"But this is not the end of John Wycliffe," prophesied Henry.
There was more trouble when John Holland, the King's half-brother, murdered the Earl of Stafford's son and was banished from the country.
"The Queen Mother is distraught," Henry explained. "She is trying to persuade Richard to acquit him but I don't see how he can. This will just about kill her. Her health is not good and she is getting old."
And it did kill her for she died soon after.
But by this time Mary had reached her fifteenth birthday and one day John of Gaunt sent word that he was coming to see them.
There must be great preparations for such an important visitor and the Countess with Mary beside her ordered that beef and mutton, capon, venison with herons and swans and peacocks be made ready for the honoured guest. The smell of baking pervaded the kitchens for there must be pies and tarts of all descriptions to be worthy of such a guest and the retinue he would certainly bring with him.
Henry was to accompany him and Mary guessed what the object of this visit was. So did her mother for she watched her daughter anxiously.
"My lady," Mary reminded the Countess, "I have passed my fifteenth birthday and am no longer a child."
The Countess sighed. She would have liked to keep her daughter with her a little longer.
From one of the turret windows Mary watched the arrival of the great John of Gaunt, resplendent with banners displaying the lions and the leopards. Beside the great Duke of Lancaster rode his son, Henry of Bolingbroke.
How noble they were—these Plantagenets, and how similar in looks! There could be no doubt of their origins; they bore themselves—all of them—like Kings.
The Countess was waiting to greet them, with Mary beside her. John of Gaunt took Mary in his arms, when she would have curtsied to him.
"And how fares my dear daughter?" he asked. She replied that she was well and trusted he was also.
Her mother looked on with pride as she must to contemplate this brilliant marriage of her daughter's; and the fact that Mary and Henry so clearly loved each other was great balm to her motherly heart.
Henry was watching Mary with glistening eyes and when he embraced her she sensed the joy in him; so she knew that the waiting would soon be over.
There was an air of festivity at supper that evening as the dishes which had caused such a flurry of activity in the kitchen were set before the honoured guests. In addition to the meats and pies there were dried fruits preserved in sugar—almonds, raisins and fancy marchpane with every delicacy that had ever been thought of.
"Your daughter grows apace," said John of Gaunt to the Countess. "And her beauty increases. She is no longer a child. Do you agree?"
The Countess reluctantly admitted that this was so; and then there could no longer be any doubt of the reason for the visit.
Mary and Henry danced together; she played the guitar and he sang with her; and while they watched them the Duke of Lancaster explained to the Countess that he was shortly leaving the country for Castile where he would try to win the crown to which he had a claim through his wife Constanza; he was leaving his son in charge of his estates.
"He is a man now," he added.
The Countess was thoughtful. She did not greatly care for John of Gaunt; he was too formidable for comfort. Moreover she knew how ambitious he was and that he longed for a crown. He had married Constanza of Castile in the hope of being King of Castile since he could not be King of England, though he did not live with his lawful wife but with his mistress Catherine Swynford. And he had married his son to Mary because of Mary's fortune.
Now he was telling her that it was time Mary left her mother and became a wife to Henry.
It must be, she saw that.
Meanwhile Henry was explaining to Mary. "The waiting is over," he said. "You are coming away with me."
She clasped her hands together and closed her eyes; she was overcome with joy.
"Does that mean you are pleased?" asked Henry.
She nodded.
"I am nearly twenty" he said. "My father says it is time I had a wife. Oh, Mary, the waiting has been so long."
"For me, also. I am sorry I was so young."
That made him laugh.
"Listen," he said. "When I go from here, you will come with me. My father is going to Castile."
"Oh Henry ... you ..."
"No, I am not going with him. There must be someone here to look after the estates. I shall doubtless travel with him to the coast. Perhaps you will come with us, Mary."
She put her hand in his.
"Henry, I am so happy," she said.
Those were busy days that followed. The great John of Gaunt must be entertained and she must prepare herself to leave with Henry. Her mother watched her with a certain sadness.
"I am pleased that you are happy in your marriage" she said, "but sorry that you are going away. If you are ever in need of me, you have but to send word, my child, and I shall be with you"
Mary said solemnly: "Was there any girl more fortunate than I? I have the best husband and the best mother in the world"
Mary was indeed a wife and it was not long before she was expecting to become a mother. She and Henry had gone to their favourite castle in Monmouthshire and there they had spent a few ecstatic weeks during which Mary had become pregnant. Life was so wonderful if she could but forget that parting could come at any moment. Henry was deeply involved in politics and that meant uneasy living. He did not like his cousin, the King. He called him a fool in private; he said he was futile, riding for disaster.
"He lost his slipper at his coronation," he once said, "and if he is not careful, ere long he will lose his throne."
Mary hated to think how deeply Henry was being embroiled. She could have wished they could have lived quietly in Monmouth Castle happily from day to day.
She was so happy when he played his recorder and she played her guitar and then sang and danced; or when they played chess with the beautiful silver chessmen which were Henry's father's gift to them, or they rode together in the forest as they had when they had first met.
But this idyllic existence could not last. Sometimes she thought—but secretly—how happy she could have been had he been the son of a humble squire. She dared not hint of her feelings for the fact that he was the son of his father was one of his proudest boasts.
As the months passed her discomfort increased; it was a difficult pregnancy as it had been with her first child. Henry was a kind and thoughtful husband, but she sensed his restlessness. She could no longer ride with him; she could not dance; and sometimes she was so tired that she could not even concentrate on a game of chess.
She was realizing that she had married a very ambitious man. It was hardly to be expected that the son of John of Gaunt would be otherwise, and while he dallied with her in the castle she sensed that his thoughts were far away. The political situation was growing rather tense; when he talked to her about it his eyes glowed and his voice trembled with excitement; she quickly understood that he would rather be at Court than with her; it saddened her and yet she understood. She was only a part of his life; she must not expect him to share her desire for this cosy domesticity; and now, pregnant as she was and often feeling ill, she could not be the lively companion he needed. She must face facts; the idyll was over; it was changing rapidly into sensible marriage. He loved her still but how could she expect the same wholehearted devotion from him which she was prepared to give.
There came a day when his uncle—Mary's brother-in-law —Thomas of Gloucester came to the castle. Mary was apprehensive about the visit for she knew that Thomas would never forgive her for leaving Pleshy and marrying Henry. Eleanor had been very cool towards her on the few occasions when they had met.
Thomas however greeted her with a brotherly affection and when she asked after Eleanor he said she was well and so were the children. Eleanor now had a son and that seemed to have given her and her husband a great deal of pleasure. He had been named Humphrey which was a favourite name in the de Bohun family.