It was as well that the Tudor had taken the precaution. His appearance called forth even more violent enthusiasm than his first triumphal progress through London. Thus far the two-month reign had been a miracle of peace. The king had saved his nation from a new war with Scotland. He had given lavishly to the church and the poor; he had provided free meat and drink for a thanksgiving not equaled in memory. No heads rotted on the Tower gates. The bodies that swung from gibbets were those of criminals, not men who fought for Richard of Gloucester. The yeomen of the guard were a new innovation, true, but they had already proved their usefulness by being sent to the lord mayor's assistance when a party of celebrants had become too merry and the party had degenerated into a minor riot. Henry VII, a chronicler wrote, "began to be lauded by all men as an angel sent from heaven."
There was some dissatisfaction, but that was in high places—the people felt none of it. The dowager queen cursed the slender figure of the king silently as he entered Westminster Abbey. William Stanley bore his rod of office high, but he resented the paucity of his financial reward and Henry's imperviousness to his advice that harsher measures should be used on Gloucester's supporters. Elizabeth bit her lips, pale with rage. She should be walking beside the king. She was her father's heir; she had a right to be crowned—certainly a better right than a Welsh adventurer, scion of a bastard line.
Henry walked slowly up the aisle between the rows of magnificently clad noblemen and gentry. Waiting for him was the aged Thomas Bourchier who had, as archbishop of Canterbury, already crowned two kings—Edward IV and Richard III.
Henry's hands, the right resting on Richard Foxe's arm and the left on John Morton's, struck cold through their vestiments. He had been king for two months, had thought of this coronation only in political terms until this moment. Now the Tudor was awed in spite of himself, and he trembled as he knelt before Bourchier while the old man anointed him with the holy chrism.
The correct responses were coming from his lips; he heard his own voice, clear and sure, ringing through the abbey, a happy contrast to the thin, reedy tones of the archbishop. Henry was not thinking of what he was saying, but when the coronation ring was pressed onto his finger, he shuddered. "I am wed—no, more than wed—I have become England," he thought. "This land and I are one. When she prospers, so shall I, and if her body is torn, blood will run from mine."
Seated in the great coronation chair with the orb and scepter in his hands, he looked out at the crowded abbey. They are my children, the thoughts continued. A few—a very few are grown men who can be trusted. A few more are in early manhood. They, too, may be trusted once the way is shown them, but most are mere boys to be taught and corrected when they err. Then the news that the crowning was complete must have spread to the crowd outside, and the people greeted the word with roar upon roar of delight.
The sounds came dimly to Henry who was startled until he realized the cause. He smiled, thinking that those were the infants of the realm, to be protected and told firmly what they might and might not do. A large and rebellious family, Henry decided, abruptly putting away the sentimentality he had been indulging himself in, to be well whipped when they were wicked.
From the balcony where Elizabeth sat with Margaret and her mother, Henry VII of England looked almost buried beneath his regalia. Elizabeth could see him shift his arms so that the weight of the orb and scepter should be partially supported by the chair. She looked at her own delicate, white hands. They could not hold so heavy a weight, she realized, and with the realization came a revulsion of her earlier feeling.
Indeed, Elizabeth thought, she did not wish to be a crowned queen. She did not wish to pore over accounts and legal matters all day long. They sat close enough, although high, so that she could see how pale Henry's face was. He is frail, she thought, remembering what Margaret had said, and the thought made her glance at the Tudor's mother.
The countess of Richmond and Derby was not gazing at her son with pride nor was she considering what honors and gains would accrue to the mother of the king. Elizabeth turned toward Margaret with concern, for she was in a state bordering on collapse. She held her mantle across her mouth to silence herself, but she was crying hysterically. Elizabeth put her arms around her future mother-in-law.
Margaret's trembling communicated itself to her body. Memories, all bad, turned her cold. She remembered her father changing from the gay, sweet-tempered man of her childhood to a debauched, frankly lecherous, and sometimes even murderously suspicious person. And Uncle Richard, what had happened to Uncle Richard? He had never been gay, but he was gentle and wise and kind. He had been loyal to her father, risking his life again and again. Was that the same man who, as king, had murdered her mother's brothers without even a trial? Had murdered her own brothers, the nephews with whom he had played so gently when they were babies?
Oh, God help me, she prayed. I do not wish to be queen. I do not wish to be the wife of that man who hates me already. I do not wish to be like my mother who had to smile into the faces of her husband's whores; who one moment was queen and the next was crouching in sanctuary stripped all but naked. I do not wish to see my sons murdered. God help me. Let me be as nothing.
A roar of ovation cut off her thoughts. Henry had risen and was making his way slowly from the abbey. The throng swayed as men bowed and women curtsied low. Elizabeth could not restrain a twinge of pity for the frail man who would now have to sit through a banquet that might last as long as ten hours. She had resented bitterly not being invited; now she was glad. Perhaps he did not mean to marry her, now that he had seized the power and been crowned without her. Perhaps he would permit her to become a nun.
Had Henry known of Elizabeth's sympathy, he would have been highly amused. It was entirely misplaced. The Tudor was enjoying himself immensely. It gave him the greatest pleasure to see people having a good time, and he did not mind being isolated from them, an onlooker. He had been isolated for so long that it seemed quite natural, and he had lost the art of mingling easily. In fact, compared with his state as an exile, he was now rich in friends. Moreover his life in his present position as king was no more precarious than it had been as a hunted enemy of Edward IV and Richard III, and it was a great deal more comfortable. Henry loved luxury, loved music and feasting. He was completely happy and beamed impartially on friend and past enemy alike.
The celebration lasted far into the night, but Henry's poor council was routed out of bed by his messengers just after dawn. The Tudor laughed heartily at the half-opened eyes, the pale faces, the muffled groans, but he set them to work drafting and refining the bills that were to be presented to parliament. They moaned, but there was no resentment. Parliament had been called for the fifth, but that was a Saturday so the session would actually open on November 7. They had only eight days before all must be presented in perfect order, and they were new to this work.
Henry's fondness for and gratitude to Richard Foxe grew by leaps and bounds. Not only was he personally invaluable, but the men he recommended, particularly John Morton, were equally so. Morton was perfect. He was astute, cautious, and reasonable, nodding impeturbably as Henry explained that he had named Alcock, bishop of Rochester, to be chancellor because he did not wish to seem to favor only those men who had been exiles. As soon as parliament was prorogued, Morton should have the chancellorship.
It was Morton who worked with Henry over the final polishing of the drafted bills. He had parliamentary experience and could teach the king the proper forms. It was Morton whose fine hand guided the House of Lords where he sat quite legitimately as bishop of Ely.
Not that the parliament needed much handling. Henry's firm and merciful rule was much appreciated, and when Alcock referred to him as "a second Joshua, a strenuous and invincible fighter who was to bring in the golden age," the king received a standing ovation. Henry's lips twitched a bit at the reference to himself as a warrior, but he rose and bowed silently. After all, he fully intended to bring in a golden age if any effort of h
is could do it, and he hoped he would not need to prove himself as a fighter. War never brought gold.
On Tuesday, Henry did not attend parliament. He did not wish it to seem as if he influenced the election of a speaker for the House of Commons, which was the business of the day. The speaker was bound to be one of his favorites anyway; parliament would not wish to arouse the displeasure of the king any more than he wanted to irritate them. Thomas Lovell was chosen and it was he who welcomed the king to the session on the third day. Henry made a sober speech, lacking the high-flown oratory of Alcock but claiming firmly that his right to the crown rested on "just title of inheritance," which might have raised some doubts had he not added, "and upon the true judgment of God as shown by the sword on the field of battle, giving me victory over my enemy."
The reminder was sufficient. The king's business proceeded apace. The very first bill stated that "to the pleasure of Almighty God, the wealth, prosperity, and surety of the realm, to the comfort of all the king's subjects and the avoidance of all ambiguities, be it ordained, established, and enacted by authority of the present parliament, that the inheritance of the crowns of England and France . . . be, rest, and remain and abide in the most royal person of our new Sovereign Lord King Henry the VIIth and in the heirs of his body lawfully comen perpetually . . . and in none other." Henry was king by law and right as well as by might.
Henry returned to parliament only once more before the end of the session. On November 19 an act that might have provoked resistance, an act to limit the practice of noblemen and rich gentlemen of hiring what amounted to private armies of their own, was pushed through.
In the presence of the king, they dared not protest, and one after another they swore "not to . . . retain any man by indenture or oath, not to give livery, sign, or token contrary to law or make, cause to be made, or assent to any maintenance, imbracerie, riots, or unlawful assembly, not to hinder execution of royal writs, not let any known felon to bail or mainprize." Whether the Tudor could make them keep the oath remained to be seen; at least he had the power to make them swear it. The remainder of the king's bills passed without a whisper of opposition.
With nothing to argue over, and the nation still in urgent need of its gentlemen on their own lands, parliament did not sit long. On December 10 Henry attended again to prorogue the session. Before he could do so, however, the speaker rose to present a petition from the Commons direct to the king. Henry gave permission, and Thomas Lovell asked, in the name of all members, that Henry take the Lady Elizabeth of York as his wife.
As soon as Lovell's voice faded, the lords, spiritual and temporal, stood. They bowed their heads as a token of submission, but as one man they repeated the request. Henry smiled largely. Visions of Elizabeth's ripe beauty had not been completely absent from his moments of leisure and grew more appealing each time they came.
Also, the subject was dealt with most correctly. Parliament had requested, not demanded, that he make Elizabeth his wife, not his queen. Briefly, but most positively, Henry assured them that he would accede to their request very willingly. He would wed the Lady Elizabeth with all decent haste—as soon, in fact, as a dispensation could be secured since he and his intended bride were within the forbidden degrees of kinship.
Messengers were sent at once to Rome, but Henry did not intend to wait upon the reply of the dilatory Curia. His most pressing political problems were settled. There would be a lull before new needs beset him, and in this lull he had time to think of himself as a man. He harried council and servants unmercifully so that the preparations for the wedding might move swiftly, and he went often and often to the queen dowager's house to glance sidelong out of his narrow eyes at Elizabeth as he talked with his mother.
Margaret was appalled at Henry's method of courtship, and she explained to Elizabeth that he was shy with women. If the princess heard, it made no difference in her demeanor. She seemed numb to all feeling, although for what reason Margaret could not fathom. When Henry requested her presence, she came; when he addressed a remark to her, she replied. She was docile and dull, completely unlike her usual vivacious self, but Henry did not seem to mind. He seemed satisfied to absorb her physical beauty in quick, bright glances, content with insipidity so long as she made no active protest. He never mentioned the forthcoming marriage to Elizabeth, reserving all questions, even those concerning the readying of his bride's gowns for which he provided generously, to his mother.
On December 22, Henry sent a formal invitation to all the ladies of the household to move to court for the Christmas celebrations. Even the dowager queen could find no fault with the apartments assigned nor with the furnishing of those apartments. She did protest that Elizabeth's rooms were so widely separated from hers while Margaret's adjoined them, but the lord chamberlain, under strict instructions from the king, was immovable.
When Henry himself was approached, he looked startled and asked in an indignant voice whether he could be suspected of wishing to dishonor his intended bride—and in his own mother's presence, too? Elizabeth retained her privacy, and Margaret's respect for her son increased yet again as the girl came slightly more alive.
It was hard to pinpoint the exact cause that was bringing color back to Elizabeth's cheeks and an occasional smile to her lips. Perhaps it was the brilliance of the court, which reminded her of her happier youth. Perhaps it was the effect of Henry's attentions, which were becoming steadily more particular. Margaret guessed, however, that freedom from her mother's complaints, demands, and nagging was in part relieving Elizabeth's depression.
Certainly Henry was putting himself to pains to make the season merry. Each night the feast was grander; each night the courtiers appeared in new and handsomer clothes; each night the music was gayer and the dancing lasted longer. Elizabeth could not complain of her betrothed's attentions now. Henry danced well and he danced every dance with her.
Even more surprising, his eyes were for her alone. Unfortunately, what looked out of those eyes on the few occasions when Elizabeth was able to catch their expression unveiled was not love but curiosity, caution, and—hunger. Still, it was better than hate or indifference, and since her mother could not plague her to make demands of him, Elizabeth did not need to see again the contempt and distaste with which Henry had regarded her at their first meeting.
Twelfth Night brought a culmination of the festivities. The entire day was replete with excitement as gift after gift arrived to be examined, ohed over, and set up for display. As the hour grew later and later, however, Elizabeth began to wonder whether the favor Henry had shown her was merely a gambit to make her vulnerable to a more cruel insult.
Plate and jewels and gold had arrived for Margaret; a similar gift with a correct, although impersonal letter, had been delivered to the dowager queen. For her—nothing. Elizabeth was trembling between rage and terror when the king himself was announced. He dismissed her women and his gentlemen with a quick gesture, and Elizabeth drew in her breath and braced herself. Henry, however, did nothing more alarming than to bow over her hand and kiss it.
"Madam," he said, his eyes sweeping her from head to foot, "you are in truth a white rose."
Was it a compliment or a cruel gibe? "I endeavor only not to shame your own magnificence, sire."
Henry laughed, and Elizabeth felt a trifle better for the sound seemed natural. "I am a pretty popinjay these days," he admitted, "but it is necessary, and, in truth, I love fine things. I wished to bring you your New Year's gift with my own hands." He withdrew from his voluminous doublet a purse and a box. "I brought you no plate, madam, for all that is in the royal residences will be yours. This," he laid the purse in her hand, "for your charities or your pleasure."
Elizabeth curtsied and set down the purse, which was very heavy.
"This," Henry continued, opening the box, "for your eyes and to grace your white throat."
Once more Elizabeth bent her knees. She could feel Henry looking at her directly for once, and the speeches were both pretty
and proper, but her relief had blossomed into resentment rather than gratitude. The very appropriateness and beauty of the diamond and sapphire necklace he was extending toward her fed the sensation. Did he never make a mistake? Never say an incorrect word or display an improper emotion? The silence was now becoming marked. Henry was waiting for a proper expression of thanks. A flush stole up Elizabeth's throat as she realized that he was perfectly prepared to stand there and wait forever for the response he desired. Apparently nothing could disconcert the king.
"Thank you," she said in a gasp as she took the box and laid it beside the purse.
"And this is my last gift—one to be shared between us."
A rolled parchment, heavy with seals, had appeared from nowhere. This time Elizabeth took it without delay, having no desire for another engagement with this imperturbable man, which could only lead to her discomfiture.
Henry's eyes were veiled, but the slight curve of his mobile lips seemed to indicate an expectation of amusement. A glance at the document was sufficient. Elizabeth paled. She was not even to have respite until the pope sent a dispensation; Henry had procured one already from the papal legate.
"When …" she faltered.
"I am happy to see you so overjoyed by the imminence of our wedding." Henry lifted his right hand so that it drew her attention and twisted the ring she had sent him which was prominently displayed on his forefinger. "Any day this month will suit me, madam. I give you the honor of naming the day."
Did he expect her to plead for more time? She would plead for nothing. Did he believe he could taunt her into rejecting him? The parliament had asked him to marry her; it was her duty to the people and to her father that the legitimate line remain on the throne. It was God's will that she be the sacrifice for this purpose.
"The eighteenth would be a good day," Elizabeth said at random.
The Dragon and the Rose Page 19
