The Chalice

by Nancy Bilyeau

  The hunchback who’d offered to help us with transport when we emerged from London Bridge edged out from behind another man. He pointed at me. “That’s the one, that’s her,” he said.

  “Of course it’s her,” the duke said. “Give this stunted foot-licker a shilling and boot him.”

  My left cheek stung from the slap, but it was nothing compared to my neck. I couldn’t even stand straight but bent over, clutching my shoulder. I managed to ask, “Where is Brother Edmund?”

  Bishop Gardiner said calmly, “He has been taken to Winchester House, to await my judgment.”

  Norfolk seethed: “To come here, the two of you, lying to the porter, claiming you’re brother and sister, and then to soil this monastery—I thought I had seen all matter of depravity in my life, but this . . . this . . .” He couldn’t finish his sentence.

  “We committed no crime,” I said.

  “You brought that friar here to fornicate,” Norfolk shouted. “You may fool others with your novice guise, but I know what a whore you really are, Joanna Stafford.”

  “No,” I said.

  It took every bit of strength I possessed to stand up tall through the haze of pain. I looked to Bishop Stephen Gardiner, not the duke. “We came to Blackfriars to learn,” I said. “To pray. That is the truth.”

  Something flickered in the bishop’s eyes. It could have been pity. Or contempt. He opened his mouth to say something—but was drowned out by the duke.

  “To learn?” The Duke of Norfolk’s contempt was savage. “But you don’t learn—ever. You were arrested last year, your priory was dissolved this year, any woman with sense would understand that the time for nuns and friars and monks is finished. It’s over. There are no more monasteries. Everyone must accept it or be crushed to dust. The end of the year will bring the last destruction.”

  “What more can be destroyed?” I asked bleakly. “Everything is gone.”

  Norfolk said, “You’re wrong, as always. The king has already stripped and closed the shrine of Thomas Becket, and on the night of December twenty-eighth, men will go to Canterbury Cathedral and remove the bones of the saint. When those last pilgrims arrive the next morning, on the anniversary of Becket’s death, they will find nothing but a wrecked shrine. The king wants the bones burned. So end all men of the cloth who defy their anointed king.”

  I had never even conceived of anything so monstrous. It was agony—far worse than the fleshly pain dealt by Norfolk—to know that our most beloved and revered saint would be so molested. To steal the holy treasure of a saint and close the shrine to the pilgrims who needed him was already a tragedy. But to defile his remains?

  My hands shaking, I made the sign of the cross. Then I peered over at Bishop Gardiner. His face was white marble. This must be as horrifying to him as it was to me, but the bishop revealed not a hint of feeling.

  Norfolk said, “You’re going to Stafford Castle, to rot there for the rest of your life. God’s teeth, if I have to tie you over a horse myself, you are going. But first you have a duty to perform.”

  “Duty?” I repeated.

  “The Marquess of Exeter and Baron Montagu were tried and found guilty yesterday of high treason. It is the king’s pleasure that they be beheaded on Tower Hill. Their last request, which His Majesty granted, was to die together. I will attend. And you will, too, Joanna Stafford. The Lady Mary wants you to represent her at the execution, and so you shall. You and I will see this through to the end.”

  30

  When I was a prisoner confined in the Tower of London, I could not see the moat from my cell. But the morning of the executions, I stared at it for hours: a ring of dank muddy water, fringed with dead branches. On the other side of the wall, all was scrupulously maintained. There must be a meaning behind the neglect—there was a reason for everything at the Tower—but I couldn’t discern it.

  The rain started falling before dawn. By the time I stood on Tower Hill, the downpour had turned steady. The Earl of Surrey cursed behind me. He’d worn his best cap, topped by an ostrich feather, but the rain wilted the plumage. Like many young men, Surrey most feared looking ridiculous.

  The rain streamed down the lined face of the Duke of Norfolk. It turned his white furs sodden; but his chain of office, his gold medallion, still gleamed defiantly on his chest. When I mounted a horse at Howard House, he said, “Keep your head down. Shut your eyes if you can’t bear it. I won’t have woman’s weeping.”

  “I won’t weep,” I said. “This isn’t the first time I’ve seen someone die before the mob.”

  We stood on the hill that swelled beside the Tower. Behind us lay the city. All Hallows Barking Church and a cluster of houses straddled the border between London and Tower land. Many men came to crowd around the tall, straw-covered platform where Henry Courtenay and Baron Montagu would soon die. I saw other chains of office and furs. This was nothing like the raucous mob that gathered to cheer on Margaret’s burning. These did not laugh or cheer, but I did not imagine for a second that they mourned.

  I ignored them, one and all, to concentrate on prayer. Henry Courtenay had been found guilty of plotting to overthrow the king and marry his son Edward to the Lady Mary so they could rule together. I knew it to be a foul lie. Gertrude was not tried, but neither she nor her son was released. As for Baron Montagu, guilt lay in his supposed sympathy with the antimonarchical ideas of his brother Cardinal Reginald Pole.

  I stood straighter. I’d not falter today—I’d not fail Courtenay or Montagu. I would represent the Lady Mary as best I could.

  Nor would I fail Brother Edmund. I had a plan to free us both from the bondage of Norfolk and Gardiner. It had a small chance of success. As terrible as things were for me, this plan could well make my lot much worse. But I would attempt it before I left Tower Hill, no matter what the cost.

  I heard someone speak French to Norfolk. I turned and at once recognized Eustace Chapuys, the ambassador to the Emperor Charles. And according to Henry Courtenay, a man who Gertrude once confided secrets in.

  “His Majesty must take steps to punish traitors—yet such occasions as these can be mournful,” said Chapuys. I waited for him to remember the maid of honor who attended Katherine of Aragon in exile during the last weeks of her life. We had come face-to-face then and exchanged a few words. But he merely half bowed with the imperial courtesy shown to an unimportant woman of gentle birth, and then he moved on.

  Behind me a group of men talked louder and louder. “Blessed be the God of England whose instrument you are in freeing us of these foul traitors, my Lord Cromwell,” said someone.

  Cromwell.

  I was a fool not to have prepared myself. He was the king’s chief minister and the architect of these arrests. If I turned around to look at Cromwell’s face, it might weaken my fortitude. And yet, I felt a great burning desire to see the enemy of all that was good.

  Clutching my crucifix, I turned around.

  A half dozen eager courtiers surrounded a short, broad-shouldered man of middle years wearing plain black clothes. At first I could not see his face, but then a man shuffled to the side, and the minister was revealed. He was but ten feet away.

  How ugly Cromwell was. He possessed the thick white skin of someone who rarely ventures into the sun, but he was no ascetic. A double chin nestled on his collar—this was a man who gorged on food and drink—and above it creased thick lips. His close-set gray eyes rested steadily on the clergyman then addressing him.

  I did not deliberate the thought; it came surging up from my soul, like a pure stream bubbling from the earth:

  I curse you, Thomas Cromwell. You are a murderer and a heretic and a destroyer. But I pray to God that somehow, someday, I shall be the one who brings you down.

  It shocked me, the force of my hate, but it fueled me as well. Would that I could decipher the last part of the prophecy, to know if I would be the one to bring an end to Chief Minister Thomas Cromwell.

  Just as Norfolk lunged to spin me back around, Cromwell’s
gaze shifted from the clergyman to me. It was as if he’d heard my vicious thoughts. Our eyes met for three seconds at the most. But in that fleeting span, those gray eyes assessed me with such incredible acuity that the air rushed out of my body and Tower Hill tilted beneath my feet.

  “Stop staring, you fool,” hissed the Duke of Norfolk when I once more faced the scaffold.

  I took a deep breath and regained my balance.

  It was not Cromwell who ambled over a moment later to find out who I was. Master Thomas Wriothesley—a thin man with a long red beard—chatted with Norfolk and Surrey while awaiting an introduction.

  “This is Joanna Stafford,” Norfolk finally said, without grace.

  “Ah, yes,” Wriothesley said. The husband of the guest at Gertrude’s party stood before me, waiting. When I remained silent, he made a bow and left.

  “He’s gone back to Cromwell to make report,” muttered Surrey.

  Norfolk’s angry oath was swallowed up by a ripple through the crowd. All heads turned toward the Thames. There it was—a pole with a flag attached sauntering above the wall that lined the walkway to Middle Tower. A moment later, I saw a group of yeoman warders emerge. And then, at last, appeared Henry Courtenay and Baron Montagu. A group of other men came down to meet them—I gathered they were the sheriffs of the city, and they, not the keepers of the Tower, would officiate. I would be spared the sight of the fearsome Sir William Kingston, at least.

  As they climbed the path up Tower Hill, I could see what a month in prison had wrought. The marquess, who came first, had lost much weight. He had not been permitted to wear a doublet, despite the cold. He was dressed only in dark hose tied with rope around his waist and a white chemise. His shirt was already drenched with rain, making it cling to his skin. Right behind him walked Baron Montagu, wearing a similar chemise shirt and hose. His face was so gaunt he seemed a spirit floating up the hill. As he came closer to me, I saw his chemise was torn in front, exposing a chest of gray hair. It was sickening to see them so attired.

  A priest walked up the stairs of the scaffold first, followed by two sheriffs. The fourth man stomping up the stairs was the executioner. I had never seen him who wields the scaffold ax before. He was burly, wearing all black, as well as a mask that fitted over his head except for two slots for eyes. Like the spawn of a fevered nightmare.

  Now it was time for the two men to ascend.

  Henry Courtenay mounted the stairs, slowly, as hundreds watched. Three steps from the top, he halted. Baron Montagu climbed quickly to follow. He tapped his friend on the elbow. Henry nodded and resumed his climb, though his hand shook on the railing when he reached the scaffold’s top.

  I thank God and the Virgin that Gertrude is not here to see this.

  Courtenay and Montagu handed the executioner their coins—for a man must pay to be killed on the block—and took their places at the front of the scaffold.

  I sucked in quick shallow breaths. Snatches of prayer careened through my mind. I had tried to steel myself. Yet now that it was happening, I struggled to control the waves of fear and pain and sorrow.

  Henry Courtenay, my cousin, stepped forward.

  “See me, Henry,” I whispered. But his glassy gaze skipped over the crowd.

  He coughed and then said, “Good Christian people, I come hither to die and by law I am condemned to the same. Pray for the king, your just and merciful sovereign lord. And trust in God, to whom I now commend my soul.”

  No one ever declared innocence or spewed bitter words at the end—that was unthinkable, moments before meeting eternity. And I knew why Henry, in particular, would praise the king. He sought to protect Gertrude and Edward.

  Henry Courtenay knelt and put his head on the block.

  To my shame, my eyes closed. I was a wretched coward. Beads of sweat sprang out on my forehead.

  There was a thud. The ax struck Henry’s neck so hard that the ground shivered below my feet.

  “Jesu,” whispered the Earl of Surrey behind me. “Thank Christ it took only one swing,” his father responded.

  I opened my eyes. The headless body of Henry Courtenay lay next to a blood-drenched block. The yeoman warders carried it to the back of the scaffold and lowered it into a long box. A second empty box stood next to it.

  A man lifted a burlap sack to the edge of the scaffold and pulled the severed head into it. As the man turned around, cradling the sack, I saw it was Charles, the Courtenay steward.

  I looked up at Baron Montagu. He did not weep nor tremble.

  A sheriff said something to him, but he did not move.

  Now it was his turn to die, and I understood everything. Henry was the kinder man, a better man if all were considered. But Montagu was stronger. I had no doubt that he had insisted Henry die first. To have to watch that butchery knowing you would follow—it called for a toughness that I doubted many men possessed.

  Montagu finally stepped forward. His eyes roamed until he found Norfolk—and then me. We locked eyes and in that moment my breathing calmed; the sweat dried on my brow.

  I knew my purpose.

  I did not recite a psalm or mourning prayer for the dead. I opened my mouth and it was the Dominican daily blessing that emerged: “May God the Father bless us.”

  Montagu nodded as if he could understand me.

  “May God the Son heal us,” I said, louder.

  Norfolk turned toward me, his hand was out, but I stepped forward quickly. I headed straight for the scaffold. The duke did not follow.

  “May the Holy Spirit enlighten us and give us eyes to see with, ears to hear with, and hands to do the word of God,” I continued, my voice ringing out.

  Men parted to make way for me as I drew closer to the blood-soaked scaffold. “Feet to walk with, and a mouth to preach the words of salvation with,” I said. I knew they must have all been watching: Norfolk and his son, Cromwell and Wriothesley, Ambassador Chapuys, and the whole wretched court. I didn’t care.

  I was just a few feet from him now; I tilted my head back as far as possible so I could look into the face of Baron Montagu.

  “And the angel of peace to watch over us and lead us at last, by our Lord’s gift, to the Kingdom,” I said.

  The blessing was finished.

  Baron Montagu looked past me, at the crowd. The rain had stopped. A breeze stirred his hair.

  “Long live the king,” Lord Montagu cried, so loudly it echoed across the hill.

  The crowd waited. But there was no more.

  Montagu whipped around and in one graceful move was on his knees. He laid his head on the block. His eyes found me again, and he said to me, as if no one else were at Tower Hill, “Joanna, look away.”

  31

  Baron Montagu closed his eyes, but I did not close mine. The executioner lumbered forward. I could see his eyes through the hood—darting this way and that as he picked a spot. He planted his feet and lifted his ax high over his head. Its bloody edge glinted in the dull light. The ax crashed down in one sure arc.

  What I saw next was seared into my soul forever.

  Afterward, a stranger gathered Montagu’s severed head. Guards dragged the body to the back of the platform. The stair boards creaked as the sheriffs and the priest and the executioner all descended. Other men went up, to collect the boxes with the headless bodies. I knew that it was all happening around me, but it was at a distance. I felt like one of the gray gulls that banked and soared above the Tower of London.

  Charles, the loyal Courtenay steward, nudged me. “Mistress Joanna?” he said. From the tone of his voice, it was apparent he repeated my name.

  I could not speak.

  “We’ll be burying them now. We’ve received permission from the sheriff. Do you wish to come?”

  “What?” I said.

  “The church back there”—he pointed in the direction of the city—“All Hallows Barking. That’s where they will rest for a time.”

  With all the effort I could summon, I nodded.

  Surrey was t
he next person to speak to me. “Joanna, we need to—Christ, you’ve got blood on you.”

  He drew me a few feet back from the scaffold and searched his doublet for a cloth. The young earl cleaned my face myself, his eyes full of pity. Behind him, men stared at me, in horrified fascination. Whispers encircled us; I heard someone say, “Stafford.” He ignored them, wiping the blood from me. If I had been able to feel anything, I would have regretted what I was about to do to Surrey.

  “Let’s be off,” shouted the Duke of Norfolk from twenty feet away.

  “No,” I said.

  The duke approached with reluctance. I saw his eyes flick up at the scaffold. The boxes were being brought down the stairs, containing the headless bodies of Courtenay and Montagu.

  Norfolk said to his son, “I go to court directly. The king must see me present. Take her back to Howard House, then join me.”

  “No,” I repeated.

  The duke said, “You’ll do what I say. Tomorrow my men take you to Stafford Castle.”

  I reached for the Earl of Surrey’s slashed brocade sleeve. “I need to tell you something, my lord. It’s about your aunt, about Margaret Bulmer. You in particular must know this. There is a reason she went north. It has to do with your father.”

  Norfolk lunged forward to drag me a short distance, waving off Surrey.

  “Have you gone mad, bringing up her name now—and here?” he said, quivering with rage.

  “Your son hates it when people whisper that you’re a procurer,” I said. “How would he feel if I tell him you tried to force Margaret into the king’s bed, to become his mistress—that that is why she fled the court?”

  The horror written large on his face must have been very much like what I exhibited when Gertrude Courtenay said the name of George Boleyn.