The King's Grace (32 page)

Bess gave her mother a kind smile and took Elizabeth’s hand and held it to her cheek. “I would not be so churlish, mother. In truth, you do not have much to look forward to, and Sir Edward is quite the gallant! I suppose he told you Henry had pardoned him for supporting the usurper Richard?”

“Why, Bess!” Cecily cried from her seat on the bed, artfully diverting the topic. “What happened to ‘my dearest love’—which is what you used to call Uncle Richard? How fickle you are, dear sister.”

“How dare you speak to your queen thus, Cecily!” Bess said, surprising everyone with her tone. “That was many years ago. I am a wife and a mother now. You have no right to—”

“Pish!” Cecily said. “Come, Grace, show me your vegetable patch. ’Tis unbearably hot in here.” She took Grace’s hand and pulled her towards the door, disappearing through it. Grace first curtsied and then retrieved her coif from the floor. Elizabeth was shaking her head, while Bess sat defeated in her chair, nibbling on what was left of a fingernail. “Let them go, mother,” she said. “Cecily is incorrigible, but she is right. I did think I loved Uncle Richard.” She smiled. “I was young, and when Father died, he was kind. But now I have Henry and am content,” she said firmly. “Let us talk of other things. Lady Katherine, how is your health?”

Grace caught up with Cecily at the bottom of the staircase, where Bess’s other attendants sat on the bench in the shade of the old yew tree. The ladies rose and came hurrying to Cecily’s side, but she waved them away. “Lady Grace and I are going for a short walk alone. You may wait here.” They curtsied and Cecily tucked Grace’s hand in her arm. “Lead on, Farmer Grace,” she joked.

Grace giggled. “Do I really look like an Italian?” she asked. “They say the women are very beautiful.” “Pah!” came the response. Several people bowed and wished Grace a good day as she and Cecily passed through the main courtyard and out to the fields beyond the gatehouse.

Once they were out of earshot, Grace asked, “Did you receive the borrowed clothes? I sent them with a carter who said he was for Westminster. I did not know if you had disappeared back to Lincolnshire or not.”

“Aye, Kate received them safe. But enough of these details—you must tell me all about your journey,” Cecily demanded. “And leave nothing out!”

As they walked arm in arm past the pea patch, a pen where three bristly pigs rooted noisily in the dirt and towards a field ripening with corn, Grace recounted her adventure.

A figure in the Welles’s livery, the blue bucket and golden chain badge on his sleeve, was skirting the barley field and coming towards them, a frolicking lurcher alongside him.

“Tom!” Grace called out in surprise. “Tom Gower, with Jason. Cecily, you did not tell me Tom was with you.”

Cecily’s sly smile told Grace she had planned this encounter carefully. “I told you he was in Jack’s service, Grace. Why should he not be along?”

Remembering Cecily’s recent confidence that Tom carried a torch for her, Grace groaned. “Look at me,” she cried, as Tom approached them. “Oh, Cis, why could you not have told me? I would have at least put on a more suitable headdress. Sweet Jesu, I must look a fright. How is my coif? Look at my hands! Oh, Cis, how could you?”

“I thought you didn’t care about Tom,” Cecily said, laughing at her. “Don’t fret, you may look pleasing to a man who comes from a farm in Yorkshire.”

The hair was still an unkempt yellow thatch and the eyes were the same remarkable cornflower blue, but the lanky boy Grace remembered had turned into a man of considerable stature with a light brown beard framing a strong, pleasant face. He is not handsome like John, she thought, but certes, he is good-looking. He had grown more since Stoke and now he towered over her as he bowed and wished her a good day.

“God’s greeting to you, Tom,” Grace said, giving him a quiet smile. “How long has it been since we saw each other—two years, maybe?” She knew full well it had been the day she had entrusted Elizabeth’s incriminating letter to him.

“More than three, my lady,” Tom replied. “I am happy to see you again.” His frank, admiring stare unsettled Grace. Come, Lady Grace Plantagenet, she told herself, why should you be unnerved by this man of little
consequence? ’Tis only Tom Gower, your fishing friend from long ago. It must be his height, she decided; he made her feel like a child. She drew up every inch of her five feet and even managed to step out of the furrow she was standing in, adding three more inches. She covered her unease by bending down and paying attention to Jason, who had immediately recognized a friend and had tried to jump up and greet her. “Down, boy,” Tom said, and the dog immediately obeyed.

“Cecily told me you are in her husband’s train,” Grace said, catching sight of her dirty fingernails and trying to hide her hands. “I also heard that your father died, and I am sorry for that, truly I am.” Her voice sounded unnaturally squeaky to her, but the more she tried to lower it, the more she gabbled on. “How is your mother? And your sister—Cat, is it not? Your brother owns the farm now, doesn’t he? And here is Jason. ’Tis Jason, isn’t it? Sit, Jason! Good boy, Jason.” Oh, no, she thought, somebody stop me talking! For the love of Saint Catherine, button your lip, Grace, I pray you. She looked up helplessly at Cecily, who let forth a peal of her famous laughter, which made Tom start chuckling, too. Soon all three were laughing, and Grace’s unease melted away.

“Holy Mother of God, Grace, when you decide to talk, you would talk the tail off a cat. Forgive her, Tom, she has been locked up for too long in here with my mother, her old bat of a companion and a cloisterful of monks,” Cecily explained, wiping her eyes. She flicked her perfectly manicured hand in her sister’s direction: “So Grace hides in the fields with the sheep and cows, and this is the result. What think you, Tom? Does she not look like a milkmaid? I say she will not find herself a husband looking thus. Do you agree?”

“Cecily!” Grace spluttered.

Tom’s fair skin flushed scarlet and he replied, “I think you do Lady Grace an injustice, my lady,” which made Cecily laugh all the more. “Aha, I was right,” she crowed at Grace, as Tom’s color faded and he looked in bewilderment from one to the other.

Grace glared at her sister. “Pay no attention, Tom, I beg of you. The sun has no doubt addled her wits.” She felt sorry for him, as his blush and stammered response had so clearly given his feelings away. She reached up and slipped her hand through his arm companionably. “You don’t mind if I take your arm, do you, Tom? These ruts can trip one up so quickly. Did
you come to keep us company, or do you have a message for us?” she asked, hoping to alleviate his awkwardness. “And please, call me Grace, as you used to do.”

A shiver went through his arm as she touched him, and it buoyed her confidence that this giant of a man, four years older than she, trembled at her touch. How different from John, she mused, who was never far from her thoughts.

“Aye, my…I mean, Grace,” Tom said, grinning foolishly down at her. Sweet Jesu, Cis was right, he does carry a torch, Grace thought. She raised a questioning eyebrow, and he remembered why he had come. “I was sent to fetch Lady Cecily; the queen is ready to return to Greenwich.”

“Cis, did you hear?” Grace called, as a little ahead of them Cecily threw another stick for Jason to prance after. “Bess is waiting for you.”

“If the queen commands, then we must obey,” Cecily cried, executing an exquisite curtsy to a bean pole on the edge of the vegetable patch. “Nay, Tom, you stay with Grace, and Jason shall keep me company. Come, boy,” she addressed the hound, whose tongue lolled out of his mouth as he stood over the retrieved stick, willing her to throw it again. She flung it once more and followed Jason through the field, her headdress streaming behind her like a pennant in the wind.

“’Tis hard to believe she is a viscountess, is it not?” Grace chuckled, keeping the conversation light, but Tom only nodded. She wondered if he found her closeness unsettling and, not wanting to give him any false hopes, loosed her hold on him and bent to pick a tall corn cockle from among the barley stalks. They walked on in silence for a few minutes, Tom tongue-tied and Grace debating whether she should mention she had seen John in Bruges. She would have to lie about her journey’s purpose if she did, she decided, because she was not sure she could trust Tom. She had never been able to discover whether he had indeed betrayed Elizabeth in the matter of the letter. So, in the spirit of fairness to him, she took the bull by the horns and, with a sharper tone of voice than she knew was necessary, stated: “Tom, if you and I are to be friends, I must settle something that has eaten at me since the queen dowager was sent to the abbey.” She took a deep breath and, seeing Tom stopped in his tracks, turned to him and whispered. “Was it you who turned over the letter I gave you from Elizabeth to Henry’s spies?” As soon as the question fell from her lips, she
knew it had not been Tom. The anger in his eyes and the grim set of his jaw told her she had insulted him, and she was immediately contrite.

“I…am…sorry, Tom, but you were the last person who had the letter, and ’twas I who put it into your hands. What would anyone think? Lady Hastings accused you in front of the king. I tried to defend you—truly I did—but the prickly seed of suspicion has never left me.”

His hand on his heart, Tom gave his reply through clenched teeth: “I swear to you, Grace Plantagenet, that I did not betray your mistress nor my master. Henry’s spies were so close to capturing Lord John in Suffolk that he fled on foot and they discovered the letter among other papers in his saddlebags. No one betrayed him—or the queen dowager. I am mortified you would question my honor.”

Grace was ashamed. “Pray forgive me, Tom. I should not have doubted you. You are an honorable man, in truth, and I am happy to put the matter to rest once and for all.” She turned back to the path. “Come, let us catch Cecily, and I will tell you of my adventure.”

Then, making him promise not to breathe a word of what she was about to relate, Grace told of her meeting with John at Duchess Margaret’s court, where, she lied, she had been invited to meet her aunt and convey Elizabeth’s greetings in person.

“He was in such good spirits, although chafing to return to England,” Grace told Tom, detailing John’s fashionable dress and life of luxury at the Burgundian court.

Already much chastened by her accusation, Tom’s dejection was not helped by Grace’s enthusiastic description of his rival, John.

“The last thing he said was that our aunt was sending him to join Lord Lovell at King James’s court in Scotland,” she continued brightly. “Did you know Lovell was not drowned at Stoke, as ’twas rumored?”

Tom shook his head in surprise. “’Tis good news indeed,” he said, although his flat tone belied his words.

She sighed, not noticing his monotone, and murmured, “How I wish with all my heart John would come here instead.”

Now Tom bristled. “Your aunt is right,” he said curtly. “John should not come to England, or Henry might arrest him for spying.”

“Certes, he knows that,” Grace said, a little impatiently. Then she held up the flower, twirling it in front of her nose. “I made him promise he
would not put himself in danger,” she said to the delicate pink petals, although it was clearly meant for Tom’s ears. “I could not bear it if any harm befell him.”

Tom kicked a pebble out of the way with his hard-soled riding boot. Looking askance at his grim face, Grace frowned. “Why the stone face, Tom? Are you not pleased to know John is safe and well?”

“Certes, Grace! What do you take me for?” he replied, hurt. “But it seems I am not half so pleased as you seem to be. ’Tis plain you wear your heart upon your sleeve.”

“I am not ashamed of it,” Grace told him. “But why should you care?” She gave him a sidelong glance and laughed, a little more heartlessly than she meant to. “Ah, Tom, I believe you are jealous,” she teased.

“You do me wrong, Lady Grace,” he answered roughly. “Perhaps I have been foolish to wear
my
heart upon my sleeve, but I do not deserve your cruelty for it. You may rest assured I shall never mention it again.” His sincerity humbled Grace, and she wished she had bitten her tongue. Where had this exchange gone so wrong, she wondered? They had reached the courtyard, where he bowed stiffly and stalked off to join Cecily on her way back to Elizabeth’s apartments.

Feeling even smaller than she had a few minutes ago, Grace stared after him miserably. What have I done? I did not mean to hurt him; I only wanted him to know he should douse that torch he carries in the nearest river. But who can understand the ways of men? she asked herself, as if she were the expert in affairs of the heart. “Not I!” she said out loud and flounced off to find Brother Oswald in the herb garden. “A pox on too-tall Tom!”

T
RYING TO SLEEP
in the sultry night air, Grace mulled over the day’s events, her chemise damp from perspiration. Elizabeth had been morose when Grace finally returned after waving Bess and Cecily off. Riding beside the horse litter, Tom had stared straight ahead, and Grace did not dare to call out a farewell. Her heart had been heavy; she had not wanted to spoil the friendship, but she was at a loss as to how to repair the damage, as she did not know when she would see him again.

“He will recover, Grace,” Cecily had assured her after Grace quickly whispered the tale. “I will see if I can arrange a suitable marriage for him,” she said with a mischievous grin.

“I wish you would,” Grace answered as they embraced, and their the little cavalcade moved off. Bess gave Grace a sweet smile from the litter before leaning back on the cushions and closing her eyes. She had forgotten how much her mother could tire her out.

Grace sought solace in the fields after the carriage disappeared down Long Lane, watching the reapers rhythmically cut the corn with their smooth-edged sickles. Pots of grease, bags of sand and whetstones for sharpening the small curved blades were placed strategically around the field, and many of the reapers were bare-chested in the heat of the noonday sun, their chausses unbound from their belts and tied off below the knee. There were many more workers than usual, men recruited from the neighboring farms and villages to help with the harvest, which was early this year after the hot, dry summer. She hitched her overskirt into her belt and began filling a basket with fat pea pods, unable to resist snapping a few open and savoring the tender contents. The task calmed her and, after depositing the full basket with the head laborer, she walked back to her room.