The Forgotten Queen by D. L. Bogdan Page B

and since night and day had all run together in this strange world of isolation I did not mind. His activity reminded me of life, life beyond the chambers and the life I would soon hold in my arms.
    At last in February my waters broke. It was a queer sensation, the warm liquid that poured down my legs followed by the tight, searing pains that seized my belly and caused me to cry out with surprise. The room was filled with at least a hundred people to witness the occasion. There must be no mistakes in birthing a prince; no imposters, no monsters that are switched with a healthy country babe. The onlookers would crowd and cram about my bed and watch me, legs spread and coated in blood, hair matted to my forehead with sweat, as I delivered them a prince. They took my air away; I could not breathe. There were so many of them! I could not stand it. I choked on my screams, trying to retain some kind of dignity during this ordeal. My breath came in spurts, faster and faster till my head began to tingle and hum. Dots of light danced before my eyes till I saw nothing but light, white, carrying me away to a world of colors—blue for the waters carrying my son into this world, red for the blood pounding in my ears and running down my legs, purple for the pain, the pain of royal expectations, the pain gripping my womb. Colors, they swirled and spun around me, faster, faster. I merged with them, floating in and out of their world, reaching, grasping. Peace. What was the color of peace?
    And then I was plunged into blackness.
     
    Voices permeated eternal night. My eyes would not open; they were laden down. Had they put the coins on my eyes already, lest they fly open and frighten the mourners?
    “A bonny prince!” a male voice cried, but it was a strange cry; slow, drawn out. He was far away, in another realm. I could not get to him. My body would not move.
    “The queen . . . near death . . . blood loss,” a woman was saying.
    I wanted to hold out my arms for the child. They said I had a prince; I knew I would have a prince . . . I could not move. There was no strength. The blackness claimed me. I ran but stumbled, rendered blind. My soul was permitted this exercise, but my body remained still, chained into submission by my hemorrhage.
    “Pilgrimage . . .” I heard the familiar low strain of Jamie’s voice resonate through my darkness. I wanted to speak, to beg him, No, do not go. Not another pilgrimage . . . Must reach him.
    I could not.
    He left.
    They all left.
    Blackness . . . blackness . . .

    The celebrations ushering in Prince James’s entrance into this world were in full tilt when I at last regained consciousness. The baby was christened; the Bishop of Glasgow, Patrick Hepburn, who stood in as my proxy groom at my first wedding ceremony, and the Countess of Huntley were named godparents, and all without me.
    I remained abed, weak as a kitten but at last able to hold my son. How bonny he was with his auburn hair and rosy skin! He smelled so sweet, like the milk of a country maid, calling to mind my days in the nursery at Sheen with my brothers and sister, and a knot welled at the base of my throat as I thought of my Arthur and how happy he would have been for me. How different would life have been had he lived. Would he and Princess Catherine have had a houseful of bonny princes by now?
    I did not dwell on such unhappy speculations long but instead reveled in my son. Jamie was delighted with me and fussed over the prince as if he were his first child. He was ever solicitous and enjoyed cuddling with the boy as if he were a nurse. I basked in the affection he granted him, reveling in the fact that I had given Jamie what no other woman could: a prince and heir.
    Indeed Scotland warmed to me as well; they were thrilled with their fertile queen, deferring to me with new respect. Gifts were sent to me from all over the land and England as well—bolts of fine fabric, plate, jewels.... I was in a thrill of delight as I sifted