The King's Grace (23 page)

“Something tells me Margaret is at the bottom of this, ladies,” she said. “She is a wily one, our Meg. Edward always said she was the cleverest of all his family. Still, I cannot quite believe that my little Dickon is alive. After all this time!” She frowned. “Why has whoever has him waited so long to produce him? Certes, he would have been a natural choice to lead Lincoln and Lovell at Stoke.”

“Perhaps because he was still such a boy, madam,” Grace offered timidly. “I remember you telling me when I first came to Grafton that all was lost to you because Ned was a boy king.”

Elizabeth looked at the diminutive young woman with respect. “Do you forget anything you are told, Grace? Aye, you are probably right, but Simnel was a boy, standing in for Warwick, who was also a boy. Nay, it does not make sense. Where could Dickon have been hidden for so long? I want so much to believe he is alive, in truth, but it seems too fantastical.”

“Dickon would be sixteen now, Elizabeth, and could rule without a regent. He would be ready to return, if indeed he exists,” Katherine said, blowing her nose noisily into a kerchief. She had shed the tears of joy Elizabeth had not.

Her tipsiness forgotten, Elizabeth rose. “I am in need of prayer, ladies. Terce is past, and the church should be empty. Perhaps Father John would not mind if we availed ourselves of its holy comfort. Come, let us go and pray for guidance from the Virgin.”

G
RACE COULD HARDLY
wait for the planned visit to Westminster. She had not been out of the abbey for more than half a year, when she had attended Elizabeth at court on the visit of her kinsman and French emissary, François of Luxembourg. “Certes, Henry invites me only to allay any suspicions my cousin might have if I do not pay my respects,” Elizabeth had complained when the messenger brought the invitation. “Pray God he sends me a new gown for the occasion, or François will be asking questions when he sees me thus.” Indeed, two bolts of cloth were furnished for the occasion by a clothier from Southwark, and a tailor was tasked with making Elizabeth and Katherine new gowns. The clothier was so pleased with the commission that he willingly provided Grace with a cinnamon-colored gown of satin de Bruges and a gabled headdress to match at no extra cost.

“You look like a little brown bird,” Elizabeth had exclaimed when Grace was dressed. Unexpected tears stung Grace’s eyes, as she was reminded of John. “I suppose I must conform and wear naught but widow’s weeds,” Elizabeth groused, although the requisite purple the merchant had chosen was anything but drab. A violet damask overdress was raised at the front to show an even deeper purple satin skirt underneath, and a delicate gold crown sat atop her wimple. Despite her wraithlike body, she was still beautiful, Grace thought.

“’Tis better than gray,” Elizabeth admitted, when Grace held the polished mirror for her. She then chose to adorn herself with the entire con
tents of her secret drawer, saying: “I may never have the chance to wear these jewels again, and I may need to sell them if Henry is any meaner with his money.” She had found a small brooch set with amber and pinned it to Grace’s bodice. “I had forgotten I had this trinket. It suits you more than I, so you shall have it. You have been a good, uncomplaining girl these three years.” Grace fingered the petals of the brooch with awe. She had never owned anything so beautiful and gratefully kissed Elizabeth’s hand. Katherine had sniffed with displeasure and Elizabeth, in a generous mood, had given her a pair of pearl earbobs that were worth considerably more than Grace’s brooch. “Now come, ladies, our carriage awaits,” Elizabeth had commanded, and the three women went out into the cold November afternoon.

Now it was June, and the larks were singing high above the meadows, twittering barn swallows swooped in and out of the abbey stables and lambs frisked beside their shorn dams. The bare-chested weeders in the wheat field methodically stomped on the tops of the weeds, pulling the roots up behind them in the crooks of their long wooden hooks as they moved on to crush the next offending plant.

Grace secured her linen coif under her chin, pushed her straw hat down on top of it and hurried out of the gate to the farmlands beyond. There was plenty of work to be done, which would take her mind off the coming meeting in Westminster. Brother Oswald had seen a love of the land in Grace when he had first taken her into the garden to teach her the art of beekeeping, and Elizabeth was happy enough to let Grace toil there during the hours she had no need of the girl. She and Katherine would make fun of Grace when she came back from washing the lambs, tending the vegetable patch or feeding the chickens with mud on her face, strands of wool carpeting her kirtle or green stains on her hands.

“You will make some farmer a fine wife one day,” Katherine had remarked once, smirking as she tuned the strings of her lute. “As King Henry seems to have forgotten about you, no doubt a farmer—or a merchant—is all you will end up with. Or perhaps the nuns will find you useful when you have to take the veil.” Elizabeth was gone to the privy and did not hear these unkind remarks, but Grace had chosen to ignore the insinuation that she would end up a spinster and responded: “I am happiest when I am busy, Lady Hastings, and husbandry seems to be what is most needed here
at the abbey. I am not ashamed to learn how one must work with animals and plants in order to live.” She looked at the lute and added: “’Tis more valuable than…” she hesitated for a moment, as she did wish she were more musical, and then finished, “…embroidery.” She had expected the usual rebuke, but Katherine had merely grunted and continued plucking and humming.

Today Grace swung open the little gate that enclosed the runcival-pea patch and began tying up the long stalks to small branches that had been cut for the purpose and staking them in the rich soil. Two other women, wives of the laborers who lived in huts outside the abbey walls, acknowledged her with little bobs. Grace waved and called “Good morrow to you, Joan, Maud. And a fine morning it is.”

“Aye, my lady,” Joan responded, giving Grace a toothless grin. They were used to her now, but when she had first begun to work among them, the field hands had been uncomfortable. She had soon put them at their ease with her friendly yet respectful questions about their tasks and then by working as hard as they, even though she was only there for a fraction of their long, backbreaking day. Well used to this labor from her years at Delapre, she was an invaluable member of the group. Although she did not mind tying peas, gathering beans, planting leeks and lettuce or digging up turnips and carrots, she loved working with the animals the most—except for horses, which still terrified her. Her small, quiet presence did not frighten the new lambs or calves, and she had been thrilled to be present at the birth of a calf the year before.

She found the hours flew by when she was outside, and her face and forearms naturally turned the color of beechnuts, eliciting despair in Elizabeth’s voice. “And now you will be going to Westminster looking like a peasant,” she admonished her young attendant. “Pray God no one from the palace recognizes you. Which reminds me, Father John has been kind enough to lend one of the grooms to me as your escort. If anyone questions you, you are going to William Caxton’s shop on an errand from your mistress. No names, no places. Do you understand?”

Grace had nodded and then gone to the wash basin and poured some water into it to scrub her hands and clean her nails. “I do not mind that you spend your time rubbing elbows with peasants, but do not allow your hands to become like theirs. You must take care of your hands, Grace. If we go back to court, worn hands will never get you a husband.”

“Aye, your grace,” came the dutiful response, although they all knew they were never going back to court. In the past year, Elizabeth had had to let the other two attendants go—one to be married and the other because she could not afford to keep her. “Damn Henry’s eyes,” Elizabeth had hissed one particularly trying day, “and may his prick shrivel up and die!” Grace had paled at the curse. There were times when she did not like Elizabeth at all, despite feeling sympathy for the woman. She presumed coming down so far in the world must be humiliating indeed for the once all-powerful queen.

The night before Grace was due to go to Westminster, the three women spent extra time in prayer. “Dear Mary, Mother of God,” Elizabeth murmured, staring at the small painting of the Virgin on the wall, in whose arms sat a rather overweight Christ child with golden curls and bright blue eyes, “watch over Grace as she undertakes this mission for me to find my long-lost child. Bless my son and intercede for me with our Lord and Saviour that He might bring young Dickon and me together again. Let him know his mother’s love once more.

“Ave Maria, gratia plena…”
she intoned and was joined by Grace and Katherine as they prayed the rosary together. Then each conversed silently with God before Elizabeth crossed herself and blew out the prie-dieu candle.

“Tomorrow I shall write to Meg,” Elizabeth said from the bed as Grace drew the curtains around the two women and prepared her own crude truckle bed. “God will guide my thoughts, and you will guide the pen, Grace. Now let us try to sleep. God keep you.”

“God give your grace a good night, and you, Lady Katherine,” Grace replied, releasing the last curtain, and then, wrapping herself in her cloak, she lay quietly on her mattress contemplating the next day until sleep claimed her.

She dreamed of John in the meadow at Sheriff Hutton running towards her, calling her name, and Bran running circles around him as she bent to gather daisies. When she looked up only the greyhound was loping through the long grass and wildflowers. “John!” she called, thinking he had dropped to the ground to hide from her. “Where are you?” Silence. “John!” she screamed in a panic, and, tossing the daisies into the wind, she ran to where she had seen him last. As she reached the spot, a strange young man appeared from nowhere with golden hair and an angelic smile.
There was something odd about his eyes, but she was too intent on finding John to look more closely. “Where is John?” she demanded. “And who are you?” The young man said. “You know who I am, Grace. I am your half brother, Dickon. John sent me to you.” He reached out his hand to her and she tried to take it, but Dickon disappeared as well, leaving her rooted in the meadow with Bran still prancing around her. Then a cock crowed in the castle behind, startling her out of her trance.

Grace’s eyes flew open, and she realized the cockcrow was not in her dream but in the abbey’s barnyard. Daylight was creeping over the sill, and she closed her eyes and tried to go back into her dream. What had happened to John? How could she dream so clearly about a brother she had never met? No one had painted his portrait, so she did not know what he looked like, and yet she believed the man was Dickon. He reminded her of someone, but she could not put her finger on whom, and, as with all dreams, the harder she fought to remember the details, the faster it faded away, leaving her nonplussed and very curious.

“M
Y DEAREST SISTER
, we greet you well. I thank you for reporting the safe arrival in your country of my young kinsman, John, two years ago. I pray he is well and enjoying the benefits of your hospitality.”
Elizabeth paused, watching as Grace’s neat script flowed off the nib of her quill and caught up with her dictation. It was an hour past Prime and the bread and cheese that were to break their fast were still sitting in the wooden bowl on the table where Grace was seated, making the girl all the hungrier. Elizabeth had sent Katherine to the refectory to eat with the other residents in order to write this all-important letter to Margaret. “Dear Katherine, do not look as though I am punishing you,” Elizabeth had told Lady Hastings. “’Tis better for you not to know the contents. For if the missive falls into the wrong hands and I am found out, you will have a clear conscience and cannot be punished.” A fleeting look of relief belied the words of indignation Katherine spoke to the queen, assuring her of her complete devotion and silence, but a second later she had curtsied and was gone. Elizabeth had smiled and murmured “Ever the expedient, Lady Hastings” to the closed door.

Grace raised her warm brown eyes to the older woman and gave a quick nod to say she was ready. “Stay your pen, Grace. I must make sure I reveal nothing of importance. It must not put anyone in jeopardy—not Meg, Sir
Edward, my little Dickon or me—for I believe Henry still hates the house of York and would not hesitate to execute any of us if he felt threatened.”

“Even me?” Grace squeaked. Elizabeth looked down at the sweet face with its trusting but frightened eyes and softened.

“Nay, Grace. You are the innocent in all of this. You are doing my bidding, and as a bastard
daughter
of my late, lamented husband, you pose no threat to Henry. But I must know that I can trust you.” She paused and saw Grace nod her head vigorously. “Good. I do not believe you or your friend—Tom, was it?—betrayed me back in Eighty-seven, but Christ’s nails, somebody did!” She thumped her fist on the table, making the wooden bowl jump and disturbing the flies that were enjoying the cheese. Elizabeth waved them away with her hand as they attempted to land again. “Damn flies,” she groused. “’Tis the curse of living on a farm.”

Grace respectfully smothered her laugh. She thought Prior John would be horrified to hear his abbey spoken of in such demeaning terms. She dipped her quill in the sepia ink and wiped the excess off on the rim of the bottle.

“You must know that I am aware of a rumor that my errant son is enjoying foreign hospitality. I am told you may be able to help me bring him home. In truth, I have not seen him for many a moon, and it pains me that he has been lost to me all this time. If you know of his whereabouts and can tell him of his mother’s love and willingness…”
Elizabeth stopped. “Nay, strike that last word and substitute
eagerness
,” she directed Grace.
“…to restore him to his rightful place in the family, I shall be eternally grateful to you, my dear sister. Much depends upon his safe return, as you are only too aware.