The celebrations were cut short by tragedy. A new and terrifying plague scourged joy from men. They called it the sweating sickness, for in it a man sweat his life away while his body was racked with shuddering chills. The lord mayor, who had kissed Henry's hands, died; his successor died. Not one in a hundred escaped the disease, although its course was short and if a man lived through a day and a night he did not die at all. Those who did not love Henry swore the plague came with him, and predicted ill for the reign and the realm, but Henry himself remained untroubled. Although he fled from London and took refuge at Guildford, he laughed at the fears of his followers, saying they were fortunate that the plague had tamed the people. He would not have known, he confessed, how to curtail the merrymaking and bring them back to business without angering them otherwise.
And, plague or no plague, the work of the kingdom went on apace. By September 15 the summons to parliament had gone out into the shires naming the fifth day of November as the time of assembly. None could claim that the king was neglectful either of law or of the comfort of his subjects. Less than a month had passed since his victory at Bosworth; there had been no unnecessary delay in the summons. Moreover, a month, or near that, was needed for a man called to parliament to set his house in order and travel, sometimes the full length of the kingdom, to London.
Arrangements for the coronation moved even faster. Henry's agents scoured the city for cloth: rich velvets and silks; for furs: ermine, miniver, and vair; for jewels and gold chains. They bought wherever they could get the best price, bargaining unmercifully, but—miracle of miracles—they paid for what they bought. When that news spread, the prices dropped a little. It was better to sell to the king's agent for a low profit and know that the claim would be settled at once than to sell elsewhere at a higher price and face a lawsuit which would swallow the profit before the money was forthcoming.
The only thing that seemed to lie forgotten was Henry's courtship and marriage. Margaret had given up urging the matter because Henry had turned her aside with loving jests and japes so often that she realized he simply would not discuss it. No one else dared mention the subject since Jasper, prodded by Margaret, had been snarled at for bringing it up. Anything that could make the king lose his temper with his dearly beloved uncle was a topic to be sedulously avoided. As a matter of fact, it was shocking to find anything at all that could overset Henry's good humor. Never, the clerks and lesser gentlemen marveled to each other, never had there been a better-tempered king.
It was true enough. Long buffeted by fate, Henry had given up blaming men for the blows dealt him by circumstance. If a river was in flood, he did not berate the messenger for coming late. Nor even when the fault was man's did he grow angry. He could flay an erring servant better in a freezing, level voice, wearing only an icy expression of gravity, than anyone else could do while bellowing like a bull with a black scowl. All the more terrible to see him frown. Elizabeth, the white rose of York, was a forbidden subject.
Henry had not been able to avoid his destined bride completely. Margaret, being as stubborn as her son, soon refused to come to visit him. Her message had been stern; if Henry wished to see her, he could command her presence as king to subject or he could come to her as a proper son to a mother. Meekly, Henry arrived, entering the room with his hat in his hand and a look of such false humility on his face that both Margaret and Elizabeth, who stood by her, had burst into surprised laughter. Henry had lifted his lowered lids at the bell-like trilling which was very different from his mother's soft laugh, had seen the unguarded loveliness of the princess's face, and had been surprised himself into a fleeting expression of avidity.
The mask of a chastened and dutiful son dropped again, but Elizabeth had seen. When Henry finally stopped making the most extravagant and ridiculous apologies to his mother and turned to converse with his future bride, his manner was particularly frigid. Margaret could have wrung her hands in despair. She had hoped that meeting Elizabeth when the dowager queen was absent and the girl's manner was more natural would soften him. That plan had failed dismally, but Elizabeth did not seem to be taking offense at Henry's chill courtesies. Her replies were proper, but her glance was inviting and she displayed both her lovely hands and her charming profile to their best advantage.
Elizabeth had not been raised in the court of Edward IV for nothing. She had seen many men enslaved by women, weak men like her brother Dorset, and men who had once been strong, like Hastings, and, she flinched at the memory but faced it, like her father. Insult her, would he, this upstart Welsh adventurer? Before she was done, he would regard her lightest sigh as a command. However, Elizabeth had no opportunity to test the quality of her opponent. Within a week of Henry's visit, he was besieged by troubles that made it impossible for his mother to think of bothering him about the feelings of a single girl.
Scotland was England's hereditary enemy in the north, as France was her enemy across the Channel. James III
was no strong king, for his nobles were powerful and often defied him, but England's troubles had given him ideas. If he could fall on the war-torn country and defeat it, his prestige and power would be greatly enhanced. As soon as it was clear that Henry's attempt at the throne would not be easily crushed, James had begun to assemble an army. When Gloucester was defeated, his opportunity seemed golden indeed. The north had been deeply devoted to Richard III
and had made it plain that, although Londoners kissed Henry's hands, they would greet him otherwise. It would take little effort, James believed, to swarm down over those counties and annex them to his kingdom. What could Henry do? He had disbanded most of his army, sending the Welshmen and the mercenaries home for fear of offending the proud English. The gentlemen of the northern shires would make no resistance. Was not their chief lord, Northumberland, in prison? Had they not publicly deplored Gloucester's defeat?
Reginald Bray, who had an efficient network of spies throughout the country, brought Henry the news of James's intentions on September 20.
"We should have kept the Frenchmen and Welshmen under arms," Oxford said tensely.
"Shall I mass the guns and begin moving north with them?" Guildford asked.
"Rhys and I can summon the Welsh to arms again," Jasper offered.
"We should have no trouble in raising an army from the southern shires," Devon suggested.
Henry smiled on them. He had just eaten, but his belly felt suspiciously hollow and his hands were icy, although they rested quietly, lightly clasped, on the table. "Gentlemen, gentlemen," he protested gently, "are you my friends or my enemies? The men of the north know they have done me great disservice. What would be their feelings if I marched upon them with an army of French, Welsh, and Southrons? If I brought great guns from my southern strongholds? Would they fear me or Scot James more?"
"Often it comes about that a man's worst enemies do him more good than his best friends," Foxe said softly. "What will you do, Your Grace?"
"I will do what is the custom of this country. I will warn the northmen that they must defend themselves, and I will tell them that the rest of the nation will be called to arms to support their effort if need be."
"That is a dangerous gamble, sire," Poynings said doubtfully.
"Not so dangerous, I hope. Agreed that the men of the northern shires do not love the slayer of Gloucester, at least I have done them no hurt as yet, whereas the Scots have been their enemies all their lives. They will fight. Moreover, I will give them reason to fight and reason to love me at the same time. I will give them a free pardon for the crimes I might have charged against them."
"But—"
Henry shook his head, stilling Oxford's protest. "I always intended it, but to pardon an enemy without reason merely makes him think you weak. James has done me a good turn, all in all. It is most reasonable to pardon men who must fight for you."
He had not convinced them, but they were accustomed to following his lead, and his appearance of easy confidence removed any tendency to panic. By September 24 hard-riding couriers had warned the sheriffs and principal gentlemen of the north of James's intentions.
By October 8 a formal pardon was written to the men "who have done us of late great displeasure, being against us in the field with the adversary of us, enemy of nature and of all public weal." It was issued, said the pardon, because they repented of their faults, because they were descendants of those who had fought loyally for Henry VI (in Henry VII's opinion that proved they were merely loyal idiots and not to be blamed for following Gloucester), and because they "be necessary and according to their duty must defend this land against the Scots."
As soon as Henry was sure the pardon had been published and the northern shires would not suspect he was raising an army to retaliate against them for their support of Gloucester, commissions were issued to assemble men in the London counties and the southwestern shires. Courtenay and Edgecombe rode to Devon and Cornwall, Guildford and Poynings to Kent, and Oxford covered the midlands. Henry went calmly on with his preparations for his coronation, seemingly impervious to his danger.
Had Margaret seen him she would have noticed that he was losing weight again, but his servants knew only that ample portions were missing from the meals they brought him. He ate seldom in public at state dinners, citing the pressure of his work as excuse. No one commented that his dogs were growing fat; his men were kept too busy to attend to such minor matters.
Four days of terror, well-concealed under an almost-gay exterior, were ended when messengers galloped in bearing the welcome news that everyone was responding promptly to the call to arms. There were no disturbances; there was no resistance. Henry VII was king of England. When he called on his people, they were ready to fight for him.
By dawn, October 20, Cheney was riding into Norfolk and Suffolk with orders that the men were to be ready to march north at an hour's notice. If these counties responded when their duke had been killed in battle against Henry and their earl was his prisoner, the king felt he would have little to fear from the Scots. It was not necessary to wait to find out.
That same afternoon word arrived from Bray's spies that the Scots had withdrawn. James was not strong enough to engage in a full-scale war. When he realized that the northerners had been won by a combination of Henry's clemency and their hatred of his people, that the remainder of the nation was ready to fight under their upstart king, the venture became too dangerous. If James failed, his own rebellious nobles would turn on him. Any excuse to throw off authority was a good excuse to them.
That evening Henry sent his thanks to the gentlemen of the northern shires and his permission for the sheriffs to disband their forces. He ate his first decent meal in almost a month, and slept through the night without once waking in a cold sweat of fear. In the morning he attended almost passionately to the two masses he always heard; knowing that his prayers had been faint and doubting, he intended his thanks to be full and fervent. Christ would pardon his doubts, he hoped. The Lord God would understand that he was human and very frail.
Then, no sooner had he come from mass to break his fast, his hopes were confirmed.
Cheney sent word that the sheriffs and gentlemen of Norfolk and Suffolk were ready to obey him at an hour's or even a minute's warning, and Foxe came smiling with the news that London was clear of the plague which had racked it and readying itself with joy for the coronation.
CHAPTER 12
The barber snipped, patted, smoothed, snipped again. He ran careful fingers over the king's face from which every vestige of fair beard had been removed. Then he handed Henry a mirror and stepped back proudly. The squires of the body stood by tensely; the council watched the face of the king gravely. Henry studied his appearance, sighed, and laid the mirror down. The gentlemen stared at the barber. The barber's face worked with fear.
"It is most unsatisfactory," Henry said softly. The barber made an animal sound of terror and the gentlemen made feral sounds of rage. "It is most unsatisfactory," Henry repeated somewhat louder, "to have a face like mine. I can see that nothing—and your efforts have been heroic," he said, turning to the barber with a slight bow as to one who has labored beyond the call of duty, "can make me into a beauty."
There was a roar of laughter, and Pembroke strode forward. "Harry, you are a devil. You nearly frightened this poor man to death."
"Well, you have all frightened me nearly to death. I admit that a coronation is a weighty matter. I agree that I wish to make as agreeable an impression as I can. But you have been looking at me and attending me like mutes going to a funeral. Have I never had my hair cut or been shaved before?"
There was more laughter and a buzz of talk as the barber withdrew and the half-circle of watchers broke up. The squires came forward now with the royal hose, but Henry shook his head briefly and turned toward a curtained alcove in the room that held a crucifix and a cushion. He sank to his knees, but offered no formal prayer, merely staring up at the suffering face of Christ and seeking calm.
A silent, nervous laugh shook him. Those men of his would have torn that barber apart with their bare hands if he had really been displeased. Who could believe that ten days of concentration upon clothes, hangings, and an order of procedure could so shake men who had faced death calmly? Henry passed a hand across his forehead. He was shaken himself. It had been easier to arrange the battle of Bosworth than to disentangle the orders of precedence. There had been glares of hatred exchanged over who was to carry what, and in what order the object should be carried.
Henry, soothing, adjusting, jesting, and frowning coldly by turns, had kept them from each other's throats, but he admitted one night to Edward Poynings who had come to give him a game of chess, that he had been less unnerved by Gloucester and the Scots than by his own nobles. "They are a greater danger to you than Gloucester or the Scots," Poynings had said judiciously, and Henry had been so startled at that plainspoken truth that he had mismoved his queen and Poynings had checked his king.