The King's Grace (51 page)

Now Elizabeth’s tears began to flow and her serene face crumpled. “Nothing would please me more, child. Certes, you have shown me more devotion than any of my own daughters.” A spasm of pain wracked her body and a thin trickle of blood oozed from her mouth. With her last ounce of energy she pleaded: “Send for Father John, I beg of you.”

“Aye, Mother,” Grace answered on her knees, sobbing. “And may the Virgin protect you on your journey to the Light.” She rose and hurried out to find the abbot.

“Indulgentiam, absolutionem et remissionem peccatorum nostrum, tribuat nobis omnipotens et misericors Dominus,”
Father John intoned now, touching Elizabeth’s head, lips and heart with the holy oil.

Elizabeth’s mouth curved into a soft smile, and it seemed the queen’s
beauty was miraculously restored in that final moment. “John, my love, I am coming,” she murmured with her last breath. True to her heart, the once proud queen of England had called out the name of her first husband, and not the man who had raised her to the highest rank in the kingdom.

T
HE REGULAR SPLASH
of the oars as they dipped into the limpid waters of the Thames lulled Grace into a somnambulant state as she sat to the right of the flower-covered coffin that was being carried upstream to Windsor, some forty miles from London Bridge. The abbot had sent word immediately to Greenwich, where the queen was in confinement, and to Thomas, marquis of Dorset, to inform both of their mother’s passing. Dorset had spent a day with Elizabeth a few days before she died, and Grace had been gratified to see his grim face when he turned away from the bed to take his leave. She had never forgiven him for forsaking his mother when Henry had banished her to Bermondsey. So he should be sorry, she thought; but she had helped him with his short mantle and murmured, “Pray accept my sincere sympathies, my lord.” He had given her a smile and a curt nod before hurrying from the room.

It had been decided that Katherine would stay behind due to her age, and to make sure none of Elizabeth’s few possessions were looted once the news of her death was known. “I will throw myself on my brother-in-law Richard’s charity,” she told Grace when they were discussing their futures. “And you, Grace?”

Grace would not return to Bermondsey after Windsor, she told Katherine, because she belonged by Tom’s side now that her duty to Elizabeth was over. “I pray he may reach Windsor to escort me home—wherever that may be,” Grace had said. “Cecily is at Greenwich for the queen’s confinement, but I know not if Tom is with his lord or no.”

“Certes, ’tis possible you and I will be neighbors!” Katherine cried. “The Hastings have a manor in Lincolnshire, too, if you go to the Welles estates there.”

So it was Alison who sat to the left of the coffin on the barge to Windsor—an unknown attendant, it was noted by those watching—who journeyed with Grace, bastard daughter of King Edward. Also on the boat were Doctor Brente, one of the executors of Elizabeth’s will, and her second cousin, Edward Haute.

The scent of the dozens of white roses that the kind people of Bermondsey and Southwark had gathered from their gardens to place upon the bier of the Yorkist queen masked the smell of death from the crude coffin as the barge floated past Baynard’s Castle, Westminster, and around the bend to Shene, the fairy-tale palace Elizabeth had so enjoyed, which stood proudly against the backdrop of lush Richmond Hill. The boatmen rowed to the dock, where everyone disembarked. It was their chance to relieve themselves and be offered food from the charterhouse priory nearby, whose prior—another of Elizabeth’s executors, John Ingilby—joined them on the journey to Windsor.

Grace nibbled on a piece of rabbit pie but had little appetite as she watched a moorhen and her brood weave in and out of the reeds. Wooded islands floated in this wide part of the river, and Grace could see lambs gamboling in the fields on the other side.

“Let lambs go unclipped, till June be half worn/The better the fleeces will grow to be shorn…”
went the old adage. Aye, your first shearing must be near, Grace thought, smiling to herself as she remembered the frantic flailing legs of the lamb she had attempted to truss and shear her first summer at Bermondsey. She turned away, leaving Alison to make a chain from among the thousands of daisies that bloomed in the overgrown lawn, and wandered down to the river’s edge to dabble her feet in the cool water. It irked her that the boatmen made merry while they ate and drank, seemingly having forgotten the solemn occasion that had brought them there. She saw Edgar among them—he and others were in another boat that was following the funeral barge—and she frowned when she saw him raise a full flagon of frothing ale to his lips. Catching her eye, his hand froze halfway to his mouth and then he quickly set the drink down, slopping some onto the table. Grace turned away; it was a hot day and she should not begrudge the man ale.

Her thoughts flew back to the day before, after the three attendants had knelt in turn to pray for hours at Elizabeth’s prie-dieu. Sadly, they noted, as women, they were not permitted inside the church while the monks kept vigil over Elizabeth’s body. “Idle hands make the Devil’s work,” Katherine had said. “Open all the windows and take the linens to the laundry, Alison. Grace and I will gather fresh herbs.”

The two women picked up baskets and small shears from the shed
and meandered through the pretty walled garden deadheading, cutting fragrant herbs to freshen their chamber and pulling up weeds. As they worked, they reminisced about Elizabeth.

“How unkind of God to take her before she had the joy of seeing her young son again,” Grace said, returning with all speed to her favorite subject. She glanced around and lowered her voice. “I wonder what chance there is that he can unthrone Henry?”

“That is treasonous talk, Grace, and you should beware,” Katherine warned under her breath, putting her finger to her lips. “Our brown-robed friends are not averse to eavesdropping. Will always said he would never trust a cleric as far as he could see their shiny tonsures, and after what happened with Bishop Morton the day of Will’s death, he was right not to trust them.”

Grace clucked her tongue and shook her head. “The news of your husband’s sudden execution must have come as quite a shock, Lady Katherine. He had been such a friend to my father, I wonder at Uncle Richard’s strange behavior.”

“Aye, ’twas shocking indeed, and I can never forgive Gloucester for that. Poor Will never even had a trial.” She sighed. “But you are right, Edward and Will were the best of friends,” she said, and grunted. “Forever whoring and drinking. You would have thought neither had a care in the world, instead of being the king and counselor of one of the most important realms in Christendom.”

“I remember the story you and her grace told about fooling my Uncle Clarence one night in London. How they tricked him with drink…I forget the rest,” Grace said, chuckling.

Katherine sat her large frame down on the same seat Elizabeth and Grace had occupied a few weeks before, in April, and Grace settled herself on the grass and played with a stalk of mint, inhaling its fresh scent.

“You mean the Frieda affair?” Katherine replied, rolling her eyes. “There is not much to tell. Edward and Will found George with this buxom Flemish girl, both very much the worse for drink, and offered to help them upstairs to bed. So Will tells me, Edward helped George with his codpiece, but as soon as the lad fell on the bed he was dead to the world, and the girl not much better. Knowing Edward wanted the woman, Will left the room while Edward pleasured her. Whoring was such an uncharacteristic thing
for Clarence to do—he and Isabel adored each other, you know—but Edward could not resist allowing his brother to think he had done the dirty deed when he awoke the next day, and so he thought he would have the last laugh.”

Grace was wishing she had not asked to have the story repeated. Her thoughts about her father’s behavior were filled with disgust. Instead of stopping his younger brother from shaming himself with a whore and betraying his wife, Edward had encouraged it. And as if that act had not been heinous enough, he had taken advantage of a young girl in a stupor and allowed the guilt-ridden Clarence to believe he had sired a bastard. She hung her head and tore the mint leaves to shreds.

“Instead, my uncle Clarence had the last laugh—although he did not know it,” she muttered. “You are sure the girl had a child, Lady Katherine?” The older woman nodded. “And your husband paid her off on behalf of my father.”

Katherine harrumphed. “’Twas the way of it. ’Tis always the way of it, more’s the pity,” she complained. “A woman is naught but a chattel—a pleasure tool for a man, whether he be husband or no.”

At that moment, Grace agreed with her, although, in her heart, she knew all men were not the same. A warm glow spread through her as she thought of Tom, but for good measure she prayed he might never run afoul of a brother as immoral as Edward, king of England—her own father.

G
RACE WAS SHOCKED
by the secrecy and lack of reverence accorded the arrival of Elizabeth’s body at Windsor. By this time it was late at night and only moonlight and a few half-used torches carried by a handful of old men illuminated the small funeral procession up the steep slope and into the massive castle on the hill. The coffin was pulled on a common hearse, a single wooden candlestick at each corner as its only ornaments. With undue haste, Elizabeth was interred next to Edward in the gloom of St. George’s chapel, with only a priest and a clerk to oversee the proceedings. Why were there no bells tolling, no appearance even by the dean and canons of the chapel? Grace was not the only one who was shocked. She overheard one of the heralds, sent by Henry to report on the event, remark to another about the surprising “modesty of the burial of an English queen.” Grace wanted to tell them, “Her grace was particular about keeping her
obsequies simple. She was full of piety and humility, in truth, and she wanted no pomp or expenditure.” But when she heard the herald blame it on Henry’s close-fisted nature and ill will towards his mother-in-law, she grinned to herself, knowing this was exactly what Elizabeth had secretly wanted people to think.

Two days later a more formal Mass was said, and by then members of Elizabeth’s family had arrived at the castle. From her vantage point atop the tower in the middle ward, Grace saw them step ashore at the same spot the funeral barge had docked, and she could now see the crude cottages clustered on the shore under the castle. Across the water, the graceful flying buttresses of the sixth Henry’s Eton College vied for her attention with those of St. George’s chapel to her left, built by his rival Edward inside the walls of Windsor. Acknowledging it was a beautiful spot and a favorite among her father’s castles, she sighed and turned away to descend the tower staircase to greet her half sisters.

“Where is the king?” Grace said, frowning. And the other nobles who were in his Star Chamber circle, she thought. “’Tis right that the queen should not come, but surely Henry must.”

“His grace and his councilors are busy contemplating the invasion of France, Lady Grace.” Thomas of Dorset’s voice behind her made her jump. “Forgive me if I startled you. The king regrets he is unable to attend. No doubt, my lady mother would have understood. Excuse me, but now I must consult with Bishop Audley, who will conduct the memorial Mass.” He bowed to the group and strode towards the south front entrance of the chapel.

“I know he’s the only brother we have now,” Anne murmured when he was out of earshot, “but I don’t like him.”

Grace decided this was not the time to remind them of Dickon, and instead took Bridget’s hand and showed them the way to the royal apartments in the lower ward. At least Elizabeth would have several of her children praying for her soul that day, she thought sadly. How soon will she be forgotten? If Dickon is ever crowned king—it was possible, she told herself—he will build a fine monument to his mother, she had no doubt. “Then England will never forget,” she whispered.

T
WO DAYS LATER
she traveled with her sisters back down the Thames to Greenwich. She had been unnerved by Thomas of Dorset’s few words
with her as he bade farewell to them on the wharf. “I know my lady mother talked with you about the man across the sea who is claiming to be Richard of York,” he murmured. “What more do you know, my lady?”

“Only that, my lord,” Grace said, her hackles rising in anger—and fear. She knew Dickon had last been located in France, where Charles was treating him as a royal guest. “Why, is there more?” she asked, her wide eyes as innocent as she could make them.

“’Tis common knowledge the king’s grace plans to invade France on behalf of his friends in Brittany, but the information on the imposter that he has received from his envoys at the French court…” Grace bit her tongue; she had almost blurted out, “You mean, spies, my lord!” Thomas lowered his voice even further: “…is that there is a conspiracy afoot, and several Englishmen with Yorkist sympathies have somehow turned up there and joined him. I would ask that you not upset the queen at Greenwich with this news. Indeed, I forbid you to talk of this man in front of her or my other half sisters. Do you understand?” He gripped her wrist in the folds of her black mourning gown so no one could see, and Grace winced in pain. Her heart was pounding in her throat, and she was afraid. She nodded slowly, and without missing a beat, Thomas suddenly smiled broadly, bent over and smacked a kiss on her unsuspecting cheek. “Farewell to you, Lady Grace, and God speed to Greenwich,” he called loudly. “I cannot thank you enough for your care of my lady mother.” Dropping her arm, he strode over to the other young women and bussed them all amiably before walking back up the hill.

From her perch on the queen’s barge, Grace stared back at the hulking limestone castle, its central round tower gleaming against the sky, and told herself that Henry must indeed be concerned for his throne if he had to send such a warning through Dorset, who had finally fulfilled his mother’s wish and found favor with the king. It seemed she alone was left with the desire to discover the truth about Dickon. Certes, none of her half sisters would benefit from his reappearance, she mused, but she could not forget that John died for his loyalty to York, and who was she to let him down? Or, certes, Elizabeth, who had earned her love and loyalty above all others? Nay, she was determined to understand the truth of what became of the Yorkist prince.