The Chalice (32 page)

Brother Edmund gasped, but it was not due to fear of the formidable bishop. His attention was on the ruffians’ fighting. Before I could say anything, he sprinted toward them.

“Stop!” he cried. “Leave that man alone.”

I ran after him, confused. Why, at such a time as this, would my friend hurl himself into a street brawl?

A large ruffian who had the beggar folded under his arm, like a sack of wheat, said to Brother Edmund, “What—are ye a pope lover?”

It was only then that I focused on the beggar. But he was no beggar. That was the hooded habit of a Cistercian monk.

The ruffian tore his victim’s hood off and I saw the chalk-white face of Brother Oswald. He was half conscious, blood trickling down his chin.

“Do ye know this freak?” demanded the ruffian.

“He is a monk—a man of God,” Brother Edmund said. “You must release him at once.”

“We don’t bow to monks no more,” howled the ruffian. “They be nothin’ but hypocrites, sorcerers, and lazy creatures.”

I’d heard such terrible descriptions of monks before, and each time it was like a blow.

“He’s a Papist,” roared the man, “and we know what to do with Papists, eh?”

The crowd cheered. There were ten of them, at least. I’d sometimes told myself that it was only the king’s and Cromwell’s minions who hated the old ways and the men and women of the monasteries. This sadistic assault proved me wrong.

“He is defenseless, you need not prove your strength on a man such as him,” insisted Brother Edmund.

The ruffian dropped Brother Oswald onto the ground. The Cistercian groaned. Brother Edmund darted toward him but the monk’s attacker stepped into his path. “How ’bout I prove it on a man such as ye instead?” he jeered.

“No!” I cried. “Stop this now.”

Now the ruffian turned to me with a leer. “Ye brought a girl for sportin’?”

Brother Edmund pushed me behind him. “You will not harm her, or anyone else.” He lifted his right arm, the fist clenched. Brother Edmund was not easily angered, but when he was, the consequences could be fearsome.

With his gang amassing behind him, the ruffian strutted toward Brother Edmund and me.

I heard footsteps behind me. Two dozen men ran down the street from the direction of Winchester House. Some of them waved long sticks.

“Be off with you—be off!” shouted a silver-haired priest.

At once the ruffians retreated. At the bend in the road, their leader shouted at us, “We won’t soon forget it, that yer Bishop Gardiner took the side of
Papists
.”

“This man is Brother Oswald, a former monk of the Cistercian Order,” I told Gardiner’s priest. “He’s been injured—we must bring him inside Winchester House for treatment.”

“Absolutely not,” the priest retorted. “We’ve done all we can. Either leave him on the ground or take him with you. But
I recommend you leave this place before those men return in greater numbers. Which I assure you they will do.”

And with that, Gardiner men’s retreated as quickly as they’d advanced. Brother Edmund knelt next to the bleeding monk. He lifted his head with caution. “Brother Oswald, do you hear me? Do you remember me? It’s Edmund Sommerville—from the pilgrimage to Stonehenge.”

The Cistercian’s eyes fluttered. “Edmund . . . yes,” he said. “I remember.” He blinked a few times. “Is that Joanna with you?”

“Yes,” I said.

“We’re going to take you to a place of safety now,” said Brother Edmund.

“Bless you,” said Brother Oswald. “God the Father and Redeemer has delivered me.” His right hand flopped in the mud as he tried to make the sign of the cross.

“I doubt he can walk,” I whispered to Brother Edmund.

“Are you alone?” my friend asked him. When we first met Brother Oswald, he led a dozen other displaced monks on a journey across England, seeking answers through prayer and pilgrimage.

“The others wait for me near the river,” Brother Oswald said. He winced and rubbed his side, then coughed. “There are five of them. Near a—a bear-baiting pit. We are on our way to Kent, to the Aylesford friary.”

“Dartford is on the way to Aylesford,” I said.

Brother Edmund scooped up Brother Oswald in his arms, to carry him. His face flushed with the effort.

“I wish we could bring them all to Dartford,” Brother Edmund said through gritted teeth.

I felt a rush of excitement.

“We
can,”
I said.

“How? Even with help, a wounded man can’t be carried such a distance by foot.”

I tugged on the front of my bloodied cloak. “We will hire
a wagon,” I said. “I have the coins in here. Catherine Howard gave me a purse with a little money. It should be enough.”

“And this is how you wish to spend all the money?”

“Yes,” I said. “Before God I see no higher purpose.”

He nodded, his brown eyes hardening with determination.

“To Dartford,” said Brother Edmund.

J
anna! Janna!” Arthur shouted in the doorway of the Sommervilles’ house. An instant later I almost toppled from the force of his strong little body hurled onto mine. Laughing, I held him as tight as I could while I watched Sister Winifred weep in the gentler embrace of her older brother.

“Hush, I’m here now—I’m here,” Brother Edmund said. “All will be well.”

After an evening of tears and more embraces, I gratefully slipped into my own bed. But that night I was seized by night terrors without end. The next morning found me weak and thickheaded. But I forced myself to go to the Building Office to at last secure my loom.

Jacquard Rolin, the young reformer from the Low Countries, led me to the storeroom. Sure enough, there was the second long wooden bar along with the roller that fit between and the pedals for three weavers.

“Brussels does fine work,
n’est-ce pas
?” said Jacquard, proud of what had been created in his countrymen’s workshops.

Jacquard told a boy to run and summon four youths for the duty of conveying the loom. A moment after the boy scurried away, an older man paused in the doorway to the storeroom to stare at us.

“Can I be of service, Master Brooke?” Jacquard asked.

I tensed. So this was the husband of Mistress Brooke, who had tormented me that last day in Dartford before I left for London. He was the one entrusted with the hiring of all men to oversee the construction of the king’s new manor house on the rubble of the priory.

“Timothy will be ready when the bell strikes four,” Master Brooke said.

“I will be present—there is nothing that could prevent it,” Jacquard said reassuringly.

After the man left, Jacquard informed me that Timothy, the eldest of the Brooke children, had two months earlier returned from school an enthusiastic preacher of Reform. He climbed onto a tree stump in the pasture next to the family house and proclaimed God’s word to anyone who came to listen.

“A tree stump?” I asked. Few things baffled me more than the Reformers’ contempt for a beautiful cathedral or monastery church—adorned with stained glass and statues and jeweled plate and chalices—in favor of worshipping in a pasture or a plain gathering room.

“He is most inspiring in his views of the Scripture,” Jacquard said. His rather delicate features strengthened as a fierce glow emanated from within—the glow of a true believer. “Every time Timothy speaks, more people appear and join in the discussions of Gospel.”

Four youths appeared, and Jacquard insisted on leading the way to my home. The High Street was fairly crowded that afternoon. I did my best to appear unconcerned as I walked beside Jacquard, but in truth I was unnerved to repeat that unfortunate trip. It was ridiculous to fear the simple townsfolk of Dartford. Yet I could not quiet my riotous nerves.

But the man I walked beside was much more the attraction than I was. Jacquard cast a spell on the females of Dartford. I
noticed young women—and then a woman not at all young—gape at him in the street.

“You are popular, Master Rolin,” I observed.

Jacquard laughed. “In the most modest of ways. Now should we see Constable Geoffrey Scovill walk along the High Street,
that
has a most profound effect on the women of Dartford.”

Hearing Geoffrey’s name on his lips—and in such a frivolous context—made me tense again. I had not seen Geoffrey since my return. I should have sent word to him at once, but I wasn’t sure yet what to say.

When Jacquard began chatting about my tapestry enterprise, I was grateful—at first.

“It is remarkable what you plan to do,” he said. “I have seen your design, and I admit to some surprise at your choice for the first tapestry.”

“But my design was wrapped and sealed,” I said. “How do you know my plan?”

Jacquard made a deep, apologetic bow. “For the ledgers, I must make record of all purchases coming in to Dartford, it is part of my royal commission. I examined it briefly only for that purpose and then resealed it.”

Perhaps he did have that right, but his poking into my affairs disturbed me.

Aloud, I said, “What surprises you about a mythical bird?”

He smiled. “For one, the ambition of the artistry. The phoenix is one of the most brilliant creatures. You will have to employ many, many different colors and shades. Then you’ve chosen to depict the phoenix at the end of its life, when, after one-thousand years, it rests on its nest of twigs, only to ignite and burn—and a new, young phoenix will, we presume, emerge from the ashes. How will you suggest flames?”

“With goldwork threads,” I answered. “As for the ambition of it, I must create something impressive for my first. A tapestry
series that tells a story commands the most money, but I have only a three-weaver loom. It would take more than a year to create a series. So I selected one image, and a beautiful one, that could be appreciated at a single glance. If I find the right purchaser, and it is shown in a prominent place, the phoenix tapestry will bring me more customers.”

Jacquard stopped in the street. “But—but you have thought this through in every detail and conceived of a brilliant plan,” he said.

“It is no matter,” I said, embarrassed. “But is that all? You said, ‘For one.’ Is there something else about my choice of design that surprises you?”

He tilted his head, his liquid eyes studying me. “I wondered if you gave thought to what some people might perceive the phoenix represents, in particular if it is woven by women who once professed in a priory.”

“It’s just a
bird,”
I protested. “The myth of the phoenix comes from Herodotus, who lived in the fifth century before Our Lord Jesus Christ. It has nothing to do with the Catholic faith.”

Jacquard said, “The phoenix lives for one thousand years. And the Catholic monasteries have existed one thousand years. Could this death and possible rebirth not be seen as a symbol? Symbols can be powerful.”

The men carried the loom to my door. I led the way inside, struggling to hide my dismay. Could this have been my intent, in some half-understood way, to declare to the world my ache to be reborn from the ashes of our faith? But I had no wish to create controversy in my weaving—that would serve no good purpose at all.

Sister Winifred played with Arthur in the front room. Thrilled by the men’s arrival, he peppered me with questions about the loom.

In the kitchen, my serving girl, Kitty, served dinner to two
of the men who had followed Brother Oswald. All of the men slept at the infirmary. Brother Oswald was badly injured, and three of the others were likewise too sick or weakened to go about the town, and Brother Edmund cared for them there. Once they’d sufficiently recovered, their plan was to travel to Aylesford, to a recently suppressed Carmelite friary where a man wanted to join them.

Looking at the bedraggled monks as they devoured fish pie, I realized how strange they might look to Jacquard. Their worn habits revealed that they once served in monasteries. I did not want the afternoon’s prayer meeting to turn into a dangerous gossip session about the monks come to town.

But just as I opened my mouth to bid him farewell, Jacquard announced, “I shall direct the assembling of the loom.”

“That is not necessary,” I protested. “You’ve done more than enough.”

Sister Winifred said, “You should take Master Rolin up on his kind offer, Sister Joanna. It would be so difficult for us to do it—won’t this save you time?”

Jacquard said, very earnestly, “I wish to help in any way I can.”

And so Jacquard plunged to work. While overseeing the loom construction, he ruffled Arthur’s hair, made courteous conversation with Sister Winifred and me, even called out teasing remarks to a blushing Kitty. Of the two silent monks in the kitchen, he seemed to take no notice whatsoever, not even when they left my house to return to the infirmary.

Once the loom was completed, Jacquard departed with a last courteous bow.

Sister Winifred came over to lay her head on my shoulder. “It is splendid,” she whispered. “Now we will resume our work at the priory—we will create works of beauty. Oh, Sister Joanna, I will spend every moment I can helping you weave.”

“Will you?” I said. I wrapped my arm around her tiny waist.
I was so grateful for her friendship—and that she had overcome her trepidations about my tapestry business.

The door swung open. At first I thought it was Jacquard returning, but there stood Geoffrey Scovill and Sister Beatrice.

They came in together. Yet there could not be a greater contrast in demeanor. Geoffrey Scovill moved stiffly and said nothing beyond “Good afternoon.” While Sister Beatrice, her green eyes glittering, proceeded to babble.

“I was so beside myself with happiness—so beside myself—to hear of your return, Sister Joanna. It’s been two long months, and we’ve all missed you greatly. Your absence was keenly felt. Geoffrey did not believe me when I found him today, east of town, to tell him you were back. I said, ‘Let’s see for ourselves.’ And here you are. With your loom—at long last!”

She turned to Geoffrey and slipped her hand around his arm. “Doesn’t she look well? Doesn’t she?” Sister Beatrice’s voice was edged with panic as she clutched his arm. Geoffrey did nothing but look at me, a hundred questions in his eyes. I did not feel well and was sure I did not look it either.