"Sire?"
Henry lifted his head from his hands. "You must ride to London, Ned."
"You have had more bad news?"
"No. You carry an order to commit the—commit my wife to the Tower."
"What?"
Ignoring the startled exclamation, Henry went on. "It is to be done as—as gently as possible. Try to make her believe it is for her protection in a time of danger, but her ladies are to be separated from her. My mother, to whom I have also written, will recommend to you new ladies suitable to Her Grace's service." Henry put his clenched fist to his mouth and bit the forefinger. Somehow he had said quite the opposite of what he had intended. If Ned carried out these orders, Elizabeth would hardly receive much of a lesson.
"Pardon, sire, but— Indeed, Her Grace could have no part in this matter. You have had her watched. There is nothing, no reason—"
"She knew," Henry said dully. Poynings opened his mouth to protest again, but the king cut him off. "Do not reason with me. I mean Her Grace no harm, but I mean also that she can do me no harm. Here is the order; here the letter for my mother."
"God keep Your Grace," Poynings said, not liking either the look on his master's face or the sound of his voice.
"God go with you, Ned."
The next day, Henry moved on to Doncaster, giving no reason to his men but admitting to himself it was a superstitious fear. Nottingham had been the city in which Gloucester waited for news of his attack.
The levies from Lincoln came in swiftly and, to the king's great satisfaction, Northumberland arrived promptly with a well-armed force. Henry kept him, but detached some of his men to swell the army from Lincoln, which permitted Jasper to start off at once with about three thousand troops.
Information about the movements of the insurgents kept pouring in, and, as it seemed that Lovell was far more dangerous than the Staffords, Henry moved north again to Pontefract castle. He arrived on April 20, establishing his base in that strongly fortified place so that he could move upon York at the slightest indication that the rebellious city planned to attack his uncle from the rear.
Here he waited, the spirits of his party rising constantly higher as the local magnates rode in to profess their loyalty and their willingness to fight for their king. Henry's attitude remained solidly confident, his temper as even and his readiness to laugh as great as during the first days of his progress. If his eyes were heavy and blue-ringed and he toyed with his food rather than eating it, that was only because he was very busy with the preparations for offense and defense, which were added to his normal business. The whole entourage knew that the king sat up late working every night, so when Poynings arrived, mud-splashed and grim-looking, he was shown into Henry's presence at once.
The king looked up, then looked away almost as if he wished to ignore the obvious. He checked the childish impulse, however, put down his pen, and gestured for the room to be cleared. "Well?" he said, and his voice was harsher than any Poynings had ever heard him use.
"I … Sire …"
Henry leapt to his feet, his face contorted. "Is Her Grace safe?"
"Safe, yes, but not where you ordered her."
Poynings was pale and for the first time really frightened of Henry. He had seen the king emotionally disordered before. He knew Henry displayed his feelings more freely in his presence than in that of other men, but he had never seen him in such a state as this.
"Where?" the Tudor shrieked. "Where?"
"Where you left her, at Westminster palace." There was an immediate slackening of the insane rage, and Poynings took a good grip on his courage. "I pray you, sire, have patience to listen, then do with me as you will."
"Speak."
"When I came to London, Your Grace, my heart failed me. I never knew myself for a coward before. Tell me to face armed men, and I trust for courage even to die, but what I should do if Her Grace wept or refused, I did not know. To order her moved by force was beyond my strength, and I knew it."
Henry turned away. He was not sure he would have sufficient strength for that himself.
"It seemed to me that women deal best with women, so I went first to your lady mother. Sire, she was . . ." Poynings hesitated, swallowed hard. The king's back was not expressive and his stolidity was near cracking. "She was much overset at my news. She—she straitly forbade me to carry out your order. She said she did not believe it, and demanded to see it. Sire, I could not— Could I lay hands on your mother? She broke the seal—and she destroyed the order."
He waited for doom, for a recurrence of the king's rage, but Henry stood still, with his back to him, leaning on the table.
"Sire, I know I should have obeyed you. I have no defense. I am guilty. The countess of Richmond wrote you a letter and sent me to Dr. Foxe. Here is the letter." He came forward and laid it on the table. "Dr. Foxe follows. He will be here tomorrow or the next day, not having the strength to ride as I did."
The seal of Margaret's letter was broken before the last words were out of Poynings mouth. "Dear my dread Lord King and son," the letter read. "I have done that which in another would be treason, and in doing it, I have subverted one of your most loving and loyal servants. Please, my lord son, if wroth you are when you understand the whole, that your wrath fall upon my head and not upon his. I could not permit your order to be carried out. In truth, I would have called the guards and caused Poynings's imprisonment if he had insisted. Your lady wife is with child, and not well with it. You believed her to have guilty knowledge and to have been distressed thereby. I dare not swear as to her knowledge, but her tears and terrors I believe to be caused by her breeding state. It is common in women. To have added further to her unhappiness by the removal of servants to whom she is accustomed, and to fright her by sudden imprisonment, I am sure would cause the loss of the hope she carries. I,
myself, am moving to the palace, and I promise upon the life that gave you yours I will so guard her that she can do naught. Pray forgive the disobedience of the mother who loves you more than life—nay—more than the hope of Heaven, and believe that your mother acts only for what she believes is your greatest good."
"Do you know what is herein," Henry asked in a rather stunned tone.
"Nay, sire." Poynings wavered on his feet with exhaustion and nervousness.
"Sit down before you fall down," Henry said more naturally, and pushed him into a chair. "Thank God you went first to my mother. The queen is breeding. I might have slain my own child had you carried out my order."
"The queen with child!" Poynings tired face lit with joy. The true union of the houses of Lancaster and York would settle the Wars of the Roses once and for all. If the Yorkists wished to accept Henry with the mental reservation that he was really regent for his son, that was their affair, so long as they made no more trouble.
Poynings would have said more, but Henry's eyes were again fixed on his mother's letter. He found the sentence he sought. "Your lady wife is with child," but now the next words, less significant before, leapt out at him, "and not well with it." Was Elizabeth not well or not holding the child well? It came to the same thing and either interpretation was possible from a rereading of the remainder of the letter.
Henry sank into a chair, one wave of emotion pushing another out until he felt dizzy.
"Can you stand, Ned?" Poynings came to his feet at once. "You are a better man than I, or your surprise is less—though I suppose it should be more. I never thought. . . . Fetch me some wine and come back alone."
Why the king should be distressed at this news, Poynings did not wish to imagine. He pressed a full glass into Henry's hand and set the decanter beside him on the table. Often the Tudor's reactions were different from other men's, but about this?
"I think, perhaps, as good as this news is we should not speak of it yet. It seems that my wife is not anxious for me to know. No doubt she has reasons of her own. More significant, my mother writes that she is not well. If she miscarries … Perhaps the fewer that know, the better."
"I am sorry."
The fervor of sympathy might refer to Henry's political problem, but the king suspected it was directed to his personal hurt. He gave Poynings a half-smile of acknowledgment, filled his glass and drank again.
"Sit down," he said after a long silence, then glanced up quickly and smiled. "Oh, no, how unkind. Go, find yourself a bed. You will need to ride back to London tomorrow. I must write to Elizabeth. Also, if by some happy chance she has not heard of what has happened here, she must be guarded from the news. My mother, I know, will take every care of her, but if there is something I can do—or send. How foolish! What could I find here that is not more and finer in London? I am talking nonsense for the sake of talking. Go, get to bed. You are dropping off your feet."
Poynings, however, was to get little rest that night. Soon after he dropped asleep, he was wakened by the sound of rejoicing. Another messenger had ridden through Pontefract's great gates. This time John Cheney did not hesitate to open the king's bedcurtains himself.
"Your Grace," he cried, "the duke of Bedford sends good news."
Henry shielded his eyes from the sudden light of the candles Cheney bore, but he sat up so quickly it was plain he had not been sleeping. Cheney proffered the sealed message, but Henry, still covering his eyes said thickly, "Read it."
"To His Most Royal—"
"John! The message, not all that."
"Yes, sire. Bedford says: 'You were right, as ever, my dearest Harry. The proclamation of amnesty took the heart from the rebels. Many made submission at once and many simply stole away. Lovell fled, deserting his men like the renegade coward he is. I do not know whether this be bad or good, however. Certainly it means there will be no engagement, but I am afraid we may not be able to take the traitor, for there are many bolt holes here in the north in which he can hide. I bide hereabouts until it is certain that all will be quiet and to make search for the traitor. Dear my king and my most dear nephew, I await further orders.' "
After signing himself devoutly and murmuring a prayer of thanksgiving, Henry smiled at Cheney. "Tell them in the castle."
CHAPTER 16
On April 22 a fitful sun shone through occasional light showers of rain. The weather was no more uncertain than the mayor and aldermen of York who came five miles from the city to greet their triumphant king. They knelt to him in the road, muddying their scarlet robes, but they could not ask for mercy because they had never confessed to rebel sympathies.
Nor did Henry accuse them. He graciously bade them to rise and thanked them for their greeting. Then he spoke of the rebellion, but in terms they had scarcely hoped for. He spoke not as their wrathful sovereign but as an aggrieved father, pointing out how fruitless any rebellion was against the power of his authority, how quickly the remainder of the nation had sprung to arms on his behalf.
"I have not sought to punish this foolishness," he said in closing the subject, "because I understand that men may be led astray by a few wicked persons who prey upon their fears. Some thought because they were the staff of my enemy in the past that I would use them hardly and unjustly in the future. That is not true. The past is past. All Englishmen, Northron and Southron, from the east or the west, are alike in my heart as my subjects. Therefore, this once, have I shown soft clemency and loving forgiveness. This once! But it is needful for the innocent and the guilty alike to know that clemency is not weakness, that what was regarded as foolishness once cannot be so regarded again."
He bid them mount and ride with him, and he turned the subject to the immediate interests of York, asking of their trade and what was needed on the king's part to help the city flourish. The mayor was cautious in his replies, but he sensed the sincerity in this king who, unlike past Lancastrians, did not scorn the merchants but called them the sinews of the nation. They went very slowly, for fore riders needed time to warn the city of Henry's good intentions. All had been prepared for a great celebration, but there were two sets of speeches for every pageant—one of praise and thanksgiving, another more humble, pleading for mercy.
The relief the people felt at finding the king so merciful—after all, York had publicly announced its grief at Gloucester's defeat—brought forth a burst of enthusiasm for Henry that solid loyalty probably could not have awakened. The streets were so thronged that Henry could scarce make his way through. "King Henry! Hail King Henry!" they cried.
One brass-lunged individual, perhaps not close enough to see well or of poor vision, bellowed, "Our Lord preserve that sweet and well-favored face," and this cry was also picked up and followed Henry about until he found himself laughing helplessly instead of smiling with dignity. It was only the eyes of blind love—however temporary—that could name his face either sweet or well favored.
It was necessary to compose himself, to respond to the pageant speakers. After all, when King Solomon stated that he was a "most prudent prince of proved provision, sovereign in sapience," it would not be proper to laugh like an idiot and be incapable of reply. Nor was it possible to allow the sudden constriction in his throat to interfere with his speech when a man dressed as a red rose and a maid dressed as a white one appeared lovingly intertwined.
In spite of the streets newly flushed free of filth and the houses hung with tapestries and garlands, Henry saw signs of bitter poverty—ragged clothes, pinched faces, and, more important, for the poor were everywhere, empty and tumbled shops and warehouses. Times had been hard for York since Richard's reign. In constant fear of retaliation the merchants had done little business. Goods they sent out might be confiscated, and merchants of other cities hesitated to trade with those who might be called traitors at any moment. Henry strove to reassure the city fathers, giving a practical demonstration of his favor by telling them he would not expect the customary gift of money; it should be used instead to restore foundered merchants and generally to increase commerce.