The Dragon and the Rose (30 page)

"There are women, too," Bray replied miserably.

"Women, too, then," Henry agreed easily, though a weight seemed to be pressing his breath out of him. "For now, Reginald, that will be all." When he was gone, Henry said softly, "My little Foxe, you will check him. Bray is a lover of justice with too many scruples and too many fears. Eventually you must take over his work. Kings cannot afford scruples."

"He will be better testing and watching the judges," Foxe agreed. "He will do you much good, for it will give him pleasure to ferret out that kind of corruption, and you will get a name as a lover of justice."

"Richard, I love you," Henry murmured. "So often you save me from needing to speak my own thoughts."

"And I you, sire, because great affairs are as meat and drink to me, yet I could not be patient to lead a stumbling, blind ruler. But speaking of justice, is it not time for another visit to the prisoners in the Tower?"

"Yes. It is time also to free Northumberland. How goes the truce with the Scots?"

Foxe understood. As soon as that was signed, Northumberland could be released. Any treachery he contemplated, if he should be untrustworthy, could then be nosed out sooner and reported by Henry's spies in the north and at James's court.

"Near done. The envoys are very agreeable."

"Too agreeable?"

"I think not. They do their king's will in this, and James is a peaceful man. Sire, I would say orisons for his good health."

"You think it in danger?"

"From a slipped word here and there, I think his son will have the throat out of him—and then out of you—if he can."

Henry stared into the fire. "A viper in the bosom is good reason for peace abroad," he said lightly, turning and turning the ring Elizabeth had given him on his finger.

Some hours later, Elizabeth invited her mother to breakfast. This, in itself, was offensive because the dowager queen believed she had the right to walk in and out of her daughter's apartments whenever she wanted, and this seemed a clear indication that Elizabeth did not intend to permit such freedom. Elizabeth, she concluded, arriving in high dudgeon, was an ungrateful, unnatural child, and if ill befell her she would deserve it.

The dowager queen's once-beautiful face was drawn into ugly lines of dissatisfaction and self-pity. The children who loved her were all reft from her, and she was left with mean-spirited daughters. Elizabeth, grown so high and mighty since she married the bastard Welshman that she needed a whipping, and also those two puling younger ones who clung to their sister, ignoring their duty to their betrayed mother.

"I suppose I should curtsy right down to the ground to you," she snapped after she haughtily dismissed the queen's ladies.

Elizabeth made no protest at the dismissal. They were better off alone. "Not to me, mother," she replied. "If you curtsied at all, it would be to my office."

"Well, I will not. Even that—that—"

"The king, mother?"

"Call him what you will. He is no king to me. Even he forbade his mother to bow to him."

Elizabeth's eyes dropped. She was ashamed—not for teasing her mother about curtsying, but for the difference in the relationship that permitted Henry to fall on his knees before his mother without fearing the result. Perhaps she was doing an injustice. Her mother's life had been so bitter, flickering unsteadily between too-great brilliance and too-dark obscurity.

"Nay, mama, it was a naughty jest. You know how light of wit I am. Indeed, I have tried my best to accomplish your will. I begged the … my husband softly, and I received what I asked. The gentlemen will have appointments. Henry's own secretary, Dr. Foxe, brought the warrants."

The queen's mother grasped the parchments, saw that they were signed and sealed, and began to read. "You fool!" she gasped.

"Fool?" Elizabeth paled, her worst fears confirmed.

"I said appointments in
your
household, you idiot, not his!"

"But what difference can it make? They have a livelihood now. Is that not what you desired?"

"What I—?" The dowager saw her daughter's mouth quivering, and she softened her expression. How she and Edward, who both loved power, could have been cursed with such weak-minded children she did not know. She must, however, soothe her daughter or the puling fool would be idiot enough to tell her bastard husband that her mama did not approve the appointments.

"Elizabeth, my love," she said patiently, "your husband was forced by the love the people still have for your father into marrying you. Do you not see that his one desire must be to rid himself of you? Therefore, he has set your household full of spies."

"I am not afraid of spies, mama," Elizabeth said sturdily. If this was her mother's reason, she was relieved. She did not fear Henry; she had seen his face all soft, his eyes swooning with passion. The lips that touched her breasts so eagerly, the hands that sought the secrets of her body so gently, would never be used to order her away. "I shall never do anything a spy could report to my disfavor. What is there to fear?"

"Idiot!" her mother spat, losing control again. "Cannot evidence be made? Besides, how can you be sure you will never receive a person or give charity or a gift to someone who is secretly disloyal? You must begin again and free yourself of these watching eyes. I will find some other men suitable to your service."

"I can ask for nothing more just now," Elizabeth said slowly.

The dowager queen groaned. "Now is the time, now, before he tires of you, before he fills his bed with whores. Refuse him until he grants your desire. He cannot bed a mistress yet. Even his own men would frown if he did so before you were with child. They need a Yorkist heir to bolster their worthless claim to your father's throne."

You have just outargued yourself, Elizabeth thought. Henry can wish me no harm if he needs a Yorkist heir. If the men in my household are spies, are they not here, perhaps, to protect me from the dangers you threatened me with? In any case, to rid myself of them, would that not prove me guilty of evil intent? Tears welled into Elizabeth's eyes and rolled down her cheeks. She did not know whether her fear that her mother could be right or her renewed fear that she was hatching another conspiracy was more dreadful.

CHAPTER 15

"What do you think of the temper of the Londoners?" Henry asked John Morton who was now archbishop of Canterbury, the winter having slain the aged Bourchier.

"Towards you, Your Grace?" Morton nodded at Henry's smile. "The priests tell me there have never been so many unpaid prayers so fervently said for any man's health before. I dare believe that if an enemy to you fronted this city, it would close its gates and fight."

Henry sighed. "A tribute I pray it may never need to make me."

The archbishop contemplated the raindrops coursing down the small, glazed panes of Henry's private closet. It was a small, pretty room behind his bedchamber, fitted with sybaritic splendor and meant for confidences. Henry used it when he wished to work alone or to confer privately with someone. All in all, the time he spent in it was not much, but it was invariably important.

"There is no reason to delay your progress, except, of course, the weather." Morton paused, then said slowly, "You should go. You need the change. You are tired, my son."

The word was a reminder of the confession Henry had just made. The king bit his lips. "Am I overanxious? Elizabeth is not herself." How could she be, he thought. What sort of a marriage is it? I watch her. She watches me. "I dare not take her," he added tensely, "and I dare not leave her behind."

"You are tired," Morton repeated. "You must leave her here, sire, both for your health's sake and for policy."

Henry stirred restlessly. He knew it was not Elizabeth's physical demands upon him that were dangerous, in spite of Morton's reference to his health. "She desires to go. I do not wish to offend her."

"Promise her the next progress. It is necessary that this time you appear alone as king. The north is—"

A quick gesture of irritation curbed the repetition that the north was too strongly Yorkist and might greet Elizabeth as queen rather than Henry as king. "How goes the business with the French?"

Morton showed no surprise at the switch in subject. "I have not yet received word, but I expect daily—nay, hourly—to hear that the treaty is ratified."

"And they will surely free Dorset?"

"It is the second condition."

"I wish to know at once, day or night, whatever the hour. Send to Her Grace's chambers for me if you cannot find me in mine."

Now Morton was surprised. All discussion of affairs of state were sedulously kept away from Elizabeth's quarters. "Yes, Your Grace. Is there aught of speciality in this treaty of which I am not aware?"

"No. It is the draught of honey to make the bitter purgative go down. When we first met, Her Grace desired that I free Dorset. She has respoken that request more than once, having a great natural affection for—" Henry paused "—her family. When I have news that he is free, I will tell her I cannot take her on progress and offer her her brother's company as consolation."

The archbishop stifled a sigh of pride and relief. All of Henry's advisors had set their faces against Elizabeth's accompanying him. As ever he had listened patiently to them, but until this moment he had refused to commit himself as to whether his wife's desire or his ministers' advice had more influence.

In fact, the news of Dorset’s release came three days later, most conveniently when Henry was transacting the normal business of the day. There was a letter from Dorset in the packet, also—just the right kind of letter, filled with glib thanks and meaningless protestations of good faith. It would please Elizabeth; that was more important than the nausea it raised in himself, in Henry's opinion.

He brought the letter with him when he made his customary visit to his wife that night. Love first and news after, or news first and no love, Henry wondered. There was no physical urgency in the thought, for Henry's sexual cravings had been fully gratified for nearly two months. He merely would have liked to know which pattern would be least likely to irritate Elizabeth. She had become increasingly nervous the last few weeks, increasingly prone to break into shrill argument over nothings. If this was the sweet nature Margaret had praised, Henry found it hard to imagine what his mother would consider shrewish. When he complained to her, however, Margaret had looked blank and advised him, most infuriatingly, not to annoy his wife.

The question of news first or love first never arose. As soon as she saw him, Elizabeth sat up and gasped nervously, "What is wrong, Henry? What is the matter?"

"Nothing is wrong. I have news for you. Some will disappoint you, but some is very good."

"Bad news?"

Her voice trembled and her eyes stared wide, showing their whites like a terrified horse. Henry wanted to scream at her that she should confess and relieve her soul, that he would pardon her whatever she had done. Instead he said soothingly, "Not bad news, good news. I have made a treaty with the French. In a few weeks your brother Dorset will be home."

Elizabeth shook her head. "No, that is not what is in your face. Not unless—you do not mean harm to Dorset, do you?"

Henry closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "I do not mean harm to any man or any woman who does no hurt to me. Do calm yourself, madam."

"Madam! Madam! I have a name. Can you not call me by name?"

"Elizabeth, control yourself. If you wish the sour mixed with the sweet, then here it is. I have decided not to take you on progress. It is clear to me that you are not well—"

"I must go! I will go! Henry, you cannot leave me behind. I want to go."

White-faced, she slid from the bed and came toward him, opening her robe to expose her body. Before he was conscious of the emotion and could master it, Henry's face displayed such revulsion that Elizabeth screamed and shrank away. Instantly the door sprang open, Cheney and Willoughby appearing with half-drawn swords. As swift as they had been, Henry was quicker. He had twitched Elizabeth's robe together and put an arm around her. He turned his head toward the door and smiled.

"Her Grace is a little overcome at hearing of the French treaty and her brother's release. Send in her ladies."

"No," she whispered, clinging to him, "no. Henry, do not go. I want to talk to you."

"We will have time enough to talk when you are more composed. I do not leave tomorrow."

"Henry, I did not mean it. I was not thinking of what you thought. I am so cold."

That was true. She was trembling, and where her fingers clutched his robe Henry could feel them like ice above the velvet. He gestured and the maids of honor and ladies-in waiting withdrew again.

"Perhaps if you told me why you are so anxious to go with me—"

"I do not know. I am afraid."

"Of me or for me?"

She acted as if she did not hear, but her eyes were fairly starting from her head. "They say you never change your mind once you have made a decision."

"That is not quite true, but I will not change my mind about this."

His certainty seemed to calm her. Elizabeth drew a shuddering breath and said, "Come to bed." Henry's hesitation was infinitesimal. It was a small price to pay, he thought, if it would keep her from making a scene, but when he began to caress her automatically she caught his hands. "Oh no. Please. I could not."

"Then what is it you want of me, Elizabeth?"

"Hold me. Hold me. I am afraid."

Henry complied, but his efforts to conceal his relief and his real, if temporary, distaste for her were apparently not successful, although he could sense nothing different in his manner. Elizabeth wept anew, quarreled bitterly with him, and sent him away. Henry restrained his fury and braced himself for several weeks of hell, but the scene had an effect he did not expect. In the three weeks he remained in London, Elizabeth never again raised the subject, and thereby caused him more mental distress than she had at any time in the past.

Elizabeth turned suddenly dull and docile, as she had been before they married, neither inviting nor rejecting his attentions, and Henry began to learn how much he had depended upon her witty tongue and gay manners to enliven state dinners and formal entertainments. He even missed her waspish quarrelling, for there had been a stimulation in it, a blessed change from political conferences in which no one dared quarrel with the king.