Earl of Wiltshire is our Lieutenant in Ireland. His task is to prevent York from leaving, and I have every confidence in his ability. Warwick is the main threat.”
“Therefore…” Henry pulled at his nether lip as he willed his thoughts into a coherent pattern, “we should gather our forces in the Midlands. Near Coventry. That is the right thing to do. Isn’t it?”
His wife smiled, all her anger dissipated, and cupped his face in her hands. “Yes, Henry,” she said, placing a rare kiss on his brow, “indeed it is.”
7.
Mary was married to Henry of Sedgley, the Bastard Stafford, on the first of March 1460. The marriage took place at All Saints Church, where her father had been buried the previous autumn.
Their wedding was a happy affair, and did much to expel the sadness that had descended on Heydon Court since Blore Heath. Mary would come to remember it as a rare shaft of light in the grim darkness of that era.
It was a happy affair, but an ill-attended one. Few of their Yorkist neighbours were invited or attended, save two old men of the Ramage clan who had been friends with Edward and served with him in France. Dame Anne suffered the presence of these broken-down old men for her late husband’s sake, though they were obliged to stand at the back of the church, and she ignored them throughout the ceremony and the wedding feast at Heydon Court that followed.
Mary’s feelings for her husband were mixed. She was fond of him, and held him in greater esteem than John Huntley. Huntley had a cruel wit and always made it plain that his only interest in a union lay in Mary’s dowry, which included Grisham House, the smallest of her family’s three manors.
But fondness is not love. Try as she might Mary could not imagine harbouring any deeper feelings for Henry, even though he was kind and gentle and brave and loyal, and deeply attached to her. She spent long hours in the private chapel at Heydon Court, begging God to make her love him, but the spark refused to kindle.
She confessed as much to her mother, who shrugged away the problem. “What type of ideal world do you think we are living in, Mary?” she said. “Do you think I loved your father, at first? We were betrothed as children, but he was sixteen and I was just twelve when we first saw each other. He was a stranger, an overgrown, clumsy youth who blushed when he looked at me and tripped over his own feet. But we made the best of it. In time I grew to love him, or something similar.”
She put down her sewing and gazed bleakly out of the solar window, at the roe deer peacefully cropping the grass in the park. “We were a partnership,” she said distantly, “with duties and cares that went beyond selfish personal desires. Every day I feel his loss keenly, and wake up in a cold bed.”
Her words humbled Mary. She went to her wedding less like a sacrificial lamb, and more like a sensible young woman who realised her good fortune and thanked God for it.
James presided over the ceremony, and made a far better showing than he did at their father’s funeral. Dame Anne wrote him a long letter spelling out the consequences if he did not, and he appeared sober, washed and in a tolerably clean surplice.
As for Richard, he had to be carried to and from the ceremony in a litter. He was still too weak to stand, though the danger to his life had passed. Master Shipton had assured the family that he would soon be whole again, though the scar of Blore Heath would stay with him the rest of his days. The scar was an ugly thing, a livid purple mark the size of Mary’s thumb near the base of his spine, where the point of the blade had entered.
Richard stubbornly refused to let his injury rule him. He had inherited their mother’s strength of character, and vowed to be on his feet again before Christmas. Mary often saw him limping about at the garden at Heydon Court, supported by Mauley at his left arm and a crutch under his right, white-faced and gasping
“Therefore…” Henry pulled at his nether lip as he willed his thoughts into a coherent pattern, “we should gather our forces in the Midlands. Near Coventry. That is the right thing to do. Isn’t it?”
His wife smiled, all her anger dissipated, and cupped his face in her hands. “Yes, Henry,” she said, placing a rare kiss on his brow, “indeed it is.”
7.
Mary was married to Henry of Sedgley, the Bastard Stafford, on the first of March 1460. The marriage took place at All Saints Church, where her father had been buried the previous autumn.
Their wedding was a happy affair, and did much to expel the sadness that had descended on Heydon Court since Blore Heath. Mary would come to remember it as a rare shaft of light in the grim darkness of that era.
It was a happy affair, but an ill-attended one. Few of their Yorkist neighbours were invited or attended, save two old men of the Ramage clan who had been friends with Edward and served with him in France. Dame Anne suffered the presence of these broken-down old men for her late husband’s sake, though they were obliged to stand at the back of the church, and she ignored them throughout the ceremony and the wedding feast at Heydon Court that followed.
Mary’s feelings for her husband were mixed. She was fond of him, and held him in greater esteem than John Huntley. Huntley had a cruel wit and always made it plain that his only interest in a union lay in Mary’s dowry, which included Grisham House, the smallest of her family’s three manors.
But fondness is not love. Try as she might Mary could not imagine harbouring any deeper feelings for Henry, even though he was kind and gentle and brave and loyal, and deeply attached to her. She spent long hours in the private chapel at Heydon Court, begging God to make her love him, but the spark refused to kindle.
She confessed as much to her mother, who shrugged away the problem. “What type of ideal world do you think we are living in, Mary?” she said. “Do you think I loved your father, at first? We were betrothed as children, but he was sixteen and I was just twelve when we first saw each other. He was a stranger, an overgrown, clumsy youth who blushed when he looked at me and tripped over his own feet. But we made the best of it. In time I grew to love him, or something similar.”
She put down her sewing and gazed bleakly out of the solar window, at the roe deer peacefully cropping the grass in the park. “We were a partnership,” she said distantly, “with duties and cares that went beyond selfish personal desires. Every day I feel his loss keenly, and wake up in a cold bed.”
Her words humbled Mary. She went to her wedding less like a sacrificial lamb, and more like a sensible young woman who realised her good fortune and thanked God for it.
James presided over the ceremony, and made a far better showing than he did at their father’s funeral. Dame Anne wrote him a long letter spelling out the consequences if he did not, and he appeared sober, washed and in a tolerably clean surplice.
As for Richard, he had to be carried to and from the ceremony in a litter. He was still too weak to stand, though the danger to his life had passed. Master Shipton had assured the family that he would soon be whole again, though the scar of Blore Heath would stay with him the rest of his days. The scar was an ugly thing, a livid purple mark the size of Mary’s thumb near the base of his spine, where the point of the blade had entered.
Richard stubbornly refused to let his injury rule him. He had inherited their mother’s strength of character, and vowed to be on his feet again before Christmas. Mary often saw him limping about at the garden at Heydon Court, supported by Mauley at his left arm and a crutch under his right, white-faced and gasping
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