A hush came over the court as the two Englishmen knelt before Philip, who had only recently been given the reins of government by his father and regent, Maximilian. Philip acknowledged the envoys with a nod and extended his hand for them to kiss. All was pleasant and courteous until Warham rose and was given leave to speak.
After the usual high-flown platitudes and greetings on behalf of Henry to the duke in passable French, Warham got to the meat of the matter. “It has come to our notice that you are harboring a man pretending to be the late Prince Richard, duke of York. He is, in truth, a commoner—sordido genere,” he said, using Latin for emphasis. The painted hall reverberated with a gasp of astonishment, and all eyes turned to Margaret. Grace saw her aunt blanch, her eyes narrow and her hands grip the arms of her chair so tightly that her knuckles showed as white as the sleeves of her chemise. Afraid he might be silenced, Warham plunged on: “The real duke of York perished with his older brother at the hands of their uncle, the usurper Richard of Gloucester. Indeed it would have served King Richard no purpose to kill the older and let the younger live to challenge him—do you not agree, your grace? It is therefore impossible that this man, who we now know to be naught but a boatman’s son from Tournai—” Another gasp went up and whisperings began, and Philip became noticeably agitated. He looked to his councilors, grouped to the side of the dais, but court etiquette forbade them from interfering with the message from a foreign herald.
But Philip had reckoned without Margaret, who got to her feet and, pointing an accusing finger at Warham, cried: “You may tell your master King Henry that when he can show us the bodies of my nephews we will consider his words. Tell him that!” And she sat down hard, her legs giving way. Philip’s cheeks were tinged with pink and he was clearly at a loss, but his upbringing—which, ironically, had been carried out mostly by Margaret herself—would not allow him to stop the Englishman. He waved an elegant beringed hand Warham’s way. Warham, well aware of the hostile vibrations in the room, bowed and countered Margaret’s words by announcing, “My master, his grace King Henry of England, invites you to come and visit the chapel where they are buried.” At which Margaret let out a barely suppressed guffaw.
“What lie is this?” Grace murmured, and Tom laid a hand on her arm to silence her.
Warham now delivered the most damning portion of his message, his voice less certain now: “’Tis well known to the king’s grace and all the people of England that Madame la Duchesse has regularly contrived to discover scoundrel nephews from among her brothers’ children.” He cited Lambert Simnel, posing as the earl of Warwick. “Certes, this Perkin Warbeck and the other are naught but boys fit for washing pots and”—he paused, eyeing a possible escape, before he gave Henry’s final pronouncement—“the fruit of her own secret pregnancies.”
Bedlam ensued as Margaret staggered to her feet and would have stumbled down the dais in her hurry to strike the unfortunate Warham had Philip not restrained her, while Edward Poynings propelled the stunned Warham through the jostling crowd, which hissed and spat at them but did not deter their departure. They passed close to Grace, who turned away, hoping they would not single her and Tom out, but Warham had his hands up to protect his face and Poynings’s eyes were fixed squarely on the door.
“What insults!” Grace whispered. “How could Henry have ordered such insults to be cast at her in public? ’Tis monstrous!” She tried to see over the people in front of her to the dais, but once again she cursed her lack of inches. “Can you see her, Tom? Poor Aunt Margaret. Is she well?”
“Aye, her attendants are with her and Philip is conferring with his councilors. Let us go into the garden and wait while I leave word with her chamberlain that you are here.” He gave her his arm and they withdrew from the hall, thinking on the extraordinary scene they had just witnessed.
MARGARET WAS ASTONISHED but delighted to receive her niece at her court in Malines later that day. Seemingly undeterred by her earlier ordeal, she greeted Grace with affection in her elegant solar, its wide casements overlooking the peaceful gardens. After stooping to kiss Grace’s cheek, she turned to Tom and gave him an avising that made his hair stand on end.
“So this is your husband, Grace,” she said finally. “He is about the same height as your father, my dear.” Observing the two of them standing side by side, she gave a rueful sigh and remarked, “Such a waste of a tall man.” She turned and sank down gratefully into her favorite chair. Her legs hurt her these days, if the truth be known, and her height caused her back to ache from the moment she rose from her great tester bed to the time she fell back into it after kneeling in prayer for an hour before she retired. And to exacerbate the problem, the dramatic events in the great hall had given her a pounding headache.
“Sit, sit!” she invited Grace, and she sent for refreshment and her headache powders in her accented but perfect French. “Tell me why you are come at this diplomatically difficult time. Certes, it cannot be for the love of your old aunt.” She went off into a cackle of loud laughter that made her chief attendant, Henriette, smile. But then she was all seriousness again. “In truth, I have borne such an insult from Henry’s ambassador that I know not where to throw myself. I dare say Dr. Warham’s words were fed to him by that measle Henry, but he has caused an uproar among our councilors.” She chuckled. “In truth, I wanted to kill the prating pizzle.”
Grace was shocked by Margaret’s coarse language, but Tom hid a grin. “We were there, Madame la Grande,” Grace said. “We could not believe what we were hearing, although, in truth, we knew a little of what Warham would say from a conversation Tom had with a clerk on the ship.”
Margaret frowned. “If Henry thinks he will embarrass Philip into surrendering Richard, he is wrong. Philip is my grandson, and he will stand by me, mark my words. Everyone here believes Richard is the duke of York—and I do above all. He is my darling boy!”
Grace seized the opening. “That is why I am come, Aunt Margaret,” Grace said, reaching down to scratch the ears of a wolfhound that had chosen to lay its huge head on her foot. “The king and—more important—the queen want me to judge for myself if he be our brother or no. Is he here?”
Margaret contemplated the tips of her steepled fingers before lifting her eyes to Grace’s face, observing the flush on the young woman’s cheeks. I would not be surprised if she were with child, she thought. How she had longed for a child those years she was married to Charles. She had even thought she had carried her lover’s child at one point, but she had long since decided that God saw fit to punish that adultery by making her barren. And then along came Jehan, her secret boy—her dearest boy. And through several twists of fate, and a little careful planning on her part, she was now able to love him publicly.
“When I knew the envoy was expected from England, I sent Richard to my dower property of Dendermonde for safety,” she finally replied. “I do not trust Henry as far as I can see a flea on a dog’s ear! I would not put it past him to kidnap Richard and smuggle him back to England. My kind Philip has given my nephew a bodyguard, with a knight of the Golden Fleece as their captain, so he should be in good hands. I will take you there myself in a few days, if you can wait.” She yawned, and Grace saw she had lost several teeth.
“Forgive us, madame,” Grace said. “We are tiring you. We can come back later.” She rose, waking the dog on her toes, which scrambled to its feet and ambled over to lick Margaret’s hand. Grace longed to inspect the beautiful gardens laid out so neatly below while the sun shone.
“Nay, I should like to take a walk with you,” Margaret replied, feeding the dog a sweetmeat. “Certes, Samson would like a walk, too, wouldn’t you boy?” She rose and Samson wagged his tail and barked with excitement. “Henriette, pray have someone fetch my hat and then accompany us outdoors—and don’t tell my doctors. I should not walk when ’tis hot, they tell me, or I shall fall prey to the plague,” she told Grace. “But as ’tis ill-advised to sleep during the day as well, I know not which regimen to follow.?
?? She chuckled. “Come, let us brave the heat. You have much to tell me about my family. Tom, you will allow me to steal Grace for an hour, will you not?” It was a rhetorical question and Tom could do no more than bow and kiss her hand before leaving them.
The roses were a riot of color and Grace ran from bush to bush to compare each different scent. “It is so beautiful here, aunt. Is it your favorite home?” Grace asked.
“One of my favorites,” Margaret said, enjoying her niece’s company and joie de vivre more than she could have imagined. “But I like Binche the best. It is far from the center of things in Hainault, and I can be myself there.” She led the way through the beds of flowers, and gardeners took off their straw hats and bowed as they passed by. “But I wanted to talk to you privately for two reasons, my dear. The first—and I hope it is not too painful for you to relive—is to ask how Johnny died? We heard news of it, but much later, and with little detail.”
Grace pricked her thumb on a thorn as the unexpected question momentarily jolted her, and she sucked on it to compose her thoughts. “I saw him the day before his execution, and he was sore afraid,” she told Margaret softly. “Cecily and I gave him what comfort we could, but it broke my heart to leave him.” She paused and bent down to pick a heartsease, the violet and pink petals shining in the sun. “Then I was foolish enough to go to Smithfield,” she said with a catch in her throat. “I swooned when they put the noose about his neck, so Edgar carried me away.”
Margaret gasped and turned to face Grace. “You thought you could watch him die? You brave child. You loved him, did you not?”
Grace nodded, tears not far away. “As much as one can love for the first time, in truth. But he loved me only as a sister,” she said.
“Oftimes, ’tis a longer-lasting love, Grace, so treasure it,” Margaret told her.
“I promised I would not desert him,” Grace whispered, “and I tried, truly I did. He saw me—from up there on the scaffold—and then he saw his mother. Ah, ’twas pitiful, and when he cried out to her I fainted with the horror of it all. So I was not so brave after all.” Grace finally let the tears fall, but they were for herself and her weakness rather than for John. She sniffed and wiped her nose on the soft linen sleeve of her chemise, having unlaced the tight long sleeves of her overdress and left them in the solar to be cooler outdoors. “I learned later—certes, from his mother herself—that he had died by the noose and not from the disemboweling. Dame Haute had paid the executioners to let John die quickly.”
“You kept your promise to him,” Margaret soothed. “And now it seems you are fortunate to have a good man who loves you, my dear.” She took Grace’s arm and stepped across the manicured grass to seek out her favorite seat under an arbor.
“But I did not keep my promise, your grace,” Grace suddenly remembered, sitting down beside her aunt. “He gave me a letter that was destined for—”
“Lord Lovell?” Margaret finished. “Aye, never fear. Another with the correct intelligence went a more secret route and arrived safely.”
Grace tensed. “You mean John carried false information? He died carrying false information?” Anger rose in her chest and constricted her last words. “He was tortured, you know.”
Margaret sighed. “You have much to learn about the ways of politics, my child. John was insistent upon returning home; he chafed at being here, for all home meant danger. I thought the harmless letter might throw Henry off the track, and I told John to destroy it if he was captured. I am sorry if he did not do as he was instructed.” She took Grace’s anguished face between her long, slender fingers and looked her straight in the eye. “There was no need for John to be tortured—if he had given it up once he was caught and feigned surprise at its contents, he might have escaped Henry’s wrath. But you must understand, Grace, Henry was delighted to have an excuse to rid himself of Richard’s son—bastard or no. The lad was destined to die the day Henry killed Richard on Redemore Plain.” She dropped her hands and clenched her teeth: “As I believe all sons of the house of York are destined to do—unless we can unseat Henry. Can you not see the truth of this?”
But Grace’s thoughts were still with John and the callous way he had been sacrificed. She did not know whether she believed her aunt or not. Her thoughts ran rampant wondering what awful wiles women of noble blood would employ to achieve their goals. Elizabeth Woodville, Margaret of Anjou, Scraggy Maggie and now her Aunt Margaret did not seem above scheming without regard for human life or limb. I do not belong among such people, Grace thought miserably. How I wish I could go back to the convent! But in her heart of hearts she knew she was deceiving herself. I do belong here; I am one of the York family and proud of it. And, she told herself now, I know I belong to Tom. I would not change anything, in truth.
Margaret waited for her niece’s anger to subside before saying: “And now for the second reason I wanted to talk to you.” She glanced at her attendants, who were standing at a discreet distance, and lowered her voice. “They do not speak English, but I never know. I can never be alone at this court, God have mercy. I hope one day a future duchess will see to it that things change, but I am too old to try,” she said, shrugging. “But now, I need to know how the wind blows in England for Richard, my nephew and your half brother.”
Grace pulled herself together and brushed the last of her tears aside. “There is much unrest in England, so I understand. There have been several hangings connected with Dickon’s name, and some of Henry’s own household have left the country.”
Margaret nodded, smiling. “Henry must not be able to sleep these days,” she enthused. “Clifford is lately arrived at Dendermonde and is with Richard—Dickon, you call him. Tell me more.”
“The queen would not have sent me if she was certain he is not Dickon. Cecily, who is my constant companion, believes he is, but certes, her husband is one of Henry’s closest advisers—and his uncle—so we must be careful. Besides, all of my sisters fare well under the Tudor. To exclude the real Richard, he must reverse the act of legitimacy, and then his queen and all her sisters would be like me again—bastards! Poor Henry, he is caught over a barrel.” She laughed grimly. “And my mentor, the queen dowager, was convinced Dickon had survived. There had been doctors’ reports that Ned was diseased—the jawbone, I heard—and Elizabeth said she had dreamed he was dead and so believed it.” She spread her hands. “But unless a tomb has been uncovered more recently than Tom’s quitting Warwick, where Henry was in consultation with Warham about the mission, there is no truth to Warham’s statement about finding the princes’ corpses.”
Margaret let out a harsh laugh. “Just as I thought.”
Grace paused and then took courage. “I must ask you, madame—for my own peace of mind, as well as to report back to England—how well did you know Dickon before he and Edward disappeared? You returned to England only once since your marriage, and then only for a few months, when Dickon was a small boy. Is it possible you are mistaken?”
Margaret shook her head vehemently, and the few folds of skin beneath her chin wobbled in the way of older women. “As God is my witness, I swear I knew him when I saw him. He is my nephew,” she insisted, as the church bells rang for None. “Come, ’tis time to bend our knee in prayer.”
Satisfied Margaret was not lying, Grace could hardly wait to meet her long-lost brother.
GRACE AND TOM were given mounts for their daylong ride to Dendermonde in eastern Flanders, journeying back the way they had come from Bruges. The countryside was flat and fertile and Grace was delighted to recognize many of her favorite wildflowers along the way. Although the dowager duchess had told her guests that they would travel with a mere handful of servants, the cavalcade that set out that hazy morning from Malines made Grace feel she was on a royal progress. Margaret’s escort was flashy in scarlet, yellow and black, and she was carried on a gilded litter pulled by two of the largest horses she had ever seen. “They are bred right here in Flanders,” Margaret said. One might think she has forgotten
she is English, Grace mused, hearing the pride in her aunt’s voice. But she knew better. The number of white roses woven among her signature marguerites on the canopy and curtains of the litter proclaimed her a daughter of York, and when Grace had admired an enameled white rose that Margaret always wore, she had been told it was a gift from her brother Edward and Elizabeth upon her departure from England in Sixty-eight. “So I would never forget,” she explained. “And I never have.”
Ragged children ran alongside the litter when the group passed through hamlets, calling Margaret’s name, her charity legendary in the region. She did not disappoint them and flung coins into their waiting hands, pity in her eyes.
“Are you anxious about this meeting?” Tom asked as they were told by Guillaume de la Baume, Margaret’s brawny chevalier, that the spires in front of them were of the palace and the village church. Tom sat his horse as if he had been born to it, and Grace enjoyed riding pillion behind him, even if it was hard to carry on a conversation. “I know you hardly slept a wink.”
“Did I keep you awake, my dear? Aye, I confess I am looking forward to this with a mixture of excitement and fear,” Grace answered.
“Fear? He cannot harm us, Grace. Why are you frightened?”
“That I shall make a mistake. I want to be sure this is my brother. Can you not see? ’Tis a heavy responsibility, for it may have a wide-reaching effect on all our futures.” She felt him pat the hand that was grasping him round the waist and she snuggled into his back, once again loving the safe haven his presence gave her. Little by little during the journey from Hellowe to Malines, Tom had come to the reluctant conclusion that this young man who had reappeared as if from the grave was indeed Richard of York. Otherwise, why was Henry—and therefore his master and others of Henry’s council—so afraid of him? No proof existed of the boys’ deaths since their disappearance—no confessions, no secret orders and, above all, no bodies. King Richard must have sent them somewhere for safekeeping, he reasoned, or if the older one had died naturally, then the younger had been spirited away.