The Chalice

by Nancy Bilyeau

  I heard Arthur laugh in the other room. He’d come inside. I wanted to return to him, and to my relations.

  “I understand you have concerns for my welfare, Geoffrey,” I said. “But I must tell you that rarely has a man struck me as sounder than Henry Courtenay. I know I can trust him.”

  “As you knew you could trust Sister Christina?”

  I took a step back from him, then another, as regret filled his eyes. The pain must have been written large on my face that he had said the name of the novice who had been my friend—and yet had murdered two people. He reached out, saying, “I meant only that—”

  I slapped his hand away and whirled round to the kitchen door. It was stuck. I had to get out of that room.

  “Joanna, I’m very sorry.” His voice was low and thick.

  “I want you to leave,” I said. Using the heels of both hands, I slammed against the door so hard that it burst open.

  Everyone stopped talking. I struggled to present a calm face. Arthur scrambled over to me and I ran my fingers through his silky tangled hair, felt for the top of his ears.

  “Are you well, Joanna?” asked Gertrude, her eyes shifting to the left of me. Geoffrey must have appeared there, just behind.

  “I am.” Thankfully, my voice had steadied. “And I wish to accept your kind offer of a visit.”

  The Courtenays rejoiced; Arthur jumped up and down. In moments, servants were dispatched to pack our things. Gertrude wouldn’t hear of waiting for a day.

  Sister Beatrice was halfway out the door when I caught her. She must have been trying to follow Geoffrey. He’d left my home, as I’d asked.

  “Would you help me upstairs, Sister Beatrice?” I asked. “A matter requires your attention.”

  In my room, she knelt next to me as I folded Arthur’s clothes. I said, “I understand now why you’ve remained in Dartford, so close to me—it was not for my friendship, I think. It has more to do with Geoffrey Scovill.”

  “Yes,” she said, “I have a certain feeling for him.”

  At least there would be no more deception.

  Sister Beatrice handed me a wool nightdress for Arthur. “Geoffrey does not feel the same,” she said. “I know that. But he may come to.”

  Such brazen calm frightened me. “What of our vows?” I asked. “We’re no longer inside priory walls, but the vows we swore to take as sisters still hold.”

  “Do you mean the vow of chastity?” she spat.

  Sister Beatrice’s face puckered like a cornered cat’s. “You know my life. I was mistress to an evil man. My body thickened with a child whom God took away, in His mercy. I was abandoned by all—by my own mother. She cursed me as a whore and drove me into the forest.”

  I couldn’t help but be moved by her sufferings. “But you returned to the priory, as a lay sister,” I said. “You were brought back into the community.”

  “Because of Geoffrey.” She nodded, rapidly. “He found me and I told him everything. Everything. Geoffrey did not criticize me or judge me. The only person who never has.”

  And yet how Geoffrey criticized me. From the first, he’d argued with me, hectored me. Aloud, I said, “I do not judge you.”

  “You least of all among the women, Sister Joanna. But still you do. I don’t hate you for it.” She squeezed my hand. “You’ve been a friend. I did not cleave to you only because of Geoffrey. Beneath all your storm and fury is a kind heart.”

  She opened her mouth and then closed it, as if unsure.

  “Tell me,” I said.

  Sister Beatrice took a breath. “If we are being truthful today, then let us walk to the end of the path. I know that Geoffrey loves you. But it is because it is hopeless. That is the nature of his feeling for you. And you do not love him.”

  There was the faintest echo of a question to what she’d last said. I thought, She wants me to reassure her, to give her my blessing. But suddenly I was awash in confusion. I truly did not know what I wanted from Geoffrey Scovill.

  “Everything else is packed,” announced Gertrude’s young maid from the doorway. “My lady awaits you downstairs.”

  The Courtenays swept me up then. Arthur was lifted onto the same horse as Edward, to his delight. But they gave me a horse, to be my own for the ride to London and during my stay as well. My mount was a chestnut mare with a bright eye. How was this possible—whose horse had she been until an hour ago? I wondered fleetingly.

  I bade Sister Beatrice farewell and gave her money, asking her to pay my servant’s wages for the month and make explanation. Her eyes cast down, she nodded. Her words were no more than polite. Perhaps it was because I had not eased her mind on that last question.

  The Courtenay procession moved up the High Street, toward the juncture with the road to London. We passed the cross in the center of the street, across from the market. I had never ridden a horse through town. It gave me a new, higher vantage, a slanting view into the windows of the homes and shops as we passed.

  I should have been happy to leave Dartford, where hours before townsfolk sought to humiliate me. But I felt weak. You’re just hungry, I told myself. This is the right thing to do. I clutched the saddle horn, to steady myself.

  “Sister Joanna! Sister Joanna!”

  I turned in the saddle. It was Sister Winifred, holding up her skirts with both hands so she could move faster. “Stop! What are you doing?”

  I motioned to the men to let her through.

  “I’m visiting my relations,” I said. “I’ll be back in one month.”

  “I don’t understand.” She was crying. A yellow bubble trembled at her nose. “When was this decided?”

  “Today,” I said. Brother Edmund won’t understand either, I thought, miserable. How could I have made such a decision without speaking to him? And how will he feel that I left without saying good-bye?

  Two horses ahead of me, Gertrude Courtenay turned around. I half waved at her, struggling to convey that she shouldn’t interfere.

  “Please, Sister Winifred, please don’t upset yourself,” I said, leaning down from my horse. “I will write you—tomorrow. I will send word tomorrow. And I’ll tell Brother Edmund everything.”

  Sister Winifred stopped trotting alongside my horse. We kept moving and she stood there, in the street. It hurt my neck to keep twisting around, so I turned forward. A second later, I heard her cry out, her voice turned shrill: “God preserve you, Sister Joanna.”

  My horse, obediently following the others, turned onto the wider road to London. A thick grove of apple orchards stood on the left. A few thin wooden ladders remained propped against trunks of the highest trees. It was still harvesting season. The light danced off the tree leaves. I blinked from the strength of that lowering autumn sun.

  Suddenly there was shouting in the road. John charged out of the orchard, waving his staff. “Behold the brood of vipers, which have taken into their bosom a daughter of Satan!”

  Gertrude motioned for a servant. I kicked my horse to reach them, before John could be harmed. “Do nothing,” I said. “John is mad—a sorry creature of God.”

  Henry Courtenay nodded, and bade the servants do something else. A shower of shillings flew through the air and landed at John’s filthy feet.

  He did not pick them up.

  Rooted on the side of the road, John said, “Prepare the way for destiny—ye must prepare, ye who have sinned before God. He sees all of your sins! He knows your repentance is false, false, and false.”

  Gertrude covered her mouth with her hand. John’s blather frightened her. Henry called out loudly, “Ride on, everyone.”

  We all shook our reins or kicked the sides of our mounts. I prayed that John would not follow us up the road. Courtenay patience might have its limits.

  John did not follow. But he was not silent, and his cries rang in my ears long after we’d left the town of Dartford behind.

  “The reckoning is coming, it is coming,” cried John. “Armageddon is at hand. In the end it will devour you all!”
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  PART TWO

  7

  Only in the city of London could Suffolk Lane exist. All around it throbbed the roar and the stench, the callous crowds and hard, glittering brightness of the city. But Suffolk Lane itself was short, narrow, and quiet. A shadowed preserve. A tall brick manor house ran along the west side, imposing its will on the cobbled street. Almost two hundred years ago, the house was raised at tremendous expense by a Middlesex merchant made lord mayor of London five times over. The lord mayor gave his cherished house a name: the Red Rose. After his death, it passed into the covetous hands of the nobility. Two years after my cousin Henry married Gertrude, he took possession of the Red Rose. During my time with the Courtenays, I lived there and nowhere else.

  My room was on the second floor, close to the southwest corner of the house and thus to Lower Thames Street, a thoroughfare following the curves of the river like a nervous suitor. On the Wednesday morning of the second week of my visit, I heard a man shouting from the direction of Lower Thames, though these were not the ravings of a madman. Peering out the window, I spotted him, standing erect on the corner, dressed in royal livery. The only words I could make out were “the Emperor Charles.” I realized he was the town crier.

  A lady should not lean out a window, but I pushed open mine to better hear his news. A puff of cool, dank air rushed in, eager to sully my perfumed bedchamber.

  “The Turks defeat the Emperor Charles in the sea battle of Preveza,” shouted the young man. “Thirteen imperial ships are lost. Three thousand Christian men taken prisoner by Barbarossa. The Muslim Turks of the Ottoman Empire gain strength and the emperor’s forces are vanquished.”

  He repeated his message a third time and then strode out of my view. I struggled to assess the significance of this news. I no longer shrank from the business of the world. I owed my allegiance to the Lady Mary, and she was affected by the battles of her cousin, the Emperor Charles. To be a true friend to her, I had decided to put aside my distaste of politics and make a study of the affairs of Christendom. What a morass to master, though. Was this naval defeat good or bad for the Lady Mary?

  “I’ll ask Gertrude,” I murmured as I closed the window to shut out the city.

  On one side of my large bedchamber was a four-poster bed, hanging with gilt-edged curtains. On the other was a fireplace, its flames subsided to glowing red ash. Near the door, set in the oak paneling of the far wall, hung a tall looking-glass. As I passed it, I stopped short.

  Who was this woman who peered back from the glass?

  I wore a kirtle of dark gold, with full sleeves and low square neckline. My skirts were full; my Spanish hood was tightly fastened. I wore velvet shoes. A jeweled diamond pendant dangled from my throat.

  I looked just like Gertrude Courtenay.

  But how could it be otherwise? These were once her clothes. My first morning in London, Gertrude sent word and by noon they came running, the dressmakers of London. I was overwhelmed by the fuss, the eager eyes and toughened fingers of women jostling for commissions from the Marchioness of Exeter.

  I wanted to say no. I tried to turn away the garments and jewels she pressed on me. It was not only that Gertrude’s generosity exceeded what I felt was deserved. I had never been the least interested in fashion; indeed, how freeing it had been to wear a long, loose nun’s habit at Dartford Priory. When I had to put away my white habit and purchase the clothing of an ordinary woman, I selected a few indifferent ensembles, in somber colors. I had never sought to draw attention through finery.

  “Joanna, I have nothing but respect for your humility, but there are other matters to consider,” Gertrude had responded. “We are members of the families that have served their sovereigns for centuries. You and my husband have royal blood in your veins—a certain standard of appearance is called for. Do you think the Lady Mary dresses herself in rags? After mourning was over for Queen Jane, she returned to beautiful colors. She wears jewels. She listens to music—she even plays at cards. Everyone looks to her; every detail of her appearance is noted. We who love the Lady Mary must also show pride befitting our rank.”

  And so, with reluctance, I accepted the new wardrobe. I was two inches shorter than Gertrude and larger in the bosom. The first difference was easy to adjust for, the second less so. All of the bodices were tight. At first I felt imprisoned; I did not like to be so conscious of drawing breath. But the feeling of confinement passed after a few days.

  When I opened the door to the upper corridor, I nearly collided with Alice, my maid.

  “Do you need anything at all, Mistress Joanna?” Alice dipped a curtsy, her dark red hair gleaming beneath her cap.

  “No, thank you. I am on my way to see the lady marchioness.”

  “I believe she has moved to her receiving room,” said Alice and edged sideways, preparing to follow me.

  My mind worked frantically. “Alice, the fire in my room has gone out. I know that it is not your responsibility to bank it, but—”

  “I will see to your rooms and wardrobe at once, Mistress Joanna.” Alice rushed into my bedchamber.

  Relieved, I made my way down the corridor. Of all the things I had to accustom myself to, none was more difficult than a maid shadowing me throughout the house. Gertrude assigned Alice to me, and she was a willing young woman. But I’d had no personal attendants for years. Earlier in my life, my mother and I shared a maid at Stafford Castle, a surly countrywoman named Hadley. In truth, I preferred Hadley’s heavy sighs of resentment over the smallest task to Alice’s eagerness to please. Perhaps it was because my London maid continually asked me what I would be doing or where would I be going, so that she could best serve me. And I often had no answers. Arthur’s days were kept busy and happy, alongside Edward Courtenay and his bevy of tutors. My place in the house was less defined.

  True to her word, Gertrude stayed clear of the king’s court. She’d not left the Red Rose since my arrival. Instead, people came to her. Everyone from dressmakers to apothecaries, jewelers to scholars, they sought to occupy as many minutes of Gertrude’s time as possible. While doing business, she was always attended by her gentlemen ushers, maids, and ladies, principally Constance.

  It was mid-morning. The Red Rose whirred with busyness. The staff rose at five in the morning and worked steadily until sundown. It felt strange to be purposeless in the midst of it.

  To reach the stairs leading to Gertrude’s rooms, I had to pass by the one part of the house I did not care for: the great hall. It was a vast, empty room. Unused. On the first morning of my stay, before the dressmakers descended, Gertrude had pushed open its doors and walked with me down the length of the hall, as part of a house tour.

  But something happened in that room. Something I had not been able to make sense of.

  It was when I gazed at the fireplace. High enough for a man to stand inside without stooping, it was swept clean. No flames had licked its walls for months, perhaps years. Two carved limestone figures, jutting out from the overmantel, caught my attention. They were not what you’d usually see on a fireplace: winged lions, with mouths yawning open as if in mid-scream.

  When I stepped closer, to examine the figures, a feeling of dread came over me. An instant later, I heard the fragments.

  First the words: “May Almighty God bless thee.”

  Next came a brief high scream, such as that of a child.

  And then a ripple of men’s laughter.

  It all rushed through my head and was gone. I peered at Gertrude, and behind her, Constance. They didn’t react.

  “Did you hear it?” I asked Gertrude.

  Gertrude, bewildered, shook her head. As did Constance, her face a blank.

  I nearly confided in my cousin’s wife. But the impulse dissolved. I followed Gertrude out the door moments later. After all, the departure from Dartford had not been without trials. I hadn’t slept well my first night at the Red Rose. Perhaps these strains had done me ill. I certainly did not want Gertrude to think me unbalanced of mind.

>   Since that first afternoon, I’d had no cause to step inside the great hall. But each time I passed it, the memory of what I’d heard gnawed at me. Was it simply fancies, or something darker? Was it, in fact, a vision?

  And with that I was propelled back to the terror of Saint Sepulchre and the words of Sister Elizabeth Barton.

  My horrified mother bore me away from the priory that day in 1528. I told her only that the nun had experienced a fit, spouting gibberish about ravens and dogs; I omitted everything that came before. I knew how susceptible my mother was to the visions of mystics. I had to prevent her from seeking further direction or, God forbid, from pushing me toward fulfillment of prophecy.

  Although the experience at Saint Sepulchre was nearly as frightening as being attacked by George Boleyn, I did not descend again to melancholia. Instead, I made it clear to all that I would reside in Stafford Castle from that day forward. If danger existed for me outside the thick walls of my ancestral home, then I’d remain in the Midlands. It wasn’t necessary, it turned out. It was not I who fell ill that winter, it was my mother. She sickened of an ailment and never recovered. I spent the next years caring for her. There was no more talk of finding another place for me at court or a husband. The importance of my future—the possibility I could advance the Stafford family through royal service or noble marriage—dimmed. My place was nurse to my mother, companion to my father, and helpmate to my cousin Henry’s wife, Lady Ursula, who each year thickened with a new pregnancy.

  I heard of Sister Elizabeth Barton’s activities during that time. Everyone did. Within months of my visit, she became famous. Two cardinals did indeed travel through Canterbury: Cardinal Wolsey, the king’s chief minister, escorted Cardinal Campeggio to London. The Italian prelate was sent by His Holiness to hear the king’s petition for divorce. Sister Elizabeth obtained an audience in Canterbury with Wolsey, and warned him of the dangers of a divorce. In the next several years, she met with many important people, always pleading with them to persuade the king to abandon his quest. She met with the king himself twice. The second time she informed him that if he married Anne Boleyn, he would be dead within three months. He wed her regardless, in 1533.