The King's Grace (11 page)

“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?”

A
ND SO
G
RACE
found herself dressed in her old blue gown from the convent, now much too short for her, and a plain flannel cloak borrowed from a servant girl. Her hair hung loose down her back with a white linen coif covering it and tied under her chin. Escorted by a burly man named Daniel who carried a staff and whose booming voice and ferocious expression
moved people out of the way in a trice, Grace ventured out that day in late October, a weak sun attempting to shine on the occasion.

Londoners were out in force. Despite having only recently participated in another coronation, any excuse for a day away from the drudgery of their lives was cause for celebration, and they were in full voice when the first trumpets and shawms announced the beginning of the procession. Grace watched as heralds, sergeants at arms, squires, aldermen and knights strode solemnly past her position on the steps of All Hallows on Watling Street and on to Westminster. She thought she had become accustomed to the lavish finery of courtiers during those few months at court, but she stared openmouthed with the rest of the citizenry at the opulence of Henry Tudor’s entourage. Silks, satins and velvets of every color trimmed with fur, ribbons and laces adorned the men who rode by on their colorfully caparisoned horses. Jewels flashed from fingers, necks and hats, making Daniel mutter to his neighbor in his London accent: “’E’s spared no expense, ’as ’e? Don’t give a toss for the rest of us, do ’e? Just as long as ’is arse is on the throne, ’e’s larfing.” A few grumbles followed this little speech, but soon the music and the excitement grew to such a fever pitch Grace knew the king must be near.

Preceding the king were the Lord Mayor of London and Garter king of Arms with the lords Derby and Nottingham, Oxford and…Grace gave a little squeal, “’Tis Lincoln! John of Lincoln!” A couple of spectators turned to look at her and, realizing her mistake, she immediately began to cough shielding her face from the prying eyes. When she thought it was safe, she looked up and watched her cousin parade slowly past, his face impassive and his eyes staring straight ahead as he sat astride his big black courser. At least he is safe, she thought; Bess will be glad to hear that, although riding with his enemies must have been unsettling for him, she decided.

“The king! The king!” the murmuring became a roar as Henry Tudor, once earl of Richmond and now king of England, came into view. Drums and tabors thrummed a slow beat in time with the steps of the four knights who carried a high canopy emblazoned with the royal arms over the bare head of their sovereign. Trumpeters blew an earsplitting fanfare from platforms set up along the route. People craned to get a glimpse of him, and Daniel ended up lifting Grace up off her feet so she could see. The tall, bony man with a thin face and long, wispy, mouse-colored hair, clothed
in a long purple gown trimmed with ermine, walked unsmiling through his subjects, gravely inclining his head to the left and the right. At twenty-eight, Henry looked old to Grace, although he was not the hideous monster Bess and Cecily had imagined. His hooded, pale blue eyes scanned the crowds—almost fearfully, Grace thought. Aye, he looks like someone expecting to be attacked. She remembered something John had said to her once: “To be born royal is to court an early death.” In her naiveté, she had not understood, but, with the disappearance of the two young princes in the Tower and the untimely death of Uncle Richard, she was beginning to see the truth of John’s pronouncement.

“God save the king! God save the king!” The cry was contagious and, much to her astonishment, she found herself joining in with the hundreds of fickle Londoners who had shouted the same words to another king just as jubilantly only twenty-eight months earlier.

H
ENRY WASTED NO
time in calling his first Parliament in November, and by December, two of the many decisions made by the members directly affected the ladies at Ormond’s Inn. Henry was finally taken to task by his Commons for waiting so long to fulfill the oath he took in Rennes Cathedral, so he agreed to wed Bess in the new year. It was then only seemly that Elizabeth be reinstated as queen dowager, and Henry set his lawyers about repealing Richard’s Act of Titulus Regius in which Edward and Elizabeth’s marriage had been deemed illegal and their children ineligible to inherit the crown. Indeed, he ordered every single copy of it destroyed.

The shocking news from those first days of Parliament for many of the Yorkist families was that Henry had dated his reign from the twenty-first day of August—the day before the battle of Bosworth. He refused to recognize Richard as king, and in all edicts and official documents referred to him as “Richard, late duke of Gloucester.” Thus Henry was able to attaint as traitors to himself anyone who had not fought with him on Redemore Plain or had not reconciled with him following the battle.

“Lincoln and his father, Suffolk, have made their peace with Henry,” Elizabeth explained to Grace when she questioned the presence of the earl and duke in the procession. “But the likes of Jack Howard—the duke of Norfolk who died fighting for Richard—and his son, Thomas of Surrey,
are attainted, as are many of our old friends.” She reeled off a list of names that meant nothing to Grace until Francis Lovell was mentioned.

“He is John’s patron, is he not?” Grace asked timidly. “John of Gloucester, my lady,” she clarified, seeing Elizabeth’s frown. “He was with us at Sheriff Hutton.” She was annoyed to feel herself flush.

“Aye, and still there under arrest by Sir Robert Willoughby’s command,” Bess told her mother. “John did not even fight at Bosworth—he was at the rear with the other pages and squires, guarding the supplies. I wonder if Henry has set John free?”

“I cannot possibly imagine why Henry has a quarrel with John, except that he has Richard’s blood in his veins. Perhaps you might ask for John’s liberty as a boon, Bess, now that you are formally betrothed. He is a good boy.” Elizabeth sighed and looked at the clock on the table. “’Tis early yet, but with your first meeting with Henry arranged for the morrow, Bess, I think ’tis time we took to our beds. Grace, send in my women, if you will. And I would like you to serve me the all-night.” Grace rose, curtsied and left the room.

Just before she closed the door, she heard Elizabeth say, “For all she is a by-blow, I cannot help but like the girl. There is a sweetness about her that is pleasing to me. Cecily, you could learn much from Grace. And now, girls, get you to bed.”

Before she could be discovered eavesdropping, Grace flew down the passage, her heart singing.

K
ING
H
ENRY AND
Bess stepped out to the music of lutes, recorders,
vielles
and the droning symphonie. Bess had chosen a shimmering green and gold gown to wear for her first meeting with her betrothed, and Henry was magnificent in a dark blue velvet pourpoint, its sleeves slashed to show white satin underneath. The room was brightly lit with hundreds of candles, as the winter solstice shortened the daylight. The meeting had gone well, and Henry’s frequent smile showed his councilors and Elizabeth that he was well pleased with his bride. Only her sisters knew how terrified Bess had been when she was first ushered into Henry’s presence.

“You were right, Grace,” Cecily whispered. “He is not hideous at all. In fact, he is quite pleasant-looking—if you like tall, thin men.”

“You like tall, thin men, Cis,” Grace retorted. “You flirted all summer with one.”

Cecily’s irrepressible giggle made Elizabeth turn and frown at them both, but by then Henry was escorting Bess through the courtiers to the dais where they would preside over the evening’s entertainment in the king’s audience chamber, and the buzz of conversation saved the girls from further reprimand.

“Oh, Tom,” Cecily scoffed. “I flirted with him only because there was no one else in that backwater. He was pleasant enough, but dull. I couldn’t even persuade him to kiss me.”

Grace gasped. “Kiss you? You asked him to kiss you? How brave you are, Cis.”

Cecily tossed her head and laughed. “Do not think, my sweet innocent, that I did not see you casting moon eyes at John. How shocking! He is your cousin, and thus forbidden fruit,” she teased.

Grace blushed, but Cecily’s words alarmed her. “One cannot love a cousin?” she echoed. “I was told by one of the nuns that brothers and sisters may not wed, but they said nothing of cousins.”

“Aye, ’tis against the laws of the church. Even Bess and Henry must seek a papal dispensation, for they are related in the fourth degree of kinship—in other words, cousins,” Cecily explained upon seeing Grace’s bewilderment. “You and John are first cousins, and if you have the addlepated notion that you might wed him, I do not suppose you would be able to buy a dispensation with all the gold in the treasury!”

Grace’s heart fell like a stone into her stomach. But as she stood quietly in a corner while Cecily was led onto the dance floor by Henry’s chancellor, Thomas Lovell, she began to understand why John had treated her like a sister. It had nothing to do with her being so young and, as she judged herself, unappealing, and everything to do with their blood relationship. How foolish I must have seemed to him, she thought miserably, staring at the points of her soft satin slippers, peeking out from the hem of her fur-trimmed gown.

“You have grown, my dear Lady Grace,” a familiar voice interrupted her thoughts, and she looked up into the handsome face of her cousin John of Lincoln. “May I lead you out to dance?”

“M-me, my…my lord Lincoln?” she stammered, looking about her as though there was another Grace nearby. “You wish to dance with
me
?”

“Certes, cousin. Cecily tells me you dance beautifully. Why don’t you show the court how
all
the daughters of King Edward can shine?” he said kindly, holding out his hand as an
estampie
’s lively tempo accompanied the dancers’ steps and high hops. “Besides, I feel more comfortable with my family than with”—he glanced in Henry’s direction, lowering his voice—“his.”

His meaning was not lost on Grace, young as she was. I was right, she thought; ’twas indeed hard for him to process with his enemies that coronation day in London. She looked forward to revealing this tidbit to Bess and Cecily later.

Grace thought better of her decision when Bess twirled into the chamber the sisters were sharing at Westminster for the night. Cecily collapsed onto the huge bed, peeling off her hose with no semblance of dignity, her gown and petticoats in enough disarray to show off her lithe legs. Grace allowed a tiring woman to unpin her hennin and unlace her stiffened bodice. Bess was in no mood for sleep, they could see, and all Bess’s attendants could do was follow her around the room, catching one of the sleeves she’d unlaced herself or the pearl earbobs she flung carelessly into the air.

“I think I am in love,” she cried, finally standing still long enough for her women to untie her skirt and carry it carefully to the chest brought from Ormond’s Inn. “Henry was very personable, I thought,” she said. “And he is quite handsome,
n’est ce pas
? He paid me so many compliments, my head must have grown this evening. And he dances so well, does he not?”

Cecily and Grace shared a secret smile. “Aye, he dances well enough,” Cecily said. “But I do not find him handsome. He looks a little like a weasel, in truth.”

“A weasel!” Bess was indignant. “A weasel? Oh, you are just jealous because you do not like your husband, Cis.”

“Pah!” Cecily said defiantly. “Certes, ’tis fortunate Henry was forced to wed you, for you were well on your way to being an old maid. I am only fifteen, and I still have my looks.”

Her emotions strung taut that night, Bess gave an uncharacteristic shriek and flung herself at Cecily on the bed. Grace and the attendants stood staring in amazement at the sisters as they pulled each other’s hair, pinched arms and legs and used pillows to pummel one another, squealing in pain or satisfaction when blows found their mark. Suddenly the door
opened and Elizabeth walked in, her hair falling around her shoulders to her waist over her blue silk robe. The attendants fell to their knees, and Grace gave her a nervous curtsy.

“What is the meaning of this outrageous behavior? Get up, both of you. Immediately!” Elizabeth commanded, her eyes blazing with anger. “’Tis my belief the whole palace can hear you, much to my shame. Shame on you, Bess. And you are to become England’s queen? ’Tis not to be believed.”

The two young women had leapt from the bed to the floor as soon as they heard their mother’s voice and were now prostrate before her. The attendants crept from the room, giving one another meaningful looks. They had no wish to come under the queen dowager’s menacing gaze. Grace shrank back, too, but Elizabeth put out her hand and stayed her, though not unkindly.

“Well, Grace, I think I may count on you for a fair explanation of this lapse of reason. You will tell me, please, what happened.”

This was exactly the sort of situation Grace hated. The nuns had instilled the fear of the Devil and his hellfire for any lies she might tell, and yet she wanted to protect her sisters from their mother’s wrath. She looked up at Elizabeth, who was waiting.

“’Twas naught but a game, madam, and we meant no harm,” was all Grace could think to say as she made the sign of the cross with her thumb between her fingers behind her back.

“’Twas my fault, your grace,” Cecily suddenly said from the floor. “I started it.”

“Nay, I started it,” Bess said, getting up on her knees. “I am giddy from the wine, Mother, and was feeling so happy that I spoke without thinking and may have hurt Cecily’s feelings.”

“Nay, ’twas my fault,” Cecily insisted. “I am very sorry, Bess. Am I forgiven?”