The King's Grace (35 page)

As soon as the two queens were settled, a young woman came hurrying up to the dais escorting a little boy who was an exact miniature of a court
ier in a short, belted blue tunic trimmed in sable, pale blue hose and a soft black hat. Around his neck was an exquisitely crafted gold collar of tiny roses. He bowed solemnly to his mother and grandmother and then went on one knee to await permission to mount the dais and kiss his grandmother’s hand. Bess’s face lit up when she saw him and she readily called him to her: “Lord Arthur, you remember your grandam, Queen Elizabeth? Come, give her a kiss, my precious boy.” His severe courtly expression melting into a childish grin, young Arthur Tudor scrambled up the steps and clasped his mother about the knees. Grace could see he was a sweet boy, with fair curls and a sunny smile; only the pale blue eyes and slender build were reminiscent of Henry. For a second she wondered if he might remind Elizabeth of her own lost young sons—one of whom was lost no more, it would seem—but the dowager merely accepted the boy’s kiss and returned him to his mother’s knee.

While they awaited the call to dine, Bess called for music. She conversed quietly with her mother, allowing her courtiers the liberty to stroll around the room and talk among themselves or watch the antics of a jester who cavorted from group to group in his striped costume and shook the bells on his many-pointed hat and beribboned wand. Arthur laughed gleefully at the clown and was soon entertaining the court with his childish imitations of the performer’s acrobatics. After an unfortunate tumble, when Arthur let out a wail of frustration and pain, Bess signaled to the nursemaid to remove him from the hall. He left screaming with indignation at being thus dismissed, and the court breathed a collective sigh of relief when the closing doors dampened the intrusive cries.

Katherine had negotiated a position directly behind Elizabeth, to be next to Cecily and accepted as Elizabeth’s senior attendant, leaving Grace to stand a step away from Katherine’s elbow. She could have strained her ears to eavesdrop, as she knew Katherine was doing, but instead her eyes roamed around the room, enjoying the luxurious surroundings she remembered from her life before Bermondsey. She saw now they were no match for the sumptuous furnishings of Duchess Margaret’s palace, but they were a welcome change after months in the austere abbey.

She was scanning the faces and finery in front of her when she suddenly looked straight into Tom Gower’s honest blue eyes. Her stomach turned over and the blood rushed into her face. Certes, he is here, you
addlepate, she thought miserably; Cecily and the viscount are here. Where else would he be? And yet when she had seen the Welleses she had given no thought to Tom. Sweet Jesu, I am blushing, she realized, furious with herself. Ashamed, she lowered her eyes from his gaze, hoping he had not noticed. She could not say what she read in that look; he had not smiled, she was certain of that, but was there anger or dislike in his eyes? She could not be sure. When she looked up at him again he was being addressed by John Welles and his attention was riveted on his master. Cecily had advised Elizabeth in the betrothal letter that her husband had elevated Tom to squire of the body, and from the friendly way Jack was gripping Tom’s arm as he spoke, Grace could see that the viscount thought highly of the young man.

With Tom focused on his master, Grace had a chance to look at him with new eyes. He stood a head taller than those around him, for once a black bonnet taming his corn-colored hair. She admitted his neat beard suited him, as did the padded blue pourpoint, its pleats forming a V shape from his shoulders to his trim waist and then flaring over his lower body. With his checkered hose and long trailing sleeves, he was a far cry from the plainly dressed youth at Sheriff Hutton. Her appraisal complete, she could say that although he was not John, she could do much worse. However, seeing him from afar was one thing, but sooner or later she knew they must come face to face, and it now appeared it would be sooner, and she dreaded it. What would she say? She had not had the chance to speak to Cecily alone since their arrival. She desperately wanted to know why Tom had been talked or coerced into wedding her. It would help her to know so she might prepare what to say to him. His steady gaze of a few minutes ago haunted her already and told her nothing that might alleviate her misgivings that he hated her and was wedding her against his will. She had been bitterly disappointed that he had not written to her himself to reassure her that he did indeed wish her to be his wife, but Elizabeth had scoffed when Grace complained.

“My dear Grace, ’tis not required once the betrothal is sanctioned by those responsible for the bride and groom’s future. In the end, ’twas between Jack Welles, or”—she chuckled—“should I say Cecily, and me. By rights, you have no say one way or the other. But we have been through all this, and you have assured me there is no compelling reason for your re
fusal to wed Master Gower and therefore you shall wed him. Let me hear no more about it.” And so, from his silence, Grace was certain that Tom must be a reluctant bridegroom. Now, without even a glimmer of a smile from him, she was even more convinced.

O
N
C
HRISTMAS
D
AY
, after the court had celebrated the eve of the Christ child’s birth in prayer and thanks, the chamberlain approached the throne in the queen’s audience chamber and announced that dinner was served. The players of rebecs, recorders and the new German crumhorns ceased their background accompaniment and hurried out of the room to set up anew in the minstrels’ gallery above the great hall.

The women sat apart from the men for the feast, a tradition Bess kept this season in deference to her mother’s more formal court of a decade ago. She and Elizabeth sat on the dais and chose Cecily and Grace to serve them. Katherine was grateful to stay off her feet and found her place at a table of other noble ladies. High above the diners, the king’s choristers took their place with the minstrels and broke out into song, reminding the company why they were celebrating.

The voices rang out in the painted hall and floated up to the magnificent hammer-beam roof as if they were addressing God himself, and Grace felt her skin prickle.

Before the blessing was said, Elizabeth looked around the hall and a chuckle escaped her. “I remember well my coronation feast, Bess,” she murmured, fingering the leaf motif of her gold and black enameled necklace, a square ruby glowing in the center. “I made Edward’s sisters, Elizabeth of Suffolk and Margaret, serve me on their knees. They were there for hours, and Meg fell ill soon afterwards. Wicked girl! She made me think my command had something to do with her fever. But ’twas not my fault
her humors were misaligned.” Bess cringed at the thought of her mother’s arrogant behavior as Archbishop Morton offered a long-winded grace.

Following the traditional soup of ground chicken and frumenty, and after the fish dishes of lamprey and eel had been greedily consumed, the company applauded loudly as cooks and their helpers brought in roast swans, peacocks and a heron, each redressed in their own plumage and looking so real Grace was afraid they might fly off the platters. But the highlight of the feast was the suckling pigs, and the enormous platters were borne in by several kitchen lads, followed by the two head cooks carrying the steaming roasted head of a boar, a garland of holly crowning it and its razor sharp tusks now used as decorative spikes for rosy apples.

The singers paused so the people below could take a collective breath and join in the joyful refrain:

The fleshy cheeks of the animal were considered the delicacy from the beast, and a slice each was given to Elizabeth and Bess for their tasting. Using golden forks, the two queens each lifted a morsel to their lips and nodded their approval. The rest of the company waited until their messes had been filled before dipping in with their neighbors and transferring succulent pieces of meat to their own trenchers. The wine flowed freely, and Grace soon lost count of how many glasses she had consumed. When the tables were cleared and stacked with the benches against the walls, the dancing began. A lively
branle
sent many dancers to the floor. Behind Elizabeth’s chair, Grace tapped her foot in time to the beat of the timbre and tabor, watching those who knew the intricate kicks, twists of the feet and swinging of the legs demonstrate why the French dance was known as the “brawl” in England.

Cecily bent to ask permission from Bess to take Grace onto the floor for the next country dance. “She has not had the chance to show her skill for three years. Your grace, sweet sister, do relieve us of our posts so we can join the others.”

“You do not need to give me false flattery,
sweet
sister,” Bess replied, smiling. “Certes, go and dance. I wish I could be among you, but…” She paused, touching her belly. “Henry would not be happy if I lost this babe. He is sure we will have a second son this time. What say you, Mother? Shall we let these two loose down there amongst all those young men?”

Elizabeth laughed and several heads turned upon hearing the once familiar sound at court again. “Aye, Bess. Grace needs to sow her wild oats before she is wed, and as for Cecily…ah, well,” she said, winking at Bess. “Cecily is always Cecily, and will never be tied down.” Cecily gasped then giggled, looking around quickly for her husband, who was deep in conversation with Archbishop Morton. “You may go, girls, but send Lady Katherine and her daughter to attend us. It will be amusing to hear the two mothers of our grandchildren vie over whose child is more perfect.” And she chuckled again. Grace knew Elizabeth had had at least as much wine as she, but perhaps it was pure happiness at being let out of her cage that had caused the queen dowager’s merry mood. Cecily took Grace’s hand and ran down the steps of the dais towards a young man with coal black hair and eyes as green as the summer sea.

“Master Kyme, do lead us out to the dance,” Cecily said, accepting his kiss on her hand. “This is my half sister, Grace, who is to wed Tom Gower. Is she not the daintiest thing you have ever set eyes on?”

Thomas Kyme turned to Grace and smiled, and Grace knew she had never seen a comelier man—not even John could compare to this paragon of masculine beauty. “Thomas Kyme, at your service, my lady,” he murmured, taking her hand and bowing over it.

“Master Kyme is a neighbor in Lincolnshire,” Cecily explained airily, but Grace doubted her sister could also explain her high color and nervous hands, which Grace observed with interest and not a little apprehension. Surely Cecily was not…nay, she could not be. You are dreaming, Grace, she thought. Cecily make a cuckold of the king’s stepuncle? ’Tis cock-brained.

“I will lead the Lady Grace out, my lady,” a voice said behind Grace,
who jumped and turned to face Tom a few feet from her. “If she will accept,” he added, bowing so low she could not see his face.

Cecily gave Grace a little push. “As the two of you will be dancing together for the rest of your lives, this would seem a good time to start. What say you, Grace?” Without waiting for an answer, she took Master Kyme’s arm and hurried him away to join the set.

Tom lifted his head and looked straight into Grace’s anxious eyes. It was as though the two of them were alone in the room. The gorgeously arrayed revelers moved liked shadows around them and the noise melted into a background drone. Neither spoke a word, and yet each understood the other in that silence. “I am sorry,” her eyes told him. “I know,” his replied. After a long moment, Tom slowly reached out his hand, his eyes willing her to take it. Her gaze never leaving his face, she put her hand in his and they walked towards the circle of dancers. His hand was warm and firm, and although her tiny one was lost in it, it was comforting, she decided, and relief flooded her.

As they prepared to join the circle the music came to an end and the men bowed their reverence and led their partners to find refreshment. Tom and Grace were left in the middle of the red and white tiled floor as the musicians struck up Grace’s favorite
basse danza.

“Do me the honor, Grace,” Tom said simply, turning her to face the dais and holding up her arm in the first movement of the dance. She acquiesced by giving his hand a tiny squeeze as she rose up on her toes to perform the gliding steps of the slowest of the courtly dances, casting her eyes to the floor, as was customary. Drawing strength from each other, the two usually reserved young people found the confidence to begin the dance alone. Many present recognized Grace, but the last time they had seen her she had been a girl. Now they admired the comely young woman’s fluid movements and perfectly proportioned—almost doll-like—figure, and one whispered that King Edward’s bastard was surely born to dance. In her russet silk dress with the amber brooch pinned to her breast, she shone that night. Later, as Grace prepared Elizabeth for bed, the dowager told her of the pride she had seen in Tom’s face as he partnered her.

“He is in love with you, Grace, make no mistake,” Elizabeth remarked, tying her nightcap under her chin. “I hope you were kinder to him tonight
than you were last time, in truth.” Grace had nodded, although by then she was so befuddled, she could not have told Elizabeth exactly why.

If she had tried to correctly remember the steps of the dance, she possibly might have failed after so long without practice. But she was so acutely aware of Tom’s hand touching hers and his eyes fixed upon her that it seemed her feet recalled the rise and fall of each movement on their own. In the first few moments she was relieved that he had overcome his anger towards her enough to approach and ask her to dance, but then her mind was filled with questions, half questions and an awful confusion of feelings. Why could she not conjure up John’s face at that precise moment? And why had Tom’s touch sent unexpected sweet sensations through her body, if Tom was only a friend? How, until now, could she not have noticed his long, strong legs or the chiseled features of his face, the delicious smell of orris root and leather and his gentleness? When had his friendship for her turned to love? She knew she must forget John, but how? He was her one and only love—or was he? Certes, he was! However, she admitted, Tom did not displease her. Sweet Virgin, let the dance go on forever, she begged, but then could not say why. She saw Elizabeth arch an eyebrow and give her a secret smile as they moved with the music towards the dais. She should not be looking up, she knew, and so she fixed her eyes firmly upon the rushes again.