The King's Grace

by Anne Easter Smith

  “I believe he will never turn to me for counsel as Father did with Mother,” Bess confided to her sister a few months after her marriage, when Henry was away on his progress through the country. “As long as his mother is there, he has no use for another woman’s guidance. In truth, I am learning not to care, and now that I am with child, I see my role as a good wife and mother to Henry’s children. ’Tis enough.”

  Lady Margaret had been right. Elizabeth, the queen dowager, was exultant that she would be at the birth without the domineering presence of the king’s mother. Elizabeth would never forgive Margaret for duping her into plotting against King Richard in the autumn of 1483, after Richard had been crowned and Elizabeth’s two sons were placed in the Tower for safekeeping. She had been led to believe that Richard’s cousin and closest adviser, the duke of Buckingham, would rebel against the king to help her little son Edward regain his throne. Lady Margaret and Bishop John Morton had also duped the duke of Buckingham, who went to his death when Richard put down the rebellion. The two were working to put Henry on the throne, not the young prince, and rid England of the York dynasty in favor of Lancaster. Although Elizabeth’s involvement was never proven, rumor had it that she had been in communication with the plotters from sanctuary. Despite this, Richard had treated her and her daughters with deference after they left the abbey’s safety.

  “It could have been a lot worse for me, Grace,” Elizabeth had admitted one evening as they enjoyed the late summer light in the herber of the abbott’s house. “I was grateful Richard and his wife were kind to the girls. I only wish I knew what has become of my boys,” she said, and Grace had watched as Elizabeth sank into melancholic ruminating, as she did each time their names came up.

  ELIZABETH’S SONS WERE momentarily forgotten when she stood triumphantly beside the enormous black marble font inside the cathedral, which was reputed to have the longest nave in all of Europe. Unprepossessing on the outside, Winchester’s interior was a marvel of sky-high fan vaulting atop the delicately sculpted capitals of the stone columns. The royal party had waited a full fifteen minutes for the late arrival of one of the other godparents, John de Vere, earl of Oxford. Elizabeth glared at him, but the earl was in such high favor with Henry that she dared not voice her opinion of his rudeness. They all processed up the nave, stepping on myriad colorful tiles decorated with geometric patterns and mythical beasts, and through the exquisite rood screen into the quire. Behind the altar in the retroquire, just visible through another screen, was the newly positioned shrine of Winchester’s patron saint, Swithun. Grace craned her neck to see it, knowing this was the saint on whose holy day, the fifteenth of July, the whole of England prayed it did not rain. She amused herself by reciting the well-known rhyme in her head:

  Saint Swithun’s day if thou dost rain

  For forty days it will remain.

  Saint Swithun’s day if thou be fair

  For forty days ’twill rain no more.

  Aye, ’twould ruin the harvest, she mused.

  The organ thundered a welcome to England’s newest prince, who screamed his displeasure at being awakened thus from a nap in his Aunt Cecily’s arms. Cecily carried the child to the high altar in the procession behind the bishop of Exeter—the old bishop of Winchester having died not a fortnight before—where she relinquished him to his godmother, Elizabeth. Flanked by Oxford and the third godparent, Lady Margaret’s husband the earl of Derby, the queen dowager placed him on the velvet cloth that covered the holy table, where the baby squirmed in his swaddling clothes, crying with rage. Elizabeth smiled indulgently, picked him up and hugged him to her, the floor-length silk christening gown pooling around her feet. She looked radiant, Grace observed, almost like the vision she must have been when, as a new widow, she had stood with her two little fatherless boys under an oak tree and won the heart of King Edward riding by. Grace wished she could have seen her then. How could Edward have deserted such a beauty to sire a child with my mother? she suddenly thought, as she and the others intoned the pater noster. What makes men desire us so? On her knees, her rosary playing between her fingers, she hoped—and prayed—that if Henry chose a husband for her that he would remain faithful to her. Adultery was a mortal sin, she had been taught. So why did so many indulge in it?

  “Grace, did you hear me?” Elizabeth’s tone was sharp as she turned to speak to the girl. “Pick up my train. ’Tis caught somewhere.”

  Grace saw that her own kneeler was the culprit and stood to release the purple satin gown. Elizabeth then rose to receive the baby back from the bishop, who had just finished dunking Arthur’s whole head in the holy water, further enraging the child.

  “My lord bishop, pray bring the ceremony to a close as fast as you can,” Elizabeth hissed at the gray-haired Peter Courtenay, who was taken aback at this irreverent request. But, having served as dean of Windsor under Edward, he well knew the queen dowager as intransigent. Not wishing to jeopardize the possibility of being appointed to the recently vacated bishopric of this most important of dioceses, he spoke the blessing at a spanking pace, making several of the nobles present smile into their prayer-folded hands.

  As the party came out into the gray Sunday morning, a lone magpie flew down onto the grass beside the path, and Elizabeth gasped.

  “One for sorrow,” she murmured and crossed herself. “Pray God this is not an omen for Arthur.”

  “Amen,” Grace and Cecily chorused hastily, signing themselves, and Grace surreptitiously spat out the bad luck into her hand.

  HENRY HAD STAYED away from the christening ceremony to be with his wife, but now he and Elizabeth presided over the banquet that day in the chapter house. Grace was asked to wait on Bess in her chamber so that Cecily could also attend the feasting, and she gratefully hurried to Bess’s bedside.

  “How was it, Bess?” Grace asked about the birthing process. “It sounded very…uncomfortable.” She decided agonizing might not be tactful.

  Bess laughed and immediately reached her hand under the bedclothes to touch her tender pubis. “Uncomfortable? Nay, ’twas how I imagined the rack, Grace. Just you wait.” She grimaced. Then she smiled. “Is the baby not beautiful? He is my heart’s delight. In truth, he resembles my brother Richard when he was born.” She looked over at the carved oak cradle being rocked by one of the ladies on the far side of the room.

  “Aye, he is bonny,” Grace lied, her thumb between her first two fingers. In fact, she had never seen such an ugly red face before, its nose flattened into obscurity. The boy did not look anything like the cherubic statues of the Christ child she was used to. And it seemed to her that he never stopped screaming, when his face became one wide, gaping hole. But she smiled and patted Bess’s hand. “You must be happy you have a son.”

  “Aye. Now Henry believes the succession is safe.” Bess lowered her voice so her attendants could not hear. “There is a rumor that our cousin of Warwick has escaped the Tower and has been seen on the isle of Jersey. ’Tis not good news for Henry. He thinks there is another rebellion fomenting.”

  Grace was horror-struck. “What does this mean? Little Ned is attainted because of his father, is he not?”

  Bess nodded. She was pleased that Grace now understood the full ramifications of a conviction of treason. Ned’s father, George of Clarence, had indeed been attainted and was eventually executed by his own brother King Edward; the father’s attainder was passed on to the progeny, unless lifted by the king.

  “So who would follow an attainted boy?” Grace persisted.

  “Anyone who was an adherent of York, Grace. They would not let that stop them.” Bess pushed a wayward strand of golden hair from her face up under her cap. Her face was glum. “Henry and I thought our marriage would heal those wounds and stop these rebellions, but they never seem to cease.”

  Grace was silent. She was thinking about her two cousins named John. Aye, they would take up the cause of Warwick, she thought, and she felt a tiny frisson of fear.

  HER FEAR GREW a few day
s later when she and Cecily were given leave to walk to the market in the center of the city. Once one of the largest in England, the market’s small size reflected the downturn in the city’s fortunes. Nevertheless, the two girls, escorted by a burly guard, spent a pleasant morning away from their duties exclaiming over trinkets, ribbons and gewgaws and spending their groats on greasy hot roasted finch and a shared capon pie.

  “Make way, make way,” their escort growled as they eased their way through the customers jostling for the wares on the carts and stalls laden with everything from ginger, cinnamon, pepper and almonds to vegetables and salted cod, mullet and conger eel. Clothed in their plainest gowns, the girls did their best to melt into the crowd, but even so their elegant garb attracted some curious looks. They stopped to admire the three-level gothic market cross climbing to the sky past the rooftops of the surrounding houses. A jolly carter tried to sell them a slab of golden butter, but the girls demurred, thanking him and moving on.

  “Fortunes! Have your fortunes told! A farthing for your fortune,” a woman in tattered black rags called to them, reaching out a bony hand with a beckoning finger. Cecily squeezed Grace’s hand in anxious excitement.

  “Do we dare?” she whispered, eyeing the old crone with trepidation. The woman’s coarse gray hair straggled out of a filthy hood, pushed back to show a wizened face and black, beady eyes. She smiled at Cecily, revealing one diseased incisor in an otherwise toothless mouth. Grace had taken one look at the hag and attempted to hide behind Cecily’s larger frame.

  “Nay, Cis,” Grace muttered. “’Tis against God’s law. And besides, she looks none too clean.”

  As Cecily turned to cajole Grace into changing her mind, the fortune-teller spotted Grace, and her smile faded. Approaching the girls as near as the grumpy guard would allow, she pointed at the smaller girl and intoned something incomprehensible. Grace clutched Cecily’s arm and tried to pull her away, but then the woman’s face softened and Grace could see that she might have once been quite lovely. The woman’s black eyes were mesmerizing, and Grace found she could not break her gaze. Something deep inside her stirred and she was afraid.

  “Come here, child,” the woman coaxed. “You have naught to fear from old Edith.”

  Cecily, curious, gave Grace a push forward and stayed the guard, who was ready to manhandle the old woman out of the way. Grace landed within arm’s reach of Edith, who gently led her to a quieter spot.

  Grace trembled, close to tears. “Good woman, I am a Christian, raised in an abbey. I fear for my soul should I listen to what you say,” she stammered. She turned imploring eyes on Cecily, who was beginning to regret her action.

  “You think I cannot see your goodness, my lady. I have a gift—some say ’tis of the Devil, some say ’tis from God. I also see you in great danger, and ’tis my duty to warn you of it.”

  Grace turned back and shook the old woman’s hand from her arm, although, she noted, it had been a surprisingly gentle touch. The genuine concern she now saw in Edith’s eyes reassured her somewhat. She reached for her rosary—always attached to her belt—and was comforted by the familiar cold beads. Holding on to them tightly, she whispered: “Danger, Goody Edith, what do you mean?”

  Edith took Grace’s small hand and peered closely at it. Cecily peeked over Grace’s shoulder, fascinated.

  “I see a room with colored walls, far away,” Edith began. “There be a dog—a greyhound, I think. Nay, mayhap it be a hunting dog. His master be angry and sad.” She traced a line on Grace’s hand. She tensed. “Now I see blood—a lot of blood, and a boy leading soldiers. A battle, I think.”

  “She is addlepated, Grace,” Cecily hissed. “What boy is she talking about? Ask her.”

  “Soft, my child,” Edith admonished Cecily sternly. “Do not cloud my mind with your questions.” She did not know she was talking to royalty; she knew only that they were girls of obvious wealth, judging by their attire. Cecily was not about to enlighten her, thinking the old crone would run away and spoil the fun. Edith concentrated on the palm. “I see another boy, older, in a place with strange trees, strange people in strange clothes. It is hot, very hot, and the boy often goes to the water to look at the ships.”

  “Aye, goody, but where is the danger for me that you spoke of? Boys and a dog,” Grace was certain one was John. “Boys and a battle and boats. Where am I in all this?”

  “Christ ha’ mercy! You shall see two of them sent to their Maker.” As Grace gasped, Edith squeaked with glee. “Executions! They be executions,” Edith exalted, looking up at Grace and grinning hideously. “It be dangerous for you to know them, but you will help them. Better not make friends of young men, my lady,” she admonished, and her loud cackle made several people turn and stare at the little group. She put out her hand for payment and looked expectantly at Grace.

  Grace had gone white when she heard these portents and was rooted to the spot. Cecily reached over and put a penny in the old woman’s hand. They both watched as she attempted to bite it with her one tooth and her gums; then she squirreled it away in the folds of her dirty gown and, with a final cackle, disappeared into the crowd.

  “I should like to go now,” Grace whispered, clutching at Cecily’s sleeve. “I do not feel well.”

  “Oh, don’t be such a goose, Grace,” Cecily scoffed. “’Twas a pack of lies. It made no sense at all. Put it from your mind.” But she motioned to the guard to lead them back the way they had come. Truth be told, she was as unnerved by the fortune-teller as was her sister.

  GRACE COULD NOT get the old woman’s predictions out of her mind. She lay awake in the bed she was sharing with another of Elizabeth’s attendants and stared at the eerie shadows cast on the ceiling by the dying embers of the brazier. A crucifix was nailed to the wall, and Grace prayed to the agonized figure of Christ to keep watch over John and to eradicate all memory of the afternoon. She was convinced the young man with the dog was John. But was he one of the young men who would die? And who was the other boy? Her restlessness was disturbing her bedmate, so she turned to her rote prayers, which had always stood her in good stead through her lonely years at the convent.

  “Ave Maria, gratia plena…”

  By the time she had recited the prayer twice, she was asleep.

  The next day she woke to find her courses had begun, and for once she did not complain. Certes, ’tis no wonder the old woman saw blood, and some of her anxiety was stemmed.

  IN MID-OCTOBER THE royal household began the tedious chore of packing up to return to London—to Greenwich this time, and the queen dowager’s Palace of Pleasaunce, a gift from Edward to his bride some twenty years before. The queen dowager herself would return to the abbott’s house at Westminster, her ceremonial duties as Arthur’s godmother fulfilled. Grace had scarcely had a moment to think of that day in the market, and her mood had not remained gloomy for long. Elizabeth spent many hours with her daughter and grandson, and it was natural that Grace be part of the family group.

  But unfortunately, Elizabeth’s favoring of her young stepdaughter had embittered one of the queen dowager’s closest friends.

  Katherine Hastings, widow of Lord William Hastings, boasted the highest pedigree: she was a Neville, sister of Richard Neville, the great earl of Warwick, and niece of Cecily of York, and was, therefore, cousin to both kings Edward and Richard. She had long served Elizabeth, and the two women had commiserated with each other over their profligate husbands, who had eaten, drunk and whored together as only best friends can. The friendship between the two women was prickly at its beginning, Grace had learned, due to a long-held animosity between the Woodvilles and the Hastings over land. But whatever the ill will between the queen and the chamberlain, the friendship between the women had flourished over the years. It was Katherine who had consoled Elizabeth upon Edward’s untimely death; yet within a month, Elizabeth found Katherine weeping on her shoulder for the extraordinary execution of William for treason, on the orders of Richard of Gloucester. In sanctuary, Eliza
beth had invited Katherine to keep her company as the events of that tumultuous year unfolded.

  Once, in a private moment with Elizabeth, they had talked of their husbands’ infidelities. “Do you love him, Elizabeth?” Katherine had asked in that moment of truths, and was surprised at the hard glitter in the queen’s eyes as she responded. “I loved John Grey with all my heart. I love Edward with the rest of me. In truth, my family benefits from this marriage, and I enjoy being queen,” she said, fondling the ears of a terrier that lay on her lap. Her face grew wistful. “After my beloved first husband was killed at Saint Alban’s, I vowed I would not love again. I swear Edward has never known, nor will ever know, and so you must promise to take this knowledge to your grave, Katherine. Swear on this cross.” She reached out the cross at the end of her rosary to her companion, and Katherine reverently touched the gold and swore. “’Tis the guilt I bear in this deception that allows me to be generous to Edward’s bastards.”

  How Elizabeth had put up with those acknowledged bastards who strutted about the court under her nose while their father was alive, Katherine had never understood. Elizabeth’s answer to the question had been: “Edward loves me and returns to me no matter where else he puts his pestle. I hate him for it, but I cannot stop him.” Katherine, too, hated Will for his wenching, and her commiseration with the queen strengthened.

  But to take the fruit of one of those lecherous liaisons under her wing after Edward had died was beyond Katherine’s comprehension. She had enjoyed being the queen’s confidante, especially after their husbands’ deaths, and to watch this young woman worm her way into Elizabeth’s confidence created a growing animosity in her towards Grace.