The Chalice (13 page)

I put down my letter from Sister Winifred. Closing my eyes, I envisioned Brother Edmund, bending over a flustered villager struck with fever—the butcher’s apprentice, say—and calling for cosset ale. How Sister Winifred would rush about, gathering
the required lettuce and sorrel and violet leaves. With a touch to her quivering arm, he would take over the mixing of the cosset and then administer it to his grateful patient.

With all my heart and soul, I wished myself in Dartford.

Gertrude had kept her promise. She’d not dragged me to the king’s court. But earlier today the court had come to me: shallow and selfish and, as Jane Boleyn’s twisted smile flashed in my thoughts, dangerous. Did Lady Rochford know what her husband did to me—how he violated a sixteen-year-old girl? She seemed to know
something
. Would she tell others?

And just as disturbing: How could Gertrude trust a Boleyn? The Boleyns had destroyed the life of Katherine of Aragon. Anne Boleyn had famously threatened to undo the Lady Mary. It was only her execution that prevented it. Yet Gertrude was a close friend of the sister-in-law of Anne Boleyn? It didn’t make sense.

I was struck wordless when Lady Rochford revealed the identity of her dead husband. I could manage but few words to anyone for the remaining moments I was trapped at Gertrude’s party. Afterward, I fled to my room and remained there. Alice brought me dinner on a tray, but I had no appetite. Fortunately, she also carried the letter from Sister Winifred, which delivered sustenance of a more important kind than food.

Across the room, a tiny tearing noise filled the air. Alice ripped off threads and then knotted them. She was mending one of my skirts by the fire in my bedchamber. I resumed my reading:

There is news from the house of the sisters of Dartford. I do not know if you recall the gentleman who mourned his wife in Holy Trinity Church that morning before you left. His name is Master Oliver Gwinn. Sister Agatha tells me that Master Gwinn was grateful that Brother Edmund and the rest of us sought to ease his suffering. He now goes to the house of the sisters regularly and sees to repairs that were
much needed and advises them about their livestock. Sister Agatha said that the heavy cares of the sisters are eased by his goodness.

Also the presence of Geoffrey Scovill, our new constable, is welcomed everywhere I go. He is every day on the High Street, acquainting himself with the people of Dartford and listening to their business. His first matter is to relocate the shambles to a place farther from Holy Trinity Church. I remember how many times you said that it should be done as well. Now it will be.

Master Scovill came by the infirmary yesterday afternoon to ask if I had received word from you. I passed on the news that you are prospering. I hope that was well done of me, Joanna. His intentions seemed benevolent.

Written in the town of Dartford,

Sister Winifred Sommerville

Only a few seconds after I’d finished the letter, I removed a sheet of drawing paper from the shelf and began to write.

Dear Geoffrey,

You were right in what you said and I am sorry we quarreled. I wish to return to Dartford as soon as possible. A family engagement requires my presence at the home of my cousin, the Marquess of Exeter, on November 4. After that duty is discharged, Arthur and I will come home.

Written in the manor of the Red Rose in the city of London,

Joanna Stafford

Once the ink had dried, I folded the paper twice. I held the stick of sealing wax over my candle, passing it back and
forth. After it had softened, I dabbed the wax over the closing fold of the letter. I pressed down the seal so hard, the red wax squeezed out into long hard bubbles along the edges, like a fresh wound.

“Alice,” I said, “I want this letter carried to Dartford. It’s very important that it go out with the next batch of correspondence.”

Delighted to have a task of importance, Alice seized my letter, the red wax still warming the paper, and hurried away. Soon the letter would pass out of her hands, and by the end of the day I expected it would begin the journey to Dartford. I felt a stirring of worry. Perhaps I should have slept a night before sending Geoffrey Scovill such a letter—the first one I’d ever written him. I pushed down the qualm.

Alice soon reappeared with the news that my letter had been dispatched and she had an answer to my request to Father Timothy as well.

I’d asked my maid to send a message to the Courtenay chaplain. And the answer had arrived: Father Timothy would be available to hear my confession at dawn the next day, before Mass. The cleansing powers of the sacrament of penance should help steady me.

I was awake well before dawn. I dressed and waited, impatient, for the first lightening of gray outside the windows. At last I glimpsed it—the night was in retreat. I hurried down the dark corridors, a candle in my hand.

“Ah, Mistress Stafford, I appreciate your promptness—it looks to be a busy day for me,” said Father Timothy, standing in the doorway to the elegant private chapel. A row of fresh tapers flickered at the altar behind him.

I set down my candlestick in a stone nook and dipped my fingers in the chapel’s stoup. Father Timothy opened the door to the confessional, a freestanding, well-glossed oak chamber. He eased inside. I heard the sound of the door sliding
in its groove, as Father Timothy took his place behind the grille.

I followed him into the confessional. There was almost no light inside, just the faintest gleam emanating from the silver crucifix that hung from the top of the dense wooden grille. I couldn’t see the silhouette of Father Timothy’s head. But I could feel his warm breath through the grille and smelled the faint odor of onions.

“I will hear your confession,” he said.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” I said. “It has been five days since my last confession.” I paused, to gather my thoughts. Where to begin—how to frame my offenses?

The voice of Henry Courtenay boomed, no more than ten feet away: “I wonder if Joanna will join us at Mass this morning.”

I jumped off my narrow wooden bench. I hadn’t heard anyone come in. But now the Courtenays were in the chapel. I should have emerged from the confessional at once. But the mention of my name rooted me to the bench. On the other side of the grille, Father Timothy, too, was silent, unmoving.

“I expect she will continue to sulk in her room,” said Gertrude.

“I don’t want you to speak of her that way,” said Henry, in a sharper tone than I usually heard.

“Oh, I would not trifle with your prize.”

My cheeks flamed with embarrassment. How could I step out of the confessional now? Why did Gertrude call me a “prize”? I needed to know what Father Timothy thought we should do, but he was swallowed up in darkness. I knew, however, that he, too, was distressed, by the quickening of the warm onion-scented breath that puffed through the grille.

Henry said, “I must ask you not to pass Father Timothy private requests for little sermons on the importance of fortitude, courage, and sacrifice, Gertrude.”

His wife responded, “Don’t worry. I’ve abandoned hope of your choosing such a course.”

A boom echoed through the chapel. As if, incredibly, Henry had slammed his fist against a wall. Or kicked something. Tears sprang from my eyes. This was like a nightmare, for my kind cousin to behave so—and in a sacred space.

He hissed, “It’s not going to happen, Gertrude. Can’t you understand? It isn’t just Henry.
Hear
me. It’s Cromwell and Cranmer and Suffolk. And Norfolk. Never forget Norfolk. Those men surround him.”

The door to the confessional slid open. Father Timothy was revealing himself to the Courtenays. I should have done the same but was too terrified to move.

“Father Timothy, this is outrageous,” Gertrude cried.

In his most soothing manner, the priest apologized and reassured them that all the words he had indeed heard would be kept in strictest confidence.

“But why were you sitting in the confessional this entire time?” she asked.

“I was preparing it for the day, my lady,” he answered.

“You were not hearing someone’s confession, were you, Father?” she asked. “I see a candlestick left by the door. Pray tell me, whose is it?”

Father Timothy said nothing. Of course he would not lie to his patrons.

I slid to the far side of the bench in the confessional. With both hands, I felt my way to the top of the wall. Was there a latch? A door on the other side? I could not face the Courtenays after hearing what was just said.

But there was no other way out of the confessional.

“I will see to it, Gertrude,” said Henry Courtenay. I heard footsteps. Getting louder.

The confessional door swung open. The body of the marquess filled the narrow opening. Barely any light penetrated
around him. He saw me—of course he did. I could not read his expression.

After a few seconds, he stepped back. The door shut with a bang.

“There’s no one there,” Henry said. “And now, Father, it’s time for Mass.”

I
wore my own clothes, a plain dark kirtle I put away after that first day, when Gertrude forced her finery on me. But I wouldn’t wear her clothes on the afternoon I left the Red Rose. For, by the time the sun rose to its highest point in the sky, I had made my decision. Danger was closing in, and Arthur and I must leave at once.

When I reached the children’s study, it was empty except for Edward Courtenay’s French tutor, a grave university student named François.

“The boys are having a lesson in the courtyard, mistress,” he said. A frown deepened his wide young brow. “Are you well? You look . . . different.”

“I am quite well,” I told the tutor firmly.

His eyes flicked past me, to a point over my shoulder. I turned. It was James, the quick-witted twin.

“Master Edward and Master Arthur should be back upstairs before supper,” said James. “Don’t you want to wait and see them then, mistress?”

“No, I don’t,” I snapped. “I will see my cousin now.”

I turned and hurtled down the corridor. When I reached the first turn, I heard footsteps behind me. Both François and James followed.

“I know the way,” I called back. “No need to accompany me.”

One more stretch and I reached the main stairs. It was hard not to run down them. But panic would not serve my intentions. I was halfway down the stairs when I heard a clatter of feet above. I looked over my shoulder. François and James still followed. My maid Alice was with them, as well as a male servant whose name I did not know.

As I turned the last corner, it sounded even louder, the footsteps of those behind me. More servants must have joined them. Why did they trail me so? I wondered, furious.

It was cool in the courtyard that morning. Layers of gray clouds covered every bit of sky. The two boys brandished flat wooden swords in the center. Arthur waved his weapon at me, smiling. Young Edward Courtenay bowed, but his face showed confusion. I looked over my shoulder. The servants who’d followed me had grown to half a dozen. They inched forward tightly, all together, like a single body with many heads and arms.

Struggling to ignore them, I said to Master David, the head tutor, “Good morning. After the lesson is finished, I will need to have Arthur prepared for departure. We return to Dartford today.”

“No, Joanna, no!” wailed Arthur. “Don’t want to leave.”

“I’m sorry, Arthur. This must be.” I reached out, but Arthur shrank from me.

“Mistress Stafford, I haven’t received word about this from the marquess,” said Master David.

“Arthur is
my
cousin,” I said. “The visit is at an end. I am a guest here, not a prisoner.”

Arthur ran to Edward Courtenay, and threw his arms around his waist. “Edward, want to stay,” he wept. The older boy comforted him quietly.

“No one said you were prisoners,” Master David said stiffly. “I apologize if I gave you that impression, Mistress Stafford.”

I silently cursed my rudeness. Fear had frayed my nerves. “Forgive me, you did not give that impression,” I said. “Arthur, please. Come with me for a moment.”

“No, no, no,” Arthur sobbed, clutching Edward. The Courtenay heir glared at me. He drew Arthur toward the side of the courtyard whose wall abutted the great hall. The servants shuffled forward and then spread out. They now served as a barrier between my little cousin and me.

Master David said, “Mistress Stafford, I can send word to the marquess, and ask for instructions on change of plans. Nothing is done at the Red Rose without an authorized plan.”

I said, “There is no need for that—I will speak to the marquess tonight myself.” It would not be an easy conversation. But it should be done. To leave in the middle of the day was cowardly, after all. We’d leave tomorrow.

James, the twin, said, “You can’t speak to him tonight. The Marquess of Exeter will not be back at the Red Rose until November third, the day before his dinner for Baron Montagu.”

“What?” I said.

“The king has moved with his privy council to Greenwich,” said Master David. “When he is at Greenwich, my lord stays at court lodgings.”

I stared at the men, these favored servants of the Courtenays. I was shocked that Henry had not told me of this. But, after all, I made myself scarce yesterday. When would he have had the opportunity?

There was no way around it—I’d have to make my departure arrangements through Gertrude. This course of action promised to be more unpleasant but had the advantage of Gertrude’s not knowing I’d heard her words while I hid in the confessional.

I said to Alice, “Please alert the marchioness that I am on my way to see her.”

Before she could answer, James spoke up again. “My lady is
unwell. After Mass she went straight away to bed. She sees no one but Constance when she is in this condition. You won’t be received today.”

Rain spattered on our heads. I wiped a splotch from my eye as I took in everything that had been said and done here. No one sought shelter from the rain. The only sounds were the tapping of fresh raindrops on the bricks of the courtyard and Arthur’s wordless whimpering.