The King's Grace (2 page)
Authors: Anne Easter Smith
The lamb that belonged to the sheep whose skin the wolf was wearing began to follow the wolf in the sheep’s clothing.
—
AESOP’S FABLE
SEPTEMBER
1485
A
crow’s incessant caw outside the palace window magnified the boy’s misery as each raucous note only served to punctuate the pronouncements made by the woman seated in front of him. Kneeling before her upon the sweet-smelling rushes, Jehan raised hurt blue eyes to the duchess’s impassive face and, young as he was, failed to read the sadness in hers.
“You must leave me, Jehan,” Margaret of York said in English, the language in which she always addressed him. Her tightly clasped hands were aching to caress his golden head and ease his fear, but she did not trust herself. “You are too young to know why, my child, but one day I promise on His Holy Cross, you will know.”
“Am I never to see you again, aunt?” Jehan said, his lower lip trembling. For seven happy years he had been cocooned in the warmth of the dowager duchess of Burgundy’s kindness, at her palace of Binche. His first five years in the Carfours section of Tournai had faded into vague memories as
he played, studied, sang and prayed in the isolation of the duchess’s most remote dower property. He had been lonely at first, but he came to look on his chaplain and tutor Sire de Montigny as a father, and, when the duchess was able to return for a visit, on Margaret as a mother. She had encouraged him to call her “Aunt Margaret” in private once he became accustomed to her, but he addressed her as “Madame La Grande,” “your grace” or “madame” when they were not alone. He had never dared ask her why he had been chosen to come and live like a young prince, and she had never told him. It was a secret; he was her secret boy.
“One day, when the time is right, Jehan, you will understand everything. But now, fetch that stool, pour us some of that new cider and sit by me. I will tell you what I have arranged for you.”
As he obeyed, Margaret of York’s thoughts turned once again to the terrible events of the last two years that resulted in the continuation of the civil war in her homeland between the two rival branches of the royal Plantagenet family—the houses of Lancaster and York. Her brother, King Edward, who had won the throne in 1461 from Henry of Lancaster, had died suddenly aged only forty and left what he thought was a secure Yorkist throne to his young son, also named Edward. Not a month later, a bishop admitted witnessing a contract Edward had made with a woman prior to his marriage with Elizabeth Woodville, the queen. Suddenly, on the eve of his coronation, young Edward, together with his sisters and younger brother Richard, were declared illegitimate and thus unable to inherit the crown. During the turmoil the two boys were placed in the royal apartments at the Tower of London, for their safety, and they had not been seen since that summer of 1483.
Margaret’s youngest brother, also named Richard, was proclaimed king as next in line to the throne, and she thought her family’s York dynasty was guaranteed. Who could have guessed that Richard’s son, Edward of Middleham, would die unexpectedly a year later and put Yorkist England in a precarious position? Margaret knew all too well about leaving an insecure dynasty: her husband, Duke Charles, was killed in battle eight years ago, leaving Margaret’s unmarried stepdaughter as his heir. Without a strong male leader, Burgundy was left vulnerable in those first few months until Margaret succeeded in marrying Mary to Maximilian, the heir of the Holy Roman Empire.
Then last month, in England, the unthinkable happened—Henry Tudor, earl of Richmond and the exiled Lancastrian heir, returned to England, challenging Richard’s right to wear the crown. He conquered Richard’s army at Market Bosworth and was proclaimed king. Margaret had flinched as she read how Henry had treated her brother following his death on the battlefield:
“Naked, he was tied on a horse like a downed stag, his body riddled with wounds from the many sword thrusts that cut him down before he almost single-handedly reached Tudor…”
so the Burgundian ambassador had written. Poor Richard, she thought; he did not deserve that.
Jehan returned, offering a cup. She took it and shook off the vision of her brother’s bloodied body to focus on the youth’s handsome face. She was proud of her boy—he learned his lessons well. He spoke fluent French and English now; his Flemish was passable, but she had directed the tutor to teach him history and literature in French. He had even surprised her on one visit by reciting an ode by Horace in Latin.
Margaret knew who Jehan’s real father was. She had let him believe the boatman who worked along the Schedlt in Tournai had sired him, although it had broken her heart to hear how many times this man, when in his cups, had beaten the boy. She chose not to tell him that his mother had died not long after little Jehan had come to Binche, but to simplify matters said that the boatman’s new wife, Nicaise, was his mother. Once—not long ago—she had asked him what he remembered of his early childhood in Tournai. He had screwed up his eyes, thinking hard. “I remember going to bed hungry. I remember my father’s face when he was angry, and the stick in the corner by the fire that he beat me with.” He shuddered. Then his face brightened. “And I remember a little lady with a monkey,” he said, and Margaret smiled. “Aye, Fortunata—my servant—and Cappi,” she had explained. She could not erase everything bad from his mind, but she was satisfied. Some of the painful memories would never go away, she knew, but most of the happier ones were of Binche.
She had always planned to tell him one day who he really was, but now it was too dangerous. It was better to send him away while he still believed that his parents were the Werbecques of Tournai—until the day when she might need him to know more.
“Now that you are older, you must learn the ways of the world. You cannot remain here forever, Jehan,” she told him gently. “As we have discussed
many times, you are not my child—I chose to care for you and try to do my Christian duty by you, ’tis all.” The boy nodded sullenly. “I cannot give you titles and a household, so now that you are almost a man, you must make your own way. Soon you will be taken to Antwerp by a respectable merchant, and then you will become page to Lady Brampton, who is English. Her husband, Sir Edward, was in the service of my brothers, but because of the new king he must stay away from England. Lady Brampton is kind enough to employ you for my sake, and I know you will be in safe hands. She knows you are well tutored but she thinks you are from the choir school at Tournai.” Jehan frowned, trying to take in all this information. “I am afraid I told that little white lie, child, to protect you. For the next little while, you will learn how to be a page. One day, you may rise to become a knight,” Margaret said, smiling at the incredulous boy. “Aye, I can see you would like that. Sir Edward is an important merchant who lives part of the year in Burgundy and part of the year in Lisbon. Would you not like to see the world, Jehan?”
“Where is Lisbon, Aunt Margaret? Is it far away from here?” Jehan was still afraid, but he was curious, too. He loved the stories he and de Montigny had read about Greek heroes and King Arthur’s knights, and many a night he had gone to sleep dreaming about finding the Golden Fleece or the Holy Grail and sailing away on his own adventure. The thought of becoming a knight was titillating.
“Certes, I would have thought you had learned that Lisbon is in Portugal, Jehan. ’Tis where all the famous navigators sail from when they go to Africa or in search of the western way to the Indies. You do know that my mother-in-law, Duchess Isabella, was a princess of Portugal, do you not? Aye, I see that you do. Perhaps Sire de Montigny should have shown you where Portugal is on a map when he gave you that history lesson.” She paused, frowning. “Now where was I?”
Jehan gazed at her, committing to memory every line on her thirty-nine-year-old face, her graying fair hair visible around her elaborate jeweled headdress, and those slate gray eyes that softened every time she looked at him. How he loved her! How beautiful she was, he thought. How kind. Certes, she was every boy’s dream for a mother. And then an overwhelming sadness crumpled his face as he remembered that he must go away.
“Sweet Jesu, I beg of you do not weep, or I shall leave the room!” Mar
garet exclaimed, hoping she sounded suitably fierce, while inside she wept, too. He could not possibly know what happiness he had brought into her childless marriage. Not a day went by that she did not thank God for sending the boy to her. “You are almost a man, Jehan, and men do not cry.”
Seeing Jehan swiftly wipe his nose on the back of his hand and sit up straight, Margaret nodded and continued. “That is better. You must be brave, Jehan. We do not know what life may bring you, but I always want you to remember that I taught you to be strong. Do you remember when you broke your leg? You were only six, but very brave. Now you must believe I am doing what is best for you, even though you may question why your life may not be as comfortable as this,” she told him, indicating their rich surroundings.
“It would not be good to boast of being my ward,” she continued, “and in truth it will be better if you do not speak of it at all. Remember instead your humble beginnings—or what you can of them. All men are jealous by nature, and you will not make friends if you put yourself above others. They may think you are lying, because to them you will be only a page, and thus it may put you in danger.” She gave in to her longing and stroked the immaculately curled fair hair, regretting she might never again have the pleasure of combing it.
“And in all circumstances, do not dissemble, do not shy away from duty, do not believe everything anyone tells you and do not forget to pray every day. Listen to your heart, my child, for it is good and pure.”
How much should she tell the boy, she wondered? Looking into that innocent face, she knew the answer in a trice: nothing. “I will follow you every step of the way because you will write to me of your adventures. We shall have a special code so no one else shall read what we say to each other.” She saw the glint of excitement in his eyes at hearing of the secret pact. Margaret understood what interested boys, having spent most of her childhood in close contact with her two younger brothers, George and Richard, during her early years in England. “There may come a time when I have need of you. I would like to know that you would come to me at such a time, if I asked.” She saw him nod vigorously and smiled. “Nay, do not be so hasty. In truth, you owe me nothing, Jehan.” Jehan opened his mouth to disagree, but she stopped him. “Nay, ’tis I who owe you a debt so deep you could not begin to understand. The joy you have given me these seven
years is immeasurable. But I do ask that you consider my request in the future, and I hope you would assent because of the love we have shared, ’tis all.”
“I would lay down my life for you, Aunt Margaret,” the boy whispered hoarsely, going down on his knees and crossing himself. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”
Margaret took his hands in hers and chuckled. “Certes, that will not be necessary, my dear. But I am touched all the same. Now come, give me a kiss, for I must go and greet the visitors from England. They will have news of my family—what there is left of it,” she murmured. She raised him up and accepted his kiss.
“One last thing, my child. ’Twill be easier for you if, when you leave here, we give you back the name you were known by when I found you. You were Pierre, do you remember?”
“Aye, aunt, I do remember,” he said, his dull left eye under its oddly creased brow catching the light—the eye was the only flaw in an otherwise beautiful face. “They called me Pierrequin, didn’t they?” he asked, now thoroughly mystified.
“Quite right, sweeting,” Margaret concurred. “And so, from today, you shall be Pierrequin again.” She glided towards the door, ending the conversation and leaving unspoken the one-word question he would have asked had he dared:
“Why?”
…the first night that ye shall lie by Igraine ye shall get a child on her, and when that is born, that it shall be delivered to me…
—
SIR THOMAS MALORY,
MORTE D’ARTHUR
Sheriff Hutton
SUMMER
1485
G
race wondered if she would ever get used to the wind in Yorkshire as she leaned into it, feeling it loosen the hair pinned beneath two cauls on either side of her head. It had begun long before they approached the city of York on their journey from Westminster in June, and it seemed to her that it had blown steadily from then until now. Granted, she was standing unsheltered on the southern rampart of Sheriff Hutton castle, one of King Richard’s strongholds, perched high on a hill. On a clear day, like today, she could just see the towers of the mighty York Minster a dozen miles over the treetops of the Forest of Galtres. She often came up here to contemplate her change of fortune, and to thank God for her blessings.
A little more than a year ago she had been an eleven-year-old orphan living on the good sisters’ charity at the abbey of Delapre outside Northampton; she was astonished when she was told she was to have a new home. A young man, dressed more richly than she could ever have imagined, stood waiting as she bade farewell to the nuns—many of them weeping—and
then took her up in front of him on his horse. Escorted by a body of four horsemen, Grace and her knight cantered out of the convent gate and onto the road for Grafton.
“It seems you are not any orphan bastard, Grace,” the abbess had told her sternly that fateful day. “Your father was King Edward, may God rest his soul—adulterer though he was. God has smiled on you, my child, for his saintly widow has sent for you and will do her duty by you.” Mother Hawise turned away. “’Tis more than can be said for the father,” she muttered. She chose not to enlighten Grace that her royal father had more than adequately compensated for the child’s keep through the years; she was peeved the abbey would now lose the pension. Grace hardly had time to ponder the astounding news as she quickly packed her few belongings in a cloth bundle and hurried out to the waiting escort. She turned and waved once more at the blue-garbed group in the abbey courtyard, and then never looked back.
Grace had been tongue-tied for weeks after arriving at Grafton, the country estate of the once dowager Queen Elizabeth, wife to Grace’s dead father. At first Grace had not dared ask why her mentor was now addressed as Dame Grey, but she bided her time, knowing full well her curiosity would get the better of her one day. Staring about her at the rich hangings, silver plates and enormous beds, Grace had been overwhelmed in those first anxious days. Delapre Abbey had not been a well-endowed community, and thus she had never known such opulence as this existed. She was given a new gown and shoes in place of her faded blue habit and clogs, and she now slept in a soft tester bed made up with sheets as white as snow, shared with one of her new half sisters instead of squeezing herself between two other novices on a pallet of straw in a dormitory that slept sixteen. She kept pinching herself to make sure it was not all a dream, and it was weeks before she would open her mouth except in prayer or to answer Elizabeth’s questions. Her sisters ignored her at first, uncertain how to treat this newcomer suddenly brought into their midst. But the respect—and fear—that they had for their lady mother meant that they came to accept her, especially as she did not put on airs or, indeed, say much of anything.
When she was informed that she would now be known as Lady Grace Plantagenet, she had shaken in her shoes. But in due time Grace learned
how to curtsy and address each member of the household correctly and recognize her new title. At first the only people she felt comfortable with, because they did not speak to her directly, were the servants, although Grace observed them whispering behind their hands and, as insecure children do, thought they were gossiping about her and making fun of her bastardy. Although by then she had learned the astonishing fact that all her half siblings were also bastards. One day while working in the herb garden, Grace had plucked up her courage and asked an attendant how that could be.
The woman had looked about her quickly before confiding in the girl the story of Edward’s first betrothal contract with another. “I remember my mistress’s terrible anger when a messenger came to tell her one cold January day in sanctuary that Parliament had declared her marriage with the king illegal, and that from now on she would no longer be addressed as queen dowager but plain Dame Grey—her name from her first marriage, you understand,” she told Grace. “She broke down and wept when the man left, screaming at the children: ‘Certes, now you are all bastards! And may Edward rot in hell!’ The worst news of all for my poor mistress was that her two sons were still held in the Tower by that usurper, Richard. We watched her fall down on her knees, begging God to restore them to her. ’Twas pitiful to see; she suffered mightily, my lady.” Grace had been taken aback by this tale. And though she was unsure what
usurper
meant, it comforted her that she was not the only one with the shame of bastardy weighing on her. And she had more and more sympathy for the woman who had shown her such charity by taking her in.
Still, Grace’s shyness often left her tongue-tied and made her wish a large hole would open in the ground and swallow her. One day Elizabeth snapped at her: “Child, come out from behind that arras. No one will bite you. You must learn to be proud of your royal name, not pretend you are part of the wall.” Grace was doubly mortified and shrank behind an expressionless mask and further into her shell. She cried herself to sleep that night, awed by her new surroundings and bewildered by her new position.
Then, when she had turned twelve at the feast of the Epiphany, Elizabeth had deemed it right and proper that Grace should join her older siblings at court. By then Grace had learned the ways of the house, to whom
she must speak and to whom she should curtsy. She had become friends with her three half sisters, Catherine, Anne and Bridget, and the idea of starting all over again in even grander circles terrified her. Long since, she had decided she was too old to cry into her pillow, but she did send up several prayers to her favorite saints that Elizabeth might change her mind about her leaving Grafton. However, the next day she had quietly prepared for her departure, bundling up her few belongings and taking pleasure in the new gown Elizabeth had ordered for her. Her younger siblings were sad to see her go, because while Elizabeth’s attention was diverted by Grace, they enjoyed a modicum of freedom from their mother’s eagle eye. Mostly Grace kept her thoughts to herself and used her keen powers of observation to watch and learn everything she could so that she would eventually fit in. If the convent had taught her anything, it was that keeping herself to herself shielded her from hurt.
The lavish life at court had terrified her at first; it was far more imposing than Grafton, she realized, and she longed for a return to that accustomed routine. Her other half sisters Bess and Cecily, who were several years her senior, tolerated her, but her timidity was always an impediment, and she was relieved to find herself ignored by them most of the time. Queen Anne had been kind, but soon after Grace’s arrival Richard’s beloved wife had succumbed to the wasting sickness and the court was plunged into mourning. Then, with the imminent threat of an invasion by Henry of Richmond from his exile in Brittany, the Yorkist royal children were sent to the safety of the northern stronghold of Sheriff Hutton.
Now Grace stared over its ramparts to the vast expanse of forest, vaguely aware of the bustle in the inner bailey beneath her. She had only just begun to understand how many people kept the castle thrumming: masons, carpenters, alewives, armorers, chandlers, launderers, wheelwrights, joiners, potters, blacksmiths, cooks, grooms and the ale connor, who tested the ale for too much sugar, were all housed inside the castle walls, as were the armed guards, squires and knights and the royal party and their attendants. Only when darkness came did the daily work grind to a halt, and then a screeching owl, a wolf’s mournful howl, the screams of a woman in labor or the lilting sounds of lutes and rebecs would break the silence.
“Daydreaming again, Grace?” The young man’s voice startled her and caused her to blush. “What fanciful creatures are you looking for today?”
“You mock me, sir,” Grace answered softly. “Why must you always treat me like a child? I am only three years younger than you.”
John of Gloucester laughed at her chagrin and put his arm around her. “Have you not heard, little Grace, that only those who are most cherished are teased? ’Tis well known you are the quietest, most charming person at Sheriff Hutton, and so I tease you. It does not mean I take you for a child or that I dislike you, cousin. I wish I knew more of what went on in that mysterious mind of yours.”
It was the longest conversation she had ever had with John, and Grace wished they could stand there all day. She was acutely aware of his arm about her shoulders and his fingers affectionately pulling at a wisp of dark hair that had finally escaped its cage.
“I was thinking about the wind, John,” she said. “Do you think it ever stops blowing? I have lived all my life in the south, and there only on stormy days is it like this. Last night I was certain a dragon was outside my window, it did roar so. I have heard the wolves howl in the forest, and I pray they never venture near the castle, but this was an unearthly sound. Was it simply the wind?”
She raised her brown eyes to his and cocked her head in a way that called to mind an inquisitive bird. He squeezed her shoulders lightly and then let her go. “Aye, ’twas the wind. I have lived in the north since I was six, and I do not even notice it anymore. But see how it puts the roses in your cheeks, Grace.” And he pinched one, making her smile. He picked up a stone, leaned over the parapet and dropped it into the moat far below.
“What news of your father, John?” Grace asked, joining him. “Has Henry of Richmond landed yet?”
The bastard son of King Richard straightened, an angry scowl crossing his face. “We do not have news of the weasel yet,” he growled. “But Father is at Nottingham, ready for him—you may be certain of that. Henry will wish he had never decided to leave Brittany by the time Father has finished with him. The king is the best soldier in the world; even my uncle Edward—your father—said so. But to answer your question, little one, when I am called to join my master, Lord Lovell, we will know that Henry has landed.” He brushed the dust from his leather jerkin. “Until then, sweet cousin, why not go and see what your half sisters are about. Those two are as thick as thieves, and I often see they leave you to your
own devices. Besides, you are in danger of an accident up here by yourself.”
Grace looked down at her feet, not wanting John to see the truth of his words in her expression. At nineteen and fifteen, Bess and Cecily were not inclined to give the new young member of the family much attention.
“You and I have something in common,” John was saying. “We are both royal bastards. We have to stick together. I am used to it, and my father never made me feel different from my little half brother. You are not so fortunate, because you have no parent to support you. ’Tis odd that the queen dowager—I mean Dame Grey. I keep forgetting,” he corrected himself. “’Tis odd that she took you in. She has enough children of her own, and she is not easy with them, so my cousins tell me. I hope she is dealing kindly with you, even though you are her husband’s bastard.” Grace bit her lip. She was used to the fact now, but hearing the moniker out loud still troubled her. The nuns had impressed upon her that it was a bad word and that bastard children were born of sin. They had nightly prayed for her salvation and for her mother’s sinful soul.
“At least you know your father,” she whispered. “At least your father wanted you.”
John was immediately contrite. It was true, his father adored him and had, earlier that year, appointed him Captain of Calais, a singular honor—especially for a bastard. He gave Grace an apologetic smile; her doll-like fragility always inspired a brotherly protectiveness in him. “Pray forgive me, cousin. I did not mean to upset you. If it helps, I must tell you that my father abhorred your father’s behavior. He told me his brother did not deserve to have as sweet a child as you.”
“King Richard said that? Why, I did not think he even knew my name.” Grace’s spirits lifted. “Did he really say that?”
“He did, you silly girl. Besides,” he added, a hint of amusement in his voice, “don’t forget, Bess and Cecily are now also bastards—though theirs is a different story, as all the world thought Edward and Elizabeth were married. We now know ’twas not the case. Young Ned was thus a bastard and could not wear the crown. That is why Father was asked to be king.”
Grace recalled the conversation with the attendant in the herb garden at Grafton and was relieved she did not have to appear ignorant in front of John—she wanted so desperately to impress him. Before moving off
that day, the woman had also told her: “Young Edward was twelve and his brother, Richard—Dickon, we all called him—nine when your Uncle Richard”—she spat his name—“decided to keep them ‘safe’ in the Tower. ’Tis certain King Richard had them done away with!” Grace had been horrified by the accusation, but after she met the king at Westminster, she had difficulty believing he was capable of such a heinous act.
“They say ’tis all lies, John,” Grace said, nervously looking up and down the rampart walkway. “They say Uncle Richard made up the pre-contract story so he could take the crown.”
John’s face turned dark with anger, his slate gray eyes, so like his father’s, flashing dangerously. Grace was again struck by the resemblance between John and King Richard, although John was more handsome and of sturdier build.
“How dare they!” John cried, but seeing Grace’s fear, he gentled his tone. “’Tis the truth, cousin. Your father was contracted to another in secret before he wed Aunt Elizabeth. Bishop Stillington was witness, and so that is that. ’Tis natural Beth and Cecily rail against their new position. In truth, I do not blame them. But they should be careful of what they say while under my father’s protection. We are all fortunate to be under his protection—especially Ned and Dickon. And,” he said, brightening, “think how fortunate
you
are that Aunt Elizabeth sought you out and took you away from those awful nuns. You would have hated being a nun, Grace, I know you would. You are much too clever—and too pretty.”
