But Warwick was a different matter; he was as royal as Henry himself and had a better claim to the throne, and history was watching what Henry would decide to do with him.
“A prince may imprison another prince or lord because he fears he will cause insurrection, or that insurrection will come through him, and that is without sin,” Parron intoned, stroking his long white beard. Now a rustling could be heard around the hall as neighbor nudged neighbor and those in attendance gave one another knowing looks. Henry sat impassively through all this, as though Parron’s words left him no other choice but to follow the stars.
As superstitious as any God-fearing person, Grace did not doubt these predictions were real, but she scorned Henry’s cowardice. Lily-livered craven, she thought, and felt her heart constrict. Poor cousin Ned, who had never harmed a fly and had spent the best part of his life in captivity, was to lose his life, as Tom had predicted. And Perkin, whom Grace guessed had never wished to be set upon this path to becoming a king, would follow suit. ’Tis truly a tragedy, Grace wanted to cry out; let them both live—they are naught but mawmets and have never wished anyone harm. Then she remembered Katherine. Sweet Jesu, she must be overcome with worry, she thought. I must find and console her.
Happily, she saw that Katherine had found Tom, and Grace made her way over to them. The strain on Katherine’s face spoke volumes, and Tom gave his wife a quick nod of understanding. “Come, Katherine,” Grace told the trembling woman, “before the king notices we are gone, let us find somewhere more private and talk about what all this means.”
IT MEANT THAT the very next day, Chief Justice Fineux informed the king and his councilors that Warwick, Perkin and others had conspired to commit treasonous acts against the king’s grace. Perkin, John and Philip Atwater of Cork and John Taylor—who had come to the Castelo de São Jorge in Lisbon ten years before to begin the priming of a pretender—were arraigned on Saturday the sixteenth at the White Hall at Westminster.
Bess commanded that all her attendants be present in her waiting chamber that day, and then drew Grace aside. The queen had lost weight, her hair was graying quickly, her once beautiful skin had lost its creaminess and deep lines had appeared in her face. Dear God, she does not look healthy, Grace thought anxiously, although Bess’s blue eyes were still clear and honest, and her wan smile did not lack genuine warmth.
“You must watch over Lady Gordon particularly today, Grace. She may likely swoon, or perhaps have a fit of apoplexy,” Bess murmured. “Henry has warned me the outcome of the trial is already assured.”
Grace widened her eyes. “Already assured? Is Perkin not to have a jury? Perhaps they will not find him guilty. After all, how can he be called ‘traitor’ when Henry has proven he is foreign-born?”
Bess gave an impatient sigh. “Ah, Grace, I had hoped you would be reasonable about this,” she chided her. “You have shown me loyalty and given me snippets about Katherine here and there. ’Twas all I asked of you, and you complied. Do not fight me—or Henry—on this, I beg of you,” she urged. “The sordid affair is over. You do understand that there can be only one ending, don’t you?”
Bess was right; there was only one way to freedom for the broken man who had called himself a prince: by leaving this world and entering the next. Grace hung her head. “Aye, your grace,” she acquiesced bitterly. “’Tis a tragic one nonetheless, you must agree.” Plucking up her courage, she said, “In truth, I have kept my promise to you, sister, but now, I beg of you, keep your promise to me. What news is there of Katherine and Perkin’s son?”
Bess was taken aback, and for a second Grace thought she would be dismissed again—sent from court for insulting the queen—but then the gentle woman’s face softened, and she nodded. “I did promise you, didn’t I? Tell Katherine her little boy is well and is loved by a modest Welsh couple in the Gower region. They have several other children, so Richard does not lack for company,” she said. “Are you satisfied now, my small but persistent sister?”
Grace gave her a sheepish smile, reached up and kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you, your grace. As loving a mother as you are, I knew you could not forbear to comfort another.”
BESS HAD BEEN witness to Katherine Gordon’s spirit, as had Grace, and she was not surprised when Katherine remained calm when the courtier sent from Henry informed the queen’s court of the verdict on Perkin and his comrades. “Guilty, all of them,” he said with glee. “My lord of Oxford presided and Perkin’s two judges read the charge of treason. ’Tis said Perkin pleaded guilty.”
Katherine let out a groan. “Ah, foolish boy,” she murmured as Grace looked at her anxiously.
“He will be hanged, drawn and quartered at Tyburn, as will Taylor and the other two,” the man continued cheerfully. “They took him straightway back to the Tower.”
Katherine swayed for a moment but then stiffened her back on the window seat where she sat with Grace and crossed herself, as did Grace. “God have mercy on him,” she whispered. “Certes, the king has none.”
The king was not merciful on Warwick, either. Brought before his peers in the Great Hall of Westminster three days after Perkin’s trial, he was supposed to be examined, but he did not even receive that courtesy.
“’Twas rumored the poor man merely repeated the charges of treason that were put to him and just put his faith in the king,” Tom told Grace a few days later, when they were finally able to share a bed again. The court had been so filled with peers from all corners of the realm who were commanded to be at Warwick’s trial that people were often three to a bed in the palace. But Cecily, unable to bear listening to the accounts of the mockery that was her cousin Ned’s trial, had begged leave of Bess and gone to Pasmer’s Place.
“There are those who believe his mind is that of a child and that he could not have conspired the way it has been suggested. They say he stood like a prince when they sentenced him to the same fate as Perkin and said, ‘I have faith in God and in the king’s mercy,’” Tom murmured, winding one of Grace’s curls around his finger.
Grace felt the tears at the sides of her eyes run down her cheeks and wet the pillow. “I do not believe Henry even knows the word. But they should not give Ned a commoner’s execution, should they?” She sniffed, moving closer into Tom’s protective hold. They lay thus for a few minutes, both silent in their thoughts, Grace’s full of sorrow and Tom’s full of desire after a long dry spell. He stroked her back but when he attempted to lift her chemise, she forestalled him. “Please, Tom, just hold me tonight,” she begged him, taking his wandering hand and clasping it firmly around her waist. “Make the nightmares go away. I cannot even imagine how those men are holding on to their sanity. How I wish I could see both of them before they die and offer them what comfort I can. They have had little in this life, in truth.”
Tom groaned inwardly. Why must she always play the angel of mercy? he thought. But then, he chided himself, is not her kindness one of the reasons you adore her? He felt sleep coming on but before closing his eyes he whispered in her ear the words she wanted to hear: “Perhaps Lady Margaret would intercede for you with the king, Grace. She has come to like me, I believe. I will ask her for you on the morrow.” He yawned. “But now, try to sleep, my love.”
From Tom’s rhythmic breathing Grace knew after only a few minutes that he was asleep, and once again marveled at it. She lay awake for an hour or two, reliving scenes from her unexpected life at court: the summer at Sheriff Hutton and her stirrings of love for John; her time with Elizabeth at Bermondsey; her unexpected marriage to Tom; her adventure in disguise to Malines, and the second one to meet her so-called half brother; John’s capture and their last moments in the Newgate. Then the scene at Smithfield came back to haunt her, the shadow of the scaffold with its gibbet looming over the crowd. Dear God, now two others who had been part of her new life were to meet similar fates. She remembered again the boy Ned struggling in Robert Willoughby’s grasp at Ormond’s Inn that day he was taken from the family, and his sis
ter Margaret’s fear that she would never see him again. Then she thought of her visit with him at the Tower. He was cheerful enough, considering his years of captivity, and she remembered thinking he might not be as daft as people said. But he did not know the ways of the world, Grace admitted. How could he, only watching it float past his window on the river? Nay, he could not have planned such a complicated conspiracy to set himself and Perkin free. She imagined him at his trial, tall and handsome, looking at all the nobles and bishops around him and not recognizing a soul. How demeaning for one of his lineage, and how terrifying! He probably did not know what he was saying when he did not deny his guilt. Her heart ached for him, as it did for Perkin.
Ah, Perkin! Or was he Perkin? Her desperate need to fit in with her family, and her obsession with her half brother, had sometimes led her to act rashly, she knew now, but she had been so convinced Richard was alive when Sir Edward Brampton came to Bermondsey. She could remember Elizabeth’s joy at the news and her own excitement when she finally met Richard at Dendermonde. She had been certain then that he was indeed Richard. But had wishes and feelings colored her judgment? She tried to piece the puzzle together, remembering the instances when she had been swayed one way or the other: from the man’s noble demeanor, his likeness to her family and his acceptance by so many in positions of power to his public confession and private denial to her; from his lack of knowing Dorset and other court familiars of the young Dickon to the pomander of Dickon’s hated cloves and his dreadful singing voice. But something did not add up to his being a boatman’s son, either. So who was he? And why was she the only person who wanted to know?
Sweet St. Sibylline, but she was simply too tired to unravel the threads tonight. She heard the watch cry one of the clock, and her eyes finally closed. Turning onto her other side, she felt Tom stir in his sleep, missing her. And then she slept.
PERKIN’S STATUS AS condemned man meant Grace was allowed only half an hour with him in a damp, filthy cell belowground. In the ambient glow of a guttering rushlight the guard had left in a niche near the door, she could not see what she was standing on, but it felt slimy and the stench was almost unbearable. Thank Heaven Katherine had not come with her, she thought; she was right to demur.
The king had reluctantly allowed the visit, thanks to Lady Margaret’s cajoling. Tom had appealed to the love she had for Viscount Welles and the good service he had given Lady Margaret’s half brother. He had thought it prudent to ask on behalf of Lady Gordon as well as for Grace, knowing from Grace that Henry had a soft spot for Katherine and might grant the Tower visit more readily.
Henry had virtually spat at Tom. “Aye, let them see the false prince one more time. Perhaps when Lady Gordon sees how low he has sunk—even lower than whence he came—she will know him for who he really is: Piers Werbecque, a poor boatman’s son from Tournai. Pah!” He waved Tom away. “Half an hour, no more!” he cried.
But when the small boat docked at the Tower wharf from Westminster and Katherine looked up at the towering stone walls, she balked. “I cannot go, Grace,” she whispered. “I shall not bring him the comfort he needs today, for I know I shall only weep at the sight of him.”
And looking at the pathetic figure on the soggy straw, chained to the wall, the hackles almost too heavy for his emaciated arms and legs, it was all Grace, too, could do not to weep. She saw the disappointment on his grimy face when she and not Katherine was let into the cell. She was aware of movement to the left of her and realized Perkin was not alone. She held the light above her head and whispered her name. “I hope I do not disturb you, sir,” she said, not recognizing the man shivering in the other corner.
“’Tis John Atwater, Grace. He who would have made me king in Ireland,” Perkin told her, his voice a monotone although his teeth were chattering. “He was my friend—until this. We die together on the morrow.”
Grace choked on her response, but went closer to him so they could converse quietly. She wished she had brought more than a few groats with her, so she could pay the jailer to give him a clean shirt in which to meet his Maker. “God have mercy on you, Perkin. I will pray daily for you,” was all she could say, pulling her shawl about her in the chilling damp and putting the light in its sconce.
“In truth, I shall be happier where I am going than stuck in this filthy hole,” Perkin said, laughing harshly. “Last night I was bitten twice by a rat, God damn it to Hell.” Grace picked up her skirts and shrank against the wall. “Fear not, Grace, they come only at night—although how they know the difference down here, I know not.” He changed the subject, desperation in his voice as he knew they had so little time. “Where is Katherine?” he asked. “I have so much I want to tell her. They said she would come.”
Thank you sweet Sibylline for the dark, Grace thought, feeling herself color as she was about to tell a lie. She held her thumbs between her fingers and prayed for forgiveness. “’Tis the woman’s curse that has kept her from you. The queen is strict about the customary seclusion.”
Perkin nodded, crying to the heavens: “My ill luck continues, I fear. God, why do you hate me so?” He softened. “Then you will have to relay my words to her, if you will be so kind.”
Grace’s eyes were becoming used to the darkness, and she saw that a small amount of light was coming through a grating from the room on the ground floor above them. She reached out and stroked his cold cheek and his shivering stopped. He merely gazed at her with his odd eyes, and a memory of a long-ago dream stirred. She could feel the foul water oozing from the muddy floor and seeping into her thin leather shoes, and she wished she had worn her pattens.
“When did you know I was not Richard?” he whispered out of nowhere.
Grace withdrew her hand quickly. “’Twas not one thing, exactly. I was forced to believe your confession—it was so detailed—although I defended you with Tom and my sisters, because I was certain ’twas not gained without pressure.” She saw him nod absently. “But there was one tiny mistake you made—a tiny fact about you that I was privy to through those years serving Queen Elizabeth—that convinced me.”
Perkin harrumphed. “I made many mistakes. The first was being born at the wrong time and in the wrong place. Nay, being born at all!” He gave a short bark of laughter, as if enjoying a joke. “’Twas not so hard to pierce my disguise in my mind, but once on the path ’twas hard to go back. So what was it? I am curious.”
“Prince Richard hated the smell of cloves, so the queen told me. The night you were with Katherine and whispering to her while holding the orange pomander to your nose—”
Perkin burst out laughing—a painful, unpleasant sound. “Do you hear, John? I was undone by a few cloves and an orange.” Then he let out an agonized cry. “Sweet Virgin, Mother of God, what have I done to deserve this?” He beckoned her closer. “Ah, Grace, if you knew how the demons do torment me in the dark!” he muttered, not wanting Atwater to hear. “I fear the scaffold with every fiber of my being. To have the hood blind me, feel the noose about my neck, hear the creak of the trap beneath my feet and know it will soon fall open—”
“Soft, Perkin,” Grace interrupted him, sitting on her haunches and taking his face between her hands. “Think only of the blessed release from all this. You deserve to fly to Heaven and take your place with those who know earthly pain no more.” She could feel his tears on her fingers but she kept her hands on his cheeks until he calmed. “Our time is short. Is there aught more I can do for you? May I carry a message with me? A token for Katherine?”
“You will convey my duty and love to my wife,” Perkin said solemnly. “Tell her the happiest times of my life, and what sustains me in this hour of my death, are those halcyon days at the lodge at Falkland, riding with her in the forest, reading with her by firelight, watching the birds circling above us as we sat upon the hill looking across the Forth all the way to Arthur’s seat.” He let the tears flow, not heeding that it might be unmanly, and poured his heart out. “But most of all, I treasure lying with h
er and conceiving our son together. ’Twas Heaven on earth, tell her, and when I stand on the scaffold tomorrow, I shall imagine I am standing in the heather of East Lomond, smelling the scent of wild bluebells and hearing the larks singing high and curlews crying again. She will be with me forever then.” He was sobbing now, making the jailer take notice outside, stick his nose through the grille on the door and growl, “Time be nearly up, my lady.”
Ignoring the guard, Grace tore off a piece of her petticoat and, using Perkin’s tears to moisten it, cleansed his face a little. “I will tell her all that you said, my dear ‘brother,’” she said, her tears coming now. “I wish you were my brother, in truth, for I could have none better. Is there aught more I can do for you?”
“Dear Grace,” Perkin murmured, catching her hand awkwardly with his manacled one and carrying it to his lips. “Why do you do this for me? Now you know I am not your brother, why do you care?”
Grace stood then. “I do it for Katherine—her love is true—and I do it for you, because like me, your life has been forced upon you, and we have been made to become what we are not. I must go where I am told because of who I am, when all I crave is a life of quiet on a farm.”
“And I would have spent mine on the deck of a ship charting unknown lands,” he whispered back. Suddenly, a scene among roses flashed before Grace’s eyes, and she saw again Aunt Margaret’s secret smile as she read from a letter to Grace and John. Aunt Margaret knew Perkin long before he fled from France to her court, she realized with a jolt. “Aunt Margaret must—,” she spoke out loud.
Perkin grasped her skirt. “Aye, I beg of you, Grace, Aunt Margaret must be told that I never forgot my pledge to her all those years ago. Tell her that. She will know what I mean.”
Grace nodded, although puzzled. “Aunt Margaret? Besides giving you shelter after France and helping you with men and ships upon your first attempt at an invasion, had she helped you before? Certes, she has abandoned you to your fate now.”