Reluctantly Mary said goodbye to the peace of the country. She left governesses and nurses in charge of the children with her own special instructions as to the care which was to be taken of them. Then sadly she rode away from Westhorpe.

Charles laughed at her melancholy.

“Once you are back you will realize how much you miss the pageantry and splendor at dull old Westhorpe.”

“Do you know me so little then?”

“But you used to love to dance, and did so more tirelessly than any.”

“That was when I thought it was an accomplishment to dance. If it is, I no longer care.”

“Do not grieve. You will soon be back again.”

“There is Margaret to entertain. And Henry may refuse to let us go. Oh, Charles, in the joust, you must take care. …”

“I can face any who rides against me, you know.”

“The one I fear most is my brother. Never unhorse him, Charles. Always remember … he must be the victor.”

Charles laughed. “Dearest, you seek to teach me a lesson which I mastered years ago.”

She was silent. “I am growing a little afraid of Henry,” she said after a while. “He is changing. I loved him dearly … I still do. When he was a boy, and I seemed so much younger, I thought him perfect. But since he has come to power …”

“Ah. Power is not always good for a man.”

“And supreme power, Charles. …” She shivered. “There are times when I am so sorry for Katharine. She was pathetic, Charles, when she looked at our little Henry and I fancy that my brother has not been kind to her, and has implied that it is her fault they have no son.”

“They’ll get a son in time.”

“They have been unlucky so far.”

“Well, they have Mary. Katharine can produce healthy children, it seems.”

“You understand now why I do not wish to leave Westhorpe. It contains all my treasures when you are there, and I want to keep them safe.”

“Safe! We’re safe enough. Henry is our friend.”

She shook her head. “He was Katharine’s friend once. Sometimes I doubt whether he still is. And when I remember her bending over our Henry’s cradle, when I remember the look of longing in her face … yes and fear, Charles, I am afraid too … afraid for you. So, dearest, as you love me, while we are at Court, have a care.”

He leaned toward her and touched her hand.

“You talk as though I were going into a den of lions.”

“Sometimes I think you are.”

“But you will be there, my love, to protect me.”

He might laugh, but she was serious. She would not be really at peace until they had done a turnabout and, instead of riding toward London, were on the journey back to Suffolk.

During that visit there was cause for uneasiness. Henry had been determined to show his sister Margaret the splendors of his Court, and had appointed Charles to select twelve gentlemen while he himself did the same. They were to make the opposing teams who would joust in honor of the ladies.

Mary had sat with Katharine and her sister Margaret watching Charles ride out in white velvet, with crimson satin, shaped like lozenges, making a splash of color on the white, his entire costume decorated with gold letters—M and C entwined; the King’s party were as dazzlingly attired and their letters were H and K.

Charles had been as clever as usual, arranging that his side should joust brilliantly and be only that fraction less skillful than the King’s. But there were times when some spirit of mischief would make him seem as though he were going to beat Henry; then Mary believed he remembered her and resisted the temptation.

She had sat with her sister and sister-in-law—both rather sad women at that time: Margaret because, having lost her first husband, the King of Scotland, she had recklessly married the handsome young Angus and was beginning to find him unsatisfactory. Katharine because, on account of her inability to bear a male child, she had begun to glimpse the cruelty of her husband. Only Mary was content with her state. Yet she must be fearful too, for Henry was changing, and no one was completely safe at his Court.

How delighted she was when she was able to return to Westhorpe; but it was not long before the summons to Court was repeated because Henry enjoyed the company of his youngest sister and her husband more than that of any others, and was not pleased that they should wish to live in retirement. Back to Court they went, and back again. Mary was in London at the time of the Evil May Day when she with Katharine and Margaret, who was preparing to return to Scotland, pleaded for those unhappy apprentices and secured their pardon. But the episode was an ugly one and gave her a further glimpse of the manner in which her brother’s anger could be aroused.

She was more urgently reminded that she, who had so much to love, had a great deal to lose, and she longed for the peaceful security of Westhorpe.

Henry was loth to let her go, but this time she had a good reason.

She told him about it as they walked in the gardens of Greenwich and he reproached her for wishing to leave him and his Court.

“I have indulged you much,” grumbled Henry. “You disobeyed me when you took Brandon to your bed. It was scarce decent. I might have had you both in the Tower. But I forgave you.”

“Like the beloved brother you have always been.”

“So beloved that you constantly wish to leave us.”

“Not constantly, only now, because Henry, I am in a certain state of health. …”

“What! You are with child?”

“Yes, Henry, and I believe I should live quietly in the country while awaiting its birth.”

Henry turned to look at her, his lip jutting out. “You already have a healthy boy.”

“And you have a bonny girl.”

“I want boys.”

“They’ll come.”

“They’re being uncommonly shy about making their appearance.”

“You are too impatient, Henry.”

“Impatient! I am the most patient of men. You have a boy and another coming, like as not. Margaret has a boy and a girl. And I … the King … who must give my kingdom an heir … am frustrated. Why do you think it is so?”

“Because, brother, you are impatient. Kate will bear you many fine boys, I am sure.”

“I would to God that I were. Sometimes I think there’s a blight on my union with Katharine, Mary.”

“Nay, Henry. But you understand that I must leave the Court. I want the fresh air of the country and the quiet life at Westhorpe. In the circumstances you will let me go.”

Henry lifted his shoulders. “I like it not when you leave us. But I would not have your health suffer.”

Mary lost no time in leaving Court lest he should change his mind.

Mary did not stay at Westhorpe but took up her residence in another of her husband’s country mansions—Bishops Hatfield—while she awaited the birth of her second child; and here little Frances was born.

Looking down at the little one, Mary rejoiced that she was a girl.

“The child one has, always seems exactly what one wanted,” she told Charles. “That is the miracle of childbirth.”

“I know at least one child who disappointed her parents at birth,” Charles reminded her.

“My niece Mary. But Henry has an obsession for boys. Perhaps I should have said it is the miracle of contentment.”

“Strange,” said Charles; “you are his sister and in some ways not unlike him, in others so different.”

“Perhaps I was luckier than Henry. I knew what I wanted and I did not ask for what was impossible. I wanted you, Charles, and any child of yours would please me. Henry wanted sons—and that is for Providence to decide. You see I was wise in my desires.”

“We could so easily have lost this life together,” Charles told her, “and methinks Henry, in his desire for sons, was more reasonable.”

She laughed. “You’d forgotten I always get what I want.”

“And Henry?”

“I pray he will too.” She was sober suddenly. “For if he does not,” she added, “he will be very angry, and I believe, Charles, that when Henry is angry he can be very cruel.”

The christening ceremony of little Frances Brandon was less grand than that of her brother, Henry, although tapestries were hung in the church of Bishops Hatfield for the occasion, and the chancel was decorated with cloth of gold. Henry the King was not represented but Katharine had sent two ladies to represent her and the young Princess Mary. One of these was Anne Boleyn who had been Mary’s maid of honor when she was Queen of France.

Mary was pleased to see the girl again. She had always been interested in Anne. Such a composed little creature she had been and always so elegant. She was growing up to be a very distinguished young lady who had profited from her stay in France and wore clothes which must have been self-designed as they were so original; and she contrived to make the other royal representative, Lady Elizabeth Grey, look most insignificant.

But Mary’s thoughts that day were all for her daughter. It would be wonderful to have another child in the nursery. Perhaps their next would be a boy. Even if it were a girl she would not mind. She adored her little Frances already, being certain that she could detect in her—as she certainly could in little Henry—some resemblance to Charles.

How good the child was during the trying ceremony.

She lay blandly staring up at the canopy of crimson satin on which roses and fleurs-de-lis had been embroidered.

Dear innocent little baby, thought her mother. One day you will have to go to Court because, after all, my precious one, you are the niece of the King.

Christening was a time for good wishes.

May she find happiness in her husband as I have found it in mine, prayed Mary.


THE YEARS WERE PASSING and the love between Mary and her husband was strengthened. She had always believed that theirs would be an ideal marriage; he had been too cynical to accept this view, but she had weaned him from his cynicism, and he substituted her creed for his.