Judith Arnopp
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| Henry Tudor Tower Pembroke Castle |
During a recent visit to Pembroke castle I was struck by the
warren of rooms where, so history tells us, the birth of Henry Tudor took
place. A long, low dimly lit corridor leads to a circular chamber with a great
fireplace and thick stone walls. The room was cold even in September and, even
with the benefit of a large fire, tapestries and cushions to exclude drafts, I
could imagine the unenviable discomfort of a child confronted with the terror
of giving birth there on the bleakest of mid-winter nights.
28 January 1457 – Pembroke Castle
A maid hurries along a dark passageway, the chilblains on her
fingers smarting from the cold jug she carries. When she opens the
door to the chamber, the draught hurtles along the frigid corridor behind her, lifts
her petticoats and hastens her entry into the room. The door slams behind her,
the torches flicker, plunging the company into gloom.
The ill-lit chamber stinks of
sweat and wood smoke, lightened only by the fragrance of tangy aromatic herbs
said to aid a birthing. As the maid approaches the bed and places the jug on a
table, the girl on the mattress flings out a hand and grabs at the midwife’s
arm.
The light from the fire accentuates
her shadowed eyes, the drained white face. There is blood on her chin where she
has bitten through her lip in her efforts to stem her screams.
“She is too young,” the maid
whispers to the midwife. “She cannot survive.”
As the older woman stands up to
press a hand to her aching back she casts a warning glare in the maid’s direction.
“Rubbish,” she says loudly for
the benefit of the girl on the bed. “She is young and strong; I’ve seen weaker
women than this survive it.”
Her words are for the benefit of the
patient. The maid has assisted in many births and knows that this one has
little chance of success. Lady Margaret is only just turned thirteen, she has
the build of a child; her great pregnant belly is obscene against her stick
thin limbs and undeveloped chest. If the mother survives the child won’t; and if
the child does manage to breathe at all, it will undoubtedly be motherless.
The maid turns away and pours a
cup of wine, leans over the bed to try to coax the girl to drink.
“Try just a sip, my lady. It will
fortify you.”
The cup moves closer to Lady
Margaret’s mouth but, before she can drink, another
spasm takes her. She grabs
the maid’s wrist, making her drop the cup, slopping wine that soaks and spreads
as fast as a plague across her shift.
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| Pembroke Castle photo- Judith Arnopp |
Bulging eyes fix upon the maid, sweat
emerges on the noble brow as her childish mouth opens in a grimace of furious
pain. The maid tries not to mind the nails that bite like tiny knives into her
skin.
“It’s all right, my lady. You are doing
fine; women are built for childbirth.”
A turn of her head reveals the midwife
burrowing beneath the girl’s shift, her deft hands palpating her great
distended belly. At another assault Lady Margaret jerks up her knees and, with
a twist of pity, the maid notices they are knobbly as a child’s and patterned
with small blue bruises.
“That’s it, my lady, you can push
now.” She speaks loudly, fighting to sound authoritative.
Margaret ducks her chin into her
chest, the veins on her forehead standing out like blue rope as she grits her
teeth and growls like a wild animal. The maid’s eyes sweep across the scene. Blood
is smeared upon her ladyship’s thigh and there is more on the sheets, a
steady flow puddling on to the floor.
From her seat between Lady
Margaret’s knees the midwife runs her forearm across her brow, leaving a
crimson streak. Her eyes meet the maid’s and with a brief shake of her head she
admits the cause is lost.
The maid swallows, sends up a prayer
before bending over her mistress again.
“Come on, my lady, you are a
fighter. Fight now for your son.” She shifts on the mattress, looking up into
Margaret’s face, forcing her to maintain eye contact. “I will tell you
when; I will push with you.”
For another hour they battle on,
only strength of will keeping Margaret from giving up, from letting go. Each
time she begins to drift away she is dragged relentlessly back to the nightmare
that her life has become. Pain washes in, receding too briefly before it floods
back in again but then, just when she feels she can push no more, something
shifts, and a light appears in her darkness.
“Get on the floor and squat.” At
a signal from the midwife the maid thrusts her hands beneath Margaret’s armpits,
supports her as she slides from the mattress to squat on the floor. When the
next pain comes, oblivious of the blood and the birth fluid that soaks the
rushes around her, Margaret bears down with what strength she has left.
This time something happens and with
each effort her son makes progress, thrusting and
slashing his way into the world.
©Juditharnopp2014
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| Pembroke Castle - photo-Judith Arnopp |
***
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| Rowland Lockey [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons |
Margaret Beaufort was just thirteen when she gave birth to her
only child, Henry, later to become the father of the Royal Tudor dynasty. Margaret,
a wealthy heiress and valuable asset to the Lancastrian cause, was married as
an infant to John de la Pole. That marriage was dissolved and later, aged just
twelve, she became the wife of the twenty two year old Edmund Tudor. When he
succumbed to plague and died in Carmarthen just six months later, Margaret was already
heavily pregnant.
In the middle ages it was normal for marriage to take place at a very
young age but consummation did not usually take place until the wife was
physically fully developed. Margaret’s body was underdeveloped even for a
twelve year old and the immediate consummation caused some indignation among
their contemporaries. Edmund’s eagerness to bed his wife was due, not to passion,
but rather to his impatience to get his hands on her vast estates which would
only be his on the birth of their first child.
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| Henry Tudor Michael Sittow (circa 1469-1525) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons |
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| Raglan Castle -photo Judith Arnopp |
While York was in power Margaret and Henry were separated. While she,
with little hope, doggedly and quietly worked on his behalf he spent his early
years in the custody of Yorkist adherents, the Herberts at Raglan Castle.
Henry’s youth was spent in exile in the courts of Europe. But
Margaret never lost hope and worked untiringly for her son’s cause; her determined
and single mined battle for what she saw as Henry’s birth right can only be
admired.
***
I am the author of seven historical novels, the three most recent
being set in the Tudor period. Although the Tudor family have been written of
time and time again I find them endlessly fascinating. I like to burrow beneath
their ostentatious clothes and jewels to try to access the minds beneath – How did
it feel? How did it smell? What did they think?
Intractable Heart US Link.
You can find
more information on my webpage: www.juditharnopp.com
And my
Amazon page: http://www.amazon.com/Judith-Arnopp/e/B003CGLWLA/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1411465196&sr=1-1
