The Royal Romances

The Child

Suffolk, East Anglia, England
March 1410

My husband smells of cheese and old sweat when he is on top of me. His teeth, the ones he has left, are more brown and black than white. I focus on the drops of sweat that begin to form on his forehead. Even that is better than being consumed by the repulsive odeur radiating from every part of his body. As so many times before, I try my best to disconnect, to leave my body and let him do what is necessary. He and I have a duty, and there is no other option than to follow through. So I keep my focus on the drops of sweat, which for every thrust he makes, one or two of them land on my cheeks. With my eyes tightly shut, I pray in my mind for his swift release.

Even though I know without a doubt that it has to be this way, for just one night, I wish he would let me read or simply go to sleep early without one of his intrusive visits. But of course, I know he will not leave me alone until I give him what was promised. So one more time, I close my eyes while he does his business, and try my best to hold my breath. Soon, after he lets out an angry grunt and collapses on top of me, I can open my eyes once again. He is a very heavy man and I have trouble breathing until he finally decides to roll over to his side of the bed and sleep. His loud snores usually keep me awake but tonight I do not mind. It becomes my time to think, to hope, for something else to come along and change this poor existence. I stare up at the high ceiling and talk to God, wishing he for once would hear my prayer. Please Lord, give me a son.

The mansion that is now my home is a great deal larger than what I was used to. My family is not poor but my brother and I still shared a room and there were rarely any coins to spare on extravagance. Yet we never went hungry and I could never recall that neither me nor my brother ever lacked for anything.

Sometimes in the early hours of the morning, when my eyes are still shut and there are no signs of life around me, I truly believe that I never left. In my mind I am still in our modest cottage next to my brother, lying awake, listening to my mother's light footsteps from the hall as she goes to feed the chickens. But now it has been two years since my father, much by pure luck and cunning, managed to arrange my marriage to one of the most prominent and also one of the oldest gentlemen in eastern England. I was furious when he told me of the match. I felt lost, like a piece of meat ready to be consumed and forgotten. When I met the Duke for the first time, it became clear within seconds that he could never show me any affection, and I most certainly would never care for him. However I had to keep all of these feelings inside and all I could do was obey. I had no choice and only two months later we were wed and I was forced to leave my family and the life I knew behind. During that first painful week my pillow was wet every night and my husband was muttering that I had to "cheer up or at least pretend". Quickly I realised that sulking would get me nowhere, least of all back home, and slowly I started to create a new life. A new routine in a place where every move I made was being watched and analysed.

Two years has passed since I married the Duke and I am still not with child, a fact my husband reminds me of every night when his sweat and cheese stench rubs off on me once more. I know every wife must endure these visits but I can not comprehend how they survive it. For every time he enters my body, it feels like a part of me withers away. The parts of me that are headstrong, inquisitive and naive become smaller for every night that passes. For each thrust, he takes my spirit away without giving me what I want. Maybe this is part of becoming a woman, but if it is I want no part of it.

Several times a day I go down on my knees in my private chapel and pray for a child. I long deeply for someone I can love and cherish and someone who can make his own way in the world. Hopefully, a healthy baby boy would finally give me one night's undisrupted sleep. I do not think I'm asking for much. I simply want to read for a bit and then sleep through an entire night without my husband oozing and loudly snoring by my side.

For every night that passes, I grow more desperate in my search for solitude. Thankfully my father convinced my husband to let me keep my tutor which means that most days, I can get lost in the world of science, exciting foreign languages and of course my favourite subject: history. It is a big part of my daily routine, and if I am not studying with Martin, I often walk around the gardens and grounds. They appear to go on for miles, which they in fact do, and it gives me some peace of mind to look over the acres of growing land and the apparent never ending wild forest. The untamed lands are the only part of my new home that I can stand. Probably because it is the only thing which reminds me of home. The estate is grand but all the large, empty rooms give me a queer feeling and I can not understand how my husband could have lived here by himself for so many years. Sometimes, especially on nights when I can't fall asleep, I am convinced that the place is haunted. I know that several people have died violently within these walls and maybe that is why I am certain that I hear the former lady of the house as soon as I am alone. A distans footstep in the night, a door that slams shut without warning or strange voices I do not recognise. During the nights I am certain we are not alone. But then, as the morning comes, I shake the feeling off and go about my day. In daylight I feel like a fool for ever beliving in something as childish as ghosts and I thank the higher power that no one can read my mind.

No matter how many distractions I create, I can still not ease my increasingly worried mind. I begin to visit the chapel five times a day, praying for my unborn child to arrive and for my family's health. A few days later, news travels from Cornwall that my brother has caught a fever after a trip to London. Now there is nothing to do but wait. Two days after my father's letter arrives, the Duke of Suffolk, my lord husband, turns 46 and I remain fourteen. We have no celebrations but my husband gets so intoxicated that he for once can not perform his marital duties. No news arrived from my father or my brother's wife Margaret. Despite my prayers, a week later I bled again.

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Hey guys! So happy you found your way to my story ☺️

This is actually something I "finished" a while back but I want to make it better! So hit me up with thoughts, critisism etc: don't hold back. Hope to hear from you soon!