The Crown

by Nancy Bilyeau

  I felt the sickness returning, my horror of the court.

  “But she ran away,” my father said simply. “She escaped her husband. She ran out of Hampton Court, where the royal family was in residence. She had absolutely nowhere to go. Her husband would, of course, look for her at their small house in London. Her sister the duchess would not be able to hold out against this sort of pressure. She had no money of her own to get across England to Stafford Castle. When I found her, she was half-starved and exhausted. She’d hidden in a church all night, she told me. I passed her on the street that morning. I couldn’t believe it was she at first. She wept and begged me to help her.

  “I brought her to my house, and I bribed the servants to help me hide her. Cheyne and Norfolk showed up later that afternoon, frantic, looking for her. I played innocent, said I had no idea she was even at court. Margaret and I thought the only way for her to be safe would be to travel far away, to the North of England, to seek refuge with her other sister, the Countess of Westmoreland. It would take an army to extract her from that castle, so close to the Scottish border and in the part of the country least friendly to the Tudors. I had a little money, and I raised more to pay for her travel.”

  My father stopped talking. He seemed to need to draw strength from somewhere to go on.

  “We were both so very lonely. And unhappy. What happened was a sin; I am not saying it wasn’t. It was adultery, twice over, and it was incest, too. But I won’t lie to you, Joanna, and say I regretted it. Because that would be a terrible injustice to her memory. It lasted only one week, our time together. But Margaret was the love of my life.”

  He bowed his head and cried.

  Something stirred in me then, besides the revulsion and the pain and the anger over the lies. I felt pity for my father and for Margaret.

  “I could not escort her north; it would have raised too much suspicion with Norfolk to be gone that long. He suspected I knew something of Margaret’s whereabouts. So I hired servants to escort her, and she went north. I never saw her again, until . . . Smithfield.

  “I heard that she met Bulmer at her sister’s castle shortly after she arrived, and went to live with him soon after. Then I heard she was having a child. I wondered. I became obsessed, really. I kept trying to get more information, without appearing too unseemly. When was the child expected? After he was born, the date of his birth indicated he could be mine. I couldn’t bear it any longer; I wrote to her, demanding to know. I said if it were true, I was riding north, to claim them both, no matter what the cost.

  “She wrote me back. She said the child was mine, and Bulmer knew—he knew everything. He loved her and accepted the situation. He would raise the son as his own. She said he was a fine man and she would live with him for the rest of her life, give him children of his own, along with the grown sons and daughters he had already. She said she would not agree to anything that could hurt my wife . . . and you. She never wanted you to know.”

  I nodded. Now I finally understood why, in her last letter, Margaret prayed daily for me to forgive her. And I also perceived the king’s vicious hatred of my poor cousin, a woman who had fled to the North rather than bed him. And why Henry the Eighth had condemned her to burn to death before a pitiless mob.

  “After I was freed from the Tower, I wanted to come to you, daughter, but first I had to find out about Arthur. It was not easy to travel there in the winter.” He winced suddenly, and rubbed his arm. “I met with Bulmer’s oldest son, Sir Ralph. If he had said Arthur’s place was with the Bulmers, I would have accepted it. But he did not. He leaped at the offer for me to take Arthur.”

  “Does he know you are the true father?” I was aghast.

  “No!” He recoiled. “But I think he has suspected the boy is not his father’s. They asked to keep the baby daughter; his wife fancied her. Not Arthur. And the Bulmers do blame Margaret for taking an active role in the rebellion, rather than pushing her husband toward peace, as they say she should have.”

  “I thought that was Norfolk’s lies.”

  He sighed heavily. “Like many other people of the North, Margaret opposed the religious reforms. But in her case, she harbored a personal loathing for the king and her brother-in-law, Norfolk. When all was lost, last February, Bulmer still tried to raise troops one last time, to engage Norfolk on the field. Bulmer pleaded guilty at his trial and tried to absolve her, but too many people heard her make statements that were damning to the king—and in support of the monasteries and the old ways.”

  I looked at my father, bleakly. “In support of me.”

  “There’s more to it, Joanna.” He looked deeply exhausted, but I knew my father. He was a stubborn man—in this, I was his daughter—and he would tell me what he needed to.

  “Arthur is not like other children,” he said miserably.

  “What do you mean? He is a comely child, I saw him.”

  “He is almost four years old, and he does not speak more than a few words. He is not easy to deal with. Truthfully, he is the opposite of you at that age. I think the Bulmers were half gone out of their minds trying to raise him. And I have struggled as well.”

  “Father, he has been through a terrible ordeal, losing his mother and Bulmer, who surely acted as a parent to him. With love and patience, he will thrive.”

  Tears of relief filled my father’s eyes. “Thank you, Joanna. Thank Christ and Saint Peter I was able to get here in time to talk to you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He clasped my hand in his. “I am not well, daughter.”

  “Don’t say that,” I cried. “You are not old.”

  He smiled. “It is not my age. I was wounded at Smithfield, and my time at the Tower weakened me. On the ride back down to Dartford, I fell sick. When I reached the priory property, I fell off my horse.”

  My father, one of the finest horsemen in all of England, had fallen off his mount? I was struck ice cold with fear.

  He said, “I was unconscious and might have died in the snow had not Geoffrey Scovill come upon me. Arthur was sitting next to me, crying. He could not wake me. Master Scovill revived me, got me back up, and led me here. He knew you so well, I could not believe it. And he was at Smithfield . . . and saw us both there? Truly, it was divine providence that he should ride to Dartford today and save me.”

  “Listen, Father,” I said. “Brother Edmund is a skilled healer, the best I have ever witnessed. He will help you. I will dedicate myself to your welfare, yours and Arthur’s.”

  My father opened his arms. “Let me embrace you, Joanna.”

  We hugged each other for a very long time. And despite everything I’d heard, all that had shocked and hurt and even repulsed me, to be embraced by my father again was the answer to every prayer I’d had.

  Later, I pulled Brother Edmund into a corner. “You must heal him,” I said fiercely. “Promise me.”

  “I will use every skill I know, do everything I can,” he answered. “You know that, Sister Joanna. But it would not be right to mislead you. And you are of an age and a strength to hear the truth. Your father’s heart is damaged. The journey in winter down from the North of England almost killed him.”

  “Why did he do it?” I wailed. “Why did he not wait until spring?”

  Brother Edmund said quietly: “He wanted to get here, to you, Sister Joanna, to speak to you before it was too late. And to bring you your cousin.”

  “Cousin?”

  He looked at me. “Is not Arthur Bulmer your cousin?”

  “Oh, yes.” I took a deep breath. “Yes, he is.”

  I had five days with my father at Dartford. He remained in the infirmary, under the care of Brother Edmund and myself. Despite everything we did, he steadily weakened. There was a time when I would have refused to see it—that my father was dying. But Brother Edmund was right. I was now of an age and a strength to deal with the truth, no matter how painful. I myself raised the possibility of bringing up Arthur, of making a home with him after the suppression
of Dartford, and my father nodded in gratitude.

  “With you, Arthur will be safe,” he gasped.

  My father died on the evening of February 23, 1538. He had received last rites, and then drifted into sleep and did not wake.

  Prioress Joan granted my request. He was buried in the Dartford graveyard on a hill halfway between the priory and the leper hospital. Many townsfolk requested burial there, longing to be near the nuns, to have prayers said for their souls wandering through purgatory as their bodies slowly turned to dust.

  He was laid in the ground next to the grave of Brother Richard.

  And for days in the priory church, special prayers were said for the departed soul of Sir Richard Stafford, youngest son of the second Duke of Buckingham, brother of the third Duke of Buckingham, and father of Sister Joanna, a novice in the Dominican Order.

  50

  There is little time for mourning or sadness or regret or anger or much of anything else when you are raising a small boy.

  My father spoke the truth. Arthur was difficult. He understood what I said to him but spoke very little. He wanted to do nothing but explore: run, climb, uncover, yank, spill. He understood I was his family now, and cleaved to me, but he still ran wild and uncontrolled with me and with all of the other sisters. He calmed a little in the presence of Brother Edmund, but the worst place for Arthur was an infirmary, full of breakable objects and dangerous potions.

  The person who was best with him was John. He set up games for Arthur in the stables, even some simple tasks. I felt wretched farming my half brother out to a stable hand while I couldn’t be with him, but what choice did I have? I had to go to Mass and pray and lead the tapestry sessions; without these observances and duties, it was pointless to be here.

  The prioress had made an enormous exception and allowed Arthur to sleep in the priory. Winifred moved into the nuns’ quarters, and Arthur slept with me. He was different when he slept: his face was sweet, pure, gentle. I could see my father in him, and yes, Margaret, too. It gave me a feeling of connection to him, that this boy and I were joined by blood. During the day, when I struggled to raise him, I was not sure of my feelings for Arthur. The many moments of frustration tore at my patience. But at night, watching him sleep, so helpless, I knew that I loved him. I would die for him without hesitation.

  On the third Tuesday of March, a windy day that threatened rain, I finished tapestry work a little late.

  Sister Eleanor stuck her head in the door.

  “You have a guest,” she said, and was gone before I could ask who it was.

  I went to the locutorium, the room that still made me deeply uncomfortable. I was relieved to find it empty. I continued my search of the front rooms of the priory but found only Gregory and the prioress herself, working in her cleaned-up and rehabilitated chamber.

  It was time to check on Arthur, so I made my way to the barn. The mystery guest could wait; Sister Eleanor might even be mistaken. After all, who would visit me? I was alone in the world, except for poor Arthur. I tasted the bile of self-pity and fought it down. I mustn’t give in to it.

  I heard happy cries in the barn. A young woman’s laugh and a man’s voice, definitely, but not John’s. I eased through the doors. Arthur stood on the edge of the top of a stall, his eyes sparkling. He threw fistfuls of straw at Geoffrey, who had donned a huge farmer’s hat and clowned for the boy. Sitting there on a large box, watching, was Sister Beatrice, her face glowing with pleasure.

  Geoffrey saw me, and the boyish foolery came to a halt. “Sister Joanna, I have to speak to you,” he said, his manner respectful, almost formal. “It’s important.”

  Again, the sourness rose within me. Was I never to know carefree, foolish laughter, to play? Why must Geoffrey take on such an official demeanor at the sight of me? Sister Beatrice gathered up Arthur. With a final smile at Geoffrey and a strange glance at me, she led the boy away. We were alone in the barn.

  “I’ve come to tell you about Sister Christina,” he said.

  “She’s dead.”

  He looked a little surprised at the way I hastened to it. “Yes, she is.”

  “You went to observe, of course,” I said.

  He cocked his head at me. “Why does that anger you?”

  “It doesn’t,” I snapped. And then I did turn angry because I knew I was being unfair. Yet I couldn’t help myself. “It’s what you do, Geoffrey—observe the execution of women.”

  He stared at me, astounded.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. I sat down on the same box where Sister Beatrice had been moments before. “It’s just so hard, to keep hearing things that are terrible, and seeing them with my own eyes, and yet knowing that soon enough, it will get even worse. The place I care about more than anything will be destroyed. I will no longer serve alongside the other sisters—I may never see them again. There’s nothing to look forward to, just loss and more loss.”

  “There’s Arthur.”

  I nodded. “Yes,” I said wearily. “There’s Arthur.”

  “Where will you go?”

  I told him that my cousin Henry had answered my letter. Arthur and I could live at Stafford Castle with the family. There was not much enthusiasm in the letter, but I wouldn’t have expected it. The Staffords were not affectionate with one another, but they closed ranks when called upon. We’d have a roof over our heads for life.

  I took a deep breath. “Now tell me about Sister Christina.”

  “She was hanged at Tyburn. No one was there to represent her. The official of the court said a few words, and then they led her up to the platform. I’m told she had made no sense to anyone for weeks. Right before they hanged her, she said a prayer in Latin.”

  “It would have been the Dominican Prayer of Salvation,” I whispered.

  “At the end of her prayer, she looked out at the spectators. I’m afraid there was a large crowd of strangers; she’d become notorious. She recognized me and called out to me.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She wanted me to tell you something.”

  I tensed with apprehension. “What?”

  “She said, ‘Tell Sister Joanna it’s the fire on the hill.’ ”

  I was silent for a long moment, and then the tears pricked at my eyes.

  “You know what that means?” he asked.

  I nodded. “You see, in a way, we understood each other; that is why her crimes are so especially troubling for me. I saw some of her spirit. She revealed more to me than to anyone, but not enough. If I had not been so blind and stupid, I could have helped her, and stopped her before all of the violence.”

  Geoffrey sat down next to me. The box creaked with the weight of both of us. “You can spend hours, days, weeks, years in the company of someone, and not fully understand the other person. Believe me, I know this. And you, you are not blind or stupid. You are the cleverest and bravest woman alive.”

  He put his arm around me, and I melted into the comforting strength of Geoffrey Scovill.

  It happened so fast I lost my breath.

  The closest thing to it was going underwater. I couldn’t swim, but when I was a child I fell in a lake, and my father had me fished out in seconds. I remember that sense of tumbling down into something that was so powerful.

  I should have recoiled from Geoffrey, yet I responded to his kisses. I behaved like anything but a priory novice. I pressed against him; I pulled on his hair; I sought out his lips, which were hard on mine, then soft, then hard again. I waited for the feeling of revulsion to seize me. It didn’t.

  I could feel his excitement, his passion, but his experience, too. He was practiced in his caresses. I felt a pang, knowing that he had loved women before today.

  I pulled away from him. We both sat there, stunned. Uncertain. It rose up in me then, the disappointment in my conduct. The sorrow over my lapse.

  Geoffrey’s rueful laugh interrupted my thoughts. “If only you knew how I was planning to lead up to this, the careful stages—nothing that would
frighten you off. All would be done properly, with respect. And then we leap on each other? Ah, Joanna, nothing about us ever goes according to any sane plan.”

  I noticed he’d dropped “Sister.” It gave me another pang.

  He took my hand and held it carefully in his. “You didn’t seem very enthusiastic about going to your family. I have to know what your idea is for your future.”

  “Nothing,” I whispered. “There’s nothing.”

  “Is it possible that your future could . . .” His voice trailed away. Geoffrey looked more nervous than I’d ever seen him, even when he was being rowed to the Tower of London.

  “Don’t say anything more,” I pleaded. “I beg you.”

  He withdrew his hand and stood up.

  “I was foolish to hope you could ever consider me,” he said, his face reddening. “I am so far beneath you in rank. You’re descended from royalty. I met your father. If you were to know my father . . .” His voice trailed away, and he shook his head.

  “Is that what you think of me?” I demanded. “That I would reject a person for reasons of birth?”

  Geoffrey said nothing.

  “It is not that.” Tears of frustration stung my eyes. “Oh, Geoffrey, it’s what inhabits my soul. I took a vow to be a bride of Christ—that is what I wanted, the path I chose and worked toward. A commitment I made. If you don’t understand that, then you don’t understand me at all.”

  Geoffrey looked at me searchingly, a sad smile curving his lips. “No, I don’t understand you, Joanna Stafford. And yet, the feeling I have for you is greater than for any woman I’ve ever known.”

  He made his way to the door of the barn and paused. “No matter what you decide, or where you go, I don’t believe that can ever change.”

  The tears came fast. I rocked back and forth; loud, wrenching sobs filled the empty barn. I wept harder than any time since my father’s death. I mourned my weaknesses at the same time as I regretted hurting Geoffrey. There was a part of me that wanted to run out of the barn, to find the road to Rochester, to ask him to take me. But I did not do it. Eventually, as my weeping subsided, I became aware of a new and strange feeling. It was, to my astonishment, relief. I was filled with anguish and yet I felt lighter, too.