The King's Grace

  “More than three, my lady,” Tom replied. “I am happy to see you again.” His frank, admiring stare unsettled Grace. Come, Lady Grace Plantagenet, she told herself, why should you be unnerved by this man of little consequence? ’Tis only Tom Gower, your fishing friend from long ago. It must be his height, she decided; he made her feel like a child. She drew up every inch of her five feet and even managed to step out of the furrow she was standing in, adding three more inches. She covered her unease by bending down and paying attention to Jason, who had immediately recognized a friend and had tried to jump up and greet her. “Down, boy,” Tom said, and the dog immediately obeyed.

  “Cecily told me you are in her husband’s train,” Grace said, catching sight of her dirty fingernails and trying to hide her hands. “I also heard that your father died, and I am sorry for that, truly I am.” Her voice sounded unnaturally squeaky to her, but the more she tried to lower it, the more she gabbled on. “How is your mother? And your sister—Cat, is it not? Your brother owns the farm now, doesn’t he? And here is Jason. ’Tis Jason, isn’t it? Sit, Jason! Good boy, Jason.” Oh, no, she thought, somebody stop me talking! For the love of Saint Catherine, button your lip, Grace, I pray you. She looked up helplessly at Cecily, who let forth a peal of her famous laughter, which made Tom start chuckling, too. Soon all three were laughing, and Grace’s unease melted away.

  “Holy Mother of God, Grace, when you decide to talk, you would talk the tail off a cat. Forgive her, Tom, she has been locked up for too long in here with my mother, her old bat of a companion and a cloisterful of monks,” Cecily explained, wiping her eyes. She flicked her perfectly manicured hand in her sister’s direction: “So Grace hides in the fields with the sheep and cows, and this is the result. What think you, Tom? Does she not look like a milkmaid? I say she will not find herself a husband looking thus. Do you agree?”

  “Cecily!” Grace spluttered.

  Tom’s fair skin flushed scarlet and he replied, “I think you do Lady Grace an injustice, my lady,” which made Cecily laugh all the more. “Aha, I was right,” she crowed at Grace, as Tom’s color faded and he looked in bewilderment from one to the other.

  Grace glared at her sister. “Pay no attention, Tom, I beg of you. The sun has no doubt addled her wits.” She felt sorry for him, as his blush and stammered response had so clearly given his feelings away. She reached up and slipped her hand through his arm companionably. “You don’t mind if I take your arm, do you, Tom? These ruts can trip one up so quickly. Did you come to keep us company, or do you have a message for us?” she asked, hoping to alleviate his awkwardness. “And please, call me Grace, as you used to do.”

  A shiver went through his arm as she touched him, and it buoyed her confidence that this giant of a man, four years older than she, trembled at her touch. How different from John, she mused, who was never far from her thoughts.

  “Aye, my…I mean, Grace,” Tom said, grinning foolishly down at her. Sweet Jesu, Cis was right, he does carry a torch, Grace thought. She raised a questioning eyebrow, and he remembered why he had come. “I was sent to fetch Lady Cecily; the queen is ready to return to Greenwich.”

  “Cis, did you hear?” Grace called, as a little ahead of them Cecily threw another stick for Jason to prance after. “Bess is waiting for you.”

  “If the queen commands, then we must obey,” Cecily cried, executing an exquisite curtsy to a bean pole on the edge of the vegetable patch. “Nay, Tom, you stay with Grace, and Jason shall keep me company. Come, boy,” she addressed the hound, whose tongue lolled out of his mouth as he stood over the retrieved stick, willing her to throw it again. She flung it once more and followed Jason through the field, her headdress streaming behind her like a pennant in the wind.

  “’Tis hard to believe she is a viscountess, is it not?” Grace chuckled, keeping the conversation light, but Tom only nodded. She wondered if he found her closeness unsettling and, not wanting to give him any false hopes, loosed her hold on him and bent to pick a tall corn cockle from among the barley stalks. They walked on in silence for a few minutes, Tom tongue-tied and Grace debating whether she should mention she had seen John in Bruges. She would have to lie about her journey’s purpose if she did, she decided, because she was not sure she could trust Tom. She had never been able to discover whether he had indeed betrayed Elizabeth in the matter of the letter. So, in the spirit of fairness to him, she took the bull by the horns and, with a sharper tone of voice than she knew was necessary, stated: “Tom, if you and I are to be friends, I must settle something that has eaten at me since the queen dowager was sent to the abbey.” She took a deep breath and, seeing Tom stopped in his tracks, turned to him and whispered. “Was it you who turned over the letter I gave you from Elizabeth to Henry’s spies?” As soon as the question fell from her lips, she knew it had not been Tom. The anger in his eyes and the grim set of his jaw told her she had insulted him, and she was immediately contrite.

  “I…am…sorry, Tom, but you were the last person who had the letter, and ’twas I who put it into your hands. What would anyone think? Lady Hastings accused you in front of the king. I tried to defend you—truly I did—but the prickly seed of suspicion has never left me.”

  His hand on his heart, Tom gave his reply through clenched teeth: “I swear to you, Grace Plantagenet, that I did not betray your mistress nor my master. Henry’s spies were so close to capturing Lord John in Suffolk that he fled on foot and they discovered the letter among other papers in his saddlebags. No one betrayed him—or the queen dowager. I am mortified you would question my honor.”

  Grace was ashamed. “Pray forgive me, Tom. I should not have doubted you. You are an honorable man, in truth, and I am happy to put the matter to rest once and for all.” She turned back to the path. “Come, let us catch Cecily, and I will tell you of my adventure.”

  Then, making him promise not to breathe a word of what she was about to relate, Grace told of her meeting with John at Duchess Margaret’s court, where, she lied, she had been invited to meet her aunt and convey Elizabeth’s greetings in person.

  “He was in such good spirits, although chafing to return to England,” Grace told Tom, detailing John’s fashionable dress and life of luxury at the Burgundian court.

  Already much chastened by her accusation, Tom’s dejection was not helped by Grace’s enthusiastic description of his rival, John.

  “The last thing he said was that our aunt was sending him to join Lord Lovell at King James’s court in Scotland,” she continued brightly. “Did you know Lovell was not drowned at Stoke, as ’twas rumored?”

  Tom shook his head in surprise. “’Tis good news indeed,” he said, although his flat tone belied his words.

  She sighed, not noticing his monotone, and murmured, “How I wish with all my heart John would come here instead.”

  Now Tom bristled. “Your aunt is right,” he said curtly. “John should not come to England, or Henry might arrest him for spying.”

  “Certes, he knows that,” Grace said, a little impatiently. Then she held up the flower, twirling it in front of her nose. “I made him promise he would not put himself in danger,” she said to the delicate pink petals, although it was clearly meant for Tom’s ears. “I could not bear it if any harm befell him.”

  Tom kicked a pebble out of the way with his hard-soled riding boot. Looking askance at his grim face, Grace frowned. “Why the stone face, Tom? Are you not pleased to know John is safe and well?”

  “Certes, Grace! What do you take me for?” he replied, hurt. “But it seems I am not half so pleased as you seem to be. ’Tis plain you wear your heart upon your sleeve.”

  “I am not ashamed of it,” Grace told him. “But why should you care?” She gave him a sidelong glance and laughed, a little more heartlessly than she meant to. “Ah, Tom, I believe you are jealous,” she teased.

  “You do me wrong, Lady Grace,” he answered roughly. “Perhaps I have been foolish to wear my heart upon my sleeve, but I do not deserve your cruel
ty for it. You may rest assured I shall never mention it again.” His sincerity humbled Grace, and she wished she had bitten her tongue. Where had this exchange gone so wrong, she wondered? They had reached the courtyard, where he bowed stiffly and stalked off to join Cecily on her way back to Elizabeth’s apartments.

  Feeling even smaller than she had a few minutes ago, Grace stared after him miserably. What have I done? I did not mean to hurt him; I only wanted him to know he should douse that torch he carries in the nearest river. But who can understand the ways of men? she asked herself, as if she were the expert in affairs of the heart. “Not I!” she said out loud and flounced off to find Brother Oswald in the herb garden. “A pox on too-tall Tom!”

  TRYING TO SLEEP in the sultry night air, Grace mulled over the day’s events, her chemise damp from perspiration. Elizabeth had been morose when Grace finally returned after waving Bess and Cecily off. Riding beside the horse litter, Tom had stared straight ahead, and Grace did not dare to call out a farewell. Her heart had been heavy; she had not wanted to spoil the friendship, but she was at a loss as to how to repair the damage, as she did not know when she would see him again.

  “He will recover, Grace,” Cecily had assured her after Grace quickly whispered the tale. “I will see if I can arrange a suitable marriage for him,” she said with a mischievous grin.

  “I wish you would,” Grace answered as they embraced, and their the little cavalcade moved off. Bess gave Grace a sweet smile from the litter before leaning back on the cushions and closing her eyes. She had forgotten how much her mother could tire her out.

  Grace sought solace in the fields after the carriage disappeared down Long Lane, watching the reapers rhythmically cut the corn with their smooth-edged sickles. Pots of grease, bags of sand and whetstones for sharpening the small curved blades were placed strategically around the field, and many of the reapers were bare-chested in the heat of the noonday sun, their chausses unbound from their belts and tied off below the knee. There were many more workers than usual, men recruited from the neighboring farms and villages to help with the harvest, which was early this year after the hot, dry summer. She hitched her overskirt into her belt and began filling a basket with fat pea pods, unable to resist snapping a few open and savoring the tender contents. The task calmed her and, after depositing the full basket with the head laborer, she walked back to her room.

  Now Grace lay on her bed thinking about Bess and her devotion to Henry. She could not reconcile the love Bess declared for her husband with the sadness she saw in her sister’s eyes. Something is wrong, she thought, but I pray I am mistaken. Bess does not deserve to be unhappy—unlike me. She grimaced in the dark, and her guilt over her unkind treatment of Tom returned to worry her before she fell asleep.

  She dreamed of the grassy field again, and there was John smiling at her from afar. This time he did not disappear from view but turned and shouted at someone else. A second man appeared, holding a sword that glinted in the sun. Grace could not see his face, as it was hidden behind a salet, the visor closed. John shouted again, this time in anger, and went for his sword to face the stranger, but Grace found that she was holding it. She tried to run towards him with it but her feet were rooted to the spot. She cried out for help: “Help him! Somebody please help him!” A shadowy figure carrying a noose appeared near John, and looping it about John’s neck, he began to tug him out of the way of the knight’s sword. It was Tom Gower. “I will help him, Grace,” Tom yelled at her, laughing hideously. “I will help him to the gallows!” Then the knight lifted off his helmet and laughed along with Tom. Horrified, Grace saw that it was King Henry. She willed her legs to move and excruciatingly slowly began to run towards John, but she was too late. Henry pointed his sword at John’s belly and ripped it open, spilling his guts upon the green grass. Grace screamed and woke up, tears streaming down her face, her heart racing and her shift drenched in sweat.

  “Soft, Grace, what is it?” Elizabeth called from the bed. “You screamed to wake the dead—and you certainly woke me. Katherine, fetch the child some wine. Mother of God, but it is hot in here. Small wonder Grace has bad dreams.” She sighed, knowing that whatever sleep she might have had that night was at an end with this disturbance.

  Katherine grudgingly climbed out of bed to carry out Elizabeth’s wish. “Here’s wine for you, Grace,” she said, yawning. Grace sat up and took the cup, the sweet liquid soothing her, although she knew a potion of hot thyme would ward off more nightmares. Then, hearing Elizabeth turn over, Katherine bent closer and whispered, “Her grace has had an exhausting day and needs her sleep. How inconsiderate of you to wake her!”

  “Certes, I wish I had not either, but ’tis God who controls our dreams, Lady Katherine. And this was a bad one,” Grace shot back.

  “The Devil’s handiwork, more like! I saw you dallying with that squire alone in the field. I watched you from the window. You should be more discreet where you do your whoring!”

  Grace gasped at the woman’s gall, but she was in no mood to continue the fight that had begun that morning. She turned towards the wall and gave the woman a terse good night. How I hate you, she thought, and how I wish I could leave this dismal place. It was the last supplication she made to the Virgin before she drifted off.

  IF THE VIRGIN heard her plea that night, she waited until autumn to respond. A messenger arrived from Greenwich with a letter from Cecily that caused Elizabeth to first frown, then nod thoughtfully and take a long, hard look at Grace, who was busy mending a stocking. “Katherine, I pray you go and tell the abbot I shall be dining with him today,” she said to her attendant. “It has been a long time, and I fear I may have offended him by my persistent absence.”

  Katherine’s face fell at the dismissal; she was put out she would now not know the contents of the missive, but she curtsied and left the room. Grace looked up from her work, made curious by Elizabeth’s unusual request. It had indeed been months since she had dined in public, preferring to be served alone by Grace or Katherine, while they took it in turns to take their meals with the rest of the community.

  “Come here, child,” Elizabeth said. “I have some news for you.”

  Grace’s wide eyes betrayed her apprehension until the dowager gave her an encouraging smile. “Many would think it good news, Grace, so do not look so fearful.”

  Elizabeth watched her young attendant carry a stool forward and sit carefully upon it, arranging her faded green dress around her. Pretty thing, she thought, not for the first time; and there is a look of Ned about her when she smiles. She sighed, as she always did when she thought about her dead husband.

  “It seems your sister and her husband are offering you a way to leave me that you would be very foolish to refuse,” Elizabeth began.

  Grace gazed at the skeletal woman in front of her, dismayed always by the hollow cheeks and lifeless eyes. “Leave you, your grace?” she exclaimed, finding the end of her belt and twisting it between nervous fingers. “I could not do that. ’Tis my duty to serve you, after all your goodness to me.” She tried to hide the panic in her voice. Leave? Oh, dear God, ’tis all I know. She glanced around the room, its drab surroundings now seeming cozy and familiar. Thoughts flitted in and out of her brain like barn swallows around their muddy nests. Where shall I go? Why must I go? Then she knew. Henry must have found out about my journey into Burgundy, she thought. He must have spied on me. Someone has betrayed us! Sir Edward? Cecily? Oh, no, she realized suddenly, it must have been Tom. Dear God in Heaven, he must really hate me!

  But Elizabeth did not seem ruffled, and Grace reasoned she would be if they had been found out. Instead she was calmly saying, “I know you know your duty, my dear, and for four years I could not have wished for pleasanter company. But Grace, I am not long for this world, and you have your life ahead of you. We must do what is best for you.” She handed Grace the letter. “Why don’t you read it for yourself.”

  With trembling fingers, Grace reached out for the parchment. She glanc
ed at the signature and saw Cecily’s untidy scrawl at the bottom of the page. She frowned and began to read aloud:

  “Right honorable and esteemed mother, the most high and mighty queen dowager, I give you greeting. This letter concerns our dearly beloved sister, Grace, and insomuch as you, too, love her, you will be pleased to know that Viscount Welles, my husband, has granted his henchman, one Thomas Gower of Westow in Yorks, permission to wed her.” Grace put her hand to her mouth and gave a little cry. “Oh, no! Not Tom,” she muttered, the room beginning to swim around her. She looked down at the letter, but all the words were a blur as she fought back tears. “Your grace, my dear lady, do not make me do this, I beg of you. I am certain Cecily is doing this to be kind, but…” She was at a loss for words and looked up hopefully at Elizabeth. “But I am not ready to be married. Or to leave you,” she added hurriedly.

  Elizabeth rose in one swift motion and swiped the letter from Grace’s hand. “What is this nonsense, Grace?” she cried. “You have no right to contest Viscount Welles’s proposal for you. He is the king’s uncle, and Cecily is the queen’s sister. Do be reasonable and see the sense in this. After all, you are sixteen and no longer a child. Why, I was married with a son at your age. Do you have any notion what is to become of you once I am gone? A nunnery, perhaps? Is that what you want? Nay, I didn’t think so.” She went to the window and read some more. “Cecily is prepared to give you a small dowry, and she wants you to live with her in Hellowe as part of the household. True, I could wish the fellow were higher born or could offer you more than the income of a manor or two, but Cecily says he is a good man with the right leanings.” She arched her brow, intimating that those were Yorkist leanings. “Why, she said he was squire to John of Lincoln. Is that true?” Grace nodded miserably, and Elizabeth retorted, “Then that is enough of a pedigree for me.”

  She went to Grace’s side and with great difficulty crouched down on her heels to Grace’s level and took the young woman’s hand. “Grace, my sweet child, why the sad face? Has this Tom Gower insulted you? Is he a monster? Tell me that he is, and I shall refuse to let you go. Otherwise, your future is not in your own hands—or in mine. You know that. You would be at the king’s mercy once I die, and believe me, he would not think twice about wedding you to the highest bidder or consigning you to the nearest abbey. You would have no choice but to obey.” She sighed as she looked at the sulky expression on Grace’s face. “Speak to me, Grace. I will listen this once, for I owe you much, and I do not wish you unhappy. And, in truth,” she could not forbear to add, “your leaving would inconvenience me considerably.”