The King's Grace (45 page)

Cecily spoke steadily, as if she were addressing a child. “It seems the captain of the guard gave orders to leave John’s body intact—except for his head. You knew the noose had killed him instantly, did you not?” Grace shook her head, but her spirits lifted. “Aye, it did,” Cecily continued. “Edgar tells me he saw money given to the hangman just before John’s turn—”

“I saw it, too,” Grace cried. “But I thought it was the hangman’s fee.”

“Someone bribed the captain to pay off the hangman. It wasn’t you, Grace, was it?”

Cecily was taken aback by Grace’s harsh bark of laughter. “What money do I have to bribe anyone, pray? I must rely on others’ generosity—your mother’s, yours—to exist. Certes, if I had it, and if I had known it was possible to help John in this way, by God I would have spent it gladly.” Then she modulated her tone. “Nay, Cecily, ’twas not I.”

“I am happy to hear it. Jack was curious, and your name was mentioned.” She put her finger to her lips and whispered, “It would not do to turn him or the king against you, Grace. These are treacherous times, with a pretender knocking on Henry’s door, and no one is safe from his spies and suspicions. Bess and I have done our best to explain that you had more than just a cousinly love for John. Praise be to God, they laughed about it, but if they knew you had been to Duchess Margaret’s court in secret—” She broke off as a quiet knock on the door told her Mathilda was announcing the arrival of the bath. “Come!” she called, and then murmured to Grace, “Have a care, Grace, and reconcile with Tom, I beg you.”

A
N HOUR LATER
, her skin glowing with oil of lavender and her curls combed to a glossy sheen, Grace felt better. The lump in her throat and the ache in her heart could not be expunged so easily by a simple, scented bath, but she felt calmer and ready to face Tom. Fifteen-year-old Mathilda
pulled her mistress’s blue gown over a clean and pressed chemise and stood back to admire her.

“You may send word to Master Gower that I would see him, if ’tis convenient, Matty. Ask a page to send some wine and wafers.”

Tom arrived at the same time as the refreshment and, sending the page and Matty away, entered the room carrying the tray himself. Jason was at his heels. Grace stood when she saw him; her eyes smiled a welcome even though her mouth could not. The dog wagged its tail and went to her, expecting the usual caress, but lay down by the fire when it saw Grace’s affection was not forthcoming.

“Thank you for coming, Tom,” she said, smoothing the wrinkles from the tapestried table cloth for Tom to land the tray. “I was not well, in truth.” What a foolish thing to say, she thought; he knows why I shut myself in here. But it was the best she could do at that moment, and she was unsure whether he knew she had been at Smithfield.

“Aye, so they told me,” Tom said, his clear blue eyes taking in her ravaged face. “And I can see that you have not been ‘well.’ I apologize again for not being here with you during the ordeal, but I had no choice. I hope I showed my concern and understanding on that day. However, I trust you will recover from whatever ailed you?”

Grace felt the blood rushing to her face and she lowered her eyes, understanding full well his meaning. “It seems I have no choice,” she murmured. “I trust…I trust you will be patient a little while longer. The pain I have will take time to heal.” She poured wine into two silver goblets, the Welles crest engraved on the side, and held one out for him. “Let us drink to an old friend, may he rest in peace.”

Tom drew in a whistling breath. “Christ’s nails, but you are stubborn, Grace,” he said grimly. “How long before John comes no more between us? Aye, may he rest in peace, but I will drink to him leaving
us
in peace.” He swallowed the contents of the glass in a single mouthful and banged the glass down on the tray, making Jason raise his big head off the floor.

Grace flinched and was immediately contrite. “Forgive me, Tom. I do not mean to be cruel, but I cannot be less than honest with you. You do not deserve lies and dissembling. I promise I will become the wife you wish, if you allow me this time to grieve. What say you?” She put her hand on his arm and searched his face for a softening.

“How much time, Grace?” he asked without moving a muscle. Grace was dismayed; he usually unbent at her touch. “I am the butt of much jesting by my fellow squires,” he told her. “They question why I spend so many nights with them and not in your bed. ’Tis galling that I have no answer.”

Grace bit her lip and turned away. “I have not prevented you coming to my bed, sir. It has been your choice to stay away. You know full well ’tis a husband’s right to take his wife wherever and whenever he chooses. I pray you, do not blame me.”

“Ah, Grace. I see that you do not understand me still. I am a man of simple values, and I have no wish to take what is mine unless it is freely given. When you offer it to me, you may be certain I shall return to your bed. Until then, pray excuse me. ’Tis my turn for the viscount’s all-night, and I am late already,” he said. “I wish you a good night and even pleasanter dreams. Come, Jason.”

Grace swung round to see him at the door, giving her a small formal bow before exiting. Her tears spent on John, she ran to the bed and pummeled the pillow with her fists in frustration.

WINTER
1491–92

A
few days later, escorted by Edgar and Matty, Grace went for a walk in the dreary December air to St. Mary le Bow, close by the Chepe. They passed several beggars lining Hosier Lane near the ruined tower of the Norman church, and Grace could not forbear throwing a groat to a man covered in sores with only stumps for legs. “Gawd bless you, mistress,” he croaked, swiping the coin and tucking it into his filthy tunic.

She was greeted at the entrance by a monk, who opened a small door within the massive oak door for her to step inside the ancient church, named for the arches in its crypt. “Rector Fisher welcomes you to his church,” the monk said earnestly. “He is hearing confession at this hour, if you care to wait.”

Grace thanked him and moved inside, adjusting her eyes to the gloom. She dipped her fingers in the holy water and, crossing herself with it, genuflected in front of the gold crucifix facing her upon the altar at the
far end of the church. Leaving Edgar and Matty to make their own peace with God, she glided down the side aisle to a statue of the Virgin in front of which were hundreds of lighted candles. She bought several from the monk seated at a table nearby and, after mounting and lighting them, stepped back to a kneeling bench and settled herself for her vigil.

Dear Lord God, keep Your servant John safe and raise him up upon the Day of Judgment to be with You, Your Son and all the angels, she prayed. And I ask You to take pity on this poor woman who wants to be a dutiful wife and yet cannot forget her first love. Is it possible and right to love more than one man? I am so ignorant in the ways of the world, and I need guidance, O Lord. As I look at the sweet Virgin’s face, I shall take comfort from her and believe she will intercede for me with You.

Then she began to tell her beads and, during the rote
ave
, think back to all the encounters she had had with John: at Sheriff Hutton, where she comforted him in his grief over his father’s death; their secret meetings in the undercroft of Bermondsey Abbey; his strong, young body wet from the Thames when he first began to trust her; her joy at their reunion at the palace of Malines; and his desperate straits at Newgate and their last moments together…

“Sweet Jesu!” she muttered, jerking her head up from her rosary and startling an old woman kneeling next to her. She had forgotten all about the piece of paper John had entrusted to her. Where was it now? She remembered taking it from its original hiding place before Matty undressed her that night and placing it inside her pillow. Hell’s bells! she thought, using Cecily’s favorite oath. Matty had changed her pillow during her two days in bed mourning, Grace remembered. It may have fallen behind the bed curtain or—fear gripped her heart—Matty or someone else may have found it. Confession was forgotten and she sped through the rest of the rosary so fast the old woman clucked her tongue in disapproval. I must get back to Pasmer’s Place as fast as I can, Grace determined, crossing herself in front of the Virgin and hurrying back to Edgar and Matty, who were astonished to be leaving so soon.

As they stepped out onto the street and walked the few paces to turn the corner into Chepeside, Grace almost bumped into a woman, her head tucked into the hood of her cloak, making her way to the church entrance. The woman dropped her fur muff into the mud as she stumbled, and muttered: “Fiddle faddle!”

Grace gasped. “Pray forgive me, mistress,” Grace said. “Are you not Katherine Haute, John of Gloucester’s mother?”

The woman’s eyes were wary as she nodded slowly. “I am, God rest his soul,” she replied. “Who asks this? I do not know you, madam.”

“I am the Lady Grace, John’s cousin. My father was our sovereign, King Edward,” Grace replied, wrinkling her nose at an unpleasant smell. She caught sight of a piss bucket a few paces from them hanging on the corner of the King’s Head, next to the church. It was brimming over, awaiting collection by a fuller who would use it to set the dye in his cloth. “Shall we cross to the other side?” she said, pointing at it, and Kate gladly acquiesced. “John has told me so much about you, Dame Haute,” she went on, “and I saw you at the marketplace—” Her hand went to her mouth and she looked about her. Nay, she thought, this is London, and all are strangers; you are too suspicious, Grace. No one here cares if you went to Smithfield.

“Aye, I was there, God help me,” Kate replied pleasantly. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, my lady. John mentioned you the last day I saw him at Newgate.” She paused, her quick mind working, “Certes, now I remember, you were there that day, getting into a litter.”

Grace smiled. “’Tis indeed so, mistress.” She was enthralled with the chance to meet John’s mother at last, and uncharacteristically blurted out, “Forgive me for being forthright, but may I say you are as beautiful as John described you.”

“I do not mind at all, Lady Grace.” Kate was wistful. “Although ’tis usually me who is forthright. I believe I have that reputation.” They both chuckled, but their laughter died guiltily when they remembered how they were connected.

“I could not bear to watch my son die, I have to confess,” Kate said softly, taking her left hand out of the muff and looking at it. “Dickon, my youngest, took me away, but perhaps you can tell me if my bribe helped—”

Grace interrupted her eagerly: “So ’twas you paid the captain to end John’s life by the noose and not the knife? Indeed, my dear madam, the captain and the hangman carried out your wishes. John was dead before they cut him down,” Grace cried, marveling at the cleverness of the woman before her. “If ever a man needed an angel, ’twas on that dreadful day. May God bless you!”

“Praise be to God,” Kate moaned, a tear escaping and rolling down her cheek. “I had no way of knowing.” She stared at the circle of white flesh
on her finger where a ring had resided for many years and held up the hand. “’Twas a gift to me from Richard—John’s father—that paid the bribe. I like to think the two of them are walking together again in Heaven as we speak. They were very close, in truth. I am grateful for this news. It will comfort me and my son as we mourn to know John did not suffer unduly.”

It was the second time Kate had mentioned another son. Grace was puzzled. “I thought John had only a sister—may God have mercy on her soul, as well,” she said, and both women crossed themselves. “He did not tell me he had a brother, except for his half brother, Ned, who died at Middleham.”

Kate smiled. “John never knew about Dickon before that day in the Newgate—nor indeed did Dickon know about John. I kept the youngest a secret even from his father—until the eve of Bosworth Field. He is all I have left, and more precious to me than gold.” Tears shone in her eyes. “And now, my lady, if you will forgive me, I must light a candle for John.”

Grace put out her hand and touched Kate’s arm. “I loved John with all my heart, Dame Haute, and he loved me”—she sighed—“like a sister. Meeting you has brought me some solace, and,” she said, indicating the missing ring, “I thank you for your sacrifice.”

Kate wiped her tears away with her hand and sniffed. “Ah, yes, unrequited love! ’Tis a cross many women have borne, my lady. But, in my own bold way,” she said with a smile, “may I say that John must have been blind.”

“Fiddle faddle!” Grace said, and was rewarded by wide eyes and a merry laugh. “Farewell, Dame Haute, and I hope we shall meet again.”

“If you find yourself in Kent, Lady Grace, at a place they call Eastwell, you may look for us there in the spring. Meanwhile, God speed.”

The two women reverenced each other—Kate because she knew her place and Grace because she honored John’s mother—and went their separate ways.

B
ACK AT THE
Welles residence, Grace searched her room, the bed sheets, her pillow and all her clothes for the parchment. Then she questioned Matty, who swore she had found nothing upon emptying the soggy filling from the pillowcase except feathers and grasses. Other servants had been
in to clean after Grace had left her bed and gone out, so anyone might have picked up the secret letter.

“Perhaps one of them threw it in the fire, my lady,” Matty offered, and Grace nodded grimly. She was certain that was the case, as she knew none of the servants was literate and might have taken the wadded up paper cloth as discarded rubbish. Her only consolation was that it was safer for the coded paper to burn than to fall into the wrong hands. But she worried in the dark as she lay next to one of Cecily’s attendants. Why had she not secured it in the small coffer she kept for her few precious things, like Elizabeth’s amber brooch? She slept fitfully, dreaming of Tom, scaffolds, candles and Kate Haute, and when Cecily came knocking at her door for Terce, she knew that she had finally fallen into a deep sleep and not heard the household stirring.

“Bess has summoned us to Westminster,” Cecily cried, plumping down unceremoniously on Grace’s bed. “The message was very brief, and I do not know why we must go, but we must. So arise, you lazy bag of bones,” she said, jerking back the cover from Grace’s small frame. “I confess, Pasmer’s Place is beginning to bore me. Let us to the palace, Grace, and do hurry up.”

Cecily swept out and Grace swung herself out of bed, her head pounding.

“Fetch me some yarrow tea,” she told Matty. “And if the dispensary has a pinch of skullcap, my headache will likely disappear sooner.” She padded over to the heavy marble washbasin set into the wall. She unstopped the copper faucet and ice-cold water gushed out from a reservoir on the roof. Aye, ’tis a marvel to have piped water, Grace thought, bracing her face for the freezing wash, but will it ever run hot? She thought not. She heard the door open as she groped for a drying cloth, and a wet nose nuzzled her hand instead. She started, turning round to see Tom standing in front of the closed door. She patted Jason’s waiting head and scratched his ears with one hand as she dried her face with the other.

“I am glad to see you awake, Grace. I came before, but the attendant said you slept still.” Tom’s voice was measured, and his expression serious. “I pray you, let us sit while we are alone, for I have something of consequence to discuss with you.”

Grace’s heart sank. She was in no mood to quarrel, and with her head
hurting as much as it did, she knew she would not put up a very good fight. But she went to the small settle he motioned to in front of the newly stoked fire and sat down, leaving room for him. Their legs touched and their eyes met for a b rief moment. His were sad and hers anxious. He cleared his throat.

“I promised myself we would talk of John no more after yesterday,” he began. “But something happened to change my mind.”

Grace cocked her head and looked so vulnerable it was all he could do not to take her in his arms. Instead, he reached into the mailed belt bag at his waist and brought out the lost wad of paper. Grace gasped and snatched it from him.

Tom sighed. “I see you do know what this is. I prayed you had nothing to do with it.”

“Where did you find it?” Grace whispered, turning it over nervously.

“’Twas Jason,” he said. “When I left yesterday, I noticed he was carrying something—he has a soft mouth, you see.”

“Have…have you told anyone else?” Grace asked fearfully. “Viscount Welles?”

“Certes, I have not. I do not know what it is, except that it appears to be in code and has likely traveled far. If it had not been found in your room, Grace, I would certainly have taken it to his lordship. What is it?”

“I…I cannot tell you, Tom. I beseech you, do not ask that of me. I swore I—”

Before she knew what had happened, Tom wrested the letter from her inattentive fingers and threw it on the fire. “I should have done that yesterday,” he cried hoarsely.

Grace cried out, jumped up to fetch the poker and tried to prevent the precious document from going up in flames. She was too late; the paper flared briefly and was blackened to soot in a matter of seconds.

“How could you, Tom? You have made me break my promise,” she wailed, throwing the poker on the hearth and turning on him. Then she fell to her knees and wept unashamedly. She did not stop him helping her back to the settle, and even Tom was not expecting her response to his gentleness. She curled into his chest and allowed him to hold her while she cried. She was still clothed only in her chemise, and feeling her soft body through the flimsy material was torture for him.

“Hush, sweetheart. ’Tis astonishing to me that you have any more tears to shed. They are like to fill a river these past three days. Am I correct in thinking the missive came from John?” He felt her nod. “And am I correct to think you did not know the contents?” Again, she nodded. “At least John spared you that danger,” he muttered angrily.

“He did not know what it contained either.” Grace’s voice sounded muffled in his padded pourpoint. “He was only the messenger.”

“A valuable message,” Tom remarked grimly. “It cost him his life, I warrant.”

Grace sniffed and Tom felt her heave on another sob. Rocking her gently, he let the crackling fire and the rain pattering on the windowpanes be the only sounds to accompany their thoughts for several minutes, before her crying subsided and she lay still against him.

“Grace, my dearest wife, you must trust me,” he begged, stroking her curls. Then he took a chance. “I am not unaware of your involvement in matters beyond the sea.”

Grace slowly pulled her face from the tear-stained worsted jacket and raised her wide eyes to him. “Wha-whatever d-do you mean?” she whispered.

“The king has his spies, Grace. One of his most successful is Stephen Frion, who traveled between this court and Burgundy’s many times over the years. It came to Henry’s attention that Duchess Margaret had a pretty young English guest staying with her, calling herself Sir Edward Brampton’s niece by marriage. Henry was suspicious—Brampton has long been associated with the house of York—and when he found out Brampton did indeed have a niece, but she has been virtually bedridden in her Northamptonshire estate for the last several years, he attempted to discover more. My lord, the viscount, as one of the king’s chief advisers, was made aware of this—and that is how I was privy to it. He asked me to try to discover who the mysterious young lady was, but I was unsuccessful—until I saw Edgar.”