Authors: Anne Easter Smith
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
Lisbon
1490
Right noble and beloved aunt,
Your letter finds me exceedingly well as I sit in my customary spot upon the ramparts of the Castelo de São Jorge watching the ships come and go from the wharves down the river to the sea. It also finds me about to embark on another adventure.
I am to be apprenticed to a merchant and sea captain from the duchy of Brittany named Pregent Meno. Going to sea will be a dream come true for me and I hope this will meet with your approval. I understand from Sir Edward that I have to thank you in part for my good fortune. Once again, dear aunt, I am in your debt. When will I ever be able to repay you? It happened like this: Sir Edward took it upon himself to recommend me to Captain Meno, telling him that I had connections to the dowager duchess of Burgundy. Impressed with that information and after an interview, I am happy to tell you that the merchant decided I should become his apprentice. You see how Sire de Montigny’s years of teaching me mathematics has helped me learn accounting!
I must learn many things about commerce here in Lisbon before I can travel abroad. My new master trades in cloth, and I have marveled at the hundreds of bolts of silk, satin, damask and velvet that line the shelves of his warehouse in Belém. One day, I swear, I shall wear beautiful clothes again. Many of the bolts reminded me of the gowns you used to wear at Binche, and they brought back happy memories of my time there. But I have a sad confession to make, dearest aunt. I can no longer conjure up your face as I used to when I first left you. It has been four years after all, and I suppose you, too, have forgotten how I look. I do not think you would know me now if you saw me again, in truth. I am no longer the innocent boy Jehan, of that you can be certain!
As for Sir Edward, do you know that King Henry has forgiven him and he is free to go to England once more, although he is in such high favor with King Jão, I know not why he would want to leave Lisbon. It seems that a few months ago, when the king’s ambassadors were visiting from England, Sir Edward entertained them at great expense. I was a little disappointed in his behavior towards these men of Tudor’s—I know you would not have approved of such a show from this staunch supporter of the house of York. But his efforts were rewarded by a pardon from King Henry, and the last thing he did before he left Lisbon to visit Bruges on his business was to arrange for my employment with Pregent Meno. This led me to believe that his actions were not entirely selfish. Could he be going back to Flanders to spy for you? Certes, you cannot answer that, for even though we have used our cipher and our secret addresses successfully all these years, there is always the chance that someone might take an interest in letters from an aunt to her “darling boy” as you used to call me.
It heartened me to learn from your letter that Lord Francis Lovell was with you last year and that you gave him a safe conduct to go to Scotland. The rumor that reached us in those months after the battle of Stoke was that he had drowned. And you tell me that the bastard son of King Richard is with you now. John of Gloucester has long intrigued me—but you speak so highly of him in your letter that I worry he is taking my place in your affections! I often think of those two poor princes imprisoned in the Tower. Do you have news of them? My former master, Admiral da Cuhna, was convinced they are dead, but Doña Catarina confided to me that she and her “Bisagudo” believe one or both of them still live. I have always felt a bond with the younger one—the duke of York, is he not—because he was born in the same year as I. Did I tell you that when I first went to live with the Bramptons, Sir Edward remarked on a
likeness between him and me? ’Twas puzzling, aunt, because he knows I am just a boy from Tournai.
In other news from abroad, we heard of the death—nay, murder—of James of Scotland in battle, and that his fifteen-year-old son, the new King James, was the leader of the rebels. Astonishing that a son would so conspire against his own father. I also learned of the birth of a princess to King Henry’s queen in November.
In April, when the fog rolls away from the Tagus and the winds are fair, I shall sail with Captain Meno, so I shall be here to receive a letter should you need to send me one until then. After April, I know not where I may be, and my whole being thrills with the anticipation of adventure.
I pray you are well and that your charge, the young duke of Burgundy, grows into a fine young man. If he receives as much affection from you as I did, he must be a happy boy indeed. Written in Lisbon, this twelfth day of December in the year of Our Lord, 1489, from the ramparts of the Moorish Castelo de São Jorge, my special place high above the river where I come every Sunday after Mass to watch the ships come and go from the sea.
Respectfully and with love, your Perkin
Binche, 1490
Right well beloved nephew,
I greet you from Hainault in this chilly month of March. Every time I come here I am reminded of you. Your room is as you left it, and I refuse to let anyone change it. I particularly remember the conversation we had in it when I explained that you had to go away. I shall never forget the sadness in your eyes, and it was then I knew you truly loved this old woman. Aye, I am in my forty-third year and feel age in my very bones, especially when the cold winds blow like today.
I was pleased to receive your letter and to know you will be fulfilling your desire to go to sea. Be careful, my boy! Do not climb too high or engage in any brawls. Mariners can be brutes. ’Tis fortunate you told me when you would leave, because this letter is of the utmost importance. The time has come when I have need of you, my dear child. I pray to God that you have not forgotten your promise to me all those years ago in Binche. The Sunday after you are in
receipt of this, you should return to your favorite writing spot that you have described so many times and wait. I do not want you to change your routine that day, but you may be joined by a stranger. Listen to him well, for he knows my mind.
Pierrequin, you believe your life will be changing because you are going to sea, but it will change more than you will ever guess. This is all I dare write now, but remember, be at the meeting place on Sunday next.
Your faithful and loving aunt
I notice that in this letter Aunt Margaret gives nothing of our identities away—I know she must have been at Binche, because it is her favorite palace in the province of Hainault. How clever she is! But I am now consumed with curiosity as I sit here on the wall of the Castelo and wait. Certes, I have not been able to sleep or eat since I received the letter. What can the duchess possibly want from me? What do I have to offer her? All I know is if she asked me for the moon, I would give it and the sun to her. She has my complete duty and devotion.
There are more people here today, as the king and his court are in residence. But no one pays me any mind—I always wear my old badge so the guards think I am from the house of da Cuhna, a name well respected at King Jão’s court.
But wait! Sweet Jesu, I see a stranger approaching…