"There is a rumor that I intend to murder Warwick."
"That is plain silly," Elizabeth said placidly. "You are the most unmurderous king this country ever had. I heard your uncle complaining to your mother that you do not even kill the people you should. Henry, I would like to adorn the chapel here somewhat. Could I give that big chalice Lincoln gave me for a wedding present to be consecrated for it and those gold candlesticks I received from—"
"Elizabeth! The rumor about Warwick is not silly. It can do me much harm."
"Well, I am sorry for that. If I hear it, I will contradict it. Is there more I can do, my love?"
"It has been traced back to your ladies."
There was a sudden silence. Elizabeth's hand tightened on her husband's gown.
"Do not, Henry," she whispered, turning pale, "do not frighten me. Dismiss the guilty ones—dismiss them all if you like."
Henry was furious with himself. He had given away a valuable and dangerous piece of information, and had received in return no more than a reaction as unrevealing and predictable as an opening gambit in chess. What was wrong with him?
"I do not blame you, Bess. Perhaps it is natural for some people to believe that since I have an heir I would smooth the way for him with blood. Perhaps I would—for Arthur—but blood never smoothes a path, it only makes it slippery. Nor did I mean to frighten you. Only watch your ladies more carefully, and if there is something I should know, even only suspicion or rumor, tell me. I am not like to act unjustly or in anger."
"I know nothing—nothing! Send them away. I could not look at them, knowing they tried to hurt you."
She was shivering now and would not meet his eyes. Henry took her hand. "Do not make yourself ill over this, Elizabeth. I do not wish to dismiss your ladies. Indeed, if they are guilty of deliberate malice instead of careless gossip, which is all I believe this to be, it would be dangerous to send them away. If you wish to help me, you must control yourself and seek out the culprit."
Elizabeth gasped as if he had stabbed her. "I cannot! Oh Henry, I cannot! Set spies on them, on me, do what you like, but do not ask me to betray—to—"
"Very well, do not fret yourself so."
He set himself mechanically to soothe her, partly because he did not wish to bring his mother's wrath on his head for upsetting her, and partly because her mention of betrayal rather than protests of innocence or accommodation to his will seemed genuine. It could not be easy for a daughter to betray her mother. He was being unjust and unkind to Elizabeth who had just given him a son. His caresses grew warmer, then rather less comforting and more passionate.
When Henry left his wife's chamber, he smiled at the ladies dozing in their chairs. He had stayed a good deal longer than anyone, including himself, had expected. Lips pursed in a soundless whistle, the king let himself out without disturbing the sleepers. He had not had what he wanted really, but a sufficiently adequate substitute had been furnished so that he was more at peace with the world.
It was of less important that some of those dozing ladies were innocently or deliberately conniving at treason. They were known and could be watched. As long as the treason was not Elizabeth's. The whistle burst from his lips, a fluting, musical birdcall that he had learned as a boy in Wales and had forgotten until he uttered it.
Elizabeth lay very still. She could not hear her ladies stirring, and the soft opening and closing of the outer door did not reach her. Was Henry still out there? Questioning her ladies, perhaps, in that cold deadly voice she had heard him use although, thank God, never to her. At least, not yet. Why was he so angry about the rumor concerning poor Warwick? It was an ugly rumor, but there would always be rumors. She wished it was not the middle of the night so that she could ask to have Arthur brought to her. Then she could hold his pliant little body and examine his perfect, miraculous toes and fingers, let his tiny hands aimlessly grasp her hair, and forget that her ladies … her ladies. . . .
If there was a rumor that could hurt Henry, Elizabeth knew from where it came. Henry knew, too, but he was too kind to say it to her, too kind. Was it kind to place the burden of controlling her mother on her? Why did not Henry, who seemed to know everything else, know that she was still terrified of her mother? Why did he not do something? Anything. Anything except ask her to face her mother down.
Not face her down in one argument—Elizabeth knew she could screw up her courage for that. But it would not end there. There would be scene after scene, tears, shrieks, nagging, spiteful remarks in public—until at last Elizabeth would be worn down, reduced to compliance and deliberate blindness.
The ladies were appalled when Elizabeth insisted on rising and dressing the next day. She looked feverish, with dark smudges showing beneath tired eyes. They could not refuse to help her, but one sent a page scurrying for the dowager queen and another for the countess of Richmond. This was what Elizabeth expected, and she tried to concentrate on her dressing so that her mind would not run ahead and become so enmeshed in fear that her tongue would be paralyzed.
Margaret reached her first. The countess's apartments adjoined the queen's and she, herself, was more slender, quicker to dress, and perhaps more anxious about the cause for Elizabeth's behavior.
"Why, love, what are you doing out of your bed?"
Elizabeth tried to smile. She had to be rid of Henry's mother as soon as possible, but Margaret's hands still bore the scars they had received during Arthur's birth, and Elizabeth was more than ever attached to her mother-in-law.
Her own mother refused to be clawed. She had been kind and reassuring and steadying during Elizabeth's ordeal, but she offered twisted silk scarfs for Elizabeth to tear at, not her own hands. And Elizabeth needed flesh then, warm, human flesh that returned her desperate grip and flinched in sympathy with her pain.
"I am tired of my bed. Do not scold me, madam. I have been up and about for a week, and today I had a desire to dress. I am not ill. Now I do feel tired, but I will rest awhile. If I do not regain my strength, I promise to go back to bed. There, is that sufficient?"
"It would be, dear, if I thought it was true. You must learn how to lie from Henry. He is much more convincing. What has he done? Did he tell you it was time to return to your duties? You must not allow him to force you to do things that will hurt you. He does miss your company, but he does not understand that—"
"No," Elizabeth laughed shakily. "It is not his doing. Dear madam, I never saw a mother so eager to blame her son for her daughter-in-law's waywardness. Henry is very good to me."
"Yes, but he never cossets himself and he drives his men until they drop. You must not let him do that to you."
"Madam, he is so gentle to me. How can you accuse him—" She began to laugh more heartily. "Oh, madam, how silly we both are. Do you remember before we wed you told me Henry was kind and gentle? I did not believe you then, and now I tell you the same and you do not believe me. Do not worry about me. I will soon return to bed, I promise. I only wish to sit awhile so, and please—to be alone."
That was a dismissal, however kind, that even the king's mother could not ignore. Margaret was unconvinced by Elizabeth's protests, but she decided to leave well enough alone. Plainly, whatever her trouble, Elizabeth did not wish for intervention. She felt that her understanding with Henry was good enough to dispense with his mother's—
Dispense! Margaret was horrified, both at her own use of the word and the real meaning of it. I must not, she thought biting her lips, I must not come between them. She had a momentary exultant flash of satisfaction, knowing she had the power to destroy her son's relationship with his wife and remain the only woman in his life, and then she sank: to her knees and began to pray frantically for strength to resist such desires and for forgiveness for having them.
Meanwhile the dowager queen had entered her daughter's bedchamber and found her, surprisingly, alone. It was one of the things Elizabeth's mother was growing to hate about her daughter—the habit of never permitting private conversation.
"Elizabeth," she said, "you are growing sillier instead of wiser as you grow older. You are ill. Go back to bed."
"I wished to talk to you without summoning you, mother, and this seemed the best way. When I have said what I wish to say, I will go back to bed."
"That is not the proper tone to use to your mother, Elizabeth."
"That is not the proper tone to use to the queen, mother."
"The queen!" The older woman laughed harshly. "You are no queen nor ever will be. Your husband will use you to fulfill his political purposes and then cast you aside like a dirty clout."
"Do not speak ill of Henry to me. You do not know how tender of me he is. You purpose to do him ill, mother, and he knows it; but for my sake he holds his hand and will not even complain of it. I have heard of the false tale that is being spread about Warwick."
"Who says it is false?"
"I do. Henry is no murderer. The distinction of being a murderer of children is reserved to the truly royal family—ours! Do not try to inflame Henry's subjects against him. Sooner or later my power with him will fail to protect you."
"Your power with him! It is the power of a carpet which asks only to have feet wiped on it."
"More, then, do I love and honor my husband that he has never used me so."
"Elizabeth, you are a tender-hearted fool. I do not deny that he cosseted you during the time of your increasing. But you think it was for your sake, and I know it was only for the child. Oh, I see in your face that because he is still amiable you do not believe me. He desires a few more sprigs from the royal tree. I tell you he hates us all, branch, stock, and root, because we are of the true tree of royalty. You have a chance now. Let the country be rid of him, on Warwick's account or any other, and your child will be king and you—you will be regent as I should have been had not that monster Gloucester—"
"Stop!" Elizabeth's face was deadly pale, beaded with sweat, and she panted with terror. She saw every fear she had ever had before she married Henry, before his confidence brought some security to her, becoming a fact. "You are mad," she choked, "mad or possessed of devils. I will tell Henry. I will—"
"What will you tell the suspicious Tudor? Who would dare plot to make you regent for your son without
your
encouragement?"
Elizabeth uttered another choked cry and slumped sideways in the chair. Her mother stared at her for a moment and then rose to call the ladies. When the Tudor, that ugly growth in her daughter's heart and mind, was removed, Elizabeth would be as wax in her hands.
CHAPTER 18
". . . on shore or on float, in England, or export or import goods, merchandize, etcetera, from abroad, according to their liking."
"Henry!"
The king looked around, startled. He had been dictating a trading charter to one of his clerks, and it was an hour of the day when he was known to dislike interruptions.
"What is it, mother?" he asked, smoothing the frown from his face.
"Come to Elizabeth. Come at once. Never mind that business. Come, I say."
The frown returned. Henry snapped his fingers and the clerk disappeared through the outer door. "I know you are fond of Elizabeth, mother, but I cannot be constantly interrupted by her tantrums. She is safely delivered now. You must calm her yourself, or her ladies must, or she must learn a little self-control. I have a whole kingdom to govern. I cannot stop to attend to one woman."
There had been more bad news about Warwick. A box of poisoned sweets had been smuggled to him, and thus far Foxe's attempts to discover the culprit had been vain. It was the more frightening because explanations of the danger in accepting and concealing mysterious gifts seemed beyond the comprehension of the feebleminded boy.
When told that the sweets were poisoned, Warwick had replied, "They were not. You wanted to eat them yourself."
Henry sent Foxe a blistering message about providing Warwick with every delicacy he craved until he was glutted, but that did little to relieve his anxiety. And now this sudden distress of Elizabeth's so soon after the news about Warwick was doubly suspicious.
Actually Henry was sorry for his wife. He knew her position was not easy, but he felt that she must choose her side and struggle for its success. That his would be the side she chose Henry was almost—an agonizing almost—certain. In fact, his reluctance to go to her just now was less a result of personal anger against her, he told himself, than fear that he could not control his temper and would upset her more by displaying the disgust he felt at the attack on a helpless, feebleminded child.
"This is not tantrum, Henry. Or if it is, you alone can stop it before she becomes desperately ill. Do you think I would intrude upon you for nothing? All of us have been trying to calm her, but she already has a high fever. I hope we have not delayed too long. I hope she still recognizes you. She is gone back into the past and keeps crying of Gloucester and her mother and their struggle over the regency for her brothers."
A chill raised the hair on the nape of Henry's neck. If his mother had heard about Warwick, she had not connected the news with Elizabeth's illness. The wandering of his wife's mind, Henry realized, was distinctly apropos. If he went to her for no other reason, he had to silence her.
"Very well."
Forewarned and angry as he was, Henry could not help feeling alarmed by the pitiful woman who huddled shaking under heaps of covers while her face and eyes burned with fever. However, if she had been wandering previously, which Henry doubted, she was not now.
"Send everyone away," she whispered. Henry's gesture cleared the room. "Do not let anything happen to Warwick," she continued in the same breathless whisper. "Pray, Henry, let nothing happen to Warwick."
"I told you I was no murderer, Elizabeth. I am doing my best for the boy. Now you must calm yourself. I will be angry in earnest if you continue to make yourself ill. First you fret over my—infidelity—and now about my intentions toward your cousin."