"Do you remember our fishing expedition on the Derwent," Tom asked, hoping to distract Grace from thoughts of John. He had spent many agonized minutes conjuring up images of the two together in the prison cell.

"How did you know I was thinking of the same thing?" she exclaimed in surprise, smiling up at him. "I well remember how cold the water was, and then, how warm your mother was to me—a complete stranger."

Tom grinned happily. This was the Grace he had loved since that day. Perhaps they could avoid talking about John at all, he hoped. He told Grace of his sister Cat's marriage to the York wool merchant that Tom’s father had aspired to, and how glad his mother had been when she had heard of her son’s betrothal to Grace.

"’A gradely, bonny lass with no falsety’ is what she wrote of you, sweetheart. She, too, remembers the day fondly, although not as fondly as I," he said, feeling brave. "’Twas the day I realized I was a man for I knew that I loved you, Grace."

Grace slipped her hand in Tom’s and again enjoyed the comfort of it. "Aye, so you told me. But I was so young—a child even. You fell in love with a child."

Tom was so pleased with the turn in the conversation that he forgot to be careful. "But you were not such a child to think yourself in love with . . ." and he brought himself up short, cursing his slip of the tongue.

"With John," Grace finished for him. "Aye, I loved John, but he had no time for me. I was but a child in his eyes." She let go of his hand as they approached the pond and bent to pick a yellow flag iris. Several wild ducks flapped their wings preparing to fly off the water as they heard the sound of human voices, and a large frog leaped out of the stand of irises and fell with a plop into the water. Judging from the ripples all over the surface on the breathless summer day, the pond was teeming with fish, but Tom hardly noticed. He knew they could no longer avoid talking about John’s presence only a stone’s throw from where they stood.

"They tortured him, Tom," Grace whispered, pulling off one of the velvet petals and casting it into the water. "They used the thumbscrews and broke his fingers with hammers. ‘Twas pitiful to see."

Tom could not forbear comforting her then. Laying down his rod, he put his arm about her shoulder, and she turned into him, whimpering.

"I am sorry, Grace, truly I am," he soothed. "I heard from my lord Welles that John was suspected of carrying information to Yorkist supporters, and that they must extract that information at all cost. Tudor is a hard man, I have observed. He cares not how his subjects like him and indeed it seems he does all to make them hate him. It rankled many of us when he commanded all mastiffs in the kingdom to be killed. Those magnificent dogs were doomed to die simply because Henry had heard they were capable of killing lions. 'The lion is the king of beasts,' he declared, ‘and nothing should kill a king.'"

Tom paused, shaking his head. He took off Grace’s crumpled straw hat and coif and stroked her unruly curls. "He is afraid for his throne and prays many times daily to Our Lady to keep it safe. And at any time of the day or night he asks advice of his astrologer. In contrast, he was kind to the Simnel boy after Stoke and now the boy is one of his falconers. Odd perhaps, but I believe he knew the boy was an imposter from the start—especially as he had young Warwick closely guarded in the Tower at the time—but now, this rumor is different. If the son of King Edward is indeed alive, then he has a greater claim to the English crown than Henry does. So, you see, he had to make sure whatever John knows he knows too."

Grace sniffed and used her sleeve to wipe her nose. She had listened intently to Tom’s little speech and was tempted to tell him what she knew of Richard, but she had been sworn to secrecy and, besides, she could not entirely trust him yet.

"What do you think Henry will do with John?" she asked, sitting down on the mossy grass and stuffing the hat back on her head to shade her eyes from the sun. "He knows nothing, in truth."

"You are not a green girl, Grace. Certes, he must know something or else why did he risk returning?" He whistled at Jason, who had found a rotted bird carcass on the grass and had put his shoulder down to roll in the muck.

Grace lowered her eyes to her lap in case her face betrayed her. "He told what he knew, so he says, but ‘twas nothing Henry did not know already." Then she looked up at him with hope in her eyes. "Oh, Tom, do you think I could persuade Cecily to ask Lord Welles to beg Henry for a pardon? I have promised John I will do what I can," she blurted out. "Or perhaps you could ask your lord? He seems to like you."

Tom turned away in case, in turn, his face would betray him. "You ask much of me, Grace. I cannot stop you cajoling your sister, but I cannot compromise my position with Lord Welles. I know John is your kin, but he is not mine. We owe each other nothing."

Grace leaped to her feet. "Not even friendship, loyalty, or as comrades in arms? Where is your sense of chivalry and honor? Didn’t they teach you that at Sheriff Hutton?" she cried, running to him and raining blows on his back. He turned swiftly and took her by the wrists, his anguished face a mirror of hers.

"At this moment, my loyalty and honor is to you as my wife—the person I cherish most in the world. As much as I regret John’s predicament, I cannot condone putting your own life at risk. Can you not understand? All I ask is that you give me your loyalty if not your love in return. You put both of us in jeopardy with your foolishness. 'Tis my duty to protect you, and I am telling you that by allying yourself with John, you risk the king’s anger. John is not a boy. He has made his own choices, and I am sorry it has gone badly for him. Comfort him if you must, I will not deny you or him that, but do not meddle in the affairs of state, Grace, or you may end up like John. And it would kill me if I could not prevent it," he finished hoarsely.

Grace stared at him, openmouthed. She had not thought of Tom as eloquent until now. His words rang true and made sense, despite her first instinct to attribute them to jealousy. He truly loves me, she realized in a flash of understanding. John had appealed to her love for him, perhaps selfishly, but the poor, tortured man was on the brink of disaster, and who could blame him for grasping at a straw? Oh God, please show me the right path, she begged.