The King's Grace

by Anne Easter Smith

  A man named Thomas Astwood met them at the bottom of the Byward Tower, and Grace was somehow cheered to know Perkin was close by Ned. Showing the ladies a good deal of deference, Thomas informed them before he led them up the staircase of the riverside twinned gate tower that he had the honor of being Perkin’s servant. Katherine pleaded with the young secretary to wait below with Edgar, taking his hand and pressing it between her own. He melted in her expressive eyes, and once again Grace admired the steely resolve of the young Scotswoman.

  They passed a guardroom, where the open door revealed the apparatus for raising and lowering the portcullis, and went up a few more steps to an iron-studded oak door. The guard outside sprang to his feet, fumbled for the right key on his ring then inserted it in the keyhole. The door complained on its rusty hinges and the noise alerted the prisoner, who had shackles around his ankles and a chain around his neck and was seated on the crude wooden chair.

  “Visitors, Perkin!” the guard barked. “Get up—they be ladies.” He grinned and Grace turned her face away from his blackened teeth and the open sore on one of his cheeks.

  Katherine gave a little cry of anguish when she saw Perkin attempting to stand while hampered by the heavy chains, and she ran to help him up. Grace stepped quietly into the vaulted chamber, followed by Astwood, who scurried to fetch the stool from the corner and place it for her. She glanced around the room. It was clean enough, despite a thin film of slime descending from the small barred window, open to all weathers. At least Perkin had a proper bed with a straw mattress and a blanket, Grace thought, relieved; she had expected him to be sleeping on a pile of straw on the floor. Astwood’s pallet was stored beneath the bed. There was a table on which were the remains of some bread and cheese, and a chipped pottery cup. Astwood hurriedly pushed the tin jakes under the bed and out of sight.

  Clanking, and hampered by the painful constraints, Perkin shuffled towards Grace and bowed as gracefully as though he were back at Henry’s court. Once the light fell on him, she was horrified by his appearance; he was gaunt, had aged, and his nose was so crushed, she would not have recognized him. The dull eye was more marked, and one of his front teeth was broken off at an angle, marring his once brilliant smile. He had not bathed for months, she ascertained from the layer of grime on the exposed parts of him and from his greasy, matted hair. It was all she could do not to turn away to hide her pity.

  “Lady Grace, I am grateful to you for bringing my wife here,” he said, his voice husky with unchecked emotion. “I am certain ’tis you we have to thank for this unexpected visit.”

  Grace shook her head. “Nay, sir. ’Tis her grace the queen whom you should thank, not I,” was all she could murmur, so shocked was she by the change in him. Katherine stroked his matted hair as though she did not notice. “Grace is too modest, my dearest. She always is. She is called ‘Grace the gracious’ by the other attendants. Aye, you did not know that, did you, dear Grace?” she said, her happy smile brightening the room. “Come, my love, let us sit and talk,” she cajoled.

  They sat down on the bed, never taking their eyes off each other. Katherine lovingly traced what remained of his once elegant fingers, and Grace felt tears pricking her eyes. Were they tears of sadness for herself or joy for them? They seemed happy at this moment, she thought. She found herself looking at him differently. Certes, he does not resemble the man I met in Burgundy, but even with his injuries, she now saw him through more critical eyes.

  “Je vous remerci aussi”—Perkin reverted to French so Astwood would not understand—“for helping me flee last summer. If I ever get out of here, I will reward your groom—Edgar, I think is his name? He has courage—as do you, Grace.”

  Grace smiled her thanks, but before she could answer a voice from above their heads startled the women, and they both looked up to find the source. Perkin and Astwood grinned conspiratorially.

  “’Tis Edward of Warwick,” Perkin said. “He bored a hole in the floor of his room when he was told I was below. We have been talking each day about this and about that, and”—he winked at his servant—“it gives me great comfort, does it not, Thomas?”

  Astwood winked back at him. “Aye, sir.”

  Grace saw the wink and was puzzled. “About what?”

  Astwood put his finger to his lips and glanced back at the locked door. “We cannot say, my lady. But before long, you will know, I don’t doubt.”

  “Richard! Who is there with you?” Ned’s voice was now recognizable to Grace, and she forgot the men’s cryptic remarks.

  “’Tis I, Grace, cousin Ned,” Grace cried, going over to where she could now see the hole in the vaulting. “How glad I am to hear your voice.”

  “Was Cleymond not clever to devise this way of talking to Perkin?” Ned enthused. “We have been planning such a scheme, you would not believe.”

  Grace frowned. “What scheme, cousin?” she called in as loud a whisper as she dared.

  “Aye, Richard, what scheme?” Katherine asked her husband, concern in her face. He shook his head and would not say.

  Astwood hurried to the corner and, cupping his hand spoke as though talking to a child: “Remember, my lord, no one—not even your cousin here—must know. ’Tis our secret.” He turned to Grace and wound his finger against his temple: “Poor man, he knows not a goose from a capon.”

  “What do you say, Thomas?” Ned said. “I did not hear the last part.”

  “Nothing, my lord. I was addressing the Lady Grace.” Thomas all but pushed Grace away from her spot under the hole, telling Ned: “You must move the chest back now, my lord, or someone will hear us.” The occupants of the lower room kept silent as they heard the sound of furniture moving above them, and then all was quiet again.

  Astonished by this turn of events, Grace wandered back to her stool and sat down hard upon it. It seemed to her the two servants were encouraging the prisoners to communicate, and she had the distinct impression they were not merely comforting each other. But then again, maybe she was wrong; she was always too ready to unravel a mystery, she knew, and perhaps she was reading more into this little scene than there was.

  “Have I disappointed you, Grace?” Perkin’s unexpected question roused her from her reflections.

  She stared at him for a moment before answering, knowing full well his meaning. “’Tis not for me to judge you, Perkin. Only the king and God may do that,” she countered. It was a lame answer to a most forthright question, she knew, but how could she tell this broken man that aye, she was disappointed in him, and that she had been deceived like everyone else. “You would disappoint me only if you have not been true to yourself, to Katherine and”—she hesitated to add—“to your son.”

  “Ah, Grace, I wish it were as simple as that.” Perkin sighed. “You want me to tell you that I am your half brother Richard, do you not? But I am naught but a poor boy from Tournai who is not who he pretended to be. ’Tis the truth, sad to say.”

  Grace looked from him to Katherine, expecting her to register horror at this admission, but she merely continued to stroke his hair, and then Grace knew for certain Katherine was fully aware she was not the wife of Richard, duke of York, but she loved her husband anyway. At least she would not have to pretend with Katherine any longer.

  “Sad? You should be angry,” Grace cried, standing up. “You have been cruelly treated by everyone, and now your life is in the king’s hands.” She saw the fear in Katherine’s face and calmed down. “And you used me,” she said sadly. “I truly believed you were my brother.”

  Perkin shrugged and then winced as the chain caught on a scab on his neck and it began to bleed. “I regret I duped you, Grace, and I truly wish I were your brother. But I will tell you the worst crime I have committed in all this was betraying Aunt Margaret’s trust in me,” he said sadly. “I did not mean to tell the king that she knew I was from Tournai.” He leaned forward, an urgency in his voice. “If you ever see her, Grace, pray tell her I am sorry for that.”

  “Aye,
if I ever see her again,” Grace replied, but she chose not to add, although she does not deserve your loyalty, in my opinion.

  Perkin, giving her a grateful smile, turned his attention once more to Katherine, whispering in her ear and making her smile. Grace watched them for a moment, wondering why it was she and not Perkin who was so angry. Aye, I have put myself—and Edgar—in danger for him, but she was free and Perkin was not. She had Tom, the children and a life to look forward to; all Perkin has are these few precious moments with the woman he loves, she realized sadly. She wished she could leave them alone, but it was expressly forbidden, and so as best she could, she turned and faced the other way.

  It was while they waited for the signal that the visit was at an end that she vowed Henry would never know from her that he had been right about Perkin all along.

  EVEN WITH PERKIN safely behind bars and seemingly resigned to his fate as a perpetual prisoner, Henry took no chances. That summer, he rounded up two of those who he knew had formed the core of the conspiracy to place Perkin on the throne. Accused of receiving damning letters from the pretender and hiding them from the king, Irishman John Atwater and his son, Philip, who had first acclaimed Perkin as duke of York, were taken from Cork and sent to London. John Taylor would soon follow, after extra-dition from France.

  Henry left London on a progress to the Isle of Wight in late July, leaving Bess and her household at Greenwich. Bess and Grace watched their new babies closely through the dangerous summer months together, when plague and the new sweating sickness often took away precious children as their first victims. Tom was now attached to Cecily’s household, and he was in the train that wended its way first to Collyweston and then to Hellowe so Cecily could oversee the management of the estates in Lincolnshire.

  “You are kind to Tom,” Grace told her sister as they walked together to the Welleses’s barge, the blue bucket and golden chain banner fluttering above it. “I hope you will find employment for him, as I will be loath to leave you.”

  “I have it in mind to put him in charge of the manor at Theydon Bois in Essex, Grace. ’Tis one of my dower properties, and I have neglected it of late. We shall have to go there next spring, where I have no doubt you will put your husbandry skills to work,” she said, chuckling. “You have lost your ugly brown color, praise God, and look like a lady again.”

  “Pish!” Grace retorted. “’Tis hard for me to believe a pale face is the sign of a lady. ’Tis how one comports oneself, your mother always told me.”

  “Ah, yes, Mother,” Cecily mused. “I never wished to be like her, but I wish now I had her ability to produce so many children.”

  “Pish,” Grace repeated more gently. “You still have many child-bearing years ahead. Henry will find you another husband anon, and there will be other babes, never fear,” she said as she watched Cecily being helped into the carriage. “Farewell and God speed.”

  Tom settled Cecily in the barge when he took Grace once more in his arms and kissed her. “Write to me of the children. Know that I will miss you all, but we shall be back before you know it. Three months at the most, my love.”

  33

  London

  AUTUMN 1499

  Tom was right, but the world turned upside down for Henry in those three months. Grace told her husband of the messenger who had ridden to Greenwich from Winchester with the news that Henry had returned to the ancient capital unexpectedly from his progress in the Isle of Wight. He remained there for three weeks and it was only now, in October, that the queen was told the reason why.

  “It seems a plot was uncovered at the Tower in early August,” Grace explained as soon as Tom had seen Cecily safely to her lodgings. Grace was unable to sit still as she talked. “Some men—I know not who, although they mentioned Thomas Astwood—had been meeting together since early summer to persuade Perkin and Warwick to overthrow Sir Simon and take the Tower for themselves.”

  Tom could not forbear to smile. “‘Take the Tower,’ Grace?” he queried. “How? How could two prisoners—one who was chained—take the strongest fortress in England? You are not making sense, my dear. And who is Thomas Astwood, pray?”

  Grace took a deep breath. “I will try to tell you, if you would not keep interrupting me and asking questions,” she complained. “Thomas Astwood is Perkin’s servant. I told you about him. But there were others who came to visit Perkin—a priest among them who may have come from Duchess Margaret, they say—and someone smuggled in a file and then a false shackle, so Perkin could free himself of his chains. There was even talk of a code book,” Grace whispered behind her hand.

  It was all Tom could do not to laugh out loud at his wife’s obvious delight in these intrigues. Instead he told her, “I can see you learned well at Elizabeth Woodville’s school of scheming,” and instantly regretted it.

  Grace flounced across the room and stood with her back to him, her arms crossed in defiance. “I shall tell you nothing more, husband, if you will not take me seriously,” she protested. “And to think I had arranged for us to spend the night together.”

  Tom was on his feet in a second and cradled her against him. “How I love you when you pout, my dearest,” he whispered, and was cheered when she sagged against him and covered his hands with hers. “Certes, I want to hear every detail of this plot. ’Twould seem that someone betrayed the prisoners, am I right?”

  Grace nodded and allowed him to lead her back to the settle. “It seems there were those about London who believed they could free Perkin and Warwick and, by securing the Tower, could put Perkin on the throne.”

  “I can see how Perkin would agree to escaping, but Warwick? Where does he fit in? He must not even know Perkin. Why would he agree to put his life in danger for a stranger?”

  “If Perkin is not Richard, then Warwick is next in line to the Yorkist throne, remember?” Grace said. “Besides, Ned does know Perkin.”

  Tom watched Grace’s face redden, and sighed. “You did not tell me everything about that meeting at the Tower, did you, Grace?”

  “I did not think it was important,” Grace blustered. She played with her rosary beads for a moment and then described the means of communication between the two captives. “Their servants knew about it, and ’tis clear to me that Ned’s servant preyed on his poor master’s innocent mind in the matter. Perhaps he tempted Ned with the crown? Perkin’s servant, Astwood, seemed to genuinely care for his master, but Robert Cleymond made me uncomfortable. I think he was spying for Sir Simon and betrayed Perkin and Warwick.”

  “You have a wild imagination, my girl,” Tom told her sternly.

  Grace was indignant. “Certes, I do not,” she retorted. “Then tell me why this Cleymond measle has disappeared, while the rest have been detained, if he is not guilty.”

  Tom frowned. “When did he disappear? Perhaps he sought sanctuary.”

  “I know not,” Grace said. There was a pause while they puzzled on the facts. “Does it not appear strange to you, Tom, that if Sir Simon knew of the plot in the first days of August, that Henry allowed the conspirators to continue with their actions for so long? It seems they recruited more and more people to help—both inside and outside the Tower—and the constable looked the other way. And Henry stayed for three weeks in Winchester—seemingly ignorant of the affair, for he did nothing. Nothing.”

  Tom gave a long, low whistle. “By all that is holy,” he said slowly. “It would seem the king may have given Perkin and Warwick enough rope to hang themselves.”

  Grace frowned. “Rope to hang themselves? Don’t speak in riddles, Tom,” she said, and then the light dawned. “You mean…Sweet Jesu, he now has a reason to destroy them—permanently!”

  Tom nodded. “The viscount told all of us who served him many times over that nothing would stop Henry’s ambition to join England with Spain through this marriage between Catherine and Arthur.” He paused, taking Grace’s hands before letting the ax fall. “I regret to say this, but I believe your cousin and Perkin must now be condemn
ed.” Grace let a cry of anguish escape before she buried her head in Tom’s chest. “I hope I am wrong, sweetheart,” he said, “but it looks plain as a pikestaff to me.”

  THE COURT WAS at Westminster at Martinmas, the final feast of the winter provisioning, when Grace saw Henry for the first time since he had left for his progress in late July. “He has aged twenty years,” she whispered to Cecily, as she took a share of roast pheasant from their mess to her trencher. “’Tis good to know he suffers, too.”

  Henry was in good spirits after a banquet that included several different fish dishes, pies of larks, plovers and thrushes, roasted peacocks, haunches of beef, venison and the traditional meat of Martinmas: mutton. Then came flampayns, custards and finally a frumenty. After the usual entertainment of performers and freaks, he called forth William Parron to read from the book he had commissioned the astrologer to write, The Fateful Meaning of the Stars. Parron bowed solemnly to the king and then the company and chose to read a passage that left no one in doubt as to the subject. He spoke of the fate of “those who are unlucky under the stars, the law and causation and justice say they must be beheaded or hanged, or others burned or drowned…” He looked out at the silent courtiers who were heeding every word, and when he went on to mention a man “not of base birth” whose stars were so ill-crossed he should expect nothing but imprisonment, death and the destruction of his property, they understood he was speaking of Edward of Warwick. Some years before, the soothsayer had told of awesome omens that had appeared at the time of Richard, duke of York’s birth, and now he confirmed for all to hear that those omens had predicted the unlucky prince would never reach manhood. His implication was loud and clear: Perkin could therefore not be that same prince, and thus deserved whatever fate the king chose for him for his pretense.