The Chalice (20 page)

The time for revelation had passed.

“My dinner?” I said. “But Baron Montagu is the guest of honor.”

Henry smiled again. He was in the best of moods. “Of course he is. Of course. Come, we don’t want to keep him waiting.”

In minutes we would be in the great hall. I wasn’t afraid any longer. The strange visions I had twice seen couldn’t possibly frighten me after what I had endured in the presence of the second seer.

But Henry did not escort me into the great hall. Instead he led me to the music room. There was one person waiting for us, the room now alight with candles like all the others. He had his back to the door, hands clasped, as he scrutinized the frieze carved into the wall. Slowly he turned around.

It was Baron Montagu, but how he had changed. I hadn’t seen him for at least five years, when he visited his sister Ursula at Stafford Castle. As the eldest of the Pole siblings, he was the one responsible for the family after the death of their father.

Those visits of his always caused a stir. For one thing, Baron Montagu was a great nobleman of the land, as much a childhood companion to the king as Henry Courtenay. But it was more than that: I knew that some women considered him handsome. I had never thought so, nor found him memorable in conversation. He seemed cold and haughty, avid for gambling, indifferent to books. In short, the perfect aristocrat.

Montagu was somewhere in his forties. His black hair was salted with white; a cobweb of wrinkles had deepened around his eyes. His face was almost gaunt. He wore a black doublet unadorned with the jewels or chain of office he doubtless possessed. He was like a dark wraith stalking toward us.

He kissed my hand, with a bit of the courtly flourish I remembered, and said, “Buckingham had such a passion for music.”

“Yes, my lord,” I said, though I wasn’t sure why he brought up my father’s eldest brother. But then Montagu was always a great favorite of his. My presence must make him think of the Stafford duke.

“He had a company of incredible lute players,” Montagu said, reaching for the memory. “There was one who played like an angel, though he grew fatter every year.”

“Oh, yes—that was Robert,” I said. “My uncle had a special tailor brought in to make alterations to his livery. The tailor once stayed up all night sewing so Robert would be presentable for a feast day.”

Montagu chuckled and, to my own surprise, I laughed, too.

How delighted Henry Courtenay was. “You see?” he said. “It is possible, my friend, to enjoy life.”

Montagu grimaced. For some reason, the marquess’s happy words embarrassed him.

Thankfully, Gertrude appeared just then, beautifully dressed in deep-green velvets. She took her husband’s hand and pressed it to her cheek. It was one of her pet gestures, but I thought it a touch more fervent than usual. She and I locked eyes for an instant. We understood each other perfectly once more. Tonight was Henry’s night; we would both endeavor to make it a pleasing one for him.

Baron Montagu escorted me to the great hall, with the Courtenays walking behind us. “I must offer you my condolences on the passing of your wife,” I said. I regretted how stiff my words sounded. It did not seem quite the best moment, but better now than in a hall filled with food and drink.

He thanked me, just as formally. “And how sorry I was to hear of your father’s death,” he said. “I knew Sir Richard Stafford my whole life. He was never anything but honorable and generous.”

“We’ve both lost people we love,” I said as we approached the entranceway to the great hall.

He said nothing to that. My comment seemed to pain him, just as Henry’s exhortations had earlier. I was so wretched at this, at entertaining others with conversation. I should not have brought up the death of his wife. Behind us, the Courtenays laughed at each other’s jokes.

The two other guests waited for us in the lavishly decorated great hall: Sir Edward Neville, a portly man with a warm smile, and Baron Montagu’s sister-in-law, Lady Christine Pole. She was a little older than I, with the fair hair and pink-and-white skin that an admired Englishwoman should possess.

“Oh, my, cloth of silver!” she exclaimed. “Is this how nuns now adorn themselves?”

My face turned hot. Gertrude swiftly explained that though my tastes were modest, she had insisted on presenting the dress as a gift to me.

“How nice to have such friends—you are the luckiest woman I know,” said Lady Pole, clutching her goblet of wine. Her nails were bitten to the quick. “
Very
lucky.”

There was some meaning behind her words I did not understand—and did not like. I reminded myself that her husband was confined in the Tower of London. That was a great trial; how well I knew that. I fell into the same silence as Baron Montagu. He’d wandered away from the rest of us, to examine the walls and artwork of the room.

Everyone else made his or her way to the last place I wanted to be: the huge fireplace. I stood by the table, alone. Gertrude gestured for me to join them. I pretended not to see.

“Montagu, bring Joanna over here,” Courtenay called out.

Again Montagu held out his arm and escorted me. I tried as hard as I could to affect nonchalance.
Don’t be foolish,
I told myself.

Taking a breath, I looked at the fireplace and at the stone lions that crouched above it.

A sickening dread stirred in my belly.

“What is the matter, Joanna?” asked Baron Montagu.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I murmured, closing my eyes.

With a tug on my arm, he pulled me a few feet away, so that my back was to the others. “Does being here again disturb you?” he said in a low voice.

“Yes, it does,” I said. My eyes sprang open. “How would you know?”

“Because it disturbs me, too, a little,” he said. Baron Montagu’s huge dark eyes were filled with a mournfulness that matched my own.

“Do you see the visions, too?” I blurted. His sadness made him somehow trustworthy.

“Visions? What sort?”

Haltingly, I told him what I had seen and heard twice when I gazed at this stone fireplace. The boy dressed as a cleric and the frightening giant. The sound of mocking adult laughter all around me.

Baron Montagu pulled me even farther from the rest of the party. “Joanna, those aren’t visions—those are memories. You were here, in this room, as a small child. Perhaps six years old. The Christmas feast. That was Buckingham’s party.”

“Why would my uncle give a party here, in the Courtenays’ home?”

Baron Montagu shook his head, as at something he found difficult to believe. “Because it didn’t belong to the Courtenays then. It was the London residence of the Duke of Buckingham. The king gave your uncle’s house to Henry after the execution and attainder. Christ’s blood, didn’t Henry or Gertrude tell you that?”

I could not speak, overwhelmed.

Baron Montagu said, “The duke loved to host Christmas parties in the old tradition. For many, many years, it was the custom to dress a boy like a bishop and have him administer blessings, and to hire a giant for good luck.”

“And the sense I had, of flying up?”

“You really
did
fly. Buckingham noticed that you were afraid of the giant, and so you were lifted up to face him, so to speak. But the giant was a bit simple, and he was more afraid of you than you of him. I do remember how everyone laughed. That was unkind, yes. I fear the party guests had had a great deal to drink. It was the third day of Christmas festivities.”

After a moment, I said, “I am surprised my father would do that to me. He was always sensitive to my nature. The last thing I’d ever want to be was the center of attention.”

“It wasn’t your father,” said Baron Montagu and rubbed his temples. “Ah, Joanna, don’t you remember? It was
me
. I lifted you up as high as I could.”

As I stared at him, the memory was complete. It was a handsome dark-haired man in his twenties, laughing, who whipped me off my feet. Now I knew why I’d always felt this antipathy for Baron Montagu.

“I am so very sorry, Joanna, for frightening you,” said the somber man who stood before me now. “Permit me to atone? Can we go to the fireplace now and banish those memories?”

We walked together, to gaze at the stone lions. That is all they were now, just lions that grimaced like gargoyles on a cathedral. I was overwhelmed with relief—my visions weren’t real, but simple fragments of memory. Though now I saw Henry Courtenay with new eyes.

“I should have been told the true history of the Red Rose,” I said.

Baron Montagu answered me in the same hushed tone: “Please do not blame him. Henry may have assumed you knew and did not want to broach the delicate topic. Or else he was ashamed to benefit so by your family’s fall. It is hard for him, the shifts we must make in these dangerous times.”

A woman’s voice cried out, “So I see all is progressing very well indeed.”

I turned to see a smiling Lady Pole bearing down on me and Baron Montagu.

Gertrude Courtenay said, warningly, “That’s sufficient, say nothing more.”

But Lady Pole laughed. “Why all the pretending? These two aren’t children. None of us are children.”

I truly did not care for this woman. “What are you trying to say?” I asked.

“Henry Courtenay has decided you would make an excellent second wife for his closest friend, and by the look of it, my brother-in-law agrees.”

Nothing inspired more scorn in me than heartless party games. And I did not appreciate being the object of a joke. I opened my mouth to say as much to Lady Pole when I realized something. Everyone in the room was miserable. Gertrude and Henry glared at Lady Pole. Sir Edward Neville appeared to wish he were elsewhere. And Baron Montagu’s face was rigid with embarrassment.

“This is impossible,” I stammered. “Impossible.”

Henry Courtenay hurried toward me. “Joanna, I’m sorry. I wanted you to meet Montagu again, for you to see each other, and then to see if you wished to proceed.”

Baron Montagu stepped forward. “And I should not have allowed Henry to arrange this. He was thinking of my happiness—and yours, too. But you should have been told.” His eyes shone with even more regret than when he admitted his role in the Christmas party.

“Yes,” I said, embarrassment mingling with anger. “You’re right. I should have been told about a great many things in this house.”

Across the room, Charles cleared his throat.

“My lords, there is a disturbance with the children, I regret to inform you. Master Arthur Bulmer must see Mistress Stafford. It has something to do with a child who is a guest. The tutors and servants are unable to calm Master Arthur.”

“That would be my son’s doing.” Baron Montagu sighed.

I held up my hand. “I will attend to this,” I said.

Gertrude said, “This is my house, I must accompany you and make matters right.”

“I go alone,” I announced to the room with some ferocity.

Once I was out of their sight, I picked up my skirts to move faster, up the stairs, across the landing, and down the passageways. From outside his room, I could hear Arthur crying. I burst open the door. Arthur was flailing in the bed, while Edward Courtenay stood by, worried. I learned that Baron Montagu’s fourteen-year-old son had teased Arthur relentlessly until Arthur exploded and had a full-fledged fit of temper. Servants separated them; I did not know where the other boy was now.

“Arthur, hush, all will be well, Joanna is here,” I said, cradling him in my arms. His cries subsided into hiccups.

“I’m sorry I didn’t defend Arthur better,” said Edward Courtenay. “That beast Montagu is our guest. He kept mocking the way Arthur speaks. I wasn’t sure what to do.”

I patted Edward’s arm. “You did your best, you are a good boy.”

Once Arthur was calm, I straightened my skirts. I had to return to the party, although it was the last place I wanted to be. As I walked along the passageway, I thought of Baron Montagu. I was not the only one embarrassed tonight. I did not want him to think that when I cried “Impossible,” it was because he was unacceptable. Baron Montagu had shown sensitivity in how he handled the Christmas party of the Duke of Buckingham. And he had also spoken well when his sister-in-law exposed this plan. Pole marrying Stafford, on the face of it this was a natural solution. His sister was the wife of my cousin. And I did not dislike him. Quite the opposite. But I could never marry anyone.

I’d reached the landing when a man whispered, “Joanna.”

I turned, confused. A servant would never address me by my given name.

But it was a man dressed in Courtenay livery who emerged from the alcove at the top of the landing. He kept his face from the full candlelight. With a quick movement, he beckoned for me to come to him.

“Sir, I will not go with you,” I said, offended and a little frightened. “Shall I call for the others?”

The man took another step and the light fell on his face. It was Geoffrey Scovill.

I froze.

He charged the rest of the way, grabbed me by both hands, and pulled me into the darkness of the alcove.

“Why are you here?” I choked.

He held me an arm’s length away. “By God’s good grace,
look
at you. I’ve never—in my life—seen anyone as lovely.”

Whether it was the shock of seeing him amid my mounting fears of everything in London, I will never know. But I stepped forward and laid my forehead against his chest. Tears burned my eyes.

“Geoffrey,” I said.

In an instant, his arms were around me. So tight I thought he would grind the costly, rough fabric into my skin and incinerate me. But I burrowed even tighter into his embrace.

“Joanna,” he whispered, his lips on my ear and then my throat. “Joanna.”

It was the same as before, at the priory last spring, when he came to give me the last piece of news. My eyes closed, I sought out his lips. I kissed him with as much fervor as he kissed me.

I felt the first sharp twist of shame at my weakness. My eyes fluttered open and I caught the shimmering outline of the candles at the top of the landing. I tore myself out of Geoffrey’s arms.

“Are you here because of my letter?” I said. “But why disguise yourself like a servant, why come here tonight? I am leaving tomorrow, with Arthur.”