The Crown

by Nancy Bilyeau

  The prioress leaned closer to me. “For our time remaining, we will conduct ourselves with dedication to Christ and with the dignity that comes from being members of the Dominican Order. I suggest to you what I am suggesting to all of the sisters. Give careful consideration to how you wish to live after Dartford is closed to you. Sister Joanna, you have options they do not. You are half Spanish, and the Dominican Order is very strong in Spain. You could travel there. I’d help you with the arrangements. You are not without means. There is your father’s inheritance—”

  I shook my head violently. “I am an Englishwoman.”

  She said, very gently, “You cannot become a nun here. It’s not possible to perform the ceremony of final profession on the eve of our destruction. I sought permission, from our governing prelate, for you and Sister Winifred. I sent a letter the day after my rescue. I wanted to do that for you. Sister Joanna, you are the final novice to profess at Dartford. I wanted you to be the last nun. But it is too near the end of our days. My request was denied.”

  I clutched the edge of my bed. There had been so many tragedies, so many losses, and mysteries never to be understood. But this one struck me as the cruelest of blows. Was I to live out my life in this strange limbo, not a regular woman of the world but not a full nun?

  “I wish to be alone,” I said.

  She nodded and quietly left, along with Brother Edmund. That night I wept without ceasing until finally I sank into a sodden, dreamless, dull sleep. It was all for nothing, the searching and the terror and the struggle. It was over.

  The next week was very hard for me. I almost felt I was back in the Tower, that final period of listlessness, of hopeless stupor. To cheer me, Sister Agatha brought me a letter from the Lady Mary. The novice mistress was beside herself from excitement. I read it while she stood there, and then shared the gracious words of the king’s daughter with her. It pleased her more than me. I would always revere the Lady Mary and be grateful to her, but right now she was part of a way of life that was dying. A life of grace and sacrifice and order, giving way to ugliness and confusion. The tragedy was too enormous.

  Sister Winifred did her best to cheer me. She even begged me to make a life with her after Dartford closed.

  “Brother Edmund says he will try to keep the infirmary open in the village, working as an apothecary, rather than a friar,” she said. “There are those in the town who have pleaded with him to remain, to make the attempt. I will help him in the infirmary, and I will keep house for him, cook and clean. We’ll find a house in town. I have not asked him yet, but I am sure he’d welcome you.”

  “No, I must be with my father,” I said. “I know I can find him. When I am strong enough, I will purchase a horse and look for him myself.”

  “Yes, of course, Sister,” she murmured, trying to hide her disappointment. “I understand.”

  Soon after that I learned about Sister Beatrice.

  At first they hadn’t told me; for some reason, they thought I would be too unnerved. But finally, it was revealed that Sister Beatrice had in a fashion returned to Dartford. The crimes of Sister Christina had so disturbed her, she wrote a letter to the prioress asking for an audience. During a very long discussion, it was agreed that she could come back as a lay sister for as long as Dartford existed. Other priories had them—women who performed mostly manual labor, freeing up the nuns and novices for religious study. Lay sisters wore different habits and slept with the servants, but were still required to obey the laws of chastity, obedience, and humility.

  Sister Agatha asked me, rather nervously, if I wanted to meet her.

  I shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”

  The next morning, Sister Beatrice came to the infirmary. I had not slept well, and I was dreading a long confession from a penitent fallen woman.

  She was taller than I’d expected, with hazel eyes and thick blond hair pulled back tight under a cap. She slipped onto a stool and stared at me for so long I felt uncomfortable.

  “So,” she said, “I have heard you actually like tapestry work.”

  I laughed. “You don’t?”

  “I find it so dull, and I’m terrible at it. But I was bad at everything here, except for music. At chapter, my faults were doubly long as everyone else’s. I’m sure I was the worst novice in the history of the Dominican Order.”

  “Then why did you return?” I asked.

  “Prioress Elizabeth and the other nuns treated me better than anyone else in my life,” she said. “Except for Geoffrey Scovill.” To my amazement, she blushed as she said his name. She looked away until the blush receded.

  “Geoffrey told me all about you,” she muttered.

  I should have minded this, but for some reason I didn’t.

  “He said you are a remarkable person,” she continued.

  “I’m not,” I said, weary.

  She bit her thumbnail; I could see that all her fingernails were torn to the quick. She’d shown me something of a sullen nature, but then it shifted into sadness. “Do you blame me, Sister Joanna?” she asked. “Is everything that happened here at the priory my fault?”

  “No.”

  She nodded but still looked troubled.

  “I think,” I said slowly, “that for the rest of the time we have here, we should not blame one another or find fault with one another. It is very precious and beautiful, the life at Dartford Priory. We should cherish it until it is impossible to do so any longer.”

  She got up from her stool.

  “You’re mistaken about one thing, Sister Joanna. You are remarkable.”

  48

  My recovery continued. With effort—and much patience from Brother Edmund—I was able to walk across the infirmary on a Monday afternoon. The next day, the prioress sent word that my presence was expected in church.

  My spirits stirred. I believed what I’d told Sister Beatrice. For as long as I had left, I wanted to say the prayers, sing the songs, seek a holy union with Christ’s love. With Sister Winifred on one side and Sister Agatha on the other, I walked to the church of Dartford. I knelt and performed our duties.

  Although I could not yet move quickly, I made it to each and every office in the church that day and the next and the next. Making full confession filled me with relief and gratitude, freed me from some of my anguish. Brother Edmund proclaimed me well enough to sleep in the dormitory. I was glad to rest on my old pallet, though it made my heart twist to see the empty one against the opposite wall, where Sister Christina had slept.

  The next day, I approached the prioress. “Would it be possible for us to finish Sister Helen’s tapestry before Dartford is closed?” I asked.

  She looked at me for a very long time.

  “Yes,” she said, “if you will lead all of the sisters in the work.”

  “I am not capable,” I said, flustered.

  “There is none more capable,” she said firmly. “Sister Joanna, you are an extraordinarily talented novice. Learning, mastery of Latin, embroidery, music, mathematics, French, and Spanish—your accomplishments in each area are outstanding.” She paused. “I have not told you this yet because I thought it might bring you pain, but Prioress Elizabeth once told me that with your abilities and your family background, she expected you to make prioress at a young age. She once told me she thought you capable of brilliance.”

  I was surprised, saddened—and incredibly moved. “Thank you. I am very grateful to learn of her confidence in me. And yours.”

  I bowed and left to find Sister Winifred, who was ecstatic to learn that we would be sewing together again, at our loom.

  The next morning, Sister Winifred and I reopened the tapestry room, closed since the death of Sister Helen. The loom and everything else was covered with dust. We worked hard to clean it, and then I went through the silks in the basket, still spilled open on the floor where it had landed the day Sister Helen collapsed.

  Brother Edmund and I had discussed our various theories of the tapestries. It was clear now that Sis
ter Helen never knew of the hidden crown. But she must have known of the tunnels beneath the priory, and she certainly was aware of the predatory lust of Lord Chester. The stories of Daphne and Persephone both revolved around innocent young girls who were attacked or brought down by a man, despite efforts to save them. In the Daphne tapestry, Sister Helen went very far in telling the world what happened at Dartford, by putting the face of the real Sister Beatrice into the threads, and placing Prioress Elizabeth in the river weeds as a parent trying to rescue her. After Lord Chester was murdered, Sister Helen must have guessed that Sister Christina had been the one responsible, and that explained Sister Helen’s agitation. And she must have thought back to an older tapestry, the one depicting the Pleiades.

  I found the original small drawing she had created for her last tapestry. It was made into a large cartoon and cut into vertical pieces. But the drawing revealed all.

  “Yes,” I cried to Sister Winifred. “I see it now.” I began to assemble the color schemes of thread and silk.

  “Can we be of help, Sister Joanna?”

  Standing in the doorway were Sister Agatha and Sister Rachel and, leaning on her cane, Sister Anne, our oldest member.

  “I was a novice when this loom came to Dartford,” said Sister Anne. “I think I remember the secrets of a good weave.”

  “But I can’t instruct senior nuns; I am not worthy of that,” I protested.

  “Take your place, tapestry mistress,” said Sister Agatha in her loud voice. She pointed to Sister Helen’s stool, nearest the window. I swallowed, and sat, and began to distribute the work.

  We made great progress that day, and on the next another two nuns appeared. They took their turns at the benches, to complete the last tapestry Dartford would produce before our suppression.

  It was the second week of February, and we’d just finished our weaving for the day. I stretched my arms and, Sister Winifred by my side, walked down the passageway when I heard laughter ahead.

  We looked at each other, intrigued.

  The laughter came from the cloister garden. As we came around the end of the east passageway, we saw them, a half-dozen sisters, young and old. They were standing in the middle of the garden, their hands stretched up, toward the snow.

  It was a blizzard such as I’d not seen in years. The flakes fell fast—the ground was completely covered and there were already three inches, at least, quivering on the branches of the quince trees.

  I ran to join them. We kicked the snow; we twirled and bowed. I stretched out my tongue, to taste those huge, exquisite flakes sent down from God’s heaven.

  I closed my eyes and made a dancer’s pirouette, from a long-ago lesson.

  A hand shook my shoulder. “Sister Joanna!” said someone urgently.

  My eyes flew open. A man walked toward me in the snow. It was Geoffrey Scovill, his head and clothes damp and creased with snow, his face reddened with cold.

  “Sister Joanna,” he said. A smile burst across his face. “I’d heard you were recovered but did not think I’d find you dancing quite yet.”

  “Geoffrey!” I shouted. I was so glad to see him. The other sisters stopped moving around; they were shy, self-conscious before this young man, even though he was the celebrated rescuer of the prioress and myself.

  I moved toward him, aware that I should not be so familiar with a man but at that moment simply not caring.

  “I am glad you are here,” I said. Playfully, I tossed my handful of snow at him. It shivered and burst on his sleeve.

  He laughed. I always liked the sound of his laugh, even when he annoyed me, which was often.

  Someone else came up from behind him. It was Brother Edmund, and he looked unhappy. He disliked Geoffrey Scovill—I supposed that would never change.

  I glanced back at Geoffrey; he was no longer laughing or even smiling. They exchanged a long look, but not of enmity. There was a shared knowledge of something.

  “What is it?” I demanded.

  “Your father is here,” Geoffrey said.

  I could not believe it for a few seconds. “Oh, Geoffrey, thank you, thank you,” I said.

  “It was not my doing; he’d almost made it to Dartford when I came upon him,” Geoffrey said.

  “So he was coming to me?”

  Brother Edmund said, “Yes.”

  “Where is he?”

  The two men exchanged another look. “He is in the infirmary,” said Brother Edmund. “I will take you. First, you must know that—”

  I was already running. I had been told not to run yet, but I ran anyway, forcing my weakened legs forward. I almost fell against a wall, but pushed myself off from it and kept going.

  I came through the door, and there he was. Sitting up on the infirmary bed, where I had mended not long ago. My heart twisted to see his burned, scarred face.

  Sister Rachel was giving him something to eat.

  “Father,” I said.

  “Joanna, ah Joanna.” His voice was weak. But he was alive.

  Sister Rachel stepped back while I embraced my father. He was cold and, I could feel through his clothes, much thinner. The tears streamed down my cheeks as I held him and thanked God for bringing him to me. “My little girl,” he whispered, stroking my hair, as he used to. “My little girl.”

  Something fell to the floor behind me with a clattering. I turned to look. A boy stood there, not four years old, with shining red-gold hair and a wide smile. He had grabbed a silver pan from the counter and had sent it crashing to the floor.

  “Arthur, no,” said my father. “Don’t do that.”

  “Who is this boy?” I asked.

  My father gripped my arm, tight.

  “He is Arthur Bulmer. Margaret’s son.”

  49

  In a few minutes we were alone. My father requested it, and his tone was so insistent that all complied. Sister Winifred said she would take Arthur to the kitchen to see if Cook would make him something special to eat. Brother Edmund backed away, too, but not before preparing an herbal poultice for me to give my father. Geoffrey watched everything from the doorway, arms folded across his chest.

  “I shall speak to you later, Master Scovill?” asked my father. Even now, severely weakened, his voice carried the authority of a Stafford.

  “Of course, Sir Richard,” Geoffrey said respectfully. He nodded to me and left with Brother Edmund.

  “Drink, please,” I said, handing him a steaming cup.

  “In a moment, Joanna.”

  “No,” I insisted. “Now.” I smiled at him. “You are going to have to get used to my giving you orders on food and drink.”

  He looked at me, inquiringly.

  “Dartford Priory will be suppressed in the spring,” I said. “I should like to stay here until that time. Then I will join you wherever you think we should live.”

  He sipped his hot drink. The news did not give him as much happiness as I expected. Perhaps it was because he was so cold and tired.

  “I must speak to you, Joanna. Please listen to everything I have to say. It will not be easy, this conversation. I think it will be the most difficult of my life.”

  My heart beating faster, I took a stool and sat next to him. He hovered on the edge of the infirmary bed, just above me, his hands on his knees.

  “It’s about Arthur,” he said.

  I nodded. Then it came to me. “You want him to live with us? Of course, Father. I want to help raise Margaret’s son. I am only surprised her husband’s family released him to you.”

  He closed his eyes. A moment passed. I heard the murmur of voices outside. One of them was Geoffrey’s. He was staying close, as my father had requested.

  My father opened his eyes again.

  “Joanna, he is my son.”

  I was confused. “No, he is Margaret’s. You just said so.”

  I could see my father’s hands shaking on his knees.

  “He is my son with Margaret.”

  “That’s not possible,” I said.

&nb
sp; He closed his eyes again.

  “You are not well, Father, or you would not say such a vile thing. I will call for Brother Edmund. He has remedies he can give you.”

  “No!” He grabbed my wrist. “Don’t call for anyone. Hear me, daughter. You have no choice.”

  I went still. I had never disobeyed him in my life, but I felt a terrible pain, deep in my body.

  “In the year 1533, in the summer, I went to London to see to the family property. Do you remember?” I did not speak or nod, and he continued. “I was out on the street when I saw her. It was Margaret. She had escaped from her husband the night before and had been walking through London, not knowing where to go or what to do.”

  My father paused. “I don’t know how much you know of her first husband, William Cheyne. He was a foul man, riddled with vice. Norfolk should never have arranged the marriage. Cheyne got the French pox not long after he married her; she did her best to stay clear of him. But every once in a while, Cheyne would reclaim his wife. In 1533, Anne Boleyn was pregnant with the child everyone expected would be a prince. Norfolk was attending the king, and Cheyne was with him one day and ordered Margaret to accompany him, even though she’d hated the court all her life. That’s the day the king got his first look at Margaret.”

  My father’s face was full of loathing. He spoke faster than I’d ever known him to do. It was as if he felt compelled to tell me these terrible, sordid things.

  “Henry had begun taking mistresses again, with the queen pregnant. Of course, when he laid eyes on Margaret, he had to have her. He told someone she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. He knew she was the daughter of Buckingham, too. That must have added to the perversity of his attraction. He told Norfolk, always eager to play procurer, to fetch her to him. Norfolk was happy because it would mean someone loyal to the Howards would entertain the king, or so he assumed. Cheyne was ordered to deliver Margaret that night to the king’s groomsman, who would take her to the king’s bed.”