Page 6 of The Cardinal's Daughter
She nodded doubtfully. ‘You see,’ she said, ‘you have most of the classic signs of pregnancy. But of course, it cannot be.’
Foolish as it was, I began to hope against hope that I really was with child. I even wondered if the lusty Gregory had crept into the dorter and lain with me as I slept. As the weeks and months passed, my conviction grew, for my belly got larger and my breasts even leaked milk. Up until then, Dame Joan had expressed increasing concern about me, but it was that which made her explode in outrage in a very un-nun-like way.
‘You cannot deny now that you are with child! This is an unmistakable sign. You have deceived us all, making us think you were ill! You do not deserve our compassion. I will have to speak to the Abbess.’
In tears, I protested my innocence, but no one believed me, and they were angry when I could not name the father. I was not thrown out of the abbey, as I had feared, but banished to the guest house, where I could not contaminate the nuns with my sin, for it stood by the gatehouse, set apart from the enclosure by some distance.
Secretly, I rejoiced, for I was allowed to wear lay dress, so as not to embarrass visitors, and I had a chamber to myself furnished with more worldly comforts than a nun’s cell, including – God be praised! – a brazier. And I would definitely soon be a mother; Dame Joan had left me in no doubt about that, even though I had no idea as to how it had come about. Yet I could not wait to hold my child in my arms. I did not think about what I would do after it was born.
There came the day when I felt my first pangs, which increased in intensity as the hours passed. Dame Joan tended me with brusque efficiency, and gave me some poppy juice for the pain, which made me light-headed. My travail was long and arduous, and when a night had passed and dawn was breaking, Dame Joan examined me and said, ‘I cannot see the child’s head.’ She placed a hand on my belly. ‘But I can feel him moving. I think you should push now.’
I pushed and I pushed, with no success. I strained and grunted, but nothing emerged. The pain was so great that Dame Joan gave me more of the poppy juice, which sent me to sleep. When I awoke, it was clear day and the pains had gone. I struggled to come to myself, to greet my child.
‘Where is he?’ I croaked.
‘Alas, there is no babe.’ Dame Joan looked exhausted.
‘Of course there is! Is he dead? I want to see him.’ My voice was rising in panic.
‘Sister Dorothy, there is no child. Your pains gradually ceased and you passed a lot of wind. Look, your belly is slacker. I can feel your womb and there is nothing in it.’ She pressed hard on the base of my abdomen.
I did not believe her because therewasa child, a darling little boy, lying swaddled beside me on the bed. I reached for him, took him into my arms and pressed him to my breast, kissing his downy little head as he nestled against me.
‘What are you doing?’ Dame Joan asked sharply.
‘Nursing my son,’ I said, vehement. ‘You are a wicked woman, for you have deceived me in saying I had no child. Were you going to take him away and have him adopted? Thank Heaven I woke up in time. He is mine, and nothing shall part us.’
She stared at me. ‘But there is no babe, my poor child. You are deluding yourself.’
I looked down at the infant nuzzling at my bosom. He was real to me in that moment. His blue eyes were regarding me wisely. ‘You must have lost your wits,’ I told Dame Joan. ‘My son is here, in my arms.’
She stood up. ‘I must go and speak to Mother Abbess.’
When she had gone, I kissed the child’s head. ‘Don’t fret, little one. The Abbess will set things right.’
It was a week before they persuaded me to accept that the baby was a figment of my imagination, the fruit of the poppy juice and my own visceral need. Both the Abbess and Dame Joan apologised for having misjudged me, and I was restored to the community. But I was left bereft. My body quickly returned to normal, but my heart was empty and aching. I resumed monastic life indifferent to the world around me, lost in my own private hell.
And then one day, I had a curious and wonderful experience. Kneeling in my stall, gazing at the crucifix on the high altar, I was suddenly aware of a movement above me. Looking up, I saw a dove fluttering in mid-air below the vaulted roof, shining with a brilliance that made me blink. I had been fasting; I was feeling a little light-headed, yet I swear to this day that it was real. I was amazed, enraptured, and had to shield my eyes. I felt alive again, lifted. I knew I had been shown the way. From my lips poured prayers of gratitude.
I had to wait another two years to take my final vows, but I was content to do so, knowing that I was finally settled in the religious life. Those years passed peacefully. I was happy, glorying in the greatness of Almighty God, His Son and His Mother Mary.
‘By working, we find the truth,’ Dame Margaret often said. I was as diligent in the work of my hands as I was in prayer. I milked cows, sheared sheep, sowed seeds, picked fruits and vegetables, scrubbed floors, distributed alms to the poor, cooked, sewed, cut grass and ministered to the sick in the infirmary.
The outside world was not so tranquil. The King had quarrelled with the Pope and was systematically breaking the ties that bound England to Rome. He had appointed a new archbishop of Canterbury, a Dr Thomas Cranmer, who annulled his marriage to Queen Katherine and declared his secret unionwith Anne Boleyn valid. It was shockingly clear that he had married her without waiting for a divorce.
‘All this he has done to get himself an heir,’ Dame Margaret opined. ‘It is wicked!’
We all agreed with her. No good could befall a kingdom when its ruler was living in sin. And so it turned out.
In 1534, the year in which I was to take my final vows, Parliament passed an Act declaring the King Supreme Head of the Church of England. Sitting solemnly in Chapter, Mother Abbess informed us that she had given her assent to the Act and sworn the oath acknowledging the King’s new title, as required by law of all persons in authority.
‘I could do no more,’ she told us, her voice shaking. ‘We do not want the King’s wrath descending on this house. We must show ourselves loyal subjects.’
We were all scandalised. To our Holy Father the Pope, Christ’s Vicar on Earth, we owed all spiritual duty and obedience, and we were appalled at being cut off from our Holy Mother Church in Rome. But what could we, a house of women, do?
To make things worse, I was fighting my own battle just then. Despite knowing that I had a vocation, and being so close to making my final vows, I was again finding it hard to resist the calls of my base instincts, the demon flush on my face and chest when I imagined what my life would have been like if I had married and was bedding with my husband nightly.
‘All nuns struggle with this,’ Dame Margaret told me when, red-faced, I confided in her. ‘It is not a natural life for a woman. Pray to our holy Virgin Mother to grant you peace.’
