The King's Grace
All thoughts of Elizabeth and her daughter vanished as soon as she recognized Tom’s tall figure astride a chestnut palfrey. Had she stopped to notice, she would have been astonished at the sudden rush of feelings she had for him, but in her hurry to reach him, with her arms outstretched and a delighted “Tom!” on her lips, she did not have time. In a graceful movement from his saddle, Tom bent down and lifted his wife like airy thistledown into his arms. The dainty heartsease fluttered to the ground, forgotten.
“My dearest Grace!” he greeted her before kissing her waiting lips. Grace twined her fingers in his untidy hair and kissed him back, thinking he would squeeze the breath from her. The sound of high-pitched laughter floated up to the oblivious pair, and then Cecily’s commanding voice calling her made Grace pull away with an embarrassed “Oh!” The laborers, grooms and laundrywomen, not to mention several of the monks in the crowd, who had all come to respect Grace over the years, burst into spontaneous applause. Grace wilted into Tom’s protective chest, hiding her eyes and her blush. Tom waved at them gaily and expertly guided his horse towards the stable, one hand on the reins and the other cradling his wife. Edgar was there to take Grace from him and was grinning from ear to ear.
“God’s greeting, my lord,” he said, bowing to Tom. “It be clear to all that my mistress be glad to see you again.”
“‘Master Gower’ or ‘sir’ will be enough, Edgar. I am no lord,” Tom said, laughing. “I may be married to Lady Grace, but I have no right to a title as her husband.”
Edgar frowned as he took this in. “That don’t seem lawful, sir. A husband be more important.”
“Edgar!” Grace exclaimed. “I pray you, know your place.”
But Tom hushed her with a wink and, chuckling, leaned over to Edgar and said: “The sooner you learn that ’tis a woman who really rules the roost, all the better for you when you find yourself a wife. I do nothing without Lady Grace’s permission, believe me.”
“Tom!” Grace laughed. “Do not tease Edgar so. Edgar is my good and faithful servant, and I will not have you putting foolish notions in his head. Now go and see to her grace and Lady Cecily, before your behavior is reported to Lord Welles.”
“See?” Tom muttered to the flabbergasted Edgar and, hanging his head, he pretended to slink off with his tail between his legs. Grace was left staring after him openmouthed, surprised and warmed by Tom’s show of humor.
AN HOUR LATER, after Elizabeth was surrounded by her lovely daughters and wine and wafers were served in the privacy of the queen dowager’s chamber, Grace slipped out with Katherine’s nod of approval to go and find Tom. “I will tell her grace where you are. She will not notice you are gone, I warrant. She is contented as only a mother can be, God bless her.”
Grace flew down the stairs and around the side of the residence to the courtyard. Now that the excitement of the visit had died down, the smith was back at work, and she could hear the swishing of a carpenter’s adze as it smoothed the rough wood plank, the laughter of the laundrywomen and the clucking of the hens as they strutted around the courtyard pecking in the dirt. At the stable, the grooms were currying the queen’s carriage horses, and Grace called out to Edgar, asking if he knew where Tom had gone.
“The last I saw him, mistress, was a-walking in the field yonder,” he said, pointing towards the river. “It be not so long ago. Shall I fetch him for you?” Edgar rubbed his dirty hands on his tunic and then used a grubby sleeve to wipe his perspiring face. He reeked of sweat and horses and Grace waved him away. “Nay, Edgar, I will find him. Finish your work.” She hurried off through the herb garden, snapping off a stalk of mint to crush between her fingers and refresh the air. She was very fond of Edgar, but his lack of bodily hygiene distressed her.
It was not long before she saw Tom, his long legs striding through the long grass towards a small cow whose leg was stuck in the mud.
“Clover!” Grace cried, hitching up her skirts and taking off running. “Certes, it looks like Clover. Tom! Tom! Wait for me.”
Tom turned when he heard her and waved his hat. She caught up to him, breathless, and explained that this was the cow she had weaned the year before. Not heeding the wide swath of mud and cow manure that Clover was mired in, she waded through to the cow’s side, speaking gently to it. Clover was unafraid and seemed to know Grace was there to help, and soon Tom was easing the animal’s hoof out of the sucking muck as Grace slapped its scrawny haunches to get it to move. Eventually they succeeded, and when Clover slowly turned her head to gaze at them before lumbering off to greener pastures, they both collapsed laughing into the long grass.
“I could swear that cow knew you, Grace. ’Twas a look of love she gave you,” Tom said, taking off his muddy short boots and wiping them on the grass. “Were you not afraid she would kick you?”
“I did not think on it,” Grace said, shaking her head. “She needed our help and I was glad to give it. She might have broken her leg and ended up on the refectory table. I could not let that happen.”
“What a good farmer’s wife you would be—if only I had a farm,” Tom teased her, and them tickled her nose with a grass frond. “Did you come to find me to say the queen is ready to return to London?”
Grace looked up coyly from under her lashes. “Nay, husband, I came to snatch some moments with you alone. I know we have much to talk about, and I have much to be forgiven—” She did not have a chance to finish, as Tom pulled her to him and began to kiss her. He kissed her forehead, each eye, her nose and her lips and then worked his way down to her breasts. Grace allowed him to touch her under her chemise and her body tingled all over when he caressed her brown nipples with his fingers. Gently he unlaced the back of her gown and drew off the bodice. Then he untied her chemise and eased it down over her arms, leaving her naked to her belly. Grace thought she would swoon with pleasure when he teased her breasts with his kisses, and she felt a rush between her legs as her desire mounted.
“Come to me, Tom,” she whispered, helping him lift her heavy skirts. “I would have you make love to me like that afternoon at Collyweston. Do you remember?”
“Do I remember?” Tom laughed almost harshly as he untied his codpiece. “It has lived in my dreams every night since that day. Now, I pray you, my sweet Grace, stop talking!”
Grace thought she must have been in Heaven for the next half hour as she was pleasured over and over again in the sweet-smelling grass, a ceiling of blue above her and the song of a lark drowning her rapturous little cries.
“I love you, Tom Gower,” she murmured into his corn-colored hair when he finally lay quietly on her naked breast. “Thank you for waiting for me to know it.”
“I would have waited until the cows came home,” Tom replied sleepily. And then he lifted his head and turned to stare off in Clover’s direction. “I suppose you could say that I did.”
Grace tweaked his ear, laughing, then pulled his head to hers and kissed him once more for good measure.
ELIZABETH HAD TURNED her face to the wall, Katherine said to Grace one day in early June. “Did you not notice how, after she had bidden her children farewell, she turned inwards?” she asked. Grace nodded, remembering guiltily how she had arrived back at the apartment flushed from her passionate rendezvous with Tom just in time to wish her sisters God speed. Cecily had wagged a finger at her.
“Why, Mistress Peasant, do look at your shoes, the grass stains on your gown and your badly laced bodice,” she murmured as they stood near the door while Elizabeth, her face impassive, gave her blessing to her younger daughters. Little Bridget was sobbing, but Grace noticed Elizabeth did not touch or comfort her. Truly she loves them, she thought, recognizing the suppressed sadness in Elizabeth’s eyes, which she dared not show them. And yet she has shown me love; ’tis a puzzle, in truth.
“I had to rescue a cow,” Grace said, her face not moving a muscle and her tone as matter of fact as if she were describing the weather. Cecily guffawed, making her mother look up and frown, while Aliso
n helped Bess out of the chair, the young queen’s advanced condition causing her to reach round and support her aching back.
“There you are, Grace,” Elizabeth said. “I trust your time with Tom Gower was productive?”
Grace demurred with a small curtsy as Cecily whispered to her, “Enough to produce a child, I’ll warrant.” Grace surreptitiously leaned back and poked her sister’s thigh, trying to hide her laughter.
As Elizabeth turned her attention back to her blessings, Grace stepped up to Bess’s side and slipped her hand in her sister’s. Bess looked down at her and smiled. “I remember you doing that all those years ago at Sheriff Hutton when I was so frightened of my future,” she said softly. “Now you do it to comfort me, as ’tis plain as a pikestaff we shall be grieving for my lady mother before long. Am I right?”
“You have the measure of it, your grace. I would have you know that your mother was always good to me, and believe me when I say I shall grieve as though she were mine, too.” Tears pricked behind Grace’s eyes as they watched Elizabeth from across the room. Catherine and Anne had risen and curtsied, but Bridget was still on her knees, crying. Bess let go of Grace’s hand and went to help her little sister up. “We must leave, Biddy,” she coaxed. “You can come again next week, if you would like.” Bridget turned into her oldest sister’s arms, and Elizabeth motioned Bess to take the child away. The meeting had exhausted her, and she wanted nothing more than to lie down and never wake up. The sisters and Katherine filed out, leaving Grace standing quietly by to watch over Elizabeth.
In a gesture of complete respect, Bess, who by rights should have been thus honored by Elizabeth, sank into an awkward reverence in front of her mother and asked for her blessing again. Instead of giving it, the queen dowager suddenly leaned forward and hissed: “You have been here nigh on two hours, daughter, and you have said nary a word about my son.”
Bess was nonplussed. “Your son, Mother? Do you mean Dorset?” Bess responded evenly.
“Nay, I do not mean Thomas,” Elizabeth snapped. “I am talking about Dickon, your youngest brother. Certes, I have heard that he has been seen in the Low Countries and Ireland. If ’tis so, then the crown belongs to him, not Henry. Surely Henry—and you as his queen—must be having a few sleepless nights?”
Seeing her sister struggling to stand, Grace ran forward to help.
“Aye, there is a man who pretends he is Richard of York,” Bess retorted, using Grace’s shoulder as a crutch, “but none of us who knew Dickon nine years ago has set eyes on him since, and thus Henry is dismissing him as a mammet of Aunt Margaret and her arrogant son-in-law, Maximilian.” She turned and began to pace, and when Grace saw the telltale hand flutter to her mouth for the ritual nail-biting, she knew Bess was trying to hide her nervousness. “Henry is gathering evidence as we speak to denounce the man as a fraud—just like Lambert Simnel,” Bess continued bravely. “Whoever this man is, he cannot be your son, madam. Your sons were murdered by Uncle Richard and Buckingham.”
Grace gasped at Bess’s tactless statement. Finding her feet and a last burst of energy, Elizabeth grasped Bess’s wrist. “My son is still alive, I tell you!” she spat. “He will come, mark my words, daughter. And your measle of a husband can slink back into the Welsh wilderness whence he came.” Exhausted, she sank down into the chair, and Grace hurried to fetch a cup of wine.
Bess gritted her teeth. “I honor you too much to quarrel with you, madam,” she said, rubbing her wrist. “It would seem to me ’tis the bile in you speaking and not your true self, and so I forgive your lapse of courtesy. But do not forget I am now the queen, and when you insult the king, you insult me.” She swiveled on her heel and made for the door.
Grace stepped in front of her, tears in her eyes. “I beg of you, your grace, put yourself in your mother’s place,” she whispered. “After many years of anxious wondering, she has heard that one of her sons may yet live. Can you not understand the hope she has in her heart?” she pleaded. Then, more boldly, she said, “Besides, we have no proof that he is or is not Dickon yet, so allow her to hope until then—please.” Seeing her sister relent, she put her hand on Bess’s arm. “Can you not see ’tis this hope that keeps her alive?” she murmured. “I beg of you, do not leave here angry, or you will regret it, for you may never see her again.”
Bess looked down at Grace’s hand on her arm for a moment, and Grace forced herself not to loosen her hold even though it felt like kindling on a fire. Then the queen looked into Grace’s honest eyes and a small smile appeared on her lips. She shook her head and patted Grace’s hand. “Certes, ever the peacemaker, sister. I should have Henry send you to France to negotiate with King Charles.” She glided past Grace to her mother, but this time she did not go down on her knees. Instead she bent and kissed Elizabeth gently on both cheeks, then picked up one of the frail hands and carried it to her lips.
“Forgive me, Mother,” she said quietly. “I lost my temper for a moment.” She patted her distended belly. “This babe is to blame, I fear. As God is my witness, I would not leave you angry with me, and rest assured I shall pay dearly on my knees when I confess of my disrespect.” She stood up and glanced at Grace. “Here is what I will allow. As Grace seems well informed with regard to this man”—she paused and spoke the words she knew Elizabeth was waiting to hear—“our brother, Dickon, should you choose to send Grace to talk to Aunt Margaret herself, you will have my blessing. I shall inform Henry that a visit by a niece to her aunt sometime in the coming months will do no one any harm. But we will expect to be fully informed upon her return. Is that clear?”
Elizabeth eyed her daughter with new respect. She dabbed at her eyes and nodded. “’Tis good of you, Bess, but I am loath to part with Grace at present. Come, let me walk with you to the carriage so all can see your mother is not dying yet.” She gave Bess a wry smile. “You are a good girl, Elizabeth, and your father would have been very proud of you. Indeed, I am proud of you. You are the consummate consort for a king—unlike me, who brought naught but trouble to my husband. And it seems both of us are fruitful.”
Grace and Bess helped her out of the chair and, leaning heavily on both, Elizabeth made the slow and arduous journey down the stairs and into the main courtyard to see the royal entourage off. Tom was on hand to help the princesses back into the carriage and then, with a quick kiss and farewell to Grace, he sprang on his horse and led the way back to Southwark. Grace and Katherine stood on either side of the queen dowager, helping her to stand erect for a last glimpse of her daughters. The only woman in either group who did not shed a tear at that moment was Cecily.
ELIZABETH’S LAST FEW days took her in and out of lucidity—sometimes crying, sometimes praying, but mostly sleeping. Once, in the middle of the night, she whimpered for water to slake her thirst. “Bring me the pure spring water from Grafton,” she begged, forgetting where she was, and when Grace hurried to her side, she clutched at Grace’s cambric shift fearfully. “Are the windows and door closed? The Devil wants my soul, you know. Christ in his mercy, do not let the Devil in,” she cried.
Katherine awoke then, but Grace motioned to her that she would keep vigil until the queen slept again, so the older woman turned over gratefully in her cot and resumed her snoring.
“My dear lady,” Grace soothed, holding the horn cup to the queen’s parched lips. Whatever was gnawing at her belly had woken her and was causing frequent spasms of pain to cross her pinched face. “Here is something to calm you, from Brother Benedictus. And I can assure you there is not a chink in the room wide enough for the Devil to slip through from outside.” Indeed the room was stifling on that warm June night because Elizabeth insisted all windows be shut tight against the satanic forces she believed were threatening her. The pungent smell from the bed told Grace the queen had once again wet herself, and she fetched the newly washed shift from its peg on the post and gingerly helped Elizabeth out of the soiled one and removed the sodden bundle of rags from between Elizabeth’s wasted thighs, depositin
g them into the jakes. Once Elizabeth was in clean linen, Grace fanned her perspiring face, hoping the potion would soon begin to work its calming magic. She gazed fondly at her mentor, who was resting back on the pillows, her pale face and even paler hair hardly distinguishable against the white linen.
“You are a good girl,” Elizabeth muttered. “Come, stay with me through this night.” She patted the bed beside her and insisted the curtains be drawn around them, although her other attendants were fast asleep. The candle guttered for a second in the breeze from the curtain and a little cry of fear from Elizabeth told Grace the queen did not want to be in the dark, so she steeled herself for an even more suffocating hour before the cock crowed.
“I want to tell you how much I loved your father, my dear,” Elizabeth murmured, playing with one of Grace’s long brown curls. “He adored me, you know, although ’twas often a puzzle to those who witnessed him seducing any pretty face that passed him by. Ah, yes,” she apologized, “that was probably what happened to your poor mother, Grace.” Grace cast her eyes down to her hands in her lap and listened quietly. “But he always came back to me.” She sighed. “I suspect there are those who believe my mother cast a spell on him—you have heard, perhaps, that she was descended from the witch Melusine, have you not?” Grace nodded; she had been told a hundred times or more. But this was the first time Elizabeth had ever mentioned her mother’s part in her marriage. “’Tis said she wove magic to lure the king to wed me. But, in truth, ’twas Edward’s own lust that drew him to me that spring in Grafton. Certes, all my mother did was extract a promise from me that there would be no bedding without a wedding.” She gave a short laugh. “You did not know my mother, Grace. If you think I am a forceful woman, I am but a squall compared to the tempest that she was.” She reached for her rosary and kissed the ebony crucifix before continuing. “Now, child, I shall tell you a secret that you will swear never to repeat.” When Grace’s face betrayed her trepidation, Elizabeth’s tone was scornful. “Do not be lily-livered about this, my dear. You have the backbone to hear the truth, and I know you can keep a secret. So swear to me you will take this to your grave.”