"You are not betrothed, are you, Harry?" Jasper had remarked the flush.
"No."
Was there a shade of regret in eyes and voice? Margaret's trill of laughter caught Jasper's attention before he could decide.
"Indeed he is not. Lord Herbert raised the question twice before he died, but each time Henry took to his bed with a fever, so the trip was put off."
That raised a new anxiety. "Are you often sick, my boy?"
Margaret laughed even more heartily, and Henry flushed again. "When it pleases him," she said.
"You have never taken his frailty seriously enough, Margaret!" Jasper retorted unfairly. "When we go to London, I will have the king's physicians attend him. We will find the seat of these troubles and drive them out."
"To London?" Henry asked. But a troubled Jasper was studying his flushed face. He smiled. "I do not need a physician, uncle. I am very well now—most of the time. It is true that I pretended to be sick to avoid the betrothal. When will we go to London?"
"As soon as I am sure Wales is quiet. It will not be long. My people's hearts were never Edward's."
Margaret smoothed her gown. "It will be pleasant to see the new fashions and have a reason to dress my hair. Jasper, Henry is almost a man. Let him travel through Wales with you to see more of the people."
Jasper's hesitant nod could not cover his anxiety. "Will not so much riding tire Henry?"
Mother and son laughed in chorus. Riding was Henry's strongest point; he was a remarkably fine horseman. "Oh, uncle! I have ridden in the hunt from dawn to dusk and come home only hungry enough to eat a good dinner and weary enough to sleep sound."
CHAPTER 2
Henry VI's restoration had lasted only a few months and already there were grumblings of dissatisfaction. Warwick's present policy had been rejected by Edward IV because he knew it would be unpopular. But Edward, York or no, had been a wise king. Jasper said as much to Margaret and Henry in a fit of temper. They must go to London at once.
It was necessary that Henry meet the king. Still, he was not prepared for feeble Henry's shambling figure, the loose lips, the dazed eyes. Years of captivity had done nothing to improve Henry VI, who was able to pay attention for only a few minutes when sternly addressed. Yet he did so when Henry Tudor was presented to him, gazing into the fourteen-year-old's face and seeing there something that pleased him.
A trembling hand came to rest on the kneeling boy's head. "A likely young man. See how calm his eye, how well-shaped his head. A regal manner for one so young. Rise up, Henry Tudor."
Henry looked at his namesake with despair. Was not a king special, even if he were not clever? What was here to reverence? Here were fine garments; but even they hung all awry. No, not even the shell of appearance.
"You know," the king continued in his wandering way, "my grandfather was earl of Richmond, also." He had forgotten that Henry no longer held the title. "He was attainted once, even exiled, but he came back and won the throne from that bad king, Richard II." The king's eyes widened with fear. He giggled. "You would not do that, boy, would you?"
Henry did not hear his mother's intake of breath nor see Jasper take a half step forward. "You are my uncle," he said clearly, "and I must love you. It is not my right, as it was Henry IV's of blessed memory, and Richard II is long dead. "
When they were alone, Margaret complimented her son. "You pleased me well, Henry. You gave a right good answer. What made you think of it?"
"The king sounded suspicious of me, so I reminded him of our blood bond. For the other matter—that is history known to all. It could not hurt to repeat it." But Henry did not smile with pleasure as he usually did when his mother praised him. "Mother, I am a child no longer. It is time that we talk of kings." He turned away from her, walked to a window and stared unseeing out at the formal garden. "I cannot love or respect this king," he murmured.
Who could? Margaret wondered, but she said only, "Your uncle the king is a good man. He is kind and gentle and wishes much to do right." Henry remained at the window. His mother went to him and placed her hands upon his shoulders. "Henry, the best king is one who rules by himself after listening to all his advisers. But there are other ways a realm may be guided aright. In any case, it is wrong to break the line of descent. Think how much blood has been spilled because of this shifting from the true line."
"And is bloodshed always bad? Why, then, are men taught to fight?"
Margaret turned her son round and kissed his brow. "Such questions! Yes, it is bad, but it may be done for a good cause. The Devil inspires some men to evil. Must not we put this evil down? Henry, if some man forced his way in here and wished to beat me or dishonor me before your eyes—" Her son's hand shot to his smallsword's hilt. "Ay," she laughed, laying a finger on the hand that clutched the sword, "to shed blood protecting your mother, would that be bad?"
"But, mother, your body gave me life! You nursed me and fed me."
"Has not your country done the same? Does not this land give you all things? Is it not also a mother to you?"
Henry jerked free of her hand. "Yes, and I love that mother also. Is it right to give her such a husband as—as this king?"
But Henry VI was not to be king for long. The young Tudor saw the Lancastrian party with its ineffectual leader split into factions in the face of rumors that Edward was gathering forces to return. Jasper's frantic efforts to steady the king and smooth over differences among the Lancastrian nobles merely carved the worry lines deeper between his brows and hardened his grim mouth. Rumor proved true. In March, Edward landed in Yorkshire.
Jasper fled to Wales to raise an army, taking Henry and Margaret with him. They did not ride fast enough. Just before Chepstow, Henry turned to the thunder of hooves, becoming alarmed when he saw an unfamiliar look of indecision on his uncle's face. The party following them were enemies! Henry's eyes flew to his mother, but Margaret's face had blanched and her hands held tight to the reins. Their horses were tired and there was no safe haven.
Henry shook with mingled fear and rage. That anyone should seek to harm him was incredible. In the fourteen years of his life, he had known only kindness. Even Lord Herbert, who had scared him at first, proved to be kind and protective. Over the pounding of his heart he could hear Jasper calling orders. The men-at-arms formed ranks, and he pulled into line with them. After that, all was confusion—a pounding of hooves, shouts mingled with screams and groans, the bright flash of steel, and spurts and streaks of red.
Later, three men lay still in the road. A riderless horse careened wildly with one shoulder dyed an unnatural color, but, in the distance, the horses' rumps waddled as the attackers fled. Henry laughed aloud at the sight. It was the final ignominy of defeat, that one should appear comical. Yet a hasty glance backward showed those three still forms. Death was not comical. The three looked lonely and unprotected on the open road.
At Chepstow they were admitted only after Jasper swore they would purchase horses and pass on. Events became vignettes set into periods of numbness for Henry. He was wakened once by his mother's fervent embrace. He heard Jasper snarl at her in an unnaturally gruff voice.
"But, Jasper, he is hurt." Margaret was weeping as he had never seen her.
Henry looked down at himself and saw his right hand and arm colored an ugly red-brown. The ease of his own laugh, the naturalness of his voice, surprised him. "Nay, the blood is not mine."
"Harry, Harry, I am proud of you." Jasper's voice was, too loud. He clapped him on the shoulder so hard that Henry staggered. "You are a man blooded this day."
Later, his mother's cry broke into his half sleep once again.
"No, Jasper, not that—you had it from the king!" His uncle was seated at a table counting coins with a worried frown, stripping the rings from his fingers. He had raised his hands to unhook the heavy gold collar of S's, when Margaret cried out. Now she pulled off her own rings and whispered breathlessly, "Take them, take them. What need will I have for jewels now?"
When there were fresh horses, they rode on. Henry prided himself on being a horseman. He could ride the longest, hardest hunt with the best, but this was different. When the horses were tired, they dismounted, changed their saddles to other mounts and rode again. Henry reeled, looped the reins about his left wrist and clung to the pommel with his free hand. Through eyes almost blind with fatigue, he preserved one clear picture: his mother cradled in Jasper's arms, her cheek marked by the cruel mail shirt, weeping, weeping; and above her bent head, his uncle's face twisted with fear.
The weight of that fear lightened when they were willingly received at Pembroke. Margaret and Henry passed some quiet days there while Jasper rode out to rally his countrymen. Henry now slept in the great bed that had been his father's when in Jasper's castle, but he did not sleep peacefully. There was an airless, waiting quality to the quiet that boded ill. Henry lay in the great bed and trembled. Evil was corning, and he was afraid.
After the battle at Barnet on April 14, where Henry VI was again made captive, the days passed like the wains of the peasants, slowly and with creaks and groans as accompaniment. The news of the battle of Tewkesbury reached them through a messenger from Margaret's husband. The queen had been taken; the prince, Henry VI's heir, was dead. The Lancastrian cause lay dead, too, murdered along with sixteen of its noblest and most powerful adherents. Buckingham had not taken sides; if Margaret came into her husband's protection at once, his older brother's influence with Edward would keep her safe.
Henry knew that Jasper had not been at Tewkesbury and felt nothing but relief. He could not understand why his mother should become almost hysterical with crying, clutching at him, kissing him and holding onto him as if she would never let him go.
A few days later, however, Henry saw his uncle enter Pembroke . . . a sleepwalker. Then he fled from the awful knowledge that Buckingham's influence could not save Jasper. The boy avoided his beloved uncle to wrestle alone with the love and fears that tore at him. Must he follow Jasper or his mother? The loneliness only increased his torment, and he sought wise counsel where he had always found it, in his mother's chamber.
When he entered, his mother was kneeling on the floor, embracing Jasper's knees and wailing. Henry stood rooted at the door.
"I will not do it. They would hunt us down to the ends of the earth." Jasper's voice sounded dead. "I will run no more. I will fight and die here where I belong. God knows" —his sudden anguish rose over Margaret's moan—"I tried to reach them in time. We fought our way half across England. We could have turned the tide of that battle, but we came too late. I will not be called a traitor by those few of us who still live!"
Jasper tore himself loose from Margaret's grasp, but Henry fled before they saw him. He knew nothing of what happened between them on the following two days, but midmorning of the third day shouts of alarm filled Pembroke. The drawbridge was lifted, and men-at-arms ran to take up defensive positions. Whatever his mother had planned to do, she had waited too long. The time had come to fight and die. Henry shook, whether from fear or fever he did not know, but his shame drove him forth. Dressing quickly, he seized his sword and ran out.
"What has happened, uncle?"
Jasper turned, and Henry became light with relief. Whatever the evil, it had some good mixed with it. Jasper no longer looked dead or afraid; he was very simply angry.
"Our own people have turned on us," he growled. "That is Morgan ap Thomas out there who demands our surrender."
Henry knew perfectly well what the defensive power of Pembroke was. The tactics of war were as much a part of his everyday lessons as Latin, French, swordsmanship, and horsemanship. "They will have a long wait," he said quietly.
"May the souls of that clan writhe everlastingly in hell! Morgan's brother David is on his way with another force—Morgan says a larger one."
"Then, we will have to fight"—Henry laughed—"if he does not lie. The Welsh fight well, but they lie better."
The anger died out of Jasper's face, and an expression Henry could not judge replaced it. "My God," he said softly, "you are a man indeed, though you have little enough growth to tell of it."
A few months past Henry would have been flooded with pleasure at such praise from his idolized uncle. Now he knew that Jasper was a man as he was a man—though a man he loved, and loved to please. Still, he remembered how, as a child, he had often fooled Jasper by pretending illness.
He put the fond memory aside. "Uncle, can we parley with them for a safe-conduct for my mother? Buckingham has promised her free pardon if she yields. She told you?"
"Ay. I thought of it, but I dare not. I cannot trust Morgan's promise. I am a fool—ten times a fool. She begged me to fly with you the day I arrived, but I would not listen."
"With me?" Henry's eyes widened. It had never occurred to him that he might not be included in the pardon.
"I thought running and hiding would kill so frail a child," Jasper sighed, more to himself than to Henry. "And what is life as a hunted exile? Better to be dead after a short terror than to live constantly with fear."
Outrage blocked out all other emotions in Henry. "Why, if my mother is pardoned, am I excepted?"
"Because you are a man, and she is but a woman."
"Surely Edward cannot plan to destroy every male who favored King Henry?"
Jasper studied his nephew's eager face. This was no helpless child, however frail. Margaret might well be right when she insisted Henry was exceptional and that there was still hope for the Lancastrian cause. But whether another chance for freedom would come or not, or if Henry were captured to die on the block, it was high time for him to know why he must run or die.
"No, Henry. Edward, may he be damned, is not senseless. He will pardon those he can pardon safely. You, my boy, he cannot pardon—ever. Your mother is the granddaughter of John Beaufort, the grandson of Edward III. Royal blood runs in your veins. No, this damnable Edward will not soon forget. How can he, when your great-grandfather was brother to Henry IV?"
"Half brother," Henry responded mechanically. He knew his ancestry, but he had never known, never been told, how it might threaten him. "But he was a bastard."
"Has a bastard never sat upon a throne?" Even in the midst of their danger Jasper had to laugh at the boy's fresh ignorance in such matters. "The William who conquered England, another of those relatives of yours, was a bastard."
The juxtaposition of bastard and conquest clarified matters indeed. Edward himself had his throne by conquest and would be only too aware that divine right was but a feeble weapon. Here was Henry, the last male descendant of John of Gaunt. Even a bastard line barred from succession might serve as a rallying point for rebellion.
"Harry"—Jasper was no longer laughing—"you were not excluded from the pardon offered your mother. She believes, and I think: she is right, that it was offered her in order to lay hands on you. You understand that whatever fine words Edward says or sweet promises he makes, you are too dangerous to him to be safe."
Henry merely raised his brows. In this moment he had lost all the serenity of his boyhood, and he was numb.
Jasper saw only his calm. "To think: that I needed to learn from a boy more than twenty-five years my junior how to face misfortune! But now, Harry, go tell your mother that I will come to her soon. I must make sure they are settling down to a siege and will not attack. God preserve me from being the means of removing·one of Edward's worries! I will have you safe out of here to plague him yet."
In the event, their escape did not prove difficult. Because the taking of Pembroke castle would have cost many lives, and because old loyalty to Jasper still bound them, the brothers ap Morgan agreed to compromise. They would let Henry, Jasper, and Margaret go if the castle were yielded without a fight.
"But where will we go, uncle?" Henry asked.
"To France," Margaret replied. "Henry, your grandmother was Catherine of. France; for very shame Louis cannot deliver you up to Edward."
"Of course." Henry forced a smil
e, but he felt only distaste.
"Will you come with us, Margaret? I can—" Jasper stopped, caught up by something in the young woman's face. She was shaking her proud, high head, those determined lips almost invisible as she pressed them together and held back her tears.
"I cannot come with you, Jasper."
"Mama, no! Why?" Henry's new man's voice cracked alarmingly, but his composure held. Margaret, after all, had taught him control. Who knew it better?
"My son." Jasper felt an intruder when he heard the tenderness of that voice. "My beloved son. What would happen, the good Lord preserve us, if you should be taken? I cannot take the risk. Perhaps if I were at court, my influence with Buckingham could save you from—from—"
"From death." Henry's composure verged on cruelty.
Jasper looked from one to the other. He had underestimated both. In this bitter moment, the steel spirit of each showed. Margaret trembled all over, but her straight back never betrayed her royal breeding. Wrong side of the sheets indeed! Here was a queen, a lady of blood. No upstart like Edward's wife, the new "queen" of England.
Henry stood in frigid silence. The down on his cheeks belied the manliness of his bearing. That child whose temper tantrums had rocked the old fortress was gone forever. In its place was a young man whose icy stillness and control were almost frightening. Jasper had a single flash of regret for the laughing child he had lost. It was swallowed up in his enormous pride in these two dearest of all loved ones. He knew Margaret's courage of old; he would never doubt Henry's again.
The Dragon and the Rose Page 2