The Crown

by Nancy Bilyeau

  Gardiner held up a lettuce leaf and announced, “When I was a boy student, boarded in Paris, Erasmus stayed in the same house for a week. I took it upon myself to help serve him his food. He favored lettuce—how I slaved over it, dressing it with butter and sour wine. He said he had never enjoyed a dish more daintily served.”

  Brother Richard drew back in his chair. “And you have no regrets, waiting on Erasmus with such solicitous care?”

  Gardiner shook his head. “I know what you’re about to say—that Erasmus lit the torch that Luther made to blaze. But it’s much more complicated than that.”

  There was a noise in the doorway. The lieutenant stood there, glaring at all of us. His eyes lingered on the tonsured heads of the friars. To him, this convivial gathering was something repulsive.

  He walked in the room, reluctantly, and thrust a parcel in my hand, then turned on his heel and left. Bishop Gardiner’s narrowed eyes tracked his every move.

  The parcel contained the books I’d been given, the tomes of Thomas Aquinas. Something else fell out, too: the purse I’d brought with me to Smithfield, with my small jewels and trinkets. My heart in my throat, I fished out the pendant of Thomas Becket and wrapped it around my wrist.

  Bishop Gardiner’s secretary reappeared, and they spoke in low tones, at the other corner of the room, as the friars finished their meal.

  Bess was clearing dishes from the table, placing them on her wooden tray, when I pulled on her sleeve. I slipped the purse containing the jewels onto her tray. Bess looked at it and then at me, her face a question.

  “Remember me,” I whispered.

  “The Virgin Mary will protect you,” Bess whispered back. I watched her strong, solid back retreat from the room and knew I could never forget her.

  Bishop Gardiner took charge. The friars were ushered out by his secretary, to be taken to a waiting wagon. I would follow, he said, after a few final words. He drew me into the corner of the room where he’d whispered with his secretary.

  “Be careful how you proceed, Sister Joanna,” he said. “You must use subtlety to ascertain location. Do not draw attention to yourself with obvious searching. It is very important you tell no one of my charge. Not your prioress, nor the sisters, nor the friars I send you with. Absolutely no one. Once you learn where the Athelstan crown is located, communicate that to me alone, in writing. You must not touch it yourself, not even for an instant. You understand?”

  I frowned and said, “We are not permitted to write letters or receive them except by permission of the prioress, who may read all correspondence.”

  “I am aware of that. Arrangements have been made. Adjoining Dartford land, to the northwest, is a leper hospital, one that was abandoned years ago, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Next to the main door is a window, facing east. You will find along its side an opening, a stone cavity where letters can be safely concealed.”

  I was stunned at his detailed knowledge of this obscure building. Someone familiar with Dartford Priory—the land and properties—must have fed him information, I realized. They knew exactly what lay outside Dartford, but evidently could not get inside. Not without me.

  “I must return to France directly after the christening of the king’s heir, should the child survive. The queen suffers greatly and seems no closer to delivery, poor woman.” He grimaced.

  I hadn’t thought him capable of sympathy for a woman’s pain. My surprise must have registered on my face. He said, “I performed the wedding ceremony for His Majesty and the Lady Jane Seymour. She is a good Christian woman. Now . . . to business. I will expect correspondence from you every fortnight, Sister, apprising me of your progress. We don’t have much time. I just learned that Cromwell’s commissioners are set to begin another round of visitations of the remaining priories and abbeys. They start in Wales and work their way east. They aren’t expected in Dartford until after the new year. We must find the crown before they arrive.”

  I shook my head. “But Cromwell’s men visited Dartford before I came, two years ago. The prioress told them nothing of any crown then, I am certain. Why would she do different this time?”

  “Cromwell’s commissioners have been very thorough in their inventory of monastic property, mistress. It is assumed they make such record for reasons of greed—so the Lord Privy Seal knows where the opportunities for ripest plunder are. But there could be another agenda.”

  After a few seconds I made the connection and was filled with horror. “The visitations of the monasteries—are they but a pretext for Cromwell to have the monasteries searched for the crown?”

  Gardiner winced. “The purposes of King Henry are hidden within each other, one feeding another—and yet another. No one understands Henry Tudor, and absolutely no one can predict his actions. Not even Cromwell.”

  “And the king knows about the existence of the crown and that it contains a mystical power?”

  “It is possible. His Majesty couldn’t know it is in Dartford, or else he would have brought down the priory years ago, every single brick.” I shuddered. “He may know that it exists, but not where it is kept. Still, just as I have secured the ways and means to quietly search for it”—he gestured toward me—“Cromwell may have, too. In fact, I’ve received a disquieting report that he is up to something at Dartford. That is why I must be first. You cannot disappoint me, Sister Joanna.”

  “And if I do?” I swallowed. “You won’t hurt my father again?”

  “Your father will be released from the Tower of London on the day I learn from you the location of the crown,” he said quickly.

  I took a step closer, peered into the bishop’s light-hazel eyes. “But if I fail . . . you won’t hurt him?”

  “You may have success before All Souls’ Day—that’s just over a fortnight from now. I have heard that each Prioress of Dartford writes a letter for her successor, to be read by that successor alone. Your prioress is very old. She must have already written her letter, and within it there must be indication of the crown’s location.”

  My voice steady, I said, “Bishop, I must ask you again, and this time I require an answer. Is my father safe from further harm at your hands?”

  His eyes locked into mine.

  “Make sure your first letter is in place by All Souls’ Day,” he said. And with that he brushed past me, to Sir William Kingston, waiting outside the room.

  At that moment, I hated Stephen Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester, and during my life I’d already had good cause for hate. But he took precedence above all. My body trembled with the violent, impotent force of it.

  Across the room, Sir William, his face a careful mask, handed Gardiner a paper, and the bishop signed it, saying, “I see Thomas has already signed. Where is Norfolk?”

  “He is kept busy, Bishop. His youngest brother died in the White Tower this very morning, and arrangements must be made.”

  I couldn’t stop it. A noise escaped me, a low moan of grief. No one heard me, no one cared about dead Charles Howard.

  Kingston beckoned to me and held open the door.

  “Joanna Stafford,” he said, “I release you from the Tower.”

  With my Thomas Aquinas tucked under my arm and my Thomas Becket pendant wrapped ’round my wrist, I left Bell Tower and walked onto the green, where the late-afternoon sun slanted through the branches of the mulberry trees.

  PART

  TWO

  16

  Friar, won’t you buy an apple?”

  The boy, no more than seven years old, stood in the middle of Watling Street, holding up his apple to Brother Richard. Even in the gathering dusk, the piece of fruit gleamed; it was a deep, luscious red.

  London lay safely behind us. It was past Michaelmas; the wheat and barley fields were stripped of harvest. Apple trees hugged the west side of the road to Dartford, the road that stretched from London all the way to Dover. I sucked in the scent of their heavy sweetness. It all felt unreal, a dream of delirium, that I rode free throu
gh the countryside, hours after being imprisoned in the Tower of London.

  The trees’ branches were skimpy of fruit close to the ground, but higher up, where a nimble boy could climb, the red globes hung more thickly. I saw the boy sitting under the largest tree, his feet sticking out into the road, when our wagon rounded a bend. He scrambled out to Brother Richard to peddle his wares.

  The child’s eyes, though, were not on the man but on his horse. At the Tower, when I’d been led to the waiting friars and a wagon, Brother Richard already sat tall on one of the finest horses I’d ever seen: a slim dappled gray, with a glossy coat and bright eyes. Brother Richard made it clear that not only did the mare belong to him, but he would not tie her to our wagon, pulled by less aristocrat steeds. Sweeping his black Dominican cape to the side, he’d vaulted into the saddle and seized the reins, ready to ride to Dartford. Brother Edmund and I, it seemed, would follow, sitting in the back of the wagon, driven by a rotund Tower servant.

  The boy said eagerly, “We grow the best apples in Kent, Friar—I’ll sell you a basket for three farthing.”

  “Be off with you!” snapped Brother Richard, untempted.

  The boy’s thin shoulders sagged, and he shuffled back to his place under the tree. Certainly, this was not the time to buy fruit, but Brother Richard’s rebuff seemed to me over rude. I snuck a sideways glance at Brother Edmund, who hadn’t spoken since we left the Tower of London.

  The fair-haired friar nodded, as if he’d heard my thought.

  “This is a very hard thing for Brother Richard, the suppression of our friary,” he said quietly.

  “But he has a place to go to,” I pointed out.

  “Yes, and we are both grateful for the arrangements made by Bishop Gardiner, to have us transferred to Dartford Priory.” He paused, weighing his next words. “But what you must understand is that someday Brother Richard was expected to make prior at Cambridge. He boarded there as a child, professed as soon as he came of age, and was extremely dedicated. He’s a true theologian; he’s published works read on the Continent.”

  I looked at Brother Richard doubtfully. A sharp tongue did not always lead to a sharp mind, in my experience.

  And then there was the trunk.

  Two trunks rode in the back of the wagon. One was small and weather-beaten—it contained Brother Edmund’s apothecary supplies. The other was large and burgundy, with a gold-plated lock and trimming. It belonged to Brother Richard, but I couldn’t imagine what was inside. The rules of Dominican conduct were chastity, humility, obedience, and poverty. Perhaps in Cambridge they’d followed different rules.

  “And for you, Brother Edmund, is this . . . difficult?” I asked.

  “I am a friar, I serve God wherever I go,” he replied. “And it means I will share a roof again with my younger sister, Winifred.”

  That is why he looked familiar. He shared the same unusual coloring—ash-blond hair and brown eyes—as my fellow novice and friend, Sister Winifred. “She will be very pleased to see you,” I said. “She once told me that she had a brother who was a friar and that she missed him.”

  “I have missed her, too,” he said. “Though I hoped to one day make her proud of what I had achieved in the eyes of God, not to come crawling to her priory as a supplicant.”

  The words were bitter. Yet Brother Edmund’s face was calm. In fact, his large dark eyes looked positively serene. It was impressive—though a trifle strange—how the friar managed to control himself.

  “In any case,” he continued, “if we need be sent to a nunnery, Dartford is a prestigious one. Brother Richard’s administrative skills will be put to use managing the priory’s wealth.”

  “Wealth?”

  “It is the seventh richest establishment in all of England—you didn’t know that?”

  I shook my head no.

  “Brother Richard says it is because of the original charter granted by Edward the Third. The priory is exempt from all taxes and is granted one hundred pounds a year. He told me Dartford is a substantial landholder in Kent. Not just open farmland but income from mills, businesses, manors, even quarries. The priory has holdings in London, too. He said he’d never in his life seen such care taken by a king to ensure financial security for a religious house.”

  “We are most fortunate,” I muttered.

  Our road curved, and I caught a glimpse of the River Darent. Our wagon rumbled on, and a large black building came into view—it was the Lowfield Almshouse for the poor, which our prioress oversaw and visited at least once a week. We’d reached the outskirts of the town of Dartford.

  Even though the evening air had turned cool, my palms felt hot, itchy, and moist. This was happening so fast. I’d be face-to-face with Prioress Elizabeth and all the sisters within minutes. What would I say to them? What had Bishop Gardiner already told them in the letter that preceded me?

  When she was angry or dismayed, Prioress Elizabeth would look away from the object of her disappointment, as if the sight of that person was too painful. She’d purse her lips, fold her hands. She never stayed angry for long. How long before she would look at me again with those wise, kind eyes? I longed for her forgiveness, even though I had no right to expect it.

  I thought of the sisters, too—of the gossipy novice mistress, Sister Agatha, and the silent tapestry mistress, Sister Helen. I was closest to the other novices, naturally. Sister Winifred, whose brother I sat next to, was one of the kindest people I’d ever known, as selfless as my cousin Margaret. Sister Christina, the senior novice of the three of us, had her turbulent moments. For that very reason, I felt even closer to her; we shared certain unspoken understandings. She, too, came from an old family. Her father, Lord Chester, was a wealthy Kent landowner who had for years been a favored hunting companion of the king’s; her mother was a Neville, a family as respected as the Staffords.

  Brother Richard turned around on his horse, smiling. “Pilgrims ahead!” he called out.

  Along the side of the road, three figures walked single file, dressed in long coarse robes. As we grew closer, I could see they were barefoot.

  Brother Edmund looked at me inquiringly.

  I said, “There are many pilgrims who stop at Dartford on their way to the shrines at Rochester and Canterbury.” I pointed to a distant line of treetops, above which peeked a row of tall, whitewashed buildings. “Those are the inns where they stay.”

  Brother Richard called out to the pilgrims, addressing the tallest. But the man did not answer. The second pilgrim turned to make explanation: “Brother, I’m sorry, but my father does not speak,” he said in a high, polite voice, that of a boy no older than twelve. “We are on the road to the shrine of Saint William of Rochester, he will speak there, to beg for forgiveness for his sins.”

  Brother Richard cocked his head. “Sins?”

  “We lost our mother to plague this year, and the harvest was so poor we may lose our farm. My father fears he sinned greatly to have earned God’s displeasure.”

  “I pray you find the blessed mercies you seek,” said Brother Richard. He turned back on his horse and said to Brother Edmund, excitedly, “Did you hear that? They do believe in the shrines. Christ still moves among the people!”

  Brother Edmund nodded, his large brown eyes so placid yet impenetrable they looked like gemstones.

  The friars puzzled me. I wondered why Bishop Gardiner plucked these two from Cambridge for salvation. Could it be a coincidence that he chose Dartford as their destination? It was true that we were the only Dominican nunnery in England, and other abbeys were likely full to bursting with friars. Dominicans could serve only next to their own kind. I had been ordered not to discuss the Athelstan crown with either of them, and I had no intention of doing so. But how could I be sure they didn’t know something—even if it were an inkling—of my mission?

  My mission. It felt impossible. The bishop instructed me to use “subtlety.” I wasn’t a particularly subtle woman. My emotions always showed on my face, and even when I was a chi
ld, I’d never been good at deception. I once read a story about a female spy in Rome, during the time of the Borgias. After failing to break the secret codes contained in a letter she’d stolen from a wicked cardinal, she was about to drink a vial of poison—only to be rescued by a husband who’d escaped from prison. This silly book was the extent of my knowledge of spy craft. Real spies existed, I was aware of that. Privy Seal Thomas Cromwell was notorious for his network of operatives. It was said that one of the reasons he looted the monasteries was for the gold needed to bind all men to him. From lowly pages to foreign ambassadors, they secretly worked in his service. As I secretly worked for Bishop Gardiner. I bowed my head. But not for money, I told myself fiercely. For the life of my father.

  The wagon slowed. Ahead lay the center of the village: the inns, the tall parish church, a thriving market, dozens of shops—bakers, tanners, butchers, tailors—and a few small shipping firms. But we wouldn’t be going into the village. Dartford Priory lay just north of the village. The narrow road I knew so well emerged from between two graceful elm trees.

  Just as the driver pulled on the reins to turn, I heard bells. Very faint. I hardly paid them any mind. But they kept pealing . . . and pealing. I’d never heard bells ring that long. Our wagon had started up the priory road, and still the bells pealed. Brother Richard noticed it, too, and held up his hand. We halted . . . and listened. After a minute there were yet more bells, and louder, layered onto the first set. It was as if the orders to ring started far away, and then other churches, ones that were closer to Dartford, pulled the ropes to their bells, too.

  “The bells mean it’s a son,” Brother Richard cried.

  We all crossed ourselves, even the wagon driver.

  “It’s a sign from God that He blesses this marriage, don’t you see?” Brother Richard exulted. “The queen will be able to help us now!”