The Dragon and the Rose

by Roberta Gellis

  "We will get away safe, mama." It was a promise.

  "Yes," and that was all.

  Margaret turned to Jasper. "There is another, a most important reason for me to remain in England. You must have someone you can trust at court. Who better than I?"

  "But, Margaret, will you be safe?"

  "My good, my dear Jasper. I will be safe. Do you forget who my husband is? Buckingham is fond of me, you know. I am such a complacent wife and so rich. How could Edward dare offend his brother by punishing me, when I come weeping to tell how the wicked uncle wrested my child from me and carried him away, I know not where?"

  "They will never believe the tale."

  "Why not? Have I not given up the joys of marriage, the delights of court life, for fourteen years only to be with my frail son?" She smiled. Were those blue eyes still more liquid? "What do Buckingham and Edward really know of me except that I am a stupid, doting woman with one sickly child. Would a doting mother—a young woman with no experience of the intrigues of court—send her son away and into dangerous exile when offered a free pardon for him?"

  "Well, they will suspect, but Edward dare not offend Buckingham." Could Margaret make him laugh even now? "I would like to know, Margaret, how you intend to support the notion that you are stupid."

  "I think that I will be pious and—and devoted to learning."

  "Mmm, that is good." Something silent passed between them. "Priests and scholars travel a great deal. They will make fine messengers."

  It was settled. Henry hardly heard the final exchanges. He was to leave the country of his birth, where, even as an outlaw or a prisoner, he would be known and loved. He was to beg sanctuary, even bread, among the French! He felt shame in every kindness or unkindness the French might offer him—Henry, descended from Edward III, the Hammer of France.

  CHAPTER 3

  The ship shuddered and groaned, heaved up, slid down, and the wind screamed through the rigging. The darkness was made absolute by sheets of rain that blinded the eye. There was nothing to see—black waves flowed into black sky. Pitch, roll, heave, roll. Henry lay face down on a coil of rope lashed so that he would not go overboard and be washed away by the waves cascading over the deck. He was not conscious of how the ropes bruised his body. He was not afraid. During his brief intervals of lucidity, he prayed only to drown, to die.

  Another spasm of dry retching tore his body. There was nothing left in him to vomit. He was dried out by six days of unremitting nausea. Jasper hung over him, clinging to the ropes that bound him, alternately praying and cursing. If the storm did not soon abate, the boy would die. He huddled closer as the captain shouted some incomprehensible gibberish and seamen ran about the deck. Lifting the sodden cloaks that covered Henry, he pressed his body against his nephew's. Perhaps a little of his warmth would pass through the wet clothes. He wished that he had stripped them both naked when the ship was less lively. Now he dared not loosen Henry's bonds. Before he had been afraid to remove clothing in which money and jewels were hidden, but what did money and jewels matter? Henry was dying.

  Some hours later a new motion knocked Jasper's head against the rail. He jerked upright and saw a sullen sky, mud-green waves flecked with white, and—straight ahead—land! They were safe. Henry! The boy was still. Dead? No, he was warm and breathing. The rain had stopped.

  Jasper covered Henry with the topmost cloak, which was almost dry, and staggered to the captain.

  "Where are we?"

  "Not sure. Brittany, mayhap."

  "You promised to take us to France."

  Exasperation showed on the captain's weary face. "God makes the weather and the wind. I only try to keep them from sinking my ship. I told you before we left that a storm was coming."

  "But the weather is better now. Can you not go on to France?"

  "I could. It would not take much above a week to get there—if we got there at all with this battered rig. And what of the boy? Do you think he'd last another week?"

  Jasper forgot the man's impertinence when he glanced toward Henry. Was he asleep or in that coma which precedes death? "Land, then! Make land as soon as you can."

  He dared not touch the boy. If Henry were asleep, it would be cruelty to wake him. They docked at last, and Jasper released the boy's bonds, gathering him in his arms to carry him ashore.

  "Uncle, I want to walk."

  Relief swept over Jasper, and admiration for his tough little nephew. Henry seemed to need no more than steadying on his feet, though shudder after shudder shook him. His eyes took in the miserable town, the gray clouds, the sea.

  "Is this France, uncle?"

  "No, Brittany. I will buy horses so that we can ride to France."

  "Must we?" Henry's voice betrayed his faintness.

  "Not now, boy," Jasper replied, tightening his grip. "Rest and get warm. You must regain your strength."

  "I did not mean now, uncle. I meant … Can we not seek a haven here? The Breton people are like our Welsh. I—I do not love France."

  "Nor I, but you have some claim upon the French king and none upon Francis of Brittany. What is to stop him from selling you back to Edward?"

  But the choice was not theirs. The innkeeper, sensing that this was no merchant family, sent for the local nobleman and delayed them with one excuse after another until his patron arrived. The gentleman recognized his own kind at once. He was kind, he was courteous, but he was also deft. In a very few days, Henry and Jasper found themselves being presented to the duke of Brittany.

  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.