set a soft glow on the faces of the illustrious personages gathered there for a great occasion.
At the font, which had been set up for the purpose of christening the son of the Dowager Queen of France and the Duke of Suffolk, stood the King with Wolsey and the King’s aunt, the Lady Catherine, Countess of Devon, daughter of Edward IV. These were the baby’s godparents.
Henry watched the procession through half closed eyes, telling himself that he rejoiced because his sister’s marriage was fruitful; but what would he not have given if that young male child were his son instead of his nephew?
“Why do I not get a son?” Henry asked himself peevishly as he watched the child being carried by Lady Anne Grey while Lady Elizabeth Grey bore the chrysom, preceded by the bearers of the basin and tapers; and for the moment his resentment of his fate was so overwhelming that instead of the red and white roses of his House which adorned the crimson of font and canopy, he saw the pale, apologetic face of his wife, Katharine, and his rage threatened to choke him. What was wrong with Kate that she could not get a healthy boy? Mary had not been married long before she had one. His sister Margaret had a healthy son. Why should
His lips jutted out angrily, and several of those who watched read his thoughts.
Now the ceremony was being performed and the blue eyes of the baby were wide and wondering. He did not cry. Wise little fellow. All Tudor, thought Henry.
“I name this boy Henry,” said the King; but the fact that he gave the child his name did not ease his sorrow.
Mary, fully aware of her brother’s resentment, was suddenly fearful that he might dislike the boy because he could not get one of his own. But this could not be so. Henry would never hate a little child. He was as fond of children as she was.
While spice and wine were served she stood beside her brother and thanked him for his gifts to her child, which included a gold cup.
“He will treasure it always because of the donor,” she told him. “I shall bring up my son, Henry, to serve you well.”
Henry took her hand and pressed it.
“The child has received many beautiful gifts,” he said.
“But none to be compared with yours.”
“You are fortunate,” he burst out suddenly. “Your firstborn … a son!”
“You will be fortunate too, Henry.”
His mouth was grim. “I see little sign of that good fortune as yet. You have your son; Margaret has hers, and I … who need one more than either of you, am disappointed time after time.”
“But you have your lovely Mary.”
“A girl.”
“But the next will be a boy.”
His expression startled her, because it betrayed more than resentment. Was it cruelty?
In that moment Mary had a longing for the peace of Westhorpe. She wanted to be in the heart of the country with her husband, her stepdaughters and her own little son.
She thought: When a woman has much to love she has also much to lose.
She remembered how, when Charles took part in the jousts against Henry, she was always afraid that he might be going to win. Now there was another to fear for.
Yes, she was certainly longing for the quiet of the country.
Westhorpe, which was close to the town of Botesdale, was a commodious mansion and Mary had loved it from the moment she saw it.
Here she and Charles lived in retirement with their little son. It had not been difficult to slip away from Court because Henry was short of money, and Wolsey had decided to call in certain debts. Since the marriage of Mary and Charles they were two of the King’s biggest debtors and, explaining to Wolsey that if they were to meet their commitments they must economize without delay, they took the opportunity of slipping away to the country.
As Henry was making a tour of some of his towns he did not immediately miss them, so no obstacle was put in the way of their leaving. As soon as Mary entered Westhorpe she brought an atmosphere of gaiety with her, and Charles was surprised, for the mansion seemed a different place from the one he had known before.
He had been afraid that Mary would quickly tire of the quietness, but he had a great deal to learn about his wife. She had always known that she desired to live in peace with her husband and family, and wanted nothing to threaten that peace; while she was at Court—much as she loved Henry—she would always be afraid that her husband might in some way anger him. There were too many people at Court jealous of Charles, and bold as Mary was, she could be nervous where her husband was concerned. She wanted to keep him safe from harm, and where better could she do that than far away from the Court, in his country house in Suffolk.
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.”
