, Jane lay herself to rest, utterly exhausted.
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...
