The Dragon and the Rose by Roberta Gellis Read Free Book Online Page A

me to forget that others do not care for it so well."
    That was not a remark to which Margaret could reply, since the person who disliked music—or at least disliked the attention paid her daughter when she played—was the queen. Margaret made a soothing remark about books also being a great comfort. The sooner Elizabeth was married and out from under her mother's thumb, the better off the girl would be, Margaret thought.
    Margaret did not like that shadow of fear in Elizabeth's eyes. Yet Elizabeth was no coward. Margaret had seen her whipped for some misdemeanor—more shame to her mother for so humiliating the child in public—and she neither cried out nor pleaded. This was a different kind of fear, of disapproval more than of pain. There was a sensitivity in Elizabeth that did not come from her father or her mother. Perhaps from the old duke or duchess of York—yes, it could come from there, for Richard of Gloucester also had it.
    "My son loves music, too," Margaret said. "He writes to me that it is his chiefest pleasure."
    Something flickered in Elizabeth's eyes. Margaret suddenly wondered whether the girl was aware that her name had been used to tempt Henry back to England. If so, did she approve? Could she be induced to press her father to marry her to Henry? Edward was very fond of his eldest daughter, very fond of her—fond enough, perhaps, to marry her to a man who would not take her away. But if Elizabeth knew anything, she also knew enough not to betray herself.
    "You must miss him," the princess said softly. "It is sad that he will not come home."
    "He will not come without his uncle." Margaret gave the excuse she had been using recently to explain Henry's refusal of even the most flattering offers. "I have written that he would be safe, and I think he believes this, but Henry loves very hard when he loves. He does not change his love for his advantage."
    Elizabeth looked aside, her fair complexion stained faintly with rose. "That is most admirable," she murmured.
    "I suppose so," Margaret agreed with a light laugh, "but at this time, so that I might see him again, I almost wish it were otherwise." To say more would be dangerous and obvious. Though Elizabeth was young, she was no fool. Margaret had said enough to give the girl something pleasant to think about.

CHAPTER 4

    The elaborate game of convincing the Breton nobles that Henry was a suitable husband for Anne stretched out through weary years. Henry's part was to use his golden tongue with effect, drawing upon what the watcher behind his eyes sensed to flatter and cajole. Francis's part was to ram Henry's virtues down his barons' throats, and one way to do so was to raise up a more offensive favorite. Pierre Landois, an upstart rascal with a clever mind, insinuating manners, and a rapacity startling even in a rapacious age, was advanced to power. In comparison to Landois, Henry was a paragon.
    A few weeks before Henry's twenty-fifth birthday, news came from England disturbing enough to distract him from his purpose. Margaret's husband was dead. The messenger who brought the news was sent back at once offering asylum in Brittany if Margaret thought herself to be in any danger. Before that messenger could have returned to his source, another scholar with a parcel of books for Henry appeared.
    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