Roses in the Tempest (25 page)

“It has memories for me, your grace. Precious ones.”

“Precious memories? You sound as if you are mourning a lost love.”

I swallowed hard. Would he understand? As the man he was, as the man I knew, could he not see into the depth of my heart and comprehend? Softly, I answered, “Yes, your grace. I am.”

“One of the sisters you mean? Damnable!” He twisted quickly and unexpectedly for his size. After the death of Queen Jane, he ate to excess, growing larger until he was almost unmanageable, and the ulcers in his leg caused him to limp, decreasing further his mobility. He raised his staff, thrusting it in the air in anger. I stepped back out of the way. “That is precisely why I must lance this canker out of England, these faithless whores in nun’s weeds!”

I must have been blinded by his words, out of my mind far worse than with George, for I pulled by blade partway from its sheath before realizing who it was I threatened.

Too late I slapped the blade back in its scabbard. He drew himself up to his full height, tall, broad, altogether forbidding. “Do you draw your sword upon me, Giffard? ME?”

At his shriek, two guards rumbled into the room, their halberds lowered toward me. I stared at them in horror. They grasped me each by an arm and I expected to be dragged forthwith to a dungeon cell.

With his fist, the king clouted me hard upon my shoulder, and then my head. He rained his blows upon me, and I could do nothing in my own defense. Indeed, I knew all was lost, for how could I escape this room alive now that I had drawn my sword on my sovereign?

I fell to my knees.

For a long moment I sat there panting, aching from his blows. It took another long moment for him to wave off his guards. They protested, but he insisted, shouting to the rafters. More courtiers crowded the passageway, but the king bellowed for all to retreat. At last, reluctantly, the guards left the room, ushering the others away from the door. His Majesty stood glowering over me, fists punched into his hips.

With my head bowed I implored with my hands. “Forgive me, your grace. If you only knew how faithful a servant this woman is to God and to the crown, you would not speak so. It is only because I have such respect for her that I did so imprudent a thing…”

“And for this one you draw your sword on the king! God’s wounds, Thomas! This is not the Roundtable!”

“I beg forgiveness and mercy, your grace.”

I waited on my knees, my head bowed. I expected at any moment for him to hew it off himself. Not only did I ruin myself, but my course. Blackladies was now lost.

“So much you would sacrifice for this little scrap of land. You could have lied about it. You could have made up a story to satisfy me.”

“I…am not in the habit of lying to you, your grace.”

“Nor of drawing your weapon, I hope.”

“No, your grace.”

“You are a bold man, Giffard,” he huffed. “Stubborn and mayhap unwise. But chivalrous, and that I have always admired.” Energized, he seemed to want to pace but his leg prevented it. He rocked instead. “I have never had cause to mistrust the Giffards. Must I now?”

“No, your grace. We are ever loyal to the crown. Ask any man.”

“Yes. How many men can swear to that, to ‘ask any man’? I’ll wager a bitter few can rely upon it. Yet I know I can ask any man about you, and hear each and every one to speak of your integrity and your character.” Henry measured me. “I know you are a pope-Catholic, Thomas. What is your intention with this priory, eh? I will not have it continue as it is in its vicious living.”

“I am not making of it a new priory, sire. As your grace has proclaimed, these properties must be remade into proper houses. A new residence for myself and my wife. No intention further than that, my lord.”

“How many children have you, Thomas?”

His ire abated, but well I knew him, and suspected that his rage was only held at a distance, easily conjured again. Still on my knees and cautious, I said, “Four, your grace.”

“And how many of them sons?”

“Two, Majesty.”

“And your wife. Is she fruitful?”

“Your grace?”

“Don’t be coy, Thomas. Is she pregnant again? Always you are away from court because your wife is lying in. Do you think I do not know the doings of my ushers?”

“I pray you, sire.”

“Answer me.”

“Yes, your grace. She is.”

His cheek trembled and he shook his head. How brilliantly copper were those locks once. How bright the beard. Now they were dulled with gray, his skin textured with creases. Yet my beard was still as dark as ebony, and he and I were both forty-six. “You who sires so many children, with yet another on the way. And I, who had three wives, could only beget three children, and only one a son. It does not signify that you should also covet in convents.”

“My lord, it is not as you think. I only want the property so that no other creature should defile it.”

“It’s to be a home, Thomas.” His voice rose again, warning me of distant thunder.

“There are vile homes,” I said steadily, “just as there are vile monasteries, sire.”

He ticked his head at me as a nurse does to her charge. “Thomas, Thomas… Yes, so there are.” He stood over me, laying his hand tenderly on the shoulder he lately clouted. At length, he sighed, patted my bruised shoulder, and dropped his hand away. “This is the love from afar?” I said nothing, amazed he remembered our conversation from so long ago. “I will do you this favor, Thomas. I will consider your request because I owe you for your years of service and loyalty. But hear me; henceforth, if I choose to insult your own mother’s virtue, you will leave your blade where it lies. Is that understood?”

“With my heart, your grace.”

“Then get up. It makes me knees ache to see you thus. And don’t make me angry again, Thomas. I have so few men at court I genuinely like. Make no enemy of me.”

He helped me to my feet, and held my arm affectionately. “Never, your grace. I shall always be your man.”

“Good, good.” He patted my arm. With uncertain relief, I helped him back to his chair.

16 OCTOBER, 1538

Blackladies

XXVII

Woe to the shepherds who mislead

and scatter the flock of my pasture, says the Lord.

–Jeremiah 23:1

I knelt in the chapel for perhaps the last time. By the king’s order—despite the reprieve given us by a generous donor—Blackladies was to close its doors. We were called wantons and wastrels, such vile names we did not earn.

Stunned, I knelt alone in the dusty gloom. What was to become of us? We who dedicated our lives in the service of God, who gave their maidenhood to God’s house, who were now shriveled and too old to bear children, we were to be thrust into the world. Even the younger ones, still able to be espoused, were held by their vow of chastity, and could find no consolation there. We were to be given pensions to live on, as if this lucre was compensation for the destruction of our lives and for the looting of God’s Church.

But it must be so. For we are mere women and loyal to our king.

“But surely the king will come to our aid,” I had said to Father William when the notice arrived days ago with Sir John and the others to take a final inventory.

“Child,” he had replied to me, “do you not know it is the king who is seizing them?”

Seizing?
Such a harsh word when describing houses of God, of holy men and women. I heard the rumors, as such they were. There were always those places where greed, or gluttony, or lust could overtake the good people who started their lives there with good intentions. But these situations were not frequent, else how could the houses have helped so many in so many places in England? Our own house boasted of its poverty, and we did as much as we could for our poor, and they were grateful. But a word such as “seize.” A word used when speaking of battles and of assault. Did the king mean to assault the monasteries?

“Why would he do that?” I had asked.

Father William could not answer, for he did not know. Thomas had warned us, and I saw the Devil in the likes of Dr. Legh and Dr. Cavendish, and felt the coldness of their intent in the pit of my belly, but I could somehow not truly believe it.

“A last prayer?”

I turned to see Cristabell framed in the doorway. Clutching the altar rail, I pulled myself to my feet. Suddenly, I felt ages old. “Not a last prayer. Surely not my last.”

“No. Of course not. You possessed more faith than all of us. If God does not listen to you—”

“No, Cristabell, do not say it. I am the worst of sinners. Never have I let go of my desire for Thomas Giffard, and I fear it has ruined us.”

“You think God thinks so little of the rest of us that he would punish all the Church in England for your lack? You have a narrow view of the Almighty. Or an inflated one of yourself.”

I measured her, with her hands buried deep within her scapular, her chin creased and doubled with time and weariness. “I do not know what to think any longer.”

“There is always hope. God gave us that. I have lived in hope all my life. Especially here, though the wrong kind. It is only in the last ten years that I hoped in the right kind, mostly because of your prayers for me.” In silence we contemplated the crucifix. Quietly, she asked, “Will God abandon us, do you think?”

“I know not. Who could have thought such things would come to pass. No one could have planned it or prepared.”

“I am somehow relieved Thomas Giffard will possess Blackladies. It has the ring of justice.”

“Perhaps.”

“Where will you go?”

“I have written to my sister Agnes, and though she complained bitterly at such an inconvenience, she vowed she would take in both me and Alice, but… It is a dream, Cristabell. A living nightmare. Isolated from all that is familiar and cherished, we walk into the unknown. Why should such a thing befall us?”

She shook her head, her mouth stiff with emotion. She swallowed and turned her head, raising her chin. “I have a cousin who has agreed to take me in. But what of the others, the old ones?”

“Yes. I worry over them. No pension will sustain them alone. And many of their families have long since died.”

“Do you suppose the king made provision for them?”

“Hush, Cristabell. No more anger. Anger has brought us here to this day. I do not blame the king. Not really. In truth, I blame his councilors who have lied on his behalf. To what end? Could it all be greed for power?”

“Discontent as well. Englishmen have not liked the strictures of the Church and pope.”

“If reform they wanted, then why did they not reform? This is not reform. This is death.”

“Do you know when?”

“No. Like a prisoner in the tower, I await my executioner.”

And just as a bell tolls for the condemned, so, too, did our gate bell suddenly chime, startling the both of us. Together we went to see about it, encountering Dame Alice and Dame Felicia coming from opposite directions. “Sisters,” I said, greeting them all. “How is it we are all assigned the job of porter?”

“You have neglected your duty, then, Prioress, in assigning it to no one,” said Felicia good-naturedly.

I felt warmth in my cheeks and smiled in my shyness. “Well, then. Let us all go together to greet whoever it is at the door.”

And so we walked together, and when we turned the corner we were glad we did. Dr. Legh and Dr. Cavendish waited by the bell rope, surprised themselves to see us all approach. “How now? What display is this?”

“A display of community, Dr. Legh,” I answered him. I was determined to be a proper nun to the last moment…which seemed to have arrived.

“Open the gate, Prioress. I have here a bill of surrender for this priory.”

My heart lurched painfully, and I becrossed myself before going to the gate. With each action my treacherous mind ran the narrative:
This shall be the last time I open the gate for a visitor. And this the last time I welcome them to our hospitality.

“
Deo Gratias
,” I said with a bow.

No sooner did he pass through the gate did he begin his own narrative. “This bill of surrender puts the property under the crown. You, your servants, and your nuns are to vacate the property immediately. I have brought proper attire for all of you so that you may not be further encumbered with these habits.”

I was unprepared for his boorishness, though I do not know why I should have been. “May we not continue to wear our habits, Dr. Legh?”

“No, indeed. The vicar general has declared it… and the king as well.”

Dark muslins and woolens were bundled under his servant’s arms. This time he made no play at courtesy, and allowed his men to enter the precincts. Somehow, because he declared it so, it was no longer sacred ground. At least not to him. I shuddered, but said nothing. Instead, I led them to the hall, where I instructed my nuns to light the hearth. A roaring fire I told them. Our guests will be comfortable.

We entered to a warm room. The fire was smoky, but its toasted aromas lent the chill air a scrap of consolation, and I turned at last to face my judges. Dr. Legh was determined that I should look at his paper, for he thrust it into my face.

I took it solemnly, but did not read it. “Are we to sign it?”

“No. That has been accounted for.”

Glancing at the bottom of the page I saw that it was, indeed, attended to. All the nuns’ names were affixed to the bottom, looking for all the world like signatures. “Dr. Legh, this has an appearance that we have signed this document.”

“It matters not, Lady. It is done and it is legal.”

“That is a matter for a greater judge,” I said quietly, handing it back.

“Have you made arrangements to vacate the premises?” he asked, ignoring my words. He did not need to heed them now. Now we were only an inconvenience to be dispensed with.

“Yes. We have. Though it will take some days for messages to arrive and for our families to come. If we had known ahead of time—”

“But you must vacate today.”

“Dr. Legh! Would you have us in the streets?”

“In truth, Madam, I care very little if you do. It is my commission to make certain you vacate the property in due order.”

Tight-lipped, I stared at this little man, growing even smaller in my eyes. “Very well. There must be an inn in the village. I am certain they will be charitable to us for a few nights. If not, there are always their stables. If it was good enough for our Lord, it shall be good enough for us.”

Cavendish grasped Legh’s arm and whispered something into his ear. Impatiently, Legh listened, his face mirroring his every chafing thought. At last, he sighed elaborately and bowed his head. “Dr. Cavendish points out that a few days will matter very little. You may stay while your messages are sent, but you must put on these clothes in the interim.”

The holy saints of England must have bolstered me, for I stepped forward, glared down at Legh, and said in a most stern voice, “We will do no such thing while in this house. For as long as we inhabit here, it is holy ground, and we will comport ourselves as holy sisters in the garb of holy sisters. You shall have to strip me naked yourself if you wish for me to wear those detestable clothes one moment earlier than I must.”

Legh took a step back and, flustered, pulled at the fur trim of his gown. “Very well, Madam,” he muttered. “I…I will leave this for another time.”

They retired to Brewood, while we awaited our caretakers to come for us and take us away, though I could see Legh’s men in their ostentatious livery walking the edges of the grounds as if he expected our resistance, a castle in a siege. I wanted to send a message to Thomas, knowing it would arrive in an hour’s time. I imagined in my mind’s eye his leaping onto his charger and rumbling over the rise as would any gallant knight, as he used to do when he visited me on my father’s farm. Though this time, the dragon was too large to slay, and it would be only enough time to save the maidens.

Yet save us for what?

I did not send the message, knowing that Thomas would certainly be informed that his property was vacated and awaiting his pleasure.

The servants, however, made ready to leave, and that afternoon, they stood at the gate with their meager bundles, ready to bid their farewells to us.

I unlocked the cloister gate and allowed them to enter. Tearfully, Meg hugged each one of us. “Now, Meg. No tears. All of you,” I said, opening my arms to them. “Surely you are blessed for such good and loyal service.”

“Will all be well with you, Lady Prioress?” asked Philip Duffelde.

“All will be well. God is watching over us. He has not forgotten us.”

The men bowed to us with their hats in their hands while Meg and Kat raised their naprons to their noses. Now I would never know if Meg succeeded in landing old Tom Smith. I would simply have to pray for its outcome.

Now truly alone, we nuns felt the loss as the cloister somehow pulled in on itself. The birds did not seem to sing as they did, nor was the sunlight as merry upon her old walls.

We celebrated the Divine Office and spent much time in private prayer and in the good company of each other, clinging to the last moments of our society. After prayers, Cristabell and I walked together, once old enemies, now true sisters, soon to part for all time. I little believed I would see Cristabell again. We were to quit for distant parishes, distant lives. Would the Divine Office play in her head as it would in mine? I was filled with such despair, I did not notice the garden as we walked through it, its blooms now spent, its leaves deadening and gnarled. “Look,” she said, and I raised my head to where her hand pointed. A single rose yet bloomed, dark red like blood. It was tucked deep within the nearly black leaves of the bush, protected from the chill winds and driving rains. I brushed forward and leaned over to press my nose to the petals, inhaling its remarkable perfume. The moment of it made me smile, if only briefly.

“It remains,” she said, surprised.

“Do not underestimate the tenacity of a rose in bloom.”

“They are sturdy plants. Year after year I watched you prune them to nothing. I always thought you were too harsh with them. Yet each year they would return the stronger, even more lush than the year before.”

“Let us take our lesson from the rose.” I caught her eye, but I saw doubt in her soft expression.

“Will he keep the garden, do you think?”

He. It was always “he.” It shall ever be “he” and we will always know who is meant. Since the day Blackladies went on the block—God have mercy—we heard that two gentlemen sued to buy it: Edward Littleton of Phillaton, and one Thomas Giffard of Stretton. Even the abhorrent Dr. Cavendish maneuvered to buy the property. But the king—in perhaps his last act of kindness toward the old convent—granted it to Thomas. I was angered when I first heard of it, but not for long. I understood his pain, which was almost as deep as my own.

“I do not know if Lord Giffard will keep the garden. Indeed, it shall no doubt be in the hands of Lady Giffard, I should think.”

“Shall I tell you something, Lady Prioress?”

“Please.” We walked solemnly, softly on the sacred grounds.

“Even though I am witness to its end, even though I shall leave this convent at last, I am grateful I stayed. After all my earlier protestations I would now give the world to stay to my death. And I have you to thank for it. We were adversaries once, and it was my fault. How you found the compassion to forgive me my many sins, I will never know. But I am glad you were chosen prioress. I am glad for Kat Alate and meddling Meg. I am glad for doddering Father William. And I am even glad for Jane and Mary, wherever they may be. And most of all, for Thomas Giffard. He proved a man can have integrity even in the face of the greatest disadvantage.”