upon them as soon as Richard is hale again. Mauley is deep in their conspiracy. His loyalty is to Richard now, not me. He and certain other men in the household have been busy of late, riding to and from the house with messages, the content of which I know nothing, nor the recipients. You heard Richard make his vow – Huntley, Ramage and Malvern are ‘marked men’, so he said, and there never was a Bolton that broke a pledge.
You know your father was sunk in a mire of litigation against Sir Thomas, and that his constant seeking redress at law for offences, some real, some imagined, were a leech on the family coffers. Old Malvern is a close and subtle man, and I don’t doubt he seeks to regain his eminence and former office. If Richard was to commit some folly against him or his friends, Malvern would seize upon it, and strive to bring us down.
Daughter, we are isolated in a sea of foes. If our neighbours combined and came against us in force of arms, who could we look to for allies? Your husband is our only friend, and we his. Our lord the Duke is engaged on the King’s affairs, and we cannot look to him for help.
I pray you, exercise all your influence on him – the influence only a wife can exercise – and wean him from this folly. Cleave to him, and find reasons to keep him from Heydon Court until Richard’s current mood has passed, and I have turned his mind to lighter matters.
God keep you.
Your mother, Anne Bolton.”
The Duke of Buckingham was indeed engaged on the King’s affairs, for in the spring of that year the clouds of war gathered anew over England. The news that reached Mary at Sedgley was confused and fragmentary, but by the end of May it became clear that the Earl of Warwick, York’s great ally, had destroyed the royal fleet at Sandwich. Thus there was nothing to stop him crossing from Calais with an army, and the port of Sandwich itself had been seized and garrisoned by Yorkist troops under Lord Fauconberg, to act as a staging-post for Warwick’s invasion.
The news was dismaying, for Mary had hoped that peace would reign in England after York’s discomfiture at Ludford Bridge.
It was in this tense, uncertain atmosphere that she tried to dissuade her husband from going to Heydon Court and listening to whatever poisons Richard was dripping into his ear.
Henry would have none of it. Gentle as he was, and Mary’s devoted servant in many respects, there was a core of stubbornness to him that she never succeeded in overcoming.
“No, not for my soul’s price,” was his answer when she cornered him after supper one evening, and demanded to know what passed between him and her brother during their meetings.
“You need not be so coy,” she said angrily, “for my mother has already divined your intention. Richard plans some foolish stroke against Malvern and his friends, and has lured you into his plot.”
“I have the greatest respect for Dame Anne,” he replied, not meeting her eye, “but she must learn not to interfere with matters that no longer concern her. Richard is the master of Heydon Court now. His word is the law.”
Mary stamped her foot, upsetting Henry’s favourite wolfhound, Galahad, where he lay sprawled before the fire. “His word counts for naught if none choose to follow him!” she shouted. “For the second time of asking, Henry, will you tell me what he intends? It concerns all of us.”
He screwed his eyes shut, gulped down some more wine, and gave a little shake of his head. “I swore an oath,” he muttered, “a solemn oath. You know I hold my word sacrosanct, Mary.”
And that was all. Nothing could persuade Henry to break with his honour, no matter how much she cursed and railed at him and denied him his rights as a husband. He was too gentle to force himself on his wife, and so abandoned the marriage bed and took to sleeping by the fire in the hall, which caused much nudging and exchange of knowing glances among the servants.
Thus did matters lie
You know your father was sunk in a mire of litigation against Sir Thomas, and that his constant seeking redress at law for offences, some real, some imagined, were a leech on the family coffers. Old Malvern is a close and subtle man, and I don’t doubt he seeks to regain his eminence and former office. If Richard was to commit some folly against him or his friends, Malvern would seize upon it, and strive to bring us down.
Daughter, we are isolated in a sea of foes. If our neighbours combined and came against us in force of arms, who could we look to for allies? Your husband is our only friend, and we his. Our lord the Duke is engaged on the King’s affairs, and we cannot look to him for help.
I pray you, exercise all your influence on him – the influence only a wife can exercise – and wean him from this folly. Cleave to him, and find reasons to keep him from Heydon Court until Richard’s current mood has passed, and I have turned his mind to lighter matters.
God keep you.
Your mother, Anne Bolton.”
The Duke of Buckingham was indeed engaged on the King’s affairs, for in the spring of that year the clouds of war gathered anew over England. The news that reached Mary at Sedgley was confused and fragmentary, but by the end of May it became clear that the Earl of Warwick, York’s great ally, had destroyed the royal fleet at Sandwich. Thus there was nothing to stop him crossing from Calais with an army, and the port of Sandwich itself had been seized and garrisoned by Yorkist troops under Lord Fauconberg, to act as a staging-post for Warwick’s invasion.
The news was dismaying, for Mary had hoped that peace would reign in England after York’s discomfiture at Ludford Bridge.
It was in this tense, uncertain atmosphere that she tried to dissuade her husband from going to Heydon Court and listening to whatever poisons Richard was dripping into his ear.
Henry would have none of it. Gentle as he was, and Mary’s devoted servant in many respects, there was a core of stubbornness to him that she never succeeded in overcoming.
“No, not for my soul’s price,” was his answer when she cornered him after supper one evening, and demanded to know what passed between him and her brother during their meetings.
“You need not be so coy,” she said angrily, “for my mother has already divined your intention. Richard plans some foolish stroke against Malvern and his friends, and has lured you into his plot.”
“I have the greatest respect for Dame Anne,” he replied, not meeting her eye, “but she must learn not to interfere with matters that no longer concern her. Richard is the master of Heydon Court now. His word is the law.”
Mary stamped her foot, upsetting Henry’s favourite wolfhound, Galahad, where he lay sprawled before the fire. “His word counts for naught if none choose to follow him!” she shouted. “For the second time of asking, Henry, will you tell me what he intends? It concerns all of us.”
He screwed his eyes shut, gulped down some more wine, and gave a little shake of his head. “I swore an oath,” he muttered, “a solemn oath. You know I hold my word sacrosanct, Mary.”
And that was all. Nothing could persuade Henry to break with his honour, no matter how much she cursed and railed at him and denied him his rights as a husband. He was too gentle to force himself on his wife, and so abandoned the marriage bed and took to sleeping by the fire in the hall, which caused much nudging and exchange of knowing glances among the servants.
Thus did matters lie
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