Amid the flurry of men running to obey their orders and fetch weapons from the armory, Grace stood unnoticed, watching John with sad eyes. With all of her passionate young heart, she wanted to take away his pain. His eyes were full of it, and as though he knew he was being observed, he turned them to her concerned young face. At once his expression softened and he unclenched his fists.
“What, no tears, no swooning? You are braver than your sisters, little wren. Come, let us go inside.” He put his hand on her shoulder and steered her towards the hall, and the men broke ranks to let them through. Grace could feel his fingers trembling, and she gently covered them with her own.
“I am so sorry, John. I cannot imagine your sorrow after seeing your father die.” She felt his hand grip hers more tightly and heard the catch in his throat.
“’Tis like being in hell, Grace. And ’twas not my only loss, God help me.”
She made a logical guess. “Lord Lovell?”
“Nay, he escaped, God be praised,” he said, quietly. Then he sighed. “My sweet sister, Katherine, has been taken by the sweating sickness. My father and I learned this the day before we marched out to face Richmond. My mother braved the road from Suffolk to tell us herself. Father was consumed with grief, and ’twas then I fear he lost all reason.” He did not admit that he had cried in his mother’s arms when she broke the news. He shook his head, scarcely believing he had lost his father and his sister within one short month.
Tears pricked Grace’s eyes as she heard his words. She quickly brushed them aside as they mounted the few steps to the great hall’s doorway. A trestle table had been hurriedly set up to receive Bess’s inert form, and she was beginning to revive with the help of an attendant who held a singed feather under her nose.
“I did not know you had a sister, John. Was she younger than you?” Grace asked quickly, not wanting to let him go just yet.
John’s voice was dull as he answered Grace. “Nay, I was the younger—by two years. She was the image of our mother.” Leaving her to digest the information, he strode towards the group around the table just as Bess sat up and looked about her, puzzled.
“Praise be to the Virgin,” exclaimed the gap-toothed attendant with the feather, fussing with her mistress’s coif. “You swooned, my lady, ’tis all.”
“Ho, there!” John called to a servant hovering at the kitchen end of the hall. “Fetch us some ale and food.” The servant bowed and scurried off, and Tom and others set up benches around the table.
“Sit, sit,” John said wearily. “We have ridden hard for two days. I have no doubt that after we have refreshed ourselves, my comrades and I shall take to our beds.”
Grace sat next to Tom and watched John pick at a frayed piece of Lovell’s snarling-dog badge on his tabard. Except for the scraping of the benches on the floor as the group settled, silence reigned, as all eyes were riveted on John’s tired young face. Slumped in his seat, he waited patiently until the servers had finished bringing ale, cold savory pies and wedges of sharp-smelling cheese, and the other retainers had silently filed into the hall.
“What I know of the thick of the battle, I heard from those fleeing it,” John began suddenly, making them all jump. “To my everlasting regret, I was not present, having been forbidden to fight by my father, God rest his soul.” His eyes focused on a knot in the wood on the tabletop. Grace heard Tom draw in a sympathetic breath; she guessed he would probably not have been permitted to fight, either.
“We had the advantage, so I was told,” John went on, still staring at the table. “We outnumbered Richmond’s rabble nearly two to one, and our position was on a hill overlooking a marsh on our left and plain in front, whereon the enemy was marshaled. Beyond the swamp to the south lay my Lord Stanley’s divisions, protecting my father’s left flank, and to the west sat his brother, William, ready to support the right. With my father’s troops directly behind, Howard’s van fanned out upon the hill facing Oxford’s ranks at the bottom of it. We, the squires and the armorers, were camped almost a league away near Sutton Cheney, behind Northumberland’s rear guard.” He sneered as he pronounced Henry Percy’s title and looked up at his audience. “Aye, you notice my disdain? ’Tis not half the disgust and hatred I have for those whoreson Stanley brothers!” he cried, leaning forward and slamming his fist on the table. Bess recoiled at the unexpected show of temper but was reminded so much of John’s father in that moment, she stretched out her hand and touched his arm gently. “Soft, John,” she said, full of pity. “If ’tis too painful for you—” she broke off as John shook his head and continued grimly.
“Richmond himself was nowhere to be seen. My father sent out scouts to report on his position and as they were returning to say that he was cowering far behind his forces, it seemed Oxford broke Howard’s line and Howard himself fell. ’Twas then the Stanleys showed their true colors by not moving a muscle to come to Howard’s aid. And Northumberland sat on his rear at the rear”—he gave a grim smirk at his own choice of words—“and waited.” He shrugged. “I suppose I should give him his due: it could be he was unable to see.”
John paused, looking at the stony faces around him. He knew the hardest part of the story was yet to be told. Aye, ’twas hard, but when he had first heard it he had never been prouder of his father. “I know not what goes through a man’s mind when he is on the verge of madness—or possible death—but what my father did then will only be described as folly by some or extreme bravery by others, who knew him better.” Now the stony faces became animated. “Having been informed as to Henry’s exact whereabouts, the king rose high in his stirrups and cried, ‘We shall find Tudor for ourselves and slay the invader!’ Then he led a mounted charge of his squires and knights down the right side of Ambien Hill, across the plain—and vile Will Stanley’s front—and into the thick of Henry’s guard.”
The open mouths at the table told John he was doing the story justice. He took a deep breath. “It seemed Henry’s men could hardly believe their eyes, for they almost allowed Father to cut his way through to their lord. The banner of the Red Dragon was his goal, where he knew Henry would be lurking. He seemed not to notice he was surrounded by Tudor’s men on all sides. Wielding his battle-ax, ’tis said he hewed a path through them as though they were naught but waving wheat. At one point he was even confronted by a giant of a man—Henry’s champion Sir John Cheyney—and Father felled him in a single stroke, though he was half the man’s size.”
John paused again, watching as some crossed themselves and others whispered to their neighbors. He found that as he described his father’s valiant actions, the blood coursed through his veins and purged away some of the anger and bitterness he had experienced in the wake of the battle, when he had first heard of Richard’s sacrifice. It helped that it was not the first time he had been forced to describe his father’s death; he tried not to think of his beloved mother’s anguish as he had broken the news to her in secret a few hours before he fled from Leicester.
“Go on, John,” Bess whispered. “Although I almost cannot bear to hear it.”
John shook his head in sorrow. “Ah, Bess. If you only knew how close he came to putting an end to the whoreson Tudor. But he was betrayed. Betrayed by those Stanleys, who, perceiving their new lord was in danger, came rushing to his rescue. Father was fighting Henry’s standard-bearer when they bore down on him, knocked him from his horse and closed in with a hedge of spears and swords. His men heard his cry of ‘Treason!’ but there was nothing they could do.” His voice lowered to a whisper, and Grace had to lean in to hear him say, “I did not see his body, but ’tis said it was hardly recognizable, there were so many wounds.”
Grace put her hand over her mouth and stifled a cry.
“Poor Uncle Richard,” Cecily whispered. “How craven of those men. They could have let him die with dignity. He was the king; they should have had respect for God’s anointed.”
“Dignity? Respect?” John shouted, rising and throwing his heavy chair aside. “Th
e Tudor turd does not know the meaning of these words. He had my father stripped naked and slung, tied like a downed stag, over the back of Gloucester Herald’s horse. The loyal herald was then forced to carry his master thus back into Leicester, ahead of the new king and his train. Henry was even wearing Father’s crown, God damn his filthy soul to hell!” Tears were streaming down his face by now, and, ashamed of his emotions, he strode towards the stairs leading to his quarters. Those standing moved aside to let him pass. Bess half rose to follow him, but Tom was there before her, motioning to her to sit and hurrying to catch up with his friend. Stunned, the listeners tried to process the horrifying details of Richard’s last ride—into battle and out of it.
Grace had not known her Uncle Richard very well; he was the king in magnificent robes who had moved about the palace at Westminster surrounded by a retinue of squires and knights and who had more on his mind than making a newly found bastard of his brother’s feel at home. She was a little frightened of this man who had sent two children to the Tower. Why did no one here at court ever speak of them? If Bess and Cecily could be here now, why couldn’t they? The mystery of the boys was a dark secret in this family, and therefore, she admitted with guilty pleasure, fascinating. But once, the central character in this mystery had come into the solar, where she and her sisters were wont to spend a rainy day, and he had spoken most kindly to her, chucking her under the chin and saying she had a look of her father. She remembered slate gray eyes under a worried brow on which sat the simple gold coronet, and thought her uncle looked careworn. She had been awed by his presence, though his great power was sheathed in his kindness to her, and her knees had almost given way.
“Kyrie eleison.” Her small but clear voice nudged the company out of their own memories of the thirty-two-year-old king, taken before his time. The shocking news had sparked in Grace a longing to draw on the only comfort she had known in her religious upbringing: prayer. There were some in the room who had never heard Grace say a word before this, and she felt everyone’s eyes on her. Less steadily, she persisted: “We should pray for King Richard’s departed soul.”
Bess looked at her with new respect and took up Grace’s prayer. “In the midst of life, we are in death. Miserere nobis. My sister is right,” she said, holding out her hands to Grace and Cecily. “We must go up to the chapel and pray that Richard Plantagenet, last son of Grandfather York, may rest in peace. Let us hope he is now in Heaven, walking with his father and his brothers.”
“Amen,” the others murmured, forming a procession behind her.
The castle retainers were left whispering among themselves. How long before Henry Tudor sent soldiers north to find these royal cubs? Would they, as the guardians of the York children, be treated as traitors? Certes, praying for the dead king’s soul was laudable, but the children should be also praying for their own well-being here on earth.
2
Sheriff Hutton
AUTUMN 1485
For three days following his retreat to his chambers, no one saw John except for a page who was assigned to take him food and drink. Sensing he had an ally in Grace, Tom Gower sought her advice about John on two or three occasions.
“He will not see me, in truth,” Tom said on the third day, finding her playing with a spaniel pup near the kennels. “I fear for his reason. ’Tis the way his father behaved when his queen died, Lady Bess told me. Perhaps he will speak to you, Lady Grace.”
Grace felt herself flush and was glad she did not have one of those complexions that turned bright red. “Me? Why do you think John would talk to me? ’Tis my belief he hardly knows I exist,” she answered, allowing the furry brown ball in her arms to cover her face with wet kisses and hide her trepidation. “Certes, Lady Bess knows him better, and is more important than I.” She looked at Tom’s honest, strong face from under her lashes and was touched by the concern in his bright blue eyes. He truly cares about John, she thought, surprised. What little she had seen of men since her departure from the convent had led her to believe they were all brain or brawn and very little heart. Her mentor, Dame Elizabeth, was always disparaging them in front of her daughters, warning the girls to “beware the fickle, false intentions behind those charming smiles.”
“I speak the truth, Lady Grace,” Tom was saying. “John has told me he trusts you more than any of his cousins. In Jesu’s name, please help him. He is in danger, for if Henry comes here to claim his bride, it would not do for King Richard’s beloved son to be among the faces he sees. Knowing John, he would as lief run Henry through than kneel in homage to him. He has his father’s tendency to act rashly.” Tom’s serious expression softened into a sardonic smile at the thought. “What say you, my lady? Will you do it?”
Letting the puppy loose to find its siblings, Grace straightened up and brushed off a few silky hairs it had left on her blue kersey overdress. “If you think I must, Tom, then aye, I will go to him. But wait outside the door, in case he is angered by my intrusion.”
Tom grinned. “Certes, I will be there. You can count on me. Shall we go now?”
Grace nodded and followed him across the courtyard to the northeast tower. As fortune would have it, they encountered the page with a pitcher of ale before he could knock at John’s door. Tom took it from the boy and thrust it into Grace’s trembling fingers. Giving her a smile of encouragement, he tapped quietly on the solid oak. Without waiting for a response, he opened the door wide enough for Grace to slip through, then closed it behind her.
The room was shuttered against the late-afternoon sun, but even so it was stifling, the rushes too old to mask the odors. Grace peered through the gloom to find her bearings. A movement in the chair beside the empty fire grate told her where John was seated and she took a few tentative steps towards him, clutching the pewter jug to her thumping heart.
“John?” she whispered. “’Tis I, Grace. I have come to bring you ale.”
“Put it on the table.” John’s voice was flat, but Grace was happy to notice it contained no anger. Encouraged, she went to the table, poured a cup and carried it to him. He was dressed in a rumpled shirt and green breeches more suited to a peasant than a nobleman. He did not bother to look at her but put out his hand to take the drink.
“Nay, you shall not have it until you have the courtesy to look at me and say my name,” she said. Where did that come from? She panicked. Dear God, what madness made me say that?
John lifted his head and stared at her in disbelief. “What did you say?”
“I said I will give you the ale if you greet me properly,” she repeated, less bravely. She decided she would make a run for the door if he exploded, knowing Tom would be there to rescue her.
Whether because of the gentleness of a female voice or her unthreatening presence, or because John’s grief had simply worn itself out, he suddenly laughed. Not a cruel, harsh laugh of anguish, but a genuine laugh of pleasure. “Grace, my little wren, what brings you in here—and unchaper-oned?” he teased. Grace was so relieved that she almost dropped the cup.
She smiled radiantly. “Ah, John, I am so glad to hear you laugh. And I am happy you are not angry with me. All of us have been worried about you—but none more than Tom and I.” She gave him the cup and ran to open the door. “Tom! He is well again. Come and see for yourself.”
Tom strode into the darkened room and almost tripped over John’s faithful greyhound, which had not left its master’s side for three days. “’Tis right glad I see you hale again, John,” he said, grasping his friend’s arm in salute. Then he wrinkled his nose in disgust. “’Twould seem your dog has not seen the outdoors for some time. The chamber stinks to high Heaven.” He went to the window and propped open the heavy wooden shutter, letting in the light and air. “That’s better.” He snapped his fingers at the dog, which lifted its narrow head inquisitively. “I will take Bran and let him run with Jason. I shall return anon.” At the mention of his name, Bran rose nimbly to his feet, but sought John’s side. In the light, Grace could see t
hat John’s chin was in need of a scrape.
“Stay a moment, Tom,” John said softly, fondling Bran’s ears. “I have to thank you. Grace tells me you have thought me lost these past three days. I, too, thought I was, but I needed to grieve alone and speak to God in my own way. I regret I gave concern, but I assure you, I am mended. Again,” he said more curtly, embarrassed at his outburst, “my thanks.”
Tom inclined his head in acknowledgment, whistled to Bran and left the room. He did not close the door, for he did not want Grace compromised without him standing guard.
“Pull up that stool, Grace. If you have nothing better to do, I have a need to talk to someone about my family. I am not an orphan as you are, but certes, I feel like one.” John slapped a couple of fleas on his calf that had been disturbed by the activity in the room. “Damn fleas!” he said. “I swear I have been eaten alive these past two days.”
Grace smiled, sat down on the stool in front of him and gathered her skirts tightly around her ankles to avoid being similarly attacked. She turned her solemn brown eyes to his face and characteristically cocked her head. She waited, hardly daring to breathe, afraid to spoil the intimacy.
“You did not know my father, did you?” John began and saw her shake her head. “I have had a goodly time to think about him these past few days, in truth, and to try to understand him. He was a great man, but he was quiet and serious and did not allow many to come close to him. I believe it made some people distrust him, and I wonder if ’twas why he was betrayed in the end. He was very different from your father, who was loud, enjoyed the company of others and was not afraid to indulge in the pleasures of life. I suppose one knew where one stood with him, whereas my father…” He shook his head.
The King's Grace Page 4
