The King's Grace (72 page)

“Oh, Tom,” she whispered as he lifted her off the uncomfortable pillion seat for the final time and carried her like a bride over the threshold and into the warm hall. “’Tis so good to be home.”

“Mother, take care of Grace, I beg of you,” he said after he had embraced his doting parent. “I must fetch Susannah.”

Alice took Grace in her arms, tears in her eyes. “It has been so long, hinny,” she said, and Grace noticed that her hair was now completely white. “We have missed you all.”

Enid was next to dismount, and Edgar took the precious bundle from her and carried the baby to Grace’s waiting arms.

“Thank you, Edgar,” she said, smiling at him. “You are the best servant in the world.”

Edgar grinned from ear to ear and bowed his way from the door. Slipping on the icy steps and with arms flailing, he tottered backwards into the snow.

Susannah and Bella stood on the steps and giggled. “Thilly Edgar,” Bella said, but without a moment’s hesitation the two girls held hands, skipped down the steps and tried to help him up, leaving the grown-ups laughing.

Alice bustled them all into the hall, pulling off Grace’s wet cloak and clucking in her usual fashion about dry clothes and hot baths. Baby Alice was beginning to squirm, and Grace knew loud screams of hunger would soon follow, so she nudged her mother-in-law towards the inviting fire.

“Tarry a moment, Mother,” Grace said, laughing. “I want you to meet your namesake.” She eased the damp coverlet from around the baby’s wriggling body, still tightly wrapped in swaddling bands. “But be warned, she is as busy as you are,” she said and held her out to the older woman. Alice
Gower, meet Alice Gower,” she murmured softly as Tom came to her side and put his arm around her.

Baby Alice chose that moment to let forth a torrent of frustrated babbling, and the older Alice began to laugh, taking the squirming child into her strong arms.

“Aye, Alice meet Alice,” Tom repeated, grinning. “Did I not say she is just like you?”

Essex and Burgundy

1500

E
arly in the year following Perkin’s death, Cecily moved from Hellowe to her dower property near Theydon in Essex, and she found room for Grace, Tom and their children at the rambling Park Hall, putting Tom in charge of the estates. Grace was not surprised when Thomas Kyme rode back into Cecily’s life that spring. The betrothal was a merry affair, and it was not long afterwards that Cecily kept her word to Grace.

“I have not forgotten my promise,” Cecily said as they strolled arm in arm through the woods at the back of the house. They inhaled the heady scent of bluebells, which were blooming so profusely after a wet April the two women had trouble not trampling on the plants. Grace bent to pick one and presented it to Cecily. Grace knew exactly what promise her sister was alluding to and her heart leapt, though she waited for the confirmation. “When the sheep-shearing is done, I can let Tom take you to see Aunt Margaret. Is that soon enough? You have been very patient, in truth,” Cecily said, accepting the bluebell and waving it front of her nose. “Heavenly,”
she exclaimed. “There is nowhere else on earth so beautiful as England in May, don’t you think?”

“Nowhere,” Grace agreed, beaming. “I hoped you had not forgotten, Cis. ’Tis true, my guilt was growing, although it is not a journey I look forward to making. Certes, Aunt Margaret will have had her own reports of Perkin’s death, but the last thing he begged me to do was tell her that he had died bravely and, other than his one slip of the tongue, that her name had never passed his lips.”

“’Tis still a mystery to me why he did not denounce her in his public confession. Certes, an idiot could deduce it was she who must have pushed him to pose as Dickon. Then, when she apologized to Henry for deceiving him, why did Perkin not cry foul?” Cecily shook her head and then abruptly stopped, pointing silently at a fallow deer grazing on a patch of grass, its dappled brown coat well camouflaged against the undergrowth. Too late, the animal heard the approaching women and lifted its head for a second’s perusal of danger before leaping away through the brush.

“Beautiful,” Grace murmured in awe, and then answered her sister’s question with a nonchalant: “I know not.” Had Margaret elicited an oath from him? Had he known more than he admitted? These were questions she had pondered all these months, and she wondered if she had the courage to ask her aunt. Now, it seemed, she would get the chance. She felt a shiver of anticipation and drew her short mantle closer around her shoulders. Perhaps the real story of Margaret’s White Rose would finally be revealed.

“Sweet Jesu on His cross! That old crone of a soothsayer in Winchester spoke the truth. Remember what she foretold?” Cecily said, stopping abruptly and gripping Grace’s arm, her eyes wide with excitement. “She said you would be bound up with two young men, both of whom would be executed. Certes, ’twas John and Perkin. We talked about her when John was caught, but have you thought of the prophecy since?”

Grace’s hand covered her mouth. “Nay,” she whispered in to it. “What can it mean?”

Seeing her sister’s fear, Cecily joked: “It means the old woman earned her groat that day, ’tis all. If it did not haunt you, then ’tis best forgotten.” She grunted. “’Tis as well Henry did not hear of it or he would be employing her at the palace, replacing Will Parron.” She continued walking, tak
ing Grace’s arm firmly and changing the subject. “What would you say if I told you I am with child?”

M
EMORIES OF HER
first visit to Burgundy surged through Grace’s head as the small merchant ship was pulled close to the wharf at Bruges by the men on shore, who wrapped the huge bow and stern lines around the sturdy wooden piles and hauled in the vessel while chanting rhythmically. She wondered what had become of the Gerards family, and then she remembered her companion, Judith, Master Caxton’s kin. She had heard the printer’s business was thriving even after his death, and this news would be sure to please Aunt Margaret.

She watched the great crane that was the city’s pride and joy lower its hook into the hold of the ship at the next wharf and emerge toting a netful of barrels, which were swung over the side and lowered carefully to the waiting dockhands. Tom had been gone for an hour, hiring horses for the journey, and Edgar waited for him by Grace’s small traveling chest near the gangplank. One of Cecily’s tiring women, who had been sent along so Enid could stay behind with the children, stood a few yards away from Grace. The poor young woman, who had never been more than a few miles from Theydon Bois, was still gray from the sea voyage and clutching in fear the small purse that was attached to her belt.

Grace was so engrossed in the wharfside activity next door, she did not see Tom sprint up the gangway until he put his arm around her and made her jump. “A penny for your thoughts, sweetheart,” he said, chuckling. “Are you practicing your speech for the duchess? Come, ’tis time to go ashore. We have many miles to travel before we see her, in truth, so you will have ample opportunity to practice.”

Soon the small English party was trotting through the Burg, where the city hall abutted the Church of the Holy Blood, then along a canal towards the Ghentpoort, the southern gate of the city. It would take them three days to reach Binche, one of Margaret’s dower towns in Hainault, where the duchess would be awaiting them. It was drizzling, and Grace pulled up the hood of her cloak and leaned into Tom’s back upon the sturdy palfrey he had chosen for them. With little Edith riding pillion, Edgar was astride a strong rouncy, leading a packhorse laden with the traveling gear. The loud Belfort bells rang a carillon as they crossed the last canal bridge and
passed under the twin-towered gate, and the women stopped their ears with their fingers against the din.

The congestion eased once they turned onto the road south, and Tom led them on a route suggested by the duchess in her letter of invitation to Grace. After two nights upon the road, they approached the small city of Binche from Mons to its west, so called for the hill that rose high above the flat landscape, upon which sat a church and an impregnable castle. Tom rose up in his stirrups and pointed enthusiastically towards the walled city in the far distance, also on a hill. Even higher than the ten-foot-thick wall at the southern end of the city rose the turrets of a gleaming white palace and the spire of the Abbaye de Bonne Esperance. All around the walls were gently rolling fields dotted with cows, and a small river bordered one side. It seemed a peaceful place, and Grace could understand why her aunt would spend most of her days here now. They entered under the Mons road gateway and joined farmers and other travelers wending their way to the marketplace in front of the town hall. Tom was pointed to a lane that led to the palace gate, close to St. Ursmer’s church.

Tom escorted Grace to the staircase outside the small but attractive palace, leaving Edgar to tend to the horses. The black and white tiled floor of the entry hall was spread with sweet-smelling rushes and two guards stood to attention, their halberds polished and their livery immaculate. Margaret’s new chamberlain, with thick gray hair and a brush of a mustache, came hurrying forward to greet the visitors. When he learned their names he bowed solemnly to Grace and then snapped his fingers at a page and instructed him to show Edgar and Edith the way to Lady Grace’s lodgings with the baggage. With a ducklike gait on his short, stubby legs, the steward led the way through several rooms painted in varying patterns of green, gold and scarlet, each with long windows showing off the rose garden below. Grace noticed how often the marguerite and white rose were repeated in the patterns and smiled. There was no doubt who lived here, she thought. A new detached building bordered one side of the garden, and it appeared the chamberlain was leading them to it.

“Her grace is expecting you,
madame
,” he said in French. “She has been unwell of late, so she is often lying in her chamber.
Monsieur
may wait in the library.”

Grace had a hard time imagining her aunt anything but stately, hale
and lavishly dressed, so she was shocked upon entering Margaret’s solar to see her reclined upon a settle next to the window, still in her chemise and satin chamber robe. Her gray hair was no longer shaved high on her forehead but had started to sprout back, giving her the appearance of an unkempt wolfhound. The rest of it was braided under a winged cap, in the Dutch fashion. Certes, Grace realized, sinking into a deep reverence, it has been almost ten years since I saw her last and she must be…Grace frowned, trying to remember.

“Fifty-six, niece,” Margaret said in English, startling Grace into lifting her head before being given permission. “I am fifty-six, but I swear I feel ninety-five most days. Come, give your old aunt a kiss.” Blushing for being second-guessed, Grace rose, amusing Margaret even more. “I do not claim to have the gift of sight, but I know shocked surprise when I see it.” She laughed. “I swear, raising my grandchildren—and now Maximilian has me caring for his grandchildren when there is no one else—has put these lines on my face and these gray hairs on my head. All those years when I was governing Burgundy in Charles’s absence, the headaches we had seem so much simpler when compared to raising children at my advanced age.” She patted the settle and shifted her legs off the cushions and onto the floor.

Grace first kissed her aunt’s hand and then her cheek before sitting down gingerly at the other end of the bench. She had not said a word so far, her feelings for the duchess still conflicted. “Aye, I can understand, your grace,” she finally said. “I now have three little girls and they have given me one or two gray hairs, in truth.”

“Three daughters?” Margaret sighed. “How fortunate you are.” She turned to look over her shoulder. “Henriette,” she addressed her lady in waiting in French, “you remember my niece, Lady Grace? Aye, I see that you do. Will you please pour wine for us?”

Without a word, Henriette de la Baume abandoned her needlework and went to the table to comply. She, too, had aged, Grace saw, but she was still a beautiful woman. The two murmured a greeting as Grace reached for a cup.

“Let us drink to the new century, and you can tell me news of my family in England,” the duchess said. “I would rather not talk about the reason for your visit today, Grace. Instead, if you can wait until this infernal rain
stops, I would dearly love to show you my garden. There is a spot where I am happiest and can hear the worst of news. I am expecting you to stay for a few days at least, so we have all the time in the world.” She sounded calm, but her jaw was clenched and her fingers played nervously with her ever-present belt ornament, causing Grace to wonder if it was also worn in bed. Grace knew the older woman was putting off hearing about the untimely demise of her dearest White Rose, and she understood the reluctance—even though, by the end, Grace had placed the blame for Perkin’s tragic life and death squarely on these bony old shoulders.

“As you wish, aunt,” came her dutiful reply. “I do not wish to burden you.”

Margaret waved her hand dismissively. “You do not burden me, my dear. I shall enjoy your company—and that of your husband. Now tell me about my nieces—I heard Cecily lost her husband and, more important, her daughters. How sad.”

“Not so sad, Aunt Margaret,” Grace replied, unbending a little, and proceeded to update the duchess on the happy developments in Essex.

U
PON THE AFTERNOON
of the next day, the sun reappeared and sparkled on the raindrops still clinging to the myriad roses that filled the garden. “I am first and foremost an Englishwoman,” Margaret declared, steadying herself on Grace’s arm. “There are roses in all my gardens.”

Grace was glad when they reached the duchess’s favorite seat, as Margaret’s height made it awkward for Grace to be a support.

“You must be the smallest member of my family,” Margaret had remarked as they began down the path. “Are you sure you are Edward’s child? Nay, do not answer such an impertinent question. I am showing exceedingly bad manners, but you are so charming and easy to be with that I feel I have known you for a long time and can talk frankly with you.”

Grace noted that Henriette and the other two attendants who had accompanied them into the garden were walking together in the opposite direction, knowing their mistress needed to speak to Grace privately. Tom had been happy to accompany the falconer and another huntsman who were hawking for hares and small game that day. There was nothing to disturb aunt and niece that afternoon, except the incessant cawing of two very noisy crows.

“Flap off!” Margaret cried at them, launching a pebble in their general direction. “Foolish, I know, but I hate those birds. I think they bring bad luck.”

“Nay, ’tis magpies that bring bad luck, Aunt Margaret—one at least,” Grace answered, smoothing her brown and yellow kirtle over her knees. “But there was a crow at Tyburn the day that Perkin died,” she whispered. “Do you want to hear of it now, aunt?”

Margaret nodded sadly. “Tell me everything. Leave nothing out, my child. I must pay penance for helping him to his ghastly death; the details will provide me with the pain I need to feel to purge my guilty soul.”

And so Grace recounted the final scene in Perkin’s filthy prison, including the all-important message that made Margaret cry out in anguish. Grace hurried on to describe his journey from the Tower to Tyburn and his last confession from the scaffold.

“And he never mentioned my name?” Margaret whispered, holding her breath. “Not even once? Not even when he might have cursed me from the scaffold?”

Grace shook her head. “Only once—under torture—and he was consumed by guilt.” She wanted to ask what the message meant but knew she had no right to intrude.

“Did all believe he was a boy from Tournai and not Richard, duke of York? Did he tell you who he really was?” Margaret reached out and grasped Grace’s hand, and Grace was surprised by the strength in it.

“In the end I, too, knew he was Perkin Warbeck, aunt, even though I wanted with all my heart for him to be my half brother. But it seemed there were too many clues that he was not.” She felt Margaret loose her wrist. “On the scaffold his final words were ‘I am heartily sorry for the deception. I am not who I said I was.’ He was so calm, so dignified, that the crowd stopped jeering, and I saw more than one woman weep for him.”