The Chalice

by Nancy Bilyeau

  He used no candle to light our way. James was familiar with each turn of the corridor, every length of step, and he made his way forward, his left hand running along the wall. With his right he pulled me after him, but gently. I was not dragged through the house, as when I attempted to flee with Arthur. Tonight I was precious cargo.

  Off the larder was a door to a back passageway connecting the Red Rose to the street. In moments we were on Suffolk Lane. I could smell the dank waters of the Thames as we made our way to the Courtenay stables.

  “Don’t let her leave,” James told his twin once he’d deposited me inside, and then hurried back. Joseph grunted. He watched me, fingering a rope with both hands, as if he ached to tie me.

  I ignored him as I waited. I listened to the horses chew and move in their stalls. And every moment I thought about what had obsessed me all day: Sister Elizabeth Barton. Could it be true, what Gertrude said? Had Sister Elizabeth falsely recanted the messages in her visions to put a halt to the interrogations and so prevent the king’s men from learning of me?

  “You are the one who will come after . . .”

  James led in Gertrude, herself dressed in humble bodice, kirtle, and cloak. Constance was nowhere to be seen. Four would ride out again, but this time I would complete the quartet.

  We rode to the top of Suffolk Lane and turned onto a wider street, lined with two-story wood and plaster buildings. Not a single candle glowed within any of them. The curfew had been rung long ago; all decent folk were asleep. London days were shrill with noise—bells and shouting and laughter and screams—but the night was deathly still.

  At a curve in the street, James suddenly leaped from his horse and whistled, in short, sharp bursts.

  Two boys ran out of an alleyway. They carried something in a long bundle between them and offered it to James. An acrid smell filled the air, and then golden light soared. The boys brought torches for our journey.

  More dark figures slipped out of the alleyway. They were men this time, six of them. One by one, the men grabbed the coins offered by James. The torchlight revealed the blunt clubs and sharpened sticks in their grip.

  We formed a group, with Gertrude and I in the center, led by James and the torch carriers, and surrounded by hired ruffians. Joseph came last.

  Gertrude spoke to me for the first time. “It takes more than two linkboys to see us through the parts of London we must travel tonight. These men are being paid more coins than they would otherwise see in a year to maintain us.”

  After a moment I responded, “I pray to God they fail in their task so we never reach our destination.”

  Gertrude nudged her horse to ride closer to me. She did not remove her hood; I could not see her face. But I heard every word. “Joanna, you are someone who has suffered more than most because of the policies of the king. Your uncle beheaded, your cousin horribly burned. Your family fortune robbed. And then, your priory, your home, destroyed. And yet you will do nothing—nothing—to fight back.”

  Her defiant words bewildered me. “Fight back?” I repeated. The notion of it was bizarre. Henry VIII was served by men of utter ruthlessness. He had broken the church leadership; men of arms took orders only from him. His power held his subjects in fear.

  I said, “The king is our anointed sovereign, we are bound by God to obey him as his subjects.”

  “Are you certain of that?” Gertrude asked.

  For the first time, I questioned the sanity of Gertrude Courtenay. “Henry the Eighth is the king,” I hissed.

  “Perhaps not for much longer,” she retorted. “Pope Clement wrote a bull of excommunication two years ago. His Holiness made many efforts to bring England back into the fold, but with the latest abominations, the sacking of the holy shrines, he is now close to publishing it. Henry the Eighth will be excommunicated from the Catholic Church.”

  Excommunicated. The word made me tremble, as it would any Christian. Our family chaplain, to tame the unruly Stafford children, liked to wield the word like a weapon, drawing out each syllable. I could still hear his shrill voice all these years later: “To be ex-com-mun-i-cat-ed is to be banned from God’s grace; shunned, unable to take sacrament. The rite of bell, book, and candle would be summoned—the candle to be snuffed at the end because the offender is removed from the light of God.”

  “How could a king rule after being excommunicated?” I muttered, more to myself than to Gertrude, but she took up my question with vigor.

  “He couldn’t,” she said. “And it will be the duty of other Christian kings to depose him. We his subjects could not rally to the defense of King Henry. Not if we wished to remain faithful to the Holy Father.”

  If this were true, it changed all. Yet could I put my trust in Gertrude’s account? After a moment, I said, “You haven’t been waiting for the pope to sanctify your actions up to now. What treason have you already committed against the king?”

  Gertrude snorted. “No acts of treason. Although, yes, I have delivered the kingdom from a certain source of torment. I removed the Boleyns. You have me to thank for that bit of business.”

  “You did that?” I was struck by how Gertrude used the word remove to describe the arrest, trial, and execution of Anne and George Boleyn.

  “While many men of the court hated the Boleyns, they did little but complain. The Duke of Norfolk tossed a few bonny sluts at the king, to distract him and weaken Anne’s hold. But it didn’t work. I’ve watched King Henry all my life—I know his way with women. We had to find a woman who was the opposite of Anne Boleyn. I was the one who secured her. Jane Seymour had served Queen Katherine, she had been at the court for years. She was so unimpressive, no one had ever courted her. But Jane had one quality that was more important than any beauty or wit. And it is the same quality you singularly lack, Joanna. She was ambitious. She followed my instructions precisely in how to capture the love of the king.”

  Amid my disgust at Gertrude’s pandering, I had to acknowledge the boldness of such a scheme—and its success. Yet I realized something. “You made her queen and annihilated the Boleyns, but to what end? The king has turned his back on Rome. The monasteries still fell. Queen Jane did nothing to prevent it.”

  “Queen Jane tried to save the monasteries, you have no notion of the risks taken,” she insisted. “If she’d lived, as the mother of the heir to the throne, she would have had great influence.”

  “It is easy to say that now,” I retorted. “The truth can never be known.”

  Before our quarrel escalated further, we were interrupted. A bearded man stood before the head linkboy, gripping a long staff with one hand.

  “I am the nightwatch of the ward of Dowgate—declare your intent,” he growled.

  James was the one who jumped off his horse to address the watch. They spoke for a moment; a small, bulging bag disappeared into the man’s frayed coat and we were waved on.

  James hurried back to Gertrude. “The watch for the next ward will demand twice as much coin, my lady. But we must have his protection past the gaming houses. We dare not proceed without him.”

  “So be it,” she said.

  We rode down two more long, dark streets. At the second corner, James paused at a much narrower—but cobbled—lane that sloped down a hill. At the end of it, I saw flames flicker before a low building. I also heard men’s shouts—and, amazingly, the faint tinkle of music.

  “We must tarry here, until the next night watch walks past, and then enlist him,” said James.

  But Gertrude declared that our personal guard would more than suffice. James argued with her: “If a mob should assemble, I cannot best them with just a handful of men, and poor and hungry specimens at that.”

  “Oh, there won’t be a mob—that is ludicrous,” she said. “We cannot cower here for hours, the appointed time will pass. We ride forward. Now.”

  Shaking his head, James mounted his horse. A ripple of fear moved among the half dozen men who encircled us. But no one could dissuade the Marchioness of Exeter.


  Down the lane we went in a single line, very slowly, the horses’ hoofs clattering on the uneven stones. For the first time I realized that the man who walked beside me was malformed, with one shoulder higher than the other. I said a quick prayer for him.

  It was such a narrow lane that if I stretched out both arms I might have touched the walls of the silent houses we rode past. When we had reached the bottom of the lane, it opened onto a wide street. A bonfire blazed in front of the building closest to us. That is what I had seen from afar. Around it men stood, warming their hands, in disregard of city curfew. Inside the building flickered dozens of candles. The dark silhouette of heads crowded the long, cracked windows on the first floor. It must have been close to midnight, and the building groaned with men. So this was a gaming house. I tensed in the saddle.

  I was now near enough to see the hard young faces of the men slouched over the bonfire. And to inhale its surroundings: charred wood, ale, and vomit. It was all so . . . ugly. Yes, I had glimpsed the darkness of the soul before—but sinful cravings were usually concealed by pretense, a veneer of morality. Here there was no pretense.

  The men at the bonfire peered over at us without interest. My shoulders began to ease. We would not be interfered with; James’s fears had been unwarranted.

  A door swung open on the side of the building. A man staggered out, his arm slung around a woman whose breasts spilled out of her bodice. They stopped short at the sight of us. I looked down, quickly, and shook the reins to signal my horse to keep going.

  The woman screamed, “What’s this?”

  Still I kept my head down.

  “Ye taking new whores to the market?” she screeched. “Southwark’s across the river.”

  Her companion laughed. Then there was a crackling noise, much nearer. One of the young men at the bonfire lurched toward me. James turned his horse around to head him off. He called out, “We want no trouble tonight—let us pass.” He tried, without success, to keep his tone light and friendly.

  “If ye want no trouble, then why do ye come here?” the whore’s companion called out.

  “Let us pass,” James repeated.

  Out of nowhere, more people appeared at the bonfire. There were now at least ten young men outside of the gaming house, with more tumbling out the door. We were outnumbered.

  16

  I had told Gertrude that I hoped we would be attacked before reaching the second seer. What foolish words. With one hand I gripped the reins of my horse, but with the other I fumbled for the Rosary that hung from my waist.

  Gertrude was ahead of me, with five of the hired men and the linkboys huddled around her. Joseph was by her side, too, scowling.

  James tried to save me. He had clearly meant to wedge himself between me and the gathering crowd, to move me to the other side of him, with Gertrude. But the men had already reached the street and blocked James’s horse. He could not go farther without knocking someone aside. I saw his eyes dart up and down, as he considered dismounting. He did not.

  Now just the crook-backed man stood between me and the drunken gamesters. “Get back,” he shouted, waving his cudgel.

  Someone laughed. While I watched, helpless, another man hit my protector in the face. He collapsed. I could no longer see him. But I heard his screams and grunts as the mob took turns kicking him. The cudgel flew up in the air, and they tossed it back and forth, like a toy.

  A man with hair hanging past his shoulders shoved his way past the violent, seething circle. He reached up with one hand out, as if to help me dismount.

  I desperately wished for a horsewhip at that instant, but I had none. “Go away,” I said, like a child.

  He lunged forward with both hands, trying to get them around my waist. I tried to kick him, but my foot was fastened into the stirrup.

  At the top of his lungs, James shouted, “Men of London, we want no trouble. Here—for your troubles—”

  James flung a fistful of shillings in the air, to the side of the street. The light of the bonfire made them shimmer like a shower of gold.

  The man who had been trying to drag me away whirled to join the scramble for money. The mob jostled for it. With the street clear of human obstacles, I kicked the sides of my horse as hard as I could. James, Gertrude, Joseph, and I charged up the street. At the first turn, James signaled for us to follow him around. We rode until the cries of the gaming-house ruffians had died away behind us.

  James held up his hand to wait for the hired men and linkboys to catch up to us on foot. Once they’d reached us, panting and sweat-soaked, James made a count.

  “We’ve only lost the one,” he announced.

  A tall hired man spoke up; it was the first time he had addressed us. “We need to go back. I know the man and his mother, they be in my parish. He can’t be left there. He’s badly hurt—he may die. They’ll all go back inside and then we can retrieve him.”

  “No!” Gertrude said quickly. “There is no time for that.”

  I heard one of the men mutter an oath.

  “What is the man’s name, sir?” I asked. Gertrude made an impatient noise beside me.

  “Owen, my lady,” muttered the man.

  “I shall pray for Owen,” I said, “for he received his injuries in defense of me.”

  James cleared his throat. “After our night’s business is finished, and we are close to Suffolk Lane, you can retrieve him. My brother and I will assist.”

  There was hesitation in their ranks. Hope surged in me. If the men refused to continue, this insane journey might well end. But after a moment they took their original positions. James nudged his horse to lead, but not before shooting Gertrude a glare of resentment. She did not see it. I did, and it sent my thoughts in a new direction: Could James possibly be pried loose from the Marchioness of Exeter?

  We rode on, deeper into the darkness of London. All was quiet again.

  The linkboy walking in front stopped short. There was no visible sign of anything amiss, yet he looked fearful. James leaned down from his horse to say something to him.

  “They’ve lost their nerve, Gertrude,” I said. “They realize you care naught for their lives.”

  Gertrude said, “No man’s life is more important than our mission tonight.”

  “What about you?” I burst out with. “Would you give your life so that I would hear a prophecy?”

  Before she answered, there was a strange muffled cry. We both turned. It was Joseph. He had stopped riding and held his head in his hands.

  “What is it, brother?” called out James.

  “Not right,” moaned Joseph. “It’s not right.”

  My horse, so obedient up to now, backed up a few steps. James’s horse started turning in a circle, and he angrily pulled on the reins to regain control.

  The first wind raised my horse’s mane. The air had been sour and still from the moment we left the stables of the Red Rose. But no more. A loose shutter flapped on the building closest to us. There was a sense all along the street of something stirring. Something that had been sleeping and was now awake.

  My throat closed in fear.

  James had made it to Joseph’s side. But he was unable to calm his brother. “It’s not right,” he said, over and over.

  “Do something—he’s frightening the horses,” Gertrude snapped. Her own mount rocked nervously.

  “He is not the cause,” I said.

  Now Gertrude turned on me. “What do you mean?”

  “We don’t have much time,” I said. “It will be a wind without rain, a terrible wind.”

  Without another question, Gertrude ordered us to hurry onward. The linkboys led our group, as they struggled to keep their torches from being extinguished by the wind. At the second corner, Gertrude called, “Halt!”

  She pointed triumphantly down a street that branched off from ours. At first I saw nothing. Then the clouds eased off the moon and a building came into view. I gasped at the sight of it: a huge stone structure, four stories tall, with a
number of soaring stone columns spaced elegantly in front. Rows of windows stretched across each floor. The steeply pitched roof rose so high it seemed possible it would meet the clouds.

  “That is where you are taking me?” I said in disbelief.

  Gertrude laughed shortly. “No. That is the Guildhall. The Lord Mayor of London and his council rule from there.”

  We dismounted, and the hired men were ordered to a stable nearby. Horses and men would wait there for us to return. Only James and Joseph would escort Gertrude and me the rest of the way.

  The wind gathered in strength; each fresh burst made Joseph shudder, as if it were causing him physical pain. It was so strong that we lost the torch flame for good. But the moon was not obscured; we could see enough of our surroundings to keep moving.

  “Now—let’s go,” said James, and he darted out into the street once more, Gertrude and Joseph right behind.

  I followed them to a small wooden building across the street from the Guildhall. A sign with the words Coneyhope Tavern was visible. It was long after curfew and no businesses were open, but James peered up and down the street before waving us forward.

  In seconds, we four were pressed against the rough wooden door of the building.

  Just then the clouds covered the moon. I could no longer see the street, the stone buildings behind us, or the Guildhall soaring above. Someone yanked me inside a gaping door. Candles were lit. For the first time that night, I could see Gertrude’s pallor. She was ashen. I could not think of any reason why we would go to such dangerous lengths to gain entry to a closed, common tavern.

  Nothing could calm Joseph. He huddled in a corner, sobbing, “It’s not right, it’s not right, it’s not right.”