The Dragon and the Rose Read online

  Now she was sorry that her own letters to Henry had been so formal. When he sent her a ring and a graceful acknowledgment of her acceptance of him, she had replied, sending him one of her last pieces of jewelry, a brooch; but she knew the wording of her reply had been stiff and without heart.

  Perhaps if she had been warmer, he would have thought less of the princess and more of the woman. But it was hard to show warmth in a letter. If she could speak to him, the formal words would not matter. He would see in her eyes and her smile that she wished— Her mother could not stop the look in her eyes, Elizabeth had thought resentfully as she was made to rewrite one letter only because she had expressed a hope that she would please Henry. Her mother had scolded her. It was not Elizabeth's business to please her husband. He should be honored by the hand of Edward's daughter even if she were a squint-eyed leper with the temper of a dragon.

  That was true enough, Elizabeth acknowledged, as far as Edward's daughter and the earl of Richmond went—but what of Elizabeth and Henry? Her mother had said she was a fool. For a queen and a king there were no Elizabeths and Henrys. The earl of Richmond wanted to be king and for that purpose desired Edward's daughter. If Elizabeth did not remember who she was every moment, he would use her and then cast her aside like a worn-out clout once he was firmly established.

  Elizabeth passed a dry tongue across her lips in a vain attempt to bring moisture to them. That thought had brought the cold back upon her. She tried to think of Margaret and her warm, happy household. Lord Stanley worshiped the ground Lady Margaret walked upon. Although he was not often at home, being much occupied with the king's business, his joy in returning and his sorrow at parting from his wife could not be disguised.

  But it was no good. No memory of safety could protect her now. Richard had begun to suspect Lady Margaret, and he had taken Elizabeth away and sent her to this bleak manor far to the north, where she was guarded like a prisoner, spied upon and treated with insolence by the women who were supposed to serve her.

  With Elizabeth in his power, Richard felt more secure. Henry had sworn at Rennes to marry Edward's eldest girl as soon as he should be crowned king, but Richard had feared he would try to spirit her out of England and marry her first, thereby securing to his cause all those faithful to Edward's memory. Next King Richard sent another embassy to Brittany and, with that, Henry's luck seemed to run out.

  Francis fell unconscious in the middle of a state dinner. It was Pierre Landois who received the ambassadors. Landois dared not move too quickly, because Francis had recovered in a few days from similar, although milder, attacks, but he promised the envoys that if Francis remained irrational or died, Henry would be delivered to them. There was no need to act immediately, because Henry was not at court and did not know what was going on. Secure in Francis's protection, he had absented himself so that the duke's prevarications to the English ambassadors should be less obvious.

  After a week had passed, in which Francis remained partially paralyzed and wholly incoherent, Landois stated his terms. A few days later, Richard boasted to several of his intimates that, for the small cost of Richmond's revenues and support of Landois against the nobles of Brittany, Henry Tudor would be delivered into his hands. Before Richard's elaborate letter agreeing to Landois's terms was written, a rider was careening through the night toward Dover.

  The early tide found the same rider on a ship bound for Flanders, and two days later he was gasping out his message to John Morton, who had fled into exile after Buckingham's rebellion failed. The original messenger was sent back to England—it would not be healthy for his master to be mixed into this business—and Christopher Urswick, a trusted aide of Morton's, rode posthaste for Brittany. He found Henry at Vannes, much troubled by the news of Francis's illness, which had only then reached him, but when Urswick spoke his piece, Henry merely nodded.

  "One thing must have led to the other. Can you endure another long ride, Urswick?"

  "Ay, my lord."

  "Then, off to France with you. When you have eaten, I will have letters ready requesting a passport from Charles."

  "My lord, would it not be better to chance Charles's favor and come with me now? The French have already invited you to their country. If Landois tries to take you here—"

  "He will not." Henry replied so calmly that it was clear to Urswick that the beads of perspiration on his forehead were owing to his being too close to the fire. Indeed, he moved away from it just then. "Landois has not yet enough power to call up the Breton nobles against me, and my forces are concentrated here at Vannes. He would need an army to take me. Why should he expose himself to such danger? He has sent me word of Francis's illness, and I doubt that he believes I could yet have word of his intentions. He must think that I will come very soon to visit the duke. Then he will have me trapped without effort."

  That night Jasper and Edward Poynings were summoned to Henry's chamber. They found him already in bed, his eyes too bright and his face pale in the candlelight. Henry's news was received with a bitter oath from Jasper, who began to pace the room angrily, and with a frown by Poynings, who asked stolidly, "Do we fight or run, my lord?"

  "Neither. I have sent a message to ask how Francis does and whether he would be able to receive me. The answer will be affirmative, of course, but my messenger will have trouble on the road and be very slow in returning. By the time he does come here, I hope we will have word from Urswick. Meantime, uncle, you will set out with Edgecombe, Dorset, Courtenay, Guildford, and a suitable armed troop to pay your respects separately and ask how Francis does. As soon as you are able, ride for the border, instead, and take refuge in France."

  "But what about you, Harry?"

  "If I can avoid a clash with the Bretons, even those favoring Landois, I must. No armed troop of which I was a part will move anywhere in Brittany, especially toward the border or out of the country, without opposition. I will follow later."

  Henry bit his lips. He was frightened, and he did not wish to be separated from Jasper. The two parts of him warred briefly, the small boy who needed to hide in Jasper's arms and the reasoning man who had decided upon the least dangerous of several unsatisfactory moves. When he turned to Poynings, nothing was left of the small boy but a shadow in his eyes and a hollowness in his stomach. "Ned, you are the sacrifice. Are you willing?"

  "If a sacrifice is necessary and I am most suitable—I suppose I am willing."

  "You are the only all-around able military commander besides my uncle. You must remain here to control the bulk of the men. I will also leave Sir Edward Woodville … not that he will be of much help, but his ships might be useful. Stay here quietly if you can. If Landois moves against you, use your judgment as to withstanding him or crowding all the men you can aboard Woodville's ships and abandoning the others. Tell them to spread through the countryside and name Landois as their pursuer. I think—I pray—they will be sheltered. Ned" Henry's voice was pleading "I am leaving you a disagreeable task."

  "So you are," Poynings replied unemotionally, "but someone must handle it, and I will do as well as I am able."

  "But what will you do, Harry?" Jasper insisted.

  "I am not yet sure. I must seize the best opportunity which presents itself, and what that will be I cannot tell, being uncertain as a reader of crystals." Nor could either of you tell, Henry thought, if you were taken and questioned.

  The lie he had told did not trouble him; Henry was never troubled by lying, because he did so only after considerable thought and with a firm conviction that untruth was the best and safest device. The same reason made it virtually impossible to trap him in a lie, because he uttered it with the force and flow of truth, without doubt or hesitation. His manner, therefore, was perfectly natural when he woke William Brandon before dawn of the day following his receipt of a French passport.

  "Slug! Will you sleep all this fair day or will you ride hunting with me?"

  "Softly, my lord," William groaned, "I was making merry last night."

/>   Henry laughed. "Then, you must come. The air will clear your head, and I will explain why it is better to work all night than drink all night."

  Brandon was already out of bed and dressing, although he moved gingerly. "I know. I have heard it before. You say you look no better than I, but your head does not ache and—"

  "Yes. I see you know the words but have not learned the lesson. Well, the horses are ready saddled. Come below as silently as may be. The game is hunted out hereabout, but I have heard of a boar. You and I and the huntsmen alone, William, I do not want to share this sport with the others."

  They walked their horses without haste through the courtyard and down the streets, which were barely beginning to stir for the day's activities. No one paid any attention to the party clad and weaponed for hunting; it was too common a sight. They were first out of the gates, but that, also, was too common a practice for hunting parties to merit notice. Once free of the town, they loosed their reins and the fresh mounts gladly quickened pace into a gentle canter. William Brandon was too taken up with his physical discomfort to have noticed that the men accompanying them were not in truth huntsmen but Henry's personal servants. He did notice that they clung to the still-empty road and traveled east, but only because the lightening sky was tormenting his eyes.

  When Henry turned off the road into a little knoll of woods, however, Brandon really woke up. "Sire, you cannot think there is a boar in this wood. It is no more than a marker between fields."

  "I do not think there is a boar in any wood hereabout, Will. You and I have killed them all."

  Henry slid down from his horse and, under Brandon's startled eyes, began to undress. He threw off his rich cloak, pulled the sleeves loose from his brigandine and cast away boots and hose. One servant was gathering up and packing these items; another offered replacements in coarse homespun with a servant's tunic to cover all. Then a fine chain-mail shirt was unrolled from a saddlebag.

  "Stop gawking, Will," Henry laughed. "Do you want to be sent back to England and lose your head? Well, I do not. Nor is it to my taste that the traitor Landois should grow fat on Richmond's revenues. We fly for France. Now, off with that cloak and on with the mail. You are a gentleman traveling with five servants. You visited me, found my court too poor and are taking yourself to Landois, if anyone asks. Come now, do not look so aghast. You are the only weapon I brought. Can you see me safe into France, William?"

  "While blood and breath are in my body, I will see you safe into and out of anywhere—hell included, my lord."

  Henry laughed aloud. "Onward, then. Be you sword and shield to me."

  Actually, he expected no trouble. It was nothing uncommon for him to ride out hunting and return only late in the evening. They had probably a full day and possibly even a day and a night before Landois's spies would grow uneasy and report his absence. By then they should be safe in France. Henry, however, had counted a trifle too much on Landois's caution and too little on the eagerness of Richard's envoys. It was not difficult to extract a letter from Francis demanding Henry's presence to comfort him. His muddled mind had forgotten the envoys and the danger and longed for his fosterling's soothing voice and calm manner. Perhaps the duke even dimly understood he was almost a prisoner and felt that Henry could save him.

  Armed with this missive, which Henry would not dare disregard, Landois's men had entered Vannes just about the time Henry left by another gate. It did not take them long to discover that the quarry was gone. Had they been Francis's men, who half accepted Henry as their next master, they would have sat down to wait his return. Landois, however, was too clever for that. The troop were mercenaries in his own pay, their captain a clever, suspicious man whose swift inquiries established that neither dogs nor huntsmen had accompanied Henry. Poynings's assurances that Henry's clothing and valuables were still in his chamber went for nothing. If Henry was hunting, no harm could be done by joining him to make sure he returned; and if he had tried to escape, they would certainly be able to capture him.

  CHAPTER 7

  Henry Tudor raised his head from his arms. The accounts on the table seemed to be muddling his brain even with his eyes closed. He stared out through the narrow window. Did the sun never shine in France, even in the spring? Henry looked down at his hands, which had always been thin and beautiful; they looked like emaciated claws, and his normally brilliant eyes were dull as he stared at them. It was nearly a year since he had escaped Landois, and the horror of that ride, twisting and turning, backing and hiding, without food, without sleep, day after day, was nothing to the horror of this past year.

  At first it had not been too bad. He had been welcomed so warmly that his distaste for asking help from France had almost been removed. It seemed that he would have little to do but get his men safely out of Brittany and that money, ships, and more men would be showered upon him, ensuring his success. But Henry, who thought he understood court factions and intrigue, found he had much to learn. Francis's court was small and the plotting of the Breton nobles a childish game compared with the war of words and policies in which he was now enmeshed.

  The first lesson came when Francis recovered sufficiently to understand what had happened. His steady affection was displayed at once by releasing Poynings and Woodville from what nearly amounted to a state of siege, sending money to them and giving his permission for the small army to join Henry in France. Instead of stimulating French fervor, this piece of good fortune gave it a sharp check. Henry realized that the French cared little who sat on the throne of England so long as that country continued to be torn by civil war. They would help him, but not to an overwhelming victory.

  Henry changed his attitude skillfully. He had been trying to convince the French council of Richard's weakness, his own strength, and his ability to win a swift, sure victory. Now he exhibited uncertainty; Richard was strong in the north, he confessed, and it might take a long time to bring the country to heel. He would need French help—perhaps for years. His pleas for that help and his protestations of gratitude stuck in his throat so that he could not eat and was constantly sick at his stomach.

  The maneuvering, however, brought a piece of good fortune—the best he had had in a very long time and one that lasted his entire life. Henry had bowed gravely and turned away from a conversation with the duke of Orleans, the leader of one of the political factions, when he was approached by a man of about his own age clad in sober priestly robes.

  "My lord of Richmond?" the man asked in English.

  "Yes?" Henry replied rather curtly. He could little afford another refugee in his tail, especially a priest who could not fight and had no power.

  The priest smiled. "I do not desire your help, my lord, but wish to offer my own to you."

  "Then, I thank you," Henry said more pleasantly but still noncommittally. Help was seldom offered without a price, and the price was usually more than the help was worth or Henry could afford. "But to whom do I speak?"

  "My name is Richard Foxe. It will mean nothing to you now, my lord, but I think you will remember it."

  The assurance made Henry turn his full attention on the speaker, but Foxe did not flinch under that searching stare. "Indeed I may," Henry murmured. Then, smiling, "And what help would you offer, Dr. Foxe."

  Foxe's hand stroked the furred facing of his gown. "You know the orders of the church, it would seem," he said approvingly.

  "Enough to recognize the gown of a doctor of canon law. What do you know of secular law?"

  "I have made some study of it," Foxe replied, pinching his lower lip with his fingers in a way that Henry soon learned was characteristic of amusement.

  "Then riddle me this riddle. Is any act of parliament valid regardless of its wording, and does it supersede any previous act on the same subject whether or not it refers to that previous act or is in direct contradiction of it?"

  "You must give me exact particulars, my lord, and even then I will answer you only with more contradictions, evasions, and reservations. When has a
lawyer done otherwise?"

  Both men now smiled. A test had been offered and passed, since Foxe was in little doubt of the subject in Henry's mind.

  "Very well," Henry said. "In the time of Richard II, my great-grandfather was legitimated by act of parliament—merely legitimated, without reservation. When my great uncle Henry IV came to the throne, the legitimation was affirmed by act of parliament, but this time a reservation against receiving the crown was inserted. Since the second act stated it was an affirmation of the first yet changed the wording, is that second act valid or invalid?"

  "It is of no importance," Foxe said and held up one finger to check Henry's speech. "You can come to the throne only in one of two ways—by conquest or by a request from the parliament that you do so after Richard has been deposed. In either case the parliament will pass an act naming you king. Now, if an act of parliament may be invalid because of pressure of circumstances and the act naming you king may be, for that reason, contested as invalid, why, then, the act of Henry IV is also invalid, since it was also passed under pressure of conquest. Then the first act, that of Richard II, is valid and you have the best hereditary claim to the throne and may take it by right. "

  Henry nodded, but Foxe's finger went up to keep him silent again.

  "But," the priest continued, "if any act of parliament is valid, whatever its wording or circumstances, then the act naming you king will be valid and will supersede the act which denied your family the royal dignity. Thereupon, you will be king by law and none may contest that right."

  The answer was as full of holes as an old sieve, but since the Yorkist claim was equally full of holes, resting on a line broken twice by females as well as on deposition, murder, and conquest, it was good enough. Henry liked Dr. Foxe, enjoyed his cynical humor and took pleasure in a mind at least as sinuous as his own. He entrusted him with small diplomatic commissions, then with more important and exacting ones. Their mutual admiration and esteem grew. Richard Foxe was more cosmopolitan than any other man in Henry's entourage and less inhibited by hereditary hatred of the French. When even Edgecombe's diplomatic smoothness was marred by distaste and distrust, Foxe never failed.