The Chalice (11 page)

I sat.

The doctor, now all seriousness, launched into his lecture. “Our belief in the power of the stars and planets traces back to the earliest recorded history, Mistress Stafford. The Babylonians could see that their lives depended on the sun. Their health was governed by
the fluctuations of the moon. Through diligent study of the skies over centuries, they learned that the four elements—earth, air, fire, and water—were controlled by the fluctuations of our heavenly bodies. Because of the work of Europe’s great humanist scholars, we now know that Aristotle and Claudius Ptolemy gave great credence to astrology.” He paused. “These names, perhaps, are not known to you.”

I answered, “They are known to me, Doctor Branch. As is another man, Tacitus, historian of Rome, who called astrologers ‘a danger to princes.’ ”

The physician’s mouth hung open. Gertrude said: “You must understand, Doctor Branch, our Spanish mothers followed the example of Queen Isabella. She believed females were worthy of classical education. Clearly, Joanna paid close attention to her studies.”

Plunging on, he said, “All of the kings of Christendom employ astrologers, including King Henry. The marchioness believes you were born in April, but I must know the exact date to—”

Interrupting him, I said, “But I have already told you I am in perfect health.”

“Yes—today,” Doctor Branch said. “But once I have cast your planets, I can determine the state of your humors, and what should be done to bring you into perfect balance in the future.”

And to think I had feared that the visions in the great hall might have some connection to Sister Elizabeth Barton. This was so much worse. Gertrude was pressing on me the thing I most feared—an audience seeking prophecy.

I took a deep breath and then said, “The future is where I cannot go.”

“Joanna.” Gertrude’s voice shot me like an arrow. “This is foolish. Assurances have been given that once the doctor possesses the necessary date and time, no dangerous predictions will be made. And furthermore, I find it strange, this fear of yours. The Duke of Buckingham was executed seventeen years ago. You are not a humble adherent to the will of his son.
If you were, you would now reside at Stafford Castle, with your cousin and his family. But you do not—you’ve shown nothing but perfunctory obedience to him thus far. And yet in this matter, you shiver before his distant command? I don’t believe it.”

A tense silence thickened the receiving room. The maids on their pillows had stopped stitching. The doctor looked away.

“There is no other choice,” I said miserably.

Doctor Branch picked up his bag. “Ah, well. I have other patients, my lady. Before I go, could I examine your husband’s water? You did have it kept for me?”

A servant led the doctor out, to perform his water casting. I sat in my plush embroidered chair, under the baffled glare of Gertrude Courtenay.

“Doctor Branch is expensive, Joanna,” she said. “I am not pleased with what occurred here today.”

I rose to my feet. “If you will inform me of the doctor’s fee, I will make arrangements to compensate you.” I curtsied low. On my way up, I saw the red patches flare in Gertrude’s cheeks. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. She was as angry with me as she’d been at Mistress Brooke in Dartford.

“Leave me now,” she said. Her voice shook, as if with the effort needed to control it.

T
he rest of the day I endeavored to find peace of mind, without success. I paced the large bedchamber, from the window on Suffolk Lane, autumn chill pressing through the glass, to the fire that Alice sent crackling again. The Courtenays had shown Arthur and me every kindness. If there had been a way for me to give Gertrude what she asked for, I would have done it most willingly.

Gertrude was astute enough to doubt my claiming a Stafford family edict. My cousin had commanded us to shun prophecy, but, no, I did not live by his distant commands. However, to reveal the reason for my aversion—to describe my visit to the nun and condemned traitor all those years ago—would be dangerous, not only for me but also for her and Henry.

Desperate for distraction, I picked up the book I’d begun, an English translation of
The Life of Edward the Confessor,
by the Abbot of Rievaulx. But the struggles of the pious Saxon king failed to engage. I read a long paragraph, only to realize at the end that I hadn’t absorbed a single word. I closed the book—it possessed a red engraved cover. All of the books in my bedchamber were of the highest quality. I knew that Gertrude had in the last two years quietly purchased books from the large monasteries dissolved at the king’s command. She rescued the martyrologies and Rules of Saint Benedict and Pater Nosters
from the brutish courtiers who’d taken possession of religious houses. On my first day here, she’d pressed into my hand an exquisite
Mirror of the Blessed Life of Christ
. And now she must see me as recalcitrant and ungrateful.

I was seized with longing for the friends I’d left behind in Dartford. It was difficult for me to cope with the tensions of the Red Rose. Two more weeks remained of my visit, but if there were a way to leave today without giving offense, I would have done so. If only I could talk everything over with Sister Winifred—and with Brother Edmund. I’d had three letters from her and one short one from him. I ached to hear his temperate voice and look into his brown eyes, full of probity and wit.

I sat on the edge of the bed—this plush, curtained bed that had been afforded me—and wailed like a muddled child. After a time, I felt spent and rather embarrassed. I rarely carried on like this.

Just after dusk fell, I heard the stirring of horses. Torchlight danced outside my window, as it always did around nightfall. Henry Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter, was returning home.

Unquestionably Henry could have occupied his own rooms at court. The king currently resided at Whitehall. But my cousin had received permission to live at home, with his wife and son. Every morning he heard Mass in the family chapel and then went directly to the river, to be rowed to the palace. As a close kinsman and noble, he must serve the king. Instead of taking our main meal at dinner, in the early afternoon, we ate lightly then and enjoyed a large supper after nightfall, with Henry at the head of the table.

It always moved me, the excitement over Henry’s return. I had never observed such devotion to the master of a house. Doors slammed, the sound of running feet, calls flung from one floor to another. Every person, from the lowest scullery lad to the highest-ranking officer, hastened to present him or herself in the main antechamber, for evensong.

By the time I’d reached the top of the stairs, Henry stood just inside the doorway. Fresh candles soared everywhere. His household, more than sixty people, bowed or curtsied in waves. Gertrude, who always stood on the first step, curtsied as well.

I’ve been asked, by more than one person, what it was that made Henry Courtenay so compelling. His fate haunts the more sensitive souls.

Part of it was looks. He and the king, both the grandsons of Edward IV, inherited the Yorkist monarch’s height, fair skin, and blue eyes. But Henry Courtenay had a simplicity to his manner, a calm and friendly directness. He never insisted on obeisance from anyone. Perhaps that was why it was given so willingly.

Gathered with the others on the stairs, I felt a familiar hand slip into mine.

“Joanna!” Arthur cried, with a radiant smile. “I shot arrows today.”

How it brightened my spirits, to see Arthur so joyful. In just two weeks, his manner of speech had improved greatly. It was near miraculous.

We sang Henry’s favorite hymn, what I’d soon learned was a household tradition.

To thee before the close of day

Creator of the world, we pray

That, with thy wonted favor, thou

Wouldst be our guard and keeper now.

My eyes landed on the twins, Joseph and James. The one I had seen earlier in the day sang with fervor, but his brother’s lips barely moved. I had heard that an accident befell Joseph as a child, leaving him diminished. His twin protected him. Even now, he nudged him, to stimulate memory of the song.

When we’d all finished, Henry made his way to his wife.
Along the way there was a smile for this servant, a reassuring nod for another.

“My lady,” he said, kissing Gertrude’s hand.

“My lord,” she murmured.

In one way, at least, Henry was
not
like Edward IV, the infamous adulterer. Love of Gertrude was what guided him.

It was always a small group in the dining parlor: First the immediate family, and their relations, Arthur and myself. Constance and Charles, the respective heads of Gertrude’s and Henry’s households, dined with us, as did the family chaplain and a young tutor from Oxford University who led Edward’s lessons. I sat on the same side of the long table as Gertrude, with Constance between us, and so could not see her face.

For the boys, archery was the focus of their days. As pheasant was served, Edward and his father talked over length of bow and accuracy of shot. Arthur listened, doing his best to follow the conversation.

I ached for a better future for Arthur than the one that had seemed on offer in Dartford. Arthur was a
Stafford
. He should be trained in all the arts and sports of a nobleman. Both the Staffords and the Bulmers were houses in eclipse. Henry Courtenay was in the position—perhaps a unique one—of being both of the old nobility and in high favor with the Tudor king. No one could help Arthur more.

“Now Edward, what of Arthur—how did
his
lessons go?” Gertrude said. She leaned forward in her seat and twisted toward me. Her conspiratorial way of looking at someone—as if tossing a half wink your way—never failed to charm. In her uncanny way, she’d leaped into my thoughts and knew of my hopes for Arthur.

I smiled back at her, tentatively, and as I listened to Arthur’s excited talk of his afternoon, I was able to taste my pheasant at last. The afternoon’s episode had been put away, I hoped forever.

The conversation moved toward families the Courtenays knew in the west. Charles relayed some news gleaned from correspondence. This one’s father had died. That one struggled with debt because of a bad grain harvest. It was very much like the conversations around the table at Stafford Castle. Detailed scrutiny of the lives of country families whom, when in our presence, no one actually cared about all that much. It infuriated my mother. She wanted to talk of the great events of the kingdom. But that was not the Stafford way. I realized that the Courtenays, too, never, ever talked of the king or his councilors or foreign affairs at table.

“Remember, the day after tomorrow is my party,” Gertrude said. “Just a few friends. Only ladies. Cakes and sweet wines. Joanna will enjoy the company so much.”

She said it as if I already knew about the party, but I’d heard not a word. Henry beamed as I tried to hide my surprise. Had Gertrude forgotten to mention it? But she never forgot anything. And I was not at all sure I’d enjoy it: this had been one of my conditions of the visit to London—no contact with the court
or
its courtiers.

Had Gertrude waited to “invite” me until we were in Henry’s presence, so that I would be less likely to balk?

Immediately I felt guilty for thinking this of her. Hadn’t she put our quarrel over astrology behind her—and shown every interest in Arthur? This was on top of generosity and solicitude displayed each day of my visit.

Henry Courtenay laid down his fork and said, “I do believe this is the moment to speak of another engagement, cousin Joanna. Every year in the autumn, I make a point to dine with my closest friend, Henry Pole, Baron Montagu. It’s set for November fourth, here at the Red Rose. I very much want you to join us. You know Montagu, I believe.”

“Yes, I’m acquainted with the Poles,” I answered. My cousin Henry Stafford was married to Ursula Pole, and her siblings made regular visits to Stafford Castle. There were three
brothers: Henry, the oldest, who always seemed to me very arrogant; Reginald, the middle son, a quiet scholar; and Godfrey, the youngest, a ruffian and my least favorite. Of more concern to me than the guests expected was the date: the first week of November. Later than I would have preferred.

“So it is settled—you will attend the dinner,” Henry said, smiling.

Haltingly, I said, “Yes, but the other half of my tapestry loom will be delivered that same week, and so, after the party, I shall need to return to Dartford.”

It seemed that everyone sitting at the table had a reaction to that—and not one of them favorable. Both Arthur and Edward cried out in disappointment. Gertrude looked aghast. But it was Henry whose expression pained me the most.

“Have you not had a happy time with us, Joanna?” he asked sadly.

How this pained me. It was my talks with Henry Courtenay that brought me the most happiness at the Red Rose. On a handful of evenings I joined my cousin in his study. He would speak with great enthusiasm about his favorite subject—the lives of past kings of England—as he patted the two dogs that begged for his attention. It was, I admit, a scenario that I’d envisioned for myself and my father. I’d assumed I’d never have that family feeling again after he died last winter. Henry had given me back a taste of it.

Arthur was becoming more and more upset. “No, no, I don’t want to leave!”

“Don’t be troubled, Arthur,” I pleaded, patting his hand. “We shall see.” I shouldn’t have brought up leaving the Red Rose in front of him this way, without preparation.

The conversation at the table returned to Gertrude’s dinner. The Duchess of Suffolk would not be able to attend. I knew the Duke of Suffolk was considered the king’s closest friend, and so her absence seemed no matter of regret to me.

Yet Gertrude said, “The duchess wrote in her note to me
that she wanted to make your acquaintance and regretted not being able do so.”

“Why would she want to do that?” I asked, apprehensive.

Gertrude said, “I believe it is because of her mother, Maria de Salinas.”