The Chalice

by Nancy Bilyeau

  I was so distraught about Geoffrey Scovill listening to this proposal, to Baron Montagu’s most intimate thoughts, that my arms shook.

  “Ah, you are trembling,” he said tenderly. “This cannot but frighten you. After all, you expected to live as a nun. I promise you that I will—”

  “Enough!” cried Geoffrey Scovill from the top of the stairs.

  Baron Montagu was simply incredulous. “Who are you?”

  I turned around. Geoffrey, already on the third step down, strode toward Baron Montagu, his lips set in that determined line I knew all too well.

  “I need to explain some things to you, my lord,” he said.

  “You will explain to me?” His voice, his bearing, every bit of Baron Montagu quivered with indignant fury. Here stood a Pole of the House of York, the descendant of kings.

  Before I could say or do a thing, Baron Montagu had sprung up the steps and was moving incredibly fast toward Geoffrey.

  “Wait!” I cried, running after him. My voluminous skirts slowed me. Before I could intervene, Baron Montagu had reached him.

  Geoffrey said, “My lord, this concerns you and the Courtenays and Neville, too—not just Joanna.”

  “You use her name?” Baron Montagu said. “God’s blood, I will teach you manners.”

  I’d reached them by then. “Geoffrey, let me speak,” I pleaded.

  Baron Montagu whirled around. His mouth parted in shock. “You are familiar with this servant?” he demanded of me.

  “I’m not a servant,” said Geoffrey, his hold on his temper fraying.

  “Baron Montagu, listen, please,” I said. “He has something important to tell you.”

  He stared at me, confusion warring with pain. And then rage swept everything from its path.

  “I will thrash Henry Courtenay for this,” he said. “For pushing me toward a woman who plays the part of a lady—who even wore a novice habit, for the love of Christ—but who whores with the rabble.”

  “Don’t talk about her that way,” said Geoffrey, tightening his fists. He took a step closer to Baron Montagu.

  “You were having your way with her up at the top of the stairs, weren’t you?” said Baron Montagu. “And I thought she was seeing to the needs of children.”

  To my horror, Geoffrey slammed the heel of his palm into Montagu’s chest. “That’s enough,” he said.

  Baron Montagu stumbled back but righted himself quickly. A mirthless grin twisted his features. “Yes, it is—quite enough. For you have laid violent hands on a peer of the realm, and now I have the right by law to kill you.”

  He reached deep into his doublet and pulled out a knife.

  “Stop,” I cried. I reached out for Geoffrey, to push him out of the way. But Geoffrey pivoted and then pulled a knife from his own doublet.

  “You’re not going to kill me, old man,” he said.

  The grin vanished from Baron Montagu’s face. His hand tightened on the knife handle so hard that his knuckles turned pure white. “You will die tonight, be assured,” he choked.

  “This is madness,” I said. “I will get Henry—I will get all the others.”

  They circled each other, their eyes flicking up and down, searching for a point of attack. Geoffrey was the younger and fitter man, but Baron Montagu’s knife was longer. Its blade gleamed in the light of the candelabras. And Montagu moved with calculated agility up and down those steps, like a dark cat preparing to pounce.

  I peered up and down the stairs. Still there was no one else in sight. I was the only one who could stop this before it came to blood.

  “There’s no time for this,” I said. “Geoffrey’s a constable of Dartford who came here to warn me. The king’s men are on their way. They have warrants for arrest. Yours and Henry’s and Sir Edward Neville’s, too.”

  Baron Montagu’s eyes flickered. “I don’t believe you.”

  Geoffrey stopped circling him. He took a deep breath. He turned the knife around and offered it, handle first, to Baron Montagu.

  “Everything she said is correct,” he said. “I am a constable of Dartford. I must apologize for striking you, my lord, and I do disarm.”

  My heart pounded so hard I thought I could hardly bear the pain of it. I waited, as did Geoffrey, to see what Baron Montagu would do.

  Slowly, very slowly, he lowered his knife. He waved off Geoffrey’s.

  “Who bears the warrants?” he asked quietly.

  “A man named Lord John Dudley has the king’s charge in this matter,” Geoffrey replied.

  Baron Montagu bowed his head. “There was never a doubt this day was coming,” he said. I realized he spoke not to either of us but to himself.

  He straightened his shoulders and returned his knife to his doublet. “I must return to my friends—we will prepare,” he said.

  “But not her?” Geoffrey said quickly. “Her name is not on the warrants. I came here and took this livery as disguise to remove Joanna and Arthur from the Red Rose.”

  Baron Montagu’s face was made of stone. He said, “For the love and respect I bore your father and your uncle, the Duke of Buckingham, I will see to it that your name is not mentioned.”

  He started down the stairs.

  “My lord, wait,” I said.

  He turned, wary.

  “Geoffrey’s name must not be mentioned either—you must not say who gave you this information,” I said. “Do you agree?”

  “As you wish, Mistress Stafford,” he said dully.

  My throat ached as I watched him walk down the stairs, his head held high. Geoffrey took my arm and hurried me up the stairs. He had endangered himself to come here. In the fight with Baron Montagu, my fears had been for Geoffrey’s life. I’d kissed him with shameful passion just moments ago. Yet now I could not bear to look at him.

  “We must get Arthur without delay,” I said, leading him down the corridor.

  We hadn’t made it twenty steps when men’s voices could be heard ahead, from around the corner. I recognized the deep voice of Charles. I grabbed Geoffrey, to pull him out of sight.

  “Do not fear—I’ve walked past other Courtenay servants tonight and no one stopped me,” Geoffrey whispered. “It’s such a large household. They see the livery and that is enough.”

  “But Charles is the steward,” I said. “Also, he came with the Courtenays to Dartford—I believe he saw you there.”

  Geoffrey stopped, and with a curse, he returned with me to our place of concealment.

  The voices of Charles and the other servant did not grow louder. Nor did they die away. I realized they must have stopped to talk. I edged out so that with one eye I could peer around. Yes, I could see them at the end, chatting. There was no way to move past without their getting a direct look at Geoffrey.

  I whispered, “Why did you do this, wear Courtenay livery? Why not just send me a message?”

  “I attempted to,” he answered. “And was attacked by twin men. One of them said he must break the seal of my letter and read it first. It was devilish hard to pull my note—and myself—away from him after I refused. This household is like a fortress.”

  “Then how did you get this?” I pulled on his jacket.

  Geoffrey grimaced. “Best not to ask.”

  Charles’s laughter rang down the corridor. How much longer would they tarry there? Geoffrey gnawed on his lip.

  “You knew it wasn’t safe for me to stay with the Courtenays weeks before these arrest warrants—how?” I asked.

  “The Marquess of Exeter has royal blood, and the king hates all rivals for the throne, no matter if they are family or if they swear loyalty to him,” said Geoffrey. “It’s well known that the Courtenays are in a difficult position.”

  But not known to me. My loathing of the court had made me ignorant of the court, and this was where such willful blindness led me. And Geoffrey.

  It came then. The pounding at the door to the front entrance of the Red Rose was so loud, I cried out in fear. Geoffrey wrapped his arms tight around me
, more to silence than to embrace.

  Charles rushed past us and down the stairs.

  “It’s too late,” I whispered to Geoffrey.

  “No,” he said, determined. “Their attention will be downstairs for a good while. We can retrieve Arthur as soon as they move out of sight. We may have to go out a window on the Thames side.” His eyes flicked over my dress. “We’ll have to secure a cloak to throw over this dress.”

  The front doors swung open. Charles had the keys, of course.

  “I bear orders from His Majesty King Henry the Eighth to arrest several persons who are now within this house,” declared a man’s voice.

  Charles stammered that he would fetch the Marquess of Exeter and hurried away.

  Geoffrey pulled me deeper into the windowless alcove. We were hidden from view of anyone on the stairs. But there was no door to close and bolt. If someone were to take one step inside the alcove, we’d be seen immediately.

  After a moment, two other men’s voices were heard. I recognized them at once. Henry Courtenay had come with Baron Montagu to the front entrance.

  “I shall see the warrants before anything else is done,” said Henry. He sounded calm. Montagu must have had enough time to prepare everyone. While papers rustled at the bottom of the stairs, I thought of how Henry’s arrest would devastate Gertrude and Edward and everyone else here. I prayed that there would be a proper investigation and fair trial. How could evidence exist? Henry had participated in no plots, I would swear it with my life.

  I heard the scornful voice of Baron Montagu. “Dudley, why do you force your way in to harangue us after dark, when we are dining? It is scarcely proper.”

  “This supper is one of the reasons I’ve come,” answered Lord Dudley. “It reeks of conspiracy. We shall learn exactly what was said here by all parties and what plans you’ve formed.”

  “This is a strictly social occasion,” said Baron Montagu. “Our discussions are none of your concern, nor could you grasp much of what is said or done in a house such as this. You are the son of a condemned traitor. It was in poor taste for His Majesty to dispatch you to arrest us.”

  I winced. Why did Montagu bait him like this?

  “It hardly matters who was sent,” answered Dudley, his voice level. “Questions will be posed and answered as to why you convened here tonight on Suffolk Lane.” There was silence for a few seconds. “See to the searches.”

  “What are you doing now?” demanded Baron Montagu.

  “We have warrants to search certain rooms,” answered Dudley.

  Geoffrey and I stared at each other in the dim alcove as the boots of a half dozen men pounded up the stairs. In seconds we’d be pulled out. Exposed.

  But the king’s men swiftly headed down the corridor without stopping to search our alcove. We were safe for a few moments longer.

  “This may help us,” Geoffrey whispered. “There’ll be chaos and disruption. It could provide cover.”

  Among all the men’s voices around us, I heard Henry Courtenay speak again. His self-assurance was gone. His voice panic-stricken, he said, “No, no. This cannot be true. These warrants—all the names. This can’t be possible, Dudley.”

  His fear undid me. I went hot and cold with the waves that rippled through me: terror and confusion and disgust. How could I scurry away, fretful for my own safety, and abandon Henry and Montagu to this? When they worsened their situation every moment by refusing to tell the king’s man the true reason for this dinner tonight—me.

  “They will move off very soon,” murmured Geoffrey. “Then we’ll take our chance.”

  I stared at him in the shadows of the alcove. Why had Geoffrey done this—endanger himself again? I regretted it, and regretted that he had such a powerful feeling for me. He was a man who deserved a sweet and comforting wife, not a difficult woman beset with dangers. I did not see how the two of us could possible succeed in escaping from this house together. The king’s men combed the Red Rose. As long as he was with me, he would be subject to questioning. Alone, Geoffrey might stand a chance.

  A new question stabbed me. The prophecy of the seers could be true. What if I were meant to exonerate Henry and Montagu and whoever else was on the warrants? It was up to me to choose the path of the future, Orobas said. I had struggled against the prophecy because it seemed so frightening and impossible—if not ludicrous—that I could stop King Henry from doing anything he set out to do. But what if this were not about directly confronting His Majesty? The prophecy could revolve around another sort of action. If I said nothing tonight, these blameless men could well be destroyed, the king made even more powerful, poised to breed a second son who would succeed him. But what if I pushed my way forward to explain that the reason all were convened was for me to meet Baron Montagu? I could save their lives—and, by saving them, set England on the other path.

  I stepped away from Geoffrey, and toward the light.

  “Joanna?” he whispered, alarmed.

  “Get out of the Red Rose without delay,” I urged.

  He reached out to tug me back, but I was too quick. I ducked and then slipped out of the alcove once more.

  At the top of the stairs, it came close to overpowering me—the shimmering candlelight and the sight of a dozen men, most of them strangers, standing at the bottom. The words died in their throats. All attention turned to me.

  I threw my hand up in front of my eyes, to shield them from the bright light, and kept walking down, as steadily as I could. It was silent behind me. Geoffrey did not follow. The smell of roasted meats filled the air—squab and venison. The great kitchens of the Red Rose had finished cooking the feast. Servants were ready to serve it. How confused they must be, huddling in the kitchen and corridors with platters of food no one would eat.

  “And who comes before me now?” said the voice of Lord John Dudley, which I could now match to the man himself. I lowered my hand.

  Dudley looked to be about five years older than me—tall and lean, with a precisely trimmed beard. He stood with his hand on his hip, waiting.

  I glanced over at Henry Courtenay, saw his face reddened with distress. He mouthed, No.

  Next to him stood Baron Montagu. His eyes were filled with sorrow and pride and something indefinable.

  I reached the bottom of the stairs and walked straight to Lord John Dudley.

  “My name is Joanna Stafford,” I said.

  21

  Sir, I fear there is some confusion over the purpose of this dinner,” I said with all the politeness I could muster. “You are mistaken if you believe anything untoward occurred. My cousin the marquess had proposed a marriage between Baron Montagu and myself. This dinner was set for us to make our plans.”

  I waited for Dudley’s cold hostility to thaw. It did not.

  “You are a Stafford?” he asked. “Whose daughter, the Duke of Buckingham’s?”

  “My father was the duke’s youngest brother, Sir Richard Stafford,” I replied.

  Dudley nodded. “The treasonous families make new alliances with each other.”

  “We have committed no treason,” said Baron Montagu, thrusting himself forward.

  Dudley’s eyebrow rose again. “So speaks the brother of Cardinal Reginald Pole,” he said.

  Cries came from the corridor upstairs. Was this because of the search? Geoffrey had predicted chaos. I glanced at the alcove at the top of the steps. Geoffrey was still safely hidden. I wondered if he could hear my attempt at intervention—which so far had done no good at all.

  Two of Dudley’s soldiers strode past the entrance to the alcove. To my relief, they turned to head down the stairs. A group followed them. First came a grave and fearful Edward Courtenay. Behind him walked a black-haired boy, perhaps two years older than Edward. He could only be Baron Montagu’s son and heir. “You have no right to take me anywhere,” the boy shouted. As he twisted and turned, we could see his hands were tied behind his back. Two soldiers prodded him down the steps. I looked for Arthur, but thankfully he was n
ot among the horrific procession. Yet what if it had awakened him, and he was frightened?

  Henry Courtenay cried out. His hands outstretched, helpless, he watched his young son being led down the steps.

  My focus then shifted to Montagu, also watching the approach of his child. His dark eyes blazed in his thin face. His right hand groped inside his doublet. I knew well what weapon he sought. Dudley, too, watched Montagu carefully.

  I flew to Montagu’s side. “Don’t do it,” I whispered. “That’s what Dudley wants. He seeks to provoke you.”

  Montagu did not acknowledge that I’d spoken to him. But he withdrew his hand from his doublet.

  Montagu’s son was held back from going to his father. The soldiers announced that the younger Pole had resisted them upstairs, and so would be restrained. Two men stood between the baron and his son.

  But the soldiers did permit Edward to join his father. “I don’t understand this,” he said in his high child’s voice, not yet broken. Henry caught him up in a tight embrace.

  “You can’t arrest children.” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them.

  “I have warrants signed by the King’s Majesty to do just that,” Dudley said.

  “But this is terrible—an act of infamy,” I said.

  Dudley said, very deliberately, to Baron Montagu, “If I were you, I’d get my betrothed under control.”

  With the greatest of difficulty, I held my tongue. But Montagu did not. “Tell me, Dudley, how old were you when they came to take your father to prison?”

  So there was another element to this business for Lord John Dudley.

  Montagu’s taunt found its mark. The muscles of Dudley’s jaw tightened. “Five,” he said, and then turned in the other direction, toward the corridor leading to the great hall. “Ah, here they are.”

  With soldiers right behind, Sir Edward Neville and Gertrude Courtenay appeared, each struggling to hide their fear. So she was to be arrested as well. The entire Courtenay family would be conveyed to the Tower of London.