“Sweet Jesu!” Cecily exclaimed, laughing, just as a tall, big-boned woman exited the house and called a welcome.
“Tom, my son! How glad I am to see you,” she said, stretching out her arms and pulling her to him. “Your father and I were much relieved to hear you did not go south to fight. Too young, praise be to God.” She continued to embrace him, pinching his cheeks and giving him kisses.
Tom was clearly embarrassed, and Grace was amused to see him blush and gently disentangle himself. “Mother, I would present to you the ladies Cecily and Grace, King Edward’s daughters,” he said awkwardly, indicating each in turn.
Alice Gower was momentarily nonplussed. She thought she knew the names of all Edward’s children, but could not remember a Grace. However, she affected an untrained curtsy to both young women and resolved to ask Tom about Grace later. “I give you God’s greeting and welcome you to my humble house, my lady,” she said, first addressing the older of the two girls. “I am Alice Gower, an it please you. May I offer condolences for the loss of your uncle, our good King Richard. He will be sorely missed in these parts.” Then she turned to Grace and threw up her hands in horror. “By the Mass, you are soaked through. Oh, you poor child. Come along with me; we shall soon have those wet clothes off, and a hot bath ready for you. Tom, I will leave you to entertain the Lady Cecily and…forgive me, sir.”
“I am Hugh Jones, at your service, madam. Sir Robert Willoughby’s squire,” Hugh answered her, bowing slightly.
Alice had no idea who Sir Robert Willoughby was, but she waved a hand in acknowledgment and hurried Grace inside, bustling about, giving orders to the scullery maid to heat water for a bath and calling to her own maid to fetch Mistress Cat’s chemise and green gown.
“Cat is Tom’s sister,” she explained, shooing her charge up the stairs and holding up Grace’s wet skirts. “She is with George—my husband—in York today. Cat has a head for accounts, and George takes her with him to learn more about the trade—wool, you know. We are hoping we will find a good match for her soon—there is a merchant in the guild who has his eye on her for his son.” She paused only to take a breath. “Tom is the youngest of my brood, and a good boy. We were honored when our cousin of Stittenham agreed to let him train with the other boys at Sheriff Hutton, in truth. Very honored. But, listen to me prattle, my lady.” She laughed, herding Grace into a cheery upstairs solar and pushing her towards the fire. “There, now warm yourself,” she ordered. “Let me untie your wet skirts and rub your poor shivering legs. How you came to be so wet can only have something to do with Tom and fishing, if I know my Tom.” She tut-tutted, but with a good deal of affection. “Certes, ’tis unconscionable for him to take ladies of your noble blood wading in the Derwent.”
Grace had not opened her mouth since dismounting outside, for she did not know how to interrupt this garrulous woman whose mothering instinct oozed from every pore in her kind face, bustling body and hardworking hands. Grace basked in the larger woman’s focus, and her heart was touched by Alice Gower’s protective ministrations. She had been too young to remember a mother’s love; the nuns had been fond of her, but it was a strict order and no favoritism towards the child was allowed. Dame Elizabeth was not unkind, but her maternal instincts were channeled into the betterment of her children’s futures and not for their immediate comfort—and Grace’s future was the lowest of Elizabeth’s priorities.
“’Twas my fault, not Tom’s,” Grace said, smiling shyly. “I had a fish and I did not heed Tom’s advice to reel it in slowly. I pulled on the rod and line so hard I lost my balance, and”—she looked down at her wet petticoats—“I sat down.”
“No harm done, then.” Alice chuckled, dropping the skirt to the floor. “Now off with your bodice and chemise, there’s a good girl.” Before Grace knew it, she was standing naked in the middle of the room. Alice fetched a shawl from its peg and wrapped Grace in it. “Ah, here is the first of the bath water,” she said as a knock came at the door. “Pull the tester curtains and wait on the bed until we are ready for you.” Grace did as she was told, wrapping the sheet around her and climbing onto the high bed, which was covered in a colorful tapestry. From behind the curtains she could hear Alice ordering the servants to ready the bath and smiled to herself as she imagined John’s amusement at her adventure.
In less than an hour she was dressed in Cat’s apple-green gown—albeit two sizes too big—her hair neatly pinned under her velvet bonnet and a fresh-scrubbed flush to her cheeks.
“Here she is, right as rain,” Alice announced, leading the way down the stairs to the hall where Cecily, Tom and Hugh were enjoying hot mulled wine. The two men scrambled to their feet as Alice advanced into the room, and Hugh walked to the fireplace to replenish his cup from the copper pot hanging over the flames. “Now, Tom, ’tis time to return these ladies to the castle. I am glad indeed that you came to bid me farewell, my dear boy, and your father will be disappointed to have missed you. Come, give me a kiss and receive your mother’s blessing. I beg of you, do not forget your humble home and family on the road to London. You will come back to see us, will you not? And, although I know it pains you to pick up a pen, you owe your parents the honor of a letter or two when your duties allow.” Used to his mother’s never-ending conversations, Tom waited a second to see if there were more parental demands, and true to form there was one: “Give your loyalty only where it is deserved, Tom Gower. You come from a proud Yorkshire family, and I pray you never forget it.”
Three pairs of Yorkist eyes glanced quickly at the Lancastrian squire, but he was draining his cup and smacking his lips, and Tom hoped he had not heard. He embraced his mother and thanked her for taking care of Grace. Cecily rose and put on her riding gloves, and Hugh hurried to open the front door for her. She turned and bade Alice thanks and farewell before preceding William out to the courtyard. Grace bobbed a curtsy and began to thank her hostess, but Alice was flustered for the first time.
“Nay, my lady, ’tis I who should be thanking you, for gracing my home…” She was cut off by a grin from Tom and a giggle from Grace. Looking from one to the other, the light dawned and she clapped her hands in delight. “Ah, I see, gracing was the right word, was it not? Nevertheless, my dear child, ’tis I who should do you reverence.” And she sank into another awkward curtsy. “I wish you God speed on your road to London.”
“Mistress Gower, I am a person of no account, I can assure you,” Grace said, taking the older woman’s hands and raising her up. “Tom and I are good friends, and I would wish you to look upon me as simply Grace. You have been very kind to me today, kinder than anyone has ever been in my life, in truth. I am only too sorry I cannot thank Cat personally for the loan of her dress. It shall be returned on the morrow, pray tell her. But I can thank you from the bottom of my heart for taking in a stranger thus. I must also thank my special saint, Sibylline, that I met you, and I promise to make sure Tom stays out of trouble when we are in London.”
Tom stared at Grace in amazement. It was the longest speech he had ever heard from her, and judging from his mother’s expression, it had left her astonished as well. Alice stammered a few words of acknowledgment, squeezed Grace’s hands and then, regaining her composure, began to propel the pair out of the house, thrusting the bundle of wet clothes into Tom’s hands. “You must be on your way before it gets dark, children,” she said, wrapping her shawl around her in the sharp wind. “God bless you, Tom. I shall pray for you.”
“I think your mother is the nicest person I have ever met,” Grace announced once she had settled behind Tom on the horse, his warm cloak around her. “I am only sorry I shall probably never see her again.”
“Never say never,” Tom called over his shoulder, “as Mother would say!”
3
London
AUTUMN AND WINTER 1485–86
The York family party spent nine days traveling to London. They left the north in pleasant autumn sunshine, but cold rain began to fall the farther south they traveled
, and the dreary mist mirrored the feelings of dread they had for their uncertain future. Grace lost count of how many times they stopped to wrestle the carriage out of the ruts that seemed like innocuous puddles until a wheel discovered their deceptive depth. Sir Robert had kept his promise, however; the wainwright had fitted out the chariot with ample cushioning and heavy canvas sides that kept most of the weather out.
Young Edward of Warwick alleviated the boredom by changing his mode of transport every few hours. He alternately clambered into the girls’ crowded carriage and used a peashooter to drill dried peas through the small air slots at the escorts’ backs, sat atop a cart laden with household belongings and “helped” the driver with the reins or rode with Tom, safely tied to the front of Tom’s saddle. Dame Elizabeth had explained to Grace that the boy was simple—touched in the head, she said. Certes, he did not have the understanding of a child of ten, Grace decided, looking at him now, but it seemed to her he preferred to see life in his own way and was the happier for it. Indeed, for the most part, she would describe Edward’s personality as sunny. In contrast, his sister Margaret’s expression appeared to announce that there was a bad smell permanently under her tiny, retroussé nose.
“In truth, ever since the queen—Aunt Anne—took them into her household when they were orphaned, Margaret has thought she was too good for us—especially now that we have been proclaimed, well, you know what,” Cecily whispered to Grace one evening at Vespers in the castle chapel. This earned her a frown from Lady Gower, and Cecily assumed a look of such piety that Grace choked back a laugh. She smiled now, remembering the scene, and was glad Margaret had chosen this day to ride with Lady Gower in the carriage behind.
Grace had been intrigued by Lady Gower’s litter: it was the size of a trestle table, with a canopied top and sides and long handles at each corner that were strapped to either side of a horse in front and a horse behind. Grace had ridden in it for an hour or so on the second day, but the swaying contraption caused her to relinquish her breakfast in a hedge. Cecily had laughed, but Bess had fussed over her and walked with her for a spell until Grace’s stomach had calmed down.
Her thoughts turned often to John. Just as Willoughby had hoped, no word had reached Sheriff Hutton from the king in response to the news of John’s taking, and he was relieved to leave all in Gower’s hands. There had been a tearful farewell on the morning of their departure, and John had been allowed to join them in the chapel for Mass.
“I shall escape from here—never fear, little wren,” he had whispered to Grace as he embraced her that final time. “Look for me in London ere long.” Grace had not breathed a word to anyone of the exchange, and her faith in him never wavered.
As the small cavalcade rode through the towns en route to the capital—Doncaster, Bawtry, Newark and Leicester—townsfolk stopped what they were doing to run and see who was approaching. Bess had the escort roll up the sides of the chariot so the people could see them.
In Leicester, when they recognized the king’s banners, people stood and cheered—some less enthusiastically than others. The citizens of that city had not long finished the macabre business of burying the dead from Bosworth Field, and their recent memories of royalty were of Henry’s return to the city after the battle and his ignominious treatment of the slain King Richard that had not endeared him to his new subjects. But then the word was whispered that King Edward’s daughters were in the large carriage and they roared their approval. The cry “’Tis young Elizabeth!” was heard above the din, and people surged forward to get a better look at the gracious young woman whom they hoped would be their queen. Bess smiled and waved at their welcome, while Grace cringed behind the corner support, afraid the carriage would be toppled. Cecily was enjoying the limelight and laughed and threw farthings to some children staring openmouthed at the richly clad occupants of the vehicle. The fresh young faces in the brightly colored carriage with their sunny smiles and kind gestures were a diversion on the dreary day.
“Smile! Wave!” Cecily advised Grace. “Have no fear, they don’t know who you are—and they would not care. Father always told us not to be shy in front of our subjects. ‘They want to love us, so give them your best smiles,’ he would say.”
Grace peeked out timidly and fluttered her hand. “Is this not the place where Uncle Richard was laid out after the battle?” she asked as they passed by the Grey Friars church. A few monks were standing by the gate, silently gazing at the Yorkist princesses from under their hoods.
Bess crossed herself and her smile faded. “Stop the carriage!” she commanded suddenly, and Grace was surprised by her tone of authority. “Stop, I say!” Tom heard her cry and turned his horse to see what the trouble was. “I wish to pay my respects to my uncle, if he…his body…is still here,” she told him. “John told us he was taken by the Grey Friars for burial. I pray you ask the good brothers yonder if I may enter the church.”
Tom nodded and rode over to the monks. One ran inside to fetch the abbot while the other two bowed a welcome to the royal visitor. Bess strapped on her pattens over her soft leather shoes and, with Sir Robert as her escort, walked on her high wooden soles through the muck in the street towards the church. “Are you coming with me, Cecily? Grace? And you, Margaret and Ned? Uncle Richard should know he is not forgotten,” she said.
Tom took Cecily’s arm and the others quickly followed. Sir Robert stood discreetly under the doorway and did not follow them in. Soon the little group was huddled, hoods up against the drizzle, in front of a newly dug grave in a small garden behind the church. A simple stone marked its head and a withered spray of white roses lay atop the mound.
The abbot hurried forward from the chapter house as fast as his stubby legs and rotund belly would allow and bowed low to Bess. “My lady, I am honored by your visit,” he said humbly. “As you see, we have given his late grace, King Richard, a Christian place to lie in for his eternity. We do not have funds for a monument. But our brotherhood will care for his last resting place as long as we are in residence here. He was a noble prince, and it did pain us to see his corpse so ignobly treated upon his return from Redemore Plain.” He crossed himself. “Requiescat in pace. Domine, fiat volutas tua. Thy will be done.”
“Amen,” the group answered, crossing themselves as they contemplated the mound of earth, each with his or her own memories of their uncle.
Bess fell to her knees in the muddy grass, tears pouring down her cheeks. Her repeated “Requiescat in pace” sounded more like “Richard, my true passion” to Grace, and judging by Cecily’s sharp glance at her sister, she knew she had heard right. The kindly abbot put his hand on Bess’s head and blessed her. Grace had hardly known the dead man, but her half sister’s distress brought tears to her eyes, and she wiped her nose on her sleeve.
The quiet mood was broken by a sudden wail from Margaret. “Dear God, what will become of us? He and Queen Anne were so kind to Ned and me,” she blubbered. “How I hate this Henry Tudor. I hope he dies like King Richard, with lots of stab wounds all over his miserable body.”
Everyone was shocked by this outburst, and the abbot was at a loss for words. But Grace was intensely moved by the anguish in Margaret’s voice and immediately put her arm around her. Instead of rejecting the sympathy, Margaret turned into Grace’s arms and sobbed on her shoulder. “Come, Margaret,” Grace whispered. “Let us find a seat in the church, where we can pray together for Uncle Richard. I am sure he would like that.”
Margaret allowed herself to be led back inside the candlelit church, with little Edward traipsing along behind, and Grace chose an exquisite statue of the Virgin holding the baby Jesus in her arms to whom to make their supplication.
Margaret and Grace never became fast friends, but from that moment on, Margaret accepted Grace as a member of the family.
NOT FAR OUT of Northampton, Grace pointed out the road that led to the convent where she had grown up.
“Let us make a pilgrimage to Grace’s old home,” Cecily said with a p
erfectly straight face. Her high laugh startled Grace, who thought she was being serious. “Certes, Grace,” she said, pulling a face. “Who wants to spend time with some boring old nuns?”
Grace smiled guiltily. “Aye, Cis, many are boring. But Sister Benedict…”
“Oh, sainted Sister Benedict! She who can do no wrong. I’ll warrant she has committed several of the venial sins already, and she is only twenty,” Cecily taunted.
Bess was truly shocked. “If I become queen, Cecily, I shall forbid you to appear in public with me, if you prattle on with your blasphemy. I am sure the good sisters lead a chaste and pure life. They certainly sent Grace to us thus. And now look what you have done,” she said, glaring at Grace, who was trying to cover her laughter. “Grace, Cecily is not a good example for you. Certes, one impertinent clack-dish in the family is sufficient.”
“Aye, your grace.” Cecily mimicked the primness. “I pity poor Henry. He is getting a shrew, in truth.” She knew raising Henry’s name would send Bess down into the dumps, and she was right. Bess went silent. They know how to hurt each other, Grace thought, watching the two, and she wondered why they persisted, realizing she had much to learn about sibling rivalry. She listened to the familiar sound of the Northampton bells announcing the Terce—the same chimes that had accompanied her daily tasks for her first ten years of life. She wrapped her cloak more tightly around her and once again sent up a prayer of thanks to St. Sibylline for delivering her from a cloistered life.
“I hope Mother is expecting us,” Bess said a few miles from Grafton. “She will not be pleased if we surprise her. The manor house will be full to bursting, although ’tis for only one night.”
Cecily chuckled. “Aye, Mother hates surprises. But Sir Robert told me he sent a messenger ahead two days since. I wonder how she will take the summons to court from the king? Surely she must rejoice at this turn of fortune, and I imagine there is much tearing of hair and gnashing of teeth at the manor while Mother’s ladies ready her for the journey.”