He shook his head slowly.
I protested, “Brother, it is completely senseless that Bishop Gardiner would send me on a secret mission if the purpose was to hasten our doom. And my father is imprisoned in the Tower, as guarantor that I carry this out.”
Brother Edmund said, “But you heard what the prior said. We can’t be sure what Bishop Gardiner would do. We did not know the secret of the bishop’s birth before. Athelstan said that the crown could be worn only by someone ‘pure.’ I fear that a man of the cloth with royal blood, someone of bastard descent like Gardiner, fits all the requirements perfectly. Now that we have learned this, we can’t let the crown fall into his hands. Gardiner has betrayed so many people. The risk is too great.”
I said nothing more as we walked toward the street. But I felt deathly cold. Not from the frigid night breeze that shivered through my hair and made my knee throb. No, it was the realization that my intent and Brother Edmund’s intent were no longer one and the same.
43
On the journey back to Dartford, Brother Edmund’s health improved. He did not appear so ravaged in the morning; I did not see the sweats or the bursts of irritability. A new source of strength seemed to flow through him. I should have rejoiced to see it, but I found it ominous. We were elaborately polite with each other on the road, in the inns, during our shared meals. I longed to know his purpose when we returned to the priory, yet I feared knowing it, too. I never brought up the search for the crown.
But I thought about it every minute. I became convinced that Dartford, too, had rooms below ground—a “dark house”—and that the crown was hidden there. Based on the story of Prince Arthur’s visit, the entrance to it had to be in one of the front rooms of the priory, not the cloistered section. The commissioner’s men had already torn apart the prioress’s chamber and found nothing. But that still left other rooms and passageways to examine.
I wondered if the second Howard tapestry created at Dartford Priory—the one of the sisters, hanging in Norfolk House, in Lambeth—would give me the final piece of information I needed to find the crown. Lambeth lay on the south side of the Thames, facing the city. It was not far from Dartford at all. And the Duke of Norfolk was earl marshal of the kingdom and owned so many houses that he was often not in London at all. His base of power was East Anglia. The chances were small he would be in residence at Norfolk House.
There was one problem, however. I did not want Brother Edmund to come with me.
The final morning, as we gave our horses water outside the last inn where we would stay, I said, “We should reach London by noontime, don’t you think, Brother?”
He nodded as he checked the saddle on his horse. “Yes, and Dartford well before nightfall.”
Struggling to keep my voice casual, I said, “I could make a short stop, in Lambeth. Perhaps John could accompany me, while you ride ahead to Dartford?”
“You wish to view the other tapestry?”
“Yes, I could take note of all I see and report to you, Brother.” I, too, checked my saddle, grateful for an excuse not to meet his gaze. I waited for his reply, but there was only silence.
I mounted my horse and finally looked over at him. Brother Edmund stood by his mount, with eyes so sad I was flooded with remorse.
“Sister Joanna, I would like to come with you—to be of service to you,” he said very quietly.
I focused on untangling my bridle. “As you wish,” I said.
About an hour after we set out, the sky opened, and a freezing downpour forced us to seek shelter. Standing next to Brother Edmund, holding our horses’ reins, shivering in the cold, I was tempted to speak openly to him, as I used to. It was not just about our divergent wishes for the crown. I thought of his admission to me, in the doorway of Malmesbury Abbey. There were things I wanted to say as well, and would—if only John were not standing near us. But John never left, and when the rain ceased, we started again for London.
We took a different route this time, straight through the heart of the city, since we planned the Lambeth stop. When we rode down Cheapside, Londoners crowded around us, so loud and boisterous, such a change from the country. It put me in mind of a sullen May day, and a cart filled with empty ale barrels that rumbled along, a market of spices, and a young urchin girl fleeing through the streets. The journey to Smithfield—the horror of Margaret’s burning—was with me every day, but being on Cheapside made the memory burn bright and deep, like a branding.
Once we’d crossed the Thames and made it to Lambeth, the noise died away. There were a few boatbuilding yards, but otherwise it was marshland, rising to cold, barren fields, and then, in the distance, wooded hills. Tucked among the woods were a handful of grand manor houses. John made inquiry as to Norfolk House’s location.
“I’m told to go to Paradise Street,” he said when he rejoined us.
Brother Edmund gave me a long look, and together we found our way to Paradise.
In truth, all we needed to do was join the queue. There was a parade of people—all of them young and well dressed—headed for a particular manor house on the street. On horseback, in fashionable wagons, even in litters—they laughed and shouted to one another as they hurried up Paradise Street. We heard “Howard” on their lips. As I rode down the long, well-maintained drive, I could see that Norfolk House was large and distinguished, flanked by groves of trees, their branches bare.
“This could work to our advantage,” I reassured Brother Edmund. “If the Howards are entertaining, if there is a large gathering, we may be able to slip in and out, unnoticed.”
“But doesn’t this mean the duke himself is here?” asked the friar, worried.
“He’s not a man who enjoys large gatherings; he thinks everyone in the world far beneath him,” I said. “And he’s more than sixty years old. No, this is the notion of some younger member of the family—it’s a very large clan.”
He gave me a skeptical look but nudged his horse to follow me down the drive to Norfolk House.
We left the horses with John and, as inconspicuously as possible, followed a group of young people in through the front doors. As I’d hoped, the entrance hall was jammed with guests, all of whom seemed to know one another.
“You should smile,” I whispered to Brother Edmund. “You look too grim for a party.”
Brother Edmund said dryly, “Many things have been asked of me since I left Dartford Priory, but to be jovial in the home of the Duke of Norfolk? That request is the one I’m unable to meet.”
I burst out laughing—and felt a hand tug on my sleeve.
A plump and pretty auburn-haired girl, short in stature, no more than fourteen years old, said, “Welcome to Norfolk House. And what will you be tonight? A nun or a lady?”
My mouth fell open.
“Don’t look so scared,” she giggled. “Don’t you know why you’re here?”
“We’re here for the party,” said Brother Edmund.
“But what part will you play for the masque?” she said. “My cousin of Surrey was explicit with his announcements. You can choose to remain yourself, a lady and gentleman”—her eyes swept doubtfully over our plain, travel-rumpled clothing—“or you can wear a religious costume. We have so many.” She turned to Brother Edmund and smiled, a single dimple deepening in her right cheek. “You’d look perfect as a monk, sir!”
We stared at the girl, astounded. And then it was Brother Edmund’s turn to laugh. His shoulders shook; I thought he would weep from it. I began to worry when a few heads turned to see who was making such noise.
The girl’s cheeks turned pink. “Are you laughing at me?” she quavered.
“No, no, no,” Brother Edmund gasped. “I would not do that.” He took a deep breath and composed himself. “I would very much like to be a monk, mistress—what is your name?”
She dropped a curtsy. “Catherine Howard, sir. I live here.”
Brother Edmund bowed. “I am honored to meet a member of the family.”
She giggled
again. “Oh, don’t be. I am not an important one.” She pointed to the doors on the other side of the hall. “That’s where you get the costumes. First we dance, and then my cousin of Surrey has a masque written to perform. And there’s much wine for all.”
With a final, kind little wave, she moved on to the next guests.
I whispered to Brother Edmund, “What could be better? We costume ourselves and find the tapestry. We’ll be out of here soon.”
We separated and went to the rooms set aside for changing. I took off my winter cloak and donned a black nun’s habit over my skirt and bodice. It gave me pause; I felt as if I were mocking our traditions and values. A servant handed me a mask for the upper part of my face, and I tied it on, around my black hair. I dropped the borrowed veil over my hair.
I moved into another antechamber, where the guests were lining up. Musicians played a jaunty tune within the great hall. More than half of the people wore the habits of a monk or nun. I saw three bishops, too, and even a scarlet-red cardinal of the church. At the entranceway stood a page dressed in the ducal livery of the Howards: his crest boasted a red, long-tailed lion on a gold background. He had a scroll in his hands. After listening to what one gentleman said, he glanced at the scroll, turned, and shouted into the hall, “Sir Henry Lisle!”
I drew back. The guests were being announced—something we must avoid. I searched the antechamber for Brother Edmund but could not find him at first in a sea of laughing friars and monks.
I moved among the guests, my pulses racing, until I found him. Taller and thinner than most of the other men, he now wore a Benedictine’s habit, much like those worn by the monks of Malmesbury. He had exchanged his traveling hat for a large monk’s cap atop his blond hair, covering his tonsure. His brown eyes gleamed behind the mask.
“We cannot be announced under our own names,” I whispered to him. “But we can’t use a false name, either. It wouldn’t be on the list.”
Brother Edmund looked to the entranceway. “The tapestry could be in there,” he said. “If I could just gain entry for five minutes, that’s all that’s needed.”
No clear solution presented itself. We stood aside, while others moved forward, to be announced. Soon we would be conspicuous for not entering the party.
A short nun hurried by us, auburn hair rippling down her back below the veil. I recognized her.
“Mistress Howard?” I asked. An idea sprang into my mind.
She looked us over and broke into applause. “The costumes suit you both so well.”
I smiled at her as warmly as I could manage. “I am acquainted with your cousin of Surrey. In fact, I’ve just visited his sister, the dowager duchess of Richmond. But I wish to surprise him, you see. I would rather not be announced. Is there a way to manage it?”
Her eyes widened. “All Howards love a surprise,” she said, and thought a moment. “Come with me!”
Catherine Howard led us out of the antechamber, to a narrow passageway running alongside the great hall. “Do you see the doors?” she asked. “One of them opens directly into the great hall.”
“How will we know which one?” Brother Edmund asked.
“Look at the carving over the door. The lion is in front of the ivy,” she said.
“What?” he asked, puzzled.
“Ah—the crest,” I jumped in. “The Howard crest is a golden lion and ivy.”
“You know our family well,” she said, pleased. “Most of the time, the ivy is in front of the lion. But atop that door, the lion is in front. That’s how I remember which door to use.”
She winked conspiratorially and melted back into the crowd.
It didn’t take long to find the door and join the party under way in the great hall of Norfolk House. There must have been sixty people gathered, and almost all of them danced.
My eyes darted around the room. There were tapestries hanging on opposite walls. The long one on our side of the hall was of an exquisite garden—but I could tell other hands than those of Dartford nuns had stitched it. “It must be on the other side,” I told Brother Edmund.
A sea of people twirled and bowed and jumped between the tapestries and us on the wall. Everyone danced, except for two older women and the servants circulating with wine.
“We have to find a way over there,” Brother Edmund said.
There was a call for attention from the head of the hall. A stage had been erected between two huge candelabras. In the center of the stage stood an athletic young man, about twenty-one years of age, dressed like a bishop but without a cap or mask. He had a proud, handsome face and short-cropped red-gold hair.
“Is it the Earl of Surrey?” asked Brother Edmund.
“Yes,” I said distractedly, for a memory stirred. “And he is the image of his grandfather—and my uncle—the Duke of Buckingham.” In Surrey, I could see my uncle, the duke, dashing about his beautiful homes and gardens, organizing the fantastic parties he loved so much. There was a certain justice to this—the Duke of Norfolk despised his wife and her family, but both of his cherished children were entirely Stafford in looks.
“Fine people, before the masque begins, we shall have an allemande!” the young Earl of Surrey shouted. The crowd roared with approval. The musicians raised their instruments.
Everyone rushed to select partners and their places for the dance—except for Brother Edmund and me.
“Dancing would be one way to get across the room,” I pointed out.
“Excellent idea, but for one problem,” he said. “I do not dance.”
“I know it is unseemly, Brother, but doesn’t the occasion call for it?”
He bit his lip. “It isn’t that. I would dance if I could, Sister. I don’t know how.”
I was surprised. I’d thought dancing lessons part of every child’s life.
“I’ve been intended for the monastery since I was eight years old,” he said apologetically.
The Earl of Surrey clapped his hands again, surveying the hall. “Excellent, form your lines.” My heart sank as his roving attention settled on Brother Edmund and myself off to the side.
“Friends, I have assembled the finest musician in the land, after the king himself,” he called to us, smiling. “Why will you not dance?”
I held up Brother Edmund’s hand, grateful for my mask. “We are pleased and happy to take our places, my lord,” I said loudly. I led Brother Edmund to the front of the line, next to Surrey’s stage. “Just follow what I do,” I whispered right before we had to part and take our places.
“That’s the right spirit, my fine brunette,” said the earl said with a flourish and a bow. “And now, before we dance, let me bring out the guests of honor. For there is an excellent reason we don the habits of the monastery and the nunnery today. One of their champions has returned to our shores.”
A door next to the stage opened, and two older men appeared.
They were Thomas Howard, third Duke of Norfolk, and Stephen Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester.
44
Brother Edmund and I stood, frozen, just inches from the stage. I could hear the creak of the three wooden steps as first Norfolk and then Gardiner climbed them. What was the Bishop of Winchester doing back in England? Had he already learned I was not at Dartford Priory, and neither was Brother Edmund?
“Thomas, this is flattering to be sure, but not a fit occasion,” I heard Gardiner say in his low, mild voice.
“Oh, come, Bishop, take it in the right spirit,” cried the Earl of Surrey. “My father has missed your presence greatly. We all have—and hope you will stay with us and not return to France too soon.”
Surrey turned to the musicians’ gallery. “Play for my father the duke and the mighty Bishop of Winchester!” he commanded.
And it began.
The allemande is a simple dance. If the earl had called for a galliard, we would have been doomed. No, the allemande is a procession, down a line, with each couple holding hands across the center and moving sideways. Every three steps com
es a halt, a hop, and a kick; then the line resumes. As the dancers reach the end of the line, they recombine on opposite sides.
Because Brother Edmund had no idea what to do, he did not stop after three steps, he crashed into a fellow dancer, a man who flinched with an “Oomph!” and looked over, angry. I glanced back at the stage; the three men talked among themselves and did not notice Brother Edmund’s gaffe.
But the next time, Brother Edmund did stop at three steps and the time after that, he even hopped and kicked. He was picking up the dance quickly, his love of music no doubt helping him.
I turned my attention to the tapestries, hanging on the wall behind Brother Edmund’s head. He could not see without twisting around, and with the demands of the dance, that was impossible.
Yes, one of the tapestries was from Dartford. All the telltale signs of our workmanship were present. And it was the longest one I had ever seen; it must have taken at least two years to construct. There was a group of female figures depicted, and yes, they danced. But ironically, with all of the people dancing and kicking and shifting before me, I could not make much sense of it. There seemed no story here, no myth plucked from ancient Greece. Seven young women cavorted in a line. There might have been something frenzied to their dance, something almost angry to the way they moved their arms upward, toward the heavens woven at the top of the tapestry.
Brother Edmund and I made it to the end of the hall. I pulled him forward, then turned him, so he would face the side of the hall bearing the tapestry. “Tell me what you see,” I cried over the music. “It means nothing to me.”
We began our dance back toward the direction of the stage. By now Brother Edmund knew the dance. His eyes were glued to the tapestry; I prayed he would decipher its meaning.
I was halfway across the room when it happened. Brother Edmund, staring at the tapestry on the wall, gave a cry so loud our neighboring dancers heard. Just then the third step was supposed to take place, but he stood there, rooted to the floor, and the man to his side kicked so high that he and Brother Edmund collided and both stumbled. Brother Edmund did not fall. But the costume monk’s cap dropped off his head and revealed his tonsure.
The Crown Page 36
