IF BESS HAD qualms, they did not show upon her wedding day on the snowy eighteenth of January. She was radiant in white cloth of gold with a cloak of white fur lined with purple satin to keep her warm for the few paces from St. Margaret’s Church across the courtyard to Westminster Palace.
The papal dispensation was barely dry when Henry plighted his troth to Elizabeth of York, oldest daughter of King Edward the Fourth, in the sanctuary. Henry had allowed the people to enter the inner walls of the palace on this occasion, as he wished as many of his subjects as possible to witness the unification of the houses of Lancaster and York. He knew this match would help quell the rumblings and stabilize his crown, and he was right: the Londoners cheered their young queen lustily as she smiled and acknowledged their good wishes.
Only Henry, Grace and Cecily—and perhaps the laundress who washed Bess’s petticoats following Henry’s secret visit in December—knew that Bess did not go to her husband a virgin. But only Bess knew that she also went to him already carrying his child.
4
Middelburg
YULETIDE 1485
Right noble lady and beloved aunt,
I give you greeting this Christmas season from the cold and snowy north. You will be surprised to know I am not in Bruges but in Middelburg. There was plague in Bruges and Lady Brampton was afraid, so I was sent with her and some other servants to Middelburg. I became ill, so Master John Strewe, the merchant who is a friend to Lady Brampton, was kind enough to take me in. Do not worry, aunt; I do not have the plague, but after many weeks of sickness I am well enough to learn to be a page. We are very close to Lady Brampton’s house, and she came to see me twice. I will return there at the end of the week.
I do not like this island, aunt. Have you been here? The castle takes up too much space and so the houses are crowded and not beautiful, like in Binche. There is always fog here from the sea or it is raining or snowing, and the walls in my chamber have green patches that are slimy. I have seen rats as big as cats in the streets, and there are many mouses in this house. The Dutch people are not friendly like those in Brabant, but perhaps ’tis because I do not know their language well. Master Strewe speaks French and English, and I am happy to talk with him, now that I am not with fever. They say I almost died. I am certain my illness was because I was homesick for you, ma chère Tante Marguerite. I cried many nights after we parted at Binche. But Lady Brampton seems kind, I cannot deny it. But she does not love me like you love me, because I am only a page. The household addresses her in French, but she likes to practice English with me.
I was very happy for the new warm clothes you gave me, and more than anything for the thick wool stockings, which I wear to bed every night. I am used to the bedbugs now, but the stockings help keep them from biting my legs. I share a bed with one of Merchant Strewe’s apprentices. He is the same age as me but he speaks only Dutch. He is teaching me a few words, and I am teaching him some French. Lady Brampton has promised me that I will be with her for the Twelfth Night celebration, and afterwards she is expecting that we return to Bruges. That will make me very happy.
How is my dog Pepin? I think about him all the time. I hope Chevalier de la Baume is kind to him. I miss Sire de Montigny also, but I do not miss his Latin lessons. I know it is important for me to know Latin, because you said it was, but it does not help me here in Middelburg. Perhaps in Lisbon it will be useful.
I will write again after I have learned my duties. Please write to me soon! Until then, I send you my dutiful love. Semper te adstringo, which I hope means I am bound to you always, my dearest aunt.
Your devoted nephew Jehan Pierrequin
5
London and Winchester
SUMMER AND AUTUMN 1486
After a particularly wet spring, the summer’s sun was a welcome relief to Londoners tired of wading through mud in the street and lying in straw beds soggy from leaks in thatched roofs. The gong farmers had cause to complain, however, as they plied their carts full of human waste in and out of the city gates to the ditches that encircled the walls. Putrid steam from the rain-sodden refuse rose in the heat to intoxicate the swarming flies, and even the stalwart carters needed kerchiefs over their noses and mouths as they shoveled off their loads. On days when the wind blew from the south and east, Ormond Inn’s casements were shut against the stench that marred the otherwise tranquil location of the house. A few cases of plague had been reported inside the city gates in July and August, causing the queen dowager to forbid her immediate attendants access to the town.
When Bess moved her household to Westminster Palace, she took Cecily with her as her companion. Cecily was euphoric when Henry informed her that Ralph Scrope of Upsall was not good enough for the queen’s sister, and, besides, had the man not been forced upon her by King Richard against her will? When Cecily readily acquiesced—in front of witnesses—the legal process of dissolving the marriage began.
“Promise you will not tell Cis, Grace,” Bess confided to her half sister one day, not long after this joyful news was given to Cecily. “Henry is not dissolving the marriage out of charity, but because he has a grander prize for his sister-in-law.”
Grace waited, her head cocked, as was her wont.
“Cecily is to wed Henry’s half uncle John, the Viscount Welles,” Bess whispered.
Grace could not help but exclaim: “Poor Cis! ’Tis Scraggy Maggie’s brother, is it not? But he is old, Bess, and he has the same long teeth as his half sister.” She grimaced, trying to imagine the gaunt, balding lord kissing Cecily.
Bess sighed. “Aye, he is close to forty years, I think. But Cecily is sixteen and needs a noble husband. He is as close to the king as a man can be,” she said, defending her husband’s decision.
“In truth, Cis may think she was better off with Ralph Scrope,” Grace said, half to herself.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Grace,” Bess retorted. “’Tis the position, not the man, that matters in marriage. Remember that.” And Grace had wisely held her peace. She was not sure Cecily would see things Bess’s way.
And she was right.
“Holy Mary, Mother of God, what did I do to deserve that scrawny skeleton?” Cecily railed at Grace a few days after Henry had broken the news. “His breath smells of pig’s urine and I could have sworn I saw a louse drop from his head once. What is worse, Grace, is that his lands are in the Lincolnshire fens. I shall probably end up sucked into a bog.”
Grace bit her lip to keep from laughing. Cecily flounced about the room, kicking at the rushes and crying foul. Grace poured some wine and coaxed her into a chair, speaking sympathetic words as Cecily gradually fell silent. “Bess wants you with her,” she soothed. “You may not have to go north, Cis. Look on the bright side: you will have your own household now, and maybe your own child.”
The mention of children caused Cecily to wail once more. “But that means I have to…oh, you know. The idea horrifies me. Oh, Grace, what shall I do?”
Kicking herself for her thoughtless remark, Grace was unable to respond to Cecily’s satisfaction, so the older girl got to her feet and without any more ado announced she was returning to the palace. She left Grace staring after her with astonishment tinged with compassion.
WHEN CECILY REMOVED to Westminster with Bess, Grace remained with the queen dowager and missed her sisters’ company. It seemed Elizabeth was loath to let Grace go, and Cecily was full of sympathy. But Grace was more accepting of her fate after Elizabeth explained the situation in no uncertain terms.
“We know not if Henry—or more likely his dried-up mother—would view a bastard of Bess’s father as suitable attendant on his queen,” Elizabeth told her. Grace bit her lip. She could not remind the dowager that Bess herself was officially still a bastard, according to King Richard’s law.
But by March, all was put right and Henry’s parliament restored not only Elizabeth and her children’s good names but all of Elizabeth’s manors and properties that were forfeited during Richard’s short reign.
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When the news reached Elizabeth, she spent the day praying in her little chapel and her brighter mood gave Grace the courage to persevere in her research into her family. “May I beg an indulgence, your grace, and ask an ignorant question?” She was relieved when Elizabeth nodded graciously. “King Henry must be certain your two sons are”—Grace choked on dead and tried to find an alternative—“out of the way,” she finally chose, “for, if I am right, one of them might…could return and demand his rightful crown now all your children are no longer bast—” Grace stopped, horrified, as Elizabeth’s usually impassive face crumpled in anguish.
“My boys, my beautiful boys!” she sobbed. “Certes, they are dead, Grace. Or else where are they? Richard promised me they would be safe. How foolish I was to give my baby boy up to him in sanctuary—he said it was for Edward’s sake, his brother who was lonely at the Tower. And I believed him, God help me. When the archbishop—old Russell—came that last time, I knew I could no longer fight Richard.” She paused to blow her nose. “They pulled my boy from me, Grace. He was weeping, I was weeping and I gave him one last kiss, telling him I knew not when we would be together again. And so Richard had his way—and I have not seen either boy since.” Her grimace marred her beautiful face. “I had not hated Richard until that day he snatched my baby from me, in truth,” she said. Then she leaned in to Grace and her voice was softer. “There is no proof that Richard harmed them, but he took my boys, and, woe is me, he took my crown and my dignity. ’Tis hard to forgive.” Her pale blue eyes lowered to Grace’s upturned face again, and she took the girl’s chin between her delicate fingers. “Aye, you are correct, child. The king would be in a boat without an oar if one of them had been found alive after Bosworth, and ’twould not surprise me if ’twas Henry and not Richard who ended their sweet lives,” she murmured. “’Tis true I hated Richard for taking them, but I cannot justify all that I knew of Richard and believe him a cold-blooded murderer. In truth, he worshipped his brother, and I cannot think he could have so dishonored Edward’s memory. Nay, they are either still alive and abroad somewhere, or they sickened and died in the Tower—perhaps even after Henry took the crown. If they are abroad, I might add, Henry would do well to send his spies to look for them now that my children are once again legitimate, for my son Edward could rightly return and claim his throne. At least one of my children wears a crown—or should I say will wear one, if he ever deigns to give Bess a coronation. I suppose queen consort is better than nothing.” Then, without warning, she rose to her feet and ended the discussion. “Lady Katherine! I am for bed. Come, attend me,” Elizabeth called to her chief attendant, who was conversing quietly with the other ladies. She chuckled, her good mood restored as quickly as it had disappeared, and finished her celebratory cup of wine. “Young Lady Grace asks too many questions.”
Retrieving the cup from Elizabeth, Grace looked sheepish. “I crave your pardon, madam. Mother Abbess always said I should think before I open my mouth. Pray forgive me.” Her dainty head tilted to one side and her brown eyes penitent, Grace was the picture of contrition, and Elizabeth smiled in spite of herself.
“You are forgiven, child. Now off to bed with you. I have kept you too long.”
“God keep you this night, your grace,” Grace murmured and slipped quietly from the room.
Grace knelt by the bed she shared with her half sister, Anne. After so many years of practice at the abbey, she was able to reel off the rote prayers while she examined several more pieces of the puzzle of her new life.
“YOU HAVE A letter, Lady Grace,” the steward announced one brilliant day late in August, disapproval written all over his face. “Her grace, the queen dowager, has allowed me to give it to you.”
Grace was nonplussed. Who would write to her? she wondered. Thanking the steward, she took the missive and wandered down the wooden steps that led from the house into the private herber. In order to be closer to Bess, Elizabeth was now leasing Abbott’s House at Westminster within the confines of the cathedral, and just over the wall from the palace. Grace found her favorite excedra and, sitting down, stared at the letter’s seal and her name written in a neat hand. “Lady Grace Plantagenet, in the care of her grace, Queen Dowager Elizabeth.” It was the first time she had seen her name written, and it made her tingle with pleasure. Indeed, this was the first letter she had ever received, and she wanted to savor the excitement for as long as possible. A more impatient person would have torn it open and read it four times by now, she thought, amused at her own foolishness. She finally turned it over and broke the seal. Then she could not refrain from reading the signature and, with a gasp of pleasure, she hugged herself with joy. John! He had not forgotten her.
As Elizabeth had suggested, Bess had persuaded Henry that John of Gloucester posed no threat and so begged that he be let out of his prison at Sheriff Hutton. Henry had agreed to send him to Middleham Castle, where John would be more comfortable but still under surveillance. Henry had even agreed to give John a small pension, which Bess allowed was generous of her husband. Then came the news that Francis Lovell had escaped sanctuary and was fomenting rebellion in the Yorkshire dales, a region Francis knew well from his knightly training at Middleham and his wife’s family estates nearby. Henry, on his progress, quickly moved troops to put down the rebels, hoping to trap Lovell and his cronies. Grace had held her breath when she had heard these tidings, wondering if John had been able to escape and join his master and other loyal Yorkists in the region. But Lovell, with the rebels scattering, had fled farther north, to the Furness Fells, and then disappeared. Grace had not dared ask Bess what had become of John. “Out of sight, out of mind” was a maxim Sister Benedict had taught her so that she could avoid being singled out during one of the mother abbess’s many rampages. She thought the less John was mentioned at Henry’s court, the better for him.
“John! John has written to me,” she told a peacock that strutted with proud disdain a few feet from her, his long iridescent tail trailing behind him as he searched for food in the grass. “Oh, listen, I beg of you,” she called, but the peacock sauntered off.
“My sweet cousin, Grace, I greet you well from Middleham. It seems our new king granted me leave to return here, but I am still under suspicion and unable to leave. I was throwing crumbs for the birds today, and I was reminded of you.” I doubt you would know me now, John, Grace thought, as you have not seen me for a year. I shall be fourteen in a few months and I have grown like a weed, the queen dowager tells me. Not upward, but outward. She chuckled, glancing down at her generous breasts. “I received your letter and your gift of the kerchief from Tom, and I thank you for your kindness. Tom continues to train at Sheriff Hutton and will be squire to our cousin of Lincoln in due course. You will see him in London ere long, I dare swear.” Tom is coming to London, Grace thought, pleased. Perhaps he will find time to take me fishing. She smiled, remembering the day she fell into the Derwent. “I suppose you are informed about my master’s treasonous activities this summer. He is gone from here now and can no longer harm our dear lord and sovereign Henry, praise be to God for his escape.” Grace gulped. She could not believe John would use words like treasonous when referring to Francis Lovell, to whom John was so devoted. The lord had been his father’s best friend, so Grace was told. She frowned, re-reading the text, as John knew she would. Then she saw a new meaning in the phrase praise be to God for his escape. “Certes,” she said aloud, pleased with her discovery. John had been cleverly ambiguous as to whose escape he was thankful for; upon first reading, it would appear to be Henry’s. He writes this in case the letter falls into the wrong hands, she thought, intrigued.
“I cannot complain of my treatment, but I long to see my family once more. You are all in my prayers. Lastly, if it is possible that you speak to our cousin Jack of Lincoln, perhaps you could relay this piece of humor. His dog spends his time frolicking in a field of marguerites, and I believe he is seeking Jack there. The faithful hound is lost without him. ’Tis not all
that important, Grace, but for the dog’s sake I hope you will tell him. Farewell, my little wren, I pray one day I shall be permitted to be among you all again. Your loving cousin, John.”
Grace’s puzzled frown accompanied her back to the house as she attempted to see what was funny about a poor dog’s infatuation with daisies.
“WHY CAN I not have the babe here or at Westminster, Henry?” Bess had asked her husband when he’d informed her of his decision to send her to Winchester for the birth of their first child. Cecily had been in attendance on her sister that day and relayed the conversation to Grace the next time they were together.
“What did he say? Why do you think he wants to move Bess to Winchester, Cis?” Grace asked. They were lying beneath an oak tree near the herb garden, enjoying the warmth of a late-summer afternoon. She looked forward to Cecily’s visits, when she would hear all the court gossip. “Is it not foolish to travel during the last few weeks of pregnancy? Could it not bring the child early?”
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