"The eighteenth it is," Henry approved. "I will announce it to the court at once."
He did so simply and with apparent pleasure, holding her hand in his own and, when the cheering stopped, turning to touch her lips with his, to bring on a new ovation. Elizabeth, not to be outdone, did not shrink from his salute, and no one but Henry knew how cold and passive her lips were under his brief caress.
However, she extended herself for the first time to be gay and witty with the courtiers. Perhaps it would seem to them that she had been sullen in the past because of Henry's delay in setting the date. Her pride was hurt at that notion, but her fate and the Tudor's were now linked. For the sake of the children she would bear, the grandchildren of Edward IV, the rightful heirs to the throne, it must be her purpose to support her husband. There were plenty of ways to salve her pride and show him what she thought of him in private.
"That was well done, Henry," Margaret said when he came up to her in his progress through the room.
"I could still wish that it need not be done at all, but needs must is soonest mended with willing compliance." He smiled when he saw his mother's troubled face. "Nay, I am not all ill-pleased. She is beautiful—and that much is sweet to me."
"There is goodness and warmth as well as beauty in her."
"I have seen none of it."
"For that you may blame only yourself."
Henry's mouth set hard. "What she desires, I cannot give."
"You are mistaken, my son. She desires only what all women desire—love."
"Perhaps." Henry's eyes slid away. "But I cannot love Edward's daughter."
"Oh, my God," Margaret whispered, "will you never cease to hate? What black sin do you feed in your heart? It is God's law that we forgive and even love our enemies."
"Edward and Richard are dead. I do not hate the dead nor even the living—I hope. But I cannot trust Edward's daughter. Think, mother. I love you. What could you ask of me that I would not give? Is it safe to put such power in hands other than yours or my uncle's? I dare not—"
"Sire!" Foxe was slightly breathless, and Henry turned to him at once. He whispered; Henry smiled.
"So? God bless Morton that he made me see the reason in sending those gifts to James. Mother, a Scots embassy is here with New Year gifts. I must away to receive them at once. This means a truce with James that will permit me to settle with those damned rebellious northerners."
Henry kissed his mother's hands and left, hardly knowing whether he was more pleased by the political significance of the event or by the fact that it gave him an excuse to be busy. His recent constant contact with Elizabeth was unsettling him. Although he was willing enough to acknowledge his physical desire for her, he had found himself recurrently battling the temptation to make her smile at him, and to discover whether he could bring out the warmth that his mother promised she had and make it replace her cold passivity. It was no safe wish. Henry knew he had no skill to dissimulate with women, to draw affection from them without being trapped in it himself.
His unease grew as the days passed and his wedding drew nearer. It was a shock to find himself with pen idle in hand wondering what color Elizabeth's eyes would turn when they were passionate or pleased. He buried himself in practical details, estimating how much increase in expenditure a suitable household for her would mean, poring over the lists of crown lands to determine which would be best to assign as her dower property. All too often, however, Henry found himself in the state apartments that were being readied for Elizabeth's use, meddling with the choice of hangings and furniture, particularly those for the bedchamber.
His uncle laughed at him openly, and Courtenay innocently brought Henry's wrath down on his head by proposing to fetch him a wench to ease himself upon. Henry apologized and kissed his startled friend, rather startled himself by the violence of his reaction. It would not do, he told Courtenay, to affront his bride and the court with such behavior; but he knew the matter could have been kept secret and would really affront no one but Elizabeth. He closed his mind to the real reasons for his refusal and worked harder than ever on the Scots truce. That night he cursed himself heartily as he turned and twisted, inflamed and unable to sleep. A few days more, he told himself, but whether in hope or in fear he could not decide.
CHAPTER 13
The Tudor's luck held for the day of his wedding. Henry had decided that the thing must be done decently, but in no way rival the brilliance of his coronation. Compliantly, the skies were grey and the cold more than sufficient to keep any large crowd from gathering. Unfortunately Henry was too far gone to appreciate nature's willingness to fall in with his plans. His temper was so bad that his squires of the body slunk out of sight the moment their particular task was finished, and Margaret and Jasper could do nothing but stare at each other in despair.
Elizabeth, on the other hand, was perfectly calm. She had come to terms with her personal sacrifice. She did not expect any pleasure from her relationship with the Tudor, whom she still found rather unattractive, but she did not fear him either, for she knew herself to be valuable property. There were also advantages to come from her marriage. She would be relatively free of her mother, and, God willing, she would have children. Elizabeth's lonely heart yearned toward that day. Even Henry's passionate desire for an heir could not overmatch her need to have something to love.
Of the two, therefore, Elizabeth's voice was the steadier in the exchange of vows, her hand the warmer of the two when they clasped. She grew positively merry at the wedding feast, capping jests, teasing the fools, and laughing heartily at the bawdy farces presented. Elizabeth was a virgin, but her mind was not in the least virginal and her body had long since been ready for love. She was accustomed to the lewdness that had been a regular feature of her father's court and was unashamed of her own sensuality.
If her husband was no beauty, she had no reason to doubt that he was a man; and if he did not desire to amuse her, at least he had reopened to her the court life that she loved. When the feasting was ended and the dancing was done, however, she grew a trifle nervous. Henry had been unusually silent and she detected tense glances cast at him from the men who knew him best. There was nothing to be read in his face, but were his lips thinner? Was there a cruel glint in the half-lidded grey eyes? Elizabeth did not fear the natural consummation of marriage, but she wondered if Henry could mean to take his revenge on her family by misusing her personally.
Margaret was quick to see the changed mood, quick to respond to it by beginning preparations for the bedding. Henry's temper had not improved, and it was useless to delay longer and permit the girl's apprehension to increase.
All in all, it was not a merry bedding. Henry's intimates had more than a suspicion that the king was something of a prude, and the remainder of the lords and ladies were too much in doubt and awe of him to be free with their jests. They stood in a formal semicircle as Elizabeth was led to the huge bed and ensconced in it, wrapped in her bed robe. The dowager queen whispered urgently in her ear, but Elizabeth stared straight ahead, frightened more by her own imaginings than of Henry.
In all honesty, he did not look a fearsome sight when the knights of the body and the gentlemen of the bedchamber escorted him in. He was paler than Elizabeth, and Margaret, who had never dared ask, wondered if he were as much a virgin as his bride. He also was assisted into the high bed, and in a most unnatural silence, the bed curtains were drawn closed.
Usually that would have been a sign of dismissal for all except the ladies and gentlemen who slept by turns in the royal bedchamber to attend to chance wants in the night. Tonight, however, the courtiers merely drew back a little and waited. It was their duty to be witness of the consummation of the marriage, as it would be their duty to watch the birth of Elizabeth's children to be sure that the queen had given birth to the child, and that the child presented to them was the child that had been born.
In spite of maidenly modesty—of which, in truth, she had very little—Elizabeth was suf
fering far less acutely than Henry. She was accustomed to the lack of privacy in which royalty lived, having endured it for most of her life.
Henry felt paralyzed. He could hear a low buzz of whispering, but he knew that every ear was cocked for a sound from the great bed. Desperately he untied and shrugged off his bed robe. Elizabeth turned and regarded him with her blue eyes gone almost black in the dim light that filtered through the bed curtains. For a long moment Henry sat still, allowing her to examine him, his chest rising and falling quickly with his short breath. Then, as she made no move, he reached slowly toward the fastenings of her bedgown.
For once Henry's iron will failed him. His hands trembled, and his fingers were so clumsy that it seemed hours before he had the robe loose. In fact, when he thought he was done and made to slip it off Elizabeth's shoulders, he found to his chagrin that a lace bow remained. Forgetting himself completely, he uttered a resounding oath and tore the knot free. Sudden silence fell outside the bed curtains, and Henry blushed as red as ever Elizabeth could.
It was impossible, Elizabeth found, to continue being afraid of a husband who blushed like a girl. Her sense of humor was tickled and she giggled. The silence in the room remained tense. Henry glanced distractedly from the bed curtains to his bride's face. A fine impression of his virility he was giving both his court and his wife.
Elizabeth's movement, however, had shaken her robe open. Tantalizing glimpses of a breast even whiter than her throat appeared. Henry ceased to worry about either the watchers or the impression he was making. Very gently he thrust the robe from one shoulder, then the other, and drew it off. Such delicate fairness! He traced the line of throat, shoulder, and arm with his fingertips, then the curve of the breast. Elizabeth's eyes widened and she drew a faintly shuddering breath, but Henry seemed entranced by what he was doing and he paid her no heed. Self-absorbed in the pleasure he was taking, for he lacked experience with all but bawds who made the advances and scarcely gave him time for this slow titillation of the senses, Henry did not realize he was giving as much pleasure as he was receiving.
He closed his eyes and the flesh was like velvet beneath his fingers. Soft to touch, he soon found it sweet to kiss also, sweet and scented with roses. Desire stung him sharply, but he resisted, for to take what he desired would quench desire. Elizabeth slid down on the pillows and lay flat, breathing in gasping sobs. Vaguely aware that there was some reason to maintain silence, Henry stopped her lips with his own—and then he could wait no longer.
Now I am truly a wife, Elizabeth thought, and wondered if it would be safe to move. She did not wish to wake her husband who was sleeping heavily, lying half across her. She frowned, trying to piece together the things she had been told with what had happened, but she found her mind muddled by the sight of Henry's blond hair, now dark and lank with perspiration, and his lean shoulder. She knew he had been drunk with pleasure, and that there were ways of using that intoxication; only her mind kept wandering away to the fact that he was too thin and that feverish spots burned in his cheeks when he was excited.
The room was quiet now. No doubt the courtiers had finally withdrawn. Did Henry— Elizabeth paused. She had never called him by name except once during the wedding ceremony. It was odd that the name should come so easily to her mind.
Did Henry know he had cried out? She had not. She was proud of that. But there had been little reason to cry out and none to fear; he had been very gentle. Childbirth would be worse. Elizabeth's frown returned. She had been eager for Henry's lovemaking because it would eventually bring her a child, yet she had not thought of the child, not since … She twisted her head to look at her husband's long-fingered hand. Beautiful hands he had, and his face … It was not so very ugly. Plain … One could grow used to plainness, perhaps even fond . . .
Some hours later Henry stirred, flexed an arm that was numb, and parted his lips to call for a drink. He lifted his head so his voice would carry through the curtain, and his half-open eyes fell on the mass of yellow hair spread over the pillow. Henry shut his mouth with a snap. He had fallen asleep in Elizabeth's bed.
It was not surprising. He had slept very little the past few nights, but he must not do it again. If he had called out— Henry felt himself blushing at the thought of one of his gentlemen pulling back the curtains and seeing Elizabeth, who was partly uncovered, naked. It was a good deal darker now, but her fair skin showed white. He should go. There was that accursed business of the recorder of York to attend to, and the damned Irish …
It was a great pity she was so sound asleep. It would doubtless be wrong to wake her. How soft her skin was. Henry bent lower. How sweet.
In the end it was broad daylight before the Tudor slid out of his wife's bed and returned to his own apartments. His gentlemen were discreet, for Henry gave them no openings to congratulate him on his prowess, but they were vicariously proud.
"Frankly," Courtenay whispered to Poynings while Henry was being shaved in the next room, "I was worried. I know he is a great king, but I sometimes wondered whether he was a man or a monk."
"I think he is only fastidious."
"Yes, but the way he trembled when we brought him to her—"
"Have you never seen a hound—not to compare the king with such, of course—trembling with eagerness while held on the leash? It does not signify lack of courage or strength."
"Yes, but still … Was it three times or four?" Poynings and Courtenay had been the gentlemen of the bedchamber on duty that night, but their duty did not forbid them to sleep and occasionally they had done so.
"Edward, you are incorrigible. You know His Grace does not like that kind of talk about himself—or about anyone else, for that matter. You got the back of his tongue for it just the other day. Have done. He is a young man, and she a fair maid—"
"Maid no longer, not by several— Good morn, Your Grace."
Ordinarily Henry did not encourage talk about his sexual habits. Perhaps, he thought with wry insight, because there had not been much to talk about, but this morning he smiled blandly. It was not mere pride in his performance, he told himself. It was a matter of policy that the court know—and, through their gossip with their servants, the people know—that any failure to produce an heir immediately was not for lack of effort on the king's part.
Moreover, the news that he was so well pleased with his white rose might pacify some Yorkists who could continue to hope for favor through Elizabeth. That thought gave him a quiver of alarm. He had been well pleased with his white rose; it was something he must guard himself against or what he wanted the Yorkists to believe would become true in fact.
Not that he intended to discriminate against any man who could be useful, whatever his past political affiliation. It was merely that he must not be blinded by affection and thereby leave himself open to treachery. But the idea that Elizabeth could influence him should be fostered if it was possible to do so harmlessly. It would give him a breathing spell before the Yorkists became actively dissatisfied.
Rather absently, Henry chose green hose, a white doublet brocaded in gold, and a dark green velvet surcoat embroidered with gold and trimmed with ermine. From trays he picked rings and jeweled gold chains. As his squires were dressing him, he came to a sudden decision.
"John, I want Lovell, Dynham, and Edgecombe."
John Cheney handed the shoe he was about to slip onto Henry's foot to another squire and left on his errand.
Henry's eyes rested speculatively on Poynings and Courtenay. Neither spoke, but both stiffened and waited expectantly. Devon was of higher rank, but he had the looser tongue, and Henry needed a rumor spreader at court. Poynings would have to go. Henry tapped impatiently on the arm of his chair. He did not relish sending Ned on a winter journey across the Channel. His mind ran over his other trusted men. The financial wizards would have to stay. He was pinched for money and yet had to spend more. Guildford was working on the armory; Oxford was absolutely necessary in case of a rising in the north. Damn! Ned it would
have to be.
"Edward," Henry gestured to Courtenay, "I wish to speak to you privately."
The earl of Devon's face whitened as he followed the king into his bedchamber. "Sire, if my hasty tongue—"
Henry took his arm and winked at him broadly. "It was four times, since you find the matter of such interest, and would have been more had not the lady begged off. For which I cannot blame her, indeed, she being a maid most surely when I had her first!'
"My felicitations, Your Grace. I cannot deny you have outstripped me."
"You see, Edward, it does no harm to be a little saving in a good cause. Nor can it do harm—though in a general way I do not like lewd talk—to let it be known that Her Grace pleases me well. You know, Edward, that money never comes amiss to a king. Go lay me some wagers about the court that Her Grace will be with child before the year is out—doubled, if she be brought to bed before that time."
Courtenay swallowed nervously. This was out of character for Henry. He knew that the Tudor often laid traps for the unwary, but he had never practiced that game with his intimates before.
"Yes, Your Grace," he said hesitantly, wondering if he could have fallen so far from favor for a few words. It was not likely, but Henry had been most peculiar in his behavior of late.
"And, Edward, I do not like to take money from my friends. See then that the bets are laid with those who still lean toward the house of York. They will be happy to lose, for it will mean that Edward IV's grandson will sit on the throne."
Devon's wits were not as sharp as most of Henry's intimates, but he was by no means stupid. A broad smile illuminated his features. "Ay, sire, that they will. Also they will not be loath to believe you likely to fall under the spell of the white rose. I think, perhaps, I will go calling this morning. It should not seem that I am so free as to say these things where your ear might pick them up."
Henry clapped him on the shoulder companionably and they came out together, Devon only to make a parting bow and leave. Henry looked thoughtfully at the door, which closed behind him, grimaced with distaste at the necessary exposure of intimate personal details, and shrugged. The king's body was as much a political tool as the king's mind.
The Dragon and the Rose Page 20
