The Tapestry

by Nancy Bilyeau

  Finally, the tournament concluded. All of the competitors had ridden their horses onto the tiltyard and amassed before the king and queen. For this closing ceremony, they had cleaned and polished their armor. To see more than fifty men side by side, mounted, waiting, was like beholding a giant chess set, poised for play.

  King Henry and Queen Anne, wearing jeweled crowns, sat on their thrones in the gallery. Cromwell stood behind and slightly to the side of the king’s throne. He had stayed close to King Henry during the length of the tournament. If the three men conjured a spell against Cromwell, it was a remarkably ineffective one.

  The six “challengers” were very much out front: Thomas Seymour, John Dudley, Anthony Kingston, Gregory Cromwell, and the two others. In one of the most celebratory moments of the joust, Kingston and Cromwell were knighted on the field the day before. Thomas Cromwell showed a rare public smile when his athletic nephew rose as a knight. The crowd murmured afterward that it was another sign of how much King Henry valued his chief minister.

  The chamberlain called out, “His Majesty King Henry the Eighth is well pleased. The king gives to each of the six challengers of England and their heirs forever a reward for their valiant activity of one hundred marks a year and a house to dwell in.”

  The crowd gave a collective gasp. Then a deafening roar—cheers mixed with applause and stamping feet at the king’s generosity—shook the tournament grounds. It had to be loud enough for all of London to hear, and wonder over.

  I did not cheer. I thought of the hundreds of nuns and thousands of monks and friars, cast out of their homes with small pensions. The sisters in Dartford who huddled together in a farmhouse outside of town could barely survive on their pooled pensions.

  It was all so incredibly unfair.

  The next day, the day I was to present my inventory to the king, was hotter than the five days of the tournament. The night before had been stifling—the air in my room was as thick as if a thunderstorm were imminent. But lightning never split the sky. I slept no more than an hour before morning came. I knew that food and drink would strengthen me, but I had no appetite at all.

  I climbed the steps to the section of the palace housing the king’s privy chamber. Richard carried the inventory book, his face expectant. I wished I could share a quarter of his enthusiasm.

  To reach our sovereign, we must first pass through the presence chamber. I was inside this room a week ago, when I examined its tapestries. The weaves hanging off the walls were fine indeed, but the room’s most notable feature was a majestic throne under a canopy of estate. When the king received ambassadors or presided over certain court functions, he sat on the throne. But the room was empty today except for a line of Yeomen of the Guard on either side of the stone-faced King’s Chamber Usher.

  A short passage connected this room to the privy chamber, accessible to only a handful of the chosen. The rest of the people attending court could not get by the usher without an express invitation, the sort I now clutched in my hand. I’d never stepped inside the chamber in my life, not even for my book. Its tapestries were recorded by my predecessor.

  After reading the invitation, the usher sent a guard down that passage. My face felt flushed and hot; beneath my velvet dress, the drops of sweat sliding down my back threatened to turn into a stream.

  Sir Anthony Denny appeared, with the guard who went to fetch him.

  “Mistress Stafford, you are expected,” Denny said and beckoned for me alone to follow.

  “Give me the book, Richard,” I said. To my horror, my voice cracked as I said Richard.

  Bearing the bound book before me like a sacrifice, I trailed Denny. The passage opened into a long room that glowed with an unearthly light. The walls and ceiling were painted gold. I took a few halting steps into the privy chamber but froze at the sight of the painted mural that covered the wall to my right. It was a life-size depiction of the royal family. Next to his submissive third wife, Jane Seymour, the muscular king stood tall, hand on his hip and feet wide apart, staring out from the wall, cold and conscienceless.

  “Master Hans Holbein’s creation takes a bit of getting used to,” said someone.

  I swallowed and turned to face a man wearing the same red livery as Denny but who smiled most kindly and said, “I’m Sir Thomas Heanage, chief gentleman of the privy chamber and groom of the stool.”

  I looked past Heanage to the group of men clustered at two tables at the other end of the room. Three young men wrote in open books with furious speed; I imagined they were royal secretaries. At a separate, gilded table sat the king of England. He was dressed in the same jewelry and finery he always wore, but exhibited little of the bravado of the figure on the wall. The light pouring in through the windows exposed a bloated, tired face. Thomas Cromwell stood by the side of the king, as always. A stack of letters curled atop the table. Cromwell was pointing at a sentence in one and murmuring something, while the king nodded.

  Heanage glided over to the table, bowed and spoke; the king and his chief minister looked up.

  “Welcome, Cousin Joanna,” said the king. “The business of the kingdom demands our attention, but we gladly take reprieve to examine your work. We are told you have been most diligent.”

  I curtsied low and approached the king and Cromwell.

  Once I’d reached them, I paused and shifted from one foot to the other, the book heavy in my arms. I wasn’t sure whom precisely to give it to. A gentle tap on my elbow, and Heanage took charge. He placed the book, spread open, at the corner of the king’s table.

  Cromwell said, “Shall I review it and summarize the most salient points, Your Majesty?”

  “No, no,” said the king, irritated. “Let us look at it now. Nothing is more important than our tapestries.”

  I don’t know how long King Henry studied my book. The room fell into complete silence as his slightly bloodshot eyes traveled up and down the columns. When he’d reached the bottom, he slowly turned the page. I noticed for the first time how swollen red and cracked white his fingers were, beneath his gold rings set with diamonds and emeralds. The sight made me feel rather sick, like opening the door to an exquisite painted cabinet and discovering a shelf of rotted cheeses.

  I suddenly looked up. Cromwell scrutinized me with the same icy mix of curiosity and contempt I always seemed to inspire. His skin was grayish white, as if he had never stood in the gallery with the king and nobles or walked the grounds of Westminster, watching a tournament for five days. Cromwell was a creature most suited to rooms like this: deep inside the palace, the coiled center of power. I knew that turmoil existed behind his imperturbable mask, though. I could never forget that I witnessed him disintegrate in the room at Westminster Hall, and I knew he would never forget it either.

  “Cousin Joanna, what does this mean?” said the king.

  His puffy finger pressed down on a phrase I’d written. As I came around the table, I saw it was the description of the Fall of Troy tapestry in the Great Hall.

  I read aloud, hesitantly, “‘Lower edges are soiled, perhaps from smoke damage. Smells of food.’”

  “You personally saw this?” the king asked quietly.

  “Yes, while I was performing the inventory I took note of it, Your Majesty.” There was a space allotted for the condition of each one. I took a breath, and continued: “But in the case of the Fall of Troy, I was already aware.”

  “How is that possible?” said the king.

  “The first day I came to Whitehall, I passed through the Great Hall and I stopped to look at the tapestry and examined it pretty closely, though for less than a moment. I noticed its state then.”

  Henry VIII took not one breath, or even two, but three deep inhalations, and as he did, his skin mottled red in an appalling transformation. “Soiled?” he roared, spittle flying through the air. “Our tapestries are soiled? And so degraded that a cursory glance made by a person
walking through a room could detect it?”

  “I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” I stammered.

  He gave no sign of even hearing my apology, which I had offered to quiet his terrible outburst, not because I had committed an offense. No one else reacted. Cromwell said nothing; Heanage looked as calm and benevolent as ever.

  “This is the last blunder I will tolerate by Moinck, Cromwell,” he shouted. “He’s a careless old fool—he should on no account travel to Brussels to bid on The Triumph of the Gods. Joanna should go in his place, she has five times his powers of perception. Moinck cannot be trusted.”

  Travel to Brussels in his place?

  The king continued to rant. “Sir Andrew Windsor has protected this fool from Flanders, I wager. He should be tossed out along with Moinck.”

  Cromwell cleared his throat. “Sir Andrew has served since before your first parliament. He was appointed by Your Majesty’s father as a man showing great promise.”

  “Windsor may retain his position—for now,” the king said, sullen. “But Moinck must go.”

  Cromwell said, “Of course, Your Majesty. We should inform Master Moinck forthwith. I believe he has been grooming his eldest son to succeed him for at least ten years. He needs to know this is no longer a possibility.”

  “But I cannot deprive a man of his livelihood,” I protested.

  The king frowned as he picked up a letter. “This not your doing. You serve our will, Cousin Joanna, do you not? You agreed to do that at Winchester House?” Cromwell’s eyes narrowed at the name of his enemy’s house.

  “Yes, Sire,” I said, “however—”

  His face beginning to turn red again, the king said, “There are no howevers at our court.”

  I wanted more than anything in the world to tell King Henry VIII that I would not take this position, that his tapestries were not my concern, that my return to Dartford must take place today, this hour. But I couldn’t do it. His rage—the rage I’d been warned of by so many for so long—was just too intimidating.

  I made an uneven curtsy. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  Pointing at me with a quill on the table, Henry VIII said, “You will go to the Great Wardrobe in London tomorrow morning and make arrangements to inspect all tapestries stored there as well. Following that, we will decide on the details of the position, your annual allotment and size of your household, and the most effective strategy for acquiring The Triumph of the Gods. Our sources in Brussels hear that it could be the most magnificent series of arras ever woven. I will not lose it to the Emperor Charles or to King Francis.”

  Without waiting for my response, he took up the letter again, and Sir Thomas Heneage was once more at my side, guiding me away from the king’s table.

  “Mistress Stafford, it was a great pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said, and then handed me over to Sir Anthony. Apparently Heneage himself did not ferry people to and fro—that was for Denny. As to Thomas Culpepper’s role in this group, I couldn’t even guess. He had never appeared, doubtless because he had heard of my appointment with the king and was still determined to shun me.

  But I could not dwell on Culpepper now, for my own situation was too disastrous. Each time I came into the presence of King Henry VIII, he demanded more of me. My resistance to filling the tapestry position did not come from lack of confidence. I loved everything about the weaves, and if I were honest with myself, had found the inventory a project holding great fascination. I was face-to-face with the finest collection of arras in Christendom. Yet this livelihood meant I would always revolve around the man who had demolished the monasteries, signed the orders of execution for my uncle, cousin, and friends, and had corrupted Catherine.

  How could I serve the king and God at the same time?

  As much as I pleaded for direction from God— I must have prayed the Rosary five times—I had found no clear answers when the moment arrived to ride to the Great Wardrobe. There was nothing to do but obey. But I vowed that as soon as I learned the details of my position, I’d send my most forceful letter yet to my cousin Lord Henry Stafford, requesting the return of Arthur. I would extract one benefit from this sorry situation.

  I’d charged Richard with securing horses from the Whitehall stables and escorting me to this London destination. He responded joyfully—it was clear that this was one young man weary of the palace. After I took the reins of my mare and we set off, I have to admit that I, too, felt a bit . . . lighter. I dreaded facing the Moincks, father and son, at the Great Wardrobe, and I’d slept little yet again. Sound sleep had eluded me for weeks. But still, I welcomed any sort of stab at freedom. To live at Whitehall was an oppressive, taut business. The court would soon move to Greenwich. I looked forward to leaving Whitehall behind, although there was no sound reason for thinking my troubles might lift. How much difference could the place make if the people remained the same?

  “Mistress Stafford, there’s Scotland House,” Richard called to me, pointing at a grand manor house on the Thames. “The king’s sister Queen Margaret lived there for a time.”

  Richard identified Charing Cross and other points of interest as we went, proud of his knowledge. He was a true Londoner. We passed Durham House and other grand properties on the Strand that sloped down to the river, and then the road turned away from the Thames. Churches, inns, shops, and brick-and-timber houses jammed the sides of the streets. I could no longer enjoy Richard’s pointing out sites, because the din was too loud to hear him. I had to nudge my horse to follow his closely on the street crowded with others on horseback, people on foot, and even some wide wagons. I kept my eyes fixed on Richard’s tawny-colored doublet—he had never abandoned the livery of the Howards—so that we would not be separated.

  “Thomas Becket! Thomas Becket! Thomas Becket!” Not one man shouted the name of England’s saint but many. I pulled on the reins, rather frightened. Why would anyone call out for the long-ago martyred archbishop of Canterbury? I pulled up next to Richard. It was not easy to do, for the street was thicker than ever with people. Through them I saw a curtained platform jutting out into the crowd.

  Shading his eyes from the sun, Richard said, “Ah, it’s a company of players, mistress. But they’ve picked the worst place possible to set up their stage. That’s the street leading to Baynard’s Castle, and the Great Wardrobe is beside it. Now blocked.”

  I looked to the right—in that direction the street curved without end for quite a way. But to the left, there was a narrow opening to a lane that presumably ran parallel to the street blocked to us. “Why don’t we try it?” I asked, pointing.

  Richard peered farther down in that direction. “I know of another route,” he said. But just as he kicked his horse, a crowd of mummers, wearing all manner of costumes, appeared at the top of the street, presumably on their way down to meet with the players now scrambling onstage. Richard shrugged. “So much for that. Yes, we’ll have to try this lane and see where it empties out. The market’s not far from here, and we don’t want to get caught up in that.”

  “But we are now close to the Great Wardrobe?” I asked.

  “Oh yes, mistress, and we shall get there,” said Richard.

  A man onstage bellowed, “I am the king and that troublesome priest has offended me.”

  I could not help but turn in the saddle to watch this unfold. I found it strange that the death of Thomas Becket would become fodder for players and mummers on the streets of London. Was this not a sensitive subject? The pope had excommunicated Henry VIII in part because of his defilement of the shrine of Saint Thomas. When I was a child I’d seen many performances in my uncle’s castles. But nothing that touched on a controversy of a king.

  The “king” onstage had to be Henry II, that other monarch who had clashed with the church. He bore no resemblance to the real Plantagenet. I had a memory of being taught as a child that Henry II was tall. This player was short and sallow, wearing a fur aro
und his shoulders despite the heat and a huge ostrich feather in his hat. He was ranting to the crowd about the disobedience of Becket.

  Four “knights” stepped forward in unison. The first dropped to one knee. “Can we serve you, Sire? It is our duty to serve you.”

  The “king” waved them off. “There is nothing you can do to help me, for Thomas Becket is the Archbishop of Canterbury.” He then turned from the knights and stepped forward, so that he stood on the edge of the stage, and shouted at the top of his lungs, “Will no one rid me of this troublesome priest?” This was the famous question posed by Henry II, in which he set loose the murderers of the Archbishop of Canterbury without specifically ordering their deaths.

  I had heard more than enough, and I turned away from the stage to speak to Richard. But he was not by my side. It took me a moment to find him in this ever-thickening crowd, now jammed with the mummers, too. I spotted his Howard doublet, he was just about to guide his horse through the mob and onto the lane.

  By the time I’d steered my horse to the same lane, Richard had ridden a portion of the way up. It was a long, narrow lane, not nearly as busy as the streets we’d just come from. Eager to serve me, he must be taking advantage of the open way forward, to see if this was the way to the Great Wardrobe.

  “Richard!” I shouted. “Tarry for a moment until I catch up.”

  He stopped and raised his hand to wave in acknowledgment without turning around. I shook the reins to hurry my mount along. With each clap of the horse’s hoofs on the cobblestones, the smell of a market grew stronger. Richard was right, we were nearing a place where meat was sold. I shook my head, for I’d always hated the stench of freshly slaughtered animals. This was a dirty, ugly lane, too. I was sorry I had pressed Richard to try it.

  For a second, I thought I heard my name called from behind. But that was absurd. No one knew me back on the street.