The King's Grace

by Anne Easter Smith

  Chevalier de la Baume led Margaret up the steps of the palace and through the studded oak door into the great hall, and they were followed by Margaret’s attendants and then Grace and Tom with her new maid, Enid. Standing by the fireplace at the far end of the hall, and the center of attention, was a young man with fair hair enjoying a joke with several companions, among whom Tom recognized Sir Robert Clifford.

  The entrance of the dowager duchess brought the conversation to an abrupt halt, and all bowed over soft leather ankle boots, their sleeves trailing to the ground. Separating himself from the group, Richard came forward, happy to see his aunt. After executing another flourishing bow, his bright red hat showing off a rich brooch with a deep red ruby and three teardrop pearls, he went to kiss Margaret on both cheeks. Her affection for him was manifest in the way she stroked his cheek and played with his hair. He looked beyond her to where Grace and Tom now stood alone and moved confidently to greet the newcomers, still holding Margaret’s hand. It seemed Margaret had not warned him whom she was bringing with her, as if she wanted to test him. His smile, therefore, was genuine, and his hand was extended in friendship as his associates moved closer to hear the introduction.

  Grace found her knees wobbling and her heart racing, and she was not aware she was staring at him until he cocked his head and felt to see if his hat was on straight. Dear god, she thought as a memory stirred, can it be the man from that long-ago dream? She blushed and gave him a graceful curtsy. Tom bowed, his soft felt bonnet over his heart.

  “God’s greeting,” Richard said in French, bowing only slightly, as befitted a duke of the royal blood. “Your grace, who are these charming visitors?”

  “This, my dearest boy, is your half sister, the Lady Grace,” Margaret told him gleefully. “And the handsome man at her side is her husband, Master Tom Gower. I have that right?” she looked at Tom, who nodded. “It seems your father was busy the year you were born, Richard. You two are a brace of months apart in age, but you have never met because Grace was discovered only after your father died. She grew up among nuns until your aunt Elizabeth rescued her,” she explained.

  He was fully informed now, and the fine eyebrows shot up and a smile—it almost looked like relief, Grace thought—suffused his clean-shaven face. Indeed, so invisible was Richard’s beard, Grace would have guessed he was younger than his twenty years. But it was his small stature, too, that made him seem so youthful, she decided. There was an odd cast to his left eye—Grace wondered if it was a trick of the light—and the brow was creased. Certes, she breathed with mounting excitement, like my father’s.

  “My sister? My half sister?” Richard cried enthusiastically, his gaze sweeping her from head to toe. “God’s mercy, but I have a beauty for a sister,” he said, making Grace blush again.

  She smiled happily at him. “God’s greeting to you, too, brother,” she replied in less confident French. “If it will not offend you, may we speak English?”

  She thought she detected a tiny pause before he answered with a mere whisper of an accent, “With all my heart, sister.” Certes, he had an excuse, Grace told herself. He had been shut away in the castle of Guisnes for so many years, and perhaps he had had French guardians. He continued to smile, one corner of his mouth turning up more easily than the other. “I am delighted to see one of my own family. It has been so long, I know not if I would recognize them or they me.” He turned to Tom and held out his hand. “God’s greeting, Master Gower. And I must present my loyal friends: Anthony de la Forsa; Master Taylor and his son, John; and perhaps you know Sir Robert Clifford—lately come from England—and George Neville.” The introductions were made and the men excused before Richard turned to Margaret. “Come, madame, let us go somewhere less public.”

  Grace felt giddy. He is my brother, she exulted; it must be why I feel thus, and he was the man in her dream, she was almost certain. She took Tom’s arm, and he whispered: “Afraid now, Grace? You should see your face; ’tis as readable as a page of a book.”

  “Oh, pish!” came the response.

  Richard led the way with Margaret to the palace’s private apartments and the small group was escorted by two of his new bodyguards in the York colors of murrey and blue. Grace nudged Tom to take notice, but he was busy admiring the vaulted ceilings and brilliantly painted columns of the large rooms they passed through. Richard was almost half a head shorter than his tall aunt, but as they conversed together, Grace could see a similarity in their profiles. Elizabeth had told her Margaret resembled her brother, Edward, more than she did her other brothers, but having met only Uncle Richard, Grace could not know. It did seem to her that they had an affection for each other that surely could only come from their being kin. She gazed happily at Richard’s back. After all this time and all the rumors, conjectures and doubts, she was finally face to face with him. That it was her half brother Richard, she had not a doubt. But she knew she must tread carefully and search for further proof before Bess—and, certes, Henry—would believe her. She hoped she would have enough time to make that possible.

  THEY DINED INFORMALLY in Margaret’s solar well into the summer night, the last rays of the sun disappearing just before nine o’clock. Two musicians had played while they ate cold roast duck, rabbit pie, flampayns and custards, washing it down with wine from Beaune, in the southern part of the duchy. Comfits of dates and ginger in sugar and wafers were brought in and were accompanied by the spicy hippocras that comprised the voide. Once the platters and trenchers were removed and the musicians had withdrawn, Margaret had Richard sit on a footstool next to her and invited Tom and Grace to use the large satin cushions on the floor. Henriette and her husband, Guillaume, were their sole attendants that night and sat conversing quietly in the window seat.

  “I trust both of them with my life,” Margaret told her young audience. “And as neither has bothered to learn English since being in my service—let me see—twenty or more years now, we may speak freely.” She ruffled Richard’s curls as if he were a young boy, and Grace noticed that Richard seemed not to notice. She could not imagine Tom allowing his mother, let alone an aunt, caress his head thus. It puzzled her, but not for long, as they talked for another hour about the English court and Richard’s other sisters. At one point early on Grace mentioned Elizabeth and, almost as if he had needed the nudging, Richard’s demeanor changed, as though he were mustering the courage to ask about his mother’s recent death. “Aunt Margaret tells me you were one of only two attending my mother in her exile. In so much as I remember her, I thank you for your good service to her,” he told Grace. “She was a dutiful mother to us all.”

  “What do you remember of her, Richard?” Grace asked, thinking his description of Elizabeth a trifle odd. “I confess most of what I know of you is from her, and she talked about your merry humor and how you loved to sing. Our sister, the queen, had a different story.” She chuckled. “She said when you were in sanctuary, you were always underfoot.”

  Richard nodded. “Aye, certes, I must have been a handful. Perhaps I missed my brother. I still enjoy music, although I play the virginals now rather than sing.” He did not pursue the subject but rose and went to the bowl of fruit and eyed the array of cherries, plums and oranges. Grace held her breath, then gulped when he selected an orange. Hadn’t Elizabeth told her that was his favorite fruit? Aye, and that he liked the flavor of mint and hated the smell of cloves. She must be watchful while she was here.

  “How were you taken from the Tower, my lord?” Tom asked suddenly, making everyone jump, as he had said very little.

  “Vir sapit qui pauca loquitur,” Richard remarked wryly. Tom looked to Grace for a translation, but it was Richard who helped him out, while expertly peeling the orange with his bone-handled knife. “’Tis a wise man that speaks little.”

  Before he could answer Tom’s question, however, Margaret preempted him. “He was drugged and does not remember, do you, Richard?” she said.

  “Aye, aunt,” he agreed. “When I awoke, I was
on a ship. I was told I was being sent away to safety by ‘friends.’ As you may imagine, I was too young and afraid to object. I was moved from place to place, and then I was at Guisnes, where I was treated well but sworn to secrecy until the time came to tell my story. That is all there is to tell.”

  “And Edward,” Grace said softly. “Where was Ned?”

  “He was put to death,” Richard said dully. “They said he had a wasting sickness and would not survive the journey.” He sucked on an orange slice and began to pace about the room. “I never saw him again,” he murmured, and Grace imagined she heard a catch in his throat.

  “Enough for tonight, mes enfants,” Margaret said, breaking the mood with forced cheerfulness. “’Tis trying for Richard to talk about, and I for one need my bed.” She turned to Henriette. “Show my niece and her husband to their quarters, madame,” she instructed in French. “I think you will be comfortable in my granddaughter Margarethe’s room, Grace. I hope you like pink?” She laughed, waiting until they had risen before kissing Grace warmly.

  In their pink and gold chamber, Tom was grateful for a servant’s help in untying his points and removing his padded gipon while Enid readied her mistress for bed. She was as round as Grace was tall, but she did not gossip, possibly because she was silent and did not make friends easily. Cecily had told her that the other servants were probably suspicious of her Welsh origins, but Grace found her respectful, and the woman went about her business deftly and without complaint. She was the perfect maid, Grace had told Cecily, after Matty had been dismissed when it was discovered she carried a child by one of Hellowe’s grooms.

  Snuggled in Tom’s arms, Grace could hardly keep her eyes open. “Certes, I shall sleep well tonight. Is this not the most comfortable bed you have ever been in?” she asked sleepily. “I am so happy, I know not how to thank God for bringing me here, and for my brother’s resurrection.”

  Tom was quiet. He was not passing judgment on Richard of York just yet, as, in Tom’s opinion, the story of his escape needed further details. He was, however, impressed that Richard, who Henry claimed was a common boatman’s son, spoke Latin.

  GRACE AND MARGARET stood at the window overlooking the courtyard to watch the hunters mount their impatient horses for a morning in the woods and fields. Dogs yelped and bayed, straining at the ends of their handlers’ leashes to be let free to seek the scent of some unsuspecting quarry. Richard was given a leg up by a groom, and Grace noted the easy way he wore his magnificent royal blue jacket trimmed in gold braid; only one of noble blood could carry off such finery and draw all eyes to him. She found Tom among the group, keeping his mount calm while searching the upper windows for a glimpse of her. She waved when he caught sight of her and blew him a kiss.

  Margaret sighed. “I remember on a day like today when I went hunting with my stepdaughter, Mary. How she loved to ride, and how sad that it was what killed her in the end.” Then she chuckled. “And I shall tell you a secret, Grace. The day I am remembering was one where I found myself alone with my heart’s desire—my one true love—in the middle of the forest.”

  “Anthony Woodville, was it not, your grace?” Grace said softly. “The queen dowager told me,” she said by way of explanation and hoped Margaret would not be angry.

  Margaret’s bony hand trembled on the window ledge, and a sadness suffused the duchess’s face. She nodded. “Aye, ’twas he—my Lancelot.” She fingered an ornament on her belt, a bronze marguerite that Grace had noticed before. “That day he wore a gift boldly on his cap that I had given him in secret, and I chided him for it.” She shook her head. “’Twas so many years ago now, and I have not thought of him for a long time. My mind has been full of Richard—my White Rose, I call him.” She waved gaily to the man in question, who raised his hat and waved it back. A horn blew in the distance and, with shouts of anticipation and a clattering of hoofs, the party took off while Grace leaned out as far as she could to watch them go.

  When the noise died away, Margaret asked, “How do you like your brother, Grace?”

  Grace slapped at several flies that seemed to be targeting her face and pulled her head back in. “Certes, I like him very well indeed,” she enthused. “He has a bearing that can only come from being a king’s son, in truth. He is cultured and pleasant to talk to, and I cannot wait to tell Cecily and Bess all about him.”

  “And Henry. You must tell Henry, Grace. We must make him believe Richard is Edward’s son,” Margaret said.

  Grace frowned. “Make him believe? I do not need to make him believe. He will see for himself ere long, if I understand correctly. You said last night Richard will one day return, when you have been able to give him the money and the men.”

  Margaret rubbed her eyes. There was something in the air at Dendermonde that made her eyes itch and water. “Mercy, child! You need not inform Henry of that. Let us see what Henry does when you give him the bad news.” She stared at the mantel and gave an unpleasant chuckle.

  Grace did not think Margaret would appreciate that she could not tell Henry anything but what he wanted to hear, so she said: “Do you know him, aunt? He is a cold fish—although I do believe he loves Bess—and mean with his money. He penny-pinches while he governs and yet thinks nothing of gambling vast sums for his own personal amusement. He has hanged more than a dozen men for even talking about Dickon, so afraid he is that men might flock to a York standard again.”

  “You are very observant, niece. My compliments,” Margaret said. “I met Henry of Richmond when I was a girl, but then he was sent away and I only knew his sour-faced mother.”

  They were ensconced in Margaret’s private study—her sanctuary, where only Henriette was allowed to attend her. Seeing Grace peering at her collection of books under lock and key, Margaret handed her the key and told her to help herself. Grace chose a book of St. Brigid’s visions, its vivid illuminations of the Nativity depicting a blond Virgin, as described by the saint.

  “That was my mother’s,” Margaret observed. “I read it now, but when I was your age I read Master Chaucer’s tales and the French romances. I think Proud Cis your grandmother, despaired of me.” She chuckled.

  Grace put the book down and sat on a cushion in front of Margaret. “Did you know William Caxton died last year?” she asked. “His apprentice Master de Worde is now the proprietor at the Sign of the Red Pale.”

  Margaret crossed herself. “He was a good friend,” she said sadly. “But he will not be forgotten.”

  A knock on the door made her brighten. “Ah, it must be time for dinner. Come,” she called. Henriette and a second lady spread a spotless white cloth on the table and placed the elegant saltcellar at the head before the many dishes were brought in. As Grace smelled the fish that sat upon one platter, its iridescent eye seeming to stare directly at her, her stomach heaved.

  “Your pardon, aunt,” she gasped and ran to the tiny garderobe behind the screen in the corner of the room, where she retched into a basin. What is wrong with me? she thought, remembering she had felt ill the morning before. She shivered. Perhaps she had caught the plague? Dear God, no, she prayed, feeling under her arms for any swelling. The sickness passed after a few minutes and she wiped her mouth on a drying cloth and reentered the room.

  “I knew I was right,” Margaret said, smiling at her. “How long has it been that you are with child, my dear?”

  Grace blushed. “Certes, that is why I am ill!” she exclaimed, unconsciously putting a protective hand on her belly. “I have had no one to ask since I suspected. I feared ’twas the plague,” she said, relieved. She sat down on the bench at the table, eyeing the food with trepidation. “I was certain before we left England, but I did not want to hope too much, and so I said nothing to anyone—not even Tom,” she said shyly. “I had a fausse couche earlier this year, you see.”

  “I lost two babes like that, Grace, so I know the heartache,” Margaret answered, patting her niece’s hand. “Judging from the healthy glow of you at the moment, however, I am
sure all will be well this time, and we shall pray to Saint Elizabeth together for your safe delivery. ’Tis certain you will deliver in winter—under the sign of the goat, which can mean a weakly child—so you must be healthy and strong for the babe to survive. Certes, I think you should go back to England as soon as you can. Too much travel may affect your humors and cannot be good for the child.

  “Besides, the sooner you can report on Richard to the English court, the better,” she finished, her own ambitions bubbling to the surface again.

  Grace gave her a small smile but said nothing.

  AND YET MARGARET was loath to let Grace go.

  “If Richard were an imposter,” Grace reasoned with Tom one wet morning in August, “Aunt Margaret would not risk us staying long enough to unmask him. You cannot deny it.”

  Tom agreed, although he was distracted. He chafed at lingering in Flanders. He missed his duties with the viscount and worried he would lose his rank if he stayed away much longer. He had pressed Grace to leave a fortnight before, but he had not yet uncovered the true measure of his wife’s stubbornness. This time abroad was the longest stretch they had spent together, and he marveled at the change in Grace from their first meeting at Sheriff Hutton. He was at once proud of her spirit and afraid where it might lead. She had risked her life to help John, and it appeared she was in danger of repeating the situation with this so-called duke of York. One minute Tom believed in the man as truly as Grace did, yet in the next he was troubled by him. It was all too neat and tidy, his practical Yorkshire side told him. Aye, he was beautifully mannered, spoke Latin, French and English, sat a horse like a nobleman and was duly knowledgeable about his family and his life before the Tower. And Margaret had accepted him—as had the Irish nobles and the king of France before her. But it seemed to Tom that Richard was too much the perfect prince. It had occurred to Tom, but not to Grace, that they were never allowed to be alone with Richard. Richard’s group of courtiers or Margaret was always there to prevent too private a conversation.