The Chalice

by Nancy Bilyeau

  “No, no, no,” Arthur sobbed, clutching Edward. The Courtenay heir glared at me. He drew Arthur toward the side of the courtyard whose wall abutted the great hall. The servants shuffled forward and then spread out. They now served as a barrier between my little cousin and me.

  Master David said, “Mistress Stafford, I can send word to the marquess, and ask for instructions on change of plans. Nothing is done at the Red Rose without an authorized plan.”

  I said, “There is no need for that—I will speak to the marquess tonight myself.” It would not be an easy conversation. But it should be done. To leave in the middle of the day was cowardly, after all. We’d leave tomorrow.

  James, the twin, said, “You can’t speak to him tonight. The Marquess of Exeter will not be back at the Red Rose until November third, the day before his dinner for Baron Montagu.”

  “What?” I said.

  “The king has moved with his privy council to Greenwich,” said Master David. “When he is at Greenwich, my lord stays at court lodgings.”

  I stared at the men, these favored servants of the Courtenays. I was shocked that Henry had not told me of this. But, after all, I made myself scarce yesterday. When would he have had the opportunity?

  There was no way around it—I’d have to make my departure arrangements through Gertrude. This course of action promised to be more unpleasant but had the advantage of Gertrude’s not knowing I’d heard her words while I hid in the confessional.

  I said to Alice, “Please alert the marchioness that I am on my way to see her.”

  Before she could answer, James spoke up again. “My lady is unwell. After Mass she went straight away to bed. She sees no one but Constance when she is in this condition. You won’t be received today.”

  Rain spattered on our heads. I wiped a splotch from my eye as I took in everything that had been said and done here. No one sought shelter from the rain. The only sounds were the tapping of fresh raindrops on the bricks of the courtyard and Arthur’s wordless whimpering.

  Darting between two servants, I ran the short distance to Arthur, my arms outstretched. “Come with me, now—let’s go,” I cried.

  Arthur broke away from Edward Courtenay, reaching for me. But seconds before our hands touched, I was jerked back, roughly. Someone pinned my arms behind my back.

  “You, too, are unwell, Mistress Stafford,” James hissed in my ear. “You need to rest.”

  My arms ached from his grip. “This is monstrous—unhand me,” I shouted.

  Master David held up his hand. I expected him to order James to release me.

  But no.

  “Take her to her room at once,” he said.

  James hauled me toward the doorway, my shoulders burning. I could not say anything to Arthur, who was crying again, loudly. I caught a glimpse of Alice. She, too, had tears in her eyes.

  “You will be sorry for this,” I told James, as he pushed me into the corridor.

  “I don’t think so,” he grunted. “I believe you are the one who will be sorry.”

  We passed a few wide-eyed servants on the way to my bedchamber. There was no mistaking the force that was being used. James had his hand clamped around my forearm the entire walk, half dragging me. But no one said anything or tried to help me. One of the higher officers of the household, such as Charles, would surely have asked why I was being treated roughly. But I did not see him before being shoved into my room. The door slammed shut.

  I sat on the edge of my bed, rubbing my sore arms. James’s grip would leave large bruises. At first I was full of rage. But then it gave way to mounting fear. James was no fool. He would have acted this way only if he was certain there would be no consequences. He must have been ordered to prevent me from ever leaving the Red Rose. I should have employed more cunning in extricating Arthur. I’d made the mistake of announcing my intentions, of being obvious. Issuing orders to people who had no cause to obey me.

  I couldn’t make that mistake again.

  After I had calmed myself, I opened the door, to go in search of Charles. But standing guard in the hallway was James. He didn’t speak, just shook his head, his muscular arms folded across his chest.

  I said, “You have no right to hold me here.”

  He made no reply.

  “I want you to tell the Marchioness of Exeter that I must speak with her at once,” I said.

  James answered, “My lady is unwell, Mistress Stafford. I told you that. She cannot be disturbed.”

  I fought down an impulse to scream, scream so loudly that the people walking by on Suffolk Lane would hear. But to act like a madwoman wouldn’t get Arthur and me out of the house. I had no choice but to go back into my room.

  Shortly after, Alice arrived with dinner on a tray, her eyes red and puffy. I sensed that my maid would help me, if James knew nothing of it. But he watched us closely. Alice left and I ignored the food. Instead, I scribbled a short note, asking her to go in search of Charles and bid him come to my aid. Next time I saw her, I’d slip her the message.

  But Alice never returned. I walked the floor, turning my note over and over until its corners frayed. There was no stirring on the street at the return of Henry Courtenay—he truly must have transferred to Greenwich. After the afternoon shadows lengthened into darkness, it was Joseph, the slow-witted twin, who brought a tray of food. His expression was so wary; I knew it hopeless to try to persuade him of anything.

  The flames faltered to embers in the fireplace. I did not call for help nor stir it myself. I sat in the dark. The room’s chill spread, swallowing up the last islands of warmth. “I am a guest here, not a prisoner,” I’d informed Master David. I was wrong. For I was a prisoner of the Red Rose just as surely as in the months I was confined in the Tower of London.

  Eventually the room grew so cold, I crawled under the thick blankets. I did not change into my shift. Instead, fully dressed, I curled up, my knees drawn toward my chest. How I prayed for an answer. I needed to trust in Christ to show me the path.

  I was in the middle of a dream when a candle warmed my face. I opened my eyes.

  A man’s face loomed over me. He held a candle high in a dark room. It was Henry Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter, and he was sitting on my bed.

  13

  I cried out, but the marquess clamped a wet, cold hand over my mouth.

  “Hush, Joanna, please,” he whispered. “They’ll hear you. I’m not going to hurt you. Please. I must talk to you.”

  I nodded, and he removed his hand. His clothes, his hat, even his face, were wet. I glanced at the window. It was thickest black outside.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked. “James said you were at Greenwich.”

  “I was, but when the messenger brought word from Charles that you’d been confined to your room, I rode home. I can’t stay long. I have to be at court this morning.”

  “How did Charles know what happened to me? I tried to get him a message, but I failed.”

  “It is my house. Do you think my people do not know what occurs? It is just a matter of the proper action.” He grimaced. “I should not be surprised you sought to leave, after what you overheard in chapel. I’ve told him to make sure that you are not confined tomorrow. You will have complete freedom of movement.”

  “Henry,” I said, “why wasn’t I allowed to leave the Red Rose?”

  My cousin walked over to the fireplace and bent down, using his candle to ignite a flame. “Such a cold night,” he muttered.

  After a moment he stood up again.

  “Joanna, I need your help,” he said.

  “My help?”

  He walked over to the window facing the lane and peered into the blackness. What Henry Courtenay needed to tell me would not come easily.

  “I love Gertrude,” he said finally. “So much. No one can ever know what I feel for her—and she for me.” His voice trailed away. I churned with emotions: Embarrassed and impatient and confused, yes, but moved as well.

  “Gertrude’s mother died wh
en she was a child,” he continued after a moment. “Lord Mountjoy was Queen Katherine’s chamberlain. He didn’t send her away. He brought her up close, near the queen’s rooms always. So Katherine of Aragon was in many ways a mother to her. And the Lady Mary was like a younger sister.”

  Still looking out the window, he said, “Are you familiar with Sister Elizabeth Barton?”

  My fingers turned to talons, gripping the side of the bed. “Yes,” I whispered. How grateful I was that he did not see my face.

  He said, “Gertrude went to see the nun or the nun came to her, several times, three at least, beginning in 1529. I think those trips Gertrude made to Canterbury are when her obsession with prophecy began. She went to solicit Elizabeth Barton to see into the future, see what would happen to the king and to our family.”

  He turned to look at me. My horror must have been written large on my face. Gertrude had been a follower of Sister Elizabeth Barton.

  Henry said vigorously, “That’s not what Gertrude admitted to, of course. She said she sought out Sister Barton to ask if she would ever have another child. But I know there was more. When they examined Sister Barton for treason, when they searched her papers and possessions, the Saint Sepulchre records, that’s when Gertrude’s visits came to light. She had to write a letter to the king, confess to grievous mistakes in judgment, and plead for royal mercy. I feared the letter would not be enough. It was. My wife did not go to trial.”

  What if the king’s men knew of my visit with my mother to Saint Sepulchre? I thought, horrified. Aloud, I said, “You should have told me this before you invited me to stay here.”

  Henry lowered his head. “Yes,” he said. “You’re right.”

  Now I had to know everything.

  “Gertrude went to great lengths to find me and bring me here. Now she prevents me from leaving. Why?”

  Henry paced before the fire. “The idea did not come from her,” he said. “Before this past summer, she never spoke of you. Then suddenly she bought your name up again and again, insisting we must go to Dartford to seek you out.”

  “Was it the Lady Mary who bade her do it?” I pressed.

  Henry threw up his hands. “I don’t know, Joanna. It is possible, though I can’t think why.”

  He was right. It didn’t make sense for the Lady Mary to push for me to go to London. But I couldn’t think of anyone else.

  “In truth, it is not your presence here that worries me most, Joanna. It is what interests Gertrude now pursues. She swears to me that there are no more conspiracies. But I fear that her reverence for Katherine of Aragon and the empire of Charles the Fifth—those passions override all.”

  “Wait,” I said. “No more conspiracies?”

  “In the past Gertrude gave her own messages to Eustace Chapuys, the ambassador to the Emperor Charles. And she has gone to see him, in disguise, to tell Chapuys what she knows of the king and council. She promises me that she no longer meets with him, but I am not sure I believe her.”

  I gripped the bedpost. She had supplied a foreign ruler with information. “And have you conspired against the king?” I demanded.

  The marquess straightened before me. “I support the true faith of the Catholic Church and the monasteries—as does everyone from the old families. I grieved for Katherine of Aragon and I love her daughter. But I am loyal to my anointed sovereign.”

  “Then you must stop Gertrude,” I said. “You must.”

  “I will,” he said fervently. “After the dinner on November fourth, I will find an excuse to go west with my wife. I will get her under control.”

  “Why does this dinner mean so much to you?” I demanded.

  Henry said, “Why must it be a matter of suspicion that I choose to dine with my closest friend?”

  He sat next to me on the bed. It creaked under his weight.

  “Only one week remains until the dinner for Montagu,” he said. “Don’t leave. Please, keep watch over Gertrude. She cannot conspire with you present. Stay close to her side.”

  I said, “But I can do nothing to stop Gertrude should her will be set on a course. Especially not while she is surrounded by her personal servants.”

  “You can send word to me through Charles.”

  I sank forward, my head in my hands. “You’re asking me to spy,” I said into my palms. I remembered my impotent fury when Bishop Gardiner forced me to spy for him, when I searched the priory for the Athelstan crown. It was a dishonorable, sordid business.

  Henry said, “I’m sorry, Joanna. There’s no one else who can help me in this way.”

  The fire popped and sizzled. I watched his weariness shade to anguish.

  “Prophecy,” he whispered. “I’ve begged her to stay clear of its lure. To imagine and compass the deposition and death of the king is treason.”

  He rose to pace the floor again. “It’s not just Gertrude—the whole kingdom has gone mad. When I was a boy, there were no seers people rushed to pay, no revelations passed around. But now every village crone spouts predictions. They claim they’re received wisdom from the Celts, from Merlin’s scroll dug up out of the ground. It’s rubbish—and worse.”

  “There is nothing I detest more than prophecy,” I said.

  He nodded rapidly. “Then you’ll find a way to dissuade her, should she make a plan in the next week to visit a seer?”

  “I will do my utmost.”

  He took a step toward me. “And if you can’t dissuade her, Joanna, then you’ll go with her? And then tell me what is said?”

  “No—that cannot be!” I leaped off the bed. “Henry, I cannot go near anyone who spouts prophecy.”

  “I ask too much of you,” he muttered. “I humbly ask forgiveness, Joanna. It’s just that I’m so . . . afraid.”

  He stared at the floor for nearly a moment, and then said in a rush, “Don’t you see? If something were to—were to—happen to me—when I think of Edward kept in the Tower, without me, I can’t endure it. He’d be so frightened in there. All alone. I can’t bear the thought of it, I can’t—” Henry’s voice broke. “Oh Christ in Heaven, preserve him.”

  He turned away from me, his right arm thrown over his face. Muffled gasping sounds filled my room. It was as if he were trying to swallow his own sobs.

  A single knock on the door made Henry stop. “Just a minute, Charles,” he called.

  “Henry,” I said, “know that I will do everything I can to help you here. I will stay close to Gertrude. I will try to influence her—as much as it is possible for me to do. And then I will go.”

  “Bless you, Joanna,” he said, not quite meeting my eyes. And he hurried out the door.

  I did not go back to sleep. I did nothing but pray for strength and wisdom. After the sun came up, Alice appeared, wide-eyed. I said nothing to her about leaving the Red Rose. Instead, I asked her to fetch me food and clothing. She happily complied.

  Gertrude was not alone that morning. A strange man sat next to her. They looked down at something in her lap. A large box. Gertrude’s back was turned toward me, so I could not quite tell. My observation of her must now begin.

  “Good morning,” I said. My voice sounded natural.

  Gertrude whipped around. Her face was drawn—perhaps the illness was genuine. But then a smile warmed her features. “Joanna, how sweet of you to visit.” She darted toward me and kissed me, enveloping me with her exotic scent. She must have just bathed. “Please share in this beauty.”

  She gestured to her guest and he tilted the box in his lap. It was piled with fabric samples, all colors and textures. Velvets and brocades and silks.

  “Show her the one,” Gertrude commanded.

  What he unwrapped gleamed like the shimmer of a waterfall.

  “Cloth of silver, from the finest merchant in all of Brussels,” Gertrude said. “I’ve decided. Garments shall be made for you for my lord’s dinner. My favorite dressmaker should finish in time, with this material.”

  “I am to wear this?” I said.

 
; Gertrude said, “Baron Montagu is of the blood royal. He was the heir presumptive to the throne, until the birth of Prince Edward. We must look our best.”

  She folded her hands. Waited for my protest, for my refusal to accept it. That is what would have been expected.

  “Thank you, Gertrude,” I said.

  And so it began. Three days of forever being in Gertrude’s company. There were no noteworthy guests. She did not pay any calls. We embroidered, we read, we listened to music. One evening I sat by her bath and read from a book of Christian lamentations. We saw Arthur and Edward twice a day. The boys seemed to have forgotten the scene in the courtyard, and no one made any reference to my demand to leave. The king was never mentioned, nor his daughter Mary—nor her cousin, the Emperor Charles. It was all so benevolent, so free of conspiracy, that there were moments when Henry’s pleadings to stand watch over her receded. But I did not forget.

  And then, on the last day of October, I experienced a jolt.

  Coming down the main passageway, Alice right behind me, I heard a shout ahead. Servants carried chairs and boxes and trays. Once I’d come closer, I realized to where: the main doors of the great hall yawned open.

  “What are they doing?” I asked Alice.

  “Preparing for my lord’s dinner for Baron Montagu,” she answered.

  Gertrude, I learned, was in the kitchens, and I hurried there. The time had come to reveal my visions in the great hall, for I could not possibly dine in that room.

  The cooks had hung an iron pot over a large fire. Gertrude peeked into it, an apron tied around her brocade skirt. A sweet musky smell reached me from across the kitchen.

  “Joanna, come and see,” she called out gaily. “This will show the Lady C.!”

  I peered into the pot—it bubbled with an orange liquid, pulpy and marked with seeds.

  “I’m making a gift of quince preserves to her. Everyone’s doing such presents this season. Lady Carew’s preserves are superb. I must do better.”