The King's Grace (41 page)

“They tortured him, Tom,” Grace whispered, pulling off one of the flower’s velvet petals and casting it into the water. “They broke his fingers with hammers. ’Twas pitiful to see.”

Tom could not forbear comforting her then. Laying down his rod, he put his arm about her shoulder and she turned into him, whimpering.

“I am sorry, Grace, truly I am,” he soothed. “I heard from my lord Welles that John was suspected of carrying information to Yorkist supporters, and that they must extract that information at all cost. Tudor is a hard man, I have observed. He cares not how his subjects like him, and indeed it seems he does all to make them hate him. It rankled many of us when he commanded all mastiffs in the kingdom to be killed. Those magnificent dogs were doomed to die simply because Henry had heard they were capable of killing lions. ‘The lion is the king of beasts,’ he declared, ‘and nothing should kill a king.’”

Tom paused, shaking his head. He took off Grace’s crumpled straw hat and coif and stroked her wild curls. “He is afraid for his throne and prays many times daily to Our Lady to keep it safe. And at any time of the day or night he asks advice of his astrologer. In contrast, he was kind to the Simnel boy after Stoke, and now the boy is one of his falconers. Odd, perhaps, but I believe he knew the boy was an imposter from the start—especially as he had young Warwick closely guarded in the Tower at the time—but now, this rumor is different. If the son of King Edward is indeed alive, then
he has a greater claim to the English crown than Henry does. So, you see, he had to make sure whatever John knows, he knows, too.”

Grace sniffed and used her sleeve to wipe her nose. She had listened intently to Tom’s little speech and was tempted to tell him what she knew of Dickon, but she had been sworn to secrecy and, besides, she could not entirely trust him yet.

“What do you think Henry will do with John?” she asked, sitting down on the mossy grass and stuffing the hat back on her head to shade her eyes from the sun. “He knows nothing, in truth.”

“You are not a green girl, Grace. Certes, he must know something, or else why did he risk returning?” He whistled at Jason, who had found a rotted bird carcass on the grass and had put his shoulder down to roll in the muck.

Grace lowered her eyes to her lap in case her face betrayed her. “He told what he knew, so he says, but ’twas nothing Henry did not know already.” Then she looked up at him with hope in her eyes. “Oh, Tom, do you think I could persuade Cecily to ask Lord Welles to beg Henry for a pardon? I have promised John I will do what I can,” she blurted out. “Or perhaps you could ask your lord? He seems to like you.”

Tom turned away in case, in turn, his face would betray him. “You ask much of me, Grace. I cannot stop you cajoling your sister, but I cannot compromise my position with Lord Welles. I know John is your kin, but he is not mine. We owe each other nothing.”

Grace leaped to her feet. “Not even friendship, loyalty or as comrades in arms? Where is your sense of chivalry and honor? Didn’t they teach you that at Sheriff Hutton?” she cried, running to him and raining blows on his back. He turned swiftly and took her by the wrists, his anguished face a mirror of hers.

“At this moment, my loyalty and honor are to you, as my wife—the person I cherish most in the world. As much as I regret John’s predicament, I cannot condone putting your own life at risk. Can you not understand? All I ask is that you give me your loyalty, if not your love, in return. You put both of us in jeopardy with your foolishness. ’Tis my duty to protect you, and I am telling you that by allying yourself with John, you risk the king’s anger. John is not a boy. He has made his own choices, and I am sorry it has gone badly for him. Comfort him if you must—I will not
deny you or him that—but do not meddle in the affairs of state, Grace, or you may end up like John. And it would kill me if I could not prevent it,” he finished hoarsely.

Grace stared at him openmouthed. She had not thought of Tom as eloquent until now. His words rang true and made sense, despite her first instinct to attribute them to jealousy. He truly loves me, she realized in a flash of understanding. John had appealed to her love for him, perhaps selfishly, but the poor, tortured man was on the brink of disaster, and who could blame him for grasping at a straw? Oh, God, please show me the right path, she begged.

Whether it was God or her own heart that answered she would never know, but she pulled Tom’s head to her and kissed him with an ardor she had not before experienced, even in her imagined encounters with John. And as if she were nothing but a dandelion clock, she felt herself lifted off her feet and carried into a hazelwood copse that hid their lovemaking from any prying eyes except for two nervous squirrels and a doe that sprang easily away.

Jason loped along behind but was sternly told to lie down at the edge of the woods, which he did, watching his master and mistress curiously from afar.

H
ENRY WASTED NO
time returning to London, and John was among the dozens of people on horseback, in carts and on foot who accompanied the king. Satisfied that Gloucester had been questioned enough to glean the most important piece of information—that a pretender to the throne did exist—Henry had granted Cecily’s plea to cease torturing the young man further. She had done this without encouragement from Grace, who thanked her from the bottom of her heart as they watched the cavalcade move down the long drive and onto the road to London from Cecily’s room above the courtyard.

“Certes, Grace, did you not think I was capable of asking for clemency for John on my own?” Cecily said, peeved. “He is my cousin, too, don’t forget. And I have known him a lot longer than you have. I am only too sorry Henry did not pardon him altogether. It seems he wants to discuss what to do with John with his advisers in London. He dare not bring John to trial here—the commoners would not stand for it.” Seeing Grace raise an
inquiring eyebrow, she explained: “With so little evidence, Henry would look foolish, and to bring charges against John anywhere within a hundred miles of Fotheringhay would court rebellion. Our family is revered hereabouts, and Fotheringhay was Uncle Richard’s birthplace. The people consider John of Gloucester one of their own.”

“Where will Henry keep John in London?” Grace asked.

Cecily shrugged. “I know not. But it will probably not be at the Tower, where Henry would think he and Warwick might concoct a plot to overthrow him. Poor Henry; he is afraid of his own shadow. He spent an hour on his knees in the chapel yesterday praying to the Virgin for another son to secure his throne. Jack complained of pain in his back after being so long on his knees.” She patted Grace’s hand. “Hard as it may be, sister, you must put John out of your mind. At this time, he is dangerous to know, and more dangerous to support. If I did not have the good will of Lady Margaret now, I would not have been able to approach the king on John’s behalf as I did. You, on the other hand, have no influence with anyone at court—well, except me”—she smiled—“and a plea from you would have put both you and Tom at risk.”

“You sound like Tom,” Grace said, chagrined. “I wish we were not going to Hellowe and could follow Henry to London. Then I might be able to see John again, if I knew where they were taking him.” She suddenly saw John hunched in the back of one of the carts, his ankles manacled and a rope around his arms and chest. “Dear God,” she murmured, her heart going out to him. “There he is, Cis!” she cried and waved. “John!” she called, but he did not hear her and stared steadfastly at the back of a guard on the end of the cart, who was swinging his legs in rhythm with the vehicle’s motion.

“Ah, Grace, why not turn your favor on Tom,” Cecily said kindly, pulling her away from the window. “John is lost to you—to all of us now. I beg of you, sweeting, don’t cry. You will be happy, you will see.”

But Grace could not see; her tears were blinding her.

JULY
1491

P
erkin walked slowly down the path in the sunken palace garden, its rose and knot beds sheltered from the wind and weather by the massive stone city wall. He inhaled the heavy scent of the hundreds of blooms that were carefully tended by the dowager duchess’s gardeners. Seated by a fountain, the ever-present book upturned on her lap, was the duchess herself, her head tilted back and her mouth slightly open as she dozed. She did not hear him approach and the quiet moment gave him time to study her for the first time in six years.

At forty-five and after many troubled years of unrest in Burgundy, the premature loss of her husband and his heir—her stepdaughter, Mary—Margaret of York was showing her age. She had put on weight in a matronly way, and Perkin could see that the once-golden hair pushed back under her fashionable gabled headdress was now completely gray. But sensing his presence, her head jerked forward, her eyes flew open and a joyful smile curved her mouth.

“Let me look at you, Pierrequin,” she enthused, speaking English as she always had with him, and invited him to sit by her. After a graceful bow over her outstretched hand, he kissed her on both cheeks and sat down. “You are a handsome boy, in truth. But then, you always were,” she said, and put her hand up to stroke his hair. The familiar movement caused Perkin to start, color rushing to his cheeks.

“Aunt Margaret,” he whispered hoarsely. “Never I think to see you again.”

“Foolish boy,” she replied, shutting her book and laying it aside. “I told you that one day I might ask something of you. At the time, I was only half serious—I had no reason to say it, except that selfishly it bound me to you. But now…”

“Aye! Now?” he inquired eagerly. “I have done what you asked me of with Master Taylor. I sailed the seas and went in Brittany, France and Ireland. I told you that Ireland—and especially Cork—is safe
de commencer
the plan. But what
is
the plan,
madame
?
Qu’est ce que vous voulez plus de moi?
” he asked, reverting to his more comfortable French, the language of his native Tournai.

Margaret frowned. “English, Perkin, please. I can see you have forgotten much, and you must practice again,” she chided him. Then she patted his hand. “You want to know what more I want of you, and of course you have a perfect right. The information you have given me since John Taylor spoke to you is of import, but not as important as what I shall ask of you now.” She looked about them and noted the distance of the nearest gardener before beginning.

“I have kept a secret from you all these years, my dear. When you were a boy, it would have served you nothing to have known, but now it is of the utmost significance.”

Perkin trembled with excitement. “I remember a long time ago you called me your secret boy, but I think you were ashamed to show me because I am a poor boy—Pierrequin Werbecque—from Tournai. Sire de Montigny, my tutor, knew this, but he was kind always and let me play with the gardener’s boy. Then I was Jehan. Jehan LeSage—John the Good.”

Margaret sighed. “Aye, it was, but that was the name I gave you. I wanted you to forget your mother and father and think of only me as your family. Piers, or Pierre, was your name, and Pierrequin means ‘little Pierre.’”

“I do not remember anyone but you,
ma tante
,” he cried. “Who was my family?”

“Your mother married a boatman by the name of Jehan Werbecque, who is now a comptroller in the city of Tournai, so I am told. Not long after you came to me, she died. Your stepmother’s name is Nicaise or sometimes she is called Katherine de Farou, but you do not know her, nor will you.” Margaret played with the huge ruby ring on her finger—her betrothal ring, Perkin remembered. “But—and here is the secret”—she paused, weighing her words and wondering if she could really involve her darling boy in her outrageous plan—“you were born in London, where your mother, whose name was Frieda, lived with your grandparents—Flemish weavers. Your father was not Jehan Werbecque at all, but my brother George, duke of Clarence and brother of King Edward of England.” The look of disbelief on Perkin’s face told her that what she was saying had been understood, and she plunged on. “Aye, you are a bastard of the house of York,” she told him, “and when George, who was my favorite brother, was executed for treason, King Edward begged me to care for you. In truth, Edward was the one who condemned his own brother to death, and his guilt and remorse were great.” She looked at Perkin with tenderness. “The other reason was that I was never able to have children of my own, God help me, and Edward knew I would care for you as only an aunt—and one who longed for children—could. Certes, I am your real aunt, but I thought it would be less complicated—and, I admit, selfish—if I kept you to myself. Perhaps ’twas wrong, but at the time it seemed right.”

She took a deep breath and watched his expression. Dear God, he looks like one of us, she thought. Even more so now that he is older. He did not have the stature of his father, but his looks were clearly of the York line—the long, soft blond hair was like George’s, the petulant, full lower lip like Edward’s and the strong jaw reminding Margaret of Richard. He even had the odd crease above the brow line that Edward always proudly announced he had inherited, although from whom, Margaret could not remember. There was an odd dullness to Perkin’s left eye, but perhaps he had looked too long at the sun on board ship or been in a fight and damaged it, and his skin was almost too soft for a man’s beard. Otherwise, he was a beautiful young man in her eyes, and she glowed with pride.

“Who else knows this secret?” Perkin asked, interrupting her long avising of him.

Margaret shook her head. “No one has ever known about you, except for Edward, George, your mother and me—and, certes, your grandparents at the time of your birth. I am the only one left alive, you see.”

Perkin was dumbfounded. A royal bastard? It could not be true, he thought. For all these years I have thought I was a poor boatman’s son and that the duchess took me in as a charity case. He had not questioned her act of kindness, but praised God for his good fortune.

“Your stepfather, Werbecque,” Margaret went on, “agreed to take in your mother and you because your grandparents gave him money, but he was not a good father to you. You told me once that he beat you.”

“I do not remember him,” Perkin said, rising and beginning to pace. “I do not remember anything before here.”

“My darling boy,” Margaret said, watching him anxiously and thinking even his movements had a natural grace to them, as if he had known all along he was no ordinary man. “I see you are in shock. Perhaps we should wait a while before I tell you why I brought you back.”

Perkin swung back to her, his brows snapping together. “Nay, aunt, I want to hear your plan now. I have waited too long.” Realizing to whom he spoke, he changed his tone: “Whatever it is, I cannot say no. I promised you, remember?” And he crossed his heart, just as he had done almost exactly six years ago.

Margaret rose stiffly from the bench and replaced her book in its velvet pouch, attached to her belt. Then she took Perkin’s arm and led him through the gardens to a spot where they could look out over the city wall to the green fields undulating in front of them.

“Do you remember the two sons of my brother Edward who disappeared from the Tower of London?” she began.

Perkin nodded. “I heard in Lisbon that King Richard suffocated them in order to be king.”

Margaret frowned. “You have the story wrong, nephew. My brother Richard was offered the crown by parliament months before the two boys disappeared. He had no reason to kill them. In truth, we do not know what happened to them. There were no bodies, no evidence, nothing. My sister-in-law, the boys’ mother, believed they were dead, but many believed Rich
ard sent them away for safekeeping somewhere. But he died at Bosworth Field, so no one knows where they are.”

Perkin was intrigued. “And now that Henry Tudor wears the crown, what do it matter?”

Margaret smiled. “
Does
it matter, Perkin, not
do
. Certes, it does matter—to me and to all who support my family. If we could bring forth one of those boys, then Henry’s claim to the crown would be very much in danger, don’t you see?”

“Aye, I see how Henry must worry. But what can you do from here? What can I do?”

Margaret clucked her tongue impatiently. “Can you not guess, boilbrain? You will be one of those boys and frighten Henry off the throne.”

Perkin stared at her, stunned. “M-me?” he stammered. “You…you want
me
to pretend I am who I am not?” Then he suddenly remembered the rumors. “But just as Master Waters told me, the talk in the taverns and markets is that Richard, duke of York, is alive—and you know where he is. Why do you not use the real man? I do not understand.”

Margaret chuckled. “They are only whispers, Perkin, started by me and fueled by people fascinated by the mystery of the missing boys. Now that I have people believing it, we are ready to show him to them. There is no Richard, duke of York—only you.” She waited for this news to sink in and watched the myriad expressions flit over his face.

Finally, he spoke. “You would have me lie?” Perkin asked miserably. “You would have me pretend to be someone else?”

“Dearest boy, you have been someone you are not for all of your life. It will not be difficult, I promise you.” She eyed him surreptitiously as he stared at the cows in the meadow and let the idea percolate. “You are every inch a Plantagenet, and even though you are George’s son, no one will ever doubt you are not Edward’s—if you have the tools to carry off the masquerade. Tools that I shall give you”—she paused for effect—“as well as Archduke Maximilian, who finally supports me in this.”

She shook his arm gently as he stared off into the middle distance, his mind in a whirl and every fiber of his being screaming “No!” Her tone turned seductive: “I swear to you, my dearest, that in five years time you will be king of England.”

Perkin slowly turned his horrified eyes to her expectant face. “And if I fail?” he asked in a whisper.

Margaret scoffed. “How can you fail? I warrant even your sisters would believe you to be their brother the minute they saw you. Henry cannot deny the possibility of Richard’s existence because he has never proved or declared publicly that the two princes are dead. This means he believes deep down that they could be alive, and that is why he is afraid.”

Grasping at a straw, Perkin asked, “Why do you choose the younger son and not Edward? What will they believe has happened to him?”

Margaret gave him an appraising look. “Well done, nephew. An astute question. ’Tis well known Ned was sickly that summer of Eighty-three. There was a doctor who tended both boys who believed Ned had a wasting disease of the face. ’Tis possible he died from that—and that is the story you will tell, as well as how you were taken from the Tower and into hiding, which we shall practice. Besides, you and Richard are the same age—Ned was two years older.” She picked up his limp hand and carried it to her cheek. “With Burgundy on your side, the friends you say we have in Ireland and Lord Lovell paving the way for support in Scotland, you will have the backing of many leaders. There are friends at the French court—rebel Englishmen who hate Henry—who are ready to help a Yorkist cause, and the French king would like nothing more than to anger Henry. And I shall be your chief supporter and champion—with Maximilian’s help. The time is right, Pierrequin, and all these things will help us to succeed. I will guide you and teach you everything you need to know. As soon as you are ready, you will go to England with an army and claim the throne back for the house of York.” She leaned into him and whispered. “I say to you again, you
will
be king of England!”

She waited patiently while he gathered his thoughts, but when he turned his anguished face to her, her heart sank.

“I cannot do this, your grace,” he said. “I am a simple man, and my mask will be cast aside as quickly as…as an ax will cut off my head!” He clutched his throat and choked down a sob. “All I want is to go back to my ship and sail away forever.”

Margaret felt tears roll down her cheeks, and she could not say if she shed them in sympathy for his terror or in frustration that he might thwart her and Maximilian’s plan.

“Ah, Jehan,” she used his old name tenderly. “I fear you have broken my heart.” And she turned away and descended the few steps to the garden path, dabbing her eyes with her kerchief. She could not blame the young man for refusing the task; it was a mammoth—and dangerous—one. But seeing him had made it seem all the more possible: he looked the part, and with some coaching, no one would deny he was the son of Edward of England.

As she walked slowly back to her palace, leaving Perkin to ponder her words, she remembered the scene in Seventy-eight when William Hastings had unexpectedly come to her in this garden and told her of Edward’s request to take George’s bastard son under her wing. She smiled. She knew she could persuade the young man; it was just a matter of time.

And of keeping a promise.