It was always sad to leave the children, and one of Mary’s nightmares was that she was riding away from Westhorpe to London, looking back, waving farewell to the children who watched them, their faces puckered, holding back the tears which would be shed when their parents were out of sight.

To love was the greatest adventure life had to offer; but to love was to suffer.

At this time her anxiety was great, because England was at war with France and Henry had decided that the skill and experience of the Duke of Suffolk could be used to England’s advantage. Henry had no wish to lead his men to France so he would honor his friend Suffolk by allowing him to go in his place.

Mary remembered now that moment when Henry had made his wishes clear, how he had beamed on them both—his dear sister and his great friend whom he loved to honor.

They were expected to hear this news and fall on their knees and thank him for it. How little he understood! How impossible it was to explain! Mary had tried to.

“Henry,” she had said, “I am a woman who likes to keep her husband with her.”

Henry had smiled at her fondly. “I know you well,” he told her. “You made up your mind to have Suffolk and none other would do. And you continue in love with him, which pleases me. Having great respect for the married state, I like not unfaithful wives and husbands. And because I have your interests at heart I am giving this man of yours an opportunity to win great honors. Let him make conquests for me in France and you will see how I am ready to reward him.”

Impossible to say they did not want great honors, but only to be together. That would offend Henry, because when he gave he liked the utmost appreciation; and it was growing more and more dangerous to offend Henry.

So Charles had gone overseas, and so disconsolate had Mary become that she, being ill and longing for the quiet of the country and the children’s company, had at length gained Henry’s permission to leave Court.

But even at Westhorpe her anxiety did not fade. Each day she was at the turret watching for a messenger from London for she had given instructions that as soon as there was news it should be brought to her.

The children were continually asking when their father would be with them, and it had been sad explaining to them that he was in a strange country fighting the King’s war.

“Soon he will come,” she promised them; and often they would run to her and say: “Will he come today?”

News came that he and his men had captured several castles, and that the King was delighted with his progress; but there had been no news for some time and winter was approaching.

One misty day while she was with the children she heard sounds of arrival and she could not suppress the elation which came to her because she was constantly hoping that one day Charles would ride unexpectedly to Westhorpe, although this was what he would call her wild optimism, since it was scarcely likely that if the army had returned to England she would not have had some news of this before Charles had time to reach her.

It was a messenger from London and as she could see by his face that the news was not good, she sent the children back to their nurseries before she demanded to hear it.

The news was alarming. The armies had been disbanded; the Duke of Suffolk was at Calais, and among the dispatches which he had sent to the King was a letter which, he had instructed, was to be carried immediately to his wife.

“My dearest wife,” he had written:

This finds me in dire straits. Our position was untenable; the weather was such that to remain in camp would be disastrous. I asked the King’s permission to disband the army, but I had no reply to my request, and perforce was driven to act without that permission. I disbanded the army and started on my way home when a command to hold the army together and stay where I was reached me. It was, as you will understand, impossible for me to do this, and I greatly fear that I have incurred your royal brother’s displeasure by seeming to disobey his orders. You know full well what happened to Dorset. I now find myself in a similar case. Therefore I have gone to Calais because I feel that to return to England would be to place myself in jeopardy …

Mary let the letter fall from her hands.

She was remembering Dorset, returning to England after his campaign, a sick man who had been unable to walk ashore. She remembered her brother’s fury against him and how he had almost lost his life.

Now she feared that his hatred would be directed against Charles. Henry had changed since Dorset had failed abroad; he had become more aware of his power, and that awareness had awakened in him a latent cruelty. In the old days she had never been afraid of her brother; she was now … desperately afraid for Charles.

The little girls and their brother came running to her; they had escaped from their nursery, sensing that something important was about to happen. Little Eleanor came toddling in after them to catch her skirts.

She thrust the letter into the neck of her gown and picked up the baby, while the others made a circle about her.

It was Anne who spoke. “My father is coming back?” she asked.

“Yes,” replied Mary firmly. “In time he will … but not yet.”

“When … when … ?” They were all shouting together and she tried to smile at them.

“As soon as possible,” she answered. Then: “First I must go to see your uncle.”

“Uncle King?” asked Henry.

“Yes,” Mary told him. “And when I come back I hope to bring you news of your father.”

“Don’t go away,” said little Frances, catching at her mother’s skirts.

“Never, fear, little one,” Mary reassured her. “I shall soon be back … with your father.”

Henry glowered at his sister.

“So you thought fit to come to see us.”

“I would, Henry, that you could come to see us now and then.”

“I have matters of state to attend to and those on whom I should rely do not always serve me well.”

“Never was a king blessed with more faithful servants. If they could command even the weather to work for him they would do so.”

“I thought as much. You have come to talk to me about that husband of yours.”

“Who is your great friend and servant, Henry.”

“It does not seem so, Madam.”

“That is because you are not being reasonable.”

His eyes narrowed; his scowl deepened. “I pray you do not bring your rustic manners to Court, sister.”

She laughed and, going to him, boldly put her arms about his neck and kissed his cheek.

“All your scowls and harsh words cannot make you other than my big brother whom I have adored since I was a baby.”

It was easy to soften him. She was his little sister again.

“I was ever over-indulgent to you.”

“How could you be otherwise toward one who had so great a regard for you?”

“Methinks you are about to ask some boon, sister.”

“And you, being the wisest man in Christendom, know what it is.”

“I like it not when my orders are disobeyed.”

“But Henry, your orders would have been obeyed had he received them.”

“He did not wait to receive them. He has made me look a fool in the eyes of Francis.”

“Oh no, Henry. You could never look a fool. Dear brother, the men would not stay together. The weather, the conditions, everything was too bad.”

“So he has been whining to you. And now cowers in Calais, afraid to come home until his wife has pleaded with me to forgive him. By God, sister, you should have married a man, not a poltroon.”

Mary’s face flushed scarlet and she looked remarkably like her brother in that moment. “I married the finest man in England …” She added slyly: “Except one.” But Henry did not see the irony.

“So he is now skulking in Calais, eh?”

“Awaiting your invitation to return.”

“A pretty state of affairs when my generals take it upon themselves to disband my armies.”

“Henry, you have fought in France. You know the difficulties. …”

His brow darkened; he was thinking of his exploits abroad when he had been fooled by wily Ferdinand and the Emperor Maximilian.

“So,” went on Mary quickly, “you will understand how Charles had to make this decision without your help. He made it too early, as we know; but he made it because he thought it the best way to serve you.”

“And what do you want me to say?”

“I want you to tell me to write to him … to bring him home. You know how you enjoy jousting with him beyond all others.”

It was true. He did miss Suffolk.

“You ever knew how to cajole me, you witch,” he said.

She waited for no more; again her arms were about his neck and again she kissed him; and as she did so she wondered how much longer she would be able to wheedle what she wanted from this brother of hers.

Henry had lost some of his enthusiasm for the joust. He would often be shut away with his ministers; his bad temper was very easily aroused, and when he was in certain moods even his dogs would sense it and keep their distance. Wise courtiers did the same.