Виктория Холт - The star of Lancaster

Henry looked shamefaced and the Countess went on hurriedly: "I do not blame you. It is the fault of those who put you together at such an early age."

Henry flushed hotly. His father was a hero in his eyes.

"Oh, men do not always understand these matters," said the Countess hastily, realizing that if she were to have her own way in this matter she must not antagonize John of Gaunt.

She believed she knew how to handle this, but she would have to be tactful; and she knew that John of Gaunt's great desire had been to get the marriage celebrated and Mary's fortune secure. That had been done and he would be prepared to postpone the begetting of children for a few years.

"What do you want me to do?" asked Henry.

"There must be no marital relations between you for at least two years. You must see the reason for this. There must not be any more children ... yet."

"Have you told Mary?"

"I will explain to her. She will understand. In fact I am sure she does not want to endure again what she has so recently come through. What I am going to suggest is that I take Mary back with me. I shall look after her and you will know that she is safe in her mother's care. You will be welcome at my castle whenever you wish to come on the understanding that there is to be no lovemaking until she is of a suitable age."

Henry was ready to swear to agree to these terms. He had been very very anxious about Marv and had felt a terrible sense of guilt. But now she was well again and he could see that they must wait a few years before they lived together. Yes, he could do nothing but agree.

The Countess was triumphant. John of Gaunt was absent in Scotland on the King's business so he could raise no objections. Eleanor and her husband were no longer interested now that her share of the de Bohun fortune was lost to them.

She had only to tell Mary and as soon as the girl was well enough to travel they would leave.

Mary listened attentively to her mother.

"My dearest child," said the Countess, "I was very sad when you left me to go to your sister. It was no wish of mine, you know."

"I do know," said Mary fervently.

"It is so wrong when a child is taken from her rightful place just because she happens to have a fortune. Oh that fortune I I could wish that your father had been a much poorer man. Your sister coveted it... and so did her husband. They would have had you in a convent for the sake of it."

"I was fortunate to meet Henry," put in Mary. "He does not care for my fortune."

The Countess was silent. Did he not? She would be surprised if this were so. In any case there was one who cared deeply and that was Henry's father, John of Gaunt.

Thank God he was in Scotland and could not interfere. And would the King? He had given the wardship to his uncle John. No, she had nothing to fear from Richard. He was only a boy. If need be she would see him and explain; she was sure she could touch his pity for a mother who was concerned about her child.

"My dear," went on the Countess, "you know very well that you have been very ill. There was a day when your life was despaired of. The fact, daughter, is that you are too young as yet to bear children. Henry agrees with me that you must wait for a year or so."

"Wait ... what do you mean?"

"You and Henry will be as betrothed ... There will be no more marital relations between you."

"I must ask Henry ..."

"I have already spoken to Henry. He sees the point. He agrees with me."

She looked relieved. Then she said in alarm: "Do you mean I shall not see Henry?"

"Of course you will see Henry. He will come to Leicester to visit us. He will stay and you will sing your songs and play your guitar together. You'll pit your wits at chess. It is simply that you will be as betrothed ... as though the actual ceremony of marriage has not yet taken place."

She was silent. And her mother burst out: "You shall not be submitted to that pain again. You are too young to bear children as yet. Your body is not ready for it. All I ask is for you to wait for a year ... for two years perhaps. In fact I am going to insist."

"As long as Henry agrees ... and I shall see him."

"But of course you shall. Dear child, understand all I ever want is what is best for you."

So it was arranged and when Mary was well enough, the Countess left Kenilworth with her daughter.

For more than three years Mary lived with her mother during which time Henry visited her whenever it was possible for him to do so. Her mother explained to her that when one married a man who was of such high rank one must be prepared for him to have many duties outside his domestic life to claim him.

Mary was resigned. She eagerly learned how to manage a large household; she spent long hours in the still room; she studied the various herbs and spices and how to garnish dishes with them; she could brew ale to perfection; her mother allowed her to instruct the servants on those occasions when important visitors were expected and the Countess insisted that they all realized that in spite of her youth, Mary was the Countess of Hereford and wife of the son of the great John of Gaunt. Nor was she allowed to neglect the finer pursuits. She must learn the latest songs and dances which were fashionable at Court and she played the guitar and sang to guests. The finest materials were sent to the castle for her to choose which she preferred and the Countess insisted that she pay special attention to her appearance.

Those were the waiting years and Mary knew now without a doubt how wrong it would have been had she allowed herself to be forced into the convent. Henry had saved her from that and she would always be grateful to him. She was intended to be what he would make her: a wife and a mother.

Providing a happy well managed home for her husband and children was her true mission in life and during those waiting years she longed for the time when she would be old enough to go to Henry.

Often she thought of him, wondering what he was doing at that time. During the day she was busy; her mother saw that she was well occupied; but at night she would lie in her bed, watching the flickering shadows on the walls, for after the fashion of the day she burned a small lamp in her bedchamber. It was a small metal cup filled with oil with a wick in it; and it was a comfort during the darkness when certain fears came to her.

She was always apprehensive lest something happened and she not be told of it. During the time when she and Henry had lived together and she had been pregnant terrible things had been happening and she had known nothing of them. The peasants had risen and the whole country had been in danger; as for Henry he had been with the King at the time in the Tower of London and had come near to losing his life. She had been—and still was—so appalled at the second near calamity that she could give little thought to the first.

It was only after the tragic birth of her stillborn child that she had heard the truth and she would never forget as long as she lived the day Henry had sat with her and told her about it.

"A man called Wat Tyler was at their head," he had said. "The story is that the collector who had gone to gather the poll tax had insulted his daughter and the tyler killed the tax collector and the peasants rallied round him. They marched to London eventually. They wanted to rule the country themselves; they wanted to take all the riches of the land and divide it between them. They were looting everything as they went. They have destroyed my father's palace of the Savoy."

She had listened wide-eyed, her heart beating furiously to think that while that was happening she had been living quietly in the country expecting her baby and knowing nothing of it. And Henry had been there in London ... with the King.

"They came into London, that seething rabble," Henry went on. "The King went out to meet them ... first at Black-heath and then at Smithfield. He showed great courage — everyone said so—and it has to be remembered that he saved the day. When he was at Blackheath I was left in the Tower and the mob broke in."

She felt sick with fear, and he had laughed at her.

"It's all over now. It came out all right. Richard talked to them ... promised to give them what they wanted ... not that he can ... but he promised them and Wat Tyler was killed. They were without a leader. They broke up and disappeared ... and afterwards the ring leaders were caught and punished.

"And you were in the Tower," she had murmured.

"I was lucky. Oh Mary, you nearly lost your husband on that day. They would have put an end to me because they hated my father. Everywhere you go, Mary, you hear them murmuring against him. You know all the lies they tell against him."

"Why do they hate him so?" she had asked.

Henry had shrugged his shoulders. Then he had said, his eyes glowing with pride: "Because he is the greatest man in England. He should have been the first-born so that he could have had the crown. He was meant to be a king."

Mary had begged him to tell her about his lucky escape.

"It was like a miracle, Mary. There I was expecting them to burst in on me at any moment. I was thinking of you. I thought: My poor little Mary, her heart will be broken. And it would have been would it not?"

She had only been able to nod, being too full of emotion for speech.

"And then," he had gone on, "the door flew open and there was one of them; he had a billhook in his hand and I thought he had come to kill me. He called me "My lord" and spoke urgently and told me that he had come to conduct me to safety for my life was in great danger. He told me what to do, and I put on some rough clothes which he gave me. He had a wooden stick for me and he bade me follow him shouting abuse on the rich and so did I and we ran out of the Tower and through the streets of London shouting ail the while until we came to the Wardrobe which is the royal offices in Carter Lane and there I joined the Queen Mother and others who had managed to escape from the Tower."