The King's Grace (34 page)

CHRISTMAS
1490

H
enry had given his gracious permission for Bess’s mother and two attendants to spend the holy time with her at Greenwich as she was again with child and thus would not travel with Henry to his mother’s favorite residence of Collyweston. The three women awaited the break from abbey routine with much anticipation.

“Praise the heavens,” Elizabeth had said at that point in the letter. “We can make merry while the bitch Beaufort’s bones turn brittle in her freezing northern abode.” She sounded more cheerful than she had for many weeks after a severe bout of the bloody flux had laid her low. “That phrase tripped nicely off the tongue, do you not think, ladies?” she asked and repeated “the bitch Beaufort’s bones” to herself, chuckling.

“How clever you are,” Katherine gushed, making Grace wince at her toadying.

Elizabeth inclined her head in acknowledgment. “I always loved Greenwich as the best of my palaces,” she had said, wistfully. “I called it my
‘palace of pleasaunce,’ for I was never happier than when in it.” She eyed Grace’s old green gown and grimaced. “We shall have to find you something else to wear, Grace. That is far too shabby for the court. In fact, I think you should burn the gown, for I am heartily sick of it.” She chuckled. “Besides, you need to look your best when you see your Tom again.” She winked at Grace, who blushed and groaned inwardly.

T
HE ROYAL BARGE
was sent to fetch Elizabeth and her two ladies two days before the feast of the Christ child. Jack Frost had left his telltale mark upon the landscape that morning, transforming the tilled fields, grass and trees into a sparkling white fairy kingdom. A layer of ice covered the water in the well and in the animal troughs, and the smoke from the abbey chimneys created gray trails in the blue sky. An abbey servant had made his daily visit to Elizabeth’s chamber to light a fire—an expense the queen dowager saw not as an indulgence but a necessity. Even the water in the basin had a thin film of ice upon it, and Grace shivered as she plunged her hands in to splash water on her face. Once the wood began to crackle in the small fireplace, all three women gathered round to warm their numb fingers. Being so thin, Elizabeth felt the cold the most, and Grace and Katherine spent many hours during the harshest months chafing the queen’s feet, being careful not to irritate the painful red chilblains on several of her toes. The first winter there, Bess had visited and had been dismayed that her mother had to make do with a small brazier that spewed out noxious fumes unless the window was left open. She had paid the abbey mason to build a fireplace and chimney outlet so that Elizabeth might have some semblance of the luxury that she had been forced to leave behind.

After breaking her fast, Elizabeth was helped into her warmest garments. Grace and Katherine, too, wrapped themselves in their fur-lined cloaks and donned gloves and wool hoods. With Poppy tucked into her cloak, Elizabeth and her two attendants processed down the stairs, through the privy yard and around the building to the main courtyard. Teeth chattering, they climbed into the waiting horse litter, the two large beasts at the front and back of the covered contraption snorting white clouds as they stamped their feet and waited to move. Grace saw that Edgar was to lead them to the river and waved. He grinned and bowed his head, watch
ing to see Grace helped safely into the litter and seated opposite the other ladies before he told the lead horse “giddyup.”

As the horses were led across the courtyard and out of the gate, Grace could hear the deep, resonant chants of the brothers as they celebrated the Terce.
“Magnificat anima mea Dominum,”
they sang, and although she was used to the sound now, it still had the power to move her. And looking at the magical scene they were passing, she felt the hand of God touching them.
“Gloria Patri,”
she whispered to herself in awe.

Elizabeth’s eyes lit up when she saw the gorgeously canopied royal barge, the king’s arms emblazoned on the hangings, awaiting them at the Tooley Street wharf. “At last I am to be treated like a queen,” she muttered, as one of their escorts stepped forward to open the litter door and Grace hopped out first, taking Poppy from Elizabeth. Knowing the two older women would be slow to exit the carriage, she took the opportunity to hurry to Edgar, patiently holding the lead horse’s bridle and murmuring into its velvety ear. She had heard the groom had shown great courage during a fire in the stables the week before, when he had rescued two horses and several other animals, burning his hand in the process.

“Edgar, I regret I have not seen you since the fire. I wanted to commend you on your bravery that night.” Seeing the bandage covering his hand, she frowned. “I hope Brother Benedictus is caring for that properly?” she asked. “Honey is recommended for burns.” Edgar nodded, shrugging off the injury. “I hope it goes well for you with Brother Gregory and your wish to become head groom. I have put in a good word for you with Father John, so perhaps one day you will be rewarded.”

Edgar’s face fell. “Brother Gregory says I be stupid—a simpleton,” he said. “He said I be too stupid to be in charge of the stable lads. And the boys mock me, too. You be the only one who says kind things, my lady.” Then he brightened and stroked the shiny brown flank of the patient horse, which turned and nuzzled his shoulder. “But Admiral here don’t think I be stupid, do you boy? And I see that animals be liking you, too,” he said, as Poppy scooted up to a warmer place around Grace’s neck and closed her eyes.

“Nay, Edgar, you are not stupid,” Grace replied kindly, fondling Poppy’s fluffy ears. She did not know what else she could do for the man, so she reached out and gingerly patted Admiral’s neck, in the hope of assuring
him of her sincerity. With Edgar there she was less afraid of the animal. The gesture had the desired effect, and Edgar grinned and touched his forelock as she moved away. “God bless you, Lady Grace, and may your Yuletide season be a happy one,” he called after her.

“Why do you waste time with that groom?” Elizabeth snapped after Grace had hurried to the dock past the line of oarsmen and was helped into the roomy barge. “You have kept us all waiting.”

“’Twas Edgar, my lady,” Grace answered, a hint of indignation in her voice. “I was commending him for his bravery in the fire. He saved several animals, in truth.” She knew Elizabeth had taken her time getting into the barge, enjoying the deference paid her by the escort Bess had sent and by the master of oarsmen. She joined the two women ensconced cozily among the fur blankets and cushions and, depositing Poppy onto Elizabeth’s lap, pulled up her hood against the cold morning breeze on the river.

“Now that Lady Grace has blessed us with her presence, Master Rowley, we may cast off,” Elizabeth called, ignoring Grace’s explanation. Instead, she said, “I know not why you must consort with peasants, Grace. Servants are servants; one should treat them well, but not as equals. Have I not taught you well enough to understand your place?” She sighed. “The sooner you are married and no longer my responsibility, the better.”

Grace saw Katherine smile, and she hid behind her hood and grimaced at the intentional reminder of her betrothal to Tom. “I beg your pardon, your grace,” she said. “I did not know you had gone aboard so quickly.” Grace, watch your tongue, she thought, waiting for the expected admonition. Elizabeth chose not to dignify the cheek with a reprimand, she just sighed and sank lower into the warm blankets. Nothing would spoil this day for her; she was returning to court—even if it was only for a few days.

As the barge approached the Greenwich pier below the elegant whitewashed palace, shawms heralded the arrival of the queen dowager. Their raucous fanfare brought people running to the wharf to cheer the visitors.

“Is my wimple straight? My hood folded back the way I like it?” Elizabeth fussed, turning first to Katherine and then to Grace. “Is Bess there to greet me?”

Grace scanned the courtiers arrayed at the bottom of the tower on the steps that led away from the water into the king’s apartments but did not
see the queen. Then another fanfare rang out across the water. The boatmen had shipped their oars while the tiller man guided them expertly the last few yards to the water steps, and now Grace could see a company of guards in the royal blue, gold and red livery, the axlike blades of their long halberds glinting in the sun, clearing a passage from the tower entrance to the wharf. A small group appeared from the building and Grace recognized Bess’s tall figure in a gown of pale blue velvet trimmed with ermine bowing this way and that as courtiers gave her reverence. She was escorted by an older man with a lugubrious expression on his thin face. An outsized velvet hat sporting several feathers capped off his murrey velvet, ermine-trimmed robe.

“Aye, Bess is there, but I do not recognize her escort,” Grace told Elizabeth, who was preening in a silver mirror that Katherine held for her. Elizabeth pushed Katherine aside and tried to focus her eyes on the figures now waiting at the top of the steps. She had spent so much time in the confines of her chamber that she had trouble seeing long distances.

“’Tis John Welles. Cecily’s husband,” Katherine said, knowing Elizabeth was too vain to admit she could not see anyone clearly. “And Cecily walks behind them on the arm of…God be praised, your own Thomas,” she cried, excited for the first time since the visit to Greenwich was announced. “That means my Cecilia is also here—and my granddaughters.”

“Thomas, here?” Elizabeth’s face lit up. “It would seem the king has him high in his favor again, God be thanked.”

The lines from the barge were thrown and secured, and gradually the boat was drawn to the landing dock. Elizabeth edged her way to the gangplank and, with the help of the master, went ashore, followed by Grace and Katherine. Judging from the shocked faces of many of the retainers who craned their necks to get their first glimpse of the queen dowager in almost four years, Grace was not the only one who recognized the change in her. But Elizabeth was smiling happily and climbing the few steps to Bess, unaware that she had caused anything but joy in the spectators. She gave Bess reverence, but the queen raised her up quickly, knowing how painful such a deep curtsy must be, and embraced her mother warmly.

“You are right welcome at our court, noble mother,” Bess said. “You remember Lord John?” Elizabeth nodded, holding out her hand for him to kiss, Poppy held firmly in the other. Jack Welles bowed stiffly over it
and gave her a good day. Poppy growled and bared her teeth; she did not like strange men touching her mistress. Grace heard someone titter. She and Katherine were still on their knees on the cold stone of the wharf, until Bess gave them permission to rise and kissed Grace on the cheek. When Cecily bent and kissed Grace, she whispered, “So what think you of my handsome husband?” and Grace almost laughed. It wasn’t that Viscount Welles was hideous, she thought, but he was most certainly old for his forty years and had the look of his humorless stepsister, Lady Margaret, about him. She vaguely wondered if anything would make him smile.

“I confess I’ve seen handsomer,” she whispered back.

Elizabeth was kissing her oldest son’s cheeks, glowing with happiness. Katherine had told Grace in an unusual moment of camaraderie one morning, when Elizabeth was in conference with Father John, that Thomas Grey, Marquis of Dorset, was the queen dowager’s favorite child. “Her firstborn, you understand. And son of the man she loved with all her heart. Aye, she grew to love your father, who was besotted with her”—she had rolled her eyes at the memories—“but John Grey always had her heart—and he was constant, unlike Edward. His death on Saint Alban’s field was what changed her,” she declared. “She vowed she would stop at nothing to give her two sons the most advancement she possibly could to compensate for their father’s loss.” Katherine had bent close to Grace then, who was busy sponging a stain off her gown, and whispered, “’Tis said she and her mother used witchcraft to beguile the young king, Edward.” Grace had gasped and crossed herself. “Aye,” Katherine ended, gleefully. “Jacquetta Woodville was a descendant of the water witch Melusine.” Grace had no idea who Melusine was, but with her silvery hair and tinkling laugh, Elizabeth might be thought of as having sprung from a sprite.

Katherine had then whispered: “’Tis said Elizabeth refused him her bed unless he promised her marriage, and although he must have realized a marriage with her would have displeased the commons and the lords—not to mention his mother—he did indeed wed her in secret.” Grace nodded. She had heard this tale from Bess, who had thought it the most romantic love story in all the world. But Lady Hastings was not finished: “The betrothal was held with her mother’s blessing, at her mother’s house and…perhaps with the help of a magic love potion.” Grace crossed her
self again. Dear God, she hoped Bess did not know about the witchcraft rumor—the virtuous young queen would be mortified.

Grace had been astonished at Katherine’s revelations that day—not only that the older woman would betray her friend’s confidences, but that she, whom Katherine had always disdained, should be the recipient of them. Grace had put it down to the fact there was no one else to gossip with, and Elizabeth had been excessively trying that day. She had said nothing but kept the knowledge in that treasure trove in her mind reserved for family.

Now she looked curiously at Thomas. He had visited the abbey once or twice a year, but Elizabeth had always sent her attendants away for those hours so she could enjoy her son by herself, and thus Grace had never formed any opinion of the man. He was tall and broad with strong features and a loud laugh, but his eyes were restless and untrusting. And Grace had seen the self-serving side of him when he had denied his mother at the time of Henry’s angry decision to send her away.

“Let us go inside,” Bess said, turning from the water and taking Jack’s proffered arm. “Lord Thomas, I pray you escort our lady mother.” At once the entourage shuffled into place behind the queen, and the colorful procession wended its way up the spiral staircase in the tower, through the king’s presence chamber that faced the river and then around the corner into the queen’s watching chamber, the largest of her private rooms. The court waiting there gave their queen reverence as John Welles escorted Bess to her canopied throne on the dais. She motioned to Elizabeth to take the other chair while Cecily, Katherine and Grace took their places behind the two queens. As they walked past the kneeling retainers, Grace heard one whisper to her neighbor: “Such shabby clothes. What has the Woodville woman come to?” Grace glanced down at her own new gown. Elizabeth had charmed the Southwark dressmaker into making the new gown quickly, and although the plain blue wool overdress had fashionably long trailing sleeves and a square bodice, it did not belong among the damasks, velvets and silks of every hue that surrounded her. And on the dais, Bess, in the radiant bloom of pregnancy, glowed golden as the sun next to her silvery, moon-pale mother.