The Crown (41 page)

“Which Gardiner assisted in,” I reminded Brother Edmund.

“The bishop tried to prevent this, the dissolution of the monasteries.”

“So he has told me,” I said bitterly.

“But Sister Joanna, he did make a brave effort; he published a paper in 1532, an argument in defense of the religious structure of England. It was called ‘The Answer of the Ordinaries.’ It nearly cost him everything.”

I stared at Brother Edmund. “What do you mean?”

“Gardiner was considered by everyone to be next in line, when Warham died, to be named Archbishop of Canterbury. But because of that paper, he angered the king and lost his position as chief secretary. Thomas Cranmer was made archbishop instead; he is Cromwell’s trusted ally. They are now both closer to the king, who once called Gardiner ‘my right hand.’ ”

It took me a moment to absorb everything said. “So Gardiner is undoubtedly a supporter of the true faith,” I said.

I saw a shadow cross Brother Edmund’s face.

“There is something else?” I asked.

He nodded. “Cardinal Wolsey handpicked Gardiner to serve him, as he did Thomas Cromwell. But when the cardinal fell, Gardiner abandoned him utterly, refused to help him. Cromwell, it is said, shed tears for his master. Not Gardiner, though he owed him just as much.”

I remembered the strange tone of Gardiner’s voice when he spoke of Cardinal Wolsey in the Tower of London. “We are enmeshed with a most treacherous man,” I said, looking down at the scratched wooden table. I had a thought and looked up. “You haven’t told me. When Gardiner arrived at Cambridge, how did he treat
you
?” I asked.

Brother Edmund’s face darkened. “I hoped I was going to receive a position in the bishop’s employ, that he’d perhaps recognized my own scholarly efforts. But Gardiner only wanted me to assist Brother Richard, and then to assist
you. He has little respect for me, because of my weakness.”

I reached out, timidly, and patted his arm. It was rigid to the touch.

“Brother Edmund, you must persevere. It has been more than a fortnight since you returned to Dartford, correct? Your suffering may end soon.”

He nodded without speaking. I hoped the next morning, when we met by the horses, he would not look so ravaged by nightmares and discomfort. But my prayers were not answered. Brother Edmund’s face was ashen again. We set out on our journey, and the dusting of snowflakes did little to ease his misery.

John appeared at the top of the road and trotted toward us. “I’ve found the road to Wardour Castle,” he shouted.

Brother Edmund and I nudged our horses to follow John. Soon we would be at the home of my second cousin, Mary Howard Fitzroy.

Although I had not seen her since she was thirteen, I’d heard much report of her. Mary’s beauty and wit made her the pride of her father, the Duke of Norfolk. He cherished her almost as much as his heir, the Earl of Surrey. A brilliant marriage had been expected for Mary, and indeed, she was just fifteen when she wed Henry Fitzroy, also fifteen and a royal bastard. The Duke of Richmond was the son of King Henry and Bessie Blount, a lady-in-waiting to Queen Katherine. There had been rumors for years that the king sought a legal means to make the Duke of Richmond his successor. It proved moot, for the young duke died, last year, of lung rot, and left my cousin a young widow.

The road to her property, Wardour Castle, was not much more than a trail. The snow had stopped, but the ground was still wet, and we rode slowly, careful of our horses.

The sun had poked through the clouds when we first glimpsed the castle, in the center of a clearing, a lake glittering far behind. It was a white stone structure with turrets and towers, small triangular windows, and prominent battlements. As we rode closer, I saw it was not of square design, like Dartford Priory, but a massive hexagon.

A wide, dry ditch surrounded the castle. To reach the front doors, we’d have to cross a drawbridge, which, thankfully, was down today. But the portcullis, the metal
grate with sharp points that barricaded the doors, was also down, barring entry.

We found a man asleep in the gatehouse, and Brother Edmund roused him.

“I am Joanna Stafford, kin to the dowager duchess, and will be presented to her today,” I informed him.

The man looked at me with the same sullen expression I’d seen on many people’s faces along the way, whether they were farmers or innkeepers. I waited for him to tell me the dowager duchess was not at home. Wardour did not look occupied. In which case, I would still insist on leaving a letter for the lady of the castle. The rules of hospitality meant one would be received by someone—a steward or a housemaid—and given something to drink. That would be our chance to tour the main rooms and look for the Dartford tapestry.

Without a word, the man led us to the drawbridge. A towheaded boy appeared to take the horses. John fell back, to remain with them.

We walked across the drawbridge. It was very old; the wood crumbled a bit under my feet. Brother Edmund winced when he too stepped on a weakened strip of wood. In the harsh sunlight he looked unquestionably ill: brown eyes burning in a gaunt face.

Someone inside must have seen us approach, for the portcullis in front of the doors rose. The rusty old chains creaked as they hauled up the heavy metal grate.

The double doors swung open and a sharp-faced woman appeared.

“She is kin to the dowager duchess,” the man growled and retreated.

The woman looked us over, suspicious; after all, we weren’t dressed like noble folk. She wore a finer gown than I did.

I gave her my name as I pushed my way inside. It was important not to ask permission. Brother Edmund followed me over the threshold, and as she got a closer look at him, the woman’s caution edged into trepidation. In another second, she’d call for some menservants.

I snapped, “I’m surprised my cousin employs such a rude servant.”

Her head swiveled back toward me. She sank into a grudging curtsy, and then led us into the heart of the castle. I wasn’t sure where she was taking us but tried to appear assured.

We passed through galleries
and a large courtyard, then up the stone staircase. It opened into an enormous hall, built for feasts and dances, for occasions of state. At the other end of the hall a fire roared in a fireplace tall enough for the tallest man to stand in. In front of the fire were chairs and a table. A lone figure, a woman dressed in black, sat in a chair. The servant hurried over to say something to her, then retreated to the corner.

The room was so large, it took some time to cross. Our shoes clacked on the smooth floor. As we neared the fireplace, my heart began to jerk in a quick, painful rhythm. The woman by the fire looked very familiar.

As impossible as it was, the woman looked like my cousin Margaret. I had seen her burn at Smithfield, six months ago. But the bright red-gold hair peeking under her French hood, the long oval face, the slim figure, were exactly like her.

She watched us cross the hall, turning a goblet in her hand. Once we’d reached her, I reminded myself that this woman was too young to be Margaret. It was Mary Howard Fitzroy, grown into the image of her beautiful aunt.

I pulled down the hood of my cloak, to better show myself, and sank into the curtsy a dowager duchess was due. “Your Grace,” I said.

“Cousin Joanna?” she said wonderingly. “What are you doing here?”

“We are journeying through Wiltshire, and I wanted to stop and visit you,” I said smoothly, using the explanation we’d worked out ahead of time. “This is Edmund Sommerville, who assists me.”

He bowed before her.

She was still confused. “But aren’t you a nun, Joanna? What happened? Was your priory dissolved?”

“No, Dartford still stands. We are traveling to another abbey, on business of the Dominican Order.”

“Are you? That seems to me very odd.” Her eyes went back and forth between the two of us, and then lingered on me. “I heard about you, actually. My mother wrote to me that you were in some sort of trouble.”

I tried to deflect. “Just a bit, cousin.”

But Mary would not let it drop. “She’d heard you were confined in the Tower of London, and you gave my father a difficult time.”

Brother Edmund tensed beside
me. The fire popped; a log sizzled madly.

I took a chance and said, simply, “Well, cousin, that is true.”

To my surprise, she smiled. It was not Margaret’s smile; it was knowing, almost wicked. With a shiver, I was reminded of no other but the Duke of Norfolk.

“Huzzah, Joanna,” she giggled. She gestured toward a bottle of wine on the table. “Let me call for more goblets. We will drink a toast to you. I so rarely have anyone to drink with. I despise my neighbors, and I haven’t sunk so far down I’d drink with servants.”

She beckoned, and the sharp-faced woman reappeared from the shadows with two goblets. I had no desire for wine, but it would be rude to refuse. We three raised our goblets to each other and drank. The wine was rich tasting and potent.

“So you do not like it here?” I asked, curious. “Why then do you stay?”

“This is my only property; it was my jointure according to the marriage contract,” she answered. “All of my husband’s lands and homes and monies returned to the king.”

Brother Edmund said, “But that is unfair and not even legal.”

My cousin Mary threw back her head and laughed. “How entertaining you are, Master Sommerville.” It took her a long time to stop laughing. I wondered how much wine she’d had to drink so far that day. “My loving father-in-law, the king, said the marriage was not entirely valid because it was not consummated. Of course it was not consummated at his command. His son’s health was too delicate for any ‘marital excess,’ as the king phrased it, until he turned eighteen. Which he never did.” She raised a goblet. “And so here I am, a virgin widow with one crumbling castle in the middle of Wiltshire.”

“But what of your parents?” I asked quickly. I was uncomfortable with the topic of women’s virginity being discussed in front of Brother Edmund.

“My mother spends all her time dictating letters, primarily to Cromwell, listing her grievances against my father and describing his cruelties. I’m told the Lord Privy Seal finds the correspondence of the Duchess of Norfolk a terrible burden. As for the duke, I stay out of his reach, since he talks of arranging for me a second grand marriage.” She rested her head against the
back of her chair. “I’d rather stay here.”

I did not know what to say. I took another sip of wine; my head swam from it. I put the goblet down. Brother Edmund shifted in his chair.

“Cousin Mary,” I said, “I’ve heard that you were given one of the tapestries of Dartford, as a wedding gift, to be displayed here at Wardour. We’d be most interested in seeing it.”

She frowned at me for a few seconds and then shook her head. “We had it in this room at first, but then moved it to my husband’s bedchamber. That room is locked to me.” She rolled her eyes. “Even when he was alive, it was locked to me.”

Brother Edmund and I exchanged a quick look.

“Cousin, it would mean a great deal to us to see it,” I said.

“I’m sorry, Joanna. It can’t be done. More wine?”

How obedient she was, how she conformed to their wishes, her father, the Duke of Norfolk, and her father-in-law, the king.

I held up a hand. “No, Cousin Mary. I don’t want any more wine. There has been enough wine here for today. I say it’s time you call for your servants to find the key to the door. This is
your
house, is it not? And you are half Stafford. Staffords have spirit.”

Her cheeks reddened. I could see that I’d pushed her quite far. But with a practiced little shrug, she rose to her feet, called for her lady-in-waiting, and gave the order.

Indeed, there was little of the resistance from servants that she’d feared. Soon enough we were upstairs, pushing past her sour-faced lady-in-waiting and into the bedchamber of the dead Duke of Richmond. It was large and lavishly furnished. I’d never seen such an elaborately carved headboard. Gleefully, Mary jumped onto the bed. “At last!” she laughed. Her French hood came off and her long, thick red-gold hair tumbled down her back.

Brother Edmund veered away from the bed. He strode over to the long far wall, where three tapestries hung.

Dartford’s tapestry was in the middle. It had all the features of our workmanship: the wide variety of color, the fine detail, and the group of mythic figures.

This tapestry featured two women and a man. A woman stood among an explosion of grain fields and fruits and
fine vegetables. She held the hand of a younger woman, a beauty, who pointed down, toward the far end of the tapestry, where a handsome bearded man surged up from a dark cavern. None of the three looked like anyone I had ever seen at Dartford Priory.

“Do you know this story?” I asked.

Brother Edmund nodded. “It’s Persephone.”

My cousin Mary spoke up from behind us. “Yes, the bride of the underworld,” she said. “A fitting companion for me now, don’t you think?” She laughed as she struggled to sit up. “My brother of Surrey adored this tapestry, as did my husband. They were educated together, you know. Yes, my brother loves this tapestry more than the other Dartford one, at Norfolk House.”

“The Howards own
another
Dartford tapestry?” I asked.

“Yes, the Lambeth one is older than this and larger, too.” Mary had finally slipped off the bed.

Brother Edmund asked eagerly, “Do you remember what story it tells?”

She squinted into the distance as if she were trying to conjure the tapestry in her thoughts. “I know that it shows a group of sisters, dancing sisters.”

“Are they nuns?” I asked, trying to keep my voice calm.

“No, I’m sure they aren’t. “She moved forward and ran her fingers along the edge of the tapestry. “I prefer this one, my own. One day, Persephone”—she pointed at the beautiful girl in the tapestry’s center—“was out gathering flowers, and the god of the underworld, Hades, saw her and was smitten and opened up a chasm in the ground to pull her down. We won’t linger on what happened then, for I
am
still a maid.” Mary giggled. “Her mother, Demeter, the goddess of the harvest, searched the earth for her, and went to Zeus, the leader of all the gods, to demand to know what happened to her daughter.”