The Chalice (30 page)

Brother Edmund slipped the kindling into the shallow square in the center of the
calefactorium
floor. I heard that first sigh of fire catching and then the eager whispers of new flames. They popped and crackled. Golden spears flickered as they devoured the wood. The room now pulsed with light.

Sitting a few feet away from him on the stone floor, I watched the shadows leap across Brother Edmund’s face.

He leaned back, nodding, and half turned to me. “You shall be safe and warm here, Sister Joanna.”

“Yes,” I said.

“I will be nearby.” He stood up. “No one will be able to get to this room without passing mine first.”

I stood up, too. He reached for my hands and squeezed them. When he started to step back, I gripped those hands tight.

“Don’t go,” I said.

He looked down at me, his brown eyes uncertain. “Do you wish me to stay a little longer?”

I was silent. I knew I must send Brother Edmund away now. But I couldn’t part from him.

“Stay with me.”

I could not draw breath. It was as if I still wore one of Gertrude
Courtenay’s bodices, too tight for me to inhale. He did not take back his hands, but I could feel his whole body stiffen.

“I’m not sure what you want of me, Sister Joanna,” he said.

I looked into his face. There was surprise there and a new wariness. But his lips parted as if he, too, could not easily draw breath.

That it was sinful was never in doubt. But I slipped my arms around him. I reached high, and higher, feeling his smooth back. I turned my face up to his and, in terror, closed my eyes. I had thought Brother Edmund’s body would be cool, but it wasn’t. He was warm and lean, and tense as a strung bow.

I waited, with eyes shut. After I don’t know how long, his lips pressed against mine, but so gently I almost doubted it was happening. I had never felt a touch this tender. I ached for more from him.

The next moment he pulled away, abruptly. I stood alone. My eyes were still shut as I wove in the air.

“This is wrong,” he said. “Remember that night at Malmesbury Abbey? I made a vow to you then before God. I said that I would never violate your faith and trust in me. Tell me you haven’t forgotten.”

“I haven’t,” I said.

“We’ve learned so much today, together, about things that may come to pass,” he continued. “The monasteries could be restored. It is part of the prophecy. Sister Joanna, how could we rejoin our brothers and sisters, take our place beside those who trust us, if we succumb to this? We took vows of chastity—and so we would be unclean.”

I nodded and turned away. My eyes were blinded by humiliation.

“Don’t cry, please; you mustn’t cry,” he said, anguished. And then, “I will go now—I
must
go now.” And without waiting for me to speak, Brother Edmund left the
calefactorium
.

After a few moments, I made my way to the pallet that he had dragged in for me. The fire crackled high and merry, in a mocking conflagration. I stared into the twisting yellow flames. What I did was so weak, despicable. I couldn’t believe that it happened.

Now I understood evil—I was able to grasp the cunning power of the devil. What other explanation could there be for how I had offered myself to Brother Edmund than that my body and spirit were seized by the devil? And to do it
here
—in a place that was until weeks ago a renowned monastery—was doubly horrific. I longed for the Sacrament of Penance. On my knees, I would confess my desires and seek absolution. If grace were restored to my soul, then I could resist sin.

But I must also beg Brother Edmund’s forgiveness. And there must be no reoccurrence. What happened this night must never again. I simply could not survive without Brother Edmund’s friendship. That was the most important thing.
There is nothing on this earth to be prized more than true friendship,
he said to me at Howard House. I would prove myself worthy.

After I’d made my resolution, my eyelids grew so heavy, I slumped onto the pallet and found sleep.

The next thing I felt was hands dragging me from my pallet. I was pulled to my feet and shaken, my legs flailing helplessly above the floor.

The Duke of Norfolk slapped my face hard. I heard a small
rip
at the same instant that hot pain ripped through me, from my scalp to the tip of my shoulder.

“By my trowth, you are a wayward bitch,” the duke roared. His spit drenched my forehead.

A half dozen men crowded into the room. Behind the duke stood Bishop Gardiner. There was no sign of Brother Edmund.

“You think you’re clever, don’t you?” said Norfolk. “Corrupting
that fool Catherine into aiding your escape with a miscreant friar. But my men
aren’t
fools. They saw two ladies leave and one return. Once I was informed, I had my men combing Southwark and London and Dartford all night—
all night
—to track you down. It wasn’t until we found this crookback at dawn that we learned of the fair man and the dark woman headed for Blackfriars.”

The hunchback who’d offered to help us with transport when we emerged from London Bridge edged out from behind another man. He pointed at me. “That’s the one, that’s her,” he said.

“Of course it’s her,” the duke said. “Give this stunted foot-licker a shilling and boot him.”

My left cheek stung from the slap, but it was nothing compared to my neck. I couldn’t even stand straight but bent over, clutching my shoulder. I managed to ask, “Where is Brother Edmund?”

Bishop Gardiner said calmly, “He has been taken to Winchester House, to await my judgment.”

Norfolk seethed: “To come here, the two of you, lying to the porter, claiming you’re brother and sister, and then to soil this monastery—I thought I had seen all matter of depravity in my life, but this . . . this . . .” He couldn’t finish his sentence.

“We committed no crime,” I said.

“You brought that friar here to fornicate,” Norfolk shouted. “You may fool others with your novice guise, but I know what a whore you really are, Joanna Stafford.”

“No,” I said.

It took every bit of strength I possessed to stand up tall through the haze of pain. I looked to Bishop Stephen Gardiner, not the duke. “We came to Blackfriars to learn,” I said. “To pray. That is the truth.”

Something flickered in the bishop’s eyes. It could have been pity.
Or contempt. He opened his mouth to say something—but was drowned out by the duke.

“To
learn
?” The Duke of Norfolk’s contempt was savage. “But you don’t learn—ever. You were arrested last year, your priory was dissolved this year, any woman with sense would understand that the time for nuns and friars and monks is finished. It’s
over
. There are no more monasteries. Everyone must accept it or be crushed to dust. The end of the year will bring the last destruction.”

“What more can be destroyed?” I asked bleakly. “Everything is gone.”

Norfolk said, “You’re wrong, as always. The king has already stripped and closed the shrine of Thomas Becket, and on the night of December twenty-eighth, men will go to Canterbury Cathedral and remove the bones of the saint. When those last pilgrims arrive the next morning, on the anniversary of Becket’s death, they will find nothing but a wrecked shrine. The king wants the bones burned. So end all men of the cloth who defy their anointed king.”

I had never even conceived of anything so monstrous. It was agony—far worse than the fleshly pain dealt by Norfolk—to know that our most beloved and revered saint would be so molested. To steal the holy treasure of a saint and close the shrine to the pilgrims who needed him was already a tragedy. But to defile his remains?

My hands shaking, I made the sign of the cross. Then I peered over at Bishop Gardiner. His face was white marble. This must be as horrifying to him as it was to me, but the bishop revealed not a hint of feeling.

Norfolk said, “You’re going to Stafford Castle, to rot there for the rest of your life. God’s teeth, if I have to tie you over a horse myself, you are going. But first you have a duty to perform.”

“Duty?” I repeated.

“The Marquess of Exeter and Baron Montagu were tried and found guilty yesterday of high treason. It is the king’s pleasure that they be beheaded on Tower Hill. Their last request, which His Majesty granted, was to die together. I will attend. And you will, too, Joanna Stafford. The Lady Mary wants you to represent her at the execution, and so you shall. You and I will see this through to the end.”

W
hen I was a prisoner confined in the Tower of London, I could not see the moat from my cell. But the morning of the executions, I stared at it for hours: a ring of dank muddy water, fringed with dead branches. On the other side of the wall, all was scrupulously maintained. There must be a meaning behind the neglect—there was a reason for everything at the Tower—but I couldn’t discern it.

The rain started falling before dawn. By the time I stood on Tower Hill, the downpour had turned steady. The Earl of Surrey cursed behind me. He’d worn his best cap, topped by an ostrich feather, but the rain wilted the plumage. Like many young men, Surrey most feared looking ridiculous.

The rain streamed down the lined face of the Duke of Norfolk. It turned his white furs sodden; but his chain of office, his gold medallion, still gleamed defiantly on his chest. When I mounted a horse at Howard House, he said, “Keep your head down. Shut your eyes if you can’t bear it. I won’t have woman’s weeping.”

“I won’t weep,” I said. “This isn’t the first time I’ve seen someone die before the mob.”

We stood on the hill that swelled beside the Tower. Behind us lay the city. All Hallows Barking Church and a cluster of houses
straddled the border between London and Tower land. Many men came to crowd around the tall, straw-covered platform where Henry Courtenay and Baron Montagu would soon die. I saw other chains of office and furs. This was nothing like the raucous mob that gathered to cheer on Margaret’s burning. These did not laugh or cheer, but I did not imagine for a second that they mourned.

I ignored them, one and all, to concentrate on prayer. Henry Courtenay had been found guilty of plotting to overthrow the king and marry his son Edward to the Lady Mary so they could rule together. I knew it to be a foul lie. Gertrude was not tried, but neither she nor her son was released. As for Baron Montagu, guilt lay in his supposed sympathy with the antimonarchical ideas of his brother Cardinal Reginald Pole.

I stood straighter. I’d not falter today—I’d not fail Courtenay or Montagu. I would represent the Lady Mary as best I could.

Nor would I fail Brother Edmund. I had a plan to free us both from the bondage of Norfolk and Gardiner. It had a small chance of success. As terrible as things were for me, this plan could well make my lot much worse. But I would attempt it before I left Tower Hill, no matter what the cost.

I heard someone speak French to Norfolk. I turned and at once recognized Eustace Chapuys, the ambassador to the Emperor Charles. And according to Henry Courtenay, a man who Gertrude once confided secrets in.

“His Majesty must take steps to punish traitors—yet such occasions as these can be mournful,” said Chapuys. I waited for him to remember the maid of honor who attended Katherine of Aragon in exile during the last weeks of her life. We had come face-to-face then and exchanged a few words. But he merely half bowed with the imperial courtesy shown to an unimportant woman of gentle birth, and then he moved on.

Behind me a group of men talked louder and louder. “Blessed be the God of England whose instrument you are in freeing us of these foul traitors, my Lord Cromwell,” said someone.

Cromwell.

I was a fool not to have prepared myself. He was the king’s chief minister and the architect of these arrests. If I turned around to look at Cromwell’s face, it might weaken my fortitude. And yet, I felt a great burning desire to see the enemy of all that was good.

Clutching my crucifix, I turned around.

A half dozen eager courtiers surrounded a short, broad-shouldered man of middle years wearing plain black clothes. At first I could not see his face, but then a man shuffled to the side, and the minister was revealed. He was but ten feet away.

How ugly Cromwell was. He possessed the thick white skin of someone who rarely ventures into the sun, but he was no ascetic. A double chin nestled on his collar—this was a man who gorged on food and drink—and above it creased thick lips. His close-set gray eyes rested steadily on the clergyman then addressing him.

I did not deliberate the thought; it came surging up from my soul, like a pure stream bubbling from the earth:

I curse you, Thomas Cromwell. You are a murderer and a heretic and a destroyer. But I pray to God that somehow, someday, I shall be the one who brings you down.

It shocked me, the force of my hate, but it fueled me as well. Would that I could decipher the last part of the prophecy, to know if I would be the one to bring an end to Chief Minister Thomas Cromwell.

Just as Norfolk lunged to spin me back around, Cromwell’s gaze shifted from the clergyman to me. It was as if he’d heard my vicious thoughts. Our eyes met for three seconds at the most. But in that fleeting span, those gray eyes assessed me with such incredible acuity that the air rushed out of my body and Tower Hill tilted beneath my feet.

“Stop staring, you fool,” hissed the Duke of Norfolk when I once more faced the scaffold.

I took a deep breath and regained my balance.

It was not Cromwell who ambled over a moment later to find out who I was. Master Thomas Wriothesley—a thin man with a long red beard—chatted with Norfolk and Surrey while awaiting an introduction.

“This is Joanna Stafford,” Norfolk finally said, without grace.

“Ah, yes,” Wriothesley said. The husband of the guest at Gertrude’s party stood before me, waiting. When I remained silent, he made a bow and left.

“He’s gone back to Cromwell to make report,” muttered Surrey.

Norfolk’s angry oath was swallowed up by a ripple through the crowd. All heads turned toward the Thames. There it was—a pole with a flag attached sauntering above the wall that lined the walkway to Middle Tower. A moment later, I saw a group of yeoman warders emerge. And then, at last, appeared Henry Courtenay and Baron Montagu. A group of other men came down to meet them—I gathered they were the sheriffs of the city, and they, not the keepers of the Tower, would officiate. I would be spared the sight of the fearsome Sir William Kingston, at least.