The Chalice

by Nancy Bilyeau

  “What mistake?” I asked.

  “Only half the loom was sent, although of course our record books showed your payment was in the full amount. We will make inquiry and ensure that the other half will arrive by the first Wednesday in November.”

  “I am to wait another month?” my voice rose even higher.

  Mistress Brooke snorted. “So what will be your course of action?”

  “I will take the first half of it today,” I said.

  A trio of men appeared to receive orders from Gregory. He told them to prepare my loom for transport down the High Street.

  But Mistress Brooke intervened.

  “The men must make ready for Sir Francis,” she said. “It is foolish to waste effort on this girl’s errand.”

  Gregory peered at Mistress Brooke, the wife of his superior. “I’m sorry, Mistress Joanna, but I can spare no men today.”

  “Then give me the loom and we will take it from here without the help of men,” I said, Sister Beatrice at my side.

  After a few seconds, laughter sounded from all corners. Arthur, not understanding, joined in.

  “Take us there—now,” I said to Gregory. “You cannot deny me something that is rightfully mine.”

  Gregory threw up his hands. “Very well.”

  It was Jacquard who led me to my loom. It was covered with a blanket in the corner of a warehouse heaped high with the king’s possessions: bricks, stones, nails, rope, and tiles. He watched as Sister Beatrice and I lifted the wooden frame. Jacquard was a puzzle to me. I knew he’d come to England in a party of Germans invited to court by Archbishop Thomas Cranmer and had somehow ingratiated himself with the king and won this position. Why would a Reformer want to help furnish a king’s manor house?

  I focused on the loom. It was long and imposing, half of a square wooden frame. But surely we could carry it a short distance.

  “I wish you luck today, Joanna Stafford,” said Jacquard.

  “Why would you do that?” I retorted. “Is luck not ‘Papist superstition’?” I picked up the loom with Sister Beatrice and we staggered forward.

  On the street, we’d made it less than a dozen steps when my shoulders and arms began to burn and then tremble. Arthur skipped next to me. On the other side of him, I could see townspeople stopping to gawk.

  The tremor in my arms turned to wild shaking. Sister Beatrice said, “We can’t do this, Sister Joanna.”

  “We will do it.”

  From behind us came Mistress Brooke’s voice: “Look at them. Disgraceful.”

  Then came another voice I did not want to hear. “The time for repentance is near,” howled John.

  We had to keep going. I willed myself to keep going.

  Sister Beatrice said to me, “Rest, at least. Let’s put it down for a moment and then continue.”

  “No, Sister Beatrice. If we lower it, we’ll never get it back up again.”

  At that instant, Arthur jumped in a puddle and the rainwater spurted into my eyes. I flinched and, in the mud, I tottered. As I crashed headlong into the street, the loom fell on my right shoulder, pinning me down.

  My body, my face, all were enveloped in cold mud. It smelled of firewood and rotten vegetables and horse dung. My eyes stung, I could see nothing.

  But I could hear them.

  “Look at you now, nun!”

  “She’s a foolish, foolish girl.”

  Arthur wailed tears of confusion. I felt Sister Beatrice’s hands on my back and then grappling with the loom, trying to lift it off me—but failing. After much struggle, I was able to lift my head. I could see the skirts and legs of at least a dozen people surrounding me.

  “Behold the harlot of the false prophet,” thundered John. “She does not dance today.”

  “She should go in the stocks for this,” said Mistress Brooke.

  Someone else shouted eagerly, “The stocks, the stocks!”

  But then there was a new cry: “Who are they?”

  Sister Beatrice managed to pull the loom off me. With her help, I staggered to my feet, my shoulder throbbing. She wiped the mud from my face.

  Now I could see what the others saw, what had drawn them away from me for the moment. A procession moved through Dartford. About twenty people, clad in the same livery of white and blue, rode fine horses. They surrounded, in protective formation, a couple. The blond man wore a blue doublet; it must be the family’s chosen color. But the woman was different. Perched in her saddle, she was clad in bodice, kirtle, and headdress of deepest red. It was as if a slash of scarlet glided down the street. Even from where I stood, I could see a ruby necklace glittering on her bosom. That single jewel cost more than what these townsfolk would earn over a lifetime.

  When they’d come close, the woman spoke to the man accompanying her. They stared down at me. The man dismounted. He was handsome and rather stout, in his middle years.

  Two men materialized with a bolt of fabric and hurled it in my direction. Only then was the lady helped from her horse. She stepped onto the fabric, which I realized was to serve as a path over the mud straight to me. Seizing the man’s hand, she led him forward. She moved with a quick grace. Little diamonds woven into the tops of her deep red velvet slippers twinkled every time they emerged from her full skirts.

  “It’s you, isn’t it?” the woman said in a melodic voice. Her face was crisscrossed with faint lines, like delicate parchment paper left too long on a table, unused. The hair visible beneath her Spanish-style gable hood was black with a few strands of gray. “Joanna Stafford?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “But I don’t know you.”

  “Oh, yes—you do,” she said. “I’m Gertrude.”

  The man moved forward and smiled. “I’m your cousin, Joanna. I’m Henry Courtenay.”

  5

  Father William Mote never moved as quickly as he did that morning. The pastor of Holy Trinity Church flew down the High Street. When he’d reached us, his spindly knees shook from the effort.

  “We are so honored by your presence in our town,” he said, bowing low before Henry and Gertrude Courtenay, who bore the titles of Marquess and Marchioness of Exeter.

  But the priest was ignored, for their eyes were on me alone.

  “Don’t you remember me?” asked Gertrude, her lip quivering. She was hurt that I, a bedraggled ex-novice flung into the mud, did not know her. It was all I could do not to laugh.

  Henry had his arm around his wife’s waist. Yes, his name and title were familiar to me. The Courtenays were kin to the Staffords—both of our families were in direct descent from Edward III and intertwined once more through marriages with the Woodvilles. The name Courtenay summoned up an aura of wealth and influence. But, to my knowledge, this couple had never visited Stafford Castle—where could I have seen them before?

  Looking at his kind face, I found the memory.

  “Your wedding,” I said. “I was there. I was a child.”

  “You were our flower maiden!” Gertrude’s laugh bounced off the gawking faces of the townsfolk of Dartford who encircled us. Her elation was transforming. The wrinkles in her face receded, and her eyes, brown and wide-set, gleamed.

  “Cousin Joanna, tell us—what happened to you here today?” Henry asked.

  I began to explain, haltingly, about my plan for a tapestry business and how I’d tried to gain possession of the loom with the help of Sister Beatrice.

  Henry Courtenay interrupted: “But why did no one else assist you? Even if the men of the Building Office could not spare anyone, surely the occupants of the town would have stepped forward, to help? You are a sister of Christ.”

  I looked past them, at the townsfolk gathered around. No one met my gaze.

  “Do you have an explanation, Father?” Gertrude’s voice was hard with anger.

  “One will be found, my lady Marchioness,” Father William said, clutching his hands. “I will personally discover why the people of Dartford showed no Christian charity to our dear Sister Joanna.”


  It was then I heard Mistress Brooke’s voice. “But Father, you’ve always told us that the priory women—”

  “Silence yourself,” the priest hissed.

  At that moment I gave an involuntary cry. Arthur, confused, had pulled on my arm. Pain convulsed the shoulder on which the loom had rested.

  “You were injured?” asked Henry. “We must see to you at once. All guilt in this matter will be determined and addressed. Father, lead us into the church.” He beckoned toward Holy Trinity’s high, square tower.

  “No, not there.” It sounded more like pleading than I intended. “I want to go home.”

  Henry said gently, “Then we will take you there.” He turned to a stern-looking man wearing the Courtenay livery. “Charles, make further inquiries into this matter.”

  Gertrude bent down to caress Arthur’s smooth cheek. “Is this he—is this Arthur Bulmer?”

  “How do you know of Arthur?” I asked.

  Gertrude Courtenay moved close to whisper in my ear. “All who know the Lady know of you and Arthur Bulmer.”

  The Lady?

  Before I could question her further, they bore me to my house, handling me like a piece of Florentine sculpture. At the doorway, Henry paused, saying he would leave us for a short time, to see the church.

  “Come, Edward, you will accompany,” he called out. A boy emerged from the small crowd of attendants, blond and handsome, about eleven years old.

  “Do you seek a private Mass?” I asked, confused.

  “My husband the historian has long wanted to see Holy Trinity Church,” Gertrude said, smiling. “The body of Henry the Fifth was brought there. Isn’t that right, my lord?”

  “Yes, they stopped here when conveying the dead king up from Dover and held a special funeral Mass,” said my cousin Henry, bouncing on his heels with excitement. “Perhaps young Arthur would like to come along.”

  With regret, I told him that Arthur was not yet ready for church or any historical expeditions.

  Henry said, “Don’t be so sure, cousin. Arthur, what say you? Care to come with me and your cousin Edward?”

  Arthur stared at Edward Courtenay as if he were a young Apollo come down to earth. He nodded. Henry ruffled his hair. “See? Arthur’s a good boy.” He kissed his wife’s hand. “We won’t be long, my love, I promise.”

  Gertrude smiled her enchanting, childlike smile. Their eyes met, and a world of tender secrets swirled between them. Not accustomed to such intimacy, I looked away.

  The man and two boys set off toward the church, followed by servants. Two of the family retainers remained outside my house, as if to stand guard.

  The women led me inside. Upstairs, in my bedchamber, they removed my clothes and cleaned my face and throat and shoulders. Expert fingers worked healing ointment into my shoulder.

  Gertrude herself did not touch my skin nor soothe my pain, nor sort through my garments. It was her lady in waiting, Constance, who performed all such tasks, with the help of a young maid. With a nod or a shrug, Gertrude directed the movements of Constance, a woman the same age as the marchioness, though fairer. Then Constance would order the young maid about. Freshly attired, I stood in the center of the room while the maid pulled a comb through my thick hair. She had to yank hard, for I had more than a tangle or two. I did my best not to flinch.

  Gertrude watched while sitting in the lone chair brought into my bedchamber for her comfort. Perhaps it was the dull light filtering in from the windows, but her sparkle had been extinguished. Her voluminous red skirts seemed to overwhelm her thin frame. Shadows pouched under her brown eyes.

  As if she could read my thoughts, Gertrude said, a touch wistful, “What is your age, Joanna?”

  “Twenty-seven.”

  She smiled. “I would take you for twenty-one. You have such a fine figure, too. But of course you have not borne children. Women of Spanish blood are the handsomest, but we do not always age well.”

  “You are Spanish?”

  “Like your mother, mine came from Spain in the service of Katharine of Aragon. She married an Englishman, as did yours. My father was Lord Mountjoy. Surely you remember that?”

  “I’m afraid I remember only the day of your wedding.”

  Gertrude brightened. “It was a spectacular wedding, wasn’t it, Joanna? I wanted everything to be beautiful—and it was.”

  My memory of that day deepened. I saw again the bridal couple, Henry and Gertrude, so young and splendid, meeting at the church door to take their vows before God. My cousin Margaret and I carried flowers in the procession, with all eyes on the exquisitely pretty Margaret rather than me. I never once minded that. I was so proud of her.

  But now was not the time for reminiscences. I needed to hear the truth from the Marchioness of Exeter.

  “How could you have recognized me today?” I asked. “We haven’t seen each other in many years, not since I was, as you say, a child. How do you know of Margaret’s son? Who is the ‘Lady’?”

  Gertrude fingered her ruby and took her measure of me, as if trying to decide how much to disclose. “Yes,” she said at last. “I came to Dartford today not only to see the town’s church but to seek you out. I knew all about you and Arthur Bulmer from”—her voice dropped in reverence—“the Lady Mary.”

  Of course. Mary Tudor, the eldest daughter of the king.

  Last winter, at Norfolk House, when Brother Edmund and I were in the greatest peril, I’d flung myself in the path of the Lady Mary, speaking Spanish to seize her attention. After she learned what I’d done for her mother—that after my own mother’s death I’d nursed Queen Katherine in exile, during the last month of her life—the Lady Mary became an immediate champion. It was because of her intervention that my father was freed from the Tower of London. I’d received many letters from the Lady Mary, both before Dartford Priory was dissolved and afterward. An uneasy, solicitous tone entered the correspondence after I settled in town with Arthur instead of living with my relations at Stafford Castle.

  “I know that the Lady Mary worries for me, but there was no need for her to send you to Dartford,” I said.

  “No need? After what I saw here today?”

  “It was my stubbornness, my pride, that caused the mishap on the High Street,” I said.

  The marchioness sprang to her feet. “You blame yourself?” she said. “You have been cruelly wronged, to lose your place at the priory and now to endure insults at the hands of common folk. What happened to you, to all of the nuns and monks and friars, it is a great offense to God.”

  It was rare to hear such open sentiment—and in front of servants. I tried to gauge the reactions of Constance and the serving girl to such criticism of the king. But they remained unmoved.

  Gertrude herself took several breaths, as if struggling for control.

  “What did the Lady Mary tell you about me?” I asked.

  “I learned of you in letters, not in conversation,” Gertrude said. “I haven’t seen her since the spring. She can have no visitors. Cromwell sees to that.”

  Again I was confused. “The Lady Mary is fully reconciled with her father, the king.”

  Gertrude said, “Joanna, I know that you prefer a quiet life, but is it possible you do not know what’s happening in our kingdom?”

  “I know nothing,” I said simply. It was the truth. London gossip never interested me, not after my first foray into sordid court life. Years later, at Dartford Priory, I listened more carefully to news of the business of the kingdom, but that was because it directly affected the monasteries. Now I avoided all gossip—not that I heard much.

  “These are most dangerous times for England,” Gertrude said. “It’s been four months since the signing of the Treaty of Nice—” She broke off. “You have heard of the treaty?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “The king of France signed a treaty with the Holy Roman Emperor Charles. The pope himself brokered the peace. They have joined forces in war against the Turks.”

  “Is
n’t peace between France and Spain a thing to be praised?” I asked, loathing my ignorance. “How could this harm England?”

  Gertrude made her way to my window. She peered outside, as if she feared someone stood just outside it, hanging onto the ledge, listening.

  Turning to me, she said, “The Turks may not be the only target of the Emperor Charles. He is by far the most powerful monarch in the world. The sun never sets on his dominions. Spain, the Netherlands, Austria, Burgundy, and parts of Italy, the colonies of the New World—all belong to one man. He has armies, navies. Not yet forty years old and the most powerful Catholic on Earth!” I saw a new side to Gertrude now, the courtier’s wife who kept abreast of politics. “And the emperor is bent on destruction of heresy,” she continued. “There are rumors that the pope has charged him with cleansing England of Protestant taint. France was our ally for years. But now that King François has signed a treaty with Charles, not us, we are without a buffering force . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “Are you saying England could be invaded and attacked by both Spain and France?” I asked.

  She nodded, fingering her ruby once more.

  With a jolt, I understood all. “The Lady Mary is cousin to Charles through her mother, and has always been devoted to him. If Spain declares war on England, then she is suspect.”

  Gertrude nodded again.

  How could the Lady Mary fret over me when she was in real danger? On her deathbed, Katharine of Aragon spoke of her fears for her daughter the princess, and had urged me to take vows at Dartford Priory because she believed the Athelstan crown was hidden within. She hoped I would protect Mary. But my charge did not end there. I had failed not only the vulnerable princess but also the dead queen whom I revered, because I was lost to sorrow over the destruction of my priory.

  Aloud, I said, feebly, “Lady Mary gave no hint of any of this in any of her letters.”

  “She knows that all of her letters are opened and read by Cromwell,” said Gertrude.

  Which meant that my letters to her were not private, either. I’d written nothing to the Lady Mary that could be construed as political, of that I was sure. But reports of Arthur’s growth, dreams of a tapestry business, my missing my father—it was all so very personal.