The Dragon and the Rose

by Roberta Gellis

  Sir Robert Willoughby, who had taken Warwick on to the Tower which was to be his home for the rest of his short life, reappeared. Unsmiling, single-minded, lacking the diplomatic polish which could have eased, although nothing could conceal, Henry's purpose, he told the ladies that he was to escort them to London before dark. Elizabeth did not need to ask why. It was plain that the new king wanted no relation of Edward's to distract the Londoners' attention from him when he made his triumphal entrance the next day. Edward had been London's darling, and Henry meant to win the city for himself independent of any association with Edward's heiress.

  The dowager queen had made a scene. Willoughby, interested only in fulfilling Henry's command, and Lancastrian to the core, was indifferent to the dowager's past status.

  He said briefly, "Madam, I will bind you and gag you, throw you into a covered cart so that none will see or hear, if you do not ride with me willingly."

  He meant it. He herded them into one room and stood guard over them while servants packed their things. Through the window they could see waiting armed men in the green and white Tudor livery.

  "Where are you taking us?" Elizabeth asked fearfully. Were they prisoners? she wondered. Would they, too, be lodged in the Tower, never to emerge into the light?

  "Why, to your mother's house, my love," Margaret's voice replied. "Oh, do not mind that grim escort, and do not mind Robert's coarse ways—he was raised in a stable, I think. I am going with you. My son has suddenly decided that I am not old enough to care for myself. Moreover, we will watch the procession from the lord mayor's house. Really, sometimes men are too foolish when they think a woman needs shielding. Henry says the mob may turn dangerous when it becomes drunk. The lord mayor's house will be safe."

  The excuse was pitiful, but Elizabeth received it in silence. Her mother had brought this upon them with her constant shifting of purpose. No, her birth had brought it upon her. She could not be angry with Lady Margaret, although she realized that Henry's mother was now her jailor. Doubtless Margaret had taken the thankless burden upon herself out of kindness, to spare them the fear and discomfort of a real prison.

  She had indeed done so, coming near to quarreling with her son again over the question.

  "I will not have them running about loose, concocting God knows what plots to annoy me," Henry had snapped when Margaret had protested his decision to put them in the Tower with Warwick.

  "Elizabeth will concoct nothing—unless you drive her to it."

  "It will not be for long, mother," Henry pleaded, weakening. Prison was no place for women, even women like the dowager queen. "Two months or three at the most. Once I am crowned and parliament has acknowledged me, they may bide where they will. By then my own men will hold every key position in the country."

  "And you will have ruined your life and have a wife who hates you. She does not hate you yet, Henry. She is not at fault for what her mother and father did to you. Do not do this."

  "Your mother has a point, Harry," Jasper said. "I am no friend to the Yorkists, but if you will not kill them, you must not enrage them by treating Edward's wife and daughter this way. The whole country will take you for another Gloucester if news of this leaks out."

  Henry dropped his head into his hands. "What am I to do with them, then? Will the country like it better if I set armed men to watch them, or seclude them in some distant manor?"

  Jasper looked troubled, but Margaret smiled. "Leave them to me, Henry. I know how to deal with the dowager, and there is no reason why a son should not set guards about his precious mother. I would be a fair hostage in your enemies' hands."

  "But I want you with me tomorrow. You have labored as hard as I to achieve this."

  "No, dear. The triumph must be yours alone. You must bear the burdens alone, and you must stand alone in the eyes of the people."

  And Henry's entrance into London was a triumph. He had been worried; Londoners were independent and strong-willed, and they had supported the Yorkist cause in the past. They greeted the Lancastrian king, however, with a burst of enthusiasm, the mayor and aldermen of the city dressed in their scarlet robes pressing forward to kiss the hands "which had overcome so cruel and monstrous a tyrant." The citizens were out in force, too, and echoed their approval of the mayor's sentiments with cheers and strewn flowers. Henry was relieved. It was not unknown for London crowds to stand sullenly silent or to express their disapproval more vigorously with stones and refuse. Some day that might be his fate, Henry thought wryly, but today they loved him, and he made sure to move at a snail's pace, turning first to one side and then to the other so that all might see him well.

  At each major crossroad the procession stopped completely while a pageant of some sort unrolled. Laudatory speeches were made in verse and in prose, in English, in French, and even in Latin, and Henry prayed he would not stumble hopelessly in the confusion of languages as he made his replies. If he did, no one seemed to notice, and Henry was too excited to worry for long. On the steps of Saint Paul's Cathedral the lord mayor came forward with still another speech and, even more pleasing to the practical king, a free gift of one thousand marks from the guilds of the city. Within the church the banners that Henry’s army had carried at Bosworth were dedicated to God and a Te Deum was sung.

  Henry found himself trembling and close to tears. He knew it was hunger and exhaustion, but he also knew that his apparent emotion was making a most excellent effect and he exerted no effort to check himself. Fortunately this was the end of the ceremonies, for the Tudor's exhilaration would not have supported him much longer. He was permitted to withdraw to the bishop of London's palace where he would have collapsed in the main hall had not Pembroke and Poynings held him upright.

  Henry went immediately to bed at his uncle's almost hysterical insistence, but a flagon of wine and a simple meal revived him. Having slyly waited until Jasper could be convinced to go out and tell Margaret about the portion of the ceremonies she could not see, Henry sent for his council. The first man to enter the door was a priest, and the king was just about to offer a tactful excuse for not attending to him when he recognized the face.

  "Foxe!" he cried joyfully.

  "Sire," Foxe replied, bending to kiss his hand.

  "How I have missed you! You are hereby appointed as my principal secretary. Are you too tired to work?"

  Foxe pinched his lower lip. "I am a cautious man, Your Grace. Knowing you, I had a good night's sleep before I presented myself. I am ready for anything."

  "You are a sensible man. Get from Poynings a list of Gloucester's men who were slain and another of those who are prisoner or fled into sanctuary. Their property is to be used to reward my men, but I wish no heir to be stripped naked. Enough is to be secured to the wife and children of any man killed to support them in decency although not in luxury. You can estimate such needs?"

  "I can."

  "Good. When there are no direct heirs, of course, the whole may be distributed."

  "Fortunately, Gloucester was more generous than wise in the distribution of his favors," Foxe murmured. "There will be sufficient to make many feel rewarded."

  "The matter is not so simple. In the case where there are heirs, or where the men are prisoner rather than slain, I do not wish to take from them all hope of recovering their property. Richard, I vowed I would not bathe this land in blood. Since I will not slay them, I must find a way to make these men accept me."

  "Not difficult, Your Grace. If the property goes to the crown—where, of course, it will be most useful—but is not deeded elsewhere, two purposes will be served. Now, while commerce is at a standstill, you will have use of the revenues. What the crown holds, however, it may always return; and when the custom returns and other yields have grown greater, it will not harm the crown to regrant the lands."

  Henry nodded. That was exactly what he had decided himself.

  "Then they must bide prisoners until the realm is securely in your hand. Not long, mayhap six months or a year, and the imp
risonment to be honorable, not hard or shameful. I will speak with them from time to time, and Your Grace should do so also, making plain, but without promise, that their honors may be restored for loyal service. Then release, one at a time, the least dangerous or most trustworthy first, with title restored and sufficient land for comfort but not for the hiring of mercenaries—"

  "Richard, I will make you chancellor as soon as I can find you a see to support the honor. Your mind and mine are as one."

  Foxe shook his head sharply. "No, Your Grace, I beg you. You will clip my wings too close. There is a man better fitted for that place—Morton, the bishop of Ely."

  "I do not know him."

  "I do. Moreover, he has served your cause well. If it suits Your Grace, I would hold the privy seal."

  Henry burst out laughing. "Richard, you wear the garb of a priest, but I suspect a serpent underneath."

  "If I must be that to strike your enemies, that I will be." Foxe yielded his place beside the bed as the remainder of the council filed in and came to kiss Henry's hand.

  "We are come to the dividing of spoils, gentlemen," Henry said merrily. "Ah, that whets your appetite, but I fear you will be displeased with me. Not only will I swallow the lion's share, but what you receive will be widely dispersed. "

  "If I have back my own lands which Gloucester reft from me, I desire naught else," Courtenay said roughly. "In truth, sire, I would rather have nothing at all than that you should fear I would use your gift ill."

  "Now, Edward, this nonsense is not like you. You nearly died for me. How could I suspect you of disloyalty? The dispersal is not to guard against a concentration of your power but to make it possible for me to set you in authority in many places. We will have to spread ourselves thin this year. Later you may sell or exchange as you see fit."

  With comprehension there was a murmur of approval, and Henry moved on to discuss arrangements for collecting the customs duties.

  "You may leave that to Thomas Lovell, Dynham, and myself," Edgecombe said when Henry had passed from outlining the rules to be followed to the appointment of collectors to take the place of Gloucester's men. "We have been working on the lists and will submit them to you as soon as they are ready."

  "You mean to collect before the subsidies are revoted by parliament?" Foxe asked.

  "They were voted to the king. I am the king."

  There was a silence while eyes shifted uneasily to stare at the floor or the walls—anywhere but at Henry.

  "Do you mean to rule without a parliament, sire?" Edward Poynings asked quietly.

  Henry examined the faces. The earl of Oxford seemed ready to burst into tears. Guildford and Courtenay were pale. Edgecombe was wringing his hands unconsciously, and Foxe had sucked his thin lips right out of sight. Henry shook his head and began to laugh.

  "I would like to know what reason I have ever given you to believe me a fool. How long do you think I would hold this land if I offended its people more than Gloucester? He, after all, only murdered a king and his brother, and so many kings have been murdered in this land that had they not been children little notice would have been taken of it. The parliament is an institution no king may make light of."

  The sigh of relief in the room was universal. Henry had discovered what he wished to know at small cost. If these devoted supporters were shaken at the thought that parliament would not be called, the country as a whole would have gone mad. Henry did not pretend to himself that the common men or even the petty landed gentry, outside of Wales, had flocked to his banner. But had they loved Gloucester or even favored him, Henry could never have marched to Lichfield unmolested. His troops would have been harassed; the towns would have shut their gates and refused to sell him food. There were many ways to support a king. If he offended the people and a challenger rose to claim his throne, they would not support him, either. Actually he was relieved. He was fond of an appearance of legality, at least. It would be best to summon a parliament and have that body affirm his title. But affirm it was all they could be permitted to do. It would not be wise to foster the notion that parliament could make—and therefore, perhaps, unmake—kings.

  "No," Henry continued, "I intend to call parliament as soon as is practical. Obviously, however, that must wait until our supporters grasp control of the shires. It would be … ah … unfortunate, if Gloucester's creatures filled the Commons."

  There was a hearty burst of laughter. Naturally one called a parliament. Also naturally the parliament should be filled with men who wished to do the king's will. Where was the sense of having there men who would merely impede legislation?

  "I think it would also be well for Your Majesty to be crowned before the summoning," Foxe suggested.

  Henry could have kissed his henchman, for that was certainly what he intended; but now he could purse his lips and thoughtfully take stock of his gentlemen's faces. They would be honest in their reaction since the suggestion had not come from him. Guildford, Edgecombe, and Courtenay now looked eager, and Oxford looked serious but not disapproving.

  "It is the custom, Your Majesty," Poynings said flatly. "When the king dies, his son is crowned and then summons parliament."

  Oxford's face cleared. "So it is. It has been so long since a son has inherited from his father that I had forgot. Your Majesty had best follow custom."

  "Well, I will, and that gladly, but would you please stop calling me 'Your Majesty' and 'Your Grace.' It is quite enough to do so in public, but when I am near naked and propped upon singularly hard and uncomfortable bolsters I can be neither majestic nor graceful—hardly gracious. Sire will do nicely, if you can no longer bring yourselves to call me Henry."

  It was the right thing to say; they were all pleased. Day by day since Bosworth Field a gulf had been opening between them. Henry's reminder had thrown a bridge across that gulf, yet he knew with a faint sinking of the heart that none of them would ever cross the bridge. No, that was not correct. When they had grown old together—if they were both spared that long—Foxe would call him Henry, even Harry. A pair of faintly compassionate brown eyes met his. Henry restrained a shudder. He did not look forward to the day when Ned Poynings would call him by name, although he knew it would be a comfort to him at the time.

  "It would not be wise to delay the summoning too long … " Foxe let his voice trail off.

  "No, by God, there is scarce time to chew what we must swallow. Oxford—no—your back will break beneath what I am loading on it. Courtenay, gather some of your relatives and see if some plan for a coronation can be found. Wait, take council with my mother. She took part in Gloucester's crowning. Keep in mind that my crowning must outshine his as the sun outshines the moon. Next?"

  "The dowager queen."

  "Thank you, Ned. I forget her so regularly that I fear I wish to do so. Foxe, her dower property must be restored, but that is all. Neither stick nor stone, brooch nor bracelet beyond what Edward deeded her for dower is to be hers."

  "It will be done."

  Henry flashed a smile. "I am sure it will. Oxford, the Tower is in your charge. I want to know what lies within. John Radcliffe will be lord steward. You can set him on to Windsor and the other royal houses. I want it all—plate, jewels, coin, prisoners, animals—all."

  "It will take time—"

  "Henry!"

  "Gentlemen," the Tudor said wryly, "you must retire. It would be most unsettling to my dignity in your eyes for you to hear me being scolded like a naughty child. Yes, uncle, I know. If I work so hard I will be sick and unable to work at all. But I have not been working hard. I have merely been setting hard tasks for others."

  Jasper opened his mouth to scold further, and then shut it. What Henry said was plainly true. He looked revived, not more fatigued by the conference he had had. As the days went by, Jasper and Margaret agreed that their fear that Henry's driving spirit would wear out his frail body was far from the truth. Kingship sat lightly upon him, although he took his task most seriously and worked away at it from dawn t
ill late night. If any were to be pitied it was the tight-knit group around him who worked until they reeled from exhaustion and then were flayed by jests into renewed strength so that they could labor more.

  Others were now added to the original group. Reginald Bray, who, had done so much to forward the cause, was transferred from Lord Stanley's household to Henry's; William Berkley, Thomas Lovell, Lord Dubeney, and Dynham, who had not merely a talent but a genius for money, all were absorbed and set to work.

  William Stanley and Lord Stanley were both given high posts close to the king—high posts that would keep them at Henry's side constantly and had nothing whatsoever to do with the armed forces of the nation. It soon became a clear fact that the king's love was directly proportional to the burdens a man bore for his sake and totally unrelated to the honors he bestowed. Those who worked were rewarded with land and power; those he suspected were praised and patted and given high-sounding, empty posts of honor. Once that was plain, any man given a task completed it to the best of his ability as quickly as possible and ran back to ask for more work.

  While the gentry of England labored, the Commons played. Henry declared a period of thanksgiving and, having assured himself that the treasury could bear it and that the income from customs and confiscated property would soon cover the expenditure, he ordered the distribution of free bread and meat and wine.

  Minstrels and play actors were paid to perform in public, and in London where the king's largesse flowed most freely, men danced and sang in the streets praising Lancastrian Henry who had freed them from the Yorkist tyrant. They forgot—it was easy to forget when ale barrels stood on the street crossings and wine ran in the fountains—that they had stoned the last Lancastrian Henry when he rode through the lanes and wept with joy when Yorkist Edward came. The Tudor did not forget, but he deemed it necessary to court the people.