The King's Grace (4 page)

Tom Gower was often their escort on these meanderings, a task he did not relish; he had felt demeaned enough at being left behind with the younger henchmen while his friend, John, and other squires and knights had ridden off to probable glory against the invading forces of Richmond. Aye, he thought each time, being given the duty of bodyguard to three girls was insulting beyond the pale. It did not help that his comrades teased him mercilessly, or that Cecily flirted incessantly with him. Certes, it was flattering that a Plantagenet princess had singled him out, but unlike John, Tom had not reached the age when a pretty face took precedence over improving his prowess with sword and dagger. He usually spent this tedious time throwing sticks for Jason or practicing his slingshot skills. When the girls begged, he taught them all how to fish, although there was not much to catch in the brook that ran in front of the castle.

One day at the end of August, however, Tom was rewarded for his mundane meadow duty. He was the first to see and hail the riders who emerged from the forest, riding hard for the shelter of the castle. The sisters, hearing his cries, picked up their skirts and ran back across the waving grass in the wake of the horsemen. Grace had immediately recognized John, and she ran as fast as her short legs could carry her to keep up with her sisters.

“A victory!” Bess shouted, her hair coming loose from her hat and streaming in a golden river behind her. “I smell a victory!”

Scattering hens and goats in their path through the village, the soldiers clattered into the castle yard and slithered from their sweat-flecked mounts. The guards housed in the tower next to the gate ran to help them, and grooms sprang to take hold of the horses’ reins. The John who stood swaying with fatigue on the uneven cobblestones was very different from the one who had ridden out to glory ten days earlier. Tom was already there to steady him and, looking at John’s ashen face, he knew the news was not good. A sudden pall settled over the castle as the onlookers waited for the young Captain of Calais to speak.

“What is it, John?” Bess cried, running through the archway under the gatehouse, past the well and to his side. “Is Richmond beaten? Say he is beaten. I command you to say it!” But she knew as soon as she had spoken that it was not so.

“King Richard…” John faltered as he spoke his father’s name and then, seeing the expectant, loyal faces staring at him, rallied to continue with his awful report. “King Richard is slain, the army is routed and Henry Tudor already wears the crown. We are lost…” His voice trailed off as gasps and groans echoed across the bailey. Villagers had crept through the gate, unmanned as it was, and stood stock-still when they heard the pronouncement. Grace overheard one say, “He was a good lord to us, was Richard of Gloucester, God rest his soul.” She crossed herself and muttered the rote response, “Amen to that.” Poor John, Grace thought, how he worshipped his father!

Bess gave a loud cry and fainted on the spot. Several burly men surged forward, and one had the honor of carrying the young woman who might be the next queen of England out of the hot sun and into the great hall. Cecily was distraught and began to wail, jogging John out of his misery
enough to slap her face. She froze in horror, and then she was in his arms and he was consoling her.

“Pray forgive me, Cis,” Grace heard him say quietly, “but we must be strong for our people here. We are the leaders now, and Grandmother Cecily would not want any of us to weep at this moment. I know not what has become of your Ralph, but from the disdain you show every time his name is mentioned, I shall assume you could not care less.” Cecily had the grace to fall silent as John put her gently from him. “Come, let us go inside and I will tell the sorry tale.” He passed her to Tom, who escorted her to the hall to join Bess, and then turned to face the castle retainers who stood waiting for their orders.

“Our sovereign lord, King Richard, died valiantly on a field named Redemore Plain near the village of Market Bosworth in Leicestershire,” he cried. “He was foully betrayed at the last by someone he called friend. With him in battle fell one of his most faithful lords, Jack Howard of Norfolk, may God rest his soul.” He turned to Sir John Gower and went forward to take the older man’s hand. “Sad news, sir—your cousin Thomas was also slain fighting for his king. I have no doubt his body will be returned anon to his home in Stittenham. Pray accept my condolences.”

Gower signed himself and shook his head. “’Tis a black day for England, my lord. I will send Tom to break the news to my cousin’s wife. They are newly wed, you know. What of my lord of Lincoln?” he asked tentatively.

“I am not certain. There was a rumor he was slain, but others said he was taken prisoner. I pray Tudor has mercy on him—and Howard’s son, Thomas of Surrey, who also survived. The rest of us will surely be attainted.”

“Attainted? For fighting for one’s king?” Gower spluttered. “Surely you jest, my lord. ’Twas Richmond who was the traitor!”

“I would not discredit that cream-faced craven with any act of cowardice,” John cried, his grimace spoiling his good looks. “He never lifted his lily-livered sword arm to strike a blow at anyone on the field. Father should have killed him!” His voice had risen to a cry of anguish, which left the group silent for a moment before Sir John began to shout orders for the gates to be closed and more guards placed upon the ramparts in case Henry Tudor took it in to his head to find and kill more of the York line than just its leader.

Amid the flurry of men running to obey their orders and fetch weapons from the armory, Grace stood unnoticed, watching John with sad eyes. With all of her passionate young heart, she wanted to take away his pain. His eyes were full of it, and as though he knew he was being observed, he turned them to her concerned young face. At once his expression softened and he unclenched his fists.

“What, no tears, no swooning? You are braver than your sisters, little wren. Come, let us go inside.” He put his hand on her shoulder and steered her towards the hall, and the men broke ranks to let them through. Grace could feel his fingers trembling, and she gently covered them with her own.

“I am so sorry, John. I cannot imagine your sorrow after seeing your father die.” She felt his hand grip hers more tightly and heard the catch in his throat.

“’Tis like being in hell, Grace. And ’twas not my only loss, God help me.”

She made a logical guess. “Lord Lovell?”

“Nay, he escaped, God be praised,” he said, quietly. Then he sighed. “My sweet sister, Katherine, has been taken by the sweating sickness. My father and I learned this the day before we marched out to face Richmond. My mother braved the road from Suffolk to tell us herself. Father was consumed with grief, and ’twas then I fear he lost all reason.” He did not admit that he had cried in his mother’s arms when she broke the news. He shook his head, scarcely believing he had lost his father and his sister within one short month.

Tears pricked Grace’s eyes as she heard his words. She quickly brushed them aside as they mounted the few steps to the great hall’s doorway. A trestle table had been hurriedly set up to receive Bess’s inert form, and she was beginning to revive with the help of an attendant who held a singed feather under her nose.

“I did not know you had a sister, John. Was she younger than you?” Grace asked quickly, not wanting to let him go just yet.

John’s voice was dull as he answered Grace. “Nay, I was the younger—by two years. She was the image of our mother.” Leaving her to digest the information, he strode towards the group around the table just as Bess sat up and looked about her, puzzled.

“Praise be to the Virgin,” exclaimed the gap-toothed attendant with the feather, fussing with her mistress’s coif. “You swooned, my lady, ’tis all.”

“Ho, there!” John called to a servant hovering at the kitchen end of the hall. “Fetch us some ale and food.” The servant bowed and scurried off, and Tom and others set up benches around the table.

“Sit, sit,” John said wearily. “We have ridden hard for two days. I have no doubt that after we have refreshed ourselves, my comrades and I shall take to our beds.”

Grace sat next to Tom and watched John pick at a frayed piece of Lovell’s snarling-dog badge on his tabard. Except for the scraping of the benches on the floor as the group settled, silence reigned, as all eyes were riveted on John’s tired young face. Slumped in his seat, he waited patiently until the servers had finished bringing ale, cold savory pies and wedges of sharp-smelling cheese, and the other retainers had silently filed into the hall.

“What I know of the thick of the battle, I heard from those fleeing it,” John began suddenly, making them all jump. “To my everlasting regret, I was not present, having been forbidden to fight by my father, God rest his soul.” His eyes focused on a knot in the wood on the tabletop. Grace heard Tom draw in a sympathetic breath; she guessed he would probably not have been permitted to fight, either.

“We had the advantage, so I was told,” John went on, still staring at the table. “We outnumbered Richmond’s rabble nearly two to one, and our position was on a hill overlooking a marsh on our left and plain in front, whereon the enemy was marshaled. Beyond the swamp to the south lay my Lord Stanley’s divisions, protecting my father’s left flank, and to the west sat his brother, William, ready to support the right. With my father’s troops directly behind, Howard’s van fanned out upon the hill facing Oxford’s ranks at the bottom of it. We, the squires and the armorers, were camped almost a league away near Sutton Cheney, behind Northumberland’s rear guard.” He sneered as he pronounced Henry Percy’s title and looked up at his audience. “Aye, you notice my disdain? ’Tis not half the disgust and hatred I have for those whoreson Stanley brothers!” he cried, leaning forward and slamming his fist on the table. Bess recoiled at the unexpected show of temper but was reminded so much of John’s father in that moment, she stretched out her hand and touched his arm gently.
“Soft, John,” she said, full of pity. “If ’tis too painful for you—” she broke off as John shook his head and continued grimly.

“Richmond himself was nowhere to be seen. My father sent out scouts to report on his position and as they were returning to say that he was cowering far behind his forces, it seemed Oxford broke Howard’s line and Howard himself fell. ’Twas then the Stanleys showed their true colors by not moving a muscle to come to Howard’s aid. And Northumberland sat on his rear at the rear”—he gave a grim smirk at his own choice of words—“and waited.” He shrugged. “I suppose I should give him his due: it could be he was unable to see.”

John paused, looking at the stony faces around him. He knew the hardest part of the story was yet to be told. Aye, ’twas hard, but when he had first heard it he had never been prouder of his father. “I know not what goes through a man’s mind when he is on the verge of madness—or possible death—but what my father did then will only be described as folly by some or extreme bravery by others, who knew him better.” Now the stony faces became animated. “Having been informed as to Henry’s exact whereabouts, the king rose high in his stirrups and cried, ‘We shall find Tudor for ourselves and slay the invader!’ Then he led a mounted charge of his squires and knights down the right side of Ambien Hill, across the plain—and vile Will Stanley’s front—and into the thick of Henry’s guard.”

The open mouths at the table told John he was doing the story justice. He took a deep breath. “It seemed Henry’s men could hardly believe their eyes, for they almost allowed Father to cut his way through to their lord. The banner of the Red Dragon was his goal, where he knew Henry would be lurking. He seemed not to notice he was surrounded by Tudor’s men on all sides. Wielding his battle-ax, ’tis said he hewed a path through them as though they were naught but waving wheat. At one point he was even confronted by a giant of a man—Henry’s champion Sir John Cheyney—and Father felled him in a single stroke, though he was half the man’s size.”

John paused again, watching as some crossed themselves and others whispered to their neighbors. He found that as he described his father’s valiant actions, the blood coursed through his veins and purged away some of the anger and bitterness he had experienced in the wake of the battle, when he had first heard of Richard’s sacrifice. It helped that it was not the first time he had been forced to describe his father’s death; he tried not to
think of his beloved mother’s anguish as he had broken the news to her in secret a few hours before he fled from Leicester.

“Go on, John,” Bess whispered. “Although I almost cannot bear to hear it.”

John shook his head in sorrow. “Ah, Bess. If you only knew how close he came to putting an end to the whoreson Tudor. But he was betrayed. Betrayed by those Stanleys, who, perceiving their new lord was in danger, came rushing to his rescue. Father was fighting Henry’s standard-bearer when they bore down on him, knocked him from his horse and closed in with a hedge of spears and swords. His men heard his cry of ‘Treason!’ but there was nothing they could do.” His voice lowered to a whisper, and Grace had to lean in to hear him say, “I did not see his body, but ’tis said it was hardly recognizable, there were so many wounds.”

Grace put her hand over her mouth and stifled a cry.

“Poor Uncle Richard,” Cecily whispered. “How craven of those men. They could have let him die with dignity. He was the king; they should have had respect for God’s anointed.”

“Dignity? Respect?” John shouted, rising and throwing his heavy chair aside. “The Tudor turd does not know the meaning of these words. He had my father stripped naked and slung, tied like a downed stag, over the back of Gloucester Herald’s horse. The loyal herald was then forced to carry his master thus back into Leicester, ahead of the new king and his train. Henry was even wearing Father’s crown, God damn his filthy soul to hell!” Tears were streaming down his face by now, and, ashamed of his emotions, he strode towards the stairs leading to his quarters. Those standing moved aside to let him pass. Bess half rose to follow him, but Tom was there before her, motioning to her to sit and hurrying to catch up with his friend. Stunned, the listeners tried to process the horrifying details of Richard’s last ride—into battle and out of it.