Friends surrounded Edmund. Master Gwinn nodded, and John Cheke laughed with delight. The two former friars were there, and the former nuns of Dartford. They had come to the wedding of another former sister, and I was deeply grateful.
Father William Mote ushered us all inside. This was something he’d insisted on. Ordinary folk were married at the door. A knight’s daughter must be married within the church, with all guests standing between her and the door.
My cousin Henry led me to Edmund and I took his hand. He smiled at me, and the smile carried all the thoughts and feelings and experiences we’d had since the day I met him, the day he rode with me from the Tower of London to Dartford Priory.
We turned to Father William, for the ceremony to begin.
The preacher opened his mouth—and then stopped, peering past us toward the door.
There was the sound of disturbance behind us, out on the High Street. “Make way!” I heard a man cry. “Make way!”
Someone was trying to force his or her way into the crowded church.
“Make way for the Earl of Surrey!” cried another voice.
The earl emerged from the crush of guests standing at the back of the church. My cousin’s face shone with sweat from the hard ride down from London.
“Joanna,” he cried. “You can’t proceed. It’s Parliament—as of today, this marriage is illegal.”
39
That is madness,” I cried. “Norfolk submitted an act to Parliament in order to halt my marriage?”
The Earl of Surrey shook his head. “It’s not only you, Joanna. It’s anyone who once served in a priory or abbey. The statute is called ‘Six Articles: an Act Abolishing Diversity in Opinions.’ ” He pulled a paper from his doublet. “The fourth article says that no one who has taken vows of chastity can ever marry. To do so would break the law. I only read it today at dawn, Joanna. I swear I didn’t know. My father submitted it to both houses at the opening of Parliament today, but I came straight here. Friars and monks and nuns—you can’t marry. Not ever.”
“No!” cried a woman’s voice. It was Agatha Gwinn.
My throat dry, I said, “Is there anything in the act about restoring the monasteries? Does the king have any intent of doing that?”
“No.”
“So I cannot be a nun, but I cannot marry either?” I asked, stunned.
Edmund stepped forward. “Let me see it,” he said.
Surrey extended the paper, and John Cheke snatched it and took it to Edmund. They read it standing together.
“Your father writes and submits an act of religious policy?” I demanded of Surrey. “I find that hard to believe.”
John Cheke read aloud: “Fourthly, that vows of chastity or widowhood, by man or woman made to God advisedly, ought to be observed by the law of God; and that it exempts them from other liberties of Christian people, which without that they might enjoy.”
“Gardiner,” I gasped. I could hear the bishop’s voice in those words.
Surrey would not look me in the eye. On this, at least, I was right. Gardiner wrote the Act of Six Articles, then gave them to the preeminent peer of the land, the Duke of Norfolk, to push through Parliament.
John Cheke looked horrified, and not just about my wedding being thrown into disarray. Scanning the paper, he declared, “This act protects the Mass, the confession, the sacrament of Communion—the core tenets of the Catholic faith. To violate these tenets will be punishable by law. Reform is finished in England. If this act passes, it will take us all backwards.”
The church erupted in confusion. Nobleman and shopkeeper, shipbuilder and nun—all talked at once about the sharp shift the kingdom might now take. Agatha Gwinn wept loudly in her husband’s arms. They were clearly terrified that their marriage would be annulled. Father William Mote looked at the altar and the walls of the church, bewildered over what might now be restored. Ursula glowed with pride, shared by her Stafford husband. Outside the church, on the steps, stood Timothy Brooke, flanked by his parents, ranting of his displeasure before a growing knot of Reformer followers.
For a few moments, Edmund and I were simply forgotten.
“What shall we do?” I asked him, the bridal garland pressing down on my forehead.
“I don’t know,” he said. Edmund was rarely indecisive. But at this moment he was as frozen as I.
Poor Arthur was beside himself. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” he wailed, as Sister Winifred struggled to calm him. But how could she give an explanation when none of us had any idea what to do next.
John Cheke was the one to say it first.
“You must still marry,” he said to Edmund and me. “This bill may not pass.”
Surrey heard him and shouted, “It will pass, sir, have no doubt. This will be law of the land by June. And the punishment will be hanging for those who defy any one of the articles.”
Cheke shook his head. “Marry today, Edmund. I beg you.”
On every side they descended. My Stafford relations, always wanting to outwardly bow to authority, pleaded for us to delay until Parliament had made its decision. Edmund’s brother, Marcus, also said we should wait. But others advised us to proceed and, once the act had officially passed, petition for a legal exception.
The Earl of Surrey said, “For a nun or friar who marries someone who has never taken vows, there might be some hope of an exception. Joanna, the fact that you were a novice and never a full nun, that may exempt you.” He turned to Edmund. “But you, a sworn friar for a number of years—I don’t think there could be anything done for you. You’ll never be able to marry her, or anyone else.”
“You’re not a lawyer,” John Cheke retorted. “Is there anyone here representing the law? Any justice of the peace or constable?”
“No,” Edmund said sharply. Cheke had turned to address the crowd, and so he didn’t hear him. Edmund did not want Geoffrey Scovill to come into this. I began to feel rather sick—please let Geoffrey not be found. I had not seen him in the church. Perhaps he had stayed away today. Considering the feelings he confessed to last month, he should stay away.
“Constable Scovill! Constable Scovill!”
The call went out as I silently prayed that he be absent.
But the crowd parted and Geoffrey moved toward us. He had been here the entire time, but away from my sight. There was no sign of Sister Beatrice. Geoffrey’s steps were slow, his stance reluctant.
“I cannot enforce an act not yet made law,” Geoffrey said.
Father William Mote said, “But you must make a judgment here—there are a dozen different opinions. No one knows for sure. Can Edmund Sommerville marry Joanna Stafford today?”
Geoffrey did not look at me. He took a step toward Edmund, then another.
His tone hardening, Geoffrey said, “No, he can’t.”
“And I will never be governed by you,” Edmund said. To my horror, he slammed his hand into Geoffrey’s chest, pushing him back a few inches. Immediately Geoffrey shoved him back. The jealousy and distrust that always burned in both men exploded in Holy Trinity Church.
“Stop—please!” I cried.
As their fight raged, I was swiftly lifted up and borne out of the church. It was the Earl of Surrey on one side and my cousin Lord Henry Stafford on the other. I tried to turn around, to see what happened to Edmund. There was a thick group of men around him—they had torn him and Geoffrey away from each other.
The townsfolk gaped at me in the High Street, as I was conveyed to my house by Staffords and Howards. There had never been anything like this—no wedding had ever been so disrupted.
Once inside my house, I tore the bridal garland off my head, ripped it into two pieces, and threw them onto the floor.
“Oh, Joanna, don’t do that,” cried Ursula, and knelt on the floor to try to put the garland back together.
“Gardiner has made me regret it, he has made me regret it.” I half wept, half laughed.
“Joanna, pray calm yourself,” she said. She placed bot
h her hands on my shoulders. “Have you even met the Bishop of Winchester? Be reasonable. Why would he take any action against you in particular?”
There was no response possible to her question.
“Edmund,” I said. “I must talk to Edmund.”
“No,” said Henry. “Not until the situation is calmer, and we have some clarity on what to do. And your Master Sommerville must cool his temper. He did not act like a gentleman in church.”
“Do not criticize him,” I said. “You don’t understand—you couldn’t.” I made for the stairs. “Leave me be, all of you,” I said to my relations.
They let me go. I locked the door behind me and lay on my bed. I wept, but with my fist in my mouth to muffle it. Above all, I wanted no one to pet me or advise me. None of them could help me, except for Edmund. We must work our way through this together. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps Gardiner did not target me when he included the section forbidding nuns and friars and monks to marry. This was simply part of the larger conservative direction that he meant to take. As John Cheke said, it might not pass Parliament. Or if it did, Edmund and I could obtain some sort of exception.
There were comings and goings downstairs. I stopped crying so I could listen. Edmund would come for me soon—I knew that for certain. I waited for the sound of his voice.
The Earl of Surrey was the first to leave my house. No doubt he would suffer for being gone this long from his father’s side. I knew he came to Dartford in fear that I would break the law. But I wished with all my being that he had not done it. At this moment we could have been married, dancing and feasting with friends.
And then would come our first night together, something I feared and desired in equal measure. But I could not let myself think about that, not give way to those vague longings about what it would be like to lie in a bed with my husband.
The afternoon light dimmed; Henry and Ursula remained downstairs. Arthur must be with his cousins at Master Hancock’s. I could hear the Staffords’ low murmur of conversation. How they must regret coming to Dartford now that all had turned to catastrophe. But they could not leave me alone, for family obligation forced them to act as protectors.
I coughed delicately at the top of the stairs and they looked up, startled.
“I am not so distressed as before,” I said. “There’s no need to remain.” I hesitated for a few seconds and then asked, “Has Edmund been here?”
“No, he hasn’t,” said Ursula.
Something was wrong. With every bit of control I possessed, I said calmly, “I am sure that I will speak to him tomorrow then. As for tonight, I am weary. I will have something to eat, and then try to sleep.”
“Not here,” said Henry. “You will stay with us at Master Hancock’s. The town is too . . . volatile. The news of this impending act has them astir. A woman can’t sleep in a house unprotected.”
I looked back at the kitchen. Kitty was not there.
“I have a servant girl who can be sent for,” I said. “If I have this company, will you return to Master Hancock’s? You have your own family to care for—and you must make arrangements to return to Stafford Castle.”
“We can’t leave until the issue of your marriage is settled,” Henry said.
“Edmund and I will settle that,” I said firmly.
Ursula grimaced.
“What is it?” I asked.
She said, “Henry sent for him two hours ago to begin discussions and Edmund Sommerville was not to be found. His sister did not know his whereabouts, or his brother. We sent an inquiry to that Cambridge student, Master Cheke. No one has seen or heard from Edmund Sommerville since that unfortunate fight with the constable at church.”
My beloved was in trouble—I had to help him, only I could help him.
Aloud I said, “Edmund sometimes seeks solitude in prayer. I am sure I will see him tomorrow.”
They finally agreed to leave. A half hour later a wide-eyed Kitty appeared—confirming my suspicion that my doomed wedding was the talk of Dartford—and agreed to sleep at my house that night.
“All shall be well, Joanna—you’ll see,” said Ursula as she kissed me on the cheek.
“Shall you have soup, Mistress Stafford?” asked Kitty when we were alone.
“Certainly,” I said.
I took up a position at the corner of my window. Outside, it was twilight, but people milled about on the High Street, more than was usual at the end of the day. I’d have to wait until it was completely dark outside.
Kitty busied herself in the kitchen. I heard her chopping vegetables and the fire hissing under the soup pot. I regretted having to deceive her. But I hadn’t a choice. I slipped out the door.
I was halfway to the infirmary when I nearly collided with Humphrey in the street. “Mistress Joanna, I was coming to your house,” he said.
“Did Edmund send you?” asked.
He shook his head.
“Do you know where he is?”
“Master Sommerville is in the infirmary,” said Humphrey. “But he’s—he’s—something is wrong. I think he’s sick. I don’t know what to do.”
I ran the rest of the way, Humphrey following close behind. Approaching the infirmary, I saw a candle flicker in the window.
I burst in the door, calling, “Edmund? Edmund?”
There was no reply.
“He’s in the back, mistress,” said Humphrey. “He can’t stand up very well.”
I found Edmund lying on a pallet. He still wore his wedding clothes, his light gray doublet and breeches. At first I thought he was unconscious, because he was so very still. There was no candlelight in the back.
I knelt by the pallet. “Edmund,” I whispered. “I’m here.”
His head turned, slowly. “Joanna?” he said, his voice unsteady. “You’ve come to me?”
My heart pounded in my chest.
“Humphrey, bring the candle here,” I said.
When he had done so, I held the candle high, so that its light bathed his face. Edmund looked half awake, his expression very peaceful. His eyes were like flat, dark pools. I had not seen his eyes like this for more than a year. And even then, when he was in the throes of his dependence on the red flower from India, the look was never this pronounced.
“I found him lying on the floor next to his worktable,” said Humphrey. “Forgive me for asking this, Mistress Stafford, but he’s not drunk, though, is he?”
“No,” I said. “He’s not drunk.”
My hand holding the candle began to shake, violently, and I placed it on the floor.
“Joanna?” Edmund said, and he blinked twice. “You’re truly here?”
“Yes, I’m here,” I said. I turned to Humphrey. “Go to the Bell Inn and ask for John Cheke. Please fetch him. But do not tell anyone else what condition Edmund is in, that’s very important. Do you understand?”
“I understand.”
Humphrey rushed out of the infirmary.
I crouched next to Edmund’s pallet, on the cool floor.
Edmund turned his head and studied me with those terrible drowsy eyes.
“Are you crying, my love?” he asked. “Why?”
I said thickly, “I have no reason.”
After a moment, he said, “You’re still wearing your wedding dress.”
I looked down at the folds of my skirt. “Yes.”
The stories, the songs and poems, that spoke of heartbreak, they had always left me imagining a mournful, sad feeling. But it wasn’t like that at all. My pain was ferocious.
“You look tired, you should lie next to me,” he said. “Everything will be all right, Joanna.”
“Yes, Edmund.”
I curled up next to him on the narrow pallet. I turned sideways so that my head rested on his chest and my arm lay across his. He stroked that arm, lightly, as the candle’s flame burned hot, very close to my back. The tears seeped from my eyes but I did not move, did not quiver with sobs. I didn’t want to upset Edmund, although I knew it didn’t mat
ter how I moved or what I did. He most likely would not have known.
“You’ll see, Joanna—you’ll see,” Edmund said softly. “Everything will be all right.”
40
When John Cheke came to the infirmary, he saw at once what had happened. The terrible concoction Edmund used was known to him. “There aren’t any remedies for this—just rest and time,” said Cheke. “But let me stay here with him tonight, Mistress Stafford. This has been a terrible thing for you. And I know Edmund well enough to say that he’d be deeply upset to trouble you with his affliction.”
I went home. But it was a mistake. When Edmund emerged from his stupor, he knew that not only had he succumbed to the darkest of temptations—something he had sworn he’d never again do—but I had witnessed his weakness. Perhaps if I had stayed with him through the night, he would not have left me in the morning. I’d have found a way to reassure him of my love. I might have been able to prevent the torrent of self-loathing from consuming him and driving him out of Dartford.
An ashen John Cheke delivered the letter. It was achingly brief.
Joanna,
I shall always love you, but your life will be happier if I am not at your side. You shall not see me again. I ask your forgiveness for failing you, knowing that I do not deserve it.
Edmund
I sat alone for a long time, feeling nothing. And then, finally, as I grasped what had happened to us, what the king had done to us, the pain came, lashed with rage. It was like no other anger I’d ever felt. Not hot and uncontrolled, but cold and terrible and filled with certainty.
I knew now what I would do. It was a simple decision. There was no more doubt. I had made a selfish and terrible mistake in seeking to marry Edmund and live a quiet existence. I’d not only ruined my own life but his, too. For far too long I’d recoiled from the prophecy. Perhaps the seers were genuine, perhaps not. But it didn’t matter to me, strangely. I was faced with an opportunity to halt the devouring destruction of Henry VIII. If I could do only that, so be it.
I sent for cousin Henry and asked if he would keep Arthur for a while. He agreed immediately, and urged me to come to Stafford Castle as well. I promised him I would follow in a few weeks, after I had settled some affairs.
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