The King's Grace by Anne Easter Smith Page B

gestures were a diversion on the dreary day.
    “Smile! Wave!” Cecily advised Grace. “Have no fear, they don’t know who you are—and they would not care. Father always told us not to be shy in front of our subjects. ‘They want to love us, so give them your best smiles,’ he would say.”
    Grace peeked out timidly and fluttered her hand. “Is this not the place where Uncle Richard was laid out after the battle?” she asked as they passed by the Grey Friars church. A few monks were standing by the gate, silently gazing at the Yorkist princesses from under their hoods.
    Bess crossed herself and her smile faded. “Stop the carriage!” she commanded suddenly, and Grace was surprised by her tone of authority. “Stop, I say!” Tom heard her cry and turned his horse to see what the trouble was. “I wish to pay my respects to my uncle, if he…his body…is still here,” she told him. “John told us he was taken by the Grey Friars for burial. I pray you ask the good brothers yonder if I may enter the church.”
    Tom nodded and rode over to the monks. One ran inside to fetch the abbot while the other two bowed a welcome to the royal visitor. Bess strapped on her pattens over her soft leather shoes and, with Sir Robert as her escort, walked on her high wooden soles through the muck in the street towards the church. “Are you coming with me, Cecily? Grace? And you, Margaret and Ned? Uncle Richard should know he is not forgotten,” she said.
    Tom took Cecily’s arm and the others quickly followed. Sir Robert stood discreetly under the doorway and did not follow them in. Soon the little group was huddled, hoods up against the drizzle, in front of a newly dug grave in a small garden behind the church. A simple stone marked its head and a withered spray of white roses lay atop the mound.
    The abbot hurried forward from the chapter house as fast as his stubby legs and rotund belly would allow and bowed low to Bess. “My lady, I am honored by your visit,” he said humbly. “As you see, we have given his late grace, King Richard, a Christian place to lie in for his eternity. We do not have funds for a monument. But our brotherhood will care for his last resting place as long as we are in residence here. He was a noble prince, and it did pain us to see his corpse so ignobly treated upon his return from Redemore Plain.” He crossed himself. “ Requiescat in pace. Domine, fiat volutas tua. Thy will be done.”
    “Amen,” the group answered, crossing themselves as they contemplated the mound of earth, each with his or her own memories of their uncle.
    Bess fell to her knees in the muddy grass, tears pouring down her cheeks. Her repeated “Requiescat in pace” sounded more like “Richard, my true passion” to Grace, and judging by Cecily’s sharp glance at her sister, she knew she had heard right. The kindly abbot put his hand on Bess’s head and blessed her. Grace had hardly known the dead man, but her half sister’s distress brought tears to her eyes, and she wiped her nose on her sleeve.
    The quiet mood was broken by a sudden wail from Margaret. “Dear God, what will become of us? He and Queen Anne were so kind to Ned and me,” she blubbered. “How I hate this Henry Tudor. I hope he dies like King Richard, with lots of stab wounds all over his miserable body.”
    Everyone was shocked by this outburst, and the abbot was at a loss for words. But Grace was intensely moved by the anguish in Margaret’s voice and immediately put her arm around her. Instead of rejecting the sympathy, Margaret turned into Grace’s arms and sobbed on her shoulder. “Come, Margaret,” Grace whispered. “Let us find a seat in the church, where we can pray together for Uncle Richard. I am sure he would like that.”
    Margaret allowed herself to be led back inside the candlelit church, with little Edward traipsing along behind, and Grace chose an exquisite statue of the Virgin holding the baby Jesus in her arms to whom to make their