Henry pulled off his gauntlet and touched Brandon's face gently with three fingers. "Fare thee well, William. We will laugh together no more. Do not let your soul be troubled for any earthly thing. What I promised shall be your son's, and I myself will be father to him."
He stood up, drew a deep breath, and lifted his head. "Cheney," he said briskly, "do you see that William's body is guarded. He bought my life with his blood, and I will see him buried with all honor." Henry looked around. "Oxford," he paused and held out his hands, which John deVere grasped. "I cannot insult you by praising your courage, as if it were a thing new to you, but I can show my trust by placing my safety in your hands. You will be constable of the Tower and lord high admiral." Henry's lips quivered as he thought—when we have a fleet.
Philibert de Shaunde came forward. "Sire, you have forbidden looting, but after a battle my men—" He shrugged helplessly.
Henry's face froze. "Courtenay."
"Sire?" Edward tried to straighten, still clasping his side with a red-stained hand.
"Nay, I had forgot you were hurt. Oxford, this is work for you, if you are not overweary."
"I am not rested," deVere smiled, "but until I am dead, I am yours to command."
"Gather the English troops. Set them to watch the French."
"They will turn on us," Shaunde said angrily. He despised the scum he commanded, but they were all the French court would permit him to take.
"Let them strip the dead, then," Henry said with a bitter grimace. "But they are not to touch the wounded. If necessary, turn the prisoners loose on them. Ned." Poynings turned. "Make search with what men you need for Gloucester's body, and if you do not find it, make inquiry if any saw him flee the field."
"That is not necessary." William Stanley stood a little back from the group, smiling. "I cut Gloucester down with my own hand." Henry stared, but Sir William did not meet his eyes. "I can show Poynings where his body lies."
"Go with him, Ned. Gloucester is to be exposed, naked for all to see," Henry said coldly. "I desire no rumor that he is alive and free to trouble my reign. Bring me back the crown he defiled. Death has cleansed it—and it is mine."
"It is here, Henry—sire." Lord Stanley had been told he might address the king as Henry, but he added the sire for safety when he saw the cold gray eyes.
William leaned over and whispered to his brother sharply as Henry turned his head to look for Pembroke. It was his desire to take the crown from the hands of him who had so long preserved his life; but Pembroke was still faithful to his mad Welshmen, and had hurried away to help Rhys curb the wild fighters before their excesses brought Henry's wrath upon their heads. The Tudor turned back just in time to receive the crown which Lord Stanley set on his helmet with his own hands. His face turned white and set into a mask while a burning rage flooded him. Henry's hand flew up to rip the battered golden circlet from his head, but it was the crown of England and a priceless treasure no matter how it came there. He stayed his hand, just touching the symbolic coronet. It is my mother from whom it comes, Henry thought, the man is but her tool.
"Thank you." A smile icy-chill, less cheering than a frown, curved his lips. "He who marries a countess should be an earl. That I grant you, Lord Stanley, henceforward earl of Derby." He turned away. "Edgecombe, summon the heralds to me, and some scribes, if they can be found. Call together, also, the chiefs of all the fighting groups—the prisoners, also. I have that to say which must be spread quickly through the country."
They drew together, the expectant victors and the sullen, fearful beaten. Henry stepped clear of the group that surrounded him. The ranks of men wavered as if a wind tossed them and a murmur rose and fell, "The king. The king." The Tudor looked across the sea of faces, wondering at first how far his voice would carry, and then, with a sudden qualm of terror, whether even the words they heard could mean anything to them. Had the struggle between Lancaster and York gone on too long? Could anything heal the wounds? Wash away the bitterness? Weld the nation into one? Why, he himself, whose task this was, needed to force his mind to acceptance when he thought of marriage to the daughter of York.
"Hail Harry, king of England."
The single voice rose from the crowd, and Henry raised his hand to hold back an outburst of cheering. "My people, we have called you together for this purpose. We are king of England and of the English." The Tudor paused, raised his voice still higher to say significantly, "All the English. No longer shall father be set against son nor brother against brother. In this land now, so long torn by strife that it has become the jest of all nations, there is no longer Lancaster or York."
Henry paused again and looked over the men massed around him. "Here," he cried, "are Englishmen only. Let us then, as the first symbol of new and better times to come, bind up each other's wounds and give honorable burial to all those slain in this unhappy strife. It is our command, as king of all the English, that no man willing to acknowledge us king suffer any further hurt. When the wounded are tended and the dead buried, let all men depart peaceably to their own place, taking with them their own horse, harness, and weapons. This nation is no more at war. No man is to be prevented from leaving this field with what he brought to it. Any man who loots or harms any of our people may not shield himself behind the excuse of war. The war is over! My people, go in peace."
There was a moment of shocked silence. The wars of the red rose and the white had been waged with increasing bitterness in the past, the victors despoiling the vanquished, and the lists of proscriptions and confiscated property had run to many pages in the rolls of parliament. Then the roars rose to heaven.
"King Henry! King Henry! Hail the king!"
"Sire, are you mad?" William Stanley, shaken from caution, hissed the question.
Henry raked him with his eyes, and the man recoiled as he had done before. "Nay," he replied, smiling, "merely wiser than my predecessors. What good to wrest a horse and sword from a man who has nothing else? A field or two from a country squire who then becomes both a beggar and an intriguer? A king must strike his enemies, and the commons of England are no enemy to me. Others—" Henry paused, smiled again, and said softly, "—others may be."
CHAPTER 10
It was an August-end such as England seldom saw; hot, bright days cooled by a sufficient breeze. The council said, laughing, that the weather had been arranged by God so that Henry's people should see him in comfort and at his best. The prisoners, some score of men of note, ardent supporters of Richard, whispered among themselves that such weather presaged plague and a stern and troubled reign. Even they, however, did not see any quick reversal of Henry's victory.
Many of the leaders of Richard's party had been slain—in battle, not by execution as followed Tewksbury—and the rest, except for two, were prisoners. Whatever the country folk felt, there were now no leaders to support rebellion. And it appeared, as they rode south from Leicester, that the country folk were well pleased with the change. They lined the roads and crowded the towns cheering King Henry, and the Tudor smiled and spoke to them, always stressing peace and unity and promising pardon to all who swore fealty to him.
Henry was most splendid, glittering with jewels and cloth of gold, which he had appropriated shamelessly from Gloucester's chests. The clothes did not fit so ill; both were slight of form, but the right shoulder had to be made to match the left for Henry. Pembroke had frowned at the borrowed feathers, his own flesh crawling at the thought of wearing a dead enemy's clothes. He even spoke of it, the last night they spent at Leicester, but Henry laughed gaily and said the people would not welcome a beggarly king who could be expected to rob them.
That gave Jasper an opening to an even more important question. "And what will you do, Harry?" he asked. "You have refused to execute your enemies. You have set your face against confiscation of Yorkist property. How will you support the royal state?"
Edgecombe and Guildford, who already knew they would be chamberlains of the exchequer, looked their anxiety although
they did not speak.
"To rob the poor is a crime," Henry murmured, staring intently at his own fingers. "To cut the purses of the rich, on the other hand, enhances the peace of the nation and the stability of the throne. It may be that with judicious trimming of Gloucester's favorites, even though we leave no one bare of sustenance, the crown will not be destitute. Do not forget that Gloucester transferred the property given to Edward's favorites to his own. Most of Edward's favorites, thanks be to Gloucester, are dead. The crown, I think, should resume all the lands belonging to it in the time of Henry VI—with proper exceptions."
A sigh of relief fluttered through the room. Henry had a craze for the appearance of legality, and the council had feared that he would force the parliament he intended to summon into voting him large subsidies.
"Moreover," the king added, smiling seraphically on his men while his eyes glittered with amusement, "confiscation without hope of restitution breeds bitter hatred and enmity. Is it not better to hold in trust property which may be restored as a reward for loyal service in the future?"
"Can you win Yorkists thus, Harry?" Jasper was not easy. He had been bred to a tradition that sought to wipe out its enemies, drowning them in their own blood.
"Some. What would you use, uncle? Can I slay the whole Percy clan—women and children too? What good would it be, if I did not kill them all, to kill Northumberland? And what means would you use to keep Northumberland steady? For others, there will be other reasons to transfer loyalty, but if I hold their purse strings without cutting the purse from their belts entirely, they will think twice before offending me. Cheney, bring the earl of Surrey here."
Norfolk had died for Gloucester, but his heir, Thomas Howard, earl of Surrey, had been taken prisoner. He now came before his conqueror, a taller man by a head than Henry, dark, his face masklike. He did not bend his knee before the new king, and Henry did not demand it of him, although Northumberland, earlier, had been told to kneel.
"My lord earl," Henry said gently, "your father was, I have heard, a man of honor, and I believe that of you, also. You know your life is safe, and I tell you before these witnesses that your wife and mother will not be left penniless. I know too much of that in my own person. Tell me, therefore, without fear, how you could bring yourself to bear arms for so murderous a tyrant as Richard of Gloucester."
"He was my crowned king," Surrey replied. "If the parliamentary authority of England set the crown upon a stock—I will fight for that stock." He met Henry's eyes boldly. "And as I fought for him, I will fight for you—when you are established by the same authority."
Henry nodded acceptance of the reply and gestured to Cheney who led Surrey away.
"That is a good man, sire," Poynings said.
"Ay, so he is, Ned. He will not rot long in the Tower. Yet there he must go," Henry laughed softly, "until the said authority has established me, and until a little trust comes to him from my gentle handling of those he loves. Well, is there aught left to see to before we leave Leicester?"
"Gloucester's body," Poynings said, consulting a memorandum. "It is still exposed."
"Throw it on a dung— No. Let it be decently but quietly interred by the Grey Friars, the grave to be marked in such a way that there will be no doubt. If we should need Richard to give evidence as to his own death, he must be ready to hand."
Jasper looked away, and fondness softened the cruel smile which had curved Henry's lips. He must remember, he thought, not to distress his uncle with such jests.
Momentarily he longed for Foxe, who had been sent for and would doubtless soon be hurrying toward London from France. Foxe would have laughed at the jest, and would have seen the humor of dangling lands and titles before the noses of men as carrots were held on a stick before an ass. He glanced around the room, feeling mortally weary yet knowing there was much still to do.
"What will you do about the Frenchmen?" Guildford asked above a yawn, as if Henry's thought was contagious.
"Send them back to the Regent Anne and Orleans," Henry said, laughing again. "That plague belongs in their country."
"And Shaunde?" Jasper wanted to know.
"Him I would keep if I could. He has done me good service and is a fine soldier. Uncle, will you put that question to Oxford? Ned, are you nodding because you agree, or—"
"I am nodding because I am falling asleep, sire. I beg pardon," Poynings replied, jerking himself upright.
"You need not. We are all in the same case. If naught else needs doing here and now, let us snatch what rest we can." As the others left, he held Jasper by the arm. "Uncle, will Oxford be content with high admiral? I will make no other man but you earl marshal. I will hold the place myself rather than give so much power into another's hands."
"I cannot, Harry. I told you before. Look at me, child. I am nigh to three score years old. I am sore weary. I cannot support the burden of the whole land's defenses. Find some younger man."
Henry's grip tightened fiercely. "I pray you, uncle, do not say to me that you are old. Who will dare love me now that I am king save you and my mother? I do not need much. You and she are sufficient, but I cannot spare you."
"As long as God gives me leave, I will stay by you."
"Oh, uncle—"
"You are overweary, Harry. Come now to bed."
"There is so much yet to be done."
"A dead king accomplishes nothing. Come to bed, Harry."
Henry let himself be led away and was soothed when Jasper dismissed the squires of the body and helped him undress. Jasper's hands were warm and strong, and, though his hair was now nearly white, Henry was comforted because his uncle's back was straight and the flesh firm on his face and throat. He has many years yet, the king thought, but I must not press duty on him to ease myself no matter how' sore my need. I must not kill him with overwork. There are others who will labor for gain or for fear. He alone loves me for myself … even when he fears me. Jasper bent above him and kissed him.
"Sleep, child. There is tomorrow for what you wish to do. There will be many tomorrows."
It was true enough, but each tomorrow was as full as each yesterday. The realm had been so much shaken since Edward's death that nothing ran aright. Henry dictated to clerks as he rode, signed writs before he broke his fast, and worked far into each night after days of speeches and formal receptions. He also drove his poor council to the brink of exhaustion, as merciless to them as he was to himself. He found time, nonetheless, to walk beside the litter which carried Courtenay, for Edward would not be left behind and begged to ride if Henry felt the litter would be too slow. He managed, too, to make much of the council's work light by his jesting. Only it was his jesting. Neither Jasper nor Ned Poynings was given to lightness in that way, and the others feared him too much to jape with him even though they loved him. Each day was busier—and lonelier—than the day before it.
Today would be different, Henry thought. Today they would come to Saint Albans and there, at last, he would meet his mother. The sun was midway in its afternoon decline when Henry pulled rein in the courtyard, and he found himself trembling between anticipation and fear. What if Margaret was not the woman he remembered? Could any woman be so beautiful? So good? It had been fourteen years since they had looked into each others' eyes. And now he saw things in people's eyes, things he did not wish to see. They knew it, too. Jasper was sometimes afraid of him. Would his mother be frightened, also?
Henry had intended to go to his own chamber first, to wash the dust of the road from himself and don fresh clothing so that his mother would be proud. Now he said roughly to the man who opened the door for him, "Where is the Lady Margaret?" And when the servant took time to bow before he answered, Henry could have struck him with impatience. She sat in the hall, he was told. Somewhat else was said, but Henry did not wait to hear.
Unable to abide the slow ceremony of servants and announcements, he flung the hall door open with his own hand. And—she was there.
Two steps walking, rememberi
ng dignity, the rest running, dignity cast to the wind, brought him past a glory of gowns to fall to his knees and bury his head in Margaret's lap before she could rise. He said nothing, and she only stroked his bright hair, from which the cap had tumbled in his violence, murmuring his name over and over as if it gave the moment reality. It was wonderful; it was heaven. A sob shook him.
"Henry," Margaret said, "we are not alone here." He stiffened as if she had struck him a blow, and Margaret bent low. "My love, dear love, I do not care, but later—you would."
Now the real meeting could no longer be delayed. Henry lifted his head, and Margaret's eyes were full upon his. "May a son not weep for joy when he greets the mother for whom he has longed for fourteen years?" His lashes were wet, but his lips laughed. There was only joy and a burning love in his mother's eyes. If there were other things in her soul, those had been washed away in this moment.
"You are too thin and too tired, but happy?"
"Oh, yes. I am happy."
"Your fame outruns you. You have done well, my Henry."
"When did my mother think her only chick other than perfect?"
It was Margaret's turn to laugh. "I never thought that." Then she sobered, searching his face. "Nor are you perfect now, though you have passed through purgatory already." Please God, she prayed silently, that I have not sentenced him to hell with my ambition for him.
"Send your women away, mama," Henry urged. "I have so much to say to you."
Margaret laid her hand on Henry's mouth, her eyes warning. "They are not my women, beloved. The queen has come to greet you bearing her daughter." Her hand increased its pressure as she saw the expression on Henry's face. "I know Queen Elizabeth will pardon you for greeting me first. She understands a son's affection, longing to greet her own son, Dorset."
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