7 September 1533 – Birth of Queen Elizabeth I of England (d. 1603), the Virgo Queen - and a Virgo!
Read about it from her Aunt Jane's point of view in Brandy Emily Purdy's
The Boleyn Wife.
Historical Blogs: Fiction & Fact, your one stop history blogs update.
Excerpt
At last on the seventh morning of September 1533, before the sun had yet to stretch its yellow fingers across the sky to push the darkness away, Anne went into a labor that can only be described as hellish. Lathered with sweat, she kicked the covers from the bed and ripped away her shift. Her naked body bucked and writhed upon the mattress as she screamed and moaned in unrelenting agony.
I stood there transfixed, riveted, as I watched Anne’s blood gush out in a red river from between her thighs, and I wished it would keep on flowing until she was bled dry. Everyday women faced Death on the battlefield that was childbirth, fighting to bring a new life into the world and preserve their own, and many lost, hundreds, maybe even thousands, lost, so why not Anne?
The midwife shook her head and clucked her tongue over Anne’s narrow hips. And Dr. Butts, pausing to wipe the sweat from his brow, had to agree.
“She’s really not built for bearing,” the midwife said.
But even through the hot red haze of pain, Anne was relentless in her torment of the Princess Mary. She ordered her to stand at the foot of the bed and watch, she must not move or hide her eyes.
“I want you to see my son enter the world!” she cried as her body bucked upon the crest of another giant wave of pain.
And Mary watched, silent and pallid, as the slimy, bloody babe slithered from between Anne’s thighs. Slowly her lips spread in a wide smile as all about her silence reigned, no one dared move or speak, or meet Anne’s eyes.
“What is it?” Anne levered herself up onto her elbows. “Why are you all so still and silent? And you,” she thrust her chin at the Princess Mary, “why do you smile so, you insolent bitch? Well? What is it? Will someone please tell me what’s wrong? My son?” she gasped and panic filled her eyes. “Is he…”
The midwife and the doctor exchanged wary glances then turned to the Queen’s mother and sister. Clearly no one wanted to be the one to tell her.
Elizabeth Boleyn turned her pale, patrician face away, suddenly absorbed in admiration of the tapestries.
At last, it was Mary Boleyn who took the infant, now swaddled loosely in a blanket, and approached the bed.
“You have borne a daughter, Nan,” she said gently, as she bent to show her the baby, “a beautiful daughter!”
“God help me! I have failed!” Anne cried. And she rolled over onto her side, turning away from her newborn child.
From opposite sides of the bed the Princess Mary and I shared a smile. All Anne’s boasting and arrogance had come to nothing, she had failed in a manner more spectacular than all her gaudy triumphs combined!
But Mary Boleyn was the soul of compassion, seating herself upon the bed, the mewling babe cradled against her breast, she leaned over and laid a hand upon Anne’s shoulder. “Nan, darling, sit up and look at her; look at your daughter, Nan! Take her in your arms, and I promise, you shall know such bliss as you have never known before!”
And, after a moment, she did. She sat up slowly, shook back her tangled sweat-sodden hair, and held out her arms to receive her child.
The newborn princess reached up a blood-streaked fist to grip a hank of black hair. Anne raised a hand to gently free it, and the tiny infant fingers grasped hers. Her face, usually so guarded as befit the master card player that she was, was like an open book then, and I could see how she marveled at those tiny, exquisite fingers and the red fuzz that covered the tiny scalp.
“Henry’s hair,” she murmured, “she has Henry’s hair! My Elizabeth!” She smiled proudly as, for the first time she spoke her daughter’s name. “You are a true Tudor rose!” And she pressed a kiss onto the tiny red-crinkled brow.
When the King was at last admitted, wading through a sea of courtiers and ladies, nervously nibbling sugar wafers and sipping spiced wine, the bed had been made anew with fresh linens, and the elaborate red and gold coverlet and curtains, removed for the birthing, had been replaced. Bathed and perfumed, and clad in a fresh shift with her hair combed sleek, Anne received her husband with all the majesty of a born and bred queen, propped up against a bank of plump pillows, with her newborn daughter in her arms.
But Henry did not wait for explanations and no one had the courage to tell him the truth before he entered the room. His ruddy face wreathed in smiles, he swooped down and plucked the startled infant from Anne’s arms.
“Ah, hear him bellow!” he enthused at the babe’s shrill, protesting shrieks. “That, my lords and ladies is the voice of a King! Oh, Edward, Edward, my precious, precious boy! At last, at long last, I have a son!” He cradled the ermine and purple velvet wrapped bundle against his heart.
“Your Majesty,” Anne’s voice rose like a sword to deliver the killing blow, “I have borne you a daughter.”
Shrugging off my restraining hand, George crossed the room and went to stand beside Anne’s bed. And, one by one, Weston, Brereton, and Norris joined him, clustering around Anne’s bed in a show of solidarity.
For a moment it seemed as if the King would drop the baby, and both Mary Boleyn and the midwife took a step forward with arms outstretched, poised to dive to catch her if she fell. He stood there teetering and pale, his jaw clenching and unclenching. Then, as if he could not quite believe his ears, he laid the infant down upon the nearest table and unwound the layers of ermine, velvet, and lace-edged linen, until she lay completely bare before him, naked and pink, thrashing her limbs and screaming in outrage.
“I have named her Elizabeth,” Anne announced, “after your mother and mine.”
Behind the King, Elizabeth Boleyn shrunk back to distance herself from this unwished for honor and Thomas Boleyn glared furiously at Anne.
Henry left the child where she lay and slowly approached the bed. His jaw was clenched so tight that as he passed me I heard his teeth grinding. Angry red blotches mottled his face. And briefly his hand brushed against the hilt of the dagger in his belt as if he longed to unsheathe it and smite Anne dead. Never before had I seen a man fighting so hard to suppress his rage.
“You promised me a son,” he spoke these accusing words so softly that only those standing nearest the bed could hear. “The soothsayers promised me a son, ‘a Tudor sun,’ they said, ‘that will shine over England in my image!’”
“It is not the prophecy that is mistaken, Sire, only the timing that is awry. A daughter this time, a son the next,” Anne answered, but it was all bluster and show, I know, I saw the fear in her eyes.
Standing beside the bed, Henry breathed deeply. We all watched as that massive chest rose and fell.
“As you say,” Henry exhaled long and slowly then nodded resignedly. “A girl this time, a boy the next.” And he bent to brush a brisk kiss against Anne’s cheek. “You must do better next time, sweetheart,” he advised, his eyes boring deeply into hers to make sure she understood that he would not be so tolerant of another failure.
“Next time,” Anne nodded, smiling with a confidence I knew she did not feel, before, still weak and wan from the travails of childbirth, she fell back against her pillows and pressed a hand to her brow, shielding her eyes as if she could no longer bear to look upon those who had borne witness to her failure.
“Next time…” Henry repeated before he turned his back on her and strode quickly from the room, with most of the court trailing after him.
Beside the table where the newborn Princess Elizabeth still lay, watched over by Mary Boleyn and the midwife, Thomas Boleyn and his brother-in-law Norfolk lingered.
“What a waste!” Norfolk growled, grimacing with distaste. “A shrieking cunt born of a shrieking cunt!”
“Aye,” Thomas Boleyn agreed, glancing first at his newborn granddaughter then back at Anne, “what a waste!”
And together they hastened out after the King to condole with him and apologize profusely for Anne’s failure lest any of the blame touch them.
30 September 1399 – Henry IV is proclaimed King of England. 
29 September 1227 – Frederick II, Holy Roman Emperor, is excommunicated by Pope Gregory IX for his failure to go on crusade.
28 September 1066 – William the Conqueror (aka William That Bastard) invades England: the Norman Conquest begins.
27 September 1404 – Death of William of Wykeham, English bishop (b. 1320)
26 September 1580 – Sir Francis Drake finishes his circumnavigation of the Earth.
and The Secret Voyage of Sir Francis Drake by Samuel Bawlf.
25 September 1066 – The Battle of Stamford Bridge marks the end of the Viking Age in England. Killed at the Battle of Stamford Bridge: Tostig Godwinson, Earl of Northumbria, and Harald III of Norway (b. 1015). Harald Hadrada had once been the commander of the Verangian Guard in Byzantium.
24 September 768 – Death of Pippin (Pepin) the Short, King of the Franks (b. 714)
23 September 1459 – Battle of Blore Heath, the first major battle of the English Wars of the Roses, is fought at Blore Heath in Staffordshire.
22 September 1598 – Ben Jonson is indicted for manslaughter.
21 September 1217 – The Estonian tribal leader Lembitu of Lehola is killed in a battle against Teutonic Knights.
20 September 1187 – Saladin begins the Siege of Jerusalem.
19 September 1356 – In the Battle of Poitiers, the English defeat the French.
18 September 1180 – Philip Augustus becomes King of France.
17 September 1179 – Death of Hildegard of Bingen, German abbess and composer (b. 1098)
16 September 1400 – Owen Glendower is declared Prince of Wales by his followers.
15 September 1254 – Birth of Marco Polo, Italian explorer (d. 1324)
14 September 1321 – Death of Dante Alighieri, Italian author (b. 1265)
12 September 1213 – Albigensian Crusade: Simon de Montfort, 5th Earl of Leicester, defeats Peter II of Aragon at the Battle of Muret.
11 September 1161 – Death of Queen Melisende of Jerusalem (b. 1105) 
10 September 1419 – John the Fearless, Duke of Burgundy is assassinated by adherents of the Dauphin, the future Charles VII of France.
8 September 1504 – Michelangelo's David is unveiled in Florence. 
6 September 1492 – Christopher Columbus sails from La Gomera in the Canary Islands, his final port of call before crossing the Atlantic for the first time.
5 September 1548 – Death of Catherine Parr, Sixth wife of Henry VIII of England (b. c.1512)
4 September 1260 – The Senese Ghibellines, supported by the forces of King Manfred of Sicily, defeat the Florentine Guelphs at Montaperti.
3 September 1189 – Richard I of England (a.k.a. Richard "the Lionheart") is crowned at Westminster.
2 September 1540 – Death of Lebna Dengel, Emperor of Ethiopia (b. 1501)
1 September 1566 – Birth of Edward Alleyn, English actor (d. 1626)
