The Chalice (40 page)

I said, “Yes, and that is exactly what Edmund and I intend to do.”

I learned that Henry had exchanged letters with the Howards. My cousin Elizabeth would not attend my wedding, for she’d once more left her husband. Negotiations were begun to arrange a separate income for the Duchess of Norfolk. Catherine Howard still lived in Horsham, the country house of her step-grandmother. There she’d await the arrival of the next queen—if there ever were to be one.

Edmund’s people came in two groups. The first to arrive was from Cambridge, a party of three men. Two of them were former Dominican friars. One had become a preacher, the other a tutor. The third man had never been a friar—quite the opposite. He was a Reformer, a young student named John Cheke.

Edmund said, “He is a very likable person—you will see.”

And I did. For Master Cheke was cheerful and kind and had the liveliest mind—full of curiosity and commentary. He wanted to know everything about my tapestry enterprise and pleaded to see my phoenix, which was nearly completed. Flattered, I agreed.

“Brother Edmund is so fortunate to have a wife this accomplished,” Master Cheke said as he examined the tapestry. Then he reddened. “I’m sorry, I should not call him ‘Brother’ anymore. I of all people should rejoice in the change, but it’s difficult for me to adjust.”

“I quite understand,” I said. “Please do not apologize.”

The second party of Edmund’s to arrive was his elder brother, Marcus. He had a large farm in Hertfordshire and a family, but left them behind. He had darker hair than Edmund or Winifred and in fact looked very little like them.

“I don’t know whom I should speak to about this, but someone needs to converse about dowry,” Marcus announced to Edmund and I over supper at the inn. He stayed at the Saracens Head, and no one suggested otherwise.

Edmund shook his head, and they began to argue.

Marcus pointed at me. “She is from a noble family. How could you agree to this marriage without a dower agreement?”

My body stiffened with resentment.

“None of this has anything to do with you,” Edmund said.

“I’m the head of the family,” Marcus retorted.

“You’re not the head of
my
family,” I said, and got up from the table. Edmund rose with me.

“You are welcome to attend the wedding, but we will not discuss this matter any further,” said Edmund, and we left together.

Out on the street, I said, “I understand everything now.”

Edmund did not answer. I saw what a strain this all was on him—the expectations and demands of family and friends. His religious calling had removed him from such a tumult, but now, due to his love for me, he was besieged. If I were to suggest, at this moment, that we not marry, how would he respond? In my heart I feared he was a man formed for life as a solitary friar. Straining toward this new role was so difficult. I felt a twist of sharp guilt.

Yet, when he said good night, Edmund kissed me on the lips. “I love you, Joanna,” he whispered, and all of my doubts receded. Once we were married, and all of these people left us alone, our life together would truly begin.

As unpleasant as the conversation was with Marcus’s brother, there was one more left, and this one to be initiated by me.

I went to the Building Office to tell Jacquard Rolin, “Please make the necessary arrangements to leave Dartford for a short time, for if you stay here, it would be strange should you not attend. And I would prefer that you not attend my wedding.”

I could not bear the thought of a spy who had mused over the “elimination” of Brother Edmund being among the guests.

Jacquard, who seemed to take no offense, smiled and bowed. “I have a mind to travel to London,” he said.

The night before my wedding, only women attended me. Arthur slept with his Stafford cousins at Master Hancock’s manor house. Ursula had brought a lovely pale gold dress for me—“We all know how much you dislike fashion, but this
is
your wedding”—and, with Kitty’s assistance, she prepared the dress and worked on the garland to place on my black hair. I felt as if this were all being done to another Joanna, and my true self watched from afar.

While she stripped away some little leaves from a flower for the garland, Ursula said, “You should let us take Arthur back to Stafford Castle.”

“What—for a visit?” I asked, taken aback.

“Henry and I can raise him. We could even make him an official ward. Your father should not have pressed him on you, Joanna. I don’t know why he did that. Margaret’s son should be our responsibility. You must devote yourself now to your husband, and to the children you two shall have.”

“I made a promise,” I murmured. “I couldn’t break it.”

Perhaps because Ursula had said Margaret’s name, Margaret was in my dream that night, and we were home. She had a secret. She pressed a finger to her lips, as if to silence me, but she was smiling, too. It was a very strange dream because within it I knew that Margaret was dead and that seeing her was impossible. But I was content to have her alive again, in our secret place in Stafford Castle, a room in the oldest wing that no one else ever went to. We were not children, but we talked about the things we loved as children: the stories of Arthur and Guinevere, and those beautiful saints, the Roman virgins who martyred themselves rather than deny their Christian faith. In my dream, we were sure that nothing bad could ever happen to us.

The day of my wedding to Edmund was not as sunny as Agatha Gwinn’s, but there was no rain yet. I was up early, my stomach hollow with nerves. I had never liked being the center
of attention. Ursula descended again, to dress me and plait my hair, to drink cider and nibble cakes. I couldn’t eat a thing, which made everyone smile.

I, too, left my house as the church bell rang. My cousin Henry Stafford offered me his arm and we trod across the High Street. There were even deeper throngs of people gathered to observe me than at Agatha’s wedding. I suspected that it was not fondness for me but curiosity about the Staffords. It was not pleasant to have such sour suspicions on my wedding day.

But as I drew closer to Holy Trinity Church, I saw Edmund at the door, waiting for me. Every qualm and fear and doubt vanished. He waited for me there, tall and proud, his blond hair trimmed above the collar of the fine gray doublet.

He would be my husband. Everything was as it should be.

Friends surrounded Edmund. Master Gwinn nodded, and John Cheke laughed with delight. The two former friars were there, and the former nuns of Dartford. They had come to the wedding of another former sister, and I was deeply grateful.

Father William Mote ushered us all inside. This was something he’d insisted on. Ordinary folk were married at the door. A knight’s daughter must be married within the church, with all guests standing between her and the door.

My cousin Henry led me to Edmund and I took his hand. He smiled at me, and the smile carried all the thoughts and feelings and experiences we’d had since the day I met him, the day he rode with me from the Tower of London to Dartford Priory.

We turned to Father William, for the ceremony to begin.

The preacher opened his mouth—and then stopped, peering past us toward the door.

There was the sound of disturbance behind us, out on the High Street. “Make way!” I heard a man cry. “Make way!”

Someone was trying to force his or her way into the crowded church.

“Make way for the Earl of Surrey!” cried another voice.

The earl emerged from the crush of guests standing at the back of the church. My cousin’s face shone with sweat from the hard ride down from London.

“Joanna,” he cried. “You can’t proceed. It’s Parliament—as of today, this marriage is illegal.”

T
hat is madness,” I cried. “Norfolk submitted an act to Parliament in order to halt
my
marriage?”

The Earl of Surrey shook his head. “It’s not only you, Joanna. It’s anyone who once served in a priory or abbey. The statute is called ‘Six Articles: an Act Abolishing Diversity in Opinions.’ ” He pulled a paper from his doublet. “The fourth article says that no one who has taken vows of chastity can ever marry. To do so would break the law. I only read it today at dawn, Joanna. I swear I didn’t know. My father submitted it to both houses at the opening of Parliament today, but I came straight here. Friars and monks and nuns—you can’t marry. Not ever.”

“No!” cried a woman’s voice. It was Agatha Gwinn.

My throat dry, I said, “Is there anything in the act about restoring the monasteries? Does the king have any intent of doing that?”

“No.”

“So I cannot be a nun, but I cannot marry either?” I asked, stunned.

Edmund stepped forward. “Let me see it,” he said.

Surrey extended the paper, and John Cheke snatched it and took it to Edmund. They read it standing together.

“Your father writes and submits an act of religious policy?” I demanded of Surrey. “I find that hard to believe.”

John Cheke read aloud: “Fourthly, that vows of chastity or widowhood, by man or woman made to God advisedly, ought to be observed by the law of God; and that it exempts them from other liberties of Christian people, which without that they might enjoy.”

“Gardiner,” I gasped. I could hear the bishop’s voice in those words.

Surrey would not look me in the eye. On this, at least, I was right. Gardiner wrote the Act of Six Articles, then gave them to the preeminent peer of the land, the Duke of Norfolk, to push through Parliament.

John Cheke looked horrified, and not just about my wedding being thrown into disarray. Scanning the paper, he declared, “This act protects the Mass, the confession, the sacrament of Communion—the core tenets of the Catholic faith. To violate these tenets will be punishable by law. Reform is finished in England. If this act passes, it will take us all backwards.”

The church erupted in confusion. Nobleman and shopkeeper, shipbuilder and nun—all talked at once about the sharp shift the kingdom might now take. Agatha Gwinn wept loudly in her husband’s arms. They were clearly terrified that their marriage would be annulled. Father William Mote looked at the altar and the walls of the church, bewildered over what might now be restored. Ursula glowed with pride, shared by her Stafford husband. Outside the church, on the steps, stood Timothy Brooke, flanked by his parents, ranting of his displeasure before a growing knot of Reformer followers.

For a few moments, Edmund and I were simply forgotten.

“What shall we do?” I asked him, the bridal garland pressing down on my forehead.

“I don’t know,” he said. Edmund was rarely indecisive. But at this moment he was as frozen as I.

Poor Arthur was beside himself. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” he wailed, as Sister Winifred struggled to calm him. But how could she give an explanation when none of us had any idea what to do next.

John Cheke was the one to say it first.

“You must
still
marry,” he said to Edmund and me. “This bill may not pass.”

Surrey heard him and shouted, “It will pass, sir, have no doubt. This will be law of the land by June. And the punishment will be hanging for those who defy any one of the articles.”

Cheke shook his head. “Marry today, Edmund. I beg you.”

On every side they descended. My Stafford relations, always wanting to outwardly bow to authority, pleaded for us to delay until Parliament had made its decision. Edmund’s brother, Marcus, also said we should wait. But others advised us to proceed and, once the act had officially passed, petition for a legal exception.

The Earl of Surrey said, “For a nun or friar who marries someone who has never taken vows, there might be some hope of an exception. Joanna, the fact that you were a novice and never a full nun, that may exempt you.” He turned to Edmund. “But you, a sworn friar for a number of years—I don’t think there could be anything done for you. You’ll never be able to marry her, or anyone else.”

“You’re not a lawyer,” John Cheke retorted. “Is there anyone here representing the law? Any justice of the peace or constable?”

“No,” Edmund said sharply. Cheke had turned to address the crowd, and so he didn’t hear him. Edmund did not want Geoffrey Scovill to come into this. I began to feel rather sick—please let Geoffrey not be found. I had not seen him in the church. Perhaps he had stayed away today. Considering the feelings he confessed to last month, he
should
stay away.

“Constable Scovill! Constable Scovill!”

The call went out as I silently prayed that he be absent.

But the crowd parted and Geoffrey moved toward us. He had been here the entire time, but away from my sight. There was no sign of Sister Beatrice. Geoffrey’s steps were slow, his stance reluctant.

“I cannot enforce an act not yet made law,” Geoffrey said.

Father William Mote said, “But you must make a judgment here—there are a dozen different opinions. No one knows for sure. Can Edmund Sommerville marry Joanna Stafford today?”

Geoffrey did not look at me. He took a step toward Edmund, then another.

His tone hardening, Geoffrey said, “No, he can’t.”

“And I will never be governed by
you,”
Edmund said. To my horror, he slammed his hand into Geoffrey’s chest, pushing him back a few inches. Immediately Geoffrey shoved him back. The jealousy and distrust that always burned in both men exploded in Holy Trinity Church.

“Stop—please!” I cried.

As their fight raged, I was swiftly lifted up and borne out of the church. It was the Earl of Surrey on one side and my cousin Lord Henry Stafford on the other. I tried to turn around, to see what happened to Edmund. There was a thick group of men around him—they had torn him and Geoffrey away from each other.

The townsfolk gaped at me in the High Street, as I was conveyed to my house by Staffords and Howards. There had never been anything like this—no wedding had ever been so disrupted.

Once inside my house, I tore the bridal garland off my head, ripped it into two pieces, and threw them onto the floor.

“Oh, Joanna, don’t do that,” cried Ursula, and knelt on the floor to try to put the garland back together.