The Tapestry

by Nancy Bilyeau

  “True. Though why you are safe there has kept me awake many a night, baffled. But you are part of the royal household now, Joanna. How could you possibly defy the commands of the king if he summoned you to court?”

  I didn’t have an answer for that.

  “No, the only place that I am sure is safe for you is the wilds of Europe, which happens to be exactly where I am headed.”

  I gathered myself. “Very well, Geoffrey,” I said, seeing no choice.

  He turned and left, just as angry as when he arrived.

  Incredibly, the day worsened. Master Holbein came to my room in the afternoon, with a grim Geoffrey in tow, to tell me the alarming news he’d picked up in Antwerp.

  “The drought and terrible heat that struck England—it is much, much worse here,” Holbein lamented. “No one can remember such heat. Harvests are ruined; the grapes on the vines are dead. The poorest people are expected to starve this winter in the Netherlands, Germany, France, Italy, the Swiss confederation, everywhere. There will be pestilence, they say. The Rhine is so low that boats cannot travel safely on it. They have closed the gates to Venice and other cities in Italy, so that strangers cannot enter and rob them of stored food. You can expect that to crop up everywhere in the next few months.”

  “What worse time could there be to travel?” Geoffrey muttered.

  “Mein Gott, it could not possibly be worse,” said Holbein. “But I must reach Basel, my wife and my children need me desperately. Geoffrey, be ready to deposit Mistress Joanna in Brussels and leave with me as swiftly as possible.”

  When Geoffrey informed him that after a week or so in Brussels, I would be coming with them to Salzburg, he could not believe it, and tried his best to dissuade me.

  “Mistress Joanna, it is a trip of some rigor when conditions are normal—and they are not normal,” said Holbein. “You simply cannot go to Salzburg.”

  Geoffrey and I were unable to calm Holbein’s fears, and in the end, after a long and emotional discussion, Master Hans Holbein left Antwerp alone. He was in a panic over fear for his family’s lives—no doubt underscored by guilt over not seeing them for eight long years—and, despite his fondness for us, would not be delayed.

  The morning he left us, Holbein delivered final words of warning. “Please, please be careful. The English are not hated in the German lands but I doubt they are loved either, because of King Henry. The Catholic princes despise Henry the Eighth because the pope excommunicated him. But much of the German lands are Lutheran, and they don’t trust him, either, because England does not enact true reform. There are more than two hundred German states, and each one follows their own idea of religion.”

  I said, shaking my head, “I cannot understand it. The Emperor Charles is the most powerful ruler on earth and yet more than half of Germany, the heart of his empire, refuses to follow him in religion. He is the leader of all Catholics but he does nothing about it. In England, the smallest infractions in faith are punished.” I shuddered as I thought of those six men, strapped to hurdles and dragged through London on their way to a terrible death.

  “You do not understand the German mind because you know so little of the German history,” said Holbein. “The emperor does not command the princes, as Henry the Eighth does his subjects. Emperor Charles convenes them, again and again, to conferences we call Diets, so that he can rule by persuasion. I think that after this long and difficult journey, you shall understand us much, much more. Ah, I shall think of you and the good constable every day, and though I am not much of a praying man, I shall pray for you.”

  Master Holbein enveloped me in a crushing hug and whispered, “Mistress Joanna, please keep your heart open to the possibility of transformation. Promise me?”

  I did, still uncertain what he meant. It was hard to say good-bye to my friend Hans Holbein, particularly since I wondered if I would ever see him again. I’d agreed to go with Geoffrey Scovill to faraway Salzburg—what else could I do?—but there were moments, more and more of them, when I feared we hurtled down a path from which there could be no return.

  At first there were few signs of trouble. The road leading out of Antwerp was lined with attractive villages. We reached Brussels early one afternoon, and paused to admire the large city, enclosed by a long wall of brick and tower. “We can only spend a few days here, Joanna,” said Geoffrey. “It’s almost September, and Holbein is right. As people begin to run out of food across the countryside, it’s only going to become more difficult and dangerous to travel.”

  But a short stay was not possible. I was expected to reside in the establishment paid for by the English crown. For years Master Moinck lived there. Now it was mine to occupy, and waiting for me were notices of two appointments I was expected to keep. In a week’s time, I was supposed to meet with the head of the largest workshops in Brussels. And in three weeks’ time, I must report to Coudenberg Palace to be presented to Queen Mary of Hungary, Regent of the Netherlands.

  “This is madness,” exploded Geoffrey. “We should be safely out of Brussels in a week at the latest, not a month. And while here, you must be discreet, not presenting yourself to the queen.”

  “I don’t have a choice and you know it,” I said. “If I fail to appear at the palace, word will spread. The English ambassador will no doubt write to the king. That would be a disaster.”

  I found them bittersweet, the three weeks leading up to my presentation to Queen Mary. I was frightened by the attack on the ship, and nervous about the journey to come, yet I also found myself dazzled by this city. The glittering brick buildings, meticulous gardens, vast cobbled squares—for the first time in my life, I felt a provincial person. London lacked such glamour. Brussels, smaller than Antwerp, possessed quite a different character from that city as well. The latter was a sprawling port, awhirl in the sights and sounds of the world, in particular the smells: the tart spices of the Indies mingling with the bitter odor of printer’s ink. Brussels was more insular, subtler, and capable of deeper pleasures.

  My official duties as tapestry mistress came off better than might have been expected. When I arrived at the appointment with the head of the largest workshop, I braced myself for skepticism that a female had replaced Master Moinck. But the distinguished man seemed oblivious to my sex or my years of experience. He was keen to know just one thing—would King Henry VIII continue to be the leading purchaser of tapestries in all of Christendom? Once he’d ascertained that the answer was yes, I conducted my business without any prejudices or obstacles whatsoever.

  I found the answer to a problem I’d thought unsolvable while touring the vast tapestry workshops, the heart of the industry in all of Christendom.

  One of five men who lived in Brussels worked in the tapestry business, I was told. At the top of it were the ten most prestigious workshops, each employing at least fifty skilled weavers to produce elaborate tapestries for the courts of Henry VIII, King Francis, and the Emperor Charles. Rivals in Europe, the three rulers were willing, if not eager, to lavish fortunes on the most luxurious tapestries.

  I inspected the series of tapestries that King Henry craved: The Triumph of the Gods. Zeus was complete, two goddesses nearly so, and the one of Hercules a month from being finished. In the Hercules tapestry, a series of feats were depicted, from wresting with a lion to abducting a woman to balancing the entire planet on his shoulders. There were no mythological complexities to be deciphered. Each of the figures simply displayed godlike qualities in the most luxurious threads known to the world. I knew King Henry well enough to understand that this was exactly what he desired.

  “The Triumph of Venus is our next challenge, and it shall greatly overshadow the one being completed in Paris,” announced the master of the workshop.

  “So a separate tapestry is being woven, not part of this series, but of a goddess who could take her part in this grouping?” I said, my mind racing with a new possibility.

&n
bsp; “Yes, to create a tapestry of Venus is the rage now. In the tiny workshop of Cologne, and in Paris, too, they are racing to complete an image of her. But none of those workshops can offer you the craftsmanship you will find here, Mademoiselle Stafford,” he sniffed.

  I could not wait to tell Geoffrey my idea. “Remember how we couldn’t think of an explanation for Sir Andrew Windsor and King Henry of why I needed to leave Brussels for an extended period but was not returning to England? Now I have it. I shall say I must go to these other workshops to see the other images of Venus. Cologne is in the German lands. And then of course there is Paris, quite a distance from here. I will write to him that I fear his series won’t be complete unless he secures the best Venus as part of his Triumph of the Gods. It will account for the additional time out of England.”

  Geoffrey had to admit that my idea had merit. He, on the other hand, was finding it impossible to form a travel plan to Salzburg. Everyone was quite adamant that it would be impossible for an En­glishman and woman to ride through that long a stretch of the German lands without a guide and armed protectors, yet there were none willing to be hired. The land was too hungry, too volatile.

  We still had no idea how to accomplish our goal when I arrived at Coudenberg Palace, a sumptuous castle of the Hapsburgs.

  Mary of Hungary was the sister of the Emperor Charles, and thus first cousin to the Lady Mary of England. After her young husband, the king of Hungary, was killed in battle, defending his country against the Turks, Mary became her brother’s representative in the Netherlands. The Hapsburgs’ domains around the world were so vast that one man could not govern them. The whole family must leap to it.

  I suspected that this summons was issued because the Lady Mary wrote to her, suggesting it, and within the first five minutes of meeting the queen, I was proved right.

  “I’m fond of my poor cousin—she’s had such a hard life with that horrendous man as a father,” said Queen Mary with a forthrightness I enjoyed. I detected little physical resemblance between the English princess and the Hungarian queen. My hostess could be judged a plain woman, with a protruding chin and sallow skin. But she spoke with incisiveness and radiated an energetic confidence that the Lady Mary sadly lacked.

  “I am also kept well informed by Eustace Chapuys, one of my brother’s most erudite ambassadors,” said the queen. “As your mother was Spanish, I assume you are acquainted?”

  Trying to keep my face as neutral as possible, I said, “Yes, Your Highness. I have that honor.”

  “Chapuys has never understood, and nor have I, the English king’s refusal to settle on Mary as his heir—there are examples, in my own family, of strong female rule.”

  None more so than yourself, I thought. Everyone admired the energetic rule of Queen Mary of Hungary.

  She tilted her head, regarding me with those large brown eyes. “I find it interesting that Henry the Eighth entrusts you, a relation of his, with his tapestries. Perhaps this is the beginning of a new age, of women taking on responsibility. Were he alive, Cornelius Agrippa himself would be proud. Don’t you agree?”

  32

  I found it impossible to hide my astonishment over hearing that name from the lips of the queen.

  Smiling, she said, “I see you have heard of Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa. Probably that he is an occultist, yes? Oh don’t believe that such nonsense is all he is capable of. Agrippa wrote a wonderful book called The Declamation on the Nobility and Preeminence of the Female Sex. He forwards the theory that we possess no less excellent faculties of mind, reason, and speech than men. I could have a volume sent to you. Yes, he’s a fascinating thinker, why else would Chapuys have been such a close friend?”

  This was another jolt to absorb. I managed to say I had no idea that the ambassador esteemed the German so highly.

  “Yes, I think Chapuys stood as godfather to one of Agrippa’s sons,” she mused.

  At the conclusion of my audience, Queen Mary inquired on my planned date to return to England. When I told her I was considering a trip to Cologne and other tapestry workshops to inspect their work—following the story that Geoffrey and I had worked out—she was most startled.

  “To travel by sea, yes, that I can understand, but over land, now, when the German and Flemish country is in misery?”

  I did my best to insist that yes, this was my plan.

  The queen said, “Well, I think I shall supply you with a ‘safe conduct,’ in case you should run into any difficulties.”

  Queen Mary did not seem to actually request that such a document be prepared, but magically, after I curtsied to her and withdrew from her chamber, a scroll was slipped into my hand bearing the seal of the Hapsburgs, the most prestigious family in the world.

  Geoffrey turned it over in his hands when I showed him the document. He had news for me as well. He’d found a way out of Brussels. A party of merchants would leave in two days’ time in a string of three covered wagons, heavily guarded. It was the last such party scheduled to leave Brussels until next spring. The wagons would travel east until finding the Rhine and then follow it southeast for a long time, many days. Our destination was Regensburg, a city on an ancient north-to-south trade route. From there we would have to find new transport to Salzburg, which was not too much farther.

  “It’s incredibly costly,” Geoffrey said. “I had to pay them all the money before we left and it came to half that John Cheke gave me for the entire enterprise.”

  “Half?” I said, dismayed. “Why do they demand so much?”

  “We will need to bring a lot of food with us. Then there are all the men. We shall have a small army surrounding us. And also, I had to pay more than anyone else.”

  “Because we are English?”

  “No,” said Geoffrey. “Because I am insisting on discretion, on extra lengths being taken to hide our names, in the recording book, in case anyone arrives to search for us. There’s another reason, too.” He hesitated as if trying to decide whether to tell me something and then said, shortly, “The man in charge, Jochen, believes you’re bad luck.”

  Geoffrey looked away as my throat tightened. Was Jochen the only one who thought I brought bad luck?

  It wasn’t until the day we left Brussels that Geoffrey explained. He would ride ahead on horseback, but I must ride in the wagon, with two old, stout merchants. Others filled in the next two wagons, a party of nine passengers in total. By day we’d ride as far as Jochen and his team instructed; at night we’d sleep on the ground or in the back of the wagon. Geoffrey hastened to emphasize that should I wish to sleep in the wagon, he would sleep outside it, even though we posed as a married couple. Geoffrey told me that within a few seconds of meeting Jochen, he knew that the safest guise for me would be as his wife.

  Jochen, who rode a chestnut stallion, pulled up next to our wagon shortly before we set out. It was impossible to know how old he was; his face was scarred and lined but his hair, tied in a knot, was sleek and black as onyx. He said nothing to us; he glanced at Geoffrey and then scrutinized me. Whatever he saw made him shake his head, lips tight with anger, and kick his horse, to gallop to the front of the line.

  Geoffrey said, “He thinks you’re bad luck because you used to be a novice in a priory.”

  “How does he know so much about me?”

  Geoffrey said, “After your appointments with the tapestry men, and your audience with the queen, half of Brussels knows details of you. I am certain he doesn’t believe we are married, but he declines to challenge me on it.”

  After that unpleasant news sank in, I said, “Does he hate Catholics?”

  “I wish it were that simple,” Geoffrey said. “Jochen was a mercenary in several Imperial armies, and I have a suspicion that he encountered nuns in the past.”

  “Encountered?”

  “Joanna, please, let’s leave it at that.” After a moment he said, much more gently, �
��I will protect you; no one will touch you, I swear it.” Although his statement was meant to reassure me, it stirred the first sensation of real fear on the journey.

  As the wagons rumbled along the road leading into the countryside, the charm of Brussels fell away and misery took its place. It was the end of September, yet still very warm, like the peak of summer. But the grass was flat and brown, as it would look after emerging from a hard winter, and the trees stood bare, for the drought had already stripped all their leaves. They lay in dead piles below the bare branches. I saw no signs of harvesting crops. I did glimpse people, on the side of the road. They stood in clusters, watching our wagons and surrounding soldiers pass through their devastated land. Geoffrey, I noticed one day, carried a sword on horseback. I said a fervent prayer for peace on our journey.

  And I remembered again the words of the old boatman of the Thames, that spring night after the bishop’s banquet: It will be a time of want and pestilence. The lady of the river told me. Followed by John Cheke: “As above, so below.”

  On the tenth day we reached our first German city, a small but prosperous one with churches and guild halls fashioned of dark red brick. I watched Jochen pay for our entry. This must be one of the reasons the trip was so costly. We took rooms in an empty inn, and I sat down to an extraordinary supper.

  We’d survived on smoked meat, dried cod, and nuts, washed down with warm ale, and I could not complain of the monotony. So many others I glimpsed on the side of the road, faces gaunt and eyes hollow, were on the verge of starving.

  But in this inn, an older woman set a cast-iron pan on my wooden table. “Rheingauer Hühner,” she said. Steam rose from the dish, prepared in the pan itself. Thin, delicate cakes embraced a dense mixture of chicken and pear slices, with honey, cinnamon, and another spice I wasn’t sure of. Anise?

  “Thank you,” I said to the woman when she came to clear the pan, and she smiled.

  The next morning, Geoffrey told me he’d gone to a bathhouse, a German custom, and then spent hours in a tavern, finding enough people who spoke French for interesting conversation. He was intrigued by the men’s views of England and enjoyed the friendly argument that ensued over our king’s faith, even laughed off their ridicule over Henry VIII’s five wives.