The Chalice (44 page)

“The abbot was taken from the Tower. The old man was dragged on a hurdle by horses to the highest hill in Glastonbury. There he was hanged and afterward beheaded and cut into pieces. His head was fastened to the gateway to Glastonbury
Abbey and his limbs were fastened to other places in the four corners of His Majesty’s kingdom.”

It was as if Henry VIII plumbed the depths of human nightmare and then made them real.

But Jacquard was not finished.

“I hear other things,” he said. “Things that have happened in the Tower of London, to those who are not strangers to you.”

I shrank from him. “Is it Gertrude—or Edward?”

He shook his head, following me. “They are imprisoned still. Unharmed. For now. No, I must tell you of the family of Baron Montagu.”

I could not speak. I closed my eyes.

“The mother, Margaret, Countess of Salisbury, has been carted to the Tower of London and locked in a bare prison cell—though she is seventy years old. But the king shows no mercy for the mother of Cardinal Reginald Pole, the man who defies him in Rome. She will most certainly be executed, as was her eldest son.”

It was then I wept. This would kill Ursula; it would break the heart of anyone who cared for the family of Pole.

“And yet it gets worse than that,” he said.

I could barely see him; my cheeks were sodden with tears. “How?” I croaked.

“The son of Baron Montagu has disappeared. Such a difficult boy he’d been to the yeoman warders of the Tower. One of them was overheard saying someone should strangle this accursed boy in his bed. The last report we’ve had is that the cell is empty. No announcement of illness or death has been made. But the Pole boy is gone forever.”

I stretched out my hand, toward Jacquard. “No more,” I begged. “No more.”

Jacquard took that hand in his. He did not pull me up but knelt on the floor, facing me. He took my other hand in his. His strength was unearthly.

“Joanna Stafford, will you then be ruled by me? I am not here to sully your virtue unbidden; there are a hundred girls for that.” He gripped my hands even tighter. Pain shot up through them to the tops of my shoulders. “But only you can do what you were meant to do. You must obey me, here and in the Low Countries and for the rest of the time that we are bound together.”

“Yes,” I said. “I know.”

He released my hands and I collapsed onto the floor, struggling to breathe.

“Then begin to pack,” he said. “We have a ship at last. Señor Hantaras came to tell me. We leave for Antwerp in three days’ time.”

O
n a hot and cloudless morning, a hired barge took me and Jacquard Rolin to Gravesend, east of London, on the south bank of the Thames. This Kent town was where the large ships docked that brought munitions to the king, to be used in his coming war. I had no knowledge of such ships, and certainly none of munitions. I’d never stepped into anything larger than this barge. When we turned the bend, and I saw the half dozen soaring ships anchored at Gravesend, I gasped. It was like a forest sprouting in the water, with masts soaring straight to the sun.

Jacquard smiled at my awe. “Wait until you see Antwerp,” he said.

Ever since he had extracted a promise of obedience from me, his manner had changed. The elaborate courtesy had receded; his mocking smile was gone. He also had made a point of sleeping in the bedchamber next to mine—alone. Although I did not ask, I assumed that he ceased his attentions to Nelly as some sort of gesture to me. I still felt that I had failed her in not protecting her from Jacquard’s predations. When I bade her farewell, I gave Nelly a little money. She was quite grateful, which somehow made me feel even worse.

“Which ship is ours?” I asked.

“The biggest, of course.” He pointed at a massive wooden ship with two masts. It must have stretched two hundred feet from bow to stern. “It’s a galleon,” Jacquard explained. “Do you see the string of holes in the side for cannon?” Some two dozen men milled about on the deck, preparing it for today’s departure. A square hole gaped in the back of the deck, and men lowered large boxes into it. How would such a stately structure overflowing with men and cargo move swiftly across the water? It seemed impossible.

“I look forward to meeting this particular captain, for he’s no coward, I’ll give him that,” Jacquard said.

“Why do you think him so brave?” I asked.

“He sailed from Hamburg to London, in waters full of pirates and spies and outright enemies of King Henry, with a cargo storage full of
gunpowder,”
said Jacquard. “The only country that would sell King Henry a sizable store of gunpowder was Germany. Imagine what a single lit cannonball could have done—or an arrow dipped in flame?”

Jacquard twirled his hands in a large circle.
“Boom!”
He laughed.

I could not find any comedy in this scenario.

“Is the gunpowder all removed?” I asked.

“Every ounce,” he said. “The king has distributed it to his many new fortresses. Germany does well by him. He gets gunpowder
and
he gets a fourth wife.”

“The next queen is to be the Princess of Cleves?”

Jacquard looked back and forth to be sure the boatmen could not hear him and then nodded. “It would seem so. There are two daughters to choose from: Anne and Emilia. The king sent Hans Holbein there to paint both of their portraits.”

As the boatmen rowed us closer to the docks of Gravesend, I tensed. I could not block from my mind the prophecy of Orobas:
“The king has a second son. The prince rules England, with Cromwell standing behind.”

When our barge reached the wharf, Jacquard hired two boys to carry our trunk to the area set aside for baggage. We had at least an hour to wait, but he steered clear of the clump of buildings near the main wharf. There was no question of going to the town of Gravesend. No, Jacquard led me to the outskirt of those trees, a short distance from the road, and deposited me on a fallen log.

“I must present our papers to the ship captain, and I shall get a better measure of him if alone,” Jacquard explained. “And the less anyone sees and speaks to you, the better.”

I did not argue with him. I wanted to be alone for a while, to brace myself for this sea journey. Although the trip would be a short one—Jacquard predicted a two-day sail to Antwerp—I had never left England. Never expected to in my life.

My apprehension only increased when Jacquard stalked back to me. I could see in his face that something about the captain troubled him.

“He is a strong man, yes, and deeply corrupt,” Jacquard said. “The type I can make use of, to be sure, but there are risks as well. He was paid a handsome sum for us to board this ship—and a small fortune to sail as soon as possible. But should someone with even more gold approach him, he would not hesitate to turn from me. This captain is a man for sale.”

A few seconds later, in a sharp tone of voice, he said, “What is this?”

A young red-haired man headed right for us, across the marshy meadow and to the trees. Sweeping off his hat, he asked, in French, for directions to the inn called the Black Swan.

That seemed to be some sort of signal. Jacquard shot to his feet. The two of them moved away and spoke together intently for about ten minutes while I watched.

The red-haired man bowed to Jacquard and went back the way he came. When Jacquard again returned to my side, I saw sweat glisten on his forehead for the first time.

“We need to get you on the ship as quickly as possible,” he said.

“What’s wrong?”

He said tightly, “What I most feared has occurred. A spy appeared in Hertfordshire last week, at the farm of Marcus Sommerville. Word of this traveled back to London today and this man rode to warn me.”

“Bishop Gardiner?” I asked, frantic.

He nodded.

“But the man will report that I am not there. The bishop will know that a deception took place.”

“The man will not report back.”

I waited for him to explain, but instead Jacquard offered me his arm; it felt as rigid as iron as he led me to the main wharf.

When we reached the water’s edge, I turned to him.

“Bishop Gardiner’s man was killed?” I whispered.

Without looking at me, Jacquard said, “Compose yourself immediately. Of course the man was killed. It had to be done. But this will create new difficulties. His disappearance will be investigated; another man or men will go to Hertfordshire within the month. And I also fear that Gardiner has had us followed here.”

The sun on the water gleamed so brightly, I was blinded and shielded my eyes with my right hand. It began to tremble. Jacquard grabbed it and made a show of kissing it. Then he squeezed my shoulder to lean in close and whisper in my ear, “This was always a
mission après mort
—and you know it.”

Numbly I shuffled down the wharf. Although it was not Jacquard who had killed the Gardiner spy in faraway Hertfordshire, he had approved it without question. His indifference to the loss of a human life chilled me.

There was a string of small boats rowing out to the galleon. Jacquard lowered me into a rowboat and clambered into it, planting himself next to me.

Just as our man dipped his oars into the water, a third passenger leaped into the boat.

“Sorry—sorry—hope I’m not intruding,” said the young man, laughing. He was in his mid-twenties with blond hair—almost as fair as Edmund’s. “I’m Charles Adams. I came at dawn to see His Majesty’s new fortress.
So
interesting. Don’t you think?”

As we were rowed to the galleon, Jacquard chatted with the young man about the newest defenses against Imperial invasion.

“You are interested in war, Master Adams?” asked Jacquard, smiling. Because I knew him so well, I detected that the smile was forced. Jacquard suspected Master Adams.

“I’m enrolled on the London muster, if that’s what you’re asking,” the young man said. “But the games of war are not for me, alas. I must attend to the family business, that’s why I’m headed to Antwerp.”

Just as casually, Jacquard asked him his business.

“We’re cloth merchants,” Charles Adams said. “Adams and Sons have suffered greatly during the embargo. But I take it as an excellent sign that Cromwell granted my request for license to travel. I must meet with our partners in the Low Countries, and try to repair matters. The trade routes must be reopened.”

“That will be no easy matter,” Jacquard said.

“No—and I’m far from the businessman my father was. But he died last year, and I must do all I can. My mother depends on me.”

I said, “I’m sure you will do your best.”

Jacquard’s hand tightened on mine. He had told me a dozen times not to speak to anyone unless absolutely necessary. But wouldn’t it draw more attention to sit rudely silent?

He said to both of us with a proud smile, “Our cloth business goes back four generations, and the Hapsburgs have attempted to dry up the English merchant trade ten times at
least—and they never succeed! No matter what embargoes they inflict, for reasons of money or reasons of war, we live on. We’re unsquashable.”

Jacquard laughed as if that were the most amusing thing he’d heard in weeks.

One by one, we were helped onto the deck of our galleon. Jacquard had paid handsomely to make use of the officers’ quarters in the stern. We would sleep there while on board—at least one night and perhaps two, depending on wind. We went there directly. Our trunk awaited us in the narrow cabin.

Jacquard said, “I have slept in far worse.” And then, with a courteous bow: “You will have the bed, I can make do with blankets on the floor.”

The import of our journey seemed to have dampened his lasciviousness. For that I was grateful.

“Must I stay down here during the entire sail?” I asked.

He thought a moment. “You should be on deck when the captain unfurls the sail. It would look strange if I were without you then. But after that, yes, do stay here.”

“I will try not to speak to Master Adams, though I believe him harmless,” I said.

“I doubt he is a spy from Gardiner, but no one is harmless,” Jacquard said.

The ship stirred a little—perhaps the anchor was being pulled up. Suddenly I felt grief over leaving England.

“Jacquard, what will happen if I carry out the prophecy and the emperor and king of France are victorious?” I asked.

“What do you mean, what will happen?”

“To England,” I said. “Should Henry no longer be king—if Mary replaces him on the throne—will everyone then withdraw?”

He smiled. “Do you think this is why we do this, solely for the support of religion and to restore the Lady Mary’s rights to the succession? I expect the kingdom will be carved up. King
James of Scotland, the ally of France, will extend his border south. I’ve heard France plans to claim the West Country. As for the emperor, he will of course control his cousin the new queen. Not only that, he will finally be unchallenged in the channel and in the cloth trade and other mercantile interests. This is all well worth the fight, wouldn’t you say?”

Despite all that King Henry had done to me, it horrified me to hear my country treated in this manner.

“What do you think—wouldn’t I make a splendid fourth Duke of Buckingham?” Jacquard asked, oblivious, and then laughed. The thought of Jacquard, spy and murderer, assuming the Staffords’ hereditary title was nothing short of obscene.

But I had no choice now. I must press forward. I went with Jacquard back up to the deck.

A short time later we gathered, perhaps a dozen passengers, to see the great sails unfurled. Despite all of my fears, it was a memorable sight. Every man knew his part in hoisting the sales. The chain of commands was shouted across the length of the ship; the men planted on the deck pulled so hard on the ropes that I thought their arms would burst. Others scrambled up and down the masts with incredible ease.

The full triangular sails filled with air with a giant thunderclap. We began to glide east and toward the sea.

An officer approached Jacquard. “The captain requests the honor of your presence on the bridge, Master Rolin,” he said.