The Chalice (41 page)

“Gardiner has made me regret it, he has made me regret it.” I half wept, half laughed.

“Joanna, pray calm yourself,” she said. She placed both her hands on my shoulders. “Have you even met the Bishop of Winchester? Be reasonable. Why would he take any action against you in particular?”

There was no response possible to her question.

“Edmund,” I said. “I must talk to Edmund.”

“No,” said Henry. “Not until the situation is calmer, and we have some clarity on what to do. And your Master Sommerville must cool his temper. He did not act like a gentleman in church.”

“Do not criticize him,” I said. “You don’t understand—you couldn’t.” I made for the stairs. “Leave me be, all of you,” I said to my relations.

They let me go. I locked the door behind me and lay on my bed. I wept, but with my fist in my mouth to muffle it. Above all, I wanted no one to pet me or advise me. None of them could help me, except for Edmund. We must work our way through this together. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps Gardiner did not target me when he included the section forbidding nuns and friars and monks to marry. This was simply part of the larger conservative direction that he meant to take. As John Cheke said, it might not pass Parliament. Or if it did, Edmund and I could obtain some sort of exception.

There were comings and goings downstairs. I stopped crying so I could listen. Edmund would come for me soon—I knew that for certain. I waited for the sound of his voice.

The Earl of Surrey was the first to leave my house. No doubt he would suffer for being gone this long from his father’s side. I knew he came to Dartford in fear that I would break the law. But I wished with all my being that he had not done it. At this moment we could have been married, dancing and feasting with friends.

And then would come our first night together, something I feared and desired in equal measure. But I could not let myself
think about that, not give way to those vague longings about what it would be like to lie in a bed with my husband.

The afternoon light dimmed; Henry and Ursula remained downstairs. Arthur must be with his cousins at Master Hancock’s. I could hear the Staffords’ low murmur of conversation. How they must regret coming to Dartford now that all had turned to catastrophe. But they could not leave me alone, for family obligation forced them to act as protectors.

I coughed delicately at the top of the stairs and they looked up, startled.

“I am not so distressed as before,” I said. “There’s no need to remain.” I hesitated for a few seconds and then asked, “Has Edmund been here?”

“No, he hasn’t,” said Ursula.

Something was wrong. With every bit of control I possessed, I said calmly, “I am sure that I will speak to him tomorrow then. As for tonight, I am weary. I will have something to eat, and then try to sleep.”

“Not here,” said Henry. “You will stay with us at Master Hancock’s. The town is too . . . volatile. The news of this impending act has them astir. A woman can’t sleep in a house unprotected.”

I looked back at the kitchen. Kitty was not there.

“I have a servant girl who can be sent for,” I said. “If I have this company, will you return to Master Hancock’s? You have your own family to care for—and you must make arrangements to return to Stafford Castle.”

“We can’t leave until the issue of your marriage is settled,” Henry said.

“Edmund and I will settle that,” I said firmly.

Ursula grimaced.

“What is it?” I asked.

She said, “Henry sent for him two hours ago to begin discussions and Edmund Sommerville was not to be found. His sister did not know his whereabouts, or his brother. We sent an
inquiry to that Cambridge student, Master Cheke. No one has seen or heard from Edmund Sommerville since that unfortunate fight with the constable at church.”

My beloved was in trouble—I had to help him, only I could help him.

Aloud I said, “Edmund sometimes seeks solitude in prayer. I am sure I will see him tomorrow.”

They finally agreed to leave. A half hour later a wide-eyed Kitty appeared—confirming my suspicion that my doomed wedding was the talk of Dartford—and agreed to sleep at my house that night.

“All shall be well, Joanna—you’ll see,” said Ursula as she kissed me on the cheek.

“Shall you have soup, Mistress Stafford?” asked Kitty when we were alone.

“Certainly,” I said.

I took up a position at the corner of my window. Outside, it was twilight, but people milled about on the High Street, more than was usual at the end of the day. I’d have to wait until it was completely dark outside.

Kitty busied herself in the kitchen. I heard her chopping vegetables and the fire hissing under the soup pot. I regretted having to deceive her. But I hadn’t a choice. I slipped out the door.

I was halfway to the infirmary when I nearly collided with Humphrey in the street. “Mistress Joanna, I was coming to your house,” he said.

“Did Edmund send you?” asked.

He shook his head.

“Do you know where he is?”

“Master Sommerville is in the infirmary,” said Humphrey. “But he’s—he’s—something is wrong. I think he’s sick. I don’t know what to do.”

I ran the rest of the way, Humphrey following close behind. Approaching the infirmary, I saw a candle flicker in the window.

I burst in the door, calling, “Edmund? Edmund?”

There was no reply.

“He’s in the back, mistress,” said Humphrey. “He can’t stand up very well.”

I found Edmund lying on a pallet. He still wore his wedding clothes, his light gray doublet and breeches. At first I thought he was unconscious, because he was so very still. There was no candlelight in the back.

I knelt by the pallet. “Edmund,” I whispered. “I’m here.”

His head turned, slowly. “Joanna?” he said, his voice unsteady. “You’ve come to me?”

My heart pounded in my chest.

“Humphrey, bring the candle here,” I said.

When he had done so, I held the candle high, so that its light bathed his face. Edmund looked half awake, his expression very peaceful. His eyes were like flat, dark pools. I had not seen his eyes like this for more than a year. And even then, when he was in the throes of his dependence on the red flower from India, the look was never this pronounced.

“I found him lying on the floor next to his worktable,” said Humphrey. “Forgive me for asking this, Mistress Stafford, but he’s not drunk, though, is he?”

“No,” I said. “He’s not drunk.”

My hand holding the candle began to shake, violently, and I placed it on the floor.

“Joanna?” Edmund said, and he blinked twice. “You’re truly here?”

“Yes, I’m here,” I said. I turned to Humphrey. “Go to the Bell Inn and ask for John Cheke. Please fetch him. But do not tell anyone else what condition Edmund is in, that’s very important. Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

Humphrey rushed out of the infirmary.

I crouched next to Edmund’s pallet, on the cool floor.

Edmund turned his head and studied me with those terrible drowsy eyes.

“Are you crying, my love?” he asked. “Why?”

I said thickly, “I have no reason.”

After a moment, he said, “You’re still wearing your wedding dress.”

I looked down at the folds of my skirt. “Yes.”

The stories, the songs and poems, that spoke of heartbreak, they had always left me imagining a mournful, sad feeling. But it wasn’t like that at all. My pain was ferocious.

“You look tired, you should lie next to me,” he said. “Everything will be all right, Joanna.”

“Yes, Edmund.”

I curled up next to him on the narrow pallet. I turned sideways so that my head rested on his chest and my arm lay across his. He stroked that arm, lightly, as the candle’s flame burned hot, very close to my back. The tears seeped from my eyes but I did not move, did not quiver with sobs. I didn’t want to upset Edmund, although I knew it didn’t matter how I moved or what I did. He most likely would not have known.

“You’ll see, Joanna—you’ll see,” Edmund said softly. “Everything will be all right.”

W
hen John Cheke came to the infirmary, he saw at once what had happened. The terrible concoction Edmund used was known to him. “There aren’t any remedies for this—just rest and time,” said Cheke. “But let me stay here with him tonight, Mistress Stafford. This has been a terrible thing for you. And I know Edmund well enough to say that he’d be deeply upset to trouble you with his affliction.”

I went home. But it was a mistake. When Edmund emerged from his stupor, he knew that not only had he succumbed to the darkest of temptations—something he had sworn he’d never again do—but I had witnessed his weakness. Perhaps if I had stayed with him through the night, he would not have left me in the morning. I’d have found a way to reassure him of my love. I might have been able to prevent the torrent of self-loathing from consuming him and driving him out of Dartford.

An ashen John Cheke delivered the letter. It was achingly brief.

Joanna,

I shall always love you, but your life will be happier if I am not at your side. You shall not see me again. I ask your
forgiveness for failing you, knowing that I do not deserve it.

Edmund

I sat alone for a long time, feeling nothing. And then, finally, as I grasped what had happened to us, what the king had done to us, the pain came, lashed with rage. It was like no other anger I’d ever felt. Not hot and uncontrolled, but cold and terrible and filled with certainty.

I knew now what I would do. It was a simple decision. There was no more doubt. I had made a selfish and terrible mistake in seeking to marry Edmund and live a quiet existence. I’d not only ruined my own life but his, too. For far too long I’d recoiled from the prophecy. Perhaps the seers were genuine, perhaps not. But it didn’t matter to me, strangely. I was faced with an opportunity to halt the devouring destruction of Henry VIII. If I could do only that, so be it.

I sent for cousin Henry and asked if he would keep Arthur for a while. He agreed immediately, and urged me to come to Stafford Castle as well. I promised him I would follow in a few weeks, after I had settled some affairs.

Telling lies had become effortless.

I went to comfort Sister Winifred, who I knew must also be devastated by Edmund’s action, but she was being dragged from her home by her eldest brother. He insisted that she must come to live with him and his family in Hertfordshire now that Edmund had damaged the family name with his bizarre behavior. She and I wept in each other’s arms as Marcus waited impatiently. He was her eldest brother and now exercised his right to order her life. I would have fought for her to stay in Dartford if I hadn’t already made up my mind what I must do. Now that I had resolved myself, Sister Winifred should have no further association with me, for her own sake.

And so I left few people behind. There were the nuns of Holcroft. They’d approached me with words of comfort after
the wedding that never was. I thanked them and pretended to consider their offer of living with them, just as I had pretended with Henry Stafford.

Finally, there was Geoffrey. He came to my house twice to speak to me, but I refused to see him. Who knew how much of a role he’d played in Edmund’s breakdown? That was yet another uncertainty I’d carry with me forever. But I did not hate Geoffrey Scovill. That emotion was reserved for others.

T
he boat moved swiftly up the Thames the third time I left Dartford for London. The first time had been in secret—just two years ago, but I was infinitely younger then and ignorant of the world. The second time was last year, when I departed in the bosom of a family, noble and rich and a touch arrogant, too. The family had been crushed. And so now I went a third time, alone again and in secret, too, but with no hope of mercy or kindness, much less redemption for what awaited me. All I brought was a little money, a single change of clothes, and Edmund’s letter.

The Thames narrowed now that London was close. “I can’t take ye farther, mistress,” said my boatman, an old man with a face like an apple left in the sun and a rough courtesy to match. “They’re making us discharge fares east o’ London Bridge. It’s to do with the assembly at Whitehall.”

“Assembly?”

“The London muster, mistress. Every man o’ the city must do a march-past today. The king will review his troops. They all reported to the fields between Whitechapel and Mile End at six o’clock this morning. They say there are twenty thousand men in the muster. Can ye believe it?”

“Indeed,” I said.

Heartened by what he perceived as my interest, the boatman crowed, “The Emperor Charles will be cut to ribbons if
he tries to send his cankered Papists onto English shores!” Another boatman heard him and cheered the sentiment. Peering down at me, he said, “We’ve never had such a muster in London. The king and Cromwell and all the high nobles, too, will be at Whitehall to survey the muster. The common folk can go watch if they wish. So ye’re bound for Whitehall? Ye fancy seeing the king of England, do you?”

Gripping Edmund’s letter, I said, “I would very much like to see the king of England.”

The boatman rowed me to the wharf nearest London Bridge and I counted a shilling into his palm, which was permanently curled from so many years on the pole.

Nothing could be easier than reaching the king’s palace of Whitehall. People were going there in a thick stream—women and children and a few men too old to be mustered. On the main street heading west, a short stretch north of the Thames, women crowded their upper-story windows, holding baskets of flowers. This must be where the route would take the men after Whitehall.

The shops and houses and churches cleared and I reached an enormous field. A rippling sea of men marched across it, toward a distant sprawl of tall stone buildings. I’d reached the end of the muster, the army of Londoners at the king’s command. I could not count this moving mass, but it did seem very possible that I gazed upon twenty thousand.

One of the most striking things about the muster was its color. The men, incredibly, wore white from head to knee. Thousands of white caps shimmered in the sun. The order must have gone out to all of these thousands that on this day they should don white caps and shirts and doublets and hose and breeches. They’d bought the clothes, washed them, and mended. The Lord God knew that a fair number of these men had little money. Yet for their king they’d done it. Was it abject devotion to their king? Or terror of him? Or hatred of the invaders?