The Crown

by Nancy Bilyeau

  The prioress said, reluctantly, “Very well.”

  But now I wasn’t sure how to begin. “I love this priory,” I finally blurted.

  The prioress and Sister Eleanor looked at each other, startled.

  “I know I have committed sins here, large and small, and I don’t deserve your forgiveness,” I continued. “I don’t deserve God’s forgiveness. But this place, this priory, is a sanctuary of light and beauty and purity in the darkness.”

  My voice broke; I willed it to stop.

  “I want so much to serve you, Prioress, to be your humble servant in protecting Dartford from all of our enemies.”

  The wariness in the eyes of our prioress softened, just a little.

  “Today I learned something. It may be small; it may be insignificant. Or it may be very important. It concerns the Westerly children, the same Westerly children whom I failed in the hour of their mother’s death. I know something about the children that I realize I should have told you before, but I did not think to do so. Which is that the children were able to move around this priory, day and night, with great subtlety. Were they not innocent children, one could say with deviousness. I found them in the infirmary one night, and I have no idea how they were able to get there, unnoticed.”

  Sister Eleanor fidgeted; I could tell they were unsure why I was relaying this now.

  I took a deep breath. “I believe that the children did not leave the grounds of Dartford when their mother died. I think they hid somewhere for at least a day. The night Lord Chester was killed, they may have at some point been in the passageway outside, in the front part of the priory. The children could have seen or heard something . . . or someone.”

  “Why do you think this?” demanded the prioress.

  I held up the doll and explained that it had been found the morning of the murder, near the guest bedchamber, in a place that had been swept the day before.

  “If I find the Westerly children, I can ask them what happened,” I said. “They will tell me the truth, I am sure of it. And what I learn could help clear Brother Edmund of suspicion.”

  The prioress shook her head. “It is not our place to gather facts about a crime,” she said. “A judgment was made by a jury of men. As difficult as it is to accept, we must abide by their decision.”

  “But they did not have all the facts!” In spite of myself, my voice rose.

  The prioress stepped forward and reached for my hands, to pull me to my feet. “We all saw Brother Edmund as a true man of God when he served here. And we grieve the melancholia of Sister Winifred, caused by his imprisonment. But this is God’s will moving before us, in ways we simply can’t understand. One thing you have not yet learned, Sister Joanna, is to accept God’s will.”

  She was correct. I could not give up.

  “Verum est notus per fides quod causa,” I cried out, desperate.

  The prioress stared at me, shocked.

  “Truth is known through faith and reason,” I said quickly, for the benefit of those not proficient in Latin. “We are a priory—we worship divine truth. Saint Thomas said faith and reason complement each other: they do not contradict. And he said that the intellect must seek out facts to support reason. May I please be permitted to find the Westerly children, to gather those facts?”

  The prioress managed to ask, “Just how would you proceed?”

  “I will go with John, our trusted stable hand, to the village, to the house where the children’s father lives. There’s been no sign of them since the day of the murder. But Stephen Westerly did return to Dartford from London, and the children must be with him.”

  The prioress clapped her hands three times. “Again, you would break the rule of enclosure? Have you learned nothing at all?”

  A voice rang out behind me, from the stone benches. Sister Agatha said, “May I be permitted to accompany Sister Joanna, to ensure all is done properly in gathering these facts?” Sister Agatha came to stand with me. “Prioress, I will be with her every minute. You have the authority to approve our leaving for a short time.”

  The prioress went silent. I could hardly breathe.

  “Very well,” she said at last. “Sister Joanna and Sister Agatha have my permission to go to the village, with John, our good servant, as guide and protector. But you must return by nightfall, whether you’ve found the children or not. And we shall list your correction at the next chapter.”

  I turned to Sister Agatha. “Thank you,” I said.

  Once we’d reached the stable, the travel plans changed. The fastest way to the village would be riding priory horses, but Sister Agatha, I learned, had not ridden a horse in almost twenty years. Today was not the day for a lesson. John hitched a wagon to the two horses, and we took our places in the back. The village was so close that it wouldn’t cause too much of a delay.

  John shook the reins, and we rumbled up the priory lane.

  Sitting beside me, Sister Agatha pulled nervously on the few hairs that sprouted from her chin. It occurred to me she probably had not left the grounds of Dartford since she had arrived as a novice.

  “Why did you come forward?” I asked her.

  “This is my home, Sister Joanna. The king’s commissioners will be here soon. Perhaps they will order us to be dissolved—and, yes, perhaps that is God’s will. But if there’s anything we can do to help ourselves, we must attempt it. If we can prove that Brother Edmund did not commit this terrible sin, it might prevent our closure.”

  I reached out and hugged her.

  “Thank you,” I whispered.

  She hugged me back, making a little clucking noise.

  I hadn’t passed through Dartford since last autumn, when my father brought me to the priory. Rumbling up High Street, past the shops and inns, the storefronts for carpenters, bakers, fishmongers, and tailors, I was newly impressed by how clean and well ordered a town it was. Though Dartford was by no means small—I’d heard almost a thousand people lived here—many of the townsfolk seemed to know one another. They called across High Street with a smile; two stout women, one of them holding a parcel of fish, laughed in front of the parish church, Holy Trinity.

  There were no smiles for us. A few people waved at John, sitting in front, flicking the horses on, but Sister Agatha and I drew uneasy stares. Some townsfolk stopped in their tracks to watch our wagon go by. John turned around and said apologetically, “It’s because of the death of Lord Chester. They talk of nothing else, the townsfolk.” The scrutiny unnerved Sister Agatha. When we passed the rabbit warren, a crowd of men scowled at us and she gripped my arm so tight I could feel her sharp nails through my habit and cloak.

  In the center of Dartford, in the middle of High Street, stood a cross. Nearby was the large market building. Crowds of people streamed out, carrying bags of grain or buckets of fish. One well-dressed woman proudly touted a box of cheeses. John turned the wagon at the corner just past the market and, after passing a block of half-timbered homes, turned again.

  The narrow street we ventured down was not as fair as the others. The homes looked less solid. A few sported thatched roofs, even though that was discouraged in town dwellings, for fear of fire. A flock of emaciated chickens scattered before our wagon wheels. Two men walked away from us, down the street. I saw no sign of the children.

  I tapped John on the shoulder. “How much farther to Master Westerly’s house?”

  John pointed at the house at the end of the street. “It’s that one. He lives on the top floor.”

  “Why don’t you stop and tie up the wagon, John? We’ll walk the rest of the way.” I had the idea to come upon the house gradually.

  While John attended to the horses on the side of the street, Sister Agatha and I approached the house. It was two stories tall and timber framed. The roof was steeply pitched, with a wide chimney on the side. At least the children would be warm this winter.

  The door to the house was shut tight; there was no one out front.

  The two men who’d been walking ahead
had stopped. They stared at us, their eyes crawling up and down our nuns’ habits and caps. I hoped they would keep their distance, at least until we were inside the Westerly house.

  But no. My heart dropped as the men doubled back toward us. One of them had a thick black beard; the other was younger and red-haired.

  “Sisters, what are ye doing in town?” asked the bearded man. “Is all not well at the priory?”

  Sister Agatha recoiled from him, frightened.

  “We know ye’re not supposed to go out and about,” said the red-haired man.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw another two men bearing down on us from across the street.

  “Have they come to kill ye, Tom?” shouted one of the newcomers.

  Our stable hand, John, had reached Sister Agatha and me. “Stay behind me,” he muttered. “These are ruffians.”

  The man who’d shouted his insult strained to get around John. He had watery eyes and a thick, sneering mouth. “Ye killed Lord Chester, didn’t ye? Bashed in his brains while he slept under yer roof.”

  “Show some respect,” demanded Tom, the black-bearded man.

  “Why should I?” retorted the watery-eyed man. His companion snickered.

  John called out bravely: “Do not interfere with the sisters. They come here on important priory business. If ye insult them, ye will be sorry indeed.”

  I tapped John’s arm. “Don’t fight them, there are too many,” I whispered. “We must calm them with words instead. Let me attempt it.”

  Sister Agatha said to me, “They are common varlets; you cannot address them directly, Sister Joanna.”

  The watery-eyed man howled, “Hear me, Sister, I don’t barge into your priory and call you an ugly doxy, so I’ll thank you not to come on my street and call me a common varlet.”

  With a curse, Tom, the bearded man, pushed his way forward. The next thing I saw was a fist flying. Grunts and laughter filled the air.

  I glanced up at the Westerly house—no sign of anyone home. But we needed a refuge from the melee. I grabbed Sister Agatha with one hand and John with the other and shouted, “The house!”

  But before we made it a single step, a stream of cold water hit my arm.

  I turned and saw that the men who’d been fighting now swayed in confusion, dripping water. A tall young man gripped a large wooden bucket—he was the one who’d drenched them.

  “Men, do I beat you on the heads, right now, and drag you to your beadle?” he bellowed. “Or will you get off this street now?”

  It was hard for me to believe, but the man was Geoffrey Scovill.

  Grumbling, the townsfolk dispersed.

  Geoffrey tossed the bucket onto the street and turned to me with a crooked smile.

  “Ah, Sister Joanna,” he said, “what would you do without me?”

  34

  But what are you doing here?” I asked Geoffrey Scovill.

  He laughed. “What am I doing here? What are you doing out of your priory, in the middle of town, and not the most respectable part of it, either?”

  Sister Agatha said haughtily, “We are not required to inform you of our business, Master Scovill.”

  He bowed to us. “Well, then, I will be on my way.”

  “Wait!” Sister Agatha said in a panic. “You can’t leave us now, with only John to protect us. Those men could return.”

  Geoffrey stood there, arms folded. His blue eyes danced as he waited.

  I sighed. “Sister Agatha, we have to explain our purpose to him.” Over her protests, I quickly told Geoffrey how I’d learned of the doll, where it was found, and when, and what the implications were. He listened closely.

  “So now you’re personally going to interview possible witnesses to a serious crime?” he asked. “Why didn’t you send word to Justice Campion or the coroner? Or to me?”

  Sister Agatha said, “We knew you had all made your judgment.”

  I studied Geoffrey’s face.

  “You’re not sure the right man was arrested, either,” I guessed. “That’s why you’ve returned to Dartford. You’re continuing to investigate, too.”

  Geoffrey said quickly, “I knew nothing of these Westerly children—that’s not why I’m here. But since we have collided, I suggest that I accompany you into the house and lead the questioning.”

  “I will ask the questions,” I insisted.

  Geoffrey laughed again. “I know that if I give you an order, you’ll not obey it, Sister Joanna. So I can only suggest some form of cooperation?”

  “Very well.” I turned to John. “I think it’s best you stay here and watch over the horses.”

  Sister Agatha and I moved to the front door of the house. She gave me a strange sidelong glance, which I ignored.

  We knocked, hard. It took a couple moments for the door to open, and then only partway. A sharp-faced teenage girl, in a soiled apron, peered out, suspicious.

  “Were ye part of the fighting on the street?” she asked. “We don’t want no trouble.”

  Geoffrey pushed the door open. “I am the parish constable of Rochester. We have some questions, not for you but for the Westerly family.”

  “Are they at home?” I asked her.

  “Aye, some of them are.” She beckoned us inside, grudgingly. It was a dim room, not very tidy, smelling of onions.

  The ceiling creaked above. I looked up, my heart racing.

  The girl nodded. “The woman’s home, with the daughters.”

  Sister Agatha and I stared at her. “What woman?” I whispered.

  The girl swiftly backed away, twisting her apron in her hands. “I don’t want no trouble,” she repeated. She pointed at the worn set of stairs on the side of the room. “It’s that way.”

  We went up the stairs, single file, Geoffrey leading. He knocked on the door at the top of the stairs and said loudly, “We need to speak to the Westerly family.”

  I heard a faint rustling on the other side of the door, but no one answered.

  I whispered to Geoffrey, “What if the children go out the windows?”

  He nodded—then pushed against the door with his right shoulder. It had been locked, but the lock was a poor one and it broke easily.

  I pushed my way around Geoffrey, to be the first. It appeared empty of people. It was a cleaner room than downstairs, with light streaming in through the back windows. A row of stools lined one wall; the other end contained a long wooden table. It opened into a kitchen.

  “Sister Joanna!”

  Martha Westerly flew to me like a small bird. I had her in my arms, felt her thick hair and smelled her skin. I held her so tight I feared I’d crush her bones.

  “What is your name?” Geoffrey asked someone.

  I turned to see whom he spoke to. A slim, dark-haired woman stood in the corner, next to the kitchen. She was a little older than me, and wore an apron, cleaner than the one worn by the girl downstairs. She would have been pretty but for the red scar next to her left ear—and the look of terror in her eyes. She had flattened herself against the wall, as if we were a trio of killers.

  “I am Catherine Westerly,” she said. Her voice was low and rather rough. Her chest rose and fell; she was actually panting in fear.

  “How are you related to Master Stephen Westerly?” I asked.

  “I am his wife.”

  “Impossible,” said Sister Agatha. “His wife died less than a month ago, at Dartford Priory.”

  The woman stirred from the wall. “I am his second wife,” she said, a touch defiantly. “All was done legally. The banns were read.”

  “It’s true, Sister Joanna,” said a voice from the doorway.

  It was Ethel, wearing a clean dress—and a face puffy with misery. Behind her was the bedroom, with straw pallets on the floor.

  “My father has married this woman.” Ethel shot Catherine Westerly a look of resentment. Instead of reacting in anger or offense, Ethel’s stepmother bit her lip and looked down.

  Sister Agatha cleared her throat. “We are
glad to see that you are safe, children, though the circumstances are . . . irregular. We’ve come to ask you a few questions.”

  Catherine Westerly said quickly, “What about? Shouldn’t my husband be here? He’s out for the day, with Harold.”

  “The questions are for the children,” I said. I set Martha down and beckoned to Sister Agatha, who carried the sack. She nodded and pulled out the doll.

  Martha screamed, “Lucinda! You found Lucinda!” She grabbed the doll and danced in a circle.

  Ethel looked at me, confused.

  “You came all this way to bring her the doll?”

  “Do you know where we found it?” I countered.

  Ethel shook her head.

  “In the passageway, outside of the guest bedchamber where Lord and Lady Chester slept on All Souls’ Day.”

  Faster than I’d ever seen anyone go in my life, Ethel streaked for the bedroom door. She was just an inch from its open window when Geoffrey grabbed her by the waist and pulled her down.

  We placed Ethel and Martha, both of them frightened, on two stools. Plainly something had happened they did not want to tell us.

  “We won’t punish you,” Geoffrey repeated. “We just want to know what you saw and heard that night. It’s very important.”

  “We weren’t in that part of the priory—we don’t know anything,” Ethel said.

  “Girls, listen to me, I know you were upset because I wasn’t there to comfort you right after your mother died,” I said. Martha nodded, and her eyes filled with tears. “And I should have come looking for you before today, or someone should have. I’ve sorely disappointed you. But some strange and frightening things have happened at Dartford Priory. You are young, but you should know this.”

  I had their full attention now.

  “I need to protect the priory, the place where your mother worked since she was fifteen years old. But I can’t do it without your help. Will you help me?”

  Little Martha looked at her sister pleadingly.

  Ethel groaned and said, “All right, Sister Joanna.”

  She took a deep breath and began.