The Dragon and the Rose (42 page)

"That is cold comfort," Henry said, but it was not. While there was life, there was hope. The vision had faded. It was still there; it would come again. But what Ned said had logic and the force of practical politics behind it. "I know what I will do about Dorset," the king remarked in a much more natural tone. "I will write him a letter and say that some have spoken against him, which is true enough, but that I believe him my friend—which is less true—so that I have placed him in safekeeping and whatever befalls he cannot be blamed for it. There, a weight has fallen from me."

CHAPTER 20

The thorn was in bloom. The white petals made clouds of hedges, carpeted the ground, filled the air with sweetness. The last sharp chill of April had been vanquished by the balmy mildness of May. Rain fell sweetly and then the skies cleared and the sun made rainbows in the pearly drops caught on spider webs and blossoms. Even old Kenilworth's grey walls looked welcoming to the party returning from a morning's hawking.

The king smoothed the feathers of his falcon and turned to his wife who held her white mare close to his stallion's side. "Now you will have to take all the jewels off these gloves. You should never have presented them to me this morning and then tempted me to ride out in them. They are all marked with blood."

Elizabeth leaned over to see, disturbing her own bird, which batted its wings irritably. "It is only the cuff. I will cut it off and sew on new ones. Who could suspect that you would wear white gloves ahawking."

"You made them and they suited my clothes admirably."

"And now I will have to remake them. Silk gloves, Harry, ahawking. It is a wonder the falcon has not torn your wrist. You could keep the glovemakers of the entire kingdom working with such extravagance."

"You see, even my bad habits are to the nation's benefit."

Elizabeth was about to make a tart remark on not permitting such reasoning to extend to other vices, when a rider came pounding toward them from the castle. Henry's mouth grew grim, and he set spurs to his horse so that he met the messenger halfway, leaving his entourage behind.

His wife was the first to reach them, and the color came back into her face when she saw Henry's expression.

"Is it good news, Harry?"

About to say yes and tell her, Henry reconsidered. It was unlikely that Elizabeth would think the news good, and half the courtiers were now surrounding them. Too many would see the matter in the same light as Elizabeth without having her distress to spark their fears. Nor could the methods by which Henry hoped to soothe his wife in private be used in public or upon those others. Henry looked sidelong at Elizabeth.

"It depends," he replied with a curl of his mobile lips, "upon how one looks at things; but it is a good omen that the news comes now when I am ready to work instead of breaking our pleasure."

The council assembled in their sweat-stained riding garments, for Henry's patience was strained by preparations that led to nothing. He was eager for action, and woe betide the man who was late when he summoned. He threw the letter on the table, tapping on it with the fingers of his white-gloved hand. The bloodstains from the hawk's talons showed red.

"From Lord Howth in Ireland. Lovell and Lincoln with two thousand Flemish mercenaries have landed there. They brooked no waiting. The false Warwick has been crowned Edward VI in Dublin Cathedral."

"This news you do not think bad?" Bedford muttered.

"They are fools. Will the English love the crowning of their 'king' among the barbarian Irish? Setting that aside, we are ready for them now. If they do not come soon, the need for watchfulness and defense will last so long that none will really watch or defend."

"If a trial of strength must be made, it is better to come to it with fresh spirit," Oxford agreed.

"You have it, John. You have the command, also, which you will share with my uncle, as always. Bedford, write to Rhys to raise the Welsh. Devon, go at once to raise the south for me. Guildford, see to your guns. They must be fitted to travel far and fast."

Devon had not waited for the end of Henry's instructions. He was already out of the room and they could hear him bellowing at pages to summon his men and order his horses saddled as he closed the door behind him. Henry raised his brows. Guildford, who had thought of following, sat still. There would be much riding for him, also. The artillery of key cities all over the country would need to be inspected and mounted for offense as well as defense.

"Dynham" the treasurer looked up "I need not tell you that our resources will be strained. It is unfortunate that I sent Foxe to London and that foreign matters keep Canterbury there. You must tell the bishops that I expect the Church to contribute to maintaining the quietness of the realm also."

There were firm nods of approval from the nobles around the table. It seemed to them very often that the Church profited alike from peace and war while they paid the piper. Thus far no demands had been made of the Church and many had wondered, because of Henry's piety, whether he planned to excuse the prelates even their ordinary contributions to national defense.

"Ormond, write to your Irish relations to hold off from this foolish business. Tell them how strong we are, how happy the nation, how unlikely any revolt is to succeed. You know what you must say."

"Sire, they will not obey me."

"I know, but a word that shakes a man's courage or plants a single doubt in his mind is of aid to us."

"What of Northumberland and Surrey?" Bedford asked, but his eyes asked about the Stanleys who were seated at the table and whom he dared not name.

"Surrey is to raise no men but to come himself to serve with me. He is a mighty man of his hands. Northumberland . . . He showed himself loyal enough last spring. Let him go about his duties. Nottingham, you had better help him. Sleep in his bed, if you must, but see that he gets into no mischief. The rest of you gentlemen who are officers of my household will bide with me. I cannot spare you from attendance upon my person."

There was a significant silence. This king would not be put off with excuses of illness, nor would he be content to take children for hostages—his softness to children was well known. The men themselves would remain in his hands, their seals and signatures available to his will. Dorset was in the Tower, but all knew there would be letters in his hand and sealed by his seal ordering his tenants to obey Devon's or some other of the king's faithful lieutenants' commands.

"Since you need me, sire, I will order my people to obey your deputy," Derby offered quickly.

"You are as generous as a loving father should be to his son," Henry approved, smiling. "Give your commands to Willoughby—oh, I beg your pardon, Robert—to Lord de Broke."

"And to whom do I give my commands, sire?" William Stanley asked smoothly.

That there would be nothing to read in those reptilian eyes Henry knew, and he did not bother to meet them. He knew also that this was the last time he could work this trick upon Sir William. If there was another time, it would be war to the death between them. It was almost a relief. Henry had never quite prevented his skin from crawling when he had dealings with this Stanley, although he suppressed any outward sign of the sensation most successfully.

"To the earl of Nottingham. He will be in that part of the country anyway," Henry said without the trace of warmth in his voice that had softened the order to his stepfather. Derby was no prize in staunchness perhaps, but he was a loving husband to Henry's mother, and Henry would pardon him any weakness for that. "Edgecombe, you will see to the victualing of the host. You all know my general orders. There is to be no forcible levy of provisions, no rape, no arson, no fighting among different retinues in the host. There is to be no disturbance of the country at all. Every man not called to arms must continue in his regular business. Any questions?"

There were none. Most of the details had been worked out long before, and it was now clear that this conference had been called largely to close the trap on the Stanleys.

"Very well," the king continued. "Those of you who leave here for duties in the shires will send me a written report of day-to-day progress—every day."

There were muffled sighs, but no protests, as Henry dismissed them and they left. They only had to write one report a day; the king would need to read dozens.

"Ned," Henry added softly, "remind me to write to that literal idiot Devon that he must do the same. Perhaps" he laughed "he thought to escape by rushing off, but I cannot forgo seeing that crazy scrawl of his. And his spelling is the delight of my life, even though I often cannot make out what he means at all. There must be some lightness to be found in this. Pray God Devon never thinks to hire a clerk."

Word came from Ireland day by day. The bishops of Armagh and Clogher were faithful and preached against the usurper. In
the southeast, where the Butler influence was strong, the orders of the earl of Ormond, the head of the family, were heeded to a certain degree. Kilkenny, Clonmel, and a few other towns shut their gates and would contribute nothing to the insurrection. Waterford offered a bold defiance to the earl of Kildare, who was one of the false Warwick's major supporters. But these were mere drops withheld from the bucket that was filling rapidly.

On June 4 the pretender landed near Furness with two thousand Flemish and nearly six thousand Irishmen. Henry did not attempt to stop the landing, largely because there was no fleet to stop it with. He made plain, however, to the men with him when the news came on the sixth, that he was not ill-pleased, reminding them that he had once told them that the activities of the Irish against him would bring them under his power.

"There will be none to return to Ireland," he said coldly, "or one in a hundred, perhaps. The Irish will not play this game again, nor any other. When I send an order bidding them obey or the English will come and slay them—they will believe me."

Some thought that it would be safer to talk after the battle was fought and won, but most were carried along by the king's conviction. There was another satisfaction also to Henry's men in his manner. All of them deplored his softness to his enemies. They simply could not comprehend the king's willingness to forgive those who injured him. Many when they first came to power offered amnesty, but as soon as the first murmur of protest came there was retaliation. Henry's attitude was unnatural, and no king had continued to pardon and pardon as long as Henry had. This time, instead of speaking of foolish children and gentle handling, the king spoke of killing, and his eyes were hard and cold as steel.

It was impossible to shield Elizabeth from the news of what had happened. Details might be kept secret, but the main fact, that an invading army had landed in England, could not be concealed. Henry went most reluctantly to bid his wife goodnight and farewell at the same time. He knew that Elizabeth could pierce his mask of confidence and read the half-mad horror that lay below it. She had set the horror there, and while he did not blame her he was afraid to face her fear. Nor was it his promise, nor any thought of Elizabeth's comfort, which brought him out into the long corridor leading to her apartment after the whole castle slept. He had, in fact, decided to spare himself the scene, had written a long letter of excuse and love. Habit, stronger than his will, would not let him sleep, and, lying awake with nothing left to do, Henry saw his child's dead face hanging in the dark.

He glided noiselessly by his sleeping men on soft felt slippers, past the silent salute of the guards, and, as soundlessly, woke Elizabeth's lady and sent her from the room. If Elizabeth slept, he might still be spared. To kiss her or just look at her might give him some ease. No one would harm Elizabeth, except to mew her up in a convent, perhaps. She would not be unhappy there once she had recovered from her losses. She could play her music and study and pray and love God. Perhaps the sight of her peaceful face would block that other vision— His hand touched the curtains.

"I thought you would never come, Harry. Is it true? You leave tomorrow?" The tense whisper destroyed his hope, and he bent and kissed her. "Oh God, why are you so cold?"

"I have been sitting still too long, I suppose. Yes, I will leave with the dawn tomorrow. I have come to say farewell now." Henry braced himself. Now would come the burst of tears, the wails and prayers. Elizabeth had been very good this past month, but to expect self-control now …

"Come into bed and I will warm you."

He had intended nothing of the sort. Henry was physically tired and mentally depressed, and he was not the kind who enjoyed love under those circumstances. If that was what Elizabeth needed, however, he was prepared to try to satisfy her, although he had a sudden frightening doubt of his ability.

He was cold; his body seemed frozen, stiff in movement. It was extremely pleasant to discover that Elizabeth had meant what she said literally. She folded him in her arms and held him close along her entire body, but she made no gesture of ardent invitation. A little of her warmth seeped into him and Henry stiffened apprehensively.

"Harry, what is it? Are you angry with me? For Mary's sweet sake, speak out. I will not cry nor complain. I could not bear to part from you in anger—not tonight."

"Of course I am not angry. What cause have I for anger?"

"No cause of which I know, but who can tell what tales of me are whispered into your ear?"

"No one speaks aught to me of you except of your goodness. You have even won my uncle, and that is no mean feat for Edward's daughter."

That hurdle was passed. A few more minutes, Henry thought, and he would be able to go. He continued to hold himself rigid, feeling as if the cold that was now leaving him had been armor, that when the coating of ice melted he would crumple to pieces if he relaxed. Suddenly Elizabeth's arms tightened around him.

"Please, Harry, let us comfort each other." A little half sob, half-laugh escaped her. "I am so frightened already. Nothing you could say or do could frighten me more. Is it so very bad?"