Fanfiction of The Tudors
Pairings: Henry VIII/Jane Seymour and Anne Boleyn/Charles Brandon
This is an AU, it's obviously not going to follow history. If you have any questions about this story leave it in a review and I will try and respond as soon as possible to help you understand.
This was a difficult chapter to write. I have never had to experience these events (I have been through something similar) so I hope my portrayal is emotional and sensitive.
Disclaimer – I don't anything except my ideas and my imagination. If I did, then Charles Brandon would have been mine! Henry Cavill is yummy: D
Also thank you to my favourite -ers and followers :3
And now, a warning of triggering events.
Time Of Your Life
Whitehall Palace, 2nd May, 1534
'There's nothing wrong with a taste of what you've paid for'
-The ballad of Mona Lisa by Panic At The Disco!
A large man entered the room, sweat already appearing on his heavy brow, his hands nervously twisting the sides of his dirty satchel in his large unwashed hands. Women's chambers were usually forbidden to men during childbirth unless there were serious problems. He sighed, praying he'd keep his head if the baby didn't make it. His king had been growing more and more upset without the birth of an heir. He had even overheard people saying his Majesty was thinking of legitimising Henry FitzRoy.
He looked anxiously at the four ladies in the dim, warm room. His eyes took in the tapastries lining the room, noting how they were all scenes of love. He knew the tapastries were not allow to depict scenes of war and things that could disturb the pregnant lady. Crowding the room lay two cradles; one a cradle of ceremonial value (5 foot long and lined with blankets of silk and fur) and a small one for everyday use, wooden and old (the cradle that had been used by Prince Arthur in 1486. Sitting on the chest of drawers were dozens of beautifully embroided baby garments. He closed his eyes, remembering the King's excitement as he announced the upcoming birth of his son, reminising of the Queen's delighted face as she showed courtiers the prince's gowns that she had lovingly stitched by hand.
Lady Joan Plight was by the edge of the large bed, crouched by the raised bloodied silk sheets, monitoring the baby's progress. Her mousy brown hair was pulled back into a tight bun, making her already sharp and plain face seem more severe.
Mistress Alice Watson was sitting at the top of the large king sized bed, wiping Jane's sweaty forehead, her eyes fearful, her hand shaking.
Her Majesty was screaming in the middle of the bed. Her usual pale skin was pink and blotchy from exhaustion. Her pretty blue eyes were streaming with tears and her blonde wisps of hair were pressed against her damp face. She twitched in agony, hands flying to her stomach.
Lady Eleanor Banks, the one who had fetched him from his game of chess, took his mud-flecked cloak and offered him a pint of ale which he refused. He needed to keep his wits around him if the Prince was going to have a chance.
"The babe's cord is wrapped round its neck and it's laying awkward. The poor babe has no chance unless we cut open her Majesty" whispered Maggie, her stained teeth gnawing at her bitten nails. Linacre flinched, surely he could not sacrifice the life of the queen for the King. Caesarians were only used if the mother was dying, as the result only ever led to the death of mother anyway. The baby rarely survived anyway.
"Yellow…yellow for victory. How ironic" laughed Joan bitterly, her fingers dancing over the yellow fabric of her serving dress.
"God save us all" pleaded Linacre as he approached the bed.