The Dragon and the Rose Page 12

  "I will tell you my message," he said, smiling broadly; Henry returned the smile and shook his head. "So much do I have faith in the kinsman of my mother's husband that I do not need to hear it. My men stopped you only so that I could add my assurances to those of Sir Gilbert that no man who yields to me, whether he fought in the past for the red rose or the white, has aught to fear. All men in this nation—English, Welsh, Irish, Yorkist, or Lancastrian—who do me homage will be regarded as loyal subjects and treated alike with justice and mercy. Tell Shrewsbury to open her gates and receive me in peace."

  The messenger knelt and kissed Henry's hand. Half an hour later the great gates opened and the mayor and aldermen came out to greet the king. Shrewsbury, which could have withstood a siege of weeks or months and an attack by a force far stronger than Henry led, which could have destroyed his chance by delaying him until the loyal northern levies reached Richard, acknowledged the Tudor as her master without a struggle.

  Instead of feeling better, Henry felt worse. As he looked back over the past two years, he realized he had never really believed in this enterprise. At the time of the Buckingham rebellion, and even after it failed, he had been upheld by some vague, delightful dream of satisfaction and fulfillment. Reality had wakened him in France, and since then he had struggled on because there was nothing else he could do. Whatever he had suffered in the past—shame, anger, and fear—the emotions had been deadened by his overwhelming despair and his sense of the ultimate impossibility of his goal. Suddenly it was possible—really possible—that he would be king of England. Sir Gilbert Talbot had ordered Shrewsbury to open its gates and had promised to join his force on the morrow. There was, also, a letter from Sir John Savage saying that he was encamped some miles east of Shrewsbury and awaited Henry's commands. The actions were a guarantee that the Stanleys would do nothing to hinder him, even if they did not join him.

  Ambition, having burst through the shell of desperation, tore Henry as the mythical eagle's beak and claws had torn Prometheus. Henry, too, felt chained to a rock, helpless under that agonizing assault, for there was no action he could take either to further his ambition or to drive it out. The candles guttered and Henry knew he should go to bed, but to lie in the dark and suffer this tearing. . . .

  "Tell Poynings to come to me," he ordered Cheney, who had been dozing in the antechamber, and turned to the window to stare out into the blackness, biting his knuckles until he drew blood.

  "Sire?"

  "I am sorry to break your rest," Henry said briskly, having gestured dismissal to Cheney, "but I wish …" His voice faltered. His eyes went blank, the clear grey now limpid and empty. "Ned— Ned, I wish—I want to be king."

  Poynings had no desire to laugh at the ridiculous statement, which was as close as Henry could come to saying he was afraid he would not be king.

  He felt an intense sense of relief, for he had been wondering how long Henry could feed others on his confidence without absorbing some from someone else to replenish his stock. But confidence had to be administered to Henry carefully. Cheerful assurance, like flattery, invariably brought a negative reaction from the Tudor. Tell him he was wise, and Henry would anxiously search his mind for the last foolish thing he had done; tell him victory was certain, and he would be sure you were covering an expectation of defeat with bravado.

  "So you shall be, sire. Either that or dead—and then you will want nothing."

  Sense came back into the gray eyes. "That is true. I will be king or dead. There will be no more running."

  "Well, at least it is a matter completely within your own control."

  Edward Poynings understood his value to Henry Tudor.

  He had no wealth, no influence, no special skill. He had also no imagination; he did not catch fire from people or surroundings and his comprehension, particularly of the future, was purely intellectual. He could plan toward the future, understanding that either good or bad could come, but the good raised no thrill of hope and the bad raised no thrill of fear in him. Both were abstractions that could not touch his emotions.

  What Henry wanted from him, Poynings knew, was a listening ear that could not be distressed, and a mind that, capable of keeping a goal in sight, concentrated only on immediate practical steps toward that goal. Henry could see long-range probabilities on his own. Often, indeed, these became more real to him than the situation at the moment. He became involved in "if—thens" and needed to be jerked back to the present.

  "I mean," Poynings continued stolidly, "that if the battle goes for us, you will be either the king or the hunter. If the battle goes against us, you can refuse to yield and die. This you can decide for yourself. It does not rest upon the whim or decision of another."

  "How long do you think we must wait to come to grips with Gloucester, Ned?"

  "It will be soon. He is no coward—whatever else he is. Until now he has trusted others to stop you because he accounted you for little. Now he will come to meet you himself."

  "So I think, also. Gloucester is at Nottingham still. I purpose to move toward Nottingham to meet him rather than trying for London. How sits this with your stomach, Ned?"

  "Not ill, except that Nottingham is on the direct road from York, and if there is a man left in England who will fight for Richard with good heart, that man will come from York."

  Henry knew that, too. He put a hand to the collar of his tunic and pulled it away from his throat, a gesture he would not have permitted himself in anyone else's company. Poynings watched with a characteristic expression of impersonal concern—concern because he was fond of his master and sorry Henry was distressed; impersonal because there was nothing to fear at present, and he was incapable of fearing the future.

  "But I must do something," Henry burst out. "I cannot wait any longer. I am choked with patience. It seems as if everything was out of my hands, as if all that happens to me for good or ill I can have no part in. I cannot wait without power to make or mar. I do not even care any longer whether I make or I mar, so long as it is my doing."

  "Ay, sire," Poynings nodded, "that is why I said you would be king or dead. You must control. Another would have found a different destiny, perhaps. You will rule or die."

  Henry bit his lip and then burst out laughing. "Do you care which, Ned?"

  Poynings laughed, too; the mood was broken. "Need you ask? If you rule, I will be fat and rich. I do not say I will die if you die, for that is not my intention, but my lot will not be a happy one."

  The laughter died out of Henry's face, and his eyes fixed on Poynings's as if they would swallow them or bore through them. Ned stood unflinching, relaxed, returning the stare. If Henry could see into the soul, as was rumored, Poynings did not care. His soul was no cleaner than another man's; but if Henry could see that, he had seen far worse and Poynings had nothing to fear.

  "You lie," Henry murmured softly. "You lie in your teeth, and you are a fool. You are all fools." He turned away and Poynings was startled by the bitterness in his voice when he spoke again. "No, you are not fools. I am the fool. You have but placed another burden on my back and fettered me with stronger chains."

  "No, sire," Poynings protested. "Whatever load you carry or chains you bear, you have chosen for yourself. Merely, we would not wish to die with you if you were not the man to so burden yourself. Still, I am sorry you know. We did not intend to add this fear to your others."

  Henry had turned to face Poynings again, and he ran a hand through his fair hair, laughing weakly. "Oh, no. Why should that trouble me? Why should a man who does not fear to reach out for a scepter care that every friend he has in the world has sworn to die in the attempt to get it for him? Go to! Get back to your bed. We are all mad together."

  But as the days passed, it seemed less and less mad a venture. Talbot appeared as promised bearing very interesting news. William and John Stanley were Henry's for the taking. William was waiting at Stafford to pledge his faith. Lord Stanley felt the same but could not be so open because his son, Lor
d Strange, was a hostage in Gloucester's hands. Equally good was the news that the earl of Northumberland, the great Percy who ruled the north in Gloucester's name, had not mustered the northern levies to support the king. Henry, who made a practice of accepting all news with as indifferent an expression as possible, blinked. He had always counted Northumberland as a sure enemy.

  "Will Percy come to me?"

  "He fears—not only Richard but his own people. But he, like the rest of us, has had enough of Gloucester. The northerners are ignorant of Richard's little ways. Moreover, their necks are not stretched for the ax blow as ours are. Percy dare not fight for you—but he will not fight against you, either."

  Nor were the hopes raised by Sir Gilbert false ones. Henry met Sir William Stanley the next day at Stafford and Sir William knelt to kiss his hand as a subject kneels to a crowned king. Henry was shocked by a wave of revulsion, however, as the reptilian eyes met his own. Not this, he thought; oh God, my mother could not write so favorably of another one such as this. He checked the thought firmly. Brothers were not always alike, and appearances did not always truly bespeak the man within. After all, Henry knew he was no beauty himself and most men did not care to meet his eyes, either.

  He listened to the promises of faith and protestations of enthusiasm raised by the reports of his virtues with an unmoved face but a writhing spirit. Nor could, the confirmation of Talbot's news that Northumberland had not raised the northern levies give him much pleasure. At the moment he foresaw a lifetime of association with the Stanleys and he wondered briefly if being king would be worth this penance.

  "I will give orders for my army to join me here, then, Sir William," Henry said, concealing his distaste as well as possible, "and we will drive on to Nottingham and hunt the boar from his lair."

  "You will not find him there." William Stanley smiled, and it was fortunate that Henry had good control over his stomach because it protested violently at the sight. "He has summoned my brother and his other men to meet him at Leicester. We would do well to take him from the south."

  "Why?"

  "Because, sire, news of your coming has passed through the country now. York has already sent to Richard to ask whether their help is needed, They did not trust Northumberland's soothing letters. If we go north, we will be caught between Richard's army and men who will fight for him without being ordered to do so."

  "But I have information that the southern levies are marching to join Gloucester now."

  "Perhaps. But if you come between them and the king—I beg your pardon, sire—between them and Gloucester, they will sit down and wait. They will not fight unless driven to it. They are Edward's men, you see, and there is war in their souls between remaining faithful to a Yorkist ruler and taking revenge on the murderer of Edward's children."

  Henry twiddled his fingers gently. His instinct was to do the opposite of any action William Stanley suggested because of his certainty that treachery was not only a matter of self-interest but a matter of amusement to Sir William.

  However Stanley's reasoning was sound, and was heartily approved by the council. Instead of continuing northeast, the Tudor's army marched east by south toward Leicester. Henry still smiled and made speeches to the townsfolk, still ruthlessly and publicly punished any man caught looting or threatening the local population, but he was finding it increasingly difficult to conceal his distraction. Talbot seemed sincere enough, but it was entirely possible that William Stanley had joined his forces only to demoralize them by retreat at a crucial moment in battle.

  He told his devoted guard that he wished to ride alone, and dropped farther and farther behind the main body of his army, musing desperately on whether it was more dangerous to take precautions, which would display his doubt of the Stanleys' good faith and might drive them back to Gloucester, or to pretend trust.

  It was a dull, lowering day and Henry, who was already so tired that he could feel no increase in his fatigue, did not notice the failing light. When his patient, plodding horse stumbled at last and he was jerked from his reverie, the fields about him were empty. Worse, it was so dark that he could hardly see the next fold in the ground, and it would soon be full night. No star, no moon—where was he? Had he ridden ahead? Fallen behind? Had he wandered off the path of the army to the north? To the south?

  Already too thin and feverish, Henry knew that if he slept out all night and was wet by the coming rain, or even by the heavy dews of late August, he would be ill. He urged his mount forward again; he could not stay where he was. Before it grew too black to see at all, he came to a huddle of huts, a village so small that if it had a name at all it was known only to the inhabitants. His hail was not answered, but his sword hilt applied briskly to the door brought a sullen response.

  "Open!" Henry called. "Open, I say."

  The door opened slowly. It was fortunate that Henry had dismounted so that he could thrust his armored body into the opening or the door would have slammed shut again. As soon as the hind saw that it was a single man and not a troop strong enough to enforce their will, the peasant wanted no part of Henry.

  The peasant retreated as Henry advanced. For a moment the Tudor choked in the stench; he considered retiring into the open air again. The thought was only a passing one. Here, armored and with his sword loose in its scabbard, he was safe from the damp and the possibility of being picked up by a roving band of Gloucester's men.

  "I am benighted. I seek shelter," Henry said softly. "I will do you no hurt. Go. Feed and water my horse. You will be rewarded."

  Dull eyes regarded him without either hostility or hope. Henry blinked in the wavering glimmer of a single rushlight and moved his hand suggestively toward his sword hilt. A slighter male figure detached itself from the gloom and went out the door.

  "Whose land is this?" Henry asked.

  The man mumbled a name that meant nothing to the Tudor, and Henry then asked how long the landlord had held this land.

  "Not long. Never long."

  Henry hooked an uneven three-legged stool from the corner and sat down with his back against the wall. It was as difficult to get speech from this hind as from his dogs, but he was somewhat curious about the dull-eyed despair. The man was not starving. The movements of the boy who had gone to feed the horse were too quick to indicate sickness or weakness. These lands were not as rich as those in the south, but they were not as poor as some in Wales either, and it could not be so bitterly hard to wrest a living from them. Of course, the man's trouble might he personal, but it was hopelessness not sorrow that marked his face. Besides, the longer he tried to pry information from this clod, the less time he would have for his own fears.

  "Your landlord is good?"

  That was so odd a question from an armored knight that a spark of interest showed in the laborer's eyes. "Not bad, but soon he will be gone and there will be another."

  "He is old? Sick?"

  A mute negative shake of the head was all the reply Henry received. The door opened, the rushlight flickered; Henry reached toward his sword, and the hind gasped softly and drew back. As it was only the boy returning, Henry dropped his hand again, but the defensive gesture had struck a chord; the older man drew closer again, apparently taking in the pale tiredness of Henry's face for the first time.

  "Hungry?"

  This time Henry nodded mutely, and the hind grunted something into the shadows behind him. A woman came forward carrying a wooden bowl and a broken heel of bread. The ale in the bowl was little better than water, but Henry drank thirstily and then bit into the bread. Ridiculous it might be, but the hospitality offered demanded a similar courtesy from Henry's breeding. In a man's house, you made suitable conversation with him.

  "Will the harvest be good?" Henry asked, thrusting back his hood.

  The laborer shrugged. "The crop is good. The harvest … who knows?"

  That was a puzzler, and Henry found himself more and more interested in such alien processes of thought. "If the crop is good, how can the harvest
be bad?" he asked.

  There was a long silence while the laborer studied his scarred, gnarled hands. Then he lifted his head slowly, as if Henry's intent gaze was forcing speech from him. Anger and bitterness showed on his face now.

  "For that the likes of you will trample it down in your war."

  Henry's first thought was that either his own or Gloucester's army must be encamped nearby; his second that it must be his own, since it was unlikely that Gloucester could have moved so large a mass of men so far from Leicester without an alarm. His face showed only interest, however, and its placidity at last unlocked the peasant's tongue.

  "There's none but us as suffers. The lord, he hears, and he sets us to harvest his crop and the part of ours that’s his, or else he takes his pennies for rent. And the priest, he takes his tithes. And what's left is mine—if the soldiers don't ride it down or graze their horses in the field."

  The Tudor chewed his bread and took another sup of ale. It was useless to speak of intention or necessity to such a man; He knew only his own needs and cared nothing for the general good. To explain that some must suffer so that most would be benefited was a theory beyond his understanding.

  "The armies will not fight here," Henry said at last. It was likely true, unless Gloucester moved incredibly fast. In any case, he wished to offer the comfort to still the man's tongue which he now felt he was unwise to have unlocked. He had worse troubles of his own.

  "What matter." Anger had been replaced by despair again in the hind's face. "When I was a boy, Henry was king, but then Edward came and with him a new landlord. Then Henry again, and again a new lord of the land—then Edward—then Richard. Now another Henry. And each time the lord is new, the rents must be paid again. War or no war, there will be nothing left."