The King's Grace (6 page)

She arrived at the kennels to check on her favorite pup and was about to gentle him away from his mother’s tit when a villager ran headlong through the gate, shouting, “The king’s messenger be coming!” He was accosted by a guard and prevented from advancing farther, but by then the watchtower sentinel was also alerting the castle to an unexpected visit. He blew on his shawm, its raucous reedy racket causing Grace to stop up her ears and a dog to howl.

“John!” she mouthed, frightened, “The king must not find him here.” Taking to her heels, she raced into the northwest tower, up the narrow twisting stairs and out onto the rampart. John, Tom and two of Tom’s Gower cousins had gone hunting after dinner at noon and had not yet returned. She scanned the forest but realized all she could see were the tops of the trees. The retinue of Henry’s men must surely have passed through the forest from York through Strensall, so perhaps John had seen them and remained hidden. Odds bodkins, she thought, why have I not yet learned to ride? John had promised to teach her, but until he did, she could only ride pillion behind a groom or, on occasion, Cecily, who was an excellent horsewoman. The huge beasts terrified her. The nuns had owned a large ox that pulled the convent cart into Leicester on market days to give the leftover convent produce to the poor. The beast was placid, and Grace had been put on its back once by Sister Benedict, one of the younger nuns, who had taken the child under her wing. But when the ox swished its tail at some pesky flies and struck the little girl, she lost her balance and fell off. She had been afraid of large animals ever since.

Realizing her mission was futile, she ran helter-skelter down the spiral stairs to her chamber to alert her sisters. “The king is come!” she said breathlessly.

Bess dropped her needlework onto the floor and the lutenist missed half of the strings on a downward chord, creating a discordant twang that lent an ominous note to Grace’s pronouncement.

“The…the k-king?” Bess whispered. “Henry is here?”

“The villager said ‘the king’s messenger,’” Grace explained. “I thought the king would follow behind.”

“You witless girl,” cried Bess’s tiring woman, throwing her arms around Bess and glaring at Grace. “A messenger from the king means the king is
not
here. You have frightened my poor sweeting half to death.”

Tears sprang to Grace’s brown eyes and she begged Bess’s pardon. Hiding her unhappiness, she walked quickly from the room, noticing Cecily’s smirk at her older sister’s dismay. I hope Cis’s betrothed is a toad, Grace thought uncharitably, even though she had met Ralph Scrope of Upsall at court, and he had done nothing to deserve such an unkind moniker. She paused at the tower entrance to watch the horsemen dismount and the grooms lead the horses away. A stout man with a long drooping mustache was solemnly greeted by Tom’s uncle as “Sir Robert,” and Grace found out later the man’s name was Willoughby and that he was steward of the king’s household. Catching sight of Grace in the doorway, Sir John Gower hurried up to her and requested that she and her sisters ready themselves to meet the king’s messenger.

“I will send for you all anon, my lady, as soon as Sir Robert has slaked his thirst,” he directed her, and stomped off towards the great hall.

Bess’s lovely face was pale with fear when Grace gave her the message, but her ladies gathered round, untying her sleeves at the shoulders, unlacing the tight bodice and slipping her skirts to the floor. They chose a deep crimson damask gown with blue facing and trimmed with miniver to show off her stature and porcelain skin. She had inherited the best of both her handsome parents, and with her wavy golden hair tumbling to her knees, Grace thought she had never seen anyone so beautiful. In no time at all, the ladies coiled the unruly tresses into a knot on the back of Bess’s head and pinned a fashionable short hennin over it, which hid all that glory from the prying eyes of men. A simple wire frame attached to the hat supported the pure white gauze veil that stood out from her face. A collar of gold set with pearls and sapphires completed the portrait of a princess—oldest child of King Edward the Fourth.

As the attendants were busy dressing Bess, Cecily, Grace and Margaret helped one another into more fetching gowns, and a little later, when the sun was dipping below the west wall, all four stepped across the great hall’s threshold.

“I am ready to face the enemy. Wish me well, sisters,” Bess whispered as Sir John Gower came forward to take her hand and lead her to Sir Robert.

“For inspection,” Cecily muttered angrily. “As if she were a horse or a cow.”

Grace shuddered and her heart went out to Bess, standing there so regally, being ogled by the middle-aged Willoughby. Cecily and Margaret took a few steps forward and Grace followed, hoping she was well hidden behind Cecily’s larger girth. Sir John sent Tom to escort them to cushioned stools against the wall and out of the bright light of the massive chandelier dripping wax from a hundred candles. They could not hear what was being said to Bess, so Cecily started to bat her eyelashes at one of Sir Robert’s knights, but Grace folded her hands on her lap, stared at her fingers and retreated inside her comfortable shell.

She thought back to a conversation she had had with Bess one day in the meadow when Cecily had been confined to the castle during her courses. They were making a garland to help cheer their sister, and Grace suddenly noticed Bess was crying.

“What it is, Bess?” she asked, full of concern. “May I help you?”

Grace’s gentle voice and sympathy only caused Bess to sob more, and to avoid Tom Gower noticing and causing Bess embarrassment, Grace left her spot on the grass and knelt in front of her sister, taking the older girl in her arms.

“Come now,” Grace soothed, sounding more like a mother than a girl of twelve. “You can tell me. I swear on the Virgin I shall not breathe a word to anyone. What is it?”

She stroked Bess’s forehead and pushed a wayward golden strand of hair off the girl’s wet face. Then she proffered Bess her kerchief. “Sweet Bess, blow your nose and tell me of your troubles. Like as not I shall not understand, but Sister Benedict always said ’tis good to tell your heartaches to someone.” She paused, knowing that the good nun may have had God in mind as a listener, but she pressed on. “When you share, it becomes someone else’s care.”

Bess did as she was told and blew her nose. Then, her tears spent, she contemplated the young girl in front of her. “You are a curious child, Grace. So green, and yet so wise. In truth, I know not how to treat with you sometimes. You are not so clever as Cecily and yet you are cleverer.” She shook her head. “I am not making sense, I dare swear. But since you ask, I will tell you why I am distressed. I cannot speak of these things to Cis, for she either laughs at me or becomes as watery as the conduit in the Chepe.”

Grace had no idea what Bess was talking about, but she nodded sagely. “I am listening, Bess,” she said. “Is it about King Rich…I mean, Uncle Richard?”

“Nay, it is not!” Bess was emphatic, her brows snapping together. “What do you know of that, pray?”

“Nothing very much,” Grace assured her, as she sadly realized her presence at Westminster must have gone unnoticed during the months before Queen Anne’s death, when the subsequent rumor about Richard and Bess was circulated. She wished she had been more forthright during those times, but she was learning. She had accepted that she was an inconsequential member of this royal brood, and as such had done her best to stay out of everyone’s way at court.

“I regret I made no impression upon you back then, Bess. But I was there; I saw what happened,” she said quietly.

Bess was aghast at her faux pas. “Forgive me, Grace,” she cried. “Certes, you were there. My mind is elsewhere, I have to confess.” She sighed. “I have thought much about my feelings for our uncle since we were all sent here, and I see ’twas naught but a young and foolish fancy I had. Nay, my thoughts were far from the king, in truth.” She hesitated, ashamed of herself for crying in front of the younger girl. “I was remembering a time long ago, when I taught our brother—sweet little Dickon—how to make a daisy chain, like this one. And it reminded me that I may never see him or Edward again.”

Grace nodded. “One of your mother’s ladies told me she thought Uncle Richard had…” she did not dare finish.

“I do not want to believe it, Grace,” Bess answered sadly, “but where have they been all this time? It has been two years since we’ve had word of anyone seeing them at the Tower.”

“Perhaps they were sent away for some reason,” Grace ventured, her curious mind already conjuring up several. There was nothing Grace loved more than a mystery, and finally someone was addressing this one. “You cannot give up hope yet, Bess.”

Grace’s earnest little face made Bess smile. “I suppose you are right. ’Tis possible Uncle Richard sent them to our Aunt Margaret in Burgundy. I did hear such a rumor after we left sanctuary. But why would he not tell us?”

“I know not. But why were you in sanctuary, Bess? No one has ever explained that to me. Anne, Catherine and Bridget did not tell me much except that it was cramped and cold. Were you all there?”

“Aye. Certes, except for Ned; he was in the Tower.” When Bess saw Grace’s puzzled frown, she elaborated: “You see, when Father died so unexpectedly, Mother quickly sent word to her brother, Uncle Anthony—Lord Rivers—at Ludlow, where Ned was under his guardianship, preparing for the day when he would be king. Who would have guessed that day would come so soon?” she mused, shaking her head. “But no mind. ’Tis said Mother wanted to be regent, and so needed to have Ned with her in London to win over the people and Parliament. She asked Anthony to hurry to London with Ned. But, you see, when he was dying, Father named Uncle Richard as Lord Protector, meaning he would rule until Ned reached his majority and Mother would have no power. And so she ‘neglected’ to send a messenger north to Middleham and hoped Rivers and Ned would reach London first. ’Twas a rash decision that led Uncle Richard to believe Mother and Uncle Anthony were acting treasonously.” She paused for Grace to take this all in. “That is the side of my mother I do not understand—or, God forgive me, admire,” she remarked, tearing apart a daisy. “Why would she do such a thing? Uncle Richard was a good man; he would not have treated her unkindly.” She caught Grace’s surprised expression at this confidence and muttered: “Pray forgive me, I am thinking aloud.”

She contemplated a chewed thumbnail and then continued: “Uncle Richard was warned of Mother’s actions—’tis said by Will Hastings—and hurried south. He met up with the Ludlow party on the road at Stony Stratford, and when he saw the large army Uncle Rivers had with him, he understood Mother’s intentions, arrested Rivers and sent him here.” She glanced up at the castle, her blue eyes pensive.

“But sanctuary, Bess. You have not told me why her grace had to go into sanctuary?” Grace’s knees were numb, but she was so eager not to miss a word, she could not move.

“Because she was afraid of what Uncle Richard might do to her,” Bess said. “She was so fearful when she heard what had happened at Stony Stratford, and that Richard was on his way to London with Ned by his side, she knew she had lost. Certes, ’twas her ambition that put us all in danger.” Bess’s mouth was set in a firm line, and she held her head high. “If
I do become queen of England, I shall not engage in scheming and politics. I have seen how much it hurts people. I do not believe for one moment Uncle Richard would have harmed any of us, but she must have believed she was trying to protect us all by seeking sanctuary. ’Tis the only reason I have been able to accept, in truth.”

Grace nodded. “Aye, perhaps you are right.” Her mind bounded from one thought to another and she returned to the possible whereabouts of her half brothers. “You say ’tis possible Uncle Richard sent Ned and Dickon to Burgundy—to the Duchess Margaret,” she said, pouncing on the chance to find out more about this relative who was always spoken of with such awe. “What is she like—Aunt Margaret, I mean? Have you met her?”

Bess chuckled. “Aye, when I was fourteen she came back to England for a few months, and we were in awe of her lavish wardrobe. I remember Mother being jealous of all her jewels. But it was her wit and intelligence that were the talk of Father’s court. I heard Jack Howard say that had she been a man, she would have made England a great king. To me she was kind enough”—she shrugged—“and I remember her being tall and handsome—not beautiful like mother, but impressive. She left England to marry Duke Charles, but he was killed in battle nine years later.”

“I think I would have been afraid of her,” Grace said.

Bess patted her knee and leaned forward conspiratorially. “And they say she and my Uncle Anthony were…well…” she stopped when she remembered Grace was only twelve and an innocent. “…um, close.”

Grace’s eyes widened with shock. “Were they not married to each other?” Her strict convent upbringing often made her the butt of sibling teasing, so she often kept her thoughts to herself, but it was hard to imagine these transgressors not being afraid of going to Hell.

Bess shook her head, laughing. “So prim, Grace! Our father was not the only one who…um…let us say, looked elsewhere for love. Certes, Uncle Richard had his leman, and Aunt Margaret had her paramour, too. Poor Uncle Anthony. Certes, but you know now what happened to him.” She saw Grace shake her head. “After he was accused of treason, Uncle Richard imprisoned him”—she pointed dramatically to a window in the guard tower—“in
there
until he was beheaded at Pontefract.”

Grace turned her curious brown eyes to the window in question and noted the bars on it. “How sad,” she said. “But perhaps he deserved it.”
Then Anthony, Lord Rivers, was quickly forgotten as she begged for more information on her brothers.

“We hardly saw Edward at all once Father sent him to Ludlow Castle when he was only three to be groomed as prince of Wales and the next king,” Bess told her, folding and refolding her kerchief on her lap.

“Three!” Grace exclaimed. “’Tis no wonder your mother pined for him. You must have known little Dickon better, to be sure. What was he like?”