The King's Grace (5 page)

Grace had not known her Uncle Richard very well; he was the king in magnificent robes who had moved about the palace at Westminster surrounded by a retinue of squires and knights and who had more on his mind than making a newly found bastard of his brother’s feel at home. She was a little frightened of this man who had sent two children to the Tower. Why did no one here at court ever speak of them? If Bess and Cecily could be here now, why couldn’t they? The mystery of the boys was a dark secret
in this family, and therefore, she admitted with guilty pleasure, fascinating. But once, the central character in this mystery had come into the solar, where she and her sisters were wont to spend a rainy day, and he had spoken most kindly to her, chucking her under the chin and saying she had a look of her father. She remembered slate gray eyes under a worried brow on which sat the simple gold coronet, and thought her uncle looked careworn. She had been awed by his presence, though his great power was sheathed in his kindness to her, and her knees had almost given way.

“Kyrie eleison.”
Her small but clear voice nudged the company out of their own memories of the thirty-two-year-old king, taken before his time. The shocking news had sparked in Grace a longing to draw on the only comfort she had known in her religious upbringing: prayer. There were some in the room who had never heard Grace say a word before this, and she felt everyone’s eyes on her. Less steadily, she persisted: “We should pray for King Richard’s departed soul.”

Bess looked at her with new respect and took up Grace’s prayer. “In the midst of life, we are in death.
Miserere nobis
. My sister is right,” she said, holding out her hands to Grace and Cecily. “We must go up to the chapel and pray that Richard Plantagenet, last son of Grandfather York, may rest in peace. Let us hope he is now in Heaven, walking with his father and his brothers.”

“Amen,” the others murmured, forming a procession behind her.

The castle retainers were left whispering among themselves. How long before Henry Tudor sent soldiers north to find these royal cubs? Would they, as the guardians of the York children, be treated as traitors? Certes, praying for the dead king’s soul was laudable, but the children should be also praying for their own well-being here on earth.

AUTUMN
1485

F
or three days following his retreat to his chambers, no one saw John except for a page who was assigned to take him food and drink. Sensing he had an ally in Grace, Tom Gower sought her advice about John on two or three occasions.

“He will not see me, in truth,” Tom said on the third day, finding her playing with a spaniel pup near the kennels. “I fear for his reason. ’Tis the way his father behaved when his queen died, Lady Bess told me. Perhaps he will speak to you, Lady Grace.”

Grace felt herself flush and was glad she did not have one of those complexions that turned bright red. “Me? Why do you think John would talk to me? ’Tis my belief he hardly knows I exist,” she answered, allowing the furry brown ball in her arms to cover her face with wet kisses and hide her trepidation. “Certes, Lady Bess knows him better, and is more important than I.” She looked at Tom’s honest, strong face from under her lashes and was touched by the concern in his bright blue eyes. He truly cares about
John, she thought, surprised. What little she had seen of men since her departure from the convent had led her to believe they were all brain or brawn and very little heart. Her mentor, Dame Elizabeth, was always disparaging them in front of her daughters, warning the girls to “beware the fickle, false intentions behind those charming smiles.”

“I speak the truth, Lady Grace,” Tom was saying. “John has told me he trusts you more than any of his cousins. In Jesu’s name, please help him. He is in danger, for if Henry comes here to claim his bride, it would not do for King Richard’s beloved son to be among the faces he sees. Knowing John, he would as lief run Henry through than kneel in homage to him. He has his father’s tendency to act rashly.” Tom’s serious expression softened into a sardonic smile at the thought. “What say you, my lady? Will you do it?”

Letting the puppy loose to find its siblings, Grace straightened up and brushed off a few silky hairs it had left on her blue kersey overdress. “If you think I must, Tom, then aye, I will go to him. But wait outside the door, in case he is angered by my intrusion.”

Tom grinned. “Certes, I will be there. You can count on me. Shall we go now?”

Grace nodded and followed him across the courtyard to the northeast tower. As fortune would have it, they encountered the page with a pitcher of ale before he could knock at John’s door. Tom took it from the boy and thrust it into Grace’s trembling fingers. Giving her a smile of encouragement, he tapped quietly on the solid oak. Without waiting for a response, he opened the door wide enough for Grace to slip through, then closed it behind her.

The room was shuttered against the late-afternoon sun, but even so it was stifling, the rushes too old to mask the odors. Grace peered through the gloom to find her bearings. A movement in the chair beside the empty fire grate told her where John was seated and she took a few tentative steps towards him, clutching the pewter jug to her thumping heart.

“John?” she whispered. “’Tis I, Grace. I have come to bring you ale.”

“Put it on the table.” John’s voice was flat, but Grace was happy to notice it contained no anger. Encouraged, she went to the table, poured a cup and carried it to him. He was dressed in a rumpled shirt and green breeches more suited to a peasant than a nobleman. He did not bother to look at her but put out his hand to take the drink.

“Nay, you shall not have it until you have the courtesy to look at me and say my name,” she said. Where did that come from? She panicked. Dear God, what madness made me say that?

John lifted his head and stared at her in disbelief. “What did you say?”

“I said I will give you the ale if you greet me properly,” she repeated, less bravely. She decided she would make a run for the door if he exploded, knowing Tom would be there to rescue her.

Whether because of the gentleness of a female voice or her unthreatening presence, or because John’s grief had simply worn itself out, he suddenly laughed. Not a cruel, harsh laugh of anguish, but a genuine laugh of pleasure. “Grace, my little wren, what brings you in here—and unchaper-oned?” he teased. Grace was so relieved that she almost dropped the cup.

She smiled radiantly. “Ah, John, I am so glad to hear you laugh. And I am happy you are not angry with me. All of us have been worried about you—but none more than Tom and I.” She gave him the cup and ran to open the door. “Tom! He is well again. Come and see for yourself.”

Tom strode into the darkened room and almost tripped over John’s faithful greyhound, which had not left its master’s side for three days. “’Tis right glad I see you hale again, John,” he said, grasping his friend’s arm in salute. Then he wrinkled his nose in disgust. “’Twould seem your dog has not seen the outdoors for some time. The chamber stinks to high Heaven.” He went to the window and propped open the heavy wooden shutter, letting in the light and air. “That’s better.” He snapped his fingers at the dog, which lifted its narrow head inquisitively. “I will take Bran and let him run with Jason. I shall return anon.” At the mention of his name, Bran rose nimbly to his feet, but sought John’s side. In the light, Grace could see that John’s chin was in need of a scrape.

“Stay a moment, Tom,” John said softly, fondling Bran’s ears. “I have to thank you. Grace tells me you have thought me lost these past three days. I, too, thought I was, but I needed to grieve alone and speak to God in my own way. I regret I gave concern, but I assure you, I am mended. Again,” he said more curtly, embarrassed at his outburst, “my thanks.”

Tom inclined his head in acknowledgment, whistled to Bran and left the room. He did not close the door, for he did not want Grace compromised without him standing guard.

“Pull up that stool, Grace. If you have nothing better to do, I have a
need to talk to someone about my family. I am not an orphan as you are, but certes, I feel like one.” John slapped a couple of fleas on his calf that had been disturbed by the activity in the room. “Damn fleas!” he said. “I swear I have been eaten alive these past two days.”

Grace smiled, sat down on the stool in front of him and gathered her skirts tightly around her ankles to avoid being similarly attacked. She turned her solemn brown eyes to his face and characteristically cocked her head. She waited, hardly daring to breathe, afraid to spoil the intimacy.

“You did not know my father, did you?” John began and saw her shake her head. “I have had a goodly time to think about him these past few days, in truth, and to try to understand him. He was a great man, but he was quiet and serious and did not allow many to come close to him. I believe it made some people distrust him, and I wonder if ’twas why he was betrayed in the end. He was very different from your father, who was loud, enjoyed the company of others and was not afraid to indulge in the pleasures of life. I suppose one knew where one stood with him, whereas my father…” He shook his head.

“There is nothing wrong with being quiet and serious, John. Look at me,” Grace countered. “I think I have a good heart, but I do not say very much.”

John laughed.
“Touché, ma belle,”
he replied. “Although you were unafraid to stand up for yourself a moment ago.” He thought for a moment, studying his fingers, and then chose to confide in her. “When my father was with my mother, he was a different person. The last time I saw them together was when I took Mother to his audience chamber at Leicester Castle, two days before the battle. As soon as he saw her all the worry on his face seemed to dissolve, and his smile made him look young again. I knew then I had been born of real love—both me and”—he bowed his head—“my poor sister, Katherine, God rest her soul.”

“Where does your mother live, John?” Grace said, crossing herself and hoping to divert his attention from the loss of his sibling.

“She lives in Suffolk, not far from the coast, in a house on Jack Howard’s estate—he is…was…the duke of Norfolk,” he explained, and Grace nodded. “’Twas exactly like her to disavow Jack Howard’s advice about traveling to Leicester at such a dangerous moment. But she was determined that Father should not hear of Katherine’s sudden death from anyone but her. She told me first, and I know my sorrow was but a drop in
the pail compared to his. He loved Katherine greatly—his first child, and his only daughter. I was standing outside the door and heard his suffering upon the news. ’Twas savage.” He gazed at a point in the fireplace as he remembered the scene. Afraid for his mother, he had quietly opened the door a crack and seen her comfort Richard; they had even shared a kiss.

“My mother is not of gentle stock,” he said, bringing his gaze back to Grace’s face. “And yet somehow she befriended Howard’s wife. One day Mother was an invited guest at Tendring Hall and met my father when he was hunting there with Sir John. Father loved hunting—especially with his falcon.” His voice fell back into a monotone.

“What is she like? And what is her name?” Grace asked, again hoping to steer the conversation to the living and away from the dead.

“Mother is stout-hearted!” he said, his face lightening. “And her name is Kate…Katherine Haute, of Snoll’s Hatch in Kent, she used to tell people. Her father, my grandfather Bywood, was a farmer, but I never knew him. ’Twas mother’s forthrightness that often got her into trouble, so they tell me, but it also made people love her. They say I am more like my father, but I have inherited Mother’s love of singing. She has the voice of an angel, and Father told me once that he fell in love with her the first time he heard her sing.”

Grace’s eyes shone. “Sing something to me, John. I would hear your gift.”

Unabashed, John began to sing in a strong tenor:

Suddenly his voice became choked with tears, and the next words were almost inaudible.

He buried his head in his hands, and tears fell from between his fingers. Grace sat stupefied, every nerve in her body itching to put her arms
around him and comfort him, but her reserve got the better of her. A few seconds later she was glad she had refrained from her urge, for he sat up straight, wiped his face on the sleeve of his shirt and grinned sheepishly.

“Forgive me for being addlepated, Grace. I should not have attempted that particular song, in truth. It always reminds me of the time Mother put me in Father’s care when I was six, and I had to say good-bye to everything I knew. She sang it to me the night before we parted. Foolish of me. Am I forgiven?”

“Dearest John,” Grace whispered. “There is nothing to forgive. My mother died when I was so young, I do not remember her. But there is still a pain in my heart for my loss. And I never knew my father.”

John looked at her curiously. “I have often wondered why Dame Grey sent for you, Grace. Do you know? After all, would she not want to forget her husband’s infidelities? You would be a constant reminder.”

“I heard from an attendant that ’twas a promise Dame Grey made to my father upon his deathbed. He knew where I was and had paid the abbey to keep me, so I was told. Dame Grey was keeping a promise, I believe, and I thank God daily for it—even if I do feel a misfit sometimes.”

“Aye, little wren, ’tis ironic how very lonely one can be even in a big family. And now my sister is gone, I am even more alone—” he broke off, sighing.

“But you have me,” Grace whispered.

“Aye, so I do. I am a lucky man,” he said, holding her chin in his fingers. Grace willed him to kiss her, but footsteps along the corridor caught their attention and John rose when Bess and Cecily ran in to greet him. He has forgotten me already, Grace thought miserably, rising from her stool.

“We have been so worried, John,” Bess admonished him, beaming at Grace. “Tom told us that Grace had the magic touch, and I am right glad to see you looking well again. We have news of Lord Lovell to tell. It seems he was able to hide among the returning Howard force into Suffolk and has sought sanctuary at Colchester, as have the Stafford brothers.”

“Praise be to the Virgin,” John said, crossing himself. “I am right glad to hear it. And what of our cousin Lincoln? Is he fled, taken”—he paused for a second before daring to ask—“dead, as was rumored?”

“Nay, he is alive. Henry keeps him close by, so the messenger says,” Bess replied.

“What is that vile smell?” Cecily suddenly interrupted, her face screwing up in disgust.

“Cecily!” exclaimed Bess. “Where are your manners? ’Tis not your place to find fault. You know Mother taught us that.”

Cecily pouted, used a corner of her veil to cover her nose and flounced off to the window. “Aye, but she isn’t here, so where is the harm?” she retorted.

Bess looked shocked but decided to ignore her. Grace was used to Bess’s dutiful demeanor and felt sorry for her. It must be hard to be the eldest of so many children, she decided, and have to be a model for the rest.

“I have not been as fastidious as I might these past three days, ’tis all, Cis,” John answered, grinning. “Forgive me. Come, let us get some fresh air.”

“Aye, before I swoon,” said Cecily, and eyeing a pile of Bran’s excrement in her path, she lifted her skirts well above the rushes and hurried from the room.

F
OR THREE WEEKS
those in the castle tried to settle into their usual routines. September’s sun warmed the reapers as they gathered in the sheaves of wheat, and in other fields ploughmen forged their straight furrows, making them ready to receive the hardy rye seed. Ax and adze felled trees and made logs for the winter fires that would burn from November to spring. Grace wondered how cold it would get here, and she shivered when she thought of how the wind would change direction and come down from the north to chill their bones.

But thoughts of winter were far away as she strolled around the inner bailey one afternoon and watched the turner with his pole lathe making mugs and bowls, the blacksmith raining a blow on a red-hot horseshoe, a laundrywoman carrying a basket of linens on her head and a wheelwright mending a cartwheel. The craftsmen knew her by now and called “Good morrow, Lady Grace” in their strong Yorkshire dialect, and she smiled, acknowledging their salutations. Hearing her title always gave her a start, and she thought she would never get used to her new status. She found she actually missed the work in the garden that used to take up much of her day at the abbey, but here she was not required to lift a finger—except to hem a gown or embroider a kerchief.