The Tapestry: A Novel

by Nancy Bilyeau

  Why on earth was my presence required? A feeling came over me that this was a dreadful mistake, and I tried to capture the attention of Sir Anthony Denny to ask him. He never acknowledged my attempt, his pace respectful but steady as he neared the king with me in tow. I was now close enough to hear their conversation.

  The Duke of Norfolk was speaking. “Your Majesty, what Bishop Gardiner is trying to say is—”

  The king interrupted, his voice pitched higher than usual: “We need no interpreter, for we are well aware of the bishop’s meaning, Norfolk. He judges ill of our stance toward Doctor Barnes. Is not the man imprisoned in the Tower? What else could be required of us, Bishop?”

  Norfolk said hastily, “It is more than sufficient, Sire.”

  “And so you continue to speak for the Bishop of Winchester?” demanded the king, his eyes narrowed to slits in his heavy face.

  A tense silence mounted. Bishop Gardiner faced the king, so I could not gauge his reaction. The Duke of Norfolk, for years his friend and closest ally, clenched his hands. Plainly, this was the moment for the bishop to say what King Henry wanted to hear.

  But to my amazement, he did not. “My concern is that Doctor Barnes has twice been released from prison, free to resume the spread of his heresies and lies,” said Bishop Gardiner.

  King Henry pounded the arm of his carved and gilded chair. “God’s wounds, was there ever a vainer bishop?” he roared, spittle flying through the air. “You care only for your own pride, Gardiner. You are not capable of understanding what we require, that at times a man close to Luther is needed to communicate with those German princes. But your diplomacy has always been flawed—always—by such vanity. Is it any wonder you are banned from our Privy Council?”

  I’d heard stories all my life of the king’s anger, as deadly as plague for those who provoked it. Even though he was not angry with me, I felt frightened by this display, even a little sick. Norfolk grimaced, also dismayed. As for the bishop, he bowed, stiffly. “My concern is for the immortal souls of those who dwell in your kingdom, Your Majesty.” I braced myself for another royal outburst, astounded that Bishop Gardiner still did not submit himself. His choleric humor was in direct conflict with his own advice to me not to provoke the anger of Henry VIII.

  The king took a series of deep breaths, as if struggling to rein in his temper. When he spoke again, his voice was calm. “Fear not, Bishop, all our subjects’ souls shall be rendered safe from Doctor Barnes soon enough. You shall have your wish—and more. Much more.” With those last two chilling words, his lips curved into a tight smile. I preferred the shouting to the smile.

  It was at that moment that King Henry took notice of me and Sir Anthony Denny.

  “Sit beside us, Cousin Joanna,” he called, his voice nothing but friendly. “Gardiner, has our special guest arrived?”

  “I shall inquire, Sire,” said the bishop, who turned, his head tipped, and hurried from the room, so quickly he nearly stumbled over me. For an instant, he glared at me with pure loathing. What must it be like for a man such as Stephen Gardiner to realize that I had heard every word of the king’s lashing out? I’d just glimpsed the bishop’s true feeling for me, not the “You will always be my Sister Joanna” of the privy garden.

  Wishing I had a choice, I took a seat next to the king. He nodded with approval, though I had no idea why. When I dined with him, his mood had shifted over the stretch of hours but nothing like this. Such lightning-swift changes in humor were most disconcerting.

  I was also rendered uncomfortable by the room’s warmth. Not only were the windows tightly closed but also flames flickered in a fireplace. No doubt the servants who’d set the fire did so expecting a typical April evening and did not want to risk the king’s growing cold. No one could have predicted this bizarre wave of warmth that would not subside.

  Henry VIII might have felt it, too, for he drank deeply from the goblet perched next to him. He wiped his lips with the back of a jeweled hand and then said, “Two of our fellow monarchs, the most eminent monarchs, are blessed in a certain regard, Joanna. The emperor Charles possesses a widowed sister, Mary, who has declined all offers to marry again in order to serve as his regent in the Netherlands, and with great dedication. My ambassador tells me she barely sleeps at night because of all the work. The king of France, too, has a sister who has always helped him. Marguerite of Angoulême was responsible for soliciting poets and artists to come to the French court. It was she who negotiated Francis’s release when the emperor held him for ransom.”

  The king paused to take another sip. “Our own two sisters are with God now, may they rest in peace. Though even while Margaret and Mary lived . . .” He did not finish the sentence, but bestowed on me a rueful smile, as if I knew what he referred to. I nodded, uncertainly, stealing a glance at the Duke of Norfolk. He wore a slightly puzzled, guarded look. Thomas Howard understood the point of this discourse no better than I did.

  The king continued, “We are lacking in relations to assist us in our efforts to rule this kingdom. It is a perpetual source of regret.”

  Because you’ve had them killed, I thought, while trying to keep my face devoid of expression. Most of his cousins in the House of York, his mother’s family, had been executed. Especially hard for me were the deaths of Henry Courtenay, Marchioness of Exeter, and Henry Pole, Baron Montagu. Those were the executions I witnessed on Tower Hill, and Montagu was the man I prayed for, publicly, while others watched, including Hungerford, it seemed. They had been arrested on false charges and beheaded because their share of royal blood made them a threat—everyone knew that. Courtenay’s widow and son and Montagu’s mother had not yet been released from the Tower of London. I prayed every day for their release, while fearing that a spasm of royal suspicion could send them to the block.

  The king reached over and patted my hand. “You have shown by your humble desire to weave tapestries for our court that you wish to serve in any capacity, and do not insist on a position of high standing, as do so many other women. Are you willing to do more than create one or two tapestries for us, to serve the Crown as an example in a way only you can do?”

  An example?

  I felt the blood rushing from my head—would I faint before the king in the Bishop of Winchester’s house? I had difficulty drawing breath in this suffocating room.

  I forced myself to say, “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  The king called out to Sir Anthony Denny, “We are ready. Bring him to us.”

  My hands crept up to grip the armrests of the chair. I tried to think of who this person could be. In the privy garden, Bishop Winchester had said, King Henry never does anything without having a secret purpose to it and usually two purposes ahead.

  Sir Anthony Denny reappeared, a taller figure looming behind him.

  “Your Majesty, the imperial ambassador, Eustace Chapuys,” announced the courtier.

  I flinched in my chair, but there was no place to go—no escape for me. Yes, the trap was closing. The king, no doubt with the help of Cromwell, might well have discovered the conspiracy to kill him and deliver the kingdom to his half-Spanish eldest daughter, Mary. It was I who was meant to kill him—the prophecy said I would set the course of the kingdom—but instead I had taken the chalice from his lips after only a sip. In so doing, I’d defied the spymaster, Chapuys, who now stood in this very room, and Jacquard Rolin, his shadowy operative.

  The last time I saw Ambassador Chapuys was eight months ago in Flanders. He looked significantly older, with deep creases around his eyes and new gray hairs. He exhibited no reaction whatsoever to finding me beside Henry VIII.

  The king had said moments ago he wanted me to help him. Did that mean I must now disown the ambassador—provide details of the deadly conspiracy? I had once been more devoted to the erudite Eustace Chapuys than to any other man save my father, but that was before Jacquard Rolin told me the ambassador was willing to impri
son me, even turn me over to the Inquisition, if I did not cooperate.

  I owed no more loyalty to Ambassador Chapuys.

  Henry VIII said in melodious French, “Good Chapuys, you know how we rejoiced when you returned to our kingdom. Your withdrawal to Flanders was a loss to our court and to the cause of diplomacy throughout Christendom.”

  Chapuys bowed with a flourish of his right hand, an imperial obeisance.

  The king continued, “Peaceful relations between England and the empire of your master, Charles the Fifth, have always been our heartfelt wish.”

  Chapuys bowed again and said in his own rapid French, “Your Majesty is the cherished friend of the emperor.”

  The king leaned forward in his chair, his leg visibly quivering on its silken stool. “But this was not always so,” he said slowly.

  Now it comes, I thought. My heart slammed against my chest. A trickle of sweat rolled down my back, and I braced myself for the charm and affability of the Tudor monarch to darken once more to rage. But instead Henry VIII said, “There were many grievances, many misunderstandings, during the life of the princess dowager.”

  A nerve danced in the side of Chapuys’s thin face. That was the hated title that Henry VIII gave to his first wife, Katherine of Aragon, after he annulled that marriage in defiance of the pope. She was no longer styled queen but princess dowager, the widow of Henry’s elder brother, Prince Arthur. It was a title that proud lady never, ever answered to, and I knew for a fact that Chapuys detested it.

  The ambassador said nothing. But it was not fear that quieted him; he was nothing like the men and women I had seen quake in the king’s presence. What became more and more clear with each second he maintained his silence was his independence. He bore the prestige of Charles V, whose empire stretched from the Netherlands through Burgundy, Germany, Austria, and Spain and off to discovered lands across the sea filled with gold, spices, and new peoples undreamed of. Compared to this, England was but a tiny island.

  Finally, Henry VIII broke the silence by half turning toward me. “You are acquainted with my cousin Mistress Joanna Stafford?”

  Chapuys bowed to me. This could well be the moment of accusation. But he exhibited no trepidation, and his steeliness filled me with new strength. I nodded toward the ambassador and sat straighter in the chair.

  The king said, “This lady’s uncle, the Duke of Buckingham, was a foul traitor and punished accordingly. Which meant the Staffords, including her father, were broken. Her mother came from Spain as a maid of honor to the princess dowager. Which one could say makes Joanna your master’s subject as well as ours.” The king smiled that same menacing smile as when he promised the bishop a solution for Doctor Barnes. Yet Chapuys showed not a jot of emotion; he didn’t even blink.

  The king continued, “Several years ago, Joanna attended the princess dowager, as her mother had before, and when the household was broken up, she returned to Stafford Castle. Joanna then entered the Dominican Order in Kent as a novice, but as part of our just and legal reforms, the priory was found wanting and thus dissolved. Considering all of these events, does she show bitterness toward us? Not in the slightest. She has come in all humility to serve us, eager to weave a tapestry.”

  I had never sat through such a humiliating summation of my life, one twisted with distortions and outright lies. Tears of helpless anger pricked my eyes. Not wanting to look the ambassador in the face, I glanced at the windows instead—and the Duke of Norfolk who stood before them. A sneer widened across his craggy face.

  Chapuys said in elegant French, “Mistress Stafford’s abject loyalty must bring you great satisfaction, Your Grace.”

  “Oh, it does, Chapuys, it does,” said the king, smugly. “And shall be rewarded. Henceforth, Mistress Joanna Stafford will serve as the permanent Tapestry Mistress of the court, to oversee, maintain, and add to our collection, which is the finest in all of Christendom.”

  I did not realize that the king and ambassador’s conversation continued for a few minutes, for this news sent me into shock. The king did not accuse me of conspiracy or treason. I should have been relieved. But an official court position? This went far beyond weaving a single tapestry. I had no interest—nor, when it came to it, the ­requisite knowledge—for such a task, which would most definitely chain me to the court. But the king had not asked. He had proclaimed.

  “Joanna? Joanna?” That was Henry VIII’s voice, rising in impatience.

  “Yes, Your Majesty?” My voice was a half croak.

  “I said the ambassador shall escort you to the banquet hall while I settle a few things with the Duke of Norfolk. Sir Anthony will show you the way.”

  And so he did, leading me and the ambassador through a series of rooms to the banquet hall. Chapuys stuck out his dry, cool hand and I rested mine atop it. It felt incredible that, after what we had been through last year, I walked with him through an English bishop’s house, moments after learning of a court post I’d be forced to fill.

  “I both wanted and did not want to be invited to one of these evenings at Winchester House,” Ambassador Chapuys said in Spanish. I had long thought he knew every language—except English, which he had learned only a little.

  “Have there been so many?” I asked, also in Spanish. If he wished to pretend as if we had never conspired, I was willing to go along.

  “There have been at least five banquets that I know of,” said Chapuys. “The bishop has no other way to do it, to promote the seduction of the Howard girl. Cromwell has such a tight hold on the palace and employs so many hardworking spies. Only Gardiner’s residence could do as the setting for her corruption. It is deeply distasteful and, of course, it will not work.”

  “You do not believe Cromwell can be brought down?” I asked, glancing around. Very few people spoke Spanish in England, but still, ours was a highly dangerous conversation.

  “Not this way. If the king discards Cromwell, it won’t be because a seventeen-year-old girl suggested it, a girl stupid enough to believe her family when they say that if she shares his bed, she will be made queen.”

  “Her name is Catherine and she is not stupid,” I said, coming to her defense, but more from habit than anything else, for I was reeling over what Chapuys said. Is that what they’d told Catherine? Do not feel sorry for me, Joanna. I am the most envied woman of the court. I shall be honored, not disgraced. You’ll see—and so shall Master Thomas Culpepper. Now it made perfect sense.

  Chapuys said musingly, “My counterpart, the French ambassador, believed Cromwell about to be toppled and said so, openly. Then he looked a fool when Cromwell was made Earl of Essex. Marillac doesn’t get things right—well, what can you expect? He’s French. He still thinks some crisis is imminent, that the rivalry of Gardiner and Cromwell cannot continue at this pitch without one of them being arrested. But why not? The king enjoys pitting his people against each other. And who could possibly fill the treasury with as much skill and ruthlessness as Cromwell?”

  We neared the banqueting hall, teeming with guests, all of them talking and laughing so loudly that a roar cascaded over us. We would not be able to continue with confidential conversation unless we spoke louder, which was risky. I could not be sure that no one else spoke Spanish. But Chapuys’s extraordinary lecture on English politics begged a question of the ambassador of the Holy Roman Emperor.

  “You admire Cromwell?” I asked.

  Chapuys surveyed the room, taking stock of every single person within it. “I’ve enjoyed my dinners with Thomas Cromwell,” he answered. “He is a man of the world, a rarity in this kingdom. His words are fair, though his deeds are bad. Anyone who determines to act in all circumstances the part of a good man must come to ruin among so many who are not good.” He perceived my deepening confusion and leaned down to say in a low voice, “That is a quote from the philosophy of a cunning Florentine diplomat named Machiavelli—not yet translated to English. An
d yes, it is possible for me to admire the man while abhorring what he’s done. Just as it is possible for me to have some degree of fondness for you, Juana, even after you betrayed us.”

  “ ‘Betrayed,’ ” I repeated, stunned.

  Chapuys for the first time looked at me, truly looked at me, and I saw pain mixed with anger in those intelligent gray eyes. “You do not approve of the court of the king?” he asked, his light, musing tone replaced with something raw. “You do not enjoy being made an example of abject loyalty to me? Perhaps you do not wish to serve the king as tapestry mistress. But everything that you hear or see around you—the tyrant king, the corrupted Howard girl, the cruel ministers, the destroyed priories, the exiled monks and friars begging in the streets—you are the agent. You are the cause. Without you, nothing would be as it is.”

  Chapuys stalked away, as I struggled to hold on to my composure.

  A few moments later, the king came into the room and took a seat at a grand table on the dais, with space enough for the monarch and three others: Bishop Gardiner, the Duke of Norfolk, and, at the right side of the king, Catherine Howard. This was the rightful place for the queen. Yet no one else seemed surprised to see Catherine at his side, where Katherine of Aragon, Anne Boleyn, and Jane Seymour presided, one after the other. Where Anne of Cleves should sit now. Was it indeed possible that Catherine would become his fifth queen? The other commoners who had managed it—Anne Boleyn and Jane Seymour—were years older than Catherine when they married Henry VIII. They were both well educated and, while wise to the ways of the court, protected by vigilant parents. Catherine was orphaned, poor, scarcely able to read, and so very naive.