Pulling herself together, she replied: “I think I understand. But I tell you this, John of Gloucester, my love for you will never change, and if you ever need me I shall always come. Do you understand?”
John was visibly moved, his own unwanted tears not far. She is a treasure, he thought, and I wish she were mine. “Aye, Grace, I understand,” he told her. “And you have my devoted friendship for as long as I shall live.” He lifted her hands to his lips and kissed them reverently.
She used her sleeve to wipe her nose. “Cecily will be here tomorrow,” she announced as if nothing had happened. “Bess is for Kenilworth, where the king is, with Scraggy Maggie, so she will not come. In truth, ’tis better for our plan if she is not here.” John nodded, his eyes showing pleasure at this news. “Cecily did not say more in her letter but it seemed significant that Henry, having news from Ireland, called for his wife and mother.”
John leapt to his feet. “By the Rood, that is good news. Let us pray Cecily knows more and can give me hope that I may join Lovell and Lincoln. Now you must go. I shall sleep on the straw tonight and mingle with the other field hands as soon as the cock crows. If I tend the field outside the gate, I shall see Cecily arrive and we can put our plan into action. I have borrowed a gown, as you suggested.” He did not enlighten her as to how he had come by a woman’s gown; it would only have twisted the knife in further.
Grace smiled at his enthusiasm, but her heart was heavy. “Let us hope the weather is fair, or I know not what we shall do.”
“God is not that unkind, Grace, for all you believe He is. Now go quickly—I am so full of thanks, I know not how…”
She disappeared up the dark stairway before he could find the words.
“THE DRONE MEANS they are busy making honey inside the skep,” Grace explained to her two companions, gathered round several beehives in the herb garden. “The skep needs air around it, but it should not be too close to the ground. And if it sits on a plank, like this, ’tis not easy for mice and other animals to steal from it.” From behind the long, opaque muslin veil that hung down over the wide-brimmed straw hat and covered the upper part of her body, Grace took note of where others worked in the garden and, seeing one of the brothers moving out of earshot, she whispered. “’Tis safe to talk now.”
Cecily giggled behind her own protective covering. “John, is that really you in that gown? Grace says you now sport a beard. ’Tis hard to imagine, cousin.”
“Aye, ’tis I, and do not tease, Cis. I feel foolish enough already. And certes, I shaved my beard before donning this disguise. Grace, are you sure you cannot see I am a man beneath this gauze?”
“Nay, John. Other than being a little taller, you look the same as we do. We do not have much time, and my knowledge of beekeeping is little at best, so let us pretend we are moving from skep to skep and I will lift a lid for you to see the wax comb and honey. Keep your hands well hidden under the gauze. My gloves will protect me.”
They moved to the next hive and pretended to peer closely at it, Cecily unconvinced that she was not going to get stung.
“Do not anger them, Cis,” Grace cried, as her sister squealed and flapped her long veil at a few insects buzzing around her head. “They are hard at work and do not wish to harm you, unless they are angered.”
“I think this was a silly idea, Grace,” Cecily said, and Grace knew she was pouting. “Why do you need to hide, John? Certes, Bess would see you were well treated.”
“I do not want to be anywhere near that usurper brother-in-law of yours. I want to help upend his arse and put Warwick on the throne. If I am where he can see me, then I cannot join with our supporters, can I? I beg of you, Cis, do not ask any more questions of me—I must move fast, if I am to be of any use to Lincoln. Now pray, what is the news from Ireland?”
“Oh, very well,” Cecily acquiesced. She told them that the boy, Lambert Simnel, after being crowned in Dublin, was now at the head of an army made up of Irish lords and their men, an army of German mercenaries sent by Aunt Margaret and Yorkist lords Lovell and Lincoln with their forces. She chuckled. “I wish I had seen Henry’s face when he learned that the army had set sail from Dublin and has landed somewhere near Furness.”
John let out a not very feminine whistle. “So the invasion is real. Praise be to God.”
“Henry is so frightened that he had writs posted up and down England forbidding any rumors or stories to be circulated that speak of an invasion,” Cecily went on. “He has ordered mayors and bailiffs to track down the tale-tellers and use the pillory to extract the source of the rumors from them so that he can find and hang them.”
“Christ’s nails!” John exclaimed, causing both Grace and Cecily to shush him. “This means he fears this army greatly. I must away north again and join it.”
“There, see the honeycomb?” Grace said suddenly, taking the top off the tightly woven straw skep and pointing. Her loud voice made the other two look around to see a monk walking towards them. “Brother Oswald, this is my half sister, the Lady Cecily, and her attendant. I have just finished telling them the little I know about your bees. However, we have disturbed them enough, don’t you think?”
Brother Oswald bowed low, showing his shiny tonsure, and without waiting for a response Grace bade him good day and walked off in the direction of the residence, with Cecily and John in her wake. She heard John’s admiring “Well done, little wren” and glowed. She led them close to the abbey and stopped near the undercroft door, pretending to point out an architectural detail.
“Cousins, I will leave you in a few minutes,” John said, checking that the coast was clear. “But you should know I will carry your courage with me on my way north. Wish me well; I know not when we shall meet again. But let us hope it is soon—and at the head of a triumphant York-family procession into London! Farewell and God be with you.”
“Be careful, cousin,” Cecily said, removing her protective veil. “’Tis treason you are contemplating…”
John gripped her arm. “You swore to keep silent on this, Cecily. I must know I can count on you. My life may depend on it.”
“Certes, I shall not betray you, John. I swore on our fathers’ graves,” Cecily retorted, pulling away. “Now go, I beg of you, before someone sees through your disguise. ’Twas an addle-brained—”
“May Saint George protect you, John,” Grace interrupted her, reaching out and taking his hand. “Give us word when you are able that you are safe. You will be in my prayers.”
“Fiddle faddle, Grace! I thought you had given up on God,” John joked, hiding his trepidation for the road ahead. “Now, walk me to the undercroft, I beg of you.”
They turned the corner by the undercroft stairs and, in a flash, John was gone.
“Fiddle faddle?” Grace said, taking off her hat and gauze and trying to sound nonchalant. In truth, she wanted to run down the stairs and embrace John one more time.
“His mother’s favorite expression,” Cecily said. “He used to say it a lot when he was younger.”
NEWS OF AN invasion reached the abbey two days after Cecily’s visit, and Grace pretended to be as surprised and worried as everyone else. What would it mean for them all? The English had settled down with their new king and were loath to restart the civil war between the red rose and the white.
As the tallest tower at the abbey could be seen for miles, it was part of the country’s alarm system, and that night it was one of hundreds of beacons lit up and down England to announce the invasion and serve as a call to arms for those close enough to join Henry on his march north to stop the rebels.
The next day the abbey received a visit from the sheriff of Southwark, and Grace was grateful that Cecily had given John the invasion news early. It meant a two-day start for him. The sheriff entered the refectory at dinner and, with permission from the abbot, asked if anyone had seen a young man calling himself John Broome. Grace held her breath. John had explained that broom was the English translation of planta genistra—the f
lowering bush for which the royal Plantagenet house was named. He had been pleased with his own ingenuity.
There was great consternation among the brotherhood before stout Brother Geoffrey stepped forward and said, “Certes, I remember the man lodged with us for but one night. He was a quiet guest and gave no offense.”
“Pah! No offense, Brother? He is a spy!” the sheriff cried, horrifying his listeners. “He was staying at the Bull’s Head and stole a gown from the innkeeper’s wife. One of the tavern wenches allowed he had tumbled her and asked her to steal it for him, saying he was on secret business. He threatened her with his knife, she did say.”
Grace gasped, hardly believing her ears for a moment. But then she looked at the piggy-eyed sheriff with his fat belly and unshaven face, enjoying the attention of the lords and ladies at the abbey, and guessed he was exaggerating the story for effect. She was certain John would never threaten a defenseless girl with a knife. It was true John did not tell her where he found the gown, but she was convinced John had meant only to borrow it. She dismissed the accusation, although to her great regret, she was sure the part about tumbling the tavern wench was true.
“I crave your pardon, Father John,” Elizabeth said suddenly, causing the company to swivel all eyes her way. “I do not know who this John Broome is, but to falsely accuse someone of being a spy because he stole a gown is contemptible. He may be a thief, but you need proof to bring such a damning accusation, sheriff. What is your proof?”
The sheriff was about to dismiss the woman in the widow’s barbe who had dared to interfere with his investigation when someone close to him whispered her name. Apologizing, he withdrew backwards from the hall, bowing awkwardly, followed by an amused prior.
“Sweet Jesu,” Elizabeth said when he had gone. “What drivel!”
By the time the feast of Corpus Christi was celebrated and the two armies were closing in on each other, the occupants of the abbey were making wagers as to who would win should a battle ensue. Prior John did not forbid gambling in the refectory and threw in a couple of coins. “The last time this happened, an invader won. And let us not forget William of Normandy, called Conqueror. I shall wager the invader will win again.” A great deal of money was thrown on the tables, with a brother running around, eagerly recording the bets.
Elizabeth threw down a noble and loudly sided with the king. “He has the advantage, Father John. From all I hear, the rebels are a rabble—the Irish barely have clothes to cover them, let alone good weapons; the Germans may be well trained but, in truth, they do not have the numbers. As for the traitors Lincoln and Lovell”—Grace and Katherine both drew in their breath, knowing full well Elizabeth had prayed beside her bed for their victory the night before—“they fight for an imposter, and thus no one will support them. Besides, Henry is my liege lord and husband to my daughter. Certes, I pray for his victory,” she cried. “We all should. Nay, Father John, I believe I shall be richer in a few days—and half of my winnings I shall, of course, donate to the abbey treasury,” she added to scattered applause. “And now I beg your indulgence, Father. I am overcome with the heat and need to step outside. Come, Lady Katherine, Lady Grace, let us find a shady place in the garden and read awhile.”
The company rose with her and respectfully moved aside as the dowager queen and her attendants processed from the refectory. Grace hoped Elizabeth had not heard the unkind comment that was whispered by a man to his companion as she passed by. “’Tis said the Grey Mare is here precisely because of her dealings with Lovell and Lincoln. I cannot believe she prays for a royal victory. ’Tis naught but show.” He is right, Grace thought, but she admired Elizabeth for trying to stem that story.
9
Lisbon
1487
I have been in Lisbon for a year now, and I should be writing to Aunt Margaret, but instead I write secretly in the pages of the book Lady Brampton gave me when I left her service. It was she who taught me that writing one’s innermost thoughts releases the spirit, and I know now that she was right. And so Madame la Grande will have to wait!
On Sundays, after my new master, Admiral Pero Vaz da Cunha, has released me from my duties, I come to write in my favorite place upon the rampart of the Castelo de São Jorge built by the Moors above the River Tagus on the highest of the several hills in this colorful city. To my right I can look over the poorer parts of the city, the large market square and hospital in the valley to where the land climbs high again to the Carmelites Convent of Sta. Maria do Carmo, the church of Sta. Catarina and the big new houses on the Serro do Almirantes, which means Admiral’s Ridge. Appropriately, as they are both admirals, Sir Edward and my master live there! On days like today, the red-tiled roofs and white walls of the houses on the green hills stand out against the blue sky. In the winter, as I have seen many times, the fog rolls in from the ocean and the city disappears and then the rains come—hard, driving rain, and one is glad of one’s cloak.
The guards at the Castelo gate down the hill know me now and call me the Lowlander. In the summer, King Jão moves the court to his beautiful palace at Sintra, perched on a hill to the west of the city, and so I can come and sit in relative solitude. It is the best view in the whole city! Up here I can watch the local fishing barcas with their angled masts skimming along the Alfama shore to my left and larger caravels and carracks arriving at and departing from the quays at Belém, west towards the sea. The people of this kingdom are proud of their seafaring heritage—from the lowest fishermen to the famed explorers—and live or die by it. How I long to go exploring with the great Diogo Cão! ’Tis said he is the first to sail into the mighty Rio Zaire along the west coast of Africa, claiming the land for Portugal. I have seen Bartolomeu Dias, with his big broken nose, and Vasco da Gama walking and talking together on the quays of Belém. They are like gods to me.
I still remember the creaking timbers, the sea spray in my face, the rhythmic shanties of the sailors as they toiled and the noise of the wind filling the sails of the ship that brought me here from the Low Countries when I was not yet thirteen and still such a boy. The voyage took two weeks, and I wish I could have stayed on board forever. I am proud to say I was one of the few who did not have the mal de mer, and Sir Edward took me into his confidence and told me many stories of the English court to pass the hours. I kept my promise to Aunt Margaret and pretended I did not know anything about England. But, of course, I know much, including the most fascinating tale about the two sons of King Edward who seemed to have vanished after they were put in the Tower of London. What puzzles me is that when King Richard was defeated and killed three years ago, why were the boys not released? I wonder if they are still alive. And then Sir Edward told me that the boys’ oldest sister is now Queen Elizabeth of England. How strange fate is!
Admiral da Cuhna was eager to have me because I can read and write—all thanks to Aunt Margaret—and speak French and English. With his one eye, fierce features and a temper to match, he is often called Bisagudo, which means Hatchet-face. I have to confess, he treats me well, although it is said he has beaten many of his mariners and is feared greatly on his ship. I think he was surprised that I had learned so many manners at Sir Edward’s house, and how to be a page: keep your nails clean, do not turn your back on anyone, never speak first to your superiors and certainly do not spit at table. Bien sûr, I did not tell the admiral that it was second nature to me, as I had learned everything at the dowager duchess of Burgundy’s palace of Binche. I am proud that I can keep such a secret. God and all his saints bear witness that I would never betray my dearest aunt. It has often made me curious as to why she kept me so secret. The rumor in the village was that I was her bastard child! Although I do not remember my parents, I know my father was a boatman and that Werbecque is my name. Sire de Montigny told me I was a charity child and not to question the duchess’s actions, but to thank God for my blessings, which I did nightly. But only I know how deep my love was for Aunt Margaret, and hers for me. It grieves me to think perhaps she
no longer thinks of me; perhaps she has another charity child now. Perhaps. But I like to think I am wrong, because even though her letters come less frequently, they are still affectionate.
Today, if Aunt Margaret is correct, I am fourteen and am starting to enjoy the attention of girls and know that, in this land of black-haired and black-eyed people, they consider me handsome because I have fair hair and blue eyes—even if one of them is not always true. I am not as tall as I would like, but I have a few hairs on my chin and my voice has pleasantly deepened. I hope it will not be long before I know love.
I suppose I must close my book now, find my cipher and write to Aunt Margaret. I will tell her about my duties with the admiral, how I am trying to learn Portuguese and about the burning of a heretic in the Ribeiro square. I witnessed hangings in Middelburg and Bruges, but this was my first execution by fire. I am ashamed to say the terrible screams of the prisoner and the sickly smell of burning human flesh made me vomit. I hurried away when several spectators began to laugh at me. The victim was a Jew who would not convert and had written heretical pamphlets against the teachings of the Church. It made me glad that Sir Edward had converted in England and could boast King Edward himself as his godfather. There are many mutterings about the Jews, who mostly live in the Alfama district. It is expected they will be forced to leave soon, but where will they go?
And now to my duty letter, but I don’t think I will tell Aunt Margaret about the girls!
10
London
SUMMER 1487
No one could remember a hotter June. It was only a few days until midsummer’s eve, with the hottest months of July and August yet to come and an interminable stretch of sweltering, dusty days to look forward to. The discussion behind Elizabeth’s closed door was all of the upcoming battle—that there would be a battle, no one had any doubt. Elizabeth’s mood swung between elation at a possible Yorkist victory, which would surely free her from her present incarceration, as she termed it, and despair that she would die of boredom inside the sandstone walls of the abbey residence. Even tales of Arthur and his knights could not take her mind off events that might be occurring north of London, and Katherine had been indignant when Grace had timidly suggested that reading about Master Chaucer’s more peaceful—and amusing—pilgrims might take the dowager’s mind off the present.