The King's Grace (62 page)

Grace grinned. “You mean keep me out of
her
way, my considerate sister,” she teased. “In truth, I must confess I am much relieved on all counts. Where shall I attend you upon your return?”

Bess pondered the question for a moment and then replied: “You may as well stay here, for I shall ask Henry if we can celebrate Christmas at Shene. ’Tis so well suited for the festivities, and this year I shall do my best, for Henry’s sake, to put this difficult year behind us.”

G
RACE STOOD ON
the riverbank with Susannah and Bella by her side and waved farewell to the royal party as the barge was rowed away from the
jetty and into the downstream current. Behind it a flotilla followed, laden with enough chests of clothes, jewelry and silver to serve the party on the short progress. September was drawing to an end and, to help lessen her daughters’ sadness at being left behind, Grace had promised to take them to the Michaelmas Fair to celebrate the end of the harvest.

The sun was still low on the horizon when the last of the boats rounded the bend and disappeared from view. As she walked back to the palace, leaving the girls in Enid’s capable hands, she thought about her final conversation with Bess the night before.

She had found herself alone with her sister for a few minutes in the queen’s chamber. Bess was anxious, anticipating the monthlong progress, and paced up and down in front of the enormous canopied bed she shared with Grace. “I am certain Henry is doing the right thing by sending me away from London, but I wish we had more news from Taunton,” she said. “I knew I could count on him to bring this to a bloodless end.” Bloodless but for the five hundred lost at Exeter, Grace thought, but said nothing. “What a relief it must be to have the man in his sights—albeit in sanctuary. Praise be to God. He cannot remain there, ’tis certain, and then perhaps we shall have the truth. Indulge me, Grace,” she said, suddenly stopping in front of her sister. “Once and for all, admit this Perkin cannot be our brother. No royal prince would walk—nay, run—away from his army in the middle of the night. ’Tis truly the mark of a coward and a common man. If he wanted to prove he was king to Englishmen, he would have behaved like one.” It was her turn to cock her head quizzically.

“Believe what you will, Bess,” Grace answered her, so low Bess could hardly hear her. “But I cannot lie to you, until we have a confession from him, I must remain true to the brother I met in Malines. If you can persuade me with proof otherwise, certes, I will admit I was wrong.”

“Ah, Grace, you foolish girl.” Bess sighed, taking Grace’s hand. “Must I send you away again so you cannot cause more concern for Tom? Already I am protecting you from a possible false step with Lady Margaret. I love you dearly and cannot bear to part with you now that Cis is gone. Anne and Catherine are good girls, but they talk of naught but their clothes and their husbands. In truth, keeping my sisters close fills the void in my heart left by my children and by Henry’s long absences, but ’tis not the same,” she said wistfully, and Grace again marveled how Bess was still so
enamored of her cold husband. “You may remain here with the steward and some of the household, but you must promise me not to cross the king, should he come when I am gone. If you cannot, then I must send you back to Westow now.”

Grace saw genuine affection in her sister’s eyes, and she raised Bess’s hand to her cheek and gave her a grateful smile. “Fear not, Bess. I promise to be good, and Henry will have no cause to doubt me. Let us say no more about it, for it seems Richard’s cause is lost and he will be sent away, will he not?”

Humoring Grace’s naive grasp of the situation, Bess nodded. “Aye, I suppose he will.”

Grace sighed now, her heart heavy as she made her way back to the empty apartment. The rooms and corridors were quiet except for a few servants who were sweeping the floors and airing out the palace. The brooms had stirred up the dust, and she grimaced with annoyance as a flea, disdaining the fur on the hem of her gown, found her ankle instead and took a bite. She stopped and scratched her leg, wondering if she should dare to write to Aunt Margaret and apprise her of the events of the past few weeks. But what if the letter fell into the wrong hands? Nay, the duchess must have her spies, she decided; she does not need me. She had promised Bess she would stay out of trouble, and she would keep her promise until…until when? she wondered. Until her conscience caused her to break it, she supposed.

E
NID CAME RUNNING
into the solar, breathless, her cap askew.

“It must be important, Enid,” Grace said, her raised eyebrow showing her disapproval of Enid’s behavior.

Enid curtsied, her matronly bosom heaving. “Beggin’ pardon, my lady,” she demurred but then hurried on. “Aye, there’s important it is!” she said, her Welsh way with words becoming more exaggerated because she was excited. “Downstairs is a man with news from the West, look you. Thought you might want to hear it from him, as he did stop for refreshment and to rest his horse.”

“Send him to me in the hall, Enid,” Grace said, rising from the table where she was writing to Alice. “And fetch the steward to meet us there.”

The messenger was unshaven and dusty when he was ushered into
Grace’s presence. The young man gawped at his surroundings and kept bowing every few steps as he made his way to where Grace, the steward and the chaplain stood near the massive fireplace. He first addressed the steward, believing him to be the person of importance there, but Sir Hugh set him right.

“You are in the presence of the queen’s sister, Lady Grace Plantagenet, lad. ’Tis she whom you must address.”

Grace almost laughed at the surprise the man was unable to disguise as he eyed her up and down. “My lady,” he said, bowing twice again and touching his forelock.

“Come, sir, I do not wish to keep you from your mission. What news do you have from the king?” Grace said, and she saw the messenger’s face soften when he heard her friendly tone.

“I am come from the earl of Devon, my lady,” he said. “The man who calls himself duke of York has been taken by the king at Beaulieu,” he began.

“Taken? But he was in sanctuary. Was he taken by force? How did the king fetch the duke out?” Grace could not stop herself from asking the questions, although she heard the quick intake of breath from Sir Hugh next to her. “I meant to say Perkin Warbeck,” she added hurriedly. Woe betide if her slip was passed on to the king.

“With cleverness, it seems,” the messenger answered her. “He promised Perkin a pardon, so the man and his councilors agreed to put themselves in the king’s hands.” He lifted his shoulders and turned his palms up. “I ask you, what else could he do? When they came out of the abbey this Perkin was royally dressed in cloth-of-gold, like he was a king. ’Tis said many people who came to see him shouted insults and hissed at him.”

Grace trembled for her brother. “Where is he now?” she whispered.

“He was taken by Richmond Herald back to Taunton, where the king awaited. God be praised, ’tis said he confessed that he was not who he claimed to be.”

Grace gasped and would have fallen had not the chaplain, who had heard her confession several times in the past month, steadied her and murmured: “Do not lose faith, my lady.”

Grace regained her composure then, thanked the messenger and commanded that he be fed and a fresh horse be given him. Then she left the
steward in charge and, smiling her thanks to the priest, walked slowly out of the hall. Once out of sight, she raced up the stairs and along the passage to the solar, where she bolted the door behind her and fell to her knees, weeping.

He had confessed. The words ran round and round in her head as she conjured up the scene in Taunton. He was tortured, she suddenly realized. Certes, he must have been tortured!

B
ESS’S HOMECOMING TO
Shene was a joyful one, despite the dank October day that caused the smoke from the bonfires to linger like ghostly fingers among the gnarled apple trees, now plucked bare of their rosy fruit. The pilgrim’s prayers said at the shrine in Walsingham had been answered, a happy Bess told Grace when she greeted her sister with a hug. England was safe again, and Henry would be back in London soon, he had promised her.

“Grace!” a familiar voice called to her from the second vehicle. “Come, give me your greeting, too.” A smile curved Grace’s lips as she recognized Cecily’s lovely face peering from behind the carriage curtain. She ran to greet her sister.

“Is the king’s mother come with you?” Grace whispered as she kissed Cecily’s cheek, and when she was told no, she breathed a sigh of relief.

“But she will be here for Yuletide, little one, so gird your loins,” Cecily teased. “Sweet Jesu, but ’tis good to see you again. I can see you have been outside overly much of late—you are no longer resembling a Spaniard; in truth, you could pass for a Moor.”

“Pish!” Grace responded, laughing. “I did help with the apple-picking, although I gathered those fallen. I did not climb the ladders, you will be glad to know. Oh, Cis,” she said, quickly changing her tone, “how sorry I am for the loss of little Anne. I pray you found comfort at Walsingham.”

Cecily’s face fell and she squeezed Grace’s hand as they processed behind the queen into the palace. “I was grateful for your prayers and your letter, Grace. I was happy I was able to join Bess on the pilgrimage and, aye, I derived some comfort from it.”

“Did you walk the last mile barefoot from the Slipper Chapel? ’Tis then one pays the greatest penance, I have heard, and receives the greatest blessing. I wish with all my heart I could make the pilgrimage. Did you see the Virgin’s milk?”

“Tell no one, Grace, but I believe ’twas naught but chalk and water. It did not look like milk from any woman’s breast I know, in truth.”

“Cecily!” Grace was aghast and crossed herself. “Have a care. Someone may take you for a Lollard. You well know the Virgin Mary gave the Widow Faverches the drops after she told the woman how to build the shrine. Certes, thousands have made the pilgrimage, and many have been cured or given comfort. How can you doubt the faith of so many?”

“Because I am becoming a snappish old woman,” Cecily retorted, chuckling. “Pay me no mind, Grace. I hope you have had the kitchen ready a feast for us; I am ravenous.”

Before the queen and her chattering attendants reached their respective quarters, Cecily was able to murmur: “You have heard the news about Richard, I suppose? Although I now do not believe he is Richard, and”—she gripped Grace’s arm to stop her interrupting—“you
must
stop believing, too. We shall soon hear the truth from Henry, and we must bow to his wisdom and judgment, no matter how hard we may not wish to. Promise me you will, Grace.”

Not another promise, Grace thought grimly. Although she felt like screaming, she found herself smiling sweetly instead. “As you wish, Cis,” she replied, dutifully enough, but then added: “As soon as I hear the truth for myself.”

T
HREE DAYS LATER
, with Harry and Margaret again in attendance, Bess held a banquet celebrating their safe arrival home and for the deliverance from the threat of the pretender. Cecily helped Grace dress in the new fashion for the first time that night. Bess had been true to her word, and had paid for Grace to have two new gowns made. Grace had been overcome by the queen’s generosity, especially as Bess often mended her own gowns and had no qualms about wearing them over and over again.

“Enough, I beg of you,” Grace exclaimed as Cecily pulled hard on the laces of the boned bodice that seemed to compress her every rib and force her breasts upward to form soft mounds just visible above the edge. The kirtle was of stiff green and gold diamond-patterned satin and tied around her waist, from where it flared to the floor in a wide circle.

Grace looked at herself in the long silver mirror and made a face. “This fashion is for taller women,” she complained. “It makes me look as if I have no legs.”

“Patience, little sister,” Cecily said, picking up the gown made of yards of silky black velvet trimmed in gold buckram that she put on Grace like a coat. The wide, open sleeves almost overpowered her, and Grace was critical when she stepped back to be admired. “’Tis too much stuff, in truth, and so heavy.” But as she twirled in a slow circle and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror again, she smiled. “What do you think, Cis?”

“You are beautiful, Grace,” Cecily said truthfully. “’Tis unfortunate, though, that fashion dictates you cover up those magnificent locks. But cover them you must. I shall send Enid to you to plait it, although how she manages, I cannot imagine.”

Bess was delighted with her half sister’s new gown when her score of attendants were gathered around the door to the great hall. “’Tis as well you are already wed, Grace, for I swear you will have every man here lusting for you this night,” she said as she waited on the threshold to make her entrance.

The banquet lasted for two hours and, as was the queen’s custom, was eaten in silence but for the lilting sounds of lutes, mandolins and gemshorns. As chief attendant, Cecily sat to Bess’s left, but young Harry had the place of honor on his mother’s right hand. Princess Margaret sat next to him, and Grace next to Cecily.

When the ewerers had offered the handbasins for the final finger-washing and the voide was being served, Bess allowed conversation to begin and the tables to be cleared for dancing.

Once again Prince Harry was the first on the dance floor and once again he partnered his sister, while the rest of the household watched and openly admired the pair, passing remarks to one another on Harry’s fine leg or Margaret’s perfectly demure countenance.

A flurry of activity at the far end of the hall caught Bess’s attention and caused the music to peter out. The dancers stopped.

“What is it, Lady Anne?” the queen called to her sister, who was conversing with Lady Fitzwalter at the bottom of the dais steps. “Can you see?”

Grace had just returned from the garderobe and so stood quietly near the door, observing a small cloaked stranger flanked by two yeomen in the king’s livery waiting in the shadow of the doorway. She recognized the man in front of the newcomer as Windsor Herald from the sunburst-out-
of-clouds badge he wore, and she knew at once this party must be from the king.