The King's Grace Page 9

  “’Tis true, Dame Elizabeth can sometimes be demanding of her ladies,” Grace piped up. “The girls and I learned to keep out of the way on those days. But,” she added, not wishing to criticize her mentor, “she was kind to them, too.”

  “I am happy for her that she is to be at court with us,” Bess said. “And I shall have need of her,” she murmured to herself. She had learned much about being a wife and queen from Elizabeth. Unlike Cecily, who chafed at Elizabeth’s demands, Bess respected her mother, even if they sometimes disagreed. She had been old enough to understand what a profligate her father was, and she prayed nightly that whomever God—or Edward—chose as husband for her, she would not have to endure such infidelity. She found herself staring at Grace, a product of that sinning, and, again, she felt awe at her mother’s ability to accept the living proof of it under her own roof. Aye, there was a kindness to the beautiful queen whom others had often derided as ambitious and greedy. Elizabeth Woodville had more than held her own with Edward Plantagenet, for all she was not royally born. There were some who said she was the most beautiful jewel in the land, and Bess did not doubt it. But there was nothing soft about that beauty, and when the news had come that Edward had been pre-contracted to another before their own marriage, Bess had shivered at the diamond-hard expression on that lovely face.

  Grace caught Bess gazing at her and cocked her head, a question in her dark eyes.

  “I was thinking about Mother,” Bess admitted. “She has endured much these past two and a half years. More than most women have to bear. First her husband dies unexpectedly in the flower of life, leaving her in the care of councilors and bishops who have no wish to see a boy king upon the throne. And Father names Uncle Richard—far away in the north—Protector, and not Mother. Then Uncle Richard arrives, convinced Mother and her family are plotting to overthrow him, arrests Mother’s dearest brother, Anthony Rivers, and executes him. And finally her two little sons are taken from her and then, by all accounts, disappear. Aye, ’tis enough turmoil for anyone to bear in a lifetime, let alone in a few short months.” The young women went silent then, contemplating this truth.

  “We are at Grafton, ladies,” Tom’s voice came through the canvas walls after another mile or two. The carriage rumbled slowly over the cobble-stoned courtyard and came to a stop. “The rain is tapering off, so you should not get too wet. But I advise pattens. Sir Robert is already inside, greeting your lady mother.”

  Gowns were smoothed, veils were hurriedly affixed to heads and pattens were strapped to feet. Two guards began rolling up the wall nearest the steps into the great hall, and when the two older girls were helped down from the cumbersome vehicle, they ran in out of the rain and straight into their mother’s arms. Grace and Margaret followed at a discreet distance, and soon little Edward, Lady Gower and the other attendants were crowding into the brightly painted hall. The younger girls squealed when they saw Grace and ran to hug her, bringing tears of happiness to her eyes. She truly was part of the family, she realized, and she smiled and laughed as the children chattered gaily about their exploits and pulled her towards the welcoming warmth of the fire. Elizabeth turned towards the noise with a frown, but when she saw Grace her face softened and she called out: “God’s greeting to you, Grace. Come, let me look at you.” She stretched out her hand.

  Grace dropped a curtsy before kissing Elizabeth’s hand.

  “Nay, we shall have none of that, sweeting,” Elizabeth said, putting her arms around the girl. “You are as welcome as my own daughters. Is she not, Bess? Cecily?”

  The older girls nodded and smiled, and Grace felt as though her heart would burst not only through her skin, but through her tightly laced bodice as well.

  “I thank you,” she said, beaming. “I thank you with all of my heart.”

  AT LAST THE spires of London were sighted through the October mist, after the cavalcade, increased in size by Dame Elizabeth’s household, passed by St. Albans and Barnet, sites of some of the bloodiest battles ever fought on English soil. Tom had never seen London before, and he reined in his palfrey upon Highgate Hill to gaze on the scene in front of him, marveling at the city’s size. As they rode closer he could see the walls clearly, rising out of the great ditches that surrounded the city, and the sheer numbers of carts, horses and pedestrians joining them on the road told him he was no longer in York. His horse shied away from a beggar, running with sores, who virtually threw himself in Tom’s path whining for alms. One of Sir Robert’s men used his horsewhip to make the man move, and Tom flinched. They crossed Smithfield marketplace, where three blackened corpses, much of their flesh eaten away by carrion crows, swung from a gibbet.

  He turned to look at the young women in the carriage and saw that they were averting their eyes and covering their noses and mouths with kerchiefs. Street vendors shouted their wares from behind colorful barrows; a pie man made his way carefully through the throngs with a square board balanced on his head, upon which sat a stack of freshly baked pies; and several children amused themselves by launching rotten vegetables at a sad old man pinned in the stocks. A peddler juggling and jangling the knickknacks that were strung all over his body ran up to the carriage and tried to tempt Cecily with ribbons, gloves and furs. She was happy for the diversion from the gruesome gibbet and gladly parted with a halfpenny for a length of blue ribbon and a colorful wooden comb. Slowly the procession of escorts, carriages, carts and packhorses wended its way to Elizabeth’s townhouse, Ormond’s Inn, a stone’s throw from the city wall and hard by the Holy Sepulchre. A granted property from her husband’s parliament, she had spent many pleasant years under its roof when she was queen.

  The three-storied house appeared small from the outside, but once through the gatehouse, Grace could see there were two extensive wings and a garden beyond the courtyard. The steward greeted Elizabeth reverently. “Welcome home, your grace,” he said and, ignoring the frown from Sir Robert, bowed Elizabeth and her brood into the hall. The pantler was sent running to fetch refreshments from the kitchen, and jugs of cider were set out on the great hall tables; in this house, Elizabeth would be treated like the queen she had been, the steward had informed the staff, and he eyed King Henry’s man with disdain.

  Soon an array of pies and sweetmeats were laid out for the group, and the freshly brewed cider was quickly downed. Sir Robert conversed politely with Bess and her mother but soon made a move to leave. He bent to murmur something in Elizabeth’s ear, and her head snapped up in surprise. “The king commanded this?” she asked, glancing in the direction of little Ned who was happily playing with a top. “’Tis ridiculous, sir. He is only ten and…” She touched her finger to her head meaningfully. “He needs to be with his family. I hardly think ’tis necessary to put the boy in the Tower, do you, Sir Robert?” she finished indignantly.

  “’Tis for his own safety, madam,” Sir Robert blustered, taken aback by Dame Grey’s flouting of his orders. “’Tis the king’s wish. And there is an end to it!”

  The room went silent. All were thinking about two other boys who were taken to the Tower for safekeeping. They waited breathlessly for Elizabeth’s answer.

  “Aye, for safety’s sake!” she cried, and she threw back her head and laughed. Grace was frightened by it: it was not Dame Elizabeth’s usual silvery laughter—the laugh Cecily had inherited—but a cruel, harsh laugh full of hatred and hurt. Sir Robert was unnerved and, much to Grace’s astonishment, for she had not thought it could happen to a man, he flushed red in a mix of embarrassment and anger. Bess recognized that her mother was in a fighting mood and quickly rounded up her younger sisters and shooed them from the room. Ned would have gone with them, but he saw that Margaret was still standing with Grace and ran to her side.

  “Why is Aunt Elizabeth laughing like that?” he asked his sister. “I don’t like it.”

  “Soft, Ned,” Margaret shushed him. “’Tis important. Listen.”

  Sir Robert was flustered, but he knew this Woodville woman could not gainsay
him. She was at the king’s mercy, and she must know it. He must put her in her place, he decided. “The earl of Warwick is next in line to the throne, Dame Grey,” he said with icy politeness. “The king’s grace is anxious nothing shall befall him. I can assure you he will be well cared for, and he will have his own servants. And there is an end to it.”

  Margaret suddenly ran out in front of him. “And what about me?” she cried. “I am his sister. I refuse to be parted from him. He is the only family I have left.” Sobbing bitterly, she fell to her knees. Ned darted to her side and glared at the outraged Sir Robert, whose patience was fast running out. “I will not go with you, sir!” Ned declared, his fists balled and his feet wide as his boyish voice rang around the hall. “I shall stay with my sister and”—he took a beat—“there is an end to it.”

  Grace hid a smile behind her hand. He is perhaps not as simpleminded as you thought, Dame Elizabeth, she exulted. Good for you, Ned, she wanted to call. Ned’s outburst made Elizabeth laugh until she cried, but Bess could see they were tears of pain, not of humor.

  “Enough!” Sir Robert bellowed, his arms akimbo and his large belly heaving beneath his short gown, Elizabeth’s laughter still hanging in the air. “I have done my duty by all of you this past fortnight, caving to your every whim, protecting you the length of the realm, seeing to your comfort and taking more time than I needed to gentle your journey, and I am rewarded by”—and he bent down and poked his finger into Ned’s chest—“impertinence from a child and”—he straightened up—“by mockery from a fallen woman of no further import.”

  A gasp went up from the stunned assembly, and Willoughby, aware he had overstepped his bounds, seized the moment. He picked Ned up as if the boy were a feather and strode across the hall, the long toes of his boots slapping against the tiles.

  Elizabeth’s laughter vanished into a snarl. “You shall rue this day, Sir Robert.” She pointed an accusing finger at his retreating form. And to Ned she called, “Tell my boys, if you should see them, they are not forgotten. And neither shall you be, Ned, I swear on your sweet mother’s grave.”

  “His grace shall hear of this,” Willoughby spat over his shoulder as Ned wriggled and flailed his fists at his captor. “I am doing naught but my duty by him. And there is an end to it.”

  This time no one laughed, or even smiled. Elizabeth fell crying into Bess’s warm arms, and Grace crept forward to comfort Margaret, whose pinched, white face stared fearfully in the direction of her brother’s screams, now fading away. “Shall I see him again, Grace?” she whispered. “Certes, God could not be so unkind, could he?”

  “Nay, Margaret. You shall see him again, I swear,” Grace said vehemently. “Even if we have to climb the Tower walls ourselves!”

  HENRY IGNORED THE occupants of Ormond’s Inn while he planned his coronation. He had provided a small retinue of servants for the women, and the girls were sad to see Tom Gower leave to escort his aunt back to Sheriff Hutton. He left with a letter from Grace to John in his pouch.

  “Pray tell him we have not forgotten him,” she had begged. “And may God go with you on your journey, Tom. Only He knows when we shall meet again.” Then she gave him two kerchiefs upon which she had embroidered her initials and a violet and yellow heartsease. “One for you and one for John,” she said shyly. She pointed to the flower. “I have decided ’tis to be my special emblem. Did you know it is called a pensée in French, which means ‘a thought.’ I hope you might give me a thought when we leave. See how it looks like a tiny animal’s face?” she rambled on, wishing she could stop. She took a deep breath. “You and John were kind to me this summer, and I shall never forget it.”

  It was a brave statement from a retiring person, and Tom had grinned and awkwardly taken the gifts, stuffing them with the letter into the leather bag at his waist.

  ELIZABETH SEETHED AS day after day went by without a visit from the king. “Why did he send for you if it was to leave you dangling?” she asked Bess for the hundredth time. Bess shrugged and got on with her needle-point. Grace glanced up at Elizabeth from her mending and again marveled at the woman’s beauty. So pale was her hair, it was hard to distinguish whether it was still the silvery mane that had entranced a whole generation of young men or if it had simply turned white. She wore it pulled so tight under her turbaned headdress that it lifted the creases from her brow and around her eyes, but it made her look younger than her forty-three years. Grace wondered if it was as painful as it looked. She well remembered the first week she had spent with her older sisters at Westminster almost a year ago, when they had held her down to pluck the offending two inches of hair from her hairline and reduced her eyebrows to faint lines. Uncontrolled tears had coursed down her cheeks as they used ivory pincers to remove each hair. “’Tis hard the first time, Grace,” Bess had said kindly, “but ’tis better than shaving it. Then it grows back faster, and you have to shave again.”

  “But why do it at all?” Grace had dared to ask and had cringed at Cecily’s contemptuous snort; vanity was not a vice Grace had been allowed to contemplate at the convent. After her ordeal, she was so certain the Devil would be hiding under the tester bed ready to reach out and pinch her during her nightly devotions that she disappeared into the alcove that held the prie-dieu and prayed for forgiveness as soon as her sisters turned their attention from her. There she noticed the exquisite painting of the Virgin that formed one of the panels on the triptych depicted Mary with exactly the same hair fashion, and she stared at it in disbelief. She had gingerly touched her bald forehead and shed a few more tears for her lost tresses.

  Now, she ventured to admit, she was relieved to look like everyone else. Anything was better than being stared at, she told herself. As it was she was the only sister with dark hair, and on more than one occasion some well-meaning soul had remarked how she must take after her grandfather York, who had passed on his dark looks to his son, King Richard. She didn’t like to tell them that in fact she looked just like her mother, or so the nuns had informed her. Only Elizabeth had refrained from mentioning her parentage, and Grace was astute enough not to mention it, either. She longed to ask her mentor or her sisters about her father but, other than the few times she heard Elizabeth curse her dead husband, she never dared bring the subject up herself. She cherished the description of her little brother, Dickon, that Bess had given her the afternoon in the Yorkshire meadow, and before she fell asleep she would busy her active young mind with the puzzle surrounding his and Edward’s whereabouts. But then often those waking dreams were crowded out by thoughts of John in his prison. She prayed for him nightly.

  “Mother, may we go and watch the coronation procession?” Cecily asked airily, breaking Grace’s reverie.

  Elizabeth frowned at this impertinence but decided to let it pass and allow Cecily the courtesy of a response. “You must understand, child, that I cannot give you leave to mingle with the citizens,” she said firmly. “Anything could happen, and we must not anger Henry should he hear of it. His victory at Bosworth may mean he is king, but it does not mean everyone is pleased. It would appear from my intelligence that his subjects are restless and rebellious. If we go among the people without his permission, he may choose to believe we Yorkists are surreptitiously stirring up more unrest. We dare not give him just cause to change his mind about wedding Bess. Our family fortunes depend on it.”

  “Bess isn’t his yet, Mother!” Cecily cried. “Why, he has not even sent a message of love or intent to her, and we have been here nigh on three weeks. I pray you, let us go and watch. We will take care, I promise.”

  Elizabeth’s icy stare bore a hole in her daughter’s imploring face, and her mouth was set in a thin, firm line. Cecily cast her eyes down to her lap and muttered an apology. Bess was aghast and attempted to change the subject. Elizabeth waved off her interruption impatiently and addressed Cecily. “How dare you gainsay me, daughter, when I gave you a reasonable answer to your first brazen question,” she snapped. “I do not know what happened
to your manners during your sojourn at Sheriff Hutton, but I do not like it. Nay, I do not like it all. Perhaps we should send for your husband to deal with you. But he has not shown his face since Bosworth, so we are stuck with you, more’s the pity.”

  Grace saw two large tears drop onto Cecily’s apple green gown, making dark stains in the tabbied taffeta. It was the first time Grace had seen the spirited Cecily cry, and it took all her resolve not to go and comfort her.

  Then, as quickly as her anger had been aroused, Elizabeth sought to mollify. “’Tis hard for all of us, Cis, and I like it not just as much as you. But unlike those who do not have our privilege, we are not born to do as we please. There is a price to pay for our nobility. However, I thank God every night that I can lay my head on a pillow that smells sweet, snuggle under coverlets of fur, eat the finest delicacies known to man and be clothed in the softest silks and satins. Ask Grace if she prefers living here to life in the convent. Look at her face, Cecily, and I think you have your answer.” She paused, looking around at all the upturned faces of her brood. “We have all been under a dark cloud since your father was taken from us, and we all need to pray fervently that Henry Tudor fulfills his promise to marry Bess at the earliest opportunity and brings us back into the light. It is for your own good that I refuse you permission to roam the streets like peasants.

  “But,” she said, a gleam in her eye, “I do not foresee Henry caring whether or not Grace is among the throng. Once Bess is queen, Henry will be obliged to find husbands for my children, but he will be under no such obligation to Grace.” She turned to Grace, who was biting off her thread with her teeth and looking wide-eyed at Elizabeth. “You could go and be our eyes and ears, Grace. What say you?”