The King's Grace (40 page)

Grace was too stunned to resist and allowed Tom to maneuver her outside, into the courtyard. “Grace, are you all right?” he asked, concern in his voice. “I heard your cry. ’Tis rumored John is wanted for treason, although I cannot believe his flight from Stoke would count as treason. Attaint him, certes, but unless he is involved in a plot to overthrow Henry, let us hope he should be freed anon.”

Grace was silent, her heart racing, as she knew that John must have come from the Duchess Margaret. Something was afoot, but what? She hoped her face would give nothing away to Tom. If she was to help John, she must pretend to be John’s innocent cousin who was merely frightened at seeing him manacled. No one, not even Tom, must know she had been to Malines.

Tom lifted her chin with his forefinger and thumb and looked into her eyes. “If Henry allows it, and because of your kinship with John, I shall not forbid you from seeing him,” he told her. “But as your husband—and, I admit, a jealous one—I cannot condone it. Can you understand the difference, sweetheart? The choice is yours to make.”

“Thank you, Tom,” Grace murmured and, reaching up on tiptoe, she kissed him on the cheek. She turned and went back into the hall without giving him an answer. Tom closed his eyes, leaned back against the wall and prayed his wayward wife would use the brain he knew she had.

Grace had gone only a few paces when Cecily pounced on her. “Where did you disappear to?” she whispered. “It seems John may have some intelligence about You Know Who and was sent here to spy for Aunt Margaret. Or so my lord husband thinks.”

“Has John been formally charged with anything?” Grace whispered back.

Cecily shook her head. “He has denied any wrongdoing to his captors, but ’tis sure Henry will torture him. Ah, poor Grace, I beg your pardon, ’twas unfeeling of me,” Cecily soothed when she saw Grace’s stricken face. Then she shrugged. “’Tis the way of things in a man’s world, sister. Men are always fighting, politicking or whoring. And when they don’t get what they want, a little torture thrown in might not hurt.” She chuckled at her own wit, but Grace was not amused.

“You have an odd sense of humor, Cis,” she retorted. Pulling Cec
ily behind a pillar, she whispered, “And rather than preaching, I would remember your part in what has brought John back to England.” Then her courage failed her, and her face crumpled. “What has happened, Cis? Where have they taken John?”

Cecily drew Grace’s arm through hers and, seeing curious eyes on them, said matter-of-factly, “Henry briefly accused John of plotting to overthrow him and ordered his confinement in the guardroom.” She clucked her tongue. “Certes, it all must be a misunderstanding, and John’s innocence will soon be proven. Come, sister, I believe the king and his mother are taking a turn about the garden. Shall we join them?”

Grace understood immediately and, nodding and smiling at a couple of courtiers she recognized, said brightly, “Aye, the fresh air will do us good.”

I
T WAS
M
ARGARET
Beaufort who persuaded her son to allow Grace to visit John later that day. “It could do no harm, Henry,” she had said, when Cecily had charmed Margaret into asking the king. “Grace is but a weak-willed girl and besides, she has been closeted with the Woodville woman behind abbey walls all these years. Certes, she is no threat to you or anyone.”

Henry had narrowed his eyes, Cecily related to Grace later, and hesitated for a moment before giving Cecily a curt nod. “Aye, she may go, but she may have only five minutes with him. Sir William,” he called, beckoning to his chamberlain, “pray arrange for the Lady Grace to speak to the prisoner at her convenience today.” Stanley had bowed and left the royal presence to find Grace.

Brimming with anticipation, Grace followed the fifty-year-old Stanley, younger brother of Lady Margaret’s husband, out of the residential area of the house, through a dark, dank passageway and into the small armory, where several soldiers jumped to attention recognizing the king’s chamberlain. Stanley scowled when he saw the dice and coins on the table, giving away the gambling the guards were engaged in. He swept them from the table and shouted: “You know his grace, the king, does not sanction games of chance, except at Yuletide. I have a good mind to have you all horsewhipped.” Grace almost choked. What a hypocrite, she thought; it was well known in the family that Henry relished the chance to gamble. But, anxious to get back to Henry’s side and be done with his paltry er
rand, Stanley fixed his eye on one young man and ordered him to take them to John’s temporary prison. Scurrying to pick up his pike and the large ring of keys, the guard bowed and opened a thick wooden door to a staircase, eyeing Grace curiously. Two floors up, they arrived at another door with a grille the size of a man’s face in it.

Stanley turned to Grace and was impressed to see the diminutive young woman standing proudly and without fear. “Remember, my lady, you have five minutes. Guard, make sure she has not one minute more, you understand? And wait here outside the door. Then escort the lady back to her quarters. I must return to the king.” He gave Grace a polite bow and started back down the staircase.

“Visitor,” the guard barked through the grille, inserting a key in the lock. “Five minutes be what’s allowed.” He pushed the door open far enough to allow Grace through and then slammed it shut behind her. He peered curiously into the room as he locked it again but ducked out of sight when John commanded him to go.

Grace stood rooted to the spot, horrified by John’s unkempt appearance. Were those streaks down his bloody face from tears? He hid his hands behind his back, his legs wobbling as he took a step towards her before falling to the uneven stone floor and groaning in pain. Grace was down beside him to catch him in her arms as he fell forward, cradling his head against her breast. Neither said a word, and Grace’s tears fell freely.

Finally she whispered, “They have tortured you, dear John, haven’t they?” John nodded and sat back on his heels, bringing his broken hands out from behind his back and shuddering in despair. Grace stared in horror at the crooked fingers, the thumbs that had been pulverized by the screw, and reached out to touch them. John winced and shook his head.

“’Tis more than I can bear, Grace.” He tried to smile, but the gash on his mouth had reopened, and it was painful. “Who did you have to charm to see me, little wren? Have you beguiled the king?”

But Grace was on her feet and calling to the guard: “Bring me a bowl of water and some linen this instant, sirrah. The prisoner is in need of bandages.”

The guard guffawed and retorted: “We don’t bandage prisoners, my lady. They deserve what they get.”

Grace stamped her foot and shouted, “You puny, clapper-clawed measle, you will do as I command.”

“Soft, Grace, he will not heed you. And where did you learn language like that? At the abbey? Come here and comfort me,” John cajoled. “Ah, but you are a sight for sore eyes, my sweet cousin.” He frowned. “How is it you are here at Collyweston? Has the queen dowager died?”

“Come, sit, and I will tell you.” Grace helped him onto the pallet, its straw at least fresh, and sat close to him, engaging his gray eyes and trying not to look at his hideous hands.

John’s eyes widened when Grace spoke of her marriage to Tom and he tried to smile. “That wily Tom!” he exclaimed. “I knew he was sweet on you, and when I challenged him one night over many cups of wine, he admitted it. He is a good man, Grace—take my word for it.”

Grace said nothing but nodded briefly; she did not want to spend their precious five minutes talking about Tom. “Why are you tortured, John? What do they accuse you of? I would help you if I could.”

In a whisper, John told her that Aunt Margaret had sent him to find Francis Lovell and help smooth the way with James of Scotland for a possible landing by her nephew, Richard of York. “I have no papers on me, and so when they captured me I had nothing to show or tell. But Henry is no fool, and he believes I have come to overthrow him.”

Grace gasped. “So, ’tis true, Dickon lives?”

John nodded. “He is now at Aunt Margaret’s residence at Binche, but when word gets back to her that I am taken, I am sure she will not attempt to send Richard to Scotland. She will have to assume Henry would get the information from me”—he looked down at his hands—“one way or another.”

Grace hardly dared ask, “And, did he?”

John’s eyes filled with tears. “My father would be so ashamed of me, Grace. When they took a hammer to my fingers—” He stopped on a sob.

“Hush, my dear. Do not blame yourself, you are only human, which is more than can be said for
them
,” she said, jerking her head towards the door. “Let me ask one more thing,” Grace insisted, hoping to divert his attention from his shame and onto more practical matters. “Have you told them all that you know?”

John nodded miserably. “My mission from our aunt was to find Lovell
and enlist his help in smoothing a landing in Scotland. I swear ’twas all. We don’t even know if Lovell is still there, or even alive. I was supposed to find out and give him—” He broke off in a fit of coughing. He could not endanger Grace any further than he already had.

“Then maybe there is hope for you,” Grace said, not noticing his evasion, “if I can beg Henry to pardon you. ’Tis common knowledge these days that Dickon is alive, so the only new information is that he might have looked to Scotland for help. Aye, your action was treasonous, but not so heinous that it couldn’t be pardoned. I shall have to enlist Bess’s help, for I have seen that Henry loves her—if he loves anyone,” she said.

John had trouble stemming the flow of tears as he listened to Grace’s suggestion; only his mother had loved him this openly, he was sure. His nose began to run, and he begged Grace to find the kerchief that he could not pull from its place inside his shirt and help him wipe his face. Gently removing the threadbare piece of cloth, she gave a little gasp when she recognized the kerchief she had embroidered for him all those years ago at Ormond’s Inn. She gave him a peck on the cheek.

“What was that for?” he asked, puzzled, as he lifted his face to be cleansed.

“I cannot believe you still have this old kerchief, ’tis all,” Grace replied, motioning to him to moisten a corner of the cloth with his tongue and rubbing some blood off his cheek. “I am flattered.”

John looked sheepish. “In truth, I had forgotten you gave it to me, cousin. I am such an ingrate.”

“Your time be up, my lady!” the coarse voice of the guard came through the door. “Bid your handsome sweetheart farewell. I have my orders.”

The grinding of the key in the lock made Grace’s heart sink. When would she ever see John again? Rumor had it that Sir Edward Pickering would be taking him to London, where the king would decide his fate, but she would not worry John with a mere rumor. She stood up and dropped a kiss on his dark head, the once glossy hair matted with dirt and blood.

“I will do what I can, John,” she said, and she heard him whisper his thanks as she left the room. It was all she could do not to run back and take him in her arms. Mustering all her dignity in front of the guard, she descended the stairs in an unhurried fashion, but as soon as she was out in the fresh air she ran as fast as she could to seek out Cecily and beg for
her help. In her frantic conversation with John, she had forgotten that Bess was far away in London in the throes of producing another royal child, but if Cecily could sway her husband, and Welles could persuade his half sister, then maybe, just maybe, Lady Margaret would persuade Henry to grant John a pardon. Certes, that is a lot of persuasion, Grace thought as she lifted her hand to knock on Cecily’s door.

“Grace?” Tom’s voice came from nowhere and made her jump. “I would not disturb Lady Welles now.” He winked. “She is not alone.”

Grace almost said “Thomas Kyme” but thought better of it. “The viscount is with her?” she said instead, and Tom nodded. She sighed; help for John would have to wait.

“It means I am free to be with you,” Tom said shyly. “I have permission to fish; would you like to go with me?”

Grace was grateful he did not immediately bombard her with questions about her visit to the guardhouse and agreed to walk with him down to one of the palace’s fish ponds. It seemed many others in the palace had chosen to rest that hot afternoon, and after finding Grace a straw hat and collecting his rod and basket, Tom led the way through magnificent terraced gardens, past a large dovecote and onto the path for the ponds. Jason bounded ahead of them, delighted by the unexpected outing.

“Do you remember our fishing expedition on the Derwent?” Tom asked, hoping to distract Grace from thoughts of John. He had spent many agonized minutes conjuring up images of the two together in the prison cell.

“How did you know I was thinking of the same thing?” she exclaimed in surprise, smiling up at him. “I well remember how cold the water was, and then how warm your mother was to me—a complete stranger.”

Tom grinned happily. This was the Grace he had loved since that day. Perhaps they could avoid talking about John at all, he hoped. He told Grace of his sister Cat’s marriage to the York wool merchant, which Tom’s father had aspired to, and how glad his mother had been when she had heard of her son’s betrothal to Grace.

“‘A gradely, bonny lass with no falsity’ is what she wrote of you, sweetheart. She, too, remembers that day fondly, although not as fondly as I,” he said, feeling brave. “’Twas the day I realized I was a man, for I knew that I loved you, Grace.”

Grace slipped her hand in Tom’s and again enjoyed the comfort of it.
“Aye, so you told me. But I was so young—a child, even. You fell in love with a child.”

Tom was so pleased with the turn in the conversation that he forgot to be careful. “But you were not such a child to think yourself in love with—” and he brought himself up short, cursing his slip of the tongue.

“With John,” Grace finished for him. “Aye, I loved John, but he had no time for me. I was but a child in his eyes.” She let go of his hand as they approached the pond and bent to pick a yellow flag iris. Several wild ducks flapped their wings, preparing to fly off the water as they heard the sound of voices, and a large frog leaped out of the stand of irises and fell with a plop into the water. Judging from the ripples all over the surface on the breathless summer day, the pond was teeming with fish, but Tom hardly noticed. He knew they could no longer avoid talking about John’s presence, only a stone’s throw from where they stood.