| |
It was early morning. Rather than wake a maid, Anne struggled to prop herself up against the pillows of her bed in her confinement chamber in Plessis. Even that effort left her gasping. A sharp pain seared from her eye through her head, and she tensed, fearing one of the headaches that left her as limp as a wilted flower. Looking down at her grotesquely swollen hands and belly, she felt sorry for herself. More than anything, she wanted to leave this bed in which she had lain for two months at her doctors’ orders. They had not even allowed her to sit in a chair or walk in her room.
“Do you want to lose the child?” M. Desmon threatened.
“Is it true?” Anne asked Mme Michelle and the midwife.
Neither believed it. They gave her infusions of hawthorn berries and cramp bark, and salads of cress, chicory and sweet herbs. Yet they would not contradict the doctors when the life at risk was that of the heir to France. Anne did not believe M. Desmon, either.
Nothing helped, though. Anne felt sicker and sicker as her pregnancy advanced. Food nauseated her, and she vomited almost every morning. Seven months along and she still suffered morning sickness. It was unfair. Especially since no matter how little she ate, she inflated like a bladder. Her bowels were loose, too, and her headaches debilitating.
So here she lay. Two entire months! She felt desperate to go for a walk. Just a little walk. In truth, she wanted to ride like a wild thing, the way she had as a girl out on the wild coast of Brittany. Just then Fanchon, who had been asleep near her feet, wiggled himself up and licked her hand before snuggling in beside her, heaving a huge sigh and settling back to sleep.
Anne’s thoughts shifted to Charles, and her resentment lay as heavy as an undigested meal in her belly. He had not been to see her since he sent her here after the Christmas court. Nor did he write. Madame la Grande, who had joined her during her confinement said that after she left, all his generals who had survived his first Italian campaign came to Amboise. Her sister-in-law complained that they encouraged his dreams of Italian conquest and added, “They say the Italians are laughing at us. And of course, Duke Louis never gives up on acquiring Milan.”
Despite her fondness for the duke, Anne knew her sister-in-law was right. Louis wanted Milan as much as Charles wanted Naples. Louis was one of his most fervent supporters of the Italian adventure. They were off together now making a winter progress to the estates of Charles’s richest nobles to garner support for another campaign this summer—if Anne’s baby was a son. But no one matched Charles in his obsession with reconquering Naples.
Out of nowhere, Anne’s heart started to thump wildly, sweat drenched her chemise, and she gasped for breath clutching one hand to her chest. Then without her volition, her body stiffened and her back arched. She groaned, jerked, and shuddered.
Fanchon leapt to his feet and barked hysterically until Anne’s maids and ladies ran to her. Then, chaos erupted.
One person asked, “What is happening!”
Another said, “What should we do?”
She could see horror on their faces as tears she could not stop seared her cheeks.
I cannot speak. Anyway, I know no more than you. Grâce à Dieu, Mme Michelle, you have come.
When her lady-in-waiting pressed Anne’s shoulders down against the bed, she felt calmer although she still could not control either her shaking or her tears. Then, just as quickly as they had begun, the convulsions stopped.
After ordering a maid to send for the doctors and then bring cool water, Mme Michelle stroked the queen’s cheeks and forehead. “Do not worry, Madame Anne. You will be fine. We are going to turn you on your side.” Michelle took Anne’s hand.
To her great shame, as they were turning her, Anne lost control of her bladder and bowels. It was the ultimate indignity and she no longer tried to stop her tears.
“Run for the midwife. Start counting like this one . . . and . . . two . . . and. Keep counting until she stops moving.” The urgency in Mme Michelle’s voice frightened Anne and her tears turned to howls.
She felt no pain. So why call for the midwife? What was happening to her baby? Why was it so hard to breathe? Everything around her began to swim. Then she knew no more.
* * *
WHEN ANNE OPENED HER eyes, she had no idea how much time had passed. People with long aprons surrounded her bed, she could smell blood and vinegar, and she ached all over. The only person she recognized was M. Desmon, who snapped his fingers close to her eyes. She blinked.
“Madame la Reine? Do you know who I am?”
What a silly question. “Yes, Monsieur.”
His voice seemed far away and so did hers when she replied, her words slow and far apart. She yawned, surprising herself. “I am so tired.” As he continued talking, she closed her eyes again and fell asleep.
She woke because her whole belly tightened in the grip of a searing cramp.
“Noooo.”
She was wailing as she scrambled to her knees. Hands reached out to grab her, but she fought them off. “It is too soon! It is too soon!”
“She is having contractions! Bring the midwife.”
Arms reached around her shoulders, and a voice murmured close to her ear. “It is me, Mme Michelle, Madame Anne. Let me help you from the bed.”
Anne struggled a moment longer. Then she slumped, sobs racking her body. “Why, Mme Michelle, why?”
Her friend rocked her as the next, longer contraction peaked.
Once they had readied Anne for the birthing chair, the midwife said, “Do not lose hope, Madame la Reine. Your baby wants to come now. It is early, yes. But he may be fine.”
But when it was over, Anne brought forth a girl. And neither of them was fine.
* * *
CHARLES TIPTOED TO Anne’s bedside, leaned over her and kissed her, his tears flowing when he saw her open eyes.
“Oh, my dear wife, I have been in tears since I learned of our loss. And you suffered without me, that is the worst. I have ridden non-stop to be with you.” He took one of her hands and pressed it to his cheek as he sobbed.
Anne lay dry-eyed on her pillow, staring at their joined coat of arms on the cloth above her head. Once more, she had failed to give France an heir. She had no comfort to bring to her husband, and his grief did not move her. She wished that it did, but it did not. For three days, she had nursed her loss, each day further sunk in melancholy, wondering what she had done to earn God’s wrath.
His sister had held her in her first moments of grief. Madame la Grande shared her sorrow, spoke of the pain she still suffered at the loss of her first child almost twenty years previously. Where had Charles been when she needed him? Out drumming up support for a needless war over Naples that would bring suffering to innocent people who had done him no harm. As her people had done him no harm. Yet he robbed them to fund his prideful war despite his promises.
After he dried his tears, he raised his eyes to hers. “You do not weep?”
“I have been weeping for three days without cease.”
“You are so pale. It frightens me. The doctors tell me you almost died.” His voice shook. “You are precious to me, Anne. You must not die.”
It would have been delightful to hear him say those words when they had first married. Or when he had returned from Italy before Charles-Orland died. She wished she cared whether she lived. But she knew her duty. “Dear husband, I do not intend to die. I have been ill, and I am recovering. I will be better in time.”
Her tone was flat, and he looked uncertain, but he persisted. “My sister says you named our daughter Anne. It is a good name. For her beautiful mother, and for the mother of the Virgin.”
Anne shook her head. “Your sister named her.”
“Oh.” Charles sounded nonplused. “Well, it is a good name.”
Anne did not reply.
“Would you like to bury her with her brothers?”
“Whatever you think is fine.”
Charles sat back and gazed at her silently. She did not return his gaze, nor did she break the silence. She understood he was worried, but she could not bring herself to care.
He said, finally, “I shall speak to the Bishop of Tours. It would comfort me if our little Anne joined her brothers so we can visit them together. I shall order it. Now, let me get a book and read to you. We both enjoy that.”
She turned her head to him. “You are good, Charles. I would like that.”
He did his best. She knew that. But in the end, her misery defeated him, for her rumination over God’s reasons for taking all their children obsessed her. He stayed only until he had attended the funeral. At the end of March, he left Plessis, extracting a promise that she would travel to Amboise for Easter.
She rose from her bed to watch him depart. She had not yet been churched. Perhaps she could use that reason not to go.