The Chalice (12 page)

My hand tightened around the knife I’d used to cut my pheasant. I was no longer present, in this comfortable dining parlor, but back in cold and shabby Kimbolton Castle, at the bedside of the dying Katherine of Aragon. I’d nursed the exiled queen alongside Maria de Salinas, the queen’s most devoted lady. She’d come from Spain as a young girl, as had my mother. And, like my mother and Gertrude’s mother, she married an English nobleman, in her case, Lord Willoughby. I remember in the moments after the queen died at dawn, how Maria and I clutched each other, in blind grief.

“Lady Willoughby is dead,” I said softly. I knew that she followed the queen to the grave not more than a year later. “Of all the ladies you’ve mentioned, because of her mother, the duchess is someone I would wish to meet.”

Gertrude looked at her husband as if seeking permission for something. He nodded. “Duchess Catherine is very young, not yet twenty years old. She is Suffolk’s fourth wife. But I regret to tell you she is an avid reformer in the matter of religion.”

As everyone else finished supper, I struggled to fathom this Catherine Brandon, Duchess of Suffolk. How could she practice a faith that constituted painful heresy to the blessed queen, whom her mother revered?

After supper, as was my custom, I went to Arthur’s room to spend more time with him. He’d recovered his high spirits from the scene at dinner this evening; I tried to play with him but was sore distracted.

The first two weeks had gone well enough in London, but beginning in the great hall this morning, things had become
strained and confusing. Henry had gone direct from the table to discuss pressing matters with Charles. Such talks went on for hours. Perhaps if I confided in Gertrude—not about my terror of prophecy but about what I heard and saw before the fireplace in her house—it would begin to restore good faith.

After putting Arthur to bed, I made my way to Gertrude’s rooms once again.

I could hear the sound of women’s voices in the bathing room. She was the only person I knew who’d had a room built just for bathing. Her maids cleaned her bedchamber while heating water in a huge pot hanging over the fire. I knocked on the door. Gertrude called out, “Come in!”

The bathing room was small, dominated by a large wooden tub that, I knew, had been built to her specifications. Gertrude lay in it, her black hair piled on top of her head, the water up to her breasts. Herbs and potions swayed in the water. And peels of orange, a fruit grown in the Mediterranean. The steamy room pulsed with its sharp smell.

She sat up in the water, startled. “I thought you were the maid, bringing water,” she said. Seeing her naked, I realized how thin she was. Gertrude’s height and carriage were set off so well in clothes. But now I glimpsed the sharp triangles of her shoulders.

Constance sat in a chair pulled up close to the bath, a small box open in her lap, filled with bundles of letters. Gertrude held a letter in both hands. Without looking at it, she thrust it toward Constance.

The lady-in-waiting leaned over, but the letter slipped through her fingers and fell to the floor. It drifted to my feet, propelled by the curl of a draft. I picked it up. It was not written in English but in Latin.

“Joanna, I would of course enjoy speaking with you, but I need to finish my correspondence first,” Gertrude said. “Would that be acceptable?”

The words were reasonable, but a brittleness underlined them. She wasn’t angry, more afflicted with nerves. Her eyes were not even on my face but fixed on the letter I’d retrieved.

“Of course,” I said, and handed the letter to Constance, who pushed it into the box on her lap. “Tomorrow, then?”

On the long walk to my bedchamber, the passageway lit by candles affixed to the walls, I wondered what had made Gertrude nervous in her bathing room. Could it be the letter? I’d read only one phrase:
de libero arbitrio
. Which, translated to English, meant “of free will.”

Something about the phrase “of free will” tugged at me, though. I searched the many conversations I’d had today. No one had said it, nor in the previous days either.

It wasn’t until the middle of the night, as one restless dream shifted to the next, that I remembered. I bolted up in my bed, gasping for breath.

I’d heard those words in Saint Sepulchre ten years earlier, first from Sister Anne and then Sister Elizabeth Barton herself.

“You must hear the prophecies of your own free will and unconstrained,”
the nun had told me.
“After you hear the third, nothing can stop it. Nothing.”

S
o, Mistress Wriothesley, how goes your husband’s quest to find the king a new wife?”

The roomful of women who’d come to Gertrude’s party dissolved into laughter. Mistress Wriothesley herself, plain-faced and heavily pregnant, shook her head, refusing to answer.

Cecily, the woman who posed it—younger and prettier than the wife of Master Thomas Wriothsley, king’s ambassador—sipped spice wine from her glass and pretended to be sorry. “We don’t mean to pry into the secrets of the king’s council, but really, what are we all to do?” she said. “We’ve been a year without a queen. No positions to fill, no favor to fight over. It’s intolerable. We all pray that His Grace takes a fourth wife—forthwith.” Everyone laughed again as Cecily giggled, rather helplessly, as if she had little to do with the words that came from her mouth.

I tried to concentrate on the song being played in this, the most beautiful room in the Red Rose. With Gertrude’s exquisite taste—and Henry’s money—every inch of the house was impressive. But the music room reigned supreme, which was all the more interesting since I’d heard it was installed before the Courtenays took possession. In this high, rectangular space, a frieze ran along three of the walls. The long
stretch of sculpted decoration told a story, of a band of traveling musicians who arrive in a village and raise everyone’s spirits. Whoever designed it had a feeling for the way music could transform lives. What a charming setting for the Courtenay musicians, who entertained Gertrude’s guests on the lute and harp and with lovely madrigals.

Everything was in place for an enjoyable afternoon—but for the guests.

I had never been a person who was at ease in a party. But Gertrude assured me that her friends were pious and cultured and kind. “I expect you to make lifelong friends today,” she said, squeezing my arm as we walked into the music room together. I had forced a smile in return. Common sense dictated that my seeing “
de libero arbitrio
” in one of her letters was a coincidence, nothing more. Nonetheless, I’d still not confided in her about the visions in the great hall. For now, I would keep my own counsel on all matters that disturbed me.

“Ladies, I present my husband’s cousin, Mistress Joanna Stafford,” announced Gertrude. Seven pairs of eyes studied me from head to toe, examining the borrowed brocades, headdress, and gems that covered my body.

The women ranged widely in age, from Cecily with her milk-and-honey girlishness to a woman everyone called Countess Elizabeth whose forehead puckered at the temples. Cecily sat with Lady Carew—or Lady C., as she was called—who made knowing remarks about her husband, Sir Nicholas Carew, evidently a courtier in high favor with the king. As I moved from guest to guest to shake hands, I was discomfited by their smiles, gracious but as cold as a frostbitten pasture.

Gertrude’s guests sat in pairs except for one woman who was alone, farthest from the music. She bore a fixed smile on her face that never left, even when she spoke. I guessed her to be the same age as Gertrude, who called her Lady R. with
fondness. Her skin was alabaster white; gleaming, yes, but devoid of any depth or subtlety to its glow, like an egg kept overlong in a cupboard. She had gray eyes, set wide apart. In profile, she looked like any other woman. But when she faced me, with that toothy frozen smile and bulging eyes set far apart, she was something else.

Lady R. spoke now, seemingly to ease Mistress Wriothesley’s discomfort. “It is no fault of your husband’s that negotiations proceed so slowly in Brussels for the hand of Christina of Milan,” said Lady R. “She is the niece of the Emperor Charles.”

“And Duchess Christina has her own opinions of King Henry,” murmured Cecily.

Gertrude tapped the young woman on the shoulder, her diamond bracelet dancing up and down. She wore a dark gold velvet kirtle and skirts, a color that enhanced her olive complexion. She’d stained her lips with a berry concoction. One could never forget that Gertrude had been a great beauty in her youth, and when the occasion warranted, could shrewdly assemble the wardrobe, jewelry, and cosmetics that set her off to best advantage. “We must not repeat this particular piece of gossip,” she said.

“Not gossip,” said Lady C. “It is established fact. Duchess Christina of Milan may be seventeen years old but she is no fool. She said to Master Wriothesley, loud enough for all to hear in the whole court of Brussels, ‘If I had two heads, one would be at the disposal of King Henry.’ ”

Mistress Wriothesley put her hand on her round belly, even more distressed as the ladies screamed with laughter all around her.

Cecily said, breathless, “We must all pray the king takes Christina for a queen, or one of the French princesses, and not look elsewhere in Europe.”

Someone groaned and said, “Please don’t mention the possibility of Cleves. I’m having too good a time for that.”

“Cleves?” I asked. It was the first time I’d spoken since being introduced.

“Cromwell may push harder for a Protestant marriage,” explained Gertrude. “Cleves, in Germany, has two marriageable daughters.”

A gloom settled over the room. Clearly, it was the last thing anyone wanted.

“Well, I would wait on a Turk wrapped in nothing but purple sashes—if that is what’s required to secure a post as a maid of honor in a queen’s household,” Cecily announced. Everyone mock-scolded her.

“I suppose there is no chance of another English marriage?” asked the countess.

“The king shows no signs of such inclination,” answered Gertrude.

“If there were any such candidates, you would tell us, wouldn’t you, Gertrude?” pleaded Cecily.

Gertrude’s eyes flicked my way and then returned to her other guests. “I’ve not been in the king’s presence in quite some time,” she said. There was an undercurrent of warning to her voice.

Lady R. laughed. It was a soft laugh, but by no means a pleasant one. “Does that matter?” she asked. She seemed to assume that Gertrude had special knowledge of the king’s wishes and desires.

I felt Lady R.’s gray eyes land on me. “Mistress Joanna, you do know that we have the Marchioness of Exeter to thank for the ascendance of Queen Jane?”

“That’s nonsense,” said Gertrude, even more sharply.

“Why do you deny it?” called out Lady C. “How could a family like the Seymours ever have managed such a feat?”

The old countess shook her head. “Oh, those Seymour brothers—so dreadful,” she said.

Gertrude inhaled deeply, and then, with a little laugh, let it
all out. “The father was the worst of all—they are terrible,” she admitted, to a roomful of knowing laughter. I tried to hide my dismay. I remembered coming into her receiving room, when she sat with Doctor Branch, and hearing them speak of an insignificant girl from a terrible family. She must have referred then, and now, to the late queen Jane Seymour.

The spite in this room, the jabs and drawling mockery, it was not what I’d hoped for and certainly not what I enjoyed. The cakes came in a moment later, borne on silver trays. Gertrude’s confectioner had triumphed. One of the hired musicians sang an exquisite story of love for a distant lady, while the guests listened, nibbling on their cakes.

The exceptions were Gertrude and Lady R., who talked together quite intently, oblivious to food or music. Gertrude was questioning her about something. I heard one word through the song:
Londinium
.

The music ended. Gertrude rose to join her other guests. To my dismay, Lady R. beckoned to me with a finger. It was my turn to make conversation with this strange woman. I picked up my half-empty glass of spiced wine and sat in a neighboring chair.

She leaned over. A fragrance of dry violets encircled me.

“I’ve served all three queens, did you know that?” she said.

“No, my lady.” I shrank from the scrutiny of those eyes. Not gray at all, I realized now. Palest blue, with dark circles around the pupils.

She continued, “I was a lady-in-waiting to Katherine of Aragon the day that you arrived to be her maid of honor in 1527. Such a long, long time ago. I have a good memory, but I do not recall you, I’m afraid. So interesting that you only served her as queen for a single day.”

The air fled my body. I struggled to find breath, to feel my heart pumping blood. There was nothing. Nothing. I could not believe that this woman knew I’d attended the court for that
one day so long ago. Gertrude Courtenay didn’t know it, or if she did she’d never mentioned it. How was this possible?

“Forgive me,” I stammered, “but I did not hear your full name when we were introduced. What does the
R
stand for?”

She leaned closer still. Our faces were inches from each other.

“Rochford,” she said. “I was wife to the late Lord Rochford. But when you were at court, he was not yet a lord. He was known by his Christian name—George Boleyn.”

Dearest Joanna,

I have received the letter it hath pleased you to write me. I am glad that you are united with these good Christian people. But I would not want you to think that you could ever be forgotten. Brother Edmund and I speak of you every day. We pray for the maintaining of your good health and Arthur’s.

All is well in Dartford, although I recognize our excitements cannot compare with those offered by the city of London. Brother Edmund has treated the injuries and illnesses of new townsfolk, and one of his patients even paid for a remedy with coin. He works so many hours a day that I worry for him, but you know my brother and how much contentment he finds in healing. I hope I am improving in my efforts to assist him.