The Dragon and the Rose (4 page)

Francis II was a big man, no longer young, with a kindly, shrewd face. Henry felt more secure the moment he looked at him. He welcomed the two strangers in a deep, pleasant voice and asked for news of England. Jasper told the truth. They were penniless exiles fleeing for their lives.

"Ay, Lord Pembroke, I can understand why you would not be welcome to Edward, but you, young man"—Francis turned to Henry—"what crime have you committed?"

"I was born." Henry's careful schoolboy French concealed the quick calculations going on in his mind. He could pretend ignorance or try to conceal his importance to Edward. Still, the longer Francis had to consider his value, the higher the price for him would rise. And the higher the price, the longer the haggling. Every day out of Edward's hands was a day gained, a day in which something might happen to their benefit.

"I am now the closest living male relative of Henry VI."

"
Pauvre petit
," sighed the duchess, sitting beside Francis.

Henry's clear eyes rested on Francis's wife. He smiled, permitting his lips to tremble. One could not have too many allies, and Duke Francis seemed fond of his wife.

"And what do you want from me, gentlemen?" Francis was still smiling at his duchess's remark.

Jasper hesitated. France seemed safest, but, though Francis and Louis were now at peace, they had been enemies a long time.

"I would like to stay here." Henry's eyes remained on the duchess, "But, of course, my uncle knows best and must decide."

"Francis, you cannot turn the child away," the duchess pleaded, her hand on her husband's arm.

The duke's eyes met Jasper's, and he smiled broadly. "I have no intention of doing so, my dear. You are perfectly safe here now, Lord Pembroke," he added. "I hope you also will wish to stay."

"Most certainly, my lord." Jasper's voice sounded as sincere and hearty as he could make it, but he did not fail to notice Francis's use of the present tense in his assurance.

Margaret sat with folded hands and downcast eyes. Though her complexion was marred with weeping, she was remarkably beautiful. Henry Stafford wondered briefly how he had come to take so little advantage of his position as her husband in the past. He put the thought aside to concentrate on the more immediate problem.

"You must have some idea where he has gone. You must. You have long known Jasper Tudor. I know you received letters from him when he went into exile before. Think! Where are his common hidey-holes?"

Two slow tears made shining tracks down Margaret's cheeks, but her voice, although scarcely above a whisper, did not waver. "I have told you," she said wearily. "He was in Ireland when he wrote to me. More than that I do not know. He never wrote where he was or who his friends were lest his message fall into those hands he feared." Margaret raised her eyes. "Jasper desired news of me. He did not write to give me news."

It was logical enough, but Stafford was uneasy. He took a few hasty steps away from Margaret, then returned. Low-voiced, meek, denying him nothing, never refusing to answer, Margaret nonetheless made him uncomfortable.

"You gave him your son, Can you tell me you did not ask where he would take him? I tell you, Henry is in far greater danger from the mad notions Jasper will instill in him than from our just and gracious king."

Margaret's lips moved silently for a moment, and Stafford hissed with impatience. She was praying again.

"I did not give him my son," she said. "I have sworn it on my soul. Do you think I court damnation?"

Stafford shook his head impatiently. On any other subject that remark would have closed the discussion. Margaret believed in God and in damnation as few priests or prelates did, but her husband was not in the least sure she would try to avoid damnation if she thought her eternal sojourn in hell would benefit her son. He regretted bitterly that he had not demanded his marital rights more frequently not only because the woman was desirable but also because, if she had conceived again and borne another child, her devotion would be divided. As it was, he had no weapon to use against her.

He dared not try physical mistreatment. She was so frail she would die if she were not gently used. And if she died, her estates would go to the crown, since her son was alive but disinherited. Stafford did not pretend to himself that the king would make over those rich territories to him. He might receive some small part, but those ravening beasts, the queen's Woodville kin, would batten on the lion's share—whatever they could snatch from the claws of that other beast, the king's brother, George of Clarence. The most annoying part of the whole thing was that he was tormenting Margaret though he believed she was telling the truth. She probably did not know where Jasper had taken the boy and, equally probably, she had not agreed to let him go. She was neither a clever nor a strong woman, and she doted on the child excessively.

That thought brought Stafford's eyes back to his wife. His brother kept insisting that he question her. Buckingham did not agree with him about Margaret's brains or will; he believed that she was both strong and infernally clever. Nonsense! Margaret never resisted him. The smallest pressure made her yield at once. And she never thought about anything beyond her boy, her God, and her clothes. When he spoke to her about the court, she seemed to listen, but when he asked for her opinion, she said such things as, "That is ungodly." Or, "Did the queen's headdress bear a veil?"

It was unfortunate she did not know where Jasper had taken Henry. Had she known, the king's agents might have been there waiting for them. Of course, the boy's whereabouts would not long be secret. Whoever had him would soon open negotiations. In any case, it would be best to take Margaret to court now. There had already been unfavorable comment about the fact that she had not paid homage to the queen. Stafford ground his teeth. The Woodvilles were hinting that Margaret had refused to come to court. They hoped to build a strong enough case of lies against her to make her seem guilty of treason so that the king could confiscate her properties.

"Very well," Stafford said, "if you do not know, you do not. I will tell you once more that Henry would be safer here than taking a death chill while he hides in hedges and ditches. When you have word from him, tell me. Now, there is something else. The queen desires that you come to court."

For a few moments Margaret kept her eyes lowered. She did not wish Stafford to see the blaze of satisfaction in them. Then she looked up. "Does this displease you, my lord?" she asked meekly.

"Displease me? No, no. Of course it does not displease me." All he needed, Stafford thought, was to have his fool of a wife say that in public. He would be the one with confiscated estates. "Why should your going to court displease me? I was a trifle concerned because your manner may cause you trouble. It is necessary to hold oneself very lowly before the queen, very lowly indeed."

Consternation flooded Margaret's face. "Am I so stained by the sin of pride?" she asked anxiously. "Do I seem to hold myself too high?"

"No, Margaret, for God's sake, do not undertake a whole series of penances to humble your soul. I did not say you were too proud. To me, your manner could not be bettered. The fault—and do not repeat this—lies in the fact that the queen was not born of high enough estate. Her pride needs constantly to be upheld. Do you know that she demanded that her own mother and the king's sister, the king's own sister, serve her upon their knees? Once her mother fainted before she was permitted to rise."

"Thou shalt honor thy father and thy mother," Margaret murmured.

"Now, that," Stafford exclaimed with intense irritation, "is exactly what I meant to warn you against. You must not say things like that to the queen."

"I did not make up those words, my lord. They are God's commands to mankind."

"Do not be so stupid!" Stafford shouted. "What has God's word to do with the queen? Leave her soul to her chaplain."

"Yes, my lord."

Margaret shrank back a little as if alarmed by his violence, and Stafford came forward and patted her shoulder kindly. With an effort, Margaret kept herself from shrinking further. It would have been unkind and, as to her general feeling, untrue. It was only when his weak character was openly displayed, as it was in this fear of the queen, that Margaret felt she despised Stafford. And she had no right to complain. She had chosen him deliberately for just the characteristics that repelled her now. Jasper, Margaret thought, oh, Jasper.

Some weeks later it was as if Margaret were hearing an echo of the cry in her heart, for the queen was saying sharply, "Jasper! Jasper! You do not seem to have any other answer to any question we ask. Have you never thought or planned for yourself?"

Margaret looked into the haughty, still-beautiful face. The large, slightly protuberant almond-shaped eyes stared back from either side of the fine, straight nose above the exquisite mouth. The petulant droop of Queen Elizabeth's lips alone marred the loveliness of that perfect oval face framed in a glory of golden hair.

"What had I to plan, Your Grace?" Margaret murmured. "When my husband died, I was given into Pem—I beg pardon, to Jasper Tudor's care. He left my son to me. Why should I care for anything else, except, of course, my salvation?"

"You are a silly woman, but not so silly as that. We think Jasper Tudor spent overmuch time in your company, and you were ready enough to receive him."

Suddenly the queen's meaning penetrated to Margaret's mind. Elizabeth was not probing for political news about Henry and Jasper, who were now known to be in the court of Francis of Brittany. A wave of color washed over Margaret's throat and face. Her eyes grew wide with horror.

"Incest!" she gasped. "You would accuse me of
incest
? He was my husband's brother. For such a sin there is no penance, only hell."

Queen Elizabeth made an irritable sound. She thought there must be something between them. What else could keep Margaret in Pembroke Castle all those years, when she had a perfectly good husband and an open invitation to court? Perhaps the blush was of guilt. But now even the queen's lewd mind found it hard to believe.

"There is no sin that cannot be cleansed with penance—especially rich, gold penance," Elizabeth said cynically and with contempt.

She stared down at Margaret, who had been kneeling before her for half an hour. A silly woman, but harmless, and in a way an asset to the court. Her piety would lend an air of propriety to the ladies and, who knew, might even wake some conscience in them or in the king so that his lechery would be less open. Moreover, Margaret was very beautiful. If Edward tried her and she refused him, it might be possible to inflame him to confiscate her property. And if she did not refuse him, Elizabeth thought, her eyes and mouth hard, she will be humbled—she and her holier-than-thou soul.

"You have lived too little in the world," the queen said. "We believe it would be to your benefit to serve as one of our ladies. How does this offer sit with you, Lady Margaret?"

"It is my pleasure always to obey Your Grace," Margaret murmured submissively.

The queen held out her hand, and Margaret inched forward on her knees to kiss it. It was odd, she thought, Henry VI's wife had been hated for her pride, yet she had never demanded that her ladies crawl about on the floor or hold conversations on their knees. And whatever her faults of character, Margaret of Anjou was of high birth and noble blood. Only an upstart like Elizabeth Woodville would need to humble her subjects. Another thought came to Margaret that made her smile. The very devotion to God that the queen scorned was what made the queen's service light to her. Unlike the other ladies of the court, who often wept with pain from kneeling, Margaret's knees were so calloused with praying that it bothered her not a whit to kneel to the queen by the hour.

If Francis's original intention had been to barter Pembroke and Henry for Edward's assistance in a war against France, that intention soon altered. His childless duchess took to Henry unreservedly. Francis, too, developed a deep affection for the clever boy and, as weeks passed into months and months into years, affection deepened into admiration.

In England Edward was too busy consolidating his grip on his kingdom to bother about Henry. When he did make an attempt to buy him, it was too late. Francis's regard for the refugee had grown paternal, and Jasper had proved extremely useful in fighting for his adopted country. Still, Francis was too cautious to refuse Edward outright. He set an astronomical price on Henry's head and took great pleasure in the shock of Edward's envoys and their attempts to bargain.

When Henry was eighteen, another group of envoys arrived from the English king. Henry's strongest supporter, the duchess, had died a few months previously, and Edward was now offering something more attractive than money to Francis. The king of England proposed war against France as Henry's price, coupled with the promise that the young Tudor would be treated honorably. Had the decision rested with Francis alone, there would have been little question of Henry's safety; but the duke had displayed his affection for Henry too openly, and now many among his nobles wished to be rid of a rival. Francis could not afford to alienate his nobles with Edward amassing an army across the Channel. Should the English king invade Brittany instead of France, claiming that he had done so because of Henry, the disaffected nobles might well refuse to support their duke.

Francis accepted Edward's offer, but he insisted that he bring Henry to Edward personally—as soon as the war against France was launched. Fortunately for the Tudor, Edward was sinking deeper and deeper into a slough of dissipation, which was wrecking his constitution. Only a tiny part of the army he promised assembled, and Francis was able to ignore the agreement. Meanwhile, Henry worked hard to better his position at the Breton court. He used all his persuasive powers to urge Francis to take another wife. The move was a shrewd one, and when the new duchess bore a healthy child in 1477, the Bretons were appeased. Their fears about Henry began to fade, for, though the child was but a girl, the next might be a healthy son.