The Crown

by Nancy Bilyeau

  With a strength I wouldn’t have thought possible, Sister Winifred sat up. She stretched out trembling arms. “Oh, God has heard me.”

  With his usual swift, deft movements, Brother Edmund lowered Sister Winifred onto her bed while feeling her forehead. “Yes, I am here and I shall care for you now,” he said. “Calm yourself.” My heart leaped with a fierce joy.

  But then I saw his face.

  Brother Edmund had aged ten years in less than a month. Wrinkles creased his face; deep violet shadows sagged under his exhausted eyes. Worst of all, he was sweating. It was November, but his face was as damp as if it were the hottest day in July.

  I caught his sleeve, horrified. “You’re ill, too, Brother Edmund.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “But it’s obvious you are,” I persisted. “What can I do?”

  Brother Edmund shook his head. “Nothing. You’re not an apothecary or a barber, and you’re certainly not a physician, Sister Joanna. You have no knowledge of illness.”

  I could barely see, for my eyes swam with tears. It was ridiculous to react this way, but I couldn’t help it.

  Brother Edmund did not notice my tears. He was too busy searching through his cabinet of supplies for the right herbs for Sister Winifred. He’d made a fresh poultice and applied it by the time Sister Rachel returned.

  She, too, expressed joy at his return, followed by dismay over his appearance.

  “I’m telling you both, I am not ill,” he snapped. “Now please, let me concentrate on healing Sister Winifred.”

  Sister Rachel, deeply offended, swept out of the infirmary. I remembered the tactful way that Brother Edmund had dealt with his arrival at Dartford in October, how he’d made sure to smooth the transition of replacing her as the chief healer of the priory. It was like he’d become a different man.

  But was this so surprising? I thought of where he’d been for the past three weeks: in gaol, accused of murder. No one knew better than I the harsh effects of imprisonment, on body and soul. I determined not to be dismayed by any other affronts.

  Under his devoted and skillful care, Sister Winifred improved remarkably. The dullness had gone from her eyes, and she took every drop of broth I spooned her. While she ate, Brother Edmund sat on a stool on the other side, never taking his eyes from her.

  “I thank you, Sister Joanna, for caring for Sister Winifred,” he said quietly.

  This was the voice of the Brother Edmund I’d missed. His face still shone with sweat, but I said nothing more about his appearance. I did not want to irritate him anew.

  “Did Geoffrey Scovill bring you to Dartford?” I asked.

  He frowned. “No, Justice Campion released me. I haven’t seen Scovill since the coroner’s inquest. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason,” I muttered, and helped Sister Winifred with her broth.

  A short time later, the bells rang, and I hurried to church, eager to say my prayers of gratitude for the return of Brother Edmund. But in the passageway, just outside the entranceway, Sister Agatha pulled me aside. “They’re here,” she whispered.

  “Who?”

  “The king’s commissioners, Richard Layton and Thomas Legh.” Her lips curled with distaste. “They’re staying at an inn in Dartford, with a large party of men. Tomorrow morning they will officially arrive and begin the questioning of the prioress. Thank the good Lord that Brother Edmund was released ahead of their arrival.”

  My heart pounded. “What will happen now?” I asked.

  “No one knows.” She pulled at her chin. “As the prioress said, it is all in God’s hands now.”

  I doubt that anyone slept soundly in the priory that night. In the darkness I could hear Sister Christina shifting and turning, this way and that, and I knew that sleep eluded her as well. As soon as I learned of the commissioners’ ruling, their plans for the priory, I would write another letter to Bishop Gardiner and leave it at the leper hospital. I’d written a second letter two weeks ago, telling him only of Lord Chester’s murder and Brother Edmund’s arrest, nothing more. Seeing the lilies and the crown above the entranceway and atop the columns of the chapter house wasn’t something that advanced my search. Nor was reading the story of King Athelstan and learning that he had worn into battle a crown given to him by Hugh Capet. The bishop already knew that very well, I was sure. I wasn’t here to learn the secrets of the crown, only to find it.

  If the commissioners ordered us dissolved tomorrow, how long before we were expelled from the priory and the walls torn down? It could be some poor workman, paid a day’s wage for his labors, who knocked down a wall and discovered the hidden crown. What would be unleashed in that moment?

  And how would Bishop Gardiner punish my poor father for my failure? I saw him again in the Tower torture room, the scar disfiguring his face, the anger and fear warring in his eyes at the sight of me. And then the pain as he was racked.

  A sob escaped my throat. On the other side of the room, Sister Christina turned over again. Perhaps I’d disturbed her, or perhaps her restless torment had nothing to do with me. Two unhappy novices, waiting for the night to be over.

  “Sister Christina, are you not well?” I whispered.

  She didn’t answer at first, and I thought her asleep after all. But then she said, “I was thinking of Christina.”

  “You reflect on your situation?” I asked.

  “Not me. Another Christina. I was not named for her, I am sure, and yet because we have the same name I often think of her.”

  “Was she English?”

  “No, no, she was born in Lieges, hundreds of years ago. I read about her in one of the books in the Dartford library when I was a postulant. I have never been able to get her out of my mind since.”

  “Tell me,” I said, curious.

  “She was the youngest of three sisters. Their parents died, and Christina, who was a young girl, was set to watch the animals all day. She was alone and thought of God all day while tending the beasts. She became ill and died, and her sisters had her body laid out in church. During Mass, she came to life again and flew like a bird to the rafters of the church.”

  “How can that be?”

  “It was God’s work. She explained to her sisters when she came down from the rafters. She had been taken to a place of fire and torment, where men screamed all around her, and she felt tremendous pity for them. After that she was taken to a place of even greater pain and unimaginable sufferings. Then Christina went to a throne room that was very peaceful and beautiful, and God spoke to her and explained all. The first place was purgatory, the second was hell, and now she was in heaven. God gave her a choice. She could stay with Him, or she could go back into the mortal world and endure the sufferings of a mortal in an immortal body, and by doing, she could deliver the men she pitied from purgatory. Christina chose to return to her body. And so from that time on she sought out the greatest pain she could find.”

  “And she didn’t feel any of it?” I asked.

  “Oh, but she did, Sister Joanna; she did. She walked into fires set in people’s homes, and she crawled into the hot ovens for making bread, and she jumped into cauldrons of boiling water, and Christina felt everything. Her own suffering was extreme, but her flesh was untouched. Her skin did not show any marks or blisters. She was always completely uninjured.”

  After a moment, I said, “But that must have been so frightening to behold.”

  “Yes, her sisters were greatly disturbed, and they kept her bound with ropes and even chains to protect her from herself. They didn’t understand.” Sister Christina went silent. When she spoke again, her words were slow and syrupy, and I knew she was on the verge of sleep. “Later, they realized she was holy. The whole countryside heard about her. She became a . . . preacher . . . and . . .”

  In a short time, I heard heavy breathing.

  Telling the story had calmed Sister Christina, but it did not do the same for me. What a frightening tale. It took a very long time for me to fall asleep, and the
n it seemed I had snatched only a few moments when the first bells rang for Lauds.

  I noticed that prioress attended Lauds and Prime but not Terce. She must already be in the hands of the commissioners. I had heard they worked quickly.

  In Terce, I said my prayers with such ferocity that a few of the other sisters turned to look at me. But honoring Christ in our daily offices made me feel that I was helping to strengthen our priory; it was the only structure I had in my life. If Dartford was destroyed, I honestly did not know how I would survive.

  When Terce was over, I hurried to the south passageway. Brother Edmund might require my help in the infirmary.

  I’d gotten as far as the cloister garden when Gregory, the porter, called my name. The sun was out; it was one of those late-autumn mornings that glowed with wistful promise. The leaves had fallen from the quince trees, but their branches glistened. It was as if the trees sent out a dare: warm us enough to restore us to glory, and let us forestall winter and the death it brings.

  “Sister Joanna!” Gregory shouted, from across the garden. “Come with me now.”

  When I’d reached him, he said, “You’re wanted in the locutorium.”

  I backed away from him, shaking my head. “I have no visitors; you are mistaken.”

  “The king’s commissioners request you,” he said impatiently. “They have questions for you specifically.”

  I’d known this, somehow, through those exhausting slivers of dreams, the despair of the night. As much as I struggled to stay out of the center of the investigations, the grasp of the interrogators, I couldn’t.

  I followed Gregory to the door leading to the front of the priory. He unlocked it and went through first, but a second later, he cursed. The ugly words, so foreign to a religious house, quivered in the air.

  Gregory charged down the passageway to the prioress’s chamber. “What are you doing?” he shouted at two men coming out of the room, covered with dust and dirt. I heard banging noises within and more voices. There must have been six men inside her room.

  The king’s men weren’t waiting for any formal dissolution of the priory. They were taking apart the prioress’s office today—right now.

  “Stand back,” one of the men warned Gregory. “We have our orders.”

  “You can’t destroy the priory like this, without process,” I cried.

  “We’re just working in this one room,” a man said. “For now.”

  A young man’s voice sounded from farther down. “Bring her in here, you fool.” With a start, I realized he was addressing our porter.

  Red-faced with anger, Gregory led me down the long passageway to the locutorium, halfway to the guest bedchambers. The young man, who had a face like a ferret, roughly grabbed me by the arm and pushed me inside.

  I’d been in the locutorium before. My first week back at Dartford, I’d checked every inch for a sign of the hidden crown, and twice since. Nothing. It was a long room, simply furnished: a set of chairs and a table on one side and a long wooden bench on the other. This was the room set aside for outsiders—family and trusted friends—to meet with the sisters of Dartford. The nuns always sat on the bench, to drive home their decision to forsake all comfort, and the guests occupied the chairs. This morning, on the bench, sat our two friars: Brother Richard, stone-faced, and Brother Edmund, looking even more exhausted than the day before.

  Brother Richard beckoned, and I took a place between them. My limbs felt heavy and my mind dull; I was paying dearly for my lack of sleep.

  We had company, though, and I’d need sharpness of mind. Two men fussed in the corner, next to the window. They were about the same age—nearing forty—and wore long, rich furs and medallion chains. Their attention was on the two chalice cups displayed on the table. The taller man held up one of the cups to the light and turned it, admiringly.

  The other one, balding and stout, glanced over at the three of us and said, “Shall we begin?”

  With a nod, his companion replaced the cup. “We shall.”

  The tall man approached us with a smile. “I am Thomas Legh, a lawyer in the service of His Majesty. This is Richard Layton, a churchman and a clerk to the Privy Council. You know why we are here?”

  “To examine us,” said Brother Richard.

  “Yes, very good, Brother. Very to the point.”

  Layton took the chair opposite and scrutinized us.

  Brother Edmund shifted on the bench next to me. A slight acrid smell came off him; I recognized it as sweat. The poor man. Why would he not admit to me his illness?

  Legh said, “I think it best to tell you something of us first. Of our background. At the very end of 1534, Thomas Cromwell declared he would form a commission to examine the monasteries—only to reform and purify, you understand—and we stepped forward to volunteer. We would perform visitations and put forward the questions. We would learn and report back whether all of the rules were being followed, if vows had been broken, if there were financial or moral laxity.”

  As Legh droned on about the great honor of being chosen to persecute those who’d chosen a religious life, I struggled for alertness. I studied the wall to my right. A large bookshelf was carved into the wall, but it was empty of books. I thought I remembered seeing books there, but now it was empty. My eyes strayed upward, and above the shelf, carved into the wall, I saw those dread symbols of our priory: the lilies and the crown. They truly were everywhere. Here the crown stood in front, not sheltered by the flowers of the Dominican Order.

  “We made special request to examine the abbeys and priories of the North, where we have familiarity with the land and the people,” Legh was saying. “Across the entire country, the monasteries were most revered in the North. We visited one hundred twenty-one religious houses in less than four months.” He took a dramatic pause. “And in those houses we found a level of corruption, waste, idleness, and neglect that was not to be believed.”

  Brother Edmund looked down. I watched him dig his right thumb into the palm of his left hand.

  I, too, found it difficult to look at the faces of these two men. They were destroyers. Rumors abounded of their own greed, of how they plundered the abbeys that they bullied into submission. But there was no mistaking the gleam of fanaticism in their eyes. They actually believed themselves to be serving God’s will. I felt an impulse to rise from my bench, to take each of them by the hand and lead them around Dartford Priory, to meet and speak to the sisters. I would show Legh and Layton where we prayed, where we sang and slept, tell them stories of the sisters’ sacrifices and quest for union with a higher power. How hard we all tried to follow the rules of our order. At the end of such a visitation, could they still hate and despise us so?

  Layton took the lead part from his fellow commissioner: “Shall we call you ‘Brother’ or ‘Friar’?”

  Brother Richard said, “ ‘Friar’ is more correct, but we are accustomed to ‘Brother.’ It is a term of respect for any man who has taken religious vows.”

  Layton’s lip curled at the word respect. “Very well, Brother. We did not have the honor of investigating Dartford Priory or of your Dominican friary in Cambridge previous to this, but I attended the university as a young man, and I keep up with what is happening there.” He leaned forward. “Your prior admitted to buggery and thievery, on a level that was so abominable that the whole friary was dissolved forthwith.”

  Brother Richard said in a careful voice, “Neither Brother Edmund nor myself was found guilty of any violations of chapter order, so there is no relevance to the proceedings here.”

  Legh grunted. “Spoken like a lawyer: you’ve missed your calling, Brother Richard. Then let us turn our attention to Dartford Priory, where there have been very strange proceedings, indeed.”

  “Very strange,” echoed Layton.

  Brother Richard said, “In reference to the death of Lord Chester, I assume you have been acquainted with the facts? That no member of the priory was guilty?”

  Legh waved his hand. “Yes,
we know all about the murder. That is not the focus of our investigation today. Did you think it was?”

  My heart skipped. Brother Edmund stirred again on the bench. He was having such a difficult time keeping still.

  “No,” said Legh, “I have summoned the three of you, out of the hearing of your prioress, to find out exactly what Bishop Stephen Gardiner said to you at the Tower of London on October 12, and the true reason you have been sent to Dartford Priory.”

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  I looked down at the hands folded in my lap. I’d learned a few things about concealing emotions since my face had given away too much in the Tower. I fought my exhaustion and struggled to keep my breath regular and my face calm.

  “You don’t deny that Bishop Gardiner dispatched you here?” asked Legh.

  “Of course not,” said Brother Richard matter-of-factly. “There were vacancies here at Dartford that could be filled by only a Dominican friar; we were most fortunate to be chosen by the Bishop of Winchester for the positions and to come under his protection.” His voice carried the silken promise of a threat.

  Legh and Layton exchanged a glance. They were the men of Cromwell, the enemy of Gardiner. I felt as if I were on a chessboard, two sets of opposing pawns sent forward by their ruthless kings.

  “The bishop said you would be president and steward of the priory, and Brother Edmund here would supervise the infirmaries?” Legh asked.

  “Correct.”

  “And what else did he tell you about Dartford? Remember that if you lie to us, the penalties are very grave.”

  Brother Edmund leaned forward to answer: “He charged us to be a credit to the Dominican Order.”

  Layton’s eyes flashed in anger and he opened his mouth to say something, but there was a sharp rapping at the door.

  The ferret-faced man peered in and said, “The prioress is giving us some difficulty, sir.”

  “What sort?” snapped Legh.

  “She demands to know what we are looking for her in her chamber, why we are removing the carpet and damaging the walls.”