The King's Grace

by Anne Easter Smith

  Grace could not believe this was happening to her in broad daylight, and in full view of the queen’s lodgings. She cursed her folly for refusing Enid’s company. She felt acutely vulnerable for her lack of inches, but even though the man was a foot taller, she slapped his hand from her and tried to walk away. Too late she realized it was her drab gown, unaccompanied status and unladylike sunburned complexion that had allowed him to think her a commoner.

  “Not so fast, little wanton,” her seducer growled, and he pulled her to him. “I asked nicely, did I not? Surely you will not deny me one—” He got no further. Had he bothered to notice the silence that had fallen on the group behind him, he might have been warned that he was in trouble. A huge hand plucked him from the ground and flung him four feet into a flower bed. Before he could take in what had happened, the giant had grabbed his jacket and lifted him up to within inches of an angry unshaven face, complete with unclean teeth and foul breath.

  “She be my mistress, your lordship,” Edgar spat, making the young man blink away the spittle. “She ain’t no wench. She be the queen’s sister, the Lady Grace. If my mistress weren’t ’ere, I’d hollow you out a new arse-hole with your own pretty dagger. Do I make myself clear?”

  Grace had collapsed in a heap on the grass and watched as the man nodded slowly, his spindly legs dangling like a dead chicken’s high above the ground.

  “Put him down, Edgar,” she thought she ordered, but she was shocked by the squeak that actually left her mouth. She cleared her throat. “Put him down,” she said more firmly this time.

  Edgar shook his victim once more for good measure and dropped him like a stone. The man picked up his bow and ran through an archway towards the butts, checking over his shoulder to make sure Edgar was not following. Edgar shook his fist at him and then turned to confront the others, who had magically melted back into the house. He went to help Grace, but she was already on her feet, feeling foolish that she had not been able to avoid the scene. And I thought I was brave, she chided herself, shaking her head.

  “Once again I have to thank you for saving me, Edgar,” she said, smiling wanly. “’Twas foolish of me to come alone, in truth, but ’tis only a stone’s throw from the queen’s apartment and ’tis the middle of the day. But no matter.” She patted his hand. “Where did you come from, pray?”

  Edgar grinned. “It be my duty to know where you be at all times, milady. I’d done finished me work in the stable, and I were biding the time with the cordwainer’s daughter at her lodging yonder.” He jerked his head in its direction. “I sees you leave the queen’s place and go crossed the garden. As you say, mistress, it were foolish.”

  Tom appeared at that moment from the king’s quarters. When he saw Grace his face broke into a smile, and he walked quickly towards her.

  “Say not a word,” Grace whispered to Edgar out of the corner of her mouth. “Swear you will not.”

  “I’ll be mum, never fear, milady,” he muttered back. “If the master knew, he’d ’ave the lad’s guts for garters, and that’s the truth.” He touched his fingers to his temple, gave a little bow and ambled off back to the cordwainer’s house.

  Grace held out her hands to Tom and put the unpleasant encounter with the young squire behind her. “We leave on the morrow, my love. You have the queen’s permission to do what you will with me tonight—and in her bed!” She tried to look demure from under her lashes. “I was ever so shocked by her suggestion. But I am commanded to do her bidding, and so I am her messenger.”

  Taking her outstretched hands, Tom threw back his head and laughed. Grace noticed he had not trimmed his beard straight under his chin. “Do not play Mistress Innocent with me,” he said. Then, lowering his voice, he added: “My trollop of a wife.”

  Grace’s eyes flew wide and she looked about them. “Tom! Have a care, someone might be—” But she did not finish, for he had picked her up and planted a kiss on her open mouth. Wrapping her arms about his neck, she nuzzled into his cheek, feeling the soft beard on her skin, which always aroused her. “Do not start what you cannot finish, husband. Your trollop of a wife would like nothing more than to be ravished right here and now in full view of the whole palace. I have such a hunger for you, Tom.”

  “And I you, sweetheart. But let us wait until I can pleasure you privily. I have much to do for the viscount this afternoon. We leave for Woodstock with the king in two days.” He kissed her again and set her down. An amused whistle floated from a casement above them, but the head disappeared when they looked up.

  Later that night, the knotted ropes of Bess’s bed proved up to the task of supporting them in the most vigorous lovemaking they had yet enjoyed. Grace was surprised the guard was not called to investigate the noise she knew she was producing each time Tom discovered a different way to bring her to climax—sometimes by his mounting her, but more often the other way round. Grace found she liked being in control of her husband’s hard, well-built body. She was tired of feeling small and feeble all day, as Bess towered over her or servants ran to take anything that seemed too heavy for her to carry. Bringing Tom to ecstasy from above him gave her a sense of power, and she learned to hold him at the peak of pleasure until she made the decision for him to release into her.

  “I swear you have had lessons at one of those infamous Southwark stews,” he moaned after surrendering completely to her newfound prowess. “You could not have spent every day for four years inside the abbey.” And he moaned again, gripping her buttocks and driving deeper.

  When she finally rolled off him, she giggled as she gently wiped his perspiring body with the covering sheet and snuggled into him. “Certes, I learned everything I know from the Bermondsey brotherhood,” she whispered, biting his ear, and Tom made a sound of horrified surprise. “Did I tell you of Brother Damien and his special service to the prior?”

  Tom propped himself up on one elbow and tweaked her nose. “Nay, and I do not want to hear it.” He let out a feigned sigh of disappointment. “What happened to the young, naive Grace I met at Sheriff Hutton a dozen years ago?”

  Grace yawned and turned over to sleep. “She discovered she was a trollop,” she murmured. “But I do not think her husband cares.”

  “Wanton!” Tom cried, playfully slapping her buttocks. “And, by the Rood, you are right.”

  By the Rood, ’tis the second time I have been called wanton today, Grace thought drowsily, but said nothing. Safe in Tom’s arms, the first time did not seem to matter anymore, although she acknowledged she had learned a valuable lesson.

  THE NEXT DAY, after the furniture, carpets, tapestries, silver, chests of clothes and jewels were laden into shouts and barges, a fanfare of shawms announced to the Tower populace that the queen’s household was ready to leave.

  Tom left her side as soon as the cock crowed, promising to be on the wharf to kiss his daughters farewell. He lifted them into the barge and waited until Grace arrived with the queen before relinquishing his hold on them and saying good-bye to his wife.

  Henry escorted his queen to the private Watergate with her attendants, who would make the first part of the journey by boat to Lambeth and thence by road to Shene along the south bank of the river. They kissed tenderly, Grace saw, after one of the only nights they had spent together since Grace had arrived. Baby Bella was sitting on her cushion, good as gold, but Susannah was already making friends with the master of the oarsmen, and Grace had to pull her back. She wanted nothing to attract Henry’s attention to her. She had managed to be at the Tower for more than a fortnight without crossing paths with Henry once.

  “The king goes to Woodstock to hunt for the rest of the summer,” Bess said wistfully when she joined Grace on the barge, and she blew Henry a kiss. “He seems to love that place, although there is not enough room for both our households, and thus we cannot be together. But he promises me that my children will visit, and so I shall look forward to that.”

  Grace felt sorry for motherly Bess, whose three older children had already bee
n set up in their own households—Arthur at Ludlow, Margaret and Harry at Eltham Palace. She knew she was lucky to have her own daughters in the same place with her, and Bess had spoiled them already in the short time they had been there. Bella and little Mary were almost the same age and toddled about together happily, until naughty Susannah would play havoc by tripping them up and making them cry. Grace stroked Bella’s fair hair under its linen coif and the child raised her big blue eyes adoringly to her mother. As she did with Alice Gower, this child tugged at Grace’s heart and she feared she favored her, but certes, Susannah did not lack for parental attention, for Tom worshipped his older daughter, perhaps because she was the spitting image of his wife.

  Another fanfare sounded as the lines were untied from the dock and the oarsmen, in perfect unison, lowered their oars into the slots on the gunwale and the master began to beat out a rhythm. Cheers and shouts of farewell accompanied the vessel as it slowly pulled into the middle of the river. Grace glanced up at the circular Byward Tower and said a prayer for Ned. She had scribbled a note and, as she had predicted, the guard had been glad to take it when a groat had been pressed into his palm.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by loud shouts from the shore. “God speed, good Queen Bess,” the Londoners cried. “Farewell and God speed.”

  Grace put her hand into her sister’s and whispered. “How they love you, Bess.”

  Bess turned her face to Grace, her eyes brimming. “Do you really think so, Grace? I confess, I do not know why.”

  “I do,” Grace told her, smiling. Bess lived her chosen motto humble and reverent, and her subjects loved her for it. And ’tis just as well, she thought, for they will never love Henry.

  27

  Leprous Island

  IRELAND, AUGUST 1497

  Right noble lady, dowager duchess of Burgundy, princess of England and my dearest aunt, I greet you well from somewhere near Kinsale in Ireland.

  I was invited here by Sir James Ormond and in good faith hoped for succor as well as a force to help me towards England. But God in His wisdom had other plans. Sir James was killed in an ambush before I landed, and the country is much in King Henry’s power. You should know, also, that I am come with my beloved wife, Katherine, and our son, for whom we thank God each day. The people of Ireland suffer greatly from famine, and we have to pay the same for five ounces of wheat as a peck in happier times. We cannot tarry long.

  Richard looked up at his wife, sitting on a crude stool and crooning a lullaby to their son, also named Richard. She caught his eye and smiled. Richard’s heart leapt into his throat and his prick stirred, as it did every time he looked at her. What rapture they had enjoyed in the huge bed at Falkland! Night after night he had pleasured her until both had lain back exhausted and had to be shaken awake by the servants in the mornings. He smiled back at her, but then looked away and frowned, nibbling at his quill.

  He could not tell Aunt Margaret that he had lain awake all night in the lice-ridden pallet and thought of escaping to Spain. The support he had been led to believe he could muster in Ireland was not here—unless one counted the few score wild Irishmen who had followed him to the tiny island—and James of Scotland had forsaken him, he knew that now. He dared not return to Burgundy and incur his aunt’s wrath—nay, more important, her disappointment. And so what was he supposed to do? The charming Spanish ambassador at the Scottish court had made it sound as though he would be welcomed by their Spanish majesties, Ferdinand and Isabella. They would send ships to fetch him. Perhaps he could launch an invasion from Spain, Ayala had suggested. Perhaps I could just disappear, Richard had immediately thought. Dear Saint Patrick—perhaps the Irish saint could intercede for him—show me the way. I am so close to England here; I know I should fulfill my duty to my aunt and my friends Maximilian and Philip and launch my feeble army in the ships I have here. But what awaits me there now? The men of Northumberland were loath to greet me, let alone join me, last year. A shiver went through him. That had been the closest he had ever come to battle, and the idea of it chilled him to his soul. And if the men of the north had no use for him, then why should the Cornishmen be any different? Certes, I am on a fool’s errand, I feel it in my bones. I am a simple seaman, one voice insisted. I am naught but Piers Werbecque, son of a boatman. What do I know of fighting, or of leading men into battle or, God help me, of being a king? Ah, wounds of Christ, who am I, and what am I doing?

  Then he looked again at Katherine and his son, and his sense of honor returned. He sat up and held his head high as his other voice told him that he was indeed an English prince, albeit not the one he was pretending to be. She believes I am Richard, duke of York, and took me to husband as such, he mused. She trusts me to protect her and the boy. Besides, why should I not be king? I would be kinder to my subjects than Henry, he thought. And she expects to be queen of England, in truth. He imagined them both in robes of state and with crowns upon their heads, and he knew they would look the part. How can I deny her all of that by running away? He shook off his lethargy. Nay, I shall take ship for Cornwall and see what fate has in store, he decided, dipping his pen in the ink and continuing his letter.

  Take heart, dear aunt, for with my brave Irishmen ready to fight with me, I shall set sail when the wind is fair and make for England. King Henry should look to his crown. And now I must see to the victualing of the fleet.

  He chuckled as he wrote the last word; two small fishing boats and a Breton pinnace were all he had at his disposal.

  When next I write, I shall report of my triumph upon English soil, I have not a doubt. All duty and honor are yours, madam.

  Richard, your White Rose

  28

  Shene and London

  AUTUMN 1497

  The many-towered palace of Shene seemed to shimmer in the hazy afternoon sun, and Grace knew it for her favorite of the royal residences. Inside, the rooms were gaily painted with bright reds and blues and dotted with thousands of flowers. Other rooms were warmly paneled with the popular linen-fold carving in the ancient English oak. Most of the royal apartments gave a view of the river flowing gently past reeded banks in which lived watervoles and otters, moorhens, coots and herons. The snowy white egrets stalked along the opposite bank, which was now covered in bright purple loosestrife. Life itself might pass the inhabitants by, Grace thought as she watched her girls collect daisies with Enid.

  So intent was she on making a daisy chain, Grace did not notice a boat with the king’s colors floating from upstream until it had almost reached the dock. She jumped up and called to Enid to watch the girls, holding out the half-made chain to Susannah. “I must go back inside and let the queen know that a messenger has arrived,” she told the little girl, who shrugged and wandered off in search of more daisies.

  Grace ran along the passageway to Bess’s apartments and, barely waiting to knock, she slipped in and curtsied low. Bess was choosing a thread from among her embroidery silks and talking to Anne and Catherine, her two younger sisters now both wives of earls, who had rejoined the household recently.

  “Henry has sent a messenger, your grace. Perhaps ’tis news of the children coming.”

  Bess set down her needlework and wiped beads of perspiration off her upper lip. Despite the river breezes, it was a very warm September day, and when the messenger was ushered into the queen’s presence, dark patches were visible under his arms.

  “Your highness, I bring a message from his grace, the king,” he began on bended knee. The other attendants went about their business, playing music, plying their needles or reading, thinking, too, that it was news of the children.

  “It seems the man called Perkin has invaded England,” he began un-steadily, and at once everyone in the room froze midtask. Bess put her hand to her mouth, and Grace sat down with a thump on a stool. “I shall endeavor to recount all that was told to me, your grace, and beg your indulgence if, in my haste, I forget a detail.”

  Bess nodded, her face the color of her snow-white plastron. “
Go on, sir,” she murmured. Anne fanned the queen with her kerchief, but Bess waved her away impatiently. “Go on,” she said again.

  And so for half an hour, the messenger told the assembled ladies how Perkin Warbeck, decked out in cloth-of-gold, had landed with four ships at St. Michael’s Mount in Cornwall and how the “rebellious Cornishmen deserted their tin mines and flocked to his standard.” He left his wife and baby son on the Mount, it was thought, and, after landing at St. Ives, made his way to Bodmin, where King Henry had ordered the sheriff to stop them. “By then, ’tis said, the invader had eight thousand men marching with him,” the messenger announced ominously.

  “Eight thousand?” Bess exclaimed as a collective gasp went up. “Who would follow this imposter thus?”

  “Those who believe he is Richard, duke of York,” Grace said quietly from her perch next to her. “Those who think he should be king of England.”

  Bess looked at her sharply, wondering if there was more to her statement than fact. But Grace met her gaze, and as her expression did not change, Bess turned back to the man. “I pray you, sir, tell us this rascally fellow fell before the king’s forces.”

  The man looked down at his feet and played with the feather in his bonnet, which he clutched in front of his potbelly. “Nay, your grace,” he muttered. “The sheriff’s men fled and Perkin entered Bodmin with trumpets and cheering. There he was proclaimed king—King Richard the Fourth, second son of Edward, late king…” He trailed off when he saw the queen’s angry face and cringed, anticipating her reaction.