The Dragon and the Rose

by Roberta Gellis

  "Very well, do not fret yourself so."

  He set himself mechanically to soothe her, partly because he did not wish to bring his mother's wrath on his head for upsetting her, and partly because her mention of betrayal rather than protests of innocence or accommodation to his will seemed genuine. It could not be easy for a daughter to betray her mother. He was being unjust and unkind to Elizabeth who had just given him a son. His caresses grew warmer, then rather less comforting and more passionate.

  When Henry left his wife's chamber, he smiled at the ladies dozing in their chairs. He had stayed a good deal longer than anyone, including himself, had expected. Lips pursed in a soundless whistle, the king let himself out without disturbing the sleepers. He had not had what he wanted really, but a sufficiently adequate substitute had been furnished so that he was more at peace with the world.

  It was of less important that some of those dozing ladies were innocently or deliberately conniving at treason. They were known and could be watched. As long as the treason was not Elizabeth's. The whistle burst from his lips, a fluting, musical birdcall that he had learned as a boy in Wales and had forgotten until he uttered it.

  Elizabeth lay very still. She could not hear her ladies stirring, and the soft opening and closing of the outer door did not reach her. Was Henry still out there? Questioning her ladies, perhaps, in that cold deadly voice she had heard him use although, thank God, never to her. At least, not yet. Why was he so angry about the rumor concerning poor Warwick? It was an ugly rumor, but there would always be rumors. She wished it was not the middle of the night so that she could ask to have Arthur brought to her. Then she could hold his pliant little body and examine his perfect, miraculous toes and fingers, let his tiny hands aimlessly grasp her hair, and forget that her ladies … her ladies. . . .

  If there was a rumor that could hurt Henry, Elizabeth knew from where it came. Henry knew, too, but he was too kind to say it to her, too kind. Was it kind to place the burden of controlling her mother on her? Why did not Henry, who seemed to know everything else, know that she was still terrified of her mother? Why did he not do something? Anything. Anything except ask her to face her mother down.

  Not face her down in one argument—Elizabeth knew she could screw up her courage for that. But it would not end there. There would be scene after scene, tears, shrieks, nagging, spiteful remarks in public—until at last Elizabeth would be worn down, reduced to compliance and deliberate blindness.

  The ladies were appalled when Elizabeth insisted on rising and dressing the next day. She looked feverish, with dark smudges showing beneath tired eyes. They could not refuse to help her, but one sent a page scurrying for the dowager queen and another for the countess of Richmond. This was what Elizabeth expected, and she tried to concentrate on her dressing so that her mind would not run ahead and become so enmeshed in fear that her tongue would be paralyzed.

  Margaret reached her first. The countess's apartments adjoined the queen's and she, herself, was more slender, quicker to dress, and perhaps more anxious about the cause for Elizabeth's behavior.

  "Why, love, what are you doing out of your bed?"

  Elizabeth tried to smile. She had to be rid of Henry's mother as soon as possible, but Margaret's hands still bore the scars they had received during Arthur's birth, and Elizabeth was more than ever attached to her mother-in-law.

  Her own mother refused to be clawed. She had been kind and reassuring and steadying during Elizabeth's ordeal, but she offered twisted silk scarfs for Elizabeth to tear at, not her own hands. And Elizabeth needed flesh then, warm, human flesh that returned her desperate grip and flinched in sympathy with her pain.

  "I am tired of my bed. Do not scold me, madam. I have been up and about for a week, and today I had a desire to dress. I am not ill. Now I do feel tired, but I will rest awhile. If I do not regain my strength, I promise to go back to bed. There, is that sufficient?"

  "It would be, dear, if I thought it was true. You must learn how to lie from Henry. He is much more convincing. What has he done? Did he tell you it was time to return to your duties? You must not allow him to force you to do things that will hurt you. He does miss your company, but he does not understand that—"

  "No," Elizabeth laughed shakily. "It is not his doing. Dear madam, I never saw a mother so eager to blame her son for her daughter-in-law's waywardness. Henry is very good to me."

  "Yes, but he never cossets himself and he drives his men until they drop. You must not let him do that to you."

  "Madam, he is so gentle to me. How can you accuse him—" She began to laugh more heartily. "Oh, madam, how silly we both are. Do you remember before we wed you told me Henry was kind and gentle? I did not believe you then, and now I tell you the same and you do not believe me. Do not worry about me. I will soon return to bed, I promise. I only wish to sit awhile so, and please—to be alone."

  That was a dismissal, however kind, that even the king's mother could not ignore. Margaret was unconvinced by Elizabeth's protests, but she decided to leave well enough alone. Plainly, whatever her trouble, Elizabeth did not wish for intervention. She felt that her understanding with Henry was good enough to dispense with his mother's—

  Dispense! Margaret was horrified, both at her own use of the word and the real meaning of it. I must not, she thought biting her lips, I must not come between them. She had a momentary exultant flash of satisfaction, knowing she had the power to destroy her son's relationship with his wife and remain the only woman in his life, and then she sank: to her knees and began to pray frantically for strength to resist such desires and for forgiveness for having them.

  Meanwhile the dowager queen had entered her daughter's bedchamber and found her, surprisingly, alone. It was one of the things Elizabeth's mother was growing to hate about her daughter—the habit of never permitting private conversation.

  "Elizabeth," she said, "you are growing sillier instead of wiser as you grow older. You are ill. Go back to bed."

  "I wished to talk to you without summoning you, mother, and this seemed the best way. When I have said what I wish to say, I will go back to bed."

  "That is not the proper tone to use to your mother, Elizabeth."

  "That is not the proper tone to use to the queen, mother."

  "The queen!" The older woman laughed harshly. "You are no queen nor ever will be. Your husband will use you to fulfill his political purposes and then cast you aside like a dirty clout."

  "Do not speak ill of Henry to me. You do not know how tender of me he is. You purpose to do him ill, mother, and he knows it; but for my sake he holds his hand and will not even complain of it. I have heard of the false tale that is being spread about Warwick."

  "Who says it is false?"

  "I do. Henry is no murderer. The distinction of being a murderer of children is reserved to the truly royal family—ours! Do not try to inflame Henry's subjects against him. Sooner or later my power with him will fail to protect you."

  "Your power with him! It is the power of a carpet which asks only to have feet wiped on it."

  "More, then, do I love and honor my husband that he has never used me so."

  "Elizabeth, you are a tender-hearted fool. I do not deny that he cosseted you during the time of your increasing. But you think it was for your sake, and I know it was only for the child. Oh, I see in your face that because he is still amiable you do not believe me. He desires a few more sprigs from the royal tree. I tell you he hates us all, branch, stock, and root, because we are of the true tree of royalty. You have a chance now. Let the country be rid of him, on Warwick's account or any other, and your child will be king and you—you will be regent as I should have been had not that monster Gloucester—"

  "Stop!" Elizabeth's face was deadly pale, beaded with sweat, and she panted with terror. She saw every fear she had ever had before she married Henry, before his confidence brought some security to her, becoming a fact. "You are mad," she choked, "mad or possessed of devils. I will tell Henry. I will�
�"

  "What will you tell the suspicious Tudor? Who would dare plot to make you regent for your son without your encouragement?"

  Elizabeth uttered another choked cry and slumped sideways in the chair. Her mother stared at her for a moment and then rose to call the ladies. When the Tudor, that ugly growth in her daughter's heart and mind, was removed, Elizabeth would be as wax in her hands.

  CHAPTER 18

  ". . . on shore or on float, in England, or export or import goods, merchandize, etcetera, from abroad, according to their liking."

  "Henry!"

  The king looked around, startled. He had been dictating a trading charter to one of his clerks, and it was an hour of the day when he was known to dislike interruptions.

  "What is it, mother?" he asked, smoothing the frown from his face.

  "Come to Elizabeth. Come at once. Never mind that business. Come, I say."

  The frown returned. Henry snapped his fingers and the clerk disappeared through the outer door. "I know you are fond of Elizabeth, mother, but I cannot be constantly interrupted by her tantrums. She is safely delivered now. You must calm her yourself, or her ladies must, or she must learn a little self-control. I have a whole kingdom to govern. I cannot stop to attend to one woman."

  There had been more bad news about Warwick. A box of poisoned sweets had been smuggled to him, and thus far Foxe's attempts to discover the culprit had been vain. It was the more frightening because explanations of the danger in accepting and concealing mysterious gifts seemed beyond the comprehension of the feebleminded boy.

  When told that the sweets were poisoned, Warwick had replied, "They were not. You wanted to eat them yourself."

  Henry sent Foxe a blistering message about providing Warwick with every delicacy he craved until he was glutted, but that did little to relieve his anxiety. And now this sudden distress of Elizabeth's so soon after the news about Warwick was doubly suspicious.

  Actually Henry was sorry for his wife. He knew her position was not easy, but he felt that she must choose her side and struggle for its success. That his would be the side she chose Henry was almost—an agonizing almost—certain. In fact, his reluctance to go to her just now was less a result of personal anger against her, he told himself, than fear that he could not control his temper and would upset her more by displaying the disgust he felt at the attack on a helpless, feebleminded child.

  "This is not tantrum, Henry. Or if it is, you alone can stop it before she becomes desperately ill. Do you think I would intrude upon you for nothing? All of us have been trying to calm her, but she already has a high fever. I hope we have not delayed too long. I hope she still recognizes you. She is gone back into the past and keeps crying of Gloucester and her mother and their struggle over the regency for her brothers."

  A chill raised the hair on the nape of Henry's neck. If his mother had heard about Warwick, she had not connected the news with Elizabeth's illness. The wandering of his wife's mind, Henry realized, was distinctly apropos. If he went to her for no other reason, he had to silence her.

  "Very well."

  Forewarned and angry as he was, Henry could not help feeling alarmed by the pitiful woman who huddled shaking under heaps of covers while her face and eyes burned with fever. However, if she had been wandering previously, which Henry doubted, she was not now.

  "Send everyone away," she whispered. Henry's gesture cleared the room. "Do not let anything happen to Warwick," she continued in the same breathless whisper. "Pray, Henry, let nothing happen to Warwick."

  "I told you I was no murderer, Elizabeth. I am doing my best for the boy. Now you must calm yourself. I will be angry in earnest if you continue to make yourself ill. First you fret over my—infidelity—and now about my intentions toward your cousin."

  "Not your intentions. Not yours, Henry."

  "Whose then?"

  Her mouth opened and closed twice, and her eyes grew so wild that Henry put his hand on her forehead. "I cannot say it," she gasped. "I want to, but I cannot. You would not believe me, anyway, and it is so horrible that even when I think about it everything goes around inside my head. Where are you?" Elizabeth whimpered suddenly. "Where are you? You are gone away."

  Really frightened, Henry lifted his wife, covers and all, into his arms. "No, I am here. Bess, I am here, holding you."

  It was so inconceivable to Henry that his mother's interests and his own should ever differ, that he had never before considered how he would feel if he were placed in Elizabeth's position. Not realizing that his wife had cried out against the cold remoteness of his expression, not his physical absence, he was afraid he had unsettled her wits by demanding that she be the one to accuse the woman who had given her life, given her life with the same incredible suffering she had endured not three weeks past to give life to her own son.

  "Hush, Bess, hush. Do not trouble so. Everything will come right." A hand found its way out of the cocoon of coverings and fastened onto Henry's jeweled collar. "Bess, speak. Can you understand me?"

  "Let me see your face." She pulled away, looked at him, and allowed her head to drop onto his shoulder. "Do not go away again."

  "No, I will stay here until you are better." Henry gave a distracted thought to the piles of work in his closet, to the coming session of parliament which necessitated that the work be finished, and tightened his grip on Elizabeth. "You must not fret. Do not think about this matter any more. Bess, listen. Do not be afraid. I will not hurt you nor anyone dear to you. I will never ask you another question about such matters. Nor will that harm me, for I think I know what you are unable to tell."

  Her shivering seemed to be decreasing and Henry's arms ached horribly so he laid her down on her pillows. Elizabeth made no protest. Henry stood patiently by the bed holding her hand and watching for her eyes to close.

  "If Warwick dies, Henry," she said quite clearly, no longer speaking in a gasping whisper, "will you kill me?"

  "Good God, Elizabeth, where did you come by such an insane idea?"

  "You misunderstand me. I was not asking whether you would wish to do that, I was asking you to do it."

  "Bess," he sighed wearily, "if you do not stop raving and get well, you will kill me. I will die of worry and exhaustion. Will that content you?"

  "No, because then Arthur would be all alone, and someone would kill him the way my uncle killed my brothers—"

  "Be still, Elizabeth!" Henry bellowed.

  They had quarreled bitterly, but he had never raised his voice to her before and the shock brought a realization of what she had done. Elizabeth had lived with the idea for so long that its horror had paled with familiarity, but that it had never crossed Henry's mind was clear from his suddenly ashen face.

  I must be half-mad, she thought, to add this terror to his other burdens. If it would have given her husband any satisfaction, she would have torn out her tongue. But there was a compensation she could make. She could remove herself as a burden to him.

  "I am sorry, Harry. It is only the horror of a sick mind. It could never happen. Do you believe Bedford would let anyone hurt your son any more than he allowed you to be hurt?"

  "That is a comfort! That my son should run like a hunted beast as I ran."

  Elizabeth did not flinch at the reference to the persecution her family had visited on him, although he had never openly mentioned it before. "Harry, come closer." She stilled the shaking of her body with an effort of will she did not know she possessed and pulled him so that he sat down beside her. "That is not what I meant, as you well know. Nothing happened to your Uncle Henry when he was a child although he was only nine months old when the king, his father, died. His uncles were not like mine. They cared for him and protected him. Would Bedford hurt your child?"

  "Jasper is old."

  "Oxford is not so old, nor Foxe, nor Devon, nor Nottingham. Must I name all your friends? Sick minds have sick fancies. You said yourself I was raving." She pulled him down against her breast, hoping he would not notice how hot she
was. "You see, I am better now. Did I not ask you to kill me? What could be worse for you, even if you hated me—and I know you do not. How much madder could a question be?"

  Elizabeth could not mend the breech she had made in Henry's wall of confidence, but she babbled on until he was able to fill it temporarily with the more cheerful ideas she presented. Finally she sent him away, assuring him of her complete recovery, apologizing for the nonsense she had spoken and the trouble she had caused, and begging him not to work half the night to make up for the time she had cost him.

  She repeated several times that she knew how much there was to be done and, slyly, when the fixed expression of fear he wore was a little overlaid with a different, lighter concern, she asked for a promise that he would not rush off to work. He would not promise and Elizabeth felt a little relief. She knew her husband's ways. If he could work, he would soon put aside his fear. Perhaps he would never forget it, but he would lock it into a small dark chamber of his heart and the longer he lived with it, Elizabeth felt, drawing on her own experience, the less agonizing it would be.

  She tried desperately to keep the bargain she had made with herself. She obeyed faithfully all the instructions the physician gave; she strove to quiet her mind. Henry knew and Henry would take care that no harm came from her mother's plotting. No harm ever came from her mother's plotting, she reminded herself. It had always been easy for cleverer plotters to circumvent her, and surely Henry was the cleverest man alive.

  When nightmares woke her screaming, and her ladies found her burning and shaking she whispered only, "Do not tell Henry," although it seemed to her that there was no price too high for the comfort his arms would have given her.

  It grew easier when her actual illness had passed, and still easier as the fear that clouded Henry's clear eyes dissipated a little, for then her guilt also lifted. There was always sufficient shadow, however, to spur Elizabeth on. She dressed beautifully and made her conversation as gay as possible.