Just a Queen by Jane Caro Page A

my cheekbones were high and my face well moulded. My skin was bright and fair, if a little pale. My lips have always been too thin and my teeth have never been good, but I was lively and vivacious and men found me desirable. My figure is still good. It is not marred by the thickness that marks women who have suffered through many pregnancies.
    The one compensation of my age, however, is the cessation of my monthly cycle. Unlike other women, I could not withdraw from the wider world when my bleeding was upon me. The tide of history rolled on, regardless of my physical woes. I could never reveal my travails to any who served me; we dealt with the matter in silence, as women do. Kat knew, and Blanche and my bedservant and laundress, and maybe Cecil was also aware of the changes in my mood that so often accompanied my menses, but none ever broached the subject. It is the curse of Eve, sent along with the pains of childbirth to punish her female descendants for their part in the corruption of Adam. We poor women can do nothing but bow our heads and suffer in silence and shame.
    I tried to schedule my duties around my monthly cycle, but sometimes a clash was unavoidable. How I dreaded the sense of stickiness on my thighs that told me, if a meeting went overlong, that my wallops were over-burdened. I was queen, I could ask for a recess and I did so, but my face felt hot as I hurried from the room, deathly afraid that a telltale mark stained the embroidered cushion upon my chair, or that some unspeakable but familiar female smell had escaped from me as I swept out. I know not if such things did occur, no one would ever have dared mention them, but I did not wish the men who served me ever to be reminded of my weakness as a woman.
    There is another compensation of age, of course. I am still alive. The Queen of Scots will never now grow any older.
    But, I lose track of my story and must return to a past when I was young, fertile and full of hope. When I emerged from my close-stool, the messenger handed me the letter that announced that the Queen of Scots was with child. It was hardly unexpected news. She was a young woman, recently married. It was the usual result – indeed the primary purpose – of such arrangements, yet it hit me like a blow. ‘Your mistress is with child? And so quickly.’
    â€˜Aye, Your Majesty. The entire country rejoices at the tidings.’
    â€˜I shall write personally to your mistress with my congratulations.’
    I waved the man away and retreated to my private apartments. There I gave way to a surge of emotion: part grief, part envy. As I sobbed, my womb heaved and cramped and drove home my own barren state. The blood that flowed from it had never felt quite as repellent.
    â€˜Oh!’ I cried out. Good Mary Sidney was immediately by my side.
    â€˜What ails Your Grace?’ She placed a comforting hand on the small of my back.
    â€˜The Queen of Scots is with child.’ And as I spoke the words, a particularly nauseating cramp twisted my innards, causing me to groan aloud.
    â€˜But you seem ill, my lady, and in pain. Surely such news alone cannot have brought you to this state?’
    â€˜No. It is women’s troubles merely. As you say, the news of the Queen of Scots’ pregnancy is hardly unexpected.’
    â€˜Allow me to fetch you a warm compress, good madam, and an infusion. They can help soothe the pains.’
    â€˜It is foolish of me to complain of them so. The Scottish queen will face far worse when her time is upon her.’
    Like a royal death, a royal pregnancy always brings with it a sense of uncertainty. Will the child be a boy or a girl? Will it survive the dangers of birth? If the mother is a mere queen consort, as my mother was, as Katherine of Aragon was when pregnant with my sister, there is less concern – at least among the men who rule the world – whether the mother will survive. The child she bears is all in all to them, especially