The King's Grace

by Anne Easter Smith

  “Ah, Lady Grace,” Henry said, looking down at her from his above-average height. Grace was glad to note a warm tinge to his greeting, although she recognized the pinched look of worry about his mouth and eyes. Edgar had told her during their journey north that the commonfolk had not yet warmed to Henry, even though they liked the peace his reign had brought. “’Tis said he fears the ghosts of those two boys what disappeared from the Tower,” Edgar had confided. And well he might, Grace had thought.

  Henry continued with his greeting: “Soyez la bienvenue—welcome,” he translated quickly, “after all this time. Approach, and tell us how the queen dowager fares.”

  Grace kissed both his and Margaret’s outstretched hands, and even Margaret gave her a smile of welcome. “Her grace the queen dowager is not strong, my liege. She spends much of her day in bed and is therefore wasting away. Lady Hastings and I do—did,” she corrected herself, “what we could to keep her entertained and eating, but she grieves for Earl Rivers, who you must know passed away in March, and the shock has brought her low.” She hoped her gown was not trembling visibly from her shaking legs and that she had given a coherent answer. Why was she so afraid of this man? Was it the crown he wore? The purple mantle trimmed with royal ermine? His stiff bearing and piercing eyes—even the unsightly red wart just above his chin? Aye, he is the king and anointed by God, Grace thought. Certes, I am right to be afraid.

  Henry made a sympathetic sound but then changed the subject; Elizabeth was not his favorite topic. “Cecily tells us you are betrothed to one of Welles’s squires. We are pleased for you, are we not, Mother?” He intertwined his long fingers together and, bending them backwards, cracked all his knuckles loudly, making Grace wince.

  Margaret concurred. “Aye, we are. You have our blessing, Grace,” she said as though she were the sovereign dispensing permission. “I trust you will find him a good husband, my dear. Is he here?”

  Grace had not dared take her eyes from the king and his mother since entering the room, but now she glanced around and saw Tom watching her anxiously. “He is here, my lady, and if it would please you, your grace, I would have you meet him.” Her own bravado surprised her.

  The king nodded and Grace walked quickly to fetch a bewildered Tom, who fell on his knees before his liege lord. “Thomas Gower, is it?” the king asked. “Stand, Master Gower, I would give you and Lady Grace my blessing.”

  The king was tall, but Tom towered over him, which obviously amused Henry, who looked at them for a full minute before remarking: “You look more like father and daughter than husband and wife, in truth. But with a stalwart like this by your side, Grace, I should not fear for your safety, if I were you.” He gave Tom a baleful stare and took the squire aback by remarking, “You rode with Lincoln at Stoke, did you not?”

  Grace drew in a sharp breath, and she saw Lady Margaret’s eyes narrow.

  “I had the honor of being in Lord Lincoln’s household, your grace,” Tom said, and Grace was surprised at his steady voice. “However, I was not at Stoke, but at my home in Yorkshire, helping my mother on our estates after the sudden death of my father. Lord Lincoln gave me leave to go.”

  Henry weighed Tom’s words and finally nodded. “So may I count on your loyalty now, Master Gower?”

  Tom was on his knees again in a flash, swearing fealty to the king. Grace felt a twinge of irritation, and her mind flitted back to the incident of Elizabeth’s letter and Katherine’s suspicion that Tom had somehow betrayed the dowager. Tom had been John’s best childhood friend; he had chafed over not being allowed to fight for King Richard at Bosworth; and he had been glad to follow Cousin Jack of Lincoln. He and his whole family were Yorkists, so why was he groveling to the Tudor so willingly? She determined she would question his arse-kissing. He must know where her loyalties lay, in truth.

  “Where is your lord, Master Gower? I would speak with him,” Henry said. He turned away from the women and addressed a man with a flowing white beard dressed in an extraordinary mantle emblazoned with moons and stars. Grace knew an alchemist when she saw one and remembered Cecily telling her that Henry never made a personal decision without consulting his. She watched Tom hurry off to extricate the viscount from a group by the door, glad not to have to answer any more awkward questions.

  “An agreeable young man,” the countess told Grace, who would have liked nothing more than to leave her side and join Cecily. Her sister was laughing and talking with a group across the room. “And I can see why Lady Welles has been anticipating your arrival. For all she has a large household, I believe she misses her family, and at times does not behave exactly as she should. You seem to have a level head on your shoulders, my lady, and I am counting on you to steer her out of trouble.” Sweet Jesu, Grace thought, does she suspect Cecily and Thomas Kyme? But Margaret was smiling. “She makes my stepbrother obey her every whim, he tells me.” She leaned forward and smirked. “But he adores her, have no fear. She is so full of life that she leads poor old Jack in a merry dance, ’tis all.”

  Grace could not believe her ears. Why, Scraggy Maggie has a sense of humor, she thought, and was bold enough to answer, “I will attempt to curb her excesses, my lady, although”—she smiled—“my opinion has not counted for much up to now.” Seeing Cecily approaching, she said more loudly, “I must tell you, countess, Lady Cecily has been so kind to my husband and me, and I look forward to seeing Lord Welles’s estate at Hellowe on the morrow.”

  “We shall leave in a day or two, Grace,” Cecily corrected her. “Lady Margaret and I are working on an embroidered gown for the new baby, and I promised we would finish it in case Bess has the child early.” And, to Grace’s astonishment, Cecily gave Margaret a winning smile. “Is that not so, my lady?”

  Margaret patted her arm and agreed that it was so.

  “I thought you hated her, Cis,” Grace whispered as they left Margaret’s presence after a rotund courtier went down on one knee and begged for a private audience.

  Cecily shrugged. “She is cold and aloof much of the time, ’tis true, but she can be warm and courteous when she is in private. In truth, she has treated me with courtesy, and we rub along well enough. It seems Jack is close to his stepsister and, as a member of Henry’s Star Chamber, he must advise Henry, so ’tis necessary for us to be in his train often. ’Tis not my choice, you understand; merely my duty.” She tucked Grace’s hand under her arm and took her out to the gardens behind the palace that were bright with the colors of gillyflowers, irises, lilies and roses all glistening from a recent shower. “Let me tell you about your new home, Grace,” she said, a wicked twinkle in her eye. “There is a farm, so I know you will be happy, little peasant.”

  Grace stopped and stood with her arms akimbo and a retort ready on her lips, but when Cecily threw back her head and let forth her familiar laugh, Grace forgot her indignation and laughed with her, realizing how much she had missed company of her own age at the abbey.

  AS A SQUIRE of the body, Tom was on duty in the viscount’s bedchamber that night, so he was able to speak to Grace for only a few minutes before he went to the other wing of the palace, where the Welleses were housed. He found her in the long gallery, admiring the wall hangings, and, whisking her aside, kissed her hungrily. When she was unresponsive, he pulled apart and whispered: “Dearest Grace, what is wrong? I have longed for this moment for all these months. Have I offended you—again?”

  Grace felt a pang of remorse, but she was ready to speak her mind and wasted no time. “I was not aware that your devotion to Henry Tudor ran so deep,” she said scornfully. “It pained me to see you fall at his feet with such fervor, which told me how quickly you have forgotten your former friends and loyalties. You are wed to the daughter of a Yorkist king, who knows where her duty lies. I am disappointed; I thought I knew you better.”

  Tom blanched and checked over his shoulder to make sure no one was listening. “Henry is the king, Grace. Would you rather I had refused to bow down to him publicly and risk my neck? Or do
es my neck mean nothing to you?” When he saw her stubborn expression, he grimaced. “I see that it does not. And I thought we had come to an understanding, you and I.” He took hold of her arm none too gently and bent close. “You are no longer at the abbey, Grace. You are in the real world, where one does what one can to survive. I will do what I must to protect what little advancement I have made and provide for you. I shall not go back on my promise to be a good husband to you, and if that means I kneel to my king and vow to serve him, I will do it. He, however, will never know what is in my heart.” He looked at her sadly. “And I thought I knew you better.”

  Then he turned on his heel and walked away. Grace stared after him, her heart heavy. Ah, you are cruel, Grace. Why must you be so cruel? She well knew the answer; it lay over the sea in Flanders. A sob caught in her throat as she sank down onto a bench and whispered a prayer to St. Jude of lost causes.

  THE NEXT DAY, as the household sat down to dinner and the ewerer was offering Grace the finger bowl, the sound of horses’ hooves in the courtyard caught the diners’ attention and everyone turned curious eyes to the door. They were not disappointed, as several knights entered, spurs clanking on the tiled floor, followed by a flustered steward.

  “’Tis Sir Edward Pickering,” Grace heard a man say to his neighbor. “He who captured the whoreson traitors Chamberlain and White in January. And you know what happened to them.” He made a ghoulish face and dragged his finger across his throat.

  “By Christ’s nails, look who he has taken now,” the other man murmured, nodding his head towards the back of the new arrivals.

  Worming her way between the two, Grace was finally able to glimpse the object of their curiosity. His arms tied behind his back, a hood falling off his long dark hair, being rudely forced to his knees by two men-at-arms in Henry’s livery, was John of Gloucester. The spectators gasped and whispered his name to those who could not see.

  As soon as she saw him and before she could stop herself, Grace let an involuntary scream escape. “John!” she cried and fell to her knees.

  Henry’s chamberlain, Sir William Stanley, who had been standing nearby, gently raised Grace from the floor and attempted to remove her from Henry’s line of sight.

  “If I were you, my lady, I would distance myself from Lord John. He may be accused of treason,” Stanley cautioned under his breath. “The king’s spies sent word he had set sail from Flanders to an unknown destination along the northern coast.”

  “Treason?” Grace asked, her eyes wide with fear. “Why? Because he wanted to come home?”

  Stanley put his finger to his lips. “’Tis not wise to ask too many questions. We shall know soon enough.” He bowed curtly and walked away. This was the man who had come to Henry’s rescue at Bosworth when Uncle Richard had come so close to personally killing Tudor, she recalled. He had turned his coat, and Grace had no doubt he must hate Richard’s bastard niece for all he had shielded her. She shrank back through the courtiers straining to get a look at the kneeling prisoner, and no one noticed her until she felt her arm being gripped tightly and Tom’s urgent whisper commanding her, “Come with me.”

  Grace was too stunned to resist and allowed Tom to maneuver her outside, into the courtyard. “Grace, are you all right?” he asked, concern in his voice. “I heard your cry. ’Tis rumored John is wanted for treason, although I cannot believe his flight from Stoke would count as treason. Attaint him, certes, but unless he is involved in a plot to overthrow Henry, let us hope he should be freed anon.”

  Grace was silent, her heart racing, as she knew that John must have come from the Duchess Margaret. Something was afoot, but what? She hoped her face would give nothing away to Tom. If she was to help John, she must pretend to be John’s innocent cousin who was merely frightened at seeing him manacled. No one, not even Tom, must know she had been to Malines.

  Tom lifted her chin with his forefinger and thumb and looked into her eyes. “If Henry allows it, and because of your kinship with John, I shall not forbid you from seeing him,” he told her. “But as your husband—and, I admit, a jealous one—I cannot condone it. Can you understand the difference, sweetheart? The choice is yours to make.”

  “Thank you, Tom,” Grace murmured and, reaching up on tiptoe, she kissed him on the cheek. She turned and went back into the hall without giving him an answer. Tom closed his eyes, leaned back against the wall and prayed his wayward wife would use the brain he knew she had.

  Grace had gone only a few paces when Cecily pounced on her. “Where did you disappear to?” she whispered. “It seems John may have some intelligence about You Know Who and was sent here to spy for Aunt Margaret. Or so my lord husband thinks.”

  “Has John been formally charged with anything?” Grace whispered back.

  Cecily shook her head. “He has denied any wrongdoing to his captors, but ’tis sure Henry will torture him. Ah, poor Grace, I beg your pardon, ’twas unfeeling of me,” Cecily soothed when she saw Grace’s stricken face. Then she shrugged. “’Tis the way of things in a man’s world, sister. Men are always fighting, politicking or whoring. And when they don’t get what they want, a little torture thrown in might not hurt.” She chuckled at her own wit, but Grace was not amused.

  “You have an odd sense of humor, Cis,” she retorted. Pulling Cecily behind a pillar, she whispered, “And rather than preaching, I would remember your part in what has brought John back to England.” Then her courage failed her, and her face crumpled. “What has happened, Cis? Where have they taken John?”

  Cecily drew Grace’s arm through hers and, seeing curious eyes on them, said matter-of-factly, “Henry briefly accused John of plotting to overthrow him and ordered his confinement in the guardroom.” She clucked her tongue. “Certes, it all must be a misunderstanding, and John’s innocence will soon be proven. Come, sister, I believe the king and his mother are taking a turn about the garden. Shall we join them?”

  Grace understood immediately and, nodding and smiling at a couple of courtiers she recognized, said brightly, “Aye, the fresh air will do us good.”

  IT WAS MARGARET Beaufort who persuaded her son to allow Grace to visit John later that day. “It could do no harm, Henry,” she had said, when Cecily had charmed Margaret into asking the king. “Grace is but a weak-willed girl and besides, she has been closeted with the Woodville woman behind abbey walls all these years. Certes, she is no threat to you or anyone.”

  Henry had narrowed his eyes, Cecily related to Grace later, and hesitated for a moment before giving Cecily a curt nod. “Aye, she may go, but she may have only five minutes with him. Sir William,” he called, beckoning to his chamberlain, “pray arrange for the Lady Grace to speak to the prisoner at her convenience today.” Stanley had bowed and left the royal presence to find Grace.

  Brimming with anticipation, Grace followed the fifty-year-old Stanley, younger brother of Lady Margaret’s husband, out of the residential area of the house, through a dark, dank passageway and into the small armory, where several soldiers jumped to attention recognizing the king’s chamberlain. Stanley scowled when he saw the dice and coins on the table, giving away the gambling the guards were engaged in. He swept them from the table and shouted: “You know his grace, the king, does not sanction games of chance, except at Yuletide. I have a good mind to have you all horsewhipped.” Grace almost choked. What a hypocrite, she thought; it was well known in the family that Henry relished the chance to gamble. But, anxious to get back to Henry’s side and be done with his paltry errand, Stanley fixed his eye on one young man and ordered him to take them to John’s temporary prison. Scurrying to pick up his pike and the large ring of keys, the guard bowed and opened a thick wooden door to a staircase, eyeing Grace curiously. Two floors up, they arrived at another door with a grille the size of a man’s face in it.

  Stanley turned to Grace and was impressed to see the diminutive young woman standing proudly and without fear. “Remember, my lady, you have five minutes. Guard, make sure she has not one minute mo
re, you understand? And wait here outside the door. Then escort the lady back to her quarters. I must return to the king.” He gave Grace a polite bow and started back down the staircase.

  “Visitor,” the guard barked through the grille, inserting a key in the lock. “Five minutes be what’s allowed.” He pushed the door open far enough to allow Grace through and then slammed it shut behind her. He peered curiously into the room as he locked it again but ducked out of sight when John commanded him to go.

  Grace stood rooted to the spot, horrified by John’s unkempt appearance. Were those streaks down his bloody face from tears? He hid his hands behind his back, his legs wobbling as he took a step towards her before falling to the uneven stone floor and groaning in pain. Grace was down beside him to catch him in her arms as he fell forward, cradling his head against her breast. Neither said a word, and Grace’s tears fell freely.

  Finally she whispered, “They have tortured you, dear John, haven’t they?” John nodded and sat back on his heels, bringing his broken hands out from behind his back and shuddering in despair. Grace stared in horror at the crooked fingers, the thumbs that had been pulverized by the screw, and reached out to touch them. John winced and shook his head.

  “’Tis more than I can bear, Grace.” He tried to smile, but the gash on his mouth had reopened, and it was painful. “Who did you have to charm to see me, little wren? Have you beguiled the king?”

  But Grace was on her feet and calling to the guard: “Bring me a bowl of water and some linen this instant, sirrah. The prisoner is in need of bandages.”

  The guard guffawed and retorted: “We don’t bandage prisoners, my lady. They deserve what they get.”

  Grace stamped her foot and shouted, “You puny, clapper-clawed measle, you will do as I command.”

  “Soft, Grace, he will not heed you. And where did you learn language like that? At the abbey? Come here and comfort me,” John cajoled. “Ah, but you are a sight for sore eyes, my sweet cousin.” He frowned. “How is it you are here at Collyweston? Has the queen dowager died?”