The Dragon and the Rose by Roberta Gellis Page A

troubled him, another time the hostility of the nobles, or yet again he would worry over Francis's health, upon which, to some extent, his own depended. Now everything seemed to be adding together.
    His debts had grown really frightening, since he could not let his refugees starve or become so ragged that they were offensive or a cause for mirth. The sudden influx of Englishmen, especially those of higher rank, had wakened the fears of the Breton nobles who dreaded their own replacement by Henry's countrymen if he should marry Anne. And both of these problems were made dangerously acute by Francis's failing health. Most of the time the duke was rational and keen-witted as ever, but from time to time he had a spell where his mind wandered.
    Everything at once was too much. Henry rested his aching head against the frame of an unshuttered window hoping the breeze would freshen enough to cool him through the armholes and the small chinks between the metal plates of his brigandine. This armored vest was covered with green silk rather than velvet, but it was still ten times hotter than a doublet, and Henry dared not take it off. So far two of the gentlemen craving protection had turned out to be Richard's agents. Henry's never-ceasing caution had kept him from real danger, but the necessity of the brigandine was attested to by a half-healed cut on his upper arm where a turned blade had marked him.
    Henry slipped a hand into the neck of his garments and pulled them a little free of his sweat-soaked body. Then the hand dropped unobtrusively to his dagger, for footsteps padded softly down the room. His eyes slid toward the noise, although he did not turn his head, and his face now bore only an expression of good-humored boredom. The dagger, hidden by his body as it leaned against the window frame, was half-drawn; there were two men.
    "My lord?"
    One of the men was in sight. Henry resheathed his knife, turned, and smiled. It was Ramme, a trusty man of his mother's. "Greetings," he said heartily, and then, as he took in the tired faces and dust smears, "Is my mother safe? Well?"
    "Excellently well and as safe as anyone in England can be in these days," Ramme replied. "My lord, this is Hugh Conway. We came different ways from England but met on the road."
    The pulse in Henry's throat was hidden by the high collar of his shirt, but its fierce leaping would have belied the calm of his expression could the messengers have seen it. "And what brings you gentlemen to me in such haste and by separate routes? Is it of such note that you could not stay to refresh yourselves?"
    "Iam from the duke of Buckingham, my lord, and I bear—"
    "Who?" Henry asked, his face freezing.
    "Henry Stafford, second duke of Buckingham," Conway repeated, "and I bear letters and papers I would fain be rid of before they hang me."
    Henry held out his hand. "Give them here, then. When a neck has been as long in danger as mine, hanging grows a common thing scarce to be feared." His smile was merry, his eyes turned down toward the pouch Conway proffered so that the messenger could not probe them.
    A lord of high, cheerful spirit, Conway thought approvingly, even if his stature was no more than Richard's. It was to be seen, however, if he had the shrewdness that would be needed.
    "And these letters, also, my lord," Ramme offered as Henry was about to open the pouch. "They are of the same import, I believe."
    Thomas Ramme's eyes were the ones that avoided contact. He knew Henry of old and had no desire to meet that piercing gaze. Although he had nothing to hide, Henry made him uncomfortable because he suspected that if he were ordered to jump out the window or murder his mother, he would obey.
    Henry, however, had not looked up. He scanned his mother's letters first, knowing that he could read her writing quickly and pick the important points out at once. The expression of bored good humor had been deliberately replaced with one of interest, which Henry felt would be more