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.
How delighted she was when she was able to return to Westhorpe; but it was not long before the summons to Court was repeated because Henry enjoyed the company of his youngest sister and her husband more than that of any others, and was not pleased that they should wish to live in retirement. Back to Court they went, and back again. Mary was in London at the time of the Evil May Day when she with Katharine and Margaret, who was preparing to return to Scotland, pleaded for those unhappy apprentices and secured their pardon. But the episode was an ugly one and gave her a further glimpse of the manner in which her brother’s anger could be aroused.
She was more urgently reminded that she, who had so much to love, had a great deal to lose, and she longed for the peaceful security of Westhorpe.
Henry was loth to let her go, but this time she had a good reason.
She told him about it as they walked in the gardens of Greenwich and he reproached her for wishing to leave him and his Court.
“I have indulged you much,” grumbled Henry. “You disobeyed me when you took Brandon to your bed. It was scarce decent. I might have had you both in the Tower. But I forgave you.”
“Like the beloved brother you have always been.”
“So beloved that you constantly wish to leave us.”
“Not constantly, only now, because Henry, I am in a certain state of health. …”
“What! You are with child?”
“Yes, Henry, and I believe I should live quietly in the country while awaiting its birth.”
Henry turned to look at her, his lip jutting out. “You already have a healthy boy.”
“And you have a bonny girl.”
“I want boys.”
“They’ll come.”
“They’re being uncommonly shy about making their appearance.”
“You are too impatient, Henry.”
“Impatient! I am the most patient of men. You have a boy and another coming, like as not. Margaret has a boy and a girl. And I … the King … who must give my kingdom an heir … am frustrated. Why do you think it is so?”
“Because, brother, you are impatient. Kate will bear you many fine boys, I am sure.”
“I would to God that I were. Sometimes I think there’s a blight on my union with Katharine, Mary.”
“Nay, Henry. But you understand that I must leave the Court. I want the fresh air of the country and the quiet life at Westhorpe. In the circumstances you will let me go.”
Henry lifted his shoulders. “I like it not when you leave us. But I would not have your health suffer.”
Mary lost no time in leaving Court lest he should change his mind.
Mary did not stay at Westhorpe but took up her residence in another of her husband’s country mansions—Bishops Hatfield—while she awaited the birth of her second child; and here little Frances was born.
Looking down at the little one, Mary rejoiced that she was a girl.
“The child one has, always seems exactly what one wanted,” she told Charles. “That is the miracle of childbirth.”
“I know at least one child who disappointed her parents at birth,” Charles reminded her.
“My niece Mary. But Henry has an obsession for boys. Perhaps I should have said it is the miracle of contentment.”
“Strange,” said Charles; “you are his sister and in some ways not unlike him, in others so different.”
“Perhaps I was luckier than Henry. I knew what I wanted and I did not ask for what was impossible. I wanted you, Charles, and any child of yours would please me. Henry wanted sons—and that is for Providence to decide. You see I was wise in my desires.”
“We could so easily have lost this life together,” Charles told her, “and methinks Henry, in his desire for sons, was more reasonable.”
She laughed. “You’d forgotten I always get what I want.”
“And Henry?”
“I pray he will too.” She was sober suddenly. “For if he does not,” she added, “he will be very angry, and I believe, Charles, that when Henry is angry he can be very cruel.”
The christening ceremony of little Frances Brandon was less grand than that of her brother, Henry, although tapestries were hung in the church of Bishops Hatfield for the occasion, and the chancel was decorated with cloth of gold. Henry the King was not represented but Katharine had sent two ladies to represent her and the young Princess Mary. One of these was Anne Boleyn who had been Mary’s maid of honor when she was Queen of France.
Mary was pleased to see the girl again. She had always been interested in Anne. Such a composed little creature she had been and always so elegant. She was growing up to be a very distinguished young lady who had profited from her stay in France and wore clothes which must have been self-designed as they were so original; and she contrived to make the other royal representative, Lady Elizabeth Grey, look most insignificant.
