“Susannah!” Grace exclaimed sternly, plucking the girl from Bess’s knee and setting her down. “You must show the queen of England respect. Now make your obeisance at once!”
Trembling, Susannah curtsied low, her eyes on the ground. Grace’s heart melted. “Beg her grace’s pardon, sweeting,” she whispered in her ear. “’Tis all you need to do.”
Big brown eyes met Bess’s dark blue ones, which had more than a merry twinkle in them, and Susannah lost her fear once more. “I am sorry, your grace,” she said, addressing Bess as her mother had taught her. “I shan’t do it again.”
“You may call me Aunt Bess when we are alone, my dear, because I think you and I are going to be friends.” Bess rose and, bending down, kissed Susannah on the top of her head and then opened her arms to Grace. “It has been too long, sister,” she said after they embraced. “And I see marriage agrees with you. You look the picture of health and—if I may say—prettier than ever.” She smiled past Grace at Tom, who was standing patiently with Bella. “Sir Thomas, my compliments. It seems you make my sister happy.” She paused before adding, “and you make very pretty babes!”
Tom colored and, amused, Grace went to his side, stroking his cheek. “You should not flatter him so, your grace. ’Twill go to his head. But aye, we are very happy. I thank you for noticing.”
When Tom eventually left them to seek out his own quarters and find his master, he breathed a sigh of relief. So far, so good, he thought. Now if only Grace can keep silent about Warbeck, we should have a pleasant few weeks.
THE CHILDREN WERE playing in the nursery, well attended by nursemaids, when Grace went to the inner ward for her afternoon walk in the garden. Bess liked to nap at that time, and Grace could escape her duties, tuck her overdress up into her belt and either pull a few weeds or deadhead the roses when the weather permitted. This afternoon she chose to explore her surroundings and wandered through the archway into Water Lane and under the bridge room to the king’s water gate, where there was the usual hustle and bustle from the wharf as provisions were unloaded and transported into the inner ward. Scores of people populated the Tower, giving a livelihood to bowyers, armorers, smiths, potters, cordwainers, carpenters and coopers. Grace had forgotten how hectic life inside a castle could be after her years at Gower House, and she looked about her with curiosity. Hoping to get a view of the river over the curtain wall, Grace climbed the steps by the round gate tower, but she was stopped by a guard who barred her path with his halberd.
“Begging your pardon, mistress, but no one is permitted up here, on account it be a prisoner I be guarding.”
Grace made to turn back, but her curiosity got the better of her. “Who is your prisoner, sir? Someone of importance?” she asked, noting that the man’s iron kettle helm was a size too large and almost covered his eyes.
“Lord Edward of Warwick, mistress. Bin ’ere now these dozen years, poor sod.” He made a circular motion with his finger to his temple. “Not all there, he ain’t. Only a boy when ’e come, ’e was. Feel sorry for ’im, I do. Not that he’s chained nor nothin’, but I feel sorry for ’im.”
Grace’s heart was in her throat. Little Ned! His desperate cries for help echoed in her mind as she recalled his wriggling body being carried off by Sir Robert Willoughby at Grafton. What had he done wrong? Born to the wrong father, she thought, shaking her head; he could still inherit the throne, despite Uncle George’s attainder. How cruel Henry is, she thought angrily, descending the steps. Then she stopped and turned back to the man.
“Is he allowed family visitors? Or food? Or a letter, perhaps?” she asked, giving him her most angelic smile.
“Aye, ’is sister, Lady Margaret, visits ’im once in a blue moon, but that’s it. As for a letter, well, it couldn’t ’urt, could it? Why, you want to write one?” He chortled, eyeing her muddy old-fashioned gown and shoes. “Can you write, mistress?”
“Have a care, sirrah,” Grace retorted. “I am the queen’s sister and attendant, the Lady Grace.”
The man stumbled back, clutching his throat as if struck. “Beg pardon, mistr—I mean me lady. I meant no ’arm. It’s just that…” and he gave her old blue gown another quizzical look.
Grace smiled. “You were doing your duty, ’tis all. But I would dearly like to visit my cousin upon the morrow. I have not seen Ned since they took him away, and I would not want him to think we had forgotten him.”
“I’ll be ’ere this time tomorrow, me lady. You’ll have to get permission from Sir Simon, you will. He’ll let you see ’im for a few minutes, I dare say.”
“Sir Simon Digby? Come now, as constable he is far too busy to take time with me,” she said, giving him an innocent look. “Besides, I shall be there for only a few minutes, to cheer my cousin. Can this not be just between you and me?” And she reached into the little pouch at her waist. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
THE NEXT DAY, her new friend, who said his name was Harry Turner, turned the heavy iron key of the stout oak door to let her in. She pressed a coin into his hand and slipped past him into a large vaulted chamber whose once brightly painted plaster walls were now faded and chipped. A handsome tester bed and a long oak table, chair and matching footstool were the only furnishings, except for an exquisitely decorated prie-dieu, whose triptych panels were open, displaying the annunciation, nativity and crucifixion in brilliant hues. A large book of hours lay upon the attached stand below the paintings and two silver candleholders were skillfully mounted on either side. A window was open to the warm summer air and overlooked the river. Grace noticed, however, that iron bars reminded the occupant every minute of every day that he was a prisoner. All this Grace took in at a glance, as she was aware of the door being locked behind her, and then of a man silhouetted against the light of the window, so she could not see his face.
“Ned?” she said quietly. “’Tis your long-lost cousin, Grace.”
The man bowed quickly. “Nay, my lady,” he replied in an accent that proclaimed him a Londoner. “I am Robert Cleymond, my lord of Warwick’s—er—servant,” he stumbled over the word and Grace assumed he should have said “keeper.” “My master is taking the air on the turret, which he does every day at this time. He expects you, but he must have been distracted.”
When Grace’s eyes became accustomed to the light, she saw that the man had straggly gray hair and a long, lugubrious face. He would not be her choice to spend each and every day with in captivity, but by the time she left the room she thought he was not unkind to her cousin.
“It has been twelve years, Master Cleymond. I can wait a few more minutes, in truth,” she said pleasantly. “How is his lordship?”
Cleymond bent over slightly when he spoke and rubbed his hands as though he were constantly washing them, making Grace uncomfortable. It was only a habit, she told herself, but it irked her. “He is well, my lady, and gives me no cause to worry. He suffers somewhat from the cold in the winter, ’tis all. We share the bed, but even so he shivers every night before he sleeps. I report once a week to Sir Simon and receive my instructions. I have served the earl faithfully these past years.” More handwashing and unctuous grinning made Grace impatient.
“And his mind?” she insisted. “The guard indicated the earl was—”
Suddenly a door next to the bed opened and Edward, earl of Warwick, almost fell into the room from the narrow spiral staircase that led from the roof. He clucked his tongue and shook his dirty blond head as he hurried towards Grace. A guard followed him in, closed and locked the small door and then stood sentinel by it.
“Cleymond, why didn’t you fetch me the moment my cousin arrived?” Ned complained, and Grace noticed he had picked up the London vernacular. He reached for her hand and cradled it. “Grace, my dear cousin, I wouldn’t have recognized you. It has been ever so long.”
What a handsome man, Grace thought, remembering the scrawny boy she had known. But then she had heard Uncle George had been handsome. She was expecting a skeleton who had
been given only weevilly bread and ale all these years, but he was of medium build and his mien was not unhealthy. There were holes in his hose and his short gown was badly stained. How shameful that no one had thought to make him presentable for her—not even a clean shirt.
“We were but children at Sheriff Hutton, cousin,” Grace said, taking his hand to her cheek. “Come, let us stand close to the window as we talk. I do so love to watch the boats.”
“Aye, so do I!” he enthused. “So many of them. I sit for hours and wonder where they are all going and who is in them. ’Tis a game I play, isn’t it, Cleymond?”
“Aye, my lord,” Cleymond replied, smiling, but Grace heard the boredom in his voice as he muttered, “interminably.”
“Then I shall play with you, Ned,” Grace cried, leaning out as far as the bars would allow. “Who do you suppose that boat belongs to?” She pointed to a canopied barge below, drawing Ned closer so Cleymond might not listen.
“The man in the moon!” Ned cried. “I have seen him often. They say the moon is made of green cheese, but I do not believe them. The man would die just eating green cheese.”
Grace’s heart sank. Sweet Jesu, he is mad, she thought. And how could he not be, captive in one room all these years, with never a moment alone—not even at night. She was about to make a guess of her own, when she heard Ned whisper: “I am not as mad as they think me, Grace. It amuses me to make them believe so. I am so starved of any company that I must divert myself any way I can. Cleymond is my friend, I think, but let us not take a chance. I pray you, speak quickly, for we may not have long together. I know from Harry, my kindly guard, that Digby knows not of your visit as yet, but he will if Cleymond reports it. You take a chance, in truth, but as you are a woman, perhaps your visit will not be.”
Grace felt her hackles rise in fear. Sir Simon Digby, the Tower constable, was fiercely loyal to Henry, she had learned from Bess. She groaned inwardly, and thought of Tom’s admonishment to her only the day before, when the king and queen had celebrated Mass together and they had had a moment to talk. “Do nothing to incur the king’s displeasure, Grace. Stay by the queen and be a good mother to the girls. With the news that Perkin has set sail from Scotland, his grace is as irritable as a horse with a burr under its saddle.” Not knowing that Henry and James had made a truce, which had made Perkin’s presence at the Scottish court awkward, she had been surprised by this information. She asked Tom if her brother was expected to invade from the sea and perhaps James by land from the North. Tom had shaken his head. “James sent him away in a small ship with his wife and babe. ’Tis thought he will go to Ireland, although with Desmond and Kildare to heel, the man will not have friends there.” Seeing her anxious expression, he put paid to any more questions. “Now soft, hinny, and get you back to the queen’s side before someone overhears us.” He took her hands and changed the subject. “I miss your sweet body next to me at night, my dearest, and if there were not so many to see us now, I would take you right here on the grass if I could.” Grace had giggled, and he had bent and kissed her long and hard.
Now, Grace knew she must tell Ned as much as she could as they continued their game out of the window. She was shocked by how little he knew of the world outside his lonely tower room, although he was allowed to receive and send letters—provided they were first read by Digby. But it seemed none but his sister Margaret had kept up a correspondence with her sibling, and as she was now wife to Sir Reginald Pole and not often at court, she spoke mostly of her own family.
“You can hear the lions from here,” Ned suddenly said, interrupting her story about Richard at Aunt Margaret’s court. “Listen.”
Grace frowned. “Have you heard anything I have told you, Ned?”
“The lions are roaring again, Cleymond. Can you go and stop them?” he cried, putting his hands to his ears. He clutched at Grace. “They frighten me, cousin. They are kept in the tower over there.” He pointed upriver, to the Lion Tower by the drawbridge. “They are in cages, just like me.”
“Now, now, my lord.” Cleymond came forward and gently took his elbow, leading him to the bed. “’Tis time for you to rest. Lady Grace can come again another day.”
He pulled off Ned’s soft round-toed shoes and lifted his legs onto the bed. Coming back to the nonplussed Grace, he murmured: “Best leave now. When the lions roar, he can hear nothing else,” he said, using the same finger motion to his temple the guard had used the day before. He closed the window to shut off the sound from the menagerie. Then he knocked on the chamber door and asked the guard to unlock it. When he turned to usher Grace out and saw she was kneeling by the bed kissing Ned’s hand, he clucked his tongue but dared not comment.
“I shall come again, I promise,” Grace whispered.
Ned focused his pale blue eyes on her and smiled. “Aye, I know you will. And bring your brother, Richard, with you,” he murmured and closed his weary lids. “I should dearly love to see him again.”
Grace’s heart thumped. He had heard what she said, she thought, full of hope; at least he had grasped some of it. As she passed Cleymond, she said softly, “You seem a kind man, Master Cleymond. I regret I was unaware I should ask permission for this visit,” she lied. “I pray you, let it go unreported. I meant no harm.”
The man gave her an obsequious little bow.
“WE ARE TO leave for Shene finally,” Bess told Grace when Grace reappeared from her adventure at the Byward Tower. “With Perkin languishing in Ireland, it cannot be long before Kildare or Desmond captures him, and thus Henry believes we are now safe to leave this castle. It cannot come too quickly for me,” she confided. “Every time I walk past the Garden Tower, I think of our little brothers…” She stopped and shook her head sadly.
Grace held her tongue. She would have liked to remind Bess that perhaps one of those boys was “languishing in Ireland,” but for once her mind was on another captive of the Tower.
“Have you seen Ned—our cousin Ned of Warwick?” Grace said suddenly, and Bess started.
Fingering a large gold cross set with smooth rubies, Bess shook her head. “Nay, I am ashamed to say. I had forgotten all about him since the Simnel affair,” she admitted. Then her eyes widened and she stared at Grace. “Why? Have you?”
Grace bent and stroked the spaniel lying at her feet to avoid Bess’s gaze. “I was just wondering, ’tis all,” she said nonchalantly. “A guard mentioned he was still imprisoned here and that his mind wanders. When shall we leave for Shene?”
“On the morrow. Have you not noticed the activity in our lodgings? Or have you spent all afternoon deepening the color of your skin?” Bess teased. “In truth, de Puebla asked me if you were from his country the other day, as he had not seen you at court before. He was covered in confusion and actually blushed when I told him you were my half sister.”
“Tomorrow,” Grace repeated, trying to sound pleased. But she was upset she would have to break her promise to Ned. Perhaps she could send him a letter. Aye, that was what she would do. Harry the guard would deliver it; she was sure of it. She tickled the spaniel between the pads of its paws and smiled when she got the reaction she was expecting. The leg jerked twice in its slumber, but the dog did not wake. “Who is de Puebla?” she asked.
“He is the Spanish ambassador, who seems to live in Henry’s pocket at the moment. They are hard at work making sure the treaty between us and Spain includes the betrothal of Arthur and Catherine.” She lowered her voice. “’Tis why it is imperative that this boy in Ireland is captured. Ferdinand and Isabella are stalling in case he does prove…” She paused, testing Grace. Bess had been assured by Cecily that Grace was no longer obsessed with the mystery, and yet Bess watched for any reaction. But Grace’s expression remained impassive, and the queen breathed more easily.
Another attendant approached, making Bess clear her throat and tell Grace brightly: “De Puebla has such bad breath, in truth, perhaps because he enjoys eating uncooked onions.” She wrinkled her nose and clucked her
tongue and then changed the subject. “When we are at Shene, my dear Lady Grace, I must insist we fit you for a new gown or two; that one is shockingly outdated and, dare I say, shabby. Do you not agree?”
So, Grace thought, nodding absently, Henry is afraid of losing his alliance with Spain because of Richard. No wonder he is concocting such an elaborate tale about him being a boatman’s son. Then she felt a chill run up her spine. Dear God! He cannot let Richard live if he captures him, can he?
COUSIN NED WAS forgotten in her anxiety to find Tom and ensure he shared her bed that night. Bess took pity on the couple and gave them her generous permission to take her chamber, as Henry had asked her to come to him. Everything was packed and ready to go, although the bed was a permanent fixture at the palace and the feather mattress would be washed and aired after the queen was gone. Bess had been strict about the sanitary conditions in her lodgings while she was at the Tower; London was always ripe for outbreaks of plague during the summer, and she would usually spend those months at Greenwich or Shene to be out of its deadly reach. But Henry had been concerned for his family during the Cornish rebellion in June and moved them all into his most impregnable fortress as the rebels had drawn ever closer to London.
After spending an hour with the children in the nursery, Grace walked through the pretty gardens with their meandering pathways, low brick walls and tiny bridges, to a building abutting the White Tower, where many of the squires and knights were housed. She knocked at the door and asked for Tom and was told he was attending Lord Welles in the king’s council chamber.
“But he must come through that door to return to his lodging here, my lady,” the helpful steward told her. “Perhaps you should wait in my office. Or I might give him a message.”
She thanked him and said she would wait outside for a little while, and he disappeared inside. Several young men were loitering about in the sunshine, and she did not notice that she was an object of curiosity until a bold squire carrying a bow chose to accost her with a flourishing bow and a lascivious wink. “And who might you be, my pretty one?” he said, clearly liking what he saw and sidling closer. “I would dearly like to take you behind that tree and steal a kiss or two. Will you indulge me, sweetheart?” He ran his finger down her neck while his comrades whistled and egged him on.
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