The Crown

by Nancy Bilyeau

  After a time, the men fired cannon to salute the king in his time of joy: once, twice, three times, more. It was very loud. A faint acrid smell drifted in through the window, perhaps from the celebratory bonfires, perhaps from the cannon. But through it all the walls of my prison cell never trembled. The walls of the Tower are the thickest in the land, and they never, ever tremble.

  9

  That first night in Beauchamp Tower, I couldn’t know it was to be the first of many. I was rigid with terror all night, until the blackness shifted to dawn. The next day, I lapsed in and out of wakefulness, but rarely rose from bed. I ignored the periodic openings of the cell door, the trays of food shoved inside by a yeoman warder, then reclaimed, untouched. I kept thinking of those Carthusian monks and how they would die by slow starvation at Newgate for their beliefs. How could I take food while they suffered? And why would I even wish to live? I was to be questioned, taunted, and disbelieved—over and over—by the Duke of Norfolk and other hateful men, until they’d gathered facts deemed sufficient to destroy me, my father, and every other member of the Stafford family.

  But on the second morning, when the door swung open, and a woman lowered a wooden tray of food, I staggered toward it. The woman was not Bess. She was older and taller, with a long face and black hair nearly covered by a white hood. I fell on the food, the hard chunk of cheese, like an animal. I felt shame over my weakness. But I couldn’t deny this wish to live, even if the rest of my existence was to be frightening—and short. After eating I fell back onto the bed and slept for hours, untroubled by dreams.

  I awoke later that day physically strengthened but consumed with dread. Would this be a day of more questioning? The day that they determined to “break” me? I prayed and waited, listening for an approach on the passageway. But no one appeared besides the yeomen guards and servants.

  This continued, one day after the next. In the morning came the serving woman in her white cap, who I later learned was named Susanna. And in the late afternoon came one of two yeomen warders who worked in Beauchamp, Henry or Ambrose, with dinner. The food bordered on rancid; the ale tasted sour. I ate and drank very little.

  After one week, the yeoman warder named Ambrose explained my situation. “If you want decent food, or some furniture, or wood for your fireplace, anything at all, you must pay,” he said. “Those are the rules.”

  After a moment, I couldn’t help but laugh. “Do you see any coins or jewels here, sir?” I asked.

  “Your family,” he said patiently. “I will help with conveying the letters back and forth and making the arrangements. It’s the families that pay.”

  I shook my head violently. “I will not contact anyone. It would not be fitting.”

  He blinked in surprise. “I thought you were of a noble house,” he said.

  “No more,” I muttered. “No more.” I turned away from the yeoman warder. I heard him walk down the passageway and, a moment later, tell another of my refusal to better my situation. I could hear snatches of talk outside my cell, but after that day it never pertained to myself—or to my father. One morning, the prisoner down the passageway who wept was taken away. His tears had been a terrible trial for me, but I discovered there was something worse than listening to a man weep, and that was no longer listening to it. Where else could he have gone but to his death?

  I lay half asleep, listless, on my bed, early one afternoon when the door swung open and there was Lady Kingston, dressed in her finery. On this occasion, she wore a gabled headdress beaded with tiny jewels.

  “Are you well, Mistress Stafford?” she asked.

  I shrugged. The question seemed more than slightly ridiculous.

  “You look ill.” Her face filled with worry, and I wondered if this were one of her guises, assumed to draw out confidences, so I said nothing.

  She pressed something into my hands. To my surprise, it was several heavy books. On each cover was engraved The Summa Theologica of Thomas Aquinas.

  “Thank you,” I whispered, stroking the covers.

  “What else do you require?” she asked.

  “Now that I have this, nothing, Lady Kingston.”

  She looked at me for a minute. “How unusual, for a lady to have no demands of me,” she said, a strange vehemence to her words.

  She swept out of the room, and if it were not for the books in my hands, I would have thought this a dream, the encounter so strange. Within the hour, I had another visitor. The lieutenant came to my cell and, with his usual curtness, bade me follow him. I felt a wave of fear, mixed with bitterness. To give me books on the eve of my destruction seemed cruel, even for the Tower.

  He led me a different way than the one I’d come, out onto the castle allure. I blinked hard in the sun when I stepped outside; I was unused to brightness. We walked its length, about thirty feet, and then he paused. I waited for him to open the door, but instead he turned and led me back to where we started. He paused again.

  “What are we doing?” I asked.

  “You are to take exercise, Mistress Stafford,” he said. “Sir William and Lady Kingston order it.”

  “Why?”

  He did not answer, merely jerked his head forward, and I had no choice but to accompany him, back and forth along the allure. If I craned my neck at the far end, I could see the mulberry trees on the green, more thickly leaved.

  “Can you tell me anything about my father?” I asked.

  “No, and if you persist with inquiry, I will return you to your cell,” he said sharply.

  It was the least congenial walk I had ever taken. Still, I had no wish to hurry back to confinement; I held back any other questions until the lieutenant was poised to leave me: “How long have I been here in the Tower?”

  I expected him to refuse an answer or to hazard a guess. But he said, “Twenty-three days.” It was odd how he’d had the number ready.

  In the next week, my prison conditions improved dramatically. Susanna or the yeomen warders delivered mutton stewed with potage, boiled beef, roasted capons, or larks. All served on pewter, with ale. Furniture materialized, a chair and a table. My cell was cleaned more frequently. Fresh rushes were laid down on the stone floor. I was even supplied with clean linens.

  “Who bears the cost of this?” I asked Ambrose.

  He shrugged and spread his hands. “Someone with means,” he grunted.

  I spent most of my days reading, working on my Latin, absorbing the wisdom of Thomas Aquinas. I studied his interpretation of the four cardinal virtues: prudence, temperance, justice, and fortitude. I found special significance in the beliefs about personal resolve. In the absence of Mass, the denial of the Blessed Sacraments, his teachings comforted me beyond measure.

  Once a week, the lieutenant appeared for silent walks along the allure. I was grateful for any release from my cell, which was often hot and airless. Anyone could tell the lieutenant disliked this duty. I yearned to know why the Kingstons insisted I get exercise, who paid for my food, and why no one ever interrogated me. But his stiff shoulders as he stalked ahead made it clear I would get no answers.

  I was shocked when he broke the silence one day with a question.

  “What did you do all day, shut up in a priory?” he asked.

  I sought ecstatic union with a merciful, wise, and loving God. Aloud I said, “Religious observances.”

  “But why isn’t Mass enough—worshipping in a church?” the lieutenant asked. “What could possibly be accomplished by all of those nuns and monks, shut away?”

  “We gather in community to seek grace through prayer and obedience,” I said patiently. “At Dartford, we follow the same Rules of Saint Benedict as at all the other nunneries and the monasteries—the sisters gather at eight fixed hours: Matins, Lauds, Prime, Terce, Sext, None, Vespers, and Compline. There is Mass as well. We chant and we sing. We pray for the souls of the dead.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “And if someone pays the priory enough money, they receive extra prayers for salvation—or forgiven
ess for sins not even committed?”

  Now I understood his hostility. These were the ideas of those who sought to destroy the Catholic Church, who swore salvation should be received through faith alone.

  With a sneer, he said, “Someone once told me that nuns learn Latin and study and write books.”

  “That’s true,” I said through gritted teeth.

  The lieutenant stopped walking. “All these years, the rich monks and nuns sit in their abbeys and sing and write and chant their Latin, and what does it all do? What does it accomplish? Purgatory is but superstition: that is what the new learning says. All the intercessional chanting at all the monasteries to shorten the pains of purgatory—” His face was twisted with contempt. “When we die, our souls immediately appear before God the creator and judge.”

  I backed away from the lieutenant, from his hate and his heresy. These were the words of a Lutheran.

  The lieutenant took note of my reaction. A smile spread across his face as he leaned closer to me. “I know what you’re thinking. I am no Lutheran, but he did have the correct view on women. Martin Luther said, ‘Females should remain at home, sit still, keep house, and bear and bring up children.’ That is their only purpose, in my opinion.”

  “And now that I’ve heard your opinion,” I said hoarsely, “I would like to return to my cell.”

  With a bow, he complied.

  One evening the sky opened and sheets of rain beat down on the Tower. Thunder cracked. I stood pressed to the windows, catching the cool stinging drops on my face, when the door flew open and Bess stood there, with my tray. I gave a cry of excitement, and her wide pockmarked face split into a smile.

  Duty rosters had kept her from me, she explained while I ate. Susanna’s charge was the prisoners of Beauchamp and hers was those of the White Tower and to be at the beck and call of Lady Kingston. “We’ve been kept so busy with Lady Douglas, I’ve never worked so hard in my life.”

  “Lady Douglas?”

  “The king’s Scottish niece. Didn’t you know? She’s been here for months. She became engaged to a gentleman of the court without permission of the king, so he sent them both here. It is treason for a member of the royal family to arrange her own marriage because of the succession.” Bess sighed. “She’s very difficult to please because of—”

  Another crack of thunder drowned her out, and a gust of wind blew inside. “Why aren’t you drenched from the rain?” I asked, curious, looking at Bess’s dry dress.

  “Underground tunnels connect the buildings,” she said. “But I can’t stay long. It would look suspicious. I could only come now because it’s Susanna’s day to visit her family in Southwark.”

  “But what of my situation? What have you heard?”

  “Not a word,” she said. “I listen every day, but Lady Kingston hasn’t mentioned you, nor has anyone else.”

  Two weeks later, Bess managed to visit me, and again, she had nothing to report. “It’s so strange, it’s as if you aren’t even here,” she said.

  That was it. I don’t exist anymore, I thought, not listening as Bess prattled on about Lady Douglas and her crying fits.

  The heat of the summer passed. The nights grew cooler. One day, on an afternoon walk with the lieutenant, I saw a spattering of gold leaves in the mulberry trees. It made me unbearably sad, to see proof of time passing. What had happened to my father? What was going on at Dartford Priory? My throat ached, and tears ran down my cheeks. The lieutenant pretended not to see.

  That day I entered my most difficult period in the Tower. A dull sorrow weighed me down, body and mind. I could no longer concentrate on Thomas Aquinas. Some days I never rose from my bed. At night, always the time my fears were most urgent, I abandoned myself to weeping. I thought of my mother a great deal. In the last years of her life, her health was broken, yes, but also her spirits frayed. She slept in darkened rooms. I could still feel the dread in my heart as I’d walk down the passageway of Stafford Castle, carrying her tray, knowing that I’d push open her door to see her once again slumped in bed, listless and despairing. I felt a dark kinship with her now.

  Everything changed when, one cool evening, past the time when my dinner tray was removed, I was surprised to hear a jingle of keys at the door.

  Bess burst in, her eyes bulging.

  “Your father is in the Tower,” she said, breathless.

  “What?” I shot toward her.

  “I heard that Sir Richard Stafford is being kept in the White Tower, on the lower level. They brought him in two days ago. Something is happening to you tomorrow.”

  I took Bess’s hands in mine. “Bess, I want you to tell me exactly what you heard. Leave out nothing.”

  “I came in to clear the table, and Lady Kingston said, ‘Is it true he’s coming to examine Joanna Stafford tomorrow?’ And Sir William said, ‘Yes, that’s why they sent over her father two days ago. Norfolk brought him in to deal with the Staffords. He’s the only man Norfolk pays heed to, save the king.’ ”

  “That’s all?”

  “Yes. There was nothing else. But I heard one of the warders say earlier that there was a new man, a nobleman, on the lower level of the White Tower. It must be your father.”

  All my lassitude, my despair, and my fear disappeared, replaced by a fierce, raging purpose. My father is alive. My father is here. I must find a way to see him.

  Bess said gravely, “Mistress Stafford, I could be whipped and branded for it, but I’ve brought paper and quill with me. If you write him a message, I will take it to him and ask him for reply.”

  As I stared at her, the plan slipped into my mind, fully formed.

  “No, Bess,” I said. “You’re going to take me to my father tonight. And I know a way to do it.”

  10

  Bess, stop trembling.” The candlelight leaped and shook against the dark walls, because of her unsteady grip.

  “I’m sorry, Mistress Stafford, I can’t help it.” Bess’s loud voice echoed down the long tunnel.

  “Don’t use my true name, please.”

  She ducked her head, and I regretted having to scold her. But Bess risked her life for me, and I had to do everything in my power to protect her.

  Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

  The sound came from behind me, like long ragged fingernails clawing a wooden stake. This time I didn’t turn around. Bess had warned me that vermin overran the underground tunnel. “We keep setting loose more cats, but it’s the cats that disappear, not the rats.”

  Ever since I’d set foot in this dank tunnel, I’d heard them: mostly behind us, but sometimes I’d catch a glimpse of one ahead, a long shiny tail whipping across the narrow passage, on the edge of our quivering circle of candlelight.

  “Rats and ravens,” Bess muttered. “My sister’s friends think I put on airs. Humph. It’s rats and ravens everywhere. Not the sort of royal palace they expect.”

  I let her go on. Nervous grumbling could help settle her nerves.

  Not more than an hour ago, I’d managed to persuade her to help me on my mission. Wearing a makeshift white hood, I posed as Susanna, toting a bundle of clean bedsheets. The male prisoner who faced questioning the next day by the Duke of Norfolk needed new bedding—that was what we would tell anyone who made inquiry. Susanna and I were of similar height and figure, with the same black hair. She was some five years older, but at night, with my eyes cast down, wearing her trademark hood, I hoped to pass for her, scuttling after Bess. She was a maid of the prison, while Bess served Lady Kingston. It was to be expected that Susanna would walk behind.

  We’d come across only one yeoman warder so far, checking some papers on the main floor of Beauchamp Tower. I’d held my bundle of sheets as high as I could, so that my face was nearly obscured. It worked as well as I’d prayed. The warder glanced at Bess and me and then returned to his papers. Within minutes Bess had unlocked the door to the underground tunnel and we were down the steps.

  At the other end was the White Tower . . . and my father.r />
  I’d thought of him so often, it felt unreal that I would finally come face-to-face with him, speak to him, gain his counsel on what I should do when interrogated tomorrow. Bess said we dared stay only a few minutes. Would there be time, I fretted, would it be possible for me to ask the question pressing on my mind for months. It was, unfortunately, the same question that the Duke of Norfolk tossed at me in such a crude fashion: “Your father almost blew himself up with gunpowder—why would he do that for his dead brother’s bastard?” I simply did not know. My darkest fear was that, without the company of wife or child, my father had gone a little mad at Stafford Castle. If through some miracle he and I were to be freed from the Tower, I’d already vowed to make him the center of my life. There was no question of returning to Dartford. My offenses against the Dominican Order were too serious. But if I could look after my father, at Stafford Castle or anywhere else he deemed best, I would never stop thanking Christ for His mercies. I cherished a picture in my mind, of ladling soup into a bowl for my father as he smiled at me, restored to hale health, his hounds at his feet, a fire roaring.

  Bess suddenly stopped short, and I bumped into her. She nearly dropped her ring of keys.

  Two enormous rats squatted in front of us, in the center of the tunnel floor. They didn’t scuttle away like all the others. They half turned to face us, the candlelight reflected in their fiery red eyes.

  “Lord keep us,” whispered Bess. “They’re like demons, aren’t they? It’s a bad omen, I know.”

  I needed to vanquish these rats, or Bess could lose courage. Slowly, I edged around her to get out in front. My heart pounding, I took one step forward, then another.

  The rats did not budge.

  “Be gone!” I cried, and stomped my right foot hard, just a few inches from their heads.

  This, at last, drove them back. Both rats scampered to a hole at the bottom of the tunnel wall and pushed their swollen bodies through it. The second rat paused halfway through, as if stuck, then, turning sideways, squeezed the rest of the way, its thick tail twirling and slapping the side of the hole like a whip before disappearing.