The King's Grace

  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.”

  IT 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 remembered 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 d
own 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.

  CECILY 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.

  Edgar would remain behind. “The viscountess was kind enough to allow you to stay with her household while I am gone, and Master Gower will be responsible for you. Matty will remain here, too. It will not be for very long, for the queen dowager is ailing,” Grace explained.

  Before she could say any more, Edgar fell to his knees, and Grace was disconcerted to find they were still only eye to eye. How she wished she were taller! Still, she knew that, despite her lack of inches, she was ten feet tall to Edgar. Grace was astonished to see a tear fall down his jowly cheek, and she cocked her head at him. “How now, Edgar, what is the matter?”

  “I be your servant, my lady. I don’t want to stay here. I must serve you; I must protect you. Please take me with you,” he begged, pulling off his hood and holding it to his heart. His sparse brown hair stuck up at all angles and reminded Grace of a patch of winter-dead reeds on a riverbank.

  “Come, Edgar, you know the abbey. Why would I need protection there when I have Brother Gregory and his minions to fend off vagabonds? And I cannot believe you want to return and live among those unkind grooms again. Nay, ’tis my wish that you remain here,” Grace said in what she thought was a firm tone.

  At that moment Tom came around the corner by the stable and stopped when he saw her, with Edgar there on his knees. Her unpleasant dream still floating around in her head, Grace’s first instinct was to turn her back on him, but then she admitted Tom could not be held responsible for his actions in her dream. So instead she beckoned to him, and he walked slowly towards her.

  “Well met, husband,” she said for Edgar’s benefit. “Perhaps you would be so good as to explain to my groom why he must stay here while I am at the abbey. It appears he wishes to provide me with protection there. I told him he is being absurd, but he is insisting.”

  “Edgar is right, Grace,” Tom said, much to her chagrin. “As your husband, I insist that Edgar go with you, if for nothing else so I may have news of you. He can be a messenger between us.”

  Edgar gave a loud grunt of approval that made Grace jump. “Aye, sir,” he said with alacrity, bowing as best he could on his knees. “I will be a good messenger, I thank you, sir.” He stood up, unheeding of his now muddied tunic, and grinned down at his mistress. “I be right, all right, my lady. And the Bible says a wife should obey her husband. Ain’t that the truth, sir?” he asked so earnestly that Grace had to hide a smile behind her hand.

  “You are right, Edgar, so ready yourself,” Tom said sternly, ignoring Grace. “I think my wife should read her Bible more carefully,” he added bitterly. And with that, he turned to leave.

  “What, no farewell for me, Tom?” Grace murmured as Edgar hurried off. “Are you still so angry?”

  Tom stopped and thought for a moment before facing her. “Aye, I am still angry with you. If you care to know—though I doubt it—being angry with you is not the same as not loving you. You go with my love, but also my anger. I regret the unpleasantness between us, but I do not know how to reach you, Grace. You seem bent on disliking me.”

  “Disliking you?” Grace said, taking a step towards him. “How wrong you are. I like you better than anyone else in the whole world. And when you left me the other night, I thought my heart would break. I am sorry for what I said, and if my monthly visitor had not intervened, I would have given you my apology sooner. I beg of you, Tom, do not send me away without saying you accept it. Please,” she implored, her eyes watching his for any relenting. “Please.”

  Without a word he drew her to him then, a look of relief flooding his face. As they stood silently in the middle of the stableyard, her head on his chest and his arms holding her close, they did not see the amused glances of the stable hands or hear the whispered comments of a couple of laundrywomen passing by to hang up their washing in the kitchen garden beyond.

  In that quiet moment, Grace knew she could finally move John into a locked compartment of her heart and open the rest to Tom. John would always remain there, but she understood now that he was dead and gone, and he had never really been hers.

  BROTHER DAMIEN WAS the first to greet the two women who arrived on horseback on that cold afternoon in January. He oozed unctuous charm as he escorted them up to the queen dowager’s apartment, professing to have missed Grace these months past.

  “How kind of you,” Grace murmured, although to herself she said, Pish! What a hypocrite. You were hardly aware of my existence all those years.

  Edgar, in his new role as Grace’s servant, was able to recruit one of his former fellow grooms to help him carry Grace’s wooden chest up the stairs, and Grace was amused to see Edgar’s smirk of satisfaction when the groom grumbled but obeyed.

  Poppy’s yapping alerted Elizabeth and Katherine to approaching strangers, but the terrier’s furiously wagging tail and snuffling under the door told them the strangers were well loved, and thus they were not surprised when Grace and Cecily entered. Poppy launched herself at Grace’s knees, then sprang vertically up and down with excitement until Grace bent down to gather the bundle of white fur in her arms. Thus encumbered, she sank into a low curtsy next to Cecily, as civility required, before she had had a chance to look at Elizabeth properly. When she did, she had to force the smile of greeting t
o stay curved upon her lips. Profoundly shocked at the dowager queen’s deterioration, she waited until Cecily had greeted her mother before rising and kissing Elizabeth affectionately on both cheeks.

  “Well met, Grace,” Elizabeth said, her sunken eyes warm and her tone welcoming. “I wager you did not expect to have to sleep here another night when you left last summer. You see, your bed is still here”—she indicated the narrow wooden truckle bed at the foot of the poster bed—“although Anne complained of its size and hardness. ’Twas not the only thing Anne complained about. Sweet Virgin, but I birthed a spoiled child in that one.”

  “Bess told us Anne was sickly and should not stay,” Cecily replied. “What ails her, Mother?”

  “Christ’s nails!” Elizabeth rasped impatiently. “There is naught that ails her except a sharp tongue. She is as healthy as a horse, and I predict she will outlive all of you.”

  Privately, Grace thought Catherine and not Anne was the healthiest of the siblings, with her rosy cheeks, clear eyes and merry mien. As for the sharp tongue Anne was accused of, Grace knew exactly from whom the girl had inherited it. Cecily had caught her eye and winked at the remark.

  “Aye, she proved difficult company, my lady,” Katherine said to Cecily. “Your lady mother was kindness itself, but the Lady Anne was frequently disrespectful. And with my poor dear Elizabeth not herself.” She stroked Elizabeth’s arm, watching her anxiously. For all she is an old harridan, Grace thought wearily, she is entirely devoted to the queen. She wondered if their relationship would mellow as their mutual affection for Elizabeth must surely supersede their previous animosity.

  When Cecily left not an hour later, the attendants helped Elizabeth back to bed and Grace was horrified to know that she could lift the queen so effortlessly. She caught Katherine watching her from the other side of the bed and their eyes met in full understanding over the frail form under the covers. Leaving the third attendant, Alison Mortimer, to watch over Elizabeth, Katherine invited Grace to walk with her, greatly surprising the younger woman.