That night in Saint Sepulchre, Edmund took our freedom from imprisonment as a sign from God that we should pursue peace and cease the struggle to unravel the prophecy. He mourned Brother Oswald’s death, as did I. And he worried about the fate of the imprisoned monks, confessing to me the guilt he felt over not sharing their fate. It was terrible, what had been wrought in Canterbury that night. And for what? The king had the body of Saint Thomas Becket in his possession. Did he defile the remains or bury them in dignity—we did not know which, and might never know.
A smiling Jacquard appeared. “Good afternoon, Joanna Stafford,” he said warmly. “I understand you have questions on that order. I do have something to show you.”
I followed Jacquard. These were the exact words he’d given me to use should I have need of him. After that first confrontation, we’d seen each other in church or at market, but never alone. As part of a group, he’d congratulated me and Edmund on our engagement. Edmund, to my relief, barely knew who Jacquard was. Even now, trailing him as he moved through these rooms, it seemed impossible that this slender young man who called out greetings to all we passed was a highly trained spy for the Holy Roman Emperor.
Jacquard strolled into a large room filled with new materials for the king’s manor house. The brick walls had all been raised; the floors and roofs were finished. This summer the windows would be installed. It was blinding to walk down those rows of framed glass.
When we reached a corner where tapestries hung, he said, “So you will now tell me what has occurred. Try not to show any strong feeling. Keep looking at the tapestries with me while you speak.”
I said quietly, “I thought you should know Edmund believes someone has come to Dartford to spy on us. Or on him, at least. He saw him in the infirmary and in church, too. He thought he saw a stranger watching last December, too.”
Jacquard brushed a bit of a dust from a tapestry. “Is he tall, thin and dark with eyes close together?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “You know this man?”
“Lower your voice; show no emotion,” he said. “Yes, this is the third spy sent by Bishop Gardiner. Your Edmund saw the first, but he must not have noticed the second. I did. Gardiner uses a different man each time.”
Gardiner.
“How do you know this?” I demanded.
“I must ask you again to remove all feeling from your voice and face,” Jacquard said, his voice edged with irritation. “I know everyone who comes into this town and everyone who goes out.”
I swallowed and then asked, as calmly as I could, “What are you going to do?”
“Nothing.”
I peered sideways at Jacquard. He smiled as he continued to study the tapestry.
“You aroused a suspicion, and Gardiner wants you watched. This spy is sent to observe—and what he observes is a woman weaving at her loom, preparing to marry, dancing with her betrothed. He knows nothing, he reports nothing. Joanna Stafford, I know you wish me to slit the throat of this bishop’s spy, and I would love to carve him up for you, dropping him piece by piece into the River Darent, but that would be most imprudent.”
I struggled to keep my voice low as I said, “I would never wish anyone harmed.”
“You wished to harm those soldiers at Canterbury Cathedral, that is beyond question. But then, all Spanish women are bloodthirsty.”
I turned to walk away from him—but Jacquard stopped me. His hand gripped mine. Again, I could not believe how strong he was.
“Look at this one—at the work that went into it,” Jacquard said loudly. Then he murmured: “I will let go of you now. And we will continue to converse. Understood?”
“Yes,” I said finally. There was nothing for it but that I must submit to his wishes.
After a moment, he said, “I know you fear Gardiner. You are not wrong to do so. Winchester is the most formidable of the king’s men, as treacherous and ruthless as Cromwell.”
I shuddered
“Something is coming,” he mused. “No one is sure what. For the first time in two years there will be a parliament. It begins on the twenty-eighth of April. Religious matters will be heard as well as preparations for war. Rumors come without stop. I hear one day that French ships were sighted in the Channel, another that Scotland is readying its forces, to take advantage of the invasion. King Henry has one hundred and twenty ships ready at the mouth of the Thames and thirty ready at Portsmouth. Hundreds of men work day and night on fortifications along the southern coast. Do you know where the funds come from for this?”
Again I shook my head.
“The thousands of pounds that poured into his treasury after the dissolution of the monasteries. He will defend his country from the pope’s Holy War with money he stole from the abbeys and priories.”
My throat tightened. I said, “You are angry that I do not comply with Chapuys.”
“I’m not angry, and neither is the ambassador,” Jacquard said swiftly. “For the last communication he received said that it was foretold you would now hesitate. When the time is right, you will agree. Not just that. You will come to us and implore us to take you to the city of Ghent.”
“No,” I said. “Never.”
Jacquard pulled a paper from his doublet. “Have you seen Constable Scovill of late?”
“That is none of your concern,” I said between gritted teeth.
Jacquard sighed. “Though your amorous entanglements are a source of great interest to us all, that is not the reason I ask. Geoffrey Scovill was issued a command two days ago. He must be quite busy. The command comes from the king’s commissioner for Kent. I, of course, have a copy of it.”
I took the paper from his hand. It read: “All the people must be in readiness should the enemies of His Majesty make any attempt into this realm. Each constable must certify the names of men in his town between the ages of sixteen and sixty and record those names, along with the harness and weapons each possess. For the muster, the men must be assembled, and the most able persons selected, with a small number to be held back to defend their town if needed.”
Jacquard said, “King Henry plays his part in the great game.”
“Game?” I said.
“The wars waged by kings for land and glory,” he said.
I trembled as I shoved the paper back in his hands. “Between the ages of sixteen and sixty,” I repeated. I envisioned them all: the youths who laughed in the street, the apprentices, the proud young fathers, stout shopkeepers, farmers and fishermen, and grandfathers, too. Edmund. Geoffrey.
“There will be much bloodshed, here and throughout the kingdom, if invasion comes,” Jacquard said. He tapped my elbow. “We’ve been here long enough. I will escort you out. There is only one more thing you should know.”
“Yes?” I said wearily.
“The emperor recalled Chapuys, just after François recalled the French ambassador. That is always the prelude to a formal declaration of war. King Henry wants to keep Chapuys at the English court; he has lodged a protest. But by the end of June, our ambassador may be gone from this island kingdom.”
Jacquard smiled again as he turned to escort me away from the tapestries. “If that happens, do not be alarmed, for I will remain here. And my instructions are clear—they come directly from the emperor himself. I’m to use my best judgment in the matter of Joanna Stafford.”
37
Edmund did not return the next day, nor the one after that. The afternoon before the wedding of Sister Agatha, I was too nervous to weave. I’d slept little since going to see Jacquard Rolin. I continued to turn over his disturbing conversation in my mind. Moreover, I couldn’t stop worrying about Edmund. Sister Winifred made inquiry and said the other two Dartford men were still away, too; one had sent back word to his wife that they’d not found John in the spot he was originally sighted, and would press on. A fear nagged at me that Edmund’s absence and my entanglement in prophecy were somehow connected. He would not have left if he knew all. How I hated keeping things from h
im. How could we begin our married life with me harboring dangerous secrets? But this was what I must do to protect him.
Sister Winifred patted my arm. “Do not be so troubled,” she said. “You must know that my brother cares more for those who are sick or in need than for any wedding—save for his own.”
“Yes, I know that,” I said and forced a smile.
The next day was indeed the wedding of Sister Agatha. From the moment she woke, she was as flustered as I assumed she’d be. Sister Winifred and I would walk with her to Holy Trinity Church across the street. The rest of the guests, including the other former nuns and novices of Dartford Priory, would meet us there, although it was possible that we’d see some absences. Sister Rachel, I knew, had trouble reconciling herself to this marriage.
Sister Agatha had no living male relatives. But at every wedding a man must give away the bride. The solution reached was a surprising one. A man named Ellis Hancock, a prosperous shipbuilder new to Dartford who had formed a friendship with Master Gwinn, stepped forward to do the honors. After the ceremony, the wedding party would proceed to Master Hancock’s home.
Sister Winifred and I placed the bridal garland on Sister Agatha’s head. It was woven with daisies, daffodils, and primroses that we picked in the meadows south of town that dewy morning. She wore her best dress: a blue brocade with gold trimming.
“You look lovely,” I whispered.
She hugged me in gratitude, and we led Sister Agatha down the stairs. The clock struck eleven as I opened my door.
Master Hancock waited just outside. Behind him was a throng of townsfolk, wearing their finest clothes. As we made our way the short distance to Holy Trinity, I heard many good wishes. The spirit of the town toward the former residents of Dartford had warmed since Christmas. That should please me, but somehow, it left me sad.
I saw the Brooke family as I walked behind Sister Agatha—that lanky boy with spots on his chin and a scowl could only be Timothy—and, standing next to Gregory, there was Jacquard, too, smiling and clapping with the rest of the townsfolk. Waiting nearer the church were Geoffrey Scovill and Sister Beatrice, arm-in-arm. Geoffrey and I avoided each other’s gaze, as had become our unwavering custom. On this morning, I saw everyone at Dartford I knew. But I did not see the person whom I loved and trusted beyond question: Edmund Sommerville. He’d not made it back in time.
Framed in the propped-open church doors, Master Oliver Gwinn beamed proudly. Master Hancock delivered Sister Agatha to him and they stood side by side before Father William Mote at the church entrance. In a loud voice that all on the street could hear, the preacher recited the banns and asked if there were any impediment to the marriage. No one spoke up.
Moments later, Sister Agatha was “Sister” no more.
The couple exchanged rings, and we shuffled inside the church for the nuptial mass and blessing.
The newly married couple, John and Agatha Gwinn, knelt side by side near the altar, the fine linen care cloth resting on their heads. I sat with Arthur near the back. He sniffled into a handkerchief; he’d woken up feeling rather poorly. On my other side were my closest friend, Sister Winifred, and then Sister Eleanor and Sister Rachel and the three others. They had come to the wedding after all. We exchanged no words, not even a glance. But we shared a feeling. It was not joy. We were wistful for the lost life of a nun, a calling like no other, filled with sacrifice and fulfillment. We’d not been the property of men. We were brides of Christ alone. In a month’s time, I would be the one at the altar, kneeling next to Edmund. The group sitting in the pew would be reduced one more in number. Edmund was my beloved, yet I shared the sisters’ sadness for a life gone forever. Should I not be as joyous as Agatha for the union ahead? I listened to Father William’s benedictions and struggled against my melancholia.
After the ceremony had finished, we all proceeded once more to the street. A warm sun bathed the celebrants. Sister Eleanor and the other sisters of Holcroft slipped away; I could not blame them. To ask onetime nuns to feast and dance at the wedding of one of their own was too much. But Sister Winifred, too, began to edge toward the houses across the street, not to proceed to the festivities.
“Will you not come to the bridal dinner?” I asked.
She put her hand on Arthur’s shoulders. “This boy is getting worse by the moment, and must to bed.” Arthur wailed in protest, but she was right: his eyes were glassy and his cheeks flushed. Despite his eagerness for entertainment, Arthur belonged home. I promised to save some treats for him, to share tonight.
I walked in silence, alone, to the house of Master Hancock. People greeted me as I went. Now that I, like Agatha, turned away from habit and veil to assume the part of wife, people were prepared to accept me.
“Constable, is your muster complete?” a man said behind me.
Geoffrey’s voice came next. “Yes, I’ve sent the list. We are well prepared should foreigners enter the realm. We will be ready to serve His Majesty on an hour’s notice.”
The first man said, “The muster for London must be very long?”
Geoffrey answered, “I’m told the king himself read through the lists given by the London constables. Next week he travels to Dover to inspect the new defenses.”
They began to talk of the bulwarks, blockhouses, and fortifications made along the seacoast. I quickened my pace, so that I was just short of running, to escape from that conversation. Ahead of me walked two young drummers of the wedding march. I much preferred the sound of their eager pounding to the talk of the war muster. I passed the budding apple orchards and the farm fields. The soil had been turned over for planting barley and wheat. The farmers had carved lines into the soil to mark their two or three rows for the season. The smell of the new earth—pungent and sour—poured a bit of strength into me.
At last I turned off the main road. A wide pathway led to the Hancock house. The flower beds bloomed and a string of saplings unfurled their pale green leaves.
The house’s lush decorations—the garlands of ivy and flowers—put my limp posies to shame. Long tables groaned with food; the wine and ale flowed freely. These newcomers made a great effort to befriend the people of Dartford. There was a determined thrill in the air. Last year saw far fewer feast days and holidays due to changes in religion. Today, in Dartford, we ached to find joy again.
The bridal couple stood in the center of it. Agatha was surrounded by her new family. My gaze drifted to Geoffrey Scovill, downing ale in a tight group of men. Sister Beatrice was not at his side. I thought she never left it—but now I realized I hadn’t seen her since Holy Trinity Church.
In a very short time, a large room was cleared for dancing. The first song played was in honor of the bridal couple. We all clapped when Agatha moved across the floor in her new husband’s arms. I’d given her lessons as well as Edmund. Master Gwinn was, truth be told, a rather oafish man. His new wife had never been considered bonny. Yet the beauty they found in each other formed a grace not equaled by anyone else in the room.
The announcement of the galliard followed. It was not a simple dance; many of the guests looked at one another doubtfully and then trickled off.
Master Hancock sought me out, saying he’d seen my father joust when he was a boy and wanted to make Sir Richard Stafford’s daughter feel welcome. He proudly led me to the floor and we took first position. His wife stood behind us, partnered with a man I knew to be the most prominent innkeeper in town. Only two other couples joined us.
The musicians launched into the song and we began to move. The galliard called for energetic kicks and turns and leaps while following strictly timed beats. But I did not contemplate the beats. I followed the music with my heart—it was as if no time had passed at all. I turned and leaped into the air; Master Hancock caught me and we spun.
The galliard finished, and a less courtly dance commenced. Everyone surged on to the floor. I curtsied to Master Hancock and would have retreated, but the innkeeper caught me by the hand and begged for the next dan
ce.
And so began at least an hour of dancing. One after the other, polite gentlemen of Dartford would bow and request me for the next dance. Each time it happened, I was a bit sorry. I should return home, to Arthur and Sister Winifred. But at the same time I was glad, for during the time that I enjoyed the poetry of music, my troubles receded.
Until the moment that Geoffrey bowed before me.
“Where is Sister Beatrice?” I asked.
“She was not feeling well enough to come.”
“I’m sorry.”
All around us, other people were commencing the next dance. We must join them, or get out of their way.
Geoffrey extended his hand with a smile. But there was a mournfulness in the corners of his eyes.
I did not take it.
“I’m not sure it’s fitting for us to dance.”
He did not get angry. He said patiently, “Joanna, you and I are both marrying other people. Can we not be friends today, at least? You’ve already danced with every respectable man of Dartford. Shouldn’t the constable be allowed to take a turn?”
Persuaded, I sank into a curtsy. When I came up, I took Geoffrey’s hand. He intertwined his fingers with mine. A quiver ran up my arm. I quickly looked away. I did not want Geoffrey to see how his touch affected me.
We danced together, for the first time in our lives. Whenever I turned, he was in the perfect place. He never held my hand too long or let go too quickly. We were in harmony without even trying. I hoped he would not talk to me again. But of course he did.
“This is a side of you I’ve often wanted to see,” he said. “You’re smiling here. Even laughing.”
“It’s a wedding,” I said defensively. We parted and could not speak for a time. The dance necessitated that I link hands and dance with a partner diagonal. When we were close to each other again, I said, “So you think me grim?”
“No, no,” he said. “You mistake me, Joanna. I’m not finding fault. I want you to be happy. It’s what I’ve always wanted. ”
The Chalice Page 30
