"Dynham" the treasurer looked up "I need not tell you that our resources will be strained. It is unfortunate that I sent Foxe to London and that foreign matters keep Canterbury there. You must tell the bishops that I expect the Church to contribute to maintaining the quietness of the realm also."
There were firm nods of approval from the nobles around the table. It seemed to them very often that the Church profited alike from peace and war while they paid the piper. Thus far no demands had been made of the Church and many had wondered, because of Henry's piety, whether he planned to excuse the prelates even their ordinary contributions to national defense.
"Ormond, write to your Irish relations to hold off from this foolish business. Tell them how strong we are, how happy the nation, how unlikely any revolt is to succeed. You know what you must say."
"Sire, they will not obey me."
"I know, but a word that shakes a man's courage or plants a single doubt in his mind is of aid to us."
"What of Northumberland and Surrey?" Bedford asked, but his eyes asked about the Stanleys who were seated at the table and whom he dared not name.
"Surrey is to raise no men but to come himself to serve with me. He is a mighty man of his hands. Northumberland . . . He showed himself loyal enough last spring. Let him go about his duties. Nottingham, you had better help him. Sleep in his bed, if you must, but see that he gets into no mischief. The rest of you gentlemen who are officers of my household will bide with me. I cannot spare you from attendance upon my person."
There was a significant silence. This king would not be put off with excuses of illness, nor would he be content to take children for hostages—his softness to children was well known. The men themselves would remain in his hands, their seals and signatures available to his will. Dorset was in the Tower, but all knew there would be letters in his hand and sealed by his seal ordering his tenants to obey Devon's or some other of the king's faithful lieutenants' commands.
"Since you need me, sire, I will order my people to obey your deputy," Derby offered quickly.
"You are as generous as a loving father should be to his son," Henry approved, smiling. "Give your commands to Willoughby—oh, I beg your pardon, Robert—to Lord de Broke."
"And to whom do I give my commands, sire?" William Stanley asked smoothly.
That there would be nothing to read in those reptilian eyes Henry knew, and he did not bother to meet them. He knew also that this was the last time he could work this trick upon Sir William. If there was another time, it would be war to the death between them. It was almost a relief. Henry had never quite prevented his skin from crawling when he had dealings with this Stanley, although he suppressed any outward sign of the sensation most successfully.
"To the earl of Nottingham. He will be in that part of the country anyway," Henry said without the trace of warmth in his voice that had softened the order to his stepfather. Derby was no prize in staunchness perhaps, but he was a loving husband to Henry's mother, and Henry would pardon him any weakness for that. "Edgecombe, you will see to the victualing of the host. You all know my general orders. There is to be no forcible levy of provisions, no rape, no arson, no fighting among different retinues in the host. There is to be no disturbance of the country at all. Every man not called to arms must continue in his regular business. Any questions?"
There were none. Most of the details had been worked out long before, and it was now clear that this conference had been called largely to close the trap on the Stanleys.
"Very well," the king continued. "Those of you who leave here for duties in the shires will send me a written report of day-to-day progress—every day."
There were muffled sighs, but no protests, as Henry dismissed them and they left. They only had to write one report a day; the king would need to read dozens.
"Ned," Henry added softly, "remind me to write to that literal idiot Devon that he must do the same. Perhaps" he laughed "he thought to escape by rushing off, but I cannot forgo seeing that crazy scrawl of his. And his spelling is the delight of my life, even though I often cannot make out what he means at all. There must be some lightness to be found in this. Pray God Devon never thinks to hire a clerk."
Word came from Ireland day by day. The bishops of Armagh and Clogher were faithful and preached against the usurper. In the southeast, where the Butler influence was strong, the orders of the earl of Ormond, the head of the family, were heeded to a certain degree. Kilkenny, Clonmel, and a few other towns shut their gates and would contribute nothing to the insurrection. Waterford offered a bold defiance to the earl of Kildare, who was one of the false Warwick's major supporters. But these were mere drops withheld from the bucket that was filling rapidly.
On June 4 the pretender landed near Furness with two thousand Flemish and nearly six thousand Irishmen. Henry did not attempt to stop the landing, largely because there was no fleet to stop it with. He made plain, however, to the men with him when the news came on the sixth, that he was not ill-pleased, reminding them that he had once told them that the activities of the Irish against him would bring them under his power.
"There will be none to return to Ireland," he said coldly, "or one in a hundred, perhaps. The Irish will not play this game again, nor any other. When I send an order bidding them obey or the English will come and slay them—they will believe me."
Some thought that it would be safer to talk after the battle was fought and won, but most were carried along by the king's conviction. There was another satisfaction also to Henry's men in his manner. All of them deplored his softness to his enemies. They simply could not comprehend the king's willingness to forgive those who injured him. Many when they first came to power offered amnesty, but as soon as the first murmur of protest came there was retaliation. Henry's attitude was unnatural, and no king had continued to pardon and pardon as long as Henry had. This time, instead of speaking of foolish children and gentle handling, the king spoke of killing, and his eyes were hard and cold as steel.
It was impossible to shield Elizabeth from the news of what had happened. Details might be kept secret, but the main fact, that an invading army had landed in England, could not be concealed. Henry went most reluctantly to bid his wife goodnight and farewell at the same time. He knew that Elizabeth could pierce his mask of confidence and read the half-mad horror that lay below it. She had set the horror there, and while he did not blame her he was afraid to face her fear. Nor was it his promise, nor any thought of Elizabeth's comfort, which brought him out into the long corridor leading to her apartment after the whole castle slept. He had, in fact, decided to spare himself the scene, had written a long letter of excuse and love. Habit, stronger than his will, would not let him sleep, and, lying awake with nothing left to do, Henry saw his child's dead face hanging in the dark.
He glided noiselessly by his sleeping men on soft felt slippers, past the silent salute of the guards, and, as soundlessly, woke Elizabeth's lady and sent her from the room. If Elizabeth slept, he might still be spared. To kiss her or just look at her might give him some ease. No one would harm Elizabeth, except to mew her up in a convent, perhaps. She would not be unhappy there once she had recovered from her losses. She could play her music and study and pray and love God. Perhaps the sight of her peaceful face would block that other vision— His hand touched the curtains.
"I thought you would never come, Harry. Is it true? You leave tomorrow?" The tense whisper destroyed his hope, and he bent and kissed her. "Oh God, why are you so cold?"
"I have been sitting still too long, I suppose. Yes, I will leave with the dawn tomorrow. I have come to say farewell now." Henry braced himself. Now would come the burst of tears, the wails and prayers. Elizabeth had been very good this past month, but to expect self-control now …
"Come into bed and I will warm you."
He had intended nothing of the sort. Henry was physically tired and mentally depressed, and he was not the kind who enjoyed love under those circumstances. If that was what Elizabe
th needed, however, he was prepared to try to satisfy her, although he had a sudden frightening doubt of his ability.
He was cold; his body seemed frozen, stiff in movement. It was extremely pleasant to discover that Elizabeth had meant what she said literally. She folded him in her arms and held him close along her entire body, but she made no gesture of ardent invitation. A little of her warmth seeped into him and Henry stiffened apprehensively.
"Harry, what is it? Are you angry with me? For Mary's sweet sake, speak out. I will not cry nor complain. I could not bear to part from you in anger—not tonight."
"Of course I am not angry. What cause have I for anger?"
"No cause of which I know, but who can tell what tales of me are whispered into your ear?"
"No one speaks aught to me of you except of your goodness. You have even won my uncle, and that is no mean feat for Edward's daughter."
That hurdle was passed. A few more minutes, Henry thought, and he would be able to go. He continued to hold himself rigid, feeling as if the cold that was now leaving him had been armor, that when the coating of ice melted he would crumple to pieces if he relaxed. Suddenly Elizabeth's arms tightened around him.
"Please, Harry, let us comfort each other." A little half sob, half-laugh escaped her. "I am so frightened already. Nothing you could say or do could frighten me more. Is it so very bad?"
"No, it is good. You must believe that. The country replies to the muster nobly. There was a little trouble in the east because they desired to fight under Surrey, but they have come—Paston, Boleyn—all of them."
"Then why are you afraid, Harry?" It was the faintest, most tremulous whisper. He would not have heard it, had it not been breathed into his ear.
"If you must have the truth, because I am a coward," he snarled, prodded beyond endurance. "You once said I was not afraid before Bosworth. Well, you were wrong. I would have shaken with fear then as I would be shaking now if I did not hold my body still by my will. I am afraid to fight, to die …"
"Oh that." Elizabeth laughed very softly, very tenderly, and kissed the ear she was whispering into, then his cheek and his chin and his lips. "You mean you are a man, like other men. There is no harm in that." And she snuggled closer, more comfortably, as if her fears had been relieved.
"I do not know why it is that you can see into my heart as if my face and body were glass," Henry said resentfully. "None other can."
"Only because I love you as no other does. I do not mean," Elizabeth explained, more as if she were making the matter clear to herself than to Henry, "that I love you more than others. Not more than your mother or your uncle. No one could love you more than that. I love you in a different way. They have come almost to worship you, I think. But a wife … I know you have a mole on your belly and a scar like a half-moon on your thigh. Did someone bite you there, Harry? I have thought of that and longed to bite you there myself."
"I fell against a stick." He was trying to find the familiar argument, the familiar laughter, to cling to the escape Elizabeth offered, but his voice broke and he turned his face into his wife's breast and began to sob.
"Did you so?" Elizabeth asked softly. "But you see, with such wonderings, how a wife cannot worship and cannot be shocked to know her husband is a man. How can I fail to know you weak and mortal? Have I not seen you tremble with desire and heard you cry out in fulfillment? So feel I, and I am weak and mortal."
Long tremors shook Henry from head to toe, but the sobs were subsiding and his hands were growing warm. Elizabeth continued to speak of the little things that bound them, the quarrels and the laughter, the personal peculiarities. Henry's neck was often stiff from long hours bent over accounts, and Elizabeth rubbed it sometimes with mustard pounded into a scented cream to ease the muscles. How could a woman worship a man with a stiff neck, she asked him, laughing, or fail to find the plain—not to say ugly—face on top of the stiff neck more beautiful than any other countenance she had ever seen.
"You are beautiful, Bess," Henry said clearly, suddenly finding his voice. "Even your kneecaps are beautiful. They are like oval jewels. But you have a crooked toe."
The thought of that tiny imperfection made her so dear, so much more precious than all her beauty, that Henry nearly wept anew. He might never see that bent toe again. It might be lost to him. He sat up and threw off the light covers. Elizabeth smiled, offering up to him her perfection and her imperfection.
And he knelt naked in the bed and kissed the crooked toe, the oval kneecaps, the milk-white thighs. He was trembling afresh, although for a far pleasanter reason, and Elizabeth matched his passion with an abandonment even she had never shown before. Henry never went back to his own bed. They clung together through the night wringing the last thrill from the pleasure that might be torn from them by death.
Their mutual comforting posed a pretty problem for Henry's gentlemen, however. This had not happened since his wedding night. No one even considered daring to intrude upon the king and queen, but the hour assigned for departure was drawing closer. Ladies and gentlemen alike stood in the antechamber silently wringing their hands, wondering whether the king had finished his pleasuring and, if not, what they were to do about it. He would be furious if they did not leave on time because he had made rendezvous with Devon; doubtless, however, he would be even more furious at being disturbed.
Henry, whatever they feared, was all too aware of the passing time, even as he came up from a last drowning wave of pleasure.
"It is full morning," he said as soon as he could control his gasping. "I am already late."
"Yes."
"I must go."
"Yes. You will not do anything foolish, Harry? You will not take it into your head to lead the battle or—"
"I wish I could," he replied sharply, bending to pick up his robe, which had fallen to the floor. "I get so angry when I fight that I do not feel afraid. You need not worry. My guardian angels, my uncle and the others, would probably restrain me by force if necessary. A king is too precious a thing to risk, you know."
"So is a man," Elizabeth murmured, rising and coming to the door with him.
"Thank you, Bess. I am a man again—though a weary one. I was not when I came here last night."
"You are always a man. Your trouble, Harry, is that you wish to be more than that." She saw him pull the door open and braced herself for one more effort. There would be time enough and to spare for weeping when he was gone. Bringing a bite to her voice, she exclaimed, "And for heaven's sake, if you get wet change your clothes. I do not want you coughing and sneezing all over me when you come back. A stiff neck I can bear, but being sniffled on is disgusting."
So Henry's men saw him come laughing from his wife's chamber. The king's eyes showed he had slept little, but when he was hurriedly dressing they saw the marks on his body that provided obvious reasons for his wakefulness. John Cheney, although tactfully silent, could not restrain eyebrows raised in surprise when, drawing on his master's hose, he saw teeth marks over the little scar on the king's thigh. What if there be an invasion, a rebellion, a war? It could not be too great a matter if this was how His Grace spent the night. He had prayed before Bosworth.
Fortunately, since Henry was totally exhausted, they had not far to go. Even so, he almost fell asleep in his saddle before they rode the few miles to Coventry, and he shocked Devon who was encamped there with the southern levies by yawning in his face all the time he was making his report. Henry commended his zeal sleepily and staggered off to bed, leaving Devon openmouthed with amazement until Cheney enthusiastically recounted the probable doings of the previous night.
"I will never understand him." Devon shrugged and laughed. "He is simply not made like other men. To bid one's wife a tender farewell, this is reasonable, but to play such games— All night, you say?"
"It must be so, for he was still at it in the morning, and we standing outside, knowing it was time to leave and not daring to enter. We listened at the door, of course, and it was plain that
— You should see him. Bitten and bruised all over."
"No wonder he fears war so little. He is wounded worse abed. Ah, well, if he is so lighthearted it will be like last spring in the north. I do not know why I went to the trouble of gathering troops."
But it became more and more apparent that this was to be no repetition of the rising in the north. Henry was determined to fight. No pardon was offered now to those who would throw down their arms, and the king spoke to his council only of tactics and weapons and discipline. They had to wait three days at Leicester for parts of the eastern and western forces to join them, and two days at Loughborough for Guildford to remount some of the guns that were not traveling well. At Nottingham there was good news. The cities of Lancashire and Yorkshire were closing their gates, refusing to supply the false Warwick's army, and the people of the countryside were fleeing into the cities rather than join the pretender's force.
"They will soon starve," Bedford said with satisfaction. "Let us sit here and wait."
But Henry retained his superstitious fear of Nottingham, and the next day the host moved on to Newark. Here there was more good news. The northern shires had not only refused to join the invading forces but were rallying to the king. From Northumberland, Cumberland, and Yorkshire the English Borderers came, leading their hard-bitten troops. They were few in number, barbarously dressed and armed, but rich with experience of endless raiding by and against the Scots. Now Henry was ready to drive westward and cut off the invaders, but he found it was not necessary.
Lincoln and Lovell, hoping to take the king by surprise, had come very swiftly east. It was not easy, however, to take by surprise anyone with as good an intelligence force as Foxe had established. It was as if Henry "was in his bosom and knew every hour what the earl did." When the pretender's army tried to reach the great Fosse Way that led south from Newark, they found the royal force blocking their path. Henry was delighted to hear that they had come to him. His army was well-rested and well-provisioned. When he led them to battle the next morning they would be fresh and well-fed. It could not have been better planned had he done it himself.
The Dragon and the Rose Page 33
