“Use the base of the crucifix on your rosary. It needs to be metal, but the square base of the cross will do nicely as a tool,” Elizabeth said, making Grace raise one eyebrow at the use of a holy object to, in fact, deceive others. But she did as she was told, and the letter was sealed tight. She waited for the final instruction and turned to the dowager.
“I had not thought about the address, Grace,” Elizabeth moaned. “We need to put something on the front.”
Grace suddenly brightened. “Why do we not use Broome again? Would Aunt Margaret understand that it was for her?”
Elizabeth was moved to sit up and swing her legs over the side of the bed. Her eyes were shining. “You are a clever girl. Certes, she would know. Sir Edward will make sure it is put into her hands. Write upon it Dame Meg Broome and then hide it on your person until you meet Sir Edward. Ah, how I wish ’twas I who was going to Westminster. You are fortunate, my child, because no one will know you.” She looked at the hour clock and gasped. “Your escort will be waiting for you, Grace. Are you ready to go?”
Grace nodded. She had put her tooth stick, a comb and some clean hose in a small bag, and she tucked the letter between her chemise and her tightly fitted bodice and slipped on her pattens over her plain round shoes. Her russet wool gown and simple linen cap and veil gave her a rustic appearance, and she could have passed for a farmer’s wife or daughter. Elizabeth nodded her approval and bent and kissed her forehead, a gesture Grace had not enjoyed since they’d come to the abbey three years before. She stood on tiptoe and kissed Elizabeth on the cheek. “I will do my best for you, your grace,” she whispered. “I pray it helps return Dickon to us.”
“Amen,” Elizabeth agreed, and they both crossed themselves.
GRACE AND HER burly escort walked the mile to Southwark in the drizzle. As was usual in London, the weather changed from day to day, and the blue skies of yesterday had given way to a gray overcast and the lightest of rains. As they walked down St. Margaret’s Hill and onto High Street, Grace was able to take in her surroundings in more detail than she had from the covered carriage that had taken Elizabeth and her attendants to the palace at Westminster the previous foggy November.
Elizabeth had insisted Grace should wear nothing that set her apart on this dangerous errand, and Grace observed that in their brown wool garb she and Edgar, her taciturn servant, blended right in with other townsfolk. Only the higher-born could afford the expensive dyes like saffron and kermes red, although a cleric in his crimson would also stand out.
As they neared the bridge and passed the pillory, Grace watched as a jeering group of citizens lobbed rotten eggs at the mournful face of the man standing with his face and wrists stuck through the holes of the cross board. The wrong-doer’s plight so dismayed Grace that she begged Edgar to escort her into St. Mary Overie to pray for him. Edgar mumbled in assent, but as soon as he saw her safely inside the south transept door he announced that he needed to slake his thirst at the Swan tavern across the road. Before Grace could protest he had taken off, assuming his charge would be safe in the house of God. She stood still to take in her surroundings and become accustomed to the gloom; there was no sun streaming in the glorious windows this day. However, she was not expecting the cacophony of banging, hammering, talking and laughing that greeted her as she stepped out of the transept and into the nave. Dozens of carpenters were scrambling along scaffolding beams high above her as they worked on the new wooden roof. Grace turned and hurried down the south aisle to a quieter spot to pray.
Half an hour later, her supplications for the man in the stocks made, she returned to the transept door to wait for Edgar. When he eventually came, he reeked of ale and stumbled on the steps. Grace made him sit down and, to his surprise, proceeded to berate him, even slapping his slacked jaw several times as she did so. Then she hauled him to his feet and commanded him to lead her to the wharves. “If you put another foot wrong, my man, Father John will know of this lapse. I trust you told no one of our journey while you were tossing back the ale?” Edgar’s baleful look and shake of the head told her she could expect no more trouble from him, and he even bowed and mumbled an apology. A curious onlooker passing by wondered why the big man allowed his daughter to pummel him so, and Grace thought she heard Edgar tell him, “She’s as prim as a nun’s hen,” but she was too intent on continuing their journey to question him again. The man chuckled and passed by into the church. Handing the groom his sturdy stave, she waved him ahead of her, hoping he was sober enough to find the way to the water. “Not another word,” she said.
On the north side of the church, the alleys were narrow and the walls dank with slime from their proximity to the river. Grace was not sure what she was stepping on as they went, but the stench led her to believe it was not merely mud, and she was glad of her high wooden pattens. She pulled out a kerchief she had soaked in rosemary water for just such an occasion and held it to her nose. She heard a thwack behind her and turned to see Edgar grinning smugly. “A rat, my lady. I killed a rat.” Grace shuddered and was glad she had not seen it. She inclined her head in acknowledgment but then reminded him, “Edgar, do not call me ‘my lady.’ I am simply Mistress Grace, remember?”
The groom nodded. “Aye, mistress. I forgot.” Grace sighed, wishing Father John could have chosen a more quick-witted man than Edgar.
As they approached the wharf below the Clink prison, she was glad to see more people, as the alleys were ideal for concealing cutpurses, though big Edgar with his quarterstaff had given her some reassurance. They stood in the queue for a boatman to ferry them to Westminster, and only when the groat fare was paid and the six-person boat was being expertly pulled through the water away from shore did Grace feel her tension ease. The drizzle had stopped, and she shook out the moisture on her shawl and settled into the seat in the stern. It was not long before the houses of Southwark dwindled into woods and fields on the southern bank and the massive spire of St. Paul’s dominated the London side of the river. They passed Baynard’s Castle, the city residence of the York family, and she gazed at its impressive white walls and crenellated towers that rose in splendor from the water. She had been inside the castle once, when she was taken with her half sisters to pay respects to their grandmother, Cecily, who had made a rare visit to London from the duchess’s reclusive life at Berkhamsted. Grace had been awed by the imperious woman whose legendary beauty was still evident despite her seventy years, and the girl had spoken not a word during the hour-long visit. “Yet another of Edward’s by-blows, I suppose,” the duchess had muttered to herself, but all Grace had heard was the final “Poor child.”
Thoughts of her family led her to her present adventure. She turned to look over her shoulder at the whitewashed walls of William called Conqueror’s Tower receding in their wake. Could her half brother Dickon still be alive? And Ned? So many rumors had flown about since their disappearance in Eighty-three: Uncle Richard had ordered their murder, Harry of Buckingham had done the deed—or was it Margaret Beaufort? Or indeed, following Bosworth, could it have been Henry Tudor himself? Then there were those who believed the oldest had died of natural causes and that the younger had been sent away to safety by Uncle Richard. Grace liked that story the best, and her thoughtful reasoning told her that if they had really been murdered by Richard, then Henry surely would have accused him of it publicly and put the rumors to rest. Henry must not have been sure they were dead, she concluded, and a shiver of excitement went through her. Perhaps this story from Sir Edward Brampton was true, and young Richard of York was somewhere safe in Calais or Flanders. Her brother had every right to the throne now that Henry had overturned the illegitimacy claim against Edward and Elizabeth’s children so he could marry Bess. Small wonder Elizabeth did not want this errand discovered, Grace mused; it would put Henry in a very awkward position if Richard of York were brought home successfully. Grace shivered with trepidation as she realized that anyone remotely connected with the prince’s return could be accused of treason. She hop
ed her steady head would not let her down. In her deep gratitude, there was nothing she would not do for Elizabeth.
“William Caxton is an old friend of Aunt Margaret’s,” Elizabeth had explained to Grace before sending her on this errand. “He is well respected in London for his printing press, and his workshop at the Sign of the Red Pale is visited by nobles and merchants alike. My oldest brother, Anthony”—and Grace nodded, knowing he was the one who had been locked up at Sheriff Hutton—“was a patron of his. You have seen me reading his translation of Cordiale. ’Twas Caxton who printed it. You may go there without suspicion, and Sir Edward will keep his end of the bargain, I trust.”
Now the boat was pulling for the north bank as the slate roofs of the palace of Westminster and the massive abbey beyond grew closer over the prow. Grace was tempted to see if Cecily was at court, but she put it from her mind. Cecily and Grace had laughed together when the marriage with Viscount Welles had finally taken place late in 1487, because they realized that as John was half uncle to Henry, Cecily was now half aunt to her own sister, Bess. Grace did not envy her sister the aging viscount as a husband—twenty years difference was a lifetime to the girls—but she did envy Cecily’s recent motherhood.
“’Tis not a true marriage without children,” Elizabeth had remarked after a year without a sign of a Welles child. “At least, so the Bible tells us. I cannot believe one of my girls is barren, so I blame it on Welles.” She had put up her index finger and let it curl slowly limp, making Katherine laugh. So when a letter had come early in 1489 announcing that Cecily had borne a daughter at John Welles’s mother’s family residence of Bletso, Elizabeth was much relieved.
“My own Cecilia has done her duty by your son, Dorset. Three healthy children,” Katherine had said upon the news, although she did not mention the babes who had not survived. Elizabeth’s eyes had shone with pride, as they always did whenever Thomas was mentioned: she adored her oldest son, child of her first love, Sir John Grey. Dorset was back in the king’s graces, she was happy to know, but Henry still did not bestow the favors on him that his proud mother felt were his due, and it rankled.
The busy wharf was alive with courtiers and their ladies stepping into and out of their richly decorated barges, and with merchants followed by apprentices carrying bolts of cloth and other merchandise to tempt the noble residents of the palace. Coopers rolled barrels off shouts whose sails were now dropped, and wharf workers hauled stone from the barges that had brought it from the midlands. Grace and Edgar threaded their way through this melee towards the abbey. It was close to noon and Grace’s stomach was growling. Barrows and stalls loaded with vegetables, fish, poultry and cheese lined the streets where housewives bartered with the stall-keepers in raucous voices. A cook-shop boy was crying out “Hot pies! Boiled sheep’s feet! Roast thrush,” a stack of steaming hot pasties balanced on the board on top of his head. Grace bought two, and a sweet tart from another vendor, and she and Edgar found a bench where they could sit and eat. Grace saw Edgar eye the swinging bush sign hanging from the eaves of a building across the street that announced a handy alehouse, but she frowned heavily at him and was amused to see that he was cowed by it. She was always in the deferent position, and to have someone—especially someone of Edgar’s imposing height and girth—look up to her was rather gratifying. She was thirsty, however, and so told the man, “Go and ask in the alehouse where we might find the Sign of the Red Pale, and fetch us both a pot of ale while you are there. But you will return to me immediately, do you understand?” Her own authority impressed her. Edgar grinned, took the silver penny she gave him and disappeared inside the dark tavern.
The sun was attempting to pierce the lifting clouds, and she removed her shawl and tied it around her waist, as she did when she was in the fields. Edgar returned a few minutes later with the beer and they both quaffed the amber liquid quickly. The imposing mechanical clock in the square outside the palace gate told Grace it was nearly noon and thus time to seek out the print shop.
“It be not far from here, mistress,” Edgar said, pointing to the abbey. “No more’n five minutes.” And he was right. The wide vertical red line down the center of the white sign swinging above a door in the building adjacent to the abbey advertised William Caxton’s shop, and telling Edgar to wait outside and not to wander off, Grace pushed open the door and went inside. Her heart was beating loudly, but she must have looked perfectly serene, as an apprentice sidled up to her.
“Can I ’elp you, mistress?” he asked, taking in her plain, worn gown and damp coif. She did not look like a customer who could read, and other than being a rather tasty morsel, he was not prepared to waste much time on her. “Be you in the right place? This be a print shop. You know, where we print books.”
His tone was patronizing, and Grace drew herself up to her full five feet in her pattens and gave him a supercilious stare. “Certes, I am fully cognizant of that fact. I wish to see your master, sirrah. I have come to do business with Master Caxton, and no one else. Might I assume from your manners that you are not he?” Her more refined speech had established her superiority. Twice in one day, she thought proudly. The young man bowed and hurried to the stairs that led to Caxton’s office.
Grace looked about her with interest. The great press dominated the workshop and was being overseen by a tall thin man with piercing eyes. She edged closer to the apparatus, whose wooden frame stood almost six feet high. On a table nearby, another apprentice was fitting soft metal letters into a chase. As Grace watched him smear ink over the framed letters, a grizzle-haired man with a full white beard came slowly down the wooden staircase, supported by the apprentice.
“May I help you, mistress? I am William Caxton, the owner of the establishment,” he said, unhooking a stick from a peg and leaning on it as he walked.
“Good day, Master Caxton. I am here on an errand from my mistress, her grace the dowager queen Elizabeth,” Grace replied softly when the apprentice had moved away to help at the press. She had been expecting to find Sir Edward there, give him the letter and then start back for the abbey. She prayed Caxton knew of her mission and would allow her to wait upstairs for Brampton. She would not put the letter into anyone’s hands but his.
“At your service, my lady.” Caxton bowed gravely. “You are the Lady Grace, I trust?”
“Aye, sir.”
“Fear not. You are safe here, child,” the kindly printer told her, responding to her anxious glances at the others. “This is Master de Worde, my foreman. He looks fierce, but take no notice; ’tis from staring so long at sheets of printed paper to make sure each is perfect. Wynken, show our visitor how the machine works.”
Grace smiled her thanks and went closer to the press. The apprentice laid the now well-inked chase of words into its place and a page of paper upon it, and the foreman pulled down on the heavy bar attached to the screw, pressing the platen quickly onto the page and releasing it. As Grace watched, Caxton gently peeled the paper off the type and held it up for her to inspect. She gasped. It was as though someone had spent hours writing this neat script, but because of the skill and speed of the apprentices in setting the type and the astonishing invention of the press, the page was complete in minutes.
The paper fluttered in her hand and Grace knew the door onto the street had been opened, letting in the wind. She turned and, to her relief, saw Sir Edward Brampton walking towards her, a ready smile on his face.
“Lady Grace, ’tis a pleasure to see you and know that you came here safely,” he began quietly out of earshot of all but Grace and Caxton. “Ah, Caxton, I see you have been showing our young friend this marvelous machine. Did you know this man is renowned throughout Europe for his books, my lady?”
“Pshaw!” Caxton laughed off the compliment. “’Tis her grace, Madame la Grande, who deserves all the praise. Without her patronage, I would still be peddling goods as a Merchant Adventurer in Bruges! I would still be unmarried and not have my lovely daughter.”
“Madame la
Grande?” Grace asked. “Who is she?”
“Why, she is your aunt, my lady,” Caxton exclaimed. “Her grace, the duchess Margaret of Burgundy. A most intelligent and beautiful woman. ’Twas she who took me from the Waterhall in Bruges—where the Merchant Adventurers lived, you see—and gave me a position at her court so that I could work on translating the Recueil—or History of Troy, as it is known in English. Wait, allow me to show you.” Caxton fetched a book from the shelf and put it into Grace’s hands as if it were made of gold.
With reverence, Grace opened the embossed leather volume and read the introduction to the first book ever printed in English: “At the commandment of the right high, mighty and virtuous princess, his redoubted Lady Margaret, by the grace of God, duchess of Bourgoyne…meekly beseeching the bounteous Highness of my said Lady that of her benevolence listened to accept with favor this simple and rude work here following…” Grace looked up at Caxton and was touched by his expression. “’Tis humbly said, Master Caxton. I trust my aunt was pleased with your dedication?”
“I am proud to say she shed a tear upon first reading it, just as I will if you continue to remind me of that memorable moment of my life, my lady,” Caxton said, laughing. “Now I must return to my accounts, or this poor fellow here”—he indicated de Worde—“will not be paid this quarter. Lady Grace, Sir Edward,” he murmured, bowing. “I am always at your service.”
Another customer came into the shop, and again the apprentice hurried to greet the newcomer. Sir Edward led Grace to a quiet corner, consternation on his face.
“I fear you are come on a fool’s errand, my lady,” he said, “for which I am deeply sorry. I have received word from my wife in Lisbon that I am required there, and I shall now not be returning to Bruges as I thought. I assume you have come with a letter. Aye, I thought as much. It pains me greatly to break my word to her grace, but I must—and ask her forgiveness.”
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