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.
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.