Jean Plaidy - Mary, Queen of France: The Story of the Youngest Sister of Henry VIII Страница 33

She declared herself delighted with the house. As soon as they arrived she made the acquaintance of the resident servants as though she were a squire’s lady instead of a Queen; and they who had prepared to be overawed were immediately captivated by her free and easy manner. Mary and Charles had brought with them a very small party from Court consisting of two knights, one esquire, forty men and seven female servants—a small retinue for a Queen. But she had insisted on it and had estimated that the wages which would be paid out at Westhorpe were no more than three hundred and twenty-seven pounds a year.

“This,” she had said, “we can afford; and, Charles, I intend that we shall live within our means.”

It was a great delight to her to play the chatelaine; there was so much to learn, she explained to the governor of the household, and when one was brought up to be a Queen, one’s education was neglected in many other ways.

She insisted that her little son sleep in her chamber; and she herself often attended to him. She was delighted with the new life—so different from everything she had known before, so much more intimate, so much more domestic.

“I do not envy Kings and Queens,” she told Charles. “They see so little of their husbands and wives, they might as well not be married!”

Her contentment spread throughout the manor, and this was a very happy household.

But she was already planning for the future.

“Your daughters must come to Westhorpe, Charles, as we arranged,” she said. “Also the little one you rescued from the river. I hope young Henry will soon have a little brother or sister. I told you I want a large family.”

“Mary,” said Charles soberly, “you know Henry will soon be back at Greenwich.”

Her face clouded.

“You think he will command our return?”

“He said the Court was not the same when we were away.”

He saw the fear in her eyes, and he went on quickly: “At the moment you do not wish to leave Westhorpe, but when the novelty has gone you will grow a little tired of our home where nothing much happens.”

“Something happens all the time. I am happy here, and that is the best thing that could happen to anyone. I shall never grow tired of it. I don’t want to go to Court. I am afraid. …”

“Since when have you been afraid?”

She put her arms about him and held him close to her.

“Since I had so much to lose,” she said.

“Why should you lose that which you treasure?”

“Treasures can be easily lost in my brother’s Court, Charles. I want to stay here forever … because here I feel safe.”

He understood. But he did not believe she would be allowed to have her wish this time.

It was a happy day for Westhorpe when the little girls arrived. Mary and Charles watched them from the battlements—three somewhat bewildered children, the eldest not more than six years old.

Mary’s heart was immediately touched as she watched them dismount from their ponies, when the eldest took the two younger ones by the hand as though she would defend them from all the perils that might be waiting for them.

“Come,” cried Mary. “Let us go down to them.”

She ran down the staircases to the courtyard, for she had not yet grown accustomed to being able to act without ceremony, and still found it one of the most enjoyable advantages of her new existence.

She went to the little girls, and kneeling, embraced the three of them at once.

“My dear little daughters, welcome home!” she cried.

Anne, the eldest, who was the spokeswoman of the party, had been rehearsing what she would say when she was confronted by her stepmother who, she had had impressed upon her, was a queen.

She tried to kneel and glanced sternly at the others to remind them of their duty.

“Your Highness,” she began.

Mary laughed.

“Call me your mother not Your Highness,” she said. “I think it is difficult for a mother to be a Highness. Now which is Mary and which the little water nymph?”

The smaller child, who had already seen Charles and could not take her eyes from him, was pushed forward by Anne.

“She was nearly drowned,” said Mary.

“But my father saved her,” added Anne.

Mary lifted up the child and kissed her. “And how glad I am that he did, my little nymph.”

“Nymph is not her name,” Anne protested.

“But it shall be my name for her,” replied Mary, who was delighted with this child because of her obvious devotion to Charles.

“You do not look like a queen,” said Anne. “You have no crown.”

“I did wear one … once,” Mary told them.

“And you have lost it?”

Mary nodded and the faces of the young children puckered with sympathy.

“But I am not sorry,” Mary went on quickly. “It was very heavy, and very uncomfortable to wear, so methinks I am happier without it.”

The three little faces showed incredulity.

“It’s true,” said Mary. She turned to Charles and slipped her arm through his. “Is it not so?”

“I believe your mother to be speaking the truth,” he said.

“Is she indeed our mother?” asked Anne.

“I am indeed,” answered Mary.

“Mine too,” said the youngest child.

“Yours too, my little nymph. And now I want you to see your brother. He is young yet and may not appreciate so many new sisters, but he will in time.”

Thus Mary gathered her new family to Westhorpe and settled down to enjoy the golden days.

Before long distinguished visitors came to Westhorpe. The children, who were playing in the nurseries, were the first to see the approach of the party and ran down into the gardens to tell their parents.

Mary was in the enclosed rose garden gathering the blooms which she herself would arrange later; Charles sat on a wooden bench near the fish pond which was a feature of this garden, marveling at the enthusiasm with which his wife still performed all these simple tasks. He could not believe that she would continue to do so. He often felt that he wanted to live every minute of his new life to the full, because he was certain it must change. They would not be long left in peace.

Anne led the two little girls into the rose garden crying: “Dearest Father and Mother, there is a crowd of people riding on the road.”

The little one who had been given the name of the Water Nymph, usually shortened to Nymph, ran to Charles and was lifted up and placed on his shoulder.

“A party of riders,” said Mary placidly. “I wonder if they are coming to Westhorpe.”

“They look as if they are coming to Westhorpe,” said Anne.

“Then mayhap we had better go and see who our visitors are,” Charles said.

Mary held one of the roses to her nose. She had no wish for visitors. Visitors could mean the disruption of the peaceful routine, and this was the last thing she wanted.

“The scent of these roses is delicious.” She made them all smell in turn; and because the children were most contented when they were with Charles and Mary, they were as ready to forget about the visitors as she was.

But they could not ignore the sounds of excitement; and soon a servant, flushed of face and bright of eye, came to break the peace of the rose garden.

“My lord, my lady, the Queen’s party is here.”

“The Queen!” cried Mary. “And the King?”

The servant looked aghast, as though that would be too much to be borne. It was enough that the Queen alone was here.

Mary and Charles, the children following, made their way to the courtyard where, looking exhausted and weary with the long journey, was Katharine.

Mary embraced her and Charles knelt. Katharine was smiling. “I am so glad to be here,” she said. “The journey has been tedious.”

“And you are in need of refreshment and rest,” Mary said. “We are delighted that you should so honor us.”

With Charles on one side, Mary on the other, Katharine was conducted into the hall of Westhorpe.

“So this is where you are hiding yourself away,” said Katharine.

Then she saw the children who had run up, the Nymph clutching at Charles’s doublet, his daughters keeping behind their stepmother.

“Your Grace has seen my large family?”

“Your family! I had thought there was but the boy.”

“I always wanted a large family,” laughed Mary. “And you know my impatience. Well, I have four children already. Who could do better than that in such a short time?”

The children were presented to Katharine, who patted their heads tenderly.

She sighed and turning to Mary said: “I have just been on a pilgrimage to the shrine of Our Lady of Walsingham.”

Mary knew for what reason; Katharine was praying that she might bear the King a son.

When Katharine had rested in the apartments which had been made ready for her as soon as she entered the house, she wanted to see the nursery; and as Mary watched her bending over the cradle of her son, she felt a deep pity for her sister-in-law. Never, since her great happiness had come to her, had she felt as grateful as she did at that moment. How easy it was for the lives of royal people to go awry.

“Mine never shall,” she told herself fiercely.

Katharine, returning to Court, talked to Henry of the household at Westhorpe. Henry was amused; he laughed heartily.

“So she has become a simple country woman, has she? How long will she be contented with that life? Depend upon it ere long she will be requesting to come back to Court.”

Katharine was not so sure, but she rarely disagreed with the King’s opinion; and when Henry heard of the nurseries of Westhorpe containing three little girls and a bonny boy—Mary’s own son at that—he became glum.

He wanted to hear all about the boy, and Katharine was not sure which would have distressed him more, to have learned that his nephew was ailing or, the truth, that he was a healthy boy.

When Katharine told him: “Little Henry is growing so like you,” he was pleased but almost immediately disgruntled because he had not a boy to whom he could give his name.

“I feel so much much better since my pilgrimage to Our Lady of Walsingham,” Katharine told him. “I am certain that she will soon answer my prayers.”

But of course she would, thought Henry. There was his good and pious wife. As for himself, did he not hear Mass regularly? Was he not as devout as God could wish?

He was suddenly good-humored. “We will have a merry masque,” he declared. “My sister Margaret will soon be with us. We must show her how we amuse ourselves here in England, for I believe the Scots to be a dour race. Now if we should have a tourney our champions must be there. Suffolk must come back to Court and Mary must greet her own sister.”

Katharine remembered, a little sadly, the country idyll she had disturbed, and imagined the messengers arriving there with the King’s orders.

Moreover she thought of Mary, the mother of a son, being at Court with Margaret who also had a boy. Henry would be delighted to have his sisters at his Court, but he was going to be very envious of them.

The Birth of Frances

WHEN THE KING COMMANDED, there was nothing to do but obey.

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.