Authors: Anne Easter Smith
The King's Grace (15 page)
Grace trembled, close to tears. “Good woman, I am a Christian, raised in an abbey. I fear for my soul should I listen to what you say,” she stammered. She turned imploring eyes on Cecily, who was beginning to regret her action.
“You think I cannot see your goodness, my lady. I have a gift—some say ’tis of the Devil, some say ’tis from God. I also see you in great danger, and ’tis my duty to warn you of it.”
Grace turned back and shook the old woman’s hand from her arm, although, she noted, it had been a surprisingly gentle touch. The genuine concern she now saw in Edith’s eyes reassured her somewhat. She reached for her rosary—always attached to her belt—and was comforted by the familiar cold beads. Holding on to them tightly, she whispered: “Danger, Goody Edith, what do you mean?”
Edith took Grace’s small hand and peered closely at it. Cecily peeked over Grace’s shoulder, fascinated.
“I see a room with colored walls, far away,” Edith began. “There be a dog—a greyhound, I think. Nay, mayhap it be a hunting dog. His master be angry and sad.” She traced a line on Grace’s hand. She tensed. “Now I see blood—a lot of blood, and a boy leading soldiers. A battle, I think.”
“She is addlepated, Grace,” Cecily hissed. “What boy is she talking about? Ask her.”
“Soft, my child,” Edith admonished Cecily sternly. “Do not cloud my mind with your questions.” She did not know she was talking to royalty; she knew only that they were girls of obvious wealth, judging by their attire. Cecily was not about to enlighten her, thinking the old crone would run away and spoil the fun. Edith concentrated on the palm. “I see an
other boy, older, in a place with strange trees, strange people in strange clothes. It is hot, very hot, and the boy often goes to the water to look at the ships.”
“Aye, goody, but where is the danger for me that you spoke of? Boys and a dog,” Grace was certain one was John. “Boys and a battle and boats. Where am I in all this?”
“Christ ha’ mercy! You shall see two of them sent to their Maker.” As Grace gasped, Edith squeaked with glee. “Executions! They be executions,” Edith exalted, looking up at Grace and grinning hideously. “It be dangerous for you to know them, but you will help them. Better not make friends of young men, my lady,” she admonished, and her loud cackle made several people turn and stare at the little group. She put out her hand for payment and looked expectantly at Grace.
Grace had gone white when she heard these portents and was rooted to the spot. Cecily reached over and put a penny in the old woman’s hand. They both watched as she attempted to bite it with her one tooth and her gums; then she squirreled it away in the folds of her dirty gown and, with a final cackle, disappeared into the crowd.
“I should like to go now,” Grace whispered, clutching at Cecily’s sleeve. “I do not feel well.”
“Oh, don’t be such a goose, Grace,” Cecily scoffed. “’Twas a pack of lies. It made no sense at all. Put it from your mind.” But she motioned to the guard to lead them back the way they had come. Truth be told, she was as unnerved by the fortune-teller as was her sister.
G
RACE COULD NOT
get the old woman’s predictions out of her mind. She lay awake in the bed she was sharing with another of Elizabeth’s attendants and stared at the eerie shadows cast on the ceiling by the dying embers of the brazier. A crucifix was nailed to the wall, and Grace prayed to the agonized figure of Christ to keep watch over John and to eradicate all memory of the afternoon. She was convinced the young man with the dog was John. But was he one of the young men who would die? And who was the other boy? Her restlessness was disturbing her bedmate, so she turned to her rote prayers, which had always stood her in good stead through her lonely years at the convent.
“Ave Maria, gratia plena…”
By the time she had recited the prayer twice, she was asleep.
The next day she woke to find her courses had begun, and for once she did not complain. Certes, ’tis no wonder the old woman saw blood, and some of her anxiety was stemmed.
I
N MID
-O
CTOBER THE
royal household began the tedious chore of packing up to return to London—to Greenwich this time, and the queen dowager’s Palace of Pleasaunce, a gift from Edward to his bride some twenty years before. The queen dowager herself would return to the abbott’s house at Westminster, her ceremonial duties as Arthur’s godmother fulfilled. Grace had scarcely had a moment to think of that day in the market, and her mood had not remained gloomy for long. Elizabeth spent many hours with her daughter and grandson, and it was natural that Grace be part of the family group.
But unfortunately, Elizabeth’s favoring of her young stepdaughter had embittered one of the queen dowager’s closest friends.
Katherine Hastings, widow of Lord William Hastings, boasted the highest pedigree: she was a Neville, sister of Richard Neville, the great earl of Warwick, and niece of Cecily of York, and was, therefore, cousin to both kings Edward and Richard. She had long served Elizabeth, and the two women had commiserated with each other over their profligate husbands, who had eaten, drunk and whored together as only best friends can. The friendship between the two women was prickly at its beginning, Grace had learned, due to a long-held animosity between the Woodvilles and the Hastings over land. But whatever the ill will between the queen and the chamberlain, the friendship between the women had flourished over the years. It was Katherine who had consoled Elizabeth upon Edward’s untimely death; yet within a month, Elizabeth found Katherine weeping on her shoulder for the extraordinary execution of William for treason, on the orders of Richard of Gloucester. In sanctuary, Elizabeth had invited Katherine to keep her company as the events of that tumultuous year unfolded.
Once, in a private moment with Elizabeth, they had talked of their husbands’ infidelities. “Do you love him, Elizabeth?” Katherine had asked in that moment of truths, and was surprised at the hard glitter in the queen’s eyes as she responded. “I loved John Grey with all my heart. I love Edward with the rest of me. In truth, my family benefits from this marriage, and I enjoy being queen,” she said, fondling the ears of a terrier that lay on her lap. Her face grew wistful. “After my beloved first husband was killed at
Saint Alban’s, I vowed I would not love again. I swear Edward has never known, nor will ever know, and so you must promise to take this knowledge to your grave, Katherine. Swear on this cross.” She reached out the cross at the end of her rosary to her companion, and Katherine reverently touched the gold and swore. “’Tis the guilt I bear in this deception that allows me to be generous to Edward’s bastards.”
How Elizabeth had put up with those acknowledged bastards who strutted about the court under her nose while their father was alive, Katherine had never understood. Elizabeth’s answer to the question had been: “Edward loves me and returns to me no matter where else he puts his pestle. I hate him for it, but I cannot stop him.” Katherine, too, hated Will for his wenching, and her commiseration with the queen strengthened.
But to take the fruit of one of those lecherous liaisons under her wing
after
Edward had died was beyond Katherine’s comprehension. She had enjoyed being the queen’s confidante, especially after their husbands’ deaths, and to watch this young woman worm her way into Elizabeth’s confidence created a growing animosity in her towards Grace.
Now Katherine stared after the departing figure of Grace, determined that, as one of the highest-born ladies at the court, she was not to be shunted aside for this base-born slip of a girl. “May all whores rot in hell,” she muttered as the door closed, leaving her with the lesser ladies of Elizabeth’s entourage.
Bruges
NOVEMBER
1486
Right noble lady and beloved aunt,
I was so happy to receive your letter. I am sorry you were unwell for a time, but hope you are better. How glad I was to see you this summer in Malines! Sir Edward was good to let me come, if only for a few days. You taught me so much about your family in England, and by the time I left, I began to think of them as my own. It is strange to think I am the same age as your nephew who disappeared from the palace in the Tower of London. It must make you sad. I must thank you once again for your kindness towards me—and especially for the flagons of wine you provided for my needs. Do not worry, aunt, I did not drink all of them!
I promised I would tell you if I had any news of interest, but in truth, my life as a page is very routine. I fetch and carry whatever Lady Brampton needs, and I sometimes accompany her to the market. She says she does not trust her servants to pick the best cuts of meat or the freshest fish. Are all English ladies like this? I have heard some of the Flemish ladies laugh at her behind their big
sleeves, but she tells me that she is an exiled merchant’s wife who must watch her florins, and she says she cares not a fig for what they say. I love the market, except when the Belfort bells ring right overhead. I have to put my fingers in my ears or I would go deaf. Last week I saw some of the merchant adventurers from England in their purple livery on their way to the Prinsenhof, or perhaps they were visiting Mijnheer van Gruuthuse at his enormous house. Have you been inside it, aunt? It is not as big as Binche or Malines, but it is magnificent—and he is not even a duke!
Lady Brampton often calls on me to be a messenger for her, and yesterday she told me my English is almost perfect. She is surprised that I can read so well in French, but I heeded your advice and did not tell her I could also read Latin. Sir Edward makes me learn swordplay at a school in the Sint Jakobstraat beside the church and, I cannot tell a lie, I am a good student. Meester Grolinge says it must be in my blood, because I am so quick to learn. I laugh to myself, because I know my father was a boatman. Forgive me, aunt, for not showing modesty like you taught me.
As you asked during my visit to give you information that you think is interesting, I wanted to tell you that I was waiting on Sir Edward not a week since, and he was in conference with a brave knight from your home—from England. His name is Sir Francis Lovell, and it seemed to me he and Sir Edward were excited about a plan to rid England of the king. I think Sir Edward forgot that I speak English, and also because I am naught but a servant and I am not supposed to listen to anything while I am in attendance. How can you not listen, aunt, when they speak loud enough to hear? I did not understand it all because they used names I had not heard before, like Warwick and Lincoln. I am sorry if this is not helpful, but I did my best.
The cold and rainy season is well upon us again, so I hope we will soon go to Lisbon, because Lady Brampton says the sun always shines there and the sky is always blue. But I think we must go again to Middelburg, and I hate that place.
Know that I will love you always, and may God have you in his keeping, my beloved aunt.
Your Perkin (so Lady Brampton calls me now)
London and Bermondsey
1487
A
small, disconsolate figure on a white palfrey hunched against the biting February wind and stared straight ahead at the guards in the green and white Tudor livery who marched slowly along Watling Street in front of him. It was not an unusual sight to see small groups like this making their way to and from Westminster and the Tower, but the youth’s age and the beating tabors told Londoners this must be Edward, earl of Warwick, whom the town criers had announced would be paraded through the city streets to prove he was still very much alive and in King Henry’s keeping. The citizens had all but forgotten this Yorkist prince, hidden in the Tower, until the rumor that he had escaped in the autumn and was hiding on the Isle of Wight had piqued their curiosity. More alarming still for Henry were the new rumors that someone claiming to be Warwick had been greeted in Dublin with open arms by the York-supporting Irish. After Lovell’s rebellion of the previous spring, Henry could not afford to be anything but vigilant, and he took any rumor—no
matter how preposterous—seriously. To snuff out the rumor, the Great Council at Shene decided that the solution was to prove to the people that Warwick was still in the Tower.
“Poor little Ned,” Elizabeth lamented as she stood at the window of her house at Westminster, watching stray snowflakes waft down onto the herber below. “’Tis said he is thin and pale. He must not venture outdoors to take the air much at the Tower. In truth, I doubt he knew why he was showing himself to the citizens. The boy is slow-witted, ’tis true, but he means no harm to anyone.”
Grace was not of the opinion that there was anything wrong with Ned, but she kept her eyes on her embroidery and her thoughts to herself.
Katherine Hastings agreed with her friend. “He is a simpleton, and I do not understand why Henry does not let him join his household, where he can keep an eye on him. Indeed, the boy’s sister, Margaret, enjoys Henry’s favor. And she dotes on baby Arthur.” Her pale eyes fell on Grace sitting quietly by, and she suddenly snapped: “Her grace’s cup is empty, Grace. Do your duty by her, I pray you.”
Grace got up quickly and took Elizabeth’s cup. She was dismayed by Lady Hastings’s tone and wondered what she had done to deserve it. Elizabeth did not hear the rebuke; she was imagining the sad sight of her nephew forced to ride for hours through the cold winter day. “I wonder if my boys are still there in the Tower?” she said in a monotone. “Warwick would know.”
Grace cast anxious eyes at her mentor as she poured wine from the pitcher. At any other time, she might have commented on how the cobalt Venetian glass and the plum red wine put her in mind of the York colors, but instead she silently carried the goblet to the melancholic Elizabeth and sat back down.
A knock at the door startled the women, and Elizabeth’s steward ushered in a young squire. When she heard his name, Grace could not forbear a small squeak of recognition. “Tom!” sneaked out before she could stop it, and Katherine silenced her, saying, “Quiet, girl.”
Tom was on one knee in front of Elizabeth, but not before he had given Grace a surreptitious grin. Hat in hand, he gave his name: “Your grace, Thomas Gower of Westow at your service. I am here on behalf of my master, my lord of Lincoln.”
“Aye, Master Gower, I recognized Jack’s badge,” she said as she took the
scroll of parchment from Tom’s outstretched hand. “Where is my nephew? He was supposed to meet me earlier. ’Tis unusual for him to be late.”
Grace heard the note of concern in Elizabeth’s voice and recalled a short letter Elizabeth had privately dictated a few days earlier, summoning John to “talk with me on an urgent matter.” Grace had been intrigued but had diligently penned the date and time of the meeting as requested and now remembered it was this day.
“My lord sends his deepest apologies, your grace. He said the letter would explain.” As Elizabeth broke open the seal and read the contents, Tom backed away, bowing as he went.
“Ladies, you may leave me,” Elizabeth commanded. “Stay, Grace, I may have need of pen and ink. Prepare a parchment, please.”
Katherine sat where she was, not including herself in the dismissal. When Elizabeth smiled amiably at her and waited, she rose with great dignity and swept past Grace, almost knocking the young woman over.
“I shall call you e’er I need you, Katherine. I must compose my thoughts so I can chastise my errant nephew in just the right terms,” she said with the same sweet smile. “’Tis naught but a family matter and would be tedious for you. And Grace is a good scribe,” she added.
There was no denying Grace’s writing skills were far superior to the older woman’s, and so dropping a well-practiced curtsy, Katherine left the room, glaring at Tom as he held the door for her.
“Right trusty and well beloved nephew,”
Elizabeth dictated.
“I pray this reaches you before you take ship. My answer in this matter must always be nay, as my duty is to my daughter, our sovereign lady. Would the child was my own sweet Edward, for then you would have my complete support. I cannot help you further, but wish you God speed. Written from Westminster this tenth day of February.”
Grace dipped the quill in the inkpot and wiped the excess off on the side before handing it to Elizabeth. The queen dowager signed her name with its underlined flourish and then frowned. “God’s bones!” she muttered and scrawled beneath it:
“Postscript: Have no fear, I shall burn your letter, as you should burn this.”
She rose from her chair and flung Lincoln’s letter into the fire. Grace sprinkled some sand onto the parchment and waited until the wet ink had been absorbed before carefully folding it. Affixing it with a drop of molten wax, she passed it to Elizabeth, who sealed it with her gold signet ring.
“Call Thomas Gower, Grace. This needs to leave the house quickly,
before Henry’s spies find it. I can of course trust you, can I not?” Elizabeth held Grace’s unwavering gaze in hers and nodded, satisfied. “Good girl. Now go.”
Grace saw Tom waiting down in the hall and waved to him, aware that several of Elizabeth’s household were mingling there. He ran up the wide staircase and gave her a quick bow. He had grown another two inches since she had seen him last, and Grace could see that he now shaved his face and his once-lanky body had filled out and was shown off to advantage in his short green doublet and parti-colored hose. She had to acknowledge that he was quite handsome, but as always when she evaluated a young man, she compared him to John, and none could measure up. It did not occur to her that Tom, in his turn, might be noticing how womanly her figure had become or how a few tendrils of her dark curls had escaped her gabled headdress and were clinging artfully against her graceful neck.
She gave him a friendly smile. “How are you, Tom? I hoped I would see more of you when I knew you were to be with my lord Lincoln here in London.” She was aware that they were being watched, and Elizabeth’s fears of a spy in the household had taught her to be wary. She took his arm comfortably in hers and said in an audible tone, “How is your mother? I am so thankful for what she did for me that day. See, I have written her a letter to express my gratitude. I expect you will take the time to address it correctly for me.” And giving him a meaningful look, she handed him the letter, the seal hidden from view.
Tom grinned and understood immediately, for he saw that the name written on the letter was not Alice Gower but John de la Pole, earl of Lincoln. “Certes, Lady Grace,” he said in an equally loud voice. “I will make sure she gets it. I regret I cannot linger in your pleasant company, though, as my master needs me.”
“
Adieu
, Tom, until we meet again,” Grace said brightly. She was amused when he kissed her hand. “Do not overplay the scene, Tom,” she whispered, smiling. “A simple farewell would have sufficed. No one is bothering to watch us anymore.”
He released her hand and took his leave, but not before she saw him flush. Oh, dear, she thought, I have angered him, and she opened her mouth to apologize, but he was gone with the letter tucked safely into his doublet.
“I
KNEW YOU
had a spy in my household, Henry!” Elizabeth cried, rising up from her knees with surprising agility, after being summoned to the king’s private apartment. “What have they been saying about me? That I spend too much of your money? That I drink too much? That I do not pray enough? That I pine for my sons and rail against my husband who left me here on earth alone? Are any of these crimes, my liege?”
“I did not give you permission to rise, madam,” Henry said, his hooded eyes boring through her and his mouth set in a grim line. “But as you are now standing, I will give you permission to sit. Dorset”—he snapped his fingers at the man by the door—“bring a chair for your mother.” Dorset obeyed, helping his mother settle into the wide cross-framed chair. The dowager was surprised and perturbed that her son was present at the meeting, and she arched her brow at him. He gave an imperceptible shake of his head in return.
Grace was never sure of Thomas Grey, Marquis of Dorset, Elizabeth’s oldest son. He had always treated her like a nonentity or an unwanted visitor. A handsome man about thirty, he had championed Henry’s cause when Richard had taken the throne, taking part in Buckingham’s rebellion and fleeing to Brittany to join the exiled Henry. Elizabeth was bitterly disappointed that, despite Thomas’s attempts at loyalty, Henry had always looked upon her oldest child with suspicion and not elevated him at court.
Elizabeth edged forward on the leather seat. Cecily was in attendance on Bess, and Katherine and Grace had been allowed into the antechamber for the private audience. Margaret Beaufort stood at her son’s shoulder like a vulture, her face an even colder mirror of his. Grace shivered; she did not know if it was due to the frosty February temperature or the atmosphere inside the room. It was indeed a private family gathering, and Grace’s instincts told her this was not a good omen.
Bess was seated on her throne next to Henry and her eyes watched her mother anxiously. “My dear lord,” she coaxed, but her husband silenced her with a raised hand.
“You know why I have called you here, your grace,” Henry said with icy calm, continuing his unblinking gaze at Elizabeth. “If you were not my dear wife’s mother, I would not hesitate to try you for treason.”
A gasp went up from all but Henry, Bess and Margaret. Bess’s eyes
dropped to her lap, and her fingers plucked nervously at her dress. Henry placed his own long fingers over hers to calm them. Again, Grace saw evidence that Henry must truly love his wife and was glad for Bess. Dorset took a step back from his mother’s chair and hoped the king was not including him in her folly.
Elizabeth’s face paled, but she continued with her bravado. “Treason, your grace? What nonsense is this? I have committed no treason, I swear.”
Henry reached into his wide sleeve and pulled out a letter that made Grace cover a squeak with her hand. Thankfully no one had eyes for her, sitting in a dark corner of the room with Lady Katherine.
“This letter came into my hands, madam. Do you deny that is your signature—your seal?” He opened it, turned it over for all to see and thrust it at her.
Elizabeth recoiled in horror. “I d-do not,” she stammered, now visibly afraid. “How….” She did not dare to finish, praying to the Virgin that Lincoln had not been caught.
“A servant of Lincoln’s brought it to us before the earl set sail from Ipswich. I only regret ’twas too late to detain him on English soil.
Sal traitre!
” Henry spat. “It appears he has gone to Flanders and that meddling sister-in-law of yours, Margaret of Burgundy.”
Inwardly, Elizabeth praised God. Outwardly, she blustered. “Then you see from my letter that I refused John support, Henry. I cannot deny he asked for it, but you can see for yourself I refused it. I have done nothing wrong.”
Elizabeth had calmed herself and knew she had a point. She was almost certain nothing in the letter had incriminated her in anything specific. She racked her brain and prayed she had not mentioned the names Lambert Simnel or Francis Lovell or Margaret. Grace would know what she had written, but short of snatching it from Henry’s bony fingers, she could not be sure.
Grace was stunned. Dear God, I cannot believe Tom Gower betrayed his master and Elizabeth. He wouldn’t, he couldn’t—but who else handled the letter besides Tom and me? Her mind was a jumble of imaginings, and her heart was heavy. She forced herself back to the awful reality that Henry might punish Elizabeth, and that she and Tom might be to blame. It was then that she became aware of Katherine’s gaze upon her, and she
turned to look at Lady Hastings and froze. Suspicion was clearly written all over her face. Why, she thinks
I
betrayed Elizabeth! Grace realized with shock. She must have seen me with Tom and guessed the letter I was giving him was Elizabeth’s. Our little game of pretense didn’t work, she concluded, and could not conceal a groan.
“Lady Grace, did you want to say something?” Henry’s voice pierced her misery, made her jump to her feet and sink into a deep reverence. She could not say a word but stared at the king with frightened eyes.
“She is the one who penned the letter, your grace,” Katherine said, also going down on her knees. “She is the only one who knew what was in it. And I saw her give it to Lincoln’s man. ’Twas certain they were more than mere messengers, if I may be so bold. I saw them talking and laughing like old friends. If you ask me, ’twas Lady Grace who betrayed her mistress.”
Grace found her tongue. “I swear on Saint Sibylline’s grave I did not, madam,” Grace said to Elizabeth, who managed a wan smile of acceptance. Then she addressed Henry. “Tom Gower and I
are
old friends, your grace. Tom was with all of us at Sheriff Hutton. With Bess—I mean, the queen—and Cecily—I mean, the viscountess—and…all of us.” Oh, no, she thought, my nervous tongue is running away again. She tried to rein it in, but it betrayed her. “We went fishing together, we rode together. He helped me when I fell in the river, he…” She could see Henry’s patience was running out, but she hadn’t finished. “He is a good, loyal person, and he would never betray anyone. I swear we had not seen each other since we left Yorkshire, until I gave him the letter. Your grace, my lady,” she addressed her sisters, “tell his grace, I beg of you,” she pleaded, out of breath.