Grace’s pulse quickened, for once ignoring Elizabeth’s selfishness and clutched at a straw of hope. But then Elizabeth stood up and returned to her train of thought. “Our lives as women give us little in the way of control—surely you have seen that. Look at your own sisters: Bess was forced to marry Henry, as you know, Cecily the dull Jack Welles. And poor little Catherine was contracted to Juan of Castile when she was a baby! Aye, it was broken off when your father died, but then Henry promised her to dead King James’s brother in Scotland, and”—she gave a sardonic laugh—“me to James himself, which thankfully came to naught when the man was killed at Sauchieburn. Catherine is only eleven, and who knows who will barter for her yet. We are but royal chattel, Grace, and you are more fortunate because you were born a bastard. Had your father still been king, you would have been a good catch for an ambitious man at court, as even a bastard royal has influence if the father is a king. Do you see?” She searched Grace’s sad face, her generous mouth drooping and her large brown eyes close to tears, for some sign of acceptance of these hard facts. “But now…”
“Now I am nothing,” Grace whispered for her. “I know that. But I am still not free to love where I will.”
“Love comes eventually, from respect and familiarity—most of the time. You learn to love and count on each other. Why do you not think you could love this Tom Gower? You know him, I can see that, or you would not act the way you are. Is he an old man?” Grace shook her head. “Is he cruel?” Grace shook her head again. “Does he have one eye, warts and no teeth?”
Grace’s mouth trembled in a semblance of a smile, and she shook her head a third time. “Nay, my lady, some would say he is handsome,” she conceded. “But…”
“But what, Grace?” Elizabeth snapped her brows together. “You are beginning to try my patience. For the last time, what is wrong with this man?”
“I love John of Gloucester,” Grace blurted out. “I cannot conceive of wedding anyone but him.”
Elizabeth’s bell-like laugh rang around the room, but it sounded like a death knell to Grace. Now the tears fell in great drops on her dress. “’Tis no laughing matter, your grace,” she said miserably. “You are going to say he is my cousin, and thus I cannot marry him. I know that already.” She rose suddenly and stamped her foot. “Oh, life is not fair! I just want to die!”
“Tiens! All these years, and I never knew you had a temper,” Elizabeth said, amused. “So now your secret is out—although I seem to remember guessing at it two years ago, did I not?”
Grace stared at the floor and gave an imperceptible nod and a loud sniff. For once, Elizabeth’s maternal spirit was moved to open her arms and invite the weeping Grace into them. “’Tis true, you cannot marry John,” she said, rocking the young woman gently, “even though money can perform miracles with the pope. Sadly, we have none, and besides, John cannot offer you a home, children or stability. And women of our station need that, Grace. Who knows if you will ever see John again? Remember him as your first love, and keep that memory sweet and fresh.” She paused as Grace let out an anguished sob. “Hush, now. Marry Tom Gower and have a family of your own. You are a born mother—look how well you take care of me. Would you not like to hold your own wee babe? Aye, what woman doesn’t? I should know; I have held ten, although some be with the angels now.” She put Grace from her and pulled a cambric kerchief from her sleeve. “Dry your eyes, child. You do not want Katherine to mock you more, do you?”
Grace looked up in astonishment, dabbing at her face and blowing her nose. “You notice?” she asked. “I thought you did not notice.”
“What do you think I am?” Elizabeth retorted. “A ninny? Certes, I notice. She treats you abominably, but she is old and sour, and I do not have the strength or desire to change her. In truth,” she told Grace brightly, “there is another good reason for you to become Tom Gower’s wife. You can leave the old bat behind!” She was rewarded with a chuckle.
Grace took a deep breath. “As always, I am grateful for your wisdom, your grace.” She stood on tiptoe and, without warning, kissed Elizabeth on the cheek. “You have been like a mother to me, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart.” She noticed from the softening of her features that Elizabeth was moved by the gesture, and she was glad. The dowager had not known affection since before Edward died, and Grace knew well that Elizabeth’s daughters were respectful but afraid of their mother.
There was a knock at the door, and Katherine’s voice called, “’Tis I, Lady Hastings. May I come in?”
Elizabeth recovered her composure and sat back down on the shabby cushions of her chair. Grace asked quickly, “I beg of you, indulge me one more favor: let me go into the garden and gather my thoughts before we go and dine with the abbot. I promise I shall think long and hard about all you said.”
Elizabeth nodded and then called out, “Come.”
GRACE FOUND A patch of grass in the shade of a hedge out of sight of the ploughmen and sat on the ground, hugging her knees to her chest. Questions tripped off her tongue in quick succession like raindrops off a roof. What did Cecily say to Tom? Why would Tom want to wed me after our miserable meeting? Why does Cecily think I would even consider marriage with him? What has her husband to do with this? How do I feel about leaving here? Do I want to wed now? Do I want to wed Tom? Do I want to wed at all? Sweet Jesu, what choice do I have? And finally, what it all came down to: “Why can’t I be with John?” she cried in frustration to the clouds scurrying by in the autumn wind.
Calm down, girl, she told herself sternly. Think this through. Consider your present circumstances. You are no more than a servant, in truth, for all you have royal blood in your veins. And you have no means of your own. What if Elizabeth should die in this place? What then? Do you want to be a nun? “Nay,” she snorted as she snatched up a daisy and began pulling off its petals. “If my lot was to be one, God would have left me at Delapre,” she said aloud. Come, Grace, you have been praying to be released from here every night for two years, she told herself. Now here is your deliverance, and you are hesitating. What did you have in mind, pray? John! Always John. How many times had she daydreamed of John riding through the gate, clattering into the courtyard and, seeing her picking flowers, come running to sweep her off her feet? “You addlepate!” she cried, throwing the decimated daisy into the wind. “Daydreams are for children. John looks on you like a sister. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
She forced herself to think about Tom. She went back in her mind to Sheriff Hutton and saw him again riding companionably with John, playing with Jason, the dog and boy so close they were always together, and teaching Bess, Cecily and her patiently to fish. She remembered laughing with him when she fell into the river and was reminded of the ease with which she could talk to him then. Alice Gower’s face swam clearly into that day’s memory, and she thought of the woman’s kindness to her, a mere stranger, and of the warmth she had experienced in Tom’s home.
“I liked the north country,” she muttered, surprising herself. There was a freedom to the wildness and the wideness of the landscape that had captured her imagination—despite the constant wind. Ah, but was it because John loved it, too? But then, so does Tom. John had asked her about Tom in Malines, she recalled. “He and I spent many a happy hour at the butts or riding out on the moors. I am glad Cecily persuaded Welles to take him into his household. He is a good fellow.” Isn’t that what John had said? Aye, she had to acknowledge, Tom is a good fellow. She conjured up their last meeting and tried to think how she had thought about him before they had fallen out. Be honest, Grace—you were glad to see him when you first recognized him in the field, were you not? You were glad, too, when he came to Westminster with the message from John of Lincoln. Aye, she said to herself, I like him. I have always liked him. She frowned and plucked at the grass. Then why did he have to spoil their friendship by thinking he loved her? “’Twas your fault, Tom, not mine!” she muttered. She acknowledged she had been unkind, but how else was he
to know that she loved John and he should forget her? You just do not know how to treat with men, my lady, she acknowledged sadly.
She lay back on the grass and cupped her hands behind her head. A magpie flew by and she sat up in a panic. “One for sorrow…” she murmured, quoting the old saying, and was about to spit out the bad luck when, in a black-and-white flash, a second swooped out of nowhere and joined its mate on the field to enjoy the fallen grain among the shorn corn-stalks. Grace breathed a sigh of relief: “Ah! ‘Two for joy,’” she finished. “Perhaps ’tis a sign.”
The bell clanged for dinner, cutting off further rumination, and she got up and brushed off her skirts. Perhaps I can be happy with Tom, she mused. Certes, ’twould mean being close to Cecily again. The thought buoyed her as she hurried back to join the diners in the refectory and mingled with some of the extra field hands eager to a catch glimpse of the rich folk at their food. The one question she had not yet answered was why and how Cecily had come up with this plan for her, and what had she said on Grace’s behalf to mollify the wounded Tom. She would have to discover for herself later, she concluded.
“You may tell Cecily that I will wed Tom Gower, your grace,” she whispered to Elizabeth as they waited for the ewerer to make the rounds for the ritual handwashing before the meal. “But if ’tis possible, I would like to wait until the summer.”
“Good girl,” Elizabeth said with a wicked smile. “Let the man wait. Let him truly desire you. It worked for me, and look what happened—I became queen of England!”
15
Bermondsey and Greenwich
CHRISTMAS 1490
Henry had given his gracious permission for Bess’s mother and two attendants to spend the holy time with her at Greenwich as she was again with child and thus would not travel with Henry to his mother’s favorite residence of Collyweston. The three women awaited the break from abbey routine with much anticipation.
“Praise the heavens,” Elizabeth had said at that point in the letter. “We can make merry while the bitch Beaufort’s bones turn brittle in her freezing northern abode.” She sounded more cheerful than she had for many weeks after a severe bout of the bloody flux had laid her low. “That phrase tripped nicely off the tongue, do you not think, ladies?” she asked and repeated “the bitch Beaufort’s bones” to herself, chuckling.
“How clever you are,” Katherine gushed, making Grace wince at her toadying.
Elizabeth inclined her head in acknowledgment. “I always loved Greenwich as the best of my palaces,” she had said, wistfully. “I called it my ‘palace of pleasaunce,’ for I was never happier than when in it.” She eyed Grace’s old green gown and grimaced. “We shall have to find you something else to wear, Grace. That is far too shabby for the court. In fact, I think you should burn the gown, for I am heartily sick of it.” She chuckled. “Besides, you need to look your best when you see your Tom again.” She winked at Grace, who blushed and groaned inwardly.
THE ROYAL BARGE was sent to fetch Elizabeth and her two ladies two days before the feast of the Christ child. Jack Frost had left his telltale mark upon the landscape that morning, transforming the tilled fields, grass and trees into a sparkling white fairy kingdom. A layer of ice covered the water in the well and in the animal troughs, and the smoke from the abbey chimneys created gray trails in the blue sky. An abbey servant had made his daily visit to Elizabeth’s chamber to light a fire—an expense the queen dowager saw not as an indulgence but a necessity. Even the water in the basin had a thin film of ice upon it, and Grace shivered as she plunged her hands in to splash water on her face. Once the wood began to crackle in the small fireplace, all three women gathered round to warm their numb fingers. Being so thin, Elizabeth felt the cold the most, and Grace and Katherine spent many hours during the harshest months chafing the queen’s feet, being careful not to irritate the painful red chilblains on several of her toes. The first winter there, Bess had visited and had been dismayed that her mother had to make do with a small brazier that spewed out noxious fumes unless the window was left open. She had paid the abbey mason to build a fireplace and chimney outlet so that Elizabeth might have some semblance of the luxury that she had been forced to leave behind.
After breaking her fast, Elizabeth was helped into her warmest garments. Grace and Katherine, too, wrapped themselves in their fur-lined cloaks and donned gloves and wool hoods. With Poppy tucked into her cloak, Elizabeth and her two attendants processed down the stairs, through the privy yard and around the building to the main courtyard. Teeth chattering, they climbed into the waiting horse litter, the two large beasts at the front and back of the covered contraption snorting white clouds as they stamped their feet and waited to move. Grace saw that Edgar was to lead them to the river and waved. He grinned and bowed his head, watching to see Grace helped safely into the litter and seated opposite the other ladies before he told the lead horse “giddyup.”
As the horses were led across the courtyard and out of the gate, Grace could hear the deep, resonant chants of the brothers as they celebrated the Terce. “Magnificat anima mea Dominum,” they sang, and although she was used to the sound now, it still had the power to move her. And looking at the magical scene they were passing, she felt the hand of God touching them. “Gloria Patri,” she whispered to herself in awe.
Elizabeth’s eyes lit up when she saw the gorgeously canopied royal barge, the king’s arms emblazoned on the hangings, awaiting them at the Tooley Street wharf. “At last I am to be treated like a queen,” she muttered, as one of their escorts stepped forward to open the litter door and Grace hopped out first, taking Poppy from Elizabeth. Knowing the two older women would be slow to exit the carriage, she took the opportunity to hurry to Edgar, patiently holding the lead horse’s bridle and murmuring into its velvety ear. She had heard the groom had shown great courage during a fire in the stables the week before, when he had rescued two horses and several other animals, burning his hand in the process.
“Edgar, I regret I have not seen you since the fire. I wanted to commend you on your bravery that night.” Seeing the bandage covering his hand, she frowned. “I hope Brother Benedictus is caring for that properly?” she asked. “Honey is recommended for burns.” Edgar nodded, shrugging off the injury. “I hope it goes well for you with Brother Gregory and your wish to become head groom. I have put in a good word for you with Father John, so perhaps one day you will be rewarded.”
Edgar’s face fell. “Brother Gregory says I be stupid—a simpleton,” he said. “He said I be too stupid to be in charge of the stable lads. And the boys mock me, too. You be the only one who says kind things, my lady.” Then he brightened and stroked the shiny brown flank of the patient horse, which turned and nuzzled his shoulder. “But Admiral here don’t think I be stupid, do you boy? And I see that animals be liking you, too,” he said, as Poppy scooted up to a warmer place around Grace’s neck and closed her eyes.
“Nay, Edgar, you are not stupid,” Grace replied kindly, fondling Poppy’s fluffy ears. She did not know what else she could do for the man, so she reached out and gingerly patted Admiral’s neck, in the hope of assuring him of her sincerity. With Edgar there she was less afraid of the animal. The gesture had the desired effect, and Edgar grinned and touched his forelock as she moved away. “God bless you, Lady Grace, and may your Yuletide season be a happy one,” he called after her.
“Why do you waste time with that groom?” Elizabeth snapped after Grace had hurried to the dock past the line of oarsmen and was helped into the roomy barge. “You have kept us all waiting.”
“’Twas Edgar, my lady,” Grace answered, a hint of indignation in her voice. “I was commending him for his bravery in the fire. He saved several animals, in truth.” She knew Elizabeth had taken her time getting into the barge, enjoying the deference paid her by the escort Bess had sent and by the master of oarsmen. She joined the two women ensconced cozily among the fur blankets and cushions and, depositing Poppy onto Elizabeth’s lap, pulled up her hood agains
t the cold morning breeze on the river.
“Now that Lady Grace has blessed us with her presence, Master Rowley, we may cast off,” Elizabeth called, ignoring Grace’s explanation. Instead, she said, “I know not why you must consort with peasants, Grace. Servants are servants; one should treat them well, but not as equals. Have I not taught you well enough to understand your place?” She sighed. “The sooner you are married and no longer my responsibility, the better.”
Grace saw Katherine smile, and she hid behind her hood and grimaced at the intentional reminder of her betrothal to Tom. “I beg your pardon, your grace,” she said. “I did not know you had gone aboard so quickly.” Grace, watch your tongue, she thought, waiting for the expected admonition. Elizabeth chose not to dignify the cheek with a reprimand, she just sighed and sank lower into the warm blankets. Nothing would spoil this day for her; she was returning to court—even if it was only for a few days.
As the barge approached the Greenwich pier below the elegant whitewashed palace, shawms heralded the arrival of the queen dowager. Their raucous fanfare brought people running to the wharf to cheer the visitors.
“Is my wimple straight? My hood folded back the way I like it?” Elizabeth fussed, turning first to Katherine and then to Grace. “Is Bess there to greet me?”
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