Perkin trembled with excitement. “I remember a long time ago you called me your secret boy, but I think you were ashamed to show me because I am a poor boy—Pierrequin Werbecque—from Tournai. Sire de Montigny, my tutor, knew this, but he was kind always and let me play with the gardener’s boy. Then I was Jehan. Jehan LeSage—John the Good.”
Margaret sighed. “Aye, it was, but that was the name I gave you. I wanted you to forget your mother and father and think of only me as your family. Piers, or Pierre, was your name, and Pierrequin means ‘little Pierre.’”
“I do not remember anyone but you, ma tante,” he cried. “Who was my family?”
“Your mother married a boatman by the name of Jehan Werbecque, who is now a comptroller in the city of Tournai, so I am told. Not long after you came to me, she died. Your stepmother’s name is Nicaise or sometimes she is called Katherine de Farou, but you do not know her, nor will you.” Margaret played with the huge ruby ring on her finger—her betrothal ring, Perkin remembered. “But—and here is the secret”—she paused, weighing her words and wondering if she could really involve her darling boy in her outrageous plan—“you were born in London, where your mother, whose name was Frieda, lived with your grandparents—Flemish weavers. Your father was not Jehan Werbecque at all, but my brother George, duke of Clarence and brother of King Edward of England.” The look of disbelief on Perkin’s face told her that what she was saying had been understood, and she plunged on. “Aye, you are a bastard of the house of York,” she told him, “and when George, who was my favorite brother, was executed for treason, King Edward begged me to care for you. In truth, Edward was the one who condemned his own brother to death, and his guilt and remorse were great.” She looked at Perkin with tenderness. “The other reason was that I was never able to have children of my own, God help me, and Edward knew I would care for you as only an aunt—and one who longed for children—could. Certes, I am your real aunt, but I thought it would be less complicated—and, I admit, selfish—if I kept you to myself. Perhaps ’twas wrong, but at the time it seemed right.”
She took a deep breath and watched his expression. Dear God, he looks like one of us, she thought. Even more so now that he is older. He did not have the stature of his father, but his looks were clearly of the York line—the long, soft blond hair was like George’s, the petulant, full lower lip like Edward’s and the strong jaw reminding Margaret of Richard. He even had the odd crease above the brow line that Edward always proudly announced he had inherited, although from whom, Margaret could not remember. There was an odd dullness to Perkin’s left eye, but perhaps he had looked too long at the sun on board ship or been in a fight and damaged it, and his skin was almost too soft for a man’s beard. Otherwise, he was a beautiful young man in her eyes, and she glowed with pride.
“Who else knows this secret?” Perkin asked, interrupting her long avising of him.
Margaret shook her head. “No one has ever known about you, except for Edward, George, your mother and me—and, certes, your grandparents at the time of your birth. I am the only one left alive, you see.”
Perkin was dumbfounded. A royal bastard? It could not be true, he thought. For all these years I have thought I was a poor boatman’s son and that the duchess took me in as a charity case. He had not questioned her act of kindness, but praised God for his good fortune.
“Your stepfather, Werbecque,” Margaret went on, “agreed to take in your mother and you because your grandparents gave him money, but he was not a good father to you. You told me once that he beat you.”
“I do not remember him,” Perkin said, rising and beginning to pace. “I do not remember anything before here.”
“My darling boy,” Margaret said, watching him anxiously and thinking even his movements had a natural grace to them, as if he had known all along he was no ordinary man. “I see you are in shock. Perhaps we should wait a while before I tell you why I brought you back.”
Perkin swung back to her, his brows snapping together. “Nay, aunt, I want to hear your plan now. I have waited too long.” Realizing to whom he spoke, he changed his tone: “Whatever it is, I cannot say no. I promised you, remember?” And he crossed his heart, just as he had done almost exactly six years ago.
Margaret rose stiffly from the bench and replaced her book in its velvet pouch, attached to her belt. Then she took Perkin’s arm and led him through the gardens to a spot where they could look out over the city wall to the green fields undulating in front of them.
“Do you remember the two sons of my brother Edward who disappeared from the Tower of London?” she began.
Perkin nodded. “I heard in Lisbon that King Richard suffocated them in order to be king.”
Margaret frowned. “You have the story wrong, nephew. My brother Richard was offered the crown by parliament months before the two boys disappeared. He had no reason to kill them. In truth, we do not know what happened to them. There were no bodies, no evidence, nothing. My sister-in-law, the boys’ mother, believed they were dead, but many believed Richard sent them away for safekeeping somewhere. But he died at Bosworth Field, so no one knows where they are.”
Perkin was intrigued. “And now that Henry Tudor wears the crown, what do it matter?”
Margaret smiled. “Does it matter, Perkin, not do. Certes, it does matter—to me and to all who support my family. If we could bring forth one of those boys, then Henry’s claim to the crown would be very much in danger, don’t you see?”
“Aye, I see how Henry must worry. But what can you do from here? What can I do?”
Margaret clucked her tongue impatiently. “Can you not guess, boilbrain? You will be one of those boys and frighten Henry off the throne.”
Perkin stared at her, stunned. “M-me?” he stammered. “You…you want me to pretend I am who I am not?” Then he suddenly remembered the rumors. “But just as Master Waters told me, the talk in the taverns and markets is that Richard, duke of York, is alive—and you know where he is. Why do you not use the real man? I do not understand.”
Margaret chuckled. “They are only whispers, Perkin, started by me and fueled by people fascinated by the mystery of the missing boys. Now that I have people believing it, we are ready to show him to them. There is no Richard, duke of York—only you.” She waited for this news to sink in and watched the myriad expressions flit over his face.
Finally, he spoke. “You would have me lie?” Perkin asked miserably. “You would have me pretend to be someone else?”
“Dearest boy, you have been someone you are not for all of your life. It will not be difficult, I promise you.” She eyed him surreptitiously as he stared at the cows in the meadow and let the idea percolate. “You are every inch a Plantagenet, and even though you are George’s son, no one will ever doubt you are not Edward’s—if you have the tools to carry off the masquerade. Tools that I shall give you”—she paused for effect—“as well as Archduke Maximilian, who finally supports me in this.”
She shook his arm gently as he stared off into the middle distance, his mind in a whirl and every fiber of his being screaming “No!” Her tone turned seductive: “I swear to you, my dearest, that in five years time you will be king of England.”
Perkin slowly turned his horrified eyes to her expectant face. “And if I fail?” he asked in a whisper.
Margaret scoffed. “How can you fail? I warrant even your sisters would believe you to be their brother the minute they saw you. Henry cannot deny the possibility of Richard’s existence because he has never proved or declared publicly that the two princes are dead. This means he believes deep down that they could be alive, and that is why he is afraid.”
Grasping at a straw, Perkin asked, “Why do you choose the younger son and not Edward? What will they believe has happened to him?”
Margaret gave him an appraising look. “Well done, nephew. An astute question. ’Tis well known Ned was sickly that summer of Eighty-three. There was a doctor who tended both boys who believed Ned had a wasting dise
ase of the face. ’Tis possible he died from that—and that is the story you will tell, as well as how you were taken from the Tower and into hiding, which we shall practice. Besides, you and Richard are the same age—Ned was two years older.” She picked up his limp hand and carried it to her cheek. “With Burgundy on your side, the friends you say we have in Ireland and Lord Lovell paving the way for support in Scotland, you will have the backing of many leaders. There are friends at the French court—rebel Englishmen who hate Henry—who are ready to help a Yorkist cause, and the French king would like nothing more than to anger Henry. And I shall be your chief supporter and champion—with Maximilian’s help. The time is right, Pierrequin, and all these things will help us to succeed. I will guide you and teach you everything you need to know. As soon as you are ready, you will go to England with an army and claim the throne back for the house of York.” She leaned into him and whispered. “I say to you again, you will be king of England!”
She waited patiently while he gathered his thoughts, but when he turned his anguished face to her, her heart sank.
“I cannot do this, your grace,” he said. “I am a simple man, and my mask will be cast aside as quickly as…as an ax will cut off my head!” He clutched his throat and choked down a sob. “All I want is to go back to my ship and sail away forever.”
Margaret felt tears roll down her cheeks, and she could not say if she shed them in sympathy for his terror or in frustration that he might thwart her and Maximilian’s plan.
“Ah, Jehan,” she used his old name tenderly. “I fear you have broken my heart.” And she turned away and descended the few steps to the garden path, dabbing her eyes with her kerchief. She could not blame the young man for refusing the task; it was a mammoth—and dangerous—one. But seeing him had made it seem all the more possible: he looked the part, and with some coaching, no one would deny he was the son of Edward of England.
As she walked slowly back to her palace, leaving Perkin to ponder her words, she remembered the scene in Seventy-eight when William Hastings had unexpectedly come to her in this garden and told her of Edward’s request to take George’s bastard son under her wing. She smiled. She knew she could persuade the young man; it was just a matter of time.
And of keeping a promise.
PART THREE
Wherefore, cousin, think on this matter, for sorrow oft-times causes women to behave otherwise…
—THE PASTON LETTERS, FIFTEENTH CENTURY
19
London
NOVEMBER 1491
Grace had forgotten how noisy and dirty London was. All summer long, in the peaceful pastoral setting of Hellowe, she had thought she missed the sights and sounds of London. When Viscount Welles had recited a poem that Henry had been particularly taken with,
London, thou art of towns a per se,
Sovereign of cities, seemliest in sight,
Of high renown, riches and royalty;
Of lords, barons, and many goodly knight;
Of most delectable lusty ladies bright;
Of famous prelates in habits clerical;
Of merchants full of substance and might:
London, thou art the flower of Cities all.
she remembered thinking, Aye, a fair city, but perhaps the poet has not seen Bruges. Even at the abbey there had been a hustle and bustle about the place, and not a mile away one of the busiest thoroughfares in the kingdom led to London Bridge through the hubbub of Southwark, with its stews and taverns, marketplace, bull-baiting ring and breweries. The laymen workers brought the latest news from the city, and visitors from all over Europe would seek hospitality within its walls. In Lincolnshire, news was slow to catch up to them, and so when Grace was told that a man calling himself Richard, duke of York, had landed in Cork in October and been acclaimed as the son of King Edward by the Irish lords and people alike, she trembled for John.
To give him his due, Lord Welles had kept Cecily abreast of John’s situation through the autumn, knowing hers and Grace’s concern for their cousin. When Grace learned he had been first lodged at Westminster, where the king was in residence—in a guarded room, she had no doubt—she was hopeful that Henry would soon release him as being no particular threat. But with the appearance of a pretender now very real, Henry had good cause to distrust anyone who bore the name of York, despite Bess having given him a second son to solidify his position.
Grace eased her right leg on the stiff sidesaddle, envying the men’s ability to straddle the backs of their horses. Her rump was numb and her back aching by the time the Welles party trotted through the Newgate and into Chepeside. It was a mild day for mid-November, and Grace was glad of the sunshine that greeted them after leaving Hellowe in a drizzle that had accompanied them as far as Barnet the evening before. Despite her tightly woven woolen cloak, all of her clothes were damp and uncomfortable. She hoped Pasmer’s Place, where the Welleses lodged in the city, would be warm and inviting. Jack Welles had galloped off to Westminster with his squires and secretary to join the king, leaving Cecily and her attendants with the small armed guard who turned under the portcullis of Newgate.
Along the Chepe and down Soper Lane to St. Pancras Lane, the weary riders coaxed their mounts through mounds of refuse in the muddy street, avoiding sudden showers from the contents of pisspots heaved out of second-story windows and shooing away urchins in bare feet and rags begging for coins. A mangy dog lifted its head from a discarded carcass outside a butcher’s shop, and Cecily remarked that the merchant was sure to be fined for breaking the law.
Pasmer’s Place was a new house in St. Sithe’s Lane, a stone’s throw from the Barge Inn on Bucklesbury Street, and Grace could hear raucous laughter coming from its taproom.
“Our apartments are facing the other way,” Cecily assured Grace. “You will not hear the noise, I promise. How do you like my house?” she asked, gesticulating grandly with her arm. “Jack brought the slate for the roof from Collyweston. ’Tis the best in England,” she said proudly.
The new stone gleamed in the sunlight and stood out among the wattle and daub buildings adjacent. Inside, Grace was impressed with the brightly colored ceilings and polished furniture of the paneled rooms, where the sun streamed in through the west-wing windows that looked out onto a secluded garden.
“You and I will share my bed while Jack and Tom are at Westminster,” Cecily enthused, showing Grace around the townhouse. “I am so happy you could come with me this time, Grace. We have to thank my husband for this—he is in a bind with us praying every night for John’s release and he praying for Henry’s safety—but I think I was persuasive enough,” she said, winking at her sister.
“I am grateful to you, Cis. Tom was not pleased that I came this time, because he knows it is only for John’s sake that I come. But let us not talk of Tom, dear as he is. Let us see how the children weathered the journey. They are probably already asleep.”
Cecily shrugged. She did not understand Grace’s fascination with her daughters, whom the younger woman loved as if she were their mother, while she was quite complacent about leaving them in the care of nursemaids all day. Once a day she would go and see them in the nursery, and it never failed to amuse her to find Grace down on her knees, playing a game with the oldest Welles daughter, Anne. But she knew Grace longed for her own child and was curious as to why her sister had failed to conceive.
Grace knew the answer. After the passionate lovemaking they had enjoyed in the wood at Collyweston, Grace had felt guilty and returned to her preoccupation with John. Tom had not touched her since.
VISCOUNT WELLES STRETCHED his long legs out in front of him towards the fire and gave a satisfied groan. “Cecily, bring me some of that wine,” he addressed his wife, who was tending to a pipkin hanging on a swing hook over the flames. “It smells so good. I swear the London air is damper than in Lincoln,” he grumbled. “Every bone in my body aches after sitting on that hard bench in the Star Chamber all day. It may be colorful, but the damn room is draughty.”
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br /> “And what was your business today, my lord?” Cecily asked, ladling some of the spicy wine into a cup. “It sounds tedious. But then, doing needlework, teaching our daughter to walk and overseeing the household is also tedious. There, there, my lord—taste this and forget your dull day,” she clucked.
“I said the bench was hard, my dear, not that my day was dull,” Welles responded with an edge to his voice. Grace could see he did not appreciate being treated like a child. “Certes, you and Grace would have found it most interesting.” He took the cup and sipped it carefully. “Several decisions were made, including one that will end the life of your cousin John.”
Cecily dropped the ladle on the hearth, splashing wine on her yellow damask gown, and Grace slipped off her stool onto her knees, moaning as if in pain. Welles gave a short laugh. “You see, I told you it wasn’t dull. There were others who were also condemned for their part in this damnable pretender debacle. So he will not die alone.”
“My lord, my dear husband, how can this be? I pray you were not one who called for John’s death. Say you were not, I beg of you!” Cecily knelt before him, clasping his free hand to her cheek. “Is there nothing we…you can do?”
Grace rocked back and forth, weeping, her hair escaping from her cap and clinging to her wet cheeks. “John! Ah, John, my dearest,” she whispered. Cecily persisted with her supplications to her husband, if only to prevent the viscount from hearing Grace’s words. She knew Welles would not understand why Tom Gower’s wife whispered another man’s name with such passion.
“He may be your cousin, Cecily, but he is also a traitor. Certes, there is nothing I can do. Now do pull yourself together and see to your gown. And take Grace with you—I cannot tolerate women weeping,” he dismissed them both and pulled his hands away from Cecily. “John will be hanged, drawn and quartered, like any traitor at Smithfield, two days from now.” He took another drink. “I wish to hear no more about it.”
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