“I will lead the Lady Grace out, my lady,” a voice said behind Grace, who jumped and turned to face Tom a few feet from her. “If she will accept,” he added, bowing so low she could not see his face.
Cecily gave Grace a little push. “As the two of you will be dancing together for the rest of your lives, this would seem a good time to start. What say you, Grace?” Without waiting for an answer, she took Master Kyme’s arm and hurried him away to join the set.
Tom lifted his head and looked straight into Grace’s anxious eyes. It was as though the two of them were alone in the room. The gorgeously arrayed revelers moved liked shadows around them and the noise melted into a background drone. Neither spoke a word, and yet each understood the other in that silence. “I am sorry,” her eyes told him. “I know,” his replied. After a long moment, Tom slowly reached out his hand, his eyes willing her to take it. Her gaze never leaving his face, she put her hand in his and they walked towards the circle of dancers. His hand was warm and firm, and although her tiny one was lost in it, it was comforting, she decided, and relief flooded her.
As they prepared to join the circle the music came to an end and the men bowed their reverence and led their partners to find refreshment. Tom and Grace were left in the middle of the red and white tiled floor as the musicians struck up Grace’s favorite basse danza.
“Do me the honor, Grace,” Tom said simply, turning her to face the dais and holding up her arm in the first movement of the dance. She acquiesced by giving his hand a tiny squeeze as she rose up on her toes to perform the gliding steps of the slowest of the courtly dances, casting her eyes to the floor, as was customary. Drawing strength from each other, the two usually reserved young people found the confidence to begin the dance alone. Many present recognized Grace, but the last time they had seen her she had been a girl. Now they admired the comely young woman’s fluid movements and perfectly proportioned—almost doll-like—figure, and one whispered that King Edward’s bastard was surely born to dance. In her russet silk dress with the amber brooch pinned to her breast, she shone that night. Later, as Grace prepared Elizabeth for bed, the dowager told her of the pride she had seen in Tom’s face as he partnered her.
“He is in love with you, Grace, make no mistake,” Elizabeth remarked, tying her nightcap under her chin. “I hope you were kinder to him tonight than you were last time, in truth.” Grace had nodded, although by then she was so befuddled, she could not have told Elizabeth exactly why.
If she had tried to correctly remember the steps of the dance, she possibly might have failed after so long without practice. But she was so acutely aware of Tom’s hand touching hers and his eyes fixed upon her that it seemed her feet recalled the rise and fall of each movement on their own. In the first few moments she was relieved that he had overcome his anger towards her enough to approach and ask her to dance, but then her mind was filled with questions, half questions and an awful confusion of feelings. Why could she not conjure up John’s face at that precise moment? And why had Tom’s touch sent unexpected sweet sensations through her body, if Tom was only a friend? How, until now, could she not have noticed his long, strong legs or the chiseled features of his face, the delicious smell of orris root and leather and his gentleness? When had his friendship for her turned to love? She knew she must forget John, but how? He was her one and only love—or was he? Certes, he was! However, she admitted, Tom did not displease her. Sweet Virgin, let the dance go on forever, she begged, but then could not say why. She saw Elizabeth arch an eyebrow and give her a secret smile as they moved with the music towards the dais. She should not be looking up, she knew, and so she fixed her eyes firmly upon the rushes again.
When the dance finished, Tom turned her to him and they reverenced each other, Grace hardly daring to look up in case he could read her busy mind.
“You have not forgotten how to dance, Lady Grace,” Tom murmured, kissing her hand. “You were always the most graceful of the sisters.”
Grace looked at him warily. “I love to dance,” she said simply, and as her courage began to resurface, she joked, “Although the monks make poor dancing partners, in truth.”
Tom grinned and then was serious. “I would speak with you privately about our betrothal. When might that be?”
Grace was taken aback by his directness. “Ah, aye. Th-the betrothal,” she stammered, and attempted to brush it off. “I know not when. I have my duty to the queen dowager. ’Tis her permission you must seek to speak with me, I believe. I do not think we should be alone. I kn-know not the way of things, you see.”
“But you have agreed to be my wife, have you not?” he asked anxiously. “Lady Cecily gave me your answer.” He had led her to a quiet window seat, unobserved by all but a curious few. He drew her down upon it.
“I…I am not ready to talk about this, Tom,” Grace protested. “I pray you, speak to the dowager first. Why must you spoil the moment?”
She made to rise but he pulled her down. “Why should talking of our betrothal ‘spoil the moment’?” he asked. She saw to her dismay that he was clearly annoyed. “My offer is honorable. Why can you not tell me you will wed me to my face?”
“Perhaps because you did not ask me to my face—or even with a letter,” Grace shot back. “Certes, I do not know if ’twas you who made the offer or my sister, Cecily. I have not had time to question her yet, but I will. Do you deny she had a hand in this?”
Tom studied the signet ring on his little finger for a moment before he answered. “I cannot deny it, I am ashamed to admit. Your sister told me you wanted to leave the abbey and”—he paused, seeking the right words so as not to offend the young woman who owned his heart—“that in the circumstances, marriage would be your only escape. Knowing my…respect for you, she suggested…” He stopped, then forged on, “As a second son I might do worse than marry someone…someone with no…” He could not bring himself to say “prospect of wedding higher because she is base-born and of no value to a king who looks upon her as an encumbrance from the defeated house of York.”
Grace felt tears behind her eyes but forced them back. “She offered a dowry for me, did she not?” she asked in a whisper.
Tom’s eyebrows snapped together. “Hell’s bells, Grace! You do not think ’twas the dowry that made me do it?”
Now Grace’s dander was up. “How should I know why you did it?” she retorted. “I never heard a word from you, either before or after the betrothal proposal. The last time we saw each other you departed in anger, and I believed our friendship was over.”
“But I did write to you!” he cried, his cheeks flushing red. “I wrote after the…the argument we had. I told you I regretted my outburst. Did you not receive it?”
Grace shook her head. “Letters are often lost at the abbey, it seems—so many comings and goings, I suppose. Even so, I still do not understand why you would wish to wed a woman whose heart is given elsewhere. Did you think an offer from you would change what is in my heart?”
It was Tom’s turn to be indignant. “John! Always John! If I am so unexceptional in your eyes beside John, why did you accept my offer, pray? Was it merely the only alternative to taking the veil?”
Grace hung her head. “Something like that, Tom,” she admitted miserably. “Elizabeth painted a dismal picture of my future, and I was afraid, in truth. I am sorry.”
Tom’s mouth curved into a smile, then he chuckled, and finally he threw back his head and let all his frustrations out in a belly laugh. Several heads turned in their direction, and people nudged and smiled at the merry laughter. Grace looked up, nonplussed. What had she said that was so funny? She cocked her head in her old way, asking, “Why do you laugh? ’Tis no laughing matter.”
“If I don’t, I shall cry,” Tom told her, taking her hand. “Can you not see the irony? We have been forced into a situation that is painful for both of us simply because we thought it was the best we could do for ourselves given our sorry circumstances. What a way to start a marriage! You
must see the funny side, Grace, or we are doomed to unhappiness before we begin our life together.”
“But you did not need to wed, Tom,” Grace said, acknowledging the wisdom of his words and liking him more for it. “You could remain a bachelor in Welles’s service and forge a way for yourself at court. A wife is not a requirement for a man to get ahead in this world.”
Tom cupped her chin in his hand. “Grace, Grace, my dearest girl. You must know the answer. I have loved you since that day you fell in the river and I took you to my home. I know you do not love me in return, and that I will always pale beside John, but if you will allow me to care for you and protect you and give me your friendship, then I shall be content.” He was astonished by his own eloquent declaration and was suddenly shy. “By the Rood, I do wear my heart on my sleeve, don’t I?” he said ruefully. “You were right that day in the cornfield, and I swore I would never do it again. Forgive me?”
Grace could not speak. She took the hand from her chin and, looking him straight in the eye, kissed his upturned palm. He bent forward and with utmost tenderness kissed her soft lips as if to seal the pact.
“Grace Plantagenet, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?” he murmured, his mouth still on hers.
“I will, Tom Gower,” she whispered back, and not heeding the titters of two young women standing near, she pressed her mouth to his to signal her acceptance.
Lying next to a snoring Katherine in the darkness of the small chamber assigned to the queen dowager’s ladies in waiting, she thought back more clearly on the evening and marveled how, in the space of such a short time, she had come to accept and be grateful for her fate.
“Dear Saint Sibylline,” she whispered, turning Tom’s ring on her thumb. “It would seem this orphan has come in from the storm.”
“COME KEEP ME company, Lady Grace,” the queen welcomed her half sister, who had been announced and entered the private chamber a few days later. “I trust your visit to Greenwich is a pleasant diversion for you.”
Grace rose from her curtsy and went to embrace Bess, seated among large crimson satin cushions on the floor before the cheerful fire. In one corner of the chamber, hung with colorful tapestries of flowers and birds, an attendant softly plucked a lute and sang:
“There is no rose of such virtue
As is the rose that bore Jesu,”
and she was joined in the “Alleluya” by her two companions, busy with their needlework.
“God’s greeting to you, your grace. ’Tis good of you to ask, and aye, the change of scenery is much appreciated,” Grace said, smiling. She plumped up a cushion and sat down, spreading her skirts about her. Cecily had given her young Mistress Kate’s blue dress again, and this time Cecily had told her sister to keep it. “Kate is to be married, and her bridal chest will not include anything that is not new. Her father has seen to that.” Grace had accepted the gift gratefully; the garment increased her wardrobe to three gowns: the new gray worsted for everyday wear at the abbey; Kate’s blue for high days and holidays; and the russet silk for royal occasions.
“How well you are looking! The gown becomes you, Bess,” she said. “May I still call you Bess?”
“Aye, Grace, you may,” Bess replied, chuckling. “Though it seems I will have to address you as Mistress Gower in a little while. Who would have thought all those years ago in Sheriff Hutton that you and Tom…” She smiled wistfully at the memories of those idle summer days in the meadows and hills of the north. She dared not admit that she longed for their solace more often than she ought.
“I would ask if you think ’tis what I should do,” Grace began a little timidly, recognizing the inexperienced young woman of five years ago was gone; Bess was now a wife and mother of two, with a third on the way. She was a queen and had forsaken—or appeared to have forsaken—her Yorkist sentiments; her husband was her lord, and with a mother-in-law whose character was stronger even than Elizabeth Woodville’s, she had buried her own needs and wants inside a beautiful and brave facade.
“Certes, ’tis what you should do, Grace,” Bess assured her. “I fear for Mother’s health. She is more than fifty now, is naught but skin and bone and cannot last much longer. You should know that I gave Cecily my blessing in this matter. Both of us are grateful for the service you have done our mother, but without our help you would have no future. We both agreed marriage with Tom was the best way.” She paused and fiddled with the venice gold braid that made up her belt. Once again she had received a cold stare from Henry when she had broached the subject of Grace and a small dowry, but she could not bring herself to hurt Grace with that information. She lifted her eyes to her half sister’s expectant face and put out her hand to touch her. “Dear Grace, you are always so uncomplaining, but you must tell me if Cis and I did you a wrong. We had to find you a husband, and we thought Tom Gower would suit more than a stranger.”
Bess’s kindness was too much for Grace. She flung herself into the queen’s arms and said on a sob: “How can I refuse when you and Cis care so very much? I like Tom Gower”—she took a deep breath and pulled away—“and have no fear, we are disposed to wed. I will learn to love him, and he will be kind, I have no doubt.” She wiped away a tear and smiled. “So be it. There, now, do you feel better?”
Bess nodded, relief written all over her face. “Then we should have a celebration—a betrothal celebration, before you return to the abbey,” she exclaimed and rubbed her belly, chuckling. “I do not want to wait until summer—I shall be engaged elsewhere.”
A celebration? Grace paled at the thought of hundreds of people staring at her and Tom. A formal betrothal was as good as a marriage contract and meant…Dear God, it meant Tom had the right to bed her. She gazed at Bess unblinking as thoughts ran rampant around in her mind. First and foremost, she had not wanted to contemplate lying with him. Why, oh why had she agreed to wed? Her imagination took hold for a second—perhaps she could disguise herself again and return to Malines, tell John again of her love and beg him to run away with her…
“Grace? Are you listening?” Bess’s kind voice intruded upon her thoughts, and she blinked in surprise.
“I crave your pardon, Bess. What did you say?”
“I was saying that we should seek out Cecily and Mother and plan a small feast. No need to invite the entire court—only the family. What say you?”
“Must I…will Tom and I…do we have to…bed…” she stumbled over the words like a blind man in unfamiliar surroundings and looked so miserable that Bess laughed.
“’Tis not so bad, Grace.” She blushed, again stroking her belly. “And the rewards are great. Henry and I”—now it was her turn to stumble—“in truth, Henry knew me before our marriage,” she said delicately. “We were so much in love, it seemed natural.”
“Aye, I know,” Grace said absently, still fixed on her own dilemma and failing to notice Bess’s questioning frown. “But there is a difference. I like Tom, but I do not love him.”
“What did you say? You knew Henry and I…?” She leaned forward, whispering, “How did you know?”
Grace blinked and then smiled. “Have no fear—I kept it to myself. But I was concerned for you that day Henry arrived unannounced at Ormond’s Inn and took you off somewhere. His captain took pity on me and let me leave the room. I saw you…” Now it was her turn to blush. “I did not know what was happening, but as you were not fighting or screaming, I decided you did not mind Henry being on top of you.”
Both women laughed then, and Grace felt better. “I know more now, Bess,” she said. “All I can hope for is that Tom is kind with me.”
THE HEAVY OAK door closed quietly behind Grace and a tiring woman sent by Bess came forward in the firelit chamber to unlace her bodice and untie her skirts. She allowed the woman to lift off her linen chemise and replace it with one of finest lawn, and she shivered in pleasure as the flimsy fabric floated over her nakedness. It had been a gift from Bess, and, not to be outdone, Cecily had loaned her a bed robe of ye
llow silk that was much too long and so gave her an almost childlike air. The attendant unpinned her glossy curls and invited Grace to sit while she ran a comb of horn through her waist-long hair. Grace had bathed earlier in the day, before the festivities that had taken place in the gaily festooned solar in Bess’s lodgings overlooking the orchard at the back of the palace. The oil of lavender that had been rubbed into her wet skin was still evident, its sweet smell filling the room.
For the ceremonial blessing of the marriage bed and with several witnesses around her, Grace lay in the bed of the small chamber she and Tom had been given for the night. The priest sprinkled drops of holy water from a copper bowl upon the green and red counterpane, after which Elizabeth, Bess and Cecily kissed her in turn and wished her luck, leaving her with the attendant for company. And she waited for Tom.
“Comb my hair again, Joan, if you please,” she said, nervously climbing out of bed after only five minutes. “It soothes me.” She thought back on the day, grateful for the attendant’s silence and the rhythmic strokes of the comb.
Clothed in her copper silk, a gabled headdress edged with seed pearls framing her face and a pearl and enamel pendant—a gift from the Viscount and Viscountess Welles—hanging on a delicate gold chain around her neck, Grace had found herself much admired that afternoon. Bess was true to her word, and the group that gathered to give their blessing to the young couple was comprised of family members and a few attendants. Baby Arthur, in a long purple robe edged with ermine, entertained everyone with his joie de vivre, curious questions and attempts at dancing. Then mummers arrived during the feasting to reenact the legend of St. George and the Dragon. They coaxed Grace from her place of honor at the table to serve as the Fair Maiden of the tale, giving Grace several minutes of embarrassment in the center of the room as the dragon’s unwilling victim. At last, after much posturing by the knight and bellowing from the dragon, bold St. George felled the animal with a sword thrust into its scaly heart. The beast, who was portrayed by two men at the front and back of the bright green costume, took several agonizing turns around the room before collapsing with a terrible scream, causing the onlookers to cheer and clap as St. George put his mailed foot upon its body and raised his sword high. “For England!” he cried. “For England!” the royal family repeated, raising their goblets. Bowing dramatically to Grace, St. George returned her to her place next to Tom, who had beamed with pride.
The King's Grace Page 32