Margaret's eyes still warned, and though Henry flushed red as fire and then grew pale as alabaster, he was silent. He kissed both of Margaret's hands, which now lay over his in her lap, set his cap on his head, and rose to his feet. He should have known. The servant tried to tell him, and he should have realized from the brilliance of the gowns. Margaret's ladies always dressed soberly, as she did herself. True, they were all resplendent in green and white today, but he had passed a rainbow, not a bed of lilies. Margaret had come to her feet, also. Now with tears in her eyes she made ready to curtsy to the ground and kiss the king's hand. Henry caught her.
"No! You shall not bow to me."
"Will you deprive me of the right of every other Englishwoman, sire?" Margaret asked playfully, but still warning.
Henry hesitated. It was policy, and his mother was ready to do this, as she was ready to do anything else, for him. Yet policy had to stop somewhere or a man would become a monster like Gloucester. For Henry, policy stopped with his mother and his uncle. "I will not have you bend your knee to me, mother, nor call me sire. Have I done so ill, become so shameful, that you will have me no more for a son?"
That, too, was said lightly, as a jest, but Margaret heard the cry of loneliness. She cupped her hand around her son's face and smiled without speaking. Nonetheless, Henry had his answer. He brushed her hand again with his lips and turned from her. Margaret saw his slight form brace as if he steeled himself to some great trial, but a moment later he had lifted the dowager queen's hand to his lips in such a way that he drew her from her chair to a standing position.
He did not bow, did not even bend his head to kiss her hand; he brought that up to his mouth, uncomfortably bent. She had been easy to identify since she was the only woman in the room besides Margaret who had been seated. Now, reluctantly, his eyes scanned the ladies who stood beside her seeking the Elizabeth who was to be his wife.
She was not hard to identify, either, for she was as beautiful as her mother once had been, with a lush ripeness that Henry found faintly repellent after his mother's delicacy. Her huge almond-shaped eyes, blue as the best water sapphire, and her full, sensual lips were her mother's. The fine straight nose, the long upper lip, were Edward's. The coif covered her hair, but Henry knew it to be as golden as his own, and her skin was whiter than milk. He gazed at her, waiting—so obviously waiting that the room was hushed as if no one dared breathe.
Elizabeth, staring back, received several minor and one major shock. Somehow, in spite of what Margaret had told her, she expected an heroic figure. Henry was thin to emaciation, his temples and cheeks sunken, his eyes ringed with the mauve of sleeplessness. Beyond that, Elizabeth was so accustomed to the handsome faces of the men of her family that she was repelled by Henry's plainness.
His face was not even redeemingly harsh so that it could be called manly. He had a complexion as clean and fair as a girl's, and hair that was a delicate, golden glory, but the too-long nose, the grim, too-thin lips, the long, heavy, forward jutting jaw combined to produce a countenance that was not even engagingly ugly but simply unhandsome—plain. And the eyes! Elizabeth felt herself growing cold. One could fall into those too-widely spaced, too-long, too-narrow wells of grey light and be lost forever.
Slowly, reluctantly, as if the eyes had exerted a physical pressure and pushed her down, Elizabeth's knees bent and she went into the curtsy Henry had forbidden his mother to make. And as flowers bend before a wind, every lady sank in obeisance to England's king.
"Madam, we give you glad greeting," Henry said to the dowager, inclining his head graciously now that he had received his bow. He moved away quickly, extending his hand and lifting Elizabeth to her feet before she could rise of her own volition.
"Lady Elizabeth," he murmured, saluting her cheeks formally in the French style.
Their eyes were level, for he was short and she was tall. Elizabeth lowered her lids demurely; it was impossible for Henry to tell whether she hid hate or fear, or acted merely out of habit. That she could really be shy or demure, he dismissed. She was no green girl; she was more than twenty-one years of age and she had lived in a loose court, intrigue-ridden and sex-oriented, for most of her life.
The dowager queen, recovering from the shock of having been outmaneuvered, began to make her formal speech of welcome and congratulation. Henry turned to her courteously, noting that his faithful council had filed into the room, that Jasper was kissing Margaret as though he would never stop. Cheney and Poynings were sidling down the room, their eyes fixed on their master. True these were only women, but they were Edward's women; Henry was totally unarmed, and it was not unknown for a madwoman to slide a poniard between a man's ribs.
The speech went on, but Henry's mind was on the weariness of Ned's stance. Henry decided, as he smiled like a wax image, that the additional burden of guarding him must be removed from the council's shoulders. He would employ a guard as the French king did. Not foreign mercenaries, however, nor yet gentlemen's sons who might have their own games to play at. He would use good solid yeomen, English born, English bred, well paid, and with no ax to grind but Henry's own. They would serve both to enhance his dignity and to protect him. Henry felt a trifle better humored. At least he had been able to employ the time that woman yapped at him to some practical purpose.
"… and as our gratitude to you is great, so is our loyalty, which we hope will be rewarded by the restoration to us of what has been reft from us unjustly."
Henry heard that. Loyalty—as exemplified by Dorset's attempted desertion and the dowager's lack of protest when Gloucester planned to snatch his bride from him. Henry felt himself flush with rage, but his sense of humor came to his rescue. After all, knowing what she was, what could he expect? Besides, he held the whip hand and she would get what he chose to give.
The Dowager Queen would have to have her dower property restored, of course. Gloucester had confiscated that when he declared Edward's marriage invalid and his children bastards on the grounds that Edward had a prior betrothal. Since Henry could not afford to have his wife called a bastard, her mother's marriage had to be valid and the property was hers. It was unfortunate; Henry resented having to give her a penny, but perhaps it was better than trying to support her out of the royal income, and he could not let his mother-in-law starve even if he would like to.
"What was yours as Edward's wife, will be yours again." That was not what the dowager had meant, exactly, but before she could speak again Henry had turned to Elizabeth. "And what have you to ask of me, my lady?"
Color flamed in her face as if milk had been stained with blood. Was it for this that she had withstood Richard? Had she brought insult upon herself by her poor tokens of a ring and a brooch—the only things she had to give at that dreadful time?
"Naught," Elizabeth said proudly.
She heard her mother's breath hiss inward, and she grew pale as wax as she remembered she had been told to plead for her half brother Dorset's ransom. The dowager had not wished to mention Dorset's name, since she had been involved in his desertion and she did not want Henry to be reminded of that to her discredit. Characteristically, she had pressed the task upon her daughter.
Elizabeth had agreed willingly, for she was fond of Dorset in spite of his selfish weakness. In fact she hardly noticed a trait so common to her family as to be a natural thing. It was only that she had been so deathly weary last night when her mother had harangued her on the subject. Two hundred miles she had come in four days, all the way from the prison at Sheriff Hutton in Yorkshire where Gloucester had hidden her. From one prison to another, she now feared, another perhaps more terrible, although she might not be physically confined. That and her anger had made her forget poor Dorset.
"Except—" she faltered, as Henry began to move away.
He turned to her again, courteously, his head thrust slightly forward as with the intensity of his listening. "Except?" he encouraged, his thin lips curved mockingly and his bright grey eyes filled with contempt.
Was she to endure this, Elizabeth wondered. A swift glance showed her her mother's fury. She would be scolded, shrieked at, reviled. Elizabeth was not a physical coward. She had faced with courage the possibility that Gloucester would kill her and marry one of her sisters. She had ridden south with Robert Willoughby at breakneck speed without a murmur. Her cousin, the young earl of Warwick who was really her father's heir to the throne now, had wept and trembled at the pace Willoughby set. The boy had to be carried across Willoughby's saddle at last, but Elizabeth had faced ditch and fence without fear. Only she could not endure loud voices, angry quarreling, or endless nagging. It made her sick and weak to be told that she was unkind, unnatural, and selfish.
"My brother Dorset," she whispered, her face red as fire again. "I would beg you to—to recall him home."
"I am pledged to do so," Henry said smoothly. "I am not likely to break my word, however, like others are to do so." He raised her hand and kissed it, properly, icily. "And now, I beg your pardon all for so brief a greeting, but I have much to do."
Henry worked for the rest of the day in his own chamber. He did not come down for the evening meal, sending Oxford, Edgecombe, and Courtenay, who was much improved, with smooth-tongued excuses. Before the second set of candles had guttered and been replaced, however, Jasper entered without ceremony. Henry glanced up and smiled, but Jasper did not respond.
"Harry, your mother wants you."
Henry laid down his pen at once. "Is she alone?" Jasper nodded, and he rose. Poynings and Guildford stood, also, but Henry gestured them back. "Keep on with those lists of men suitable for commissions of the peace and sheriffs, I am in no danger here."
He found Margaret pacing her room, and the glance she turned on him was neither awed nor admiring but frankly angry. "What made you use such discourtesy to the queen and to Lady Elizabeth?"
"I thought I was most courteous—compared with what they offered me."
"Elizabeth Woodville is a dangerous woman."
"True. Would you have me ruled by her? There were women enough in that room to spread word of how the king of England bowed meekly before her while she remained seated. Is that what you desire? Why the devil is she here?"
Margaret's angry expression faded to one of weary worry. "Because I dare not leave her out of my sight or hearing. I think she already had made some plan of setting Elizabeth up as queen. It could not succeed. England will not accept a queen, particularly when the state is so reft apart, but it could have made more trouble for you. Oh, Henry, I am so afraid."
He caught her hands. "I am not afraid. If it were not God's will that I be king, I would have been slain on Bosworth field. Richard came within one ax blow of it. Nay, Mother, do not weep. Here am I, unhurt, with Gloucester's crown fastened to my helm. I tell you this is God's work, not man's. He has set me on the throne, and He will preserve me there."
"God's will be done." Margaret sighed. "Perhaps you are right. Perhaps it is better to outface the Woodvilles. But why did you insult Lady Elizabeth? What hurt has she done you? Henry, she has ever favored you. She even sent you tokens when she had little enough to send and it was a danger to her if the messenger was taken. She is a good girl."
Henry dropped his mother's hands. "Edward's and Elizabeth Woodville's daughter! Good? Good for what? Lust and luxury are what she is good for."
"Henry!"
"Oh, I will wed her, and bed her, and doubtless she will breed me heirs—they are fecund mares, those Woodville women. I know where my advantage lies. But I will be king of England of myself, not by Lady Elizabeth's courtesy. In this country and in my own house, I will be master."
"Henry, listen. She is a good girl. She was in my husband's keeping for near a year, and I came to know her well. Her looks are like her mother's, I admit, but her nature is more like her father's."
"I do not see that there was much to choose between them."
"You are growing bitter, Henry. There was much good in Edward. His temper was sweet." Margaret smiled almost pleadingly. "Sweeter than yours, my love. And at first he was temperate and not vengeful." Her voice dropped to a fearful whisper. "It was the kingship that destroyed him. All men say it. Little by little, he rotted."
"There is not enough of me to rot," Henry said gaily, slapping his lean belly. "I can only dry up."
Margaret would not let him shift the subject. "Be kind to her, Henry."
"I hope I will be just," he replied coldly. "If she is a good wife, she will find me an irreproachable husband."
He kissed his mother and left, and, though he was irritated by her defense of Elizabeth, he was happy. Margaret had spoken her mind freely, had come close to scolding him. All was well. His mother was still his mother and not afraid. He returned to the problem of setting men faithful to him in both major and minor administrative posts with the least disruption and dissatisfaction possible.
Margaret stood staring at the closed door, then turned and dropped to her knees before the elaborate crucifix that hung on the wall. My knees have become calloused with praying, she thought, but they will bleed with it before my Henry is safe. Later she rose and crossed the hall. She scratched at a door, opened it without waiting for a reply, and went in swiftly.
Elizabeth was not asleep. She was sitting upright in bed, her hair a golden cascade around her shoulders, two bright red spots on her cheeks, and her eyes sparkling like gems in her rage.
"I did not announce myself for fear you would turn me away," Margaret said, smiling.
"You have always been a kind friend, madam," Elizabeth replied icily. "How should I turn you away?"
"Elizabeth, just because Henry has disgraced himself, must you be angry with me?"
The full lips quivered, the blue eyes misted over. "I am not angry."
Margaret laughed. "Now you will have to confess that you tell lies. You are angry and, indeed, I would think you a simpleton if you were not. Dreadful boy, he has no sense at all."
"On the contrary, he has, it seems, an overwhelming sense of his royal dignity—being new to it."
"Oh, dear," Margaret said, plaintively humorous, "I never knew you to be so waspish." Then her face became grave. "But it is not true. Henry wears dignity like a cloak to hide the man underneath. Elizabeth, you must be patient with him. You and he will spend your lives together. Is not a little patience a small price to pay for a happy life?"
"Happy? A princess does not expect to be happy. She does not expect to be insulted, either."
"But Elizabeth, you can be happy with Henry. This is why I beg you not to harden your heart against him because of a sharp word or two. He loves few, but he loves with his whole being. It is worth much suffering to see the cloak cast aside and gain such a love."
"Doubtless it is given already."
That was the thing Margaret feared. She had not had the courage to ask her son, and now she did not dare lie to Elizabeth for she knew not whether hardship might have bred cruelty in Henry. If so, he might tell Elizabeth just to hurt her—to wound the only thing that was left of Edward who had driven him into hardship.
"He is so good," she said desperately.
Elizabeth's expression softened. "Indeed, madam, he is good to you. Who could fail to be good to you?"
Margaret seized eagerly on the sign of weakening. "You cannot forgive him now, but only let me tell you what I heard from Pembroke so that you may understand. Henry has not slept three hours a night for ten days. Think what it is to set to rights a kingdom so torn by war and hatred. He has made a hundred—mayhap a thousand—pretty speeches, and listened to as many. Then he comes, overworn, overweary, to a place where he thinks there will be no need for fine words. Who needs fine words for a mother? This relief denied him, he struck out at those he felt tore his rest from him. Elizabeth, he is so frail. He was never strong. That is why I said he has no sense. He pushes himself beyond his strength."
"A very dangerous thing to do. Dangerous to himself as well as to others."
The faint warmt
h was gone from Elizabeth's voice. Margaret could only hope that the girl would remember what had been said when she was less angry. She turned the subject to Elizabeth's studies, for both of them loved learning, and before she left she had the satisfaction of seeing the princess's complexion and expression return to normal.
Nonetheless, Margaret was deeply distressed. Aside from being Edward's heir, Elizabeth had seemed a perfect match for Henry. She was beautiful, pious, sweet-tempered, and very intelligent. Her conversation was witty and she was an accomplished musician. What could be more perfect to delight a busy man in his few hours of leisure?
If Elizabeth did have a fault, aside from the very womanly ones of being easily excited and easily reduced to tears, it was pride. She was very conscious of being a king's daughter. Still, Margaret did not believe that Elizabeth wished to rule. She had never shown any sign of interest in political matters except those that affected her personally. Her pride was centered in outward things—very like her mother she was in the love of show—in being treated with honor.
Henry would be battling a chimera if he classed Elizabeth's desire for recognition for its own sake with her mother's desire for recognition, which could be used to wield influence over government. If he fought to keep her in the background so that she would not interfere with his kingship, he might wound her pride mortally and make her his enemy.
CHAPTER 11
In spite of Margaret's renewed expostulation, matters mended very little between Henry and Elizabeth. He unbent so far on the second day at Saint Albans as to wear the ring and brooch she had sent him and to present her with some pretty trinkets lifted from Gloucester's baggage. He had also been perfectly courteous, but unfortunately in a cold and distant manner that contrasted sharply with his warm playfulness to his mother. Perhaps Elizabeth would not have taken that amiss, since she was very fond of Margaret herself, and Henry's sportiveness, even when addressed to someone else, was very appealing. She could have forgiven his coldness. After all, they were really strangers, and Henry was reserved in his manner to all the women there, only he struck at her pride again.
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