The Chalice

by Nancy Bilyeau

  “Untrue,” he said.

  My poor father told me Margaret’s secret, days before he died. But I would not speak his name to Norfolk now. Keeping my voice steady, I spun my falsehood.

  “I had a letter from Margaret telling me of it,” I said. “I never showed it to anyone, I wished to protect her memory. But I will make its contents known if you do not leave me behind today.”

  The Duke of Norfolk actually smiled at me—such a dangerous smile. The grief in his eyes over the executions that occurred moments before had turned to murderous rage.

  “That was why the king commanded such a merciless death for Margaret,” I continued, forcing down my fear. “But none of it would have happened but for you. She’d never have gone north, become involved in the Pilgrimage of Grace, if it weren’t for you. You killed Margaret before she ever rebelled against the king. And I think your son—and your wife—should know that.”

  Norfolk leaned over to say to me with utter clarity, “Do you not know whom you’re opposing?”

  I looked at him, at the duke who led men to battle. He’d ordered the deaths of men and women—and, yes, even children.

  I said, “To make me come with you, you’ll have to beat me and then drag me, Your Grace. But is it wise to draw attention to you when the high nobility of this kingdom is under suspicion? Montagu said it. You are the last.”

  Norfolk’s lower lip shook. It took tremendous control for him not to kill me with his bare hands. Over his shoulder I could see his son watching us.

  “I will never tell your son or any living soul the truth about Margaret—you have my word before God on that,” I said. “But only if you leave me here. I will attend the burials. And then I will go to Dartford. You will not see me again. I’ll have no further dealings with you again, nor with any of the noble houses or the court.” I paused. “But I will stop at Winchester House first and collect Brother Edmund. You must send word to the bishop he is to be released today.”

  The Duke of Norfolk turned to look at his son and then back at me. He said, very quietly, more quietly than he had ever spoken to me before, “This is not over.”

  With that, he left, snapping his fingers for his son and heir to follow. Surrey went with him. I always knew that he would.

  I made my way through the thinning crowd to All Hallows Barking Church at the edge of Tower Hill. There were a dozen Courtenay servants there. A trio of men who’d served Baron Montagu had gathered as well. No relations or friends for either man attended, apart from myself. This was the place where traitors of esteem were first buried: Cardinal Fisher, Sir Thomas More. Sometimes, after his vengeful rage had cooled, the king would grant permission for families to inter their loved ones elsewhere. Sometimes he wouldn’t.

  A melancholy priest said a few words over the two fresh graves.

  I bade the mourners farewell and I left Tower Hill. At London Bridge, the hunchbacked man who offered help with transport, the one who took coin to betray me to Norfolk, did not notice me. I paid my pence and shuffled across the bridge, hewing to the side of the horses and wagons. The vigorous churn of the water below my feet sounded strange; the shouting and laughter of the other passengers was alien to me, too. There was no triumph over freeing myself of Norfolk. I felt a choking sadness that I must live in a world so dark and pitiless.

  I never entered Winchester House. I planted myself outside the courtyard, on the Southwark street that led to the Bishop’s Palace. I told the boy posted there my name and nothing else.

  No one came out for a long time. The rain fell again, softer. I did not seek shelter from the sodden drizzle. Men who came to do business at Winchester House edged around my immovable body to enter.

  Finally a priest walked halfway across the courtyard, his face stony. He looked me up and down and then turned to give a signal.

  Brother Edmund appeared in the entranceway, under the stone arch carved with the letter W. He walked slowly across the cobblestone courtyard to the street. My dark haze lifted at the sight of Brother Edmund, though guilt clawed as well. I regretted pulling him into my troubles—but most of all I regretted shaming myself that night at Blackfriars.

  “Sister Joanna,” he said when he reached me.

  “Brother Edmund,” I said.

  His face was pale with deep shadows under his eyes, but he appeared unharmed. As his eyes traveled down my dress, he winced. “Is it blood?” he asked.

  I looked down. I had not noticed until now, but there were dark red splotches on the left side of my cloak.

  “They died this morning,” I said.

  He nodded, took my arm, and led me away.

  “How is my freedom made possible?” he asked.

  “I threatened the Duke of Norfolk that I would disclose something that he does not want disclosed if he did not release both of us,” I answered.

  Brother Edmund stopped walking. “You threatened?” he asked, startled. And then, “What was it?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  His voice lowered, he said, “It has nothing to do with the prophecies?”

  “Of course not. I would never say a word.”

  “I think you should take me into your confidence, so I am better prepared, Sister Joanna.”

  “I can’t,” I answered. “I took a vow before God that I would tell no one.”

  Brother Edmund nodded. “Ah, then, we shall speak of it no more.”

  We resumed our walk. At the mouth of the street I saw a gang of ruffians pummeling a beggar.

  “Bishop Gardiner questioned me himself,” said Brother Edmund. “I told him nothing, but I fear that he suspects that something deeper than a need for prayer led us to Blackfriars.”

  My heart jerked faster. This was something I had not anticipated. The bishop was so cunning and knew Brother Edmund and me so well, he of all people had the ability to find out about the prophecies and my role in them.

  Brother Edmund gasped, but it was not due to fear of the formidable bishop. His attention was on the ruffians’ fighting. Before I could say anything, he sprinted toward them.

  “Stop!” he cried. “Leave that man alone.”

  I ran after him, confused. Why, at such a time as this, would my friend hurl himself into a street brawl?

  A large ruffian who had the beggar folded under his arm, like a sack of wheat, said to Brother Edmund, “What—are ye a pope lover?”

  It was only then that I focused on the beggar. But he was no beggar. That was the hooded habit of a Cistercian monk.

  The ruffian tore his victim’s hood off and I saw the chalk-white face of Brother Oswald. He was half conscious, blood trickling down his chin.

  “Do ye know this freak?” demanded the ruffian.

  “He is a monk—a man of God,” Brother Edmund said. “You must release him at once.”

  “We don’t bow to monks no more,” howled the ruffian. “They be nothin’ but hypocrites, sorcerers, and lazy creatures.”

  I’d heard such terrible descriptions of monks before, and each time it was like a blow.

  “He’s a Papist,” roared the man, “and we know what to do with Papists, eh?”

  The crowd cheered. There were ten of them, at least. I’d sometimes told myself that it was only the king’s and Cromwell’s minions who hated the old ways and the men and women of the monasteries. This sadistic assault proved me wrong.

  “He is defenseless, you need not prove your strength on a man such as him,” insisted Brother Edmund.

  The ruffian dropped Brother Oswald onto the ground. The Cistercian groaned. Brother Edmund darted toward him but the monk’s attacker stepped into his path. “How ’bout I prove it on a man such as ye instead?” he jeered.

  “No!” I cried. “Stop this now.”

  Now the ruffian turned to me with a leer. “Ye brought a girl for sportin’?”

  Brother Edmund pushed me behind him. “You will not harm her, or anyone else.” He lifted his right arm, the fist clenched. Brother Edmund was not easily angered,
but when he was, the consequences could be fearsome.

  With his gang amassing behind him, the ruffian strutted toward Brother Edmund and me.

  I heard footsteps behind me. Two dozen men ran down the street from the direction of Winchester House. Some of them waved long sticks.

  “Be off with you—be off!” shouted a silver-haired priest.

  At once the ruffians retreated. At the bend in the road, their leader shouted at us, “We won’t soon forget it, that yer Bishop Gardiner took the side of Papists.”

  “This man is Brother Oswald, a former monk of the Cistercian Order,” I told Gardiner’s priest. “He’s been injured—we must bring him inside Winchester House for treatment.”

  “Absolutely not,” the priest retorted. “We’ve done all we can. Either leave him on the ground or take him with you. But I recommend you leave this place before those men return in greater numbers. Which I assure you they will do.”

  And with that, Gardiner men’s retreated as quickly as they’d advanced. Brother Edmund knelt next to the bleeding monk. He lifted his head with caution. “Brother Oswald, do you hear me? Do you remember me? It’s Edmund Sommerville—from the pilgrimage to Stonehenge.”

  The Cistercian’s eyes fluttered. “Edmund . . . yes,” he said. “I remember.” He blinked a few times. “Is that Joanna with you?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “We’re going to take you to a place of safety now,” said Brother Edmund.

  “Bless you,” said Brother Oswald. “God the Father and Redeemer has delivered me.” His right hand flopped in the mud as he tried to make the sign of the cross.

  “I doubt he can walk,” I whispered to Brother Edmund.

  “Are you alone?” my friend asked him. When we first met Brother Oswald, he led a dozen other displaced monks on a journey across England, seeking answers through prayer and pilgrimage.

  “The others wait for me near the river,” Brother Oswald said. He winced and rubbed his side, then coughed. “There are five of them. Near a—a bear-baiting pit. We are on our way to Kent, to the Aylesford friary.”

  “Dartford is on the way to Aylesford,” I said.

  Brother Edmund scooped up Brother Oswald in his arms, to carry him. His face flushed with the effort.

  “I wish we could bring them all to Dartford,” Brother Edmund said through gritted teeth.

  I felt a rush of excitement.

  “We can,” I said.

  “How? Even with help, a wounded man can’t be carried such a distance by foot.”

  I tugged on the front of my bloodied cloak. “We will hire a wagon,” I said. “I have the coins in here. Catherine Howard gave me a purse with a little money. It should be enough.”

  “And this is how you wish to spend all the money?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Before God I see no higher purpose.”

  He nodded, his brown eyes hardening with determination.

  “To Dartford,” said Brother Edmund.

  32

  Janna! Janna!” Arthur shouted in the doorway of the Sommervilles’ house. An instant later I almost toppled from the force of his strong little body hurled onto mine. Laughing, I held him as tight as I could while I watched Sister Winifred weep in the gentler embrace of her older brother.

  “Hush, I’m here now—I’m here,” Brother Edmund said. “All will be well.”

  After an evening of tears and more embraces, I gratefully slipped into my own bed. But that night I was seized by night terrors without end. The next morning found me weak and thickheaded. But I forced myself to go to the Building Office to at last secure my loom.

  Jacquard Rolin, the young reformer from the Low Countries, led me to the storeroom. Sure enough, there was the second long wooden bar along with the roller that fit between and the pedals for three weavers.

  “Brussels does fine work, n’est-ce pas?” said Jacquard, proud of what had been created in his countrymen’s workshops.

  Jacquard told a boy to run and summon four youths for the duty of conveying the loom. A moment after the boy scurried away, an older man paused in the doorway to the storeroom to stare at us.

  “Can I be of service, Master Brooke?” Jacquard asked.

  I tensed. So this was the husband of Mistress Brooke, who had tormented me that last day in Dartford before I left for London. He was the one entrusted with the hiring of all men to oversee the construction of the king’s new manor house on the rubble of the priory.

  “Timothy will be ready when the bell strikes four,” Master Brooke said.

  “I will be present—there is nothing that could prevent it,” Jacquard said reassuringly.

  After the man left, Jacquard informed me that Timothy, the eldest of the Brooke children, had two months earlier returned from school an enthusiastic preacher of Reform. He climbed onto a tree stump in the pasture next to the family house and proclaimed God’s word to anyone who came to listen.

  “A tree stump?” I asked. Few things baffled me more than the Reformers’ contempt for a beautiful cathedral or monastery church—adorned with stained glass and statues and jeweled plate and chalices—in favor of worshipping in a pasture or a plain gathering room.

  “He is most inspiring in his views of the Scripture,” Jacquard said. His rather delicate features strengthened as a fierce glow emanated from within—the glow of a true believer. “Every time Timothy speaks, more people appear and join in the discussions of Gospel.”

  Four youths appeared, and Jacquard insisted on leading the way to my home. The High Street was fairly crowded that afternoon. I did my best to appear unconcerned as I walked beside Jacquard, but in truth I was unnerved to repeat that unfortunate trip. It was ridiculous to fear the simple townsfolk of Dartford. Yet I could not quiet my riotous nerves.

  But the man I walked beside was much more the attraction than I was. Jacquard cast a spell on the females of Dartford. I noticed young women—and then a woman not at all young—gape at him in the street.

  “You are popular, Master Rolin,” I observed.

  Jacquard laughed. “In the most modest of ways. Now should we see Constable Geoffrey Scovill walk along the High Street, that has a most profound effect on the women of Dartford.”

  Hearing Geoffrey’s name on his lips—and in such a frivolous context—made me tense again. I had not seen Geoffrey since my return. I should have sent word to him at once, but I wasn’t sure yet what to say.

  When Jacquard began chatting about my tapestry enterprise, I was grateful—at first.

  “It is remarkable what you plan to do,” he said. “I have seen your design, and I admit to some surprise at your choice for the first tapestry.”

  “But my design was wrapped and sealed,” I said. “How do you know my plan?”

  Jacquard made a deep, apologetic bow. “For the ledgers, I must make record of all purchases coming in to Dartford, it is part of my royal commission. I examined it briefly only for that purpose and then resealed it.”

  Perhaps he did have that right, but his poking into my affairs disturbed me.

  Aloud, I said, “What surprises you about a mythical bird?”

  He smiled. “For one, the ambition of the artistry. The phoenix is one of the most brilliant creatures. You will have to employ many, many different colors and shades. Then you’ve chosen to depict the phoenix at the end of its life, when, after one-thousand years, it rests on its nest of twigs, only to ignite and burn—and a new, young phoenix will, we presume, emerge from the ashes. How will you suggest flames?”

  “With goldwork threads,” I answered. “As for the ambition of it, I must create something impressive for my first. A tapestry series that tells a story commands the most money, but I have only a three-weaver loom. It would take more than a year to create a series. So I selected one image, and a beautiful one, that could be appreciated at a single glance. If I find the right purchaser, and it is shown in a prominent place, the phoenix tapestry will bring me more customers.”

  Jacquard stopped in t
he street. “But—but you have thought this through in every detail and conceived of a brilliant plan,” he said.

  “It is no matter,” I said, embarrassed. “But is that all? You said, ‘For one.’ Is there something else about my choice of design that surprises you?”

  He tilted his head, his liquid eyes studying me. “I wondered if you gave thought to what some people might perceive the phoenix represents, in particular if it is woven by women who once professed in a priory.”

  “It’s just a bird,” I protested. “The myth of the phoenix comes from Herodotus, who lived in the fifth century before Our Lord Jesus Christ. It has nothing to do with the Catholic faith.”

  Jacquard said, “The phoenix lives for one thousand years. And the Catholic monasteries have existed one thousand years. Could this death and possible rebirth not be seen as a symbol? Symbols can be powerful.”

  The men carried the loom to my door. I led the way inside, struggling to hide my dismay. Could this have been my intent, in some half-understood way, to declare to the world my ache to be reborn from the ashes of our faith? But I had no wish to create controversy in my weaving—that would serve no good purpose at all.

  Sister Winifred played with Arthur in the front room. Thrilled by the men’s arrival, he peppered me with questions about the loom.

  In the kitchen, my serving girl, Kitty, served dinner to two of the men who had followed Brother Oswald. All of the men slept at the infirmary. Brother Oswald was badly injured, and three of the others were likewise too sick or weakened to go about the town, and Brother Edmund cared for them there. Once they’d sufficiently recovered, their plan was to travel to Aylesford, to a recently suppressed Carmelite friary where a man wanted to join them.

  Looking at the bedraggled monks as they devoured fish pie, I realized how strange they might look to Jacquard. Their worn habits revealed that they once served in monasteries. I did not want the afternoon’s prayer meeting to turn into a dangerous gossip session about the monks come to town.

  But just as I opened my mouth to bid him farewell, Jacquard announced, “I shall direct the assembling of the loom.”