The Dragon and the Rose (29 page)

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 will 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.

There was a continuing sense of puzzlement under his satisfaction, though, because Henry could not understand what Elizabeth was trying to accomplish. Any danger to him must be a danger to her. She was his wife, but not crowned queen—and England would not accept a ruling queen anyway. Surely her position was better as his wife than of, say, the aunt of Warwick if he should be put on the throne.

Unless she hated him enough to think the whole world well lost for the sake of revenge? Henry's body did betray him. He shuddered involuntarily, and Elizabeth who was half-asleep herself tightened her grip on him and murmured, "Hush," as to a restless child.

No, not that. It was not the Woodville way to sacrifice person or profit to any purpose. Henry relaxed again, but with an effort. Unconsciously, seeking solace, he began to rub his lips against Elizabeth's breast, sucking the fragrant skin gently. Still half-asleep, she sighed and turned a little toward him to facilitate his caress.

The sickness that had been rising in Henry's throat dissipated. Woodville she was, and lustful as her mother. Thank God for that. Even that adder, the dowager queen, had never struck at the man who satisfied her lust. As long as he contented Elizabeth in bed, she would never hate him enough to harm him.

Only when Edward strayed out of his matrimonial bonds had his wife formed factions counter to his purpose. Edward must have been mad, Henry thought, as his caress became more ardent and more purposeful. Who would wish to stray when passion and profit were so intermingled?

Henry had not meant to spend the night this time, but dawn was lightening the sky when he rose to leave. "I have given you little rest," he said as Elizabeth sat up too. "Lie abed. When it is warmer we will rise together so that you may hunt with me."

"I hope I shall have as little rest then." Elizabeth laughed.

It was frank sexuality, a thing of which she had never been taught to be ashamed, but Henry took it for a warning. "You will never have more rest than you desire," he replied lightly. "I try to suit the feeding to the appetite."

She laughed again, but grew grave quickly and touched his hand. "We spoke last night. Do you remember?"

"Henry never forgets anything," he repeated, and gave back her list of names.

That, too, was a warning, but Elizabeth either did not care or did not understand. She clapped her hands delightedly. "Oh, you do not forget. Wait, Henry," she said, reaching for him as he turned to go. "Will you come to me every night?"

"Every night?" His brows rose.

Elizabeth blushed a trifle and shook her head at him merrily. "Nay, I know there will be times when you or I are too tired, or when I cannot receive you—that way. I did not mean that as it sounded. Only … there is never any other time when we may be together to talk privately. At other times, if we send our courtiers away, they wonder what we are saying to each other."

He leaned forward so swiftly to kiss her that Elizabeth did not see his eyes. When their lips parted, the Tudor's expression was merely tender. "I will come every night that it is humanly possible. There will be times when we are parted by necessity." He leaned forward again and touched her face gently. "At such times I will write you a letter every night—or a little every night if I have not time for a whole letter." The more she believed him to be in her power, Henry thought coldly, the harder she would strive to keep him there and to keep him king.

Elizabeth lay back when the door closed behind her husband. She was both spent and content. Henry was certainly kind, as Margaret said, when he was well used. That message yesterday had been a bad mistake, but fortunately his hurt had been easily salved—more easily than she deserved for her carelessness, Elizabeth thought. It was natural that the scion of a Welsh adventurer would stand more upon his dignity than trueborn royalty. She must take care never to offend that sensitive and only half-buried sense of unworthiness. Her pride could afford to bend—privately. She was the daughter of a king and of a line more legitimate even than that of the original Lancastrian usurpers.

It would also be necessary to have a care not to ask for too much nor to ask too often. Not that Elizabeth feared it would drive Henry from her bed just yet. His pleasure was too intense and too new. This power must be wielded cautiously, however, lest the victim become aware of the trap and reluctant to fall into it.

Her mother had made that mistake. Elizabeth's contentment vanished at the thought of her mother. She had been feeling sleepier and sleepier and putting the feeling off. Now, wide awake, she wished she were asleep.

What would she do if she found by her mother's reaction that something beyond simple charity lay under the wish to appoint those men to her household? Tell Henry? Her every instinct revolted at letting a stranger—satisfactory lover and husband notwithstanding, Henry was still a stranger—see the washing of dirty family linen. No, she would handle her mother herself.

However, long before Elizabeth rose to break her fast, her family's linen was being firmly thrashed against the rocks of policy by Henry, Foxe, and Reginald Bray.

"Where did you get this list, sire?" Bray asked, plainly unhappy.

"I think I will keep my own council on that," Henry responded with a smile. "You know them?"

"I know them because it is my business to know such things. Mostly they are believed favorable to you, but Brodrugan will be in, or start, the first rebellion against you, sire. Broughton, the Harrington brothers, and Beaumont are a trifle more cautious, but will not be far behind."

"Gloucester's men?" Foxe asked.

Bray shook his head. "Oh, no. They hated Gloucester sore, which is why they are accounted your friends. But they are legitimists—or that is what they call themselves—Yorkist legitimists."

"Would they accept Her Grace as a ruling queen?" The question seemed almost idle, for Henry still looked very sleepy as he lounged beside the fire in furred slippers and bedrobe.

"I do not think they are mad enough for that," Bray said. "They would elevate Warwick. Indeed, it would ease my heart, sire, if you would say who proposed these men to you. They are dangerous. Whoever named them should be watched."

Henry laughed. "Do not trouble yourself for that. Are they dangerous to me personally? Would they use poison or a knife to rid the land of me?"

Bray hesitated. "In an ordinary way I would say not. They think of themselves as honorable men, but I would not wish to be responsible for vouching for them in this case. Why not order their arrest?"

"On what charge?" Foxe asked.

"I am a lover of justice," Bray replied with a troubled frown. "Yet if I had a shadow of a cause, these men would already languish in a safe prison or be even safer in their graves."

"God forbid!" Henry exclaimed. "It is sheer foolishness to slay the goat that leads the sheep to the slaughter pens. Foxe, find me appointments for each of them, nice safe employment that will keep them in the court but not too close to my person. Do you not find yourself in urgent need of assistance, Richard? How about Morton and Edgecombe and Poynings? Are they not all overworked? And you, Bray?"

Two grim faces reflected no image of Henry's half-smile. "You play at a dangerous game, sire," Bray protested.

Henry's smile broadened, and he stretched and yawned. "When I was six, Edward summoned me to court. If my mother had taken me—I would have died. When I was fourteen, my uncle fled with me to Brittany in the teeth of a gale that promised to drown us because death was more certain if we stayed. When I was eighteen Edward offered my present wife as bait—and sent two murderers to fetch me. When I was twenty-six, Richard bribed Landois to slay me or send me hither to slaughter. I do not count the assassins who came, tried, and failed. What did you say about danger?"

"There are more lives than one hanging on the single thread of yours now, sire," Foxe said reprovingly, pulling his lip. "Mine is one. I would like to see you use more caution. Nonetheless, I can also see the merit in this move. Strict watch will be kept."

"They will make five little windows to see into many more dark hearts," Henry murmured. "Bray, let me have a list of whosoever else leans this way." His breath caught at the appalled look in Bray's eyes, but he changed the tiny sign of fear easily enough into a choke of laughter. "The ringleaders, man. I do not expect you to list the name of every non-Lancastrian male in the country."