The Chalice

by Nancy Bilyeau

  “Which ship is ours?” I asked.

  “The biggest, of course.” He pointed at a massive wooden ship with two masts. It must have stretched two hundred feet from bow to stern. “It’s a galleon,” Jacquard explained. “Do you see the string of holes in the side for cannon?” Some two dozen men milled about on the deck, preparing it for today’s departure. A square hole gaped in the back of the deck, and men lowered large boxes into it. How would such a stately structure overflowing with men and cargo move swiftly across the water? It seemed impossible.

  “I look forward to meeting this particular captain, for he’s no coward, I’ll give him that,” Jacquard said.

  “Why do you think him so brave?” I asked.

  “He sailed from Hamburg to London, in waters full of pirates and spies and outright enemies of King Henry, with a cargo storage full of gunpowder,” said Jacquard. “The only country that would sell King Henry a sizable store of gunpowder was Germany. Imagine what a single lit cannonball could have done—or an arrow dipped in flame?”

  Jacquard twirled his hands in a large circle. “Boom!” He laughed.

  I could not find any comedy in this scenario.

  “Is the gunpowder all removed?” I asked.

  “Every ounce,” he said. “The king has distributed it to his many new fortresses. Germany does well by him. He gets gunpowder and he gets a fourth wife.”

  “The next queen is to be the Princess of Cleves?”

  Jacquard looked back and forth to be sure the boatmen could not hear him and then nodded. “It would seem so. There are two daughters to choose from: Anne and Emilia. The king sent Hans Holbein there to paint both of their portraits.”

  As the boatmen rowed us closer to the docks of Gravesend, I tensed. I could not block from my mind the prophecy of Orobas: “The king has a second son. The prince rules England, with Cromwell standing behind.”

  When our barge reached the wharf, Jacquard hired two boys to carry our trunk to the area set aside for baggage. We had at least an hour to wait, but he steered clear of the clump of buildings near the main wharf. There was no question of going to the town of Gravesend. No, Jacquard led me to the outskirt of those trees, a short distance from the road, and deposited me on a fallen log.

  “I must present our papers to the ship captain, and I shall get a better measure of him if alone,” Jacquard explained. “And the less anyone sees and speaks to you, the better.”

  I did not argue with him. I wanted to be alone for a while, to brace myself for this sea journey. Although the trip would be a short one—Jacquard predicted a two-day sail to Antwerp—I had never left England. Never expected to in my life.

  My apprehension only increased when Jacquard stalked back to me. I could see in his face that something about the captain troubled him.

  “He is a strong man, yes, and deeply corrupt,” Jacquard said. “The type I can make use of, to be sure, but there are risks as well. He was paid a handsome sum for us to board this ship—and a small fortune to sail as soon as possible. But should someone with even more gold approach him, he would not hesitate to turn from me. This captain is a man for sale.”

  A few seconds later, in a sharp tone of voice, he said, “What is this?”

  A young red-haired man headed right for us, across the marshy meadow and to the trees. Sweeping off his hat, he asked, in French, for directions to the inn called the Black Swan.

  That seemed to be some sort of signal. Jacquard shot to his feet. The two of them moved away and spoke together intently for about ten minutes while I watched.

  The red-haired man bowed to Jacquard and went back the way he came. When Jacquard again returned to my side, I saw sweat glisten on his forehead for the first time.

  “We need to get you on the ship as quickly as possible,” he said.

  “What’s wrong?”

  He said tightly, “What I most feared has occurred. A spy appeared in Hertfordshire last week, at the farm of Marcus Sommerville. Word of this traveled back to London today and this man rode to warn me.”

  “Bishop Gardiner?” I asked, frantic.

  He nodded.

  “But the man will report that I am not there. The bishop will know that a deception took place.”

  “The man will not report back.”

  I waited for him to explain, but instead Jacquard offered me his arm; it felt as rigid as iron as he led me to the main wharf.

  When we reached the water’s edge, I turned to him.

  “Bishop Gardiner’s man was killed?” I whispered.

  Without looking at me, Jacquard said, “Compose yourself immediately. Of course the man was killed. It had to be done. But this will create new difficulties. His disappearance will be investigated; another man or men will go to Hertfordshire within the month. And I also fear that Gardiner has had us followed here.”

  The sun on the water gleamed so brightly, I was blinded and shielded my eyes with my right hand. It began to tremble. Jacquard grabbed it and made a show of kissing it. Then he squeezed my shoulder to lean in close and whisper in my ear, “This was always a mission après mort—and you know it.”

  Numbly I shuffled down the wharf. Although it was not Jacquard who had killed the Gardiner spy in faraway Hertfordshire, he had approved it without question. His indifference to the loss of a human life chilled me.

  There was a string of small boats rowing out to the galleon. Jacquard lowered me into a rowboat and clambered into it, planting himself next to me.

  Just as our man dipped his oars into the water, a third passenger leaped into the boat.

  “Sorry—sorry—hope I’m not intruding,” said the young man, laughing. He was in his mid-twenties with blond hair—almost as fair as Edmund’s. “I’m Charles Adams. I came at dawn to see His Majesty’s new fortress. So interesting. Don’t you think?”

  As we were rowed to the galleon, Jacquard chatted with the young man about the newest defenses against Imperial invasion.

  “You are interested in war, Master Adams?” asked Jacquard, smiling. Because I knew him so well, I detected that the smile was forced. Jacquard suspected Master Adams.

  “I’m enrolled on the London muster, if that’s what you’re asking,” the young man said. “But the games of war are not for me, alas. I must attend to the family business, that’s why I’m headed to Antwerp.”

  Just as casually, Jacquard asked him his business.

  “We’re cloth merchants,” Charles Adams said. “Adams and Sons have suffered greatly during the embargo. But I take it as an excellent sign that Cromwell granted my request for license to travel. I must meet with our partners in the Low Countries, and try to repair matters. The trade routes must be reopened.”

  “That will be no easy matter,” Jacquard said.

  “No—and I’m far from the businessman my father was. But he died last year, and I must do all I can. My mother depends on me.”

  I said, “I’m sure you will do your best.”

  Jacquard’s hand tightened on mine. He had told me a dozen times not to speak to anyone unless absolutely necessary. But wouldn’t it draw more attention to sit rudely silent?

  He said to both of us with a proud smile, “Our cloth business goes back four generations, and the Hapsburgs have attempted to dry up the English merchant trade ten times at least—and they never succeed! No matter what embargoes they inflict, for reasons of money or reasons of war, we live on. We’re unsquashable.”

  Jacquard laughed as if that were the most amusing thing he’d heard in weeks.

  One by one, we were helped onto the deck of our galleon. Jacquard had paid handsomely to make use of the officers’ quarters in the stern. We would sleep there while on board—at least one night and perhaps two, depending on wind. We went there directly. Our trunk awaited us in the narrow cabin.

  Jacquard said, “I have slept in far worse.” And then, with a courteous bow: “You will have the bed, I can make do with blankets on the floor.”

  The import of our journe
y seemed to have dampened his lasciviousness. For that I was grateful.

  “Must I stay down here during the entire sail?” I asked.

  He thought a moment. “You should be on deck when the captain unfurls the sail. It would look strange if I were without you then. But after that, yes, do stay here.”

  “I will try not to speak to Master Adams, though I believe him harmless,” I said.

  “I doubt he is a spy from Gardiner, but no one is harmless,” Jacquard said.

  The ship stirred a little—perhaps the anchor was being pulled up. Suddenly I felt grief over leaving England.

  “Jacquard, what will happen if I carry out the prophecy and the emperor and king of France are victorious?” I asked.

  “What do you mean, what will happen?”

  “To England,” I said. “Should Henry no longer be king—if Mary replaces him on the throne—will everyone then withdraw?”

  He smiled. “Do you think this is why we do this, solely for the support of religion and to restore the Lady Mary’s rights to the succession? I expect the kingdom will be carved up. King James of Scotland, the ally of France, will extend his border south. I’ve heard France plans to claim the West Country. As for the emperor, he will of course control his cousin the new queen. Not only that, he will finally be unchallenged in the channel and in the cloth trade and other mercantile interests. This is all well worth the fight, wouldn’t you say?”

  Despite all that King Henry had done to me, it horrified me to hear my country treated in this manner.

  “What do you think—wouldn’t I make a splendid fourth Duke of Buckingham?” Jacquard asked, oblivious, and then laughed. The thought of Jacquard, spy and murderer, assuming the Staffords’ hereditary title was nothing short of obscene.

  But I had no choice now. I must press forward. I went with Jacquard back up to the deck.

  A short time later we gathered, perhaps a dozen passengers, to see the great sails unfurled. Despite all of my fears, it was a memorable sight. Every man knew his part in hoisting the sales. The chain of commands was shouted across the length of the ship; the men planted on the deck pulled so hard on the ropes that I thought their arms would burst. Others scrambled up and down the masts with incredible ease.

  The full triangular sails filled with air with a giant thunderclap. We began to glide east and toward the sea.

  An officer approached Jacquard. “The captain requests the honor of your presence on the bridge, Master Rolin,” he said.

  Jacquard glanced up at the highest platform. I followed his gaze, to a tall man who stood next to a fixed silver cannon.

  “Yes, of course,” he said and turned to me, doubtless to urge me to get belowdecks right away.

  But before he could speak, Charles Adams appeared on my other side.

  “I will make sure your wife comes to no harm,” he offered cheerfully.

  Jacquard kissed me lightly on the cheek, simultaneously squeezing my hand so tight it hurt.

  I realized after a while that it was not necessary to guard myself against disclosures in the presence of Master Adams. I did not need to speak at all. He was the most voluble of young men, talking of galleons and the cloth trade and his doting mother. His conversation spread to others standing around us. He became the center of attention, and I could confine myself to smiling and nodding. Every few minutes I looked up at Jacquard, with the captain and the officers. Perhaps because of the large sums of money he had paid, they assumed he would want to share the bridge with them. I hoped Jacquard could see I was maintaining near muteness.

  The galleon sailed faster and faster. Everyone commented on the good time we made. It seemed the winds conspired to bear me out of England. I edged away from Master Adams and farther up, closer to the bow of the ship. The wind whipped harder through the flapping sails, blowing my dress this way and that.

  The Thames widened as we continued east. Looking straight ahead, I could see the point where it would open to the sea. That point was not so distant—we’d reach it in perhaps an hour. And then I would be gone from England. My head spun as I gripped the wooden railing of the surging galleon. When would I return—and with what terrible knowledge gained? I’d never be the same person as I was today.

  “Are you feeling the seasickness, Mistress Rolin?” came the friendly voice of Charles Adams. He had left the others to speak to me.

  “If you’ll forgive me for saying so, you’ve lost your color,” he said. “You’re not worried about pirates, are you? We are well armed, and this captain is most formidable.”

  I nodded, and hoped he would return to the others. But he didn’t.

  “Mistress Rolin, may I share some of my fruit with you? It’s nothing but salted meats and bread on board, so I brought it with me. I believe fruit aids the humors.”

  Master Adams fished in a small bag he carried and removed a wrapped parcel. In it was a bunch of red cherries, perfectly ripened.

  “My mother insisted,” he said, smiling sheepishly.

  “Then I definitely could not take any, since they are meant for you,” I said.

  But he would not desist. And so I slipped a ripe cherry into my mouth. Its pulpy sweetness delivered a moment of pleasure. When we grew cherries in the priory orchard, they were my favorite treat.

  As we stood there, the ship dipped and surged and a fringe of water sprayed us. We jumped back from the railing. Master Adams laughed. As for me, I flicked the water off my hat, but a few drops landed in my mouth—I was startled by its salty taste. The sea mingled with the river here.

  “Another cherry?” he pressed me.

  I accepted a second. This one was even sweeter. I closed my eyes; the sun warmed my face as I savored the taste. The sails snapped in the wind.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’ve always loved cherries.”

  “My mother does, too—and my sister. We have them specially grown in an orchard outside London. They can be difficult to nurture, I’m told.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Our trees in Dartford required careful nurturing.”

  The instant the word Dartford escaped me, I froze.

  “Did you live in Dartford before you married?” he asked.

  “No, never,” I stammered. “I . . . I visited friends there.”

  Such a contradiction only compounded my blunder, but Master Adams seemed to think nothing of it. He put the cherries away and began to speak of the books he wanted to buy in Antwerp. I nodded, barely listening, as I watched Jacquard make his way back to me. I was profoundly grateful he had not heard my slip.

  “My wife may need to rest,” he said to Charles Adams.

  “Yes,” I said quickly. “I’m weary.”

  Master Adams cocked his head and said, “Of course, though I thought the cherries refreshed you, mistress.”

  “They were delicious,” I said with a weak smile.

  Jacquard ushered me to the cabin, which was hot and airless. But I welcomed its confinement after my foolishness on deck. I considered telling Jacquard what I said, but I did not want to alarm him further. I was certain that Charles Adams would forget the remark—he had probably already forgotten it.

  I curled up on the borrowed officer’s bed. Jacquard did not return to our cabin until after I’d fallen asleep. The sound of the door being unlocked and opened woke me. It was as black as ink in this room—I could not see him. But I could smell the wine on his breath and hear him as he moved about, settling on the floor. I fell back asleep quickly. Something about being on this massive surging ship sent me deep into oblivion.

  There was a small glass window in the cabin wall, enough to let the light flood in. The morning sun weighed on my eyes. I rubbed them, turning to wake.

  Jacquard stood inches from me, looking down.

  I stared back at him. There was no desire in his expression. Quite the opposite—he looked at me with colder eyes than I’d ever seen.

  “What’s wrong?” I said, my voice raspy.

  “Nothing.”

  He
’d changed his clothes—I was grateful that he’d managed it while I was asleep to avoid embarrassment.

  “I’ll have food sent down,” he said. “Stay belowdecks until I come to fetch you. We have excellent wind and should dock at Antwerp well before nightfall.” He paused. “Do you understand me, Joanna Stafford?”

  “How could I not understand you?” I asked, taken aback.

  He left the cabin.

  After I’d splashed water in my face from the basin and dressed and broken my fast, I decided that Jacquard’s coldness was only to be expected. This was a dangerous mission. He’d had disturbing news moments before we left shore yesterday and hadn’t slept much last night. Today we’d set foot in the Low Countries, a prospect that perhaps unnerved him as much as it did me, although we showed it in different ways.

  I was sweaty and restless by the time Jacquard came to get me. “They will fetch our trunk soon from here and bring it up top.”

  He led me out into the cramped walkway. The steps leading to the deck were a few feet away. “We will see Chapuys later tonight. When we get to Antwerp, we will have something to eat and drink first. I know a place.”

  “Why not see Chapuys at once?” I asked. “What could be more important to him than our mission?”

  Jacquard did not answer me.

  Once I reached the deck, I forgot about Jacquard’s curtness, for it was wonderful to feel the wind and sun on my face again. Our ship had crossed the brief stretch of sea while I was belowdecks. Now we sailed east in a wide channel between an island and the coast of the Low Countries. This was the prosperous land of Brussels, Antwerp, and Ghent. More people lived along this coast than the English one, there was no question of that. Roofs and steeples, jammed close together, filled the horizon. Our ship eased into a river—the Scheldt. Like the Thames, it was a major waterway and would lead us to the city we sought. The river was crowded with ships. There were galleons as large as ours as well as many, many smaller ones.

  “I’d forgotten about this, how it feels as if the whole world is bound for Antwerp,” said Charles Adams as he joined us.