The Crown

by Nancy Bilyeau

  Emotion crept into his voice. The words were proud, but there was something else. Could it be a trace of shame? I felt as if I were eavesdropping on him in the confessional.

  “I rose very quickly in the cardinal’s service,” he continued. “It was because of my knowledge of the law. I was a lawyer and a teacher, a respected legal scholar. In that capacity, I traveled to Paris and to Rome. I have been to Rome five times since, spent many hours in the papal archives.”

  He paused, as if to let the significance of that fact sink in. I shifted in my chair, uneasy. I could not imagine how his past travel—or anything of his background—could pertain to my interrogation.

  “No one in England has a deeper knowledge of canon and civil law than I do. That’s why I proved so useful. The king wanted a divorce from Katherine of Aragon and the pope denied him. So His Majesty turned to the law of the land. I was the one who could supply him with legal . . . solutions. I argued the king’s case before Pope Clement himself.”

  Now a chill rippled through me. The king’s divorce from Katherine of Aragon was what sent our country hurtling down its path to chaos, and I was in the presence of one of its architects.

  “How easy your face is to read, Sister Joanna. You look at me as if I were Lucifer himself.”

  Embarrassed, I stared at the floor.

  “I know that you served Katherine of Aragon after the divorce, in the last month of her life, as one of her ladies.” He sighed. “No, you could never understand my actions. It’s unfair of me to expect it. Let us just leave it at this: I serve the House of Tudor.” There was a ferocious edge to the way he said Tudor.

  Bishop Gardiner tapped those long fingers, three times, more rapidly than before.

  “You are not terribly knowledgeable about events of the day, so let’s talk about the past, shall we? Do you know history? English history?”

  I nodded.

  “Do you know of Edward the Third? His son, the Black Prince? How about Richard the Lionhearted? Or our king’s dead brother, Prince Arthur?”

  Hearing this list, I wondered, for the first time, about Bishop Gardiner’s state of mind.

  “Do you know of those men, Sister Joanna?” he repeated, enunciating each word as if I were slow-witted. “Please answer me.”

  “Yes. But what bearing have they?”

  “Edward the Third founded your priory almost two hundred years ago—surely you are aware of that.”

  “Yes, Bishop,” I said.

  “It was of vital importance to him that an order of nuns be founded close to London, near the court. And not just any order. They must be Dominicans. Why did he wish to found the first Dominican convent in England?”

  I tried to remember what I’d been told at Dartford. “Because the Dominicans are a very holy order, dedicated to spreading God’s word and living in commitment.”

  Bishop Gardiner smiled. “Some things do not change, even now. The young novices at a Dominican Order are instilled with such pride.”

  I flushed. Pride was a sin. “Forgive me, Bishop Gardiner.”

  “No, no, it does your prioress credit.” He continued with his saga. “Queen Eleanor of Castile, wife of the first Edward, sought to establish a nunnery at Dartford. But it was not until her grandson, Edward the Third, took up the cause that ground was broken. He paid for the construction from his own privy purse. He insisted that four senior Dominican nuns be brought from France to be the founding sisters of Dartford. The intensity of his involvement was thought peculiar at the time. His oldest son and heir, Prince Edward, the Black Prince, was dying. England had just lost a war with France. Parliament had refused a bill of taxation. And yet he was interested in establishing Dartford Priory. More than ‘interested.’ Obsessed with it. Foreign ambassadors made note of it in their posts home. Can you explain this?”

  “No.”

  “Many of our monasteries and priories house holy relics, Sister Joanna. Yet Dartford does not, neither for the comfort of its sisters nor for the public to make pilgrimages to. Is that correct?

  “Yes, that is correct.” I rubbed my eyes, weary and confused.

  “Sister Joanna, you have heard of nothing that exists at Dartford that is of great value, that was housed at the priory at the time of its founding by Edward the Third?”

  “No.”

  Bishop Gardiner bent down, closer to me, his eyes searching mine. “Are you sure? Absolutely sure there is nothing the priory has that is special?”

  Again, I groped for an answer. “Dartford is famous for its tapestries. The sisters have done exceptionally fine work for generations.”

  Bishop Gardiner’s mouth quivered. In just a few seconds, his entire face turned deep red. A vein bulged on the side of his neck. Grabbing my forearms with both hands, he said in a completely different voice, a rough one: “Do you think that I have come all this way and gone to all this trouble for tapestries?”

  I was too shocked by his transformation to answer.

  He tightened his grip on me and hissed, “Sister Joanna, have you seen the Athelstan crown?”

  My stomach clenched. I tried to force a blank expression onto my face, but I could tell from his excitement that it was too late.

  He let go of my arm and laughed—a high-pitched, triumphant whoop. “You have seen it; you know about it. I was right. I was right. The crown’s hidden at Dartford. Oh, thank Christ in His mercy, I was right.”

  He rubbed his hands with glee. “When I heard that a Dartford novice had been taken to the Tower, a Stafford who served Katherine of Aragon—a girl who withstood blows from Norfolk and then asked for the works of Saint Thomas Aquinas—I knew it. I knew I’d found my instrument.”

  Bishop Gardiner dropped to his knees and folded his hands in prayer. “I thank you, O Lord, for your mercy and your forgiveness. All will be restored and made right in your sight.”

  He opened his eyes and got back on his feet, meticulously brushing the floor’s dirt from his white robes.

  “Now, Sister Joanna, you will tell me where to find the Athelstan crown.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said calmly. “But I don’t know anything about it.”

  “Yes, you do,” he countered. “It’s quite obvious you do. Remember, I was trained as a lawyer. I perceive when people are lying to me, particularly those unpracticed in deceit, such as you.”

  I shook my head.

  His expression of triumph faded. “Sister Joanna, I am doing this to help you, to help all of you.”

  No you are not, I said to myself. I will never tell you anything.

  “Where is the Athelstan crown?” he repeated.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who spoke of it at Dartford Priory?”

  “No one.”

  He took a deep breath; I could tell he was fighting for calm. “Sister Joanna, I ask you again, where is the Athelstan crown?”

  I raised my chin to look right at him. “Bishop, I swear I don’t know, and I swear that no one at Dartford has spoken of it to me. That is the truth.”

  “Sister Joanna, I cannot spend days at this, when I know that my enemies watch where I go. For the last time, what do you know of the crown at Dartford?”

  I stayed mute.

  Bishop Gardiner turned his back on me and stalked to the door of my cell. “Let me out!” he shouted. Still facing the door, he said to me, “Remember, what happens to you now is of your own doing.”

  My stomach clenched again.

  The bishop left my cell without a backward glance.

  I didn’t know who would come for me next nor where I would be taken. But I prayed it would be soon. I sensed a fragmenting within; I feared I could not withstand the spiritual trials of another period of imprisonment. The dark lethargy would claim me forever.

  My prayers to God had not been answered for a long time. But in this matter, there was deliverance. Sir William Kingston returned to my cell, alone, within the hour, and said, “Come with me, Sister Joanna.”

  I followed him w
ithout a word. Down the stone staircase, out the door of Beauchamp, and onto the green. The sun was so bright I half stumbled on the front steps, unused to the glare.

  Kingston led me to another square stone building at the south end, smaller than the White Tower or Beauchamp.

  Once inside, we took steps leading straight down. They opened to a long passageway. At the far end of it stood Bishop Gardiner, his arms folded. He fixed me with a hard, angry stare.

  Sir William walked me to my interrogator and bowed before him. “Bishop, I am not comfortable with this course of action,” he said in a low voice.

  “My authority is high enough for it,” said the bishop, annoyed. He thought for a moment, and then shrugged. “If you harbor any doubts, you are free to go. I know it’s not your delicate sensibilities but because you fear being blamed for any error in procedure.”

  Sir William Kingston winced, stung by the barb. His footsteps were quick going back up the stairs, as if he could not get away fast enough.

  “Welcome to Bell Tower, Sister Joanna,” Bishop Gardiner said harshly. He shoved open a wooden door and beckoned for me to follow. My heart hammering in my chest, I stepped over the threshold.

  The room was dim. Two weak candles flickered at the far end. The sun shone outside, but in here it was as dark as the White Tower rooms I’d run through at midnight. I heard a steady dripping, although from where or what, I couldn’t tell.

  Bishop Gardiner took me by the arm and pulled me farther inside, not gently. My stomach heaved at the smell. No one had bothered to scrub down this chamber with lye before my arrival. It reeked of an overflowing privy and of sickness. As my eyes adjusted, I could make out strange shapes in the room: two long tables and a thick column, wrapped in chains, in the middle.

  “It’s not a pretty room, is it, Tobias?” asked the bishop. “But one gets used to it.”

  Something moved to my right. It was a man. He was not tall, and to my horror, he was only half dressed. He wore a pair of dark hose, tied around his waist with a rope, and no shirt. Muscular arms gleamed in the faint light.

  “How is our . . . guest?” asked the bishop.

  “He’s out.” Tobias’s voice sounded like gravel.

  “Ah. Well. You know what to do.”

  The bishop yanked me toward Tobias, who stood in front of an odd table. The closer I got, I saw it resembled a platform with ropes and pulleys strung across the top.

  I stepped even closer—and froze. Behind Tobias, an unconscious man lay on top of the table. His arms were stretched taut above him, tied to one end with straps. His feet were tied to the other. Underneath his back, pushing his midsection up a few inches, were large wooden rollers. I knew this to be a device of torture: the rack.

  Tobias picked up a bucket and threw water in the man’s face.

  He gasped, choked, and turned his head toward us. It was my father, Sir Richard Stafford, tied to the rack.

  I heard a long, terrible scream. A woman’s scream.

  My father looked at me—the scream was mine. A bright purple mark covered the right side of his face, below his cheekbone. He’d been disfigured by the gunpowder explosion at Smithfield.

  “Joanna, my God,” he cried. “No. No.” He struggled to free himself, but his arms and legs moved not an inch. He was strapped in tight.

  Bishop Gardiner seized both my arms from behind and pinned them together, holding me close. Pain shot through to the tops of my shoulders. “Sister Joanna, will you tell me what I want to know?” he asked.

  Tears poured down my face.

  “Get her out of here, you bastards!” shouted my father.

  The Bishop of Gardiner held up one finger. “Tobias?”

  Tobias reached for a lever and, grunting, pulled it down. The crisscrossed ropes tightened and strained, pulling my father’s arms in one direction and his feet in the opposite. His eyes bulged; his mouth flew open in a silent scream.

  “Stop, no, stop,” I pleaded, wriggling in the bishop’s grasp. “I will tell you, but please, I beg you, don’t hurt him again.”

  Bishop Gardiner dragged me toward the door, out of earshot of Tobias. He said: “Tell me about the Athelstan crown now. Or by God, we will tear your father into pieces.” Even in this light, I could see his face suffused with scarlet again.

  God, forgive me for what I am about to do.

  “It was the queen,” I blubbered.

  “What?” the bishop cried.

  “Katherine of Aragon. She told me about the Athelstan crown before she died.”

  Bishop Gardiner’s hands dropped to his sides. His face slackened in shock. “Tobias,” he choked out, “unstrap her father now.”

  14

  Drink this wine,” Bishop Gardiner ordered.

  He had moved me to a room on the main floor of the Bell Tower, one furnished with tables, chairs, and shelves of books.

  The vision of my father, disfigured and terrified, stretched taut on the rack, came back to me in searing detail. I felt something nudge my hand. The bishop tried to offer me a goblet. I shrank from him, shuddering.

  He sighed and put the wine on the table. I could feel his impatience.

  “I will tell you all of it,” I whispered. “But I feel sick.”

  “Close your eyes. Take three deep breaths.”

  I did as he said; I had no choice.

  “Now, Sister Joanna Stafford, start at the beginning. The day you arrived at Kimbolton Castle to wait upon Katherine of Aragon. When was this?”

  “The second week of December in 1535,” I said. “It rained all that day. My father brought me. The roads were impossible because of the mud. Our horses stopped again and again. If we’d come by wagon or litter, we would have never made it. There was a village nearby, a poor one, and an old woman gave me her blessing when we asked which road to take to the castle. ‘God bless our poor Queen Katherine.’ I was surprised by that. We’d been told that by the king’s orders no one was to address her as queen since the divorce. But the common folk always loved her.”

  “Quite so,” the bishop said dryly. “Continue.”

  I opened my eyes and went on: “I was surprised, too, by how small Kimbolton Castle was. Just a manor house, not a castle, and built on low ground. It was hard to believe that a queen resided there.” I stopped short, afraid that I had erred by giving her that title. But Bishop Gardiner waved me on, to continue.

  “The owner of Kimbolton, her keeper Sir Edmund Bedingfield, came out to meet us. We were expected. My father had sent a messenger on ahead that I was coming in my mother’s place. Sir Edmund took me to the door that connected his home to the apartments of the queen, and then he withdrew. She would not allow him into her rooms because he addressed her as princess dowager and not queen.”

  “How many people were with her?”

  “She had two ladies-in-waiting, two serving women, her confessor, and her doctor, Don Miguel de la Sa. That’s all. The furniture was old. The plates and bowls were cracked. She didn’t even have a tapestry on the wall. The queen was in bed and very weak, although she said she was happy to see me. But it was hard. I knew that she was dying—that is why she was permitted to have Spanish attendants again. Her appearance was so altered I would not have known her.

  “How so?”

  “All of the weight she had lost. Her bones stood out from her body. She was in pain most of the time. Sometimes just drawing breath seemed to hurt . . .”

  I faltered at the memory of her sufferings, but a glance at Bishop Gardiner’s hard face pushed me on.

  “I tried to make the queen as comfortable as I could. It was very cold. No snow. But a damp wind came through the windows, off the fens. We tried to block the cracks around windows and keep the fire high. But it never felt completely dry in that room. I was told there was no help for it.

  “One day the Spanish ambassador, Eustace Chapuys, came to visit her. We knew he had been given permission by the king to see her a last time after many months of his pleading. We made her bedcha
mber as presentable as we could and dressed the queen with all of our care. She didn’t have any jewels. They had all been taken from her, given to Anne Boleyn, years before. But we did our best.

  “When the ambassador came into the room, she was so happy that she wept. She said, ‘Now I can die in your arms, not like a beast alone in a field.’ That made me feel ashamed, because I had worked so hard to make her comfortable. But I tried to be happy for her, that someone who had worked so long in her interests had come to visit.”

  “Were you there during any of their conversations?”

  “The first day we were all present. She wanted it made plain that she had nothing to hide from the king’s majesty. Even Sir Edmund was asked to attend. The second day only a couple of us were within the distance that they could be heard.”

  “What did they talk about?” The bishop was very curious.

  “Her daughter, the Lady Mary. She was frantic about the princess, about what the king would do to her for refusing to accept the divorce. The ambassador swore that he would do everything in his power to protect her, that the Emperor Charles, his master and her nephew, would keep her safe. He would not stand by to see the princess who was a cousin mistreated.”

  “And yet she has been mistreated, and for years,” Bishop Gardiner said in a strange voice.

  “Yes, Dr. de la Sa told me that when we were alone. He said that Ambassador Chapuys was not honest about the dangers that the Lady Mary had to face. The anger of the king is death; nothing has ever been more truly said. But the doctor could not blame Ambassador Chapuys, because fear for her daughter tormented the queen. And what could the queen do for her now . . . when she was dying?”

  “Continue.”

  “The ambassador stayed with us for four days. The first two days she seemed stronger, but talking to him drained her, perhaps, for the third day he was with her only a short time. That was the night I spent with her alone.”

  I stopped, kneading my hands, and glanced up at the bishop again. His eyes gleamed. He knew I neared the telling of the secret.

  “After the ambassador bade her farewell the third day, that was when she drifted in her mind. She spoke about her brother, Prince Juan, who died so long ago. She spoke as if he were there with her, doing his lessons as a child. It worried me. I gave her some broth, and she was quiet for a time. And then she began to talk about coming to England when she was fifteen years old, to be married to the Prince of Wales.”