The Dragon and the Rose Page 8

  "That I can and will. Do I work without Francis's knowledge?"

  "No, he is committed to this venture and has promised me men and arms." A shadow passed over Henry's face to be replaced by a somewhat cynical smile. "Indeed, he thinks he is urging me into this. It is easier to have men and money pressed upon one, and a more sure way of getting them, than to beg such aid. And let it be done as quickly as may be."

  "Where is the need for haste? The longer I must hold a force together, the higher the cost, and these men are restless. They do not like idleness."

  "If need be, they can fight for Francis while they wait, but I do not think there will be long to wait."

  Jasper expostulated that rebellions take time to raise, but it soon became clear that Henry's guess was right. On the last day of September Hugh Conway appeared again, and this time he delivered his messages on bended knee. Buckingham promised to raise the whole south of England on October 18, and Henry was to land as near to that day as possible. Francis redoubled his efforts in Henry's behalf, and by October 12 fifteen ships had been collected and loaded with the five thousand mercenaries Jasper had engaged.

  The entire effort had been carried out with an efficiency surprising to all the principals except Henry, to whom the efficiency was owing. His genius for organization ensured that the ships were readied as the men appeared, that supplies were stacked where the men could be given their share without confusion as they went aboard, that, most amazing of all, the leaders of the multilingual, multinational force, worked together without dissension. Somehow the impression had been given them that to cause disruption of the plans of this leader would result in such extreme discomfort that it was far better to submerge one's dignity if that was necessary to obey orders.

  Yet Henry offered no threats and little encouragement. He spoke of the venture as a certainty, but not an easy one. Man strives, Henry told the assembled leaders, but God decides the moment of success. It was possible that this effort would take England, but it was also possible it would not. Then the next effort, or the effort after that, would achieve the goal. The mercenaries were to understand that, succeed or not, their pay would be uninterrupted; if they did not succeed, they were to remain ready for another attack. There would be no disbanding of forces until Henry was king of England.

  It was as well that Henry offered his men this assurance, for the moment was wrong. By the night of October 12 a gale had risen and, strive as they would, ship after ship was torn from the convoy and cast back upon the coast of Brittany. To Henry it was later evident that the storm showed the mercy of God and His favor toward the cause.

  As if to give him proof, his ship and one other came safe to England's coast—and the coast wherever he tried it, at Poole or Plymouth or anywhere in Devon and Cornwall, was in arms against him. Plainly, Buckingham's rising had failed. Had there been no storm, had he and his men assayed a landing, they would have been cut to pieces. Had they exercised caution and turned tail, the spirit of the men would have been broken, for they would have misunderstood and put down as cowardice what was merely discretion in their leader. No man could blame Henry for a storm. He knew he had been saved from certain failure by Divine intervention, and his spirits were higher, his purpose firmer when they turned away from England's coast than when they started.

  More proof of God's favor came. The wind set hard against Brittany and Henry was forced to land in Normandy. Instead of taking him prisoner and selling him to Richard, Anne, sister and regent for Charles VIII, gave him a safe passport to Brittany. She did more: in her brother's name she sent Henry money to pay his men, and a warm message of friendship accompanied the gold. This was no effort to rid France of his dangerous presence, either. If Henry wished to go to Brittany, the letter said, he could, but he should remember that France was open to him at any time and France would aid him when and as he desired.

  By October 30 Henry was back at Francis's court. The duke welcomed him with pleasure and was not in the least discouraged. They must wait to discover what had fallen amiss, Francis said, but Henry was not to concern himself. There would be more money and more men. And Henry had ten thousand golden crowns from Francis then and there to prove that these were not empty words.

  One thing alone preyed on his spirit—his mother's safety. Even that fear was not meant to distract him from his purpose. Before he was free of the necessary labors of meeting the needs of the flood of refugees who escaped after the failure of the rebellion, a gentleman who was no refugee and refused to give his name asked private audience. The audience was not quite private. Jasper stood at Henry's shoulder, his hand on his sword hilt.

  "I must speak alone with Henry, earl of Richmond."

  "You are speaking alone with him. This is Jasper, earl of Pembroke, flesh of my flesh and blood of my blood. His ears are as mine; his silence is as mine. Speak or be still as you desire, for we are one," Henry rejoined.

  The messenger was not pleased, but after a moment he shrugged. "I come to tell you of the welfare of Lady Margaret Stanley. It is her safety, not mine, which is at stake."

  The blood drained from Henry's face and he closed his eyes for a moment. Richard had Margaret; he held her life in hostage for Henry's. The choice was to return to England with the messenger or to doom Margaret. Henry decided as quickly as the idea clarified. To go could not save his mother. Richard would kill them both or imprison Margaret with the knowledge that her son had bought her life with his. What life could she have with that knowledge? She might even be dead already and this a mere trap.

  "Speak." Henry's voice was soft, but it boded ill. He could see Jasper's free hand clinging to his chair, and he did not need to see Jasper's face to judge its expression, because the messenger paled and stepped back.

  "In God's name, my lords, I am the bearer of good tidings," he cried. "It is only that news of my coming must not get to King Richard's ears. The Lady Margaret is safe in her husband's keeping. I am come from Lord Stanley himself to assure you of his love for her and that, though she be not free to send you news or aid, neither will she suffer distress."

  There was a long pause while Henry stared into the messenger's eyes. The man thanked God that he had been telling the truth, because the concentration in those glinting eyes seemed to harrow his soul. In fact, few men could lie to Henry, because he expected all men to lie to him and was constantly aware of hesitations and inflections others would not have noticed.

  His concentrated glare in this case, however intimidating, was merely a cover for his struggle with his unruly brain and stomach. So great was his relief that he had a nearly unendurable urge to vomit and faint. To show his relief, he knew, would only give Stanley a hold over him; so he swallowed his gorge and smiled. The grimace, thinning his lips and exposing his teeth, made a neat addition to the messenger's terror.

  "I am glad to hear that," Henry murmured. "I will remember it in your lord's favor. It would be most unfortunate for him and his should any harm come to the Lady Margaret." A few more words of slightly less threatening aspect were added as a dismissal and, at last, Henry slid a large, handsome ring from his finger and held it out to the messenger. "The bearer of glad tidings is gladly received and joyfully dismissed. Go in peace."

  "Why did you give him that ring, Harry?" Jasper asked. "God knows we are short of money. If you wished to be rid of it, I could have brought it to the Lombards."

  "That is good news," Henry muttered to himself, ignoring his uncle’s complaint, "very good, the best."

  "Of course it is good news. I tell you, I feared for your mother in my very bowels, but is that a reason to part with such a ring?"

  "My mother? Oh, yes, thank God she is safe, but I did not speak of that news. Stanley is hedging against the future. If we come in force, he will not defend Richard."

  Now Jasper followed the line of Henry's thoughts, and he was made uneasy by their coldness. "Some men do love women," he said drily.

  "Yes," Henry replied impatiently, "and my mother is such a
woman as can easily be loved. I do not say he kept her safe to find favor with me, but he sent that messenger for no other reason. Therefore, he fears, expects or even desires my success. And if Lord Stanley feels thus, Richard's grip on England must be frail."

  "The news is good, but I still do not see the reason for giving the messenger a ring which could feed a troop of men for a week."

  "So that he, and his master through him, will not think that I need care for the value of one paltry ring."

  Henry's voice was patient, but plainly his mind was elsewhere. From then on he turned his attention more closely to the English refugees. During the next few weeks a group among them was singled out to become an inner council. Some were chosen for their birth and connections, others because they had some special ability or skill, and still others because Henry liked them as men.

  The man he kept closest to him, to Jasper's dismay, was Thomas Grey, marquis of Dorset, the dowager queen's son by her first husband. To Jasper's protests that, whatever his name, Dorset was a Woodville at heart, shallow and untrustworthy, Henry made no reply other than an inscrutable smile. He had long since realized that Jasper thought as he acted, honestly and directly. If Jasper mistrusted a man, he would banish him if he could not destroy him. That seemed the height of foolhardiness to Henry, whose mind worked along other paths, especially when the man in question was powerful himself or had powerful friends and relatives. Those one must keep under one's eye, cozening them with soft words and, by depriving them of all service while—if necessary—heaping them with empty honors, drain them of ability to do harm.

  With the others whom Henry selected, Jasper had no quarrel, although he really approved only of Sir Edward Courtenay. Sir Edward was like Jasper himself, soldierly, honest, and, as eldest male relative, he was heir to the earldom of Devonshire, which had been forfeited by his cousin Thomas Courtenay for dying in the Lancastrian cause at the battle of Tewksbury.

  Soon messengers began to pass from Courtenay to his many relatives in England extolling Henry's virtues, detailing his real claim to the throne, describing his growing strength and the increasing hope of a Lancastrian restoration. Henry, who wrote the letters, made sure to add that no Yorkist who did not actively oppose him would suffer. They would be protected by his proposed marriage with Edward's daughter Elizabeth.

  Richard Edgecombe also won qualified approval from Henry's uncle. He had a decent family, a sharp wit and a smooth conciliatory manner that was very useful in dealing with men whose tempers were exacerbated by misfortune. In addition, Edgecombe had a minor genius for money, which permitted Henry to pass to him some of the problems of stretching their slender resources.

  Richard Guildford fell into the same category and also won his place by having been one of the first four men active in the rebellion against Gloucester. He, too, understood money, although he was better at collecting it than at juggling figures for niggling disbursements.

  Also, Guildford had a hobby that might be of great value—the science of new weapons and the means to resist them. He had a passion for big guns. No one else in the group knew as much about artillery or the type of defenses that could withstand it. Guildford discoursed at length, and at the slightest excuse, of trajectories, impact force, and rigid versus flexible barriers. Henry, at least, listened whenever he could, although he was frequently reduced to helpless laughter by terms that grew so technical and so mixed with mathematical equations that Guildford might have been speaking a foreign language for all he could understand.

  The other two puzzled Jasper. There was William Brandon, strong as a bull, a deadly and enthusiastic fighter, but not the type of man Henry usually sought out. If Jasper had not been as sure that Henry did not love flattery as he was that his nephew was shrewder than any other man he had ever come across, he would have thought that Brandon's adulation had gained him his place on the council. Not that Brandon said much, but the sheer worship that shone in his eyes was clear to all.

  Perhaps Brandon had been chosen because he lightened Henry's mood. They gambled together with straws or pebbles as stakes, because Brandon was really penniless and Henry had not a penny to waste on play. They played crude jokes on others, roaring so infectiously with laughter that the butt of the jest joined the fun rather than taking offense. Henry always seemed younger and more human in Brandon's company. When he and William appeared together, men relaxed and spoke more freely than when Henry was alone.

  To the constraint that most men felt in Henry's presence, Edward Poynings was an exception. Jasper reasoned correctly that his fearlessness had recommended him to Henry's notice. Besides this, however, there was outwardly nothing to set him apart from the many other gentlemen refugees. True, he was a big man, almost as strong and almost as good with lance and sword as Brandon, but so were many others. He had no notable special talents, no family or friends of great influence, and nothing beyond respect marked his manner to Henry. Yet of all the group, he was the one most often sent for in the dark watches of the night, and Jasper had once or twice seen a fleeting expression of pity and pride on his face when Henry had spoken to him and passed on.

  Except for warning Henry against Dorset, however, Jasper had not expressed his opinion about his nephew's choice of advisers. More and more Jasper followed Henry's orders without comment and was satisfied to do so, satisfied that what Henry decided was best. He felt no resentment. It seemed such a natural thing, because Henry's manner was as sure and authoritative as that of the best of reigning monarchs'.

  When Jasper thought of the situation at all, he felt only astonishment that the tiny infant he had not believed would live, the loving child he had played with, had grown into such a man. Yet both the frailty and the love were still present, Jasper was reminded as he came into Henry's chamber in response to a summons. Henry was too pale, and mauve rings of fatigue showed under his eyes, but he smiled gaily and took Jasper's warm hands into his cold ones.

  "Uncle, I do not see enough of you."

  "I have been busy—on your affairs, Harry."

  "I know," Henry sighed. For a fraction of a second he looked uncertain. "Will we ever have time to talk and laugh as we used to?" Jasper made no reply, and Henry's troubled expression was replaced by a mischievous smile. "It is time to sting Richard again. Are you willing to put your neck in a noose for me?"

  "Why not? A man can lose but one head, and mine is forfeit on my own account. I have little to fear in serving you."

  Henry had not released Jasper's hands and now pulled him closer to kiss him. "You make yourself always less than you are. Uncle, I would have you summon every Englishman of note who is committed to my cause to be at the cathedral at Rennes on Christmas Day."

  "Secretly?"

  "No. If there are any spies of Richard's among us, give them every chance to be present. The more, the merrier. I will have all those present swear fealty and do me homage as if I were already crowned king."

  Jasper did not question the bold move but set about his task. When he arrived at Rennes, he realized that Henry and his council had also been busy. By and large the refugees were a ragged lot, but they would not appear so on the great day. Rich clothing and masses of jewels had been begged and borrowed from wherever available, and those too destitute to provide their own finery were appareled in borrowed plumes. The richly clad, bejeweled mass would make a brave show of power and plenty.

  They were fortunate in everything, for Christmas Day dawned bright and clear. The rich colors of the robes glowed, the jewels glittered, spirits were lifted by the frosty air, and the voices of the choir sounded like those of angels filling the heavens. The interior of the cathedral, so oppressive and gloomy on a bleak day, was transformed into glory by the sun, which patterned its interior with ruby, emerald, and sapphire linked with gold and obsidian from the stained-glass windows.

  When Mass was over and Henry, most magnificently robed of all, stood before the altar to receive the homage of his men, he knew he had done right. He had invoked and
received God's blessing for his cause, and the expressions of awe and dedication on the faces of the men who swore to him bespoke their devotion.

  That he had succeeded in pricking Richard was clear from the countermeasures the king took. Buckingham had been executed in November, and Richard now turned his attention to the dowager queen. By working upon her vain and unstable nature, he convinced her to leave sanctuary. Elizabeth had been terrified, but at first the move seemed to have done no harm. Although he ordered that the dowager and her daughters remain under supervision, he did not approach them or urge any particular act upon them. Gradually, over the months, Elizabeth almost forgot that she was really a prisoner.

  Now she knew it again, knew it with a cold terror that numbed her soul and would not even let her weep. She tried to forget, to remember only the time she had spent in Lord Stanley's household. Lady Margaret was so kind, so different from her own mother. She had mentioned Henry once and, seeing Elizabeth blush, had begged pardon and changed the subject. Elizabeth had been annoyed with herself. She wanted to know everything about Henry of Richmond. It had taken a good deal of finesse to bring up the subject again.

  Lady Margaret had admitted she no longer knew her son very well—they had been long parted—but she took out some of his letters and gave them to Elizabeth to read. Elizabeth tried to recall them word for word, so tender, so loving, so playful—and the memory of those letters kept the cold terror at bay for a few moments. Of course, his letters to her were nothing like that, but that was quite proper. There had been only three. Elizabeth understood that, also. It was out of consideration for her safety. If a messenger with a letter to her had been taken, she would have been in great danger. And Henry had been right. Look what had happened when he vowed he would marry her, without even proof that she had agreed.