“Saw what, my dear John? I would know your sorrow.” Grace put her arm around his shoulder and he relaxed into its comforting hold.
“Ah, Grace, what sorrow indeed. I saw Lincoln, our loyal cousin Jack, run through by an English pike.” He raised gray eyes to hers and she was not surprised to see his tears. They sat for a few minutes while she rocked him back and forth, both with their own memories of their cousin. Then John pulled himself together and described his last sighting of Francis Lovell.
“The battle raged for three hours or more, they say. A surgeon—a butcher from Dublin, I was told—removed my arrow and filled the hole with tar. I swooned again, I hate to admit. When I awoke, the carnage about us was terrible to see.” He weighed his next words and chose to leave out the nightmarish scenes of bloodied heads with staring eyes, arms and legs without owners, horses screaming in agony, men slipping and sliding on the spilled guts of others and everywhere the ghastly smell of death. Instead he told her: “Thousands upon thousands of dead and wounded—and because of our position, with Henry in front and the river behind, the retreat meant many drowned. And then I saw Lovell. I could not raise myself to cry his name but he was on his horse and plunging into the Trent—at its deepest part. I cannot believe that, with the armor both on him and his horse, he did not drown.” He clutched Grace and sobbed. “Oh, God, ’twas the worst day of my life—even worse than when I heard my father had perished at Bosworth.”
“Soft, dear cousin, you are safe with me here,” Grace soothed him, stroking his hair. Shocked as she was, she tried to commit all to memory so she could report back to Elizabeth. Elizabeth! How long have I been gone? I pray they will not send out a search party, she thought, panicking. Perhaps they think I have drowned! But when she looked at the sun’s position, she saw it had actually been only an hour since John had found her.
She gently removed herself away from his tense body and got to her feet, untucking her overdress and retrieving her hat. These actions gave her time to think. John must not be found here, because he was in danger from both the sheriff of Southwark and, more important, the king. He had fought against his king, and she knew that was treason. But where should he go? He had a horse, which was an advantage, but it needed shoeing. He could take it to the abbey blacksmith, but she was fearful he would be recognized from his first visit. Might she be able to pretend she had found the horse, abandoned? But that would mean she would have to walk the terrifying animal all the way back to the abbey alone. She wasn’t certain she was brave enough. But you have to be, for John, she chided herself. Certes, the animal had not bitten her just now when she had tied it up. Maybe she could accomplish this and Prior John would have no reason to think she was lying about finding the horse. She sent a prayer up to St. Sibylline to protect her from God’s wrath for the intended lie, but she was convinced helping this good man was the Christian thing to do, and so God would surely forgive her. She sat back down a little behind John so she could raise her skirts and put on her stockings without revealing her bare legs to him, but he was still staring across the water, his mind’s eye stumbling over dead bodies on the battlefield. Aye, the horse might be shod, but where would he go with it? she wondered, losing faith in her plan. He cannot hide his identity forever, she reasoned. Someone will recognize him and give him away.
“I must go to Aunt Margaret,” John said suddenly, startling Grace out of her planning. “Certes, that is what I must do. I will be safe there.”
“Why, that is perfect, John!” Grace cried, anchoring her second shoe and standing up. “You can take a ship from here. There are always ships going to the Low Countries.”
John stood up and faced her. “I cannot go without money, Grace. I have to pay my way, and I shall need some when I arrive. I cannot present myself to the duchess looking like this. I have not a penny to my name.”
“I would give you all that I have, John, you know that, but I am living on Elizabeth’s—and thus the king’s—charity. I have nothing of value to give you or to sell. Perhaps you could sell your horse.”
“Dearest Grace, you are the sweetest girl in the whole world, without a doubt,” John cried, her kindness cheering him and a smile brightening his face. “But I shall need my horse in Flanders, and I would pay a captain to take me and the palfrey aboard.” An idea crossed his mind. “Do you think Aunt Elizabeth would lend me some money? She seemed to like me when I was at court with Father. She was not so fond of Katherine—my sister—but my father said ’twas because Kat was young and beautiful and Elizabeth was past her prime. I care not, but I do believe she might help me, if she knew my plight. What say you, Grace? Would she help me? You know her best.”
Grace’s first instinct was to reject the idea, mostly out of concern for Elizabeth’s health and well-being at present. But when she pondered further, she recalled that Elizabeth had always enjoyed scheming in secret, and perhaps helping John escape might alleviate her melancholy. She smiled happily up at him.
“Aye, John, if I can speak to her alone and describe your plight, I am certain she would not refuse. She seems to hold me in some esteem, although the same cannot be said for Lady Hastings,” she said, grimacing. “That is why I must have Elizabeth’s ear alone.”
John reached for her hand and pressed it to his lips. “It seems I am always in your debt, little wren.”
“Fiddle faddle!” Grace said, grinning, and was delighted to hear John laugh outright for the first time that afternoon. “Aye, Cecily told me about it being your mother’s favorite saying. And now I shall tell you the rest of my plan for shoeing your horse.”
Not long after, they parted. John agreed to lie low until dark and once again meet her in the undercroft after Compline. By then, she promised, somewhat recklessly, that she would have some money, food and the newly shod horse ready for him.
“Cross your fingers for me, John,” she called back along the towpath, holding the horse’s rein as far from the animal as possible, “and send a prayer to Saint Martin of Tours that the horse gets safely to the abbey.”
John waved. “Nay, I shall pray to Saint Sibylline to protect my orphan wren!” he muttered to himself, not wanting to put Grace in danger by shouting. And then, ducking back out of sight, he curled up in the grass and fell fast asleep.
MATTHIAS, THE BURLY blacksmith, was happy to shoe the stray horse for Grace. He had been amused when the young woman had come through the gates and into the bustling courtyard towing a good-looking palfrey. He nudged his neighbor: “Bain’t that be the Grey Mare’s attendant? A daintier maid I have yet to see.”
“I hear she be one of King Edward’s bastards. And judging from her looks, his prow must have found port in quite a beauty,” Toby said, slapping his thigh and chortling at his own wit.
“The poor girl is no horsewoman, by Christ. She looks to be leading a dragon from the way she be holding the rein. The beast must be tired or lily-livered not to have made his escape. Ah, but it seems he has need of my services, my friend. Look, she comes our way.” Matthias bowed politely as Grace approached, and it was all he could do not to laugh when she flipped the rein to him.
“Master smith, I will leave this poor animal in your care. He was alone and lame in a field along the river with no one near to claim him. I called, but it appears that either the horse is a runaway or his owner is. Can we stable him here?” Grace gave him her sweetest smile, and both the blacksmith and his assistant were charmed.
“Someone will come for him, never fear, little lady,” Matthias assured her, lisping through toothless gums. “He be fine-looking and so will be missed. You can leave him to me.” He slapped the horse on the neck and then ran his practiced hand down the left foreleg to gentle the hoof off the ground. “Aye, the shoe is worn through. I will have another one on in no time.”
“You are very kind, sir. I thank you.” Grace smiled and hurried back to the abbey residence and Elizabeth’s chambers. One task accomplished, she thought, relieved. Now to face the next. As she mounted the sta
ircase to the second floor she heard a door bang and, looking up, saw Katherine Hastings on her way to the same staircase she was climbing. Grace assumed she was going to the privy, which might not give her enough time to explain John’s story to Elizabeth. However, when Katherine saw Grace she threw up her hands.
“Mother of God, but you are worse than a plague of fleas, Grace. Where have you been? Elizabeth has been asking for you this past half hour. I am so weary from fanning her that she has sent me to doze in the garden. ’Tis your turn to please her. She is crosser than an unmilked cow today. I shall be gone an hour, so pray stay out of trouble. And before you see her grace, I would comb your hair and brush the grass off your wet skirts. ’Tis likely you have been rolling in the hay with some lout, by the looks of you.”
Grace opened her mouth to protest, but Katherine had already passed her and was stalking off to the garden. Thank you, sweet Mother of God, or whoever is looking after me today, she thought. My lie about the horse must not have been so prodigious. She ran along the walkway to Elizabeth’s room and knocked.
“Come!” the queen dowager called. “Ah, there you are, Grace,” she said from her high-backed chair as Grace slipped into the room and made her obeisance. “I was beginning to worry about you. Mistress Beauchamp, you may go, and thank you for keeping me company. These young girls never seem to run out of energy, do they?” Mary Beauchamp demurred as Elizabeth put out her hand to be kissed and, not giving Grace a second glance, the elderly woman left the room. “She is kind, but a bore, Grace. As you can see, I am feeling better than I was and made Katherine get me off the bed and into the chair. She, on the other hand, was swooning from the heat and could no longer keep her eyes open, so I sent her off to sleep in the garden, for I could not tolerate her snores. Sweet Jesu, but we all rack each other’s nerves in this dreary, small place, do we not?” She sighed, not expecting an answer.
Grace refilled Elizabeth’s empty cup and picked up the fan Mistress Beauchamp had abandoned. She knew she must act now or she might not have another chance to be alone with the dowager, so she took a deep breath and plunged in. “I beg your grace’s pardon for delaying my return, but I had no choice.” She saw Elizabeth frown and, without waiting for a question, whispered, “You see, I was overtaken by someone on horseback who is near and dear to all of us and in danger, and I could not refuse him my help.”
Now she had Elizabeth’s attention. The queen sat up in her chair, her eyes alive and her senses alert. “Him? Who, Grace? I pray you, do not dissemble.”
“’Tis John of Gloucester, your grace. He is fleeing the battle that ensued not three days ago near Nottingham.” She stopped. She needed to know absolutely on which side Elizabeth’s loyalties lay. Perhaps her first instinct had been right: Elizabeth had no desire to anger her son-in-law or her daughter further and thus would not help John. Grace held her breath.
“Johnny,” Elizabeth murmured, conjuring up the youth of whom Richard had been so proud. Then there was anxiety in her voice. “Dear God, is he well—is he wounded? But more to the point, did Lincoln win?” But the disappointment on her face as she answered her own question gave away her leanings. “Nay, he could not have won, or that news would have reached us by now and all London would be in an uproar. With Henry the victor, life goes on as usual.” Grace nodded sadly and Elizabeth groaned. “All the plans were for naught, and here I shall stay until I die, I have no doubt.”
“Aye, you have the measure of it, madam. And I shall relate the whole sad tale later, if you wish, including”—she reached out and covered Elizabeth’s hand with her own—“the death of your nephew—and my cousin—Jack of Lincoln.” Elizabeth groaned again and shook her head in disbelief. Grace knew she should allow the queen to grieve or ask more questions, but she was on a mission and so soldiered on. “But now, I have—nay, John has—a boon to ask, and I must ask while we are alone. No one must know John is here—as, certes, he is in danger.”
Elizabeth pulled herself together. “I understand, Grace.” She was full of questions, but she began with the most puzzling: “Why you, Grace? How did John know where to find you?”
Grace told her of their friendship in Sheriff Hutton, of his letters to her and how she had relayed his important message to Lincoln on the road to Winchester. She made Elizabeth’s eyes widen with the tale of the meetings in the dead of night in the undercroft and of her fear when the sheriff had come from Southwark seeking John Broome. At that Elizabeth clapped her hands. “Ha! There is no doubt Johnny has Plantagenet blood in his veins. Clever indeed!”
Then she was all seriousness. “Where is he now, and what does he intend to do?”
Someone was approaching on the walkway, and both women stopped to listen. The footsteps passed by and faded into the distance. Their eyes met in an acknowledgment that no one was at the door, and the discussion continued. Grace told Elizabeth of John’s plan, and of his need for money. Without a second thought Elizabeth left her chair, went to the bed and, in front of an astonished Grace, pressed a knob on the elaborate headboard causing a secret drawer to slide out from under the wooden side support of the bed. Grace turned away, not wanting to invade Elizabeth’s privacy. If the queen dowager was keeping money secretly, it was none of Grace’s business. She was only too glad Elizabeth did have more money than the meager pension Henry had bestowed on her to live at the abbey, because it meant John could be helped. Grace briefly wondered if the money had been part of the royal treasury that Elizabeth and her brother were known to have taken in Eighty-three, when she had gone into sanctuary and he had fled to sea. At this moment, though, she did not care and was happy to hear the clink of coins as Elizabeth counted some out. She looked back only when she heard the click of the drawer closing.
“This should buy him his passage and keep him from starving until he reaches Margaret. Henry would hang him if he found him, and Johnny never harmed anyone. Nor is he a threat, but Henry would perceive him to be, and Henry is afraid of any man whose name is either York or Plantagenet. Tell John to ask Margaret to write to me. I need to know if she has knowledge of my boys. If Richard did send them abroad, he would have sent them to her. I was certain this boy Simnel was one of them, and ’twas why I agreed to help Lincoln at first, but when I learned he was naught but the son of an Oxford tailor I withdrew my support. An unconvincing pretender, indeed.”
Grace took the handful of gold nobles, tied them tightly into a kerchief so they would not jingle and put them in the pouch at her waist. “I know John will thank you with every step he takes until he is safely in Flanders, your grace.” She was aware Elizabeth was looking at her intently, and she flushed. She was even more disconcerted when Elizabeth suddenly exclaimed: “Grace Plantagenet, you are in love with your cousin Johnny, are you not?”
Grace was speechless. She cast her eyes down to the wooden floor and moved some rushes around with her toe. She lifted her head, and her expression was one of such confusion that Elizabeth laughed. “Aye, I am right. But, my child,” she said more gently, “if I know Johnny, yours is not the only heart he has stolen.” Grace’s wet eyes answered for her. “Ah, little Grace, life is cruel, is it not?”
Grace gave a rueful nod.
A GRATEFUL JOHN folded Grace into his arms a few hours later. But only after he had devoured the meat pie, cheese and ale that she had brought, put the money in a pouch that hung around his neck and tucked it inside his jacket and listened to the message he was to convey to Aunt Margaret.
“I shall ride to Gravesend and find a Flemish vessel to take me to Burgundy. No one will know me in Kent, and it will be safer than crossing London Bridge and finding a vessel on a wharf in the Pool. You will know I am safe when Elizabeth hears from Aunt Margaret. That shall be the sign. I know not whether Henry knows I was at Stoke or not, but I shall not take the chance of staying here to be attainted. Attainted! How foolish to attaint a bastard—what do I have that the king could possibly want?”
“Your name,” Grace whispered. “Never forget y
ou are a Plantagenet.”
John grinned. “Never fear, little wren, ’tis engraved on my heart. As are you, from this moment on. I must tell you again how lucky your future husband will be, for you are a jewel.” He chuckled when she blushed. He had no wish to hurt her, and he needed to leave now. “Remember to be angry that someone stole the horse you brought back. We do not want you to come under any suspicion. And now, I must away. Only God knows when we shall meet again, but we shall, I promise, we shall.”
“You will be in my heart always, John, and in my prayers.” She tried to think of anything to keep him with her and suddenly remembered to ask: “What about Tom—Tom Gower? Was he there? Did he…” She faltered, dreading to know if yet another friend had perished.
John smiled. “Nay, Grace, he was not even there. It seems that on his way through Wensleydale he got word that his father had died, and Cousin Jack gave him leave to make sure his mother was well cared for. So he was excused and did not catch up with us. I hope he is safe in Westow—and stays there.”
Grace nodded, satisfied. “Then I must let you go. Farewell, and God speed.”
She waited until he had hurried through the cellar and up the steps to the deserted courtyard before collapsing onto their makeshift chair and sobbing silently into the straw.
A MONTH LATER a letter was delivered to Grace by an abbey guest from Flanders. Grace ran to the stone seat under the shelter of the yew in the privy courtyard and opened it with trembling fingers. Pressed in the folds of the parchment was a single heartsease. “My thanks, little wren” were the only words written on the page, but they were enough to assure Grace that John was safe.