The Dragon and the Rose (33 page)

For this he was thanked without high-flown phrases but in natural forthright speech, which bespoke more real gratitude and sincerity than anything that had gone before. The city voted him instead a generous supply of provisions, and these Henry accepted, knowing that no one likes to be thought of as a poor sister, and knowing, also, it would permit him to ease the strain of the smaller towns in supporting his vast entourage. He retired at last to the archbishop's palace where, to his joy, he found Foxe waiting for him.

"Our Lord preserve that sweet and well-favored face," Foxe said merrily, kissing his hand.

"Richard! Not you, too!"

"Such are the rewards of good policy, Your Grace. I cannot compliment you on how this matter was treated, for you are always wise, but it was well done to pardon them. This was no more than the foolishness of a few desperate men. There was never—"

"Yes, yes, I know. How is it with Her Grace?"

"If she had any part in this, it is beyond my fathoming. The five we watch knew nothing of it, though their souls are guilty for they were all much frightened and made preparation to escape."

"That is not what I meant, Richard," Henry said impatiently.

"I can tell you little. I have not seen Her Grace much of late, for there is nothing to bring us together. She is pale and weary, very quiet at the state table. Certainly it is not generally known that she is with child. I did not know, but your lady mother is sure."

"I thought to have some news from you." Henry hit the table sharply, and Foxe calmly righted an empty goblet which toppled under the violence of the blow.

"I have no bad news," he soothed, "and in this case that is as good as you will get until the appointed time passes."

Henry began to pace about nervously. "Oh, sit down," he said at last. "There is no reason for you to be weary because I cannot rest."

There was a long pause while the uneasy king wandered about the room fingering the hangings, uselessly lifting and setting down any loose object, and irritably kicking at the furniture that came into his path. Foxe carefully withdrew his feet as Henry passed, and the king stopped suddenly and laughed.

"I do not kick my friends, Richard, even when the Lord does not see fit to make special provision for kings and shorten the time of breeding. I am a fool."

"No, sire, you are a man."

"Yes, but I have no right to that. A king cannot afford to be a man. Enough. I am a fool. Now, York has troubles, and if I can mend them or ease them I will have less need to worry about their loyalty."

Without command Foxe moved to the table, which was provided, as every room the king used was ordered to be, with paper and writing materials. He made notes as Henry spoke, first of the manner of election of the mayors of York and then of various concessions to the guilds of the city that would stimulate trade. Later Foxe would draft the charters, adding any ideas of his own. The draft would be checked by Henry, rewritten with the necessary changes and omissions that the king suggested, checked again, and—if no new ideas had occurred to either of them or to any member of the council or the city fathers who were consulted—put into final form on parchment for the king to read once again, sign, and have sealed with the great seal.

On April 28 Henry sat through his farewell feast in York. On the twenty-ninth he returned to Doncaster to show himself in triumph after the tenseness of his previous brief stay in that city. Nottingham was revisited for the same purpose, and then the king moved west and south to Birmingham, beginning the return swing of his progress.

He had heard regularly from his mother and Elizabeth, but nothing to the purpose. It was necessary for him to be content with Foxe's cold comfort that no news was good in this case. Thus far he remained in official ignorance of his wife's condition. He had had sense enough, even in his first excitement, not to betray his knowledge. If Elizabeth discovered someone else had given him the news, she would be mortally offended. It was wearing on the nerves because Henry had to reread every letter he wrote to her three times for fear he would give himself away. Unfortunately, this also made his letters very stiff.

On May 11, the day before they were to leave Birmingham, Henry received his release. Elizabeth wrote at last, in her own hand this time, that, having missed three fluxes, she was sure she was with child. She hoped, she said, that this would please him, it being plain from his manner of writing that something had caused him discontent.

Henry uttered a string of blasphemies which caused his attendants to shrink back against the walls. It was the first indication he had received that Elizabeth was dissatisfied with his letters. He should have known, he thought. At first her replies to him had been dictated to one of her ladies. After his gift of the rabbits, however, she had written to him herself until he had broken off communications when he heard of the short-lived rebellion. There was a hiatus, since Elizabeth only wrote in response to his letters, but after the note he sent to her with Poynings her replies had been dictated again. Henry thought nothing of it, except for worrying whether she was too ill to write. Now he realized he had hurt her.

Paper and pen were at hand. Henry dashed off a reply full of apology, concern for her well-being, and joy at her news. It was most unfortunate that the habit of rereading everything he wrote was so ingrained in him. He blushed at the naked emotionality of the composition and destroyed it. Then he reread Elizabeth's letter in an attempt to find a starting point for a second try. That was a mistake, he realized later, for his instant reaction was fury. How dared she protest at anything he did when she was probably neck-deep in conspiracy against him. She could thank the child in her womb—his child—for the fact that she was not languishing in the dank confines of a prison. That reply was not sent, either, Henry having recovered his temper enough to remember that she was probably unconscious of his suspicions and might even be innocent.

The third draft was rather the worse for the effect of the other two. It was careful and considerate, containing proper sentiments of joy, proper questions regarding Elizabeth's health, proper puzzlement as to what she meant by writing of discontent in him. He certainly had no cause for complaint now, and hoped he would have none in the future. If he was brief, she must consider the very small time at his disposal for personal matters.

Elizabeth's dictated reply to this masterpiece was its equal in propriety; but Margaret's, which began "Even a mother dare not call a king an ass," would have ignited the paper if ink were flammable.

Miserably, Henry tried again; struggle as he might, however, he fell between the two stools of love and hatred. If he permitted any feeling to warm him, it ran away with him completely. He cursed himself in French, Welsh, and English, in language his gentlemen had never heard on his lips before and did not realize that he knew, all to no avail. Cold propriety was the only salvation he could find. He could not declare a love he would not acknowledge nor acknowledge a hatred he dared not declare.

Work was another salvation. Never from any previous king had the cities Henry visited enjoyed such minute attention to every piece of business presented. The Tudor was ready to receive deputations at all times, and his advice was practical and precise. No problem was too small for his consideration, and nothing was forgotten.

Wherever the king touched, he left golden opinions of him behind—mixed with a good deal of awe. Word spread of his real interest in his nation's welfare, and when he rode into Bristol women leaned from their windows to throw wheat, the symbol of fruitfulness and plenty, down to him.

Now Henry heard more speeches of complaint than empty phrases of exaggerated praise. Bristol cried of her decay, blaming the decline of the navy and the falling off of the cloth trade. The king listened and promised help. Every king did that, but the mayor and aldermen were agreeably surprised when they were summoned to an audience. With Henry sat Lord Dynham, the treasurer; the earl of Oxford, who was lord high admiral of the defunct navy; and Dr. Foxe. The table before the king, however, was no neat and formal sight. It was covered with papers and calculations. This was not to be a session of more empty promises, but of real business.

Let the Bristol merchants start to build ships, Henry said. He would lend so much, and so much he would contribute for shares in the profits. He would provide guns to arm the ships from the royal foundries, but in return he must have an agreement that the ships would be available for naval purposes free of charge for a certain length of time and upon proper notice.

Henry spoke then of the cloth trade. He could make no promises, he admitted, because it depended in part on the will of other nations, but he would strive to bring life to that cold body with all his power. In parting, the lord mayor kissed Henry's hands with tears in his eyes, and said, "They have not heard this hundred years of a king who was so good a comfort."

Then Henry could bear no more. He rode in one day from Bristol to Abingdon, and on the next from Abingdon to London—right across the width of England. The small party that had kept pace with him arrived very late, but for once Henry allowed himself the wisdom of not thinking. Splattered with mud and streaked with sweat he went directly to Elizabeth's apartments. He did not intend to waken her. He merely wanted to see how she looked with his own eyes. He had forgotten that certain ladies slept in her chamber to attend to her wants in the night when he did not come to her. One young fool shrieked with terror at the sudden sight of a man in riding clothes.

"Be quiet," Henry snarled at her, and then, knowing it was too late to withdraw, called out, "Do not be afraid, Elizabeth, it is I, Henry."

He moved quickly to the bed and pulled the curtains back. She had been startled by the shriek, for she clutched the bedclothes nervously and her lips trembled. The shock had been very brief, however; she was already recovered enough to stretch out a hand to him.

"I am so sorry," Henry said softly. "I did not mean to wake you."

Puzzled, Elizabeth asked simply, ''Then what did you come for?"

"To look at you. I—"

"Oh, Henry!" She drew him down to her and offered her lips. "Welcome home."

"Are you well, Elizabeth?"

"Much better now. I am not so sick any more, and I am growing heavy," she said proudly.

"Is that good?"

Elizabeth looked at her husband's anxious face, burst into a trill of laughter, and threw her arms around his neck. "Henry, you write the most dreadful letters. I swear I came to believe that you were angry with me for getting with child."

"Bess," he said softly, using the tender short form of her name for the first time, "Bess … I … My mother wrote that you were ill. I did not know what to say. I did not wish to frighten you by asking—" For the moment it was true. She was so lovely and so warm. He had forgotten the rage and the suspicion. He wet his lips, suddenly dry with desire. "Bess, may I come back?"

"Where are you going now?"

"To wash and change my clothes."

"You certainly need it," she said, laughing and wrinkling her nose. "You smell of tired man and hot horse."

"I am not too tired," he insisted. "I want to come back."

"So eager, Harry?" Elizabeth smiled and touched his dry mouth with her forefinger. "Does this mean you have been true to me?"

"By God, I have—for three long months."

Elizabeth was fairly sure he spoke the truth. Possibly he had slipped once or twice with an unknown chambermaid; but that was not important. In the reports about his progress, not the official reports, but the rumors and stories that had filtered back to her, not the least of the virtues for which the king was praised was his chaste manner with the wives and daughters of his subjects. Perhaps she would not need to face the humiliation her mother had endured. The next few months would tell. When she was heavy with child and could not satisfy him: that would be the crucial time. His behavior on the miles of the progress boded well, but there was no sense in putting an unnecessary strain on his virtue.

"Come back then—I have missed you, too."

He kissed her eagerly and went to the door, then returned slowly. "Elizabeth, will it be all right? Could I do you, or the child, any harm?"

"It never did my mother any harm, and I know she was not celibate when she carried my brothers and sisters," Elizabeth answered frankly.

"Thank God for that," Henry replied with heartfelt sincerity.

For Elizabeth, the succeeding months passed in peaceful contentment. Henry was unfailingly tender and considerate. No matter how busy he was, and international affairs were beginning to press upon him just as he seemed to have subdued domestic rebellion, he always had time to respond to Elizabeth's demands for attention.

Henry took to breakfasting with her, often rising before dawn to do the work he could have accomplished in a more leisurely fashion if he'd had the extra hour or two to devote to it. The activities in which she could no longer partake, such as hunting, he curtailed drastically, going only when she urged him to do so.

Elizabeth blossomed under his kindness. Her nervous irritability disappeared. As she grew more unwieldy and the weather grew hotter, Elizabeth was sometimes fretful, but Henry's patience never failed. And if he could not jest her into good humor, the thought of the child within her soon brought her peace.

Henry was not so contented, and it was fortunate that his wife, self-absorbed as breeding women so frequently are, did not realize how much the ideal husband was really the politic king. His spies had been ineffective; very well, he would watch her himself. He watched, and he learned. He was almost certain that Elizabeth knew of the rising in the north. When he told her of it, her reaction was not natural.

That knowledge did not please him, but other things did. She did not seem to be an accomplished actress, and he did believe now that she had no active part in the rebellion—more, that it was probably she who had sent Conway to warn him.