The King's Grace (53 page)

Cecily let out a long breath of accord. “Aye, and Bess will believe
you
, Henry guesses. I think you have the measure of it, Grace.”

Tom grinned and patted his wife’s knee. “Not just a pretty face, are you, sweetheart?”

Cecily watched an iridescent dragonfly hover near her knee. “Then it seems to me you must prepare to return to our formidable aunt, my dear sister. Oh—and I forgot to tell you the rest of the letter, Tom. Bess wishes you to escort Grace,
naturellement
, as well as two or more armed guards from here for good measure. Henry is sending envoys to Maximilian, and you may take ship with them. I assume you will also want Edgar?”

Grace looked at Tom. He was plainly astonished by this new turn of events but did not say anything except, “When are we to leave?”

G
RACE AND
T
OM
were shocked when, during the voyage, they realized Henry had duped Bess by agreeing to send Grace to see this Perkin War
beck. Tom had learned from one of the clerks traveling with the envoys that his master, William Warham, was coming to expose Perkin as a fraud in public at the court and shame Maximilian and Margaret into renouncing the man and giving him up to Henry.

“So much for the ‘great love’ Henry bears her,” Grace scoffed when Tom relayed this piece of news at an inn in Sluis, the port closest to Bruges. She pondered the information as they readied for bed, and suddenly she let out a little cry. “I have it!” she said. “Henry is so certain that Warham’s brilliant oration will convince everyone of Dickon’s falsity that I will not dare to deny it.” Tom gave a rueful sigh and took off his jacket; he had other, more lusty thoughts on his mind than unraveling King Henry’s twisted one. But Grace rattled on. “I have heard Warham speak, and he is magnificent, in truth. Aye, Henry thinks I will be forced to return home and confirm the man is Perkin Warbeck and not Richard of York or be ridiculed. Ah, but he is a whey-faced vassal! And he is no match for me,” she announced smugly.

They had taken lodgings separate from Henry’s official party and were told they were welcome to travel with the envoys to Malines upon the morrow. When the innkeeper and his wife learned they were lodging the half sister to England’s queen, and niece to their beloved duchess, they gave up their quarters to Grace and Tom with much bowing and awed glances.

Believing her puzzling done, Tom unlaced his wife’s bodice and cupped his hands over her breasts, kissing the nape of her neck. She squirmed from his hold and swung round to face him. “I am in no mood for loving, Tom. Henry has put us in a difficult position.” She frowned, still suspicious of Henry’s motives. “I have in no way abandoned the possibility that my brother Dickon is alive and at Aunt Margaret’s court. Until I am given proof that he is an imposter, he has my undying loyalty. A pox on Henry—he is just afraid.”

But Tom ignored her rejection and bent to kiss her neck, lifting her chemise and sliding his hand between her thighs, making her forget Henry, Warham and even Dickon in his ardent pursuit of her undivided attention.

T
HE AUDIENCE CHAMBER
at the ducal palace was crowded when the English embassy arrived two days later. Grace and Tom were eyed curiously
by the bystanders nearest the door, where they chose to remain unheralded while William Warham and Edward Poynings approached the dais and gave their names to the chamberlain. Sixteen-year-old Philip, duke of Burgundy, sat ramrod straight in his high-backed throne under a purple and gold satin canopy, the double-headed eagle coat of arms on the wall behind his head. Grace was struck by his beauty—he had an oval face with dark eyes, a strong nose and a full mouth, all framed by fine golden hair falling to his shoulders, enhancing his fair complexion. Beside him sat his stepgrandmother Margaret in a deep blue belted gown, its fashionable square neck trimmed with pearls, and the kirtle underneath of pale blue silk.

A hush came over the court as the two Englishmen knelt before Philip, who had only recently been given the reins of government by his father and regent, Maximilian. Philip acknowledged the envoys with a nod and extended his hand for them to kiss. All was pleasant and courteous until Warham rose and was given leave to speak.

After the usual high-flown platitudes and greetings on behalf of Henry to the duke in passable French, Warham got to the meat of the matter. “It has come to our notice that you are harboring a man pretending to be the late Prince Richard, duke of York. He is, in truth, a commoner—
sordido genere
,” he said, using Latin for emphasis. The painted hall reverberated with a gasp of astonishment, and all eyes turned to Margaret. Grace saw her aunt blanch, her eyes narrow and her hands grip the arms of her chair so tightly that her knuckles showed as white as the sleeves of her chemise. Afraid he might be silenced, Warham plunged on: “The real duke of York perished with his older brother at the hands of their uncle, the usurper Richard of Gloucester. Indeed it would have served King Richard no purpose to kill the older and let the younger live to challenge him—do you not agree, your grace? It is therefore impossible that this man, who we now know to be naught but a boatman’s son from Tournai—” Another gasp went up and whisperings began, and Philip became noticeably agitated. He looked to his councilors, grouped to the side of the dais, but court etiquette forbade them from interfering with the message from a foreign herald.

But Philip had reckoned without Margaret, who got to her feet and, pointing an accusing finger at Warham, cried: “You may tell your master King Henry that when he can show us the bodies of my nephews we will
consider his words. Tell him that!” And she sat down hard, her legs giving way. Philip’s cheeks were tinged with pink and he was clearly at a loss, but his upbringing—which, ironically, had been carried out mostly by Margaret herself—would not allow him to stop the Englishman. He waved an elegant beringed hand Warham’s way. Warham, well aware of the hostile vibrations in the room, bowed and countered Margaret’s words by announcing, “My master, his grace King Henry of England, invites you to come and visit the chapel where they are buried.” At which Margaret let out a barely suppressed guffaw.

“What lie is this?” Grace murmured, and Tom laid a hand on her arm to silence her.

Warham now delivered the most damning portion of his message, his voice less certain now: “’Tis well known to the king’s grace and all the people of England that Madame la Duchesse has regularly contrived to discover scoundrel nephews from among her brothers’ children.” He cited Lambert Simnel, posing as the earl of Warwick. “Certes, this Perkin Warbeck and the other are naught but boys fit for washing pots and”—he paused, eyeing a possible escape, before he gave Henry’s final pronouncement—“the fruit of her own secret pregnancies.”

Bedlam ensued as Margaret staggered to her feet and would have stumbled down the dais in her hurry to strike the unfortunate Warham had Philip not restrained her, while Edward Poynings propelled the stunned Warham through the jostling crowd, which hissed and spat at them but did not deter their departure. They passed close to Grace, who turned away, hoping they would not single her and Tom out, but Warham had his hands up to protect his face and Poynings’s eyes were fixed squarely on the door.

“What insults!” Grace whispered. “How could Henry have ordered such insults to be cast at her in public? ’Tis monstrous!” She tried to see over the people in front of her to the dais, but once again she cursed her lack of inches. “Can you see her, Tom? Poor Aunt Margaret. Is she well?”

“Aye, her attendants are with her and Philip is conferring with his councilors. Let us go into the garden and wait while I leave word with her chamberlain that you are here.” He gave her his arm and they withdrew from the hall, thinking on the extraordinary scene they had just witnessed.

M
ARGARET WAS ASTONISHED
but delighted to receive her niece at her court in Malines later that day. Seemingly undeterred by her earlier ordeal, she greeted Grace with affection in her elegant solar, its wide casements overlooking the peaceful gardens. After stooping to kiss Grace’s cheek, she turned to Tom and gave him an avising that made his hair stand on end.

“So this is your husband, Grace,” she said finally. “He is about the same height as your father, my dear.” Observing the two of them standing side by side, she gave a rueful sigh and remarked, “Such a waste of a tall man.” She turned and sank down gratefully into her favorite chair. Her legs hurt her these days, if the truth be known, and her height caused her back to ache from the moment she rose from her great tester bed to the time she fell back into it after kneeling in prayer for an hour before she retired. And to exacerbate the problem, the dramatic events in the great hall had given her a pounding headache.

“Sit, sit!” she invited Grace, and she sent for refreshment and her headache powders in her accented but perfect French. “Tell me why you are come at this diplomatically difficult time. Certes, it cannot be for the love of your old aunt.” She went off into a cackle of loud laughter that made her chief attendant, Henriette, smile. But then she was all seriousness again. “In truth, I have borne such an insult from Henry’s ambassador that I know not where to throw myself. I dare say Dr. Warham’s words were fed to him by that measle Henry, but he has caused an uproar among our councilors.” She chuckled. “In truth, I wanted to kill the prating pizzle.”

Grace was shocked by Margaret’s coarse language, but Tom hid a grin. “We were there, Madame la Grande,” Grace said. “We could not believe what we were hearing, although, in truth, we knew a little of what Warham would say from a conversation Tom had with a clerk on the ship.”

Margaret frowned. “If Henry thinks he will embarrass Philip into surrendering Richard, he is wrong. Philip is my grandson, and he will stand by me, mark my words. Everyone here believes Richard is the duke of York—and I do above all. He is my darling boy!”

Grace seized the opening. “That is why I am come, Aunt Margaret,” Grace said, reaching down to scratch the ears of a wolfhound that had chosen to lay its huge head on her foot. “The king and—more important—the queen want me to judge for myself if he be our brother or no. Is he here?”

Margaret contemplated the tips of her steepled fingers before lifting her eyes to Grace’s face, observing the flush on the young woman’s cheeks. I would not be surprised if she were with child, she thought. How she had longed for a child those years she was married to Charles. She had even thought she had carried her lover’s child at one point, but she had long since decided that God saw fit to punish that adultery by making her barren. And then along came Jehan, her secret boy—her dearest boy. And through several twists of fate, and a little careful planning on her part, she was now able to love him publicly.

“When I knew the envoy was expected from England, I sent Richard to my dower property of Dendermonde for safety,” she finally replied. “I do not trust Henry as far as I can see a flea on a dog’s ear! I would not put it past him to kidnap Richard and smuggle him back to England. My kind Philip has given my nephew a bodyguard, with a knight of the Golden Fleece as their captain, so he should be in good hands. I will take you there myself in a few days, if you can wait.” She yawned, and Grace saw she had lost several teeth.

“Forgive us,
madame
,” Grace said. “We are tiring you. We can come back later.” She rose, waking the dog on her toes, which scrambled to its feet and ambled over to lick Margaret’s hand. Grace longed to inspect the beautiful gardens laid out so neatly below while the sun shone.

“Nay, I should like to take a walk with you,” Margaret replied, feeding the dog a sweetmeat. “Certes, Samson would like a walk, too, wouldn’t you boy?” She rose and Samson wagged his tail and barked with excitement. “Henriette, pray have someone fetch my hat and then accompany us outdoors—and don’t tell my doctors. I should not walk when ’tis hot, they tell me, or I shall fall prey to the plague,” she told Grace. “But as ’tis ill-advised to sleep during the day as well, I know not which regimen to follow.” She chuckled. “Come, let us brave the heat. You have much to tell me about my family. Tom, you will allow me to steal Grace for an hour, will you not?” It was a rhetorical question and Tom could do no more than bow and kiss her hand before leaving them.

The roses were a riot of color and Grace ran from bush to bush to compare each different scent. “It is so beautiful here, aunt. Is it your favorite home?” Grace asked.

“One of my favorites,” Margaret said, enjoying her niece’s company
and joie de vivre more than she could have imagined. “But I like Binche the best. It is far from the center of things in Hainault, and I can be myself there.” She led the way through the beds of flowers, and gardeners took off their straw hats and bowed as they passed by. “But I wanted to talk to you privately for two reasons, my dear. The first—and I hope it is not too painful for you to relive—is to ask how Johnny died? We heard news of it, but much later, and with little detail.”

Grace pricked her thumb on a thorn as the unexpected question momentarily jolted her, and she sucked on it to compose her thoughts. “I saw him the day before his execution, and he was sore afraid,” she told Margaret softly. “Cecily and I gave him what comfort we could, but it broke my heart to leave him.” She paused and bent down to pick a heartsease, the violet and pink petals shining in the sun. “Then I was foolish enough to go to Smithfield,” she said with a catch in her throat. “I swooned when they put the noose about his neck, so Edgar carried me away.”

Margaret gasped and turned to face Grace. “You thought you could watch him die? You brave child. You loved him, did you not?”

Grace nodded, tears not far away. “As much as one can love for the first time, in truth. But he loved me only as a sister,” she said.

“Oftimes, ’tis a longer-lasting love, Grace, so treasure it,” Margaret told her.

“I promised I would not desert him,” Grace whispered, “and I tried, truly I did. He saw me—from up there on the scaffold—and then he saw his mother. Ah, ’twas pitiful, and when he cried out to her I fainted with the horror of it all. So I was not so brave after all.” Grace finally let the tears fall, but they were for herself and her weakness rather than for John. She sniffed and wiped her nose on the soft linen sleeve of her chemise, having unlaced the tight long sleeves of her overdress and left them in the solar to be cooler outdoors. “I learned later—certes, from his mother herself—that he had died by the noose and not from the disemboweling. Dame Haute had paid the executioners to let John die quickly.”