living. What if she herself were to die and her children be declared illegitimate?
She could not rest. There must be a dispensation from the Pope. She must make sure that her children were safe, when she was no longer there to protect them.
The case of the King versus the Queen of England dragged on, but Mary had no difficulty in receiving a confirmation of her marriage to Charles Brandon from the Papal Court.
When she knew that she had succeeded, Mary wept with happiness; and suddenly remembered that for the first time in her life she had thought of herself … dead.
That moment seemed significant, for in it she knew that each day she could spend with her children and husband would be even more precious, that she must live each one as though it might be the last.
She was her gay self and refused to be alarmed even when the people of Suffolk rose against the Duke. Henry, who was in need of money, had levied taxes which he commanded Charles to collect on his behalf, at which the people had risen and threatened Charles’s life. But Mary knew that Charles would know how to handle the people. And she was right; by good fortune and gentle persuasion he quelled the rising; in this he was helped by their immediate neighbors who had benefited from their residence at Westhorpe and the other Suffolk manors and were ready to defend them against those who did not know them so well. Mary had once more been obliged to lay the facts before her brother and plead for clemency; and at her request Henry decided he would not demand the tax and would pardon those who had risen against her husband, who was acting as his representative.
That danger had passed and Mary was determined that the troubles which had been set in motion by the King’s desire to rid himself of Katharine should not come to Westhorpe.
But it was impossible to hold them back. As well try to hold back the sea … or death.
Death? She thought of it now and then. Sometimes she fancied it was like a gray shadow at her elbow; and her great desire was that none should recognize it but herself.
She would not go to Court, and Henry did not insist. He did not need his sister to amuse him now. He had one far more amusing, far more beautiful, one whom he was determined to make his Queen.
“I’ll not go to Court,” declared Mary, “and take second place to my maid of honor. I can see her now, sitting on her little stool, staring into the future with those great brooding witch’s eyes.”
But it was not Anne Boleyn who kept her from the Court, so much as her own failing strength.
She would not be able to keep her secret much longer.
Only yesterday Frances had said to her: “Mother, are you ill?”
That was when they were in the garden and she had felt faint.
She had roused herself. “Nay, my love. I was falling asleep.”
It was easy to deceive a child; not so easy to fool Charles. There were times when she saw his brow furrowed as though with fear.
“My love,” said Charles, “a summons.”
“To Court?”
“Henry is taking Anne to Calais. He wants the approval of Francois for his marriage.”
“And he asks us to go?”
“He feels it is necessary to have us with him.”
She closed her eyes. How could she endure the crossing, the masques, the banquets? She felt dizzy at the thought.
“I shall not go,” she said.
Charles took her by the shoulders. “You do not deceive me, my dearest,” he said. “You are ill.”
“I am well enough, Charles. It is merely that I grow old.”
“Think how much older I am!”
“But you are as a god, Charles. You are immortal.”
“Do not suggest that I should go on living without you.”
She threw herself against him that he might not see the tears in her eyes.
“I’ll not go to Court, Charles. I’ll not take second place to Henry’s concubine. Why, if I went I should show my hatred of her. They say he grants her every wish. You must not make an enemy of her.”
“Mary,” he said, “I shall make your excuses to Henry. And while I am gone you must be the invalid. You must see the physicians.”
She nodded. She knew she could not much longer go on playing her game of make-believe.
The hot June sun shone on the rose garden of Westhorpe, and as Mary sat by the pond watching the fishes, she could hear the shouts of the children at play.
What happiness I have known, she thought, here in this house … in this garden. The children are growing up now. They will not need me as they did. And Charles? Where was he now? On the way to Calais? Was he paying homage to the Concubine? Oh, Charles, be careful.
He would be careful for her sake … as she would be for his. He had learned to love as she loved; and this garden, this house, was encircled by their love.
God keep them all, she prayed. And if in mourning me they should be sad, then teach them not to mourn.
She closed her eyes and when the children came running into the garden they thought she was asleep.
Charles came into the room as she lay in her bed.
“Charles,” she whispered.
He was kneeling by the bed. “My beloved.”
