He leaned forward. “Leave nothing out. Tell me exactly what happened.”
I swallowed. “It was the night Dr. de la Sa overslept. The two of us usually tended her together after nightfall. She spoke Spanish at night, and we were the only ones who understood her. That was when she was the most . . .” I searched for the right word.
“Vulnerable?” he asked.
Again, the bishop had pulled thought from my mind.
“After I came to Kimbolton, Dr. de la Sa said that one of the two of us must be with the queen at all times. So even though I was weary myself, I sat by the queen’s bed and didn’t call for anyone else. He slept on and on. I was afraid that if one of the other ladies saw my fatigue, she would insist that I go to bed. I couldn’t allow that.”
“Why did one of the two of you have to be by her side at all times?”
I was surprised that the bishop needed to ask. “Poison,” I answered. “Dr. de la Sa said all of Europe knew the Boleyns were trying to poison the queen. They already tried to poison Fisher, her greatest champion. Not a drop of food or drink could touch the queen’s lips that had not been tested in his presence or mine.”
“But why did he trust you over the others? Hadn’t some of them served the queen far longer than you?”
“Because of my mother—my Spanish blood,” I said.
The bishop’s eyebrows shot up. “All English are potential poisoners?”
I shrugged. “That is how he felt. That is how my mother felt, too. That the English could never be fully trusted.”
“And did you see any sign of poison?” he asked.
“None,” I admitted. “And she ate very little anyway.”
He nodded. “Tell me about this night when you were alone with her.”
“She spoke of King Henry the Seventh, her father-in-law, at first.” I paused. “The things she said were not pleasant. It was the first time I ever heard her criticize anyone.”
“Don’t leave anything out. Do you hear me?”
“I didn’t realize she was referring to old King Henry for a time. She spoke of a beggar. She said, ‘He was a beggar, a beggar in exile.’ She was quiet, then said, ‘No one thought a Tudor could be King of England.’ The queen said this three times: ‘A beggar cannot be a kind king.’
“She told me that every day he was on the throne he feared losing his riches. Her exact words were: ‘He was so cruel and suspicious. He was cruel to his wife and to his sons. Inside, he was twisted. And he twisted his son.’ ”
“Which son was she referring to?” As we both knew very well, Katherine of Aragon was sent by her parents to marry England’s Prince of Wales, to form a dynastic alliance. First she wed Prince Arthur, but he died five months later. Then she married his younger brother, who became Henry the Eighth.
“It was Arthur. She said: ‘The prince could not lie with me after we married. He was so afraid of his father. Terrified. He wanted to be a man. That is why he took me to Dartford Priory.’ ”
I heard Bishop Gardiner’s sharp intake of breath. “Those were her words?”
“Yes.”
“Then what did the queen say?”
“Not much more. She said, ‘The legend was true. Poor Arthur.’ She was quiet for a long time; I thought she’d fallen asleep. But she moaned, and then she said so loudly I thought it would wake the ladies in the next room, ‘I was wrong. He is worse than the father. Sweet Jesu, protect my daughter.’ ”
“She spoke of King Henry the Eighth then?”
“I’m not sure. After that she fell asleep.”
Bishop Gardiner thought for a moment, his brows creased. “But when did she speak of the Athelstan crown?”
“The night she died. Right after the ambassador left for good, her lady-in-waiting Maria de Salinas finally arrived. She had come to England with her from Spain, as my mother did, and was very close to the queen. But it was then that the queen grew much, much worse. It was almost as if she had been waiting for Maria. Just after midnight, she asked if it was dawn yet. She knew she was dying and wanted to hear a last Mass. Her confessor said we could have a Mass immediately, for her. But she said, ‘No, we must wait until dawn.’ She quoted scripture to us, about how Mass could never be heard before dawn. The queen was so devout. She wore a hair shirt under her nightdress, from the Order of Saint Francis.
“Those were the longest hours of my life. We prayed together the whole time. We were weeping, although we tried to hide it from her. It was still hours before dawn when she asked me, ‘Juana, are you pious?’ I said, ‘Your Highness, I try to be.’ Then she said, ‘You are unmarried?’ I said, ‘Yes.’ She was quiet, and then she said, ‘You should take vows at Dartford Priory.’ She looked at me so intently, and everyone else looked at me, the doctor, Maria de Salinas, her confessor. I said, ‘Yes, Madame.’ That seemed to give her peace.”
Bishop Gardiner stared at me. “So Katherine of Aragon gave you the idea?”
I nodded defiantly. “Yes, she did.”
“But the Athelstan crown? You still haven’t gotten to that, Sister.”
“It was about an hour later. The queen turned her head a bit, she could hardly move, and she looked at me. I bent down, and she whispered, ‘Arthur. Mary. Dartford. The Athelstan crown. Protect my daughter. Promise me, Juana. Protect the secret of the crown for her sake. And tell no one. If you love me, tell no one.”
I looked at the floor, flooded with anguish.
Bishop Gardiner repeated it: “Arthur. Mary. Dartford. The Athelstan crown. Protect my daughter.” He bit his lip, thinking. “No one else heard the queen?”
“They may have, but she spoke in Spanish. The doctor was not close by at that moment, and neither was Maria.”
The bishop took a deep breath. “So Katherine of Aragon sent you to Dartford Priory.”
“No, she did not send me,” I said, my voice thick. “She suggested I take vows there. When I returned to Stafford Castle, I began to consider it in seriousness, as a way to find purpose. After a few weeks of prayer, it seemed the right thing to do.”
“Did you ever tell your prioress about the Athelstan crown?”
“Of course not.”
His questions flew at me.
“Did you never wonder why she wanted you to profess at Dartford in particular?” he demanded.
“I knew that Eleanor of Castile first promoted our existence. Queen Katherine’s mother was Castilian. It made perfect sense to me—the Dominicans originated in Spain, and Queen Katherine was of Spain. Dartford is the only Dominican nunnery in England.”
“What did the prioress make of the queen’s desire for you to take vows at Dartford?”
“I never told her,” I answered.
“Why not?”
I paused, searching for the right words. “To parlay my conversation with the queen in that fashion, with a dying woman, it would seem as if I were trying to draw attention to myself, to put myself in a special light. I wanted to be accepted on my own merits.”
Bishop Gardiner stared at me. “You are an unusual person, Sister Joanna.”
I had no response to that.
Fatigue was returning; my eyelids felt heavy. From a distance I heard him say, “It is a moment worth recording for posterity, when a question like this one is answered.”
“Answered?” I asked dully.
“Yes, I know now that the Athelstan crown exists. And it is at Dartford Priory.”
I struggled against my fatigue. “But the queen must have been confused. It’s not there. I don’t even know what it is. I’ve never heard anyone there say the words Athelstan crown. And I was at Dartford for seven months.”
“Katherine of Aragon was an astute and formidable woman, even at the hour of her death. The crown exists. It is carefully hidden and has been for generations. But it won’t be for much longer.”
“Why do you say that?” I asked, full of dread. “Are you going to Dartford Priory?”
A grim laugh from Bishop Gardiner. “With Cromwell’
s spies everywhere, watching everything I do? I think not.”
His eyes settled on me.
“No, Sister Joanna, I’m not going to find the Athelstan crown. You are.”
15
It’s not prudent to laugh at a man. And most assuredly not prudent to laugh at Stephen Gardiner, the Bishop of Winchester, who had demonstrated within the past hour that he was no stranger to torture. But what he had said was so absurd, I couldn’t help it.
“Do you think that I can walk into Dartford Priory and start opening drawers—peer into the dark corners?” I asked, breathless. “I broke my vows to go to Smithfield; I have been imprisoned here in the Tower since May. I’m forever disgraced.”
The bishop did not take offense.
“Don’t you want to return . . . to be a novice again?” he asked quietly.
“Even if I did, it would not be possible.”
“Sister Joanna, you insist on underestimating me. I am the Bishop of Winchester. I have only to write the letter to your prioress, and you will be restored without question.”
I shook my head. “The Dominican Order does not answer to an English bishop.”
Now it was his turn to laugh. “All of you, including your prioress, took an Oath of Supremacy, to obey King Henry the Eighth, as head of the Church in England. I am his representative. The Prioress of Dartford has no choice but to submit to me.”
Excitement stirred in my belly at the thought of resuming my life at Dartford. One heart and one soul seeking God. Those were the words of Saint Augustine, so many centuries ago, when he founded the first religious community. Prioress Elizabeth repeated them to me that first afternoon, when I sat, nervous, in her office. It was such a simple creed and so true. I heard the singing, smelled the incense clouds, felt the silks in my fingers at the tapestry loom. It was hard to fight down the longing to experience those sensations again.
“I could never do anything to harm my order,” I muttered.
Bishop Gardiner slapped the table. “You still distrust me?”
“There can never be trust between us,” I said. “You had my father tortured.”
“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” he said. “You are the one who forced that encounter. I am doing what I have to do in order to save the monasteries from destruction. I am responsible for thousands of souls.”
“But the king is not proceeding any further,” I said, bewildered. “He suppressed the smaller abbeys and priories, or the ones that had fallen into disarray. But the larger houses—they are safe. My prioress told us that they could never be closed down. It’s not possible.”
Bishop Gardiner’s smile was bitter. “Do you think, Sister Joanna, that having added the income of the sale of those small houses, those worth two hundred pounds or less, to the royal treasury, that Master Cromwell will halt? That he does not hunger for the destruction of the larger houses? To gain centuries’ worth of riches at a time when the royal treasury is close to empty?”
I swallowed. Such evil lay beyond my imagination. “But how could finding a crown stop Cromwell and the king, if they be so determined? I don’t even know what it is. A crown of the king’s?”
“No Tudor has ever worn this crown—nor any Plantagenet, for that matter.”
“Is it a relic?” I asked.
Bishop Gardiner smiled, though it was closer to a grimace. “You have a nimble mind, Sister Joanna.” He walked over to the other end of the room. The sunlight pouring through the mullioned window bathed his face.
“It is more than a relic,” he said softly.
“More?” I didn’t understand.
“Cromwell and his minion Richard Rich and the other heretics—they sit in their chambers and make mockery of the holy relics, the shrines, the saints’ days. They call it superstition and work day and night to sweep the Catholic Church away. But the Athelstan crown could not be swept away. It could not be denied. If I had it in my possession, I could put pressure on Cromwell to stop his destruction.”
The bishop tapped his long fingers. I waited. I saw he was struggling with how much to tell me, and I would not hurry him. Near me stood a shelf of newly bound books. I studied the words on their bindings. A handsome new crimson one was engraved with the words The Prince.
“There is more to the Athelstan crown than its place in history,” he said finally. “Recall what Katherine of Aragon said.”
“ ‘The legend is true,’ ” I whispered. “So there is a legend to it?”
The bishop’s face went white. “Yes. And there is prophecy. A prophecy of great reward but not without great risk. It is both blessing and curse. It has a power, Sister Joanna, that has never been unleashed, for if it were, it would change the lives of every man, woman, and child living in England—and beyond.”
My skin prickled with fear.
“Is that why it must be hidden?” I asked.
A sharp banging at the door made us both jump. The bishop laughed a little, laid a hand on my shoulder, as if to steady us both. The touch of his hand made me shudder. He did not notice.
The young lieutenant was at the door.
“Bishop Gardiner, your secretary is here with two friars,” he said.
“Ah, yes!” He turned toward me. “There is much to do. Wait here.”
He shut the door behind him.
For months I’d seen not a single friar, monk, or nun. Curious, I peered outside the window. Bishop Gardiner talked to three men on the green. One, a young priest, clutched documents; I assumed he was the secretary. The two other men wore belted white gowns, covered by black cloaks, hoods gathered at their shoulders: the habit of the Dominican Order. One friar was tall, thin, and fair; the other was stouter and much darker. They both looked to be about thirty years of age—far younger than the decrepit friars I was accustomed to seeing at Dartford Priory. While Bishop Gardiner talked animatedly, his teeth flashing in the sun, they listened, hands folded, heads tilted with respect.
After a time the bishop ushered the friars inside Bell Tower, to the room where I waited.
“This is Sister Joanna Stafford, novice at Dartford Priory,” he said with a grand gesture, as if I were a new painting he’d commissioned.
The two friars looked at me doubtfully. I wore no novice habit.
The bishop said, “I present to you Brother Edmund.” The fair one bowed his head, with grace. “And Brother Richard.” The dark one bowed slightly. His eyes were cold, speculative.
“You will leave in an hour,” Bishop Gardiner told them. “I am having food brought in for you first. You must eat before the journey.”
The bishop turned toward me. “Dartford is blessed to have the services of these brothers.”
“Dartford?” I cried.
“They have been valued members of the Dominican community at Cambridge, which Cromwell has ordered to be suppressed.” Brother Richard winced at the word suppressed. Brother Edmund’s pale face showed no reaction. Gardiner continued: “It has been in the works for some months now, to transfer them to Dartford. Up to now, your priory has housed a few friars from Kings Langley Abbey to officiate over Mass, to manage the sisters’ finances, and to perform other administrative duties. One of the brothers is sick with dropsy, correct?”
I nodded, taken aback that poor old Brother George’s ailment was so widely known.
“He has been recalled to Kings Langley, to Hertfordshire. Brother Richard will take his place as president and steward. Brother Edmund has skills as an apothecary. Your village infirmary will be transformed by him.”
The door behind Bishop Gardiner swung open, and Bess appeared with another maid, carrying trays of food.
“Excellent.” The bishop beamed. “Sister Joanna, it is essential that you eat, too. I calculate your arrival at Dartford at just after sunset, and you can’t be sure of a late meal there.”
I gripped the chair I stood behind. “I am going to Dartford tonight?”
“All three of you are.”
“But the prioress does not know of th
is.” I sounded panicked.
“A message went by fastest horse ten minutes ago, informing her of your release and that you would be accompanying these good friars,” he said smoothly. “The roads are dry. The message will precede you by two hours. Now, please sit.”
I fell into the chair pulled up to a table.
Bess laid out food: platters of meat tiles, strips of dried cod, and bread. The rich smell of the tiles—made of chicken, crawfish tail, and almonds—filled the room. Brother Richard fell on it as if it were the first meal he’d consumed in days, while Brother Edmund ate little.
Bess looked around to make sure no one was watching her, and then flashed me an excited smile. To her, this must be joyous news—not only was I being released but I was also being restored to my former life. I wondered what she’d think if she knew I’d broken a deathbed promise of silence to Queen Katherine of Aragon and agreed to go to Dartford in order to betray a prioress’s trust.
But wait—when had I agreed to anything?
My thoughts churning, I sipped the warm spiced wine Bess had poured and ate a piece of meat tile—I hadn’t tasted anything like this in many months. We had meat only on feast days at Dartford, and then it was meat pudding.
Bishop Gardiner stood at the head of the table and nibbled a cod strip while talking to the friars of Cambridge. He asked for details of a new printing press, then for news of the head of the university. After Brother Richard told a long gossipy story, the bishop threw back his head and laughed, “Ah, how I’ve missed Dominican arrogance.” Brother Richard smiled up at him. Bishop Gardiner seemed very much at ease with the friars. “He favors the old ways,” Charles Howard had told me. No one seeing this would argue it.
I felt someone watching me watch Bishop Gardiner. It was Brother Edmund: his large brown eyes made for an odd contrast with his ash-blond hair. Suddenly, I had a curious feeling of recognition. Had I seen him somewhere before?
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