ALSO BY ANNE EASTER SMITH
Daughter of York
A Rose for the Crown
Touchstone
A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2009 by Anne Easter Smith
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Touchstone Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
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Map by Paul J. Pugliese
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Easter Smith, Anne.
The king’s grace / by Anne Easter Smith.
p. cm.
“A Touchstone Book.”
Includes bibliographical references.
1. Plantagenet, Grace, 1465?–ca. 1492—Fiction. 2. Warbeck, Perkin, 1474–1499—Fiction. 3. Pretenders to the throne—Great Britain—Fiction. 4. Great Britain—History—Henry VII, 1485–1509—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3605.A84K56 2009
813'.6—dc22 2008033603
ISBN-13: 978-1-4391-5837-1
ISBN-10: 1-4391-5837-1
Visit us on the World Wide Web:
http://www.SimonSays.com
For Ann Wroe
with thanks for her inspiration, insight and support
Acknowledgments
If I had a therapist, she would be the first I would thank, but instead I shall thank my husband, Scott, for putting up with hair-tearing and teeth-gnashing throughout the eighteen months it took me to tell Grace and Perkin’s story. Dissecting this very complicated slice of fifteenth-century history proved far more daunting than I first imagined, but if I have succeeded I must acknowledge the help of many people, not the least of whom is my always-cheerful, ever-encouraging editor, Trish Todd, who set my feet back on the right path several times after panic calls for help. And without author Ann Wroe’s help and enthusiasm for this project and her amazing book The Perfect Prince (Random House, 2003), I would have been lost.
I will acknowledge help during my research in geographical order. In Binche, Belgium: Etienne Piret, echevin de culture, who gave me copies of drawings and maps of the palace and town from the period; the ladies at the tiny Bibliothèque St. Ursmer, who went out of their way to hunt down old histories of the city; and our hosts at Les Volets Verts, who made the two aforementioned connections possible. In Lisbon, Portugal: the delightful and knowledgeable Adelino Soares de Mello, a friend of Ann Wroe’s, who insisted on sharing many, many hours of his time and wealth of knowledge of his beautiful city with us, tracking down exactly where Edward Brampton and Pero Vaz would have lived on the Serros los Amirantes. Sadly, the way I chose to write the book meant I did not spend more time with Perkin in Adelino’s charming city. In England: my love and thanks to my friend Roxy Gundry, who trundled around Exeter with me, imagining Perkin’s attempts to attack the high city walls with his ragtag army, and who then drove me to Yorkshire (accompanied by her two impeccably behaved dogs) to research that part of the country where the York family had so many supporters. To Richard and Jenny Howarth, who own the awe-inspiring ruin of Sheriff Hutton castle, where Grace’s story begins, my thanks for welcoming us and giving us cups of tea in their charming house on the property. I would like to acknowledge Nita Napp of Grantham, Lincolnshire, for her expertise on the Welles family history, and Bill White, a curator at the Museum of London and fellow member of the Richard III Society, who spent a morning giving me an in-depth tour. The museum is a fascinating place and a mine of information for history lovers.
To be honest, it would not have occurred to me to tell Perkin Warbeck’s story had it not been for my sister, Jill Phillips. While I was on a research trip for Daughter of York, she arranged for me to meet some of the cast of the BBC docudrama Princes in the Tower at a dinner party, who were in the throes of filming the last few days of Perkin’s life, including the hanging. Everyone at the table except me was a professional actor, and the cast members—Mark Umbers (Perkin), Roger Hammond (Bishop of Cambrai), and one of my movie-star crushes from the sixties, John Castle (Dr. Argentine)—plied me with questions about Margaret of York and what I knew of the Warbeck story. I confessed “very little” then, but the germ of a book was born! As always, my love and thanks to Jill, who never stints on her hospitality while I am in England for research.
I must again acknowledge the help of Maryann Long, midwife and teacher, and nurse practitioner Claire Denenberg in matters medical. Likewise the many members of the Richard III Society who are so generous with their knowledge of the period, especially Pamela Butler, Brian Wainwright, Lorraine Pickering and Joan Szechman. My thanks, too, to Cathy Thibedeau, a former English teacher with a passion for literature, who helped ferret out appropriate quotations for the section pages of the book.
And last but never least, all love and thanks to my agent, Kirsten Manges, who never fails to answer a call or e-mail or give me a confidence boost when I need it.
Contents
Acknowledgments
The House of York in 1485
Dramatis Personae
Map of Perkin Warbeck’s Journeys
Prologue
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Glossary
Bibliography
The House of York in 1485
Dramatis Personae
York family
see genealogy chart
and
Grace Plantagenet, illegitimate daughter of Edward IV
John of Gloucester, illegitimate son of Richard III
Lancaster family
see genealogy chart
Miscellaneous (asterisk indicates fictional character)
In Yorkshire
Sir John Gower of Stittenham, constable of Sheriff Hutton castle
Lady Agnes Gower, his wife and attendant of Elizabeth of York
Sir Robert Willoughby, steward in Henry VII’s household
*Hugh Jones, his squire
*Alice Gower, wife of George Gower of Westow
*Edmund Gower, her older son; Rowena, his wife
*Tom Gower, Alice and George Gower’s younger son
*Cat Gower, their daughter
In London
Elizabeth Woodville, Edward IV’s queen
Lady Katherine Hastings, widow of Lord William Hastings
*Edgar, a groom
John Marlow, prior of Bermondsey Abbey
*Brother Damien, monk at Bermondsey
*Brother Oswald, overseer of gardens at Bermondsey
*Brother Gregory, overseer of stables at Bermondsey
*Wat, head groom at Bermondsey
Sir Edward Brampton, Anglo-Portuguese courtier, entrepreneur, Perkin’s employer
William Caxton, printer
*Judith Croppe, sister to his son-in-law
*Matty, Grace’s first maid from Lincoln
*Enid, Grace’s Welsh maid
John, Viscount Welles, Cecily Plantagenet’s husband and stepuncle to King Henry
Anne and Elizabeth Welles, their daughters
Thomas Grey, earl of Dorset, oldest son of dowager Queen Elizabeth
John Morton, archbishop of Canterbury and later cardinal, King Henry’s chief adviser
Robert Cleymond, the earl of W
arwick’s servant/guardian at the Tower
Thomas Astwood, Perkin Warbeck’s servant/guardian at the Tower
Doctor Rodrigo de Puebla, Spanish ambassador to England
John Skelton, King Henry’s poet laureate
William Parron, King Henry’s astrologer
In Burgundy
“Jehan LeSage,” Margaret’s ward or “secret boy”
*Pieter Gerards, Sir Edward Brampton’s agent
Henriette de la Baume, Duchess Margaret’s chief attendant
Guillaume de la Baume, her husband and Duchess Margaret’s chevalier
Henri de Berghes, bishop of Cambrai, Duchess Margaret’s confessor
Philip, duke of Burgundy, Duchess Margaret’s step-grandson
William Warham, King Henry’s envoy to the court of Burgundy
PROLOGUE
The lamb that belonged to the sheep whose skin the wolf was wearing began to follow the wolf in the sheep’s clothing.
—AESOP’S FABLE
Burgundy
SEPTEMBER 1485
Acrow’s incessant caw outside the palace window magnified the boy’s misery as each raucous note only served to punctuate the pronouncements made by the woman seated in front of him. Kneeling before her upon the sweet-smelling rushes, Jehan raised hurt blue eyes to the duchess’s impassive face and, young as he was, failed to read the sadness in hers.
“You must leave me, Jehan,” Margaret of York said in English, the language in which she always addressed him. Her tightly clasped hands were aching to caress his golden head and ease his fear, but she did not trust herself. “You are too young to know why, my child, but one day I promise on His Holy Cross, you will know.”
“Am I never to see you again, aunt?” Jehan said, his lower lip trembling. For seven happy years he had been cocooned in the warmth of the dowager duchess of Burgundy’s kindness, at her palace of Binche. His first five years in the Carfours section of Tournai had faded into vague memories as he played, studied, sang and prayed in the isolation of the duchess’s most remote dower property. He had been lonely at first, but he came to look on his chaplain and tutor Sire de Montigny as a father, and, when the duchess was able to return for a visit, on Margaret as a mother. She had encouraged him to call her “Aunt Margaret” in private once he became accustomed to her, but he addressed her as “Madame La Grande,” “your grace” or “madame” when they were not alone. He had never dared ask her why he had been chosen to come and live like a young prince, and she had never told him. It was a secret; he was her secret boy.
“One day, when the time is right, Jehan, you will understand everything. But now, fetch that stool, pour us some of that new cider and sit by me. I will tell you what I have arranged for you.”
As he obeyed, Margaret of York’s thoughts turned once again to the terrible events of the last two years that resulted in the continuation of the civil war in her homeland between the two rival branches of the royal Plantagenet family—the houses of Lancaster and York. Her brother, King Edward, who had won the throne in 1461 from Henry of Lancaster, had died suddenly aged only forty and left what he thought was a secure Yorkist throne to his young son, also named Edward. Not a month later, a bishop admitted witnessing a contract Edward had made with a woman prior to his marriage with Elizabeth Woodville, the queen. Suddenly, on the eve of his coronation, young Edward, together with his sisters and younger brother Richard, were declared illegitimate and thus unable to inherit the crown. During the turmoil the two boys were placed in the royal apartments at the Tower of London, for their safety, and they had not been seen since that summer of 1483.
Margaret’s youngest brother, also named Richard, was proclaimed king as next in line to the throne, and she thought her family’s York dynasty was guaranteed. Who could have guessed that Richard’s son, Edward of Middleham, would die unexpectedly a year later and put Yorkist England in a precarious position? Margaret knew all too well about leaving an insecure dynasty: her husband, Duke Charles, was killed in battle eight years ago, leaving Margaret’s unmarried stepdaughter as his heir. Without a strong male leader, Burgundy was left vulnerable in those first few months until Margaret succeeded in marrying Mary to Maximilian, the heir of the Holy Roman Empire.
Then last month, in England, the unthinkable happened—Henry Tudor, earl of Richmond and the exiled Lancastrian heir, returned to England, challenging Richard’s right to wear the crown. He conquered Richard’s army at Market Bosworth and was proclaimed king. Margaret had flinched as she read how Henry had treated her brother following his death on the battlefield: “Naked, he was tied on a horse like a downed stag, his body riddled with wounds from the many sword thrusts that cut him down before he almost single-handedly reached Tudor…” so the Burgundian ambassador had written. Poor Richard, she thought; he did not deserve that.
Jehan returned, offering a cup. She took it and shook off the vision of her brother’s bloodied body to focus on the youth’s handsome face. She was proud of her boy—he learned his lessons well. He spoke fluent French and English now; his Flemish was passable, but she had directed the tutor to teach him history and literature in French. He had even surprised her on one visit by reciting an ode by Horace in Latin.
Margaret knew who Jehan’s real father was. She had let him believe the boatman who worked along the Schedlt in Tournai had sired him, although it had broken her heart to hear how many times this man, when in his cups, had beaten the boy. She chose not to tell him that his mother had died not long after little Jehan had come to Binche, but to simplify matters said that the boatman’s new wife, Nicaise, was his mother. Once—not long ago—she had asked him what he remembered of his early childhood in Tournai. He had screwed up his eyes, thinking hard. “I remember going to bed hungry. I remember my father’s face when he was angry, and the stick in the corner by the fire that he beat me with.” He shuddered. Then his face brightened. “And I remember a little lady with a monkey,” he said, and Margaret smiled. “Aye, Fortunata—my servant—and Cappi,” she had explained. She could not erase everything bad from his mind, but she was satisfied. Some of the painful memories would never go away, she knew, but most of the happier ones were of Binche.
She had always planned to tell him one day who he really was, but now it was too dangerous. It was better to send him away while he still believed that his parents were the Werbecques of Tournai—until the day when she might need him to know more.
“Now that you are older, you must learn the ways of the world. You cannot remain here forever, Jehan,” she told him gently. “As we have discussed many times, you are not my child—I chose to care for you and try to do my Christian duty by you, ’tis all.” The boy nodded sullenly. “I cannot give you titles and a household, so now that you are almost a man, you must make your own way. Soon you will be taken to Antwerp by a respectable merchant, and then you will become page to Lady Brampton, who is English. Her husband, Sir Edward, was in the service of my brothers, but because of the new king he must stay away from England. Lady Brampton is kind enough to employ you for my sake, and I know you will be in safe hands. She knows you are well tutored but she thinks you are from the choir school at Tournai.” Jehan frowned, trying to take in all this information. “I am afraid I told that little white lie, child, to protect you. For the next little while, you will learn how to be a page. One day, you may rise to become a knight,” Margaret said, smiling at the incredulous boy. “Aye, I can see you would like that. Sir Edward is an important merchant who lives part of the year in Burgundy and part of the year in Lisbon. Would you not like to see the world, Jehan?”
“Where is Lisbon, Aunt Margaret? Is it far away from here?” Jehan was still afraid, but he was curious, too. He loved the stories he and de Montigny had read about Greek heroes and King Arthur’s knights, and many a night he had gone to sleep dreaming about finding the Golden Fleece or the Holy Grail and sailing away on his own adventure. The thought of becoming a knight was titillating.
“Certes, I would ha
ve thought you had learned that Lisbon is in Portugal, Jehan. ’Tis where all the famous navigators sail from when they go to Africa or in search of the western way to the Indies. You do know that my mother-in-law, Duchess Isabella, was a princess of Portugal, do you not? Aye, I see that you do. Perhaps Sire de Montigny should have shown you where Portugal is on a map when he gave you that history lesson.” She paused, frowning. “Now where was I?”
Jehan gazed at her, committing to memory every line on her thirty-nine-year-old face, her graying fair hair visible around her elaborate jeweled headdress, and those slate gray eyes that softened every time she looked at him. How he loved her! How beautiful she was, he thought. How kind. Certes, she was every boy’s dream for a mother. And then an overwhelming sadness crumpled his face as he remembered that he must go away.
“Sweet Jesu, I beg of you do not weep, or I shall leave the room!” Margaret exclaimed, hoping she sounded suitably fierce, while inside she wept, too. He could not possibly know what happiness he had brought into her childless marriage. Not a day went by that she did not thank God for sending the boy to her. “You are almost a man, Jehan, and men do not cry.”
Seeing Jehan swiftly wipe his nose on the back of his hand and sit up straight, Margaret nodded and continued. “That is better. You must be brave, Jehan. We do not know what life may bring you, but I always want you to remember that I taught you to be strong. Do you remember when you broke your leg? You were only six, but very brave. Now you must believe I am doing what is best for you, even though you may question why your life may not be as comfortable as this,” she told him, indicating their rich surroundings.