At the Mercy of the Queen: A Novel of Anne Boleyn by Anne Clinard Barnhill Page B

surely loved Their Majesties; one had only to look at him as he stared at the king and queen. Lady Jane had once again turned a friendly gesture into an opportunity to humiliate Madge.
    *   *   *
    This August day, the queen had sent Madge out to gather some berries in the nearby woods. Blueberries, blackberries, raspberries, and flowers, especially the lacy white flower the queen loved so well that many were calling the bloom “Queen Anne’s lace.” Madge had quickly found Cate and Shadow strolling through the herb garden off the royal kitchen. Soon, the small party was on its way to the green wood.
    “What will the queen have made with the berries? A pie? Jellies?” asked Cate, always interested in the queen’s doings.
    “I know not, Cate. Perhaps Her Grace wanted her chamber to herself for a few moments during the warmth of day. Or perhaps she knew I longed for the out of doors and found a suitable errand for me,” said Madge, her small pail in one hand, Shadow’s leash in the other.
    The two women approached the bushes that edged the deeper forest and Madge saw dark, plump berries scattered there. Birds perched along the small branches and Cate ran at them, shooing them away.
    Madge reached for the nearest cluster and plucked as many as she could.
    “If anything were to happen to the queen in childbed, what would become of us, think you?” Cate asked softly. Imagining the death of a sovereign was treasonous, and expressing such thoughts dangerous business indeed.
    “Do not speak of such things. We pray she will be strong in childbirth. Any other event will bring us back home to Mother, a fate which would suit me fine. I tire of the court. The Boleyns, the Howards, the Seymours, that horrid Cromwell—all bickering and shoving their way to the king and his blessings. I want none of it!” whispered Madge. Her hands kept a steady rhythm as she picked the berries, hearing the satisfying plop as each landed in the pail.
    “Yet, childbirth is the most dangerous time in a woman’s life, Maddie-girl. I’ve been told by the serving women that the king will order his own doctors to tend to the queen. You must not let that happen. Those men know nothing of birthing a babe,” said Cate.
    “What should I do? I can’t overrule the king,” said Madge.
    “When the time comes, go to the kitchen and ask for Dame Brooke. She is the best midwife in London. She has saved many a babe and mother, too. I’m told she’s the one you want,” said Cate.
    “Dame Brooke.… When the time comes, Cate, I shall heed your words,” said Madge.
    At that moment, Madge noticed two men swaggering up the small knoll toward them. She could not tell who they were but she nudged Cate.
    “I hope Sir Norris has not followed me here. If it is he, we shall hurry back to the castle,” said Madge.
    “I do not believe that lively gait belongs to Norris, dear. I know those legs and that jaunty cock of the head. ’Tis my lord Brandon and his whoreson.”
    Madge shaded her eyes to get a better view of the men. She recognized Sir Churlish’s confident stride as the men made their way to the edge of the green wood. Part of her wanted to run deeper into the shade of the forest while another part seemed unable to move. The men covered the distance quickly and before she knew it, Madge found herself in a deep curtsy to the duke of Suffolk, Charles Brandon.
    “Your Grace,” she whispered as she stared at the weeds and brambles at her feet. She noticed the fine leather of the duke’s boots.
    “Lady Margaret. Please arise. You as well, Mistress Cate. Marvel not that I know your name—my son has told me much of the Lady Margaret and her lovely nurse,” said Brandon as he gently took Madge’s hand and helped her to her feet. He was handsome with dark hair and eyes, the same coloring as his son. Though a little older than the king, Brandon retained much of his fitness and youthful manner. His eyes gave no hint of the sorrow he must have felt