The King's Grace (58 page)

“It seems my lord Welles has rewarded me for my efforts at Blackheath. Even though I was only doing my knightly duty by defending our banner, I fought well enough to have been knighted. My lady, you are now staring at Sir Thomas Gower!” he cried, laughing at her gap-mouthed face. She gave a shriek and jumped into his arms, almost bowling him over and making Freya bark and race around them in excited circles.

“Tom, Tom, you should have written and told me. Oh, how proud I am of you, my dearest,” she said, letting herself back down onto the ground. “Your mother will be delighted. Look at you, husband—you are as red as a robin’s breast!” She took his hand and kissed his palm, flirting with him under her lashes. “I wonder if nights with knights are any different than with ordinary men?”

“Soft, Grace,” Tom admonished her, chuckling. “Not in front of Susannah!”

“So, now you may tell me the bad news, for nothing will break my merry mood, I promise.”

“I trust you will understand that ’twas not my decision, but the queen’s,” Tom began, taking her arm and continuing their pace. “You are called back to court, Grace, because the queen wants you to attend her in Lady Cecily’s stead. One of the Welleses’ daughters has been stricken with a malady the doctors are unable to recognize. The queen has sent the viscountess to Hellowe to be with her child for the summer. I am to escort you to London in a week’s time.”

“A week?” Grace said, her voice faltering. It had not occurred to her that she would return to life at court, as she thought Henry had made it clear she was no longer welcome there. She had grown to love Yorkshire and its blunt but good-hearted people, and she looked on Alice as her mother. Other than Enid, there were no nursemaids or attendants in charge of her children, which meant she was at liberty to watch them grow and change—take their first steps, say their first words and, aye, she could even take care of their dirty linens. And she had nothing to wear. Her court gowns must be old-fashioned now—they were none too fashionable when she was there, except for the beautiful brown silk gown that Elizabeth had afforded for the audience at Westminster with her cousin of Luxembourg all those years ago.

“God’s bones, Tom!” she exclaimed, startling her husband with her vehemence and unusual oath. “Am I to be a servant for the rest of my life? Grace go here, Grace go there, Grace attend this one, Grace attend that one? I have my own family now, and I am still a king’s daughter. Can I not live in peace here? Edmund is pleased with my help; the children are strong and love the farm life. The only part I hate is your long absences. Oh, Tom, how can I leave my two little ones? ’Twould break my heart.”

“Come down from your high horse, sweetheart,” Tom replied, stopping her and taking her hands. “Certes, you are invited to bring the girls with you. Your sister is most pleased to invite them, and calls them her dear nieces. ’Twill not be for very long, and as the viscount must be with the king and the king and queen will be at Shene throughout August, we shall see each other more often. ’Tis an honor to serve the queen, and you dare not refuse her grace’s command, my love—you must see that.”

Grace relaxed the stubborn line of her mouth into a reluctant smile.
Certes, she could not refuse, and she told him so. “But your mother will be desolate, in truth. She adores Susannah and Bella. She will soon have Edmund’s child to love, I suppose.” She sighed. “Let us go and tell Mother the news and promise Edmund we shall return in time to help with the harvest. It looks to be a fine one this year.”

She stopped and waited for Edgar to catch up to them and then scooped up the bright-eyed Susannah and swung her into Tom’s waiting arms.

T
HE SMALL PARTY
left Westow on a day that showed off the Yorkshire landscape to perfection. When Grace looked back at Alice, Edmund and Rowena waving from the upper field in front of the stone manor house, she saw them framed by an azure sky above, a dark green forest to the east and green and gold fields in front of them. The corn was ripening nicely, and St. Swithun had been kind this year and had not sent the rain on his feast day. The grain would be plentiful and not plagued with mold from too much rain. Tears stung her eyes as she gave one final wave before the figures turned away and went back to their work on the farm.

Edgar had fashioned a special basket for Bella that held the baby safely in front of him on his large rouncy, and Enid was riding pillion so that she could monitor her charge’s needs. But it seemed the gentle swaying of the basket kept the child sleeping for much of the day, meaning Grace and Enid had to minister to a wakeful bundle for their five nights upon the road. Their route took them through the center of England, and Grace was saddened by the names of places they passed by that were synonymous with battles fought in the struggle of Lancaster against York—Towton, Wakefield, Stoke, Northampton, St. Albans and Barnet—where many of her own family had lost their lives. She clutched Tom around the waist and shuddered, not wanting to imagine what it must have been like to see one’s husband, sweetheart or brother march off to fight. Tom patted her hand. “Are you cold, hinny?” he asked as they left the village of Barnet behind on their last leg of the journey to London. She smiled, loving it when he used the northern endearment, which he tended to do after spending time at home.

“Nay, Tom. I was thinking about the terrible waste of life that battles cause. ’Twas at Barnet where the great earl of Warwick lost his life, was it not?”

“Aye, and his brother, John Neville,” Tom said. “The two were laid out for all to see at Saint Paul’s, my uncle told me. But better to die in battle than on the scaffold, in truth. Although, as befitted their noble rank, they would have been spared the usual traitor’s death, unlike the leaders of the Cornishmen after the debacle at Blackheath.” Grace shivered again. She thought of John for the first time in a long while and smelled again the sickly scent of burning flesh and hair. “And the foolish followers of the Warbeck fellow who were taken at Deal.”

“Do not call him that, I beg of you, Tom. Not in front of me,” Grace said. “Believe what you will, but until someone proves otherwise, I shall think of him always as my brother.”

Tom sighed. He hoped he would not have to lecture her again about keeping silent on the subject when she was with the king and queen. While she remained at court, she would have to become accustomed to hearing the man referred to as Perkin Warbeck, or by Henry’s favorite moniker: “the boy.” There was even a rumor that Warbeck was the result of a liaison between Margaret and her confessor, Henri de Berghes, the bishop of Cambrai, although Tom had dismissed it as ridiculous. He squeezed Grace’s hand again, and she did not reject him but laid her cheek on his long back, the kersey tunic soft against her skin.

And thus they rode into London, past the fields and gardens of the immense St. Bartholomew’s Priory to where the Aldersgate gaped like a mouth in the twenty-foot-high city wall. The smell of the ditch before the wall made Susannah cry “Pooh!” and Bella held her little nose. The sentries came to attention upon seeing the queen’s banner and cleared a path for the small meinie. Before them, carts drawn by oxen, piled high with tuns of wine or sacks of flour, lumbered through the hulking stone gate upon which was set the rotting haunch of a man whose body had been hacked into quarters and, together with his head, pilloried thus on each of London’s gates. Grace averted her eyes and was glad when Tom pointed out St. Paul’s spire to Susannah to divert her attention from the carcass.

To avoid the crowds in the center of the city, Tom chose to keep close to the inside of the wall around to the east and thus to the Tower. He had received word along the way that the court was still at the Tower following the Cornish rebellion scare, and Grace was not looking forward to going there. All she knew about it was that, despite being a royal palace, it was
the place where Ned and Dickon had disappeared and still housed her unfortunate cousin, Ned of Warwick.

With its wide moat and low curtain wall, the Tower looked more like a fortress than a palace. They crossed one drawbridge to an island gate, called Lion Tower, and then over another bridge to the Middle Tower before reaching the gate in the high Byward Tower. Soon the children were stretching their legs on the manicured grass by the Garden Tower, which the royal lodgings abutted.

Tom led them to the entrance to the queen’s apartments and they climbed the staircase to the second floor, where they found the suite of apartments to be richly decorated and with leaded windows that looked out onto the flower gardens below. The massive central White Tower was in front of them, where the king was staying this time, and Grace was glad Bess was not residing in the same building with him.

“Lady Grace Plantagenet, your grace,” Bess’s chamberlain barked as Tom escorted his wife into the queen’s presence, two-year-old Bella in his arms and Grace holding Susannah’s hand. She had taught Susannah how to curtsy during the last week at Westow, but the little girl was so overawed by the magnificence of the chamber and the beautiful woman seated before them that she stood rooted to the spot. Grace sank into an accustomed reverence, thinking her daughter had followed suit. She heard Bess’s soft laughter and looked up anxiously.

“She reminds me of you the first time I saw you at court, dear Lady Grace,” Bess said, waving her hand to indicate that Grace should rise. “You were just as overwhelmed. Come here, poppet,” she beckoned to Susannah, who Grace realized was still on her feet gazing about her in wonder. “Come and tell me your name, and your brother’s…”

Susannah needed no second bidding. Deciding she liked this goddess in her blue and black patterned silk gown with its shiny golden trim, and ignoring the bevy of attendants clucking their tongues around her, she skipped over and clambered up on Bess’s lap before Grace could stop her. One of the ladies attempted to gently remove the child, who was now comfortably seated on the queen’s knee.

“My name is Susannah,” she said, eyeing the diamond and pearl pendant that swung temptingly from the front of Bess’s velvet headdress.

Grace hurried forward, smiling an apology. “She tends to be too for
ward,” she explained. “I beg your pardon, your grace. Susannah, get down and make your reverence—”

“My dear sister,” Bess interrupted her, “I have four children of my own, as you know. Leave her be, I beg of you. Cannot an aunt make her niece’s acquaintance? Sweet Jesu, but she is the image of you, Grace.” She tickled Susannah’s nose with her finger. “Aye, we are talking about you, little poppet. Now, you have not yet told me your brother’s name.”

Grace stepped back and let her child answer. “It’s not a brother,” Susannah scoffed, rolling her eyes to the ceiling painted with golden stars. “She’s Bella, and she’s a girl.”

“Susannah!” Grace exclaimed sternly, plucking the girl from Bess’s knee and setting her down. “You must show the queen of England respect. Now make your obeisance at once!”

Trembling, Susannah curtsied low, her eyes on the ground. Grace’s heart melted. “Beg her grace’s pardon, sweeting,” she whispered in her ear. “’Tis all you need to do.”

Big brown eyes met Bess’s dark blue ones, which had more than a merry twinkle in them, and Susannah lost her fear once more. “I am sorry, your grace,” she said, addressing Bess as her mother had taught her. “I shan’t do it again.”

“You may call me Aunt Bess when we are alone, my dear, because I think you and I are going to be friends.” Bess rose and, bending down, kissed Susannah on the top of her head and then opened her arms to Grace. “It has been too long, sister,” she said after they embraced. “And I see marriage agrees with you. You look the picture of health and—if I may say—prettier than ever.” She smiled past Grace at Tom, who was standing patiently with Bella. “Sir Thomas, my compliments. It seems you make my sister happy.” She paused before adding, “and you make very pretty babes!”

Tom colored and, amused, Grace went to his side, stroking his cheek. “You should not flatter him so, your grace. ’Twill go to his head. But aye, we are very happy. I thank you for noticing.”

When Tom eventually left them to seek out his own quarters and find his master, he breathed a sigh of relief. So far, so good, he thought. Now if only Grace can keep silent about Warbeck, we should have a pleasant few weeks.

T
HE CHILDREN WERE
playing in the nursery, well attended by nursemaids, when Grace went to the inner ward for her afternoon walk in the garden. Bess liked to nap at that time, and Grace could escape her duties, tuck her overdress up into her belt and either pull a few weeds or deadhead the roses when the weather permitted. This afternoon she chose to explore her surroundings and wandered through the archway into Water Lane and under the bridge room to the king’s water gate, where there was the usual hustle and bustle from the wharf as provisions were unloaded and transported into the inner ward. Scores of people populated the Tower, giving a livelihood to bowyers, armorers, smiths, potters, cordwainers, carpenters and coopers. Grace had forgotten how hectic life inside a castle could be after her years at Gower House, and she looked about her with curiosity. Hoping to get a view of the river over the curtain wall, Grace climbed the steps by the round gate tower, but she was stopped by a guard who barred her path with his halberd.

“Begging your pardon, mistress, but no one is permitted up here, on account it be a prisoner I be guarding.”

Grace made to turn back, but her curiosity got the better of her. “Who is your prisoner, sir? Someone of importance?” she asked, noting that the man’s iron kettle helm was a size too large and almost covered his eyes.

“Lord Edward of Warwick, mistress. Bin ’ere now these dozen years, poor sod.” He made a circular motion with his finger to his temple. “Not all there, he ain’t. Only a boy when ’e come, ’e was. Feel sorry for ’im, I do. Not that he’s chained nor nothin’, but I feel sorry for ’im.”

Grace’s heart was in her throat. Little Ned! His desperate cries for help echoed in her mind as she recalled his wriggling body being carried off by Sir Robert Willoughby at Grafton. What had he done wrong? Born to the wrong father, she thought, shaking her head; he could still inherit the throne, despite Uncle George’s attainder. How cruel Henry is, she thought angrily, descending the steps. Then she stopped and turned back to the man.