“I’m not worried about Cromwell,” Jacquard said just at the moment I expected him to.
“But you told me he is the one who examines the licenses to leave the country,” I persisted. “When he sees your name, why would he do anything? You told him you needed to go home and that you took with you a new wife.”
According to Jacquard, Cromwell had, through an intermediary, congratulated him on his marriage, although there had been no gift of money. “What a miser,” Jacquard had said with a laugh. But Jacquard was relieved. Everyone accepted the forged documents of our marriage. Jacquard and Catherine Rolin had permission to depart from England for the Low Countries. In these times of near-war, to attempt to leave England without permission from Cromwell was punishable by death. Preparations continued: musters of men drilled; ships were outfitted; fortifications built.
As for Chapuys, he had been officially recalled. He awaited us in a house he owned in Antwerp and would escort me to Ghent. The challenge was that there were no ships sailing from England to the Low Countries. Foreign travel was at almost a complete standstill. So we must wait.
Suddenly I knew what troubled Jacquard—why he went to such extraordinary lengths to deceive.
“Gardiner?” I whispered.
Jacquard nodded.
I pushed away the plate of food Nelly had just put in front of me.
“What do you know?” I demanded. “What have you heard?”
He dipped his chicken drumstick in salt and said, “I’ve heard nothing. But it is possible that Gardiner has made it his business also to examine the licenses of those leaving England. He rises higher in the king’s estimation every day, now that the Act of Six Articles has become law. If the bishop sees my name, he sees the word Dartford. Then he sees that I take a wife, and he might make the leap we really do not want him to make.”
“But why?” I cried, anguished. “Why would he do that?”
Jacquard ripped a piece of flesh off the bone and chewed, delicately, before answering. “I think the bishop has a suspicious feeling about you. He knows something is not right. I’ve had such feelings myself, during past assignments. I learned long ago always to trust them—to pursue every suspicion, examine every shadow.”
In the days I’d spent at the house of Eustace Chapuys, a plan was formed. Jacquard showed up the first night—apparently, Chapuys had known exactly where to find him. I learned that despite my protestations at Saint Sepulchre, Señor Hantaras and Jacquard had proceeded with forging marriage documents and applying for a license for a married couple to leave the country. The instant a ship was approved for sailing, we would be on it. No price was too high for the passage. The greatest problem to surmount was me. Where was Joanna Stafford during the time that Catherine Rolin traveled? I could not disappear without explanation. If I told people in Dartford that I was going to Stafford Castle, that was a lie easily exposed, for the Duke of Norfolk was in contact with my cousin, Henry Stafford. After hours of discussion, it was decided that I should say I traveled to Hertfordshire, to stay for several months with my closest friend, Sister Winifred. Chapuys posted a spy to watch over the farm of Marcus Sommerville and intercept any letters meant for me and deal wtih them. So far none had arrived.
No one seemed surprised that I had indeed offered myself to the cause. Jacquard had said, back at Dartford, “You will come to us and implore us to take you to Ghent.” It chilled me that everything I did followed the predictions of a stranger in another country. Chapuys, Jacquard, and Señor Hantaras shared all plans with me—except for the identity of the third seer. To my frustration, they would reveal nothing except that his powers of prophecy had been confirmed by the Dominican Order.
Now Jacquard was urging me, “Eat some food—you need to keep your strength up. Then we will practice the rondel.”
Ambassador Chapuys suggested it before he left England—I must be trained in certain arts of combat. I’d been dumbfounded at first. Never in my entire life had I heard of a woman fighting. “If you can learn to dance, you can learn to fight,” said the unflappable ambassador. “They are not so different. And we must do everything we can to help you protect yourself should the need arise.”
What he didn’t say—what he didn’t need to say—was that this would not only train me in techniques for protection but also for attack.
In my small bedchamber, I took off my clothes and my ridiculous brown hairpiece. I piled my real black hair high on my head and fastened it. I put on my rondel clothes, those of a boy: a loose shirt and hose. Wearing this was unseemly, but I couldn’t practice properly in a gown.
Jacquard, dressed similarly, bowed when I entered the room used for our games. He handed me my rondel, a twelve-inch-long steel dagger with a blunted tip. He held the same.
I gripped it by its carved wooden handle, and we began.
“Pivot, drop, and thrust; pivot, drop, and thrust,” Jacquard said. After the first round, he said, “You’re improving. You’ve always been quick of mind. And you’re agile. What’s lacking is form. Another couple sessions of this, and you’ll be . . .” he paused to select the right word.
“Dangerous?” I asked.
“Précisement,” he said.
I wanted to be dangerous. That’s what hate had done to me. And that is why, deep in my soul, I feared these sessions with Jacquard. They forced me to confront a side of myself that was twisted, savage. I had fallen so low from my time as a Dominican novice. Then I had believed in peace and sacrifice and forgiveness. Now I rarely prayed, except for the courage not to falter when the time came for me to strike.
It was during the third round of practice that it happened. I dropped too low and tumbled to the floor, flat on my back. My hair broke from its pins and fell down over my shoulders.
“Are you injured?” asked Jacquard, kneeling next to me.
I shook my head, though I couldn’t get up immediately. I’d had the breath knocked from me in the fall.
Suddenly Jacquard gathered my hair in his hands.
“You are rather beautiful,” he mused. “I wasn’t lying when I said that today.”
I shrank from him, sliding frantically across the floor.
Jacquard sighed.
“When will you stop being afraid of me?” he said. “Every time I touch you, you freeze. But we are supposed to be married, and must next persuade others of that on a ship, in close quarters.”
I picked up my dagger and rose to my feet. “I will convince—but I must ask you not to suggest that there ever be relations between us,” I said. “That cannot be.”
He walked toward me, slowly, turning the dagger in his hands.
“Why not?” he asked. “I’d be gentle with you. Don’t you think we know you weep at night for your lost friar? I could help you recover from him very easily.”
“I shall never ‘recover,’ as you put it,” I said. “I don’t wish to, and certainly not through any of your efforts.”
Without waiting for him to say another word, I left the room, still carrying my dagger. I went straight to my bedchamber on the upper floor and locked the door.
I cannot say that I’d thought this inevitable. Jacquard had never displayed the affection for me—nor the lust—that would lead to a romantic offer. But from the beginning I had feared that playing at marriage would thrust me into inappropriate circumstances. Ambassador Chapuys personally assured me that what had just happened would never happen. “Your virtue will not be compromised,” he said. But Chapuys was in Antwerp, and I was locked in tense partnership with Jacquard Rolin, a man who’d just suggested lying together as casually as riding or hunting together.
Most unwillingly, Edmund entered my mind as I lay there. Now that more time had passed, I saw with greater clarity that marriage was wrong for him. He had a calling to live as a man of God. We had feelings for each other of an earthly nature, but they should have been resisted. All I could do was pray that my mission would succeed—I’d hear the third prophecy and be so instructed on how to
stop Henry VIII. After the kingdom was restored, Edmund and I could return to the chaste lives we were truly meant to lead: a Dominican nun and friar.
There was but one small window in my room and the heat did not fade this July night. If anything, it became more airless as the hours crawled by. I lay in bedclothes dampened by my sweat. It disgusted me—I felt more like an animal than a Christian woman. It was completely silent outside. People on Saint Paul’s Row observed the curfew. And there were few trees. Not even the sound of night birds’ singing drifted through my window.
That is why, when the noises came, I heard them so distinctly.
At first I thought it was a hungry kitten; then, when it changed in nature, grew louder and more desperate, I thought it a wild cat—perhaps more than one. I got out of bed and stood by the door. To my growing concern, this yelping sounded human. It could be a woman in pain. The only other person sleeping here tonight was Nelly—I’d not heard Jacquard walking around in the bedchamber next to mine. She was not really my servant, as Kitty had been—Nelly worked for Chapuys. But I felt responsible for her safety. Wearing only my shift and carrying my dagger, I unlocked the door to seek out the source of the noise.
From the top of the stairs I could tell it was no cat but definitely a woman. Was it Nelly? The sound was like rough panting, a woman in pain, I feared. As I climbed down the stairs, I wondered at its rhythmic nature. The pain did not seem to increase or decrease.
I crept as quietly as I could to Nelly’s room next to the kitchen. It was definitely coming from behind the door.
I had my hand on the door, ready to push it open, when I heard another person speak in the room. “That’s it—yes, that’s it,” whispered Jacquard.
I dropped the dagger in my haste to get away. I didn’t pick it up. I did not want to take the seconds needed to find it in the dark. I did not want to face Jacquard and Nelly.
I locked the door behind me. I stretched out again on the bed sheets and prayed for sleep. Oblivion finally came, and when it did, I found myself sleeping past my usual time.
I heard the sound of men’s voices as I dressed. Señor Hantaras discussed a matter quietly with Jacquard, while Nelly served them bread and morning ale. Hantaras came to the house regularly, but usually at night. His dark complexion marked him out as a possible foreigner, and the English were hostile toward those of foreign birth as never before, with talk of war.
“I wish you a good morning,” said Señor Hantaras to me, with his customary courtesy.
I looked at the spot outside Nelly’s door. The dagger was gone. Nelly would not meet my eyes.
We exchanged pleasantries and then Señor Hantaras left. I said, “Master Rolin, may I speak to you in the other room?”
“Of course.” Jacquard stood up and brushed a bread crumb from his doublet. There was a spark in the corner of those brown eyes.
Once we’d removed ourselves from Nelly’s hearing, I said, “Your behavior is shameful, and must cease immediately.”
“Which behavior exactly?” he asked.
“Do not make a mockery of your seduction of a servant girl.” In my exhaustion, my voice was harsh and shrill. “It’s disgusting.” And then: “You are disgusting.”
Jacquard slipped his hands in his pockets and bounced back and forth on his heels. “But young servant girls make not only the best bedfellows but the best informants of their mistresses’ activities, too. Not just here but in Dartford.”
As I realized what he was telling me, the shock was like a blow. “You seduced Kitty as well. That’s how so much was known—how you were aware of everything I did and all my plans.”
He smiled.
“I cannot—I will not—continue this association with you,” I shouted. “What would Ambassador Chapuys say of your lewd conduct—or Señor Hantaras? Be assured I will find a way to inform them of all that has occurred here.”
Jacquard took his hands out of his pockets. “I’ve had enough of your virgin caterwauling. Do not interfere with me, Joanna Stafford. I lie with these girls not just to ease my boredom but to better serve my charge from the emperor himself: ‘To protect Joanna Stafford and guide her to Ghent and to eliminate all those who would endanger her or expose her importance to the Empire.’ You have no notion—none at all—of that importance, do you?”
“I’m no fool,” I snapped. “I know it is said that I will be called on to do something that will decide the future of this kingdom.”
Jacquard laughed. “This kingdom? This dreary island? Do you think that is why we have gone to so much effort and expense with you? The two most powerful men in Christendom are the Emperor Charles and King François. This king of yours plays a part, a small one—but, yes, unfortunately, a significant one. Henry the Eighth can change the balance of power. And if the balance tips the right way, the cause of the Emperor Charles will triumph. You will do that for him. It’s been foretold.”
I shrank from this knowledge. The pressures brought to bear on me were already so frightening—such a revelation made my duty terrifying. So they believed my actions would not only restore England to the true faith but change the balance of power in all of Christendom.
“By who?” I said at last. “If I am so vitally important, then why can’t you tell me who the third seer is? Why must I be kept in ignorance?”
“I cannot tell you that,” Jacquard said. “But what I can tell you is that your Tudor king grows more monstrous with the passing of each day. Perhaps it is his fear of invasion—or his rage at the pope and the Catholic princes for turning on him. Or the pain in his leg that I’m told prevents his getting more than a few hours of sleep at a time. It’s hard to know what could turn a man into such a beast.”
“What is happening?” I asked.
Jacquard said, “Despite the fact that the king seems to be veering back to the Catholic Church, he lashes out at the monasteries with fresh hatred. The last one left standing, Glastonbury Abbey, became the target of the king’s rage. The abbot, an old, sick man, refused to surrender and so he was taken to the Tower. Do you know what Henry the Eighth ordered done to the Abbot of Glastonbury?”
I braced myself for a new horror, but nothing in my experience could prepare me for what I heard next.
“The abbot was taken from the Tower. The old man was dragged on a hurdle by horses to the highest hill in Glastonbury. There he was hanged and afterward beheaded and cut into pieces. His head was fastened to the gateway to Glastonbury Abbey and his limbs were fastened to other places in the four corners of His Majesty’s kingdom.”
It was as if Henry VIII plumbed the depths of human nightmare and then made them real.
But Jacquard was not finished.
“I hear other things,” he said. “Things that have happened in the Tower of London, to those who are not strangers to you.”
I shrank from him. “Is it Gertrude—or Edward?”
He shook his head, following me. “They are imprisoned still. Unharmed. For now. No, I must tell you of the family of Baron Montagu.”
I could not speak. I closed my eyes.
“The mother, Margaret, Countess of Salisbury, has been carted to the Tower of London and locked in a bare prison cell—though she is seventy years old. But the king shows no mercy for the mother of Cardinal Reginald Pole, the man who defies him in Rome. She will most certainly be executed, as was her eldest son.”
It was then I wept. This would kill Ursula; it would break the heart of anyone who cared for the family of Pole.
“And yet it gets worse than that,” he said.
I could barely see him; my cheeks were sodden with tears. “How?” I croaked.
“The son of Baron Montagu has disappeared. Such a difficult boy he’d been to the yeoman warders of the Tower. One of them was overheard saying someone should strangle this accursed boy in his bed. The last report we’ve had is that the cell is empty. No announcement of illness or death has been made. But the Pole boy is gone forever.”
I stretched out my ha
nd, toward Jacquard. “No more,” I begged. “No more.”
Jacquard took that hand in his. He did not pull me up but knelt on the floor, facing me. He took my other hand in his. His strength was unearthly.
“Joanna Stafford, will you then be ruled by me? I am not here to sully your virtue unbidden; there are a hundred girls for that.” He gripped my hands even tighter. Pain shot up through them to the tops of my shoulders. “But only you can do what you were meant to do. You must obey me, here and in the Low Countries and for the rest of the time that we are bound together.”
“Yes,” I said. “I know.”
He released my hands and I collapsed onto the floor, struggling to breathe.
“Then begin to pack,” he said. “We have a ship at last. Señor Hantaras came to tell me. We leave for Antwerp in three days’ time.”
42
On a hot and cloudless morning, a hired barge took me and Jacquard Rolin to Gravesend, east of London, on the south bank of the Thames. This Kent town was where the large ships docked that brought munitions to the king, to be used in his coming war. I had no knowledge of such ships, and certainly none of munitions. I’d never stepped into anything larger than this barge. When we turned the bend, and I saw the half dozen soaring ships anchored at Gravesend, I gasped. It was like a forest sprouting in the water, with masts soaring straight to the sun.
Jacquard smiled at my awe. “Wait until you see Antwerp,” he said.
Ever since he had extracted a promise of obedience from me, his manner had changed. The elaborate courtesy had receded; his mocking smile was gone. He also had made a point of sleeping in the bedchamber next to mine—alone. Although I did not ask, I assumed that he ceased his attentions to Nelly as some sort of gesture to me. I still felt that I had failed her in not protecting her from Jacquard’s predations. When I bade her farewell, I gave Nelly a little money. She was quite grateful, which somehow made me feel even worse.
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