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FOUR YEARS SINCE HER marriage and Mary Percy wished for that numbness to return, to aid her through whatever the future might have to offer.
Harry had consummated their marriage, but since then he kept to his own chamber, until some two months later when he came to hers one night as she had just got into bed. The maidservants had gone, left her alone, and she settled down to sleep, expecting this night to be no different from any other.
That was when he entered, that was when he approached the bed and stood staring down at her. She rolled over onto her back and looked up at him, a little dart of fear making her heart leap as she wondered what he wanted.
He had scarcely spoken to her since the wedding, except to tell her he’d not have Cardinal Wolsey’s servants in his house. Just why he told her that, she could not know. Perhaps he believed the attempt to have them here was her idea; who knew?
“You have not conceived?” he said.
“You might have noticed if I had,” she replied.
“Then it would be best to make a further attempt,” he said. “You can give me nothing that I want, except an heir.”
She scrambled to a sitting position, drew her legs up to her chest and clutched the covers.
“No,” she said. “Not again.”
“You’ll do your duty, Madam,” he said, “as I must do mine. Do you imagine I want to be here? But you must at least try to give me a son.”
Then he pulled the covers out of her clenched fist and climbed into the bed beside her. She slid away from him, tried to get her feet onto the floor, but he grabbed her and flung her back onto the bed. He pushed her shift up and forced himself into her, while she struggled and tried to push him off, but he was too strong.
When he had finished, he rolled away and stood up.
“Damn you!” she cried. “Is it my fault I am not your beloved Anne?”
“If you were Anne, I’d have cherished you.”
“And if you were a real man, I might have cherished you.”
He slapped her then, leaving an angry mark on her cheek which would turn to a bruise by morning. The sound of her sobbing followed him out of the chamber and filled him with shame.
He lay awake that night for hours, trying to fathom why he had done that, why he had gone to her in the first place, why he had forced himself on her and why he had hit her. It was not in his nature to be violent, but he was still so angry and frustrated with his marriage, still aching about losing Anne. He had to take his fury out on someone, and Mary happened to be available. He despised her, but she did not deserve such treatment.
That night he retired to his bed and thought about his life as it had become, compared it to the life he had wanted with Anne, and his anger had grown like a monster within. He had to have something that would make what remained of his life worthwhile, and he could think of nothing he wanted from his wife but an heir.
Yet he knew in his heart it was no fault of Mary’s, that she resented him as much as he resented her. He had a right to use her if he so wished, but that was not how he wanted his marriage to be. And he had no right to hit her; that was unforgiveable.
He came to her the following morning, where she sat at her meal in the great hall. He never broke his fast with her, so she was wary at this sudden courtesy as he slid into a chair across the table from her and waited until the last servant had gone.
“I came to apologise,” he said. “I lost my temper last night and I had no right to strike you.”
Mary did not expect this and had no idea what to say, so she said nothing. Perhaps that made it worse, she would never know, because he got to his feet after a few minutes and left her alone. Nothing more was said on the subject.
Since then there had been little contact between them and Mary felt that she was living on the edge of a precipice, wondering when he would push her over, make another attempt, wondering when he would lose his temper again.
The surprising thing was not that he resented her, as she resented him, but that Anne Boleyn loved him. How could she? What man did she see in Lord Percy that Mary had never seen? He despised Mary for not being Anne and Mary despised him because he loved Anne. It was a recipe for an unhappy marriage, and that is how it had developed. He would never get over her, that was for certain and Mary wondered if Anne felt the same, now that the King of England was pursuing her. Such exalted company could well push Harry out of her heart, but Mary knew that Anne still wrote to Harry, still wrote fondly.
Now she watched him as he rode away. He had work to do protecting the borders of his county, his slackness in that direction having recently caused the King himself to complain.
Harry was now the Earl of Northumberland, since his father died the year before, and when he thought about Anne, he wished only that the old man could have died earlier, when Harry would have been able to decide for himself who his bride should be.
But of course, that was foolish. The King had his sights set on her so nothing he did or said could have made a difference. And it was so unfair. Anne did not want King Henry; she did not want him then and she did not want him now, but still he pursued her, still he would not allow her the freedom to live the life she had always expected.
The whole country was gossiping about how Anne would not give in to the King’s desires. He knew not how she was holding him at bay or how much longer she could do so. Surely he would grow weary of the chase, but it seemed he just grew more determined. It might be better for her if she gave in to him; he might leave her alone then, might decide that the chase was far more pleasurable than the prize.
Mary had been passing his chamber that morning when she noticed that the door was open. She had no real reason to stop, to look inside, but a movement drew her attention and she saw that he was sitting at his desk, the top drawer open. That was a drawer that was usually locked; Mary knew, because she had tried several times to open it.
She moved into the doorway, just far enough to see that her husband held in his hand a miniature portrait of a young woman with dark hair and eyes, a young woman named Anne Boleyn. She caught back a sob, a sound which made him turn to her and jump to his feet.
“So,” he said. “You spy on me for yourself as well as for Norfolk.”
“What are you talking about?” she answered.
She cursed herself for the sudden and unexpected emotion that escaped her. She had no love for her husband, indeed she despised him with all her strength, but to know that he still hankered after the Boleyn trollop was just too much to stomach.
“I know you have been spying on me and reporting back to Norfolk,” he shouted. “How else does the King know my every action?”
“You are wrong,” she said. “I have done no such thing.”
“I do not believe you.”
“I care nothing for your beliefs. I was distressed at seeing you with her portrait, after all this time.”
“Why should you care?”
“I do not care about your love for her, but about the disrespect to me.”
He tossed the portrait back into the drawer and locked it.
“It is none of your concern,” he told her.
“Why do you not give her up?” Mary demanded. “She has ruined your life, and mine and now it seems the King himself is under her spell. She is known as the King’s whore.”
“And that is a lie,” he said. “She has denied him all this time.”
“Word is she has denied him to increase his ardour.”
“She has denied him in the hope he will give up the pursuit and allow her to leave court.”
She scoffed.
“You have word from her?”
He made no reply. She had no need to know about the occasional message he received from Anne, nor did she need to know that he lived for those letters, that the anticipation of them was all he ever looked forward to.
When he left his wife that morning, he failed to notice the almost white colour of her complexion, nor the little beads of perspiration that clung to her forehead. Why should he notice things of that nature, he who had never wanted her, he whom she despised?
But at the end of the day, he arrived back at Alnwick Castle to find maidservants running about Mary’s chamber with cold water and cloths, and a physician in attendance.
For one moment his heart leapt with hope as his first thought was that she was dying. Could he be free of her at last? Would he have some peace before his own end came, which he expected to be early since he was often ill, often shaking and sweating himself.
But he did not hurry to send for physicians and take to his bed. She was likely but seeking attention after his apology of the morning.
Yet he could be wrong; she could be really ill and if she was, he could be free. He would never remarry; there was still only one woman he wanted in his life and the man who stood in his way was too powerful to challenge. At least he might have some peace in the years that were left to him.
He made his way to his wife’s chamber in time to see the physician removing fat little shiny leeches. The man turned to him.
“Ah, My Lord,” he said. “I am glad you have returned. Her Ladyship has been very ill today, very ill indeed. I must say I am surprised you noticed nothing this morning.”
“What is wrong with her?” he replied abruptly.
“She has a stomach ague, vomiting and loose bowels.”
Harry grimaced. He hated talk about bodily ailments.
“What do you think was the cause?” he asked.
“Poison, that’s what!” mumbled a weak voice from the bed. “He has poisoned me.”
“Hush, My Lady,” said the physician. “You do not mean that.”
“Do not tell me what I mean.” Mary struggled to keep her voice audible. “He’s tried to do away with me so he can have his Boleyn whore!”
The physician stepped back from the bed in shock, then turned to Harry.
“I fear Her Ladyship is delirious, My Lord,” he said.
Harry only stared back at him angrily. He was furious with Mary for making such accusations, especially before a physician and the servants. He would love to be rid of her, but he was not about to hang for it.
“You may leave now,” he said. “And if you breathe a word of my wife’s accusation, I will make your life unbearable.”
He closed the door on the man and turned to the bed. She did look ill; there was no doubting that. She was very pale; she had that film of stickiness over her skin.
“Do you really believe I would poison you?” he asked her.
“Are you denying it?”
“Of course I am. I do not love you, I would not be sorry to see you go, but you are not worth hanging for.”
He left her then, not knowing that she forced herself out of bed, weak though she was, and wrote a pleading letter to her father.
***
MARY’S HEALTH IMPROVED slowly and she was confined to bed for some weeks, but her husband refused to allow the doctors to apply the ghastly little leeches to her body.
No doubt they would all take that to mean he wanted her health to fail, but so be it. They could do whatever else they liked but Harry was convinced she was weaker after the application of the blood sucking little monsters.
Harry looked down at her, where she lay still pale and weak. He would have liked to smile, to reassure her, but he found he could not do that. He hated her too much to offer her any solace.
It was of the utmost importance to Harry that Mary lived; if she should die now, after her accusation, he could find himself on trial for her murder. The state of their marriage was no secret and that would be evidence enough to hang him.
The first of her father’s servants arrived before she was fully recovered, carrying a letter from him to Harry, accusing him of abusing his wife and of trying to poison her. He demanded that Harry allow the servants to see Mary, to be sure she was uninjured.
Harry was furious. Abused her? He would never think of such a thing. Once, he had lost his fragile temper and struck her and had immediately regretted it. He had apologised profusely, but he should not be surprised that she was now reporting that one incident to her father.
He refused to allow them access to his wife, sent them away without a reply for Lord Shrewsbury.
He would like to have excluded her servants, but she needed help with everything until she recovered. Harry could find no sympathy for her, no compassion. He knew the servants were giving her news of the latest gossip, but he could not care any more.
He visited her to see if she was recovering, to be sure he was right about the leeches. A maidservant was just leaving and gave him a quick curtsy, her eyes showing fear as she hurried past him.
Mary was dressed for the first time in weeks, but her clothes hung on her as she had lost so much weight.
She was unable to stand for long and after a few minutes, sank into the chair beside the window. She looked up at him defiantly.
“You refused to allow the physicians to treat me,” she said accusingly. “Did you hope to speed my death?”
“I refused because I thought you too weak to take more blood letting.”
“You mean you did it for my sake?”
“Partly, but mostly I did it for mine. I did not want you to die after accusing me of trying to kill you.” He paused and moved to sit in the chair beside her. “It seems I was right. You are able to leave your bed, although you still do not seem well. Perhaps a taste of fresh air might aid you.”
“It might.” Mary wondered if she should mention the gossip she had just that minute heard from the servant, but she decided to find out for certain if it were true. “I hear congratulations are in order, My Lord,” she said.
He gave her a puzzled frown.
“How so?”
“I was told your whore had given you a daughter,” she said. “Isabel, is it not?”
He made no reply. He had hoped to keep the child a secret as well as his relationship with her mother, but it mattered not at all. It was not as though he loved the woman; he would never love anyone but Anne, but he would willingly support his daughter.
“I am entitled to comfort from someone,” he replied. “Yes, I have a daughter and I shall support her, and I am fond of her mother, but I do not love her.”
“Of course not. You still love the Boleyn trollop.”
“I know not why you must call her that. She is no such thing, as you well know, and I cannot believe it is jealousy that fuels your words.”
“No, certainly not jealousy,” said Mary. “How would you feel if you were forced to marry a woman you knew was in love with someone else?”
“I would likely feel the same,” he said. “It would certainly cause an unhappy marriage.”
“Well then, why should I not resent the bitch?”
Harry felt his fingers twitching with the need to strike out and he wondered if he would ever feel less defensive of Anne. He knew this conversation was going nowhere. How could it, when there was no solution to their problems? Before he could change the subject, a servant appeared to announce the arrival of the Duke of Norfolk.
“Well, we are honoured to have such an exalted visitor,” said Harry sarcastically.
Mary looked up hopefully. Norfolk was her ally and he knew it, but she wondered if she would be permitted to see him or if Harry would send him away as he had her father’s servants.
The Duke waited in the great hall, seated in the most comfortable armchair as though he were the master of the house, but he got to his feet when Harry appeared.
“Your Grace,” Harry said at once. “I am honoured by your visit, but also puzzled. You seem to know everything I am doing by means of my wife. What else is there to know?”
“You are wrong, My Lord,” he said. “But no matter. I came not to discover your movements but to relay my concerns, and Lord Shrewsbury’s concerns, about the way you have been treating your wife.”
“Really, Your Grace? And what business is that of yours?”
“I was asked to come here, to tell you it has gone on long enough. You must change your ways, you must treat Lady Mary with affection and respect. She has done her best to be a good wife to you.”
“Is that what she told you? Well, I beg to differ, but that is neither here nor there. The fact of the matter is, her father forced this marriage on her, even whilst knowing that I loved another woman. He can hardly complain now that the marriage is unsuccessful. What else would he expect?”
“You could never have had Anne Boleyn. That is obvious now.”
“It is, but it was not obvious then and I did love her. I still do.”
“That is dangerous talk, My Lord.”
“Perhaps.” Harry paused and looked at the Duke thoughtfully. “What do you want me to do? I cannot love Mary; I cannot even like her.”
“But you must. You have sworn to it.”
Suddenly it was all too much. He deeply resented the intrusion into his private affairs and he knew well that both he and Mary would be happier apart.
“I’ll tell you what you must do,” he said at last. “You must take her with you. Return her to her father. I should be happy never to see her again as long as I live.”
He turned then, left the Duke open jawed and went upstairs to Mary’s bedchamber, where she still waited to see if he was going to give the Duke access to her. He sat in the chair beside her.
“What have you been telling your father?” he said. “First he sends his servants with letters accusing me of beating you, and I know you told him I tried to poison you. Now he sends his ally to tell me how to behave.”
“You did hit me,” she answered.
“Once, years ago.” He got to his feet and turned to look down at her. “Norfolk is downstairs, waiting to take you with him and return you to your father. Are you well enough to travel?”
“What are you saying?”
“I think it would be the best thing for us both if we parted. Do you not concede?”
“Well,” she said. “It seems we have finally found something on which we can agree.”
“I will be happy if I never see you again and I am sure you feel the same.”