The Dragon and the Rose (6 page)

Edward IV did not want to see the great-granddaughter of John of Gaunt lonely and uncomforted. He thought it would be well for her to marry again. Lord Thomas Stanley, steward of Edward's household and closer to the king than all but a few others, had been proposed. Henry sent another frantic invitation, daring, in his fear for his mother, to outline his high hopes in Brittany.

Margaret read Henry's urgent missive with a tender smile. She was now nearly forty years old, but the beauty that came from the fine bones under the flesh was unchanged. True, there were dark hollows beneath her eyes, her cheeks were thinner, and her translucent skin showed tiny wrinkles where laughter and tears had stretched and washed it. The changes only enhanced the quality of fragile purity that drew men's eyes and yet held them back from grossness.

Dear Henry, how constant he was and how foolish to worry about her as if, after all these long years, she could not take care of herself. She rose as gracefully as a girl and moved toward her writing desk. A scratch at the door made her quicken her step, thrust Henry's letter inside and step away as she called, "Enter."

The page announced Lord Stanley, and he trod in virtually on the heels of the child.

"You will think me quite mad for returning so soon, Lady Margaret," he said.

Margaret's lips quirked; she struggled for composure, then gave in and chuckled softly. "My dear Lord Stanley, no woman has ever thought a man who flattered her was mad. Since the only business between us is that of our proposed union and since you are urging it, I can only assume you have discovered more or more cogent arguments to that purpose. That is most flattering and not, to my mind, at all mad."

Lord Stanley had stopped abruptly and started to draw himself up, when Margaret laughed, but there was only kindness in her eyes. He came forward again, his thin face intent. He was not a large man, rather of middle size but well made, and he carried himself with the easy grace of the courtier-soldier that he was. The high, broad forehead betokened intelligence, which was also apparent in his dark eyes; the full, well-shaped lips told of passion, but the chin— Lord Stanley would be a frail reed to lean upon. That was all to the good, Margaret thought. She had strength enough for both.

"Then, I must depend upon that little feminine weakness," Thomas Stanley said, "although I do not flatter. My regard for you is—is most sincere, most sincere indeed. Lady Margaret, I have returned not with cogent reasons but—but to make a confession. You have protested at the unseemly haste with which the king is pressing you into a new marriage. It—that is my fault."

"Yours, my lord?"

Lord Stanley drew a deep breath and looked away. "I have long loved you, Lady Margaret, longer, in truth, than is honest, for my heart had turned to you before my wife's death. You shine like a pure wax light among the stinking, smoking torches that most of the court ladies have become."

Margaret made a half gesture of distress, and Stanley's voice checked. It was rumored that his wife had been touched by the king. If so, he had been too weak to protest, but there was honor enough in him to feel the shame was not worth the profit.

"As soon as I had word of Stafford's death," he went on after he had unclenched his jaw, "I went to the king and—and demanded you."

"My lord!"

The shock in her voice reacted upon him like a blow in the face. He winced and stepped back a little. "If this is disgusting to you, Margaret, if you think you cannot bear to have me as a husband, I—I will withdraw my suit."

"Thomas"—it was now Margaret who stepped forward and took his hand—"do you mean that?"

"Yes," he exclaimed bitterly. "When I came to you earlier, you were so uneasy and so glad when I took my departure. It galled me. I was angry. First I told myself that I would force you to love me. But whatever the fools at court think, I know you are not the kind to yield to force. Then I bethought me what my life would be … I could not endure to live with your hatred. It is better to lose you entirely. I am sorry, Margaret … sorry. I would have made you a—a good husband. Better than others the king, or the queen, might choose."

He pulled his hand from hers and started to turn away. Margaret gripped his arm. "Wait, Thomas. I was only surprised by what you said. I do not hate you. Before, it is true I was eager for you to go, but it had nothing to do with you as a person." It had to do with Henry's letter, but Margaret could not admit that. "I only felt I was being hurried and harried. I could not understand why. It is not decent. My husband is dead not two months."

Lord Stanley clenched and unclenched his free hand. "I am sorry. I knew yon would be offended, but I dared not wait. There are hungry mouths gaping for you, Margaret, and some of them have teeth that would grind your frail bones." He felt her stiffen and continued quickly, "I am not threatening you, my dear. I am only trying to explain why I have acted seemingly without consideration for your grief."

Margaret shook her head. "Since you say you love me, Thomas, I cannot lie to you. I do not grieve for Henry Stafford in spite of the more than ten years we were man and wife. He was kind and I was fond of him, but I never loved him. I have loved only once in my life—as a woman loves a man—and that man I still love."

"I will win you," Thomas Stanley exclaimed enthusiastically. He thought she meant her first husband, twenty-five years in his grave, and he did not care about that shadowy devotion to a dead man.

"I can give you no assurance of your success," Margaret said gently, "but I can promise that I will not try to resist you, Thomas. If I become your wife, I will try to love you."

"You will accept me, then?"

Margaret smiled. "I never meant to refuse—only to gain a little time."

That was the exact truth. Lord Stanley was very close to the king and one of the most powerful magnates of England. For Margaret's political purposes, the match was most advantageous. She would have accepted a far less pleasant husband to further those purposes.

Lord Stanley's face clouded. "I would give you the time if I could, but I do not dare. Margaret, the king is not so well as I would like. He finds it harder and harder to resist the harpies that tear at him. We must be married as soon as possible. I—I promise I will make no demand upon you if—if you …"

"How kind you are, but it is not necessary. I am willing to perform all my wifely duties as best I can. Just do not expect more than I can give, Thomas. I will withhold nothing by my will. What you do not find is not there for any man to find."

He did not reply to that but drew her closer, watching her face. Margaret looked up at him submissively. "My lady, my lady," he murmured and lifted her hand and kissed it, "I will enshrine you in gold and pearls."

"Oh, Thomas," Margaret protested, "I beg you not to say things like that. I do not mean to offend you, but it makes me think of the queen."

Worry and indecision replaced the possessive happiness in Lord Stanley's expression. "Margaret—" he began.

"Come and sit down," Margaret urged, "and tell me—if you wish, of course—what is troubling you. What did you mean when you said the king was not so well? I have not been at court for many months because of Stafford's illness, but Edward is still a young man, and he is very strong."

"Not so young or so strong as he once was. It is his way of life. He will not amend it, and Hastings encourages him, matching him bottle for bottle of wine and acting as his pander. Then, too, his spirit has no rest He bemoans the death of Clarence, looking with hatred at those who pressed him to it, but so much power has he given into their hands that he dare not move against them. Moreover, there is also justice. The king knows they urged the act for the good of the realm as well as for their own greed. Clarence was a danger to the king."

"He loves you well, Thomas. Could you not urge him gently to abate his indulgences? And surely it could do no harm to offer soothing words—" She stopped as Thomas shook his head.

"He is changed, greatly changed, since you saw him last. We must marry at once, Margaret. I fear … I fear greatly …" He dropped his voice nearly to a whisper, although they were alone in the room. "If you wish to be rid of me, Margaret, I will give you the means. You need only repeat what I tell you now and the king's headsman will see that I do not trouble you any longer. I fear the king will not live out this next year."

After Lord Stanley left, Margaret reread her son's letter with great care. She had already refused his first invitation to seek sanctuary in Brittany, saying she thought Lord Stanley would make an excellent husband. Her supposition had now been abundantly confirmed. What was more, it was clearly apparent that she would be able to exert a powerful influence on him. Margaret bit her lip. If Edward died and the realm passed quietly into the hands of his son, Henry would do well to marry Anne of Brittany. Probably he could come home safely after Edward's death, but to what? His estates belonged to others. He would always be suspect.

However, Margaret did not believe that Prince Edward would inherit peacefully from his father. Gloucester and the Woodvilles would never be willing to work together, and the prince would not be strong enough to keep the peace between them. If civil war came, Henry might have a chance if—and only if—he was unmarried and free to wed Edward's daughter.

Margaret took down a book she knew well and began to turn the pages. She went back to her writing desk, examined the quills there, chose a fine one and began to mark certain passages.

The reply Henry received to his announcement that a betrothal had been proposed between him and Anne of Brittany was so cryptic that he could scarcely understand it. He begged a leave of absence from court to bring Jasper back for the Christmas festivities, and he took the priest who had carried Margaret's message with him. Jasper read the short innocent letter he carried, listened twice to the equally innocent verbal message, and carefully scanned the marked passages in the religious text he brought. Gold coins chinked, and the priest was dismissed to be set on his way toward France in the morning.

"Well, uncle?" Henry asked impatiently.

"It may be that the Lady Margaret did not send that message. She is not usually addle-pated," Jasper said slowly.

"I thought of that, but who else would be so clever as to divide it so that it appears three innocent admonitions to a son? No, if someone else sent it to prevent my betrothal to Anne, would they not have been more anxious for a clearer message?"

"I suppose so. Also there is the matter of the time limit. That does not sound like an enemy."

"Then my mother expects something to happen in England within the next six months—something perhaps of more importance to me than marriage to the heiress of Brittany. What, in the name of God, uncle? What could be that important?"

Their eyes met and Jasper nodded his agreement. "Edward's death—only that." Then he frowned. "I still do not see why that should prevent you from marrying Anne of Brittany. If your mother thinks your estates and title will be restored by Edward's son, that would merely enhance your chances in Brittany. What is more, the betrothal here, which would assure Edward's heir that you would stay safe abroad, would increase your chances for restoration."

Henry stood up and began to pace the room restlessly. Brittany was only a duchy, it was true, but its duke ruled as independently as any king. As the husband of a bride nearly twenty years younger than himself, it could be presumed that he, not she, would rule in spite of the fact that the right was hers. If his mother wished him to delay his commitment to become Anne's husband, it was only because she envisioned for him a position of even greater importance.

"Your mother has butterflies in her head," Jasper growled, proving that his mind was running along the same track as Henry's. "It is true that Gloucester, Buckingham, Hastings, and the Woodvilles are bitter enemies who will pull England apart when Edward dies, but Edward has two healthy sons for them to struggle over. Not one of those factions would even glance at you."

"I would agree, except that my mother does
not
have butterflies in her head—ever. She knows something we do not know. Perhaps something too dangerous to trust to any messenger." Henry sat down, aware that his pacing was a sign of his indecision, and he made it a rule never, on any account, to exhibit the fact that he had doubts and fears like any other man.

"Well, wild dreams are not Margaret's way," Jasper admitted grudgingly. Now it was his turn to rise and pace the floor. In his opinion, England's throne was as far out of Henry's grasp as the moon, and he should not throw Brittany away for a lunatic dream. Jasper stopped in front of his nephew and looked at his quiet face and relaxed body with a mixture of irritation and pride. "You have made up your mind already, eh? I never saw anyone like you, Harry. What to do in this case might drive a man mad, yet you think, decide, and, more wonderful yet, dismiss the matter from your mind so that it does not fret you."

Henry smiled, then burst out laughing in the manner that was so infectious if you did not look deep into his eyes. Nothing could be further from the truth, yet the impression Jasper had was exactly the one Henry wished to give. "But in this case, uncle, it is such an easy decision to make. I need only do nothing. If I do not prod the barons, they will not ask Francis to make the betrothal. Landois is not likely to become more sensible. I can lose nothing by patience and patience is one thing of which I have great stock."

"Do not be so sure you can lose nothing. Francis is not well. Remember the fit he had when he was insensible for an hour and then mixed in his mind for the rest of the day. What if a worse fit take him?"

It was something Henry had already considered, and although the possibility made him cold with apprehension no sign of that disturbed his smile. "Such matters are truly in God's hands, uncle. What good would it do me to worry? Even if I had decided to press for the betrothal, it could not happen tomorrow. And tomorrow Francis might have another fit."