“Prepare your bags and make haste, dearest Richard, before Charles decides you are a problem.
“Your devoted aunt,” she hesitated, pen poised over the paper, and then signed herself, “Margaret of England.”
23
England
WINTER AND SPRING 1492–93
March and April were blustery and rainy and then, early in June, the king at Kenilworth learned of a treaty signed by Charles of France and Maximilian, effectively ending the war between the two that had ravaged the countryside upon their borders for more than fifteen years.
June was also filled with rumors of an invasion by the man who was causing Henry concern and embarrassment from the Burgundian court, where he was being treated as a royal guest. Henry’s spies had scoured the Low Countries in search of clues to this obvious puppet of Margaret of Burgundy; Henry was desperate to find anything that would be plausible enough to stop the murmurings up and down England of a York revival. Indeed, there had been a few hangings when men had even dared gather together to whisper Richard, Duke of York’s name. Then when Sir Robert Clifford, one of Henry’s own household, flew the coop to the young duke’s side, Henry knew he must act. He secured the eastern ports against other defections or invasion and sent his ships to intercept those from Burgundy who were said to be carrying messages back and forth to James of Scotland.
“If only we had corpses,” Grace heard him grouse to Bess one day in the spring, when the court had moved to Warwick Castle. “Your Aunt Margaret keeps taunting me to show her the princes’ bodies.”
“Aye, and because you reversed Uncle Richard’s bastardy act against us all, you have created a legitimate prince, if he be alive,” Bess had said, riling Henry more.
“I need not be reminded of it, my lady,” he snapped at her, and Bess had fallen silent.
Now it was the end of June and Cecily had begged the queen’s leave to return to Hellowe with her attendants for the rest of the summer, which Bess was gracious to give, albeit reluctantly. “I love your company, sisters,” she had said on the day they left. “You will be sorely missed.”
Grace would be glad to see the warm stone Lincolnshire manor house set among trees again. It had been almost two years since she had been there, and she hoped this time Cecily would make good on her original promise to find Grace and Tom a house of their own. She hugged herself. She was convinced she was with child, although she could not be certain, for after the fausse couche in March her courses had been none too regular. She thought back on that sad day when, after missing two courses, her bile had risen violently and, as she ran to the garderobe to vomit the warm blood had coursed down her legs and she knew she was losing the baby. Not heeding the mess she had made of her favorite blue gown, she collapsed onto the hard wooden seat and felt the tiny life she and Tom had created slip down the shoot, to be carted away by the gong farmer on his next round. She could not control her weeping, and Cecily found her there half an hour later mourning her loss.
“Certes, Grace, do not grieve so hard. I have had several false starts, but then I conceived two healthy daughters, in truth. This is your first time to conceive, is it not? Aye, then ’tis often the case that a womb is not ripe enough to form a child. I promise you, you will be more fortunate next time, and at least you know you are fertile.” She talked and stroked Grace’s hair, which had come unbound from under her coif and tumbled around her tear-stained face. “Would you like me to fetch Tom, dearest?”
Nay, Grace had shaken her head. She had not even dared to tell Tom she was pregnant yet, for fear of tempting fate. She had seen a lone magpie the week before, hopping down the path in front of her, and her heart had jumped into her throat. “Good morning Master Magpie, how’s your wife?” she had murmured, but certes, it had not broken the bad luck.
“Be of good cheer, I beg of you,” Cecily told her. “Imagine the grief a mother knows when she has held the child and then loses it. Her grief is truer, do you not agree?”
It was what Grace needed to hear. She wiped her eyes and took the bundle of clean squares of linen Cecily offered.
“I shall arrange for a bathtub to be brought for you. You will feel better,” Cecily said as she slipped out of the cold stone alcove.
Cis had been right, Grace now thought. Her sadness had not lingered, and here she was, not three months later, already believing she was with child again. She still would not tell Tom yet, she decided. He would treat her with the utmost care, she thought with a smile, and she had enjoyed their nights of lovemaking until Lord Welles had moved on to Kenilworth with the king and Cecily had asked to go home.
Grace took great joy in making herself useful on the farm that belonged to Hellowe manor, and the head gardener gave her a small plot of land to work as she pleased. She and Edgar planted peas, leeks and beans, and she was often to be found there, bent double, with her skirts caught up in her belt, weeding and watering the tiny plants as they sprouted through the rich Lincolnshire soil. With one or two heartsease blooms stuck in the ribbon of her wide straw hat, and with her little greyhound puppy capering around her, she was a familiar figure in the fields, the cow byre and the sheep dip. They were close enough to the coast that Grace could swear she smelled the sea on windy days, and she began to feel a part of the gentle hills populated by hundreds of sheep—the wool from which had made the Welles family fortune.
One sultry morning in late June, after breaking their fast and saying morning prayers, Cecily watched her go from her solar window with a twinge of envy. She wished she had something she was passionate about to pass the monotonous days of summer. Not even Thomas Kyme was in the vicinity to dally with—he was tending to his business affairs in London for a month, and she missed him. She spent an hour or so playing with her two little girls, but that got tedious so she donned her pattens over her shoes and decided to see what Grace was doing.
As she passed the large dovecote and went under the archway into the kitchen gardens, she heard horsemen cantering up the stony drive. Calling to Grace to hurry back, she crossed the courtyard to the mounting block to await the visitors’ arrival with impatience. Finally, something to break the routine, she thought.
Grace heard her call and let down her skirts, wiped her sweating forehead and told Edgar to keep weeding. Edgar rolled his eyes, but she ignored him. She knew he considered gardening beneath him, but with only a few horses in the stable and Welles’s grooms to tend them, there was not much else for him to do. Grace gave him a stern finger-wagging, and he went back to work. She called to Freya, who had her nose in a rabbit hole, and went to join Cecily as fast as her clogs would allow.
The two men had just dismounted when Grace gave a cry of delight, as she saw Tom’s mop of yellow hair over the saddle of one horse. Hearing her voice, he gave his groom the reins and strode across the yard to take her in his arms, knocking off her hat. After kissing her several times with no thought of propriety, he set her down, laughing.
“If you could only see your face, my dearest,” he said, taking out a rather shabby kerchief and wiping a mud clot from her cheek. “’Tis clear you wasted no time in returning to the peasant life. And I love you for it,” he exclaimed, kissing her again, this time on the forehead.
“By Saint Sibylline!” Grace said, ignoring him as she stared at the piece of cloth in her hand. “’Tis the kerchief I made for you at Sheriff Hutton. You have kept it all this time?” She remembered with a tiny pang that she had last seen its duplicate in John’s hand in prison, but she had learned finally that John was in her past and that her present and future stood, nodding foolishly, by her side. “I am humbled,” she said softly, as she moistened a corner with her own spittle and let him dab at her face with it. “But what brings you at a gallop—besides me, certes!”
“Aye, Tom, what news have you? Not bad, I hope,” Cecily said, joining them. “Does my husband miss me?” she asked, mimicking a child and grinning. “Come, let us find you some refreshment; ’tis murderously hot out here. Grace, how ca
n you abide toiling all day in the sun?”
“I don’t think about it, Cis. There is so much to do, and every day God’s gift of the sun brings forth my plants. How can I complain?” Grace said, picking up her hat. She tucked her arm in Tom’s and followed Cecily up the steps and into the cool hall of the manor house.
Tom had two letters: one was to Cecily from Jack, and the second was from none other than the queen—to both of them. “Her grace knew my lord Welles was sending me to check that all was well at Hellowe, and she gave me this to give to you because, she said, ‘I miss my sisters.’” Tom looked up eagerly when Cecily’s steward ushered in two servants with pitchers of ale and some meat pies. Then he stood by discreetly.
Cecily ignored her husband’s missive and cracked open Bess’s seal. “Come sit by me, Grace. Let us see what Bess says.” As the two women pored over the fine script on the parchment, their eyes widened, and Grace let out a long breath.
Tom watched them, puzzled. “’Tis not bad news, I hope, my lady,” he said.
Cecily let out a peal of her inimitable laughter, aware that the steward and two servants were very much within earshot. “Bad news? Nay. She writes that his grace the king lost a fortune, including one of his favorite rings, in two card games called Plunder and Pillage. What perfect names, don’t you think? She says she wishes we could be with her because his grace is in such ill humor.” And she laughed again.
Grace stared at her, aghast, before her open mouth managed to discharge some facsimile of merry laughter to fob off the servants. How could Cecily lie so blatantly? she wondered. Did she not fear the flames of Hell? Grace still remembered every lie she had told and prayed daily for forgiveness.
Tom frowned. “I am surprised,” he said. “Her grace the queen seemed anxious when she approached me and asked me to make sure I did not lose the letter along my path.”
Grace caught his eye and frowned, while Cecily jumped to her feet and dismissed the steward with a wave. “Let us inspect Grace’s garden, if you are refreshed, Tom. I was on my way there when you arrived.” She led the way outside and read her own letter as they walked.
Once in the seclusion of the garden, after making sure that Edgar was busy with a cartful of manure at the other end, Cecily read Tom the relevant passage from Bess’s letter.
“I promised our mother before she died that I would allow Grace to go to our lady aunt’s court in Burgundy and find what she could about this imposter. It has been weighing on me that we are dishonoring our mother and father, as well as our brother, if it indeed be he, and I cannot sit by and not know. The king knows my mind on this but he is loath to allow any of us but Grace to travel at this dangerous time. But as a boon”—Cecily paused to harrumph—“he agreed that if Grace reports faithfully to us what she sees and hears, Henry will sanction a visit to Aunt Margaret under the guise of an aunt’s wish to meet her niece.”
Tom whistled. “Praise be they do not know you have been before,” he said, pulling Grace close. He did not say it aloud, but he was impressed that Cecily had kept her peace on this; she was not known for her ability to hold her tongue. “I pray they never find out,” he finished.
“Or ’tis the rack for you, my girl!” Cecily joked, seeing Grace’s worried look. “Let me continue. ‘I think Aunt Margaret will allow this particular visit, because if she is dissembling about the man, she would refuse to receive any of his sisters who knew him as a boy. Grace has never seen him and thus will not know one way or the other.’ She is clever, our Bess, I’ll give her that,” Cecily said.
“I wonder what made her change her mind,” Grace said. “She was so adamant he was an imposter every time we talked.”
Tom wiped his brow. The sun was hot and his worsted jacket was making him sweat uncomfortably. He took it off, loosed the ties of his shirt underneath and looked around for some shade. “There is more to this story, but if we may find a cooler spot, I would be grateful.”
Cecily led the way to a pond with a bubbling spring. “Hellowe, or Heghelow in the old English, is from belle eau in French,” Cecily explained as they removed their shoes and stockings, sat around the mossy edge of the lake and slipped their feet into its cool water. “It means beautiful water, and I suppose this was it.” With its border of yellow-flag iris and loosestrife and the ash trees shading it, the small lake was indeed a lovely spot. “But I interrupted you, Tom. Pray tell us more.”
“It seems Henry’s spies uncovered a tale of a young boy from Tournai—in Hainault, part of the Burgundian territories—whose father was naught but a boatman on the river there. He was taken from his parents at a young age by the bishop of that city, and from there it seems he disappeared. He went by the name of Piers or Pierrequin Werbecque or perhaps Osbeck. Here in England he is being called Perkin Warbeck.” Tom paused as the news was digested by his companions.
“I don’t believe it,” Cecily scoffed. “How could Aunt Margaret be duped like that? How could he have learned the graces of a prince by being a boatman’s son? ’Tis preposterous!”
“Certes, he is not a boatman’s son, Cis,” Grace said softly. “Aunt Margaret told me of our brother being safely hid in the castle at Guisnes and now being found. John believed it, too. ’Tis why Henry tortured and killed him. We had it from Sir Edward Brampton, who had just returned from Calais and came to the abbey. When I was at Malines, our aunt was convinced ’twas Dickon—even though, ’tis true, she had not yet set eyes on him.” She shook her head. “Nay, I fear Henry is grasping at straws.”
During the ensuing pause, Tom put a blade of grass between his thumbs and blew a raucous note with it. A large frog hopped off a lily pad and into the water with a plop and, across the pond, a heron lifted effortlessly into the air.
Cecily frowned. “I cannot conceive why Henry would condone this visit by Grace. It would appear to be tempting fate.”
“You are wrong!” Grace exclaimed, the light dawning. “I think this means Bess does believe this is Dickon, and Henry needs her on his side. Certes, he will expect me to report publicly that the man is an imposter. I may only be a bastard member of the family, but I am still a member of the family, and I will give Henry’s disavowal of Richard credence, don’t you see?”
Cecily let out a long breath of accord. “Aye, and Bess will believe you, Henry guesses. I think you have the measure of it, Grace.”
Tom grinned and patted his wife’s knee. “Not just a pretty face, are you, sweetheart?”
Cecily watched an iridescent dragonfly hover near her knee. “Then it seems to me you must prepare to return to our formidable aunt, my dear sister. Oh—and I forgot to tell you the rest of the letter, Tom. Bess wishes you to escort Grace, naturellement, as well as two or more armed guards from here for good measure. Henry is sending envoys to Maximilian, and you may take ship with them. I assume you will also want Edgar?”
Grace looked at Tom. He was plainly astonished by this new turn of events but did not say anything except, “When are we to leave?”
GRACE AND TOM were shocked when, during the voyage, they realized Henry had duped Bess by agreeing to send Grace to see this Perkin Warbeck. Tom had learned from one of the clerks traveling with the envoys that his master, William Warham, was coming to expose Perkin as a fraud in public at the court and shame Maximilian and Margaret into renouncing the man and giving him up to Henry.
“So much for the ‘great love’ Henry bears her,” Grace scoffed when Tom relayed this piece of news at an inn in Sluis, the port closest to Bruges. She pondered the information as they readied for bed, and suddenly she let out a little cry. “I have it!” she said. “Henry is so certain that Warham’s brilliant oration will convince everyone of Dickon’s falsity that I will not dare to deny it.” Tom gave a rueful sigh and took off his jacket; he had other, more lusty thoughts on his mind than unraveling King Henry’s twisted one. But Grace rattled on. “I have heard Warham speak, and he is magnificent, in truth. Aye, Henry thinks I will be forced to return home and confirm the man is
Perkin Warbeck and not Richard of York or be ridiculed. Ah, but he is a whey-faced vassal! And he is no match for me,” she announced smugly.
They had taken lodgings separate from Henry’s official party and were told they were welcome to travel with the envoys to Malines upon the morrow. When the innkeeper and his wife learned they were lodging the half sister to England’s queen, and niece to their beloved duchess, they gave up their quarters to Grace and Tom with much bowing and awed glances.
Believing her puzzling done, Tom unlaced his wife’s bodice and cupped his hands over her breasts, kissing the nape of her neck. She squirmed from his hold and swung round to face him. “I am in no mood for loving, Tom. Henry has put us in a difficult position.” She frowned, still suspicious of Henry’s motives. “I have in no way abandoned the possibility that my brother Dickon is alive and at Aunt Margaret’s court. Until I am given proof that he is an imposter, he has my undying loyalty. A pox on Henry—he is just afraid.”
But Tom ignored her rejection and bent to kiss her neck, lifting her chemise and sliding his hand between her thighs, making her forget Henry, Warham and even Dickon in his ardent pursuit of her undivided attention.
THE AUDIENCE CHAMBER at the ducal palace was crowded when the English embassy arrived two days later. Grace and Tom were eyed curiously by the bystanders nearest the door, where they chose to remain unheralded while William Warham and Edward Poynings approached the dais and gave their names to the chamberlain. Sixteen-year-old Philip, duke of Burgundy, sat ramrod straight in his high-backed throne under a purple and gold satin canopy, the double-headed eagle coat of arms on the wall behind his head. Grace was struck by his beauty—he had an oval face with dark eyes, a strong nose and a full mouth, all framed by fine golden hair falling to his shoulders, enhancing his fair complexion. Beside him sat his stepgrandmother Margaret in a deep blue belted gown, its fashionable square neck trimmed with pearls, and the kirtle underneath of pale blue silk.
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