"I think," the marchioness of Dorset said smoothly, "that Her Grace should walk about for a little. If she sits too long in bed her legs will cramp."
They slipped on her bedrobe and Henry put his arm about her, and they walked together. When Elizabeth grew weary, he placed her in a chair by the fire and knelt at her feet, talking, talking. Twice the marchioness suggested that Elizabeth's mother be called, but Elizabeth wept each time and clung to Henry, and he had not the strength to deny her. Dawn lightened the sky, and Elizabeth's gasps grew more frequent, louder, and more regular. Now her nails bit into Henry's hands when she clutched him. The women came and went quietly about the room and Henry vaguely heard sounds of great activity in Elizabeth's sitting parlor, but still sometimes they walked and sometimes they sat and Henry talked until he thought the sound of his own voice would craze him. He knew not what he said and he did not think it mattered for he was sure that Elizabeth did not understand a word. She wanted to hear him, however, for if he fell silent for a moment she would gasp, "Yes, Henry?" and he would have to begin to speak again.
When it was full daylight Elizabeth's mother sailed into the room. "You are not needed here," she said coldly to the king. "We will call you at the proper time."
"No!" Elizabeth screamed, clinging fiercely to her husband. "You promised you would not leave me. You promised."
Henry leaned his head against the arm of the chair, grateful that they were not walking because his legs were shaking so, he thought they could not hold him. "I will stay as long as I do you no harm, Bess."
"You do me good, only good."
About ten minutes later, although it seemed eons to Henry, Margaret approached them. She said nothing at first, merely kissed Elizabeth and began to comb and braid her hair, which was tangled and damp with sweat. After that she insinuated one of her hands between Henry's and Elizabeth's.
"Elizabeth dear," Margaret said, "look at me. Yes, love, look here. You must let Henry go and put on some clothes." She paused while a pain came and went. "Come love, look at him. He is soaked with sweat. You would not wish him to take cold. See how he shivers." Some awareness came into Elizabeth's dilated eyes and Margaret reached for her other hand.
Elizabeth thrust her away. "No," she cried hysterically, "I will die. I want him."
Exhausted and overwrought, Henry began to sob. Margaret did not even spare him a glance, but she kicked him good and hard.
"Nonsense, love. Why I bore Henry when I was only thirteen years old. It was hard, but I did not die. And you are like unto your mother. Think how many children she had, and here she is, hale and hearty."
The dowager queen bent over Elizabeth on the other side of the chair. "Of course you will not die, Lizzy my love. If every woman died in childbearing, there would soon be no more women and no more children."
"Henry is afraid," Elizabeth wept. "I have never seen or heard that he was afraid before. I know. Even at Bosworth he was not afraid."
Margaret aimed a look at her son which should have struck him dead, only he was too terrified to notice. "That is only because he is a man and knows nothing. In truth, Elizabeth, you will not die. Soon you will have a fine child to hold in your arms. Send Henry away. You are frightening him because he does not understand what is happening, and he is frightening you because," Margaret looked daggers at her trembling son, "he is a fool."
Between them, Margaret and the dowager queen broke the grasp Elizabeth had upon her husband. They hated each other, but they worked together now as if love had bound them from birth. They crooned and cuddled and comforted until Elizabeth ceased to cry for Henry with each pain. He had not moved, but little by little the women pushed in front of him until at last Margaret whispered, "Go."
"I cannot," Henry gasped.
Margaret cradled Elizabeth's head against her bosom and turned to hiss over her shoulder at Dorset's wife. "Fetch Bedford to the king."
She did not so far forget herself as to call him the sniveling idiot she thought him, for Margaret was really enraged at Henry. He commanded a whole country, but he had not sense enough to be firm with his wife or, if he could not summon so much resolution, at least insist that someone who could handle Elizabeth be called. In Margaret's opinion Henry had allowed Elizabeth to work herself into a state of hysteria that might endanger her delivery for no good reason at all.
She was also annoyed with Dorset's wife, who should have known better than to leave them together for so long before she summoned the elder ladies even without permission. But the marchioness was excusable, being much in awe of the king and not overly clever.
Jasper arrived in the marchioness's wake. He kept his head averted from Elizabeth, but at Margaret's whispered command helped Henry to his feet and started to lead him from the room. "Wait," Henry said faintly, his head on Jasper's shoulder, "that chamber must be full. I cannot face those people. I cannot."
"Here, then." Jasper spied the door to Elizabeth's dressing room. There was a chair, and Henry sank into it gratefully. "Child, do not worry so. It is the way with women. God, you are wringing wet. You must change. Will you be all right if I leave you alone, Harry?"
"Yes."
To be left alone was exactly what Henry wanted. He sat with closed eyes, fighting to bring his breathing to normal and his body under control. The door opened and closed, but he did not turn, only cursed his uncle's tender vigilance under his breath. After a time, when no one spoke and Henry realized that no attentive eyes were boring into him, he looked cautiously about. Ned Poynings was standing at the narrow window looking out. Henry sighed with relief, then stiffened as a long, low, animal-like moaning came through the closed door. He was a little comforted to see Ned's shoulders jerk. It was good to know he was not the only one distressed by so natural a thing as childbirth.
Muted sounds of increased activity made Henry tense, but no one troubled his retreat. Eventually Jasper returned with his clothing. As he opened the door, Henry heard his mother say, "Do not cry out now, Elizabeth, you will only waste your strength. Take a deep breath and try to push it out downward." Jasper closed the door hurriedly and began to be very busy making Henry change into his clothing. There was no clock in the room, the day was overcast so that one could not see the position of the sun, and Henry became desperate for a measure of time.
"Does it always take so long?" he asked at last.
"Yes," Jasper replied briefly.
Truthfully he had no idea, the only other childbirth he had attended having been Henry's twenty-nine years earlier. There was another long silence, broken twice by the animal-like moaning from the other side of the door. Henry picked at his clothing and bit his fingers; Poynings stared out the window; Jasper looked into space with blind eyes, clenching and unclenching his fists rhythmically. Suddenly a shriek rent the air and then another. Henry leapt to his feet, overturning the chair. He put his hands to his ears, but neither that nor the door could block the moans and screams which alternated with agonizing regularity.
"I cannot bear it," he sobbed. "If she must die, let her die. Let her suffer no more. Cannot something be done for her? I cannot bear it!"
Jasper put his arms around Henry. "Poynings, tell the countess of Richmond to come at once to the king."
Ned had no desire whatsoever to enter that room, but a command was a command. He made his way through the scurrying women and, inadvertently catching a sight of Elizabeth, he stopped, shocked. The queen was unrecognizable, her face swollen and distorted, her eyes bulging, her mouth open. Poynings choked, recovered, and tried to speak, but his voice was drowned in a heartrending wail and Elizabeth's hand, clawing for support, caught in Margaret's dress and ripped the sleeve away, leaving a long red weal on the countess's skin.
"Madam," he said desperately, as Elizabeth gasped for breath and clawed at Margaret's hand, "the duke of Bedford begs you to come to the king."
Elizabeth's next shriek drowned the first part of Margaret's angry reply, and Ned caught only, "old ass Jasper," and then, "rarely lose fathers in childbirth, Henry must do as he can."
Even with that unsatisfactory reply Poynings was glad to retreat, but the situation in the dressing room was little better from his point of view than the one outside it. Henry was white and shaking, retching without result because he had eaten nothing. With no remedies at hand, Jasper and Poynings administered as best as they could to him. The door sprang open.
"Your Grace, come at once!" a woman cried.
Henry staggered to his feet, shook free of Jasper and Ned. A path opened before him in Elizabeth's bedchamber, which now seemed incredibly full of magnificently dressed people. Henry, however, saw nothing. He was blinded by the peal upon peal of Elizabeth's screams. Suddenly, as if the sound had been cut with a knife, there was silence, then a series of long-drawn whimpers, and then, after a breathless thirty seconds, a thin squalling.
Margaret appeared before her son. Blood was dripping from her hands where Elizabeth had clawed her skin away, her hair hung loose in disorder, her dress was in tatters, and her arms and shoulders were lacerated with scratches, but her eyes shone with triumph and her voice was like a paean of victory.
"A man-child, a princeling, a fine, lusty boy!"
"Elizabeth?" Henry croaked.
"Magnificent," Margaret replied proudly. She had said Elizabeth would make a fine wife—and she had been right. Then she looked at her son with a faint return of her original disapproval. "No thanks to you for frightening her into such weakness. But when we had undone your work and she understood what was needed, she was wonderful. You can go to her in a little while and thank her for your son."
"Thank God," Henry whispered, but in the next moment he was laughing half-hysterically, going down on his knees to assist Poynings. Poynings the stolid, Poynings the imperturbable—who had fainted.
CHAPTER 17
Richard Foxe paused with his hand on the door he had just opened. A sweet tenor voice was singing a lilting French air, and he knew the king was supposed to be alone in the chamber. Foxe stepped forward quietly and his shrewd eyes softened. The Tudor was singing. He was dressed with the magnificence customary even in his least formal clothing, but he was not—as Foxe usually saw him—bent over his table working. He was standing with one foot on the window seat, looking out into the garden at the blaze of autumn flowers, singing.
Why he should have been surprised, Foxe did not know.
Henry loved music, sang well, and had good cause to be happy. His heir was strong, and his wife was recovering well during her lying-in. Moreover, the woman would cause him no more trouble. The entire court knew, and soon the entire country would know, how she clung to him. It was a shame to break his peace with problems. Foxe was tempted to leave Henry with his joy, but the king expected him and, in truth, the problems would grow no lighter for being put aside.
"Sire."
Henry turned, smiling. "Come in, my little Foxe, come in."
"I have come to trouble you, Your Grace."
"You are mistaken. Nothing can trouble me. You may be able to make me work, but trouble me, you cannot."
"So I hope. First, sire, you must return to London. The enmity between Brittany and France grows worse. Both demand that you support them, and Morton's fencing can hold them no longer."
"God curse the French and all their greed. They swallow one duchy after another until all Europe will be one large France. They grasp at a helpless old man and two girl children—no mercy, no justice, only greed."
"We cannot afford to make an enemy of France, Your Grace. And the Regent Anne has some cause for dissatisfaction. Duke Francis has given refuge to the duke of Orleans whom Anne has finally driven out."
Henry sighed. "Oh, I know. I cannot wish that Francis was less kind because, perhaps, I would not be alive and certainly I would not be king if that were so. Still, for him to give France any excuse for war is so foolish. Nay, do not begin to tell me what he hopes to gain from Orleans. He should be able to see …" Henry sighed and after a pause, added, "Very well. I will come. Perhaps there is some way to save Brittany, but I fear there is not. I can do no more than I can. It is, as you say, impossible for me to challenge France—as yet."
"There is worse."
"Yes, Richard, I know." Henry grinned. "Knowing each other as we do, I did not believe you would think I could be troubled by war between France and Brittany."
Nonetheless, Foxe hesitated to speak. He knew to his sorrow how unnatural Henry's attitude about death for political purposes was. After the rebellion in the north, the Stafford brothers had been caught. It was not a matter of suspicion; there was certain knowledge of treason. They had raised an armed force against their king.
Nonetheless the council had needed to argue bitterly all through one long night—the duke of Bedford had even gone down on his knees to plead with his nephew—before Henry could be convinced to order an execution. Even so, they could not make him condemn the younger brother, who, Henry insisted, had been led astray. And on the day of execution, the condemned man had been calmer than the king.
Not that Foxe was planning to ask to have anyone executed. Still, the entire subject was a very sensitive one with Henry.
"Well, little Foxe?" Henry prompted.
"There is a good deal of talk suddenly about the earl of Warwick, sire."
The king's face darkened. This
was
a sensitive subject. His conscience smote him for keeping that child in prison, yet he dared not free him. Even in a secluded and well guarded place, Warwick would be a desperate danger to Henry. If the child had been free or in the hands of the king's Yorkist enemies, the rebellion he had put down so easily might have become a very serious threat.
"What is being said?"
"That you will become another Gloucester now that you have a son of your own and murder the boy."