The King's Grace (47 page)

“
Tu es…très beau…
I mean…
belle
,” Bridget said.
“Oui, tu es très belle,”
she repeated with more confidence. “Master Frion taught me that.”

Grace’s eyes flared wide for a second, but then she hid her apprehension. “Master Frion?” she asked levelly. “Is he your tutor?”

“Nay, he used to be the king’s French secretary, Grace,” Bess called from across the room. “He is a clever man. But he fell out with his grace a year or so ago, and ’tis said he returned to France to work under King Charles. I believe he was a spy all the time.”

“What’s a spy, your grace?” Bridget asked the queen.

“Nothing to worry your pretty head with, sweeting,” Grace said airily, but she sent up a prayer to St. Jude that the man was no longer at court.

“Speaking of France,” Bess continued, “the king and his council are debating what to do now that Charles of France has married Anne of Brittany, for it will change the nature of our dealings with both countries. His grace wants to go to war to defend his old friends in Brittany from being overrun by France, but I ask you, what is the point if the two rulers are now wed?” She shook her head and sighed. “Certes, no one listens to me.” Rising from her cushions, she turned her sweet smile on her four sisters. “Now, shall we dine, ladies?”

Cecily waited until she and Grace were back in the barge before asking: “What think you about returning to the abbey? ’Twas a shock, was it not?”

Grace nodded. “I had not thought to ever go back, in truth. But if ’tis only for a short…” she hesitated, not wanting to imply to Cecily that Elizabeth’s demise was imminent.

“Do not fret on my account, Grace. Mother has long thought me the worst of her brood, and I have not felt affection for her in many years. Aye, I give her respect, but she could be cruel, and she compared me unfavorably to Bess at every turn. In truth, she showed you more love than she has ever shown me. Nay,” she said, putting her hand over Grace’s to stop her protest, “you do not need to deny it, or apologize. ’Tis well known, Mother loves her own self the best, and next she dotes on Dorset—though why, I cannot say. The man turned his coat and went to Henry in Brittany, and ’tis ironic the king has been suspicious of him since. That must tell you
something of his nature. Untrustworthy, I heard Father tell Hastings one day when, as a child, I wandered into the wrong room to play.”

Grace absorbed all this information on the way back to Pasmer’s Place as, after divesting herself of her true feelings for the first time, Cecily sank into melancholy. She demanded a litter be sent to her for the short walk up the hill from the wharf, but Grace let her ride alone and chose to walk with Tom instead.

“I know I should have asked your permission, Tom, but I could not gainsay the queen or her mother, you must agree,” she told him after explaining why she was leaving the Welleses.

Tom nodded. “Indeed, Grace, you were right to make your own decision. I would not have stopped you, and I thank you for knowing that. It gives me hope that you trust me a little.”

Grace stopped still, frustrated. “I trust you, Tom, more than you think. I pray you, cease feeling sorry for yourself. It does you no credit.” She continued walking and took his arm, annoyed at her own sharp tone. “We have a week to mend this breach we have somehow made…nay,” she corrected herself, “
I
have made between us. If we could only have some time alone, we could talk more and try to understand each other better.”

Tom covered the small hand on his arm with his free hand and squeezed it once. “I should like nothing more than time alone with you. But I fear that because of my duties, the only way is if we share nights together. If it would make my presence in your bed more agreeable, I might promise that we simply talk until we fall asleep.”

Grace gave him a sidelong glance. “You would do that for me, Tom?”

“Certes, anything to stop the taunts from my fellow henchmen,” Tom teased her, and jumped away as a precaution. Grace raised an eyebrow, but her eyes gave away her amusement. “Do we have a pact, then?”

They had turned into St. Sithe’s Lane from Watling Street and could see the gates of Pasmer’s Place before Tom heard the murmured reply: “Aye, we have a pact.”

I
T WAS LATE
when Tom came to her bed that night. They spent it whispering of the day’s events and of the dowager queen’s condition and of Grace’s dislike of Katherine Hastings. “I know not why she hates me, Tom. Her grace told me ’twas because I was young and she was no longer. And
that she was jealous of my place in Elizabeth’s heart.” Grace hugged her knees, her curls falling around them under a simple linen nightcap. “In truth, I often wondered if Elizabeth even had a heart. But then she would talk about her little sons and the tears would flow, so it seemed she did.”

“Tell me of your time at the other abbey, Grace. How was it you came to be raised by the good sisters of Delapre?” Tom watched her in the soft light of a single candle, anchored in its pewter holder and clamped onto the bedstead. Matty was on the truckle bed in the corner of the room, already fast asleep.

Grace shivered slightly, and so Tom pulled a corner of the silky coverlet over her shoulders and leaned back to sit cross-legged on his side of the bed. Thanking him, she told him what she knew of her mother and of her early life and finished by describing the day when the handsome young squire came to carry her away. “I thought ’twas all a dream, in truth.”

Tom began to tell about his carefree childhood in a warm, loving household with his gentleman farmer father and his hardworking, generous mother, but soon Grace was stifling a yawn. “Pray forgive me, Tom. ’Tis not that your tale is tedious, but I am so very tired. May we continue tomorrow?”

Tom’s heart soared. She wants me back tomorrow, he thought happily, and he agreed readily. True to his word, he let her snuggle beneath the covers on her side of the bed before getting in himself and leaving a chasm as wide as a third person between them. Blowing out the candle, he wished her a good night.

“May God and all his saints watch over you, too, Tom. Sleep well,” Grace murmured. She lay on her back, acutely aware of his presence, and when she heard him turn away from her to sleep, her hand slipped along the sheets towards him. But she could not touch him, knowing that her reason for wanting to was only to reassure him of her gratitude. She was sure he would think she desired him, and she was still not quite certain.

And thus they spent the next three nights, each one breaking Grace’s reserve a little more and allowing Tom closer. Grace found herself looking forward to their trysts during the day and storing up anecdotes and questions to put to him at night.

On the fifth night Tom was late and Grace began to worry something she had said the night before had kept him from her. But then she remem
bered he had gently kissed her cheek before wishing her good night and turning his back. His soft beard had tickled her, and she liked the smell of rosemary from his nightshirt. He said it warded off fleas, but Grace guessed he did not want to admit he found the scent pleasant. Although she had observed how big his hands were, the long conversations behind closed curtains gave her the leisure to study them, and she soon saw how carefully he kept them. It was another trait she found to her liking.

She heard the latch on the door click shut and saw the wavering light of his candle through the curtains coming closer until he quietly pulled one back on his side and got into bed. “I am glad to see you, Tom,” Grace said, and she meant it. “I was afraid you would not come.”

Tom clamped the candle onto the post and gave her a quick smile. She saw that he had something on his mind and asked if he would share it.

“Lord John is still at Westminster and sent me home to let Lady Welles know that he will lodge with the king tonight. As ’twas past curfew, he bade me stay here until first light.” Tom grinned. “I made a feeble protest about my duty to him, but he did not have to command me twice. I could hardly tell him I did not want to miss one precious night with my sweet wife.”

“How you exaggerate, Tom,” Grace demurred as she propped herself up on one elbow. “But what keeps him there, pray?”

“Henry heard today that Charles of France has offered this so-called duke of York shelter there,” Tom said. “His grace’s stern measures with the Irish have made the man unwelcome.”

Grace lowered her eyes to her finger tracing on the bed sheet and asked as innocently as she could, “Why do you say ‘so-called’? Could he not be the real Prince Richard?”

Tom gave a derisive grunt. “Come, Grace, you surely cannot believe the boy has risen from the dead. ’Tis well known the two princes died in the Tower—by fair means or foul. Though I never said so to John, I am one who thinks King Richard had them dispatched.”

Grace’s brow snapped together and she sat up across from him. “Why, that is slanderous, Tom,” she declared. “Where is your proof that Uncle Richard ‘had them dispatched’? Could he not have sent them away instead—say to Calais or Burgundy—in case someone”—she lowered her voice to a whisper—“like Lady Margaret and her son saw them standing in the way of the throne?”

Now it was Tom’s turn to be angry. “Never let me hear you utter such nonsense in this house,” he hissed as loudly as he dared. “You are a guest in Viscount Welles’s house, and I am his retainer. King Richard is dead and King Henry rules. Never forget that, Grace. Oh, I knew I should not have told you this. Why are you so bent on destroying us, our future? There is no future but Henry, and although I may not like it, I am at his mercy. Besides, I have sworn my fealty to him—and you were a witness.” They glared at each other in the candlelight until Tom’s expression softened and he put out his hand to touch hers. “Please, Grace, have a care.”

Tears welled in Grace’s eyes. “’Tis easy for you to say, Tom. But this ‘so-called duke of York’ may well be
my brother
. If there is a chance for him to be reconciled with his family, with his mother; if there is a chance that he may be reconciled to his rightful crown, then who are we to be cowardly and deny him?”

“Cowardly!” Tom’s voice rose and he snatched his hand away. “You call me coward, Grace? Now you have truly wounded me. Forgive me if I change my mind about staying with you tonight. I see that my company offends you. I wish you good night.”

Before a chastised Grace could reach out her hand to stay him, he had taken the candle and was gone. She buried her face in her pillow and sobbed quietly. Let him come back, she prayed. I do not mean to hurt him, truly I don’t. ’Tis not his fault he is not John. John! Oh, John, have pity on me, she begged, and let go of my heart.

She tossed and turned for another hour, fretting over the conversation with Tom. When she did finally sleep, she dreamed she was in a long hall, the walls of which were covered in dark tapestries. Peering out from behind each one as she passed was the king’s mother, Margaret Beaufort. “I am spying on you, Grace Plantagenet,” she crowed, and then swiftly hid herself again. Grace began to run, but the door at the end of the room never got closer, and then she noticed there were strange faces staring at her from mirrors, from between the branches of the chandeliers, on top of a cupboard that held the king’s plate. All were whispering the word
spy
over and over, making the room sound full of snakes. Terrified, Grace called out to the one person she knew would save her. “Tom!” she cried. “Help me, I beg of you! Help me!” The door suddenly flew open and Tom stood there, not moving. She reached out her arms to him as the floor
began to float under her feet, and she looked down to see blood covering the tiles.

“May you drown in your lover’s blood, Grace. I have washed my hands of you,” Tom’s voice echoed as if in a vacuum.

“No!” she screamed at him. “John is dead. Help me!”

Matty finally resorted to slapping her mistress’s face when her gentle shaking and calling failed to work. The sting of Matty’s hand forced Grace awake and her eyes were momentarily blinded by the candle thrust in her face.

“Mother of God, my lady. But you did cry out like one faced with the flames of hell,” Matty whispered. “’Twas but a dream—a terrible dream. Are you feverish, mistress? Shall I fetch wine?”

Grace blinked and touched her burning cheek. “Did you hit me, Matty? It feels as though someone slapped me,” she said, puzzled. Noting Matty’s sheepish expression, she didn’t know whether to laugh or reprimand her servant. Glad to know she had only been dreaming, she chose a middle path. “No harm done, I dare say,” she admitted, smiling. Then she wagged her finger. “But pray do not ever think of doing it again.”

Matty shook her blond head vigorously. “Nay, my lady. I am sorry, my lady. But I was afeared you would wake the whole house, you did cry so loud.” She was agog to know the nature of the dream, but Grace did not share it. Instead she told her servant to go back to sleep and slipped out of bed to use the jakes. Matty inhaled a quick breath as the candlelight revealed that Grace’s monthly course had taken her unawares. She drew back the curtains and took off the bed sheet, laying a large square drying cloth on the mattress in its place. Anticipating her mistress’s need—Grace was as punctual as the full moon every month—she had already prepared a pile of clean torn cloths and now set them next to Grace along with the candle.

“Thank you, Matty,” Grace said from her low perch. “You are a good girl, in truth.”

“Aye, my lady. Thank you, my lady,” Matty curtsied and then curled up on her little truckle bed and was asleep in a second.

Grace was intrigued by her nightmare, although she hoped she would never have it again, as it had seemed so real. She wondered if Tom had really washed his hands of her. And now, because it was the time when a
woman must be left alone, her chance to mend the fence with him would not come soon.

C
ECILY WAS TO
accompany Grace to Bermondsey despite her lack of enthusiasm for seeing her mother. A message had been dispatched to Elizabeth that Grace would not be arriving for a few days, but as Anne had left on the appointed day, their paths did not cross. Grace was disappointed to learn this; she had hoped to be brought up to date on Elizabeth’s condition from a less antagonistic source than Katherine Hastings. But now that Elizabeth had been granted a third attendant through Bess’s urging and Henry’s wish to please his wife, perhaps Grace would hear the truth.