The Chalice (15 page)

“Thank you, Gertrude,” I said.

And so it began. Three days of forever being in Gertrude’s company. There were no noteworthy guests. She did not pay any calls. We embroidered, we read, we listened to music. One evening I sat by her bath and read from a book of Christian lamentations. We saw Arthur and Edward twice a day. The boys
seemed to have forgotten the scene in the courtyard, and no one made any reference to my demand to leave. The king was never mentioned, nor his daughter Mary—nor her cousin, the Emperor Charles. It was all so benevolent, so free of conspiracy, that there were moments when Henry’s pleadings to stand watch over her receded. But I did not forget.

And then, on the last day of October, I experienced a jolt.

Coming down the main passageway, Alice right behind me, I heard a shout ahead. Servants carried chairs and boxes and trays. Once I’d come closer, I realized to where: the main doors of the great hall yawned open.

“What are they doing?” I asked Alice.

“Preparing for my lord’s dinner for Baron Montagu,” she answered.

Gertrude, I learned, was in the kitchens, and I hurried there. The time had come to reveal my visions in the great hall, for I could not possibly dine in that room.

The cooks had hung an iron pot over a large fire. Gertrude peeked into it, an apron tied around her brocade skirt. A sweet musky smell reached me from across the kitchen.

“Joanna, come and see,” she called out gaily. “This will show the Lady C.!”

I peered into the pot—it bubbled with an orange liquid, pulpy and marked with seeds.

“I’m making a gift of quince preserves to her. Everyone’s doing such presents this season. Lady Carew’s preserves are superb. I must do better.”

She shrugged and laughed, in that winning way she had of saying, yes, isn’t this frivolous but I’m doing it and don’t I do it well. I was no longer seduced by Gertrude’s charm. But I acknowledged its potency.

“Is it necessary that the dinner be held in the great hall?” I asked.

Gertrude stirred her preserves with a long spoon. “That’s where we always have it. The room is only used for the yearly
dinner for Montagu. The men enjoy feasting there. They call it ‘playing Plantagenet.’ ”

“But it’s so huge and we are a small party,” I said.

“Not
that
small,” she answered. “There’ll be Henry and me, and you, and Father Timothy. And then there are Baron Montagu, his sister-in-law, and Sir Edward Neville. Neville comes to these dinners, too—if he is in London. Which he is.”

I was baffled. “Why does Baron Montagu bring his sister-in-law and not his wife?”

A frown line danced between Gertrude’s eyes as she stirred. “Baron Montagu’s wife died early this year, Joanna. I assumed you knew that.”

“No, but I am sorry for Baron Montagu’s loss,” I said. Still confused, I asked, “Who is the sister-in-law?”

“Christine is the wife of Godfrey Pole.”

“But Godfrey isn’t coming himself?” This dinner did not make sense.

Gertrude’s eyes flicked up, at me, and then back into the pot of quince preserves. “Godfrey is in the Tower.”

Just the word
Tower
weakened me. The steam heated the kitchen. But my rush of memory—those months in a cell, trapped behind walls so thick that no cannon fire could make them tremble—left me chilled.

“Why is Godfrey Pole held there?” I asked.

“I believe he is being questioned about his brother, Reginald Pole, who is in Rome, writing papers against the king, his divorce from Queen Katherine, and his break from the church. We have all disowned Reginald, of course”—Gertrude stirred faster—“but the king’s men want to be certain of loyalty.”

“How long has he been confined?”

Gertrude said briskly, “It is for my husband to answer all such questions—it is his dinner, not mine.”

There was no question now of voicing my fears of the great hall. I backed away from Gertrude and her simmering pot.

The rest of the day, I could not concentrate on needlework
or conversation. That night I was not the least sleepy, so I read by candle for a long time, but restlessly. I had no idea that the king’s suspicions of those with any trace of royal blood—those who could conceivably make a claim to succeed him—had led to imprisonment. I wished I had not submitted to Henry’s pleadings to remain here. Everything about the dinner, now four days away, was wrong.

I don’t know what time it was when the horse whinnied. Hoofs slammed on cobblestone. Another whinny. Leaving my candle by the bed, I went to the window.

There were four horses on Suffolk Lane, all of them mounted. One gave his rider trouble. A single torch blazed in a fixture next to the entranceway, affording me enough light to recognize the auburn-haired rider as he spun around: Joseph. And yes, his twin brother, James, rode a gray. With a start, I realized two women accompanied them. Joseph finally got control of his horse, and James signaled that it was time to go.

I strained to see the women. They weren’t ladies, that was obvious from their drab clothes. Their faces were obscured by long hoods. Could they be fellow servants? How would the Courtenays feel about the twins, trusted servants, riding out late, into the wicked dangers of the night, with women?

The foursome rode up the street, away from the Thames. The woman who was second from last pulled on the reins, reached up and adjusted her hood. The torchlight danced on her. I knew this hand, this quick but elegant movement. The fingers were long. There were usually gold rings encircling two or even three of them—but not tonight.

Those were the hands of Gertrude Courtenay.

I
stood at that window long after the four of them disappeared. How easily I’d been fooled. Gertrude conspired, and it must be a dangerous cause indeed for her to ride disguised into the streets of London at night, defying curfew. She took bold advantage of her husband’s absence.

I determined I would stay awake until they returned, no matter how late the hour. And then I’d make a report to the marquess through Charles, as I had promised.

I had no timepiece in my room, so I never knew how long Gertrude and the others were gone from the Red Rose. It seemed like most of the night. Several times I nearly surrendered to exhaustion. But I fought off temptation.

I’d again splashed water on my face when I heard a faint noise. I crept to the window. The torch had been extinguished outside. There was no moon. But I could just make out four riders coming down Suffolk Lane. Two of them dismounted and approached the entryway. The others rode to the stables. Gertrude was home.

I fell asleep the instant I lay down. It had been a grueling night. What felt like moments later, someone gently shook my shoulder.

Alice said. “I’m sorry, mistress. I knocked. But you didn’t answer. The dressmaker is here.”

I’d forgotten it was the day of the fitting. I could not seem to assemble my thoughts. I lamented such thick-headedness. I’d need all my wits now.

“Tell Charles that I will have a message for him this morning,” I muttered.

I did not want to be pinned and pinched by dressmakers. Or to be in the presence of Gertrude. But I had no choice.

To my surprise, the Marchioness of Exeter did not appear weary at all. As the dressmaker and her apprentice pulled me this way and that, Gertrude watched closely. The precious cloth of silver, which looked so light in the merchant’s box, weighed heavy on my limbs.

Yet as I studied her, a difference became apparent. Her smiles, her laughter, her pointing—all carried an extra degree of animation. I remembered when we met, in Dartford, and she’d shown that same brittle excitement beneath her courtly words and gestures. I thought it her normal manner then. But while in the Red Rose, she calmed herself; the excitement lessened. What had revived it? It could only be what happened last night.

When the fitting was over, Gertrude insisted I remain.

“You looked beautiful in that cloth of silver, Joanna,” she said. “It sets off your coloring.”

I said nothing.

In that same false tone, Gertrude said, “My confectioner is trying a different mixture, employing the new sugars of the islands across the sea. Tell me how this treat tastes. If you like it, I’ll order it for our dinner.”

Reluctantly, I took a seat next to her. The treat made me wince. “Too sweet,” I said.

“Oh, really?” Gertrude mock-pouted with disappointment.

“I shouldn’t be the one you ask. I don’t much care for treats.”

Gertrude shifted in her chair and tilted her head. “Joanna denies herself all pleasures, even a sweet.”

I could not bear her banter any longer. Once again, I made to leave. And once again she detained me. This time she rose from her chair and stood before me, her hands on her hips.

“Joanna, whatever is the matter?” she asked. “Are you ill?”

“No.” I started to edge around her.

“Did you have trouble sleeping?” she pressed.

There was not a trace of anything but affection in those large brown eyes. Try on these clothes, eat a treat. Yet she plotted and lied, putting her husband and son—and myself and Arthur—in the greatest danger.

“No,” I said slowly. “I did not sleep well.”

It was darkly thrilling, this decision I had just made. No more dissembling.
I shall confront her,
I thought.
I am not afraid.
Anger sent strength into my bones and cleared my mind of confusion. From a distance rose the image of Brother Edmund, shaking his head, pleading with me to curb my anger. But he was not present to dissuade me.

“Why not?” she asked.

I answered: “I was awake for hours, waiting for
you
to return.”

The corners of her mouth twitched. But Gertrude did not flinch.

At that very moment, Constance opened the door to say, “My lady, Charles is here. He wants to speak with Mistress Joanna. He said she has a message for him.”

Without taking her eyes off me, Gertrude said, “Tell Charles to wait.”

After we were alone again, she said, perfectly calm, “Aren’t you going to ask me where I went? You wouldn’t want your message to my husband to be incomplete of facts. That is what you arranged, isn’t it? When he came in secret to your bedchamber—that you’d send messages through Charles? I think I should be the one questioning
you,
Joanna. About your light conduct with my husband.”

“You know that is not true,” I said, furious.

“Do I?” she said. “I suppose so.” She laughed.

Her laugh made me even angrier. “Yes, my lady, I will send word to the marquess of your leaving the house last night.”

I made for the door. But before I took three steps, she seized me by the wrist, just as she had in Dartford. Her grip was stronger this time.

“We didn’t travel far, Joanna. I had an appointment with a man. A hard man to find. But I finally found him and made arrangements to go to his secret place, and on the most propitious date and time of the year for his particular business.”

I pulled free my wrist but did not move toward the door. If Gertrude was of a mind to reveal herself, I would discover it all.

“What is his name?” I asked.

“I don’t know his real name. He has taken the name Orobas.”

“Taken?” I repeated impatiently. “What does that mean? What sort of name is ‘Orobas’?”

A nerve danced on the side of Gertrude’s slender throat. “I believe it is of Latin origin. As to why he took it, I think it is because Scriptures say the demon Orobas serves as the chief oracle in Hell.”

I made the sign of the cross.

“A
demon
?” I cried. “You are consorting with those who worship demons? It is the worst sort of blasphemy. You have gone mad, Gertrude.”

“I am not mad,” she said, “Orobas is not a demon worshipper. It’s just a name. I am not sure what the description is. I will settle on ‘seer.’ And I do not consort with him. I pay him, and I pay him well, to divine the future. Last night he shared with me a prophecy I’ve waited a long time to hear. I must perform one more task and then I will learn the rest. He has sworn it.”

I dropped to my knees before Gertrude Courtenay and clasped my hands. “I plead with you—I beseech you—do not
proceed. Do not seek out prophecy. It is so dangerous to you and your family, to all who love you. In the name of the Virgin, I implore you to stop.”

She looked down at me, entirely unmoved. “It really doesn’t suit you, Joanna. To beg on your knees. Which is rather amusing, when one remembers you were almost a nun.” She yanked me to my feet. Our faces were inches apart. “I must know—what did she say to you? What did Sister Elizabeth Barton say to frighten you this badly?”

I ripped myself from her grasp. I backed away from her so fast I stumbled over a table.

“You know I went to Canterbury,” I stammered.

“I know that in October in the Year of Our Lord 1528, Sister Elizabeth Barton informed you that you would come after if she should fail to stop the king of England. She told me that herself. But how you would do it and the precise prophecy that concerned you? She shared it with not a soul. I don’t believe anyone knows it but you and Sister Elizabeth, and she’s dead.”

Gertrude bore down on me again, her eyes afire, like a hunter who is seconds from killing long-sought prey.

“Sister Elizabeth Barton recanted,” I said. “The prophecy meant nothing.”

“We both know that’s not true,” Gertrude said. “There is a reason that Sister Elizabeth Barton broke down in the Tower and begged to deny her prophecies. Her gift of prophecy was genuine—given by God. She falsely recanted because it was the only way to stop their questions before they forced your secret from her. She did it to protect
you
.”

“No, no, no,” I said, covering my ears. “I won’t hear this.”

Gertrude wrenched my hands away. “Stop it,” she hissed. “You’re not a child. You are the key to our enterprise, you are the one who could deliver us from Henry Tudor and restore the true faith to England.
But you won’t
.”

“I don’t know what you imagine can be done,” I said, shaking my head violently. “The king has dissolved the monasteries, the churches are stripped. We have no choice but to conform.”