He now understood, however, the real necessity for the rigid protocol that had annoyed him so much at the French court. Pembroke and Oxford, for example, who were genuinely fond of each other and had worked together as one man before and after Bosworth, turned frigid to each other over the fact that Oxford's earldom was far older than Pembroke's.
That had been easy. Henry had created his uncle duke of Bedford at the same time he created Lord Stanley the earl of Derby and Edward Courtenay earl of Devon. There were only two other dukes in England—John de la Pole, duke of Suffolk who sat shivering at home, and young Edward Stafford, son of the dead Buckingham. Neither of those would attend the coronation in any official capacity, and that left Bedford free to carry the crown, which Henry felt he deserved.
Oxford had been given his choice of sword or spurs. To Henry's surprise he had chosen the spurs. And, displaying a sense of humor Henry had not suspected in him, said that for Derby to carry the sword, which he had been so late in bringing to Henry's aid, would make a merry jest.
Henry shook himself sharply and rose from his knees. The arrangements had been made; he could only hope that permanent animosities had not been raised among his supporters. Now when the royal hose were advanced, he let them be smoothed over his legs. Then came the doublet, cloth of gold with green and white satin. Henry looked again in the mirror, this time with approval. He was not as tall as some, and he was still too thin, but he was well made and the full-sleeved, full-bodied style of the doublet was flattering. The squires were holding his long gown, royal purple, furred from neck to hem with powdered ermine. Henry stroked the fur while John Cheney knelt to adjust his emerald-studded garter and Poynings fitted the sarpe. After glancing once more into the mirror, Henry turned.
"Well, uncle?"
Tears ran down Jasper's face. He could find no voice, and he kissed Henry again and again, forehead, cheeks, and lips. William Stanley, rewarded with the position of grand chamberlain of the household, watched this display with ill-concealed disfavor. The mutual affection of uncle and nephew and of the band that had shared Henry's exile, and to whom he now was offering his lips instead of his hands to kiss, blocked his way to the influence he sought.
"Look, Your Grace," Stanley said. "God surely favors you. For so mild and sunny a day on the thirtieth of October, one must have special dispensation."
Henry smiled pleasantly. His spirit still recoiled from Stanley, but he had conquered any outward manifestation of that. He had also learned not to look into Sir William's eyes, and he glanced sidelong at him now.
"It is time, Your Grace," Derby suggested.
The courtiers trailed after the king as he moved down to the courtyard where he mounted the stallion trapped in cloth of gold and held the horse steady as Guildford, Edgecombe, Poynings, and Willoughby raised the golden canopy over his head. He glanced back. Cheney was leading the seven squires of the body, all attired in crimson and gold, who were to follow. The fifty yeomen of the guard, that body of permanent soldiers Henry had introduced, were resplendent in their green and white liveries, their longbows slung over their shoulders, their quivers of goose-feathered arrows full, glittering pikes upright in their hands. The trumpeters forming ahead also wore the Tudor green and white. The heralds behind them—Henry could see Garter, Clarencieux, and Norry—made splashes of brilliant color. The others were hurrying up. There were the pursuivants now,
Rouge Dragon, Rouge Croix, Portcullis,
and
Bluemantle.
A quick glance upward where large white clouds hung so still in the peacock blue sky that they seemed painted, and Henry touched his mount very gently with his golden spurs. The horse had been thoroughly exercised at dawn so that he would move quietly. Henry did not mistrust his horsemanship, in that he knew himself to be the equal of any man in the kingdom, but he wanted no tragedy to mar this day. If an overbold citizen pressed his stallion too close, a fresh horse might rear and do harm.
It was as well that the Tudor had taken the precaution. His appearance called forth even more violent enthusiasm than his first triumphal progress through London. Thus far the two-month reign had been a miracle of peace. The king had saved his nation from a new war with Scotland. He had given lavishly to the church and the poor; he had provided free meat and drink for a thanksgiving not equaled in memory. No heads rotted on the Tower gates. The bodies that swung from gibbets were those of criminals, not men who fought for Richard of Gloucester. The yeomen of the guard were a new innovation, true, but they had already proved their usefulness by being sent to the lord mayor's assistance when a party of celebrants had become too merry and the party had degenerated into a minor riot. Henry VII, a chronicler wrote, "began to be lauded by all men as an angel sent from heaven."
There was some dissatisfaction, but that was in high places—the people felt none of it. The dowager queen cursed the slender figure of the king silently as he entered Westminster Abbey. William Stanley bore his rod of office high, but he resented the paucity of his financial reward and Henry's imperviousness to his advice that harsher measures should be used on Gloucester's supporters. Elizabeth bit her lips, pale with rage. She should be walking beside the king. She was her father's heir; she had a right to be crowned—certainly a better right than a Welsh adventurer, scion of a bastard line.
Henry walked slowly up the aisle between the rows of magnificently clad noblemen and gentry. Waiting for him was the aged Thomas Bourchier who had, as archbishop of Canterbury, already crowned two kings—Edward IV and Richard III.
Henry's hands, the right resting on Richard Foxe's arm and the left on John Morton's, struck cold through their vestiments. He had been king for two months, had thought of this coronation only in political terms until this moment. Now the Tudor was awed in spite of himself, and he trembled as he knelt before Bourchier while the old man anointed him with the holy chrism.
The correct responses were coming from his lips; he heard his own voice, clear and sure, ringing through the abbey, a happy contrast to the thin, reedy tones of the archbishop. Henry was not thinking of what he was saying, but when the coronation ring was pressed onto his finger, he shuddered. "I am wed—no, more than wed—I have become England," he thought. "This land and I are one. When she prospers, so shall I, and if her body is torn, blood will run from mine."
Seated in the great coronation chair with the orb and scepter in his hands, he looked out at the crowded abbey. They are my children, the thoughts continued. A few—a very few are grown men who can be trusted. A few more are in early manhood. They, too, may be trusted once the way is shown them, but most are mere boys to be taught and corrected when they err. Then the news that the crowning was complete must have spread to the crowd outside, and the people greeted the word with roar upon roar of delight.
The sounds came dimly to Henry who was startled until he realized the cause. He smiled, thinking that those were the infants of the realm, to be protected and told firmly what they might and might not do. A large and rebellious family, Henry decided, abruptly putting away the sentimentality he had been indulging himself in, to be well whipped when they were wicked.
From the balcony where Elizabeth sat with Margaret and her mother, Henry VII of England looked almost buried beneath his regalia. Elizabeth could see him shift his arms so that the weight of the orb and scepter should be partially supported by the chair. She looked at her own delicate, white hands. They could not hold so heavy a weight, she realized, and with the realization came a revulsion of her earlier feeling.
Indeed, Elizabeth thought, she did not wish to be a crowned queen. She did not wish to pore over accounts and legal matters all day long. They sat close enough, although high, so that she could see how pale Henry's face was. He
is
frail, she thought, remembering what Margaret had said, and the thought made her glance at the Tudor's mother.
The countess of Richmond and Derby was not gazing at her son with pride nor was she considering what honors and gains would accrue to the mother of the king. Elizabeth turned toward Margaret with concern, for she was in a state bordering on collapse. She held her mantle across her mouth to silence herself, but she was crying hysterically. Elizabeth put her arms around her future mother-in-law.
Margaret's trembling communicated itself to her body. Memories, all bad, turned her cold. She remembered her father changing from the gay, sweet-tempered man of her childhood to a debauched, frankly lecherous, and sometimes even murderously suspicious person. And Uncle Richard, what had happened to Uncle Richard? He had never been gay, but he was gentle and wise and kind. He had been loyal to her father, risking his life again and again. Was that the same man who, as king, had murdered her mother's brothers without even a trial? Had murdered her own brothers, the nephews with whom he had played so gently when they were babies?
Oh, God help me, she prayed. I do not wish to be queen. I do not wish to be the wife of that man who hates me already. I do not wish to be like my mother who had to smile into the faces of her husband's whores; who one moment was queen and the next was crouching in sanctuary stripped all but naked. I do not wish to see my sons murdered. God help me. Let me be as nothing.
A roar of ovation cut off her thoughts. Henry had risen and was making his way slowly from the abbey. The throng swayed as men bowed and women curtsied low. Elizabeth could not restrain a twinge of pity for the frail man who would now have to sit through a banquet that might last as long as ten hours. She had resented bitterly not being invited; now she was glad. Perhaps he did not mean to marry her, now that he had seized the power and been crowned without her. Perhaps he would permit her to become a nun.
Had Henry known of Elizabeth's sympathy, he would have been highly amused. It was entirely misplaced. The Tudor was enjoying himself immensely. It gave him the greatest pleasure to see people having a good time, and he did not mind being isolated from them, an onlooker. He had been isolated for so long that it seemed quite natural, and he had lost the art of mingling easily. In fact, compared with his state as an exile, he was now rich in friends. Moreover his life in his present position as king was no more precarious than it had been as a hunted enemy of Edward IV and Richard III, and it was a great deal more comfortable. Henry loved luxury, loved music and feasting. He was completely happy and beamed impartially on friend and past enemy alike.
The celebration lasted far into the night, but Henry's poor council was routed out of bed by his messengers just after dawn. The Tudor laughed heartily at the half-opened eyes, the pale faces, the muffled groans, but he set them to work drafting and refining the bills that were to be presented to parliament. They moaned, but there was no resentment. Parliament had been called for the fifth, but that was a Saturday so the session would actually open on November 7. They had only eight days before all must be presented in perfect order, and they were new to this work.
Henry's fondness for and gratitude to Richard Foxe grew by leaps and bounds. Not only was he personally invaluable, but the men he recommended, particularly John Morton, were equally so. Morton was perfect. He was astute, cautious, and reasonable, nodding impeturbably as Henry explained that he had named Alcock, bishop of Rochester, to be chancellor because he did not wish to seem to favor only those men who had been exiles. As soon as parliament was prorogued, Morton should have the chancellorship.
It was Morton who worked with Henry over the final polishing of the drafted bills. He had parliamentary experience and could teach the king the proper forms. It was Morton whose fine hand guided the House of Lords where he sat quite legitimately as bishop of Ely.
Not that the parliament needed much handling. Henry's firm and merciful rule was much appreciated, and when Alcock referred to him as "a second Joshua, a strenuous and invincible fighter who was to bring in the golden age," the king received a standing ovation. Henry's lips twitched a bit at the reference to himself as a warrior, but he rose and bowed silently. After all, he fully intended to bring in a golden age if any effort of his could do it, and he hoped he would not need to prove himself as a fighter. War never brought gold.
On Tuesday, Henry did not attend parliament. He did not wish it to seem as if he influenced the election of a speaker for the House of Commons, which was the business of the day. The speaker was bound to be one of his favorites anyway; parliament would not wish to arouse the displeasure of the king any more than he wanted to irritate them. Thomas Lovell was chosen and it was he who welcomed the king to the session on the third day. Henry made a sober speech, lacking the high-flown oratory of Alcock but claiming firmly that his right to the crown rested on "just title of inheritance," which might have raised some doubts had he not added, "and upon the true judgment of God as shown by the sword on the field of battle, giving me victory over my enemy."
The reminder was sufficient. The king's business proceeded apace. The very first bill stated that "to the pleasure of Almighty God, the wealth, prosperity, and surety of the realm, to the comfort of all the king's subjects and the avoidance of all ambiguities, be it ordained, established, and enacted by authority of the present parliament, that the inheritance of the crowns of England and France . . . be, rest, and remain and abide in the most royal person of our new Sovereign Lord King Henry the VIIth and in the heirs of his body lawfully comen perpetually . . . and in none other." Henry was king by law and right as well as by might.
Henry returned to parliament only once more before the end of the session. On November 19 an act that might have provoked resistance, an act to limit the practice of noblemen and rich gentlemen of hiring what amounted to private armies of their own, was pushed through.
In the presence of the king, they dared not protest, and one after another they swore "not to . . . retain any man by indenture or oath, not to give livery, sign, or token contrary to law or make, cause to be made, or assent to any maintenance, imbracerie, riots, or unlawful assembly, not to hinder execution of royal writs, not let any known felon to bail or mainprize." Whether the Tudor could make them keep the oath remained to be seen; at least he had the power to make them swear it. The remainder of the king's bills passed without a whisper of opposition.