The King's Grace (26 page)

“I would do anything to spite Henry for forcing Jack on me,” Cecily snarled. “I hate my life as it is, and if there is a chance our brother, Dickon, might take back the throne for York, then, aye, I will help you! The first thing I’d ask him is to grant me a divorce.”

“But you would be excommunicated, Cecily,” Grace said, aghast. She could not conceive of such a fate, but Cecily merely shrugged.

“Do not take everything I say so seriously, Grace,” she answered. Then a secret smile replaced her grimace. “Besides, life is not quite as bad as I paint it. Now, let us concentrate on the matter at hand. You need a different gown, new stockings and chemise, a pair of nice crackows and a
more elegant head covering. You really do look like a peasant in that.” She chuckled. “One of my tiring women is about your size and, as I recently gave all my attendants new clothes, she will be able to spare you some old ones. How soon do you go to Burgundy?”

Grace put her finger to her lips. “Hush, Cecily, not so loud,” she begged. “Sir Edward told me when he fetched me this morning that a Merchant Adventurer’s ship will be leaving for the Low Countries on the tide this evening. He has arranged for me to be a passenger, as his first wife’s niece.” She wore a worried frown. “Sweet Jesu, I hope I remember that my name is Grace Peche. The abbey groom who came with me here will accompany me. And William Caxton—ah, I see you know the printer—is arranging for his son-in-law’s sister to be my tiring woman for the journey. We shall all meet at the Sign of the Red Pale at four of the clock.”

Cecily clapped her hands and jumped off the bed. “I wish I was going on this adventure with you, Grace Peche!” she cried.

Going to a silver coffer on the table by the window, Cecily opened it with a key hanging from her belt and took out a velvet pouch. She counted out several rose nobles and slipped them into it. Then she held up a silver necklace decorated with blue enameled flowers, and earbobs to match, and nodded. “I can spare these without my lord noticing. You must look like Father’s daughter when you are presented to Aunt Margaret, or you will not get past the first usher.” She put the jewelry into the pouch with the money and drew the cord tight.

Grace drew in a breath. “Aye, Aunt Margaret. I hope she is not as awe-inspiring as she sounds.” She took the proffered pouch and flung her arms around Cecily’s neck. “I am a little fearful, in truth,” she whispered on a sob. “Pray for me. Oh, Cis, I am afraid I may never see you again. I have never been on a ship before.”

“Such folly!” Cecily retorted. “People sail back and forth to Burgundy all the time. I only wish I could go. Besides, maybe Aunt Margaret will find you a young count who will take you away from your dreary life at the abbey.”

That made Grace laugh. “Aye, and I am the fairy queen,” she said, but she felt better.

“And did you not tell me that Cousin John is with Aunt Margaret’s court? You had a soft spot for him, I seem to remember.” Cecily let out a
peal of merry laughter when she saw Grace’s telltale blush. “Surely you do not still carry a torch, Grace? Ah, I see that you do. Such a pity, for I know a man who carries one for you.”

Grace’s eyes widened and her blush deepened. “You do? How is that possible, sister, when you and I have been apart for so long and, certes, do not move in the same circle anymore?”

“Tom Gower, Grace. Remember? He is now one of my husband’s squires!” Cecily was triumphant when she saw Grace’s look of amazement. “Once, in idle conversation, I reminded him of our visit to his farm that day, and he blushed in the very same way you do now. And I know ’twas not for me.”

“I have not thought of him for many months. I cannot believe you speak the truth, Cis. Surely he is wed by now?”

Cecily shook her head. “My Lord Welles keeps him too busy. Besides, he is the second son of a lesser branch of a Yorkshire family. He is not sought after by many, and may remain a bachelor. Or”—she giggled—“go into the church. So, to save him from that fate, I requested that Jack take him into our household after our cousin of Lincoln’s untimely death at Stoke.” She smirked. “Jack was feeling generous in those first few months of our wedded bliss”—she spoke the last two words with such sarcasm, Grace could not forbear to smile—“and agreed. Tom’s father died, you know, and his eldest brother now owns the manor.”

Grace nodded. “John told me. I am pleased he is in your household now, but I cannot think you are right about his liking for me.” She chose not to admit that Cecily was right about the torch she carried for John. ’Tis best kept to myself, she decided.

The two young women spent their precious time together reliving old memories of the days at Sheriff Hutton and the changes in their fortunes since then. Cecily told Grace that Edward of Warwick was still housed in the Tower and well guarded, but that his sister, Margaret, was under Bess’s wing and a marriage was being contemplated with another relative of the Beauforts. “I tell you, ’tis incestuous,” Cecily repeated with vehemence. “Poor little Margaret; she has become obsessed with her Bible and prayer.”

Grace crossed herself and asked the Blessed Virgin to watch over the young woman and her imprisoned brother.

A knock at the door stopped the conversation, and Cecily called out, “Come.” A young woman as diminutive as Grace stepped into the room, followed by two servants carrying a plain wooden chest. The men bowed and retired, leaving the attendant to close the door behind them. She curtsied and stood quietly by while Cecily hurried to the coffer and flung open the lid. “’Tis perfect, Kate, thank you!” she cried, pulling out a pale blue taffeta gown edged with dark blue velvet. “This was the gown I thought of immediately when I knew my sister Grace was in need. And this other one,” she said, throwing the blue to Grace and holding up another dress of dark red worsted wool, “will be for traveling. And this hood is pretty enough. You may go now, Kate. Lady Grace is only borrowing these, and will return them anon.”

“Aye, my lady,” Kate said, nervously curtsying again. Although barely thirteen, she knew she had no right to question why the clothes were needed. She slipped out and closed the door.

“And now I must commit to memory the reason for my journey,” Grace said, smoothing out the somewhat crumpled letter on her lap. Such a hurry-scurry about one small piece of paper, she thought, but then, a crown could topple because of its contents.

SPRING
1490

S
ir Edward led Grace, Edgar, and Caxton’s relative, Judith Croppe, to the waiting boat at the Westminster wharf and settled them on the cushions for the short voyage to the Pool of London. It was William Caxton who had devised a plausible reason for Grace’s visit to the Duchess Margaret, and that reason was in a bag tied securely to her belt. Grace could feel the comforting weight of the leather-bound book against her leg as she thought back to the scene at the workshop.

“’Tis well known her grace loves books, my lady,” the old man had told her. “When you seek an audience, you should mention my name and that you have a gift from me. She will welcome this particular book, of that I have no doubt.” Grace had turned to the title page and read
The Moral Proverbs of Christine de Pisan
and nodded earnestly, although she would have preferred a copy of
Morte d’Arthur
to while away the hours on the upcoming voyage.

“You knew my lady aunt well, did you not, Master Caxton?” she asked.

“Was she a…will she…?” Her stammering expressed her anxiety at meeting the imposing duchess.

“Aye, I know her,” Caxton said, fingering a small ruby ring that hung on a chain around his neck and smiling. “She was most generous to me in so many ways. I would not be here were it not for her. Not only did she display a fine mind, but she had an admirable sense of humor as well. Never fear, Lady Grace. When she sees this book, I promise you will see her softer side.”

“I hope you are right, sir,” Grace said, and carefully replaced the book in its bag.

Caxton leaned forward and whispered: “I happen to know Duchess Margaret has a partiality for rose-petal jam, should you wish to—forgive the pun—sweeten the audience with her.”

Grace had given him one of her most brilliant smiles, and it was in that smile that Caxton knew she was truly her father’s daughter.

The velvet pouch with Cecily’s money was safely tied around Grace’s neck and tucked under her bodice. She only wished her heart would stop racing and her stomach heaving. Sir Edward patted her knee as the boatmen pushed off with their oars.

“Courage, my little one,” he said. “Master Ward, the captain of the
Mary Ellen
, will see to your comfort, and you have my letter of introduction to my agent in Bruges. You should be there in two days, if all goes well and the winds are favorable.”

He reached into a purse at his waist and brought out a small packet. “’Tis the powder of galingale for the
mal de mer.
Take it when you sail past the Isle of Thanet and leave England behind; it will settle your bile.”

Perhaps I should take it now, Grace thought, as her fear mounted and her belly turned somersaults. “I thank you, Sir Edward,” she murmured. “You are very kind.”

They were approaching London Bridge, with three-storied houses perched precariously atop it and its many narrow arches spanning the river from Bishopsgate to Southwark. “Up oars!” cried the boatmen in unison as the boat shot through the fast-moving water beneath the bridge, and then they dipped them again while chanting “Rumbelow, furbelow” to regain their rhythm. Grace could see the tall tower of Bermondsey Abbey on the south bank in the distance now, and she wondered what the queen
dowager would say when Cecily went to tell her that Grace was on her way to Burgundy. She trembled to think of Elizabeth’s possible anger and sent a prayer Cecily’s way. Brampton, believing she was cold, wrapped his short mantle about her.

“There she is,” he said, pointing to a small caravel anchored close to the Wapping wharves, the flags and pennants on its two masts fluttering in the wind. He hailed the ship and a heavy rope ladder was heaved overboard.

“I will go first, Mistress Grace,” Judith Croppe offered, seeing Grace was unsure of how to proceed. “I climb a ladder to my bed every night. Certes, this must be much the same. Follow me.” And to the surprise of the men in the boat below, she fearlessly negotiated the knots on the swinging ladder and was hauled up on the deck by two swarthy mariners. It was only ten feet to the lowest part of the gunwale, but to Grace, swaying in the small boat beneath, the ship’s side looked like a mountain.

Suddenly Edgar picked her up, threw her easily over his shoulder and clambered up one-handed. She closed her eyes and prayed, listening to Sir Edward laughing below. A sailor soon had her in his arms and set her lightly on the wooden deck. Edgar’s trusty staff and the bundle of clothes were passed up as Sir Edward called a greeting to the master of the ship. Grace peered over the gunwale and stammered her thanks and farewell. She had felt safe and comforted by Brampton’s easy confidence these past two days; now she felt small and vulnerable, watching the rowing boat pull away. Brampton and his servants would leave on the tide bound for Lisbon the next day, Grace remembered, as she gave him a final wave.

When the ship stood out to sea past Margate, Grace felt the waves beneath her roughen and the ship creak and groan like an old man rising from his chair. Far from being frightened, as she had imagined, she was exhilarated by the spray in her face, the billowing sails and the wind across the bow. She thought about taking Brampton’s powders, as she was convinced she would need them as a first-time sailor, but when she saw Judith’s green face and white knuckles gripping the gunwale, her concern was all for her companion. She took the packet from her pouch and went to fetch a cup of rainwater from the barrel lashed to the mast. Stirring some of the gray grains into it, she handed it to Judith and advised her to drink it all. As the young woman examined the contents suspiciously, Grace turned to see poor Edgar retching over the side and immediately ministered the
rest of the packet to him. Heeding Sir Edward’s words that fresh air was best when the
mal de mer
struck, she settled both the servants in a sheltered nook on the foredeck out of the wind and found some old sacks to cushion their heads. They both stared up at her miserably, and they looked so wretched she had a hard time not smiling.

“I am sure the galingale will help you. Sir Edward promised it would,” she said cheerfully. “Is there anything more I can do for you?”

“A bucket, mistress, if you please,” Edgar moaned, heaving again. Grace looked about and saw a sailor tying off a line nearby and asked him to fetch a pail. The young man grinned, seeing the two seasick passengers huddled together. “Aye, mistress, leave it to me.”

Grace wandered back down to her quarters, a small cabin she and Judith had been given next to the captain’s. She removed her mantle and felt a momentary pang of guilt when she realized she was still in possession of Sir Edward’s handsome cloak. She folded it up carefully and covered it with the rough blanket on the hammock. It would add to her appearance when she sought an audience with Aunt Margaret, she decided. Her stomach was grumbling and she realized she was hungry. Had it really been so many hours ago in Cecily’s apartments when she had last eaten anything? The sun had gone down on the late June evening and the stars were starting to appear. Master Ward stomped down the companionway and called to her from behind the curtain that served as a door for the ladies’ privacy.

“Would you and your attendant like to join me and the other gentleman passenger for supper, Mistress Peche?” he asked. “The food is always good on the first night out from London.”

He was unprepared for the speed with which Grace appeared on his side of the curtain. “I would indeed, Master Ward,” she enthused. “But my tiring woman, Judith, is under the weather. She and our escort are as comfortable as possible on deck. I pray they will be able to sleep.”

“Ah, the
mal de mer
.” Ward laughed. “Aye, sleep will come—’tis often the first sign of seasickness, mistress. I see you are not suffering. Have you made other sea voyages, then?” He took her arm and conveyed her into his cabin, where two young cabin boys were setting out a haunch of meat, a pie, loaves of fresh bread and cheese for their captain and the London goldsmith, her fellow passenger, who was also going to Bruges. Grace saw
the boys were no more than ten or twelve years old and was astonished to discover that most began their sailing apprenticeships so young.

After satisfying her hunger and sharing a glass of mediocre wine with the two men, she begged to be excused and fell exhausted into her hammock, pulling the soft wool mantle around her. “Dear Saint Sibylline, intercede for me with our Lord and Saviour and His gracious mother, Mary, for I do not believe I can stay awake long enough to pray…” She was asleep before she could whisper
“Amen”
into the pitch-black cabin.

T
HE WIND WAS
fair and Master Ward was confident they would sight land by the end of the second day, and he was right. The flat lands of Flanders were a long, low line upon the horizon as the ship beat its way up the coast to the harbor of Sluis. “We are not small enough to be able to sail down the canal into Bruges, Mistress Peche, but we will unload at Damme,” the captain told her as she stood watching the first foreign land she had ever seen grow into recognizable beaches, with marshland and fields beyond, and the occasional church spire. It did not look much different from England, she mused.

“Do you speak French?” Ward asked. “The language of Bruges, or
Brugge
as it is called by the Flemish people, is Dutch, but most will speak some French. Indeed, ’tis the rule of the French-born dukes of Burgundy who turned this into a frog-speaking land,” he explained. “Our own Princess Margaret—King Richard’s sister—made this very same journey more than twenty years ago to marry Duke Charles, the present duke’s grandfather. I remember seeing the procession in London all those years ago when Lady Margaret sat behind the great earl of Warwick, as he led her through the streets to receive our farewell. ’Twas before you were born, I have no doubt, mistress. We thought ’twere a grand affair, but ’tis said it was a poor show compared with the welcome parade the people of Bruges gave their new duchess. Ten days of feasting and jousting followed! Imagine that.”

“Imagine,” Grace echoed with awe, pretending this was the first time she had heard of Aunt Margaret’s magnificent
joyeuse entrée
into her new country’s wealthiest city.

H
ER OWN ENTRY
into Bruges was far more mundane. The
Mary Ellen
sailed into the Zwin estuary and up as far as Damme, where the passen
gers disembarked and goods were to be unloaded on the flat barges that plied the lowland waterways. Edgar and Judith gratefully stumbled down the gangplank and onto solid ground. Grace bade Master Ward farewell and paid one of her rose nobles for the voyage for all three.

“There is Sir Edward’s man, mistress,” the captain called after her, pointing to a rotund, rosy-cheeked man in a short black gown and high hat who was checking barrels as they were rolled down a parallel ramp. “Heer Gerards!” He called loudly in Flemish, “This is Brampton’s niece. You are to take her to Brugge.”

Gerards looked at Grace with interest. He had not known Sir Edward had a niece—and certainly not such a pretty niece. He waddled over and gave a small bow. “
Mevrouw
, I call myself Pieter Gerards. I in your service am.” His English was passable, and Grace breathed more freely. She had hoped he would not speak French to her, as she could read it tolerably well, but she could not speak it as fluently as her sisters did, as the nuns had been keener on knowing Latin than French.

“I thank you, Master Gerards,” she said as confidently as she could. “I am Grace Peche. Here is a letter from Sir Edward explaining my visit. I trust you can help me complete my mission. These are my servants, and they will be accompanying me.”

Gerards took the offered letter and broke open his master’s seal. He let out a whistle when he read the instructions.
“You are to escort my niece, Grace Peche, to Madame la Grande’s court and arrange for an audience. I would deliver my message to her grace, the dowager duchess, myself, but our business interests in Lisbon have necessitated my returning there immediately.”
The rest of the letter explained the nature of the trading problems in Lisbon, with further instructions on how to proceed with them in Bruges. Finally he wrote:
“I am counting on you to give Mistress Peche every courtesy and to see her back safely on a ship to London as soon as possible.”
The merchant puffed out his cheeks and let the air out slowly as he translated and took all of this in. Grace looked around the bustling port and admired the new town hall with its gothic ornamentation.

“I take you now to be refreshed to a
herberg.
Come, please,” he said, ushering Grace along a side street by the hall. She assumed
herberg
was a house, and when Gerards pointed to an imposing stone house with large, high windows she was pleasantly surprised. However, he passed it by, saying, “Princess Margaret of York by your country is together with Duke
Charles married therein,” he told Grace proudly. Grace was intrigued and stared back up at the building, imagining the scene. Already she was experiencing so many connections to the only member of her father’s siblings she had not yet met.

“Your uncle say you to see the old duchess. She in Malines is resting. It is long way from Brugge, but we there will go in
morgen
—in morning.” Grace’s heart sank; she had hoped she would be able to deliver the letter there in Bruges. Sir Edward had not said anything about Malines.

When Gerards reached the entrance of a spotlessly clean lime-washed building a few doors away, its telltale sign swinging above them, he repeated
“Herberg!”
and opened the thick wooden door. Ah, an inn, Grace thought. ’Tis like
auberge
in French. They entered the low-beamed public room, where several people were sharing bowls of food on long tables. Judith and Edgar eyed the food eagerly after two days of purging. Edgar had grumbled to Judith on the way that “my belly is flattened against my backbone. Look’t, my tunic hangs off me now.” Judith admitted that she, too, was ravenous, although she could not see where Edgar had pared down one inch of his substantial girth.