After proving my mettle by eating a large dinner, I set out with Nostredame and Rachel. The Benoit house lay outside the high walls of Calais, in a small settlement set aside for Jews. The guards watching over the gates to the city nodded as we passed, and we walked through the center of town. Finally I was in Calais, the famous port conquered by Edward III after a lengthy siege and now the sole remaining possession of the English Crown in the kingdom of France.
Rachel pointed at a large church with a soaring tower and said, “That’s the best way.”
I turned to Nostredame, puzzled.
He smiled and said, “The Church of Notre Dame gives the best view of the harbor from this part of town. Let’s see if we can get permission to climb the tower.”
When we reached the door, Rachel pushed me forward with an excited smile. “I wait outside,” she said. Nostredame and I walked through the entrance to the church.
The priest was agreeable to our request and slowly we climbed the steps to the top of the tower.
“Here’s a proper view,” he exclaimed. “Look!”
I joined him at the window. From this vantage point, we could see beyond the high harbor walls to the churning waters of the channel. There were a great number of ships anchored there. The smaller ones bobbed in the stiff winter breeze of Calais. There must have been twenty. Studying the flag of the largest galleon, I gasped. It was the flag of the House of Tudor.
“Those are English ships,” I cried.
“They are sent by the king of England to convey his new bride to Dover,” Nostredame said. “Anne of Cleves didn’t travel to Antwerp to make the crossing. She’s passing through the Low Countries to here, to Calais. The princess will be here very soon. You will go home with Anne of Cleves.”
49
One week later, Anne of Cleves arrived in Calais amidst an entourage of more than two hundred German lords and ladies, maids, and servants. The gunners on the largest ships fired one hundred and fifty rounds to salute her; close to five hundred English soldiers wearing king’s livery lined the streets to cheer her. The young princess was lodged in a grand house called the Exchequer while I remained with the Benoits outside the Pale. We were not likely to cross paths.
But the ruinous winter storms of the channel make everyone equal. Anne of Cleves was forced to wait in the port town, day after day, until it was judged safe to sail. I waited, too. The day before the Germans reached Calais, I’d booked passage on one of the smaller English escort ships bound for Dover. I paid for it with all the francs left in my possession; I used a new set of forged documents to represent myself. My name was real this time; what was forged was a French councilor’s signature on the paper that said I had permission of the government to leave the country.
Nostredame supplied me with the document, advising me not to ask where it came from but to be assured that it would suffice. I thanked him for it, as I thanked him for everything he’d done for me since the Gravensteen.
“No,” he said. “It is you I shall always be grateful to—you freed me from that prison cell when you did not need to, Mistress Joanna.”
I insisted that Nostredame leave me in Calais, with the Benoit family, who’d taken me in. “We’ve been here for weeks. I know we shall sail for Dover at some point—we have to,” I said. “You must go and continue with your own life.”
We went on a last walk together, along the shoreline of Calais. We strode past the shacks of herring fishermen just north of the sand dunes. No one else was out there—the winds of December were harsh. But I’d experienced worse.
Gazing out, I was suddenly struck with the realization that I was leaving the continent where, somewhere, Edmund wandered.
“Have you heard of the Black Forest?” I asked Nostredame.
“It is in a corner of Germany, a vast forest so dark and impenetrable it is called ‘black.’ ”
Taken aback, I said, “Why would anyone want to go there?”
“It is also a place of knowledge and legends and myths and mystical powers,” Nostredame said. “For those courageous enough to conquer their fears, it can be a forest of magic.”
We walked in silence for a while and then I turned to Nostredame. “Why was I chosen?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he answered. “Reasons are the most difficult thing for me to see.”
I tried it another way. “But do you know why it happened to me this way? Why did I have to learn of the prophecy through two other seers and then you and always bit by bit—and of my own free will?”
Nostredame squinted into the wind. “There is something in you, an alchemy of human qualities, that will come into play when the moment arrives. That alchemy is not just the human nature you were born with, that God gave you. Each encounter with a seer changed you—brought you closer to the person you must be at the critical moment.”
“But what are those qualities?” I asked, distraught. “I fear it is my rage and recklessness, Nostredame, and not the more faithful spirit I’ve tried to build through service to God.”
“Faith is a quality I’ve struggled with myself, Joanna, and what I can tell you is—I have faith in you,” he said.
And so we bade each other farewell, the third seer and the subject of his fateful prophecy. “We shall meet again, but it won’t be for quite a long time,” he said with a smile, and left for the journey to his home village in the South of France.
That same day that Nostredame departed, I made a trip to the shop in the town of Calais. I needed new silk threads for my needlework project with the Benoit girls. To keep myself from fretting overmuch—and to try to make myself useful in the household—I’d started lessons in embroidery for the three girls.
I stood at the shop, chatting with the clothier whom I’d met before, when I felt someone tugging on my piece of sewing. I turned, surprised, to face a stout, middle-aged woman wearing a wide hat.
She turned to two men. One was young and thin and resembled a scholar; the other was aging and dressed as a nobleman. The woman spoke a language I didn’t know. The young man listened, and then spoke in French to the older. The nobleman nodded and turned to me.
“I am the Earl of Southampton,” he said. “I am charged with the protection of the Lady Anne of Cleves, the bride of the king of England. Mother Lowe is the head of the maids of the household. She wants to know who you are, because she says she hasn’t seen such good needlework since she left Germany.”
Revealing myself was happening much sooner than I desired—but there was no help for it. I could not enter the orbit of the royal family without a name. “I am from England,” I said. “My name is Joanna Stafford.”
Southampton’s eyes lit up. “Stafford?” he asked. “Related to the Duke of Buckingham?”
“My uncle, my lord.”
“But why are you here?” he asked. “The English ladies of the queen’s household meet her in Dover, in Canterbury, or in Greenwich. It’s all arranged.”
“I’m not one of the queen’s ladies,” I said as steadily as possible. “I’ve been traveling in Europe and am now, through a happy coincidence, returning to England at the same time. So I’ve booked passage on one of the ships escorting Her Majesty.”
Mother Lowe said something in German to the young scholar. He spoke in French to the earl—he said Mother Lowe wanted to know about me at once.
Back and forth it went in such a way, German to French to English.
“Yes, yes—why not?” said the Earl of Southampton. “There are few families more esteemed than the Staffords.”
He turned to me. “Mother Lowe says that the Princess Anna will wish to meet an English lady from a noble family who does good needlework. We hope to sail tomorrow. Your belongings will be transferred to the galleon that conveys the queen to England, so that you may attend her.”
My heart pounding, I made a curtsy.
We did not sail the next day. Or the next. Spotters were stationed on the line of water, day and night, to give word when the weather cle
ared enough for the thirty-mile sail across the channel. On the third, Saturday, December 27, as dawn broke, they fired their guns. The signal was given.
I raced to the shore and was ferried to the largest one.
No one spoke to me on board; the princess and all of her German ladies were already below. It was too cold to observe the unfurling of the sails on deck. I assumed myself forgotten, which I was content with, when the Earl of Southampton came to collect me.
What a large crowd was gathered around Anne of Cleves in the room she occupied. I couldn’t even see her for the ring of German ladies and English gentlemen.
One young man pushed his way forward, looking me up and down, and said, “I didn’t think that there were any Staffords on this journey. Especially not ones this lovely.” He bowed. “I’m Thomas Seymour.” So this was the brother of the dead queen, the “wastrel and lout” Mary Howard Fitzroy refused to marry.
Southampton said impatiently, “The princess is waiting.”
Mother Lowe and the scholar stood to the left of a young woman, ornately dressed, sitting on a cushioned chair, bent over her needlework. She wore an enormous hat, folded into three corners.
Mother Lowe spoke in German to the young woman, who raised her head. She nodded, and looked over, toward Southampton, and then at me. She appeared to be in her late twenties, with skin not as pale as most Englishwomen’s. It was a complexion closer to my own. She had a long nose, a delicately pointed chin, and large hazel eyes with long lashes. Her gaze was steady and dignified, as befitted a queen.
The princess’s voice was low as she spoke that same harsh-sounding language to Mother Lowe. Evidently she had no English, either—or French. I wondered how she planned to communicate with her husband.
“Her Majesty would like to see your needlework,” the earl informed me. “That is her favorite occupation, sewing.”
I watched as the future queen inspected my embroidery. As she turned my work this way and that, a delighted smile lit up her face. I suddenly felt apprehensive to think of her being handed over to Henry VIII. Her brother, the Duke of Cleves, must be not only ambitious but heartless.
Translations passed back and forth, and I was asked to tell the queen about myself.
Southampton said, “She wants to know if you are married.”
I shook my head no.
The next question was where I lived with my parents.
“You may tell Her Highness that my parents are dead and I live in a house by myself,” I said.
Anne of Cleves looked confused when Mother Lowe informed her of my status, and I was asked how it was possible for a woman of noble birth—or any woman—to live alone.
I sighed. There was no use trying to conceal things.
“Please tell Her Highness that I was a novice in a Catholic priory, one that no longer exists,” I said.
Southampton winced.
“That is the truth,” I said.
He finally told the scholar, who glanced over at me, nervous, and then spoke to Mother Lowe. To my amazement, when Anne of Cleves heard what her mistress of maids said, she beamed another delighted smile.
Southampton said to me, “Her Majesty’s mother is very fond of nuns and counts an abbess as a close friend.”
I stared at him, dumbfounded. The earl leaned closer to me: “The mother still practices the Roman Catholic faith, while her son, Duke William, is Lutheran.”
There was a flood of German. The princess said that someone like myself, who was of good family, possessing excellent housewife skills—should be married at once. Now that I was no longer a nun, arrangements must commence. If I agreed, she, the queen, would speak to her husband, the king, about a match.
The earl turned a bit red after relaying this. He knew, as did all English officials, of the Act of Six Articles that forbade the ex-religious to marry. He waited, apprehensive, for my response.
“I thank Her Majesty for her great kindness. But I must now turn my attention to my business enterprise. In my town of Dartford, I’ve nearly finished my first tapestry, and must search for a buyer.”
This led to many excited questions from the queen, which Southampton conveyed to me. The ship rocked and pitched as we sailed toward the coast of England; several of the queen’s German maids became seasick. But the princess herself was unimpaired.
Unfortunately, Anne of Cleves returned to the topic of my marriage.
Southampton said, “Her Highness feels most strongly that you should contract a marriage and have a family. She says that children are the greatest joy a woman can experience. God willing, she hopes to bear the king of England sons and daughters. She hopes he will grant her family’s humble request to name their eldest son after her brother, William.”
Cromwell and the boy king are feared by all.
I stood there, on the swaying ship, looking at the sweet and sincere face of Anne of Cleves, and was filled with terror.
“Are you not well, Mistress Stafford?” asked the earl of Southampton.
“No, I fear not,” I murmured.
My apologies were conveyed. Before I could edge away, the earl said, “Her Highness requests that you accompany her party on the progression to Greenwich, where she will meet the king. Is that convenient?”
I stared at him.
“Mistress Stafford, is it convenient?” he repeated.
“Yes, of course.” I dropped a deep curtsy, and left the cabin.
What should I do? I could not bear the thought of my kingdom being devoured by the Emperor Charles and his allies after the king was poisoned. But now I could see the prophecy of England’s future, should Anne of Cleves bear a son, turning to reality.
A few hours later, when it was nearing sunset, our ship reached the coast of England. We landed at Deal and were taken to Deal Castle by order of the Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports. All of the queen’s party was to stay in the castle overnight, including, now, myself. Tomorrow we’d progress to Dover, and then on to Canterbury. I’d heard that the queen was expected to reach London the third or fourth of January.
I joined the trail of attendants walking to the entrance of Deal Castle, lit with blazing torches. A thin crowd lined the path, braving the cold to look us over. There was a small group of dignitaries greeting us—I assumed I would now see the Lord Warden.
But when I reached the front of the line, a lavishly dressed couple awaited: a tall stout man of middle years and a very young woman. I heard someone say “the Duke and Duchess of Suffolk.” I remembered hearing about them at the Red Rose a year ago. Catherine Brandon was the daughter of Maria de Salinas, who married the closest friend of King Henry.
When it was my time, I curtsied before the couple.
“I am Mistress Joanna Stafford,” I said.
The young duchess, dressed in a long velvet cloak, peered at me more closely. A large dog poked his head forward, too.
“Are you the woman who served with my mother?” Catherine Brandon asked. “I would like to speak with you later this evening.”
“I am at your service,” I said, curtsying again, and then joined the throng stepping into the castle itself. The queen and Mother Lowe and her ladies had been taken upstairs to the royal apartments, along with the earl of Southampton. The duke and duchess of Suffolk must be with them, too.
The rest of us were ushered into a great hall where food was laid out on long tables. The room roared with conversation. I found a place and nibbled some supper as I struggled to come up with explanations for the Duchess of Suffolk—and those who would doubtless come after her—that would make sense as to why I was in the party of Anne of Cleves.
“Pardon me, Mistress Stafford?”
I looked up into the smiling face of Sir Thomas Seymour.
“I’ve been asked to fetch you,” he said. “Beseeched, actually. There’s a young lady who says you know her and she most urgently needs to speak to you.”
“Young lady?” I asked, confused. “No one with the queen’s party?”
; “I’m not sure,” he said. “May I take you to her—and then perhaps later, should there be dancing, you’ll allow me to partner you?”
“Please just take me to the person who wishes to speak to me,” I said coolly.
A spark lit in Seymour’s eyes; this was, unfortunately, a man who enjoyed a challenge.
He steered me down a passageway that led deeper into the castle, which filled me with suspicion. Just when I was about to charge him with mischief, he led me to an alcove where a young woman stood, holding a candle.
It was Nelly, my servant on Saint Paul’s Row. She wore a long cloak, but even so, I could see that she was with child. Her eyes were full of pleading.
“Do you know this girl?” Seymour asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Thank you, Sir Thomas.”
“I shall see you later, I’m sure,” he said meaningfully, and left.
“Nelly, what are you doing here?” I asked. With a sudden chill, I said, “Señor Hantaras is not with you, is he?”
“No, my mother and I are now in service in a household in Dover,” she said. “I came to see the new queen arrive at the castle—but then I saw you, Mistress Stafford. And I wanted to talk to you about . . . Jacquard. He’s supposed to be back in England by now.”
If only I had protected her in London, this wouldn’t have happened.
“Is Jacquard the father of your child?” I asked.
“Yes,” she whispered. “And he has been gone from England for so long with no word. I don’t want anyone to hear us, please—I think we can use a room down here.” She pulled me down the passageway, and pushed open the door to a small, cluttered room.
“Nelly,” I said. “I am sorry to have to tell you this. But it’s only right you should know. Prepare yourself—Jacquard may never return to England.”
Nelly didn’t say anything. The candlelight glowed as an odd expression filled her eyes.
“Yes,” she said. “I know.”
At that instant, she looked over my left shoulder. A new shadow leaped across the floor. The last thing I saw was Señor Hantaras, holding something in his hand. Something he raised over his head, and then swung directly at me.
The Chalice Page 40
