The Chalice (7 page)

Gertrude watched while sitting in the lone chair brought into my bedchamber for her comfort. Perhaps it was the dull light filtering in from the windows, but her sparkle had been extinguished. Her voluminous red skirts seemed to overwhelm her thin frame. Shadows pouched under her brown eyes.

As if she could read my thoughts, Gertrude said, a touch wistful, “What is your age, Joanna?”

“Twenty-seven.”

She smiled. “I would take you for twenty-one. You have such a fine figure, too. But of course you have not borne children. Women of Spanish blood are the handsomest, but we do not always age well.”

“You are Spanish?”

“Like your mother, mine came from Spain in the service of Katharine of Aragon. She married an Englishman, as did yours. My father was Lord Mountjoy. Surely you remember that?”

“I’m afraid I remember only the day of your wedding.”

Gertrude brightened. “It was a spectacular wedding,
wasn’t it, Joanna? I wanted everything to be beautiful—and it was.”

My memory of that day deepened. I saw again the bridal couple, Henry and Gertrude, so young and splendid, meeting at the church door to take their vows before God. My cousin Margaret and I carried flowers in the procession, with all eyes on the exquisitely pretty Margaret rather than me. I never once minded that. I was so proud of her.

But now was not the time for reminiscences. I needed to hear the truth from the Marchioness of Exeter.

“How could you have recognized me today?” I asked. “We haven’t seen each other in many years, not since I was, as you say, a child. How do you know of Margaret’s son? Who is the ‘Lady’?”

Gertrude fingered her ruby and took her measure of me, as if trying to decide how much to disclose. “Yes,” she said at last. “I came to Dartford today not only to see the town’s church but to seek you out. I knew all about you and Arthur Bulmer from”—her voice dropped in reverence—“the Lady Mary.”

Of course. Mary Tudor, the eldest daughter of the king.

Last winter, at Norfolk House, when Brother Edmund and I were in the greatest peril, I’d flung myself in the path of the Lady Mary, speaking Spanish to seize her attention. After she learned what I’d done for her mother—that after my own mother’s death I’d nursed Queen Katherine in exile, during the last month of her life—the Lady Mary became an immediate champion. It was because of her intervention that my father was freed from the Tower of London. I’d received many letters from the Lady Mary, both before Dartford Priory was dissolved and afterward. An uneasy, solicitous tone entered the correspondence after I settled in town with Arthur instead of living with my relations at Stafford Castle.

“I know that the Lady Mary worries for me, but there was no need for her to send you to Dartford,” I said.

“No need? After what I saw here today?”

“It was my stubbornness, my pride, that caused the mishap on the High Street,” I said.

The marchioness sprang to her feet. “You blame yourself?” she said. “You have been cruelly wronged, to lose your place at the priory and now to endure insults at the hands of common folk. What happened to you, to all of the nuns and monks and friars, it is a great offense to God.”

It was rare to hear such open sentiment—and in front of servants. I tried to gauge the reactions of Constance and the serving girl to such criticism of the king. But they remained unmoved.

Gertrude herself took several breaths, as if struggling for control.

“What did the Lady Mary tell you about me?” I asked.

“I learned of you in letters, not in conversation,” Gertrude said. “I haven’t seen her since the spring. She can have no visitors. Cromwell sees to that.”

Again I was confused. “The Lady Mary is fully reconciled with her father, the king.”

Gertrude said, “Joanna, I know that you prefer a quiet life, but is it possible you do not know what’s happening in our kingdom?”

“I know nothing,” I said simply. It was the truth. London gossip never interested me, not after my first foray into sordid court life. Years later, at Dartford Priory, I listened more carefully to news of the business of the kingdom, but that was because it directly affected the monasteries. Now I avoided all gossip—not that I heard much.

“These are most dangerous times for England,” Gertrude said. “It’s been four months since the signing of the Treaty of Nice—” She broke off. “You
have
heard of the treaty?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“The king of France signed a treaty with the Holy Roman
Emperor Charles. The pope himself brokered the peace. They have joined forces in war against the Turks.”

“Isn’t peace between France and Spain a thing to be praised?” I asked, loathing my ignorance. “How could this harm England?”

Gertrude made her way to my window. She peered outside, as if she feared someone stood just outside it, hanging onto the ledge, listening.

Turning to me, she said, “The Turks may not be the only target of the Emperor Charles. He is by far the most powerful monarch in the world. The sun never sets on his dominions. Spain, the Netherlands, Austria, Burgundy, and parts of Italy, the colonies of the New World—all belong to one man. He has armies, navies. Not yet forty years old and the most powerful Catholic on Earth!” I saw a new side to Gertrude now, the courtier’s wife who kept abreast of politics. “And the emperor is bent on destruction of heresy,” she continued. “There are rumors that the pope has charged him with cleansing England of Protestant taint. France was our ally for years. But now that King François has signed a treaty with Charles, not us, we are without a buffering force . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“Are you saying England could be invaded and attacked by both Spain and France?” I asked.

She nodded, fingering her ruby once more.

With a jolt, I understood all. “The Lady Mary is cousin to Charles through her mother, and has always been devoted to him. If Spain declares war on England, then she is suspect.”

Gertrude nodded again.

How could the Lady Mary fret over me when
she
was in real danger? On her deathbed, Katharine of Aragon spoke of her fears for her daughter the princess, and had urged me to take vows at Dartford Priory because she believed the Athelstan crown was hidden within. She hoped I would protect Mary. But my charge did not end there. I had failed not only the vulnerable
princess but also the dead queen whom I revered, because I was lost to sorrow over the destruction of my priory.

Aloud, I said, feebly, “Lady Mary gave no hint of any of this in any of her letters.”

“She knows that all of her letters are opened and read by Cromwell,” said Gertrude.

Which meant that my letters to her were not private, either. I’d written nothing to the Lady Mary that could be construed as political, of that I was sure. But reports of Arthur’s growth, dreams of a tapestry business, my missing my father—it was all so very personal.

“I can’t bear to see you this distressed,” said Gertrude, her voice shaking.

I looked up, surprised. The marchioness barely knew me. But a greater surprise swiftly followed.

Gertrude Courtenay darted across the room to fling herself at my feet. Her large brown eyes glittered with tears. For the first time, I smelled her perfume: sage and chamomile and rosemary, laced with something strangely bitter.

“Finding you was an omen, it has to be,” she cried. “I had planned to make inquiry at the church of your whereabouts, then send Constance with a message, to see if you’d receive me today. But to ride into town and see you thrown down before me at the moment of arrival? It can’t be without significance. God has sent us both a sign.”

I stared down at her. “What are you saying?”

“I am meant to save you—it is my purpose,” she said. “Joanna, I have so much and you have so little. Let me help you. We will be as sisters. Leave this dreadful town and come away with me—now. Today.”

Gertrude Courtenay’s offer of a home so startled me that I could not speak. “But my friends . . . my tapestries . . . Arthur.”

“The son of Margaret Bulmer would be as welcome as you are,” she said, still kneeling at my feet. “I humbly beseech you to share a roof with me.”

I could see that her proposal was sincere. As gently as I could, I said, “Please, Gertrude, you must get up.” After she’d done so, I took her by the hand. “To live in London and be part of the life of the court—that is not a choice for me.”

“I never go to court,” she said quickly. “Henry must attend, of course, but since the death of Queen Jane, no functions require my presence. And we only spend four or five months of the year in London. In the spring, we return west. That’s where many of Henry’s properties are. It’s beautiful in Cornwall; I would love to show it to you. The sea, the forests, the flowers—”

The sound of shouting downstairs interrupted her reverie. The marchioness beckoned for Constance, and the lady-in-waiting slipped out. I made for the door.

“Joanna, wait,” Gertrude said. Her elegant fingers closed around my wrist. “Don’t put yourself in harm’s way again.”

I pulled free. “This is my home,” I said. “I must attend to it.”

I’d made it halfway down the stairs when I saw him. The two Courtenay retainers left to guard my house struggled with a single man. My front door hung open behind them. The young man, tall and strong, shoved his way forward, leading with his right shoulder, to the center of my front parlor. Both of the Courtenay men tried—and failed—to stop him.

With a grunt, the taller Courtenay man fell back and drew his sword. “Cease—or I will have cause to use this,” he said.

“Not until you tell me what has become of Joanna Stafford,” shouted the man.

“Geoffrey, I’m right here!” I shouted.

Geoffrey Scovill looked up at me. “So you are,” he said.

A
smile of relief split Geoffrey’s face. With one hand, he pushed away the tip of the Courtenay sword that quivered in his face, saying, “It seems this won’t be necessary.” With the other he tugged on his doublet, half torn off in the struggle, to make himself presentable. “Ah,” he said, “I’ve lost a button.”

I burst out laughing, I could not help it. And Geoffrey laughed with me, a touch sheepish.

Here was the young underconstable of Rochester, who had come to my aid at Smithfield, the day of Margaret’s burning. Since then our fates had intertwined, at times uncomfortably.

Today he looked different. His light brown hair was newly cut. He’d trimmed it into a straight fringe across his forehead, the same style I’d seen on men who followed London fashions. I’d never known Geoffrey to ape the styles of the day. His clothes, too, were freshly stitched, not the patched-together ensembles he commonly wore. But his deep blue eyes were familiar, crinkling with amusement in a face faintly ruddy from all the hours spent outdoors.

“What is so funny?” asked Gertrude, coming down the stairs. Her tone was light, though her step was determined.

It was with some difficulty that I managed to stop laughing.
“This man is my friend, Geoffrey Scovill,” I said, breathless. “He is a constable in Rochester. ”

I introduced the marchioness and Geoffrey bowed deep, but not before I saw surprise in his face.

“He told us he was the constable here—for Dartford—before he started acting like a madman,” said the smaller Courtenay man, suspicious.

“If you’d simply answered my inquiry at the door, there wouldn’t have been a disturbance,” Geoffrey said.

“We don’t answer strangers’ inquiries unless my lord or lady orders us to,” the larger man retorted.

As I introduced Gertrude to Geoffrey, I noticed Sister Beatrice in the corner. She had not gone upstairs but she hadn’t left my home, either. Now she clasped her hands with an excitement I’d never seen. “Oh, Geoffrey, the appointment has been secured?” she asked.

“I don’t understand,” I said. “What appointment?”

“There is a need for a constable here in Dartford, and I’ve been approved for the position. I’m no longer charged with Rochester.” He spoke to me, yet his eyes darted in Sister Beatrice’s direction.

I was taken aback by this news. Geoffrey here, in Dartford, every day? It made me feel queer, uncertain. I had seen him just once in the last six months, in July. It was the afternoon he escorted Sister Beatrice and me to Saint Margaret’s Fair. But it was an odd day. Geoffrey had been distracted; he did not seem to enjoy the music, the donkey races, the pole climbing, or even the archery contests. When daylight faded, he hurried us back to town and I saw him no more.

“What about Justice Campion?” I asked. The old justice of the peace had paid much of his wages, for he depended on Geoffrey’s quick mind and vigor when a serious enough crime required it.

“Justice Campion has died,” Geoffrey said. “But now I must know what happened today, and why you are under guard.”

I hadn’t finished the tale when Geoffrey slapped his leg in anger.

“Couldn’t Sommerville help you?” he demanded. “Blast it, the man is of no use at all.”

“It’s not Brother Edmund’s fault,” I said.

“No, nothing ever is,” muttered Geoffrey.

I felt someone’s gaze hot on me. It was Gertrude, standing by the wall. She had listened to the whole exchange. There was surprise in her eyes, and something else, too. That speculative look had returned, as if she were trying to decide which jewels to wear.

A knock sounded. Henry’s steward, the serious-looking man named Charles, led in two people—Gregory from the Building Office and Mistress Brooke—and informed Gertrude who they were and what happened in the Building Office and on the High Street afterward.

Bubbles of sweat sliding down his brow, Gregory looked miserable. But Mistress Brooke exhibited only defiance. “I’ve broken no law,” she declared. “And I was brought here under protest. Although I know well enough why.” Mistress Brooke shot me a look of hatred.

Geoffrey, the representative of the law in the room, stirred to action. “Not on the face of it, no. But your actions merit further inquiry, Mistress Brooke, which I shall busy myself to.”

“Constable, if I may?” said Gertrude, still standing near the wall. Without waiting for his reply, she took a step toward Mistress Brooke.