And at last the message had come. Henry would receive them; but with his invitation, carefully couched, was Wolsey’s more explanatory letter. The King was displeased; it was necessary to placate him; the pair must come to England not as a married couple, but they might call themselves affianced and there should be a ceremony of marriage in England; but in the meantime Henry would receive them.

Thus they rode on to Greenwich.

Henry stood, legs apart, hands clasped behind his back, studying the pair who stood before him. His eyes were narrowed, his little mouth was tight. Secretly he was glad to see them but he was not going to let them know it yet.

A pace or so behind him, her face set in lines of anxiety, stood Katharine, his wife. She would have liked to offer them a warm welcome, but she dared not until Henry gave her a sign that she might.

Mary smiled at her brother, but he was not looking at her. That is because we are not yet alone, she assured herself. When we are, he will be quite different. She glanced at Katharine. Poor Katharine! Her appearance had not improved in the last months and she was looking her age which was several years more than Henry’s.

Mary knelt and kissed her brother’s hand; she then paid homage to the Queen.

“I am so happy to be home,” she said.

Henry’s mouth slackened a little, as he took her hand and led her into the Palace, while Katharine followed with Charles.

“Henry,” whispered Mary as they walked together, “how well you look! You are taller than ever. I had forgotten how truly magnificent you are.”

“I hear that the King of France is tall.”

“Very tall, but lean, Henry.”

“I like not lean men.”

“And ’tis not to be wondered at. I have been longing to see my brother.”

He was softening visibly.

“You have behaved in a manner which I find truly shocking.”

“Dearest Henry, how can you, who have never had to leave your home, your country, your beloved brother, understand the desire to return to all that you love!”

“So you preferred the King of England to the King of France?”

“There can be no comparison.”

“I have heard he is a clever fellow, this François.”

“Not clever enough to see through my little joke. Oh, Henry, I must tell you how I duped them all. As soon as possible let us be alone, you, Charles and I … and perhaps Katharine. I could tell this only then, and you will laugh so much. You will tell me I am méchant… as the King of France did.”

“Now you are in England we shall expect you to speak in English.”

“A little wicked then, Henry.”

His mouth was already beginning to turn up at the corners. How good it was to have her home! How lovely she was—even more so than when she went away—with her French clothes and her way of wearing them. She made poor Katharine look a little dull. It was to be expected, he supposed. This was a Tudor girl, his own sister. They were so alike. It was small wonder that she glowed and sparkled as none other could.

She was looking at him slyly. “Henry, confess something.”

“You forget to whom you speak.”

“Forget I am speaking to my dearest brother, when I have thought of doing little else for so many months!”

“Well, what is it?”

“You are as glad to have me with you as I am to be here.”

“I am displeased …,” began Henry; but his eyes were shining. “Well,” he said, “I’ll not deny it. It pleases me to see you back here at Court.”

She was smiling.

Charles dearest, she was thinking, it is easy, as I knew it would be.

Henry had laughed uproariously at the farce of keeping the royal family of France guessing. The tears were on his cheeks. He had not laughed so much since Mary had gone to France.

“How I should have liked to see you prancing about with your skirts padded. I’ll warrant that long-nosed Frenchman was beside himself with anxiety.”

“And his mother, and his sister. And then they caught me, Henry. The little Boleyn had not padded me carefully enough. The padding slipped. …”

Henry slapped his thigh and rolled on his chair. Katharine looked on a little primly; she did not entirely approve of such ribald clowning. Poor Kate! thought Mary fleetingly. She does not amuse him as she should.

“I would I had been there,” declared Henry.

“Oh that you had!” sighed his sister. “But now we are home and all is well.”

“Is all well?” Henry scowled at Charles. “You should not think, Brandon … nor you, Mary, that you can flout my wishes and not suffer for it.”

Mary went behind her brother’s chair and wound her arms about his neck.

“Suffer for it?” she said. “You would not hurt your little sister, Henry?”

“Now, sister,” said Henry. “Do not think to cajole me.”

“You promised me that if I married Louis I myself should choose my next husband.”

“And would have kept that promise had you trusted me. I meant you to have him, but you should have asked my consent. And to marry as quickly as you did was unseemly.”

“’Twas not Charles’s fault. ’Twas mine. I insisted, Henry.”

“Then Charles is a bigger fool than I thought him, if he allows himself to be forced into marriage.”

“There are ways of forcing, Henry. We loved so much. But he did not want to offend you. The fault was mine. I was so much afraid of losing him. Katharine is shocked, because I tell the truth, but it is something I am not ashamed of.”

Henry scowled at his wife. “You should not be shocked because a woman loves her husband, Kate,” he said.

“Not that a woman should love her husband, Henry, but that before they were married … it is not usual for a woman to insist on marriage.”

Henry laughed suddenly. He pointed at Mary. “That girl’s a Tudor. She knows what she wants, and she makes certain she gets it.”

“’Tis true, I fear,” agreed Mary. “Oh Henry, have done. Charles and I are married.”

“You have not been married in England.”

“But you cannot say we are not married. What if I should be with child—which I can tell you may well be the case. Now I have shocked Katharine again. But I am blatant, Katharine.” She went to Charles and put her arms about him. She sighed. “You must send us to the Tower if you will, Henry, but one boon I ask of you. Let us share a cell, for I never want to be parted from this man as long as I shall live.”

Watching them, Henry’s face softened. They were such a handsome pair and there was much love between them. Henry felt a little envious. Katharine would never be a wife as Mary was. Mary was a woman of passion and he felt more alive since she had come back. Let them pay him vast sums. That should suffice.

He laughed suddenly. “Well, you will have to be married in my presence,” he said. “It shall take place soon and we’ll have a tourney to celebrate it. Charles, I’ll challenge you. Perhaps we’ll ride into the arena disguised as knights from a foreign land. …”

Mary threw herself into her brother’s arms.

“Oh, it is wonderful to be home,” she said.

Henry was constantly in the company of his sister and brother-in-law; and it was useless for Norfolk and his supporters to attempt to poison the King’s mind against them—they were home and he was happy. Moreover he had gained financially from their exploit, and if they were now not as wealthy as might befit their rank, Henry was secretly pleased at that because his sister would be all the more delighted with the gifts he intended to bestow on her.

Mary was his beloved sister, the person whom, at heart, he loved best in the world; Charles Brandon was his greatest friend. At the joust Charles was his most worthy opponent, brilliant enough to arouse the applause of the spectators, but never quite equaling the King. Mary’s laughter was more frequent even than in the days of her childhood. Never before had she been so merry; never before had she been so contented.

He took them Maying with him and Katharine on Shooters Hill, where they were intercepted by men disguised as outlaws who turned out to be gentlemen of the Court, and who had prepared a magnificent picnic for them in the woods—an entertainment after Henry’s own heart, made more amusing, more hilariously gay, because his sister and her husband were present.

Out of love for her he decided that she should launch the latest ship he was having built. Wherever she went, the people cheered her; they said she looked more like the King than ever, and there was not a more beautiful girl in England than Mary Tudor, Dowager Queen of France, nor a more handsome man than Henry VIII of England.

Glowing health and glowing spirits added to their natural beauty, and Henry, making merry in the new vessel which would hold a thousand men, dressed in cloth of gold, his great golden whistle hanging round his neck, was an expansive host; and his sister Mary in green velvet, cut away in the front to show an amber satin petticoat, her golden hair flowing freely about her shoulders, gave the ship the name La Pucelle Marie.

Those were happy days. There was no longer any fear of the King’s displeasure.

When they returned to Greenwich after the launching of the ship, Mary noticed that Charles was thoughtful, and because she was susceptible to all his moods was certain that something was disturbing him.

As soon as they were alone in their apartments she asked him what ailed him. “For it is no use your trying to keep secrets from me, Charles.”

He sighed. “I preceive that to be so,” he answered, and went on: “Now that the King demands such payments from us we are much poorer than others at Court. I have been wondering whether Court life is too expensive for our pockets.”

Mary smiled. “Well, then, Charles, if we cannot afford to live at Court we must perforce live elsewhere.”

“But you are a king’s daughter.”

“King’s daughter second. First I am the wife of a country gentleman with estates in Suffolk who cannot afford to live at Court.”

“How would you like to live in the country?”

“The country … the Court … what care I? If we are together one place will suit me as well as the other.”

“You have never lived away from a Court.”

“Then it will be interesting to do so. Charles, I have been thinking that perhaps I should enjoy life in the country. They say Suffolk is very beautiful.”

“You would find it very dull, I fear.”

“I have a craving for a quiet life. I did not mean to tell you … until I was sure.”

“Mary!”

“I think it may well be so. Oh Charles, I thought my happiness was complete, but when I hold our child in my arms I shall have reached the peak of content.”

“If it is a boy …”

“Nay.” She shook her head. “I shall not pray for a boy, Charles. I think of poor Katharine who constantly asks for a boy, and I am saddened by her disappointments. If my child is a girl I shall be quite happy. Yours and mine Charles—that is all I ask the child to be.”

He took her face in his hands. “You are an extraordinary woman,” he said.

“I am a woman in love. Is there anything so extraordinary in that?”

They sat on the window seat; his arm was about her as they talked of the future. Perhaps, when she was certain, he suggested, it would be advisable to retire to the country, where they could live without great cost in his mansion of Westhorpe. There she would be the Lady of the Manor and the people would love her.

“I should like the child to be brought up there,” she reflected.

“What would Henry say?”

“I shall tell my brother that we cannot afford to live at Court. He will know why.”

“We were fortunate to escape his anger. When I think of what we did … I tremble still.”

“Did I not tell you that all would be well? I know Henry. We shall see him often. He will insist on our coming to Court, so we shall not be entirely cut off. It would not surprise me if he traveled to Westhorpe to see us.”

“To entertain the Court would be costly.”

“Never fear, Charles. I shall make Henry understand how poor we are. And there is something I wish to ask you, Charles. You have two daughters.”

“Yes; Anne and Mary.”

“They should live with their father.”

He looked at her in surprise.

“I am their mother now,” she went on. “Indeed I must be pregnant for I have a great longing for a large family. Yes, Charles, I want to leave Court. I am tired of all the masques and balls. I never want to disguise myself as an Egyptian or a Greek again. I never want to stand on the floor of the ballroom listening to the gasps of amazement when we unmask. I am tired of flattery and deception. I want to be in the country; I want to visit the poor and the sick and the sorry. I want to make them laugh and to show them that the world is a wonderful place. That’s what I want, Charles, with you and my large family of children growing up round me. What are you thinking? You look solemn.”