The King's Grace (54 page)

“You kept your promise to him,” Margaret soothed. “And now it seems you are fortunate to have a good man who loves you, my dear.” She took Grace’s arm and stepped across the manicured grass to seek out her favorite seat under an arbor.

“But I did not keep my promise, your grace,” Grace suddenly remem
bered, sitting down beside her aunt. “He gave me a letter that was destined for—”

“Lord Lovell?” Margaret finished. “Aye, never fear. Another with the correct intelligence went a more secret route and arrived safely.”

Grace tensed. “You mean John carried false information? He died carrying false information?” Anger rose in her chest and constricted her last words. “He was tortured, you know.”

Margaret sighed. “You have much to learn about the ways of politics, my child. John was insistent upon returning home; he chafed at being here, for all home meant danger. I thought the harmless letter might throw Henry off the track, and I told John to destroy it if he was captured. I am sorry if he did not do as he was instructed.” She took Grace’s anguished face between her long, slender fingers and looked her straight in the eye. “There was no need for John to be tortured—if he had given it up once he was caught and feigned surprise at its contents, he might have escaped Henry’s wrath. But you must understand, Grace, Henry was delighted to have an excuse to rid himself of Richard’s son—bastard or no. The lad was destined to die the day Henry killed Richard on Redemore Plain.” She dropped her hands and clenched her teeth: “As I believe all sons of the house of York are destined to do—unless we can unseat Henry. Can you not see the truth of this?”

But Grace’s thoughts were still with John and the callous way he had been sacrificed. She did not know whether she believed her aunt or not. Her thoughts ran rampant wondering what awful wiles women of noble blood would employ to achieve their goals. Elizabeth Woodville, Margaret of Anjou, Scraggy Maggie and now her Aunt Margaret did not seem above scheming without regard for human life or limb. I do not belong among such people, Grace thought miserably. How I wish I could go back to the convent! But in her heart of hearts she knew she was deceiving herself. I do belong here; I am one of the York family and proud of it. And, she told herself now, I know I belong to Tom. I would not change anything, in truth.

Margaret waited for her niece’s anger to subside before saying: “And now for the second reason I wanted to talk to you.” She glanced at her attendants, who were standing at a discreet distance, and lowered her voice. “They do not speak English, but I never know. I can never be alone at this court, God have mercy. I hope one day a future duchess will see to it that
things change, but I am too old to try,” she said, shrugging. “But now, I need to know how the wind blows in England for Richard, my nephew and
your
half brother.”

Grace pulled herself together and brushed the last of her tears aside. “There is much unrest in England, so I understand. There have been several hangings connected with Dickon’s name, and some of Henry’s own household have left the country.”

Margaret nodded, smiling. “Henry must not be able to sleep these days,” she enthused. “Clifford is lately arrived at Dendermonde and is with Richard—Dickon, you call him. Tell me more.”

“The queen would not have sent me if she was certain he is not Dickon. Cecily, who is my constant companion, believes he is, but certes, her husband is one of Henry’s closest advisers—and his uncle—so we must be careful. Besides, all of my sisters fare well under the Tudor. To exclude the real Richard, he must reverse the act of legitimacy, and then his queen and all her sisters would be like me again—bastards! Poor Henry, he is caught over a barrel.” She laughed grimly. “And my mentor, the queen dowager, was convinced Dickon had survived. There had been doctors’ reports that Ned was diseased—the jawbone, I heard—and Elizabeth said she had dreamed he was dead and so believed it.” She spread her hands. “But unless a tomb has been uncovered more recently than Tom’s quitting Warwick, where Henry was in consultation with Warham about the mission, there is no truth to Warham’s statement about finding the princes’ corpses.”

Margaret let out a harsh laugh. “Just as I thought.”

Grace paused and then took courage. “I must ask you,
madame
—for my own peace of mind, as well as to report back to England—how well did you know Dickon before he and Edward disappeared? You returned to England only once since your marriage, and then only for a few months, when Dickon was a small boy. Is it possible you are mistaken?”

Margaret shook her head vehemently, and the few folds of skin beneath her chin wobbled in the way of older women. “As God is my witness, I swear I knew him when I saw him. He is my nephew,” she insisted, as the church bells rang for None. “Come, ’tis time to bend our knee in prayer.”

Satisfied Margaret was not lying, Grace could hardly wait to meet her long-lost brother.

G
RACE AND
T
OM
were given mounts for their daylong ride to Dendermonde in eastern Flanders, journeying back the way they had come from Bruges. The countryside was flat and fertile and Grace was delighted to recognize many of her favorite wildflowers along the way. Although the dowager duchess had told her guests that they would travel with a mere handful of servants, the cavalcade that set out that hazy morning from Malines made Grace feel she was on a royal progress. Margaret’s escort was flashy in scarlet, yellow and black, and she was carried on a gilded litter pulled by two of the largest horses she had ever seen. “They are bred right here in Flanders,” Margaret said. One might think she has forgotten she is English, Grace mused, hearing the pride in her aunt’s voice. But she knew better. The number of white roses woven among her signature marguerites on the canopy and curtains of the litter proclaimed her a daughter of York, and when Grace had admired an enameled white rose that Margaret always wore, she had been told it was a gift from her brother Edward and Elizabeth upon her departure from England in Sixty-eight. “So I would never forget,” she explained. “And I never have.”

Ragged children ran alongside the litter when the group passed through hamlets, calling Margaret’s name, her charity legendary in the region. She did not disappoint them and flung coins into their waiting hands, pity in her eyes.

“Are you anxious about this meeting?” Tom asked as they were told by Guillaume de la Baume, Margaret’s brawny chevalier, that the spires in front of them were of the palace and the village church. Tom sat his horse as if he had been born to it, and Grace enjoyed riding pillion behind him, even if it was hard to carry on a conversation. “I know you hardly slept a wink.”

“Did I keep you awake, my dear? Aye, I confess I am looking forward to this with a mixture of excitement and fear,” Grace answered.

“Fear? He cannot harm us, Grace. Why are you frightened?”

“That I shall make a mistake. I want to be sure this is my brother. Can you not see? ’Tis a heavy responsibility, for it may have a wide-reaching effect on all our futures.” She felt him pat the hand that was grasping him round the waist and she snuggled into his back, once again loving the safe haven his presence gave her. Little by little during the journey from Hellowe to Malines, Tom had come to the reluctant conclusion that this
young man who had reappeared as if from the grave was indeed Richard of York. Otherwise, why was Henry—and therefore his master and others of Henry’s council—so afraid of him? No proof existed of the boys’ deaths since their disappearance—no confessions, no secret orders and, above all, no bodies. King Richard must have sent them somewhere for safekeeping, he reasoned, or if the older one had died naturally, then the younger had been spirited away.

Chevalier de la Baume led Margaret up the steps of the palace and through the studded oak door into the great hall, and they were followed by Margaret’s attendants and then Grace and Tom with her new maid, Enid. Standing by the fireplace at the far end of the hall, and the center of attention, was a young man with fair hair enjoying a joke with several companions, among whom Tom recognized Sir Robert Clifford.

The entrance of the dowager duchess brought the conversation to an abrupt halt, and all bowed over soft leather ankle boots, their sleeves trailing to the ground. Separating himself from the group, Richard came forward, happy to see his aunt. After executing another flourishing bow, his bright red hat showing off a rich brooch with a deep red ruby and three teardrop pearls, he went to kiss Margaret on both cheeks. Her affection for him was manifest in the way she stroked his cheek and played with his hair. He looked beyond her to where Grace and Tom now stood alone and moved confidently to greet the newcomers, still holding Margaret’s hand. It seemed Margaret had not warned him whom she was bringing with her, as if she wanted to test him. His smile, therefore, was genuine, and his hand was extended in friendship as his associates moved closer to hear the introduction.

Grace found her knees wobbling and her heart racing, and she was not aware she was staring at him until he cocked his head and felt to see if his hat was on straight. Dear god, she thought as a memory stirred, can it be the man from that long-ago dream? She blushed and gave him a graceful curtsy. Tom bowed, his soft felt bonnet over his heart.

“God’s greeting,” Richard said in French, bowing only slightly, as befitted a duke of the royal blood. “Your grace, who are these charming visitors?”

“This, my dearest boy, is your half sister, the Lady Grace,” Margaret told him gleefully. “And the handsome man at her side is her husband,
Master Tom Gower. I have that right?” she looked at Tom, who nodded. “It seems your father was busy the year you were born, Richard. You two are a brace of months apart in age, but you have never met because Grace was discovered only after your father died. She grew up among nuns until your aunt Elizabeth rescued her,” she explained.

He was fully informed now, and the fine eyebrows shot up and a smile—it almost looked like relief, Grace thought—suffused his clean-shaven face. Indeed, so invisible was Richard’s beard, Grace would have guessed he was younger than his twenty years. But it was his small stature, too, that made him seem so youthful, she decided. There was an odd cast to his left eye—Grace wondered if it was a trick of the light—and the brow was creased. Certes, she breathed with mounting excitement, like my father’s.

“My sister? My half sister?” Richard cried enthusiastically, his gaze sweeping her from head to toe. “God’s mercy, but I have a beauty for a sister,” he said, making Grace blush again.

She smiled happily at him. “God’s greeting to you, too, brother,” she replied in less confident French. “If it will not offend you, may we speak English?”

She thought she detected a tiny pause before he answered with a mere whisper of an accent, “With all my heart, sister.” Certes, he had an excuse, Grace told herself. He had been shut away in the castle of Guisnes for so many years, and perhaps he had had French guardians. He continued to smile, one corner of his mouth turning up more easily than the other. “I am delighted to see one of my own family. It has been so long, I know not if I would recognize them or they me.” He turned to Tom and held out his hand. “God’s greeting, Master Gower. And I must present my loyal friends: Anthony de la Forsa; Master Taylor and his son, John; and perhaps you know Sir Robert Clifford—lately come from England—and George Neville.” The introductions were made and the men excused before Richard turned to Margaret. “Come,
madame
, let us go somewhere less public.”

Grace felt giddy. He is my brother, she exulted; it must be why I feel thus, and he
was
the man in her dream, she was almost certain. She took Tom’s arm, and he whispered: “Afraid now, Grace? You should see your face; ’tis as readable as a page of a book.”

“Oh, pish!” came the response.

Richard led the way with Margaret to the palace’s private apartments and the small group was escorted by two of his new bodyguards in the York colors of murrey and blue. Grace nudged Tom to take notice, but he was busy admiring the vaulted ceilings and brilliantly painted columns of the large rooms they passed through. Richard was almost half a head shorter than his tall aunt, but as they conversed together, Grace could see a similarity in their profiles. Elizabeth had told her Margaret resembled her brother, Edward, more than she did her other brothers, but having met only Uncle Richard, Grace could not know. It did seem to her that they had an affection for each other that surely could only come from their being kin. She gazed happily at Richard’s back. After all this time and all the rumors, conjectures and doubts, she was finally face to face with him. That it was her half brother Richard, she had not a doubt. But she knew she must tread carefully and search for further proof before Bess—and, certes, Henry—would believe her. She hoped she would have enough time to make that possible.

T
HEY DINED INFORMALLY
in Margaret’s solar well into the summer night, the last rays of the sun disappearing just before nine o’clock. Two musicians had played while they ate cold roast duck, rabbit pie, flampayns and custards, washing it down with wine from Beaune, in the southern part of the duchy. Comfits of dates and ginger in sugar and wafers were brought in and were accompanied by the spicy hippocras that comprised the voide. Once the platters and trenchers were removed and the musicians had withdrawn, Margaret had Richard sit on a footstool next to her and invited Tom and Grace to use the large satin cushions on the floor. Henriette and her husband, Guillaume, were their sole attendants that night and sat conversing quietly in the window seat.

“I trust both of them with my life,” Margaret told her young audience. “And as neither has bothered to learn English since being in my service—let me see—twenty or more years now, we may speak freely.” She ruffled Richard’s curls as if he were a young boy, and Grace noticed that Richard seemed not to notice. She could not imagine Tom allowing his mother, let alone an aunt, caress his head thus. It puzzled her, but not for long, as they talked for another hour about the English court and Richard’s other sisters. At one point early on Grace mentioned Elizabeth and, almost as
if he had needed the nudging, Richard’s demeanor changed, as though he were mustering the courage to ask about his mother’s recent death. “Aunt Margaret tells me you were one of only two attending my mother in her exile. In so much as I remember her, I thank you for your good service to her,” he told Grace. “She was a dutiful mother to us all.”