The King's Grace (28 page)

“I have to stand on that dais all morning, listening to petitions and complaints. You have provided me with a respite, my dear Mistress Peche. My feet seem to grow more delicate every passing day.
Merci
, Henriette,” she thanked her attendant. “We shall enjoy a cup of wine together, and then I must return. Now, what is it that you must tell me?”

Grace opened the bag and first drew out the jam. “I did not know, madam, if I would be able to give this to you myself, but please accept it with my deepest respect. A mutual friend told me ’twas a particular favorite of yours.”

Margaret’s eyes lit up at the sight of the jar. “Rose-petal jam, is it?” she cried, seizing it and untying the cloth lid. Then she looked curiously at Grace. “Who, pray, of your acquaintances knew about my penchant?”

A mischievous smile curled Grace’s mouth as her earlier fear dissipated at the expression of the duchess’s childlike glee over a simple jar of jam. “The same acquaintance who wished to give you this,” she said and removed the book in its velvet pouch from the larger bag. She held it out, saying, “And to be remembered to you with all duty and devotion,” surprising herself with her eloquence.

“A book,” Margaret cried, drawing it out and holding it close to her chest. “It cannot be from your uncle; he does not know of my passion for rose-petal jam.” She opened the embossed leather cover and saw the title page. Grace saw a deep blush rise from the bosom of Margaret’s square-necked gown and suffuse her entire neck and face in a rosy glow. “
The Dictes and Sayings of the Moral Philosophers,
translated by Anthony, Earl Rivers,” Margaret read aloud. “William Caxton,” she murmured, and Grace saw tears in the duchess’s eyes. “Tell me ’twas Caxton himself who gave you this, Mistress Peche?”

Grace assented but was puzzled. Surely Aunt Margaret and William Caxton…nay, it is not poss—. Certes, she suddenly realized, ’tis Anthony, Lord Rivers, for whom my aunt blushes and weeps. She curled her mouth into a knowing smile, remembering the conversation with Bess those many years ago at Sheriff Hutton.

Margaret drew in a sharp breath. “Do that again, mistress,” she commanded, surprising Grace. “You put me in mind of someone.” She thought for a moment and then chuckled. “Why, certes, it must be Sir Edward.”

Grace seized her moment. “Nay, madam, ’tis another Edward whom I resemble. I am afraid I have had to come to you in a disguise. I am not Mistress Grace Peche, but Lady Grace Plantagenet, your brother Edward’s—”

Margaret’s mouth had dropped open, but she finished Grace’s sentence without thinking. “Bastard!” she exclaimed, staring at Grace with new eyes. “Certes, you are Ned’s, although how you lack for inches, I cannot conceive. But your smile is his.” She clapped her hands together, laughing. “My niece, Grace! How delightful this is!” Then she frowned and lowered her voice. “But why the masquerade? Why are you come?”

“I am come to give you a message, your grace. I was sworn to secrecy by my mistress,” she said, glancing at Henriette, who was seemingly focused on the sewing of a tiny gown. She had no intention of mentioning Elizabeth’s name to anyone but Margaret.

Margaret turned to Henriette.
“Cher Madame de la Baume, veuillez chercher mon neveu, s’il vous plaît,”
she said pleasantly, and Henriette rose at once, curtsied and left the room. “Never fear, Grace. Henriette does not speak a word of English, but you are right not to trust those you do not know. And, in some cases, those you do,” she muttered to herself.

Grace told Margaret the whole story and how she became Elizabeth’s messenger. “So I thought it safest to commit the letter to memory, your grace.”

Margaret was amused but impressed. “’Twas as well you did not fall into Henry’s hands, my dear, or you might have been shown the rack,” she teased her. “Sadly such a possibility is not out of the question. Since the alliance with England last year, my son-law-law Maximilian has been loath to complain to Henry about spying on our court. He has also suggested that I curb my enthusiasm for giving Henry headaches. The archduke and I agree on many things, but my loyalty to the house of York is not one of them, more’s the pity.” Margaret was pacing in front of the fireplace, its sculptured hood bearing her motto,
Bien en aviengne
, in painted relief. “But I ramble—the price of getting old, I fear. You have done well, Grace. Certes, it took courage to come all this way by yourself. Now, quickly, before you forget, what were the letter’s contents?”

When Grace had recited the letter word for word, Margaret arched a finely plucked brow and gave a short laugh. “Elizabeth always enjoyed a conspiracy. A coded letter would have been amusing for her to word. And no one will know your hand. How clever of her!”

With her burden relieved, Grace was eager to tell of her part in the addressing of the missive. “We chose Dame Meg Broome, hoping you would understand the wordplay,” she said.

Margaret mouthed the words, puzzled, and then her face lit up: “Broome,
planta genistra
, Plantagenet. Certes! Ingenious.”

Grace blushed at the compliment.

“You have had quite an adventure, Grace,” Margaret said, looking at her niece with admiration. “You have your father’s blood in your veins, in truth.” She began to pace again, and Grace decided it must be how her aunt liked to think and was reminded of John. Finally she stopped and weighed her words. “As we have some unaccustomed privacy, I think it best to give you a verbal message to return to Elizabeth, and I believe I can trust you to remember it.” She winked. “It is this: Tell her she has every reason to hope; I believe her younger son is alive and well.” Grace’s expression of joy caused Margaret to hold up her hand. “I regret I can tell you no more about him, but suffice it to say that when the time is right we shall see about overturning the Tudor’s throne. Tell her to hold steadfast,
and I will do all in my power to return England to Yorkist rule. The less she knows, the safer it is for her. We do not want Henry torturing her—or you—for information, now, do we?” She chuckled when she saw Grace’s horror. “I am but jesting, my dear.”

There was a knock at the door and both women jumped. “What gooses we are, to be sure.” The dowager laughed and called, “
Entrez.
Ah, there you are, nephew. I think you must know this young lady.”

Throwing etiquette to the wind and squeaking with excitement, Grace flew into the arms of an astonished John.

“Aye, I see that you do,” Margaret said softly, smiling at the scene. Henriette stood in the doorway, staring at the young people, puzzled by the whole episode, but then bustled to Margaret’s side to tell her she was expected again in the presence chamber. Sighing, Margaret allowed her attendant to straighten her turbaned headdress before leaving the room and admonishing the young people to “behave yourselves.”

“I cannot believe my eyes,” John said, holding Grace at arm’s length. “What is my little wren doing in Malines? And in a gown that is quite unworthy of you, in truth. Has Aunt Elizabeth fallen even lower that she could not dress you better for a visit to the most fashionable court in Europe?”

“Clothes do not make the man, John—or the woman,” Grace retorted. “I am still the same person, even if you do not approve of my gown. And her grace is not responsible for it, if you must know.”

“Temper, temper!” John teased, grinning down at her. “I’ve told you before, I like you when you are indignant. Nay, spare me your blushes, Grace, and tell me what you are doing here.”

Indeed Grace did feel underdressed beside her cousin’s brilliant blue satin pleated jacket, trimmed in gold and pearls, its slashed sleeves revealing shimmering white silk beneath. His well-shaped legs were encased in parti-colored hose and his codpiece was tied with a jaunty bow. A soft black beaver hat topped his long and fashionably curly hair, and although she acknowledged he was still the handsome John of her dreams, Grace thought she preferred him in his plainer English garb. He took her hand and drew her onto a cushioned settle, where she had to repeat her adventure for the second time in half an hour. John’s eyes were wide with astonishment when she finished. He let out a whistle, and Lancelot obediently eased himself
off the tiled floor and loped towards him. “Nay, my dear old hound, I did not mean to disturb your sleep.” He laughed, scratching the dog’s coarse hair just above his tail. The dog lifted his huge head heavenward in ecstasy. “Ah, you cannot reach this spot, can you, boy?” He continued massaging the dog’s bony haunches and told Grace, “I am speechless. You have shown more fortitude than many of the knightly fellows I rub elbows with. And now I assume you must make your way home the same way.”

Chagrined, Grace made a face and nodded. She had not wanted to think about the return journey. “I suppose I must, for it would not do to be found out as Grace Plantagenet on this side of the channel, when no one in England knows I left there—except for Cecily, Sir Edward, Master Caxton and by now, I hope, the queen dowager. Aunt Margaret tells me Henry has spies everywhere,” she said, looking about her nervously.

John laughed. “Do not imagine that Aunt Margaret and Maximilian do not have their own in England, my innocent wren. But aye, it would not do for anyone to know you have been here.”

“Certes, my absence will have been noticed at the abbey, but I suspect her grace will cover it cleverly.”

“I have no doubt.” John snorted. “Her life has been filled with deceit.”

“You may think so, but you cannot deny Elizabeth has been good to me,” Grace retorted.

“You are too good-hearted to know what the rest of us think, Grace. She has denied you a life with your sisters, or others of your age. You could have been here with me, or with Cecily and her ancient viscount. Aunt Elizabeth likes you because you do not gainsay her and do as you are told, and so she selfishly keeps you by her side.” He smiled at her. “I warrant those monks aren’t much fun, are they?”

Grace chuckled. “’Tis true, but I have learned much about vegetables and lambing in the meantime.”

They were still laughing when Henriette returned followed by servants carrying steaming dishes of food.

“Your aunt wishes you to eat without her,
messire
. She is hearing the grievance of a merchant from Antwerp who claims he was cheated by a member of her household. The man has obviously not heard that it is unwise to challenge her grace on the loyalty of her servants,” she said, laughing. “I pity the poor fellow.”

John pulled the settle up to the table to see what Margaret’s chef had prepared for them. “We can think about your return to England after we have sampled Bernard’s fare,” he said, lifting the lid off some venison in frumenty and inhaling the delicate aromas. He lowered his voice and turned back to her. “But for now, know that I am right glad to see you again, Grace. I would not be here if it had not been for you, and I owe you my life.”

“Oh, pish,” she replied modestly. “I must thank you for the note; ’twas gladly received.”

He lifted her hand and kissed her fingers, charmed by the blush that crept up her neck but, guessing the cause, he moved a few inches away. “So, cousin, has Elizabeth found a bridegroom for you yet?”

“Nay, you know you are in my heart always, however hopeless,” Grace whispered, and it was his turn to redden. “I, too, imagined you would be husband to some lovely Flemish noblewoman by now. Surely Aunt Margaret knows many who would be glad to marry a Plantagenet prince.”

“Aye,” he admitted ruefully. “She has put several forward, and even my bastardy does not seem to turn them away. I have learned that the good Duke Philip had twenty-three bastards—aye, three and twenty—here at court, but only one legitimate child, Duke Charles, who was Aunt Margaret’s husband. So we are in good company, it seems.” And they both laughed.

“So you are not promised?” Grace asked.

John grinned. “Nay, I am not. I told my aunt that I would only wed an Englishwoman, and she has not attempted to fob me off on anyone since. I am twenty years old and know I should think about a wife, but in the meantime…” he paused, spearing a piece of meat on his knife and waving it about. “In the meantime…”

His smirk irritated Grace, who pushed away her trencher, got to her feet and exclaimed: “In the meantime, because women throw themselves upon you, you do not see the need. Is that what you would say?”

John’s fork stopped midway to his open mouth as he stared at her and did not heed the milky gravy that ran down onto his sleeve.

“You still take me for a green girl, John, when I am a grown woman and should have a husband of my own,” she declared, two pink spots appearing on her cheeks. “Why do you boast of your conquests in front of me?”

John was at once contrite. “Forgive me, Grace.” He got to his feet and took her clenched fists in his own to stop them from trembling. “I would not hurt you for the world. You are the best friend a fellow ever had. Forgive me?”

Henriette cleared her throat, and the pair sprang apart, remembering they were not alone.
“Pardonnez-moi, Messire Jean, mais le repas refroidit,”
she apologized, pointing at the food.

M
ARGARET INSISTED
G
RACE
stay at the palace that night and sent word to Pieter Gerards that he was to wait at the inn with Judith and Edgar until Grace was returned to his care. “I would read you a letter from a young protégé of mine after I have shown you the gardens and we have taken some fresh air. There has been plague in the city, I have heard, and my doctor allows me to walk only when ’tis not hot or cloudy, and then not at noontime. Now is perfect,” Margaret said after putting her head out of the window. “John, will you accompany us?”

The carillon of St. Rumbold’s rang the None as the small group stepped into the formal gardens behind the residence. “I do like it here,” Margaret said, sniffing the air, which was perfumed with roses. “Ten years ago this month, I had just landed in England for the first time since my marriage.” She sighed, absently pulling petals from a half-spent rose. “I have not been since, but I fear ’tis not as I remember, and so I stay here.”