BY THE TIME the court reached Hedingham Castle on its way to Bury St. Edmunds, it was late July and Grace knew she was expecting a child. Although she had shared the good news with Bess, who whispered that she, too, was with child again, she wished Cecily had not gone to Hellowe with her husband and daughter to escape the worst of the heat, as she would have dearly loved to share the news with her favorite sister. Then again, she remembered, it might remind Cecily of her loss. It seemed the Welleses were in no hurry to try for an heir, Grace had mused on more than one occasion, and when she had brought up the subject one evening with Cecily as they listened to ten-year-old Elizabeth play her recorder, Cecily had raised a cynical eyebrow.
“My dear Grace, my husband is nearing fifty, and I fear his seed pod has all but dried up,” she murmured. “’Tis either that or I no longer have the desired effect upon him.”
“Pish! Thomas Kyme cannot tear his eyes from you.”
“Soft, Grace,” Cecily chastised her, glancing about, but she dimpled all the same. “Do you think others notice?”
Grace shook her head and changed the subject. “Lilleth plays well. Has the dispensation for her betrothal to young Tom Stanley arrived from Rome?”
“Aye, but Jack will not act on it until Anne’s mourning year is past.”
Now, inside the Norman keep of Hedingham Castle, the earl of Oxford entertained the king lavishly. The de Veres had built and owned the castle since the Conqueror’s time, and the aging earl—commander of Henry’s van at Bosworth—was determined to leave an indelible impression upon the king’s guest, Henri de Berghes, bishop of Cambrai. Having dined earlier in the queen’s apartments in a separate building, the ladies were now present in the great hall for the entertainment—which included a dancing bear—and Grace could study the duchess’s confessor, a rather aloof but handsome nobleman in his late forties. Oxford was regaling him and the king with yet another version of how he’d single-handedly killed John Howard, duke of Norfolk, in the battle when the steward came forward and announced the arrival of a visitor.
Ambassador de Puebla, who was conversing cozily with Katherine, sucked in a deep breath. He is always fascinated by Katherine Gordon, Grace had mentioned to Tom. Tom had explained that every tidbit the diplomat gleaned from those intimate moments with the lady was relayed to their royal majesties in Spain, who were waiting to see what Henry would do with Perkin before allowing their precious daughter to go to England and be married.
“It must be Digby,” de Puebla murmured.
Now it was Grace’s turn to draw a quick breath and, moving out of Katherine’s earshot, she asked guilelessly: “Sir Simon Digby, constable of the Tower, señor?”
“He brings the pretender to show to Cambrai,” he said behind his hand. “The bishop visits on behalf of the duquesa diabólico—how Henry calls Margaret,” he said, chuckling. “The duchess and her stepson, Maximilian, hope to persuade Henry to release el niño. I am to be witness myself.” He frowned. “But you do not need to know this, my lady—y muy importante, Lady Gordon needs not to know.”
Henry’s advisers were in a knot about him and, after kissing Bess’s hand and waving the musicians to play on, he nodded to Cambrai and de Puebla before he marched from the room.
The next day word was whispered of a night of intense questioning. When Grace saw de Puebla hurrying towards the stables, she ran after him, catching him as he waited for his groom to bring his horse to the mounting block. He stared down at Grace in surprise, and she saw at once that he had not slept well.
“Señor Ambassador,” she begged him, “is Perkin…is he…how is he?”
De Puebla shook his head gloomily, a drip from his nose threatening to fall on her. “Ah, my lady, I fear you would not recognize him today.” He grimaced as Grace paled. “Si, and he once so handsome.” He drew his sleeve across his face and sniffed. “I cannot tell you all—the meeting was secret, you know,” he told her sternly, “but I understand you care about Lady Gordon and you would only console her, no?”
Grace nodded vigorously. “Aye,” she agreed and waited.
The ambassador stepped down from the block and paced a few steps out of earshot of the groom. Grace hurried after him. “Digby brought him in. He had pedenae—you know, foots chains—and more around here”—he used his fingers to encircle his neck. “But his body…his face…” He shook his head again, tut-tutting. “He was desfigurado. I did not recognize him. His grace has make his face so no one say el niño looks like King Edward again. All broken,” he explained, making a circular motion over his face. “His hands, his fingers…also broken.”
Grace was horrified by the description, but she was on a mission and plunged ahead. De Puebla had probably divulged too much already, but she plucked up her courage and gave him her most beseeching look. “I am grateful to you, Doctor de Puebla. But just one more thing, I beg of you. Did Perkin change his confession?”
“Sagrario!” he exclaimed. “You are gone too far, Lady Grace.” But when he saw her eyes well up and her mouth droop, he softened. “He say only that Duchess Margaret knew, like him, that”—he stopped and pondered on the actual phrase—“si.” He nodded, slowly repeating Perkin’s words, “‘I am not the son of who I said I was.’ Is all, milady, and I go now.” He bowed perfunctorily and returned to the mounting block.
Grace was left standing stock-still, her head and shoulders drooping as low as her spirits. Surely in this interrogation, with Aunt Margaret’s envoy as witness, he had a chance to deny his previous confession—tell Cambrai it had been made under torture—but he hadn’t. Sweet Jesu, he hadn’t!
She wanted to run, feel the wind in her face and the grass beneath her feet and find a place far from anyone where she could vent her anger and sorrow. Instead, she turned back to the imposing square keep and took deliberate steps to regain her composure. She had to think of Katherine now. Lovely Katherine, who had stayed true in her heart to the man she loved. Perhaps she already knew he was not who he said he was and did not care. Perhaps all she wanted was to lie with him and become as one with him again. To feel his body next to hers, see the love in his eyes, hear the passion in his voice and hold her cherished face in his hands once more. Grace gasped, picturing it. Dear God, what should she tell Katherine? That her beautiful husband’s face was battered beyond recognition, and those hands that had caressed her were crippled? Her thoughts returned to the young couple dancing for Henry and how Perkin had defied the king by talking to Katherine behind his pomander, whispering words of love as he inhaled the spicy scent of cloves…
“Cloves!” Grace suddenly cried out to a crow cawing overhead. Sweet Jesu, why did I not remember then? Elizabeth told me her son Richard loathed the smell of cloves.
She felt the blood drain from her face as the sad realization sank in. She had recently suspected Perkin was not her brother, but she had always hoped that he was. And now she felt betrayed not only by him but by Aunt Margaret as well. She lifted her eyes to Heaven and whispered: “How foolish I have been all this time!”
IT WAS AS well that Grace was not at court when a letter of apology to Henry arrived from Duchess Margaret at the end of September. It seemed she had either abandoned her White Rose or—as de Puebla wrote to his sovereigns—she hoped to buy his life with her admission of collusion.
For Perkin, his fate appeared to be to lie in a small, locked room—not completely devoid of furnishings—with one small barred window high up in the wall of the Byward Tower, directly beneath, he would learn later, Edward, earl of Warwick.
32
England
1499
Cecily was glad of Grace’s company that Yuletide at Hellowe, as the viscount had decided to stay in London at Pasmer’s Place and be available to Henry during the ongoing negotiations between England and Spain. Due to Grace’s delicate condition and to ease her burden on the long journey into Lincolnshire, Bess had insisted that Susannah and Bella remain at Greenwich in the royal nursery to keep young Harry and two-year-ol
d Mary company. Susannah had not complained, especially as her cousins Harry and Margaret would be joining them from Eltham for the festivities. But Bella clung to her mother, her big blue eyes pleading to be taken.
“Please can I go, Mother?” she lisped, her corn-colored hair curling around her chubby face under her blue linen cap. It was all Grace could do not to pick her up and cover her cheeks with kisses. Enid attempted to distract the girl with a rag doll, but she flung it across the room and burst into tears. “I want to go with you! I want to go with you!” she cried, clinging to Grace’s skirts.
“Let her go with you, Grace.” Tom’s cheerful voice from the doorway caused Susannah, impervious to her sister’s screams, to drop the wooden blocks she was stacking and rush headlong towards him. He reached down and swung her high into the air, leaving her breathless. Then he smacked a kiss on her laughing mouth and put her down again. He walked to Grace’s side, put his arm around her thick waist and pecked her on the cheek. “Enid is going with you anyway, so why not take the child? Susannah will not mind, will you sweeting?”
“Certes, no,” Susannah answered, rolling her eyes. “She is such a baby.”
She sounded so like her mother, Tom could not help laughing. “I can come and see her from Sithes Lane from time to time,” he assured Grace. “Perhaps it would be good for the two to learn to be apart. It will come soon enough. Susannah is of an age when we should send her to another house, even if you disapprove, my love. We have only to find someone willing to take on such an imp,” he teased his daughter.
“I am not an imp,” she answered, throwing her arms around him and giggling.
Grace glanced down at Bella, whose tear-stained face brightened as she sensed her mother yielding. “Ah, well, I suppose it would not inconvenience Cecily to have another small mouth to feed,” she said, enjoying the look of pure delight on Bella’s cherubic face. “You would not mind, Enid?” she asked her servant. “But you must promise to be good, Bella, or I shall send you back here in disgrace.”
“I promise, I promise!” Bella shrieked, jumping about. “Thank you, Papa.”
Tom picked up both girls and balanced them on his arms. “Give your father a kiss farewell, my poppets. I have already stayed away too long from Lord Welles.” The girls gave him loud, wet kisses and squirmed to get down. Then he took Grace by the waist, caressing her belly and grinning. “How now, my pillicock! Do I get a kiss?”
“Tom!” Grace pretended to be shocked. “Do not encourage the children to learn such words too soon.” She lifted her face to his and they shared a tender, if not passionate, kiss. “Write to me whenever you come and see Susannah, and keep yourself safe—and out of trouble, my love.”
“And you, Grace. God go with you. Look after your mother, Bella. I am counting on you,” he said, wagging his finger at his youngest.
“I will, Father,” Bella answered earnestly. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”
They all laughed, and Grace sent her husband a loving look that could last him a month.
ENSCONCED IN CECILY’S warm solar, painted window coverings shutting out the cold rain, the two sisters watched as Elizabeth Welles painstakingly taught Bella her first few notes on the recorder. The journey had been uneventful, thanks to the viscount’s generous loan of a carriage and two armed escorts. A few vagabonds had accosted them out of Monkswood near Huntingdon, but as soon as the soldiers’ swords had been raised and Edgar’s pikestaff had knocked one of the thieves to his knees, they took off with their tails between their legs. Bella’s eyes had been as big as saucers as she peered around the carriage curtain from her warm spot under the furs next to her mother.
“Edgar hit the man,” she declared gleefully. “He fell over.”
Enid pulled her back inside the carriage without more ado. “There’s naughty you are,” she admonished her. “Alarming your mother, look you.”
Other than a dreary half day spent digging the carriage out of the mud near Stamford, Grace’s journey ended uneventfully six days later.
The Yule log had been brought in and holly and ivy decorated the great hall in readiness for the first night of Christmas. Grace was well rested after sleeping for twelve hours, and when she rose to greet Cecily and the household, she was ready to join in the festivities.
“Lilleth, take Bella to the hall for the lighting of the Yule log. Aunt Grace and I shall be down anon,” Cecily told her daughter, who obeyed without a word. “She’s a good girl, but so sad, Grace. She misses her sister greatly—I am happy you decided to bring Bella.” She sighed. “Losing a child is a dreadful thing.”
“Dear Cis, I cannot imagine your sorrow. But Lilleth will grow to be a healthy woman and give you many grandchildren, I don’t doubt.”
Cecily grimaced. “God’s bones, Grace, do not age me too quickly! I have no wish to have grandchildren until I am ancient.” They both laughed gratefully.
Now that they were alone, Grace broached the subject of Perkin.
“I confess I was wrong all this time, Cis,” she began, causing Cecily to chuckle. “Why the laughter, pray? Ah, certes, because I am always so stubborn. Aye, perhaps I am, but now let me admit my folly, and promise you won’t mock me for it.”
“I promise,” Cecily murmured. “’Tis about Tom, I suppose.”
“Then you suppose wrong, sister,” Grace retorted. “’Tis about Perkin.”
“You mean our brother Richard?”
“Nay, I mean Perkin. I know now he is not our brother, much to my sorrow. Oh, I wanted him so much to be, but he is not. Let me tell you why.”
When she had finished, Cecily took her in her arms and consoled her. “Let us hope this foolish business is over and we can all get on with our lives,” she said. “It has consumed us—and divided us—for too long.”
Grace lifted her head. “But does it not make you wonder who he really is, Cis?” she said eagerly. “He cannot be a boatman’s son. So who is he?”
“Certes, Grace, I could give a tinker’s arse. And, if you take my advice, neither should you. Now let us go and join the girls.”
“FEEL HER BROW, Grace,” Cecily said with a worried frown. “’Tis like a fire in there.”
Grace rested the back of her hand on Lilleth’s forehead and shook her head. “Aye, ’tis hotter than I have known with my little ones. Sweetheart, how long have you had this fever?” she asked the girl, whose face was the color of the covering sheet.
“Since before supper,” Lilleth whispered. “It hurts here, Mother,” she said, putting her hand to her neck. “’Tis hard to swallow.”
Inflammation of the throat, thought Grace, who had suffered through a few in her childhood at the convent. She went to Bella’s side of the bed and felt her daughter’s forehead. “She’s cool,” she told Cecily. “But perhaps I should take her to our bed tonight?”
“Aye, and I shall stay with Lilleth.” Cecily nodded. “Open your mouth, sweeting. Aye, ’tis swollen back there, and red,” she told Grace, holding the candle high and peering down her daughter’s throat. “I shall send for some milk, poppet. It will soothe you.”
Lilleth was shivering. “’Tis cold, Mother. Please give me another coverlet.”
Cecily hurried Grace into their chamber to fetch a fur blanket and Grace gently tucked Bella into bed. “’Tis best you stay here in your condition and get some sleep, Grace. I shall send for the physician in Lincoln. See if he can balance Lilleth’s humors. It must be the yellow bile that causes the fever. She needs bleeding.” Fear had crept into her voice now. “You are better at potions than I; what would you give her?”
“Brother Benedictus at the abbey believed in the benefits of yarrow and elder to break the fever, and root of goldenseal for a swollen throat,” Grace told her.
When Cecily left the room, Grace went down on her knees. “Ave Maria, gratia plena,” she began, murmuring the rote prayers that comforted her in telling the rosary. As she repeated the prayers over and over, she was able to think on another plane, selfishly
begging the Virgin to spare her own child in case Lilleth’s illness was catching. The two children had shared a bed since she and Bella had reached Hellowe, and played closely together. Lilleth was a sturdy girl, but Bella was thin and tiny, like Grace. Grace could not count how many parents she knew who had lost a child. She accepted that it was God’s will for the young and the feeble to be called to Him so often. Hale one day; dead the next. But not her child, she prayed. She reached the pater noster bead and whispered the words out loud in case God could hear her better. Then she ended with: “Do not let Lilleth die, dear Lord. Cecily has suffered the loss of one child already. Certes, you cannot need the sister so soon.”
Yawning, she climbed into bed and snuggled Bella to her. As she drifted off into slumber, she felt her baby kick with heartwarming strength inside her, and it gave her hope.
Her sleep was disturbed by Bella’s restless movements and shallow breaths, and she came awake with a start, fear crawling in her heart. Dawn was creeping over the frosty meadows, turning the landscape into a sparkling wonderland, but Grace had no time for its beauty. Her child was ailing, she knew it. Softly climbing out of bed so as not to waken Bella, she took a piss in the jakes and then pulled on her bed robe and slippers. She waddled down the corridor to the nursery, her hand cradling her aching back. Enid and one of Cecily’s attendants were ministering to Lilleth, but Cecily was slumped asleep in a chair by the window.
“How does she?” Grace whispered to Enid, who was applying a cool cloth to Lilleth’s forehead.
“Bad she is, my lady, and too hot,” Enid replied sadly. “Had a fit in the middle of the night, look you. Aye, was a bad one.”
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