The King's Grace

by Anne Easter Smith

  Tom came home when his duties allowed and filled Grace in on all the court gossip; however, it was a letter from Cecily that brought the first real news: “Our grandmother Cecily has passed away just three weeks after her eightieth birthday. The court is, naturellement, in deep mourning.” Grace had not known the old duchess of York well at all, but nonetheless she said a prayer for the matriarch of the York family that day at her prie-dieu—the same one Elizabeth had used at Bermondsey.

  Not long after Proud Cis’s death, Tom told her that Henry had created his son Harry, duke of York, aiming to snub all those in Europe who were fêting the false duke of York. And Bess had given birth to another daughter, Mary, just months after one of the coldest winters anyone could remember.

  Their little Isabella had been born in April 1495; then, in July, Tom reported that Richard, duke of York, had finally made his move. With soldiers, arms and supplies sent with him by Duchess Margaret and Maximilian, he had attempted to land at Deal in Kent. He had been assured that the Kentishmen would rise up with him, but those he had sent ashore were completely routed by Henry’s men and most were put to death on the spot. Richard and the rest of his force fled with their small fleet to Ireland, but due to Henry’s clever politics in that part of his kingdom, Richard now found himself unwanted there.

  After failing to win the earls of Kildare and Desmond to his banner again, the young man was forced to take to the sea once more and find safe haven—this time in Scotland—with Burgundy’s ally, James. And thus, yet another royal ruler welcomed this handsome young man to his court, with his beautiful manners, fine clothes and noble bearing, and accepting without doubt that he was the son of Edward of England come to life. James welcomed with enthusiasm any chance he had to worry Henry on his northern borders, and he promised Richard he would join him in invading England if it would feather his own nest.

  James held welcome jousts in his honor when Richard came to him at the sandstone clifftop castle at Stirling in November 1495, and by January 1496 he had honored Richard by giving him a wife, Katherine Gordon, a daughter of the earl of Huntly, who was Scotland’s most powerful lord after the king. Not eight months later they were blessed with a son, Henry’s spies told him—it was said the young couple were so smitten with each other when they first met at Advent tide that they did not wait to tie the knot before finding a bed and conceiving a child. Now Henry had another prickle in his side that he could not leave to fester.

  The young prince and his beautiful bride were given leave to take up residence in the royal hunting lodge at Falkland, which was secluded in a forest in the shadow of the two heather-covered mounds that comprised the Lomond Hills. So much in love had they become, according to the spies’ reports, that Richard was reluctant to leave his idyllic situation to accomplish the very goal he had gone to Scotland to achieve: invade England and take back his crown. Unbeknownst to Richard during those months of his leisure away from court, James had, in fact, come to some sort of a reluctant truce with Henry, but that did not deter James from keeping his promise to his new friend. And thus, in a cold September rain in 1496, Richard finally rode into England with his proud satin banner of the White Rose hanging limp on its staff above him. James expected Englishmen to be there to rally to the cause, but no one ran to greet the young duke of York and his ragtag band of foreign mercenaries. So disgusted were the Scots by this wild goose chase that they chose to treat the invasion like any other border raid and began pillaging and killing innocent villagers where they could before making their way back across the River Tweed towards home.

  When Grace heard of all these disasters, she wept for Richard. Tom comforted her, but he tactfully suggested that perhaps the English did not care to have a new king. Perhaps they were contented with Henry now, and certes, with the news of the way James and Richard’s armies had attacked the people of Northumberland, the English were in no mind to accept a prince who treated his own subjects thus.

  “But ’twas not his fault, Tom,” an indignant Grace had said. “’Twas that savage Scottish king’s. We know they are all wild beasts north of the border. My poor brother must be at their mercy. I hope he can escape back to Aunt Margaret and try again.”

  Tom did not have the heart to tell her that her half brother was on a fool’s errand. In the spring, Henry had faced a rebellion by fifteen thousand Cornishmen who resented the taxes levied on them to finance Henry’s fight against their allies, the Scots. In June, the Cornish army had marched unchecked through the south of England to London, where they had challenged the city. Henry soon put them to rout at a battle on Blackheath, executed the leaders and demonstrated to the rest of the country how intolerant he was of dissension. He had also sent the fleet north to guard the Tweed so no more incursions would go undefended.

  Aye, the king was concerned, Lord Welles had told his gentlemen of the chamber, but he was forewarned and forearmed. Whatever this Perkin Warbeck attacked England with, it would be no match for Henry’s forces, Tom knew. Besides, Henry had a greater reason to want to be free of Perkin Warbeck and keep his kingdom stable: in October the year before, he had finally concluded the arrangements with Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain to betroth Arthur to the infanta Catherine, and nothing as paltry as a pretender should ruin this superb alliance.

  AS TOM AND Grace strolled along the path to the field where Edmund was supervising the hay baling, Tom decided she did not need to know everything just yet. Instead, he bent to pick Grace’s favorite tricolored heartsease from a clump under the low stone wall that marked the northern boundary of the manor’s lands and whistled to Freya, who had her nose in a rabbit hole. To the south and east, the Gower fields stretched down the hill to a brook and up the other side into stands of beech and oak trees. He and Edmund knew every inch of the property, and he was always moved by its beauty when he returned.

  “I wanted to tell you some news privately, sweetheart,” he said, offering her the flower and kissing her fingers as she took it from him. Grace slowed her step, a frown creasing her sun-stained brow. He was used to his nut-brown wife, as he teasingly called her, and although she might be disdained at court, he thought she looked natural and healthy, and he thanked God several times a day that she had given him two thriving daughters. He turned to look back along the path and grinned. Edgar had Susannah on his shoulders, and the little girl was squealing with delight when he alternately galloped and then slowed to a walk. It was plain the groom adored the child, and through Edgar’s patience, Tom was pleased his daughters would grow up without the fear of horses that Grace had never lost.

  “What news, husband?” Grace asked eagerly. “’Tis good, I hope.”

  “I have good news and bad news; which shall go first?”

  Grace made a face. “Tell me the good, so I may smile through the bad,” she answered.

  “It seems my lord Welles has rewarded me for my efforts at Blackheath. Even though I was only doing my knightly duty by defending our banner, I fought well enough to have been knighted. My lady, you are now staring at Sir Thomas Gower!” he cried, laughing at her gap-mouthed face. She gave a shriek and jumped into his arms, almost bowling him over and making Freya bark and race around them in excited circles.

  “Tom, Tom, you should have written and told me. Oh, how proud I am of you, my dearest,” she said, letting herself back down onto the ground. “Your mother will be delighted. Look at you, husband—you are as red as a robin’s breast!” She took his hand and kissed his palm, flirting with him under her lashes. “I wonder if nights with knights are any different than with ordinary men?”

  “Soft, Grace,” Tom admonished her, chuckling. “Not in front of Susannah!”

  “So, now you may tell me the bad news, for nothing will break my merry mood, I promise.”

  “I trust you will understand that ’twas not my decision, but the queen’s,” Tom began, taking her arm and continuing their pace. “You are called back to court, Grace, because the queen wants you to attend her in Lady Cecily’s stea
d. One of the Welleses’ daughters has been stricken with a malady the doctors are unable to recognize. The queen has sent the viscountess to Hellowe to be with her child for the summer. I am to escort you to London in a week’s time.”

  “A week?” Grace said, her voice faltering. It had not occurred to her that she would return to life at court, as she thought Henry had made it clear she was no longer welcome there. She had grown to love Yorkshire and its blunt but good-hearted people, and she looked on Alice as her mother. Other than Enid, there were no nursemaids or attendants in charge of her children, which meant she was at liberty to watch them grow and change—take their first steps, say their first words and, aye, she could even take care of their dirty linens. And she had nothing to wear. Her court gowns must be old-fashioned now—they were none too fashionable when she was there, except for the beautiful brown silk gown that Elizabeth had afforded for the audience at Westminster with her cousin of Luxembourg all those years ago.

  “God’s bones, Tom!” she exclaimed, startling her husband with her vehemence and unusual oath. “Am I to be a servant for the rest of my life? Grace go here, Grace go there, Grace attend this one, Grace attend that one? I have my own family now, and I am still a king’s daughter. Can I not live in peace here? Edmund is pleased with my help; the children are strong and love the farm life. The only part I hate is your long absences. Oh, Tom, how can I leave my two little ones? ’Twould break my heart.”

  “Come down from your high horse, sweetheart,” Tom replied, stopping her and taking her hands. “Certes, you are invited to bring the girls with you. Your sister is most pleased to invite them, and calls them her dear nieces. ’Twill not be for very long, and as the viscount must be with the king and the king and queen will be at Shene throughout August, we shall see each other more often. ’Tis an honor to serve the queen, and you dare not refuse her grace’s command, my love—you must see that.”

  Grace relaxed the stubborn line of her mouth into a reluctant smile. Certes, she could not refuse, and she told him so. “But your mother will be desolate, in truth. She adores Susannah and Bella. She will soon have Edmund’s child to love, I suppose.” She sighed. “Let us go and tell Mother the news and promise Edmund we shall return in time to help with the harvest. It looks to be a fine one this year.”

  She stopped and waited for Edgar to catch up to them and then scooped up the bright-eyed Susannah and swung her into Tom’s waiting arms.

  THE SMALL PARTY left Westow on a day that showed off the Yorkshire landscape to perfection. When Grace looked back at Alice, Edmund and Rowena waving from the upper field in front of the stone manor house, she saw them framed by an azure sky above, a dark green forest to the east and green and gold fields in front of them. The corn was ripening nicely, and St. Swithun had been kind this year and had not sent the rain on his feast day. The grain would be plentiful and not plagued with mold from too much rain. Tears stung her eyes as she gave one final wave before the figures turned away and went back to their work on the farm.

  Edgar had fashioned a special basket for Bella that held the baby safely in front of him on his large rouncy, and Enid was riding pillion so that she could monitor her charge’s needs. But it seemed the gentle swaying of the basket kept the child sleeping for much of the day, meaning Grace and Enid had to minister to a wakeful bundle for their five nights upon the road. Their route took them through the center of England, and Grace was saddened by the names of places they passed by that were synonymous with battles fought in the struggle of Lancaster against York—Towton, Wakefield, Stoke, Northampton, St. Albans and Barnet—where many of her own family had lost their lives. She clutched Tom around the waist and shuddered, not wanting to imagine what it must have been like to see one’s husband, sweetheart or brother march off to fight. Tom patted her hand. “Are you cold, hinny?” he asked as they left the village of Barnet behind on their last leg of the journey to London. She smiled, loving it when he used the northern endearment, which he tended to do after spending time at home.

  “Nay, Tom. I was thinking about the terrible waste of life that battles cause. ’Twas at Barnet where the great earl of Warwick lost his life, was it not?”

  “Aye, and his brother, John Neville,” Tom said. “The two were laid out for all to see at Saint Paul’s, my uncle told me. But better to die in battle than on the scaffold, in truth. Although, as befitted their noble rank, they would have been spared the usual traitor’s death, unlike the leaders of the Cornishmen after the debacle at Blackheath.” Grace shivered again. She thought of John for the first time in a long while and smelled again the sickly scent of burning flesh and hair. “And the foolish followers of the Warbeck fellow who were taken at Deal.”

  “Do not call him that, I beg of you, Tom. Not in front of me,” Grace said. “Believe what you will, but until someone proves otherwise, I shall think of him always as my brother.”

  Tom sighed. He hoped he would not have to lecture her again about keeping silent on the subject when she was with the king and queen. While she remained at court, she would have to become accustomed to hearing the man referred to as Perkin Warbeck, or by Henry’s favorite moniker: “the boy.” There was even a rumor that Warbeck was the result of a liaison between Margaret and her confessor, Henri de Berghes, the bishop of Cambrai, although Tom had dismissed it as ridiculous. He squeezed Grace’s hand again, and she did not reject him but laid her cheek on his long back, the kersey tunic soft against her skin.

  And thus they rode into London, past the fields and gardens of the immense St. Bartholomew’s Priory to where the Aldersgate gaped like a mouth in the twenty-foot-high city wall. The smell of the ditch before the wall made Susannah cry “Pooh!” and Bella held her little nose. The sentries came to attention upon seeing the queen’s banner and cleared a path for the small meinie. Before them, carts drawn by oxen, piled high with tuns of wine or sacks of flour, lumbered through the hulking stone gate upon which was set the rotting haunch of a man whose body had been hacked into quarters and, together with his head, pilloried thus on each of London’s gates. Grace averted her eyes and was glad when Tom pointed out St. Paul’s spire to Susannah to divert her attention from the carcass.

  To avoid the crowds in the center of the city, Tom chose to keep close to the inside of the wall around to the east and thus to the Tower. He had received word along the way that the court was still at the Tower following the Cornish rebellion scare, and Grace was not looking forward to going there. All she knew about it was that, despite being a royal palace, it was the place where Ned and Dickon had disappeared and still housed her unfortunate cousin, Ned of Warwick.

  With its wide moat and low curtain wall, the Tower looked more like a fortress than a palace. They crossed one drawbridge to an island gate, called Lion Tower, and then over another bridge to the Middle Tower before reaching the gate in the high Byward Tower. Soon the children were stretching their legs on the manicured grass by the Garden Tower, which the royal lodgings abutted.

  Tom led them to the entrance to the queen’s apartments and they climbed the staircase to the second floor, where they found the suite of apartments to be richly decorated and with leaded windows that looked out onto the flower gardens below. The massive central White Tower was in front of them, where the king was staying this time, and Grace was glad Bess was not residing in the same building with him.

  “Lady Grace Plantagenet, your grace,” Bess’s chamberlain barked as Tom escorted his wife into the queen’s presence, two-year-old Bella in his arms and Grace holding Susannah’s hand. She had taught Susannah how to curtsy during the last week at Westow, but the little girl was so overawed by the magnificence of the chamber and the beautiful woman seated before them that she stood rooted to the spot. Grace sank into an accustomed reverence, thinking her daughter had followed suit. She heard Bess’s soft laughter and looked up anxiously.

  “She reminds me of you the first time I saw you at court, dear Lady Grace,” Bess said, waving her hand to indicate that Grace
should rise. “You were just as overwhelmed. Come here, poppet,” she beckoned to Susannah, who Grace realized was still on her feet gazing about her in wonder. “Come and tell me your name, and your brother’s…”

  Susannah needed no second bidding. Deciding she liked this goddess in her blue and black patterned silk gown with its shiny golden trim, and ignoring the bevy of attendants clucking their tongues around her, she skipped over and clambered up on Bess’s lap before Grace could stop her. One of the ladies attempted to gently remove the child, who was now comfortably seated on the queen’s knee.

  “My name is Susannah,” she said, eyeing the diamond and pearl pendant that swung temptingly from the front of Bess’s velvet headdress.

  Grace hurried forward, smiling an apology. “She tends to be too forward,” she explained. “I beg your pardon, your grace. Susannah, get down and make your reverence—”

  “My dear sister,” Bess interrupted her, “I have four children of my own, as you know. Leave her be, I beg of you. Cannot an aunt make her niece’s acquaintance? Sweet Jesu, but she is the image of you, Grace.” She tickled Susannah’s nose with her finger. “Aye, we are talking about you, little poppet. Now, you have not yet told me your brother’s name.”

  Grace stepped back and let her child answer. “It’s not a brother,” Susannah scoffed, rolling her eyes to the ceiling painted with golden stars. “She’s Bella, and she’s a girl.”