The King's Grace (46 page)

Grace sat up, resuming her original position on the seat. “Edgar? What has Edgar to do with this, pray?” she asked warily.

“The young lady who traveled from England to Malines boasted a tiring woman and hulk of a servant. Frion’s information also included an interesting account of how much time this young guest of the duchess spent in close company with her nephew, John of Gloucester.”

Grace gasped. “Where do these spies hide, pray?” she asked, afraid, looking around the room to check for a possible peephole in the wall.

For the first time that morning, Tom laughed. “You are sometimes so wise, sweetheart, and yet oftimes so innocent. ’Tis possible some secret doors and spy holes exist in palaces, but more often ’tis a servant who is paid to listen while they go about their menial tasks—like serving supper and bringing firewood.”

“So this Stephen Frion may have paid someone to watch me?” Grace asked when the information sank in. Although it perturbed her, she was secretly elated to have been the cause of annoyance to Henry. “I pray I never meet the man, or my secret identity will be revealed,” she said, a mischievous smile finally appearing. “But they cannot have known my mission.”

Tom could not resist. “And what was your mission, little adventurer?” he asked, wondering if she had let down her guard enough to tell him. He knew when she stiffened beside him that she had not.

“That, too, I cannot tell you,” she responded, and was saved from further questioning by a knock on the door. “Come!” she called gratefully, and Matty entered with the infusion.

“One day you will learn to trust me,” Tom murmured, covering her hand with his. “But for now, ’tis enough that you appear in better spirits. I shall be accompanying you and Lady Welles to Westminster, so I will see you anon.” He picked up her hand and kissed it tenderly. “Until then.”

“Until then,” Grace replied, and after a beat added, “Thank you, Tom.”

An hour later the small party was settled into Viscount Welles’s boat and being rowed upstream to Westminster. The rain of the day before had subsided into a cold drizzle out of still-leaden skies, and Grace hoped that by the next day the winter sun would reappear. London in the winter was a dreary, damp affair, but she was thankful to be welcome at the Welles’s modern residence, where a fireplace graced every room and the wood paneling and leaded glass windows kept out the chill wind. The Yuletide season was almost upon them, and Grace thought back to last Christmas when she, Elizabeth and Katherine had made merry at Greenwich. Had it really been a year since she and Tom were wed? Despite the promising first night, their partnership had plummeted, it seemed to her. There had been a little fillip that day at Collyweston when she had unbent in her stubborn
determination to keep John always first in her heart and given herself willing to her husband, but John’s dreadful dilemma had again pushed poor Tom into the background since then.

She stared at Tom’s back farther up in the barge and noted the proud carriage and long, strong torso. She did not doubt there were ladies who would be happy to call him husband, but until she no longer pined for John, she could only feel dispassionate. As if he knew she was watching him, he turned around and gave her a small, anxious smile. Ah, Grace, you do not deserve even that, she thought guiltily, and so she smiled back and was ashamed to see how swiftly his expression changed from worry to hope.

The deafening sound of bells ringing out over the city for Matins jolted her from her daydreaming and she could see that they were passing Baynard’s Castle, with the great spire of St. Paul’s rising on the hill beyond. The palace dominated that part of the river, and Cecily remarked, “Grandmother Cecily’s castle, a cold, draughty place, in truth. I always dreaded going there. ’Twas upon the steps of the inner courtyard that Uncle Richard was offered the crown by the parliament. ’Tis said our cousin of Buckingham waxed eloquent as their speaker that day.”

The mention of King Richard brought back John’s face, and Grace gritted her teeth. She forced herself to think of something else, and indeed the controversy over the crown that summer of Forty-three did turn her thoughts to her half brother, Dickon; it was rumored that he was still in Ireland, and being claimed as Richard, duke of York, by those lords.

“I wonder if Bess has new information about our brother,” Grace murmured, using the roomy hood on her cloak as a shield for her voice. The fox-fur lining was damp and gave off a rancid odor, but she was glad of its warmth.

“Nay, I would have heard from Jack, although I believe Henry’s wrath at their acceptance of the young man is beginning to cow the rebel Irish. ’Twill not be long before whoever he is will be unwelcome in Munster,” Cecily whispered back.

Grace was astonished. “You do not believe ’tis Dickon, Cis? Why?”

Cecily shrugged. “’Twould be too good to be true, ’tis all. Certes, we would have to see him for ourselves before we could be sure. It astounds me that Henry has not taken him, or forced Kildare and Ormond to de
tain him—they are two Irish earls, Grace,” Cecily explained when she saw Grace’s blank look. “’Tis said he wears a fine suit of clothes and looks every inch a prince—a Yorkist prince, in fact. At first the Irish took him for Warwick again because he has a family resemblance, but that notion was quickly doused by Kildare, whose servants had been here to treat with Henry and knew Ned was still kept in the Tower, poor boy.”

“I believe he is our brother,” Grace said firmly. “Aunt Margaret is convinced, and so is your mother. I cannot believe Aunt Margaret would back another pretender, if she were unsure. She is far too sensible.”

Cecily laughed. “Jack says Henry calls her Juno. You know, the goddess in Virgil who did all she could to thwart Aeneus’s plans to found a new Troy. It made me giggle when I heard, and Jack was not pleased. Aunt Margaret does seem intent on overthrowing Henry, and I believe it was anger against her that made him act so harshly with John, for ’tis certain he knew she had sent him. As for the man in Ireland, I will tell you when I see him. He had an odd eye, I remember. But ’twas nine years ago, and he must look very different now.” A shout from the oarmaster at the front of the boat to the shore interrupted them. “But soft, Grace, here we are at Westminster. No more talk of Dickon, promise me, unless Bess begins it.”

Grace nodded and stood up to be helped from the barge by Tom. He lifted her onto the wharf with ease, and she walked alongside Cecily, their wooden pattens keeping their soft leather slippers out of puddles. As they were mounting the steps to the water entrance of the royal apartments, the dark skies opened. “Dear God,” Cecily complained. “Will this rain never cease?”

A
RTHUR WHOOPED AROUND
Bess’s elegant solar on his hobby horse, brandishing a wooden sword under the watchful eye of his nurse, while baby Henry, at six months a chubby, cheerful child, had been unswaddled and was enjoying kicking his legs in the air on his mother’s lap and sucking on her rosary. Two-year-old Margaret, named for her grandmother who was not present, much to Grace’s relief, stood quietly at Bess’s knee and observed her aunts curiously.

“Such a domestic picture you make, dear Bess,” Cecily said, reverencing her sister and then bending to kiss her and little Harry. “I know not how you have the patience for all these little ones.”

Grace curtsied low and then she, too, embraced her oldest sister kissing her, on both cheeks. “Your children are bonny, your grace,” she told her, and then crouched down to greet little Margaret, whom Grace privately thought was uncommonly plain. “How now, my lady. Do you know who I am?”

The child shook her head and looked up at her mother for help. “This is Lady Grace, sweeting, your aunt, and she thinks you are beautiful,” Bess told her, caressing Margaret’s cheek. “Thank you for the compliment, Grace, but all children are beautiful when they are this age, are they not? Pray sit, both of you,” she said, waving to two wide leather-slung stools. Then she called for refreshment and took the moment while her attendants obeyed her command to say quietly, “I want you to know I share your sorrow over John, sister. Know that he is with the angels and that I pray for his eternal rest.”

Grace thanked her but took Cecily’s advice and did not mention her attendance at the execution. She had not often seen Bess in the years after Elizabeth’s exile, and she was always awed by her regal composure and natural beauty. Her skin was flawless, and her deep blue eyes always held warmth and sincerity. Grace thought it was a pity the queen was so much under the thumb of her mother-in-law, because her kindness, piety and quiet intelligence, often eclipsed by Lady Margaret’s domineering personality, were underappreciated. Grace remembered Elizabeth’s anger when she heard that Bess had been cheated out of the more luxurious queen’s chambers here at Westminster by the countess, but as she looked around at the French tapestries, green and gold curtains around the enormous tester bed, the table, chests and chairs of finest carved oak and walnut and blue and gold painted celestial ceiling, she could not imagine how much more elegant Lady Margaret’s apartment could be. Again, it did not compare with the palace of Malines, but Grace was the only one of Edward’s daughters to have seen it, so she wisely kept her peace.

“We are agog to know the reason for your summons, are we not, Grace?” Cecily said eagerly. “I pray do not keep us waiting or we shall die of curiosity.”

Bess frowned for an instant. “Always so impetuous, Cis. Has my lord Welles not tamed you yet?”

Oh, no, Grace thought; the sibling rivalry again. And again, she at
tempted to mediate. “Certes, we are not dying, Bess. But ’tis a long row from the city to Westminster, and we had ample time to speculate, you see.”

Bess relaxed and smiled. “Always the diplomat, dear Grace. Aye, I can see how the two of you might pass the time on the river in idle curiosity.” Cecily and Grace exchanged a quick glance and then focused on the queen, who was saying, “I have to ask something of Grace, Cis, and therefore, like a fish, I shall let you off the hook.”

Grace’s stomach turned over when she heard Bess’s words. Sweet Jesu, she must know I was in Burgundy; she must know I was at Smithfield; she must know I had a secret letter from John; she knows…But Bess did not dismiss Cecily, and Grace breathed more easily.

“Our sister Anne has not been well and she can no longer serve my mother at Bermondsey.” Bess stated. “The queen herself has been in poor health lately, and has begged me to ask you to return.” Bess was sad. “I do not think she has long to live, sisters, and if your husband can spare you, Grace, I should like to honor her wish. What say you?”

Grace knew Bess was being gracious by asking her: one did not refuse a royal request, so she smiled gratefully at her and inclined her head. “There is nothing I would not do for your mother, your grace. I owe her all honor and love. My husband cannot hinder my going—neither would he try. He knows the debt I am in.” And he will probably be happier with me out of his life at the moment, she thought sadly. “When shall I go?”

Cecily clucked her tongue and cried, “How I shall miss you, Grace! I am quite used to you being with me, but I’ll wager Tom will miss you more.” She winked at Grace, who managed a smile.

“I am pleased by your unselfish nature, Grace. I know how hard it is to be separated from one’s beloved husband. Henry and I dread being apart.” Bess was busy extricating the rosary from Harry’s iron grip and did not notice the gasp of incredulity from her sisters—nor Cecily’s expression of disgust.

“Tom and I have our whole lives to look forward to,” Grace said quickly. “How can I deny the dying wish of the only mother I have known?” And again she asked, “When?”

“Anne will come to Greenwich when my household moves there next week. I regret my lady mother is too ill to travel, so I am afraid you will spend Christmas at Bermondsey again, Grace. Rest assured I shall send
some special gifts from the royal larder to you there. And to make your duties less taxing—as well as for Lady Hastings—I am arranging for another gentlewoman to be lodged with you from my own household. Does this sound fair, Grace?”

Grace rose and went to kneel and kiss Bess’s hand. “Aye, more than fair, your grace,” she said, smiling, and peeking up at Bess from under her lashes, she added: “I hope you remember how much I love marchpane.”

“Then you shall have marchpane, Grace,” Bess assured her, and then she made a face. “Nurse!” she cried. “I pray you, take this little monster away; he has soiled my new gown. And be good enough to send the Ladies Catherine and Bridget to us.” She held Henry aloft, his lawn gown soaked through, and gave him a loud kiss on his fat cheek. “Away with you, Harry,” she said as the nurse took him, and he bellowed his displeasure at the top of his very fine lungs. They all laughed and watched while he was whisked out of the room to the nursery.

A few minutes later the youngest of Edward and Elizabeth’s daughters sidled into the solar and curtsied to their sister. Then they ran to hug Grace, whom they had not seen for a very long time.

“And what about me, sisters?” Cecily said, pouting. “Do I not get a greeting?”

Twelve-year-old Catherine grinned, showing perfect teeth and merry eyes in an exquisite face, and fell onto Cecily’s neck, who squealed and begged her sister to have a care with her jeweled hood.

“How are you, dear Bridget?” Grace asked the quietest of all the siblings. Bridget was tall for her age and had the awkwardness of someone who knew not how to manage her new inches.

“I am well, Grace,” the girl replied politely. “We heard you are wed. Is your husband handsome?”

Grace laughed. “Aye, Bridget, I suppose he is. But more important, little one, is that Tom is kind.” Where do you find the gall to utter such platitudes, as though you deserved Tom? Grace chastised herself. “And how go your studies?” she asked, changing the subject.

Bridget became serious, a trait that had marked her from birth and caused Elizabeth and Edward to decide that she, of all their daughters, should take orders when she was old enough. Grace had felt sorry for the child, knowing well the life of a cloistered nun. But Bridget had accepted
her fate with equanimity and was proud to tell people she was destined for the convent.