The King's Grace (19 page)

1487

I
have been in Lisbon for a year now, and I should be writing to Aunt Margaret, but instead I write secretly in the pages of the book Lady Brampton gave me when I left her service. It was she who taught me that writing one’s innermost thoughts releases the spirit, and I know now that she was right. And so Madame la Grande will have to wait!

On Sundays, after my new master, Admiral Pero Vaz da Cunha, has released me from my duties, I come to write in my favorite place upon the rampart of the Castelo de São Jorge built by the Moors above the River Tagus on the highest of the several hills in this colorful city. To my right I can look over the poorer parts of the city, the large market square and hospital in the valley to where the land climbs high again to the Carmelites Convent of Sta. Maria do Carmo, the church of Sta. Catarina and the big new houses on the Serro do Almirantes, which means Admiral’s Ridge. Appropriately, as they are both admirals, Sir Edward and my master live there! On days like today, the red-tiled roofs and white walls of the houses on the green hills stand out against the blue sky. In the winter, as I have seen many
times, the fog rolls in from the ocean and the city disappears and then the rains come—hard, driving rain, and one is glad of one’s cloak.

The guards at the Castelo gate down the hill know me now and call me the Lowlander. In the summer, King Jão moves the court to his beautiful palace at Sintra, perched on a hill to the west of the city, and so I can come and sit in relative solitude. It is the best view in the whole city! Up here I can watch the local fishing barcas with their angled masts skimming along the Alfama shore to my left and larger caravels and carracks arriving at and departing from the quays at Belém, west towards the sea. The people of this kingdom are proud of their seafaring heritage—from the lowest fishermen to the famed explorers—and live or die by it. How I long to go exploring with the great Diogo Cão! ’Tis said he is the first to sail into the mighty Rio Zaire along the west coast of Africa, claiming the land for Portugal. I have seen Bartolomeu Dias, with his big broken nose, and Vasco da Gama walking and talking together on the quays of Belém. They are like gods to me.

I still remember the creaking timbers, the sea spray in my face, the rhythmic shanties of the sailors as they toiled and the noise of the wind filling the sails of the ship that brought me here from the Low Countries when I was not yet thirteen and still such a boy. The voyage took two weeks, and I wish I could have stayed on board forever. I am proud to say I was one of the few who did not have the
mal de mer
, and Sir Edward took me into his confidence and told me many stories of the English court to pass the hours. I kept my promise to Aunt Margaret and pretended I did not know anything about England. But, of course, I know much, including the most fascinating tale about the two sons of King Edward who seemed to have vanished after they were put in the Tower of London. What puzzles me is that when King Richard was defeated and killed three years ago, why were the boys not released? I wonder if they are still alive. And then Sir Edward told me that the boys’ oldest sister is now Queen Elizabeth of England. How strange fate is!

Admiral da Cuhna was eager to have me because I can read and write—all thanks to Aunt Margaret—and speak French and English. With his one eye, fierce features and a temper to match, he is often called
Bisagudo
, which means Hatchet-face. I have to confess, he treats me well, although it is said he has beaten many of his mariners and is feared greatly on his ship. I think he was surprised that I had learned so many manners at Sir
Edward’s house, and how to be a page: keep your nails clean, do not turn your back on anyone, never speak first to your superiors and certainly do not spit at table.
Bien sûr
, I did not tell the admiral that it was second nature to me, as I had learned everything at the dowager duchess of Burgundy’s palace of Binche. I am proud that I can keep such a secret. God and all his saints bear witness that I would never betray my dearest aunt. It has often made me curious as to why she kept me so secret. The rumor in the village was that I was her bastard child! Although I do not remember my parents, I know my father was a boatman and that Werbecque is my name. Sire de Montigny told me I was a charity child and not to question the duchess’s actions, but to thank God for my blessings, which I did nightly. But only I know how deep my love was for Aunt Margaret, and hers for me. It grieves me to think perhaps she no longer thinks of me; perhaps she has another charity child now. Perhaps. But I like to think I am wrong, because even though her letters come less frequently, they are still affectionate.

Today, if Aunt Margaret is correct, I am fourteen and am starting to enjoy the attention of girls and know that, in this land of black-haired and black-eyed people, they consider me handsome because I have fair hair and blue eyes—even if one of them is not always true. I am not as tall as I would like, but I have a few hairs on my chin and my voice has pleasantly deepened. I hope it will not be long before I know love.

I suppose I must close my book now, find my cipher and write to Aunt Margaret. I will tell her about my duties with the admiral, how I am trying to learn Portuguese and about the burning of a heretic in the Ribeiro square. I witnessed hangings in Middelburg and Bruges, but this was my first execution by fire. I am ashamed to say the terrible screams of the prisoner and the sickly smell of burning human flesh made me vomit. I hurried away when several spectators began to laugh at me. The victim was a Jew who would not convert and had written heretical pamphlets against the teachings of the Church. It made me glad that Sir Edward had converted in England and could boast King Edward himself as his godfather. There are many mutterings about the Jews, who mostly live in the Alfama district. It is expected they will be forced to leave soon, but where will they go?

And now to my duty letter, but I don’t think I will tell Aunt Margaret about the girls!

SUMMER
1487

N
o one could remember a hotter June. It was only a few days until midsummer’s eve, with the hottest months of July and August yet to come and an interminable stretch of sweltering, dusty days to look forward to. The discussion behind Elizabeth’s closed door was all of the upcoming battle—that there would be a battle, no one had any doubt. Elizabeth’s mood swung between elation at a possible Yorkist victory, which would surely free her from her present incarceration, as she termed it, and despair that she would die of boredom inside the sandstone walls of the abbey residence. Even tales of Arthur and his knights could not take her mind off events that might be occurring north of London, and Katherine had been indignant when Grace had timidly suggested that reading about Master Chaucer’s more peaceful—and amusing—pilgrims might take the dowager’s mind off the present.

“Why must you always undermine me, Grace?” Lady Hastings hissed
while Elizabeth was distracted by an annoying fly in the room. “I know better than you what the queen likes to read. If you know what is good for you, pipe down.” And Grace had reddened and bitten her tongue.

That afternoon Grace begged to be allowed to walk the half mile to the river, where she could dabble her feet in the Thames’s cool, clear water and wrap a wet cloth around her head. Elizabeth was not wearing the heat well and had spent many hours in her darkened room, swatting flies and having Katherine or one of the other ladies fan her.

“Aye, you may go,” Elizabeth said, brightening. “There must be news from the north soon, and maybe you will hear something in the village before it reaches us here in the wilderness.”

Katherine frowned. “She has not finished her needlework, your grace. And was she not supposed to pick fresh herbs for our pillows, and—”

She got no further because Elizabeth raised herself onto her elbow and snapped: “Let the child go, Katherine. She is young and does not mind the heat. If you are insinuating that you, too, would like to walk to the river, then by all means accompany her, but enough of your whining. ’Tis tiresome and boils my blood, which is hot enough already,” she complained, sinking back onto her pillow. “I swear, ’tis hotter than Hades in here.”

Katherine shrank at the reprimand and assured Elizabeth she had no wish to leave her side.

The queen grunted. “Go, Grace, with my blessing—and keep your ears open.”

From behind her fan, Katherine glowered at Grace, who curtsied to Elizabeth, picked up her straw hat and veil and gratefully quit the chamber. Why does lady Katherine hate me so? she thought as she pushed her unruly curls up under the wide hat, glad of its shelter from the noonday sun. She could have told the older ladies that despite the heat, there was always a breeze along the river, but she had no wish to be accompanied by the Hastings harridan, as she had begun to call Lady Katherine. Is it because I am young or that Elizabeth seems to like me? she wondered. Nay, there is something else. It was a puzzle, and usually her mind was always ready to tackle one, but she had tackled this one so many times she decided she might never know and so skipped along between the fields of young corn and barley, occasionally bending to add another of her favorite heartsease to her nosegay until she saw the Thames below London Bridge
sparkling in the sunlight. Just seeing the water cooled her, and she was about to cross the square and into Tooley Street when she heard a horse’s hoofs thudding along the path behind her.

Jumping off to the side of the narrow road to let the rider pass, Grace shaded her eyes to look up at him and, gasping with surprise, stared right up at John’s familiar face. When he saw her he reined in his horse so sharply that it reared up on its hind legs, terrifying her. He swung his leg over the saddle and jumped down onto the path. His hair was much shorter, and the shadow on his chin told her it had not seen a blade for at least two days. His clothes were torn and dark with dirt and what looked like sweat, and his horse was flecked with foam.

“Praise God I have found you, Grace, thanks to a field hand who saw you pass,” he said, pulling her to him urgently enough to make her drop her flowers and lose her straw hat. Her dark curls tumbled down her back and he inhaled their scent of rosemary. All he wanted to do was lose himself in their silky softness and forget the past week’s dreadful events. “All is lost,” he murmured. “Our cause is finished.”

Grace tensed. Her intuition told her to stand perfectly still and not say a word for a full minute. If John needed her embrace, who was she to deny it? Then, gently, she pulled away.

“Come, John, let us go to the river and talk,” she cajoled. “Your horse must need water, by the looks of him, and”—she tried to lighten his mood—“you could do with a wash.”

Grasping the rein, John stroked the horse’s mane and encouraged him away from his grassy snack. “Aye,” he said with a small smile, “I expect I could.” He pointed to the horse’s left front leg. “And he is in need of a new shoe.” He rescued a couple of the abandoned heartsease and fixed them into Grace’s hair.

As they walked, John looked about him warily, staying in his horse’s shadow, but other than a few field hands weeding in the barley, they were alone. “Lead on, little wren,” he said.

She took him downstream from her usual spot, afraid he might be recognized by those from Southwark who still sought him. They walked away from London Bridge and came to a cut in the riverbank that was sheltered from prying eyes by high reeds. As the tide was ebbing, John let the horse slide down the bank to the water’s edge, where it could slake its thirst.
Neither had spoken since leaving the field: John was weighing how much he should tell Grace, and Grace knew he needed to think.

“You do not have to say anything, John. I understand ’tis hard. But I came here to cool my feet, so rest awhile if you want while I dip them in the river.” Tucking her overdress into her belt and removing her shoes and stockings, Grace padded onto the mud, grimacing with disgust as it oozed between her toes. But she let out a sigh of pleasure when the cold water ran over her feet. She stood ankle-deep, watching the boatmen on the river pulling on their oars. Smiling, she turned back to John to share her experience and her smile widened into an “oh!” of guilty pleasure. He was coming towards her, his bare torso glistening with sweat and his coarse breeches barely sitting upon his narrow hips.

“Sweet Jesu,” she muttered. Look away, my girl, or you will be confessing lust on the morrow. She hastily turned back to the boatmen and noisily splashed water on her face and neck. When he got to the water, John launched himself into the clear, inviting ripples, disappearing for a few seconds before surfacing and flipping his wet hair out of his eyes with a practiced toss of the head. Grace could not take her eyes off him, and when he stood up with his back to her to plunge in again, she gulped. A dark red welt as big as a man’s fist was visible on his left shoulder.

“John!” Grace cried, splashing her way towards him, her waterlogged skirts impeding her progress. “You are hurt. Let me see.”

He stood up and shook his head. “’Tis naught, Grace, in truth. Not when you have seen what I have seen.” He dismissed her concern and pulled up the breechclout that had all but disclosed the rest of his body to her. “God’s bones, but this feels good,” he said, and dived back into the river before she could come closer.

Grace made her way back to the bank and bravely picked up the horse’s rein and tugged until the animal followed her to where she could tie him to a beached log. “Good horsey,” she said, with confidence, but still she could not bring herself to pat the huge animal. She picked up John’s jacket and surcote to shake out the dust, and it was then she realized the dark patches were blood, not sweat. A hole in the padded jacket corresponded to his wound, and there was a black substance embedded around it. Tar, she supposed, to cauterize the wound.

John took his shirt from her outstretched hand and grinned sheepishly
when she showed him the bloodstain. “Aye, I was wounded—an arrow found me, I have to confess. It saved my life, but I run ahead of myself.” He put on the linen shirt, which clung to his wet body, and Grace had to look away again. “Sit, and I will try and remember all that I have seen and done.”

When he had ridden away the day of Cecily’s visit, he had taken the road north to Leicester, knowing—as his father had done two years previously—that the town in the middle of England was a good place from where to move an army easily in any direction.

“I was right. Henry was there, and so I joined his army as an archer,” John said, chuckling. “I gave my name as Broome and attached myself to a group of archers from London. I had only a little money, so this was a good way to have food and information and not be noticed. Clever, no?”

Grace nodded enthusiastically as she wound her wet scarf around her head and pushed her curls under it.

“I got there none too soon, for Henry marched us out the next day, to Nottingham. I heard the rebels were picking up men still loyal to my father through Lancashire and the dales of Yorkshire. I know well how secluded the route through Wensleydale is, from my time at Middleham. We heard the rebels were thousands strong and it gave me heart to hear how afraid Henry’s men were of them.” John paused to take a drink from his pigskin flask.

“How were you going to leave that army and join the other?” Grace asked. “Would your comrades not accuse you of deserting, or worse?”

“You are not simply a pretty face, are you, wren?” John said. “I, too, was wondering the same thing when we got word in Nottingham that the rebels were approaching the Fosse Way a few miles north of the city. Henry announced his intention of marching out of the city the following day, the fifteenth, to confront them. That night I feigned drunkenness at one of the many taverns near the castle—my father called it his castle of care, for it was there that he and Aunt Anne heard of their little Ned’s death,” he explained, and Grace saw pain in his face when he spoke of his father. “But I digress. With the few coins I had left, I filled my new comrades’ cups several times, watching as they became intoxicated and feigning the same. Three of them fell asleep at the table and the fourth was busy in the bodice of a whore…I crave your pardon,” John quickly apologized. “A tavern maid.”

Grace nodded. “Continue, John. I am not an innocent; I know what a whore is.”

“It being high summer, it was still light, and so I stumbled back to our camp, pretending to lurch from house to tree to hedge or whatever I could fall upon. When I got there, as I had hoped, there were a few sober guards who laughed and teased me about my condition and then ignored me when I slumped to the ground near one of the weapons carts.”

Grace was enthralled, imagining the scene and John’s mummery. “How clever, John,” she said. “They thought you were dead to the world.”

“You have the measure of it, sweet Grace. As soon as it was dark, others returned in a true drunken state and were soon snoring to wake the dead, so I took a sword and a few arrows for my bow and stole away. Praise be to Saint Christopher for the fine weather and a moon to see my way. Our intelligence was that Lincoln had moved rapidly south from Doncaster and was camped in Sherwood Forest. The scouts were certain Lincoln and Lovell would avoid engaging Henry at Nottingham—the city sits high on a rock, with the castle guarding its southwest corner, and so it seemed to me they were aiming for Fosse Way and a direct route to London. Having hunted in the area with Father, I knew where the road was, but I knew the army must cross the Trent to reach it. If I followed the Trent northwards, I was bound to come across the force as it looked for a good fording. ’Twas easy to follow the river, and with the dense forest to shield me above its banks, I moved through the night quite swiftly. If Jack was to cross the Trent, I knew he had to do it between Nottingham and Newark.”

“Why did you know that?” Grace asked.

John was impressed. Most females he knew would have wanted him to skip the strategic details. “Because the king was at Nottingham, and not only is there a large fortified castle at Newark that commands the river, Grace, but the bridges near it were washed away in the floods of Eighty-six. Therefore, if Jack wanted to reach Fosse Way, which the Romans conveniently built as a straight road south to Leicester and on to London, he had to cross between those two points. And I was right!” John got up and stretched, picking up a pebble and launching it into the river. He swung round to face Grace. “You should have seen my lord Lovell’s face after I walked into the camp and was taken to him. I looked worse than I do now, in truth. I only hoped he would recognize me. My clothes were in tatters
after scrambling along the river rocks and catching them on thorn bushes and tree branches all night.” His eyes shone as he recalled the reunion with his erstwhile master. “‘John of Gloucester, by the Rood,’ he cried and called to Cousin Jack. ‘My lord Lincoln, come and see who has sauntered into camp to join our cause.’ It was so good to see them both again, and they soon found these clothes, armor and a horse for me. Lovell is much changed, Grace—ah, you did not know him previously, but he is a gray-beard now.” He paused and his face fell.

“What is it, John?” Grace said, at once concerned.

“In truth, I know not if he lives or is dead. But that comes later—much later. Let me tell the tale as it happened.” He picked up a stick and began to draw lines in the mud. “We crossed the Trent at the Fiskerton ford here, which I guessed would be low in summertime. Martin Schwartz, the commander of the German force that Aunt Margaret sent, was an impressive man, Grace. And his soldiers would put the fear of God into any brave soul. I met with the Irish commanders, who paid me great reverence because of my father. In truth, we Yorks are dear to the Irish because of our grandfather’s fair dealings with them when he was governor all those years ago.”

Grace had no idea what he was talking about but she urged, “Go on.”

“But you must know that, far from attracting the hoped-for supporters from the north to our cause, precious few joined them on the march from Furness Fells. Thus, we only had nigh on eight thousand men on our side. And an odd assortment they were, too. The Germans, Flemish and Swiss were disciplined enough and skilled with crossbows, halberds and pikes, but we lacked enough English longbowmen, cavalry and artillery. Worse, many of the Irish had no armored protection, and primitive weapons, and, certes, many of the poor devils were half-naked. They were a sorry sight, indeed.” He shook his head. “But more serious than this—only now is it apparent to me—was our lack of military commanders to lead this hodgepodge army.”