“Come, sit, and I will tell you.” Grace helped him onto the pallet, its straw at least fresh, and sat close to him, engaging his gray eyes and trying not to look at his hideous hands.
John’s eyes widened when Grace spoke of her marriage to Tom and he tried to smile. “That wily Tom!” he exclaimed. “I knew he was sweet on you, and when I challenged him one night over many cups of wine, he admitted it. He is a good man, Grace—take my word for it.”
Grace said nothing but nodded briefly; she did not want to spend their precious five minutes talking about Tom. “Why are you tortured, John? What do they accuse you of? I would help you if I could.”
In a whisper, John told her that Aunt Margaret had sent him to find Francis Lovell and help smooth the way with James of Scotland for a possible landing by her nephew, Richard of York. “I have no papers on me, and so when they captured me I had nothing to show or tell. But Henry is no fool, and he believes I have come to overthrow him.”
Grace gasped. “So, ’tis true, Dickon lives?”
John nodded. “He is now at Aunt Margaret’s residence at Binche, but when word gets back to her that I am taken, I am sure she will not attempt to send Richard to Scotland. She will have to assume Henry would get the information from me”—he looked down at his hands—“one way or another.”
Grace hardly dared ask, “And, did he?”
John’s eyes filled with tears. “My father would be so ashamed of me, Grace. When they took a hammer to my fingers—” He stopped on a sob.
“Hush, my dear. Do not blame yourself, you are only human, which is more than can be said for them,” she said, jerking her head towards the door. “Let me ask one more thing,” Grace insisted, hoping to divert his attention from his shame and onto more practical matters. “Have you told them all that you know?”
John nodded miserably. “My mission from our aunt was to find Lovell and enlist his help in smoothing a landing in Scotland. I swear ’twas all. We don’t even know if Lovell is still there, or even alive. I was supposed to find out and give him—” He broke off in a fit of coughing. He could not endanger Grace any further than he already had.
“Then maybe there is hope for you,” Grace said, not noticing his evasion, “if I can beg Henry to pardon you. ’Tis common knowledge these days that Dickon is alive, so the only new information is that he might have looked to Scotland for help. Aye, your action was treasonous, but not so heinous that it couldn’t be pardoned. I shall have to enlist Bess’s help, for I have seen that Henry loves her—if he loves anyone,” she said.
John had trouble stemming the flow of tears as he listened to Grace’s suggestion; only his mother had loved him this openly, he was sure. His nose began to run, and he begged Grace to find the kerchief that he could not pull from its place inside his shirt and help him wipe his face. Gently removing the threadbare piece of cloth, she gave a little gasp when she recognized the kerchief she had embroidered for him all those years ago at Ormond’s Inn. She gave him a peck on the cheek.
“What was that for?” he asked, puzzled, as he lifted his face to be cleansed.
“I cannot believe you still have this old kerchief, ’tis all,” Grace replied, motioning to him to moisten a corner of the cloth with his tongue and rubbing some blood off his cheek. “I am flattered.”
John looked sheepish. “In truth, I had forgotten you gave it to me, cousin. I am such an ingrate.”
“Your time be up, my lady!” the coarse voice of the guard came through the door. “Bid your handsome sweetheart farewell. I have my orders.”
The grinding of the key in the lock made Grace’s heart sink. When would she ever see John again? Rumor had it that Sir Edward Pickering would be taking him to London, where the king would decide his fate, but she would not worry John with a mere rumor. She stood up and dropped a kiss on his dark head, the once glossy hair matted with dirt and blood.
“I will do what I can, John,” she said, and she heard him whisper his thanks as she left the room. It was all she could do not to run back and take him in her arms. Mustering all her dignity in front of the guard, she descended the stairs in an unhurried fashion, but as soon as she was out in the fresh air she ran as fast as she could to seek out Cecily and beg for her help. In her frantic conversation with John, she had forgotten that Bess was far away in London in the throes of producing another royal child, but if Cecily could sway her husband, and Welles could persuade his half sister, then maybe, just maybe, Lady Margaret would persuade Henry to grant John a pardon. Certes, that is a lot of persuasion, Grace thought as she lifted her hand to knock on Cecily’s door.
“Grace?” Tom’s voice came from nowhere and made her jump. “I would not disturb Lady Welles now.” He winked. “She is not alone.”
Grace almost said “Thomas Kyme” but thought better of it. “The viscount is with her?” she said instead, and Tom nodded. She sighed; help for John would have to wait.
“It means I am free to be with you,” Tom said shyly. “I have permission to fish; would you like to go with me?”
Grace was grateful he did not immediately bombard her with questions about her visit to the guardhouse and agreed to walk with him down to one of the palace’s fish ponds. It seemed many others in the palace had chosen to rest that hot afternoon, and after finding Grace a straw hat and collecting his rod and basket, Tom led the way through magnificent terraced gardens, past a large dovecote and onto the path for the ponds. Jason bounded ahead of them, delighted by the unexpected outing.
“Do you remember our fishing expedition on the Derwent?” Tom asked, hoping to distract Grace from thoughts of John. He had spent many agonized minutes conjuring up images of the two together in the prison cell.
“How did you know I was thinking of the same thing?” she exclaimed in surprise, smiling up at him. “I well remember how cold the water was, and then how warm your mother was to me—a complete stranger.”
Tom grinned happily. This was the Grace he had loved since that day. Perhaps they could avoid talking about John at all, he hoped. He told Grace of his sister Cat’s marriage to the York wool merchant, which Tom’s father had aspired to, and how glad his mother had been when she had heard of her son’s betrothal to Grace.
“‘A gradely, bonny lass with no falsity’ is what she wrote of you, sweetheart. She, too, remembers that day fondly, although not as fondly as I,” he said, feeling brave. “’Twas the day I realized I was a man, for I knew that I loved you, Grace.”
Grace slipped her hand in Tom’s and again enjoyed the comfort of it. “Aye, so you told me. But I was so young—a child, even. You fell in love with a child.”
Tom was so pleased with the turn in the conversation that he forgot to be careful. “But you were not such a child to think yourself in love with—” and he brought himself up short, cursing his slip of the tongue.
“With John,” Grace finished for him. “Aye, I loved John, but he had no time for me. I was but a child in his eyes.” She let go of his hand as they approached the pond and bent to pick a yellow flag iris. Several wild ducks flapped their wings, preparing to fly off the water as they heard the sound of voices, and a large frog leaped out of the stand of irises and fell with a plop into the water. Judging from the ripples all over the surface on the breathless summer day, the pond was teeming with fish, but Tom hardly noticed. He knew they could no longer avoid talking about John’s presence, only a stone’s throw from where they stood.
“They tortured him, Tom,” Grace whispered, pulling off one of the flower’s velvet petals and casting it into the water. “They broke his fingers with hammers. ’Twas pitiful to see.”
Tom could not forbear comforting her then. Laying down his rod, he put his arm about her shoulder and she turned into him, whimpering.
“I am sorry, Grace, truly I am,” he soothed. “I heard from my lord Welles that John was suspected of carrying information to Yorkist supporters, and that they must extract that information at all cost. Tudor is a hard man, I have obser
ved. He cares not how his subjects like him, and indeed it seems he does all to make them hate him. It rankled many of us when he commanded all mastiffs in the kingdom to be killed. Those magnificent dogs were doomed to die simply because Henry had heard they were capable of killing lions. ‘The lion is the king of beasts,’ he declared, ‘and nothing should kill a king.’”
Tom paused, shaking his head. He took off Grace’s crumpled straw hat and coif and stroked her wild curls. “He is afraid for his throne and prays many times daily to Our Lady to keep it safe. And at any time of the day or night he asks advice of his astrologer. In contrast, he was kind to the Simnel boy after Stoke, and now the boy is one of his falconers. Odd, perhaps, but I believe he knew the boy was an imposter from the start—especially as he had young Warwick closely guarded in the Tower at the time—but now, this rumor is different. If the son of King Edward is indeed alive, then he has a greater claim to the English crown than Henry does. So, you see, he had to make sure whatever John knows, he knows, too.”
Grace sniffed and used her sleeve to wipe her nose. She had listened intently to Tom’s little speech and was tempted to tell him what she knew of Dickon, but she had been sworn to secrecy and, besides, she could not entirely trust him yet.
“What do you think Henry will do with John?” she asked, sitting down on the mossy grass and stuffing the hat back on her head to shade her eyes from the sun. “He knows nothing, in truth.”
“You are not a green girl, Grace. Certes, he must know something, or else why did he risk returning?” He whistled at Jason, who had found a rotted bird carcass on the grass and had put his shoulder down to roll in the muck.
Grace lowered her eyes to her lap in case her face betrayed her. “He told what he knew, so he says, but ’twas nothing Henry did not know already.” Then she looked up at him with hope in her eyes. “Oh, Tom, do you think I could persuade Cecily to ask Lord Welles to beg Henry for a pardon? I have promised John I will do what I can,” she blurted out. “Or perhaps you could ask your lord? He seems to like you.”
Tom turned away in case, in turn, his face would betray him. “You ask much of me, Grace. I cannot stop you cajoling your sister, but I cannot compromise my position with Lord Welles. I know John is your kin, but he is not mine. We owe each other nothing.”
Grace leaped to her feet. “Not even friendship, loyalty or as comrades in arms? Where is your sense of chivalry and honor? Didn’t they teach you that at Sheriff Hutton?” she cried, running to him and raining blows on his back. He turned swiftly and took her by the wrists, his anguished face a mirror of hers.
“At this moment, my loyalty and honor are to you, as my wife—the person I cherish most in the world. As much as I regret John’s predicament, I cannot condone putting your own life at risk. Can you not understand? All I ask is that you give me your loyalty, if not your love, in return. You put both of us in jeopardy with your foolishness. ’Tis my duty to protect you, and I am telling you that by allying yourself with John, you risk the king’s anger. John is not a boy. He has made his own choices, and I am sorry it has gone badly for him. Comfort him if you must—I will not deny you or him that—but do not meddle in the affairs of state, Grace, or you may end up like John. And it would kill me if I could not prevent it,” he finished hoarsely.
Grace stared at him openmouthed. She had not thought of Tom as eloquent until now. His words rang true and made sense, despite her first instinct to attribute them to jealousy. He truly loves me, she realized in a flash of understanding. John had appealed to her love for him, perhaps selfishly, but the poor, tortured man was on the brink of disaster, and who could blame him for grasping at a straw? Oh, God, please show me the right path, she begged.
Whether it was God or her own heart that answered she would never know, but she pulled Tom’s head to her and kissed him with an ardor she had not before experienced, even in her imagined encounters with John. And as if she were nothing but a dandelion clock, she felt herself lifted off her feet and carried into a hazelwood copse that hid their lovemaking from any prying eyes except for two nervous squirrels and a doe that sprang easily away.
Jason loped along behind but was sternly told to lie down at the edge of the woods, which he did, watching his master and mistress curiously from afar.
HENRY WASTED NO time returning to London, and John was among the dozens of people on horseback, in carts and on foot who accompanied the king. Satisfied that Gloucester had been questioned enough to glean the most important piece of information—that a pretender to the throne did exist—Henry had granted Cecily’s plea to cease torturing the young man further. She had done this without encouragement from Grace, who thanked her from the bottom of her heart as they watched the cavalcade move down the long drive and onto the road to London from Cecily’s room above the courtyard.
“Certes, Grace, did you not think I was capable of asking for clemency for John on my own?” Cecily said, peeved. “He is my cousin, too, don’t forget. And I have known him a lot longer than you have. I am only too sorry Henry did not pardon him altogether. It seems he wants to discuss what to do with John with his advisers in London. He dare not bring John to trial here—the commoners would not stand for it.” Seeing Grace raise an inquiring eyebrow, she explained: “With so little evidence, Henry would look foolish, and to bring charges against John anywhere within a hundred miles of Fotheringhay would court rebellion. Our family is revered hereabouts, and Fotheringhay was Uncle Richard’s birthplace. The people consider John of Gloucester one of their own.”
“Where will Henry keep John in London?” Grace asked.
Cecily shrugged. “I know not. But it will probably not be at the Tower, where Henry would think he and Warwick might concoct a plot to overthrow him. Poor Henry; he is afraid of his own shadow. He spent an hour on his knees in the chapel yesterday praying to the Virgin for another son to secure his throne. Jack complained of pain in his back after being so long on his knees.” She patted Grace’s hand. “Hard as it may be, sister, you must put John out of your mind. At this time, he is dangerous to know, and more dangerous to support. If I did not have the good will of Lady Margaret now, I would not have been able to approach the king on John’s behalf as I did. You, on the other hand, have no influence with anyone at court—well, except me”—she smiled—“and a plea from you would have put both you and Tom at risk.”
“You sound like Tom,” Grace said, chagrined. “I wish we were not going to Hellowe and could follow Henry to London. Then I might be able to see John again, if I knew where they were taking him.” She suddenly saw John hunched in the back of one of the carts, his ankles manacled and a rope around his arms and chest. “Dear God,” she murmured, her heart going out to him. “There he is, Cis!” she cried and waved. “John!” she called, but he did not hear her and stared steadfastly at the back of a guard on the end of the cart, who was swinging his legs in rhythm with the vehicle’s motion.
“Ah, Grace, why not turn your favor on Tom,” Cecily said kindly, pulling her away from the window. “John is lost to you—to all of us now. I beg of you, sweeting, don’t cry. You will be happy, you will see.”
But Grace could not see; her tears were blinding her.
18
Binche
JULY 1491
Perkin walked slowly down the path in the sunken palace garden, its rose and knot beds sheltered from the wind and weather by the massive stone city wall. He inhaled the heavy scent of the hundreds of blooms that were carefully tended by the dowager duchess’s gardeners. Seated by a fountain, the ever-present book upturned on her lap, was the duchess herself, her head tilted back and her mouth slightly open as she dozed. She did not hear him approach and the quiet moment gave him time to study her for the first time in six years.
At forty-five and after many troubled years of unrest in Burgundy, the premature loss of her husband and his heir—her stepdaughter, Mary—Margaret of York was showing her age. She had put on weight in a matronly way, and Perkin could see that the on
ce-golden hair pushed back under her fashionable gabled headdress was now completely gray. But sensing his presence, her head jerked forward, her eyes flew open and a joyful smile curved her mouth.
“Let me look at you, Pierrequin,” she enthused, speaking English as she always had with him, and invited him to sit by her. After a graceful bow over her outstretched hand, he kissed her on both cheeks and sat down. “You are a handsome boy, in truth. But then, you always were,” she said, and put her hand up to stroke his hair. The familiar movement caused Perkin to start, color rushing to his cheeks.
“Aunt Margaret,” he whispered hoarsely. “Never I think to see you again.”
“Foolish boy,” she replied, shutting her book and laying it aside. “I told you that one day I might ask something of you. At the time, I was only half serious—I had no reason to say it, except that selfishly it bound me to you. But now…”
“Aye! Now?” he inquired eagerly. “I have done what you asked me of with Master Taylor. I sailed the seas and went in Brittany, France and Ireland. I told you that Ireland—and especially Cork—is safe de commencer the plan. But what is the plan, madame? Qu’est ce que vous voulez plus de moi?” he asked, reverting to his more comfortable French, the language of his native Tournai.
Margaret frowned. “English, Perkin, please. I can see you have forgotten much, and you must practice again,” she chided him. Then she patted his hand. “You want to know what more I want of you, and of course you have a perfect right. The information you have given me since John Taylor spoke to you is of import, but not as important as what I shall ask of you now.” She looked about them and noted the distance of the nearest gardener before beginning.
“I have kept a secret from you all these years, my dear. When you were a boy, it would have served you nothing to have known, but now it is of the utmost significance.”
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