Henry’s eyes were alight with pleasure. “News, my friends,” he said, “and I tell you before it becomes known to any others. My hopes are about to be fulfilled. The Queen is with child.”
Mary impulsively went to her brother and, putting her arms solemnly about his neck, kissed him. Henry held her tightly against him, tears glittering in his eyes.
“Dearest, I am so happy for you,” said Mary.
“God bless you, little sister. I told Kate you should be the first—outside ourselves—to know it.”
Charles took the King’s hand and kissed it. Then he cried: “God bless the Prince of Wales.”
“Your Grace,” murmured Compton, “there is no news I would rather have heard.”
“Yes, yes,” said Henry. “This is a happy day. You know how I long for a son. My heir … the first of them. Kate and I intend to have a quiver-full.”
“It is a good sign,” Mary told him. “So soon after your marriage.”
Henry pinched her cheek. “You talk like an old beldame. What do you know of such matters?”
“What I learn at your Court, brother,” murmured Mary with a curtsy.
Henry burst into loud laughter. “Listen to this sister of mine! She’s a pert wench and not chary of making this known to her King.”
“She is sure of the King’s love,” answered Compton.
Henry’s eyes were very sentimental as he put an arm about Mary. “Aye,” he said, “and she is right to be. Pert she is, and I fancy somewhat wayward, yet she is my sister and I love her dearly.”
Mary stood on tiptoe and kissed him again.
“You see,” said Henry, “she would use her wiles on me. It is because she is going to ask me for something, depend upon it. What is it, sister?”
Mary looked from Compton to Brandon and her eyes rested a second or so on the latter.
“I shall not abuse your generosity by asking for small favors,” she replied. “When I ask it shall be for some great boon.”
“Hark to her!” cried Henry delightedly. “And what think you? When she asks, shall I grant it, eh, Compton? Eh, Brandon?”
“Of a certainty,” answered Compton.
“Our friend Charles is silent,” said Henry. “He is not sure.”
“I am sure of this,” Charles answered, “that if it is in your Grace’s power to grant it, grant it you will. But the Lady Mary may ask for the moon, and that, even the greatest King in Christendom could not grant.”
“If I wanted the moon, I should find some means of getting it,” replied Mary.
“You see, our sister is not like us mortals.” Henry was tired of the conversation. “We shall have the foreign ambassadors to entertain this Shrovetide, and I shall give them a banquet in the Parliament Chamber of Westminster; afterward there shall be a masque. We shall dance before the Queen and it shall be in her honor. She herself will not dance. We have to think of her condition. When the banquet is over I shall disappear and you, Brandon and Compton, will slip away with me.”
“And I shall too?” asked Mary.
“But of course. You will choose certain ladies. Some of us will dress ourselves in the Turkish fashion—not all though. Edward Howard and Thomas Parr are good dancers; they shall be dressed as Persians, and others shall wear the costume of Russia. The ambassadors, with Kate and the rest of the spectators, will think we are travelers from a foreign land. …”
“Oh,” cried Mary, “it is to be that kind of masque! I tell you this, I shall take the part of an Ethiopian queen. There will be veils over my face, and perhaps I shall darken my skin … yes, and wear a black wig.”
“Perfect!” cried the King. “None will recognize you. Charles, have Howard and Parr brought here. Fitzwater too. And let me consider … who else? …”
Mary was not listening. She was looking at Charles, and her blue eyes reminded him of her brother’s. She was thinking of herself disguised as an Ethiopian queen; in the dance she would insist on dancing with one of the two tallest Turks.
Charles shared her excitement.
How long, he wondered, could they go on in this way!
It was hot in the hall; the torch bearers, their faces blackened, that they might be mistaken for Moors, had ushered in the party, and the dance had begun. There was one among them who leaped higher and danced with more vigor than all the others, which excited cries of wonder from all who beheld him.
The Queen on her dais was indulgent. When the masque was over she would express great surprise that the Turk who danced so miraculously was her husband, the King. What a boy he was! How guileless? She, who carried their child in her womb, loved him with greater tenderness than he would understand.
Now the “foreigners” were mingling with the dancers and the Queen of Ethiopia had selected a tall Turk for her partner.
“Why, Charles,” she said, “you are much too tall for a Turk, you know. And so is Henry.”
“I fear so.”
“It is of no moment. Everyone is happy pretending they do not know who you are and who the King is. Do you think Henry believes he is deceiving them?”
“He wants to believe it, so he
