“What a green girl you are, Grace,” Cecily scoffed. “Bess is not due for at least another month.”
“Then ’tis a monstrous big babe she is carrying.” Grace chuckled. “She resembles a ship in full sail.”
“Aye, she does.” Cecily laughed. “And she spends most of her day in the garderobe, pissing. But to answer your question, sister, Henry told Bess that Winchester was where King Arthur sat with his knights of the round table and that it would be good for England for their first child to be born there. And if ’tis a boy, he will be named Arthur. Henry actually believes he is descended from King Arthur. Pah! What a notion—his grandfather was a groom and his grandmother a princess of France on his father’s side, and his mother is descended from bastards.”
“Soft, Cecily,” Grace warned, putting her finger to her lips. “You must have a care. Her grace, your mother, is convinced Scraggy Maggie has planted spies in our house.”
“What do I care about that old termagant? She is a thorn in everyone’s side, and”—she chose to lower her voice to give her opinion—“Henry cannot go to the jakes without her permission.”
Both girls rolled over onto their stomachs, laughing again. They could hear the monks chanting in the cathedral behind them, and a blackbird entertained them with its fluty warble overhead. Elizabeth was in the house giving instructions to her steward for packing up the household for the journey to Winchester. Henry had flattered his mother-in-law by choosing her as one of the godparents to his firstborn, and she was eagerly anticipating the first grandchild of her marriage to Edward. Grace had been overjoyed to learn she, too, would travel with the royal party, especially as her three other half sisters had been sent off to Berkhampsted to be with Grandam Cecily. Grace had yet to meet the matriarch of the York family, and from all she had heard of Proud Cis, she was not looking forward to the time when she might.
“I suppose we shall have to tolerate Lady Margaret in Winchester,” Grace said, grimacing. The first time she had met the domineering Margaret Beaufort, the woman had uttered but one single word: “Pretty.” But her icy gaze from under hooded eyelids sneered, “another of Edward’s by-blows.” Tall and bony, she towered over Grace, and her once-attractive face was gaunt and starkly framed by a white widow’s barbe. Her thin-lipped mouth rarely smiled, and each grudgingly affected smile revealed long, yellowed teeth. She looks like a horse, Grace thought, hoping that the simile would render the king’s mother a little less terrifying to her. When Bess had told her mother that Lady Margaret would not be relinquishing her apartments to Henry’s new queen, Elizabeth had gritted her teeth. “But those were my apartments—the queen’s apartments,” she responded angrily. “Not the queen mother’s. You should have them, Bess. What arrogance!”
“I do not mind, Mother,” Bess had soothed. “I prefer my rooms overlooking the river, truly I do.”
“Then you are a fool to give her an inch, my girl,” was Elizabeth’s conclusion.
Cecily propped herself up on an elbow and grinned. “Ah, but Scraggy Maggie will not be at Winchester, Grace. ’Tis the best part about us going. I am sure when Henry told her that our mother was to be the godparent, she must have been so put out that she is not even attending the birth and has removed herself to the king’s estates at Kenilworth. Good riddance, I say.”
Grace laughed. “’Tis hard to believe you will be her sister-in-law soon.” She was glad Cecily had finally accepted her fate and had resigned herself to being Countess Welles when the legal process of the Scrope dissolution and new marriage contract could be finalized. Henry did not seem to be in any hurry, and Cecily, who lived for the moment, often forgot she was betrothed.
“Aye, I shall be able to snap my fingers at her, like this,” Cecily said imperiously.
“Neigh!” the two girls chorused, imitating Margaret Beaufort’s high whine and collapsing in laughter.
“Grace,” Cecily changed the subject. “Is that a new gown? Certes, green becomes you well.”
Grace was flattered; it was the first time Cecily had commented on her looks. She smoothed the soft damask and nodded. “Aye. Your mother was good enough to let me choose the cloth. I am happy you like it. She has been so kind to me, Cis. She tells me my hand is neater than her clerk’s, and she has entrusted me with the writing of several of her private letters. ’Tis a great honor.”
Cecily arched her brows. “In truth, I am surprised. Mother trusts so few people now. She has never confided in me, but she has to Bess. Now Bess is married…she must need you. There is something in you that must please her,” she said, for once choosing not to tactlessly remind Grace that Elizabeth had no reason to be kind to a bastard of her husband’s. Attending Bess, under Lady Margaret’s strict supervision, was teaching Cecily to hold her tongue and mind her manners. “And I am glad you are coming to Winchester.”
“Me, too,” Grace said. “I pray Bess has a boy to satisfy Henry. There are too many girls in our family, in truth. Little Warwick is the only boy, but we never see him.”
“Aye,” Cecily said, “and Margaret is stuck in Suffolk with Aunt Elizabeth. ’Tis sad what has become of them.” She sighed, winding a stray tress of golden hair around her finger. “I try not to think about it, but I miss my brothers.”
“Her grace tells me I was born on the Feast of the Epiphany in the same year as Dickon. How I wish I could know what he is like. Do you think they will ever find him and Edward?” Grace whispered.
Cecily shrugged. “I know Mother fears they are no more, Grace. Many people lay the guilt at Uncle Richard’s feet, but I truly do not believe he harmed them. He was too kind to all of us—aye, even mother, after she came out of sanctuary. And he loved Father too well. I do not think Mother would have agreed to be at court with him if she imagined he had murdered her boys.” She looked over her shoulder to make sure they were alone before murmuring, “I think they were taken away—maybe even abroad. Bess thinks I am foolish, but if I am not right, where are they? If they are dead, then why does Henry not bury them with honor and declare Uncle Richard a murderer? Because there are no bodies, ’tis why. And why did no one come forward after uncle’s death and say he was made to murder them under pain of his own death? Henry would have been merciful. Indeed, he would have been relieved to know the boys were well and truly dead. If they are still alive, his throne is not really safe. Do you understand all of this, Grace?”
Grace nodded vigorously. “Aye, I think about it all the time,” she said. “’Tis a riddle, and I love solving riddles. If you are right that they are abroad, where would they go? And wouldn’t somebody recognize them?”
“Nay,” Cecily said, shaking her head. “They were very young, and so not often in public view. Dickon was always with Mother, so only those in her train might recognize him, and they are still with Mother. But Edward was at Ludlow for many years under Lord Rivers’s supervision and only went through London once after Father died, when Uncle Richard rode with him into the city. Why, even I have trouble conjuring up their faces, I am ashamed to say, and so they certainly would not be known abroad. They could easily hide.”
“But where?”
Cecily grinned. “You have not met our Aunt Margaret, have you?” Grace shook her head. “She’s a clever one, I heard Father say. And she hates anyone from the house of Lancaster. If the boys are anywhere else but England, they are sure to be with her.”
“But now that Henry has made all of you legitimate, why doesn’t Aunt Margaret send Edward back to claim his throne?”
“That is the question of the age, Grace. I do not know.”
A FEW DAYS later, in a blaze of color, the mile-long cavalcade snaked its way through the rolling hills of Surrey, past the bustling market town of Guildford and on its way to the ancient capital of England at Winchester in Hantshire. Henry led the way as the procession wound through the town and villages, with Bess comfortably ensconced in a large carriage, surrounded by her mother and sisters. Grace was honored to be among the royal women, comforta
bly reclining on cushions, although she did not care for the attention they got from the cheering townsfolk, who showered Bess with September flowers—the white and yellow yarrow, pale blue scabious and sweet-smelling honeysuckle. “God bless Queen Bess,” they shouted, and occasionally Grace heard a lackluster “God save the king.” The English loved their gracious sovereign lady, long known to them as King Edward’s gentle daughter, but Henry had not yet earned their devotion. Grace could understand their reserve as she observed his rigid body and severe expression. His fierce and supercilious air was not aided by eyebrows that arched down to a point above his beaklike nose. When he did smile, it did not reach his eyes, which could pierce through even the most confident courtier and unnerve him.
“Grace, my dear sister,” Henry had greeted her early in his courtship of Bess. “Certes, you are welcome at my court whenever you please. Bess speaks highly of you, although ’tis surprising”—he paused for effect—“seeing how low to the ground you stand.” Then he had laughed, a high reedy laugh that did nothing to ease Grace’s discomfort in his presence. She had curtsied and said nothing. Henry had moved on with nary a second glance. Over time, she had lost her trepidation and responded to his greetings with less reticence, but she knew he must find her company dull. She envied Cecily her gregarious nature and watched with astonishment as she pushed the boundaries of sister-in-law teasing to within an inch of being disrespectful. Henry never rebuked her, although her mother often did. “He is the king, Cecily, and deserves your respect and deference. I pray you do not live to rue it, for he has been known to hang a man for less,” Elizabeth had admonished her. “’Tis my devout wish that the marriage with Welles take place soon.” And Cecily had rolled her eyes at Grace behind her mother’s back.
Now and then Henry would dismount and walk beside the carriage, commanding that the gauzy curtains that kept out the dust and flies be rolled up so he could check on Bess’s comfort. He does care for her, Grace thought, noticing that his blue eyes never wavered from his wife’s face as she responded to his concerned questions. Every few hours he would call a halt, and the ladies were helped down from the chariot to stretch their legs and make use of a hole in the hedge to slip into a field and relieve themselves. It was on one of these breaks that Grace, wandering back along the column of courtiers, carts, servants and stragglers, saw the earl of Lincoln emerging from a field and lacing his codpiece. Recognizing her and seeing her embarrassment, he promptly turned his back to finish his task.
“How now, pretty coz,” he said when he reached her side. Tilting her chin, he bent and kissed her. “I have not seen you much at court. Are you not in attendance on Bess?”
Grace smiled up at him. A handsome man, she thought, but not as handsome as her John. He had grown a beard, which made him look older than his twenty-four years. “I am in attendance upon the queen dowager, my lord,” she replied, feeling small next to his above-average height and knightly bearing. “Having one sister in her train is enough for Bess, I warrant.”
“And Cecily is enough sister for anyone, I dare swear,” he said, grinning. “She always has been a handful.”
“My lord—Cousin John,” Grace was determined that she would not be intimidated by his age and stature. “I am most happy to see you, because I have a message to give you, and if I had waited much longer I might not have remembered it…” She trailed off, afraid she was gabbling, and calmed herself. “’Tis important, and I am happy to see you.”
“Aye, I gather you are happy to see me,” Lincoln encouraged her with a smile. “As I am you, little coz. But now, I pray you the message, Grace—and, more to the point, its messenger.”
Grace took a deep breath and started again. “I received a letter from my other cousin John—John of Gloucester,” she clarified.
Upon hearing John’s name, Lincoln’s face tensed. “What does he say?” he asked, looking about him for eavesdroppers.
“’Twas an odd message. Let me see if I can remember it correctly.” She did not dare reach into her bodice, where she kept the letter next to her heart at all times, so she thought carefully. “He said it was naught but a little humor, but I was to tell you that your dog spends his time frolicking in a field of marguerites—daisies, you know—and John thinks the dog is seeking you there. ‘The hound is lost without him,’ were his exact last words. Does that make any sense, cousin?” Grace had been staring up at the wispy clouds overhead as she concentrated on delivering the message and so was surprised by Lincoln’s expression when she looked back at him. His eyes had narrowed and his smile turned into a hard line. He grasped her arm—a little too roughly for her liking—and frightened her.
“Have you told anyone else about this message, Grace?” he said quietly, glancing over her head to the front of the procession and then behind him. “I hope you have not.”
“Nay, my lord. You are hurting me, my lord,” she whispered, and John immediately dropped her arm, patting it gently in apology. “What does it mean, cousin?”
“Can you keep a secret, Grace? Or perhaps I should not burden you—perhaps you are too young. But I dare swear that if John trusted you with this, so can I.”
Grace nodded and crossed her heart. “I would never do anything to hurt John. And I am of no consequence to anyone at court, so who would think to question me?”
“I believe you are right,” he agreed, brushing a few stalks of hay from his jacket. “You are nimble-witted, Grace. And you might be very useful to our family, if the need ever arises.” He looked at her intently, calculating her worth. “The dog John refers to is Lord Francis Lovell.” He paused when he heard her intake of breath. “You know him? Aye, certes you do, because he is John’s lord. The dog is the badge of Lovell, Grace, and I believe the field John describes is Burgundy.”
“How do you know that, cousin?” The riddle was beginning to unravel.
“Because the marguerite is the badge of our Aunt Margaret,” Lincoln told her, and was amused to see her eyes widen in delight at his interpretation of the message. “You have remembered well, little Grace, and you have carried out a very important task, for which I thank you. Uncle Richard was right about John: he’s a clever lad.”
“I do not understand why John did not simply write to you, my lord.” Grace was thinking out loud. “It did not make any sense to me, but you understood at once.”
“No one cares about a love letter from a young man to his lady, coz. But don’t you see, a letter from Cousin John to me would have been censored and deciphered before it reached me—if it ever did. Such an odd message to another might have been considered suspicious.”
Grace nodded, her tremor of fear overcome by her pleasure that Lincoln thought it was a love letter. Then she remembered the part in the letter about Tom. “I hope you do not think me forward to ask about my friend Tom Gower of Westow. Is it true he will be in your service soon?”
“Aye, he will join my service in London after Henry’s brat is born. His uncle asked me to employ him, and in thanks for the Gowers’ loyalty, I am glad to do it. He is a good lad.” He picked a harebell from beneath the hedge and gave it to her. “Now, you must return to the carriage before you are missed. I am still a person of suspicion for Henry, and I do not want him to think we are plotting his downfall, you and I,” he teased her. As he bent to kiss her, he whispered, “Promise me you will not tell anyone of this. I must appear to be Henry’s man now, but this news is of great importance to me and to our followers.”
“I swear on Saint Sibylline’s holy name,” Grace whispered back, crossing herself. “’Tis my special saint—of orphans,” she explained, seeing Lincoln nonplussed. “And, my lord,” she told him confidently, “do not forget that I, too, am a York.” Then she turned, picked up her skirts and ran back to the carriage, hugging her secret and glowing with pride that she had been entrusted with it.
Lincoln’s eyes followed her slender form as he settled his soft hat on his head and hoped he would not regret the conversation.
&nb
sp; “’TIS A BOY!” The cry was taken up and passed from the birthing chamber to those anxiously awaiting the news in the chapter house of Winchester Priory, chosen for Bess’s lying-in because crumbling Winchester castle had long since been abandoned as a royal residence. Henry was jubilant; he had sired an heir—and in the first year of his reign. What could be more perfect than that this boy was born in England’s ancient capital? Winchester had not seen an heir to the throne born there since the third Henry in 1207, Prior Thomas Hinton had told his guests proudly. “All thanks be to the Almighty,” he crowed.
“Praise be to God, a boy,” was all Bess could muster after her ordeal. She had not seen her mother’s sad eyes as she watched the wet nurse put Arthur to her breast. Fourteen years before, Elizabeth had lain in that same chamber and given birth to a little girl who did not live to see that Christmas. She was lying in her tiny sarcophagus next to Edward’s at Windsor, and one day Elizabeth herself would join them.
“Arthur, his name shall be Arthur,” Henry exulted, raising his jewel-encrusted cup and exhorting those present in the refectory to do the same. His relief was palpable after many hours of hearing Bess’s pain echoing through the quiet cloisters of the priory in the cathedral grounds.
Henry was chagrined his mother was not there to share in the joy of his son’s birth. He had explained her absence to Bess, who had been as curious as her sisters about it, as being a natural reluctance on her part to witness a first birth when she herself had come so close to death during her labor with Henry at the tender age of fourteen. “Perhaps the next one,” Lady Margaret had said to him, “when a child slips more easily into the world. I shall go to Kenilworth and cede my place to Bess’s mother. Besides, ’twill be a sound diplomatic gesture, Henry.”
And so Henry had agreed, as he so often did when his mother gave advice. He would be eternally grateful to his parent for orchestrating his journey to the throne, and he knew she had a mind as agile as any man’s and wanted only the best for him. There was nothing he could refuse her, it seemed. He even condoned her walking only half a step behind Bess instead of the customary full step, and clothing herself as richly as the new queen. Bess had admitted to Cecily—who had in turn told Grace—that she was afraid of Lady Margaret’s influence with Henry.
The King's Grace Page 12