The Tapestry: A Novel

by Nancy Bilyeau

If we’d been the daughters of first sons—such as Mary Howard, Duchess of Richmond, or my cousin Elizabeth Stafford, Duchess of Norfolk—there would have been marriage by the age of sixteen and wealth and servants and vast homes to run. Failing that, we were still expected to secure noble marriages, but the path was fraught with uncertainty. The best position to be in to find a husband was royal service—maid of honor to a queen or a queen’s daughter. My mother had trained me for years for such a position, but I’d lasted a single day. I was infinitely better suited for the cloister than for the court.

  Now it was Catherine’s turn. I always felt that she could be me . . . but without the benefit of being raised by my particular parents, a vigilant mother and an honorable father. She was raised carelessly, begrudgingly, until her prettiness vaulted her from the ranks of lesser relations to court service. Despite her disadvantages, Catherine was much more agreeable than I, so compliant a girl that I’d warned her at Howard House about the dangers to her virtue from immoral men, while she giggled behind her hands.

  But Catherine could be stubborn, too, as she was earlier—insisting that I share her room during my brief stay at court. She made her case for it while Culpepper listened silently.

  “I have friends who brought me here from Dartford, they are waiting for word from me this minute,” I protested.

  “But the commission from the king, you do not know when he will wish to discuss it with you,” Catherine pointed out. “It might not take place at the dinner tomorrow. Are your friends prepared to wait for days, perhaps a week?”

  This was indeed a problem. How frustrating. If only I knew what King Henry wanted from me, and when and how I should prepare myself, I could make arrangements and notify Agatha and John Gwinn. However, monarchs did not share their plans. It was laughable to suggest that he’d care if a party of commoners from Dartford were inconvenienced by his whim.

  There was also the matter of the threat to my life. How could I wander the galleries and chambers of Whitehall with the page in the same palace, possibly tracking me?

  As if reading my mind, Culpepper made an excuse to speak to me privately about the next day’s dinner. Once we were in the passageway and out of earshot of Catherine, he said, “I wish I could make report to you of the page having been identified and taken into custody, but alas, that’s not the case.”

  “Why not?” My heart started its quick, tight beat.

  “I took your description to the master of pages and he says not one man who was unaccounted for during the time matches your description. There aren’t many pages with beards—many of them are not much more than boys—so it didn’t take him long to ask a few questions. The master of pages said it’s impossible.”

  “Whether or not it’s impossible, it happened,” I said. “This man exists. And what’s to prevent him from trying to hurt me again?”

  Culpepper took a step closer to me, his voice dropping even lower. “Until we have an answer, this is the safest place for you, with Mistress Howard. She has a maidservant with her, and Richard stands guard outside.”

  I wasn’t sure. “The page possesses cunning and strength.”

  Culpepper said reassuringly, “As long as you stay close to me or to her, you are safe.” His lips tightened. “No man would dare disturb Catherine Howard.”

  Something about the way he said that struck me as odd. Yet I had to admit that his proposal made sense. As much as I disliked the idea of sleeping in the palace of Whitehall, it was better than riding back and forth from the Gwinns’ in Southwark, exposing myself—and my friends—to danger.

  This was an intolerable situation. I had to find out who the page was and what guided his violence. Perhaps the problem was that Culpepper had not seen him with his own eyes, and so he shared a secondhand description with the master of pages.

  “Is there some way that I could see the royal pages, one by one?” I asked.

  “Not without having to explain why. That means you’d have to say you were the person who was attacked. Up to now, I’ve kept your name out of it.”

  I said slowly, “But isn’t there some sort of inspection that could be arranged, when they must assemble, perhaps walk in a single line? And then I could observe the pages, but be myself unobserved. There must be rooms or chambers that lend themselves to that here. A tall curtain? A door partly ajar?”

  Culpepper burst out laughing.

  “Is this a matter for amusement?’ I asked. “I don’t see how.”

  “You are just so clever,” Culpepper said. “Yes, that is a most excellent idea, Mistress Stafford. I will arrange it tomorrow. It’s too late for today—the sun’s setting and everyone will be seeing about their suppers.”

  When we stepped back into Catherine’s room, she and her maid, Sarah, were perched on the embroidered chairs, gleefully examining the dresses sent by the king. While waiting for me, they’d been nibbling the cakes Catherine sent for. A smudge of sugar clung to her lower lip.

  “This would appear an admirable place for you to reside until the King’s Majesty makes his pleasure known, Mistress Stafford,” said Culpepper with a farewell bow.

  Catherine glanced up. “I am so pleased that Master Culpepper approves,” she said, her voice hard.

  The two of them, Catherine and Culpepper, locked eyes.

  “Enjoy your cake, Mistress Howard,” he said finally, and was gone.

  I had never heard Catherine speak like that to another. Nothing he had done or said warranted her reaction. With his angelic features and quick grace, he seemed like the last man worthy of spite.

  “What is wrong?” I asked.

  But she shrugged with a little laugh and did not answer. Perhaps this was court banter, the sort of man-and-woman byplay I’d never learned—never wanted to learn. I thought no more of her odd reaction to Culpepper, for there was much to do. I wrote a message to the servant of Master Gwinn, the poor man doubtless still standing in the King Street outside Whitehall all these hours later. There was another message, to Agatha Gwinn, emphasizing that I’d found safe harbor with a friend and that, once my business at court was concluded, I’d write to Dartford. I hoped it would assuage her fears.

  Catherine insisted I change into one of the dresses sent by the king, so that my own “lamentable” garments could be cleaned and mended. It was distasteful to accept gifts from King Henry. But I couldn’t see a way to refuse, so I donned the kirtle and bodice of the least ostentatious one, a dark blue damask with a tight waist and billowing sleeves.

  “My, oh my, you are so slim, Joanna,” Catherine said. “This fits perfectly, which means the lady it was made for was astoundingly slim. I wonder who that could have been.”

  “Are these dresses borrowed?” I asked. “I must thank that person, and be sure she knows they will be returned.”

  “Don’t be silly. No one lends dresses like these, certainly not by way of the king. His Majesty has come into possession of them; it would be best not to inquire.”

  How nonchalantly she said it. Catherine was untroubled by the turpitude of the court. That troubled me.

  But my mounting concerns for Catherine were once again pushed aside. She dragged me with her to supper with the Howards. Just as Catherine did not serve Queen Anne alongside the other maids of honor, she didn’t eat with them. The Howards had lodgings at court. She explained as we went how they served a late supper there for the whole family. The duke himself rarely joined them, for he needed to attend the king until late into the night.

  As I listened to Catherine along the way, I could not help noticing how much attention we drew. Every man we passed stared at us, eyes flicking back and forth. Perhaps it was because we were dissimilar, like two opposing chess pieces, white and black. My diminutive friend was so fair, while I, taller and thinner, resembled my Spanish mother in coloring: black hair, brown eyes flecked with green, and olive skin.

  We were th
e only women in the private dining chamber, Catherine and I. There were five Howard cousins at the table, one of whom I remembered from my time with this fractious clan. I met Catherine’s brother, Charles, as handsome as she was pretty. My presence at the dinner was accepted without curiosity. I was grateful that, at the age of twenty-nine, I was too old to provoke the interest of young courtiers.

  We were halfway through our meal when the dogs came.

  Two huge hounds bounded in, one grizzled with age and one younger. These were not aloof white greyhounds but dark, noisome beasts with long, red panting tongues. My appetite vanished. It wasn’t the presence of the dogs that disturbed me as much as what they foretold. For in strode Thomas Howard, third Duke of Norfolk, followed by a trio of family retainers. Under the table Catherine squeezed my hand, though whether in comfort or warning I did not know.

  Catherine’s brother, Charles, fled from the seat at the head of the table and Norfolk hurtled into it. There was a flurry in the corner as servants piled food on a plate and filled a tankard to the brim with ale. My hope was that if I didn’t move or speak, he wouldn’t notice me. Catherine sat nearer to him; perhaps he’d not look past her.

  The plate heaped high was put before him. The duke swept it off the table, and said, “God’s wounds.”

  “What is the matter, Your Grace?” asked one brave nephew.

  The duke glared at him for a full moment. The rest of us held our breath, not daring to speak. The only sound was that of his dogs devouring the food thrown on the floor.

  “The matter is that last month a fool fell off his horse and died,” Norfolk snarled. “Henry Bouchier broke his damn neck and who does the king give his earldom to? Not one of his relations, and Bouchier was descended from Edward III, connected by blood to most every peer in the realm. No, he gives the earldom of Essex to Cromwell.”

  Norfolk drained his tankard of ale and then slammed it back on the table.

  “A brewer’s boy from Putney is made earl—he is an earl,” said Norfolk, the word choking him. “And now Cromwell is in council with the king, him alone, no one else, for hours. They finally sent out Culpepper to tell us to leave. He’s never ranked higher in the king’s esteem than now. My God, how happy that bastard must be.”

  I thought of the man who buried his face in his hands at Westminster, who groaned “No” with such dread. Thomas Cromwell was not a happy man, I was sure of that.

  The duke continued: “And tomorrow, His Majesty dines with the queen. Just the two of them.” He paused, those furious black eyes settling on me. “And you, Joanna Stafford.”

  He hadn’t seemed to notice me when he swept into the room, nor did he show any surprise at all to see me now. My stomach turned over as I realized that not only had he been told I would dine with the king and queen tomorrow but also that I supped with his clan tonight. Cromwell, Gardiner, Norfolk—they had spies everywhere, watching and whispering and running along these corridors and courtyards.

  “Why did he choose you?” demanded Norfolk.

  “The invitation came to me through Master Thomas Culpepper, but without a reason, Your Grace,” I said, trying to answer him without provoking.

  Norfolk leaned across the table, pointing at me. The others at the table shrank back, but I did not. Neither did Catherine, to my surprise.

  “You will remember that you are a member of one of the old families—a Stafford,” he said.

  “I never forget it,” I said.

  “No?” His glare suddenly transformed into a filthy smirk. “I can think of a few times you’ve forgotten.”

  All the men in the room studied me with fresh interest. No longer able to stop myself, I opened my mouth to make an angry retort, but Catherine spoke first.

  “I am so pleased that Joanna can stay with me for a few days.” Her tone was calm and cheerful

  I expected the duke to react to the news, but at this, too, he showed no surprise. So he knew all. Who was it who informed him—the maid who served Catherine or the young man outside the door?

  “How did this come about?” he asked.

  “Joanna has friends staying in Southwark, but no idea how long she will need to remain at court, so it seemed the best course. It’s a treat for me, Uncle. Joanna was such a friend to me at Howard House, teaching me a dozen embroidery stitches, helping me prepare for court. And you know how I hate to be alone. I’m used to sleeping in a chamber with lots of girls, as I did at the dowager duchess’s in Horsham.”

  I was astounded. Catherine was chattering as if the man in the room were a trusted, gentle friend, not the vicious Duke of Norfolk. Surely he would make a mockery of every word she said.

  “If it pleases you, Catherine, then it is well done,” he said. Just for a second his gaze raked over me, not with his usual contempt but almost as if he were worried about something. He had certainly never looked at me that way before. It unsettled me more than one of his bursts of rage might have.

  A man’s cry was heard outside the door. Someone opened the door to better hear.

  Bang, bang, bang. It was the sound of a stick pounded on the floor of the corridor just outside our dining chamber.

  “Be it known that today His Majesty King Henry the Eighth hath created Thomas Cromwell the Earl of Essex, Vice Regent and High Chamberlain of England, Keeper of the Privy Seal, Chancellor of the Exchequer, and Justice of the Forest beyond the Trent,” declared the royal crier.

  The duke of Norfolk stared at the table, his face flushed dark. I expected him to throw something, scream curses, lash out at whomever was closest. But instead he looked up, the wrinkles of his face carved deep, his focus on one person: his niece, Catherine Howard.

  The way that the two of them stared at each other, it was as if no one else existed in the room. Neither spoke a word.

  “Shut the door,” muttered the duke, and he reached down to stroke the head of his younger dog.

  9

  When the thirty-six pages of His Majesty King Henry VIII stood in the line arranged by Thomas Culpepper, they stretched from one end of a Whitehall chamber to the other. I stood in a narrow gallery running across the upper half of the chamber. As I looked down at this restless parade of red Tudor doublets, I felt both frightened and resolute. And faintly ridiculous. At the last moment, Culpepper thrust a black mask into my hand and urged me to hold it in front of my face. The mask was carved into an expression of a lady’s petulant sorrow, the corners of her mouth turned downward.

  “I could not persuade the master of pages to order them all here without telling him that a lady had made complaint,” he admitted. “But I would not give him your name.”

  “So they all know of the crime?” I said, horrified.

  “The pages know nothing,” Culpepper said firmly. “They were told only of a need for inspection. And so long as you keep the mask in front of your face, the master of pages won’t know who you are.”

  Oh, but he wanted to know. That said master, a man of stout belly and long whiskers, stood at the end of the chamber, calling out orders to the pages. Yet every moment or so, he’d crane his neck in the most unnatural way, to scrutinize me. I stood but fifteen feet or so above him in the gallery, clutching my mask with one hand and pressing against a cold, smooth column with the other.

  Stop looking up here, I silently pleaded.

  It was high morning; a forceful yellow light streamed through the mullioned windows on the other side of the chamber. This was why Culpepper had arranged for the “inspection” to be held here, and not one of the larger halls of the palace. The master of pages could say that this room afforded the strongest possible light to inspect their official wardrobe, supposedly. Most important, I’d get a good look at each of their faces.

  But it was an out-of-the-ordinary undertaking and this placed even greater strain on secrecy. A few curious courtiers gathered in the doorway to a connecting chamber
, watching. I tried to angle myself so that I was out of their sight, shielded by a pillar running ceiling to floor.

  At last—it began. Each of the pages strode forward, to be scrutinized head to toe while Culpepper, nodding, stood to the side. Each time a new man made it to the front of the line, my breath quickened. Because the mask was pressed against my face, my exhalations banked at the top of the gaping frown meant for my mouth. And so my nervous breaths, which I could not suppress, made the oddest noises, like wordless whispers.

  It took no time at all to know that none of them was the man who’d attacked me. Culpepper was right, most of the pages were quite young, and beardless. There was one man who for a fleeting second fitted the description. But his beard was darkest brown, not the dull sandy color I recalled. And the page had round, merry cheeks above the beard. The physiognomy of this face was all wrong. Five pages later, I spotted a second bearded man, but his hair was so closely trimmed that I could see an Adam’s apple throbbing in his throat during inspection. He rocked from side to side, an ungainly youth. Neither of these was the man who’d turned to look at me, over and over, and said, with that flat smile, “This way, mistress.”

  The crowd of curious men in the doorway was growing. I could tell by the way Culpepper bounced on his heels that he, too, was unhappy with the attention we drew. Fortunately, we were down to the last three pages.

  The final trio of young men were inspected and moved toward the windows. Not one of them wore a beard or in any way resembled my attacker.

  He was not among this group assembled today.

  What could I possibly say to Culpepper now? Would he doubt my story—indeed, I was beginning to doubt it myself. Yesterday’s assault had been so unprovoked, so bizarre, and now it seemed the man who had twisted my arm and hurled me across that room did not officially exist.

  Thomas Culpepper hurried up the stairs and across the gallery to my side.

  “Which one?” he said in a low voice.

  “None of them,” I said, turning away to face the wall so I could drop the ludicrous mask.