Mary was a child, as yet unready for marriage in the Countess's view, and she should not marry until she was at least fourteen.
She embraced her daughter warmly and looked searchingly into her face.
She was certain there had been no coercion. The child looked very happy.
She sought an early opportunity of speaking with the Duke of Lancaster.
"I am happy about the marriage," she said, "apart from one aspect of it."
The Duke looked haughty as though wondering what aspect could possibly be displeasing about a marriage with his son.
"It is the youth of my daughter"
"She is just eleven years old."
"It is too young for marriage."
"They are both young."
"Too young, my lord. Let them be betrothed and many ... say in two years' time."
Lancaster appeared to consider that although he had no intention of doing so. Wait two years? Let Thomas and his harridan of a wife get to work on the girl? They would have her packed into a convent by some devious means in no time.
"Poor Mary," he said, "she would be so unhappy. Wait until you see them together. They are so delighted to be in each other's company. No I could not allow that. They shall live together ... naturally like two children ..."
"I do not think girls of that age should have children."
"Children! They won't have children for years. They are so innocent. You should hear them singing in harmony. They ride; they dance; they play chess. It is such a joy to see them. No, my dear Countess, they must marry. I understand a mother's feelings, but let me assure you that there is no need for the slightest apprehension."
"I will have a talk with my daughter," said the Countess.
John of Gaunt was uneasy. He wished the Countess had not come to Arundel but it had naturally been necessary to tell her what was planned for her daughter. She was a shrewd woman. She would understand why Eleanor was trying to force the girl into a convent. But at the same time she would do all she could to keep Mary unmarried until she reached what she would consider a suitable age.
The Countess talked to Mary.
"My dear child," she said, "you are very young for marriage."
"Others have said that, my lady," replied her daughter. "But Henry and I love each other and are so happy together. He does not mind that I am young."
"You must understand that there are obligations."
"I know what you mean. It is the marriage bed, is it not?"
The Countess was a little taken aback.
"What do you know of these matters?"
"That there is nothing to fear ... if one loves."
She was quoting Henry. The Countess guessed that. There was no doubt that John of Gaunt was right when he said they loved each other.
"I have asked the Duke to put off the wedding. At least for a year. Then we could consider again when it should be."
Mary looked very woebegone.
"And will he do that?"
The Countess put an arm about her daughter and held her firmly against her. She thought: No, he will not. He wants your fortune for his son. Dear child, what did she know of the ways of the world?
At least she could console herself. The child was happy. So many girls in her position were forced into marriages which were distasteful to them. None could say that of Mary.
The Countess knew the determination of John of Gaunt. No matter how she protested, the marriage would take place.
She must resign herself to the fact that it was what Mary wanted.
So they were married and there was great rejoicing in John of Gaunt's Palace of the Savoy, which was to be expected as this was the marriage of his son and heir. Mary was made to feel that she was marrying into the greatest family in the land and that her marriage was even more brilliant than that of Eleanor. Eleanor was not present. She had declined the invitation from her false sister; and Thomas was still in France.
This breach created a mild sadness in the bride's heart but she did not dwell on it. Henry had made her see that Eleanor was in fact more interested in the de Bohun fortune than the happiness of her younger sister, and Mary was beginning to look to Henry and to accept what interpretation he put on all matters, and as Henry was always only too delighted to tell her and she to listen, they grew fonder of each other every day.
Now she was the Countess of Derby, and the imposing man who sat at the head of the table was her new father-in-law and there in the great hall of the Savoy Palace tables had been set up on their trestles, for all the nobility of the land must be present at the marriage of John of Gaunt's son. Mary herself on the right hand of the great Duke with Henry beside her was at the high table. Her mother was there so were her new sisters-in-law Philippa and Elizabeth. Also present was a very beautiful woman whose presence caused a few titters among the guests. It was characteristic of the great Duke that he should insist that his mistress not only be present but be treated with all the deference which would normally be bestowed on his Duchess.
Henry pressed Mary's hand and she smiled at him. It was comforting to believe that while he was at her side all would be well.
He selected the best parts of the food and fed them to her and happily she munched the delicate morsels, although she was not really hungry. But the guests revelled in the banquet, declared that they had rarely seen such large boars' heads, such joints of beef and mutton, such pestles of pork, such sucking pigs which made the mouth water to behold. There was mallard, pheasant, chicken, teals, woodcocks, snipes, peacocks and partridges, as well as that delectable dish called the leche which was made of pounded raw pork, eggs, sugar, raisins and dates all mixed with spices and put in a bladder to be boiled; and then there were those pastry concoctions which were known as raffyolys and flampoyntes. Everything that could have been thought of to make this a feast to outdo all feasts had been provided.
There would be a joust the next day but this one was given up to feasting and indoor merriment.
The mummers trooped into the hall in their masks, some of these so strange that they looked like spectral figures and sent shivers of horror down the backs of the spectators. They wore horned animals' heads and those of goats and creatures who could never have existed outside the imagination of the mask maker. Some of them wore masks of beautiful women which sat oddly on their square masculine bodies. But they were calculated to bring laughter to the lips of all who beheld them and this they undoubtedly did although some might have been overawed.
It was wonderful to see them dance and play their scenes in mime. The company applauded with gusto and then the dancing began. Henry led out Mary and others fell in behind them. Lancaster danced with the beautiful Catherine Swynford; the company held its breath watching them and many thought—though they dared not give voice to such thoughts —that there was not a man in the kingdom now who would dare behave as John of Gaunt did. The old King had done it with his mistress Alice Ferrers. It was a King's privilege he would have said; but the people did not like him for it. In some way it was different with John of Gaunt. There was true love between those two and that being so obvious was something which must command respect wherever it was.
Then John of Gaunt took Mary's hand and danced with her while Henry danced with Lady Swynford. Her new father told Mary that he regarded this as one of the happiest days of his life. He wanted her to regard it as such also.
The torches guttered and the evening was passing. It was time for Henry to lead Mary away. His father restrained the people who would have attempted to carry out some of the old customs. "They are young and innocent," he said. "I would not harry them. Let nature take its course with them."
In the great bedchamber which had been assigned to them, nature was taking its course.