"Ned."
"Sire?"
"I need you to go to France for me. How soon can you be ready?"
"Tomorrow. Today, if the matter needs haste."
"It will not be so soon as that. I want you to arrange for the ransoming of Dorset and Bourchier, and I will need time to find some money. In any case it will be impossible to repay the whole debt at once. You are to do your best to get them both free, but if the French will release only one, it must be Dorset."
"Dorset!"
"Ay. Would you have it said of me that I prefer my Lancastrian friends to my brother by marriage?"
"Oh."
"This is no secret matter. It may—should—be talked of freely. And, if it should be hinted that Her Grace had some influence on my choice … do not deny it."
Poynings nodded. "How long will this hold the wolves, think you, sire?"
Henry shrugged. "A little time. For some not longer than it takes the queen's mother to ask me for something I will not give. Others, more reasonable, a little longer. Every day is a gain, Ned."
The Tudor's voice sounded tired suddenly, and Poynings met his eyes with sympathy. To his mind the most incredible feat Henry performed was his constant appearance of confidence. They were all tense, overworked, and all too aware that the stability of the realm was no more than a thin sheathing of ice over turbulent undercurrents of rebellion. Yet Henry, who not only directed but checked and corrected all the work done by the others, could show neither fatigue nor fear. The first sign of weakness in the king would crack the ice and they would all be swept away by the flood. Poynings was about to speak when the yeoman of the guard at the door announced Lovell, Dynham, and Edgecombe. Henry smiled at them and held up a hand.
"No, I did not rest well last night, as you will all be glad to hear. And, yes, I am strangely invigorated by that lack of rest. Ergo, I am ready to set you all to work harder than ever. Dynham, I need money—a really large sum—and soon."
The treasurer passed a hand over his weary face. "Your Grace, there is no money. You know it, and you know where every penny that we have found and collected thus far has gone."
"Lovell?"
The chancellor of the exchequer sighed. "We can hold back some disbursements to merchants. Your credit is very good, sire. A few hundred pounds here and there, perhaps. What will come in in revenue the next month or so is hard to estimate."
"Edgecombe?"
The comptroller of the household grinned. "Well, if you go on progress, sire, you will have low household expenses since you will be living off the nobles and cities you visit—not to mention the gifts you can expect. Tell me how long you will travel, and I will tell you how much I can pare from the household."
"Something, but not enough and not soon enough. Well, Dynham, can we borrow?"
The treasurer's face lighted. "Ay. There will be no trouble in that."
Henry's lips tightened. He had strong principles about either the government or the king personally being in debt. He had even redeemed some of Richard III's pledges, but there had not been time enough to fill the exchequer. Commerce had been disrupted by Richard's reign and by his own conquest so that customs were not up to their usual amounts and the collection of revenues from confiscated property was a slow business. Moreover, disbursements had been unusually great. The coronation and wedding expenses were enormous; the cost of new clothing for himself and his impoverished followers not far behind. Time—if he only had a little time. Between economy and the encouragement of trade he could fill the exchequer and … But time was the essence he did not possess, and money could be obtained first and then repaid, as much as he disliked that maneuver.
"Very well, Dynham, borrow. As much as you can get that you also believe I can repay in a reasonable time. But do not borrow from foreign sources."
"That will cut sadly into what I can obtain, Your Grace."
"I know, but there are enough things to juggle without foreign pressures being added."
"Very well, Your Grace."
Henry smiled ruefully. "How you must hate me, Dynham. All I do is ask for the impossible, and then interfere with your efforts to obtain it for me."
An answering smile relieved the treasurer's worried expression. "Indeed I do not hate you, sire. At least you do not lose your temper when you ask for the moon and I bring you a silver plate. There is also the matter of time. The longer I have, the more I can raise."
"The money is for the ransom of Dorset and Bourchier. There is no special haste, but I would not want it said that I was delaying apurpose."
A sudden burst of animated talk about the appropriateness of the move exposed the hidden fear that, married to the daughter of an extravagant king and queen, Henry had been about to embark on a course of extravagance of his own. He found it funny, but hid his amusement. In a way he had given cause for the fear by the magnificence with which he surrounded himself. All had agreed that the expenditure was necessary to provide a proper awe for royalty, but it was not unknown for a political gambit of this type to grow into a habit or even a disease with kings.
As a matter of fact, Henry did like lavish surroundings, gorgeous clothing, and beautiful jewels—he loved all beautiful things—but he knew himself in no danger of succumbing to the vice of extravagance. The habit of counting each penny and balancing that against value received was too strong. It was useless, even dangerous to protest, however. Protests merely fixed suspicions. His men would learn soon enough that he would spend only what he could afford.
He was about to send Poynings for Foxe so that a draft of official instructions and letters for the French court could be started, when an altercation was heard at the door. A woman's voice, shrill with anger, rose above the rumble of the yeoman of the guard's protest. Henry raised his brows and gestured at Poynings, who opened the door. A young and highly agitated lady burst in, her complexion bright with rage.
"Her Grace, the queen, desires that you wait upon her at once."
Henry turned red, fixed his suddenly blazing eyes on the maid of honor, and moved forward a step. Edgecombe, who was nearest, laid a hand gently on the king's arm. He could not, of course, restrain Henry if he was about to strike one of the queen's ladies, but—
"Sire!" Poynings said warningly.
The color faded from Henry's face as the girl sank to the ground, trembling. "You do not know your work, my dear," the king said softly. "When the queen says to a maid of honor: 'Tell that damn bastard I married to get over here on the run,' it is your duty to say: 'Please, Your Grace, my mistress being taken suddenly ill begs your presence so soon as may be.' Or, 'Please, Your Grace, my lady the queen is in the greatest distress. We can do nothing with her. Will you not come before she makes herself ill?' "
Beside him, Henry heard Edgecombe choke; and his own lips quivered. Still, clear as the understanding on both sides was of what was hidden in the formal messages, the formality could not be dispensed with. It was the grease that made easy the rubbing together of two people who could not afford to sever relations with each other no matter how divergent their desires or personalities. Elizabeth either needed some schooling or more experienced ladies. However, he could not lesson his wife as he would like to because that would destroy the edifice of her influence he was building so carefully.
"Now," he said cynically, "you may return to Her Grace and tell her either that I am sorry for her sudden illness or that I am most concerned for her distress—whichever seems more appropriate—and I will come to her as soon as I can discharge the weightiest and most immediate of my state duties." He nodded dismissal. "Ned, tell the yeoman to see this lady safe to her mistress's chamber."
There was a silence during which Henry tried to decide whether the girl understood his warning and whether it was wise to have so clearly exposed his contempt. He heard a gasp and looked up to see his men convulsed with laughter and struggling to hide it. Poynings was looking out the door, as if to watch for the yeoman's return, but his shoulders were shaking. Edgec
ombe was leaning against the bedpost, his eyes closed, and his lower lip caught fast in his teeth. Dynham was wiping his lips rather harder than necessary, and Lovell was staring at the painted ceiling as if he had never seen it before. Henry sighed. There was not a man in the kingdom who would dare … And yet a chit of a girl … He yielded to his sense of the ridiculous and gave himself up to the laughter which released his companions from their agony.
"What," Poynings gasped, "do you suppose could have upset Her Grace?"
"Now, Ned, Her Majesty would be more appropriate. There was nothing graceful about that message at all. Bless me if I know. That will be all, gentlemen," he said to the three others. "See what you can scrape off the bottom of the pan for me. But really, Ned," he added when the door closed, "either she must have more experienced ladies or learn to control herself. This was funny, but a message like that delivered in the wrong company …" The Tudor's voice trailed away and his eyes became hard and remote.
"It could not have been so planned, sire," Poynings protested, suddenly feeling sorry for Elizabeth. "She is too young. Why, the very fact that the maid was sent to your chamber rather than to the public rooms …"
"We do not know she came here first. Had I not been so late in rising, I would have been in the audience chamber by now—a room full of courtiers and envoys, not all of whom love me. Young? She is two and twenty, and was raised in a royal court."
"Your Grace, have patience. A woman—"
"Oh, I will have patience. Did you expect me to use a whip to tame her?" Henry snarled.
Poynings dropped his eyes. Perhaps a whip would be kinder. Henry's methods could be more excruciating to the soul than torment to the body. "Do you go now, sire?"
"Oh, no. My message should have time to sink in. Fetch me Foxe, and we will get to work upon the Dorset business."
The instructions to be prepared were complicated, and in the end Morton joined Foxe to draft them. Henry, meanwhile, went to give audience in his usual way. He was particularly gay and genial, as a happy bridegroom should be, although his eyes kept watch for the irruption of another of the queen's ladies.
None came. Elizabeth had not, of course, meant to do any political harm; however, unlike Henry, she had no use for the grease of formality between two people who had to live together. She believed they would rub off each other's rough edges by contact, and the sooner it was done the better in her opinion. She was, therefore, annoyed by the condition in which her maid of honor had returned and even more annoyed by the message she received.
Surely her husband could not expect her to wait upon him in person. If he did, he could expect in vain. She was sure he would prefer to discuss the matter she had in mind in private, but if he did not come she was willing enough to make the affair public. She would see him at dinner, certainly, and raise the subject then. Indeed, he might frighten a silly maid by a stare—for from what Elizabeth could discover he had done no more than look at the girl, had not even raised his voice—but he would find Edward's daughter less timid.
An hour before dinner, the king was announced. He came forward, kissed his wife's hand formally, and then looked at the room full of highborn ladies. "I was sorry to learn," he said gravely, "that something had given you cause for distress. A private matter?" He did not wait for a reply but tightened his grip on her hand, which he had not released. "Let us go into your bedchamber." And he moved so quickly that he was able to shut the door behind them before Elizabeth's mother, or his own, who had both made to follow them, could enter. "Well, madam?"
"You shut the cause of my distress outside the room."
For a moment Henry was puzzled. "One of the ladies?" Then he frowned blackly. "My mother?"
"A list of names on my desk," Elizabeth replied sharply.
"A list of— Pray seat yourself, madam. What list of names?"
"The men you have assigned to my household. That list of names."
Henry's brows lifted. "That was submitted to you at least two weeks before our marriage. You had time to—"
"Time!" Elizabeth gasped. "I was so pulled about by dressmakers and cobblers and jewelers that I had no time to breathe. You planned that. You knew I would not be able—"
"If so, it would do you no good to protest, would it? Let me warn you, madam, to make no plans to counter mine. In fact, I planned no such thing. The list was submitted in good faith. If you had taken five minutes to read it— If you would give over half an hour a day from your pleasuring—" That was a stupid thing to say, Henry thought, checking himself. He did not want Elizabeth attending to business.
"Pleasuring! What pleasure do you think it gives me to mouth empty courtesies to—" Elizabeth checked herself, also. Even she did not dare sneer at the wives and mothers of Henry's intimates although most of them were rather unsophisticated, never having been at court before.
"I repeat, the list was submitted in good faith. If you had objected, I would have sought to find others more pleasing to you. Now it is too late. The appointments have been made public; those men waited upon you at the wedding feast. To remove one from office now would be a deep insult. However, if one of the gentlemen has displeased you in some particular way, I will certainly reprimand him and caution him against any fault in the future."
"Reprimand!" Elizabeth barely restrained herself from shrieking. "Do you think me so poor a thing that I cannot reprimand my own servants?"
Henry had not wished to make too much of the maid of honor's behavior. It might have been an accident and, if so, to belabor the point might give Elizabeth ideas. However this was too good an opportunity to miss, since Elizabeth did not seem to have understood his first plainly spoken warning.
"Can you, madam?" he asked coldly. "Then let me suggest that you do so to the maid of honor who bespoke me so pertly this morning that I was forced to rebuke her myself. Another such mishap, and I will be forced to select your ladies for you as well as your gentlemen."
Accustomed to the screaming passions of her mother and father, Elizabeth miscalculated completely the danger behind Henry's calm. Fortunately, Henry did not realize that his wife was unimpressed by a manner which reduced brave men, who knew him better than she did, to quivering terror. He took the pallor and speechlessness of rage for fear and said, more kindly but still firmly, that a king's daughter should know it was impossible to alter honorary appointments without good cause.
This insult from an upstart so completely tied Elizabeth's tongue that Henry was able to lead her back to the company in the other room before she was able to collect her scattered faculties and launch another attack. Henry bowed briefly to the company, offered a particular bow to the dowager queen, kissed his mother's cheek, and retired.
With a look of total unbelief, Elizabeth stared at the door that had closed behind her husband. She uttered a gasp, and fled again into her bedchamber whither, this time, her mother and Henry's followed her.
"You did not quarrel with Henry, did you dear?" Margaret asked anxiously, for she had been frightened by his eyes, which had gone cold and opaque as a wintry sky.
"Quarrel? With your son? It is not possible to do so, I must presume. If one presents a grievance, it becomes clear at once that he is the injured party and that you must beg pardon."
Margaret bit her lip. It would not do to laugh, although the king's daughter sounded suspiciously like any young wife. She knew nothing of what had happened earlier, having just arrived to pay Elizabeth a wedding visit and dine with the court. Nor did she care much. Whatever Henry felt, he was handling Elizabeth well now. A few quarrels between young people served to draw them together. So long as Henry did not expose Elizabeth to public ridicule—and he had certainly guarded against that—no harm would come of an argument or two.
The dowager queen was now speaking softly into Elizabeth's ear, and the girl shook her head angrily. "Why, whatever did my poor Henry do to enrage you so much?" Margaret asked. If the dowager was behind this quarrel, the humor was rapidly evaporating from the situation.
"Poor Henry! Of course, I must be at fault to you since everything Henry does is perfect."
"Dear, dear," Margaret remarked mildly. "I cannot think how I could have gotten such a reputation for stupidity. First Henry accuses me of thinking him perfect, and now you do. Being Henry's mother, I should think I was the last person in the world to believe that. Come, Elizabeth, Henry is not in the least perfect. He is not even particularly sweet-natured, but he does mean well and he is basically very kind. What has he done?"
"It is of no consequence," the dowager queen said smoothly.
"It is, too!" Elizabeth denied hotly, violating a cardinal rule about not contradicting her mother, for which fault she had been whipped several times in her girlhood.
"Elizabeth!" her mother snapped.
The queen quailed, then drew herself up. One does not beat or scold a queen. If it was necessary, she would dismiss her mother from her presence. Then the intensity of the old queen's anger broke through the mist of Elizabeth's own rage. Something was amiss here.
Of course she had been told again and again that Margaret was her enemy. This she could not really believe. Margaret had been consistently kind. Elizabeth had even overheard her once, having responded more quickly than usual to Henry's summons, reprimanding her son for his cold behavior. In any case, now that she was Henry's wife, Margaret could not injure her without injuring her son. Her own mother, on the other hand, had no such scruples with regard to the king's welfare—nor even mine, Elizabeth thought sadly.
The silence was lengthening painfully, but Elizabeth was not ready to break it or to have it broken. She needed time to think. Margaret could wish to keep Henry and herself divided so that her own influence would remain paramount with her son. But Elizabeth, remembering Henry's quivering passion, knew she had one major weapon Margaret did not possess.
The Dragon and the Rose Page 21
