The Chalice (33 page)

Suddenly everything began to wobble around me.

“Are you sick?” asked Sister Winifred.

“No, no,” I said, sucking in a deep breath. And then: “I have something to say.” I looked at them in turn, at Sister Winifred, Sister Beatrice, and Geoffrey. “I thank you for looking after Arthur when I was unable to. To have friends such as you is a great honor, and I am grateful to God the Father for you. I am unworthy—”

My voice broke, and my shoulders heaved. To my mortification, I began to cry.

“She is so tired—she has suffered through so much—we must let Sister Joanna rest now,” said Sister Winifred firmly. “I will take care of Arthur for the rest of the day. I think you should both go now.”

“Perhaps that would be best,” I murmured. Without looking
at Geoffrey or anyone else, I turned to find the stairs leading to my bedchamber. I crawled into bed. I was more lost than ever, damaged by the horrors I’d seen and without much hope for a future of any grace or purpose. Exhaustion claimed me. I knew nothing for the rest of the afternoon and slept on through the night, as if I were seeking escape through dreamless slumber.

I woke up feeling somewhat stronger. It was Saturday, and I set out for the market directly after morning Mass. I’d put Kitty to work churning and pickling—baking bread was beyond her skills, and I hadn’t the oven for it in any case. Rather than wait for Kitty’s mother to get to it, I’d decided to purchase loaves and as many other foodstuffs as I could carry. Until Brother Oswald was ready to journey to Aylesford, there were many mouths to feed.

The Dartford Market House jutted out into the street. The market teemed inside with Dartford townsfolk, all talking and laughing and calling out to one another. I filled my basket with bread and then carrots, dried peas, beans, onions, and more. I found much to buy. Doing these ordinary tasks felt pleasant. Perhaps I would, in time, feel a part of this town.

I was picking through a barrel of apples when Geoffrey Scovill eased into a place next to me in front of the fruit stalls.

“Joanna, may I speak to you?” he said.

“Certainly,” I said, my rising spirits now in collapse. I continued to examine the apple I’d picked. It was firm and red on one side but had a soft brown bruise on the other. I balanced it on the edge of the stall, so no one else would buy it.

“You look haler today, I am glad of it,” he said.

“Thank you,” I said.

His eyes studied me. “I’d like to know why the Duke of Norfolk permitted you to return to Dartford and under what conditions,” he said.

I stopped sorting through apples. Geoffrey pulled at a button
on his doublet with his left hand as he waited for me to answer.

“This isn’t the place to discuss it,” I said, moving away from the fruit stall.

“I know of none better,” he said, following. “It’s the loudest spot in town. No one can follow what we say.”

After a moment, I said, “The duke didn’t exactly
permit
it.”

Geoffrey groaned, “I knew it. Oh, Joanna, what have you done?”

“His Grace will not pursue me,” I said. “We spoke at Tower Hill, after which I told him to leave without me, that I would be returning to my life in Dartford. He left.”

“But were there any terms or conditions?” Geoffrey pressed.

I said fiercely, “I stood inches from the scaffold, with the blood of Baron Montagu upon me—it wasn’t the time to haggle over terms and conditions.”

Geoffrey stared into the distance. “Montagu was a brave man, and I was very sorry to hear of his death,” he said.

I regretted speaking so harshly to Geoffrey. “I’m sorry, too,” I said.

We shared a moment of sorrow. Around us the townsfolk jostled and made jokes, oblivious.

Geoffrey then stepped closer to me. Leaning down, he said, “What you are suggesting then is that there is no impediment.”

“Impediment? To what?”

“To us, Joanna,” he said, his face alight with hope. “To coming together—finally.”

I stared at Geoffrey, in disbelief. “What about Sister Beatrice?”

He shook his head, pulling at the button so hard I expected him to tear it off. “It’s not the same. I realize she is very . . . very fond of me, but—”

“She loves you, Geoffrey.”

He reddened but said, “No promises have been made.”

“I never thought to hear you be cruel,” I said, and marched toward the doorway to the Market House.

Geoffrey was swiftly at my side again. “This is far from fair, Joanna. Aren’t you using my friendship with Beatrice as an excuse? I believe Sommerville has worked away at you again. You are the one making the promises—to him. Do you think I don’t know you came back to Dartford with him?”

I pushed my way out onto the street. I nearly crashed into a fishmonger bending over his cart. My sack of beans tumbled out of my basket and spilled into the dirt of the High Street. But I was too upset to care.

Once again Geoffrey loomed over me. I could not get away from him.

“He crept out of Dartford to find you without telling me,” Geoffrey said, seething. “He knew very well where you were—he just waited until I was safely occupied with town business and then ran to be the one to rescue you. Just remember, Joanna, you didn’t write to Sommerville when you were trying to find a way out of London. You wrote to me. You wanted
me
.”

Now Geoffrey shouted. Heads turned to see what was causing such a commotion.

“Stop this,” I said desperately, pulling him to the other side of the High Street, outside the cobbler’s storefront. “This jealousy demeans you—it demeans me. Brother Edmund isn’t like that at all.”

Geoffrey slammed his hand against the wooden wall. I’d never seen him lose control of himself like this.

“The worst of it is, I know what binds you to him. He’s just as crazy as you are. He doesn’t try to talk sense into you. He encourages every wild idea you’ve ever had. His are even worse! Such as going to Blackfriars after it was suppressed by the king.”

“How do you know about Blackfriars?” I demanded. “And
how did you know that the arrests were going to happen at the Red Rose that night? You’ve never told me.”

“A constable hears things,” he retorted. “I may not be a scholar like your noble ‘Brother Edmund,’ but I’m no fool. And at least I’m honest with you. He’s pretended all along that he is above earthly desires—that he doesn’t want you. Can’t you see the deception?”

I was so angry I could hardly breathe.

“You
are
a fool, Geoffrey Scovill,” I said, the words pouring out. “You don’t know a thing about him or me. He doesn’t want me the way you do, the way other men would. At Blackfriars, I was the one. I wanted him. I offered myself to him—and he said it was wrong. He refused me.”

I will never forget the look on Geoffrey’s face. How anger and disbelief collapsed into deep pain.

“I never thought to hear
you
be cruel, Joanna,” he said thickly.

He turned to walk away from me.

“Geoffrey,” I called after him. “Wait. Stop.”

But he didn’t turn around. Instead he walked faster and faster, until he was running away from me up the middle of the High Street.

A
t Mass on Christmas Day, there was not an empty space to be found in Holy Trinity Church. The church had been stripped of its adornments, its beautiful images painted over and rendered much darker, but something significant was added: long wooden pews. As Father William Mote told the story of the birth of Our Savior with as much vigor as he was capable of, I sat in a pew halfway down the middle of the church, next to Arthur and Sister Winifred, with Brother Edmund on her other side. We were no longer relegated to the chantries chapel and the ramblings of Father Anthony. During my time away, Father William allowed the former residents of the priory to join the larger congregation. This should have been a blessing but for one serious drawback.

The chain.

As Father William expounded, he stood next to it—a platform nailed to the altar and, attached to that altar by a long and heavy chain, an English translation of the Great Bible, written by Myles Coverdale. “I am exhorted by Lord Cromwell to gently and charitably exhort you to read this Bible for yourselves—the king would have you examine it using sober and modest behavior,” Father William announced to all of us two Sundays ago. The parishioners looked at one another, baffled. Not one
man in seven in Dartford was able to read at all, and far fewer women. These numbers were unlikely to increase at any near time, since priories and abbeys, long the centers of education, were no more. The rich could afford private tutors for their children. But the minor gentry and merchants no longer had a place to send their sons and daughters to learn letters.

Ironically, the only parishioner who made it his business to study Coverdale’s Bible was Brother Edmund. “I do not fear the Scriptures and shall not be corrupted by misinterpretation,” Brother Edmund reassured Sister Eleanor, who begged him not to put himself at risk. Faulty translation, leading to heretical belief, was what we Catholics feared. After a few days of reading, he commented, “Coverdale acquits himself reasonably well—he was an Augustinian, after all.”

My problem was not the book itself but the chain. Every time I looked at it, I felt as if I were being pulled back to London, to the court and prison and scaffold of King Henry the Eighth. As I listened to Father William’s sermon, I put both hands around my throat and closed my eyes.

When Mass was finished, Brother Edmund pulled me aside. “Sister Joanna, could I have your assistance in the infirmary for a short time?”

“Of course,” I said. Arthur, smiling, went with Sister Winifred.

And so Brother Edmund and I left church together. No one took notice of it—not even Geoffrey Scovill. He sat near the back with Sister Beatrice, giving her his complete attention. They were always together now. Geoffrey had not spoken to me since that day at the market. I had decided to do nothing to heal the breach, though it hurt me. Geoffrey was better off without Joanna Stafford.

Brother Edmund’s small infirmary, tidily kept and stocked with potions, pill, plasters, and herbs, was empty. As Brother Edmund lit a small fire in the back, it occurred to me that it was
unlikely someone from town would require an apothecary on Christmas Day—or that he would need my assistance.

“Sister Joanna, I must speak to you in confidence about something important,” he said, gesturing to stools set next to his oak worktable.

“Of course.” My breath quickened. I wanted to be important to Brother Edmund.

He pulled his stool closer to mine so that we were but inches apart. I had not been this near him since I took his hands in the
calefactorium
of Blackfriars.

Brother Edmund said, “Have you noticed anyone following you?”

I drew back, surprised. “What do you mean?”

He ran his hand though his ash-blond hair. “I believe that someone watches me. I see a shadow in this doorway and turn—the shadow is gone. It could be anyone, not a man following me. But the last time it occurred, when I heard the footsteps, I slipped between two shops and waited. No one appeared for a very long time, and then it was the butcher and his son. The man had been clever enough to know what I was doing and turned back.”

I stared at Brother Edmund, struggling to take this all in.

“Are you absolutely sure no one watches you?” he asked.

“I cannot be sure, of course, but no—I’ve not noticed anything like that,” I said. “Do you have any idea who this person may be?” I asked. Before he could answer, I sat up straight on my stool.

“Oh, no,” I cried. “It’s a spy sent by Gardiner and Norfolk.”

Brother Edmund bit his lip. “That is a possibility. There is another.”

He hesitated, as if mulling over how to put it to me. I heard the madman John shouting gibberish outside—his particular demons provoked him again. I hoped that someone would take John in for Christmas dinner, though it was a daunting prospect.

“Sister Joanna, have you given more thought to who must have sent Gertrude Courtenay to find you?” he asked. “Do you have any idea who was directing her when she forced you to see the second seer?”

Of course. Brother Edmund was haunted by the prophecy. He
wanted
someone to seek me out—to take me to the third seer. This was the only reason he asked to speak to me in private.

“I don’t know who it was beyond that it was not the Lady Mary,” I said, concealing my disappointment. “Perhaps I will never know. Certainly Gertrude cannot be asked.”

Just then, someone banged on the infirmary door.

Brother Edmund opened it to Jacquard Rolin and Master Oliver Gwinn, the widower whom we’d comforted in church the day I left Dartford.

“You see?” Jacquard said. “I told you Brother Edmund was open for business in the infirmary. I noticed him and Sister Joanna walk in this direction after church.”

“I don’t want to trouble you,” said Master Gwinn, his left hand wrapped in a rag. “It’s all my own fault. I was clumsy.”

Jacquard said, “Our Master Gwinn was hard at work at the barn at Holcroft early this morning when he had a mishap.”

Holcroft was the name of the house where the six sisters of Dartford Priory lived. I’d read in Sister Winifred’s letter that Master Gwinn spent a great deal of his time helping them, and heard more about it since.

“Let me see your hand,” said Brother Edmund. After examining Master Gwinn, he said, “The wound is not serious, but it requires cleaning and a salve of herbs to prevent it becoming so. With your permission?”

“Of course, Brother Edmund,” he said. “I am most grateful.”

While my friend busied himself with the remedy, Master Gwinn turned to me. “When you were at the priory, was Sister Agatha your novice mistress?” he asked.

I nodded.

“I can well believe that,” he said, his mouth twitching in a shy smile. “She would excel at teaching and looking after younger women. But, by my trowth, she would excel at anything. She is the kindest, warmest, most thoughtful person. And she makes me laugh—no one call tell a story like Sister Agatha!”