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Despite the fresh blanket of soft, early December snow currently blanketing the palace grounds, the atmosphere inside is anything but serene.
For nearly the last 12 hours, all anyone could focus on was the agonizing screams of pain coming from the bedchambers of their sovereign.
Queen Jane’s child was not due to be born for at least another six weeks, she had not even yet entered her confinement, but even a queen was held at God’s will; this baby is coming, and it is coming now.
No one dares speak it out loud, but one question haunts the halls: come morning, will England have her heir, or will both mother and child perish, leaving England Queenless?
Jane has never felt pain like this before, and when the pangs of labor began, she knew this birth would require the presence of more than just her midwives; the royal doctor and his team had ascended upon her hours ago.
Men, of course, rarely had much to do with child birthing, but when it came to the Queen, no precaution was not taken. The doctor and head midwife have both assessed her plenty, the baby shows no signs of ill-position, but there has been little progress towards birth.
Both are concerned that if the labor does not keep progressing, they will need to perform a cesarean operation. Cutting their Queen open is not something either wishes to do.
Jane is coated in a sheen of sweat, the physical exertion having taken its toll on her. Her mother and sisters are with her, their familiar chaos her only comfort. Katherine and Margaret have each taken a post on either side of Jane, while their mother paces back and forth across the room.
This is perhaps what is most concerning to Jane; her mother never paces.
After all, Frances did do this thrice, she is the closest thing to an expert Jane knows. If she is worried, Jane fears something may be very, very wrong.
Above all else, the one person Jane wishes was here right now is not. Her husband, gallant gentlemen he is, left just this morning to London, to meet a visiting nobility in her proxy, a choice she now regrets making. They had, foolishly, believed with her not even yet in confinement, a short trip to London would be harmless. He was meant to return to Richmond Palace in two days time, upon which they would begin final preparations for their child’s arrival.
She hears the whispers, understands the subtext. That short trip might mean her husband loses his wife without saying goodbye, and never meets the child who would have called him father.
Now, in her deluge of pain, she recalls the night she informed him of their impending parenthood.
The Midsummer Celebration is a favorite of Jane and Guildford’s. The warm air, sunshine beating down on their faces, the daylight that lasts for hours upon hours. He, basking in it, in human form, no longer forced into the shadows of the night. He revels in getting to kiss his wife under the glorious summer sky.
“I love you,” he whispers as they pull apart, blissfully unaware of the boisterous crowd around them. He places a soft, tender kiss to her forehead, breathes in her scent.
“I love you, too.”
Her smile is incandescent, the twinkle in her eyes shining.
She is a portrait he could feast his eyes upon for eternity.
Later, despite the festivities continuing on, their family taking on the role of hosts in their stead, Jane and Guildford retire to their chamber. Not once since he got control of his Ethian powers have they spent a night apart, unless of course duty calls. He quite enjoys her being the last thing he sees at night, and the first in the morning. No separate chambers.
Their lovemaking is slow and passionate this evening; he’s learned over time the power of careful consideration, and how Jane deserves better than a quick, thoughtless fuck.
After, they fall back onto the soft bed, her head resting peacefully on his chest, her fingers drawing circles on his forearm.
She is excited, yet nervous to share her news with him. This morning, her midwife confirmed her suspicions, a child would be coming in the winter. When they’d met, neither Jane nor Guildford expressly wanted children. They each simply viewed a child as a duty they needed to accomplish. It was to happen eventually. For months now, however, she couldn't help but see not the future monarch, but a baby, her baby, their baby. A perfect mix of Jane and Guildford. Dark, curly locks and a penchant for science. Her guiles and his bravery. Guildford was simply too good for there not to be a little bit more of him in this world.
“Husband,” she starts, the title always sending chills down her spine, in awe that he was that to her. “Do we yet have commitments for the New Year?”
He’s wrapped both arms around her, a feeling she will never tire of, for the warmth and safety she finds in his refuge unmatched elsewhere. He pushes a strand of hair behind her ear. She turns her head so she can see his face, where she expects confusion but instead finds his signature smirk.
“Well, I suppose our child shall be here by then?”
Jane sits up immediately, the shock she expected of him now overtaking her.
“You knew? I’ve only just recently realized it myself.”
Guildford shifts so his back is pressed against the head of the bed, he grabs both her hands and places soft kisses to her fingers as he chuckles.
“Jane, I know your body better than I know my own,” he says. “It’s been weeks since you’ve had your courses. I know most men are daft when it comes to these things, but I am not, not when it comes to you.”
Perhaps it is the subtle admission of complete and total devotion or the fact that now most anything seems to heighten her emotions, but she immediately bursts into tears, overcome that he knows her that well, pays so close attention to her that he would know she is with child before she even knew herself.
When she opens her eyes, she sees his own tears have formed, threatening to escape.
He kisses her cheek and wipes her tears away, and she his.
“I was worried when I first found out,” she admits. “I know you once vowed to never sire children, did not want to-”
She doesn’t finish the sentence, but they both know what she is referring to. Once, shortly after they married and she became queen, he told her he did not want children, that he was terrified they’d inherit his Ethianism.
“My love, I have wished for our child for some time now,” Guildford says. “I admit, I once feared of subjecting them to a life like mine, terrified of them being different.”
Now she kisses his cheek, as she often does when he speaks about his insecurities, her reminder that she loves him as he is.
“But,” he continues. “I had never considered my children would possibly be like their mother, rather than me. And I can’t withhold from the world the chance of more people like you.”
Yes, the Kingdom will see their child as its next monarch, but to Jane and Guildford, the growing soul inside her womb was to be a product of their love for one another.
When they fall asleep this night, her back tucked into his chest, their hands are intertwined, resting on her stomach, mother and father already so in love with their child.
He has never shifted so fast as he did when the missive reached him; he’d barely read the second sentence before he was in his horse form, running as fast as his strong body would allow.
The Queen is in labor. The child will arrive sooner than expected. Come quickly.
It’d been in his father’s script, which meant Lord Dudley was deathly serious. He never wrote anything himself, not when he had servants to do that for him.
His hooves pound the earth below as he races back to his wife, caring not how exerted his human self will be when he shifts back, nor about the party of diplomats he left behind in London.
It had been dawn when he left the palace, and now it is dusk as he returns. Jane had been perfectly fine when he kissed her goodbye, now she was possibly-he can not, will not think in what ifs right now.
In the courtyard he shifts back and storms into the palace, his body pulling him to his bride’s, desperate to touch her, to make sure she has not left this earth.
His father and brother are pacing the foyer. When they see him, they rush to him quickly, each gripping a shoulder.
“Guildford,” his father greets him, a forlorn look upon his face. Stan looks as if he’s been crying.
“How is she?” he asks, forcing himself to stay together.
Before either of the men can answer Guildford, a piercing cry echoes through the palace. He takes off running to Jane. For many years, he struggled with his purpose, pondered why a wretched soul like his should be granted the life that he had. But when he married Jane, fell in love with her, he knew immensely and immediately, she was his purpose. He would rather die than see her suffer any pain or tears.
Everyone stands up straight when he comes to a halt outside his bedchambers, the gaggle’s whispers quieting instantly. The group is mostly royal advisors, clergymen, and palace servants; all look somber.
Jane lets out another agonizing cry and he moves to enter the room when one of the royal advisors steps in front of him.
“What on earth do you think you are doing?” The venom in his voice is terrifying, he knows.
The advisor swallows a gulp of air, his forehead creased in nerves. He averts looking Guildford directly in the eyes.
“Your Royal Highness,” the man says. “Childbirth is a woman’s expertise, as you know. Royal protocol states it is in the man’s best interest to take a drink, wait for the natural process to do what it does.”
Guildford feels his nostrils flare, suspects if his Ethian form was a lion, this man would be dead. Right now. He again moves to enter the room and yet the man dares to continue preventing him from doing so.
“Sir, it is not advisable for you to enter that room.”
“Fuck advisability,” he roars. “Move. Now.”
The advisor does not relent.
“I care not at all for your life, but I suspect you do,” Guildford spits. “If you would like to keep it, you will get out of my way, immediately.”
Guildford does not regularly enjoy threatening lives, but if this man does not remove himself from his blockade, he will have a sword through his chest in seconds.
In what is perhaps the smartest decision he will ever make, the advisor finally moves away from the door, which Guildford tears open.
Racing to his wife’s side, he barely processes the scene in front of him. There are cloths and blood and prayer chants and his Jane. She lets out an exasperated breath when she sees him reaching her hands out weakly for him.
Frances, Katherine, and Margaret step aside granting the couple their precious space, as he crouches his face to Jane’s.
“Guildford, you are here,” she cries.
He cannot hold back the tears now as he kisses her and grabs her hands.
“I am here, my love. I would not be anywhere else.”
“The baby, it’s coming too soon,” she tells him.
He is scared, more so than he has ever been in his life, but he knows she is equally as terrified, she is the one whose body is betraying her right now, so he will be strong for her.
“It will be okay, you will both be okay,” he says, a statement as much as it is a prayer.
The doctor locks eyes with him. “She must push, now.”
Guildford nods and turns back to his wife.
“Jane, I love you. You are the strongest person I have ever known, there is not a single person on this planet more capable of this than you,” he says.
With those words, and with every ounce of strength she has left in her body, she pushes when the doctor and midwife tell her to.
Guildford is here, her husband is here and it is time for their child to be born.
“Once more, Your Majesty,” the midwife yells. Jane musters all her resolve and pushes, gripping her husband's hand so hard she fears she’s broken it, but then she feels the baby leave her body, finally.
At first, nothing and then…the shrieking cries of an infant, piercing their ears.
She lets out the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding as she and Guildford’s tears, now of happiness, mix together.
“You are magnificent,” he says, like a benediction, and she’s never loved him more.
“Congratulations Your Majesty, Your Royal Highness,” the midwife says, holding the small bundle of newly born child. “It’s a boy.”
They look at each other, smiling wide. Of course, they didn’t care if it was a boy or girl, it would not change their love, but a boy is naturally what England wants, a Future King to thrust upon the country.
Jane is overwhelmed by the emotions she feels, eager to hold her child, as the doctor prods at her.
“Excellent job, Your Majesty,” the doctor says, sitting up from examining her. “Now, for the next one.”
“The next one?” Jane and Guildford both exclaim.
“Twins!” the doctor explains. “It all makes sense now, that is likely why your labor came about early, Your Majesty. Two babies taking up a lot of room, eager to get out.”
Jane and Guildford are breathless as they look at each other, barely processing their son already born, when she feels another birthing pain come about.
“Oh Gods,” she exclaims, both from the pain and the total realization of not one, but two children.
Again, Guildford’s strong, steady hand is gripping hers, his strength becoming hers as she delivers their second child into the world.
And again, when the infant's cries fill the room, so do the new mother’s and father’s.
She feels his featherlight kiss on her temple as the salty hot tears drop down her face when another midwife exclaims brightly this time, “It’s a girl.”
A son and a daughter, both, despite their early arrival, healthy and hearty, according to the midwives.
Jane has gone from a mother of none to a mother of two in a matter of hours, and she knows now, all of the pain, the suffering, was entirely worth it.
Some time later, after she has delivered the afterbirth and she and the babies are cleaned, the four of them lay in the large bed.
Jane is leaning into the crook of his arm, holding their son in hers, while their daughter sleeps angelically in his other arm.
He has never been quite sure that a God exists, but in this moment, with two healthy children and his wife, alive, all three of them safe in his arms, he knows if there is one, that God is benevolent beyond measure, for what could a man like Guildford Dudley have done to deserve such a beautiful life.
“They’re perfect,” Jane smiles down at their babies.
He kisses her again, and the babies. “You are perfect. Thank you for them. I could walk through fire for a thousand years for you and it would not match the gift you have given me, given us, today.”
They of course don’t know yet whether these two precious beings have inherited their father’s Ethianism, but it does not matter. Their children could be frogs, birds, horses and it wouldn’t matter.
“What shall we call them,” she asks him excitedly, knowing what he’s likely to say. They had playfully bickered about the name of their future child during her pregnancy, but eventually agreed their child would be named after its grandparent, because, despite their ulterior motives, if it hadn’t been for Lord John Dudley and Frances Grey, Jane and Guildford may never have met.
“I believe this strapping young gentleman is John Guildford Grey, and this beautiful young lady, Frances Jane Rose,” he says. The infant royals will be known affectionately to those closest to them as Grey and Rosie, the first decision the new parents make together lying abed.
“I love you, with all of my being,” Guildford says to Jane. “You are the greatest thing that has ever happened to me.”
His earnestness makes her heart swell as she responds.
“And I love you, no crown will ever be worth what you and our children are.”
In the light of the fire glow, they bask in the tiny wealth of fortune sitting in their arms, thanking the Gods for arranged marriages, shapeshifting, and this life.
In the morning, as the bright white snow glistens outside, England will rejoice in the knowledge of its future king and its new princess, but inside a stony palace, a new family will simply be beginning the rest of their lives.