The hour was nigh. She could feel her body tensing, the muscles preparing themselves. She pushed back the sheets and was walking to the chamber pot when her membranes ruptured. Warm water spilled from between her legs onto the tile floor. She sank back into the bed, teeth clenching as a sudden spasm of pain overtook her.

“Girl!” she called in a voice made thin by nerves. Thankfully, the servant heard her and came running.
“Tell the king that my time has come.”
The servant essayed a deep curtsy before scurrying away again, almost colliding with a man at the door. He moved quickly towards the bed, reaching it in two strides.
“Did you alert the king, sister?”
She could only nod in response as another wave of pain washed over her. He leaned over her, his eyes dark and intense, mirror images of her own. “Shouldn’t we wait until after – ”
Her eyes flashed open, two pools of liquid fire. “No! This time, it will be a boy.”

Anne Boleyn was right – she gave birth to a healthy baby boy, the future monarch of England.