"Wicked uncle," he breathed.
The games of his childhood, which had given him so much pleasure, had taken on a nauseous reality. Henry had no love for Edward or his brood, but he shrank from this insane bloodletting. It was not until hours later, when he was tossing restlessly in his bed, cold despite the summer warmth and the robe he had pulled over him, that he could bring himself to admit that Richard's actions were not insane. If Gloucester wished to keep the crown he had assumed, Edward's blood must not survive to divide the country. Alone, Henry had no need to set a guard on his expression or emotion, and he trembled, reliving the terrors he himself had felt, finding himself, to his own surprise, weeping for those children who had faced a greater terror without support and had died in fear.
He drew a hand over his face, annoyed with himself for emotion wasted on enemies who, likely enough, would have wasted none on him. If I must weep, Henry thought, let it be for myself. Richard will not forget me, more especially if his enemies flee here to my protection. He will have excuse enough to threaten Brittany and, even if he has not strength enough for war, he can set the nobles against me again. And, what will I do with these people? How will I support them? How long can Francis bear their expense without resentment?
CHAPTER 5
While Henry struggled with practical problems in Brittany, Margaret struggled with emotional ones in England. From the time Henry was a quick-witted baby, she had dreamed dreams of power and glory for him. These were rooted in her very soul, but above them lay a heavy debris of fear. The years she had lived at Edward's court had displayed to her the horrors that grew around power and the smirching of glory that those horrors brought. Richard's bloody seizure of the crown brought all the evils of power into sharp focus, for Richard had been an honorable man and had been turned into a monster.
Could she desire such a burden for Henry? Even if he could support it and did not become a bloody tyrant, would what happened to Edward happen to him? Would Henry be swallowed by dissipation, grow fat and soft, rotted by his own lusts? She could not imagine such weakness in her son, yet what did she really know of Henry? For twelve years she had not looked into his face. What could be judged from a whispered message, from a few formal lines giving news of his health and welfare?
Margaret touched her coif to be sure the folds were straight and graceful, ran her finger around its edge to be sure that no hair had escaped to make her look unkempt. Her surcoat was of the richest emerald silk, her cotte of the purest white, its hem sewn with pearls that glowed softly when the surcoat was lifted and they caught the light. The clothes suited her, but that was not why she had chosen them. Green and white were the Tudor colors. A necklet of emeralds and diamonds, rings on her fingers; Margaret rose at last and looked into her mirror. Yes, she was grand enough. Her appearance would undoubtedly turn the knife in the wounded pride of Elizabeth Woodville, dowager queen of England and now no better than a prisoner in sanctuary at Westminster.
Shown into Elizabeth's presence, Margaret curtsied deeply but did not kneel, for in these circumstances that gesture could be considered mocking.
"Why have you come here?"
The question did not surprise Margaret. She had been the queen's lady for many years, but they had never been friends. Even aside from political differences, their natures and interests were totally opposed. Over the years, Margaret had found the queen to be vain, shallow, sensual, and pleasure-loving, unstable in her loyalties, selfish to a degree that excluded even her children. Although Queen Elizabeth was shrewd enough to see and grasp for what she thought was her good, she often spoiled everything by being unable to wait or plan for the future.
"Because we both desire the same thing and together, albeit we are only two women, we can achieve that thing."
"What can I achieve—a prisoner in danger of my very life? I am helpless, succorless. I have lost my hope and my joy. My sons, my brothers, all are lost—lost."
"I cannot give you back your sons or your brothers"—Margaret's voice trembled with deep and genuine sympathy. She might dislike and distrust this woman, but she could feel for her grief—"but all else I can make sure you have again. And I can give you your revenge on him who has bereft you. More than that, you and I may bind and heal the wounds that have torn this land for thirty years. You have a daughter—I have a son. My son is heir to Lancaster; your daughter is heir to York. Let them join hands and there will be no stronger right than theirs in this land."
Elizabeth was silent and tears trickled down her face. She was almost sure her sons were dead, and this visit of Margaret's made her more sure. Her tears, however, were less of grief than of fear. If her sons were dead, her own life was that much more in danger.
"What good are your promises? Will they bind your son? What force has he to achieve this thing?"
"If he does not achieve it, you will have lost nothing. Richard can hate you no more relentlessly even if he should hear that you have promised your daughter Elizabeth to Henry. And my promise that Henry will treat you with all honor—although you may have it in any way you desire including my oath upon the crucifix—will matter little. Your daughter will be Henry's wife. Elizabeth is as beautiful as you are, madam. What man will deny her anything she asks? Did you not mold Edward to your will in far greater things than respect to a mother-in-law?"
That made sense to the dowager queen. A faint flush of color came into her cheeks and her eyes brightened. Elizabeth was a good daughter. She would deny her mother nothing. Through her, power would be restored to her mother's hands.
"I desire nothing except to live in peace and to be revenged on that murderer," Elizabeth lied. "For that and for the good of the land which groans beneath a tyrant—I agree."
"And your daughter, will she agree?"
"She will do as I say. Now, what would you have, a letter?"
"That would be best, for I must prove that this is not a dream of my own devising. I would like to speak to Elizabeth. If I could have some token of willingness from her to send to my son, it would be very helpful. He is gentle." Margaret actually knew nothing about Henry's attitude toward women, but she wanted to be sure that the queen would tell Princess Elizabeth of the proposed betrothal. The girl should have time to accustom herself to the idea. "Henry would not be willing to force your daughter against her will."
"There is no need for you to speak to my daughter," the dowager said sharply. "I will see that a letter and token are made ready for you. When you send to your son to tell him to come to England, that messenger can carry my daughter's consent and"—the petulant lips curled into a sneer—"her love token."
It was done. Margaret returned home trembling, although she told herself no irrevocable move had yet been made. She knew that was false comfort. Having started on the path, she would tread it to the end; it was her nature. A week passed while Margaret's servants made tactful inquiries. Then she wrote to Lord Stanley that the heat of London oppressed her. If it was not disagreeable to him, she would ride into the country to refresh herself. His reply came as quickly as the messenger could travel. She was to do as she pleased. On no account should she trifle with her health but go where she would be most comfortable and be sure to take her physician with her. Thomas Stanley was, if possible, more deeply in love with his wife than when he married her. She was perfect. Her virtue, her prudence, and her wisdom had been of more use to him in these troubled times than any other person's. He trusted her implicitly.
Margaret rode slowly northwest, heading for the cool hills of Gilbert Talbot's lands. He was her husband's brother-in-law. She could hardly pay a more respectable or less suspicious visit. Occasionally a man rode away from her entourage, made inquiries and rode back. She rested the night at Stratford-on-Avon, but in the morning they rode at great speed for Kidderminster. The horses were rested and baited and they rode forth again, but very slowly. Soon the sound of a large troop swelled behind them. Margaret bit her lips. This was the decisive step and, once taken, Henry would be committ
ed.
Buckingham, who had supported Richard against the Woodvilles and even agreed to the execution of Hastings, was growing dissatisfied with his royal master. Some said he was nauseated and horrified by the rumored deaths of Edward's children. Others believed that it was his hands that were stained with the princes' blood, and that he considered himself ill-used by Richard and ill-paid for his deeds. Margaret knew for a certainty that John Morton, bishop of Ely, who had been taken prisoner when Hastings was killed, was Buckingham's ward, and that he had been carefully feeding and nurturing Buckingham's dissatisfaction. Margaret had been in steady communication with John Morton, a brilliant, devious man, through her network of scholars and priests, but she did not know whether Buckingham wanted to seize the throne himself or whether he would throw his weight behind Henry. She had ridden to the cool hills to find out.
Buckingham had a claim to the throne, but it was through Edward III's youngest son, Thomas of Woodstock, and broken by much female descent. Nonetheless, it was nowhere smirched by bastardy, legitimized or not. If Buckingham wished to contest Henry's right to the throne, he would have a most excellent case. Margaret heard his hail and pulled her horse to a halt. Her heart beat so hard that she could feel the pulsations in her throat, but she could not decide, even in those last few moments, whether she hoped or feared that Buckingham would agree to her plan.
"Well, Margaret, a good greeting to you. What do you here?"
"I fly from the heat—and other things—in London." Buckingham's face grew guarded. "Is the king back in London?" he asked with an assumption of casualness.
He is afraid, Margaret thought. "I know not," she replied. "I have ridden very slowly, being troubled in my mind."
They had pulled well ahead of their escorts and no one could overhear.
"Troubled?"
"Nay, I will speak the truth to you, my lord, for you were my brother when my second husband still lived. I am afraid … afraid for myself and for my son. I fear that Richard will not rest until no man, nor woman, who carries the blood of Edward III lives. He has already sent envoys to Brittany demanding Henry's surrender."
"Francis will not yield him. You need not fear for that, and Richard loves your husband too well to harm you."
"Loves him so well that he imprisoned him when Hastings was taken. You know Lord Stanley had no part in Hastings's doings. Whom does Richard love or trust?"
"He has ventured much and has gained much. When he is sure of his gain, he will grow more trusting."
"And others have ventured much and gained little, not even trust, perhaps?"
Buckingham did not answer but sat his horse studying Margaret. Finally he said, "How old is Henry?"
"Twenty-six, and so prudent and discreet that Francis seeks to make him heir to Brittany through marriage with his eldest daughter, Anne."
"Is he betrothed already?" Buckingham asked sharply.
"No. I thought perhaps he would do better with an English bride, if one of high enough lineage could be found for him. He is the last of John of Gaunt's line."
"Ay. So he is. Perhaps such a girl might be found. But Margaret," Buckingham said with a complete change of expression from thoughtfulness to gallantry, "no one would believe you have a son of such years. Why you appear scarce older yourself, hardly less fresh than a young maid."
"My lord, my lord, you flatter an old woman shamelessly," Margaret jested in reply.
She had made her point and Buckingham had indicated his interest in it by agreeing that Henry might do better with an English bride. The rest could be left to Morton, and Margaret cheerfully helped support the light conversation that occupied the rest of the time she and Buckingham shared the same road. Mostly they spoke of the past—the only conversation safe in these times, and Margaret applied a smooth coating of flattery herself when she touched lightly upon the peculiarity of fate that made Henry VI give her to Edmund Tudor rather than to Buckingham himself as bride. It had been her choice, not the king's, but Margaret submerged that memory in a good cause.
"Henry might have been your son" she smiled "had matters fallen otherwise."
"So he could, and likely we would all have been dead. Still, I may yet stand as father to him in some ways."
With that they came to Bridgnorth where Buckingham had business. Margaret remained as his guest that night, planning to ride on to Shrewsbury the next day, but they spoke no more of serious matters. There were too many ears in a town to make such discussions comfortable.
Margaret and the duke of Buckingham were sensible enough to confine their conversation to small talk that would not betray what really filled their minds and spirits. The dowager queen had no such self-control. She was incapable of holding her tongue and, bereft of her brothers, she was greatly in need of a safe audience. Thus, even though she understood that it was not wise to wake her daughter Elizabeth's easily aroused emotions, she could not put off involving her at once in order to have someone to discuss the matter with. She brusquely ordered Elizabeth to write a letter of acceptance of a proposal of marriage from Henry of Richmond. Elizabeth looked at her mother with wide, frightened eyes.
"But, mama, I have not received any such proposal, and I do not think—"
"I have received the proposal, as is right and proper. What have you to do with such a matter? And you are not required to think. Do as you are told."
"Mama, I am very ready to be obedient to you, you know I am, but—"
"But? But what?" The dowager's voice was shrill and furious.
Elizabeth quelled her internal trembling with an effort. She knew her mother could not and would not harm her. She would rather, in fact, be slapped than screamed at. The high, irrational shrieking made her nauseous and dizzy so that she could not think, and she needed to think.
Over the years Elizabeth had learned that her mother was not very wise. Leaping this way and that, like a fish after first one and then another, larger fly, the queen often ended with nothing. What Elizabeth needed to sort out in her mind was whether they were truly in dire danger as her mother said. There were also two other possibilities: her mother might simply be exaggerating her own fear grossly, or she might be acting a part deliberately to make trouble for Uncle Richard.
Elizabeth had been told that Richard of Gloucester wanted them all dead and that they were alive only because the church gave them sanctuary. Elizabeth found it almost impossible to believe this. No, she could not believe it, not of Uncle Richard. He was so kind and so gentle. He never shrieked. He always explained softly what he wanted and made everything easy.
Nonetheless, her brothers were gone. Elizabeth's eyes filled with tears. Her darling little brothers. When first they were taken away, she had written to them every day, and once in a while she had received their replies. The tears spilled over. She had not had a letter for so long. Uncle Richard? If it were so, that he had harmed her brothers, was it not madness to do this thing? It would be open treason to accept a proposal from the head of the House of Lancaster.
"But Uncle Richard would not like it," Elizabeth said. "Mama, if he should find out …"
"Who will tell him? You? You little traitor! You think if you yield yourself, he will make you queen?"
"Mother!"
"So that is why you do not wish to write to Henry. You incestuous little bitch! What proposal has Richard made to you?"
Nearly choking with horror, Elizabeth gasped, "Uncle Richard loves his wife. I am a little girl to him. He has never—"
"Little girl, eh?" the dowager sneered, running her eyes over her daughter's voluptuous figure.
At eighteen Elizabeth was rich and ripe, in the first flush of a beauty that would grow richer over many years. Elizabeth felt herself shrink. It was not modesty. She had more than once been examined by envoys like a Flanders mare, all but being told to open her mouth so that her teeth could be counted. She did not mind having her body appraised for political purposes. It was a fine body, and she was proud of it. Her mother's lewd suggestion was
something else entirely. Unwisely, Elizabeth burst into tears.
"So that is what Richard has in mind," the dowager said thoughtfully. "He needs to dispose of Anne first, of course, but that will not be difficult. She was ever a puling, sickly thing. She will die soon. Then—" She ran her eyes over her daughter, who was trembling and swallowing convulsively, fighting her disgust. "Yes, he will have a fine exchange, real piece of womanflesh and the rightful heir to the throne."
"Mother, stop!" Elizabeth cried, her hands shielding her face. "Uncle Richard would never harm Anne. He loves her. I am not the heir to the throne. I have two brothers. Stop!"
Totally deaf to her daughter's pleading, the dowager stood biting her lip. Then she nodded decisively. "There can be no harm in accepting Richmond's offer. Even if Richard found out, it would make no difference. If there is no successful rebellion, Richard will marry you and you will be queen. If there is a rebellion and Henry conquers, he must marry you and you will be queen. In either case our troubles will be over. Oh, stop that sniveling! Think over what I have said and bring me a letter soon. Soon, I say."
When her mother had gone, Elizabeth sank into the vacated chair and wept bitterly. Her brothers were dead; they must be dead. At first it was all she could think of. Then it dawned upon her that if her brothers were dead, it must be Uncle Richard's doing. And if he had become a monster that would destroy two innocent little boys to be sure of a throne, he might indeed also destroy the wife he once loved and marry his niece incestuously for the same purpose.
Not me, Elizabeth thought, not me. I am not afraid to die. I will die first. But she did not wish to die, and her mind scurried around seeking a defense. Then suddenly her sobbing ceased. Henry of Richmond would be her salvation. Uncle Richard had declared her mother's marriage to her father invalid on the grounds that her father had been previously betrothed to Lady Eleanor Butler. If she were betrothed to Henry of Richmond, she would be safe. She went to the table that held her writing desk and drew forth paper, quill and ink.
The Dragon and the Rose Page 6
