The Dragon and the Rose

by Roberta Gellis

  "There is worse."

  "Yes, Richard, I know." Henry grinned. "Knowing each other as we do, I did not believe you would think I could be troubled by war between France and Brittany."

  Nonetheless, Foxe hesitated to speak. He knew to his sorrow how unnatural Henry's attitude about death for political purposes was. After the rebellion in the north, the Stafford brothers had been caught. It was not a matter of suspicion; there was certain knowledge of treason. They had raised an armed force against their king.

  Nonetheless the council had needed to argue bitterly all through one long night—the duke of Bedford had even gone down on his knees to plead with his nephew—before Henry could be convinced to order an execution. Even so, they could not make him condemn the younger brother, who, Henry insisted, had been led astray. And on the day of execution, the condemned man had been calmer than the king.

  Not that Foxe was planning to ask to have anyone executed. Still, the entire subject was a very sensitive one with Henry.

  "Well, little Foxe?" Henry prompted.

  "There is a good deal of talk suddenly about the earl of Warwick, sire."

  The king's face darkened. This was a sensitive subject. His conscience smote him for keeping that child in prison, yet he dared not free him. Even in a secluded and well guarded place, Warwick would be a desperate danger to Henry. If the child had been free or in the hands of the king's Yorkist enemies, the rebellion he had put down so easily might have become a very serious threat.

  "What is being said?"

  "That you will become another Gloucester now that you have a son of your own and murder the boy."

  "Murder? I?"

  Foxe recoiled from the sudden blaze of rage. "Your Grace, no one who knows you could believe such a thing. What is important is who began the rumor and for what purpose."

  Even though he knew it was not directed at him, Foxe found the cold hatred in the king's face frightening. "It should not take so astute a mind as yours much effort to find the answers," Henry said with a calm that made Foxe feel worse instead of better. "Is there not a direct trail from the rumors in London to this place?"

  "Not—not direct."

  "Do not seek to salve me with double words. Nor do not try to make me tell you what you should tell me."

  Foxe bowed in acknowledgment of the rebuke. "When we have found a source, it is true that the source is the court." Henry had turned away, but Foxe was raked with the familiar sidelong glance. His voice faltered. "The gentlemen are—are related in some manner to the—the ladies of the court."

  "In other words, since they seem to clog your tongue, to my wife."

  "The Queen's Grace! No!"

  "The king's wife, not the Queen's Grace, Foxe—and do not forget it. Elizabeth has not been, and is not like to be, crowned."

  "I am sorry, sire. That is not what I meant. Forgive me, but I have seen Her Grace look upon you. I cannot believe it. To read men is my business, sire—"

  "Women, too, Foxe? Surely your cloth should preclude that."

  For the first time in his relationship with Henry, Foxe was confused. The king was fond of very few people, but to those he showed a steadfast loyalty. Foxe had not been in Winchester at the time of Elizabeth's delivery, but word pictures, graphic as reality, had been furnished for him. The king's distress, amounting to near hysteria, at his wife's sufferings could not have been feigned. Moreover, he had been a personal witness of the intimate tenderness Henry had displayed during her pregnancy. Could any man be such a mass of falsity as the Tudor appeared at this moment?

  "Perhaps the cloth that protects me from personal involvement permits me a clearer vision. Her Grace's ladies were her mother's choice, not her own."

  The expression in Henry's long eyes was veiled; his face was perfectly immobile. "Do you also conclude that Elizabeth is deaf and blind … or just mentally feeble?"

  Foxe swallowed and then said stoutly, "I conclude that Her Grace has been otherwise occupied in her thoughts, a thing not uncommon in breeding women. Sire, you confessed you had been wrong in your suspicion of her in the spring rising. If you have some proof against her of which I am ignorant, I beg I may hear it so that I may consider this matter more fairly."

  "There is Arthur," Henry said very softly, "not three weeks old, but lusty. There is the daughter of Edward IV. If Warwick should die, and the king who was blamed for that should be repudiated by his people—as Gloucester was—who is most like to rule this country as regent?"

  Cynical and unemotional as Foxe was, he still cried out, "I cannot believe it! I tell you I have seen Her Grace's eyes when you were in her vision. Set the source further back and, if you desire, I will help you use a garrote with my own hands. It is Edward's wife, not his daughter, who hates you."

  Henry's mobile lips twitched and then tightened. "So I hope and pray, but do not forget the influence of the mother upon the daughter nor neglect the daughter while you hunt the mother." He turned away sharply, and his voice was strained when he added, "For God's sake, Richard, find me some proof one way or the other."

  So that was it, Foxe thought with relief. The king was not seeking a false cause to put away his wife now that he had a son out of her. He could not suspect her and feared that he should. "Innocence in deeds is one thing, and easy to put to the proof. Innocence of thought and hope is another matter."

  "Let us make deeds available then. Free Surrey—under the usual terms. You have people in his household now?"

  "It is well seeded. If he blinks an eye, writes a letter, or twists a ring on his finger, a crop of information will grow."

  "Take care it grows wheat, not broom." Henry smiled unkindly. "I like Surrey and you do not. Just remember, little Foxe, I know that, too."

  "That is true, but yet I am not unjust. Surrey is a poor trap. Even I, who do not like him, acknowledge that he is a man of honor. Only a fool would try to involve Surrey in treason."

  "And so," Henry purred, "I will have my proof. Look you here. For nigh on a year I have had Her Grace under my eye. If she has aught in her mind except womanly things, she is far, far cleverer than I have guessed, and I believe her clever. Her mother, on the other hand, is a fool. If Surrey runs to us affrighted by something he has heard, sure as death it will not be Elizabeth's doing."

  "So much is true, but if he is not approached that does not prove it was Her Grace's doing."

  "I know." Henry walked to the window and looked out at the garden again. "Is there something more, Foxe?"

  "A pile of charters and bills for parliament which you must approve, sire. I left them on your worktable."

  "Anything you must go over with me?"

  "No, sire, all are plain enough."

  "Do you stay?"

  "Not unless you specially desire it, Your Grace. When can the meetings with the ambassadors be set?"

  "Oh … the first week in November. By then we should be in residence at Greenwich or Westminster. If not, I will ride to London alone. Foxe—you have set guards on Warwick?"

  "Need you ask? Two men sleep with him, two guard the door. His food must be tasted by the cook as it leaves his hands and by the server as it is set on the table. They, too, are watched."

  "Yes, well, I do not know what more we can do for him. Poor child, poor child, happier had he never been born. Very well, Richard, you may go."

  Henry went into the adjoining room shortly after Foxe left and glanced at his worktable. In addition to the pile of material his secretary had left for him there were household accounts, business ventures, petitions by the dozen. He made a sound of irritation, went out the door, and up a flight of stairs. As he passed the door to Elizabeth's apartment, he hesitated a trifle, but she would be startled or suspicious if he came at this time of day. Besides, Henry wanted soothing, and just now the very sight of Elizabeth made him dangerously excited.

  The guards at the nursery door drew up their pikes and Henry passed through, already smiling. He was greeted with a bubbling cry of joy as the two-year-
old Charles Brandon spied him and came toddling forward. The king seized the sturdy youngster and tossed him in the air until he shrieked with pleasure, then kissed him soundly, put him down, and coyly turned away. That brought another crow of laughter for Charles was a clever child and recognized the game Henry was playing. He caught at the king's surcoat and burrowed beneath it, attaching himself firmly to one of Henry's legs.

  "How now, but what am I held and hampered?" Henry asked in a loud, wondering voice. He bent to run his hand over Charles's head and back, tickling the child's ribs and pinching his small buttocks. "Why it is a small man. Help! Help! I am a prisoner." Now Henry made deliberately futile attempts to free himself, raising and lowering his leg so that Charles was jounced gently, and bending over to lift the child up by the legs and swing him around. "Alas," he cried, "I cannot get free. I am your captive. I yield me. Name my ransom and I will pay."

  "Plum," little Brandon replied with commendable clarity.

  Henry laughed with delight, for he had taught Charles the word himself, and brought forth a piece of dried fruit covered with crystallized honey. Charles released his leg, popped the sugarplum into his mouth, and sucked contentedly.

  He trotted after Henry hopefully as the king moved toward the inner chamber where his son lay. The nurse immediately moved aside from the elaborate cradle. Arthur was cared for by relays of women who literally did not take their eyes from him for a moment unless his father or mother were present. Henry bent over the cradle and touched the petal-soft, jelly-smooth cheek with one forefinger.

  "He is certainly ugly enough to be mine," he said fondly.

  "Oh," the nurse gasped, forgetting her awe of the king in her indignation at the slur cast upon her nursling. "He is a beautiful child, just simply beautiful."

  "My experience with babes is limited," Henry acknowledged, laughing. Charles pulled impatiently at his gown and he bent and lifted the child to his shoulder. "I will accept your assurance as to his beauty, but I must say that he looks like a little red ape to me. Let us hope, for his sake, that he grows up to resemble his mother. He is well?"

  "Oh, yes, Your Grace. He takes the breast greedily, and his bowels—"

  Holding up a restraining hand, Henry laughed again. "I beg of you, no details. Ouch! Charles! You must not kick the king in the back nor pull his hair."

  "Horse," Charles exclaimed.

  "Very well, let me kiss my son and I will be a horse."

  The royal horse galloped out into the antechamber, twice around it, and through an adjoining door where, rather breathless, he set Charles down. He then brought out another sugarplum and gestured to little Brandon's nurse who came forward with a favorite toy to lead the child away. A boy of seven was standing near a table, but he had pushed away his books and papers and was smiling expectantly. As soon as Henry turned to him, he bowed low and kissed the hand which the king extended.

  "Well, Buckingham, how goes it?"

  Young Edward Stafford, duke of Buckingham since his father's execution by Richard III, sighed. "Sire, I will never learn all these things. No one but priests speak Latin. You do not mean to make me a priest, do you?"

  "No, indeed. I would not like that at all, unless you desired it very strongly yourself. But it is not true that only priests speak Latin. I speak it and men who go on embassies often need Latin to speak to others who do not know their tongue."

  "Do they need to know mathematics and music also? And French and history and—"

  "It only seems hard in the beginning, Edward. Men of great place do need to know these things. I am sure you will find it more interesting as you go on." Suddenly Henry smiled. "Perhaps you are kept too hard at it, child. It is a fine day; the sun is shining. You will study better when it rains. Come, I will take you riding."

  Edward Stafford jumped forward to hug the king impulsively and Henry returned the pressure, but there was disappointment in his face. Perhaps the child would improve, but his tutors were not sanguine. The boy was decidedly slow, not hopelessly stupid but disinclined toward learning. It would have to be sufficient to bind his love and forgo the hope of making him contented by making him useful.

  Perhaps it was better that way. Young Buckingham had a violent and uncontrollable temper. It is my fault, Henry thought. I am not firm enough with him because I cannot love him as I love Charles.

  By the time they returned, Henry was better satisfied with Edward and with life in general. The boy, if he would never be a scholar, certainly rode well and was fond of him. It was now possible to concentrate on bills, accounts, and petitions, and Henry did so until he had to dress for dinner. Elizabeth dined alone. She was gaining strength rapidly, but was still disinclined to don the elaborate robes and undergo the strain of formal dinners. Frankly, Henry missed her, for she was not upset by the malicious asides he was prone to make, as Jasper was, nor did she lack a sense of humor, as his mother unfortunately did.

  Once started thinking about her it was difficult to stop, and Henry grew morose and silent. It had been a great error to make that promise about visiting her each night. Henry was not naturally lecherous, but his normal appetites had been whetted by Elizabeth's demands and response. The source of supply had been cut off for some time, however, and Henry was growing very hungry.

  Ordinarily that would not have been a serious problem, but Elizabeth was not behaving reasonably. She was jealous even when he was innocent, and the one time he had not been—very soon after Arthur's birth—she had played him a scene he did not wish to repeat. It had ended for him in a raging headache and for her in a fever that lasted two days. How she discovered his small slip from virtue was a mystery that the most exhaustive inquiries could not solve, and Henry had come to the extremely uncomfortable conclusion that it was something personal about himself that had betrayed him.

  If he could stay away from her it would not be so bad. Henry had very little to do with the ladies of the court. During the day he worked or played with men and, as he was not overly sensual and his gentlemen knew he did not like lewd talk, he never gave women in general or sex in particular a thought. But those nightly visits to Elizabeth!

  She was lovelier than ever, a little plumper, her breast a little fuller, altogether inviting. And she invited! She dressed, deliberately Henry was sure, in her most revealing bedrobes. She often received him when she was in bed, and she flirted with him—yes, that was the only word for her manner.

  He went to work in his closet after dinner, to the relief of his gentlemen who were free to gamble, listen to the musicians, or laugh at the fools without being conscious of the king's irritability. He worked very late, hoping that Elizabeth would be asleep by the time he arrived. She was not. She was tense and frightened and looked as if she might have been crying. As soon as Henry appeared the ladies curtsied and departed. It was understood that the king and queen were always to be left alone at this time even if it was impossible for them to sleep together.

  "I am sorry to be so late, Elizabeth."

  Her eyes devoured him, saw his slide from her face to her throat to her breast—and her face lightened and she stretched her hand to him with a smile.

  "I would wait all night, if need be."

  The remark was scarcely a consolation to the king the way he felt just then.

  "I was working," he said rather sharply. "I have had some unpleasant news."

  "Really? Come sit on the bed, dear." Elizabeth's expression remained perfectly calm and she ran her hand over the collar of Henry's furred robe so that one finger caressed the back of his neck.

  "There is a rumor that I intend to murder Warwick."

  "That is plain silly," Elizabeth said placidly. "You are the most unmurderous king this country ever had. I heard your uncle complaining to your mother that you do not even kill the people you should. Henry, I would like to adorn the chapel here somewhat. Could I give that big chalice Lincoln gave me for a wedding present to be consecrated for it and those gold candlesticks I received from—"

 
"Elizabeth! The rumor about Warwick is not silly. It can do me much harm."

  "Well, I am sorry for that. If I hear it, I will contradict it. Is there more I can do, my love?"

  "It has been traced back to your ladies."

  There was a sudden silence. Elizabeth's hand tightened on her husband's gown.

  "Do not, Henry," she whispered, turning pale, "do not frighten me. Dismiss the guilty ones—dismiss them all if you like."

  Henry was furious with himself. He had given away a valuable and dangerous piece of information, and had received in return no more than a reaction as unrevealing and predictable as an opening gambit in chess. What was wrong with him?

  "I do not blame you, Bess. Perhaps it is natural for some people to believe that since I have an heir I would smooth the way for him with blood. Perhaps I would—for Arthur—but blood never smoothes a path, it only makes it slippery. Nor did I mean to frighten you. Only watch your ladies more carefully, and if there is something I should know, even only suspicion or rumor, tell me. I am not like to act unjustly or in anger."

  "I know nothing—nothing! Send them away. I could not look at them, knowing they tried to hurt you."

  She was shivering now and would not meet his eyes. Henry took her hand. "Do not make yourself ill over this, Elizabeth. I do not wish to dismiss your ladies. Indeed, if they are guilty of deliberate malice instead of careless gossip, which is all I believe this to be, it would be dangerous to send them away. If you wish to help me, you must control yourself and seek out the culprit."

  Elizabeth gasped as if he had stabbed her. "I cannot! Oh Henry, I cannot! Set spies on them, on me, do what you like, but do not ask me to betray—to—"