The King's Grace (21 page)

Grace refilled Elizabeth’s empty cup and picked up the fan Mistress
Beauchamp had abandoned. She knew she must act now or she might not have another chance to be alone with the dowager, so she took a deep breath and plunged in. “I beg your grace’s pardon for delaying my return, but I had no choice.” She saw Elizabeth frown and, without waiting for a question, whispered, “You see, I was overtaken by someone on horseback who is near and dear to all of us and in danger, and I could not refuse him my help.”

Now she had Elizabeth’s attention. The queen sat up in her chair, her eyes alive and her senses alert. “Him? Who, Grace? I pray you, do not dissemble.”

“’Tis John of Gloucester, your grace. He is fleeing the battle that ensued not three days ago near Nottingham.” She stopped. She needed to know absolutely on which side Elizabeth’s loyalties lay. Perhaps her first instinct had been right: Elizabeth had no desire to anger her son-in-law or her daughter further and thus would not help John. Grace held her breath.

“Johnny,” Elizabeth murmured, conjuring up the youth of whom Richard had been so proud. Then there was anxiety in her voice. “Dear God, is he well—is he wounded? But more to the point, did Lincoln win?” But the disappointment on her face as she answered her own question gave away her leanings. “Nay, he could not have won, or that news would have reached us by now and all London would be in an uproar. With Henry the victor, life goes on as usual.” Grace nodded sadly and Elizabeth groaned. “All the plans were for naught, and here I shall stay until I die, I have no doubt.”

“Aye, you have the measure of it, madam. And I shall relate the whole sad tale later, if you wish, including”—she reached out and covered Elizabeth’s hand with her own—“the death of your nephew—and my cousin—Jack of Lincoln.” Elizabeth groaned again and shook her head in disbelief. Grace knew she should allow the queen to grieve or ask more questions, but she was on a mission and so soldiered on. “But now, I have—nay, John has—a boon to ask, and I must ask while we are alone. No one must know John is here—as, certes, he is in danger.”

Elizabeth pulled herself together. “I understand, Grace.” She was full of questions, but she began with the most puzzling: “Why you, Grace? How did John know where to find you?”

Grace told her of their friendship in Sheriff Hutton, of his letters to her
and how she had relayed his important message to Lincoln on the road to Winchester. She made Elizabeth’s eyes widen with the tale of the meetings in the dead of night in the undercroft and of her fear when the sheriff had come from Southwark seeking John Broome. At that Elizabeth clapped her hands. “Ha! There is no doubt Johnny has Plantagenet blood in his veins. Clever indeed!”

Then she was all seriousness. “Where is he now, and what does he intend to do?”

Someone was approaching on the walkway, and both women stopped to listen. The footsteps passed by and faded into the distance. Their eyes met in an acknowledgment that no one was at the door, and the discussion continued. Grace told Elizabeth of John’s plan, and of his need for money. Without a second thought Elizabeth left her chair, went to the bed and, in front of an astonished Grace, pressed a knob on the elaborate headboard causing a secret drawer to slide out from under the wooden side support of the bed. Grace turned away, not wanting to invade Elizabeth’s privacy. If the queen dowager was keeping money secretly, it was none of Grace’s business. She was only too glad Elizabeth did have more money than the meager pension Henry had bestowed on her to live at the abbey, because it meant John could be helped. Grace briefly wondered if the money had been part of the royal treasury that Elizabeth and her brother were known to have taken in Eighty-three, when she had gone into sanctuary and he had fled to sea. At this moment, though, she did not care and was happy to hear the clink of coins as Elizabeth counted some out. She looked back only when she heard the click of the drawer closing.

“This should buy him his passage and keep him from starving until he reaches Margaret. Henry would hang him if he found him, and Johnny never harmed anyone. Nor is he a threat, but Henry would perceive him to be, and Henry is afraid of any man whose name is either York or Plantagenet. Tell John to ask Margaret to write to me. I need to know if she has knowledge of my boys. If Richard did send them abroad, he would have sent them to her. I was certain this boy Simnel was one of them, and ’twas why I agreed to help Lincoln at first, but when I learned he was naught but the son of an Oxford tailor I withdrew my support. An unconvincing pretender, indeed.”

Grace took the handful of gold nobles, tied them tightly into a kerchief
so they would not jingle and put them in the pouch at her waist. “I know John will thank you with every step he takes until he is safely in Flanders, your grace.” She was aware Elizabeth was looking at her intently, and she flushed. She was even more disconcerted when Elizabeth suddenly exclaimed: “Grace Plantagenet, you are in love with your cousin Johnny, are you not?”

Grace was speechless. She cast her eyes down to the wooden floor and moved some rushes around with her toe. She lifted her head, and her expression was one of such confusion that Elizabeth laughed. “Aye, I am right. But, my child,” she said more gently, “if I know Johnny, yours is not the only heart he has stolen.” Grace’s wet eyes answered for her. “Ah, little Grace, life is cruel, is it not?”

Grace gave a rueful nod.

A
GRATEFUL
J
OHN
folded Grace into his arms a few hours later. But only after he had devoured the meat pie, cheese and ale that she had brought, put the money in a pouch that hung around his neck and tucked it inside his jacket and listened to the message he was to convey to Aunt Margaret.

“I shall ride to Gravesend and find a Flemish vessel to take me to Burgundy. No one will know me in Kent, and it will be safer than crossing London Bridge and finding a vessel on a wharf in the Pool. You will know I am safe when Elizabeth hears from Aunt Margaret. That shall be the sign. I know not whether Henry knows I was at Stoke or not, but I shall not take the chance of staying here to be attainted. Attainted! How foolish to attaint a bastard—what do I have that the king could possibly want?”

“Your name,” Grace whispered. “Never forget you are a Plantagenet.”

John grinned. “Never fear, little wren, ’tis engraved on my heart. As are you, from this moment on. I must tell you again how lucky your future husband will be, for you are a jewel.” He chuckled when she blushed. He had no wish to hurt her, and he needed to leave now. “Remember to be angry that someone stole the horse you brought back. We do not want you to come under any suspicion. And now, I must away. Only God knows when we shall meet again, but we shall, I promise, we shall.”

“You will be in my heart always, John, and in my prayers.” She tried to think of anything to keep him with her and suddenly remembered to ask: “What about Tom—Tom Gower? Was he there? Did he…” She faltered, dreading to know if yet another friend had perished.

John smiled. “Nay, Grace, he was not even there. It seems that on his way through Wensleydale he got word that his father had died, and Cousin Jack gave him leave to make sure his mother was well cared for. So he was excused and did not catch up with us. I hope he is safe in Westow—and stays there.”

Grace nodded, satisfied. “Then I must let you go. Farewell, and God speed.”

She waited until he had hurried through the cellar and up the steps to the deserted courtyard before collapsing onto their makeshift chair and sobbing silently into the straw.

A
MONTH LATER
a letter was delivered to Grace by an abbey guest from Flanders. Grace ran to the stone seat under the shelter of the yew in the privy courtyard and opened it with trembling fingers. Pressed in the folds of the parchment was a single heartsease.
“My thanks, little wren”
were the only words written on the page, but they were enough to assure Grace that John was safe.

For as well as I have loved thee, mine heart will not serve me to see thee.

—
SIR THOMAS MALORY,
MORTE D’ARTHUR