GRACE WAS SHOCKED by the secrecy and lack of reverence accorded the arrival of Elizabeth’s body at Windsor. By this time it was late at night and only moonlight and a few half-used torches carried by a handful of old men illuminated the small funeral procession up the steep slope and into the massive castle on the hill. The coffin was pulled on a common hearse, a single wooden candlestick at each corner as its only ornaments. With undue haste, Elizabeth was interred next to Edward in the gloom of St. George’s chapel, with only a priest and a clerk to oversee the proceedings. Why were there no bells tolling, no appearance even by the dean and canons of the chapel? Grace was not the only one who was shocked. She overheard one of the heralds, sent by Henry to report on the event, remark to another about the surprising “modesty of the burial of an English queen.” Grace wanted to tell them, “Her grace was particular about keeping her obsequies simple. She was full of piety and humility, in truth, and she wanted no pomp or expenditure.” But when she heard the herald blame it on Henry’s close-fisted nature and ill will towards his mother-in-law, she grinned to herself, knowing this was exactly what Elizabeth had secretly wanted people to think.
Two days later a more formal Mass was said, and by then members of Elizabeth’s family had arrived at the castle. From her vantage point atop the tower in the middle ward, Grace saw them step ashore at the same spot the funeral barge had docked, and she could now see the crude cottages clustered on the shore under the castle. Across the water, the graceful flying buttresses of the sixth Henry’s Eton College vied for her attention with those of St. George’s chapel to her left, built by his rival Edward inside the walls of Windsor. Acknowledging it was a beautiful spot and a favorite among her father’s castles, she sighed and turned away to descend the tower staircase to greet her half sisters.
“Where is the king?” Grace said, frowning. And the other nobles who were in his Star Chamber circle, she thought. “’Tis right that the queen should not come, but surely Henry must.”
“His grace and his councilors are busy contemplating the invasion of France, Lady Grace.” Thomas of Dorset’s voice behind her made her jump. “Forgive me if I startled you. The king regrets he is unable to attend. No doubt, my lady mother would have understood. Excuse me, but now I must consult with Bishop Audley, who will conduct the memorial Mass.” He bowed to the group and strode towards the south front entrance of the chapel.
“I know he’s the only brother we have now,” Anne murmured when he was out of earshot, “but I don’t like him.”
Grace decided this was not the time to remind them of Dickon, and instead took Bridget’s hand and showed them the way to the royal apartments in the lower ward. At least Elizabeth would have several of her children praying for her soul that day, she thought sadly. How soon will she be forgotten? If Dickon is ever crowned king—it was possible, she told herself—he will build a fine monument to his mother, she had no doubt. “Then England will never forget,” she whispered.
TWO DAYS LATER she traveled with her sisters back down the Thames to Greenwich. She had been unnerved by Thomas of Dorset’s few words with her as he bade farewell to them on the wharf. “I know my lady mother talked with you about the man across the sea who is claiming to be Richard of York,” he murmured. “What more do you know, my lady?”
“Only that, my lord,” Grace said, her hackles rising in anger—and fear. She knew Dickon had last been located in France, where Charles was treating him as a royal guest. “Why, is there more?” she asked, her wide eyes as innocent as she could make them.
“’Tis common knowledge the king’s grace plans to invade France on behalf of his friends in Brittany, but the information on the imposter that he has received from his envoys at the French court…” Grace bit her tongue; she had almost blurted out, “You mean, spies, my lord!” Thomas lowered his voice even further: “…is that there is a conspiracy afoot, and several Englishmen with Yorkist sympathies have somehow turned up there and joined him. I would ask that you not upset the queen at Greenwich with this news. Indeed, I forbid you to talk of this man in front of her or my other half sisters. Do you understand?” He gripped her wrist in the folds of her black mourning gown so no one could see, and Grace winced in pain. Her heart was pounding in her throat, and she was afraid. She nodded slowly, and without missing a beat, Thomas suddenly smiled broadly, bent over and smacked a kiss on her unsuspecting cheek. “Farewell to you, Lady Grace, and God speed to Greenwich,” he called loudly. “I cannot thank you enough for your care of my lady mother.” Dropping her arm, he strode over to the other young women and bussed them all amiably before walking back up the hill.
From her perch on the queen’s barge, Grace stared back at the hulking limestone castle, its central round tower gleaming against the sky, and told herself that Henry must indeed be concerned for his throne if he had to send such a warning through Dorset, who had finally fulfilled his mother’s wish and found favor with the king. It seemed she alone was left with the desire to discover the truth about Dickon. Certes, none of her half sisters would benefit from his reappearance, she mused, but she could not forget that John died for his loyalty to York, and who was she to let him down? Or, certes, Elizabeth, who had earned her love and loyalty above all others? Nay, she was determined to understand the truth of what became of the Yorkist prince.
ONCE AT GREENWICH, Grace faithfully recounted to Bess and Cecily the events surrounding their mother’s death. Less than a month later, the cycle of life came full circle when, with Cecily and Grace in attendance, Elizabeth’s granddaughter was born and named for her. Summer melted into autumn, and she and Cecily were still at Greenwich with Bess and her sickly child, and Grace wondered when she would next see Tom. Then Henry sailed for France and Grace learned that Tom had gone with Viscount Welles and the rest of the army, and she feared for his safety.
“Pah!” Cecily made sure only her two sisters were within earshot in the nursery where they watched Arthur, Henry and Margaret play. “Henry fight? Surely you jest. I heard he cowered behind Brandon, his standard-bearer, at Bosworth Field, and that Uncle Richard almost reached him by killing the giant bodyguard Cheney as well as Brandon. And at Stoke, after addressing his men bravely enough, he withdrew to some safe vantage point to watch.”
“Enough, Cecily!” Bess commanded. “At least my husband did not flee as yours did—with ten thousand men.”
“Sisters, please don’t fight again,” Grace begged, rocking the carved oak cradle that held the whimpering princess Elizabeth. “See, you have frightened the baby. With all due respect, I do not care a fig for either of your husbands’ battle prowess; all I care about is that mine may be in danger.”
As quickly as their rivalry had divided them, they were reunited by Cecily’s wink. “I can remember a time not so long ago when our good little Grace could have given a rat’s arse about Tom Gower,” Cecily teased.
“Cecily!” Bess cried, concealing a smirk. “Watch your tongue in front of Arthur, I beg of you. But you are right, Grace has changed her tune. How now, Grace?”
Grace hid her blush by leaning into the cradle and easing the baby’s swaddling bands. She was loath to talk about her marriage with Bess, although Cecily had wrested most of the juicy details from her over that dull summer in Greenwich’s sleepy setting. Cecily knew how disappointed Grace had been when she had not conceived that day in the meadow at Bermondsey. And Grace had not seen Tom since, although loving letters had arrived at regular intervals, telling of his monthlong visit to Westow to help on the farm during harvest.
“How I wish you could be here with me at my home, my sweet wife,” he had written, and Grace had wondered why he had not sent for her. “My lord Welles tells me Cecily would be bereft without you, and as she must attend on the queen, I had no hope of freeing you from your duty to the queen to come with me. One day, my love, I will bring you here, I promise.”
“I love my husband, just as you do, Bess,” was all Grace would say. “More I will not say.”
&n
bsp; A MONTH AFTER Henry’s return from France following the Treaty of Etaples, the sisters were once again in the nursery when the door burst open and a lady in waiting curtsied low and told them breathlessly, “The king is come. He wishes to see you, your grace, and is on his way up.”
Bess rose and smoothed her gown and felt for her headdress. “The king? Here? But he was not due to come for a week. We were to journey to Windsor together for the Yuletide season. I pray nothing is amiss.”
Cecily and Grace hurriedly arranged the folds of Elizabeth’s sarcenet hood and straightened its gold-brocade frame around her oval face. Wisps of fair hair curled in tendrils upon her forehead, and her golden eyes flitted anxiously to the door. “Make haste, sisters. His grace dislikes vain women,” she urged.
Henry’s face softened into a smile when he entered the room and took in the scene. With Bess’s attendants clustered around her and Arthur and Margaret each holding one of their mother’s hands, the group presented a charming tableau for an instant, before they all sank into their reverences to the king. Then Margaret ran headlong into her father’s arms and Arthur danced around him brandishing a wooden sword. Grace was astonished at Henry’s informality when he carried Margaret to greet Bess with an affectionate kiss and then dismissed his servants. Certes, there is still love there, she marveled. Then she found herself greeted by name before Henry relinquished his older daughter to her nursemaid and went to inspect baby Elizabeth. He tickled the child with one of his long bony fingers and was dismayed when a whimper and not a gurgle of glee was the response.
“She is a puny child, my lady. I trust the wet nurse is providing for her well?” After some private conversation over the cradle, his face turned serious.
“I promised you Christmas at Windsor, madam, and go there we shall. But there is news from France that I must attend to first. However, I thought I could deal with it just as well here as at Westminster.”
“But I thought you had signed a treaty with Charles,” Bess said, pouring wine for him and inviting him to sit. “I trust he has not broken it already?”
Henry scowled, reminding Grace of her favorite gargoyle at Bermondsey. “Cracked it, perhaps, but not broken it,” he said. “By agreeing not to aid any of my enemies, I believed he would hand the mawmet imposter over to me—the man has had the run of the French court for months, even availing himself of the courtesans, so I am told—but instead he allowed the measle to flee with his friends into Burgundy. They are no doubt dining with the diabolical Duchess Margaret as we speak,” he said with clenched jaws. “Nom de Dieu, qu’il est une peste.”
“Hush, my dear lord. Why do you fret about him so? He will be revealed as a dissembler by Maximilian and his son, and it will all be over, mark my words,” Bess soothed.
Henry swung round to address Cecily and Grace, who were keeping Arthur amused with colored building blocks. “What do you know of this…this deceiver? Do you believe your brother is still alive and kicks his heels and thumbs his nose at me over the Channel?”
Grace fumbled a block on top of her tower and it collapsed, making Arthur squeal with glee. Cecily sat back on her heels and, looking Henry straight in the eye, answered: “Nay, your grace. He is, as the queen says, a dissembler. I believe both my brothers are dead.”
Grace gulped and mentally crossed herself. How could Cis have lied so convincingly, and without batting an eyelid? She busied herself gathering up the scattered bricks and murmured something unintelligible. She prayed Bess would not enlighten him, and her prayer was answered. Thankfully, Henry was, as always, uninterested in what she had to say, but accepted Cecily’s word with a nod and a “C’est bon.” Then he suddenly slapped his forehead and exclaimed: “Sacré coeur de Jesu! Forgive me, sister; I forgot to mention that your husband asked me to send you to him in his apartments. And Lady Grace, Master Gower is attending him. If her grace can spare you, you should make haste.” He grinned. “They are anxious to see you again.”
Cecily sighed and got to her feet, but Grace was already in a curtsy before the king and queen, asking to be excused.
Bess nodded and, laughing, called to Cecily: “We have our answer after all, Cis. ’Tis plain as a pikestaff our little sister is besotted.”
THAT NIGHT LORD Welles’s wife joined her husband in his bed and his squire found his way into Grace’s bed, where both couples enjoyed each other on differing levels of passion.
Tom could not hide his joy when he closed the heavy drapes of their tester bed from the prying eyes of the tiring woman curled up in a truckle bed by the fire and found Grace naked under the sheet. His hands explored every part of her, making her hold her breath in case a moan escaped. A single candle burned in the sconce, allowing them to feast their eyes on each other before they rolled over and over, savoring the feel of skin upon skin, his mouth upon her breast and her hand upon the most velvet part of him. How many times he moved her to climax, Grace could not say, but she counted four times for him before he fell asleep, exhausted, and the cock crowed. This is what the poets talk of, Grace mused, lying in the crook of Tom’s arm, the candle long since guttered out. ’Tis what lovers know only in secret trysts and lustful liaisons, not, she had been led to believe, husbands and wives. How she hoped she would conceive this night! How loved a child of this union would be, she thought, dreamily.
22
Malines
NOVEMBER 1492
Margaret chewed the end of her quill, gazing out of the newly glazed windows onto the garden, drab now after nights of frost had killed the remaining autumn roses. She had been delighted to learn that her darling boy was enjoying the hospitality of the king of France, who was the first ruler in Europe to recognize the young man as Edward of England’s son. She would have to remember to call him Richard now—poor boy, she thought; first Pierrequin, then Jehan, then back to Pierrequin and now he must get used to Richard.
Unfortunately, the tide had turned in France, and she needed to warn her nephew. Thus she must send this letter without delay, being careful not to reveal too much to her protégé in case it fell into the wrong hands and their years-long code was broken. She would send it via her former secretary and spy, Stephen Frion, who was now among Richard’s adherents at the French court. He had been charged by Margaret to instruct Richard on all manner of things English, which he had learned during his time at Edward and Henry’s court. Frion was a gem, she acknowledged, and had fooled Henry completely.
She grimaced. What right have you to play with this boy’s life, Margaret? she asked herself. Is your hatred of Henry so great that you would risk your own little Jehan to reclaim the throne for York? Then her beloved father’s words echoed in her mind: “Never forget your blood kin. The most important people in your world are right here in this house—the house of York,” he had told her. Her father had died fighting to claim the crown for York, and her brothers Edward and Richard had worn it instead—rightfully so. Now the Tudor turd dared to wear it—his claim as flimsy as gossamer thread! Nay, ’twas not to be borne, she told herself, and even though she knew this prince was not the duke of York, no one else did. Aye, she decided and dipped her pen in the inkpot with new purpose, Richard is the son of a royal duke—bastard or no—and can restore our family’s birthright.
“Right noble and well beloved nephew, Richard, duke of York, I greet thee well,” she wrote in her firm script. She must be formal in case this was intercepted. “And I am satisfied that you are indeed my long-lost nephew, after hearing the testimony of my son-in-law Maximilian’s secretary, who recently visited the French court and saw you there. However, I must see you for myself and shall know then if you be my brother’s son or no. I pray that it is so and will rejoice greatly upon that day, which I hope will come soon.
“But I digress. It has come to my attention that your brother-in-law, King Henry of England, has signed a treaty with your host, his majesty Charles, king of France, following Henry’s recent siege at Boulogne, which he undertook last month to make good on a promis
e to Brittany by claiming his right to the French crown.” So far, so good, she thought. Nothing confidential there—Richard must know this much. She gave a short laugh, threw some sand over the parchment to help dry the ink and spat out a piece of feather she had worried off her quill during her ruminations. The invasion all came to naught, certes, because it seemed King Charles was loath to fight the English in the north while his ambitions lie south, in Italy. In fact, he preferred to buy off the English, and Henry received a handsome pension to withdraw.
“However, another condition of this treaty of Etaples will force Charles to cease and desist aiding any of England’s enemies, and my fear is that Henry looks upon you as a foe because of your rank and obvious claim to the English crown. It is my duty, as a loyal sister of your deceased father, to warn you that if you remain in France any longer, Charles may have no alternative but to surrender you to King Henry as part of this agreement. It goes without saying that those faithful followers who have joined you there are also in grave danger. I therefore beg you, nephew, to make haste and come to my court at Malines, where you will be among friends. I shall look forward with all my heart to giving you a warm welcome.
“If all goes well here, and my son-in-law accepts you as Edward’s son, then Henry must look to his crown.”
She dared not add that Maximilian is not pleased that Henry treated with France and thus is ill disposed towards the king at this point. But could she win Maximilian over? He might balk at providing resources for an invasion of England, she knew, and he needed to protect his trade with her homeland. Despite her loyalty to her English family, Margaret had never shirked her duty to Burgundy, and if her son-in-law forbade her to help Richard she would not gainsay him. She dared not say in the letter what else she had arranged in case Maximilian refused his support: she had been treating with James of Scotland on her nephew’s behalf through the faithful Lord Lovell, and as James would like nothing more than to irritate Henry, he was not averse to receiving the so-called duke of York at his court. From there, it would be easy to invade…but she was running ahead of herself, she knew, and she sighed.
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