The King's Grace (50 page)

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 mo
ment.” 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.

E
LIZABETH’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, depositing 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.”

Grace nodded and, once again for Elizabeth, put her hand over her heart. “I swear, your grace,” she whispered, although she prayed to St. Sibylline to make Elizabeth fall asleep immediately and forget all about divulging this secret.

When her next spasm passed, Elizabeth took a deep breath. “A few years after my marriage, my mother discovered that Edward had been contracted to another before he ever laid eyes on me. Her name was Eleanor Talbot, and she was also a widow. God be praised, she died a few years after Edward and I married. I learned the truth from my mother on her deathbed.” Seeing the irony, she chuckled. “Much as I am now relaying it to you. Do not say a word, child,” she insisted, seeing Grace about to deny that she was dying. “I know I am not long for the world. Indeed, I wish the good Lord would take me soon, for I am weary of this dull life and would now rather lie with Edward at Windsor for eternity.” A wave of pain made her grimace, and Grace lifted up the bony shoulders and head to administer another sip of laudanum. Then she gently let the queen down, wiping her brow.

“Where was I?” Elizabeth frowned. “Ah, yes, Eleanor Talbot—or Butler, as she was when Edward was tempted to bed her. I swear to you, Grace, I knew nothing of this when I agreed to wed Edward. Aye, I was ambitious for my two sons by John, but not so ambitious as to break one of God’s commandments.”

Grace’s eyes were wide. “Then what Bishop Stillington unveiled in Forty-three, when my father died, was true? And Uncle Richard did wear the crown by right?” Grace whispered, her mind racing. All those insinuations that he had usurped the throne and bribed poor Stillington to come forward at exactly the right moment and tell his story were untrue. Poor Uncle Richard. He went to his death at Bosworth still fighting to prove he was England’s true king.

“Aye, Richard had the right,” Elizabeth said dully. “But he did not have the right to put away my boys, even if they were bastards.”

Grace brightened. “But it seems he did not ‘put them away,’ your grace. It seems Dickon survived whatever fate was in his path. I have heard it said that Ned was sickly and inflicted with a bone-wasting disease. Certes, ’tis likely he perished either in the Tower or elsewhere, wherever Dickon was also hidden.” Grace was so absorbed in the certainty that one of her half brothers was alive that she failed to notice the mulish look in Elizabeth’s eye.

“Are you not shocked by my secret, Grace?” the queen snapped. “Do you know what honor I do you by revealing it? I am admitting I was a bigamist and that my children were no better than you are—all bastards! I pray you, appear outraged or sympathetic or…anything,” she groused.

Grace was at once contrite. “Your grace, I am indeed surprised. But as you tell me the lady in question no longer lives, and that you were ignorant of the event when you gave your hand to my father, I cannot condemn you. My father is another matter,” Grace said, frowning. Then she took Elizabeth’s hand and looked into those once-glorious eyes. “Remember, your daughter sits on the throne. The king legitimized all your children so that he could marry her and make his rump safer upon the throne. But if Dickon returns, what can Henry do? If he reverses the bastardy act, Bess can no longer be his consort and the mother of future kings. But if he does not, it means Dickon will have every right to state his lawful claim.”

Elizabeth’s eyelids were beginning to droop and her words slurred with the effects of the drug. “Do not think I have not pondered this question ever since I heard of this man’s existence. Do I want to disinherit my daughter with this information and welcome my son back as king—although he does not have the right, in God’s eyes—or do I go to my grave knowing I have passed on that responsibility to you? Now you know why ’tis important for you to go to Margaret. Promise me you will?” The exertion of this exchange had drained the queen dowager, and her eyes finally closed. “Let us recite the Angelus together and try to sleep,” she said. Grace had to lean into her face to hear her mutter, “I am tired of this weight I have carried for so many years. I trust you may bear it less heavily.” Then, fingering her rosary, she began,
“Angelus Domini nuntiavit Mariae.”

“Et concepit de Spiritu Sancto,”
Grace intoned the response of the dying queen’s favorite prayer, crossing herself as she did so. She blew out the
candle, but she could not sleep for the rest of the night, while her mind processed all that she had been told. As the cock crowed and the abbey awoke, she sat up with a start. “Dear God,” she whispered, “Bishop Stillington died last year.” She turned her head to look down at Elizabeth, whose breathing was now so shallow, and realized: “When she dies, I alone will know the truth.”

Deciphering the true identity of the young man across the sea now seemed even more vital. And, she thought grimly, I have given my promise that I will. She shivered—from excitement or fear, she wasn’t sure.

“M
ISEREATUR VESTRI TUI
omnipotens Deus,”
chanted Father John, holding the Holy Chrism high above his head, while Brothers Damien and Benedictus stood behind him holding long candles. They answered with a sonorous
“Amen”
at appropriate intervals during the last rites of the most high and noble lady Elizabeth, dowager queen of England and beloved mother of the queen.

On the other side of the bed, kneeling by their dying mistress, Lady Katherine Hastings, Lady Grace Plantagenet and Mistress Alison Mortimer told their beads, their heads bowed. The dowager’s doctor, Thomas Brente, was also in attendance. An occasional sniffle from Alison broke the monotony of the chanting monks and the tolling abbey bell, but Grace and Katherine had shed their tears earlier that morning, when it became clear their charge was slipping quietly away.

“Bless you, my dear friend,” Elizabeth had murmured as Katherine had pressed the queen dowager’s hand to her lips, wetting it with her tears. “I wish I had more to leave you than my gratitude…” She drew another labored breath and Katherine hushed her, stroking her forehead with her other hand.

Then it was Grace’s turn, and she thought her heart must be made of marble, it weighed down her chest so heavily. She tried not to cry, tried not to conjure up again all the memories of those first days at Grafton when Elizabeth had rescued her from the convent, taught her to be a lady and given her a new life. They were all engraved on her heart, and she had vowed in her prayers the night before that she would never tolerate a bad word about Elizabeth from anyone from that day forth. She bent and kissed Elizabeth’s cold forehead, one tear escaping and wetting the parch-mentlike skin.

“Now, now, Grace, no tears.” Elizabeth managed a smile with her admonishment. “I am counting on you to help carry out the wishes for my funeral. Do you remember them?”

“Aye, your grace, certes I do,” Grace answered, attempting to smile back. “No pomp, no finery. A plain wooden box, and only two attendants on the boat to Windsor.” Elizabeth nodded, satisfied, and closed her eyes. Grace continued: “However, you cannot prevent us from mourning you in whatever way we wish. I for one will light a candle for you daily, and you will be in my prayers until I die.”

“What day is it, my child?” Elizabeth asked, each word a struggle.

“’Tis the Friday of Pentecost.”

“Then let me be buried on that holiest of Sundays. And may the white tongue of the Holy Spirit touch me and wing me to Heaven,” Elizabeth whispered reverently. Then her eyes flew open and she attempted a laugh. “Sweet Mary, ’tis the very same day I was crowned, twenty-seven years ago. How droll.” Her laughter gave way to a cry of pain, and she clutched Grace’s hand.

Grace waited until Elizabeth was calm again. “Your grace?” Her voice was low and urgent. “I would ask a boon before you die.”

“Ask,” Elizabeth said, a little of her impatience returning. “For I have not much time left, and I must reconcile my soul to God.”

“I am not your daughter, but, in truth, you have been like a mother to me. May I be given leave to call you ‘Mother’ just this once?” Grace held her breath. She was breaking all the courtesy codes with her request.