Great with child, Bess reclined on a day-bed. Her face was bored and flushed. An abigail fanned her tirelessly. The Queen’s hair was loose, and wheaten tendrils waved in the draught. Her boredom deepened visibly at sight of the Countess, but when Elizabeth entered she brightened a little. Margaret bustled forward, dismissing the maid with a sharp handclap.
‘Daughter! Still abed! You should stretch your limbs, or the babe will grow stunted: See, I have a visitor for you.’
Bess stretched out her hand to Elizabeth. Her eyes rolled saying: See how I am persecuted! but she smiled.
To the Countess, Elizabeth said: ‘I will speak to the Queen alone.’
‘Do not weary her,’ said Margaret commandingly, and went out.
‘Mother, be seated,’ said Bess. ‘You too, Thomas. Elizabeth took a corner of the bed, and Dorset hitched himself on to an oak chest.
‘My daughter,’ said Elizabeth. A surprising memory jolted her: Bess in her cradle, with Edward’s large sparkling face bending down. What shall we call you? Elizabeth? Yet not as fair as my own, my peerless Elizabeth! Moved by her own thought, she leaned to kiss the Queen.
‘We have been apart too long,’ she said, and realized the truth of it. Had she been dreaming? Where had the summer gone? None had the right to hold her from her daughter, or her sons. Richard and Ned would be grown now, big boys. And Dorset, who did not often follow the train of her thought, said:
‘Madame, it’s good to be one family again.’ Drumming his heels like a schoolboy against the chest, he said: ‘How are my little brothers, Dick and Ned?’
Bess reached towards a bowl of fruit, took a peach and examined it. One side was blackly bruised, marring the tawny lusciousness. She threw the peach back into the dish.
‘How should I know?’ she said, wishing someone would rub her aching back. She raised her blue eyes, smoothed the stomach filled with destiny. ‘I thought they were with you.’ She found a ripe grape and ate it – content to lie and wait, and reckon nothing.
Henry rode in with Morton an hour later. He flung his reins ro a groom and strode through the portal. He was still grimed from the hasty last stages of his journey, but was anxious to see that all was well with Bess, and went straight to her chamber. He had thought about her constantly on the progress. At Worcester, where the people openly mourned Richard, he had been obliged to hang a score of them on the High Cross – an example more salutary than the five hundred marks he fined them. He had watched them drop and strangle, and Bess’s face had intruded, overlaying the spectacle, so that the victims were no more than so many insects brushed by storm. At York, the ordeal of entry under Micklegate Bar was tempered by the thought of Bess. The eyes of hate had been like fireflashes. He had ordained that York’s Crown dues should be lowered (better to woo than to war at this juncture); and their resentment sailed over him like migrating birds, even when someone tried vainly to assassinate Northumberland. Bess’s swollen body was in the forefront of his mind; a living pledge of new hope, the towering beginning of an everlasting line. Only in Gloucester, the dead King’s own Duchy, had a chilling thought struck: what if the child were a girl? He took ironic comfort from an old proverb: it takes a man to get a girl! and he was not, even now, altogether sure of his own manhood.
One of the most satisfying recent events had been the arrest of the Stafford brothers. A minor skirmish was quelled by troops waged by the Yeomen. The elder Stafford had trodden air at Tower Hill. His brother had been pardoned at the last moment; again, an example. He, for sure, would walk warily henceforward.
And Morton was working on a new appraisal of the tax system.
‘This came to me, your Majesty; as Chancellor, I shall say: if you spend liberally, you must have money to spare for the King. If you live frugally, you must have saved – money to spare likewise. I will have them in a fork, Sire.’
Henry had weighed the idea. ‘It will make us unpopular, my lord.’
Squinting impatiently, Morton answered: ‘Maybe. It will also make the Treasury strong again. Is that not your desire?’
Morton was to be Cardinal Archbishop.
Of the other factions that had plagued the King, a few were still in flux; Francis Lovell had escaped the purge levied on the Staffords’ adherents and was in hiding, possibly near Oxford. He could wait. John, Earl of Lincoln and Richard’s named heir, had accompanied the progress as a member of Henry’s Council; not one sneeze had escaped Lincoln without being noted down. Already Henry had seen the restlessness there, but Lincoln was more subtle than most. The King decided to withhold all but the most trivial honours from Lincoln, and see where unrest led. As for Sir William Stanley – he was a born traitor. The way he had betrayed Richard still haunted Henry, and he watched Sir William closely. Had not his astrologer bade the King beware the Buck’s Head? So they were all surveyed, measured, hung-over by an invisible Damoclean edge. ‘Time, my lord,’ the King had remarked to Morton, as they rode down the Fosse Way. ‘Time, not death, is the leveller. And I have time aplenty.’
Cadwallader smiled. The seed of Wales stood upright in its mother’s womb.
The pattern dovetailed; without Morton there would have been many loose ends. Everything moved with an uncanny progression of rightness. Lesser men than Henry would have been tempted to rest their spirit, to reap enjoyment from sovereignty. Not he. Eternally watchful, mirthless and shrewd, he moved in an aura of calculation, vigilant for the cloaked whisper, the ambiguous word, the lightest warning. Sir James Tyrrel had done his work and gone to a commission in Guisnes. Everything was in place.
The sight of Elizabeth, confronting him as he burst into the Queen’s chamber, dislocated these steady thoughts. The Queen-Dowager was on her knees, instantly, her wimpled head bowed with one or two stray locks of silver-gilt, or white, showing beneath the brow-band. Henry strode first to his Queen and set his lips to her forehead, while behind them, Morton raised pale fingers in a general benediction. Then Henry turned and raised the Queen-Dowager. Her eyes were misted with an emotion unknown to him.
‘Welcome, welcome, Sire.’ He accepted this gravely. He bowed, in the sweated cloth-of-gold habit. One of his finger-rings caught in the Queen-Dowager’s trailing dark-blue sleeve as she bent to his hand. She laughed, caught the laugh in a half-sob, and disentangled cloth from jewel.
‘An audience with you, Sire; my one request,’ she whispered.
In that moment, unknown to both of them, Melusine sparred with Cadwallader. The Dragon coiled about the serpent. She was strong, sinuous, but he had claws and a tongue of flame. A wider ocean engulfed Melusine’s little lake. Her twining grip loosed; she fell.
He spent five minutes with Bess and an hour with her physicians. Then, having taken neither food nor drink, he went to confer with Morton. Together they pored over the progress’s accounts; the revenues levied and the gifts received and bestowed. Henry was alarmed to see how little profit showed. The waging of troops to crush the Staffords had marred what might otherwise have been a worthwhile expedition. The royal entourage seemed to have eaten and drunk as if each meal were its last.
He sat on a low gilt throne, cracking his knuckles and listening dismally to Morton reading from his rolls, of vast quantities of beef, eggs, salt and beer. Stationed about the chamber were the Yeomen, and outside the door another gold and scarlet dozen stood, death-still. Henry began to cough. Spring, not crisp autumn, was the season for his tertian fever; yet on a side table lay a covered flagon containing elderflower water to soothe his chest. Morton stopped reading.
‘Your cough is worse,’ he said. ‘Should you not take your ease, now?’
Henry sniffed his own armpit. The cloth-of-gold was rankly soaked. One of the Yeomen went silently to a coffer and began to take out fresh linen. Morton gathered up the parchments that lay like folded lilies about the foot of the dais. It was not easy being Chancellor; every farthing must be accounted for, and if a bill were carelessly written, it must be done again. All over the palace clerks went rubbing finge
r-joints and red eyes.
‘What more of urgency?’ asked Henry.
‘Only these to see, Sire.’
Henry raked the account with a glance, and scrawled his initials in the Household Book. Then he rose and went to where fresh clothes lay ready for his approval.
‘The Queen-Dowager, Sire,’ said Morton carefully. ‘She has waited rather long.’
Two of the Yeomen peeled away Henry’s sweated robe. One whispered: what colour today, dread Sire? and he pointed to a velvet doublet, darkly sheen as a crow’s wing. Pages of the bath entered and went through into the next room to prepare a herbal tub. Henry said to the Yeomen standing round the walls: ‘Dismiss!’ and they filed out.
‘I will see her,’ he said. ‘Bid her to me, in an hour.’ He coughed again, and Morton’s eyes grew troubled.
‘It’s nothing,’ said the King. ‘I shall live for ever.’
She was admitted at the appointed time. When she entered Henry had his back to her, his shoulders a little hunched, and coughing softly. Her first thought was: he has changed his suit, why does he wear black? He should wear more gold, scarlet, to deify and dignify him for the person he is. She knelt. A spasm of twitching seized her head and hand, maddeningly inappropriate at this moment of consummation. She controlled herself with difficulty, while he turned and came to her so that she could take his hands, to which she bent first her lips and then her brow. And she found herself dumb. She had waited too long. Henry was her saviour; anything she might say would be superfluous. Stiffly she rose and swayed a little before him. She said softly: ‘Sire, I rejoice in your return, and in the fruitfulness of my daughter’s womb. She will, I know, fulfil our destiny.’
This was a mistake; his eyes narrowed. ‘Our destiny, Madame?’ She felt a blush warming her neck, as if she were a naughty child caught out in some misdemeanour. Ridiculous, for the King, her son-in-law, was young enough to be her son!
‘Destiny, Sire. It was a happy day for me when you won the field.’ She smiled. ‘You have restored me, and my family. I can never forget it.’
She sought his hands again. They were perfumed from his bath; they were bony and unresponsive. Neither did he speak, but weighed her with his long eyes, the eyes of unknown significance.
‘Sire …’ She let her hands slide away. He bowed almost imperceptibly.
‘Very well,’ he said in his high, measured voice, in which the accents of France and Wales blended. ‘So you are pleased, Madame. Was there more you wished to say?’
‘No … only, I await my revenues from the estates you have bought from me.’
‘My Chancellor has this in hand.’ There was another pause, and he foresaw her departure within a moment. Then she said, casting down her blue-veined lids:
‘Sire – I would have my sons with me again. I have not seen Richard for a year and a half; Edward I have not seen for years. I would have them with me, for their nurture and my comfort.’
Henry began to cough, a tight rasping bark, and turned from her, walking to the side table where his medicine stood The cup’s cover bore an unbroken seal, testament that the draught had been sampled and found safe. He fingered the cup, contemplated it for three or four minutes. It was as if he had not heard her.
‘My sons, highness,’ said Elizabeth.
The black velvet shoulders rose closer to his ears as he coughed; he moved his head so that one long sombre eye studied her. Did he not understand her request? Perhaps he had the same fears of her that Richard had had – as if he could ever mistrust her? Words tripped and tumbled from her lips.
‘Sire, you must not misconstrue my intent; my allegiance is totally yours and the Queen’s, and the new blessed heir when he comes. Do not think that any rebellion will break over the persons of my sons. I myself will keep them in submission. They cannot aspire to the Crown. The Act of Titulus Regius …’
He turned swiftly. The lean face was tinged with a barbarous outrage, yet he smiled, a smile to be seen on the face of a corpse. Sudden apprehension filled her. The Act of Titulus Regius did not exist. Treason to mention it, or even to remember that it had ever existed. Through its repeal Bess was Queen and she herself Queen-Dowager. Yet men had been hanged for whispering of it. Henry picked up the cup of balsam, broke the seal and drank silently. Paralysed with guilt, confused by witless paradox, she watched him; the bony throat moving, the little domestic movements of his hands. Disproportionate fear was born and crouched in her like a beast. At last he set down the cup.
‘What do you want, Madame?’ he said softly.
A little of her old spirit flared. She would not kneel to him again. Not she, who had had a King weeping and prostrate before her … Centuries ago. She lifted her sharp chin.
‘My sons, Sire. Edward and Richard, my sons.’
There was that chilling smile again. Even more softly, he said:
‘But your sons are dead, Madame. The traitor Plantagenet had them murdered, so that he might usurp my throne. Did you not cry of it yourself? Day and night? that Gloucester had them smothered in the Tower?’
For a second she felt her heart stop and begin again with a sickening bound. This a nightmare, from which I soon must wake! Or the King jests with me, giving credence to Monton’s lie, which I helped spread in honour of our cause …
The King does not jest.
She heard her own shrill voice.
‘Your Grace!’
Sudden anger lit the yellowish eyes. He said contemptuously:
‘Madame, you forget yourself. We are ‘your Majesty’!’
Then he quit the room, thin and silent in his black; shoulders lifted like a raven. She was alone, staring blindly, tasting blood where she had bitten her lip.
Throughout the spring and summer, Chepeside seethed about John and Grace, and they were a part of it. During the day they walked the City, preferring this to their small room to which slaughterhouse roars and the sound of Gould bullying his prentices ascended. Gould grew sourer than ever; would not even bid good-day, but there was no spoken criticism of the menage, and none suggested they should leave the lodging. The street itself was quick to gossip, and had cause; John spent like a sailor. Hand in hand with Grace, he walked the murmurous ways, down Poultry, the Vintry, and Jewry with its dark shops and darker proprietors. Along Bread Street and Milk Street the lovers took their way; they entered the best taverns. John dressed like a prince in a long tawny mantle, its sleeves fringed with gold, and wore a black cap with a feather. There was something in his face that made folk step aside and the prentices whistle only at a safe distance. Upon Grace he lavished the King’s pension. In Candlewick Street he bought lengths of murrey and wool soft as a cat’s back, and he ordered a Flemish seamstress to make them up into the latest fashion. He dressed Grace in green, Kendal green, and sapling green; wearing the hoods and gowns of his choosing, her eyes were like burning jade. Nightly, when the butcher had gone home to his Bishopsgate mansion, and the small upper room was quiet, John peeled the willow strands from their white core. She lay tranquilly lapped in green, flickering, candlelit green, the colour of love and hope. So fair were the nights that she grudged the day beginning. Sometimes she awoke before the night was done and, still gathered close in his sleeping arms, would think: if we could sleep, and never wake! A thought, brought by the dark hours, which struck her as unnatural and morbid. Then her peace and her unrest would battle, and the silver shadow of Elizabeth would intrude, wafting down to light upon the bed.
In the City a bizarre rumour arose. On the corner of Eastchepe and Candlewick a strange knight, coming face to face with John, threw himself on his knees and cried: ‘Jesu! Richard liveth yet!’ and wept uncontrollably. He was gently disillusioned, but the day ended badly; John neither spoke nor ate, but stood for hours at the open casement, his arms stretched wide on the shutters as if crucified. Grace sorrowed. She had thought him to be mended.
‘Are you happy, my love?’ she asked, when the spasm had burned itself away with the dawning.
&nb
sp; ‘Are you?’ he said anxiously, as if he feared a parting. At such times she was hard put to express her happiness. Never in her life had such kindness come her way. Now it was loaded upon her in such ardent measure that often she was uncertain what to do with its excesses. They stood together at the window and he held her. The crown of her head was level with his neck. She was so slight she seemed to melt against him. He bent his head to touch his lips to hers.
‘Yes. I’m happy. Or I should be the most ungrateful dog in the world,’ he said.
Grace leaned from the window. By stretching her hand she could almost touch the gable of the house opposite. There was a woman in the window, who quickly banged her shutters closed. John pulled Grace back into his arms and covered her mouth with his. She was unaware of the street’s opinion; that she was called a whore and he a popinjay … He thought: there are some who see evil and some whom it passes by, invisible as the wind. Whether this is stupidity or saintliness, who knows? I only know that without Grace I should have died.
‘What shall we do today, sweeting? There’s a cockfight at Southwark, and we could dine at the Tabard. Or we could go to Petty Wales and watch them picking pockets. At Billingsgate the Fishmongers are rehearsing a play. But …’
‘I’d rather stay here,’ she said. ‘I feel …’ He looked at her sharply. To him she seemed pale.
‘You’re not sick?’ he cried. There were still occasional outbreaks of the sweating sickness in the City. Or … He looked at her closely. There was a sickness that was no sickness …
‘I am only a little weary,’ she said, and laughed. Relief, coupled with a whimsical disappointment, showed on his face. My love, he had said, more than once: if I should get you with child! And: Yes! Let it be, then! Let there be more Plantagenets, for even bastard Plantagenets are better than Tudor’s spawn! And his lovemaking had brought fear; fear that swiftly became delight.
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