“Tom! Tom Gower, I pray you keep me company,” he called, and a lanky youth with a shock of corn-colored hair ran lightly to John’s side, his bow slung over his shoulder and a lurcher dogging his heels.
Grace drew in a breath, brushed the sandstone dust from her plain kersey gown and, determined to take John’s advice to heart, walked confidently back to the apartments she shared with her half sisters. Would she ever get used to this? A king’s daughter—how could that be? She had trouble remembering her pretty mother, who never recovered from being abandoned by her family and had withered and died at the convent when Grace was five.
Grace grimaced to herself now as she climbed the spiral steps to her chamber on the third floor of the castle. Aye, I am a king’s bastard, but I would rather have been born a commoner and known my father. John is blessed to be close to his father, she thought, which brought her to their present situation and her half sisters’ constant question: How long would King Richard keep them all in the north?
A few minutes later, seated on a stool near the formidable Lady Gower and sorting through her embroidery thread, Grace surprised her siblings by asking the older woman about the danger to them should Henry Tudor invade. “Will we go to the Tower?”
Agnes Gower chuckled and patted Grace’s hand. “King Richard is the gradeliest soldier king we have had since the fifth Henry,” she declared in her broad Yorkshire burr, and the other ladies nodded in agreement. “This Tudor has been threatening to come for nigh on two years, child. No one believes he will really invade, and certes, no one will defeat our Richard in his own country. ’Tis almost laughable. Now stop fretting and ply your needle; ’tis unthinkable for one so young to concern herself with such matters.”
Grace recognized yet again the affection with which these northerners spoke about her uncle, and found it difficult to believe he might have had something to do with the disappearance—or even death—of her half brothers. She was satisfied with Lady Gower’s response and let the matter rest, although she did spend several minutes more on her knees that night begging St. George to be on Uncle Richard’s side should Henry Tudor invade.
WHETHER GRACE’S NEWLY found confidence had impressed her sisters, she knew not, but the very next evening, when the light supper of rabbit pie and slices of pheasant had been cleared away and two of the attendant ladies took up a lute and a recorder and began to play, they chose the moment to teach her to dance. Their cousin, Margaret of Salisbury, orphaned daughter of George of Clarence, refused to join them and instead pulled a book from her sleeve and stuck her nose in it.
Tapping her foot lightly to the music, Bess waited for the beat, and then, taking Grace’s hand, she bowed stiffly. “You must curtsy at the same time. Aye, that’s right. I will play the gentleman,” she said in a mock tenor. “You must never look at your partner, Grace, but at the floor. The gentleman will lead you and not allow you to bump into anyone.”
Cecily stood on the other side of Grace and told her to watch the steps carefully. Grace felt herself move to the music of a basse danza, rising and falling on the balls of her feet, and her spirits lifted. Learning the steps seemed to come naturally to her.
“’Tis no wonder you were named Grace,” Cecily cried when the lesson was over. “I think you have found your true calling.”
“She speaks the truth, Grace,” John agreed, surprising the three dancers as he stepped into the room with several other henchmen. One of them was the ten-year-old Edward, earl of Warwick, who immediately ran to his sister Margaret’s side. “Forgive us for intruding, but when we heard the music, we could not deny ourselves,” John explained. He came forward and took Grace’s hand. “And you should all have gentleman partners. Come, lads, let us show these fair ladies how it should be.”
Bess beckoned to young Edward, who looked terrified and hid behind his sister. Shrugging her shoulders, Bess turned and fixed her eye upon Tom Gower, who bowed low over his extended leg and led her to their place behind John and Grace. Cecily pouted. Tom was her domain, her glare told Bess, but with her inbred courtesy she accepted the hand of another young squire and began the intricate steps of a country dance.
“What have you learned, young Grace?” John asked, noting with surprise that her fingers were clammy with perspiration. “Ah, I see your teachers have told you not to look at me. ’Tis the custom, I know, but I find it tedious. How can one have discourse with”—he eyed her tall headdress with contempt—“a hennin?” Grace giggled and raised her eyes to his. “God have mercy, but you are bold, Lady Grace. But I am glad you have heeded our conversation of yesterday. Good girl.”
Grace thought she would faint with pleasure. From the moment she had set eyes on the handsome John of Gloucester at Westminster earlier that year, she had given him her young, impressionable heart. Why could he not see how much she loved him? She noticed that many other young ladies at Sheriff Hutton also favored him, and she had seen him kiss one behind the buttery. Why wasn’t she older, she railed in her daydreams. Why wasn’t she prettier?
“If that is how you like me, cousin, then I shall be bold,” she countered, blushing at her own audacity.
John was serious. “Nay, Grace. I like you just the way you are. You must not change for me, little coz, nor for any man. I only meant you must not allow others to walk on you as though you were a Turkey carpet—especially not your sisters. Having spirit can get a person into trouble. I should know; I am the product of a most spirited lady.”
“Your mother, John?” The music came to an end, as did the conversation.
“Aye, my mother,” he replied as a warm smile suffused his face. “Remind me to tell you about her one day.”
The grinding sound of the portcullis being raised on the other side of the bailey startled the dancers in the large solar. John and Tom climbed the steep steps up into the window embrasure to peer out.
“A dozen horsemen,” John reported, “wearing the crescent argent of Percy, I think. If they come so late, it could be news from Nottingham. Sweet Jesu, can the Tudor have landed?”
John sprang down from his perch and, without an apology to the girls, ran from the room followed by his friends. The door banged shut behind them, leaving the women stunned by the possibility John might be right.
“Quiet, Jason!” Bess snapped at Tom’s dog that was left whining on the wrong side of the door. The lurcher turned sad brown eyes on her and slunk off to lie down.
“Your future husband is coming to claim you, Bess,” Cecily teased, breaking the tension. “I wonder how he is? Short, fat and ugly, I dare say,” and her tinkling laugh put Grace in mind of Dame Elizabeth.
Lady Gower was too preoccupied with discussing the possible invasion with the older ladies to upbraid Cecily, but Grace saw the look of fear that crossed Bess’s beautiful face and sidled close to slip her hand in her sister’s. Bess looked down at the girl and managed a grateful smile.
“Sweet Jesu,” Cecily sighed. “Can you not see I was only jesting? John may have been mistaken about the visitors. ’Tis almost dark, and they may simply be travelers seeking shelter for the night.” Grace felt Bess’s hand relax in hers and heard her murmured acquiescence.
But Cecily persisted with her original thread. “You know well and good that we must all marry where we are told, so why not see the amusing side, sister dear.”
“Bess, Cecily, I beg of you, don’t fight…” Grace’s attempts to interrupt fell on deaf ears and she knew she had been forgotten yet again.
“Do not mock me, sister dear,” Bess snapped, loosing Grace’s hand and taking a step towards Cecily. “Uncle Richard found you a husband whom you abhor.” Cecily tossed her head but did not disagree. “And that’s why you chose to come up here with me, instead of becoming a loving wife to Ralph Scrope,” Bess declared. “It was only because you begged me to ask for your company that our uncle let you come. You were fortunate, too; the contract was arranged during Lent, so you could not be married. But you cannot put it off forever. Your husband ma
y come and claim you any day,” she finished triumphantly. “Therefore, pray cast your stones elsewhere, and not at me.” Enjoying seeing her sister’s mulish pout, she added: “You are too addlepated to see that the only way Henry of Richmond will be my husband is if—I repeat if—he wins the crown, for he is an upstart nobody. And if he does win, it could only mean”—she lowered her dark blue eyes down to the rushes at her feet—“that Uncle Richard was dead.”
Cecily forbore her retort on Bess’s undue fondness for Uncle Richard, a dangerous infatuation Bess had formed in the months before the death of his queen that spring. Her innocent flirting had led his enemies to believe Richard had contemplated marriage with his niece. The scandal had caught Richard off-guard in the midst of grief for his wife, and ultimately his councilors had advised him to make a public denial. A few weeks later, under the pretext of keeping Edward’s children safe, Richard sent Bess and the others to Sheriff Hutton. “Out of sight, out of mind,” those same councilors had advised him.
Lady Gower finally curtailed the tiff: “Enough, ladies!” she commanded. “You are behaving like children.” At that moment there was a knock on the door, and a servant entered to summon Bess and the other royal children to the great hall. Lady Gower led the girls out of the room, and with little Edward traipsing behind, they wound down the spiral stairs, through an archway and into the hall that hugged the west wall of the inner ward. It appeared John had been correct in identifying the visitors, for their oldest cousin and guardian, John de la Pole, earl of Lincoln, was surrounded by Percy men as well as the knights and henchmen of Sheriff Hutton.
The earl bade them welcome. “Henry of Richmond has been sighted off the coast of Wales, cousins. My uncle, the king, has sent for us, and we are to join him in Leicester on the morrow. It cannot be long before Richmond finds safe haven, and I fear we must do battle.” He looked around at his younger cousins, who were gazing at him expectantly. “Until the outcome is known, you are the guardians of the York line and must remain here in the safe north. I am leaving Sir John in command with sufficient fighting men to protect you.”
For the first time, a frisson of fear crept up Grace’s spine. Lincoln then addressed Bess and Cecily directly. “I charge you, cousins, to take especial care of young Edward. As son of our late Uncle George, he is one of the heirs to the crown.” Lincoln paused, reflecting on his own role as Richard’s heir, named such after the king’s only legitimate son had died the year before.
With the summons to join Richard and as governor of the royal household in the north, Lincoln knew he must make safe the royal children—especially young Warwick. He guessed Henry might look upon the boy as a rallying point for Yorkist adherents should, Heaven forbid, disaster overtake both the king and himself.
He looked around at the anxious faces and a slow smile spread over his lean, tanned face: “Bastards and traitors, all of you!” he teased his cousins and was gratified when they all laughed in relief. Then he embraced the girls, paying particular attention to Bess, who clung to him, crying.
“Soft, Bess, we shall return, never fear. We shall kick Tudor’s arse all the way back to Brittany, I swear to you. I have left enough of a garrison to defend you from the Scots should they decide to attack and defile you”—he broke off and laughed again, seeing her dismay. “Ever the jester—pay me no heed, cousin.” He kissed her and repeated his directive more seriously: “You must be the stalwart now and take care of the youngsters. We shall not be long, I promise.”
Unable to contain his excitement, John of Gloucester cheered: “For England!” and unsheathed his short sword, thrusting it into the air. “For Richard, rightful king of England!” The rest of the company took up the cry, setting the rafters ringing with their shouts. Grace’s dark eyes glowed with pride for her family, and for the first time she truly felt a part of it.
WITH TOM GOWER’S uncle, Sir John Gower of Stittenham, in charge, life at the castle returned to its daily routine. The girls spent their mornings in the shady garden plying their needles, reading aloud and practicing the lute under the watchful eye of Lady Gower. The nuns had taught Grace to read the scriptures, but now she thrilled to the stories of Master Chaucer and Thomas Malory. Cecily had a flair for drama, and she brought the tales of King Arthur and his knights to lurid life, causing their older attendants to chide the girls for their noisy laughter. After the midday dinner, they put on their wide-brimmed straw hats and wandered through the hamlet outside the castle gate, where villagers touched their foreheads or curtsied as they passed, and into the meadows in front of the woods. The ubiquitous Yorkshire sheep grazed unconcerned while the intruders gathered posies of cow parsley, ox-eyed daisies, heartsease and scentless mayweed.
Tom Gower was often their escort on these meanderings, a task he did not relish; he had felt demeaned enough at being left behind with the younger henchmen while his friend, John, and other squires and knights had ridden off to probable glory against the invading forces of Richmond. Aye, he thought each time, being given the duty of bodyguard to three girls was insulting beyond the pale. It did not help that his comrades teased him mercilessly, or that Cecily flirted incessantly with him. Certes, it was flattering that a Plantagenet princess had singled him out, but unlike John, Tom had not reached the age when a pretty face took precedence over improving his prowess with sword and dagger. He usually spent this tedious time throwing sticks for Jason or practicing his slingshot skills. When the girls begged, he taught them all how to fish, although there was not much to catch in the brook that ran in front of the castle.
One day at the end of August, however, Tom was rewarded for his mundane meadow duty. He was the first to see and hail the riders who emerged from the forest, riding hard for the shelter of the castle. The sisters, hearing his cries, picked up their skirts and ran back across the waving grass in the wake of the horsemen. Grace had immediately recognized John, and she ran as fast as her short legs could carry her to keep up with her sisters.
“A victory!” Bess shouted, her hair coming loose from her hat and streaming in a golden river behind her. “I smell a victory!”
Scattering hens and goats in their path through the village, the soldiers clattered into the castle yard and slithered from their sweat-flecked mounts. The guards housed in the tower next to the gate ran to help them, and grooms sprang to take hold of the horses’ reins. The John who stood swaying with fatigue on the uneven cobblestones was very different from the one who had ridden out to glory ten days earlier. Tom was already there to steady him and, looking at John’s ashen face, he knew the news was not good. A sudden pall settled over the castle as the onlookers waited for the young Captain of Calais to speak.
“What is it, John?” Bess cried, running through the archway under the gatehouse, past the well and to his side. “Is Richmond beaten? Say he is beaten. I command you to say it!” But she knew as soon as she had spoken that it was not so.
“King Richard…” John faltered as he spoke his father’s name and then, seeing the expectant, loyal faces staring at him, rallied to continue with his awful report. “King Richard is slain, the army is routed and Henry Tudor already wears the crown. We are lost…” His voice trailed off as gasps and groans echoed across the bailey. Villagers had crept through the gate, unmanned as it was, and stood stock-still when they heard the pronouncement. Grace overheard one say, “He was a good lord to us, was Richard of Gloucester, God rest his soul.” She crossed herself and muttered the rote response, “Amen to that.” Poor John, Grace thought, how he worshipped his father!
Bess gave a loud cry and fainted on the spot. Several burly men surged forward, and one had the honor of carrying the young woman who might be the next queen of England out of the hot sun and into the great hall. Cecily was distraught and began to wail, jogging John out of his misery enough to slap her face. She froze in horror, and then she was in his arms and he was consoling her.
“Pray forgive me, Cis,” Grace heard him say quietly, “but we must be strong for our peop
le here. We are the leaders now, and Grandmother Cecily would not want any of us to weep at this moment. I know not what has become of your Ralph, but from the disdain you show every time his name is mentioned, I shall assume you could not care less.” Cecily had the grace to fall silent as John put her gently from him. “Come, let us go inside and I will tell the sorry tale.” He passed her to Tom, who escorted her to the hall to join Bess, and then turned to face the castle retainers who stood waiting for their orders.
“Our sovereign lord, King Richard, died valiantly on a field named Redemore Plain near the village of Market Bosworth in Leicestershire,” he cried. “He was foully betrayed at the last by someone he called friend. With him in battle fell one of his most faithful lords, Jack Howard of Norfolk, may God rest his soul.” He turned to Sir John Gower and went forward to take the older man’s hand. “Sad news, sir—your cousin Thomas was also slain fighting for his king. I have no doubt his body will be returned anon to his home in Stittenham. Pray accept my condolences.”
Gower signed himself and shook his head. “’Tis a black day for England, my lord. I will send Tom to break the news to my cousin’s wife. They are newly wed, you know. What of my lord of Lincoln?” he asked tentatively.
“I am not certain. There was a rumor he was slain, but others said he was taken prisoner. I pray Tudor has mercy on him—and Howard’s son, Thomas of Surrey, who also survived. The rest of us will surely be attainted.”
“Attainted? For fighting for one’s king?” Gower spluttered. “Surely you jest, my lord. ’Twas Richmond who was the traitor!”
“I would not discredit that cream-faced craven with any act of cowardice,” John cried, his grimace spoiling his good looks. “He never lifted his lily-livered sword arm to strike a blow at anyone on the field. Father should have killed him!” His voice had risen to a cry of anguish, which left the group silent for a moment before Sir John began to shout orders for the gates to be closed and more guards placed upon the ramparts in case Henry Tudor took it in to his head to find and kill more of the York line than just its leader.
The King's Grace Page 3
