The Chalice

by Nancy Bilyeau

  Fingering the dress’s brocade fabric, I knew where it came from. Jacquard. He was alive and this was his latest move in the great game.

  Put on the dress, come with me out of the castle and to another place, another kingdom. There we will plot and kill, and kill again.

  There’d be one more confrontation between Jacquard Rolin and Joanna Stafford, I decided. When it was over, there would never be another.

  I ate the food. I took off my soiled bodice and kirtle and cleaned myself. Then I put on the dress. It was tawny and crimson, with a square bodice. It was made of fine fabric but not a dress of a lady. And it smelled musty. Where had he acquired it, I wondered.

  A key rattled in the lock. It was one of the sullen-faced guards of the castle. Not everyone had gone, after all.

  I followed the guard not to the main keep but up the stairs. He was taking me to Jacquard’s room.

  Master Rolin awaited me with two full goblets of wine on a gleaming silver tray, and smiled when I walked in.

  “Oh, you put it on—you put it on,” he exulted. But then he cocked his head.

  “It’s not laced right,” Jacquard said. “Turn around.”

  His fingers flew up and down my back, expertly relacing the dress. To my embarrassment, the dress now clung to me and dipped low in the bosom.

  Jacquard whispered in my ear. “You are being cooperative. It pleases me immeasurably.”

  I remained silent.

  Very slowly, he put his hands on the tops of my shoulders and turned me around to face him.

  “The last keeper of the castle kept his whore here. She had fine clothes and pretty trinkets and drank wine served on silver”—he pointed at the tray on the table—“but she was never allowed to leave. Not such a bad existence, though. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Still I said nothing.

  In a more serious tone, he said, “The emperor is definitely coming to Ghent. He’s already begun moving his army north toward France. He brings twenty-five white Spanish horses as a gift of gratitude to King François for allowing him safe passage. Naturally, the people of Ghent are in full panic; the word reached here two days ago. To save their lives, they are now trying to win favor again with the queen regent, although it’s too late for that. They’ve decided that those few who are loyal to Emperor Charles must no longer be suppressed.” He reached for his glass and raised it to me. “That would be us. And so there is no impediment to us simply walking out the door of the Gravensteen today. If we move with all speed, we will reach England before Anne of Cleves.”

  “Jacquard,” I said, “I’m not leaving this place in order to kill the king.”

  The disappointment flashed in his eyes and then was gone.

  “Do you like the dress?” he murmured, reaching out to finger a sleeve. “It’s all I have to offer you that is clean. If you’d agreed to go to Antwerp, I could buy you six new dresses there.” He grinned. “But I confess, I’ve always wanted to see you dressed like a whore. And I was right—it suits you.”

  He fingered the dagger handle that was slipped into his doublet.

  “I think we will be changing your room permanently. You refuse to leave to carry out your mission? Very well. The emperor should arrive, I calculate, in January or perhaps February. It’s past the time of year for easy land travel. Why not wait in comfort?”

  “I don’t seek comfort,” I said.

  He laughed. “I knew you would say that. It’s almost as if we are married. I know what you’re going to say or do before it occurs.”

  A realization struck.

  “You don’t have Edmund,” I said. “Or else you would use him to force me to go to England.”

  Jacquard spread his hands. “Even the most diligent of the emperor’s men have a difficult time penetrating the Black Forest.”

  Although “the Black Forest” had an ominous sound, I felt a surge of relief. Now the only threat remaining was of the Inquisition. And I was ready to face the judgment of the Dominicans and of Christ, if need be.

  Jacquard crooked his finger to beckon me to his side. “Since we are man and wife, shouldn’t we share this room for the two months until the emperor arrives? I let all the men go but one. But we have enough food to last. I have the keys to the castle.” He patted his pocket and I heard a jingle. “Ah, they could be very cold weeks. Best sleep here by the fire.”

  How he had always enjoyed embarrassing me. Even now, it gave him such pleasure to see me discomfited.

  “Perhaps,” he said, “if you’re a very good wife, I’ll let you escape before Emperor Charles enters the city of Ghent.”

  Now I was the one who laughed. “You would never do that,” I said.

  “You think I have no feeling for you—that I hate you?” he asked, puzzled. “You’re wrong. I am extraordinarily frustrated by you, Joanna Stafford. Many times I’ve felt anger. But at least we have the full prophecy now, and can make use of it with the other person in place.” He laughed. “I have to admit that you are most unusual. Your strength of will, it amazes me. It amazes us all. I’m telling you the truth when I say I don’t want you to die.”

  “But I would rather die than have you touch me, Jacquard, and I would rather die than serve you any longer,” I cried. “I can’t bear it any longer. You and Chapuys—and your emperor—are all abhorrent to me.”

  The bantering tone vanished.

  Jacquard said, “There is no quicker way to raise anger in me than to decry the emperor.”

  I retorted, “The king of England is excommunicated and ordered deposed by the pope. But the Emperor Charles does not engage the English with honor, on the field and at sea. To save himself the trouble and cost of it, he has his minions try to force a woman to commit the foulest of murders instead. I call that cowardly. You don’t deserve the kingdom of England. It’s better ruled by a heretical king.”

  Jacquard went very still. “You call me minion?”

  “That’s what you are,” I said. “Nothing but a scheming . . . lying . . . murdering . . . minion.”

  Jacquard’s face darkened. “You English bitch.”

  He pulled out his dagger and, in seconds, the point was at my throat. “I’ve taken more from you than from any other woman in my entire life.”

  With his other hand, he grabbed the front of my dress. “You’ll learn respect today, Joanna Stafford. I tried to do it the other way. I tried very, very hard for a very long time.”

  He dragged me, the knife balanced on my throat, to his bed. Jacquard pushed me down and got on top of me, pressing my arm back with his elbow. He shoved my legs apart with his knee. I tried to kick him, but when I did so, the knife pierced my skin. It hurt; tears sprang from my eyes.

  With the other hand, Jacquard pulled his leggings down, and that shift gave me a chance. I wriggled away so fast, he did not have a chance to pierce me with his knife. He lunged for me, and caught me, but I struck out at him with all my might, and the knife flew out of his hand and clattered to the floor. We wrestled across the bed. He was strong, yes, but I was pumping with terror and hate and desperation. I fought back, shoving my knee in his groin. He crumpled and cried out in pain.

  I leaped off the bed and ran for the door. I heard Jacquard stumble out of the bed, cursing. I knew that if he caught me, he would kill me. There would be no mercy.

  The silver tray gleamed in the corner, and I ran for it with only a few seconds to spare. I picked up the heavy tray with both hands, whirled around, raised it, and smashed Jacquard over the head.

  He slithered to the floor.

  I dropped the tray, my hand shaking. I knelt and touched Jacquard’s throat. A vein danced. He was unconscious but alive.

  I pulled the keys from his pocket, and a cloth sack of coins spilled out. I took it all.

  In the doorway I hesitated. Would Jacquard die of his head wound without medical treatment? I had put myself through great suffering because I refused to commit the mortal sin of murder against King Henry VIII. But was it not as great a sin to
murder Jacquard Rolin?

  I looked at his slumped body for one moment more.

  Taking a deep breath, I locked the door to the room, pocketing the key. I made my way down the stone steps.

  I did not see the guard anywhere. I slipped through the keep to the stairs I remembered from that August night we arrived at the Gravensteen. Within minutes I found it, and I opened the door to the cell of Michel de Nostredame.

  The French apothecary was much calmer than I’d expected.

  “I must find a way back to my own country,” I told Nostredame. “I fear that Antwerp, the city of Ambassador Chapuys, will be a dangerous destination. I’ve seriously injured Jacquard Rolin, but if he survives and manages to free himself, he will follow me to Antwerp.”

  Nostredame smiled. “France. That is the way for you. I will take you myself to Calais, the English-owned port city. Is not your Dover across the channel?”

  I stared at him, unsure. “Is it possible for us to travel there?”

  “It is indeed.”

  My excitement dimmed as I remembered what Jacquard said, that I could not possibly return with forged papers and no money.

  “I may be in Calais forever,” I said. “I have taken Jacquard’s coins, but I don’t know if it’s enough money to get me all the way to England. This could be hopeless.”

  Nostredame’s eyes took on that faraway gleam as he said, “You’re wrong. There is hope indeed.”

  48

  Michel de Nostredame and I set out for Calais. It was true that the town was less than one hundred miles from Ghent. But it was now November. I was shocked when I emerged from the stone fortress of the Gravensteen to cold, gray skies. I had been confined for nearly three months.

  The roads were muddy—close to impassable—all the way to Gravelines, the French coastal city. When we could, we hired a cart. But when the muck was too deep for horses, we walked past farmland and villages. At night we stayed in an inn if we could find one, or paid a farmer to lend us a room. We posed as brother and sister, just as I had with Edmund when we ventured forth on our quests. Nostredame did all of the talking; my English-accented French was rarely heard. For the first few days I looked over my shoulder, fearful of Jacquard’s following. But there was no sign of him. Either he died behind that locked door or he made his way to Antwerp.

  At all of the inns I overheard talk of the Emperor Charles’s historic progression through France, accompanied by five thousand armed soldiers, the Duke of Alva and his high nobles, chamberlains, and cooks, and, yes, the Dominican friars of the Inquisition. It was widely agreed on that being a citizen of Ghent was a sorry prospect.

  Nostredame never asked why I was determined to get to Calais as quickly as possible. The night we reached Gravelines, we stayed in a large inn with a tavern. The owner agreed to serve us fish soup before retiring. We ate in a lonely corner of the tavern, in exhausted but companionable silence, until I said, “I must reach the court of Henry the Eighth before it’s done.”

  Nostredame regarded me over his steaming bowl of soup.

  “Then you will seek to prevent the murder?” he asked. “How will you accomplish that?”

  “I don’t know,” I answered. “Certainly it won’t be easy for me to present myself at court. But I feel certain that this is what I’m meant to do. I first started feeling it in my cell at the Gravensteen. Jacquard told me of their plans—if I did not agree to hold the chalice, there is a second person who will be put into motion, in England. It will be close to the wedding, and in the time, somehow, of a bear.”

  Nostredame blew on his soup to cool it. I watched him for reaction to my disclosure but there was none. And then I knew why.

  “You knew that this was what would happen,” I said, awed.

  “Not precisely,” he said, and blew on his soup again. “It’s difficult to explain.”

  “Why was I chosen?” I asked. “When was the prophecy born? Was it the day I saw Sister Elizabeth Barton?”

  Nostredame shook his head. “The future is never immutable. But there are . . . points . . . that are set, that are known long ago. I can’t tell you how long.”

  “What do I have to do with those points?” I asked, baffled.

  “Everything,” he said simply.

  I looked around to ensure no one could hear, and then I said, “I know that by preventing the poisoner from carrying out his act, I am clearing the way for the fourth wife to have a son by the king, and that son will be an enemy to the true faith. That is a terrible burden, but the alternative—to clear the way for the emperor and the king of France to plunge a land into chaos and then carve it into pieces—is not right, either, Nostredame. I’ve been lost for months, for years, ever since I was forced to leave my priory. But now, I’ve found my clarity.”

  I was overcome by this confession to the third seer; my eyes filled with tears.

  The next morning there was a break in the dreary weather. I felt a surge of determination when we walked to the part of the town overlooking the blue-green sea, sparkling in the sun. High waves crashed against the shore. Peering down the beach, I could see a fleet of fishing boats working their catches.

  England was across this channel—I would be home at last.

  Nostredame, who had spoken at length to the innkeeper, said, “We have to hire a wagon across the causeway to reach the Pale and then the town of Calais. There is just one way there. It’s a risky journey. There is nothing on the causeway. No house, no man, nothing. It’s a long stretch of wild and desolate marshes—and should there be a gale and we be exposed to it unprotected, we die.”

  “Very well,” I said, peering up at the clear sky. “But it doesn’t look as if a gale will hit later. ”

  Nostredame gave me a meaningful look.

  “Ah,” I said. “Of course. Yes—let us go at once.”

  We secured a wagon, driven by toughened men with many lines on their faces and few words on their lips. By midday, the sun had vanished; within the hour the gale came. Nostredame and I huddled under a canopy that soon collapsed. We clutched each other, shivering in the icy, vicious wind.

  “If I die on the Pale of Calais,” I cried to Nostredame, “can anyone else stop the chalice from being given?”

  “No,” he said. “Yours is the only hand.”

  The sky grew yet darker, and the gale more fierce.

  I was colder than I’d ever been in my life—and in tremendous pain. Perhaps if I were to sleep, it would be God’s blessing.

  Nostredame shook me: “No, stay with me,” he shouted. “Hear my voice.”

  But a darkness enveloped me, and in the middle of it emerged Edmund’s face. I was seeing him just as he was when he came to the Howards’ manor house in Southwark. His hair was long and his shoes muddy. I didn’t hear Nostredame any longer. I heard only Edmund.

  “I’ve come to take you home, Sister Joanna. I’ve come to take you home.”

  “Edmund,” I moaned. “Help me.”

  I fell into a sort of dream and he smiled at me, a little shyly, his brown eyes full of quiet wit, not the dull blankness when I saw him last. We were in Dartford, betrothed, and he had his book of poetry in his hands, marked with the page he planned to read from next.

  Edmund, I cried in my thoughts, why did you leave me? You said you would never leave me in the chapel of Blackfriars, don’t you remember? But you did. You left me.

  There was nothing for a while and then I wasn’t moving anymore. Voices sounded all around me, but strange ones:

  “She’s ice—as cold as death.”

  “We must fetch a physician at once, have you coin?”

  Nostredame spoke then: “I’m a healer, I will take care of her.”

  I opened my eyes—it was dark, but there was no more rain beyond a fine drizzle. There were people in the streets of a city staring at me as I floated by. I looked up, and into Nostredame’s face. He was carrying me through Calais.

  “Where are we going?” I croaked.

  “To the place b
eyond the Pale,” he said.

  I didn’t hear more, for the darkness claimed me again.

  When I woke up what seemed like moments later, I lay in a bed next to a window. The sky was light gray; I heard seabirds calling to one another.

  A pretty dark-haired girl stood up and clapped her hands. “She’s awake,” she cried in French, and ran out of the room.

  Moments later, Nostredame appeared. “How do you feel?” he said, holding my wrists for a moment, then stretching back my eyelids.

  “I believe I am all right,” I said. “Where are we?”

  “With friends,” he said.

  “How long have I been here?” I asked.

  “Three days. You did come close to death on the Pale. Forgive me. I knew there would be a gale, but not such a terrible one.”

  I sat up in the bed. I felt a little weak. “You said when we got to Calais that we would go beyond the Pale—I remember that,” I said. “What did you mean? How can we be beyond it?”

  He said, “Joanna, this is a house of Jews. I went to the temple first and asked them for help.”

  He waited for me to respond.

  “I am grateful to them for their kindness, and wish to tell them so,” I said.

  Later that day I came downstairs and met the entire Benoit family: A shopkeeper, his wife, and three daughters. The youngest was Rachel, and she had volunteered the most often to sit by my bed. “Is she ready to see it?” asked Rachel, very excited.

  “What is there to see?” I asked.

  “Something that has bearing on your journey to England,” said Nostredame. “Something good.”

  “Then I want to see it,” I said immediately, overriding his protests that I might not be strong enough for the required walk. No one would tell me exactly what I’d see—Rachel wanted it to be a surprise, a happy one, and though I was impatient to receive good news, I agreed to do it her way. She was a winning girl.