"Does he mind?" asked Mary.
"Not he. He cares more about his books; and he will talk of his fine clothes for hours. He is very particular about his food. Not that he eats a great deal; but it must be served in the most delicate manner. To tell you the truth, Mary, he is not what one thinks of as a king."
Henry was often wistful when he talked of the King. Mary understood why when he said to her one day: "Do you know, if my father had been the first of his father's sons, I should have been the King."
"Would you have liked that, Henry?" she asked.
"It is not a matter of liking it," was his reply, "but of accepting the fact and moulding oneself accordingly. You see Richard was not meant to be King. If his elder brother had lived he would have taken the crown; and then his father died and there he was aged about nine years old, King of England."
A faint resentment was in Henry's voice.
She did not say so, but she was glad his father had not been the eldest for then she would in due course have been Queen and she knew that would have been rather alarming.
Henry's visits were so brief and she was left much to herself. She did a great deal of needlework, played her guitar, learned new songs to sing for Henry and awaited the birth of her child with some impatience.
She heard scraps of gossip from the women. She could get a picture of what was happening in the outside world from them. She discovered that there was a murmuring of discontent throughout the country. Some said the peasants were getting too big for their boots because of the land laws which enabled them to cultivate for their own use a portion of the land belonging to the lord of the manor and to pay for it by working for him. They complained that the lord took the best of their time and their own crops were spoilt because they could not deal with them in an emergency since at such a time the lord's own lands would need all their attention. They were slaves. They were bound to the land and so were their children. But the greatest grievance of all was the poll tax which was levied on every man, woman and child over fifteen.
She heard the name of John Ball which was mentioned frequently. He had been, she gathered, a "hedge priest" which meant that he had had no church and no home of his own, but had wandered about the countryside preaching and accepting bed and board where he could find it. He had preached to the people on village greens at one time but when he began to be noticed by people in authority these meetings had been held in woods at night.
Not only had he been preaching religion, it had been said, but he was preaching revolution for he was urging the peasants to rise against their masters, to throw off slavery, and demand what he had called their rights.
It was not to be wondered at that a man who preached such fiery doctrines should be considered dangerous, and John Ball had been seized and put into the Archbishop's prison of Maidstone.
And now there was all this talk about the peasants' unrest; but no one took it very seriously.
Certainly not the household at Kenilworth where all were concerned with the coming birth.
It began one early evening when Mary sat with her ladies. She was playing the guitar while they stitched at their tapestry. The child was due in a few weeks and Mary was suffering acute discomfort. It was all very natural, said her women; it was the fate of all in her condition and all the inconvenience of the last months would have been worth while when her child was born.
Her pains began suddenly and they were so acute that her women took her to her bed immediately and sent for the doctors.
She was lost now in mists of pain; she had never believed there could be such agony. Vaguely she heard a voice saying: "But she is only a child herself ... too young ... immature ..."
She had lost count of time. She just lay waiting for the waves of pain to sweep over her, to subside, to flow away and then flow back. It seemed as though it would never end. She lost consciousness and when she awoke the pain had gone. She felt completely exhausted and for some time was unsure of what had happened. And when she remembered her first thoughts were for the child.
"My baby ..." she murmured.
There was silence. She tried to struggle up but she was too tired. "Where is my baby?" she asked shrilly.
One of her women came to the bed and knelt down. She was about to speak and then she bowed her head and covered her face with her hands.
"Tell me," said Mary stonily.
"My lady," said the woman, and there was a sob in her voice, "the child was born ... a beautiful child ... perfect in limb .. ."
"Yes, yes. Where is it?"
"It was born dead, my lady."
Mary sank back on her bed. She closed her eyes. All the months of waiting ... all the hopes and plans ... gone. The baby was born dead.
"There will be more ... later," went on the woman. "You have come through, praise be to God. You are going to get strong again and then, and then .. ."
Mary was not listening. Henry I she thought. Oh Henry, I have disappointed you.
She was unable to leave her bed. She lay listless wondering where Henry was, what he was doing now. He would come to her room, she was sure. She would not be able to bear his disappointment.
She was right. As soon as the news was taken to him he got leave of the King to ride to Kenilworth.
He knelt by the bed. He took her hands and kissed them. She must not fret, he said. They would have a son in time ...
He did a great deal to comfort her. Think how young they were, both of them. They had the whole of their lives before them. They must not fret because they had lost this child. He sat by her bed and he talked to her of the future and how happy they were going to be and in time they would have as many children as his grandfather King Edward and his grandmother Queen Philippa had had. She would see.
She began to recover, but she was still weak.
A few days after Henry arrived there was another visitor to Kenilworth. This was Mary's mother, the Countess of Hereford.
She went at once to her daughter, embraced her and then declared that she had come to nurse her. Joanna de Bohun was a woman of great strength of character; she was devoted to her daughters and in particular to Mary because she was the younger of the two. Eleanor, she believed, was able to take care of herself.
Joanna had always resented the fact that the custom of the land demanded that her daughter be removed from her care and that she should become the ward of John of Gaunt, in order, so she said, that that mighty Duke should have the prize money which went with such appointments.
She, Mary's mother, was better fitted to look after the child than anyone; and in view of what had happened she had now come to assert that right.
Mary was delighted to see her mother.
The Countess studied her daughter and hid the concern she felt. The child was too thin. What a terrible ordeal for a girl not yet twelve years of age to pass through. Some girls developed earlier than others and then early childbearing might be permissible; but Mary herself was still too childlike and delicate.
There shall be no more of this, thought the Countess grimly. If I have to fight John of Gaunt himself I'll do so.
"Dearest Mother," said Mary. "I am so happy to see you."
"God bless you, my child. It is natural that when my daughter is ill her mother should be the one to look after her. You are going to be well in a week. I shall see to that."
Mary smiled. "We always had to obey you, my lady," she said. "So I must do so now."
"Indeed you must and shall."
Henry had come into the sick room and the Countess was aware of the manner in which Mary's face lit up at the sight of him. A fine boy, she thought, and indeed a worthy husband for a de Bohun, but they were too young ... far too young, and there was going to be no more of this.
Henry welcomed her gallantly and was clearly delighted that she had come for he was apprehensive about his young wife's health and she liked him for it. She told him she would soon have Mary well.