The Chalice (49 page)

I recoiled. “What crimes have I committed? Or Master Nostredame, for that matter? He is a good Catholic.”

“Oh, come,” he said. “You have both trafficked in sorcery and the arts of necromancy. That is forbidden by the Inquisition.”

I sprang to my feet. “It all took place at the
instigation
of the emperor and his representative, Ambassador Chapuys,” I shouted.

“Is that so?” he asked. “How can you prove it? Do you have anything written?”

“Chapuys did not order you to deliver me to the Inquisition,” I said. “That’s impossible.”

Jacquard held out the letter. “Do you want to read it? I will have to give you the code to decipher it, but I am happy to do so if that is what is required.”

As I stared at the letter quivering in his hand, it hit me like a blow. Jacquard did not need to give me codes. Chapuys had betrayed me.

“If you come with me willingly, then you don’t have to fear the Inquisition,” Jacquard said urgently. “You may not believe this, but I don’t want you to burn, Joanna Stafford. I have seen people burn.”

“So have I,” I blurted, and a horrible memory appeared of billows of black smoke rising as Margaret died in Smithfield. And now I would join her? Before I could stop it, I began to laugh, but it was a mad laugh, hysterical and twisted.

I sucked in air, hard, desperate to calm myself. Finally, I looked straight at Jacquard. “Is this the worst that you have?”

“I know you would like me to say yes,” he said. “But it gets even worse.”

“Worse than burning? I don’t see how.”

“Because it’s not your own fate in question but that of someone you hold dear,” Jacquard said. “If you do not agree—and the fires of the Inquisition do not motivate you—then we may need to welcome another guest to Ghent.”

I gripped the bottom of the bench. He was correct—this was worse. Just as Gardiner used fear for my father’s life to force me to act for him, now Jacquard would exert similar pressure through threatening someone I loved. But whom?

“You can’t mean Arthur,” I babbled. “Your men could not steal him from Stafford Castle and bring him all the way here.”

“I’m not talking about a child,” Jacquard said.

A cold, sick dread congealed in the pit of my belly. It was so terrible that I could not speak.

“We’re not going to be kidnapping people from England,” Jacquard said. “We have resources and a certain amount of skill—Señor Hantaras is a man most formidable. But no, one of
our spies saw a familiar name show up in the list of licenses requested for departure from England. The license was granted and this person, who wanted so much to leave Dartford after unfortunate circumstance, is now traveling through the dominions of the Emperor Charles. I think there is much you would do to prevent harm from coming to him.”

“No,” I moaned. “No. This can’t be. It can’t be.”

“Yes, efforts are being made to secure Edmund Sommerville, and bring him to you. Won’t it be nice for you to see your friar once more?”

I leaped off the bench and sprang on him, closing my hands around his throat and pressing hard. “If you hurt Edmund, I will kill you, Jacquard!” I screamed. “By sacred oath, I swear it.”

Jacquard ripped my fingers from his throat and threw me across the room. I stumbled and fell onto the straw. “Now that’s the side of you I love to see,” he said.

He pulled open the door to my prison cell—and paused.

“You’re not going to kill me, Joanna Stafford. You’re going to kill Henry the Eighth.”

I
do not know how much time passed—I believe it was three days—when the voices of the men in the Gravensteen clamored louder. Then the shouting died away, and I heard nothing. No one came with food or drink for a day. I had not felt well enough to eat the maggot-riven meat or drink the sour ale brought yesterday, so this was the second day without food or drink. And I was down to my last candle. Perhaps the siege had lifted and everyone had left. I thought it unlikely that Jacquard would leave, too, without one last attempt at pressuring me to comply. But the possibility also existed that the castle had been breached, and Jacquard was taken or killed.

My cell door had a barred opening at top, as did Michel de Nostredame’s. It allowed a very faint light to come into the room. I pressed myself against the door, straining up, and cried, “Hello? Hello? Hello?”

There was no answer.

Though I’d tried to fortify myself for death with continual prayer, this was a ghoulish end to contemplate: to die of thirst and starvation in a dark cell. And I raged against Jacquard for denying me the right of a Catholic to make confession to a priest before death.

Dazed with hunger, I slept on my pallet in the straw—whether it was day or night, I could not know. When I finally
woke, I beheld a row of fresh candles on the floor, all of them lit. A platter of food sat next to it: meats and cheeses and breads. There was a jug of ale, too. And other things: a dress, hung over a chair; a basin of fresh water; lye soap.

Fingering the dress’s brocade fabric, I knew where it came from. Jacquard. He was alive and this was his latest move in the great game.

Put on the dress, come with me out of the castle and to another place, another kingdom. There we will plot and kill, and kill again.

There’d be one more confrontation between Jacquard Rolin and Joanna Stafford, I decided. When it was over, there would never be another.

I ate the food. I took off my soiled bodice and kirtle and cleaned myself. Then I put on the dress. It was tawny and crimson, with a square bodice. It was made of fine fabric but not a dress of a lady. And it smelled musty. Where had he acquired it, I wondered.

A key rattled in the lock. It was one of the sullen-faced guards of the castle. Not everyone had gone, after all.

I followed the guard not to the main keep but up the stairs. He was taking me to Jacquard’s room.

Master Rolin awaited me with two full goblets of wine on a gleaming silver tray, and smiled when I walked in.

“Oh, you put it on—you put it on,” he exulted. But then he cocked his head.

“It’s not laced right,” Jacquard said. “Turn around.”

His fingers flew up and down my back, expertly relacing the dress. To my embarrassment, the dress now clung to me and dipped low in the bosom.

Jacquard whispered in my ear. “You are being cooperative. It pleases me immeasurably.”

I remained silent.

Very slowly, he put his hands on the tops of my shoulders and turned me around to face him.

“The last keeper of the castle kept his whore here. She had fine clothes and pretty trinkets and drank wine served on silver”—he pointed at the tray on the table—“but she was never allowed to leave. Not such a bad existence, though. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Still I said nothing.

In a more serious tone, he said, “The emperor is definitely coming to Ghent. He’s already begun moving his army north toward France. He brings twenty-five white Spanish horses as a gift of gratitude to King François for allowing him safe passage. Naturally, the people of Ghent are in full panic; the word reached here two days ago. To save their lives, they are now trying to win favor again with the queen regent, although it’s too late for that. They’ve decided that those few who are loyal to Emperor Charles must no longer be suppressed.” He reached for his glass and raised it to me. “That would be us. And so there is no impediment to us simply walking out the door of the Gravensteen today. If we move with all speed, we will reach England before Anne of Cleves.”

“Jacquard,” I said, “I’m not leaving this place in order to kill the king.”

The disappointment flashed in his eyes and then was gone.

“Do you like the dress?” he murmured, reaching out to finger a sleeve. “It’s all I have to offer you that is clean. If you’d agreed to go to Antwerp, I could buy you six new dresses there.” He grinned. “But I confess, I’ve always wanted to see you dressed like a whore. And I was right—it suits you.”

He fingered the dagger handle that was slipped into his doublet.

“I think we will be changing your room permanently. You refuse to leave to carry out your mission? Very well. The emperor should arrive, I calculate, in January or perhaps February. It’s past the time of year for easy land travel. Why not wait in comfort?”

“I don’t seek comfort,” I said.

He laughed. “I knew you would say that. It’s almost as if we
are
married. I know what you’re going to say or do before it occurs.”

A realization struck.

“You don’t have Edmund,” I said. “Or else you would use him to force me to go to England.”

Jacquard spread his hands. “Even the most diligent of the emperor’s men have a difficult time penetrating the Black Forest.”

Although “the Black Forest” had an ominous sound, I felt a surge of relief. Now the only threat remaining was of the Inquisition. And I was ready to face the judgment of the Dominicans and of Christ, if need be.

Jacquard crooked his finger to beckon me to his side. “Since we are man and wife, shouldn’t we share this room for the two months until the emperor arrives? I let all the men go but one. But we have enough food to last. I have the keys to the castle.” He patted his pocket and I heard a jingle. “Ah, they could be very cold weeks. Best sleep here by the fire.”

How he had always enjoyed embarrassing me. Even now, it gave him such pleasure to see me discomfited.

“Perhaps,” he said, “if you’re a very good wife, I’ll let you escape before Emperor Charles enters the city of Ghent.”

Now I was the one who laughed. “You would never do that,” I said.

“You think I have no feeling for you—that I hate you?” he asked, puzzled. “You’re wrong. I am extraordinarily frustrated by you, Joanna Stafford. Many times I’ve felt anger. But at least we have the full prophecy now, and can make use of it with the other person in place.” He laughed. “I have to admit that you are most unusual. Your strength of will, it amazes me. It amazes us all. I’m telling you the truth when I say I don’t want you to die.”

“But I would rather die than have you touch me, Jacquard, and I would rather die than serve you any longer,” I cried. “I can’t bear it any longer. You and Chapuys—and your emperor—are all abhorrent to me.”

The bantering tone vanished.

Jacquard said, “There is no quicker way to raise anger in me than to decry the emperor.”

I retorted, “The king of England is excommunicated and ordered deposed by the pope. But the Emperor Charles does not engage the English with honor, on the field and at sea. To save himself the trouble and cost of it, he has his minions try to force a woman to commit the foulest of murders instead. I call that cowardly. You don’t
deserve
the kingdom of England. It’s better ruled by a heretical king.”

Jacquard went very still. “You call me minion?”

“That’s what you are,” I said. “Nothing but a scheming . . . lying . . . murdering . . .
minion
.”

Jacquard’s face darkened. “You English bitch.”

He pulled out his dagger and, in seconds, the point was at my throat. “I’ve taken more from you than from any other woman in my entire life.”

With his other hand, he grabbed the front of my dress. “You’ll learn respect today, Joanna Stafford. I tried to do it the other way. I tried very, very hard for a very long time.”

He dragged me, the knife balanced on my throat, to his bed. Jacquard pushed me down and got on top of me, pressing my arm back with his elbow. He shoved my legs apart with his knee. I tried to kick him, but when I did so, the knife pierced my skin. It hurt; tears sprang from my eyes.

With the other hand, Jacquard pulled his leggings down, and that shift gave me a chance. I wriggled away so fast, he did not have a chance to pierce me with his knife. He lunged for me, and caught me, but I struck out at him with all my might, and the knife flew out of his hand and clattered to the floor. We
wrestled across the bed. He was strong, yes, but I was pumping with terror and hate and desperation. I fought back, shoving my knee in his groin. He crumpled and cried out in pain.

I leaped off the bed and ran for the door. I heard Jacquard stumble out of the bed, cursing. I knew that if he caught me, he would kill me. There would be no mercy.

The silver tray gleamed in the corner, and I ran for it with only a few seconds to spare. I picked up the heavy tray with both hands, whirled around, raised it, and smashed Jacquard over the head.

He slithered to the floor.

I dropped the tray, my hand shaking. I knelt and touched Jacquard’s throat. A vein danced. He was unconscious but alive.

I pulled the keys from his pocket, and a cloth sack of coins spilled out. I took it all.

In the doorway I hesitated. Would Jacquard die of his head wound without medical treatment? I had put myself through great suffering because I refused to commit the mortal sin of murder against King Henry VIII. But was it not as great a sin to murder Jacquard Rolin?

I looked at his slumped body for one moment more.

Taking a deep breath, I locked the door to the room, pocketing the key. I made my way down the stone steps.

I did not see the guard anywhere. I slipped through the keep to the stairs I remembered from that August night we arrived at the Gravensteen. Within minutes I found it, and I opened the door to the cell of Michel de Nostredame.

The French apothecary was much calmer than I’d expected.

“I must find a way back to my own country,” I told Nostredame. “I fear that Antwerp, the city of Ambassador Chapuys, will be a dangerous destination. I’ve seriously injured Jacquard Rolin, but if he survives and manages to free himself, he will follow me to Antwerp.”

Nostredame smiled. “France. That is the way for you. I will
take you myself to Calais, the English-owned port city. Is not your Dover across the channel?”

I stared at him, unsure. “Is it possible for us to travel there?”

“It is indeed.”

My excitement dimmed as I remembered what Jacquard said, that I could not possibly return with forged papers and no money.

“I may be in Calais forever,” I said. “I have taken Jacquard’s coins, but I don’t know if it’s enough money to get me all the way to England. This could be hopeless.”