The Chalice (23 page)

“But the last month has been quite an eventful one—particularly in this house,” said Lord Dudley. “And I suspect that Mistress Stafford is involved in it up to the hilt.”

I stared at the floor. I vowed to say nothing to my interrogators. But what if they put me to the rack? Would I have the strength to stay silent?

All of those terrors were reduced to nothing when a new realization dawned.

“Arthur,” I choked. “What about Arthur?” I turned to Dudley. “I have charge of a cousin, Arthur Bulmer. He’s asleep upstairs. There’s no one left here to care for him if you take me away.”

Dudley replied, “This house is full of servants.” He gestured toward Charles. “I’m sure someone is competent enough to make arrangements.”

The thought of Arthur waking up to find me gone as well as Edward and the Courtenays was unbearable.

I stepped toward Lord Dudley, my hands clasped before me. I would do anything to prevent Arthur’s suffering. “I beg
you, don’t do this. He’s so little. He’s five years old—the same age
you
were.”

There was not a trace of feeling in Dudley as he gazed at me. No sympathy, no anger at my mention of his own childhood tragedy. Nothing. He turned away, to give his orders.

“Bring them to the wagons,” he commanded his men. “Do it in small groups. All must be kept orderly.”

I looked up the stairs, at the alcove. What would Geoffrey do now? If he escaped this house, that would be something—one comfort I could cling to. I’d destroyed my own life, but his would continue.

“Have you searched the alcove at the top of the stairs?” asked Dudley. I flinched. Again Lord John Dudley watched me and seemed to pluck the thoughts from my head, better than any sorcerer.

A soldier bounded up the steps.

I willed myself to say and do nothing. But in my mind I pleaded with Christ to spare Geoffrey Scovill.

“No one is here, my lord,” reported the soldier after a few seconds in the alcove.

Prayers were answered. So Geoffrey must have slipped out some time ago. Wearing the livery of a Courtenay servant was the perfect disguise—no one would suspect him of anything. Geoffrey was clever, far more than I. He had warned me that if I revealed myself I could be arrested, just as last month he’d warned me of the dangers of staying at the Red Rose.

A hand seized my arm. Baron Montagu moved to escort me out the door of the Red Rose. He said nothing. I glanced up at his profile, grim and haughty. Was it two hours ago that he had exorcised me of my childhood fears? Only one hour ago that he told me I would make him a perfect wife?

Now Baron Montagu said in a low voice, “You should not have done it.”

“What?” I asked, miserable.

“You should not have come downstairs. You should have hidden in the house with your lover.”

I said, “Geoffrey Scovill is not my lover. No matter what occurs tonight, my lord, I must insist that you keep a courteous tongue.”

Baron Montagu’s expression shifted from disapproval to amusement. A bark of a laugh escaped his lips.

The sound of it made every man’s head turn. Dudley frowned, as in disbelief.

But Montagu was anything but abashed. Blood pumped into his ashen cheeks; his eyes sparked with new life. “Dudley, you bear the warrants, so let us be off,” he declared. “What did you expect from me? Weeping? I am well prepared for you to do your worst.”

Lord Dudley and Baron Montagu stared long at each other. Such palpable hatred. Walking out the door, my hand gripping Montagu’s arm, was welcome to me, for it meant escaping the scrutiny of Dudley.

The sun had dropped below the horizon. A sickly gray light lingered, soon to be extinguished by darkness. I smelled burning fish. The boatmen were roasting their supper over fires along the riverbank.

Two long, empty horse-drawn wagons waited for us on Suffolk Lane. A dozen more soldiers stood by them, watching us. Dudley had brought many men with him. Behind them a crowd gathered. There was a low murmur coming from the Londoners. It was a somber sound. No one jeered or shouted a word. In a flurry of arm movements, I saw an old woman make the sign of the cross. A younger man standing next to her pushed her out of sight immediately. Perhaps she was his mother.

The Courtenays and Sir Edward Neville were brought out after us. Dudley came last. He split us into two groups. Henry, Gertrude and their son and Constance, the marchioness’s lady-in-waiting,
would ride in the first wagon; I would accompany Lord Montagu and his son and his brother-in-law, Sir Edward Neville, in the second.

When they walked past us, Courtenay paused for a few seconds to gaze at Montagu. Whatever he found in the face of his oldest friend seemed to bolster him; he took a deep breath and continued on, his arm around his son’s shoulders. It was me that Gertrude looked at. Those large brown eyes were full of pleading. Then she passed by, leaving Montagu to peer sideways at me, perplexed. Well he might wonder why the Marchioness of Exeter sought help from Joanna Stafford.

Never had the seers’ prophecy seemed more mistaken than tonight.

A soldier beckoned for me. I was to be the first in the wagon. I made my way forward without hesitation. It was often said at Stafford Castle that the third Duke of Buckingham exhibited no fear from the moment of his arrest to the time when he kneeled before the executioner. It was small comfort to his fatherless children, but it was something.

I found it hard to climb up into the wagon, wearing this kirtle and bodice. The cloth of silver caught on a plank of wood. I felt a pull and then heard a rip. The dress was ruined. It did not matter. I found a place on the narrow hard seat running alongside the wagon. The others silently shuffled in to join me.

Dudley huddled with two of his senior men near the door. Montagu seized the time to speak to his son. Sitting close together in the wagon, even in the fading light, the resemblance was marked. I quietly rejoiced to see his son listen so closely to Montagu. In these moments together, they were father and child.

“No!” shouted a man.

Someone charged toward the first wagon. He wore Courtenay livery. It was Joseph, his arms outstretched to Gertrude. Dudley said something, and his two men threw themselves
in Joseph’s path. He was easily tackled and hurled down. He screamed when his back slammed into the cobblestones with a horrific crunch. The simple-minded twin was no longer a threat. But the soldiers did not move on—they kicked Joseph in the side and in the shoulders and, to my horror, in the head.

James surged forward but not to attack. I could see Charles had him by the arm. He would not let James be beaten, too.

“You’re killing him—for the love of God, you’re killing him,” James screamed.

Lord John Dudley watched the attack without emotion. His face was the same smooth blank as when I pleaded Arthur’s case. At one point, a soldier, his face glistening with sweat, looked over at Dudley for a signal. He did not get one. The kicking resumed.

At last, after how many moments I do not know, Dudley raised his hand. “Halt,” he said.

James ran to his senseless brother and knelt next to him. He reached down and cupped Joseph’s bloody head in his hands, lifting it off the ground with extraordinary gentleness.

In the Courtenay wagon, Gertrude slumped forward in a faint. Her husband on one side and Constance on the other held her up. Edward Courtenay wept. It was silent on Suffolk Lane except for the sound of the boy’s crying.

My stomach coiled. I closed my eyes, for fear I, too, would faint or sicken.

The wagon lurched forward and my eyes flew open. We were leaving the Red Rose.

A
lthough curfew had been called, clumps of Londoners silently watched us go by. Somehow word had spread of who huddled in the wagons closely guarded by the king’s soldiers. Perhaps it was the boatmen, for they knew everything first.

Dusk had turned to darkness. But it took only a sliver of moon in the November sky to reveal our destination, rising above the houses and shops and churches of the city: the square castle keep of the Tower of London.

I couldn’t see Lord John Dudley. He rode with most of his soldiers in front of the first wagon, the one carrying the Courtenays. A single soldier on horseback followed our wagon. Two other soldiers walked briskly behind, bearing their pickets on their shoulders.

Behind them, a discreet distance, rode one more man. He did not wear a soldier’s uniform. Because I hated the sight of the looming Tower, I fixed my attention on this last man. He had to be under the command of Dudley—I could not think why anyone else would accompany us. Certainly no one of the Courtenay household would dare, not after Joseph’s savage beating. But why did he ride so cautiously? It was as if he followed but did not intend to appear to be doing so.

As I watched, the distance narrowed between the man and the two soldiers on foot. Because of the lit torches on
this stretch of street, I could see him a bit better. He shook the reins of his horse on his left side and tapped his right leg impatiently. Those two familiar movements jolted me with such intensity that I jumped off the hard wooden seat of the wagon.

The man who rode behind was Geoffrey Scovill.

“Don’t make such a show of staring at him,” Baron Montagu murmured, inches from me. His eyes darted around the wagon, at his son and brother-in-law sitting across from us, and then at the men who rode and marched behind.

“This is foolish,” I lamented, my hands clasped. “Why does Geoffrey do this?”

“That is an idiotic question and you are not an idiotic woman,” Baron Montagu replied. “Be very still. You must not turn again. Don’t draw attention to him.”

Baron Montagu leaned forward, sliding his hands down until they rested on his knees. His movements slow, almost casual, he looked ahead, past our driver to the wagon and soldiers. And then he peered behind. After a few seconds Baron Montagu nodded, as if in response, and then sat straight. With me sitting between him and the back of the wagon, he shifted so that one arm angled behind me, and out of the wagon. I felt his arm twist and then tense, as if he were gesturing. Giving some sort of signal.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Helping you escape, Joanna.”

I said in the same furious whisper: “This is madness. What about the soldiers?”

“Constable Scovill and I are both armed—you know that better than anyone.”

“So you will go with us?”

Baron Montagu said: “I could never leave my son or the Courtenays. And we can’t
all
get away. The element of surprise should be sufficient for one to escape.”

“But that will make it even worse for you,” I protested.

“Nothing can save me,” Montagu said calmly.

I shook his arm. “Don’t say that. There will be a trial—you will be heard. How can you be sure that no hope exists?”

“Because I know Henry Tudor,” he answered. “In truth, this is something of a relief, Joanna. I have lived in the shadow of the ax for many, many years, not because of anything I’ve done, but for who I am. I am the House of York. Henry the Seventh exterminated most of our line. Now the son finishes his father’s work.”

I couldn’t insult his intelligence by arguing further. Tears filled my eyes, and I gripped Montagu’s arm tighter. Across from us, Sir Edward Neville nudged Montagu’s son and they moved up the wagon, out of earshot.

Baron Montagu smiled and wiped a tear from my cheek.

“I don’t want to leave you in this way,” I whispered.

He wiped a tear from the other cheek and then cupped my face in his hands. “Ah, Joanna, you can’t fall in love with a dead man.”

Montagu glanced behind our wagon once more. “Scovill must act soon; we will be at the Tower moat in minutes.”

I started to turn, but Montagu said, “No.” He slipped his arm around my waist and squeezed. “I will jump over you when he breaks the line and try to get the best of the soldiers. Be ready to run to Scovill when I give the signal.”

The road was veering closer to the Thames. We were almost there.

“Closer, closer,” Montagu muttered, his head turned away from me. His body was taut, ready to spring.

Part of me still fought against this plan. It seemed crazed. Where would Geoffrey take me—where would we go? Dartford would be the first place they’d search for me. And what of Arthur? Would I be able to retrieve him with soldiers in pursuit? But, oh, how I ached to run to safety. The Tower terrified me like no other place on earth.

“Oh, no,” said Montagu, his voice bitter. “Not this.”

I heard a thundering of hooves. Geoffrey was close behind the two soldiers who marched behind our wagon. But coming up fast on either side of him were at least ten men on horseback. One of them carried a blazing torch as he rode, one bright enough to reveal his livery. He didn’t wear Tudor colors, nor those of the Courtenays. The man wore a black doublet with a golden figure stitched on it. A golden lion.

Black and gold. Howard colors.

Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, surged forward on his gray horse. His men swiftly parted to clear the way for him.

“Dudley,” he bellowed, rising up in his stirrups. “Get back here, Dudley!” His voice split the air like thunder. There was not a louder man alive.

Our wagon slammed to a halt. Horses wheeled and turned as Howard men overtook the king’s soldiers commanded by Dudley. Soldiers ran this way and that. I couldn’t see Geoffrey any longer. He’d disappeared amid the chaos.

Montagu withdrew his arm from around me. He leaned forward to speak to Sir Edward Neville in a low but urgent voice.

Lord John Dudley trotted to meet the Duke of Norfolk.

“I am the officer in charge, Your Grace,” Dudley said, all confidence. “Do you need to read the commission?” He pulled a paper from his black doublet and waved it at Norfolk.

“I know that you are the one Cromwell picked,” said the duke. “At his supper, His Majesty bade me go as well, to see that all was done properly in the arrest. And it appears far from proper to my eyes. I’ve just come from Courtenay’s house. God’s teeth, there’s a man lying half dead in Suffolk Lane and twenty servants weeping.” He gestured toward the wagons. “These are high nobles—you can’t round them up like thieves and toss them into wagons. You are not fit for this responsibility.”