Culpepper sighed, not with impatience but genuine frustration. “I don’t understand,” he said. “None are missing. Thirty-six pages serve His Majesty’s court at Whitehall.”
The murmur of young men talking to one another below was pierced by a louder voice, an older person’s: “The sleeves are filthy, sir, filthy—and do I see a missing button?”
We both glanced down. The master of pages was continuing to berate the tall young man, the one with a bobbing Adam’s apple. He was even more distressed now, waving his arms as he defended himself. I heard the word missing in the middle of a stream of excuses.
I stiffened as it all fell into place.
“Thomas,” I said hoarsely, “I know what must have happened.”
“Hold up your mask again,” he pleaded. And then: “Tell me, Mistress Stafford, I beg you, for I am damn perplexed.”
“The man who met me at the gatehouse and led me through Whitehall to that room, he was not a page,” I said, the words tumbling out from behind my mask. “He stole that page’s doublet, that’s why he is wearing one today that is dirty and torn during inspection, he had no choice. The other man, the one who harmed me, wore it and pretended to be in service. They are about the same height and weight.”
Culpepper stared at me. “But for a man to do that, to select a royal uniform and steal it, to take such an audacious risk, he is most intent. Dangerous. First, I must confirm if that page’s doublet is missing.”
He wheeled in the other direction and was gone. I’d never seen a man move so fast—and yet with such assuredness—as Thomas Culpepper.
Within the minute, Culpepper was in earnest conversation with the master of pages and the nervous page. I could tell from the way they nodded at one another that it was true—his more appropriate doublet was missing.
I fought down the waves of panic rising in my throat, as if to gag me. Culpepper did not realize how true his words were—the man was intent. It was no longer any use trying to deny that a plot existed to hurt me, whether to injure or kill, I could not be sure. Perhaps he had intended to knock me senseless and spirit me away from Whitehall. But why? Who was at the heart of the plot?
Once again, the hostile visages of Bishop Gardiner and the Duke of Norfolk appeared. I knew they both loathed me. They’d appeared shocked to see me at Thomas Cromwell’s side in Westminster Hall. But two men who’d survived the coups and conspiracies of Henry VIII’s court for so long were perfectly capable of dissembling. Gardiner was the one who knew the king planned to summon me to court. What he knew, Thomas Howard, third Duke of Norfolk, knew. If they sought to make me suffer, a more straightforward imprisonment would suit better than this secretive assault. But what did I know about their means and methods?
I heard a soft step on the landing and turned, holding up the mask to my face. For the first time I was grateful for it, for it would help me hide my distress from Culpepper as I struggled to decide what to do next.
But it was not my friend on the other end of the landing. The man who walked toward me was clad entirely in black, including the mask he held in front of his own face. The visage was that of a laughing man. He must have been among the spectators below, and having spotted me, now planned to draw me out.
I took one step backward, and then another, careening into the pillar. If I kept going, the stranger would corner me. Down on the main floor, Culpepper still conversed with the master of pages. No harm could be inflicted on me in clear view of Master Culpepper and all of these people, I told myself.
Yet I felt most uneasy, for everything about the man creeping toward me looked wrong. In a court crammed with gentlemen wearing rich, varied colors—blue like the sea off of Dover, gold like newly minted coins—his black doublet and breeches seemed not just unfashionable but disturbing. He gripped a mask meant for play, but he was no lad to frolic so. Now that he drew closer, I could see that the hair above the mask was salted with gray strands. The pair of brown eyes staring at me through the slanted holes of the mask glittered with amusement.
“Do I know you, sir?” I said, my voice more defiant than I would have wished.
He halted, standing a few feet from me. “No, we have not met.” His voice was low and smooth, almost caressing. “But I have seen you before. And today I have heard of you again. Mistress Joanna Stafford. The dark beauty who has come to court under such intriguing circumstances.”
How I loathed flirtation, the empty and heartless banter that such men employed. It was time to banish this miscreant.
“I am not at liberty to converse with you, sir,” I said. “And so I shall ask you, on your honor, to withdraw.”
He drew up and was very still for a moment. I’d thought my reproof would extinguish the flicker of amusement from his eyes. But not so. It was as if my words were kindling, and those unsettling eyes now gleamed. With a dramatic flourish, he pulled down his mask, as if what were revealed would impress me. Yet I beheld someone most ugly. His skin, of sallow hue, sagged underneath the eyes. He had a thin nose and a chin dented by a long, pale scar, the aftermath of some vicious blow.
“My honor,” he repeated. “But Mistress Stafford, what if I have no honor?”
10
Before I could respond to the man’s declaration, Thomas Culpepper bounded toward us. “Sir Walter,” he said, somewhat breathless for he’d hurried up the stairs. “So good to see you. I did not know you’d returned to court.”
“I arrived last night, just in time to hear all of the news,” said the black-clad knight, turning that sardonic gleam on me once more but then executing the deepest of bows. “Sir Walter Hungerford, at your service, my lady.”
How surprised I was that Culpepper held good opinion of this man, and a little disappointed. They were such opposites as they stood before me, one handsome and well intentioned, the other unappealing in body and spirit.
“I must wait upon our newly ennobled Earl of Essex,” Hungerford said. “I have news to warm his heart, of two Somerset traitors hanged under my authority as sheriff of Wiltshire.”
Culpepper shook his head at him. “We should not speak of such things in front of Mistress Stafford.”
Sir Walter proceeded to beg forgiveness in a tone that struck me as so patently false that I was sure he mocked me.
Irritated beyond measure, I said, “You do not need to conceal matters of the realm from me, my lord. What were the crimes that you ensured were punished?”
Sir Walter said, “The first traitor was one John Croche, who had been heard to boast that he had money enough, and he knew the king’s needs so well, that he could buy all the lands that he has, even so far as to buy and also sell the crown of England.”
It sounded like nothing more than drunken boasts, but such was the fearful climate of the kingdom that those words could lead to a noose.
Culpepper said, “And what of the second criminal?”
“Ah,” said Sir Walter, “he was a vicar who uttered a prophecy that spoke of danger to our king. High treason.”
Prophecy.
My knees weakening, I reached those few inches for the wall to steady myself, bowing my head so neither man would notice.
When the raven climbs the rope, the dog must soar like a hawk. Look to the time of the bear to weaken the bull. Here I stood in a gallery of the Palace of Whitehall, but those words, the words I could never forget, howled from deep within my very soul. I had learned it in pieces over eleven years of my life from three seers, first from the “Maid of Kent,” Sister Elizabeth Barton; second from the fearsome necromancer Orobas; and finally from the French mystic Michèle de Nostredame.
What if that prophecy had spread—what if it were being repeated in churches and shops and alehouses throughout the land? I could not be sure that my role in it would remain hidden.
“Are you unwell, Mistress Stafford?” asked Thomas Culpepper, his forehead crinkled with wor
ry as he noticed my state. “You have lost your color. I was right—we should not discuss such grim occurrences in your presence.”
“No,” I said firmly. “I am quite well.” I glanced over at Hungerford, and to my dismay he was studying me closely.
“What was the substance of the priest’s prophecy, Sir Walter?” asked Culpepper.
Never taking his eyes off me, Hungerford said, “John Dobson, the vicar, told his parishioners that the king would soon be driven out of his realm because ‘He who bore the eagle would rule, the dun cow would restore the Church and the Crumb must fall.’ ”
Just as I had done my best to hide my fear, I now struggled to conceal my relief. There was some similarity, but the predictions were not the same. The prophecy that had devoured my life remained a secret one, at least to Sir Walter Hungerford. I felt the dark world of seers and necromancers recede.
Culpepper scoffed, “The priest’s words sound like nothing but gibberish.”
Sir Walter said, “Ah, not so, my young friend. In prophecy, all has a deeper meaning. ‘He who bore the eagle’ is the Emperor Charles, the ‘dun cow’ is the Pope, and of course ‘the Crumb’ is our very own Thomas Cromwell, royal minister.” He cocked his head, and said, “And what do you think of that, Mistress Stafford?”
“I think that it fulfills the charge of treason,” I said steadily. “Such evil words must be dealt with.”
To my amazement, Sir Walter Hungerford smiled. “So you believe in evil, mistress?”
“All Christians believe in evil,” I said.
He nodded. “Of course, of course. But still, I must tell you that in my private library at Farleigh Hungerford Castle, I have spent many hours with certain books that say acceptance of evil means that one cannot then accept the existence of God. For if God were omnipotent and wholly good, how could He permit evil to exist?”
“That is not what Thomas Aquinas writes,” I countered.
He laughed in delight. “A woman who debates theology? I have long wished for—”
“Look who else has returned to court!” shouted Culpepper, interrupting with great excitement.
Following his pointed finger, I saw through the doorway of the chamber the unmistakable figure of my cousin Henry Howard, the Earl of Surrey: tall and red-haired, wearing a cape lined with fur.
Culpepper started toward the stairs to greet him, but Surrey spotted him first, and beckoned for us to stay where we were.
My feelings were mixed about this arrival. Thomas Culpepper had said from the beginning that he felt called upon to help me because of his loyalty to the Earl of Surrey. But my cousin was not a discreet nor a thoughtful man, and I feared that were he to learn of the attack on me, his testy family honor would prompt him to wild words and deeds that would worsen my predicament. Moreover, I suspected his father, the Duke of Norfolk, of being a part of the plot to harm me. Any time that Surrey was pushed to choose between his father and some other person, his father always triumphed.
As my cousin strode up the stairs, Sir Walter Hungerford moved forward on the gallery, making sure he would be first to greet him. He, too, must be devoted to Surrey, who without a doubt cut a dashing figure, being equal parts soldier and poet. His being the heir to the premier dukedom of the kingdom never hurt him, either.
I whispered to Culpepper, “Say nothing to my cousin concerning the page.”
He looked at me, doubtful, but in the next instant Surrey was among us, greeting Hungerford and Culpepper with pleasure and myself with surprise. “I thought you happy in Dartford, Joanna, raising little Arthur Bulmer,” he said.
“I’m here because I’m trying to get Arthur back,” I said, and explained to him my tapestry commission, but suspected that he only half listened. Not from indifference to my circumstances—for whatever reason, Surrey was fonder of me than any other Stafford relation—but because he was troubled. His eyes glistened with emotion, and a nerve danced along his left cheek.
Soon enough Surrey burst out with the cause.
“The Howards suffer such a blow, it will be hard to surmount,” he said. “My father, when he hears of it—I do not know what he will do.”
Surrey explained that his father had sent him to the family estates in East Anglia. The Howards owned many hundreds of acres of land in that part of the kingdom, but this spring the duke was reluctant to leave the king’s court “even for a single day.” Still, business needed to be attended to, so the eldest son was dispatched. One pressing matter was the conversion of the Priory of Saint Mary’s, for centuries a home of Cluniac monks near the Howard family seat. The king’s Dissolution meant all abbeys must be closed throughout the land. But Saint Mary’s contained the tombs of the dukes of Norfolk dating back to the first one, in 1250. The Howards successfully petitioned the king that the Cluniac priory be converted to a church of secular canons with the tombs left intact.
“My father has led the royal armies in Scotland and the north of England, he is most highly valued, so the king agreed to Saint Mary’s being spared,” said Surrey. “But two weeks ago I received a letter from Cromwell himself. Permission from the king for an exemption has been withdrawn. The priory must be dismantled and abandoned. Which means that all of our most illustrious ancestors must be . . . must be . . .” Surrey choked on his anguish and then blurted, “They must be dug up. Removed from consecrated ground and buried elsewhere. It is infamous.”
Surrey slammed his fist against the stone column we huddled around. “How could the king sanction this insult?” he said. “Why does he disdain the nobility of his kingdom for the base new men?”
Culpepper said in a voice not far above whisper, “It is not the king. I know him, I am with him day and night. This is Cromwell’s influence. If he were to be removed . . .”
“But how?” demanded Surrey. “His preeminence with the king cannot be altered. And now he is made an earl, equal to my own rank, God help us.”
Cromwell’s newly bestowed noble rank was painful salt to the wound for the Howards, both the Duke of Norfolk and his heir. In fact, Cromwell’s lowly origins obsessed my cousin, who was only half Howard. His mother was a Stafford, and we Staffords were more royal than the Howards and, to our peril, more royal than the Tudors, some whispered. It was the reason my uncle the Duke of Buckingham was brought down. Yet I could not share Surrey’s obsession. It was Cromwell’s deeds that horrified me, not his bloodline.
“Everything has been tried to overthrow Cromwell,” Surrey said. “It is impossible.”
Sir Walter Hungerford said, “Not everything has been tried, and you know that.”
Just as those strange words left his mouth, the bright light drained from the chamber as if poured from a cup. The sun must have risen to that point in the sky where it no longer slanted into the row of east-facing windows of this chamber. It was just the four of us now, since the pages and their master had left to resume their duties. Where before there was light and noise, now existed a dim silence charged with some tension I did not understand.
Thomas Culpepper shook himself, as if emerging from an unwholesome dream, and said he must escort me back to the rooms of Catherine Howard. The other two also sped away, Surrey to find his father and Hungerford to wait upon Cromwell, a man he served but hated, too. The disloyalties of the courtiers made my head spin.
It took less than a moment for Culpepper’s attention to return to me, and I argued with him for most of our walk through the palace. He wanted to sound the alarm and call for a search of Whitehall. But I insisted we not pursue that course. I was certain that the man who’d impersonated a royal page would not attack other victims. No, Joanna Stafford was his sole target. I must discover who directed this conspiracy, but it would have to be a mission taken on alone. As much as I appreciated the earnest assistance of Master Thomas Culpepper, his proximity to the king had always concerned me. Now that I perceived his ties to unpleasant courtiers such
as Sir Walter Hungerford, I knew I could not put my full trust in him.
At that moment, I realized that I had never fully trusted and confided in any man, not even Edmund Sommerville, whom I’d wanted to marry. In the case of Edmund, I’d hidden things from him to keep him safe from harm. But I’d hidden them just the same.
“Your safety cannot be assured at Whitehall while this man is at liberty,” protested Culpepper.
“Once I have completed my audience with the king, I will leave court and no longer be at risk,” I said.
“You must never be alone,” said Culpepper. “Promise me that. At night Richard, the servant of the Howards, stands watch over those rooms. And during the day, it would be difficult to be alone even should you wish it, in a palace of eight hundred people. But still, I must hear you promise: Never alone.”
I did so, willingly, and then said, “It would be helpful if you could learn when His Highness wishes to speak to me about my tapestries. If it is not at the dinner today, then I pray it will be soon.”
Culpepper chuckled. “Do you think King Henry the Eighth is a tailor whom you could make an appointment with? We all of us serve at his pleasure, Mistress Stafford. All I can do to help is relay that His Majesty is an impatient man. He will not want to wait too long to speak with you on tapestries. In fact, I expect that seeing you in a couple of hours at his table will prompt some sort of action.”
A couple of hours? I was consumed with dread and yet again I wondered why I should be singled out for this distinction.
To calm myself, I needed to pray and think in a quiet place. But after I’d reached her rooms, Catherine was more adamant than ever. “It will soothe you to walk through the garden—it’s quite peaceful now, when they are planting.”
“Peaceful” was not the word I’d have chosen to describe the vast walled garden of Whitehall, where sculpted hedges and a grid of marble statues of exotic beasts stretched before me. The pattern’s intricacies dazzled, but I could not call it a maze. Those who walked were meant to admire; getting lost would serve no purpose at all.
The Tapestry Page 7
