She must go on with this. It was the only way. And each morning when she awoke the thought was in her mind: Louis cannot live long.
The cavalcade had come to Dover Castle. In her apartments there, Mary looked across the slaty sea. She could not see the land but beyond that strip of water lay her new home, and the man who was to be her husband was waiting for her there.
She was glad when the storm rose, because it seemed to her then that the elements were on her side and every day which passed now was a day nearer to freedom.
There was no gaiety in her apartments, although Henry, who had accompanied her, tried to make some in the Castle. She heard the sounds of the lutes but she had no wish to join the merrymakers.
Henry came to her apartment, unable to enjoy the dance because she was not there.
“Come, little sister, you’ll not be so far away. Smile. Join the company.”
“Leave me, Henry,” she said. “Go and dance and sing. There is no reason why you should share my misery.”
He stamped his foot with rage. “If you must be such a fool, be so alone,” he said, and left her.
But he soon came back.
“Would we could have kept you with us, Mary.”
She looked at him stonily. “You are the King,” she retorted.
“It is hard for you to understand all that is involved in important State matters.”
“It is as I thought,” she answered. “I am of no importance. Throw me to whichever dog best pleases you at the moment. The drooling young Prince of Castile today; the old man worn out by his lechery tomorrow.”
“Your tongue is too loose, sister.”
“Would it were looser, that I might tell you what you have done to me.”
Then she threw herself into his arms, for it grieved her to see his lips drawn down in pain.
He stroked her hair and soothed her, whispering: “It won’t be for long, Mary. It can’t be for long.”
“Holy Mother,” she said, “forgive me, for I pray for his death.”
“Hush, sister.”
“It’s true. If I am wicked, then fate has made me so. If I could have married where I pleased I should not have had these wicked thoughts.”
“Do not utter them.”
“Then repeat your promise.”
“What promise, Mary?”
“That if I should become a widow, I marry where I like.”
He could see that only by looking far into the future could she tolerate the present; and he repeated his promise.
Then he left her. At the door of her apartment he saw a very young girl who was but a child. He called her because he thought that it would be safer for one so young rather than someone older to be with his sister at this time, for Mary was in a reckless mood.
“Come here, child,” he said; and she came and curtsied prettily; then she lifted enormous, dark eyes to his face, and he was faintly amused by their lack of fear. “Are you waiting on the Queen of France?” he asked.
“Yes, Sire,” was the answer.
“Go to her now. Sit beside her. Comfort her. Bathe her face with scented water. Tell her the King sent you to soothe her. She is sad because she is going to leave our Court.”
“Yes, Sire.”
“Stay. What is one so young doing here?”
“I am to go to France with the Queen, Sire. I am with my father.”
“Who is your father?”
“Sir Thomas Boleyn, Sire.”
“And you are?”
“Anne, Sire.”
He patted the dark hair. “You are a good girl,” he said. “Go to, and remember what I have said.”
She curtsied gravely. Henry was lightly amused for a moment; then he forgot the child; his concern was all for his sister Mary.
Early in the morning of the second day of October the wind dropped, and preparations were made to sail. The ships lay in readiness; the fine garments, the precious jewels had been put on board.
Henry took his sister’s hand and led her down to the shore. There he kissed her solemnly.
“My beloved sister,” he said, “I give you to God, the fortune of the sea and the governance of your French husband.”
“Henry,” she whispered, “you have not forgotten your promise to me?”
“I do not forget,” he answered. “Be of good cheer. I’ll swear ere long you will be back with us.”
