The Dragon and the Rose

by Roberta Gellis

  In any event, to seem to have a secret would play directly into Margaret's hands. If the countess ran to her son hinting of plots . . .

  Why had her mother complained of the gentlemen Henry had selected for her? True, they would not add to the gaiety of her household, being sober and mostly elderly. True, also, they were Henry's supporters. Her mother said their purpose was to spy on her. Spy what? She could have no intention of harming her husband. Whatever she thought of him, he would be the father of her children. His throne would be their throne.

  "Just a moment," Elizabeth said. She went to her desk and returned with the list in her hand. Probably she would never have so good a test case of Margaret's or her mother's intentions again.

  "See this, madam," she said placing the list of household officials in Margaret's hands. "Every one an ardent Lancastrian. Every one attainted, at one time or another even if later forgiven, by my father. Aside from the insult—I am grown accustomed to that—I had hoped to make provision in my own household for gentlemen who lost my Uncle Richard's favor and were impoverished for defending me and my brothers."

  "Elizabeth," the dowager queen said sharply, "this is a matter for you to settle with your husband yourself. What sort of wife needs to run to her mother-in-law for help?"

  Margaret would have given a year or two off her life to see the substitute list she was sure had been prepared, but she dared not ask because she did not know what game Elizabeth was playing. It had to be a game; the girl was acting stupid, and Margaret knew she was not that.

  "You have put me in a fine position," she said to Elizabeth's mother, laughing. "If I offer to help, I will be an interfering mother-in-law, and if I do not, I will be condoning an action which does seem, on the surface, to be a trifle high-handed. Henry is a superb administrator, but sometimes he does get carried away by his own efficiency. What do you want me to do, Elizabeth? I will speak or be silent, just as you wish."

  "It is no use to do either. The king says that appointed officials may not be dismissed except for just cause."

  "Oh dear," Margaret sighed. "That does sound like Henry on his high horse, doesn't it? Perhaps you did not explain that you were not asking for their dismissal but merely a shifting about. Perhaps if you chose a better time than just before dinner when he is hungry, and tired, and irritable—"

  "I tried to reach him in the morning, but he was too occupied by 'weighty matters of state'—his words—to spare his wife a moment."

  "Oh dear," Margaret said inadequately, wondering in her ignorance what could have made Henry act so idiotic. Apparently his behavior had not improved. Now that list might be lost forever. If the dowager queen and Elizabeth were plotting something, the names offered after this discussion would not be the same as those that would have been offered in the morning.

  Margaret felt sick. Could she have been fooled by Elizabeth's sweet face? Poor Henry. What had she done to him by making him king, by making this marriage? She did not even dare warn him. If there was no plot and Elizabeth's game was merely the normal womanly one of wishing to rule her husband, it would be a dreadful sin to reinforce the suspicion already in Henry's mind. A sin against Elizabeth, and a deathblow to Henry's personal happiness—if a king could have personal happiness.

  CHAPTER 14

  No one could have thought from the placid behavior of the king and queen at dinner either that they were newly wed or that they had just had a nasty quarrel. Their conversation with each other and with the courtiers around them was correctness itself. After dinner, perhaps, neither was quite as calm. Henry fidgeted away the long evening in his own apartments quite unable to work or play or to allow his companions to do so. Elizabeth tinkled the keys of her virginal, making so many errors that her ladies felt like screaming. However, except for the few who knew what had happened, all pardoned the young couple readily, seeing so obvious an excuse for their behavior that they sought no further.

  "For God's sake, Harry, sit still," Jasper growled as Henry rose for the tenth time from the dice table and tripped over his uncle's feet.

  "A young husband," Oxford whispered indulgently.

  Jasper, not liking some of the rumors he had been hearing about the court, and seeing in Henry's behavior only too sure a confirmation of them, felt even more irritated. "Then why the devil does he not go and pace around in her chamber. Perhaps she would take the hint and go to bed."

  Those who had been present at the scene with the maid of honor stiffened apprehensively, but Henry chose not to hear. He looked steadily out of the window, wondering what he would do even if he knew Elizabeth had gone to bed. What was the correct tactical move? Should he continue to show displeasure by staying out of her bed that night? A distinct sensation in Henry's loins indicated that he might be giving himself more displeasure than his wife if he chose that method of displaying anger.

  Anyway the quarrel was over and he had won. It would be wrong for him to continue angry, being the victor. That made the quarrel over for him, but what about Elizabeth? He had been pleased with her demeanor at dinner, but he knew it had no meaning. A king's daughter was rigidly trained not to make scenes in public. What if the quarrel was not over for her and she refused him?

  Unconsciously Henry pressed himself against the window frame, pulled surreptitiously at his hose, which seemed suddenly binding, and flushed when he realized what he was doing. It was her duty to bear him children; there could be no refusal. That sounded very fine, but what if she refused to do her duty? Henry had a vision of himself retreating like a dog with his tail between his legs. He suffered a flash of fury and then began to laugh. His tail was certainly not between his legs now.

  Yet it was no laughing matter because it was not essentially a question of his sexual satisfaction. Perhaps he should not press the matter. If Elizabeth were allowed a few days to get over her temper and consider what being on bad terms with her husband meant, she might be more amenable in the future. It might worry her as to his next move if he withdrew himself and she believed him still angry.

  Oh God, this was where he had started out. Well, then, he would force her if necessary. Show her there was no defense against him either as a man or as a king. Henry swallowed nervously and admitted to himself that he would not have the least notion of how to go about it except to threaten her with violence. He was revolted by the thought; once the threat was made, it would be absolutely necessary to follow through if she did not yield. It was distasteful to him to use violence upon men; to use it on a woman … to mark Elizabeth's beautiful flesh … Well, then, he simply would not go to her until he was sure …

  Henry uttered a violent exclamation of disgust as he realized he had come full-round to the beginning of his thoughts again. The exclamation made his gentlemen glance uneasily at each other. At least half of them, not knowing the cause of Henry's annoyance, still mentally damned the woman who had managed to overset a temper that war could not affect. Jasper sighed, glanced at the clock, which Henry had been so sedulously avoiding, and levered himself to his feet. The entire nation envied him his position as the king's uncle who had only to ask to receive, but they never remembered that to him fell the tasks no one else would dare undertake.

  "Harry," he said plaintively, but low enough so that Henry alone heard, "it is eight of the clock. In mercy to us, if not to yourself, go make ready for bed. I will send a message to Her Grace to be ready to receive you at nine. Good God, it is no shame to be eager. If anything, Her Grace must be flattered."

  A short and quite unpleasant bark of laughter was all the answer Jasper received. He was, however, sufficiently annoyed with what he considered his nephew's infatuation that he continued to stand and wait for a reply.

  "Perhaps she will not be so flattered as you think," Henry replied irritably at last. "I have had some sharp words with her. She thinks to be queen instead of the king's wife."

  "The devil fly away with all the blood of York," Jasper muttered. "Why I heard a story just opposite—that you were enamor
ed. Who knows of this?"

  "Only a few who will hold their tongues, unless she has been fool enough, or desirous, to spread the tale. I spread the first rumor, or rather Devon spread it on my order."

  "Then she must receive you tonight, even if you need to gag and bind her. Go make ready. I will go to her myself."

  Jasper could not decide, as he accepted Henry's mute nod and went on his errand, whether he was more pleased or distressed. He was certainly relieved to know the rumor that Henry was falling into Elizabeth's power was false, but it was scarcely better that there should be real enmity between them. First of all it would make Henry unhappy, for he was an affectionate soul. Worse, however, it could not be hidden long, not hidden at all if Elizabeth wanted it to be known, and would turn the Yorkists against the king. Jasper was prepared to offer both blandishments and threats, but Elizabeth's reception of him was so pleasant and placid, that he merely gave her the message and waited for her reaction.

  "Very well, Bedford," she said calmly.

  Either Henry had vastly magnified the affair, which was not his way, unless—heaven forfend—he was enamored of her and did not realize it, or she was pure Woodville and up to something. Jasper bowed deeply, murmured a few conventional commonplaces, and took himself back to his nephew. He waved Henry's gentlemen away, as only he was privileged to do, and began to undress the king with his own hands.

  "Well?"

  "You are sure you had words with Her Grace?" Jasper asked as he went down on his knees to remove Henry's shoes.

  Henry put a finger in his ear and shook it as if to clear it. "Did I hear you aright? Do you think I can no longer tell when I am involved in an argument?"

  "Very well, then. Is Her Grace so stupid she does not recognize a quarrel?"

  "Uncle, I am not in the humor for jests, not even yours."

  "Harry, I am not jesting." Jasper slipped off his nephew's doublet and untied his shirt. "When I gave her the message, she said, 'Very well,' without a shadow upon her face. Either she does not remember that—"

  "I tell you she was all but shrieking at me, and not half an hour before dinner."

  "Then beware. I have told you before that Woodville blood is not to be trusted. York I do not love, but Woodville reminds me of something that creeps on its belly."

  Henry pulled his robe around his naked body, pretending he was shivering with cold. His mother and his body urged him one way; his uncle and his mind urged him the other. The trouble was not that he distrusted Elizabeth. He distrusted almost everyone except his few faithful, tested friends, and he found no difficulty in living with his distrust. The trouble was that he did not want to distrust Elizabeth.

  If he had married little Anne of Brittany, he would not need to watch every word of his own and listen for double meanings in every word of hers.

  He was a trifle early because he could bear the suspense no longer, but Elizabeth was ready and waiting. If she did not smile at him, she did not frown, either.

  Actually Jasper was not far wrong when he asked Henry if Elizabeth remembered the quarrel. In fact she was so absorbed in the new problem of her mother's and Margaret's intentions that her only feeling about the argument with Henry had been an anxiety that it would prevent him from coming to her that night.

  First and most important was her need to test her sexual weapon against him. If she could use that to make Henry appoint the men she wanted appointed, she could use those appointments to discover why her mother wanted them to have positions at court. She knew, however, that she was not expert in the use of her weapon.

  Her mother advised her to refuse him access to her body until she had her way. That was the technique she had used herself, but Elizabeth was not at all sure either that it would work with Henry, or, even if it did at first, that it was a good idea. After all, her father had found other willing bodies soon enough. For some obscure reason that made Elizabeth think of Henry when he had lain asleep against her, and she felt indignant at the notion of sharing him. It was the fate of queens, perhaps, but certainly she would do nothing to encourage the practice.

  Well, then, should she ask him before, during, or after? Not during. Of course she intended to use the intoxication of pleasure to get her way, but at that point he would be too drunk to hear. Not before either, that might break the mood and anger him still more. After? He had fallen asleep so quickly. Between would be best, if she could be sure there would be a between tonight. It was, after all, not the first time of having.

  There was no use worrying any more. He was here. Elizabeth looked gravely at her husband. It would not do to be too warm; that might be suspicious.

  "You will take cold if you stand there long," she said prosaically.

  Could she be an idiot? Henry wondered. No, no, his mother had lived with her for a year and said she was clever. Besides, Henry knew Elizabeth could speak several languages and keep up a brisk repartee.

  He opened his mouth to say something complimentary about the sweetness of a temper that could so soon forget a quarrel. Then he thought that would sound condescending or sarcastic. The forgetfulness had to be planned, but there was no reason why he should not enjoy the fruits of that planning even if Elizabeth did not.

  A gesture drove the ladies from the room; his gentlemen had been instructed to wait outside. Tonight Henry was determined he would have no audience.

  Elizabeth opened her eyes and tried to steady her breathing. Her first surprised thought was that she could not have asked for anything, including her life, from the moment he had begun to caress her. It was something she must remember. The sexual weapon was a double-edged sword, and Henry seemed to have as good a grip upon it as she did. Perhaps that was why her mother had refused all contact with her father until her desires were granted.

  Elizabeth's lips curved softly. Now that seemed even less good an idea than it had before. There were compensations to sharing a weapon. Her husband was still gasping, but she caught the infinitesimal tensing of his muscles that meant he would soon move away. To sleep? To leave her? He did neither. He turned partly on one side and regarded her from the comers of his long eyes.

  "Henry," she said softly, "why were you so angry at my sending for you? Do you consider that improper?"

  His lids dropped lower, but Elizabeth guessed he could still see her. "It was the way you sent that was improper, not the sending." His voice sounded sleepy, relaxed, not as if he was carrying a grudge. "The maid was rude."

  "But I was not responsible for that," Elizabeth protested. Then, realizing that defense was untenable she added, "Oh, perhaps I was. I was angry and said— Perhaps I spoke sharply. Henry …"

  He responded with an interrogative grunt that sounded even sleepier. If she asked him now, would he remember? As if her thought had disturbed him, he opened his eyes a slit, licked his lips, and mumbled, "What?"

  "I was not angry because you chose the men. It was only that I hoped to give some old friends of my father's employment. Gloucester …" her voice faltered on the word, but she steadied it and continued, "Gloucester stripped them of everything. They lost all for my sake. It seemed only right that I should help them."

  Henry's eyes were closed again, but after a moment he turned on his back, yawned, and asked, "Who?"

  Elizabeth gave him five names, but instead of replying he moved so that his body lay against hers and his head rested on her breast. "Will you change the appointments?" she pleaded softly, her fingers playing with his hair.

  "Cannot," Henry mumbled, and was satisfied because he could feel the slight stiffening that took place in her body although her fingers continued to toy gently with his hair. "Cannot—insult faithful supporters."

  "Please … Henry? I will ask no more of you. Please?"

  "Give them other places if you want. Not your household—mine—always room in mine."

  The words were so slurred he sounded drunk. Elizabeth could only pray he would remember. She stroked his hair again, whispered, "Thank you. Thank you, Henry. You w
ill not forget, will you?"

  Henry laughed sleepily. "Never forget anything—anyone tell you that. Henry never forgets anything … " And he allowed his voice to drift away in a long sigh and his breathing to fall into the pattern of sleep.

  Yet the Tudor had seldom been more wide awake or more puzzled. Elizabeth was satisfied with his taking the men into his own household, of that he was sure. He had been pressed against her from head to toe, his ear above her heart. When he refused to change the appointments he could hear the quickened heartbeat, feel the tension in her body. When he agreed she had gone back to normal with relief—yes—but not with the total relaxation she should have displayed if the matter was of really great importance.

  Did that mean that it did not matter where the men were appointed so long as they were at court? If she wanted the men to have appointments in his household, why not just ask? Why the quarrel? To ask simply was probably too obvious. There was a Woodville. Take a tortuous path over a straight one at any time because there was a better chance of covering the trail whether it needed to be covered or not.

  Very well, if she intended them for his household all along … why? Probably as spies. Tit for tat. Henry had a violent impulse to laugh, and relieved himself by coughing. His wife's hand, which had fallen still, began to stroke his hair again. He sighed and nuzzled closer.

  There was no fear that his body would betray him. He had years of practice in breathing smoothly and keeping his muscles flaccid while his mind scurried round like a trapped rat in a cage. There welled up in him a warmth and a sympathy for his fair, young bride.

  She did not know what sort of an opponent she had—and she must never know. If she knew, his pleasure would be destroyed and she would become dangerous. At present she was such easy prey. She played right into his hands, at one and the same time bolstering the impression he wanted to give of her influence with him and marking out clearly the men who were violently Yorkist and would need to be watched.