The King's Grace (7 page)

“He looks like Father—and I think he will be like Father. He is a prankster and loved to make our lives a misery. His favorite game was playing hide-and-go-seek, and he could crawl into the tiniest of spaces and never make a sound, so we gave up looking for him. Then he would whine to Mother that we were being mean to him. I confess I was so happy when he was taken away from us in sanctuary and sent to join Ned in the Tower. Mother was distraught, but, in truth, even she was relieved he was gone. It was hard enough, all of us living there crammed into those few small rooms, without Dickon creating havoc every day.” Her tears began to fall again. “Now I wish we could have him back, and I pray for his return every night.” She sniffed and wiped her nose unceremoniously on the hem of her dress, making Grace giggle. “He did love to sing, and had a beautiful voice. He also loved me to sing him to sleep. I would only have to hum a few notes of ‘Douway Robin’ or another lullaby and he would close his eyes and drift off in no time at all. He looked so angelic then, with his flaxen hair and great long lashes lying upon his cheek, that ’twas hard to remember he had annoyed me earlier in the day.”

“I am sorry for you, Bess, truly I am,” Grace said, shifting her aching legs gratefully.

“And now I may have to marry this hateful Henry, who I have never laid eyes on,” Bess groaned.

“Perhaps you could ask Henry to find the boys,” Grace said absently, and was startled by Bess’s peal of laughter.

“Oh, Grace. You are such an innocent. Certes, Henry would like nothing more than if the boys are never seen again. ’Tis true, we have all been declared bastards, but still, two male York heirs at large would cause him many sleepless nights.” She sniffled again, then blew her nose. “I do not even understand why he is allowed to be king. He has but a tiny trickle of royal blood in his veins, and that came by a bastard of John of Gaunt. By rights the bastard Beauforts—and Henry is a Beaufort, in case you
did not know—were expressly forbidden to ever claim the crown. But, by the sweet Virgin, look at them now!” Her voice rose in anger, her tears forgotten.

Grace listened attentively. So much about her family was incomprehensible to her—not the least of which was how many bastards loomed large in it—but she was learning fast and could not wait to lie in bed and remember it all.

“It seems my mother was conspiring with Henry’s mother, the countess of Richmond and Derby, to arrange this match,” Bess said and then smirked. “Mother has always loathed that woman. She calls her Scraggy Maggie—her name is Margaret Beaufort, and she is tall and thin, you will see.” Seeing Grace nod, Bess was again ruefully reminded that the girl had met the Beaufort woman at court. “Why they brewed such a scheme, I cannot imagine,” she went on. “But Henry is said to have promised to marry me—he promised in front of a bishop in Rennes that first Christmas of Uncle Richard’s reign. Do you think they consulted me? Nay. I was but their pawn, and when Henry’s first attempt to invade back in Eighty-four came to naught, I thought the whole plan would come to naught, too. Damn him for trying again,” she cried, flinging the petals of a daisy into the wind and watching them swirl away.

Tom Gower heard Bess’s raised voice and loped towards them with the awkwardness of a youth who has not yet grown into his long limbs. Grace helped Bess to her feet, and they gathered up the garland.

“We are ready to go back, Tom,” Bess called, her pique subsiding. “You are bored, are you not?” Tom gave her a sheepish grin.

“Down, Jason!” Grace admonished Tom’s lurcher, who bounded towards her. Despite its size, she was unafraid of the tall, lean hunting dog, who did not have far to jump to lick her face as she ruffled its coarse gray coat.

Tom called the dog off. “There is a storm brewing, Lady Bess. I must return you to the safety of the castle or my uncle will give me a thrashing,” he said, pointing to the southwest. By the time they reached the inner bailey, the first raindrops were spitting against the castle walls.

T
HAT NIGHT
G
RACE
had trouble falling asleep. She often did when she had something on her mind to put right. There was the time when Sister Benedict’s rosary had gone missing. The nuns searched high and low, and Benedict became more and more distraught. It had been a family heir
loom, and everyone knew one of the stones was a ruby. One of the novices was brought before Mother Hawise, accused by a mean-spirited sister of stealing the beads. The novice was one of Grace’s bedfellows and she had worked alongside her in the garden all that day, so Grace knew the girl could not have been the thief. The accused was locked in one of the cells until the sheriff could spare the time to question her. Grace smuggled food through the tiny grille in the door and tried to console her friend. The next day in the garden, she racked her brain for an obvious solution—first believing it was the mean-spirited nun herself who had stolen it. And then she had seen the bird hopping on the ledge of one of the dormitory windows, where it had built its untidy nest.

“’Tis a jackdaw!” she cried, dropping her basket of peas and running towards the building. Several nuns watched her go, smiling indulgently. Grace was a child, and animals and birds fascinated her. But Grace tugged at Sister Benedict’s habit and bade the nun to follow her. The taller nun was able to reach up and pull the nest through the bars on the window, and sure enough, woven into the hair, twigs and other debris was her precious rosary. Grace had been the toast of the convent that day, and her fascination with puzzles had begun.

And the mystery of the missing boys was exactly the kind of puzzle that she would enjoy gnawing on, like a dog with a bone. As she lay pondering, she thought that solving it would make her family so proud of her that she would never feel left out again. With all the certainty of a twelve-year-old, she knew that if she tried hard enough, any problem could be solved—as simply as finding a rosary in a bird’s nest.

“W
E ARE TO
proceed to London at the end of the week,” Bess told her sisters once they were back in their apartments. “Sir Robert will escort us, and we shall be lodged at Mother’s old residence, at Ormond’s Inn. I know not what is in store for us, in truth, and nothing was said of any marriage between Henry and me,” she said, relieved, allowing Grace to unlace her tight bodice.

“Praise be to God,” Cecily cried, pulling off her headdress and letting her silvery hair loose. “I, for one, will be happy to leave this backwater for London.”

“Backwater?” Grace queried from behind Bess. “This is a magnificent castle, and we have everything we need.”

Cecily tossed her head. “’Tis a backwater, Grace, and full of Yorkshire turds!”

“Cecily!” exclaimed Bess and Grace together.

“Pray curb your tongue,” Bess admonished Cecily and checked to see that the door was well and truly closed. Lady Gower might be in earshot, and she was a proud Yorkshirewoman.

“Pah!” Cecily retorted. “Certes, you feel the same way. You told me so.”

“I told you in confidence, Cis. In our position you cannot go through life saying exactly what you think. That behavior is for peasants. When you take up your duties as Ralph’s wife, you will be allowed to say only what your husband tells you you may,” Bess lectured.

“You may behave that way, Bess, but I shall do and say as I please,” Cecily retorted. “I do not care a fig what my husband will say.” She cocked her snoot at an imaginary husband, causing Bess to roll her eyes and Grace to giggle. “I am weary of you telling me what to do. I am not a child,” she pronounced as she flounced up the two steps to the garderobe carrying a candle to light her way into the small dark recess carved out of the thick wall, where the privy was hidden.

“She has been like this ever since Mary died,” Bess confided in Grace. “You never knew our sister Mary—she was born between Cis and me, and she and Cecily did everything together.” Bess looked grave. “She died from a fever in Eighty-two, and Cis was heartbroken.” She paused. “We all were. Mary was Father’s favorite: full of life and forever laughing. Cecily tried to be like her to gain Father’s favor, but instead she became impertinent and willful.”

Grace absorbed the information and resolved to be more patient with Cecily. For a year now, she had been learning what it was like to be a sister and part of a family, and she could not bear to think of losing any of them. The Benedictines had treated her variously with kindness or indifference, depending on their inclinations, but truth be told she had never felt a part of the order, nor had she heard a calling. Mother Hawise’s constant reminders of Grace’s base-born beginnings became a cross the girl learned to bear bravely, but instead of looking on her keeper gratefully, Grace had hardened her heart against her. She had dreaded the day when she might
be forced into taking vows. Over the years, she grew a shell into which she would crawl at night and pray to St. Sibylline of Pavia—who had also been an orphan—for deliverance from the place. When Elizabeth’s messenger had come, she was convinced the saint had heard her plea.

Loud voices interrupted their conversation, and both girls ran to the window, leaving Margaret of Salisbury to peer over her bedclothes in fear.

“What is it?” Cecily called from the garderobe. “Who is shouting so?”

From their chamber on the third floor they could not make out the scene in the dark courtyard below, other than a few torches held aloft by seemingly invisible hands.

“I will go and see what is happening,” Grace said, surprising Bess with her fearlessness. She pulled her shawl from its peg by the doorway, covered her head and slipped out to the stone staircase. The stairs were lit with flambeaux, allowing her to wend her way round and round until she came to a small embrasure that, if she stood on tiptoe, gave her a clear view of the group of men in front of the great hall. She gasped when she recognized John, grim-faced in the center, his dagger drawn and Tom by his side.

“Aye, I am King Richard’s son,” he was saying. “His
bastard
son. Henry Tudor can have no quarrel with me!”

“Lord John, I beg of you, sheathe your dagger,” Sir John Gower said calmly, coming between John and the guards menacing the young men. “Do not make this more difficult for yourself.” More quietly, he told John, “Albeit you are the late king’s bastard, you are a natural rallying point for all Yorkists, and thus you represent a danger, my lord. Have a care.”

At that moment Robert Willoughby came striding across the courtyard from his quarters, demanding an explanation for the commotion. Gower stood in front of John, facing Willoughby, and attempted to make light of the situation. “’Tis the hunting party come late, Sir Robert,” he stammered, clearly nervous. “The lads meant no harm. The bum-baileys got lost in the forest, ’tis all. I will take them to task, have no fear.” He walked forward, smiling more confidently, as if to accompany the older man back to his apartment, distracting him from John. “Pray get some rest, sir; you have had a tiring day.”

Grace held her breath in her hiding place and sent up a prayer to keep John safe and turn Sir Robert’s footsteps away. But all had reckoned without John’s pride.

“I am able to speak for myself, Sir John, I thank you.” John brushed Gower aside and gave Sir Robert a stiff little bow. “John of Gloucester, sir. I am son of our late and beloved King Richard. May he rest in peace.”

Grace gasped at his audacity. “Oh, John,” she whispered. “How foolish of you. You might have escaped.”

Sir Robert stared at the young man before him and gave him a small bow in return. His orders made no mention of the young Captain of Calais, who was thought to have fled with Lovell into sanctuary, and he was at a loss to know what to do with the boy. Henry had been explicit that only Bess and “the sisters that lodge with her there,” as well as Warwick and his sister, Margaret, be escorted to London, “in their own time. No hurry, Willoughby,” Henry had said. “We do not wish to offend. Be gentle with them.” Young Gloucester was not part of the plan, and Sir Robert needed time to weigh his options.

“Take him to the guard room for the night,” he decided. “Gower, attend to his needs. We will talk more in the morning.” He put up his hand as Sir John tried to say something. “And there is an end to it,” he declared, turning on his heel and hurrying back to bed.

Gower instructed Tom to see to John’s comfort. In the torchlight he saw John’s angry face and put a restraining hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Go quietly, I beg of you. Chances are you will simply accompany your cousins to London. As you say, the king can have no quarrel with you.”

Four guards marched John to the guard tower and out of Grace’s sight. Will they put him in the same cell Anthony Rivers occupied? she wondered, horrified. Would the same fate befall her beloved John? She shivered and realized she was chilled by both John’s circumstances and the October night air. She hurried upstairs to relay her news.

T
HE NEXT DAY
Sir Robert sent a messenger to London with the news of John of Gloucester’s capture, and he calculated he would be long gone before a new order could arrive at Sheriff Hutton. “He will be in your charge, Sir John,” Willoughby said, pleased with himself. “’Twill be your first test of loyalty to our new sovereign. The lad will remain where he is until you know the king’s pleasure, is that understood?” Gower nodded assent but swore nothing.

Taking Henry’s edict to heart, Willoughby seemed in no hurry to de
part for the south, tarrying instead to hunt in Galtres Forest or fish in the Derwent a few miles east of the village. He was intent on making a good impression on the young woman who would, if Henry kept his long-ago promise, become queen, and so refused to rush her.

“The king’s grace has given me permission to ease your journey in any way I can,” the jovial Willoughby told the lovely young woman who sat at his right hand at dinner on the second day. “I have made arrangements for the finest carriage in York to be fitted out for you and your sisters, my lady. We shall not go until all is packed, and you need not leave anything behind.” His pale rheumy eyes twinkled at her. “I know how long a lady’s wardrobe and accoutrements take to pack—my lady wife tries my patience at times, I must confess. In the meantime, I shall take advantage of the fresh Yorkshire air and expect to provide a buck or two for the table during my brief stay.” He picked up the thighbone of a pheasant and carried it greedily to his mouth, leaving some of the gravy clinging to his mustache. Then he dipped a large hunk of bread into his trencher and sopped up the remaining savory juices noisily, smacking his lips and grunting in pleasure. “Good country fare,” he announced finally, not noticing Bess’s obvious disdain for his table manners, and waved at a ewerer to bring the finger bowl. “Would you care to join me in the hunt one day, my lady?”