The King's Grace (64 page)

Grace saw Thomas of Dorset frown when he observed the man from only a few feet away, and Grace could not decide if he was recognizing him or not. The two were half brothers, albeit twenty-two years apart, and Dorset had not often been in the little prince’s presence during Edward’s reign. Would he recognize the boy of ten in a man now twenty-four? Would she have picked Ned of Warwick out in a crowd from the nine-year-old boy at Sheriff Hutton? She thought not.

Henry called for a stool for Perkin and allowed him to sit a few steps down from the throne. “Lady Katherine, I pray you, approach us and greet your husband,” Henry said, his sallow face animated for once, his bony fingers fondling the white-faced monkey. “And let us have music. ’Tis far too sober in here.”

Henry’s cheerfulness astonished the court, and Grace wished Cecily were present to discuss it. She frowned. Where was the queen? She assumed Cecily was in attendance, and later when she helped ready Bess for bed, she found out.

“Henry thought it prudent for Bess to stay away from
le garçon
,” Cecily said, emphasizing Henry’s favorite French moniker for Perkin. “He said ’twas insulting to the queen to have to endure the company of a man who played the part of her beloved departed brother,” Cecily whispered as they set out Bess’s finest chemise. Another attendant was warming the mattress with hot stones, and sweet herbs were sprinkled on the soft white bed linen. The king would attend the queen tonight, they had been told, and Bess must be at her most alluring.

Grace nodded, but she was certain Henry was afraid that Bess might recognize Richard as her brother, and she knew Henry could not take that chance. But there were many others who could have told the king the truth, she thought. Many of King Edward’s councilors were still at court—like Cardinal John Morton, and Prince Richard’s attorney, Andrew Dymock, who was now Henry’s solicitor. Certes, Richard’s cousin and contemporary the earl of Arundel would have played with the prince in those far-off days. It seemed all had accepted the confession as the truth, and none was about to gainsay the king.

And ever since her clandestine conversation with Katherine, a niggling doubt that Richard was her half brother had crept like a worm into Grace’s heart. She tried to squash it, prayed to St. Thomas to ease it, but it wriggled and squirmed its way into her waking thoughts, making her snappish even with Tom.

“My courses are due, ’tis all,” she told him when he expressed concern. “It will pass.”

B
EFORE
H
ENRY LEFT
Shene for Westminster after three days’ rest, he called the queen’s household together and, with Perkin standing between his two guardians high in the musicians’ gallery, commanded Cardinal Morton, archbishop of Canterbury, to read the confession made at Taunton. The old man stepped forward and read it as he would a lesson from the Bible:

“First it is to be known that I was born in the town of Tournai in Flanders, and my father’s name is John Osbeck: which said John Osbeck was controller of the town of Tournai. And my mother’s name is Katherine de Faro.”
People frowned at the unfamiliar Osbeck name, but Grace remembered Tom saying Henry’s spies had interchanged the name with Werbecque in their reports. Perhaps this was a sign that Henry had indeed tortured the unfortunate man into repeating only what he was told to say, she thought.

Morton droned on with a detailed list of Perkin’s relatives and their rank, none of whom gave Grace a sense of where Perkin’s advanced education could have been achieved, but her ears pricked up when Morton read:
“…afterward I was led by my mother to Antwerp to learn Flemish in a house of a cousin of mine…with whom I was the space of half a year.”
Then he fell sick for five months while with a merchant named Berlo in a house nearby the English merchants.
“After this the said Berlo set me with a merchant in Middelburg to service, with whom I dwelled from Christmas unto Easter; and then I went into Portugal in the company of Sir Edward Brampton’s wife in a ship which was called the Queen’s ship. And when I was come thither, I was put in service to a knight that dwelled in Lisbon which was called Pero Vaz da Cuhna, with whom I dwelled an whole year, which said knight had but one eye; and then because I desired to see other countries, I took license of him. And then I put myself in service with a Breton called Pregent Meno, the which brought me with him into Ireland. And when we were there arrived in the town of Cork, they of the town, because I was arrayed with some clothes of silk came until me and threped upon that I should be the duke of Clarence’s son…”

Grace glanced up at Perkin, but he stared straight ahead at the royal arms carved in the plaster high above the king’s head.
“And for as much as I denied it, there was brought until me the Holy Evangelist and the Cross by the Mayor of the town; and there in the presence of him and others I took my oath as truth was that I was not the aforesaid duke’s son, nor other of his blood.”

The confession stated that Perkin was then urged to pretend he was King Richard’s bastard, John, which he denied. Grace blanched at this and then felt Tom’s hand lightly squeeze her shoulder in sympathy from behind her. She put up her hand and touched his gratefully.

Morton took a sip of wine and savored the absolute silence in the room.
“And then they advised me not to be afraid but that I should take it upon me boldly, and if I would so do they would aid and assist me with all their power against the king of England.”

A gasp went up at this treasonous statement, and, as one, the heads swiveled from looking at Morton to Perkin. Still he remained motionless. The confession now implicated the earls of Desmond and Kildare in the plot,
“so that they might be revenged upon the king of England; and so against my will made me to learn English, and taught me what I should do and say.”
Is that true? Grace wondered. She was so confused, she began to question her sanity. She remembered him at Dendermonde describing his flight from the
Tower, the death of his brother, his kindly treatment at Guisnes. It had all seemed so genuine, and Aunt Margaret believed it, too. She brought her focus back to the archbishop, who was coming to the end.

“…and thence I went into France, and from thence into Flanders and from Flanders into Ireland. And from Ireland into Scotland and so into England.”
Morton looked over the top of his spectacles at the expectant courtiers and held up the document for all to see. “It is signed by the man up there—Piers Osbeck or Pierrequin Werbecque or whatever other name he falsely uses. The so-called duke of York,” he cried scornfully, pointing at Perkin, who was now flushed pink.

A commotion in the group opposite spoiled Morton’s dramatic moment, and Tom whispered, “’Tis Perkin’s wife. She has swooned.”

“Y
OU ARE TO
accompany Lady Katherine in the king’s train tomorrow,” Bess told Grace that night at the prie-dieu, where Bess had invited her to pray. “She is well enough now, but I sent her to bed early. Henry wants the couple to be seen in public.”

Grace knew her sister well enough to recognize that Bess was nonplussed by this turn of events, but she merely nodded and waited. Why me? she wanted to ask. Does Henry suspect me still? I have given him no reason, she thought, unless someone saw me speaking to Katherine those few times and reported it. But she had been very careful.

“Henry asked me which of my ladies I could spare who would be kind to Lady Katherine, and I told him you were the only one I could trust.” Bess half turned to make sure they were not overheard. “I also thought ’twas a chance for you to make amends with Henry, Grace. He knows you are the only one of my sisters who is unconvinced of Perkin’s guilt. Perhaps you can be her confidante and—”

“And spy on her!” Grace hissed angrily. “How could you, Bess?”

“Be silent, sister,” Bess warned, and for the first time Grace felt the power of the queen and was cowed. “If you do not do as I ask, I will send you from here in disgrace. And there will be no returning this time. Do I make myself clear?”

“Aye, your grace.” Grace’s voice was barely audible, and tears stung her eyes. “I will gladly accompany Lady Katherine.”

“’Tis well said,” Bess answered. “All I ask is that you stay close while
Henry takes her with Perkin to Westminster. Your children will be safe with us here. You will all return for Christmas in a month’s time, and I shall pray daily that by then you, too, dear Grace, will believe the man is not our brother.”

“Aye, Bess,” Grace assented again. Then, taking her courage in her hands, she begged a favor. “’Tis my understanding—or perhaps ’tis naught but gossip—that Lady Katherine’s child was removed from her custody before she was at Exeter. If Lady Katherine should mention this to me”—Grace held her thumb between her first two fingers to protect her lie—“what may I tell her? I know that as a mother, you—and I—would be bereft if the same were to happen to us.”

Bess turned her head and stared at Grace. “A child, you say? ’Tis the first I have heard of it.” She turned back to gaze on the vibrant portrait of her own St. Elizabeth, mother of John the Baptist and patron saint of all expectant mothers. Dear God, what has Henry done now?

“Aye. Katherine and Perkin”—Grace used the name to appease Bess—“have a son—Richard,” she said. “He was with them when they landed in Cornwall.” She dared not say more or Bess would guess she had had intimate conversation with Katherine. “I thought everyone knew,” she said innocently.

“I will find out what I can, Grace, but I cannot promise anything. Henry is secretive and touchy about
le garçon
, as you know. I shall not see him privately before he leaves on the morrow, and at Christmas”—Bess drew a breath—“his mother will be with him.”

Grace heard the resignation in the final statement and nodded. “I understand.”

“Give Lady Katherine my assurance that the child is well cared for. ’Tis all I can do.” And with that, Bess crossed herself and rose, signaling the end of the private conversation.

“God bless you, good Queen Elizabeth,” Grace murmured, and she saw Bess smile.

WINTER
1497

R
iding for all he was a free man and showing he was as at home in the saddle as any of the nobles who rode in Henry’s train, Perkin seemed not to have a care in the world. Some way behind him, Grace rode pillion on her cousin Richard de la Pole’s palfrey, with Katherine on her own horse alongside. The retinue was strung out for half a mile along the road to Lambeth, and for once the weather was kind. A milky sun penetrated the ever-present clouds, but the fields were boggy and the trees dripped moisture down unsuspecting necks as the riders brushed past the bare branches. It was cold enough for the horses’ breath to plume from their nostrils, and Grace’s feet on the pillion-saddle support were already numb. She hated November: the last of the leaves had fallen; mists and fogs rolled in; the dark, cold mornings often meant breaking ice in the wash basin; and the sun rarely shone. Even the birds were not singing, except for the unattractive cawing of jackdaws and crows, foraging what they could find in the fallow fields. The parting from Susannah and Bella had
been hard for Grace, but with other children now to play with, they hardly knew she had left them.

The royal barge at Lambeth dock was waiting, and so was a small but vocal crowd, who jeered and booed Perkin as he dismounted and was helped into the vessel. How cruel Henry is, Grace thought angrily, although she had to confess that Perkin did not appear unduly discouraged. Katherine, on the other hand, could not stop the tears from coming, and as Grace maneuvered herself close to the young woman in preparation for embarking on the second barge, she whispered: “Courage, Lady Katherine. Take a leaf from your husband’s book.”

The mockery was worse on the Westminster side of the river, and Perkin suffered the ignominy of spittle and an egg. Henry pretended not to notice as he strode up the path to the king’s gate and on into the palace. Grace was glad the citizenry did not know Katherine Gordon was in the king’s train, but she was beginning to understand Henry’s motive for including the pretender’s wife. Certes, he wants her to see that England has forsaken Perkin, she concluded, and that his cause is lost. He is as wily as a fox, she decided, but she was still puzzled as to why he had not simply imprisoned or executed the man. Henry had not quibbled earlier that month when he chose to hang all the Flemings who had been captured at Deal during the first disastrous invasion attempt. In truth, his clemency gave her hope that perhaps deep down he could not bring himself to end the life of someone who might be King Edward’s son. God’s wounds, she thought scornfully, I hope he stews in his own juice.

More outings in London followed the arrival of the king at Westminster, and each time Perkin either rode amiably with whomever was alongside, or he rode in dignified silence, enduring the stares and ridicule of Londoners lining the streets or hanging from second-story windows. By then he was known by one name only—Perkin—in the manner of a lowly servant, and the name was cursed on every corner, at every market cross and in every tavern. The worst ride yet came on November twenty-eighth, Grace wrote to Cecily, when Perkin was
“forced to lead one of his followers—who had once been Henry’s farrier—lashed to a horse all the way to the Tower. ’Twas said the man expected to be imprisoned or, worse, executed, but it pleased Henry to command Perkin to lead the farrier all the way back again to Westminster. For what purpose,
Cis, I cannot tell except that more curses were heaped upon both men. Through all of it, Perkin was brave and dignified, so Tom tells me.”

Two days earlier Henry decided to show off his captive to the various ambassadors who served their European masters at Westminster. This was nothing new, Tom told Grace when they had a chance to talk that morning after Mass. “The viscount says the Spanish ambassador—you know de Puebla, I think—is increasingly concerned with the king’s indecision with regard to Perkin. He says de Puebla told my lord that Ferdinand and Isabella want no trace of doubt as to Arthur’s claim to the throne. The alliance is in abeyance because of Perkin.”

“A pox on Henry’s alliance,” Grace muttered. “Whether he be Richard or no, the unfortunate man has no right to be treated thus. So he is to be paraded again tonight?”

“Aye. But this time, Katherine is to be by his side,” Tom said, looking at the subject of their discussion walking to the lodgings accompanied by two servants.

“She will be ecstatic,” Grace exclaimed. “Although the black dress is decidedly travel-stained, we shall endeavor to have her looking her best for her husband tonight.”

“Lady Katherine does not need ribbons and satins to be the most beautiful woman in the room,” Tom mused, and was not prepared for the kick to his shins he received for his thoughtless remark. “You did not let me finish my sentence,” he complained, grinning sheepishly. “I was going to say ‘except for my wife, dearest Grace,’ truly I was.” And, taking off at a run, he avoided another playful blow.

A
S
K
ATHERINE’S COMPANION
, Grace stood by the young couple in a corner of the king’s smaller audience chamber. Katherine looked paler tonight in her black dress, Grace thought, although it lent her an ethereal beauty. Perkin was arrayed in his cloth-of-gold suit, complete with a spice-studded orange pomander hanging from a ribbon around his neck. It was the first time Grace had been close enough to speak to him since their meeting in Dendermonde, but she dared not say anything to him, as all eyes were upon the little group.

Henry had entertained his guests at a feast earlier with fire-eaters, tumblers, jugglers, a bearded woman and a giantess from Flanders. Then he
invited a privileged few into this room, where Diego, Henry’s Spanish fool, poked fun at de Puebla in his native tongue, making the ambassador throw back his hairy head and roar with laughter. As a juggler tossed balls in the air, distracting the guests, no one was aware for a few moments that Perkin, his two escorts and Katherine, accompanied by two attendants, had been let into the room. Suddenly the Milanese Raimondo Soncino spotted them and, nudging Ambassador Trevisano, his friend from Venice, jerked his head in the couple’s direction.

Katherine was trembling—Grace did not know if from touching her beloved husband again or from fright—and Perkin took her hand possessively. The admiration in the Italians’ faces told Grace they found the couple beautiful to behold.

“I give you Lady Katherine Gordon of Huntley and her husband, Perkin,” Henry announced, as if toasting them. “They are free to converse with you.”

Grace took a step back and stood alongside the second attendant, with Perkin’s men on her other side. Robert Jones was sewer of the chamber, and William Smyth was one of Henry’s ushers of the chamber, and, as close associates of the king, they were commanded to be with Perkin everywhere. They did not look unkind, Grace thought, and William did not seem particularly alert. ’Twas odd that Henry had not chosen armed guards. Grace looked down at her feet, her square-toed shoes peeking out from under her green gown, and wished the sordid and humiliating scene would come to an end.

It eventually did, but not before Perkin whispered of his love to his wife by hiding behind the pomander that he pretended to sniff, and fondled her neck, stealing one desperate kiss. “How long must we live like this?” Katherine whispered. “And do you have news of our son?”

“What can you mean, my love?” came his puzzled reply. Then Perkin turned angry eyes towards the dais. “I thought he was with you all this time,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “Christ’s nails, where is he?” He looked at Grace, who had come between them and Smyth and Jones to keep the conversation private. “Do you know, Grace?”

Grace shook her head. “I am trying to discover his whereabouts.” She saw Henry’s eyes on them. “Have a care, the king is watching. I can do no more.”

After making their reverences to the king, Katherine and Perkin bowed to the other spectators—that is how Grace described them later to Tom—and made their exits, in different directions. “They may stand close in public,” Soncino whispered to Trevisano as Grace moved past them, “but they can never bed again. Too dangerous.
Molto pericoloso
.”

“Lady Grace, pray approach the throne.” The king’s command took Grace off-guard, as she was about to follow Katherine from the room. Her knees wobbled as she walked back to Henry and sank to her knees in a curtsy. Henry pointed to the golden chair next to him, where Bess would have sat had she been present. “Tell me, how does my lady of Huntly? She appears tired, but otherwise healthy. Am I correct?”

Grace smoothed her skirts and then clasped her hands in her lap. She was aware of many pairs of eyes on her, and she felt the blush start up from the edge of her square-necked bodice, Elizabeth’s amber brooch pinned at its center. What could Henry want from her? She took a deep breath and then looked at the king, who was watching her with amusement. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

“Why are you so afraid of me, my lady?” he said quietly. “My wife always speaks so affectionately of you to me. Certes, you cannot doubt that I respect her opinion, and therefore I must look upon you as a dear sister, too. Aye, you were deluded all those years ago, but Bess tells me you are reformed—thanks to the guidance of your husband,
sans dout.
You should know my uncle thinks highly of Sir Thomas Gower and trusts him in all things. He has the opportunity to rise at court, if he—and you—play your cards right.” He gave her a friendly smile. “I believe we can now trust you, can we not? Come, answer me, Grace, or has the cat run away with your tongue?”

Grace closed her mouth, astonished by his benevolence. “My duty is to you, your grace, and my sister,” she said, a little hesitantly. Where was this leading? she wondered. “And I honor my husband with all my heart.”

“And with your body, I trust,” Henry said, leaning to her and winking. “You make a handsome couple, in truth. Your husband is a fortunate man.”

Now Grace was completely perplexed. Was the king flirting with her? If he was, she was disgusted. Thank Heaven Tom has already left, she thought. “Th-thank you, your grace,” was all she could think to say. She
noticed that his velvet bonnet was making his forehead sweat in the heat of so many candles, and then she noticed his smile had faded and his myopic blue eyes glittered. Her stomach lurched.

“I would know what
le garçon
and his peahen were talking of earlier, Grace. I pray you, do not dissemble. I cannot expect you to swear on your little daughters’ souls, but I do expect you to honor me with the truth.”

Sweet Mary, he
is
threatening me, Grace realized, thunderstruck. I am his mouse: first the playing, then the pounce. She gripped her hands and felt Tom’s ring digging into her finger. It gave her courage. “I will tell you readily, your grace,” she said, leveling her gaze at him and taking Henry aback. “They spoke of their love, which seems to be considerable. And then they spoke of their son—the one who was taken from Lady Katherine at Saint Buryan’s. Perkin was unaware—and dismayed—that the child was no longer in her care. Both expressed a desire to know if he is well.” She forced a dazzling smile. “And as a father yourself, your grace, I cannot think you will blame them for that.”

Now it was Henry’s turn to open and shut his mouth, as Grace continued to smile. “You observed Lady Katherine’s heavy eyes, your grace?” she said. “As her companion, I can tell you ’tis from overmuch weeping for her babe. I would dearly love to comfort her with word of his well-being and safety.” Her heart was thumping so loudly at this outrageous speech that she was sure it was drowning out the lutes in one corner and the conversation around the rest of the room. Surely Henry could hear it?

Henry avised her for a full minute before his features softened a trifle. “I can see you know not how to lie, Lady Grace, and therefore I must thank you for your honesty. As a reward, and to comfort the noble gentlewoman in your care, I will tell you that the child has been sent into Wales to be cared for by trusted servants of mine. Unfortunately, Lady Katherine must understand that, for my subjects’ protection, she will never see the boy again.” He ignored her look of horror and continued. “I trust you can break the news to her gently. In truth, you are ridding me of an unpleasant duty, Grace, for it would have fallen to me—or the queen—to deliver the bad tidings.” He rose, making Grace jump instantly to her feet, while the company stopped talking and waited expectantly. “My lords,” he called, then turned to Grace and inclined his head, “and my lady, I bid you all a good night.”

Before Grace could curtsy again, he strolled down the steps of the dais and disappeared among his councilors, leaving her—the only woman in the room—on her own. She fled down the back of the dais and out of the small door through which she had entered.

She had gone but a few dozen steps when a hand reached out from a doorway to pull her through it and into a small chamber, where a candle guttered as it lit a truckle bed covered with a worn counterpane. She had no time to scream before her mouth was stopped with Tom’s kiss. He kicked the door shut behind her and held her so tightly she thought she would crack.

“What happened to you, sweetheart?” he whispered when he finally let her go. She was so relieved to see him and feel his strength that she started to cry. “What is it, hinny? Tell me.”

He led her to the bed and gently sat her down upon it, cradling her against him. He could feel her trembling, and his mind ran rampant. Had someone insulted her? Had she been attacked in the corridor outside the king’s audience chamber? Nay, he had been waiting all that time—and he had seen Lady Katherine and another attendant hurry by to their quarters. Certes, they would have all been surprised by an intruder, not only Grace. “What is it?” he coaxed.

Grace wiped her eyes and recounted the scene with Henry word for word. Tom drew in his breath. “He is still suspicious of you, in truth. But, my love, you answered him truthfully and, therefore, he cannot mistrust you. By the same token, you did not betray Katherine, either, for your honesty obtained the information she so craved.” He patted her hand, and then he chuckled. “It appears to me, my beauty, that the king finds you desirable. I cannot help but be flattered.”