The Chalice

by Nancy Bilyeau

  “And Duchess Christina has her own opinions of King Henry,” murmured Cecily.

  Gertrude tapped the young woman on the shoulder, her diamond bracelet dancing up and down. She wore a dark gold velvet kirtle and skirts, a color that enhanced her olive complexion. She’d stained her lips with a berry concoction. One could never forget that Gertrude had been a great beauty in her youth, and when the occasion warranted, could shrewdly assemble the wardrobe, jewelry, and cosmetics that set her off to best advantage. “We must not repeat this particular piece of gossip,” she said.

  “Not gossip,” said Lady C. “It is established fact. Duchess Christina of Milan may be seventeen years old but she is no fool. She said to Master Wriothesley, loud enough for all to hear in the whole court of Brussels, ‘If I had two heads, one would be at the disposal of King Henry.’ ”

  Mistress Wriothesley put her hand on her round belly, even more distressed as the ladies screamed with laughter all around her.

  Cecily said, breathless, “We must all pray the king takes Christina for a queen, or one of the French princesses, and not look elsewhere in Europe.”

  Someone groaned and said, “Please don’t mention the possibility of Cleves. I’m having too good a time for that.”

  “Cleves?” I asked. It was the first time I’d spoken since being introduced.

  “Cromwell may push harder for a Protestant marriage,” explained Gertrude. “Cleves, in Germany, has two marriageable daughters.”

  A gloom settled over the room. Clearly, it was the last thing anyone wanted.

  “Well, I would wait on a Turk wrapped in nothing but purple sashes—if that is what’s required to secure a post as a maid of honor in a queen’s household,” Cecily announced. Everyone mock-scolded her.

  “I suppose there is no chance of another English marriage?” asked the countess.

  “The king shows no signs of such inclination,” answered Gertrude.

  “If there were any such candidates, you would tell us, wouldn’t you, Gertrude?” pleaded Cecily.

  Gertrude’s eyes flicked my way and then returned to her other guests. “I’ve not been in the king’s presence in quite some time,” she said. There was an undercurrent of warning to her voice.

  Lady R. laughed. It was a soft laugh, but by no means a pleasant one. “Does that matter?” she asked. She seemed to assume that Gertrude had special knowledge of the king’s wishes and desires.

  I felt Lady R.’s gray eyes land on me. “Mistress Joanna, you do know that we have the Marchioness of Exeter to thank for the ascendance of Queen Jane?”

  “That’s nonsense,” said Gertrude, even more sharply.

  “Why do you deny it?” called out Lady C. “How could a family like the Seymours ever have managed such a feat?”

  The old countess shook her head. “Oh, those Seymour brothers—so dreadful,” she said.

  Gertrude inhaled deeply, and then, with a little laugh, let it all out. “The father was the worst of all—they are terrible,” she admitted, to a roomful of knowing laughter. I tried to hide my dismay. I remembered coming into her receiving room, when she sat with Doctor Branch, and hearing them speak of an insignificant girl from a terrible family. She must have referred then, and now, to the late queen Jane Seymour.

  The spite in this room, the jabs and drawling mockery, it was not what I’d hoped for and certainly not what I enjoyed. The cakes came in a moment later, borne on silver trays. Gertrude’s confectioner had triumphed. One of the hired musicians sang an exquisite story of love for a distant lady, while the guests listened, nibbling on their cakes.

  The exceptions were Gertrude and Lady R., who talked together quite intently, oblivious to food or music. Gertrude was questioning her about something. I heard one word through the song: Londinium.

  The music ended. Gertrude rose to join her other guests. To my dismay, Lady R. beckoned to me with a finger. It was my turn to make conversation with this strange woman. I picked up my half-empty glass of spiced wine and sat in a neighboring chair.

  She leaned over. A fragrance of dry violets encircled me.

  “I’ve served all three queens, did you know that?” she said.

  “No, my lady.” I shrank from the scrutiny of those eyes. Not gray at all, I realized now. Palest blue, with dark circles around the pupils.

  She continued, “I was a lady-in-waiting to Katherine of Aragon the day that you arrived to be her maid of honor in 1527. Such a long, long time ago. I have a good memory, but I do not recall you, I’m afraid. So interesting that you only served her as queen for a single day.”

  The air fled my body. I struggled to find breath, to feel my heart pumping blood. There was nothing. Nothing. I could not believe that this woman knew I’d attended the court for that one day so long ago. Gertrude Courtenay didn’t know it, or if she did she’d never mentioned it. How was this possible?

  “Forgive me,” I stammered, “but I did not hear your full name when we were introduced. What does the R stand for?”

  She leaned closer still. Our faces were inches from each other.

  “Rochford,” she said. “I was wife to the late Lord Rochford. But when you were at court, he was not yet a lord. He was known by his Christian name—George Boleyn.”

  11

  Dearest Joanna,

  I have received the letter it hath pleased you to write me. I am glad that you are united with these good Christian people. But I would not want you to think that you could ever be forgotten. Brother Edmund and I speak of you every day. We pray for the maintaining of your good health and Arthur’s.

  All is well in Dartford, although I recognize our excitements cannot compare with those offered by the city of London. Brother Edmund has treated the injuries and illnesses of new townsfolk, and one of his patients even paid for a remedy with coin. He works so many hours a day that I worry for him, but you know my brother and how much contentment he finds in healing. I hope I am improving in my efforts to assist him.

  I put down my letter from Sister Winifred. Closing my eyes, I envisioned Brother Edmund, bending over a flustered villager struck with fever—the butcher’s apprentice, say—and calling for cosset ale. How Sister Winifred would rush about, gathering the required lettuce and sorrel and violet leaves. With a touch to her quivering arm, he would take over the mixing of the cosset and then administer it to his grateful patient.

  With all my heart and soul, I wished myself in Dartford.

  Gertrude had kept her promise. She’d not dragged me to the king’s court. But earlier today the court had come to me: shallow and selfish and, as Jane Boleyn’s twisted smile flashed in my thoughts, dangerous. Did Lady Rochford know what her husband did to me—how he violated a sixteen-year-old girl? She seemed to know something. Would she tell others?

  And just as disturbing: How could Gertrude trust a Boleyn? The Boleyns had destroyed the life of Katherine of Aragon. Anne Boleyn had famously threatened to undo the Lady Mary. It was only her execution that prevented it. Yet Gertrude was a close friend of the sister-in-law of Anne Boleyn? It didn’t make sense.

  I was struck wordless when Lady Rochford revealed the identity of her dead husband. I could manage but few words to anyone for the remaining moments I was trapped at Gertrude’s party. Afterward, I fled to my room and remained there. Alice brought me dinner on a tray, but I had no appetite. Fortunately, she also carried the letter from Sister Winifred, which delivered sustenance of a more important kind than food.

  Across the room, a tiny tearing noise filled the air. Alice ripped off threads and then knotted them. She was mending one of my skirts by the fire in my bedchamber. I resumed my reading:

  There is news from the house of the sisters of Dartford. I do not know if you recall the gentleman who mourned his wife in Holy Trinity Church that morning before you left. His name is Master Oliver Gwinn. Sister Agatha tells me that Master Gwinn was grateful that Brother Edmund and the rest of us sought to ease his suffering. He now goes to the house of the sisters regularl
y and sees to repairs that were much needed and advises them about their livestock. Sister Agatha said that the heavy cares of the sisters are eased by his goodness.

  Also the presence of Geoffrey Scovill, our new constable, is welcomed everywhere I go. He is every day on the High Street, acquainting himself with the people of Dartford and listening to their business. His first matter is to relocate the shambles to a place farther from Holy Trinity Church. I remember how many times you said that it should be done as well. Now it will be.

  Master Scovill came by the infirmary yesterday afternoon to ask if I had received word from you. I passed on the news that you are prospering. I hope that was well done of me, Joanna. His intentions seemed benevolent.

  Written in the town of Dartford,

  Sister Winifred Sommerville

  Only a few seconds after I’d finished the letter, I removed a sheet of drawing paper from the shelf and began to write.

  Dear Geoffrey,

  You were right in what you said and I am sorry we quarreled. I wish to return to Dartford as soon as possible. A family engagement requires my presence at the home of my cousin, the Marquess of Exeter, on November 4. After that duty is discharged, Arthur and I will come home.

  Written in the manor of the Red Rose in the city of London,

  Joanna Stafford

  Once the ink had dried, I folded the paper twice. I held the stick of sealing wax over my candle, passing it back and forth. After it had softened, I dabbed the wax over the closing fold of the letter. I pressed down the seal so hard, the red wax squeezed out into long hard bubbles along the edges, like a fresh wound.

  “Alice,” I said, “I want this letter carried to Dartford. It’s very important that it go out with the next batch of correspondence.”

  Delighted to have a task of importance, Alice seized my letter, the red wax still warming the paper, and hurried away. Soon the letter would pass out of her hands, and by the end of the day I expected it would begin the journey to Dartford. I felt a stirring of worry. Perhaps I should have slept a night before sending Geoffrey Scovill such a letter—the first one I’d ever written him. I pushed down the qualm.

  Alice soon reappeared with the news that my letter had been dispatched and she had an answer to my request to Father Timothy as well.

  I’d asked my maid to send a message to the Courtenay chaplain. And the answer had arrived: Father Timothy would be available to hear my confession at dawn the next day, before Mass. The cleansing powers of the sacrament of penance should help steady me.

  I was awake well before dawn. I dressed and waited, impatient, for the first lightening of gray outside the windows. At last I glimpsed it—the night was in retreat. I hurried down the dark corridors, a candle in my hand.

  “Ah, Mistress Stafford, I appreciate your promptness—it looks to be a busy day for me,” said Father Timothy, standing in the doorway to the elegant private chapel. A row of fresh tapers flickered at the altar behind him.

  I set down my candlestick in a stone nook and dipped my fingers in the chapel’s stoup. Father Timothy opened the door to the confessional, a freestanding, well-glossed oak chamber. He eased inside. I heard the sound of the door sliding in its groove, as Father Timothy took his place behind the grille.

  I followed him into the confessional. There was almost no light inside, just the faintest gleam emanating from the silver crucifix that hung from the top of the dense wooden grille. I couldn’t see the silhouette of Father Timothy’s head. But I could feel his warm breath through the grille and smelled the faint odor of onions.

  “I will hear your confession,” he said.

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” I said. “It has been five days since my last confession.” I paused, to gather my thoughts. Where to begin—how to frame my offenses?

  The voice of Henry Courtenay boomed, no more than ten feet away: “I wonder if Joanna will join us at Mass this morning.”

  I jumped off my narrow wooden bench. I hadn’t heard anyone come in. But now the Courtenays were in the chapel. I should have emerged from the confessional at once. But the mention of my name rooted me to the bench. On the other side of the grille, Father Timothy, too, was silent, unmoving.

  “I expect she will continue to sulk in her room,” said Gertrude.

  “I don’t want you to speak of her that way,” said Henry, in a sharper tone than I usually heard.

  “Oh, I would not trifle with your prize.”

  My cheeks flamed with embarrassment. How could I step out of the confessional now? Why did Gertrude call me a “prize”? I needed to know what Father Timothy thought we should do, but he was swallowed up in darkness. I knew, however, that he, too, was distressed, by the quickening of the warm onion-scented breath that puffed through the grille.

  Henry said, “I must ask you not to pass Father Timothy private requests for little sermons on the importance of fortitude, courage, and sacrifice, Gertrude.”

  His wife responded, “Don’t worry. I’ve abandoned hope of your choosing such a course.”

  A boom echoed through the chapel. As if, incredibly, Henry had slammed his fist against a wall. Or kicked something. Tears sprang from my eyes. This was like a nightmare, for my kind cousin to behave so—and in a sacred space.

  He hissed, “It’s not going to happen, Gertrude. Can’t you understand? It isn’t just Henry. Hear me. It’s Cromwell and Cranmer and Suffolk. And Norfolk. Never forget Norfolk. Those men surround him.”

  The door to the confessional slid open. Father Timothy was revealing himself to the Courtenays. I should have done the same but was too terrified to move.

  “Father Timothy, this is outrageous,” Gertrude cried.

  In his most soothing manner, the priest apologized and reassured them that all the words he had indeed heard would be kept in strictest confidence.

  “But why were you sitting in the confessional this entire time?” she asked.

  “I was preparing it for the day, my lady,” he answered.

  “You were not hearing someone’s confession, were you, Father?” she asked. “I see a candlestick left by the door. Pray tell me, whose is it?”

  Father Timothy said nothing. Of course he would not lie to his patrons.

  I slid to the far side of the bench in the confessional. With both hands, I felt my way to the top of the wall. Was there a latch? A door on the other side? I could not face the Courtenays after hearing what was just said.

  But there was no other way out of the confessional.

  “I will see to it, Gertrude,” said Henry Courtenay. I heard footsteps. Getting louder.

  The confessional door swung open. The body of the marquess filled the narrow opening. Barely any light penetrated around him. He saw me—of course he did. I could not read his expression.

  After a few seconds, he stepped back. The door shut with a bang.

  “There’s no one there,” Henry said. “And now, Father, it’s time for Mass.”

  12

  I wore my own clothes, a plain dark kirtle I put away after that first day, when Gertrude forced her finery on me. But I wouldn’t wear her clothes on the afternoon I left the Red Rose. For, by the time the sun rose to its highest point in the sky, I had made my decision. Danger was closing in, and Arthur and I must leave at once.

  When I reached the children’s study, it was empty except for Edward Courtenay’s French tutor, a grave university student named François.

  “The boys are having a lesson in the courtyard, mistress,” he said. A frown deepened his wide young brow. “Are you well? You look . . . different.”

  “I am quite well,” I told the tutor firmly.

  His eyes flicked past me, to a point over my shoulder. I turned. It was James, the quick-witted twin.

  “Master Edward and Master Arthur should be back upstairs before supper,” said James. “Don’t you want to wait and see them then, mistress?”

  “No, I don’t,” I snapped. “I will see my cousin now.”

  I turned
and hurtled down the corridor. When I reached the first turn, I heard footsteps behind me. Both François and James followed.

  “I know the way,” I called back. “No need to accompany me.”

  One more stretch and I reached the main stairs. It was hard not to run down them. But panic would not serve my intentions. I was halfway down the stairs when I heard a clatter of feet above. I looked over my shoulder. François and James still followed. My maid Alice was with them, as well as a male servant whose name I did not know.

  As I turned the last corner, it sounded even louder, the footsteps of those behind me. More servants must have joined them. Why did they trail me so? I wondered, furious.

  It was cool in the courtyard that morning. Layers of gray clouds covered every bit of sky. The two boys brandished flat wooden swords in the center. Arthur waved his weapon at me, smiling. Young Edward Courtenay bowed, but his face showed confusion. I looked over my shoulder. The servants who’d followed me had grown to half a dozen. They inched forward tightly, all together, like a single body with many heads and arms.

  Struggling to ignore them, I said to Master David, the head tutor, “Good morning. After the lesson is finished, I will need to have Arthur prepared for departure. We return to Dartford today.”

  “No, Joanna, no!” wailed Arthur. “Don’t want to leave.”

  “I’m sorry, Arthur. This must be.” I reached out, but Arthur shrank from me.

  “Mistress Stafford, I haven’t received word about this from the marquess,” said Master David.

  “Arthur is my cousin,” I said. “The visit is at an end. I am a guest here, not a prisoner.”

  Arthur ran to Edward Courtenay, and threw his arms around his waist. “Edward, want to stay,” he wept. The older boy comforted him quietly.

  “No one said you were prisoners,” Master David said stiffly. “I apologize if I gave you that impression, Mistress Stafford.”

  I silently cursed my rudeness. Fear had frayed my nerves. “Forgive me, you did not give that impression,” I said. “Arthur, please. Come with me for a moment.”