The King's Grace (55 page)

“What do you remember of her, Richard?” Grace asked, thinking his description of Elizabeth a trifle odd. “I confess most of what I know of you is from her, and she talked about your merry humor and how you loved to sing. Our sister, the queen, had a different story.” She chuckled. “She said when you were in sanctuary, you were always underfoot.”

Richard nodded. “Aye, certes, I must have been a handful. Perhaps I missed my brother. I still enjoy music, although I play the virginals now rather than sing.” He did not pursue the subject but rose and went to the bowl of fruit and eyed the array of cherries, plums and oranges. Grace held her breath, then gulped when he selected an orange. Hadn’t Elizabeth told her that was his favorite fruit? Aye, and that he liked the flavor of mint and hated the smell of cloves. She must be watchful while she was here.

“How were you taken from the Tower, my lord?” Tom asked suddenly, making everyone jump, as he had said very little.

“Vir sapit qui pauca loquitur,”
Richard remarked wryly. Tom looked to Grace for a translation, but it was Richard who helped him out, while expertly peeling the orange with his bone-handled knife. “’Tis a wise man that speaks little.”

Before he could answer Tom’s question, however, Margaret preempted him. “He was drugged and does not remember, do you, Richard?” she said.

“Aye, aunt,” he agreed. “When I awoke, I was on a ship. I was told I was being sent away to safety by ‘friends.’ As you may imagine, I was too young and afraid to object. I was moved from place to place, and then I was at Guisnes, where I was treated well but sworn to secrecy until the time came to tell my story. That is all there is to tell.”

“And Edward,” Grace said softly. “Where was Ned?”

“He was put to death,” Richard said dully. “They said he had a wasting sickness and would not survive the journey.” He sucked on an orange slice and began to pace about the room. “I never saw him again,” he murmured, and Grace imagined she heard a catch in his throat.

“Enough for tonight,
mes enfants
,” Margaret said, breaking the mood with forced cheerfulness. “’Tis trying for Richard to talk about, and I for one need my bed.” She turned to Henriette. “Show my niece and her husband to their quarters,
madame
,” she instructed in French. “I think you will be comfortable in my granddaughter Margarethe’s room, Grace. I hope you like pink?” She laughed, waiting until they had risen before kissing Grace warmly.

In their pink and gold chamber, Tom was grateful for a servant’s help in untying his points and removing his padded gipon while Enid readied her mistress for bed. She was as round as Grace was tall, but she did not gossip, possibly because she was silent and did not make friends easily. Cecily had told her that the other servants were probably suspicious of her Welsh origins, but Grace found her respectful, and the woman went about her business deftly and without complaint. She was the perfect maid, Grace had told Cecily, after Matty had been dismissed when it was discovered she carried a child by one of Hellowe’s grooms.

Snuggled in Tom’s arms, Grace could hardly keep her eyes open. “Certes, I shall sleep well tonight. Is this not the most comfortable bed you have ever been in?” she asked sleepily. “I am so happy, I know not how to thank God for bringing me here, and for my brother’s resurrection.”

Tom was quiet. He was not passing judgment on Richard of York just yet, as, in Tom’s opinion, the story of his escape needed further details. He was, however, impressed that Richard, who Henry claimed was a common boatman’s son, spoke Latin.

G
RACE AND
M
ARGARET
stood at the window overlooking the courtyard to watch the hunters mount their impatient horses for a morning in the woods and fields. Dogs yelped and bayed, straining at the ends of their handlers’ leashes to be let free to seek the scent of some unsuspecting quarry. Richard was given a leg up by a groom, and Grace noted the easy way he wore his magnificent royal blue jacket trimmed in gold braid; only one of noble blood could carry off such finery and draw all eyes to him. She found Tom among the group, keeping his mount calm while searching the upper windows for a glimpse of her. She waved when he caught sight of her and blew him a kiss.

Margaret sighed. “I remember on a day like today when I went hunting
with my stepdaughter, Mary. How she loved to ride, and how sad that it was what killed her in the end.” Then she chuckled. “And I shall tell you a secret, Grace. The day I am remembering was one where I found myself alone with my heart’s desire—my one true love—in the middle of the forest.”

“Anthony Woodville, was it not, your grace?” Grace said softly. “The queen dowager told me,” she said by way of explanation and hoped Margaret would not be angry.

Margaret’s bony hand trembled on the window ledge, and a sadness suffused the duchess’s face. She nodded. “Aye, ’twas he—my Lancelot.” She fingered an ornament on her belt, a bronze marguerite that Grace had noticed before. “That day he wore a gift boldly on his cap that I had given him in secret, and I chided him for it.” She shook her head. “’Twas so many years ago now, and I have not thought of him for a long time. My mind has been full of Richard—my White Rose, I call him.” She waved gaily to the man in question, who raised his hat and waved it back. A horn blew in the distance and, with shouts of anticipation and a clattering of hoofs, the party took off while Grace leaned out as far as she could to watch them go.

When the noise died away, Margaret asked, “How do you like your brother, Grace?”

Grace slapped at several flies that seemed to be targeting her face and pulled her head back in. “Certes, I like him very well indeed,” she enthused. “He has a bearing that can only come from being a king’s son, in truth. He is cultured and pleasant to talk to, and I cannot wait to tell Cecily and Bess all about him.”

“And Henry. You must tell Henry, Grace. We must make him believe Richard is Edward’s son,” Margaret said.

Grace frowned. “Make him believe? I do not need to make him believe. He will see for himself ere long, if I understand correctly. You said last night Richard will one day return, when you have been able to give him the money and the men.”

Margaret rubbed her eyes. There was something in the air at Dendermonde that made her eyes itch and water. “Mercy, child! You need not inform Henry of that. Let us see what Henry does when you give him the bad news.” She stared at the mantel and gave an unpleasant chuckle.

Grace did not think Margaret would appreciate that she could not tell
Henry anything but what he wanted to hear, so she said: “Do you know him, aunt? He is a cold fish—although I do believe he loves Bess—and mean with his money. He penny-pinches while he governs and yet thinks nothing of gambling vast sums for his own personal amusement. He has hanged more than a dozen men for even talking about Dickon, so afraid he is that men might flock to a York standard again.”

“You are very observant, niece. My compliments,” Margaret said. “I met Henry of Richmond when I was a girl, but then he was sent away and I only knew his sour-faced mother.”

They were ensconced in Margaret’s private study—her sanctuary, where only Henriette was allowed to attend her. Seeing Grace peering at her collection of books under lock and key, Margaret handed her the key and told her to help herself. Grace chose a book of St. Brigid’s visions, its vivid illuminations of the Nativity depicting a blond Virgin, as described by the saint.

“That was my mother’s,” Margaret observed. “I read it now, but when I was your age I read Master Chaucer’s tales and the French romances. I think Proud Cis your grandmother, despaired of me.” She chuckled.

Grace put the book down and sat on a cushion in front of Margaret. “Did you know William Caxton died last year?” she asked. “His apprentice Master de Worde is now the proprietor at the Sign of the Red Pale.”

Margaret crossed herself. “He was a good friend,” she said sadly. “But he will not be forgotten.”

A knock on the door made her brighten. “Ah, it must be time for dinner. Come,” she called. Henriette and a second lady spread a spotless white cloth on the table and placed the elegant saltcellar at the head before the many dishes were brought in. As Grace smelled the fish that sat upon one platter, its iridescent eye seeming to stare directly at her, her stomach heaved.

“Your pardon, aunt,” she gasped and ran to the tiny garderobe behind the screen in the corner of the room, where she retched into a basin. What is wrong with me? she thought, remembering she had felt ill the morning before. She shivered. Perhaps she had caught the plague? Dear God, no, she prayed, feeling under her arms for any swelling. The sickness passed after a few minutes and she wiped her mouth on a drying cloth and reentered the room.

“I knew I was right,” Margaret said, smiling at her. “How long has it been that you are with child, my dear?”

Grace blushed. “Certes, that is why I am ill!” she exclaimed, unconsciously putting a protective hand on her belly. “I have had no one to ask since I suspected. I feared ’twas the plague,” she said, relieved. She sat down on the bench at the table, eyeing the food with trepidation. “I was certain before we left England, but I did not want to hope too much, and so I said nothing to anyone—not even Tom,” she said shyly. “I had a
fausse couche
earlier this year, you see.”

“I lost two babes like that, Grace, so I know the heartache,” Margaret answered, patting her niece’s hand. “Judging from the healthy glow of you at the moment, however, I am sure all will be well this time, and we shall pray to Saint Elizabeth together for your safe delivery. ’Tis certain you will deliver in winter—under the sign of the goat, which can mean a weakly child—so you must be healthy and strong for the babe to survive. Certes, I think you should go back to England as soon as you can. Too much travel may affect your humors and cannot be good for the child.

“Besides, the sooner you can report on Richard to the English court, the better,” she finished, her own ambitions bubbling to the surface again.

Grace gave her a small smile but said nothing.

A
ND YET
M
ARGARET
was loath to let Grace go.

“If Richard were an imposter,” Grace reasoned with Tom one wet morning in August, “Aunt Margaret would not risk us staying long enough to unmask him. You cannot deny it.”

Tom agreed, although he was distracted. He chafed at lingering in Flanders. He missed his duties with the viscount and worried he would lose his rank if he stayed away much longer. He had pressed Grace to leave a fortnight before, but he had not yet uncovered the true measure of his wife’s stubbornness. This time abroad was the longest stretch they had spent together, and he marveled at the change in Grace from their first meeting at Sheriff Hutton. He was at once proud of her spirit and afraid where it might lead. She had risked her life to help John, and it appeared she was in danger of repeating the situation with this so-called duke of York. One minute Tom believed in the man as truly as Grace did, yet in the next he was troubled by him. It was all too neat and tidy, his practical Yorkshire
side told him. Aye, he was beautifully mannered, spoke Latin, French and English, sat a horse like a nobleman and was duly knowledgeable about his family and his life before the Tower. And Margaret had accepted him—as had the Irish nobles and the king of France before her. But it seemed to Tom that Richard was too much the perfect prince. It had occurred to Tom, but not to Grace, that they were never allowed to be alone with Richard. Richard’s group of courtiers or Margaret was always there to prevent too private a conversation.

Late in their visit Margaret had invited members of several noble families to join them for an evening of feasting and dancing. Margaret hoped the event would send a far-reaching message that King Edward’s bastard daughter Grace had accepted Richard as her own brother in front of dozens of influential people. When Margaret waved farewell to her niece one humid August day, she was already thinking about other and more important individuals she needed to win over to her White Rose cause.

Richard graciously bade farewell to the couple and kissed Grace warmly. “Until we meet again, sister,” he murmured, “and if God is good, upon English soil.”

“Aye, God willing,” Grace replied.

“We are counting on you, Lady Grace,” Margaret called as the little retinue turned its horses towards the gate.

Tom sighed inwardly. He knew he had the time on the journey home to persuade Grace to tell the king only what he wanted to hear. He did not know she had already made up her mind.

AUGUST
1493

T
o her most noble catholic majesty Isabella, queen of Castile and Aragon, we send you greetings from our northern city of Malines and pray God’s grace is upon you and your family,”
Margaret dictated to her secretary in high-flown Latin phrases to win over the Spanish queen. Margaret enjoyed using her Latin and took pains with every word.

Richard sat close by her, his eyes fixed on a new painting the duchess had acquired by the Florentine master Botticelli. The Virgin was holding the plump Christ child on her lap and plucking a wheat stalk from the hand of an angel, who stood vigil over them. Did my mother ever look at me with the same glow of pride that Botticelli has so vividly painted into the Madonna’s face? Richard wondered. The woman busily writing beside him was the only mother he remembered, and he loved her with all his heart and knew she loved him. It was why he sat here so miserably now, wondering what was to become of him. Could one love so blindly? Every day was exhausting as he acted out the charade in which Margaret had
so carefully rehearsed him. After Grace had left—and, he admitted to himself, he had liked Grace greatly—he felt more at ease in his new role than he had thought possible. Was he beginning to believe he was indeed Richard, duke of York? Was there much difference between being the son of the duke of Clarence and Richard, the son of his Uncle Edward? He had never met either man, so what did it matter? He did believe he was Jehan or John, bastard son of Clarence and adopted son of Jehan Werbeque and Nicaise, sometimes called Katherine, de Faro, but it was quite another thing to convince people he was the rightful king of England. He shivered, and Margaret turned to him anxiously. “Are you feverish, dearest boy?” she asked and he shook his head. She smiled. “It must be twenty past the hour and simply an angel passing by,” she said and continued with her letter.

“Last year, the earls of Desmond and Kildare, the chief lords of Ireland, wrote to me that the second son of Edward, late King of England, my most beloved brother, by name Richard Plantagenet, duke of York, who everyone thought was dead, was still alive, and was with those earls in Ireland, safe and held in great honor. They affirmed this with letters reinforced with their seals and with a sacred oath. They prayed I might be willing to bring help and assistance to this same duke of York. These things seemed to me to be ravings and dreams.”
She smiled. “I like that line,” she muttered, and Richard finally came out of his reverie and grunted diligently.

“Afterward this duke of York was received by the King of France as the son of King Edward and as his cousin.”
That had not been part of her plan, but how she had thanked God and her special saint, Anthony of Padua, for the serendipitous happening.
“And I sent certain men there who would have recognized him as easily as his mother or his nurse, since from their first youth they had been in service and had intimate familiarity with King Edward and his children.”

Aye, although she did not name them for Isabella, she had taken a chance on those men, for any one of them might have decided Richard was an imposter.
“These men, too, with a most sacred oath, affirmed that this man was the second son of King Edward.”
She paused again. And now the most important part, she thought, as she watched the secretary catch up to her last words.

“Let me see, how shall I phrase your finally coming out of France to my court?” Margaret asked, excitement in her voice as she drummed her long fingers on the table. “How does this sound?
Tandem ipse Dux Eborancensis ex
Francia ad me venit,”
she translated, and Richard nodded eagerly. “Aye, Heer Braun, that is as good as any,” she told the clerk.

“I recognized him as easily as if I had last seen him yesterday or the day before,”
she continued, and then stopped. “I had better admit that the last time I saw you was when you were only a boy. I do not want anyone to call me a dissembler. Put brackets around this next phrase,
mein heer, ‘ for I had seen him once long ago in England…Then I recognized him by private conversations and acts between him and me in times past, which undoubtedly no other person would have been able to guess at.’
” She turned and winked at Richard, who gave her a small smile and crossed himself. He was certain the fires of Hell had been awaiting him for several years now—and what was one more lie? It was a comfort to know his aunt would be there, too!

After regaling Isabella with a few more convictions that this indeed was her long-lost nephew, Richard, Margaret chose to end the letter on a note that might appeal to Isabella’s feminine side.

“I, indeed, for my part, when I gazed on this only male remnant of our family—who had come through so many perils and misfortunes—was deeply moved, and out of this natural affection, into which both necessity and the rights of blood were drawing me, I embraced him as my only nephew and my only son.”
She lifted her shoulders and let out a deep sigh. When she turned to Richard again, she had tears running down her cheeks. He could do no more than reach out his arms to her and hold her close.

“Now, Richard,” she whispered, “’tis your turn to make her recognize you. I shall leave you to write your own letter.”