“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, Richard’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.
“RIGHT 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 Elt
ham, 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.”
Grace grinned. “You mean keep me out of her way, my considerate sister,” she teased. “In truth, I must confess I am much relieved on all counts. Where shall I attend you upon your return?”
Bess pondered the question for a moment and then replied: “You may as well stay here, for I shall ask Henry if we can celebrate Christmas at Shene. ’Tis so well suited for the festivities, and this year I shall do my best, for Henry’s sake, to put this difficult year behind us.”
GRACE STOOD ON the riverbank with Susannah and Bella by her side and waved farewell to the royal party as the barge was rowed away from the jetty and into the downstream current. Behind it a flotilla followed, laden with enough chests of clothes, jewelry and silver to serve the party on the short progress. September was drawing to an end and, to help lessen her daughters’ sadness at being left behind, Grace had promised to take them to the Michaelmas Fair to celebrate the end of the harvest.
The sun was still low on the horizon when the last of the boats rounded the bend and disappeared from view. As she walked back to the palace, leaving the girls in Enid’s capable hands, she thought about her final conversation with Bess the night before.
She had found herself alone with her sister for a few minutes in the queen’s chamber. Bess was anxious, anticipating the monthlong progress, and paced up and down in front of the enormous canopied bed she shared with Grace. “I am certain Henry is doing the right thing by sending me away from London, but I wish we had more news from Taunton,” she said. “I knew I could count on him to bring this to a bloodless end.” Bloodless but for the five hundred lost at Exeter, Grace thought, but said nothing. “What a relief it must be to have the man in his sights—albeit in sanctuary. Praise be to God. He cannot remain there, ’tis certain, and then perhaps we shall have the truth. Indulge me, Grace,” she said, suddenly stopping in front of her sister. “Once and for all, admit this Perkin cannot be our brother. No royal prince would walk—nay, run—away from his army in the middle of the night. ’Tis truly the mark of a coward and a common man. If he wanted to prove he was king to Englishmen, he would have behaved like one.” It was her turn to cock her head quizzically.
“Believe what you will, Bess,” Grace answered her, so low Bess could hardly hear her. “But I cannot lie to you, until we have a confession from him, I must remain true to the brother I met in Malines. If you can persuade me with proof otherwise, certes, I will admit I was wrong.”
“Ah, Grace, you foolish girl.” Bess sighed, taking Grace’s hand. “Must I send you away again so you cannot cause more concern for Tom? Already I am protecting you from a possible false step with Lady Margaret. I love you dearly and cannot bear to part with you now that Cis is gone. Anne and Catherine are good girls, but they talk of naught but their clothes and their husbands. In truth, keeping my sisters close fills the void in my heart left by my children and by Henry’s long absences, but ’tis not the same,” she said wistfully, and Grace again marveled how Bess was still so enamored of her cold husband. “You may remain here with the steward and some of the household, but you must promise me not to cross the king, should he come when I am gone. If you cannot, then I must send you back to Westow now.”
Grace saw genuine affection in her sister’s eyes, and she raised Bess’s hand to her cheek and gave her a grateful smile. “Fear not, Bess. I promise to be good, and Henry will have no cause to doubt me. Let us say no more about it, for it seems Richard’s cause is lost and he will be sent away, will he not?”
Humoring Grace’s naive grasp of the situation, Bess nodded. “Aye, I suppose he will.”
Grace sighed now, her heart heavy as she made her way back to the empty apartment. The rooms and corridors were quiet except for a few servants who were sweeping the floors and airing out the palace. The brooms had stirred up the dust, and she grimaced with annoyance as a flea, disdaining the fur on the hem of her gown, found her ankle instead and took a bite. She stopped and scratched her leg, wondering if she should dare to write to Aunt Margaret and apprise her of the events of the past few weeks. But what if the letter fell into the wrong hands? Nay, the duchess must have her spies, she decided; she does not need me. She had promised Bess she would stay out of trouble, and she would keep her promise until…until when? she wondered. Until her conscience caused her to break it, she supposed.
ENID CAME RUNNING into the solar, breathless, her cap askew.
“It must be important, Enid,” Grace said, her raised eyebrow showing her disapproval of Enid’s behavior.
Enid curtsied, her matronly bosom heaving. “Beggin’ pardon, my lady,” she demurred but then hurried on. “Aye, there’s important it is!” she said, her Welsh way with words becoming more exaggerated because she was excited. “Downstairs is a man with news from the West, look you. Thought you might want to hear it from him, as he did stop for refreshment and to rest his horse.”
“Send him to me in the hall, Enid,” Grace said, rising from the table where she was writing to Alice. “And fetch the steward to meet us there.”
The messenger was unshaven and dusty when he was ushered into Grace’s presence. The young man gawped at his surroundings and kept bowing every few steps as he made his way to where Grace, the steward and the chaplain stood near the massive fireplace. He first addressed the steward, believing him to be the person of importance there, but Sir Hugh set him right.
“You are in the presence of the queen’s sister, Lady Grace Plantagenet, lad. ’Tis she whom you must address.”
Grace almost laughed at the surprise the man was unable to disguise as he eyed her up and down. “My lady,” he said, bowing twice again and touching his forelock.
“Come, sir, I do not wish to keep you from your mission. What news do you have from the king?” Grace said, and she saw the messenger’s face soften when he heard her friendly tone.
“I am come from the earl of Devon, my lady,” he said. “Th
e man who calls himself duke of York has been taken by the king at Beaulieu,” he began.
“Taken? But he was in sanctuary. Was he taken by force? How did the king fetch the duke out?” Grace could not stop herself from asking the questions, although she heard the quick intake of breath from Sir Hugh next to her. “I meant to say Perkin Warbeck,” she added hurriedly. Woe betide if her slip was passed on to the king.
“With cleverness, it seems,” the messenger answered her. “He promised Perkin a pardon, so the man and his councilors agreed to put themselves in the king’s hands.” He lifted his shoulders and turned his palms up. “I ask you, what else could he do? When they came out of the abbey this Perkin was royally dressed in cloth-of-gold, like he was a king. ’Tis said many people who came to see him shouted insults and hissed at him.”
Grace trembled for her brother. “Where is he now?” she whispered.
“He was taken by Richmond Herald back to Taunton, where the king awaited. God be praised, ’tis said he confessed that he was not who he claimed to be.”
Grace gasped and would have fallen had not the chaplain, who had heard her confession several times in the past month, steadied her and murmured: “Do not lose faith, my lady.”
Grace regained her composure then, thanked the messenger and commanded that he be fed and a fresh horse be given him. Then she left the steward in charge and, smiling her thanks to the priest, walked slowly out of the hall. Once out of sight, she raced up the stairs and along the passage to the solar, where she bolted the door behind her and fell to her knees, weeping.
He had confessed. The words ran round and round in her head as she conjured up the scene in Taunton. He was tortured, she suddenly realized. Certes, he must have been tortured!
BESS’S HOMECOMING TO Shene was a joyful one, despite the dank October day that caused the smoke from the bonfires to linger like ghostly fingers among the gnarled apple trees, now plucked bare of their rosy fruit. The pilgrim’s prayers said at the shrine in Walsingham had been answered, a happy Bess told Grace when she greeted her sister with a hug. England was safe again, and Henry would be back in London soon, he had promised her.
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