"It never does any good to worry," Jasper growled in exasperation, "but I have never come across anyone else on whom that knowledge had any effect—except a fool."
"Sometimes it is of great value to appear a fool."
Jasper sighed. "That safety you will never have, Harry. When other men are thought fools, you are suspected of devious plans."
Henry laughed again. "That, too, may be of great value."
Suddenly Jasper joined his laughter. "It is the maddest thing, Harry. I know that I should be worrying for both of us, but your certainty that all will be well is like aqua vitae. Do you bewitch men into your faith?"
No, Henry thought, as he embraced his uncle fondly without replying, but I feed men on it as if I opened my body to let them chew my liver and suck my heart's blood. And so much as doing that is the pain it costs me.
The next news from England was all personal. Margaret was married and found Stanley much to her liking, even more than her previous husband. Jasper, reading between the lines, chuckled.
"She means, I suppose, that Stanley is a strong man of his hands with a wavering mind which she believes she can make up for him."
"Also," Henry replied, tossing a packet of coins and jewels from one hand to another, "that he is richer than Stafford and allows her more of her own income to play with. I hope she does not send me too much and make him suspicious."
For two months, they heard nothing more. Jasper grew restless and wanted to beg leave to return to the border, but Henry opposed this move. The last week in March, however, brought the information that Edward IV was very ill. A messenger a week later confirmed this, adding that his death was expected. Jasper bit his nails with tension, but Henry laughed and rode out hunting. It was very important to show the Breton lords how little the news from England affected him.
By April 9, 1483, Edward was dead. Now even Henry found the strain of seeming disinterested too great. If the government passed smoothly to Edward's heir, he wanted to take Anne to wife. He did not wish Francis or the nobles of Brittany to suspect that his eyes had ever turned toward England. As a cover, he asked and received permission to ride the borders with Jasper. If events began to move swiftly in England, the number of couriers would betray Henry's deep interest in events basically unconnected with Breton affairs.
The precaution was a wise one. By the end of May, Margaret's messengers were almost treading on each other's heels. The queen's brothers had tried to keep Edward's heirs in their own power, but Gloucester had been warned by Hastings and had seized the princes himself with Buckingham's support. The lines were drawn; Gloucester, Buckingham, and Hastings against the queen and her Woodville relatives, and the first round was Gloucester's. The queen with her eldest son by her first husband, the marquis of Dorset, and one brother were in sanctuary; her other brothers, Rivers and Grey, had been taken prisoner. Day by day the news became more dramatic and more significant. The members of the council that Richard of Gloucester had summoned did not trust each other. Hastings was being won over to the queen's side by the influence of Dorset's ex-mistress with whom he had formed a connection.
Then came Margaret's own chaplain, tumbling down on his knees at Henry's feet in exhaustion as he gasped out the news. Hastings was dead—seized at a meeting of the council and beheaded in the Tower courtyard without a trial. Morton and Rotherham were prisoners in the Tower and Stanley himself was being detained, although only in his own quarters.
"My mother?" Henry asked softly, but Jasper saw his nephew's hands clench into fists, those hands that were usually so relaxed in times of extremity.
"Safe," the chaplain murmured, almost sobbing with weariness. "She bides near to sanctuary, and there is a secret way for her to flee there if need be."
"I thank you for that surety." Henry's hands opened, lay quiet on the arms of his chair. "Go now to rest and refresh yourself."
"He will seize the throne for himself!" Jasper exclaimed.
"Nay, he could not! The prince is his nephew." Henry was so shocked that the words were wrenched out of him before he thought. "Richard of Gloucester, much as I dislike all the house of York, has been an able and faithful supporter of his brother," Henry added defensively. "I will not believe that he would turn on his brother's children."
Jasper's face softened and he moved across the room to place a comforting hand on Henry's shoulder. He understood that his nephew was not defending Richard of Gloucester but Jasper of Pembroke. "Harry, there is not one drop of blood in me on either side that could give me a claim to the crown. Therefore—therefore, I say—you may believe I will never strive for it." He could feel the muscles in Henry's shoulder tense and see his brief, unguarded expression of pain. Jasper bent and kissed his nephew's temple. "In my heart I believe that nothing can come between us, that no hope of gain or power could make me lift a finger that was not lifted for your good. But I have lived for fifty-two years in a hard world. Who knows what a man will do, even an honorable man, when such temptation is put in his way?"
Henry twisted his head to smile at his uncle, and Jasper received a shock of pleasure. For once, both Henrys were smiling—the beloved nephew and that other who watched apart.
"On the day I must doubt you, I will have lived long enough. On that day, uncle, I will know there is no God, that this world and all else is the creation of some great Evil, and that Good does not exist."
"Hush, Harry, you blaspheme."
But for a while the events in England seemed to give substance to what Henry said. Richard of Gloucester first declared his nephews illegitimate and then usurped the crown. The wave of blood that was to engulf England gathered volume. Rivers and Grey, the queen's brothers, were beheaded at Pontefract without even the mockery of a trial. This information was brought to Henry by another of the queen's brothers, who arrived in Brittany in July begging for Henry's protection.
When he was gone, Jasper snarled, "He as well as his brothers urged Edward to hunt you. All the Woodvilles are snakes. Why did you promise him your protection? You will have them all on your hands."
Henry sat a moment staring ahead. "I do not think," he replied at last, with an odd mixture of regret and calculation, "that there will be many left by the time Gloucester is done."
The prediction seemed to be correct; the depths of horror had not yet been plumbed. Margaret's next messenger arrived only a day after Edward Woodville. First he confirmed Sir Edward's news, then he told Henry that all was well concerning Margaret's position. Stanley was again in favor and he and Margaret would take prominent parts in Richard's coronation on July 6. Then he stood irresolute, licking dry lips. He could not bring himself to say aloud what he had been told. At last he whispered into Henry's ear that Edward's sons, the young princes, had not been seen for many weeks and it was rumored that they, too, were dead. Henry pulled his head away from the hissing sound and jerked to his feet.
"Wicked uncle," he breathed.
The games of his childhood, which had given him so much pleasure, had taken on a nauseous reality. Henry had no love for Edward or his brood, but he shrank from this insane bloodletting. It was not until hours later, when he was tossing restlessly in his bed, cold despite the summer warmth and the robe he had pulled over him, that he could bring himself to admit that Richard's actions were not insane. If Gloucester wished to keep the crown he had assumed, Edward's blood must not survive to divide the country. Alone, Henry had no need to set a guard on his expression or emotion, and he trembled, reliving the terrors he himself had felt, finding himself, to his own surprise, weeping for those children who had faced a greater terror without support and had died in fear.
He drew a hand over his face, annoyed with himself for emotion wasted on enemies who, likely enough, would have wasted none on him. If I must weep, Henry thought, let it be for myself. Richard will not forget me, more especially if his enemies flee here to my protection. He will have excuse enough to threaten Brittany and, even if he has not strength enough for war, he can set the nobles against me again. And, what will I do with these people? How will I support them? How long can Francis bear their expense without resentment?
CHAPTER 5
While Henry struggled with practical problems in Brittany, Margaret struggled with emotional ones in England. From the time Henry was a quick-witted baby, she had dreamed dreams of power and glory for him. These were rooted in her very soul, but above them lay a heavy debris of fear. The years she had lived at Edward's court had displayed to her the horrors that grew around power and the smirching of glory that those horrors brought. Richard's bloody seizure of the crown brought all the evils of power into sharp focus, for Richard had been an honorable man and had been turned into a monster.
Could she desire such a burden for Henry? Even if he could support it and did not become a bloody tyrant, would what happened to Edward happen to him? Would Henry be swallowed by dissipation, grow fat and soft, rotted by his own lusts? She could not imagine such weakness in her son, yet what did she really know of Henry? For twelve years she had not looked into his face. What could be judged from a whispered message, from a few formal lines giving news of his health and welfare?
Margaret touched her coif to be sure the folds were straight and graceful, ran her finger around its edge to be sure that no hair had escaped to make her look unkempt. Her surcoat was of the richest emerald silk, her cotte of the purest white, its hem sewn with pearls that glowed softly when the surcoat was lifted and they caught the light. The clothes suited her, but that was not why she had chosen them. Green and white were the Tudor colors. A necklet of emeralds and diamonds, rings on her fingers; Margaret rose at last and looked into her mirror. Yes, she was grand enough. Her appearance would undoubtedly turn the knife in the wounded pride of Elizabeth Woodville, dowager queen of England and now no better than a prisoner in sanctuary at Westminster.
Shown into Elizabeth's presence, Margaret curtsied deeply but did not kneel, for in these circumstances that gesture could be considered mocking.
"Why have you come here?"
The question did not surprise Margaret. She had been the queen's lady for many years, but they had never been friends. Even aside from political differences, their natures and interests were totally opposed. Over the years, Margaret had found the queen to be vain, shallow, sensual, and pleasure-loving, unstable in her loyalties, selfish to a degree that excluded even her children. Although Queen Elizabeth was shrewd enough to see and grasp for what she thought was her good, she often spoiled everything by being unable to wait or plan for the future.
"Because we both desire the same thing and together, albeit we are only two women, we can achieve that thing."
"What can I achieve—a prisoner in danger of my very life? I am helpless, succorless. I have lost my hope and my joy. My sons, my brothers, all are lost—lost."
"I cannot give you back your sons or your brothers"—Margaret's voice trembled with deep and genuine sympathy. She might dislike and distrust this woman, but she could feel for her grief—"but all else I can make sure you have again. And I can give you your revenge on him who has bereft you. More than that, you and I may bind and heal the wounds that have torn this land for thirty years. You have a daughter—I have a son. My son is heir to Lancaster; your daughter is heir to York. Let them join hands and there will be no stronger right than theirs in this land."
Elizabeth was silent and tears trickled down her face. She was almost sure her sons were dead, and this visit of Margaret's made her more sure. Her tears, however, were less of grief than of fear. If her sons were dead, her own life was that much more in danger.
"What good are your promises? Will they bind your son? What force has he to achieve this thing?"
"If he does not achieve it, you will have lost nothing. Richard can hate you no more relentlessly even if he should hear that you have promised your daughter Elizabeth to Henry. And my promise that Henry will treat you with all honor—although you may have it in any way you desire including my oath upon the crucifix—will matter little. Your daughter will be Henry's wife. Elizabeth is as beautiful as you are, madam. What man will deny her anything she asks? Did you not mold Edward to your will in far greater things than respect to a mother-in-law?"
That made sense to the dowager queen. A faint flush of color came into her cheeks and her eyes brightened. Elizabeth was a good daughter. She would deny her mother nothing. Through her, power would be restored to her mother's hands.
"I desire nothing except to live in peace and to be revenged on that murderer," Elizabeth lied. "For that and for the good of the land which groans beneath a tyrant—I agree."
"And your daughter, will she agree?"
"She will do as I say. Now, what would you have, a letter?"
"That would be best, for I must prove that this is not a dream of my own devising. I would like to speak to Elizabeth. If I could have some token of willingness from her to send to my son, it would be very helpful. He is gentle." Margaret actually knew nothing about Henry's attitude toward women, but she wanted to be sure that the queen would tell Princess Elizabeth of the proposed betrothal. The girl should have time to accustom herself to the idea. "Henry would not be willing to force your daughter against her will."
"There is no need for you to speak to my daughter," the dowager said sharply. "I will see that a letter and token are made ready for you. When you send to your son to tell him to come to England, that messenger can carry my daughter's consent and"—the petulant lips curled into a sneer—"her love token."
It was done. Margaret returned home trembling, although she told herself no irrevocable move had yet been made. She knew that was false comfort. Having started on the path, she would tread it to the end; it was her nature. A week passed while Margaret's servants made tactful inquiries. Then she wrote to Lord Stanley that the heat of London oppressed her. If it was not disagreeable to him, she would ride into the country to refresh herself. His reply came as quickly as the messenger could travel. She was to do as she pleased. On no account should she trifle with her health but go where she would be most comfortable and be sure to take her physician with her. Thomas Stanley was, if possible, more deeply in love with his wife than when he married her. She was perfect. Her virtue, her prudence, and her wisdom had been of more use to him in these troubled times than any other person's. He trusted her implicitly.