The Dragon and the Rose (43 page)

"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.

At the council called that night, however, it did not seem to Bedford that Henry was being reasonable about this battle. It would be better, of course, if they won it; but it would not be a major tragedy if they lost. Both Edward IV and Henry VI had lost battles without losing the crown. Richard III's loss was only fatal, Bedford explained patiently, because he, himself, was killed. Whatever the outcome, Henry should not involve himself personally. The king listened politely; he always listened politely to advice, and sometimes he even took it. In this case he shook his head.

"It will not happen often that I come to battle in my own person, but when I do I will win or die. It is foolish, perhaps, to discuss this matter before a battle in which the victory is so certainly ours. Nonetheless it should be said that when I am present the principle of running away so that one may fight another day is abrogated. The man who runs away from any field I am on will be my murderer as surely as if he struck the blow himself."

"No man of us will leave the field while you are on it, sire, and I for one will not leave it at all until your voice commands me to do so," Oxford said.

"So say we all," came the murmur around the table.

"Let us hope, then," Henry replied merrily, "that I do not lose my voice shouting commands, for this will be a barren place—and noisome, too—for a victory celebration. Will you accept a note in my hand, Oxford, if my voice fails?" He paused to let the laugh die, and then continued seriously, "Look you, they cannot win. Only two thousand are decently armed or trained. The others are barbarians, wild and ungovernable, ill-armed. They may be brave, but they will be useless."

"What arrangements shall I make for prisoners?" Edgecombe asked.

To the universal surprise, Henry turned pale and seemed to lose his confidence. He looked around the table at his council as if for help, but before anyone could respond his lips thinned into an ugly line. "None. There are to be no prisoners. No quarter is to be given except for Lincoln. Every effort is to be made to take him alive. I intend to find out from him who was part of this conspiracy."

There was a moment of shocked silence. In the past the council had struggled against Henry's leniency. They scarcely knew how to protest against this complete reversal of policy.

"Is this not a little hard, Your Grace?" Jasper asked.

"I am always 'Your Grace' when you are displeased with me, uncle, I know, but this is not wanton cruelty—I hope. We have now a remarkable opportunity to accomplish a multiplicity of purposes. Think first of the effect on the country if these rebels are slain to a man. Who will be tempted to rebel again? At the same time, we can arouse little hatred amongst our own people by this slaughter for these are not Englishmen with brothers or cousins among our own forces. They are foreign mercenaries and Irish barbarians, unconnected to our folk. Third, think of the effect on the Irish, who set out so bravely to plunder or conquer England, when their great army does not return or perhaps a man or two to tell a tale of English invincibility. When next I send a lord deputy to Ireland, they will come on bended knee and kiss his hand."

Smiles flashed round the table; heads were shaken in mute admiration. Henry never forgot anything, never permitted passion to sway him. Never had there been such a king.

"Now, the order of battle," Henry continued. "There is no need for much prearrangement for we know not what they will do. Oxford will take the first shock. Devon and Nottingham will hold the flanks. When the time is ripe, I will give order that Devon and Nottingham encircle for the kill. When the reserve is needed, it will come in with Bedford as leader. Understood? Very well, let us to our beds. Tomorrow we will have them."

"One thing more, Harry."

"Yes, uncle?"

"We think one or perhaps two other men should wear your colors and arms as like to yours as possible. Remember how Richard charged at Bosworth."

Henry considered for a moment and then shook his head negatively.

"Harry," Jasper said sharply, "it is better to be a live king than a dead hero."

"I am no hero—" Henry laughed "—as you all well know. If anyone of you around this table could wear my clothes, I would agree. In fact, I have seldom regretted my lack of girth and inches more, for such a device would give me much freedom of movement. Not one of you could be mistaken for me, even in the heat of battle. Every man is a head too tall or a yard too wide. Who else dare I trust with such a thing?"

They suggested this and argued that, but at last Henry's viewpoint prevailed. The meeting was ended, but Ned Poynings remained behind as the others rose to go. Henry looked at him, looked aside, and forced a smile.

"Are you checking on your investment in head and livelihood, Ned?"

Poynings laughed. "In a way I am, I suppose. I wish to ask a favor."

"Ask."

"I wish to be your standard-bearer."

"No!" Henry paled again. "William was cut down because he had no way to guard himself and would not loose the pennon. No. I cannot spare you, Ned. I cannot."

"I am no hero, either, sire, but I have a reason. I heard a most interesting tale this afternoon. One of the yeomen came most anxiously to me and asked where you were going all unguarded toward the enemy host. I, having but that instant left your chamber, told him to mend his eyesight and that you were within. He insisted, however, that a man of your looks, manner, and bearing had left the city."