The Chalice (22 page)

But not known to me.
My loathing of the court had made me ignorant of the court, and this was where such willful blindness led me. And Geoffrey.

It came then. The pounding at the door to the front entrance of the Red Rose was so loud, I cried out in fear. Geoffrey wrapped his arms tight around me, more to silence than to embrace.

Charles rushed past us and down the stairs.

“It’s too late,” I whispered to Geoffrey.

“No,” he said, determined. “Their attention will be downstairs for a good while. We can retrieve Arthur as soon as they move out of sight. We may have to go out a window on the Thames side.” His eyes flicked over my dress. “We’ll have to secure a cloak to throw over this dress.”

The front doors swung open. Charles had the keys, of course.

“I bear orders from His Majesty King Henry the Eighth to arrest several persons who are now within this house,” declared a man’s voice.

Charles stammered that he would fetch the Marquess of Exeter and hurried away.

Geoffrey pulled me deeper into the windowless alcove. We were hidden from view of anyone on the stairs. But there was no door to close and bolt. If someone were to take one step inside the alcove, we’d be seen immediately.

After a moment, two other men’s voices were heard. I recognized them at once. Henry Courtenay had come with Baron Montagu to the front entrance.

“I shall see the warrants before anything else is done,” said Henry. He sounded calm. Montagu must have had enough
time to prepare everyone. While papers rustled at the bottom of the stairs, I thought of how Henry’s arrest would devastate Gertrude and Edward and everyone else here. I prayed that there would be a proper investigation and fair trial. How could evidence exist? Henry had participated in no plots, I would swear it with my life.

I heard the scornful voice of Baron Montagu. “Dudley, why do you force your way in to harangue us after dark, when we are dining? It is scarcely proper.”

“This supper is one of the reasons I’ve come,” answered Lord Dudley. “It reeks of conspiracy. We shall learn exactly what was said here by all parties and what plans you’ve formed.”

“This is a strictly social occasion,” said Baron Montagu. “Our discussions are none of your concern, nor could you grasp much of what is said or done in a house such as this. You are the son of a condemned traitor. It was in poor taste for His Majesty to dispatch
you
to arrest us.”

I winced. Why did Montagu bait him like this?

“It hardly matters who was sent,” answered Dudley, his voice level. “Questions will be posed and answered as to why you convened here tonight on Suffolk Lane.” There was silence for a few seconds. “See to the searches.”

“What are you doing now?” demanded Baron Montagu.

“We have warrants to search certain rooms,” answered Dudley.

Geoffrey and I stared at each other in the dim alcove as the boots of a half dozen men pounded up the stairs. In seconds we’d be pulled out. Exposed.

But the king’s men swiftly headed down the corridor without stopping to search our alcove. We were safe for a few moments longer.

“This may help us,” Geoffrey whispered. “There’ll be chaos and disruption. It could provide cover.”

Among all the men’s voices around us, I heard Henry Courtenay
speak again. His self-assurance was gone. His voice panic-stricken, he said, “No, no. This cannot be true. These warrants—all the names. This can’t be possible, Dudley.”

His fear undid me. I went hot and cold with the waves that rippled through me: terror and confusion and disgust. How could I scurry away, fretful for my own safety, and abandon Henry and Montagu to this? When they worsened their situation every moment by refusing to tell the king’s man the true reason for this dinner tonight—me.

“They will move off very soon,” murmured Geoffrey. “Then we’ll take our chance.”

I stared at him in the shadows of the alcove. Why had Geoffrey done this—endanger himself again? I regretted it, and regretted that he had such a powerful feeling for me. He was a man who deserved a sweet and comforting wife, not a difficult woman beset with dangers. I did not see how the two of us could possible succeed in escaping from this house together. The king’s men combed the Red Rose. As long as he was with me, he would be subject to questioning. Alone, Geoffrey might stand a chance.

A new question stabbed me. The prophecy of the seers could be true. What if I were meant to exonerate Henry and Montagu and whoever else was on the warrants? It was up to me to choose the path of the future, Orobas said. I had struggled against the prophecy because it seemed so frightening and impossible—if not ludicrous—that I could stop King Henry from doing anything he set out to do. But what if this were not about directly confronting His Majesty? The prophecy could revolve around another sort of action. If I said nothing tonight, these blameless men could well be destroyed, the king made even more powerful, poised to breed a second son who would succeed him. But what if I pushed my way forward to explain that the reason all were convened was for me to meet Baron Montagu? I could save their lives—and, by saving them, set England on the other path.

I stepped away from Geoffrey, and toward the light.

“Joanna?” he whispered, alarmed.

“Get out of the Red Rose without delay,” I urged.

He reached out to tug me back, but I was too quick. I ducked and then slipped out of the alcove once more.

At the top of the stairs, it came close to overpowering me—the shimmering candlelight and the sight of a dozen men, most of them strangers, standing at the bottom. The words died in their throats. All attention turned to me.

I threw my hand up in front of my eyes, to shield them from the bright light, and kept walking down, as steadily as I could. It was silent behind me. Geoffrey did not follow. The smell of roasted meats filled the air—squab and venison. The great kitchens of the Red Rose had finished cooking the feast. Servants were ready to serve it. How confused they must be, huddling in the kitchen and corridors with platters of food no one would eat.

“And who comes before me now?” said the voice of Lord John Dudley, which I could now match to the man himself. I lowered my hand.

Dudley looked to be about five years older than me—tall and lean, with a precisely trimmed beard. He stood with his hand on his hip, waiting.

I glanced over at Henry Courtenay, saw his face reddened with distress. He mouthed,
No
.

Next to him stood Baron Montagu. His eyes were filled with sorrow and pride and something indefinable.

I reached the bottom of the stairs and walked straight to Lord John Dudley.

“My name is Joanna Stafford,” I said.

S
ir, I fear there is some confusion over the purpose of this dinner,” I said with all the politeness I could muster. “You are mistaken if you believe anything untoward occurred. My cousin the marquess had proposed a marriage between Baron Montagu and myself. This dinner was set for us to make our plans.”

I waited for Dudley’s cold hostility to thaw. It did not.

“You are a Stafford?” he asked. “Whose daughter, the Duke of Buckingham’s?”

“My father was the duke’s youngest brother, Sir Richard Stafford,” I replied.

Dudley nodded. “The treasonous families make new alliances with each other.”

“We have committed no treason,” said Baron Montagu, thrusting himself forward.

Dudley’s eyebrow rose again. “So speaks the brother of Cardinal Reginald Pole,” he said.

Cries came from the corridor upstairs. Was this because of the search? Geoffrey had predicted chaos. I glanced at the alcove at the top of the steps. Geoffrey was still safely hidden. I wondered if he could hear my attempt at intervention—which so far had done no good at all.

Two of Dudley’s soldiers strode past the entrance to the
alcove. To my relief, they turned to head down the stairs. A group followed them. First came a grave and fearful Edward Courtenay. Behind him walked a black-haired boy, perhaps two years older than Edward. He could only be Baron Montagu’s son and heir. “You have no right to take me anywhere,” the boy shouted. As he twisted and turned, we could see his hands were tied behind his back. Two soldiers prodded him down the steps. I looked for Arthur, but thankfully he was not among the horrific procession. Yet what if it had awakened him, and he was frightened?

Henry Courtenay cried out. His hands outstretched, helpless, he watched his young son being led down the steps.

My focus then shifted to Montagu, also watching the approach of his child. His dark eyes blazed in his thin face. His right hand groped inside his doublet. I knew well what weapon he sought. Dudley, too, watched Montagu carefully.

I flew to Montagu’s side. “Don’t do it,” I whispered. “That’s what Dudley wants. He seeks to provoke you.”

Montagu did not acknowledge that I’d spoken to him. But he withdrew his hand from his doublet.

Montagu’s son was held back from going to his father. The soldiers announced that the younger Pole had resisted them upstairs, and so would be restrained. Two men stood between the baron and his son.

But the soldiers did permit Edward to join his father. “I don’t understand this,” he said in his high child’s voice, not yet broken. Henry caught him up in a tight embrace.

“You can’t arrest
children
.” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them.

“I have warrants signed by the King’s Majesty to do just that,” Dudley said.

“But this is terrible—an act of infamy,” I said.

Dudley said, very deliberately, to Baron Montagu, “If I were you, I’d get my betrothed under control.”

With the greatest of difficulty, I held my tongue. But Montagu did not. “Tell me, Dudley, how old were
you
when they came to take your father to prison?”

So there was another element to this business for Lord John Dudley.

Montagu’s taunt found its mark. The muscles of Dudley’s jaw tightened. “Five,” he said, and then turned in the other direction, toward the corridor leading to the great hall. “Ah, here they are.”

With soldiers right behind, Sir Edward Neville and Gertrude Courtenay appeared, each struggling to hide their fear. So she was to be arrested as well. The entire Courtenay family would be conveyed to the Tower of London.

I will never forget how Gertrude reacted when she saw her son in her husband’s arms. She swayed, blinking, her face turning white as ivory. I thought she would collapse. But somehow she pushed forward, past Baron Montagu and me, not even seeing us. Her fragrance of orange and chamomile and rosemary drifted in her wake as she staggered to her family. Henry reached out and took her in his arms. Edward cried harder now that his mother held him. The Courtenays clutched each other so tight, they were like a single tree with three trunks.

“Not her—not Lady Pole,” said Dudley. He pointed at wide-eyed Christine Pole, who had found her way to us. “She is the one who cannot be arrested, no matter what.”

“Why is that?” demanded Baron Montagu.

Dudley said, “It was evidence given by her husband, Sir Godfrey Pole, that persuaded the king that grounds exist for a treason inquiry into all of your activities.”

Lady Pole cried, “No, no, no,” and then began to weep.

“That’s impossible,” said Henry Courtenay, still clasping his wife and son.

“Have you put my brother to the pain, Dudley?” said Lord
Montagu, his face darkening. “If you have, I swear by the Virgin, you will pay.”

But still Dudley kept his cool. “I am no torturer, Baron Montagu. I was made vice admiral of the king’s fleet last year. I command ships and companies of men, not the scum of the Tower. In answer to your inquiry, these statements were given freely by Sir Godfrey Pole.”

Baron Montagu made a sound of disgust.

Lady Pole’s crying escalated. Dudley pointed at Father Timothy, who huddled in the opposite corner of the room with Charles and Ralph. “You—priest. Take Lady Pole out of here and keep her out.” The way that Dudley spat the word
priest
left no doubt in my mind that he was an enemy of the Catholic faith. He must relish the task of arresting Catholics.

More of Dudley’s men strode down the stairs. They carried books and papers—the fruits of their search. Constance, Gertrude’s lady-in-waiting, trailed the last soldier, greatly distressed. As they came closer, I realized what that particular soldier carried. It was the small brown box that contained Gertrude’s letters.

My heart beat in a painful, jerky rhythm. What correspondence did it contain? That evening I came into her bath unexpectedly, she had tried to hide a letter from me, the one written in Latin that I was certain concerned me. This was what the king’s men sought. They knew of Gertrude’s conspiring. They did not come because of news of a private supper. It would never have mattered what I said.

I felt someone’s eyes on me. It was Dudley. With all the commotion going on around him, I was the one he watched for a reaction to the sight of Gertrude’s box. A tiny, satisfied smile hovered above his beard.

Constance made her way forward. “Sir, I must attend the Marchioness of Exeter—I cannot be left behind.”

“Don’t you understand where she’s going tonight—where they are all going?” Dudley said, as if speaking to a small child.

“Yes, my lord,” answered Constance. “But where the marchioness goes, I go. Always.”

He shrugged and turned to the older man who now held the documents of arrest. “On my authority, take this woman to the Tower as well. And Mistress Joanna Stafford.”

It took a few seconds for me to comprehend what Dudley had said. I’d heard the words but could not take them in. I did not scream or weep like Lady Pole. It was as if I were being swept out of the room, out of this city, by a huge dark wave. All of the voices around me dimmed and the lights began to swim in a golden haze. The points of the candles were meeting in a circle around me.

Somehow I tore free from the glowing numbness and joined in the furious argument going on before me.

Baron Montagu demanded, “How could she play a part in
anything
? She’s only been in London a month.”