to be as royal as the King had angered Henry. Poor Buckingham, one of the leading noblemen in the country, had been unlucky enough or unwise enough, to offend Wolsey. The result was that he had been sent to the Tower to be tried by his peers who dared do nothing but obey the King, and the proud Duke had been taken out to Tower Hill where his head was severed from his body.
Mary shivered when she thought of Buckingham, because his death was symbolic. In commanding it Henry had shown himself in truth to be a King whom his subjects must fear.
“Yes,” Charles was saying, “your brother gives to us estates in Suffolk which belonged to Buckingham. You understand?”
Mary nodded. “We were too poor to stay at Court, and it is his wish that we should be there more often. We can no longer speak of our poverty, Charles.”
She laughed suddenly, but it was not her old happy laugh. There was a hint of bitterness in it.
“So now we are rich, when we would rather be poor.”
She threw her arms about him and held him tightly to her. She was fanciful that day; she could imagine that the axe which killed Buckingham threw a shadow over Charles’s head.
For, she told herself, any who live near the King must live in that shadow.
Peace had fled from Westhorpe as Mary had known it would when Henry presented them with the Suffolk manors. There was no longer the excuse of poverty. It was no use for two people in such prominent a position to plead the need for retirement. Henry wanted them near him, and near him they must be.
It was always sad to leave the children, and one of Mary’s nightmares was that she was riding away from Westhorpe to London, looking back, waving farewell to the children who watched them, their faces puckered, holding back the tears which would be shed when their parents were out of sight.
To love was the greatest adventure life had to offer; but to love was to suffer.
At this time her anxiety was great, because England was at war with France and Henry had decided that the skill and experience of the Duke of Suffolk could be used to England’s advantage. Henry had no wish to lead his men to France so he would honor his friend Suffolk by allowing him to go in his place.
Mary remembered now that moment when Henry had made his wishes clear, how he had beamed on them both—his dear sister and his great friend whom he loved to honor.
They were expected to hear this news and fall on their knees and thank him for it. How little he understood! How impossible it was to explain! Mary had tried to.
“Henry,” she had said, “I am a woman who likes to keep her husband with her.”
Henry had smiled at her fondly. “I know you well,” he told her. “You made up your mind to have Suffolk and none other would do. And you continue in love with him, which pleases me. Having great respect for the married state, I like not unfaithful wives and husbands. And because I have your interests at heart I am giving this man of yours an opportunity to win great honors. Let him make conquests for me in France and you will see how I am ready to reward him.”
Impossible to say they did not want great honors, but only to be together. That would offend Henry, because when he gave he liked the utmost appreciation; and it was growing more and more dangerous to offend Henry.
So Charles had gone overseas, and so disconsolate had Mary become that she, being ill and longing for the quiet of the country and the children’s company, had at length gained Henry’s permission to leave Court.
But even at Westhorpe her anxiety did not fade. Each day she was at the turret watching for a messenger from London for she had given instructions that as soon as there was news it should be brought to her.
The children were continually asking when their father would be with them, and it had been sad explaining to them that he was in a strange country fighting the King’s war.
“Soon he will come,” she promised them; and often they would run to her and say: “Will he come today?”
News came that he and his men had captured several castles, and that the King was delighted with his progress; but there had been no news for some time and winter was approaching.
One misty day while she was with the children she heard sounds of arrival and she could not suppress the elation which came to her because she was constantly hoping that one day Charles would ride unexpectedly to Westhorpe, although this was what he would call her wild optimism, since it was scarcely likely that if the army had returned to England she would not have had some news of this before Charles had time to reach her.
It was a messenger from London and as she could see by his face that the news was not good, she sent the children back to their nurseries before she demanded to hear it.
The news was alarming. The armies had been disbanded; the Duke of Suffolk was at Calais, and among the dispatches which he had sent to the King was a letter which, he had instructed, was to be carried immediately to his wife.
“My dearest wife,” he had written:
This finds me in dire straits. Our position was untenable; the weather was such that to remain in camp would be disastrous. I asked the King’s permission to disband the army, but I had no reply to my request, and perforce was driven to act without that permission. I disbanded the army and started on my way home when a command to hold the army together and stay where I was reached me. It was, as you will understand, impossible for me to do this, and I greatly fear that I have incurred your royal brother’s displeasure by seeming to disobey his orders. You know full well what happened to Dorset. I now find myself in a similar case. Therefore I have gone to Calais because I feel that to return to England would be to place myself in jeopardy …
Mary let the letter fall from her hands.
She was remembering Dorset, returning to England after his campaign, a sick man who had been unable to walk ashore. She remembered her brother’s fury against him and how he had almost lost his life.
Now she feared that his hatred would be directed against Charles. Henry had changed since Dorset had failed
