The King's Grace

by Anne Easter Smith

  Grace scanned the courtiers arrayed at the bottom of the tower on the steps that led away from the water into the king’s apartments but did not see the queen. Then another fanfare rang out across the water. The boatmen had shipped their oars while the tiller man guided them expertly the last few yards to the water steps, and now Grace could see a company of guards in the royal blue, gold and red livery, the axlike blades of their long halberds glinting in the sun, clearing a passage from the tower entrance to the wharf. A small group appeared from the building and Grace recognized Bess’s tall figure in a gown of pale blue velvet trimmed with ermine bowing this way and that as courtiers gave her reverence. She was escorted by an older man with a lugubrious expression on his thin face. An outsized velvet hat sporting several feathers capped off his murrey velvet, ermine-trimmed robe.

  “Aye, Bess is there, but I do not recognize her escort,” Grace told Elizabeth, who was preening in a silver mirror that Katherine held for her. Elizabeth pushed Katherine aside and tried to focus her eyes on the figures now waiting at the top of the steps. She had spent so much time in the confines of her chamber that she had trouble seeing long distances.

  “’Tis John Welles. Cecily’s husband,” Katherine said, knowing Elizabeth was too vain to admit she could not see anyone clearly. “And Cecily walks behind them on the arm of…God be praised, your own Thomas,” she cried, excited for the first time since the visit to Greenwich was announced. “That means my Cecilia is also here—and my granddaughters.”

  “Thomas, here?” Elizabeth’s face lit up. “It would seem the king has him high in his favor again, God be thanked.”

  The lines from the barge were thrown and secured, and gradually the boat was drawn to the landing dock. Elizabeth edged her way to the gangplank and, with the help of the master, went ashore, followed by Grace and Katherine. Judging from the shocked faces of many of the retainers who craned their necks to get their first glimpse of the queen dowager in almost four years, Grace was not the only one who recognized the change in her. But Elizabeth was smiling happily and climbing the few steps to Bess, unaware that she had caused anything but joy in the spectators. She gave Bess reverence, but the queen raised her up quickly, knowing how painful such a deep curtsy must be, and embraced her mother warmly.

  “You are right welcome at our court, noble mother,” Bess said. “You remember Lord John?” Elizabeth nodded, holding out her hand for him to kiss, Poppy held firmly in the other. Jack Welles bowed stiffly over it and gave her a good day. Poppy growled and bared her teeth; she did not like strange men touching her mistress. Grace heard someone titter. She and Katherine were still on their knees on the cold stone of the wharf, until Bess gave them permission to rise and kissed Grace on the cheek. When Cecily bent and kissed Grace, she whispered, “So what think you of my handsome husband?” and Grace almost laughed. It wasn’t that Viscount Welles was hideous, she thought, but he was most certainly old for his forty years and had the look of his humorless stepsister, Lady Margaret, about him. She vaguely wondered if anything would make him smile.

  “I confess I’ve seen handsomer,” she whispered back.

  Elizabeth was kissing her oldest son’s cheeks, glowing with happiness. Katherine had told Grace in an unusual moment of camaraderie one morning, when Elizabeth was in conference with Father John, that Thomas Grey, Marquis of Dorset, was the queen dowager’s favorite child. “Her firstborn, you understand. And son of the man she loved with all her heart. Aye, she grew to love your father, who was besotted with her”—she had rolled her eyes at the memories—“but John Grey always had her heart—and he was constant, unlike Edward. His death on Saint Alban’s field was what changed her,” she declared. “She vowed she would stop at nothing to give her two sons the most advancement she possibly could to compensate for their father’s loss.” Katherine had bent close to Grace then, who was busy sponging a stain off her gown, and whispered, “’Tis said she and her mother used witchcraft to beguile the young king, Edward.” Grace had gasped and crossed herself. “Aye,” Katherine ended, gleefully. “Jacquetta Woodville was a descendant of the water witch Melusine.” Grace had no idea who Melusine was, but with her silvery hair and tinkling laugh, Elizabeth might be thought of as having sprung from a sprite.

  Katherine had then whispered: “’Tis said Elizabeth refused him her bed unless he promised her marriage, and although he must have realized a marriage with her would have displeased the commons and the lords—not to mention his mother—he did indeed wed her in secret.” Grace nodded. She had heard this tale from Bess, who had thought it the most romantic love story in all the world. But Lady Hastings was not finished: “The betrothal was held with her mother’s blessing, at her mother’s house and…perhaps with the help of a magic love potion.” Grace crossed herself again. Dear God, she hoped Bess did not know about the witchcraft rumor—the virtuous young queen would be mortified.

  Grace had been astonished at Katherine’s revelations that day—not only that the older woman would betray her friend’s confidences, but that she, whom Katherine had always disdained, should be the recipient of them. Grace had put it down to the fact there was no one else to gossip with, and Elizabeth had been excessively trying that day. She had said nothing but kept the knowledge in that treasure trove in her mind reserved for family.

  Now she looked curiously at Thomas. He had visited the abbey once or twice a year, but Elizabeth had always sent her attendants away for those hours so she could enjoy her son by herself, and thus Grace had never formed any opinion of the man. He was tall and broad with strong features and a loud laugh, but his eyes were restless and untrusting. And Grace had seen the self-serving side of him when he had denied his mother at the time of Henry’s angry decision to send her away.

  “Let us go inside,” Bess said, turning from the water and taking Jack’s proffered arm. “Lord Thomas, I pray you escort our lady mother.” At once the entourage shuffled into place behind the queen, and the colorful procession wended its way up the spiral staircase in the tower, through the king’s presence chamber that faced the river and then around the corner into the queen’s watching chamber, the largest of her private rooms. The court waiting there gave their queen reverence as John Welles escorted Bess to her canopied throne on the dais. She motioned to Elizabeth to take the other chair while Cecily, Katherine and Grace took their places behind the two queens. As they walked past the kneeling retainers, Grace heard one whisper to her neighbor: “Such shabby clothes. What has the Woodville woman come to?” Grace glanced down at her own new gown. Elizabeth had charmed the Southwark dressmaker into making the new gown quickly, and although the plain blue wool overdress had fashionably long trailing sleeves and a square bodice, it did not belong among the damasks, velvets and silks of every hue that surrounded her. And on the dais, Bess, in the radiant bloom of pregnancy, glowed golden as the sun next to her silvery, moon-pale mother.

  As soon as the two queens were settled, a young woman came hurrying up to the dais escorting a little boy who was an exact miniature of a courtier in a short, belted blue tunic trimmed in sable, pale blue hose and a soft black hat. Around his neck was an exquisitely crafted gold collar of tiny roses. He bowed solemnly to his mother and grandmother and then went on one knee to await permission to mount the dais and kiss his grandmother’s hand. Bess’s face lit up when she saw him and she readily called him to her: “Lord Arthur, you remember your grandam, Queen Elizabeth? Come, give her a kiss, my precious boy.” His severe courtly expression melting into a childish grin, young Arthur Tudor scrambled up the steps and clasped his mother about the knees. Grace could see he was a sweet boy, with fair curls and a sunny smile; only the pale blue eyes and slender build were reminiscent of Henry. For a second she wondered if he might remind Elizabeth of her own lost young sons—one of whom was lost no more, it would seem—but the dowager merely accepted the boy’s kiss and returned him to his mother’s knee.

  While they awaited the call to dine, Bess called for music. She conver
sed quietly with her mother, allowing her courtiers the liberty to stroll around the room and talk among themselves or watch the antics of a jester who cavorted from group to group in his striped costume and shook the bells on his many-pointed hat and beribboned wand. Arthur laughed gleefully at the clown and was soon entertaining the court with his childish imitations of the performer’s acrobatics. After an unfortunate tumble, when Arthur let out a wail of frustration and pain, Bess signaled to the nursemaid to remove him from the hall. He left screaming with indignation at being thus dismissed, and the court breathed a collective sigh of relief when the closing doors dampened the intrusive cries.

  Katherine had negotiated a position directly behind Elizabeth, to be next to Cecily and accepted as Elizabeth’s senior attendant, leaving Grace to stand a step away from Katherine’s elbow. She could have strained her ears to eavesdrop, as she knew Katherine was doing, but instead her eyes roamed around the room, enjoying the luxurious surroundings she remembered from her life before Bermondsey. She saw now they were no match for the sumptuous furnishings of Duchess Margaret’s palace, but they were a welcome change after months in the austere abbey.

  She was scanning the faces and finery in front of her when she suddenly looked straight into Tom Gower’s honest blue eyes. Her stomach turned over and the blood rushed into her face. Certes, he is here, you addlepate, she thought miserably; Cecily and the viscount are here. Where else would he be? And yet when she had seen the Welleses she had given no thought to Tom. Sweet Jesu, I am blushing, she realized, furious with herself. Ashamed, she lowered her eyes from his gaze, hoping he had not noticed. She could not say what she read in that look; he had not smiled, she was certain of that, but was there anger or dislike in his eyes? She could not be sure. When she looked up at him again he was being addressed by John Welles and his attention was riveted on his master. Cecily had advised Elizabeth in the betrothal letter that her husband had elevated Tom to squire of the body, and from the friendly way Jack was gripping Tom’s arm as he spoke, Grace could see that the viscount thought highly of the young man.

  With Tom focused on his master, Grace had a chance to look at him with new eyes. He stood a head taller than those around him, for once a black bonnet taming his corn-colored hair. She admitted his neat beard suited him, as did the padded blue pourpoint, its pleats forming a V shape from his shoulders to his trim waist and then flaring over his lower body. With his checkered hose and long trailing sleeves, he was a far cry from the plainly dressed youth at Sheriff Hutton. Her appraisal complete, she could say that although he was not John, she could do much worse. However, seeing him from afar was one thing, but sooner or later she knew they must come face to face, and it now appeared it would be sooner, and she dreaded it. What would she say? She had not had the chance to speak to Cecily alone since their arrival. She desperately wanted to know why Tom had been talked or coerced into wedding her. It would help her to know so she might prepare what to say to him. His steady gaze of a few minutes ago haunted her already and told her nothing that might alleviate her misgivings that he hated her and was wedding her against his will. She had been bitterly disappointed that he had not written to her himself to reassure her that he did indeed wish her to be his wife, but Elizabeth had scoffed when Grace complained.

  “My dear Grace, ’tis not required once the betrothal is sanctioned by those responsible for the bride and groom’s future. In the end, ’twas between Jack Welles, or”—she chuckled—“should I say Cecily, and me. By rights, you have no say one way or the other. But we have been through all this, and you have assured me there is no compelling reason for your refusal to wed Master Gower and therefore you shall wed him. Let me hear no more about it.” And so, from his silence, Grace was certain that Tom must be a reluctant bridegroom. Now, without even a glimmer of a smile from him, she was even more convinced.

  ON CHRISTMAS DAY, after the court had celebrated the eve of the Christ child’s birth in prayer and thanks, the chamberlain approached the throne in the queen’s audience chamber and announced that dinner was served. The players of rebecs, recorders and the new German crumhorns ceased their background accompaniment and hurried out of the room to set up anew in the minstrels’ gallery above the great hall.

  The women sat apart from the men for the feast, a tradition Bess kept this season in deference to her mother’s more formal court of a decade ago. She and Elizabeth sat on the dais and chose Cecily and Grace to serve them. Katherine was grateful to stay off her feet and found her place at a table of other noble ladies. High above the diners, the king’s choristers took their place with the minstrels and broke out into song, reminding the company why they were celebrating.

  “Nowell, nowell, nowell, nowell,

  This is the salutation of the angel Gabriel.

  Tidings true, there be come new, sent from the Trinity

  By Gabriel to Nazareth, city of Galilee.

  A clean maiden and pure virgin, through her humility

  Hath conceived the person second in Deity.”

  The voices rang out in the painted hall and floated up to the magnificent hammer-beam roof as if they were addressing God himself, and Grace felt her skin prickle.

  Before the blessing was said, Elizabeth looked around the hall and a chuckle escaped her. “I remember well my coronation feast, Bess,” she murmured, fingering the leaf motif of her gold and black enameled necklace, a square ruby glowing in the center. “I made Edward’s sisters, Elizabeth of Suffolk and Margaret, serve me on their knees. They were there for hours, and Meg fell ill soon afterwards. Wicked girl! She made me think my command had something to do with her fever. But ’twas not my fault her humors were misaligned.” Bess cringed at the thought of her mother’s arrogant behavior as Archbishop Morton offered a long-winded grace.

  Following the traditional soup of ground chicken and frumenty, and after the fish dishes of lamprey and eel had been greedily consumed, the company applauded loudly as cooks and their helpers brought in roast swans, peacocks and a heron, each redressed in their own plumage and looking so real Grace was afraid they might fly off the platters. But the highlight of the feast was the suckling pigs, and the enormous platters were borne in by several kitchen lads, followed by the two head cooks carrying the steaming roasted head of a boar, a garland of holly crowning it and its razor sharp tusks now used as decorative spikes for rosy apples.

  “The boar’s head in hand bear I

  Bedecked with bays and rosemary;

  And I pray you, masters, be merry

  Quot estis in convivio.”

  The singers paused so the people below could take a collective breath and join in the joyful refrain:

  “Caput apri defero

  Reddens laudes Domino.”

  The fleshy cheeks of the animal were considered the delicacy from the beast, and a slice each was given to Elizabeth and Bess for their tasting. Using golden forks, the two queens each lifted a morsel to their lips and nodded their approval. The rest of the company waited until their messes had been filled before dipping in with their neighbors and transferring succulent pieces of meat to their own trenchers. The wine flowed freely, and Grace soon lost count of how many glasses she had consumed. When the tables were cleared and stacked with the benches against the walls, the dancing began. A lively branle sent many dancers to the floor. Behind Elizabeth’s chair, Grace tapped her foot in time to the beat of the timbre and tabor, watching those who knew the intricate kicks, twists of the feet and swinging of the legs demonstrate why the French dance was known as the “brawl” in England.

  Cecily bent to ask permission from Bess to take Grace onto the floor for the next country dance. “She has not had the chance to show her skill for three years. Your grace, sweet sister, do relieve us of our posts so we can join the others.”

  “You do not need to give me false flattery, sweet sister,” Bess replied, smiling. “Certes, go and dance. I wish I could be among you, but…” She paused, touching her belly. “Henry would not be happy if
I lost this babe. He is sure we will have a second son this time. What say you, Mother? Shall we let these two loose down there amongst all those young men?”

  Elizabeth laughed and several heads turned upon hearing the once familiar sound at court again. “Aye, Bess. Grace needs to sow her wild oats before she is wed, and as for Cecily…ah, well,” she said, winking at Bess. “Cecily is always Cecily, and will never be tied down.” Cecily gasped then giggled, looking around quickly for her husband, who was deep in conversation with Archbishop Morton. “You may go, girls, but send Lady Katherine and her daughter to attend us. It will be amusing to hear the two mothers of our grandchildren vie over whose child is more perfect.” And she chuckled again. Grace knew Elizabeth had had at least as much wine as she, but perhaps it was pure happiness at being let out of her cage that had caused the queen dowager’s merry mood. Cecily took Grace’s hand and ran down the steps of the dais towards a young man with coal black hair and eyes as green as the summer sea.

  “Master Kyme, do lead us out to the dance,” Cecily said, accepting his kiss on her hand. “This is my half sister, Grace, who is to wed Tom Gower. Is she not the daintiest thing you have ever set eyes on?”

  Thomas Kyme turned to Grace and smiled, and Grace knew she had never seen a comelier man—not even John could compare to this paragon of masculine beauty. “Thomas Kyme, at your service, my lady,” he murmured, taking her hand and bowing over it.

  “Master Kyme is a neighbor in Lincolnshire,” Cecily explained airily, but Grace doubted her sister could also explain her high color and nervous hands, which Grace observed with interest and not a little apprehension. Surely Cecily was not…nay, she could not be. You are dreaming, Grace, she thought. Cecily make a cuckold of the king’s stepuncle? ’Tis cock-brained.