The King's Grace (17 page)

Laymen came to gawp at the diners and see how the nobility enjoyed the fruits of their poorly compensated labors. Then they queued at the kitchen door to receive the gravy-soaked trenchers that otherwise would have been added to the rubbish heap.

Elizabeth was not the only noble to have fallen on hard times or simply taken sanctuary to retire from the world, and thus she had stimulating company. “The pretender’s name is Lambert Simnel,” Elizabeth told one of those later that day. “But fear not, my lord, I dare swear my son-in-law will not allow him to set his foot this side of the Irish Sea.” Then, seeing Lady Katherine’s worried frown, she had hurried on, “Indeed, I know nothing more.”

O
NE EVENING, AS
the daylight waned and the ladies could no longer see to work their needles or read, Elizabeth sent her two tiring women to their beds in the chamber next door, which they shared with another resident’s servants. She yawned and stretched, kicking off her worn velvet shoes and holding her feet out to the dying embers of the fire. May was a fickle month for weather, and some nights still held the threat of frost. The small chamber warmed up once the fire was stoked and now the glowing coals gave off a rosy light.

“Play something for me, Katherine,” Elizabeth asked. “I am not quite ready for bed, and some music would be pleasant.”

Katherine picked up her lute and began to tune the strings, deciding what to sing.

“Shall I unbind your veil and brush your hair, madam?” Grace asked Elizabeth, who smiled and nodded. Katherine settled the instrument on her knee and played a jaunty introduction. Then her warbling alto filled the room:

She paused for effect before emphasizing the final line of the stanza:

Elizabeth feigned indignation: “Fie on you, Katherine! Why denounce womankind thus? Certes, ’tis men that this ditty describes, not us,” she exclaimed, chuckling nonetheless.

“There are more verses, my dear Elizabeth, each more impossible than the last. Would you care to hear them?”

“Nay, I do not like your song, for in truth I believe you and I were more trustworthy than our men. Think back, Katherine, to those nights when our husbands deserted our beds for whores.”

Grace was carefully folding Elizabeth’s soft lawn veil on the bed and wondered if the conversation would continue because she was in the room. But either Elizabeth knew she could trust the quiet young woman or she forgot Grace was there, because she continued to berate Edward and Will’s “adventures with other females,” as she termed them. “I remember the time when I was carrying Dickon—when was that, late Seventy-two, early Seventy-three, it must have been, not long after Lord Gruuthuse’s visit, and George’s Isabel was also with child—and Will was home from Calais. He and Ned went drinking and they came back wine-soaked. Will all but carried Edward to his chamber, making such a din that I ventured out of my own bed and along the hall to see what was happening. I entered Edward’s chamber to find my dearest husband prone on the bed and an equally wine-sodden Will dragging one of Ned’s hose off him, both laughing like jackasses. Certes, ’twas humiliating for both of them. But I could not forbear smiling, for they were so tickled-brained, neither could focus their bleary eyes upon me.”

Katherine’s disparaging “Pah!” showed she could not imagine what Elizabeth would have found funny.

“‘Ned,’ I said clearly but quietly in order to calm them, ‘what is the meaning of this? Where have you been? You have woken half of the palace
with your drunkenness.’” Elizabeth chuckled, remembering. “They both sat up on the bed like naughty boys and told me—between guffaws—how they had played a trick on Ned’s brother, George, that night. But try as I may, I could not extract the story from them, except that it had to do with a Flemish girl and a tun of wine.”

“Frieda,” Katherine said suddenly, bitterly. “Her name was Frieda.”

Elizabeth sat up abruptly, almost pulling the comb out of Grace’s hold. “Ouch, girl, do be more gentle,” she snapped, but then she turned her attention back to Katherine. “How do you know her name? Do you know what happened?”

Katherine turned away to lay the lute beside her so that Elizabeth could not see her eyes. “Nay, that is all I know,” she lied. “I had long stopped my ears to Will’s conquests in the city, but I interrupted a conversation between him and his squire as he was asking the man to find a Flemish girl named Frieda not long after that incident. ’Twas probably a mere coincidence,” she said vaguely.

Elizabeth accepted the explanation, but Grace did not. She had come to know Katherine’s tones of voice well over three years in close quarters and knew the woman was lying. She was intrigued, loving the mystery of it all, but Elizabeth was bored by the affair, and, yawning, she waved the comb aside and stood to be disrobed. Her drab gray gown was unhooked and puddled about her feet. She shivered in her fine lawn smock, and, keeping her stockings on for warmth, climbed into bed.

“’Twas a long time ago now, Katherine. And what does it matter? Both men are dead, God rest their souls. Besides, I suppose I should not tell these kinds of stories in front of Grace. After all, we must not forget Ned was her father, and her mother another of his little
adventures
.” The last word was delivered with such truculence, Grace wanted to run from the room in shame, but instead, as was her wont, she buried the hurt deep inside and busied herself with her truckle bed. The queen dowager still knew how to wound.

SUMMER
1487

O
ne day in late May Grace was learning the art of beekeeping from a gentle friar named Oswald and so did not see a young horseman enter the gates of the abbey in the wake of a cart piled with tuns of wine. His garb was Lincoln green, proclaiming him an archer, and his hood concealed most of his long black hair while a beard hid his face. Hailing a groom, he slid off his palfrey’s back and handed over the reins, giving a few instructions as to the care of the animal. He was greeted by Brother Geoffrey, the guestmaster of the abbey, who assumed he was to house a weary traveler for the night. Nodding amiably, the man followed the friar’s pointing finger and ran up the steps and into the hostelry, seeking his room. “Dinner is at noon, Master Broome,” Geoffrey called after him.

Grace was nonplussed when she stepped back into Elizabeth’s apartments and found a grubby piece of parchment addressed to her on the table by the door. Elizabeth was resting on her bed, with Katherine seated beside her, reading from their favorite book, Malory’s
Le Morte d’Arthur
:

“So they rode till they came to a lake, the which was a fair water and broad, and in the midst of the lake Arthur was ware of an arm clothed in white samite, that held a fair sword in that hand. Lo! said Merlin, yonder is that sword that I spake of. With that they saw a damosel going upon the lake. What damosel is that? said Arthur. That is the Lady of the Lake, said Merlin; and within that lake is a rock, and therein is as fair a place as any on earth, and richly beseen; and this damosel will come to you anon, and then speak ye fair to her that she will give you that sword…”

Katherine paused when Elizabeth held up her hand.

“A moment, I pray you, dear Katherine. We can learn more of Excalibur later. Grace,” she called, as Grace took the missive to the window to better decipher the handwriting. “That was delivered but a few minutes ago. Who is it from? The brother said ’twas for you, not me. Whose heart have you set aglow, my little one? Ha! I see you are blushing. Come, tell us all about him. Certes, it will cheer this dull day, I have no doubt.”

Katherine pouted. “I thought you liked my readings, Elizabeth,” she groused, annoyed that Grace’s entrance had interrupted the romantic tale.

Without a moment’s thought, Grace lied for the first time in her young life. “’Tis one of Lord John’s squires. He has been casting sheeps’ eyes at me for a week now. ’Tis of no import, your grace, and he writes ill.”

Disappointed there was to be no gossip, Elizabeth sank back into her melancholy and waved to Katherine to continue with the narrative as Grace thankfully escaped out onto the covered walkway. “I can always count on Grace to avoid gossip,” the dowager muttered after her. “But then, in truth, ’tis why I like her.” Katherine scowled.

Outside, Grace opened the note:
“Grace, I must see you. Come to me tonight in the undercroft when the bell strikes the Compline and the monks are safe in prayer. Say nothing of this to anyone. Your long lost cousin, John.”

“Sancta Maria, gratia plena,”
Grace murmured, kissing the paper. John is here! He wants to see me, she exulted. Then she frowned; why is he so secretive? Her grace, the queen, would have no quarrel with John. Indeed, she would venture to say no one at the abbey would have a quarrel with the bastard son of dead King Richard. Then a shiver of delicious excitement ran through her and, tucking the letter into her bodice, she ran down the stone staircase to the back courtyard and straight to the privy. She was one of three women sitting on the plank in the smelly outhouse, hanging their
backsides over the cesspit. And no one noticed that she used a cloth parchment instead of hay to wipe herself and thus cleverly disposed of John’s secret missive.

She was glad Elizabeth chose to take her cold supper in her chambers that night, because no one but his family would have recognized John in the refectory after two years from court. But the minutes dragged into hours, and Grace could not wait to see him.

U
NSEEN AS SHE
descended the undercroft steps, she slipped from pillar to pillar like a shadow. The soft light from her swinging lantern caught a rodent’s red eyes as the animal cowered in a corner, and Grace shivered. Rats—she hated them. They reminded her of her childhood at Delapre, where she was often sent to fetch parsnips or turnips for the daily soup from its equally unpleasant root cellar. She passed the vermin quickly, pulling her cloak more tightly around her with her free hand. The cellar of Bermondsey was no place for a young girl to be at midnight, and despite her excitement at seeing John again, she was beginning to regret her impetuous decision to a meet him in secret.

A noise stayed her steps and she hid behind a column, forgetting her light would give her away to a guard—or anyone else creeping about the musty cavern at such an hour. She held her breath.

“Grace?” Her whispered name echoed eerily among the sacks and casks stacked in lumpy piles upon the dirt floor. “Is that you?”

Grace let go of her breath and stepped out from her hiding place. “Certes, ’tis me,” she replied. “Who else did you think would be addlepated enough to come down here at this hour and risk excommunication for violating the Compline law?”

John could not help but laugh, a sound that was muffled by the thick stone walls and the monks chanting in the church above them. “Little wren, you appear to have grown up since I saw you last. Are you not at least glad to see me?”

Grace stared at the figure in front of her. His black beard and long hair hid the face she had imagined so many times in her dreams, but she would have known those gray eyes anywhere. Without a thought for convention, she put down her lantern and ran into his arms.

“Why, I do believe you have missed me, coz,” John said, laughing. He
kissed her forehead, as he always did, and then her generous mouth. It was the kiss of a cousin, she knew, but it lit a fire in her that made her gasp. She stepped back to study him in the dim light.

“Aye, I have missed you with all my heart,” Grace whispered, her lashes casting dark shadows across her cheeks. “I thought never to see you again, John. How did you find me? Why are you come? Why are you dressed like this?”

John swung her around, laughing at her questions. She had grown up, his little wren, and she was very pretty, he noted. “Come, let us sit, and I will satisfy your curiosity, never fear. I have made a comfortable nook of sorts over here,” he said, taking her hand and leading her to several sacks of straw that he had fashioned in the shape of an oversized chair. Carefully putting the lantern on a small cask, they sank back into the sweet-smelling hay. Grace was intoxicated by the nearness of him and shivered, which John attributed to the cold. When he put his arm around her shoulders, it was all she could do not to snuggle even closer. He smelled of horses and leather, and she hoped he would notice the lavender water she had sprinkled on her hair and gown before she had crept from her chamber. She still could not believe he had come to her at Bermondsey.

“Why have you sought me in particular?” she asked, hoping she didn’t sound too eager. “Are you in some sort of trouble?”

“There you go again, Grace. Questions, questions! Aye, I wanted to see you in particular because our cousin Jack suggested you might be able to help me. I dare not show my face in London—although I fear I am much changed since last I was at Father’s court.” He laughed when he saw her nod vigorously. “I received word from Jack that he and Lord Lovell are planning to go to Ireland with the help of Aunt Margaret. They have a boy with them—”

Grace stopped him. “Oh, John, they are already there. Did you not hear? The boy you are talking about has been crowned King Edward the Sixth in Dublin.”

John removed his arm and swiveled around to face her. “’Tis Warwick, not just any boy. ’Tis little Ned, and he is the rightful king of England. So, ’tis done, is it? Then I must guess where they will invade, for I will be part of Ned’s bid for the throne. Damn Tudor! He kept a close watch on me these last eighteen months, but thanks to my father’s friends in the dales I was able to escape from Middleham a month ago. Henry is looking for me,
but I am small fry compared with Lincoln, Lovell and an army ready to kick his bony rump off the throne. I doubt not he knows about my escape, but he will not waste valuable men looking for me.”

Grace waited until he finished before she gently let him down. “But Ned is still in the Tower, John. Lincoln himself spoke to him in February, at Henry’s command. Henry made poor Ned ride through the streets so the people could see with their own eyes that the earl of Warwick was firmly in the king’s hands. I wish it were different, John, but I am telling you the truth. The boy in Dublin is an imposter—and his name is Lambert Simnel.”

John listened intently but did not appear disillusioned. “’Tis no matter, Grace. If the Irish believe it, or if they believe
in
it—the cause, I mean—then they can invade, win against Henry, take the real Warwick from the Tower and crown him in London. Don’t you see? He is only a figurehead. Why, he cannot even wield a sword yet—what is he, twelve now? ’Tis the York cause that is important, not the boy. I must try to join them, either in Ireland or where it is they land.” He was on his feet now, stirring up the dust on the floor with his rough peasant boots. He began to pace, hands behind his back, a mannerism he had inherited from his father.

“How can I help?” Grace ventured. “I am cloistered here now and have little contact with anyone outside the abbey. The only person I see from time to time is Cecily.”

John stopped pacing and snapped his fingers. “Cecily! Certes. Is she married to Welles yet? Nay? Good; we should enlist her help, because she is close to the king. Can you get her to visit in the next two or three days? Time is of the essence, now that I know the army is in Ireland. Oh, say you will send for her, I beg of you. I think she will be my friend, don’t you?”

He was bending down to her, his hands gripping her upper arms and his face a few inches from her own, and she was intoxicated by their closeness. Kiss me, John, she wanted to whisper. Let me show you how I love you! But he merely repeated the question, his intense gaze searching her face for an answer to his plea.

“Aye,” she murmured, tears pricking her eyes. “She is your friend and will come, never fear.”

“What is wrong, my wren?” John let her go but tipped up her chin, seeing the tears. “Did I hurt you?”

Grace winced at the irony. Aye, you have hurt my foolish heart, but ’tis
my own fault, she wanted to say. Unable to trust her voice, she shook her head.

He moved away from her, all business again. “May I count on you to bring Cecily here? I can stay at an inn for a few days without attracting attention.”

Grace sat down on the straw chair and tried to remain calm. She had been unprepared for the intensity of her feelings for John when he had kissed her in greeting. Was she such a harlot that she wanted him to touch her…everywhere? Wanted to feel his mouth on her breast, wanted to run her hands over his young, hard body? Dear God, such lustful thoughts—and on holy ground.

“Well, Grace?” John’s tone was more urgent. “I cannot tarry much longer.”

She stared at her neatly folded hands. Think, you goose, he is waiting for you to answer.

“’Tis Elizabeth’s birthday next week,” she suddenly remembered. “It would be a natural time for Bess and Cecily to visit. Is that too late, John?”

“Perfect!” John cried, and then looked about anxiously when Grace put her fingers to her lips. He lowered his voice. “I knew coming to you was the right thing. What day next week is the birthday?”

They made a plan and then John saw Grace safely back to her staircase by the light of a waning moon.

“My thanks, little coz. Until next week,” he whispered. He looked at her with deep affection. “By Christ’s nails, you are all grown up, and, I might add, quite lovely,” he said and gave her a tender squeeze. “God give you a good night.”

She stared after his dim shape. “And you, my dearest John,” she whispered into thin air.

G
RACE PLEADED A
headache the next morning and Elizabeth excused her from attending Prime. Left alone, she wrote a letter to Cecily, ran down to the abbey gate and waited for John to pass by on his horse as planned. Only a few field hands were to be seen when she passed him the letter and he cantered off. Then she held her breath as she waited for a response. John had his own methods of expediting the letters to and from
Shene, and he had not bothered Grace with them. Whatever they were, it appeared he was successful, because within two days she received Cecily’s reply. John again boldly entered the gates dressed as a groom and gave the letter to one of the monks.

“How kind you are to remember our mother’s special day, Grace. The king is at Kenilworth and he has just called for Bess and his mother”
—Grace giggled when she saw the
(SM)
for Scraggy Maggie that followed—
“to join him there. He has had disturbing news from Ireland, but I can tell you of this when I see you, because I am to stay behind this time, and so I am able to come with an attendant and a small escort. I suppose I can lodge at the abbey with mother for a night or two? I am looking forward to seeing you again, dear sister, and I hope you are not dying of boredom in your cloister. Look for me on Tuesday. Your devoted sister, Cecily.”

Grace hugged herself. Her part of the plan had worked. On the eve of the birthday, John was to again meet her in the undercroft and know Cecily’s response.

Once again, she waited until all was silence in the community before she crept out of bed and tiptoed from the room carrying the pisspot. If she was caught coming back in, she could say she was emptying it. She was astonished at her own bravery as she felt her way along the side of the residence in the pitch-black night and then made a dash for the back of the abbey. She could not believe she was the same girl who had thought there were dragons outside her window at Sheriff Hutton.