There was no chance of even a fond embrace in the crowded hall, where several people turned to look curiously at the bastard of Gloucester and his pretty companion. Grace felt a rising panic that she would not ever see him again. “You will have a care, my dear John,” was all she could whisper. “If anything should happen to you, I should not want to live.”
“Fiddle faddle! Don’t you know I was born lucky—so my mother tells me. No need to fret, my wren. I shall reappear at some inauspicious moment in your life and you will wish me far away.”
Grace’s face was a picture of dismay. “Oh, no, John! I shall always be happiest when you are near me,” she insisted. “You are never far from my thoughts.”
John laughed. “I hope you never have cause to rue that remark, coz,” he teased her and, looking around, he asked, “Now where is your friend?” He did not wish her to sense the fear in his heart, too, that he might never see her again.
GRACE WAS REUNITED with Judith and Edgar at the inn, and they were most relieved to see her. The night before Heer Gerards had been grumpy upon his return, thinking that Sir Edward Brampton had stretched his patience with this pointless jaunt. He had shouted at Edgar, been rude to a tavern wench and complained to Judith after Edgar had stomped off to sleep in the stable. However, he and Judith had been consumed with curiosity as to why Margaret had taken such an interest in this young Englishwoman, and he tossed and turned on the unforgiving straw mattress upstairs that night, plotting to persuade his stubborn wife that Mistress Peche might be a suitable bride for his son once Judith had assured him that Grace was a good Christian. Judith’s curiosity did not last long, however, and she was asleep in a trice, wrapped up in her cloak on the other side of the straw, after praying for a quick and safe return to London and resolving to tell Grace of the man’s interest.
Gerards was impressed that the duchess had provided them with an escort as far as Antwerp and, with Grace riding pillion, sat on his horse as if he were a lord. The black and scarlet colors of Burgundy on the guards’ tunics caused heads to turn with interest, and the merchant thought he should acknowledge their gawping by removing his tall beaver hat and waving it grandly. Grace hid her giggles in his mantle and was glad when they left Malines behind. She turned to look over the horse’s rump at the great tower of St. Rumbold’s rising from the walled city, and a lump in her throat changed her laughter to sadness as she thought of John waving farewell from the steps of Margaret’s palace. She committed to memory his strong chin, square face, sensual mouth and dark gray eyes—those eyes that alone marked him as the son of King Richard—and whispered “I love you” into the wind.
Then she turned away and looked towards Antwerp—and home.
14
Bermondsey
SUMMER 1490
As the roofs and spires of London hove into view around the last bend before the Pool, Grace drank in the vista as one parched for the sight.
“See how the Tower gleams in the sunlight, as though it had received a lime wash but yesterday. And there’s Saint Mary le Bow, and yonder the steeple of Saint Paul’s,” she cried, pointing the landmarks out to Judith, who was gladder to see terra firma approaching than the stunning sights of her city.
But when the carrack docked at a wharf close to the Billingsgate Market and the putrid smell of dead fish assailed their nostrils, Grace admitted she would be happy to put her feet on dry land again—English land. So much had happened to her and so different did she feel that it seemed to her she must have been gone for a year instead of a mere ten days. She blinked. Have I really walked the streets of Bruges, heard the bells of St. Rumbold’s, made two sea voyages and been in the presence of her grace, the dowager duchess of Burgundy? It hardly seems possible, she thought. Perhaps it has all been a dream. But then the shriek of a fishwife brought her rudely awake.
“Get yer filthy ’ands off me barrow, yer maggot-ridden pisshole!” the voice floated up to the trio on the deck, waiting for the gangway to be secured, and Judith laughed.
“Aye, we are indeed back in London, are we not, Edgar?” she asked.
“And I wouldn’t be nowhere else,” he replied, grinning. “Never thought I’d be glad to see the rat-infested streets o’ London again, Mistress Croppe, but I am right glad, that I am.”
The captain appeared at Grace’s side and invited her to disembark with his help. She thanked him and paid him three of the florins from Aunt Margaret’s purse for their voyage.
“I am grateful to you, Judith, for your company on this enterprise,” Grace said to the young woman when they stood on shore. “I am sorry the sea voyage did not agree with you, but the homecoming was less of a trial, I trust. I pray you convey my respectful greetings to Master Caxton and tell him his book was received with pleasure by the duchess. Now, I beg of you, let us accompany you back to your home. I am loath to leave you alone in the middle of Billingsgate.”
Judith chuckled. “Mistress Peche, I am well known here by the mongers and their wives alike, for I come to buy every Friday. My brother’s house is hard by in Pudding Lane and is but a stone’s throw from this place. I shall bid you farewell and God speed here and now. I shall be pleased to see my own home again, in truth, for all ’twas a lark we were on.” She gave Grace a bobbing curtsy, said good-bye to Edgar and hurried off between the stalls and baskets piled high with cod, mackerel, skate and hake, and was soon swallowed up in the lanes and alleys behind Thames Street.
Edgar was sent to find a boatman who would ferry them across the Thames to the wharf at Tooley Street, and Grace waited with the bundle of clothes until she heard Edgar’s “halloo” from the river. Fifteen minutes later they were standing on the dock on the south bank, where Grace paid the boatman and told Edgar to lead the way back to the abbey.
Once on the path, Edgar dropped a discreet step behind Grace, his hulking presence a comfort to her. She had grown fond of the simple stable hand and sincerely hoped Elizabeth would reward him well for his duty to her. As they came to the abbey garden, Brother Oswald spotted her and came hurrying flatfooted along the path to greet her.
“We have missed you, Lady Grace,” he cried, his long pointed nose almost meeting his chin in a wide smile of welcome. “Father John said you were visiting your sister at Westminster. I trust you had a pleasant stay?”
Ah, so Elizabeth did concoct a plausible story, Grace thought, relieved. “Aye, brother, the Lady Cecily was well, and ’twas good for me to have a change of scenery.” And more than one scene, she thought, hoping she had not deceived the good monk with her enigmatic answer. “But I am sure there are things that need my attention in the field and garden. I shall look forward to joining you on the morrow, Brother Oswald. But now I must hurry back to the dowager’s side. I have been gone longer than expected.”
Brother Oswald inclined his tonsured head and nodded amiably. “Until tomorrow, my lady.”
Reassured that Elizabeth had explained away both her and Edgar’s absence to Father John, she was not prepared for the reception her bodyguard was subjected to upon passing the stable doors.
“Get in here, you lazy lout!” Wat, the head groom, strode out and headed towards Edgar, fists clenched at his sides and ignoring Grace. “Brother Gregory be in a foul mood this past week after you didn’t come back as expected. Where’ve you bin?”
“How dare you speak to my servant thus!” Grace stepped between him and Edgar, a full foot shorter than both men, and in unison they fell back a step. “’Twas all arranged with Father John and her grace, the queen dowager. Edgar, follow me. And you, sirrah, will move away at once. You smell of horse piss.”
Both Edgar and Wat stood rooted, their jaws dropped open in astonishment.
“Aye, my lady,” Wat stammered, finally retreating several paces. He said not a word as Edgar, cocking a snoot at him, followed Grace to the abbey residence.
“Thankee, mistress,” he said when they were out of earshot. “I was afeared Brother Gregory might send me packing. And then what would I do
?”
“You will not be sent packing, I promise you,” Grace said, more confidently than she felt. “And if you are, I have no doubt you could find work onboard ship.” She smiled as she said this, knowing he could not see her.
“Go to sea!” Edgar yelped. “Nay, mistress, I would rather be chained up in the Clink than go back on a ship.”
“I am teasing you, Edgar,” she said, mounting the stairs to the dowager’s rooms. “You had best stay down there and wait for a sign from me. And do try not to get into trouble.”
“Trouble?” Edgar said, looking around at the empty yard, puzzled. “What trouble, mistress?”
Grace laughed. “Oh, Edgar, you are such a delight to tease,” she said. And seeing his fallen face, she immediately felt contrite. “Forgive me, but please believe me, I tease you only because I like you.”
She was rewarded with a simple grin of happiness and a touching of his temple. “And I like you, too, mistress,” he called as she disappeared into Elizabeth’s room.
“Grace, my dear child!” Elizabeth cried from her bed, where she was lying fully dressed while Katherine read to her. Her little white terrier sprang off the bed and ran circles around Grace’s feet, yapping happily. “Praise be to God you are safely back. Katherine, help me to my chair and lock the door. Let us hear what Grace has to tell us.”
Grace rose from her curtsy, picked up the dog and cuddled it before helping Katherine ease Elizabeth to her feet. She looks so much older and thinner, Grace thought, and yet I have not been gone a fortnight.
“In truth, I am glad to see you again, your grace. And you, Lady Katherine,” she said, giving the pinch-faced woman a smile. “Indeed it warms my heart to be back in familiar surroundings.” Katherine grunted a response.
Elizabeth was settled into the cushions of her chair, where Poppy scrabbled at her mistress’s gown to be lifted into her lap. “Katherine is aware of your mission, Grace,” Elizabeth said, but did not feel the need to explain her motive. In truth, she had been shocked and upset upon hearing Cecily’s news of Grace’s unexpected journey, and Katherine had again been there to console her.
Undismayed, Grace pulled up a stool and told her tale. “And so, the message from my aunt, Duchess Margaret, is that your son is indeed living, although she claims not to know his present whereabouts.”
Elizabeth’s eyes filled with tears, but she smiled through them and whispered: “Thanks be to the sweet Virgin, Mother of God. She has heard my prayer. Did Margaret think Sir Edward spoke the truth that Dickon had been kept at Guisnes?”
Grace nodded. “The word in Malines—so my cousin John said—is that Dickon was kept at the castle in Calais on secret orders from King Richard. Aunt Margaret did not deny this when we questioned her, but she did not confirm it, either. ‘Tell Elizabeth to hold steadfast, and I will do all in my power to return England to Yorkist rule’ were her very words. She said no more, because she had no wish to put you in danger.”
Elizabeth stroked Poppy’s long white hair and, at the last statement, inclined her head, the folds of her white wimple almost enveloping her gaunt face. “Aye, she would think of that. Meg and I always looked out for each other, and I missed her when she left for Flanders. ’Tis comforting she still cares,” she said softly. “’Twas her love for Anthony that allowed her to see me in a kinder light than other members of her family did.”
Katherine drew in a sharp breath of disapproval, which made Elizabeth laugh. “Katherine the saint! Katherine the sanctimonious! Does this knowledge shock you, my dear Lady Hastings? Aye, my brother and Edward’s sister were lovers—but unlike our inconstant husbands, they waited until both were widowed, or so Anthony led me to believe.”
Grace looked at her lap and smiled, remembering the expression on Margaret’s face when she had opened William Caxton’s gift. He must have known, too, she thought. Elizabeth winced as she shifted in her chair. “Certes, Grace, you have done well. I must confess Cecily knew my wrath when she came knocking at my door with the preposterous story of your departure for Flanders.” She grinned ruefully. “I never quite understood the meaning of flounce until she demonstrated it for me upon her leaving. I am sorry, for ’twas at Sir Edward I was truly irked.”
Katherine interrupted with a snort: “Irked does not adequately tell the tale, my dear Elizabeth. I seem to remember you calling him a craven, onion-eyed clotpole for sending a girl to do a man’s work.”
Grace chuckled and Elizabeth looked shamefaced. “Is that what I said?” she said. “I suppose I owe Cecily an apology, but, by the Rood, I do not think Brampton could have executed the mission any better than our Grace here. My compliments!” She put her hands in prayer position and bowed over them, looking straight at Grace, who blushed and thanked her.
“Let us say the Angelus together and then Grace must find Father John and allay his fears that Grace has absconded with Edgar for good.”
Grace’s hand flew to her mouth and she jumped to her feet. “Edgar! I completely forgot about Edgar,” she cried. “He has been waiting downstairs all this time. In truth, I could not have done this journey without his protection, your grace, and he is so afraid he will be sent from the abbey for it. The head groom threatened him with dismissal as we arrived earlier. Can you not intervene with Father John, I beg of you? He is a good man—a simple one, but a good man.”
“My dear Grace, you will be a great deal more successful with Father John than I by pleading just as you have with me now. Go, child, and say I sent you. I am too weary to do battle for a simple groom. I know not why you care about him; he is merely a common man, and of no account. I would hear no more of him,” she complained, waving Grace away. “Katherine, I need my powders or my head will surely crack.”
Katherine glowered at Grace and pushed her roughly towards the door. “Get thee gone, Grace,” she hissed, unbolting the top of the door, which Grace could not reach. “Certes, I wish you had stayed in Flanders. We were going along quite well without you.”
I’ll warrant you wish I had drowned, Lady Hastings, not merely remained abroad, Grace thought. She tried to take into account Margaret’s words of explanation for the woman’s ill will towards her, but her heart was hardened and she left without a word.
GRACE LOVED THE summer season most of all. Seeing all the seedlings she had so diligently nurtured into full-grown plants—stalks heavy with peas and beans, or heads of lettuce and cabbage full and lush—gave her the sense of accomplishment that watching a tapestry grow never could. Then, seeing the fruits of her labors either in pottages or stews on the refectory tables for the abbey community to enjoy or given as fodder to the animals was an added satisfaction. She had stored a wealth of knowledge from her work in the fields and knew that leeks and cabbages must be removed from the ground in June, that onions were good from December to March, that cutting—not tearing—the lowest beans from their stalks would double the crop and that she should save some of this summer’s seeds for next spring’s sowing. She loved the smell of the newly mown hay, the earth and even the horse manure that was spread on the tilled ground in the autumn. The song of a thrush, a blackbird and the warbler all delighted her and kept her company as she toiled.
Being alone also gave her the chance to think independently and daydream to her heart’s content. If she was not reliving the precious moments with John in Malines, she was mulling over all she had learned of Dickon, her half brother. It seemed certain now that he was still alive and somewhere on the other side of the Channel. Or was he? If the last place a report of him had been noted was Calais, might he have already taken ship and landed in England to seek his rightful crown? Grace dismissed that notion; ’twould not be wise to come without an army behind him. And there had been no talk of an army being mustered to help him while she was with Margaret. Nay, whatever is afoot as far as Dickon is concerned is still an illusion, she concluded, as it would seem no one had actually set eyes on the young man. She shook her head. ’Twould be nigh impossible to keep such a secret,
she thought, but Aunt Margaret certainly believes it—as did Sir Edward. And he has no reason to care if ’tis true or not, she reasoned. Thinking of Margaret, a conversation at the private supper she had shared with the duchess came to mind and made her determined to ask Elizabeth about Uncle George of Clarence. She straightened her aching back and wiped the perspiration from her forehead.
“Royal visitors!” came a cry from the field closest to Long Lane. “The queen! The queen is come.”
“Bess, here?” Grace muttered, shading her eyes and recognizing the royal banners. “Lord have mercy, Elizabeth will not be ready to receive her.” Handing her basket of peas to a fellow picker, she picked up her kersey skirts and ran as fast as she could back to the residence, stopping for a moment at the well to splash water on her face and neck and get the dirt off her hands. Bess would have to be greeted by Father John first and then be properly announced, she knew, so if she and Katherine were quick, they could ready Elizabeth for her daughter’s visit.
“My finest gown!” Elizabeth commanded upon hearing the news. “Why, oh, why did she not give me notice? ’Tis most unseemly and unkind. She gives me no respect,” Elizabeth whined as Grace released the ties on her drab gray skirt and Katherine opened the wardrobe chest and lifted out the purple gown from the tailor in Southwark.
“Perhaps she has good news, your grace, and wanted to come as soon as she could to tell you,” Grace suggested hopefully. However, Bess had not been to the abbey for two years, although her letters were frequent and affectionate enough. It seemed Henry—or his mother—had her firmly under his control, and she had dutifully provided him with a son and a daughter, both of whom were healthy.
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