"Then we all agree that this is best?" asked Morton, the archbishop of Canterbury, glancing around.
"Let the proclamation be written, Dr. Foxe," Henry stated.
"I must bring to Your Grace's attention that there are certain men who have already taken action in stirring up sedition, although they have not yet taken up arms. Are their names to be mentioned and specifically excluded from the terms of the pardon?"
"Mentioned, yes. Excluded, no. They must yield up their persons into my power, but with the assurance that their lives will be spared and their punishment, if any, will be light."
"Sire."
"Yes, Lincoln?"
"I would like to hear the names of those who will be proclaimed rebels."
A faint frown marred the serenity of Henry's countenance, but he nodded curtly at Foxe.
"Sir Henry Bodrugan. Sir Thomas Broughton. Thomas Harrington. James Harrington. John Beaumont. There are one or two others, but they are of less account."
Lincoln stood up. "I have somewhat to say, but I desire assurance that it will be taken in good part by Your Majesty."
"Pardon is offered to all, even to those who have already offended. Why should you be excluded, Lincoln?"
"I need no pardon. I have done nothing and intended nothing ill. I have tried only to shield Your Majesty from pain, and now that I must be the one to give that pain I do not wish the matter to be held against me. What I have to say touches the Queen's Grace."
A horrified murmur ran through the room. Henry was not murderous by nature, but if he could have caused Lincoln's death by any means at that moment, he would have done so.
"I will vouch personally for Her Grace," Henry said gently and warningly, but he knew it was too late.
Perhaps the warning did more harm than good. Henry never knew in fact whether it was a deliberate act of malice or whether it was the result of fear, but Lincoln poured out a sordid story. Rebellion was to be raised in the name of the false Warwick. The real Warwick was to be murdered and the false one repudiated after Henry was dead. Then Arthur was to be declared king and Elizabeth regent for him.
The king rose to his feet, white-faced, his mouth so tight with rage that his lips had all but disappeared. "We commend your courage if not your good sense in retelling these rumors of filth. We had heard them. Why do you not also explain why Her Grace finds it necessary to take this step. I beat her; I am slowly poisoning her; nay, I tear strips off her body with my knife and eat her flesh. Bedford, go summon Her Grace here to us."
"Sire, I beg you to reconsider. You will frighten Her Grace to death with such a summons. Let us wait upon her if necessary, but do not order her appearance here. No one can put credence in this tale."
There was another murmur of approval, but Lincoln threw a packet of letters on the table. "There for your credence," he cried.
Henry could grow no whiter, and he put his hand on the table for support while the room whirled around him.
No man reached for the white packet lying bright as a serpent's eye on the dark, polished wood. They regarded it with expressions of fascination, horror, and loathing, seeing instead of the small white patch burning cities, starving people, and fields soaked with blood. There was the end of the hope of healing the rift between red rose and white. The white rose had shown her thorns, and the red must incarnadine her with blood.
"Sire," Ned Poynings's placid voice broke into the stillness. "That is not Her Grace's seal."
A series of quivering sighs broke the dead silence. Without asking permission, Poynings opened the packet and glanced through the first letter, the second, the third. Henry stood like a figure carved from marble, white and perfectly expressionless now. Around him the councilors shifted their eyes uneasily from place to place, as unwilling to look at the king or Lincoln as they were to see their hopes dashed by a change of expression in Poynings's face. That, at least, Henry did not fear. As quietly as he had picked up the letters, Poynings refolded them, laid them down with seeming casualness but in such a way that the seal was hidden.
"Pass these, please, to His Grace," he said, handing them to Foxe. "There is nothing in them at all to reflect upon the queen except that her name has been taken in vain."
"Bedford, Northumberland, Oxford, Surrey, Canterbury, and Dr. Foxe will read those and decide whether their contents need be made public." Henry had deliberately chosen an even number of his own supporters and Yorkists, with the two churchmen who were relatively safe from his retaliation as leaven. He looked around, saw the relief in the other faces, and nodded. "Can we do more at this meeting?"
A ragged series of nays answered. In truth they were all too shaken to do more, even had the need been urgent.
"Lincoln," Henry gestured him forward as the men he had designated moved into a corner to read the letters and the other men left. "If I spoke sharply, I regret it, and I am grateful that you brought this information—at last. I wish to warn you, however, against such publications in the future. I prefer to receive information of this kind privately,
and if I am not available, Dr. Foxe or Canterbury will be. See to it that your zeal does not outrun your judgment again, or I may take that zeal for something quite different. And, since you have kept silence about these letters so long, keep silence still. You may go."
"Harry."
"Yes, uncle?"
"Thank God Poynings is a sensible man. Let us hope no one else recognized that seal."
"For God's sake, tell me." Henry's voice was ragged with tension.
"The dowager queen."
"No! Her own seal? Not in cipher? It is impossible. She could not be so incredibly stupid."
"Your Grace is correct. There is something wrong here." That was Foxe, smooth and soothing. "This matter must be concealed. It is more than possible that these letters are forgeries sent to enrage you against your wife and her mother so that you would act against them and, in so doing, destroy the Yorkist and Lancastrian reconciliation."
"Surrey?" Henry snapped.
"I lend my ay to Dr. Foxe. The peace you have made in this land should not be broken—whether the letters are forgeries or not."
"Northumberland?"
"I agree."
Having asked for the opinions of the Yorkist members of the group, Henry waited only for the nods of the others. He held out his hand for the letters and Morton gave them to him.
"That is all, gentlemen. Hold yourselves ready to attend council tomorrow to make final decision on what is to be done in this case." He saw Jasper look at him uncertainly and, needing desperately to be alone, added, "Uncle, will you find Ned and thank him for me?"
They were gone. Henry stood quietly for a few minutes longer, fearing someone would return to the room, and then sank into his chair and put his head down on the table to fight the waves of dizziness and nausea that rolled over him. The letters dropped from his hand, and when his vision cleared he moved his head a little so he could look at them lying on the shining floor.
Had Elizabeth agreed to this thing? He would never know, no matter what she said; she had been different since that night when he tried to make her accuse her mother. But for what? Was it the power she wanted? For Arthur's life? Had she been convinced that his hold on the throne was so frail, that the rebellion would surely be successful, that she had offered to be the Yorkist pawn to save Arthur?
And if the letters were forgeries? Then the plot was more widespread than the wily Foxe or he suspected. The only purpose for such forgeries would be as a deathblow to an already shaky alliance. Was the welding together of Yorkist and Lancastrian so utterly hopeless? Should he have listened to Oxford and Jasper and the others who argued for severity and tried to wipe out his enemies? If he had been wrong, the country would fall apart, and Arthur would die.
At least Arthur was too little to be frightened. At least he would not need to know the terror those two poor children in the Tower must have felt. Henry put his hands to his eyes as if to shut out a scene he had never witnessed, but it was not the death of the princes he was trying to block out. It was the vision of Warwick, empty-faced, helpless, with his head on the block, that hung behind his tight-closed lids. If Warwick were publicly executed for his part in this conspiracy, after due trial, of course, so that the king could not be accused of being another Gloucester … Henry retched and clapped a hand across his mouth, swallowed the bitter gall. There must be no sign of the king's disorder of spirits.
No sign. Henry thought bitterly that he could not even do what any other man could. He could not send his wife and son to a place of safety. Oh, no, that would bespeak lack of confidence in his own cause—and that would mean defeat before he started. Henry bent and picked up the packet. There was no mirror in the chamber, but he had not wept so his face would be clear. He smoothed his hair, set his hat at its usual angle, and left the room wearing an expression of mild gravity most suitable to a monarch emerging from the council chamber.
When Henry entered her apartment, Elizabeth rose with a gasp. Margaret assumed at first that it was merely surprise at seeing him there at a time when a visit was very unusual, for there was no particular expression on Henry's face. She did not even feel apprehensive when he asked the ladies to leave, although that naturally meant he had something either serious or private to say. Elizabeth's face, however, had turned the color of cheap wax, and Margaret could not help but be frightened in spite of Henry's calm aspect.
"Is this your mother's seal and your mother's hand?" Henry asked, mildly extending the letters.
For a moment it seemed as if Elizabeth would refuse to take them, but she did. She glanced at Henry mutely and he nodded, so she unfolded the paper and began to read.
"I wish to assure you, Elizabeth, that I am merely curious. It will make no difference what you say. Whether or not she is innocent this time, she has been guilty so often in the past that this is a mere straw to add or subtract from the wagonload."
"Do you believe this?" Elizabeth whispered.
Henry glanced at her sharply, but she showed no sign of wandering wits or hysteria. "Believe it?" he said impatiently. "It does not matter. It is of no importance. I merely—"
His voice died away and suddenly he had an answer he had not expected. There was such a look of agony on Elizabeth's face that he could feel his heart contract in response. She was innocent! She had no part in this because she was not afraid; she was only flayed by his indifference.
"Bess," he exclaimed, "I did not mean—"
"It does not matter to you that I may have plotted your death?" she asked dully.
"No, it does not—not to me." Henry's relief was so great that he was almost amused. "So much do I love you, Elizabeth, that I do not care whether you want me dead or alive. I cannot hurt you. Why should I torment myself with wondering what your intentions toward me are? I do not think you
can
encompass my death. I do not wish to believe you desire it. For me, that is sufficient."
"You will never trust me."
"Probably not. Does it matter, since I love you?"
"Only to you, Harry," she replied, and tears started to run down her cheeks. She wiped them away impatiently. "As for the letters, I know it is my mother's seal, or a very good imitation. The hand I am not certain of. She does not write to me often. It looks like. More I cannot say."
Margaret stretched out a hand. "Let me see. I know the dowager queen's hand well."
To her surprise Henry looked inquiringly at Elizabeth. She bit her lip, but nodded her permission. "It cannot be hid. Madam, do not hate me. I will die of shame."
"Nonsense, Elizabeth. Why should I hate you for your mother's doing?" But when she had read the letters her eyes grew cold. "What will you do, Henry?"
"Oh, I must be rid of her. There is too much chance for mischief as long as she is loose, and I am tired of being stung by this wasp."
"Henry, you would not—kill her?" Margaret gasped while Elizabeth, wide-eyed, sank back into her chair.
"A woman? No. I will strip her naked, so she can buy no more spies and support no more rebels, and I will thrust her into a convent where she will be well cared for and well guarded. Is this too harsh, Elizabeth?"
"No, my lord, you are ever kind. What will you do with me?"
"I will beg you to recover your complexion, my dear, and to believe that the great need I have of your company would make me overlook anything short of a dagger in the ribs."
"That is not a funny jest, Henry," Margaret snapped, but she should have saved her protest because a faint smile appeared on Elizabeth's pale lips and she stretched her hand to her husband, who took it kindly.
"When I see your ribs, Harry," she said, "it is I who expect to be stabbed."
"Elizabeth! For shame! You will corrupt my innocent mother," Henry said, pretending to be shocked.
"Why, sire," she rejoined, attempting to maintain a bantering tone while her lips trembled, "what could I mean except that you are too thin?"
"Try not to fret, Bess." Henry bent to kiss her. "I must go now."
Taking the packet of letters from his mother's hand and giving her a significant glance, Henry left them. Elizabeth maintained her composure until the door closed behind him, and then she thrust her hands against her mouth and began to weep. Margaret rose and came toward her, but the sight of her mother-in-law's frozen face brought no comfort. Elizabeth fell on her knees and pressed her face against Margaret's gown.
"I did not," she cried. "I did not know."
"Control yourself, Elizabeth. Your ladies will be here in a moment. Do you want the whole world to think you accused and guilty? Does Henry deserve this?"
"Deserve? He deserves to be canonized for his patience," Elizabeth gasped, laughing hysterically. "Who, except he, will not think me guilty? You think so. When this news flies abroad who will not withdraw the hems of their skirts from me—the leper. I will be spat upon like that Isabella who contrived her husband's murder and took his murderer into her bed."