The King's Grace (39 page)

Of course he had not written every day, but he had communicated often in the months they were apart, and she had been touched by his attempts at love letters.

“My sweetest wife,”
was often his greeting, and he would invariably end with
“You have my heart,” “I think of you daily,”
or
“My love and devotion are yours always.”
She wrote of her daily tasks, Elizabeth’s health and her attempts at raising a calf. How could she falsely write of her love to this good man? So she focused on their friendship and her duty to him as a wife. She knew
he was intelligent enough to read between the lines, but he could never accuse her of dissembling.

The road wended through woods and fields, tall elms standing out among the hazel and birches in the fertile Welland valley. Collyweston Palace was situated at the end of a long driveway, which ended in meticulously clipped knot gardens flanking the last hundred paces to the steps. The sun was setting and cast pink and orange tints on the walls and glinted off the many windows as they approached. Fluttering high over the central tower a silk flag bearing the royal lions of England proclaimed the presence of the king. Grace’s heart skipped a beat. She had not been told of Cecily’s command that the escort take her to Margaret Beaufort’s residence until the journey was under way. “Lady Welles will meet you there,” the captain had said. “She is a frequent guest of the Lady Margaret and wishes to accompany you back to Hellowe.” Grace had been nonplussed. The last time she had talked to Cecily about Scraggy Maggie, Grace remembered, Cecily had made a face. She assumed Cecily was forced to attend the countess when her husband had business at Collyweston as well. It had not occurred to her that the king would be there, too, especially as Bess was in seclusion awaiting the birth of her child at her favorite residence of Greenwich. But birthing was a woman’s cross to bear, Grace knew; after the pleasure of conception, most men deemed their work done. She had to admit the king and his mother frightened her, and she hoped Cecily would suggest they leave for Hellowe on the morrow so she would not have to face the pair.

Her fears were well founded, it seemed, because not an hour after she was greeted with great joy by Cecily and shown to the chamber, no bigger than a closet, where she would spend the night, Grace was ushered into the Great Hall, and Margaret’s chamberlain announced her in overly loud tones.

“Lady Grace Plantagenet, your grace,” he bellowed. Grace had given her name as Mistress Gower, but the chamberlain knew her well and made the correction. Certes, the irony is that I shall always retain the name of my highest status, she thought, even if ’tis as a king’s bastard.

Henry and his mother stood under a canopy in the elegant, paneled hall, with her husband Lord Derby nowhere to be seen. Grace understood now why the countess of Richmond and Derby preferred to spend time
here. The palace was more like a large mansion, beautifully imagined and lavishly decorated but warm and manageable.

“Ah, Lady Grace,” Henry said, looking down at her from his above-average height. Grace was glad to note a warm tinge to his greeting, although she recognized the pinched look of worry about his mouth and eyes. Edgar had told her during their journey north that the commonfolk had not yet warmed to Henry, even though they liked the peace his reign had brought. “’Tis said he fears the ghosts of those two boys what disappeared from the Tower,” Edgar had confided. And well he might, Grace had thought.

Henry continued with his greeting: “
Soyez la bienvenue
—welcome,” he translated quickly, “after all this time. Approach, and tell us how the queen dowager fares.”

Grace kissed both his and Margaret’s outstretched hands, and even Margaret gave her a smile of welcome. “Her grace the queen dowager is not strong, my liege. She spends much of her day in bed and is therefore wasting away. Lady Hastings and I do—did,” she corrected herself, “what we could to keep her entertained and eating, but she grieves for Earl Rivers, who you must know passed away in March, and the shock has brought her low.” She hoped her gown was not trembling visibly from her shaking legs and that she had given a coherent answer. Why was she so afraid of this man? Was it the crown he wore? The purple mantle trimmed with royal ermine? His stiff bearing and piercing eyes—even the unsightly red wart just above his chin? Aye, he is the king and anointed by God, Grace thought. Certes, I am right to be afraid.

Henry made a sympathetic sound but then changed the subject; Elizabeth was not his favorite topic. “Cecily tells us you are betrothed to one of Welles’s squires. We are pleased for you, are we not, Mother?” He intertwined his long fingers together and, bending them backwards, cracked all his knuckles loudly, making Grace wince.

Margaret concurred. “Aye, we are. You have our blessing, Grace,” she said as though she were the sovereign dispensing permission. “I trust you will find him a good husband, my dear. Is he here?”

Grace had not dared take her eyes from the king and his mother since entering the room, but now she glanced around and saw Tom watching her anxiously. “He is here, my lady, and if it would please you, your grace, I would have you meet him.” Her own bravado surprised her.

The king nodded and Grace walked quickly to fetch a bewildered Tom, who fell on his knees before his liege lord. “Thomas Gower, is it?” the king asked. “Stand, Master Gower, I would give you and Lady Grace my blessing.”

The king was tall, but Tom towered over him, which obviously amused Henry, who looked at them for a full minute before remarking: “You look more like father and daughter than husband and wife, in truth. But with a stalwart like this by your side, Grace, I should not fear for your safety, if I were you.” He gave Tom a baleful stare and took the squire aback by remarking, “You rode with Lincoln at Stoke, did you not?”

Grace drew in a sharp breath, and she saw Lady Margaret’s eyes narrow.

“I had the honor of being in Lord Lincoln’s household, your grace,” Tom said, and Grace was surprised at his steady voice. “However, I was not at Stoke, but at my home in Yorkshire, helping my mother on our estates after the sudden death of my father. Lord Lincoln gave me leave to go.”

Henry weighed Tom’s words and finally nodded. “So may I count on your loyalty now, Master Gower?”

Tom was on his knees again in a flash, swearing fealty to the king. Grace felt a twinge of irritation, and her mind flitted back to the incident of Elizabeth’s letter and Katherine’s suspicion that Tom had somehow betrayed the dowager. Tom had been John’s best childhood friend; he had chafed over not being allowed to fight for King Richard at Bosworth; and he had been glad to follow Cousin Jack of Lincoln. He and his whole family were Yorkists, so why was he groveling to the Tudor so willingly? She determined she would question his arse-kissing. He must know where her loyalties lay, in truth.

“Where is your lord, Master Gower? I would speak with him,” Henry said. He turned away from the women and addressed a man with a flowing white beard dressed in an extraordinary mantle emblazoned with moons and stars. Grace knew an alchemist when she saw one and remembered Cecily telling her that Henry never made a personal decision without consulting his. She watched Tom hurry off to extricate the viscount from a group by the door, glad not to have to answer any more awkward questions.

“An agreeable young man,” the countess told Grace, who would have
liked nothing more than to leave her side and join Cecily. Her sister was laughing and talking with a group across the room. “And I can see why Lady Welles has been anticipating your arrival. For all she has a large household, I believe she misses her family, and at times does not behave exactly as she should. You seem to have a level head on your shoulders, my lady, and I am counting on you to steer her out of trouble.” Sweet Jesu, Grace thought, does she suspect Cecily and Thomas Kyme? But Margaret was smiling. “She makes my stepbrother obey her every whim, he tells me.” She leaned forward and smirked. “But he adores her, have no fear. She is so full of life that she leads poor old Jack in a merry dance, ’tis all.”

Grace could not believe her ears. Why, Scraggy Maggie has a sense of humor, she thought, and was bold enough to answer, “I will attempt to curb her excesses, my lady, although”—she smiled—“my opinion has not counted for much up to now.” Seeing Cecily approaching, she said more loudly, “I must tell you, countess, Lady Cecily has been so kind to my husband and me, and I look forward to seeing Lord Welles’s estate at Hellowe on the morrow.”

“We shall leave in a day or two, Grace,” Cecily corrected her. “Lady Margaret and I are working on an embroidered gown for the new baby, and I promised we would finish it in case Bess has the child early.” And, to Grace’s astonishment, Cecily gave Margaret a winning smile. “Is that not so, my lady?”

Margaret patted her arm and agreed that it was so.

“I thought you hated her, Cis,” Grace whispered as they left Margaret’s presence after a rotund courtier went down on one knee and begged for a private audience.

Cecily shrugged. “She is cold and aloof much of the time, ’tis true, but she can be warm and courteous when she is in private. In truth, she has treated me with courtesy, and we rub along well enough. It seems Jack is close to his stepsister and, as a member of Henry’s Star Chamber, he must advise Henry, so ’tis necessary for us to be in his train often. ’Tis not my choice, you understand; merely my duty.” She tucked Grace’s hand under her arm and took her out to the gardens behind the palace that were bright with the colors of gillyflowers, irises, lilies and roses all glistening from a recent shower. “Let me tell you about your new home, Grace,” she said, a
wicked twinkle in her eye. “There is a farm, so I know you will be happy, little peasant.”

Grace stopped and stood with her arms akimbo and a retort ready on her lips, but when Cecily threw back her head and let forth her familiar laugh, Grace forgot her indignation and laughed with her, realizing how much she had missed company of her own age at the abbey.

A
S A SQUIRE
of the body, Tom was on duty in the viscount’s bedchamber that night, so he was able to speak to Grace for only a few minutes before he went to the other wing of the palace, where the Welleses were housed. He found her in the long gallery, admiring the wall hangings, and, whisking her aside, kissed her hungrily. When she was unresponsive, he pulled apart and whispered: “Dearest Grace, what is wrong? I have longed for this moment for all these months. Have I offended you—again?”

Grace felt a pang of remorse, but she was ready to speak her mind and wasted no time. “I was not aware that your devotion to Henry Tudor ran so deep,” she said scornfully. “It pained me to see you fall at his feet with such fervor, which told me how quickly you have forgotten your former friends and loyalties. You are wed to the daughter of a Yorkist king, who knows where
her
duty lies. I am disappointed; I thought I knew you better.”

Tom blanched and checked over his shoulder to make sure no one was listening. “Henry is the king, Grace. Would you rather I had refused to bow down to him publicly and risk my neck? Or does my neck mean nothing to you?” When he saw her stubborn expression, he grimaced. “I see that it does not. And I thought we had come to an understanding, you and I.” He took hold of her arm none too gently and bent close. “You are no longer at the abbey, Grace. You are in the real world, where one does what one can to survive. I will do what I must to protect what little advancement I have made and provide for you. I shall not go back on my promise to be a good husband to you, and if that means I kneel to my king and vow to serve him, I will do it. He, however, will never know what is in my heart.” He looked at her sadly. “And I thought I knew
you
better.”

Then he turned on his heel and walked away. Grace stared after him, her heart heavy. Ah, you are cruel, Grace. Why must you be so cruel? She well knew the answer; it lay over the sea in Flanders. A sob caught in her
throat as she sank down onto a bench and whispered a prayer to St. Jude of lost causes.

T
HE NEXT DAY
, as the household sat down to dinner and the ewerer was offering Grace the finger bowl, the sound of horses’ hooves in the courtyard caught the diners’ attention and everyone turned curious eyes to the door. They were not disappointed, as several knights entered, spurs clanking on the tiled floor, followed by a flustered steward.

“’Tis Sir Edward Pickering,” Grace heard a man say to his neighbor. “He who captured the whoreson traitors Chamberlain and White in January. And you know what happened to them.” He made a ghoulish face and dragged his finger across his throat.

“By Christ’s nails, look who he has taken now,” the other man murmured, nodding his head towards the back of the new arrivals.

Worming her way between the two, Grace was finally able to glimpse the object of their curiosity. His arms tied behind his back, a hood falling off his long dark hair, being rudely forced to his knees by two men-at-arms in Henry’s livery, was John of Gloucester. The spectators gasped and whispered his name to those who could not see.

As soon as she saw him and before she could stop herself, Grace let an involuntary scream escape. “John!” she cried and fell to her knees.

Henry’s chamberlain, Sir William Stanley, who had been standing nearby, gently raised Grace from the floor and attempted to remove her from Henry’s line of sight.

“If I were you, my lady, I would distance myself from Lord John. He may be accused of treason,” Stanley cautioned under his breath. “The king’s spies sent word he had set sail from Flanders to an unknown destination along the northern coast.”

“Treason?” Grace asked, her eyes wide with fear. “Why? Because he wanted to come home?”

Stanley put his finger to his lips. “’Tis not wise to ask too many questions. We shall know soon enough.” He bowed curtly and walked away. This was the man who had come to Henry’s rescue at Bosworth when Uncle Richard had come so close to personally killing Tudor, she recalled. He had turned his coat, and Grace had no doubt he must hate Richard’s bastard niece for all he had shielded her. She shrank back through the courtiers straining to get a look at the kneeling prisoner, and no one no
ticed her until she felt her arm being gripped tightly and Tom’s urgent whisper commanding her, “Come with me.”