The Chalice (6 page)

I said, “Yes, I’ve come to take possession of my loom.”

He gestured to an underclerk. “Tell Jacquard to arrange for transport.”

I stiffened. No one was a less welcome sight to me than Jacquard Rolin, a man of the Low Countries hired to coordinate the ordering of materials. King Henry’s taste ran toward French and Flemish décor, and Jacquard knew where to procure the latest designs in tile, furniture, windowpane, and, of course, tapestry. Jacquard had taken a persistent interest in my tapestry enterprise. Ordinarily I would have enjoyed such discussion. But we could never be friends, for Jacquard was a full Protestant, a follower of Luther, I’d been told.

Arthur stirred next to me. I tightened my grip on his hand and prayed he’d not disrupt business here.

The door swung open and I turned to see Mistress Brooke push her way inside.

“What business have you here?” I asked.

“What business have I?” she repeated, incredulous. “My husband has been entrusted by the king to oversee the hiring of men to raise his manor house of Dartford.”

Gregory nodded his assent.

Her voice growing louder, she said, “But I should ask why you are here, distracting the men from their business.”

“Joanna Stafford is here for her tapestry loom.” The voice was soft and cultured, with an accent. Jacquard Rolin came to stand next to Gregory. He was young and rather slight of build, and he always unsettled me. His red lips formed an insinuating smile. His eyes were large and liquid, brown with flecks of gold. I had seen his gaze dazzle others. For me, though, there was something . . . uneasy in those eyes.

“Tap-stree, tap-stree!” Arthur bellowed.

Mistress Brooke demanded, “How is it that she, a girl of the priory, could have the means to buy a loom?”

“It is none of your affair,” I insisted.

Gregory winced. And Jacquard bit his lip, his face tensing. I wondered, fleetingly, why should Jacquard care if I quarrel?

“Tap-stree! Tap-stree!” Arthur jumped up and down.

“Silence this awful dim child,” Mistress Brooke said.

That tipped me into rage. “He is neither dim nor awful, and his name is Arthur Bulmer. He is the son of Margaret Stafford, the daughter of the third Duke of Buckingham, and he is due all respect.”

Jacquard shot over, to stand between us. He flourished a palm in some sort of Low Country gesture.

With a smile, he said, “Mistress Brooke, you have a letter in your hand. Is it for your husband? Presently he is at the building site. Will you permit me to facilitate?”

She nodded, her eyes still on me. “A messenger from London brought it to the house, for some reason. Sir Francis Haverham will be here tomorrow, to check progress.”

“Tomorrow?” repeated Gregory. “The king’s master builder is coming here tomorrow?”

Gregory called out an alert to the men in the back of the Building Office.

“I shall claim my loom and then you can be about your business,” I said to Gregory.

Jacquard cleared his throat.

“Joanna Stafford, there is something you should know,” he said. “Brussels made a mistake.”

“What mistake?” I asked.

“Only half the loom was sent, although of course our record books showed your payment was in the full amount. We will make inquiry and ensure that the other half will arrive by the first Wednesday in November.”

“I am to wait another month?” my voice rose even higher.

Mistress Brooke snorted. “So what will be your course of action?”

“I will take the first half of it today,” I said.

A trio of men appeared to receive orders from Gregory. He told them to prepare my loom for transport down the High Street.

But Mistress Brooke intervened.

“The men must make ready for Sir Francis,” she said. “It is foolish to waste effort on this girl’s errand.”

Gregory peered at Mistress Brooke, the wife of his superior. “I’m sorry, Mistress Joanna, but I can spare no men today.”

“Then give me the loom and we will take it from here without the help of men,” I said, Sister Beatrice at my side.

After a few seconds, laughter sounded from all corners. Arthur, not understanding, joined in.

“Take us there—now,” I said to Gregory. “You cannot deny me something that is rightfully mine.”

Gregory threw up his hands. “Very well.”

It was Jacquard who led me to my loom. It was covered with a blanket in the corner of a warehouse heaped high with the king’s possessions: bricks, stones, nails, rope, and tiles. He watched as Sister Beatrice and I lifted the wooden frame. Jacquard was a puzzle to me. I knew he’d come to England in a party of Germans invited to court by Archbishop Thomas Cranmer and had somehow ingratiated himself with the king and won this position. Why would a Reformer want to help furnish a king’s manor house?

I focused on the loom. It was long and imposing, half of a square wooden frame. But surely we could carry it a short distance.

“I wish you luck today, Joanna Stafford,” said Jacquard.

“Why would you do that?” I retorted. “Is luck not ‘Papist superstition’?” I picked up the loom with Sister Beatrice and we staggered forward.

On the street, we’d made it less than a dozen steps when
my shoulders and arms began to burn and then tremble. Arthur skipped next to me. On the other side of him, I could see townspeople stopping to gawk.

The tremor in my arms turned to wild shaking. Sister Beatrice said, “We can’t do this, Sister Joanna.”

“We
will
do it.”

From behind us came Mistress Brooke’s voice: “Look at them. Disgraceful.”

Then came another voice I did not want to hear. “The time for repentance is near,” howled John.

We had to keep going. I willed myself to keep going.

Sister Beatrice said to me, “Rest, at least. Let’s put it down for a moment and then continue.”

“No, Sister Beatrice. If we lower it, we’ll never get it back up again.”

At that instant, Arthur jumped in a puddle and the rainwater spurted into my eyes. I flinched and, in the mud, I tottered. As I crashed headlong into the street, the loom fell on my right shoulder, pinning me down.

My body, my face, all were enveloped in cold mud. It smelled of firewood and rotten vegetables and horse dung. My eyes stung, I could see nothing.

But I could hear them.

“Look at you now, nun!”

“She’s a foolish, foolish girl.”

Arthur wailed tears of confusion. I felt Sister Beatrice’s hands on my back and then grappling with the loom, trying to lift it off me—but failing. After much struggle, I was able to lift my head. I could see the skirts and legs of at least a dozen people surrounding me.

“Behold the harlot of the false prophet,” thundered John. “She does not dance today.”

“She should go in the stocks for this,” said Mistress Brooke.

Someone else shouted eagerly, “The stocks, the stocks!”

But then there was a new cry: “Who are they?”

Sister Beatrice managed to pull the loom off me. With her help, I staggered to my feet, my shoulder throbbing. She wiped the mud from my face.

Now I could see what the others saw, what had drawn them away from me for the moment. A procession moved through Dartford. About twenty people, clad in the same livery of white and blue, rode fine horses. They surrounded, in protective formation, a couple. The blond man wore a blue doublet; it must be the family’s chosen color. But the woman was different. Perched in her saddle, she was clad in bodice, kirtle, and headdress of deepest red. It was as if a slash of scarlet glided down the street. Even from where I stood, I could see a ruby necklace glittering on her bosom. That single jewel cost more than what these townsfolk would earn over a lifetime.

When they’d come close, the woman spoke to the man accompanying her. They stared down at me. The man dismounted. He was handsome and rather stout, in his middle years.

Two men materialized with a bolt of fabric and hurled it in my direction. Only then was the lady helped from her horse. She stepped onto the fabric, which I realized was to serve as a path over the mud straight to me. Seizing the man’s hand, she led him forward. She moved with a quick grace. Little diamonds woven into the tops of her deep red velvet slippers twinkled every time they emerged from her full skirts.

“It’s you, isn’t it?” the woman said in a melodic voice. Her face was crisscrossed with faint lines, like delicate parchment paper left too long on a table, unused. The hair visible beneath her Spanish-style gable hood was black with a few strands of gray. “Joanna Stafford?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “But I don’t know you.”

“Oh, yes—you do,” she said. “I’m Gertrude.”

The man moved forward and smiled. “I’m your cousin, Joanna. I’m Henry Courtenay.”

F
ather William Mote never moved as quickly as he did that morning. The pastor of Holy Trinity Church flew down the High Street. When he’d reached us, his spindly knees shook from the effort.

“We are so honored by your presence in our town,” he said, bowing low before Henry and Gertrude Courtenay, who bore the titles of Marquess and Marchioness of Exeter.

But the priest was ignored, for their eyes were on me alone.

“Don’t you remember me?” asked Gertrude, her lip quivering. She was hurt that I, a bedraggled ex-novice flung into the mud, did not know her. It was all I could do not to laugh.

Henry had his arm around his wife’s waist. Yes, his name and title were familiar to me. The Courtenays were kin to the Staffords—both of our families were in direct descent from Edward III and intertwined once more through marriages with the Woodvilles. The name
Courtenay
summoned up an aura of wealth and influence. But, to my knowledge, this couple had never visited Stafford Castle—where could I have seen them before?

Looking at his kind face, I found the memory.

“Your wedding,” I said. “I was there. I was a child.”

“You were our flower maiden!” Gertrude’s laugh bounced
off the gawking faces of the townsfolk of Dartford who encircled us. Her elation was transforming. The wrinkles in her face receded, and her eyes, brown and wide-set, gleamed.

“Cousin Joanna, tell us—what happened to you here today?” Henry asked.

I began to explain, haltingly, about my plan for a tapestry business and how I’d tried to gain possession of the loom with the help of Sister Beatrice.

Henry Courtenay interrupted: “But why did no one else assist you? Even if the men of the Building Office could not spare anyone, surely the occupants of the town would have stepped forward, to help? You are a sister of Christ.”

I looked past them, at the townsfolk gathered around. No one met my gaze.

“Do you have an explanation, Father?” Gertrude’s voice was hard with anger.

“One will be found, my lady Marchioness,” Father William said, clutching his hands. “I will personally discover why the people of Dartford showed no Christian charity to our dear Sister Joanna.”

It was then I heard Mistress Brooke’s voice. “But Father, you’ve always told us that the priory women—”

“Silence yourself,” the priest hissed.

At that moment I gave an involuntary cry. Arthur, confused, had pulled on my arm. Pain convulsed the shoulder on which the loom had rested.

“You were injured?” asked Henry. “We must see to you at once. All guilt in this matter will be determined and addressed. Father, lead us into the church.” He beckoned toward Holy Trinity’s high, square tower.

“No, not there.” It sounded more like pleading than I intended. “I want to go home.”

Henry said gently, “Then we will take you there.” He turned to a stern-looking man wearing the Courtenay livery. “Charles, make further inquiries into this matter.”

Gertrude bent down to caress Arthur’s smooth cheek. “Is this he—is this Arthur Bulmer?”

“How do you know of Arthur?” I asked.

Gertrude Courtenay moved close to whisper in my ear. “All who know the Lady know of you and Arthur Bulmer.”

The Lady?

Before I could question her further, they bore me to my house, handling me like a piece of Florentine sculpture. At the doorway, Henry paused, saying he would leave us for a short time, to see the church.

“Come, Edward, you will accompany,” he called out. A boy emerged from the small crowd of attendants, blond and handsome, about eleven years old.

“Do you seek a private Mass?” I asked, confused.

“My husband the historian has long wanted to see Holy Trinity Church,” Gertrude said, smiling. “The body of Henry the Fifth was brought there. Isn’t that right, my lord?”

“Yes, they stopped here when conveying the dead king up from Dover and held a special funeral Mass,” said my cousin Henry, bouncing on his heels with excitement. “Perhaps young Arthur would like to come along.”

With regret, I told him that Arthur was not yet ready for church or any historical expeditions.

Henry said, “Don’t be so sure, cousin. Arthur, what say you? Care to come with me and your cousin Edward?”

Arthur stared at Edward Courtenay as if he were a young Apollo come down to earth. He nodded. Henry ruffled his hair. “See? Arthur’s a good boy.” He kissed his wife’s hand. “We won’t be long, my love, I promise.”

Gertrude smiled her enchanting, childlike smile. Their eyes met, and a world of tender secrets swirled between them. Not accustomed to such intimacy, I looked away.

The man and two boys set off toward the church, followed by servants. Two of the family retainers remained outside my house, as if to stand guard.

The women led me inside. Upstairs, in my bedchamber, they removed my clothes and cleaned my face and throat and shoulders. Expert fingers worked healing ointment into my shoulder.

Gertrude herself did not touch my skin nor soothe my pain, nor sort through my garments. It was her lady in waiting, Constance, who performed all such tasks, with the help of a young maid. With a nod or a shrug, Gertrude directed the movements of Constance, a woman the same age as the marchioness, though fairer. Then Constance would order the young maid about. Freshly attired, I stood in the center of the room while the maid pulled a comb through my thick hair. She had to yank hard, for I had more than a tangle or two. I did my best not to flinch.