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Authors: Roberta Gellis
Tags: Fantasy
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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
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
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