The King's Grace

by Anne Easter Smith

  “H-hanged, drawn and quar-quartered,” Grace repeated, horrified. “But he is of royal blood. He should be…” but she could not even bring herself to utter the word beheaded.

  “Blood of a usurper, you mean!” Jack Welles roared. “And attainted. He deserves nothing more than any other common traitor. We were all agreed.” He pointed to the door and said, more temperately, “Now go, before I lose my patience.”

  Cecily rose and gently helped the trembling Grace to her feet. “Come, dearest, let us go and pray for John’s salvation,” she said and, propelling Grace through the door first, turned back and snapped, “and leave my husband to his warm wine.”

  Before he had time for a reprimand, she had slammed the door behind her.

  Taking Grace’s hand, Cecily pulled her towards a room farther down the corridor, begging her to stop crying and start thinking. “We have two days,” she whispered. “If we put our heads together, I have no doubt we can plot a way out of this. How I wish Mother were here—she’d have thought of one already.”

  JACK WELLES HAD mellowed after a cup or two of the hot, rich wine and told Cecily he would arrange for the two women to visit John in Newgate prison. “I pray you, my dear, do not allow your sister to dishonor our name. Her behavior earlier was disgraceful,” he said, chuckling at his pun.

  Cecily kept her head for once and let him have his little joke, although how he could mock Grace at such a time, she could not understand. “I promise, my lord,” she answered respectfully, wincing as her attendant tugged at a knot in her long fair hair. Then she steeled herself as she did every time she knew he was hungry for her and, looking over at him where he sat on the bed awaiting her in his murrey silk bed robe, gave him a seductive smile. “Your generosity will be repaid, of that you may be certain.”

  IT WAS ANOTHER miserable day in the city, and the facades of the whitewashed houses along the wide Chepeside thoroughfare were made gray from the rain. It was the only paved road in the city, and thus the servants carrying Cecily’s litter moved faster than they had been able through the muddy lanes from Pasmer’s Place. Citizens hurried from place to place enveloped in felted cloaks, the women trailing the hems of their homespun woolen gowns in the puddles. Grace warmed her toes on the hot stone tucked under the fur blanket and closed her eyes in the gloom of the heavily curtained litter. She had visited and revisited what she would say to John as soon as Cecily had given her the news that they were permitted to visit him. Even Cecily’s optimism had diminished after a night of lovemaking had failed to sway her husband’s resolve not to plead for John’s life.

  “But I thought you had a plan,” Grace said as they broke their fast on bread, cheese and ale. Welles had long since ridden back to Westminster, after giving instructions to his steward to ready a litter for Lady Welles. “You told me you had a plan.”

  She had not slept a wink in the bed she shared with Cecily’s chief attendant on those nights when Jack wanted Cecily, her own maid on a pallet under the window. She was afraid that if she fell asleep she would have the fearful dream of old about John with a noose about his neck and the sword ripping open his belly. It frightened her that she might have foretold his fate in those nightmares.

  Cecily had shaken her head, her full mouth drooping at the corners. “My plan did not work,” she admitted. “I am sorry, Grace.”

  Her crying done the night before, Grace smiled wanly at her sister and accepted the apology in silence. A servant knocked and entered to take away the remains of a jug of ale and a lump of cheese. If he noticed that the ladies had eaten more heartily that morning, he showed no surprise that half a loaf of crusty bread and a second hunk of cheese were gone. Grace had carefully hidden them in a bag at her waist. “In case John is not given enough food,” she told Cecily as she wrapped them. Then she had returned to her room to get ready for their visit to Newgate and sat sad and silent as Matty dressed her hair and arranged the black velvet headdress over it. Edgar did not even receive the customary smile and greeting from his mistress that morning, and her swollen red eyes told him she had heard the news of the execution. A handheld litter was the quietest mode of transport, but this morning Grace would have preferred the clopping of horses’ hoofs or the rumbling of carriage wheels to jar the morbid thoughts that were swimming around her head.

  “Sweet Jesu!” Cecily’s awed voice came from the other side of the vehicle now, startling Grace out of her reverie. “Do you remember the old hag in the market at Winchester, Grace? When Bess gave birth to Arthur?”

  Grace’s hand flew to her mouth. “Certes, I do. What made you think of her?”

  “I cannot say. Perhaps the thought of an execution,” Cecily replied. “What did she say? Something about two men you would help. Ah, yes.” Changing her voice to mimic the old woman, she quoted: “‘Executions! They be executions. It be dangerous for you to know them, but you will help them. Better not make friends of young men, my lady.’ By all that is holy, it seems she was right.”

  Both women crossed themselves, and Grace reached for her rosary. She had helped John with his flights north to Stoke and east to Burgundy. “God have mercy,” she whispered, “for if she is, it would seem no plan we can devise can save John at this late hour.” Her throat constricting, she said, “Oh, Cis, it all seems like a bad dream. I wish we could wake and find we were once again in the safety of Sheriff Hutton, awaiting Uncle Richard’s summons back to London. Why, oh, why did John have to go and get himself captured? There is no one to help him here.”

  Cecily shook her head. “Aye, no one. Jack was my only hope.” The escort coming to a stop told them they were at Newgate, and they pushed aside the coverlet, arranged their skirts and blinked at the light when the curtains were pulled back. Edgar helped Grace out after Cecily’s captain lifted her onto the steps of the prison so she would not soil her shoes.

  Newgate’s solid stone rose above them, its tiny barred openings in the wall proclaiming it escape-proof. It was said hundreds were kept in its dank, grimy cells, and many had known the pain of gruesome tortures like the rack within its bowels. Grace shivered and shrank close to Edgar’s protective hulk. The captain announced the Welles party and the spike-studded wooden door creaked open to admit them. The stench inside made Grace retch.

  They were ushered through the prisoner’s holding room, where one or two unfortunate men were chained in a corner, awaiting their more permanent accommodations. One was groaning and attempting to stem the blood from a cut in his ankle caused by a too-tight manacle. A covered walkway led past a couple of large cells, one open—except for bars—to the wind and weather, in which huddled a dozen men around a small brazier. The guard laughed. “Those buggers be lucky to have the fire. Sir Hugh don’t want his guests to freeze to death, do he?” he jeered at the poor inmates. “Thieves and murderers, all,” he confided to the ladies, exposing toothless gums with his grin. On the open side of the walkway was a small courtyard, slimy with moss watered for decades by the piss of prisoners and their guards. Both young women held their tussie-mussies to their noses and followed the prison guard though the door at the end of the passage and into a cheery room with a roaring fire and a tapestry-covered table piled high with papers and massive tomes.

  “God’s greeting to you, Lady Welles,” a rotund man with rosy cheeks and bulging blue eyes said, waddling forward and effecting a passable bow. He was unaccustomed to receiving royalty, and the king’s sister-in-law was a rare treat indeed. He gave Grace a cursory glance but focused all his unctuous attention on Cecily. “We are honored by the visit of such a high and mighty princess as yourself, graced by God and all his angels—” he began loftily, but was cut off by Cecily, who inclined her head graciously but held up her hand.

  “I am sure you are, Sir Hugh, but Lady Grace and I would like to see our cousin as soon as possible. I trust Lord Welles, my husband, sent word that we would come?”

  Grace was shocked at the contrast of this comfortable room with the miserable conditions in the rest of
the prison. How can the man sit here all day in all good conscience knowing what is on the other side of the door? she thought and loathed him on the spot.

  A fleeting expression of annoyance crossed his perfectly round face before he was all smiles again. “Certes, my lady, I will have you escorted to Lord John’s…ahem…place of detention,” he said. “I trust you will find he is well looked after. He is our most prestigious prisoner at this time,” he said, gloating. In a nastier tone, he barked: “Guard!” and instantly the door opened, admitting their previous escort, who bowed. “Take these noble ladies to see John of Gloucester. Have them wait in the anteroom while he is readied. ’Tis a more pleasant place for talking,” he explained to Cecily. He muttered something to the guard, who nodded and then held the door for Grace and Cecily to leave. Sir Hugh bowed low, but then Grace saw him retreat backwards to warm his fat arse at the fire.

  “Horrible man,” she remarked to Cecily. “I suspect him of cruelty, for all his bowing and smiles.”

  They waited half an hour for John in the cold but relatively clean room assigned to them. Cecily whispered that she was surprised Sir Hugh had not searched them, or at least asked them to show him the contents of their belt bags. “If he had,” she chuckled, “I would have hit him with mine.”

  It was obvious why Sir Hugh had made them wait when John was ushered in, having observed the other disheveled inmates on their way up to this part of the building. He had been washed, his hair was combed and he was wearing a clean shirt under his soiled, bloodstained gipon. But nothing could hide the despair in his eyes or the gauntness of his face, even though it was hidden by a heavy black beard. Cecily turned to the guard and in her most cajoling voice asked him to leave them alone. The guard looked mulish, but when Cecily drew herself up to her full height, slowly raised her arm and pointed to the door, commanding “Go!” he scurried out like a frightened mouse.

  “Cecily, Grace,” John said, going to them, tears close to the surface. “I never thought to see you again.”

  Grace gently led him to a stool, on which he sank down gratefully. His legs were weak from lack of exercise and food, and she noticed that his poor broken hands trembled as they touched hers. “Little wren,” he whispered. “I have seen you so many times in my dreams.”

  Tears coursed down Grace’s face and she pulled his head to her bosom and stroked his hair.

  “Dear God!” Cecily groaned upon seeing John’s condition. “I am so sorry for you, cousin. What have they done to you?” Cecily came to John’s other side and the three clutched one another as if they would never let go. Then Grace extricated herself slowly and took the bulging pouch from her belt. She spread her kerchief on his lap and fed him hunks of bread and cheese, which he gobbled hungrily.

  “You two are a sight for sore eyes,” he said, finally managing a smile. “But this is manna from Heaven. What else do you have in there, Grace? A pardon, perhaps?”

  The women looked aghast at each other, and then back down at him. Cecily shook her head. “Nay, John. We have tried, but it seems Henry cannot tolerate one of York blood alive to threaten his throne. It surprises me he has not yet found an excuse to get rid of poor Warwick, who is still in the Tower. I don’t think you need to know what method of persuasion I used on my husband, but ’twas of no avail. We come to give you comfort, but not to give you hope.”

  John grinned bravely. “’Twas only in jest I asked, Cis. You should not have remorse. My own folly brought me to this point. I only wish I knew what fate had in store for me.”

  The gasp from Grace told John his cousins knew more than he did. He inclined his head. “Will you tell me, or will you kill me with your kindness?” he demanded, slapping at a flea hopping brazenly on his white sleeve. He grimaced as pain coursed through his fingers. “I have been here for weeks with no word of my destiny. I expected to languish here, forgotten, until I died of old age. It seems there is another plan, if your faces tell me true.”

  Grace turned away; she could not be the one to tell him. Cecily was shocked. “Was it not clear at your trial?”

  John gave a harsh laugh. “Trial? What trial?”

  Cecily’s face went white with anger. “Hell’s bells, and damn Henry,” she cried. “He thinks he is above the law.” She took a deep breath. “You have been condemned, dearest John. Condemned to die at Smithfield.”

  John swayed, dropping the bread and cheese, and Cecily reached out to catch him, holding him upright on the stool. When he had recovered, she continued: “The whoreson Tudor will not even give you a royal execution…” she stopped, knowing that he understood what a common traitor’s death would mean.

  He held Cecily’s gaze with his, and the unspoken question in it was “When?”

  She could not bear to look into those gray eyes then, so she rose before she said, in a barely audible whisper, “To-tomorrow.”

  When he groaned, Grace swung round and went to him, taking him in her arms and rocking him like a baby. All three fell silent as they pondered the awfulness of John’s fate. Grace finally said: “I will be there, John. You will not be alone.”

  Cecily drew in a sharp breath. “How, Grace? Certes, Tom will not allow it. I know Jack would not permit me to go and mingle with the commoners. Pray be sensible.”

  Grace got up, her fists clenched and her mouth set in a stubborn line. “I will go, Cis. Edgar will take me, and I will disappear just as I did in Burgundy—and just as I did when Henry processed to his crowning, remember? No one knows me. I have always been invisible—why, even Bess forgot I was with you all during the scandal with Uncle Richard. But I am not invisible to John. He will find me wherever I am in the crowd. I know he will.”

  A chuckle made the two women turn to John, who had stood during Grace’s tirade. “Tenez, mes cousines,” he mocked them in French. “Do I not have a say in who sees me die and who does not? I have no doubt that if Grace wants to be there, she will be. Part of me wants you there, my dear, but the other parts scream never in a thousand years would I put you through such a hideous experience. ’Tis bad enough that I must endure…” As though he had only just considered the horror, the bile rose in his throat and, turning from them, he vomited on the floor.

  While Grace gentled him back onto the stool and knelt beside him, Cecily went to the door and demanded water and a cloth from the guard. Peering in, the man observed what had occurred and, touching his forelock, regretted he was not allowed to leave his post.

  “Unlock the door, you measle,” Cecily barked. Then she turned her sweet smile on him. “You and I will go and fetch it. These two are sweethearts,” she lied, winking at Grace. “You wouldn’t be so surly as to deny them a few minutes together, would you?”

  The man was charmed and unlocked the door, and Cecily slipped out.

  “Always thinking, cousin,” John said, his voice rasping after the puking. “Thank you. Don’t fret, Grace, I feel better,” he told her. “I would pour myself ale, but I can no longer lift a jug that big,” he said, indicating the drink Sir Hugh had ordered taken up for the royal visitor earlier. “I must have eaten the food too quickly, ’tis all,” he explained, knowing full well he had not fooled the sisters. Grace fetched him a cupful, and he took a mouthful of the pale liquid, swilling it around his mouth and spitting it out on the floor. He was ashamed his fear was so transparent and tried not to think on the grisly method of execution he would suffer—dear God, was it really tomorrow? He forcibly expunged it from his mind, as he needed to turn to more practical matters.

  “Can I trust you?” he said urgently, handing Grace the empty cup. “Before the guard returns, I must ask you to do something for me.” From a hidden pocket sewn into his gipon and cleverly concealed by an embroidered rose, he drew out a folded square of paper cloth. “This is why I came back. I have kept it here, untouched, since I left Malines in June. I thought about giving it to you that day in Collyweston, but then I was certain Henry would pardon me and I would find a way to deliver it. It must go to Lord Lovell i
n Scotland; I know not how, but he is waiting for word from me. They did not discover it, and I thank God, or Lovell would be found out—he is thought to have died ere now.” John saw the frightened look on her face and sought to reassure her: “’Tis in code, Grace, so if it is lost, I doubt it can be read. If the task proves too daunting, then you must get word to Aunt Margaret why it failed to be delivered. Can you do this, Grace?” He stood up and held out the surprisingly pristine missive.

  His trust seduced her so completely that Grace could not gainsay him, not recognizing the danger he was putting her in. She took the letter and nodded. “I will try my best,” she said, tucking it down between her breasts. She had no idea how she would find Lord Lovell, but how could she tell John that? “’Tis about my brother, Dickon, is it not?” she asked. “Is he coming soon?”

  John shrugged, a sense of relief coming over him now that he had relinquished his failed task and knowing he could trust Grace. “I left before anything was determined. Before I even saw Dickon. That is why I had nothing to tell Henry’s torturers, God damn them to Hell,” he growled.

  “Amen to that,” Grace murmured.

  John looked at her upturned face and sighed. “How you have brightened my life all these years. You and I are kindred spirits, orphaned bastards, never knowing our place and forced to follow whatever star our royal fathers chased after. You may be amused to know how many times I have thought of you and your goodness, surviving the frightening position you were thrust into with so much dignity. It inspired me to be a better man. How I wish I could congratulate Tom, for he is indeed fortunate.”

  “Nay, he is not,” Grace assured him guiltily, and she took out her kerchief and cleaned his beard. “He loves me, I know that. But I do not love him as a wife should. How can I, when…” she hesitated, unsure if she should burden him with her feelings for him.