He turned to her again, courteously, his head thrust slightly forward as with the intensity of his listening. "Except?" he encouraged, his thin lips curved mockingly and his bright grey eyes filled with contempt.
Was she to endure this, Elizabeth wondered. A swift glance showed her her mother's fury. She would be scolded, shrieked at, reviled. Elizabeth was not a physical coward. She had faced with courage the possibility that Gloucester would kill her and marry one of her sisters. She had ridden south with Robert Willoughby at breakneck speed without a murmur. Her cousin, the young earl of Warwick who was really her father's heir to the throne now, had wept and trembled at the pace Willoughby set. The boy had to be carried across Willoughby's saddle at last, but Elizabeth had faced ditch and fence without fear. Only she could not endure loud voices, angry quarreling, or endless nagging. It made her sick and weak to be told that she was unkind, unnatural, and selfish.
"My brother Dorset," she whispered, her face red as fire again. "I would beg you to—to recall him home."
"I am pledged to do so," Henry said smoothly. "I am not likely to break my word, however, like others are to do so." He raised her hand and kissed it, properly, icily. "And now, I beg your pardon all for so brief a greeting, but I have much to do."
Henry worked for the rest of the day in his own chamber. He did not come down for the evening meal, sending Oxford, Edgecombe, and Courtenay, who was much improved, with smooth-tongued excuses. Before the second set of candles had guttered and been replaced, however, Jasper entered without ceremony. Henry glanced up and smiled, but Jasper did not respond.
"Harry, your mother wants you."
Henry laid down his pen at once. "Is she alone?" Jasper nodded, and he rose. Poynings and Guildford stood, also, but Henry gestured them back. "Keep on with those lists of men suitable for commissions of the peace and sheriffs, I am in no danger here."
He found Margaret pacing her room, and the glance she turned on him was neither awed nor admiring but frankly angry. "What made you use such discourtesy to the queen and to Lady Elizabeth?"
"I thought I was most courteous—compared with what they offered me."
"Elizabeth Woodville is a dangerous woman."
"True. Would you have me ruled by her? There were women enough in that room to spread word of how the king of England bowed meekly before her while she remained seated. Is that what you desire? Why the devil is she here?"
Margaret's angry expression faded to one of weary worry. "Because I dare not leave her out of my sight or hearing. I think she already had made some plan of setting Elizabeth up as queen. It could not succeed. England will not accept a queen, particularly when the state is so reft apart, but it could have made more trouble for you. Oh, Henry, I am so afraid."
He caught her hands. "I am not afraid. If it were not God's will that I be king, I would have been slain on Bosworth field. Richard came within one ax blow of it. Nay, Mother, do not weep. Here am I, unhurt, with Gloucester's crown fastened to my helm. I tell you this is God's work, not man's. He has set me on the throne, and He will preserve me there."
"God's will be done." Margaret sighed. "Perhaps you are right. Perhaps it is better to outface the Woodvilles. But why did you insult Lady Elizabeth? What hurt has she done you? Henry, she has ever favored you. She even sent you tokens when she had little enough to send and it was a danger to her if the messenger was taken. She is a good girl."
Henry dropped his mother's hands. "Edward's and Elizabeth Woodville's daughter! Good? Good for what? Lust and luxury are what she is good for."
"Henry!"
"Oh, I will wed her, and bed her, and doubtless she will breed me heirs—they are fecund mares, those Woodville women. I know where my advantage lies. But I will be king of England of myself, not by Lady Elizabeth's courtesy. In this country and in my own house, I will be master."
"Henry, listen. She
is
a good girl. She was in my husband's keeping for near a year, and I came to know her well. Her looks are like her mother's, I admit, but her nature is more like her father's."
"I do not see that there was much to choose between them."
"You are growing bitter, Henry. There was much good in Edward. His temper was sweet." Margaret smiled almost pleadingly. "Sweeter than yours, my love. And at first he was temperate and not vengeful." Her voice dropped to a fearful whisper. "It was the kingship that destroyed him. All men say it. Little by little, he rotted."
"There is not enough of me to rot," Henry said gaily, slapping his lean belly. "I can only dry up."
Margaret would not let him shift the subject. "Be kind to her, Henry."
"I hope I will be just," he replied coldly. "If she is a good wife, she will find me an irreproachable husband."
He kissed his mother and left, and, though he was irritated by her defense of Elizabeth, he was happy. Margaret had spoken her mind freely, had come close to scolding him. All was well. His mother was still his mother and not afraid. He returned to the problem of setting men faithful to him in both major and minor administrative posts with the least disruption and dissatisfaction possible.
Margaret stood staring at the closed door, then turned and dropped to her knees before the elaborate crucifix that hung on the wall. My knees have become calloused with praying, she thought, but they will bleed with it before my Henry is safe. Later she rose and crossed the hall. She scratched at a door, opened it without waiting for a reply, and went in swiftly.
Elizabeth was not asleep. She was sitting upright in bed, her hair a golden cascade around her shoulders, two bright red spots on her cheeks, and her eyes sparkling like gems in her rage.
"I did not announce myself for fear you would turn me away," Margaret said, smiling.
"You have always been a kind friend, madam," Elizabeth replied icily. "How should I turn you away?"
"Elizabeth, just because Henry has disgraced himself, must you be angry with me?"
The full lips quivered, the blue eyes misted over. "I am not angry."
Margaret laughed. "Now you will have to confess that you tell lies. You are angry and, indeed, I would think you a simpleton if you were not. Dreadful boy, he has no sense at all."
"On the contrary, he has, it seems, an overwhelming sense of his royal dignity—being new to it."
"Oh, dear," Margaret said, plaintively humorous, "I never knew you to be so waspish." Then her face became grave. "But it is not true. Henry wears dignity like a cloak to hide the man underneath. Elizabeth, you must be patient with him. You and he will spend your lives together. Is not a little patience a small price to pay for a happy life?"
"Happy? A princess does not expect to be happy. She does not expect to be insulted, either."
"But Elizabeth, you
can
be happy with Henry. This is why I beg you not to harden your heart against him because of a sharp word or two. He loves few, but he loves with his whole being. It is worth much suffering to see the cloak cast aside and gain such a love."
"Doubtless it is given already."
That was the thing Margaret feared. She had not had the courage to ask her son, and now she did not dare lie to Elizabeth for she knew not whether hardship might have bred cruelty in Henry. If so, he might tell Elizabeth just to hurt her—to wound the only thing that was left of Edward who had driven him into hardship.
"He is so good," she said desperately.
Elizabeth's expression softened. "Indeed, madam, he is good to you. Who could fail to be good to you?"
Margaret seized eagerly on the sign of weakening. "You cannot forgive him now, but only let me tell you what I heard from Pembroke so that you may understand. Henry has not slept three hours a night for ten days. Think what it is to set to rights a kingdom so torn by war and hatred. He has made a hundred—mayhap a thousand—pretty speeches, and listened to as many. Then he comes, overworn, overweary, to a place where he thinks there will be no need for fine words. Who needs fine words for a mother? This relief denied him, he struck out at those he felt tore his rest from him. Elizabeth, he is so frail. He was never strong. That is why I said he has no sense. He pushes himself beyond his strength."
"A very dangerous thing to do. Dangerous to himself as well as to others."
The faint warmth was gone from Elizabeth's voice. Margaret could only hope that the girl would remember what had been said when she was less angry. She turned the subject to Elizabeth's studies, for both of them loved learning, and before she left she had the satisfaction of seeing the princess's complexion and expression return to normal.
Nonetheless, Margaret was deeply distressed. Aside from being Edward's heir, Elizabeth had seemed a perfect match for Henry. She was beautiful, pious, sweet-tempered, and very intelligent. Her conversation was witty and she was an accomplished musician. What could be more perfect to delight a busy man in his few hours of leisure?
If Elizabeth did have a fault, aside from the very womanly ones of being easily excited and easily reduced to tears, it was pride. She was very conscious of being a king's daughter. Still, Margaret did not believe that Elizabeth wished to rule. She had never shown any sign of interest in political matters except those that affected her personally. Her pride was centered in outward things—very like her mother she was in the love of show—in being treated with honor.
Henry would be battling a chimera if he classed Elizabeth's desire for recognition for its own sake with her mother's desire for recognition, which could be used to wield influence over government. If he fought to keep her in the background so that she would not interfere with his kingship, he might wound her pride mortally and make her his enemy.
CHAPTER 11
In spite of Margaret's renewed expostulation, matters mended very little between Henry and Elizabeth. He unbent so far on the second day at Saint Albans as to wear the ring and brooch she had sent him and to present her with some pretty trinkets lifted from Gloucester's baggage. He had also been perfectly courteous, but unfortunately in a cold and distant manner that contrasted sharply with his warm playfulness to his mother. Perhaps Elizabeth would not have taken that amiss, since she was very fond of Margaret herself, and Henry's sportiveness, even when addressed to someone else, was very appealing. She could have forgiven his coldness. After all, they were really strangers, and Henry was reserved in his manner to all the women there, only he struck at her pride again.
Sir Robert Willoughby, who had taken Warwick on to the Tower which was to be his home for the rest of his short life, reappeared. Unsmiling, single-minded, lacking the diplomatic polish which could have eased, although nothing could conceal, Henry's purpose, he told the ladies that he was to escort them to London before dark. Elizabeth did not need to ask why. It was plain that the new king wanted no relation of Edward's to distract the Londoners' attention from him when he made his triumphal entrance the next day. Edward had been London's darling, and Henry meant to win the city for himself independent of any association with Edward's heiress.
The dowager queen had made a scene. Willoughby, interested only in fulfilling Henry's command, and Lancastrian to the core, was indifferent to the dowager's past status.
He said briefly, "Madam, I will bind you and gag you, throw you into a covered cart so that none will see or hear, if you do not ride with me willingly."
He meant it. He herded them into one room and stood guard over them while servants packed their things. Through the window they could see waiting armed men in the green and white Tudor livery.
"Where are you taking us?" Elizabeth asked fearfully. Were they prisoners? she wondered. Would they, too, be lodged in the Tower, never to emerge into the light?
"Why, to your mother's house, my love," Margaret's voice replied. "Oh, do not mind that grim escort, and do not mind Robert's coarse ways—he was raised in a stable, I think. I am going with you. My son has suddenly decided that I am not old enough to care for myself. Moreover, we will watch the procession from the lord mayor's house. Really, sometimes men are too foolish when they think a woman needs shielding. Henry says the mob may turn dangerous when it becomes drunk. The lord mayor's house will be safe."
The excuse was pitiful, but Elizabeth received it in silence. Her mother had brought this upon them with her constant shifting of purpose. No, her birth had brought it upon her. She could not be angry with Lady Margaret, although she realized that Henry's mother was now her jailor. Doubtless Margaret had taken the thankless burden upon herself out of kindness, to spare them the fear and discomfort of a real prison.
She had indeed done so, coming near to quarreling with her son again over the question.
"I will not have them running about loose, concocting God knows what plots to annoy me," Henry had snapped when Margaret had protested his decision to put them in the Tower with Warwick.
"Elizabeth will concoct nothing—unless you drive her to it."
"It will not be for long, mother," Henry pleaded, weakening. Prison was no place for women, even women like the dowager queen. "Two months or three at the most. Once I am crowned and parliament has acknowledged me, they may bide where they will. By then my own men will hold every key position in the country."
"And you will have ruined your life and have a wife who hates you. She does not hate you yet, Henry. She is not at fault for what her mother and father did to you. Do not do this."
"Your mother has a point, Harry," Jasper said. "I am no friend to the Yorkists, but if you will not kill them, you must not enrage them by treating Edward's wife and daughter this way. The whole country will take you for another Gloucester if news of this leaks out."
Henry dropped his head into his hands. "What am I to do with them, then? Will the country like it better if I set armed men to watch them, or seclude them in some distant manor?"
Jasper looked troubled, but Margaret smiled. "Leave them to me, Henry. I know how to deal with the dowager, and there is no reason why a son should not set guards about his precious mother. I would be a fair hostage in your enemies' hands."