The Crown

by Nancy Bilyeau

  Brother Richard tapped the table with his fingers. “There is another explanation.”

  The two friars stared at each other, and then Brother Edmund nodded, as if he read the other’s mind. “The distribution.”

  Irritated, I said, “Brothers, please?”

  “Forgive us again, Sister,” said Brother Edmund. “It is possible that both the crown that Hugh gave to Athelstan and the one residing in Paris today are holy.”

  “How?”

  “It is said that seventy thorns adorned the branches of the crown Jesus wore. There are reports that they were not all kept together, that the crown was at some point broken up and the thorns distributed.”

  “But who would commit such a violation?” I asked, aghast.

  Brother Richard answered, “The world of relics has always been shaded with darkness. Humans are frail creatures, subject to pride and greed.”

  I recoiled at his cynicism. “Perhaps in the past, in times of ignorance to God’s truths, some mistakes were made,” I said. “But not today, surely. No one would misrepresent the validity of the relics at the shrines of England.”

  A sad, heavy silence settled over the library. Neither friar met my gaze.

  “No—that can’t be true,” I cried. “You cannot say that lies are told in our monasteries today. That’s impossible.”

  Brother Edmund sat down and leaned across the table. “Sister Joanna, you are a strong young woman. You must hold on to your faith through what I am about to tell you.” He took a deep breath. “At Hailes Abbey, in Gloucestershire, there is a phial of blood—it has been on display since the thirteenth century, purporting to be the blood of Christ.”

  “Yes, of course I know of it, my cousins Margaret Bulmer and the Duchess of Norfolk made a pilgrimage there many years ago,” I said. “You aren’t trying to say that . . .”

  The words died in my throat. I could see Margaret, by the fire, telling me, awed, about the spiritual beauty she’d found at her pilgrimages.

  “The monks used pig’s blood,” said Brother Richard flatly. “There had been rumors, but then last year they admitted it, under pressure. There are similar incidents, at other monasteries.”

  If I had learned one thing in my life, it was the frailty of man. And yet this latest disillusionment hit me with brutish strength. I rose to my feet, as the friars watched.

  I said, “If that is indeed true—and I cannot believe you would be so cruel as to tell me this unless you were certain—than what is the point of our struggle to save the monasteries, to stop Cromwell from destroying our way of life, if everything is built on lies?”

  Brother Edmund jumped to his feet and clasped my hands in his palms. “It is not all lies. There is some small corruption in the religious houses of England, yes. Why do you think these commissioners have been able to make reports that justify dissolving the abbeys? If anyone looks long enough, they can find error. But there is also dedication and true spirituality.”

  “We are on a journey that has brought us to Dartford, Sister Joanna,” said Brother Richard. “For wisdom, for truth, for justice . . . for God. You were forced into this part of it, as was Brother Edmund, but I think you also believe in the journey.”

  I bowed my head. A memory sprang to mind, of we sisters of Dartford, in a circle, praying and weeping together as one of our own, poor mute Sister Helen, died. How we helped one another and supported one another through all hardships—and amid the harsh yet beautiful, mysterious, and transcendent power of our faith.

  “Yes,” I said, looking up. “I believe.”

  Brother Edmund’s face flooded with relief.

  “Then let us turn our attention to the Athelstan crown,” he said. “We agree that the Saxon ruler was presented with a crown that was once, in some form, the crown of thorns?”

  Brother Richard nodded, convinced.

  “Now the crown of Jesus has no inherent powers that I have read about, beyond being revered. Therefore, the dangerous aspects of coming into contact with it—the suspected deaths of King Richard, the Black Prince, and Prince Arthur—must have come later, in the time of Athelstan. That king somehow oversaw its transformation. But it must have become so powerful or so uncontrollable that it was hidden away, and the need for secrecy became profound.”

  A memory stirred. “Lord Chester spoke of the secrets of Dartford Priory the night he died.”

  Brother Richard inhaled sharply. “Yes, he did. Could it be possible that such a debauched man had knowledge of the crown?”

  “At one point, Geoffrey Scovill believed His Lordship’s death had something to do with knowledge of a priory secret,” I said.

  The friars both scowled at the mention of Geoffrey’s name, and I took that opportunity to tell them the story of our odd friendship: how Geoffrey protected me from harm at Smithfield, was imprisoned for it, and asked me not to reveal his stint in the Tower to the investigators he worked with.

  “Despite his having assisted you, I have no fondness for Master Scovill,” huffed Brother Richard. “And yet . . . it’s true that there are aspects of Lord Chester’s behavior at the feast—some of the words he said—that also puzzle me.”

  “Such as the tapestry,” said Brother Edmund thoughtfully. “The way he reacted to it was so strange. As if there was a message that Sister Helen had woven into it that only Lord Chester understood.”

  Brother Richard said, “Then you believe Sister Helen knew of the crown’s existence at Dartford and was trying to convey it to the world through her designs of the tapestries?”

  I clapped my mouth with my hand. “The note!” I cried. Brother Edmund drew back. “Oh, yes,” he said.

  “What note?” Brother Richard asked.

  “I found a note slipped into my bed that said, ‘Seek out the Howard tapestries.’ I believe it was put there by Sister Helen shortly before she collapsed. Do you think that the tapestries now owned by the Howards could contain clues?”

  “What of the tapestry that is unfinished?” asked Brother Richard. “Could that help us?”

  I shook my head. “There are no finished faces to look at. Sister Helen died before she reached that stage in the work.”

  Brother Edmund agreed. He explained that he, too, had examined the newest tapestry and found nothing in its story or its figures that seemed to have deeper meaning.

  “If only we could see that Howard tapestry now,” I said, frustrated.

  Brother Richard furiously dove into his pile of ledgers and scrolls. “I know that a record exists of the Dartford tapestries sold over the years,” he muttered. It took him a minute to find the right ledger, his finger racing down a list. “Here it is,” he said. “Large tapestry, Greek myth, sold to the Duke of Norfolk . . . 1533 . . . for a wedding gift to the Duke and Duchess of Richmond . . . to hang in Wardour Castle, Wiltshire, jointure property of the Duchess of Richmond.”

  “Any description of the tapestry itself, beyond ‘Greek myth’?” asked Brother Edmund, eagerly.

  “I’m afraid not.”

  They turned to me. “This was well before you came to Dartford, Sister Joanna, but do you remember hearing anything of this tapestry?” asked Brother Richard.

  “No,” I said regretfully. “But the Duchess of Richmond should be able to describe it to me.”

  Brother Richard looked at me, askance. “Why should she do that for you?”

  “Because she is my cousin once removed,” I said. “Before she married, the Duchess of Richmond was Mary Howard, the daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Norfolk. I am related to the duchess.” I remembered well the pretty red-haired girl who had come to Stafford Castle with her mother—and with Margaret and Charles Howard—ten years ago. I’d seen her a few times afterward; Mary always favored her Stafford relations.

  “I’ll write her a letter tomorrow,” I promised. “The Duke of Richmond died last year, but if Wardour is her jointure property, she may reside there now. I will ask for as many details as possible.”

  Brother Richard
smiled. “Ah, your connections are never to be underestimated.”

  I shrugged. Pointed mention of my Stafford background always embarrassed me.

  Brother Edmund rubbed his temples, more troubled than ever. “Finding the crown is essential, but is only half of our quest. We need to understand its power. To do that, I must learn more of its history, why it was so important to King Athelstan. I am thinking of what Bishop Gardiner said to Sister Joanna. ‘It is more than a relic. It is a blessing, and it is a curse.’ I wish I was knowledgeable about Athelstan’s reign.”

  “Is there a library you could use, that would have books and documents on that period?” I asked.

  Brother Edmund stared at me, and his face lit up with the same strange fire I’d seen on the hill overlooking the leper hospital. “I am a fool,” he said in a strangled voice. He leaped to a wall of books, grabbing one so ferociously I thought he would rip off the cover.

  It was a book listing the abbeys and priories of England. Brother Edmund quickly found the page he sought and jabbed a page with a trembling finger. At the top it said, “Malmesbury Abbey, founded A.D. 675.” I saw a list of names following, of the prior and resident monks—it was a large establishment—and a description of the abbey’s possessions.

  Brother Edmund pointed at a paragraph. “Look,” he gasped.

  I read aloud: “The abbey also contains the tomb of King Athelstan of the Saxons, who requested he be buried there in the year 940. Documents of his fifteen-year reign are preserved there.”

  “His tomb!” I cried. “Where is Malmesbury?”

  “The northern tip of Wiltshire,” said Brother Edmund. “Not much more than a week’s journey from here.”

  “But are you well enough to travel?” asked Brother Richard.

  “Oh, yes. I just need another two days to nurse Sister Winifred, to be sure she is safely recovered. Then I ride to Malmesbury.”

  “I can easily explain your absence,” said Brother Richard. “Bishop Gardiner gave me a copy of his seal in case of a crisis. He anticipated I might need to generate a document, an order coming from him.”

  Brother Edmund peered at him. “You will falsify documents?”

  “Like all good Dominicans, I am a pragmatist,” said Brother Richard. “As president and steward of Dartford Priory, I can authorize departures for limited periods of time.”

  “This is an excellent plan,” said Brother Edmund. They smiled at each other.

  It was then that I spoke. “Brothers, it is an excellent plan,” I said. “Except for one thing.”

  The friars had forgotten I was in the room. Now both turned to me, surprised.

  “What’s that?” asked Brother Edmund.

  “I am going with you,” I said.

  39

  It was too early in the year to snow. Whether I lived at Stafford Castle in the midlands or Dartford Priory in the South of England, I’d rarely seen flakes fall before Christmas. But on the road to Wiltshire, on the sixth day, when we drew close to our destination, the air chilled and the sky swelled and turned darkest gray. The flakes slanted down on us, just a whisper of snow at first, then thicker. Last winter had been the coldest one in living memory; the Thames froze solid, and the wealthy took to the ice in enormous sleighs. This winter threatened to be just as frigid.

  Ahead of me, Brother Edmund turned in his saddle, concerned, as the snowflakes rested on his hat. I smiled at him, trying to reassure. Did he think, after all we had endured, both separately and together, that snow would trouble me? He did not smile back but pulled on the reins and kicked his horse, to ride farther ahead.

  Brother Edmund had not wanted me to come. Nor had Brother Richard. They’d argued against it, furiously. It would be much harder to explain my needing to leave Dartford Priory than it would be to explain Brother Edmund’s. There was the danger of a long journey on the open road. And, of course, the impropriety of a friar traveling with a novice.

  “You’ll endanger the entire venture,” said Brother Richard in his most forbidding voice. “Sister Joanna, I must insist that you remain here, and let Brother Edmund travel to Malmesbury Abbey alone.”

  “Then I will leave Dartford by myself and travel there separately,” I said. “I’ve gone without permission before. I’m perfectly capable of doing it again.”

  The friars stared at me, too shocked to speak.

  “I realize that I may be disciplined or even turned out when I return to the priory,” I said. “But what does that matter? We shall be doomed by spring, one way or another. With my ‘connections,’ as you put it, Brother Richard, we should be able to gain admittance to Wardour Castle and see the Howard tapestry for ourselves. Then we can ride to the abbey, which is also in Wiltshire, and learn everything there is to know of King Athelstan. I was sent here to find the crown, to do everything in my power to find it, and I will do so.”

  Having been given no choice, the friars made arrangements. Brother Richard produced a document supposedly written by Bishop Stephen Gardiner, bearing his seal, requesting the presence of Brother Edmund and myself in London.

  Prioress Joan agreed without asking any questions at all. She produced the necessary licenses for us to be gone for longer than a few hours.

  I should have seen it as a blessing, but her new complaisance worried me. Standing in front of the priory, giving us her blessing as we mounted the priory’s best horses, Prioress Joan stared past me, over my shoulder, at the grounds. I realized that since Cromwell’s commissioners left she had rarely looked me in the eye.

  Would she write her own letter to Bishop Gardiner and thus learn he had no knowledge of this trip? I speculated. But there was nothing I could do about it, no way to stop her. Brother Richard said he intended to observe her; I could only hope he was up to the challenge of outwitting the formidable prioress of Dartford.

  My fellow novices came out to say good-bye. Sister Winifred’s health had improved dramatically. The day before, she’d returned to the novice dormitory and resumed her duties. Now I feared more for Sister Christina, so grim and silent, and so lacking in color. I told myself that she and Sister Winifred would be all right in my absence, that they had each other, after all.

  Brother Edmund and I waved good-bye and headed up the lane, toward the road. As soon as we were out of sight of the priory building, we both hurriedly removed our habits. Underneath I wore the plain dress I’d had when I came from the Tower to Dartford; Brother Edmund wore the clothes of a country gentleman. It was my idea to do this. After seeing what a fuss Sister Agatha and I raised when we rode through the village in our habits, I doubted we would even reach the gates of London if dressed in the garb of our order. We were not Brother Edmund and Sister Joanna any longer. We were siblings, traveling the country on urgent family business.

  The shedding of clothes alarmed John, our stable hand. He’d eagerly agreed to accompany us to London because he of his devotion to Brother Edmund. But the poor man came close to panic when we told him we were setting out on an incognito mission—not to London, but to Wiltshire.

  “We need you to care for the horses, John, to see they’re fed and watered and kept safe,” said Brother Edmund. Left unspoken was that we also required the appearance of a servant, or else we would look too odd—and be too vulnerable to thievery.

  “And we’ll still be back at Dartford in a fortnight?” asked John. “My wife is with child, Brother.”

  “Yes, John, I know that,” he said gently. “It may be longer than a fortnight, but not more than three weeks, I promise you.”

  John’s eyes widened at that. For a moment I feared he would break away from us and gallop back to the priory. He’d tell the prioress everything and our mission would be over before we’d reached the main road.

  But John did not break away. He fell into line. And on the journey he proved invaluable, not only caring for the horses but provisioning food when our supplies of bread and salted fish ran out, and riding ahead to secure lodgings at the inns along the way.


  After we left the outskirts of London we took the wide road that cut west through the whole of England, all the way to Wales. We rode by low-lying woods, interspersed with vast open fields stripped of harvest and fenced-in sheep farms. Small knots of men and women cut wheat stubble to mix with hay for the winter fodder. Every so often we’d pass through a market town; many had small churches, and whenever time allowed, we stopped for a quick prayer. The largest towns boasted inns for travelers. I’d never been inside an inn before. When I’d journeyed in the past, with my family, we’d always stayed overnight with our relations, in their manor houses or castles. Some of the inns were comfortable; others were mean, loud, and dirty. It never mattered to me. I was always exhausted after a day of riding on the sporadically maintained road, and would fall onto my bed, asleep in seconds.

  It troubled me that Brother Edmund spoke so little. Sometimes I feared it was because he was still angry with me for insisting on joining him. But at other times I wondered if all of his strength—of body and mind—must go toward his battle with his demon. I remembered that when he first confessed to his weakness, he said the nightmares were agony. One glance at his face each morning—ashen and damp with sweat—proved that was still the case. The hours of hard riding through the cold countryside always seemed to brace and revive him. He was most like his old self at the end of the day.

  One evening, while we shared supper, I learned of the complexity of his feelings for Bishop Gardiner.

  “When I heard that the bishop was personally coming to Cambridge, on the eve of our dissolution, I was most excited,” Brother Edmund admitted.

  “But why?”

  “His is the most brilliant mind to emerge from Cambridge in the last fifty years.”

  I was taken aback. “But Brother Edmund, he was the one who supplied the legal framework for the king’s divorce from Katherine of Aragon.”