The King's Grace (61 page)

AUTUMN
1497

T
he many-towered palace of Shene seemed to shimmer in the hazy afternoon sun, and Grace knew it for her favorite of the royal residences. Inside, the rooms were gaily painted with bright reds and blues and dotted with thousands of flowers. Other rooms were warmly paneled with the popular linen-fold carving in the ancient English oak. Most of the royal apartments gave a view of the river flowing gently past reeded banks in which lived watervoles and otters, moorhens, coots and herons. The snowy white egrets stalked along the opposite bank, which was now covered in bright purple loosestrife. Life itself might pass the inhabitants by, Grace thought as she watched her girls collect daisies with Enid.

So intent was she on making a daisy chain, Grace did not notice a boat with the king’s colors floating from upstream until it had almost reached the dock. She jumped up and called to Enid to watch the girls, holding out the half-made chain to Susannah. “I must go back inside and let the queen
know that a messenger has arrived,” she told the little girl, who shrugged and wandered off in search of more daisies.

Grace ran along the passageway to Bess’s apartments and, barely waiting to knock, she slipped in and curtsied low. Bess was choosing a thread from among her embroidery silks and talking to Anne and Catherine, her two younger sisters now both wives of earls, who had rejoined the household recently.

“Henry has sent a messenger, your grace. Perhaps ’tis news of the children coming.”

Bess set down her needlework and wiped beads of perspiration off her upper lip. Despite the river breezes, it was a very warm September day, and when the messenger was ushered into the queen’s presence, dark patches were visible under his arms.

“Your highness, I bring a message from his grace, the king,” he began on bended knee. The other attendants went about their business, playing music, plying their needles or reading, thinking, too, that it was news of the children.

“It seems the man called Perkin has invaded England,” he began un-steadily, and at once everyone in the room froze midtask. Bess put her hand to her mouth, and Grace sat down with a thump on a stool. “I shall endeavor to recount all that was told to me, your grace, and beg your indulgence if, in my haste, I forget a detail.”

Bess nodded, her face the color of her snow-white plastron. “Go on, sir,” she murmured. Anne fanned the queen with her kerchief, but Bess waved her away impatiently. “Go on,” she said again.

And so for half an hour, the messenger told the assembled ladies how Perkin Warbeck, decked out in cloth-of-gold, had landed with four ships at St. Michael’s Mount in Cornwall and how the “rebellious Cornishmen deserted their tin mines and flocked to his standard.” He left his wife and baby son on the Mount, it was thought, and, after landing at St. Ives, made his way to Bodmin, where King Henry had ordered the sheriff to stop them. “By then, ’tis said, the invader had eight thousand men marching with him,” the messenger announced ominously.

“Eight thousand?” Bess exclaimed as a collective gasp went up. “Who would follow this imposter thus?”

“Those who believe he is Richard, duke of York,” Grace said quietly
from her perch next to her. “Those who think he should be king of England.”

Bess looked at her sharply, wondering if there was more to her statement than fact. But Grace met her gaze, and as her expression did not change, Bess turned back to the man. “I pray you, sir, tell us this rascally fellow fell before the king’s forces.”

The man looked down at his feet and played with the feather in his bonnet, which he clutched in front of his potbelly. “Nay, your grace,” he muttered. “The sheriff’s men fled and Perkin entered Bodmin with trumpets and cheering. There he was proclaimed king—King Richard the Fourth, second son of Edward, late king…” He trailed off when he saw the queen’s angry face and cringed, anticipating her reaction.

“You are lying!” Bess cried, pointing her finger at him, tears springing to her eyes. “How dare you tell me such lies? And if you are, I shall have you put on the rack.” She stood up and the man was dismayed to see that she was half a head taller than he. He stepped back, aghast; he had heard the queen was a gentle, pious lady who never raised her voice. She was not quiet now, God help him. He tried again, stammering so badly that Grace felt sorry for him and stood between him and Bess.

“Soft, your grace,” she counseled in a low voice. “The man is only doing what he was told. Why would he lie to you? ’Tis not in his interest. I pray you, give him a chance to explain. ’Tis clear as a summer’s rain that Henry is still alive and well, or he would have told you that first. Do be reasonable and sit down.” She coaxed her sister into the chair. “Let him tell his story.”

Bess nodded. “You have done it again, haven’t you?” she said, a small smile flitting across her face. When Grace inclined her head, puzzled, Bess whispered, “Sit down, dear diplomat, and let us listen.” And she waved the man on.

“Perkin crossed the Tamar at Launceston unopposed and, as he continued across the boggy, craggy wilderness that was Dartmoor, he gathered men to him. Again, those sent against him—by the sheriff of Devon this time—were afraid to fight. And those under the banner of the White Rose came to the walls of Exeter and camped overnight, preparing to besiege the city. After several days, the rebel army’s inexperienced leader did attempt to enter the city—using battering rams, fire and rocks against a sky-high wall—but his force failed in its first attempt. The next day, ’tis said, Rich
ard’s men broke through the east gate and overran the high street before the defenders pushed them back. The last news we had was that Perkin’s now diminished army was on the move to Taunton—in Somerset.”

“Where was the king’s grace?” Bess demanded. “Where
is
the king’s grace, sir?”

The man finally grinned. “He musters his forces from all points of the kingdom, your grace. I left him at Woodstock, confident he did not have to do anything but warn Perkin that he was ready to march southwest and deal with him. One army was already dogging the man. As far as I know King Henry is still there—being that I left two days ago. My liege the king tells you to be of good cheer and that all will be righted by the end of the week. There is no danger to you or your children from the feigned lad, he told me to say.” It was not his place to tell her that Henry had in fact ordered Simon Digby to fetch gunners and other troops to defend the Tower as a precaution. For now, she need only know the fellow was kept at bay in the West Country and that the king was safe.

“In other cheerful news,” he continued, “’tis thought that James of Scotland was supposed to worry us on the northern border at the same time that Perkin arrived in Cornwall, but he came in August—too early—and, hearing nothing, went away again. Now he has entered into negotiations with Henry. Certes, this Perkin has no friends left.”

“Except for those eight thousand who stood with him at Exeter,” Bess reminded him.

“Nay, fewer than that, your highness. Perkin lost nigh on five hundred, and daily they leave him to return to their homes.”

“Good news, indeed, sir. You have done well,” Bess said, dismissing the man.

Grace was pleased to hear the gentler tone in her sister’s voice, although her head was reeling so wildly with this information, she wondered that she noticed it. Richard had come! He had got as far as Taunton, and Henry had not stopped him. Was it possible he could reach London, and that he might take back his crown? The notion was at once exhilarating and frightening.

“R
IGHT WELL BELOVED
sister, I greet you with great sadness from Pasmer’s Place,”
Cecily wrote to Bess, who was reading aloud to Grace in the sun-filled solar.
“Two days ago, my sweet Anne was taken from us and is now with God and his angels.”
Bess’s eyes filled with tears, as she remembered the death of her own child a few years before. Grace held her hand and urged her to continue.
“It pains me to suffer this loss alone, for my noble husband is still with the king at Taunton and was unable to join me in the vigil over our daughter’s poor wracked body. Despite journeying to London to consult with the king’s physicians as recommended by Lady Margaret, God keep her, we were unable to discover a cure for her ailment, nor indeed name the terrible sickness that kept her in bed for the past two months. We know not if it will be passed on to Elizabeth, but, God be praised, she is healthy and strong as I write. Anne will be buried at the St. Augustine church on the morrow
.

“Dear Bess, I will wait to know when I should join you. My days hold no joy for me and are spent grieving and helping Elizabeth understand her sister’s death.”
Bess paused and looked up at her newest acquisition from Brussels, a floor-to-ceiling tapestry of a noblewoman surrounded by her children in a flower garden. “Cecily never paid her girls much attention, in truth. One day I asked her if she was glad to be a mother, and she merely shrugged, saying it was a woman’s lot to bear children. Certes, she feels differently now, poor Cis.” She sighed and lowered her eyes to the letter once more.

“Until then, I send my respects to you and my dear Grace, whom I miss greatly. Say a prayer for me, and ask our Holy Mother to intercede for Anne’s soul before God. Your devoted Cecily.”

Grace crossed herself, a tear dropping onto her new emerald gown. She would pray for Anne, but before that she prayed that she would never know the loss of a child.

Harry and Margaret were immediately sent for from Eltham. Bess was so distressed by Cecily’s news that she needed to embrace her own children as soon as possible. In the meantime, Grace brought Susannah and Bella into the queen’s presence more often, as Bess’s melancholy lifted every time she saw the little girls. Susannah had no more qualms about climbing onto Bess’s lap, and her chatter kept Bess smiling for many an hour over the next week. Grace was relieved when the two royal children and their retinues arrived one drizzly afternoon. Arthur, however, had earlier joined his father at Woodstock for the hunting and was now with him at Taunton.

“Arthur is so grown up, Grace, you will see. A good-looking boy with his red-gold hair, but not so handsome as Harry. However, I think England
is fortunate that thoughtful Arthur and not intemperate Harry will be king,” she confided later that day, after a special banquet was held in the prince and princess’s honor and the household had enjoyed roasted kid, porpoise and a swan that had arrived complete with its snowy-white feathers. The tables were cleared and the floor swept of rushes and debris from the feast to make room for dancing. Harry and Margaret were showing off a new dance they had learned together, and thoroughly enjoying the attention.

“He is vain for an eight-year-old,” Bess continued, “and already knows he is a prince among boys. Margaret is a plain Jane, in truth, but the two of them are so gifted in music and dance, and they love attention.” She smiled indulgently. “And both are always asking for new and finer clothes. Henry does not seem to be able to refuse them—for all he is usually a little close with his purse strings.”

A little, Grace thought scornfully, remembering the shabbiness of the apartment at Bermondsey and Elizabeth’s worn-out gowns. She watched as the two children, clothed in silk and satin as luxurious as any of their royal mother or aunts would wear, tripped lightly along the great hall’s floor to the music of viols, recorders and rebecs, which set feet tapping and heads nodding. Her position as Bess’s chief companion and half sister was not disputed by the other ladies, and thus no one thought she was breaking with etiquette when she invited Susannah up to join in the dance. The courtiers were amused by the picture of the earnest Susannah—an exact miniature of her mother—painstakingly learning the steps to the country dance, and they clapped along in time to encourage the little girl. Grace did not notice that Harry and Margaret had stopped dancing. The prince stood with arms akimbo, a sullen frown on his face as he watched them, while Margaret stalked off to her mother with her nose in the air.

Bess sighed. “They are much indulged at Eltham, it would seem. They need their father’s presence more.” And, not for the first time, she added, “I wish we had more news from him.”

A
FEW DAYS
later Henry obliged her with word that Perkin had fled the field at Taunton in the middle of the night,
“where he abandoned his army in all cowardice, like the baseborn varlet he is,”
Henry wrote.
“In two days he found sanctuary at Beaulieu Abbey, after trying to take ship in Southampton and finding all
ways to the coast barred by my quick action. There he languishes, it is said, dressed as a monk, while five hundred of my men surround the place.”

“But certes, Henry cannot violate sanctuary!” Grace exclaimed. “So Richard is safe.”

Bess said nothing. She knew her husband had frequently violated the safe haven that religious sanctuary was supposed to provide a person in terror of his life. Nay, Perkin was not safe, she knew.

“We are to go on a pilgrimage to Walsingham,” Bess said, reading the rest of the letter to herself. “Henry thinks a progress—to include Lady Margaret and Harry—will prove to the populace that England is once again safe from invasion, now that Perkin is cornered. And in truth, I think he wants me far away from London.”

Grace’s heart sank at the mention of Margaret Beaufort. Travel with Scraggy Maggie was the last thing she wanted to do, but as Cecily’s stand-in, she knew she had no choice. She still remembered the thin, stern face with its gold-rimmed spectacles glowering at her over Henry’s shoulder on the day she was sent from court; she was certain the woman disliked her. Her mind began to contemplate what arrangements she needed to make for Susannah and Bella, when Bess’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

“Where are you, sister?” she said, touching Grace’s hand and making her jump. “Come out of the woods, I beg of you. Ah, that’s better. I was saying that I would not require you to come on this progress for two reasons. I am more than well attended, and I know you would have to send Bella and Susannah somewhere, which might prove tiresome. But more than that, I believe it would be prudent to keep my mother-in-law out of your way until the Perkin affair is thoroughly resolved.”