The Dragon and the Rose (8 page)

Margaret rode slowly northwest, heading for the cool hills of Gilbert Talbot's lands. He was her husband's brother-in-law. She could hardly pay a more respectable or less suspicious visit. Occasionally a man rode away from her entourage, made inquiries and rode back. She rested the night at Stratford-on-Avon, but in the morning they rode at great speed for Kidderminster. The horses were rested and baited and they rode forth again, but very slowly. Soon the sound of a large troop swelled behind them. Margaret bit her lips. This was the decisive step and, once taken, Henry would be committed.

Buckingham, who had supported Richard against the Woodvilles and even agreed to the execution of Hastings, was growing dissatisfied with his royal master. Some said he was nauseated and horrified by the rumored deaths of Edward's children. Others believed that it was his hands that were stained with the princes' blood, and that he considered himself ill-used by Richard and ill-paid for his deeds. Margaret knew for a certainty that John Morton, bishop of Ely, who had been taken prisoner when Hastings was killed, was Buckingham's ward, and that he had been carefully feeding and nurturing Buckingham's dissatisfaction. Margaret had been in steady communication with John Morton, a brilliant, devious man, through her network of scholars and priests, but she did not know whether Buckingham wanted to seize the throne himself or whether he would throw his weight behind Henry. She had ridden to the cool hills to find out.

Buckingham had a claim to the throne, but it was through Edward III's youngest son, Thomas of Woodstock, and broken by much female descent. Nonetheless, it was nowhere smirched by bastardy, legitimized or not. If Buckingham wished to contest Henry's right to the throne, he would have a most excellent case. Margaret heard his hail and pulled her horse to a halt. Her heart beat so hard that she could feel the pulsations in her throat, but she could not decide, even in those last few moments, whether she hoped or feared that Buckingham would agree to her plan.

"Well, Margaret, a good greeting to you. What do you here?"

"I fly from the heat—and other things—in London." Buckingham's face grew guarded. "Is the king back in London?" he asked with an assumption of casualness.

He is afraid, Margaret thought. "I know not," she replied. "I have ridden very slowly, being troubled in my mind."

They had pulled well ahead of their escorts and no one could overhear.

"Troubled?"

"Nay, I will speak the truth to you, my lord, for you were my brother when my second husband still lived. I am afraid … afraid for myself and for my son. I fear that Richard will not rest until no man, nor woman, who carries the blood of Edward III lives. He has already sent envoys to Brittany demanding Henry's surrender."

"Francis will not yield him. You need not fear for that, and Richard loves your husband too well to harm you."

"Loves him so well that he imprisoned him when Hastings was taken. You know Lord Stanley had no part in Hastings's doings. Whom does Richard love or trust?"

"He has ventured much and has gained much. When he is sure of his gain, he will grow more trusting."

"And others have ventured much and gained little, not even trust, perhaps?"

Buckingham did not answer but sat his horse studying Margaret. Finally he said, "How old is Henry?"

"Twenty-six, and so prudent and discreet that Francis seeks to make him heir to Brittany through marriage with his eldest daughter, Anne."

"Is he betrothed already?" Buckingham asked sharply.

"No. I thought perhaps he would do better with an English bride, if one of high enough lineage could be found for him. He is the last of John of Gaunt's line."

"Ay. So he is. Perhaps such a girl might be found. But Margaret," Buckingham said with a complete change of expression from thoughtfulness to gallantry, "no one would believe you have a son of such years. Why you appear scarce older yourself, hardly less fresh than a young maid."

"My lord, my lord, you flatter an old woman shamelessly," Margaret jested in reply.

She had made her point and Buckingham had indicated his interest in it by agreeing that Henry might do better with an English bride. The rest could be left to Morton, and Margaret cheerfully helped support the light conversation that occupied the rest of the time she and Buckingham shared the same road. Mostly they spoke of the past—the only conversation safe in these times, and Margaret applied a smooth coating of flattery herself when she touched lightly upon the peculiarity of fate that made Henry VI give her to Edmund Tudor rather than to Buckingham himself as bride. It had been her choice, not the king's, but Margaret submerged that memory in a good cause.

"Henry might have been your son" she smiled "had matters fallen otherwise."

"So he could, and likely we would all have been dead. Still, I may yet stand as father to him in some ways."

With that they came to Bridgnorth where Buckingham had business. Margaret remained as his guest that night, planning to ride on to Shrewsbury the next day, but they spoke no more of serious matters. There were too many ears in a town to make such discussions comfortable.

Margaret and the duke of Buckingham were sensible enough to confine their conversation to small talk that would not betray what really filled their minds and spirits. The dowager queen had no such self-control. She was incapable of holding her tongue and, bereft of her brothers, she was greatly in need of a safe audience. Thus, even though she understood that it was not wise to wake her daughter Elizabeth's easily aroused emotions, she could not put off involving her at once in order to have someone to discuss the matter with. She brusquely ordered Elizabeth to write a letter of acceptance of a proposal of marriage from Henry of Richmond. Elizabeth looked at her mother with wide, frightened eyes.

"But, mama, I have not received any such proposal, and I do not think—"

"I have received the proposal, as is right and proper. What have you to do with such a matter? And you are not required to think. Do as you are told."

"Mama, I am very ready to be obedient to you, you know I am, but—"

"But? But what?" The dowager's voice was shrill and furious.

Elizabeth quelled her internal trembling with an effort. She knew her mother could not and would not harm her. She would rather, in fact, be slapped than screamed at. The high, irrational shrieking made her nauseous and dizzy so that she could not think, and she needed to think.

Over the years Elizabeth had learned that her mother was not very wise. Leaping this way and that, like a fish after first one and then another, larger fly, the queen often ended with nothing. What Elizabeth needed to sort out in her mind was whether they were truly in dire danger as her mother said. There were also two other possibilities: her mother might simply be exaggerating her own fear grossly, or she might be acting a part deliberately to make trouble for Uncle Richard.

Elizabeth had been told that Richard of Gloucester wanted them all dead and that they were alive only because the church gave them sanctuary. Elizabeth found it almost impossible to believe this. No, she could not believe it, not of Uncle Richard. He was so kind and so gentle. He never shrieked. He always explained softly what he wanted and made everything easy.

Nonetheless, her brothers were gone. Elizabeth's eyes filled with tears. Her darling little brothers. When first they were taken away, she had written to them every day, and once in a while she had received their replies. The tears spilled over. She had not had a letter for so long. Uncle Richard? If it were so, that he had harmed her brothers, was it not madness to do this thing? It would be open treason to accept a proposal from the head of the House of Lancaster.

"But Uncle Richard would not like it," Elizabeth said. "Mama, if he should find out …"

"Who will tell him? You? You little traitor! You think if you yield yourself, he will make you queen?"

"Mother!"

"So that is why you do not wish to write to Henry. You incestuous little bitch! What proposal has Richard made to you?"

Nearly choking with horror, Elizabeth gasped, "Uncle Richard loves his wife. I am a little girl to him. He has never—"

"Little girl, eh?" the dowager sneered, running her eyes over her daughter's voluptuous figure.

At
eighteen Elizabeth was rich and ripe, in the first flush of a beauty that would grow richer over many years. Elizabeth felt herself shrink. It was not modesty. She had more than once been examined by envoys like a Flanders mare, all but being told to open her mouth so that her teeth could be counted. She did not mind having her body appraised for political purposes. It was a fine body, and she was proud of it. Her mother's lewd suggestion was something else entirely. Unwisely, Elizabeth burst into tears.

"So that is what Richard has in mind," the dowager said thoughtfully. "He needs to dispose of Anne first, of course, but that will not be difficult. She was ever a puling, sickly thing. She will die soon. Then—" She ran her eyes over her daughter, who was trembling and swallowing convulsively, fighting her disgust. "Yes, he will have a fine exchange,
 
real piece of womanflesh
and
the rightful heir to the throne."

"Mother, stop!" Elizabeth cried, her hands shielding her face. "Uncle Richard would never harm Anne. He loves her. I am
not the heir to the throne. I have two brothers. Stop!"

Totally deaf to her daughter's pleading, the dowager stood biting her lip. Then she nodded decisively. "There can be no harm in accepting Richmond's offer. Even if Richard found out, it would make no difference. If there is no successful rebellion, Richard will marry you and you will be queen. If there is a rebellion and Henry conquers, he
must
marry you and you will be queen. In
either case our troubles will be over. Oh, stop that sniveling! Think over what I have said and bring me a letter soon. Soon, I say."

When her mother had gone, Elizabeth sank into the vacated chair and wept bitterly. Her brothers were dead; they must be dead. At first it was all she could think of. Then it dawned upon her that if her brothers were dead, it must be Uncle Richard's doing. And if he had become a monster that would destroy two innocent little boys to be sure of a throne, he might indeed also destroy the wife he once loved and marry his niece incestuously for the same purpose.

Not me, Elizabeth thought, not me. I am not afraid to die. I will die first. But she did not wish to die, and her mind scurried around seeking a defense. Then suddenly her sobbing ceased. Henry of Richmond would be her salvation. Uncle Richard had declared her mother's marriage to her father invalid on the grounds that her father had been previously betrothed to Lady Eleanor Butler. If she were betrothed to Henry of Richmond, she would be safe. She went to the table that held her writing desk and drew forth paper, quill and ink.

Margaret spent a tense and unhappy period in Gilbert Talbot's home wondering whether Morton's judgment of Buckingham's disgust and dissatisfaction was accurate, wondering whether Buckingham would use her plan as a ruse to get Henry into his power so that he could remove another claimant to the throne either for Richard or ultimately from his own path. Before the second week of August was over, however, Reginald Bray, steward of Lord Stanley's household, arrived unheralded at Shrewsbury.

"Has something befallen my husband?" Margaret asked anxiously.

If Margaret did not love Thomas Stanley with the deep passion she could have felt for Jasper—if that had not been forbidden by the laws of her church—she came closer to it with him than with any other man. His warmth was contagious; she could not help but respond to it. And the more she responded, the more eager Thomas was to fulfill her every desire.

"No, madam, nor does he know of my journey. I left a message that I was called away on business, that is all."

"Out with it, then."

But Margaret's tone was gay, for Bray was smiling broadly and she knew he was devoted to her. What was more, she did not for a moment believe that Thomas was ignorant of his steward's business. He was blind because he wished to be, not because he was a fool. He had hinted as much to his wife, indicating that he wished to be clear of any involvement only so that he would be capable of protecting her if her plans should go awry.

"Buckingham sent for me to advise you to obtain Queen Elizabeth's consent to the marriage of Richmond and her eldest daughter. If your son will take oath to make that marriage and no other, Buckingham will raise England in Richmond's favor."

Margaret almost held her breath. "That I have already. You may make a copy of the letter I have from her. Did he speak of his plans?"

"Most fully, madam. We were in Brecon, where he is safe, and Morton sat beside him all the while. If the bishop of Ely is treated as a prisoner, so am I. It is no trap. Richmond is to come with as large a force as he can muster, and Buckingham will raise the south of England in rebellion as near the day Richmond arrives as may be arranged. What of Richmond's agreement? Do you have that?"

"Is it like that my son will refuse a crown? But an army must be shipped and paid. Has Buckingham considered that?"

"Oh, yes. When he is sure of the old queen's consent, he will dispatch a man to make the proposal in his own name and to bring Richmond gold and letters of credence. I know the man, Hugh Conway by name, and naught but God's will could stand in Conway's path." Bray laughed. "Hugh could outface and beat the Devil at his own games."

"I will send Thomas Ramme by different ways bearing the same news. He must also go to the dowager and obtain the letter and token from Princess Elizabeth that were promised me. In addition, Conway must bear Buckingham's own letter saying he knows that the first act of legitimation of my grandfather Beaufort carried no reservation of royal succession and that Henry IV's act, which inserted that phrase, was not valid. My Henry does not know this. I did not wish him to be burdened with the knowledge nor to be burnt up with hopeless ambition."

Bray nodded and set himself to copy the letter Margaret gave him. He had been in the saddle almost constantly for a week and a half, yet he was ready to ride out again that day. Margaret, however, said that a few hours could not make or mar and that Bray should have at least one good meal and one night's rest before he left for Brecon again.