The Tapestry

by Nancy Bilyeau

  Sir Anthony Denny had forestalled anything more by pleading, “Sire? The council?”

  The king said, “Yes, we shall attend, but first, Cousin, know our plans.” He turned, reluctantly, from Catherine to me. “We would have you weave your tapestry here, in London. It shall be the first of many.”

  “But I could not work in a palace,” I protested. “And doesn’t the court move to a new palace every two or three months? A single tapestry requires at least six months, even with four weavers.”

  The king waved my concerns away with a sweep of his plump ringed hand. “There is a workshop in the city, a large and well-maintained place. Our servants take tapestries there for cleaning and mending. It would be the ideal spot. You shall hire your workers and proceed with our plans.”

  With that, he departed with the fretful Sir Anthony.

  His plans were upsetting, but not nearly as upsetting as learning that Catherine was the object of Henry VIII’s lust. She must have been pushed toward the king, and I had a good notion by whom. The Duke of Norfolk was notorious for pandering to the king, of using young women to bind himself to Henry VIII. Everyone knew he’d done it with another niece, Anne Boleyn, to the infamy of both.

  As soon as I could pose the question without being overheard, I asked, “Is this your uncle’s doing?”

  “The Duke of Norfolk is pleased that the king enjoys my conversation.” She raised her chin. “And that is all it is—conversation. His Majesty says no one has ever taken his mind off affairs of state as I do.”

  No doubt.

  I took a deep breath and asked the question that must be asked. “Have you lost your virtue to the king?”

  “No,” she cried, now the deepest crimson. “I swear it on the soul of Saint Anne.”

  “He has never touched you?”

  She shook her head, violently, but did not meet my eyes. I was certain she was lying. It was truly sickening, to think of the king kissing or fondling her.

  Panicked, I grabbed hold of Catherine by the arms and shook her. “You must listen, Catherine. I beg of you to listen. I’ve not lived a worldly life, I was a Dominican novice and before that a sheltered girl in Stafford Castle. But I do know something of what I speak. You must not submit to the king, for you will be lost forever. Shamed.”

  “What makes you so sure I would be shamed afterward?” countered Catherine. “Be assured, Joanna, that I have no such ambition to be a mistress, but if—if I did, for the sake of argument, you know that Elizabeth Blount, the first queen’s lady-in-waiting, was married honorably after she had the king’s son? She and her husband received properties and pensions.”

  So that was what Norfolk had told her. After she shared the king’s bed, she’d prosper.

  “Oh, Catherine, no—no,” I said brokenly. “You must not believe what the duke says.”

  Pulling herself from my grasp, Catherine said, “I am expected in the queen’s chamber,” and she hurried off.

  Somehow I made my way to Catherine’s room, guarded as usual by her servant, Richard. Catherine did not return for hours. Whether she spent her time with the queen or the king, I had no idea. As sunset approached, I ignored all thought of supper—I was still so full it seemed impossible I’d eat again—and continued to contemplate my impossible situation.

  I had no desire to leave Dartford and weave a tapestry in London. I would have to either purchase a house in the city or become part of the king’s court, bound to follow him from palace to palace.

  On the surface, the proposal had strong advantages. If I were to fill an official position in the king’s household, then my cousin Henry Stafford would be more likely to send Arthur Bulmer down. If, however, I decided to defy and enrage the king by refusing this offer and retreating to Dartford, it could ignite such a fury that I’d never reclaim my cousin’s son. Moreover, I might have a difficult time finding another buyer for The Sorrow of Niobe. My tapestry enterprise could dwindle to nothing, and I’d be left with only the modest pension allotted me, and all other novices, at the dissolution of the Dartford priory.

  But how could I remain at court, knowing the king was on the verge of making Catherine his mistress? If I were to feature her face and figure in my tapestry, it would imply my approval of—if not collusion with—this affair. The only way I could possibly serve King Henry was to prevent the further corruption of Catherine Howard.

  I just needed to come up with a way to do that.

  When Catherine returned that evening, a trifle sullen, I did not resume my accusations. All they would accomplish would be to provoke lies and justifications. I must try other methods to turn her from this terrible course. If only there were someone to help me. But as I thought back over the last three days, I realized that everyone from Bishop Gardiner to Thomas Culpepper must be aware of the budding affair and was doing nothing to stop it.

  I cleared my throat. “Will you go to chapel with me, Catherine? I’ve been here two days and not prayed before the altar.”

  She brightened at once. “Of course I will. Such a lovely idea. And the Chapel Royal has candles lit until very late.”

  Her vow by Saint Anne’s notwithstanding, I knew that Catherine was none too pious. It wasn’t a deliberate flouting of God’s laws. Her religious education had been neglected, as had her lessons in other subjects. The Howards cared little for learning.

  This meant that Catherine could be unaware that adultery was a grave sin. Saint Paul wrote that those who were guilty of grave sins, committed with intent, could not enter the Kingdom of Heaven, for they destroyed the grace of God. Would she risk the fires of hell for a sordid affair with the king? Only a woman who was blinded by desire would do that. King Henry could not possibly attract a seventeen-year-old girl. She must be receiving intense pressure from the Duke of Norfolk—and was perhaps flattered by kingly attention—but there could be no real feeling in her heart. That should help my cause.

  Catherine led me to the Chapel Royal, on the east side of the Great Hall. I stepped inside and dipped my fingers in the stoup but then paused, stunned. The king had made himself head of the church and since this was Henry VIII’s place of worship I expected it to embody his laws of faith: fewer candles, adornments, and statues. Had not the king and Cromwell forbidden pilgrimages and offerings to saints, reduced the people’s cherished feast days, frowned on prayers with rosary beads and truncated the holy fasts? Yet here, in the Chapel Royal, throbbed the beauty of traditional worship: four bay windows of diamond-shaped stained glass in a hundred colors, delicate clouds of lavender incense, and candles lit here, there, everywhere.

  The Chapel Royal was empty but for choristers and boys gathered around a gleaming organ. A psalm was announced and the boys’ voices warbled in earnest harmony. Listening to their psalm, inhaling the incense, my feeling of bewilderment and anger receded. No matter how hypocritical the act, the king had formed a chapel devoted to God, and I was grateful for it.

  Near the back, Catherine and I knelt, side by side, and I began to pray: “Oh, Lord, give us the wisdom to know your will and to live righteously . . .”

  Noises bursting from the side interrupted me. Two pages were preparing the way for the king. He, too, had decided on a nighttime prayer.

  King Henry appeared, flanked by Sir Anthony Denny and other courtiers. At the sight of us, he came to a halt, and then called out, “My lords, is this not a fit sight—two comely women moved to worship?”

  “Fit indeed,” echoed Denny.

  The king took one last look at Catherine. I found it most unsettling, his bloated, aging face transformed by such adoration. His Majesty then limped to the king’s closet at the other end of the chapel, a place for private worship.

  Next to me, Catherine closed her eyes to resume prayers, but even as she obediently murmured the words, a smile quivered in the corner of her mouth.

  This was not going to be easy.


  14

  The next day I received two invitations. The first was to attend a banquet at Winchester House, the palatial home of Bishop Gardiner, in one week’s time. The second was to call on court painter Hans Holbein at my earliest convenience.

  The thought of dining at the bishop’s house left me cold. But even beset by all my troubles, I could not turn down the offer to meet the man who’d painted The Dance of Death. Greatly curious, I sent a note to Master Holbein, and before the sun had risen midway in the sky, I was escorted to his workshop. To my astonishment, it was located in the front gatehouse of Whitehall. I climbed two sets of winding stairs to reach the passageway leading to his place of artistry. When I’d arrived at the palace and looked up at those rows of windows, I peered at the quarters of Hans Holbein.

  He was not ready for our appointment, however. Although his door was tightly closed, a conversation sounded through the door. Two men spoke French, and one very loudly.

  “This is intolerable,” screamed a voice. “She is of the highest rank in Christendom. The House of Cleves is connected to the princes of Germany and to Burgundy and France; the queen’s older sister is married to the Duke of Saxony! And he will not have her crowned. He does not say more than a few words to her. Why? Because she is a proper princess and not a whore? What kind of king is this!”

  The door crashed open. A man appeared wearing a triangular feathered hat and a face as dark as thunder. He brushed past me to stalk down the passageway. A moment later, a second man, plainly dressed, peered out of the doorway. He was of middle years with a broad, homely face. His hair thinned on his head, but his beard sprouted thick.

  “Mistress Joanna, you are most welcome to my workshop—please enter,” he said in English, with an accent. “I have sweet wine to offer, and cake.”

  As I entered, a bevy of smells encircled me. Some were familiar, like the lye we’d once used to cleanse the cloister floors. But some were new to me and so noxious that my eyes stung. Easels stood everywhere, with paintings mounted but cloths tossed over so that none were visible. Opposite the tall windows was a shelf for books and maps. It was a place that would ordinarily have fascinated me, except that I was shaken by the other man’s angry words. I greatly feared that he meant Catherine Howard when he said “whore.” This was what Catherine failed to understand—the irreparable damage to her good name.

  Holbein said gently, “Are you not well, Mistress Joanna?”

  “I am well,” I said quickly. “It is only that . . .” My voice trailed away.

  Master Holbein reached out to take my hand, even more gently, “Perhaps you understand French?”

  “I do, sir.”

  Holbein sighed. “Allow me to attempt an explanation.”

  He steered me to a seat near the window. It was open; I could hear the milling throng from the King Street and courtyards below. He sliced some brown cake and poured me a tall goblet of wine. I did not touch either.

  “The gentleman who came to see me is an ambassador,” Holbein said. “His name is Doctor Karl Harst. He represents Duke William of Cleves in England and is quite upset about the status of the duke’s sister, our Queen Anne. We Germans are a passionate people, Mistress Joanna.”

  “The ambassador seeks you out as a fellow countryman?”

  “I left Augsburg long, long ago,” he said. “But I did know the queen before she came to court. I painted her in Cleves, so that King Henry could see what she looked like before deciding on her as consort.” He pulled on his beard. “Some now say I did a poor job, that I showed the king a lovely young woman who did not exist.”

  Holbein’s tone was light, but there was an edge of worry to his words.

  He continued, “It all goes beyond appearance. Doctor Harst does not want to accept this, but the Cleves alliance is not as important as it was six months ago, regardless of the queen’s charms. The ambassadors of France and Spain each court His Majesty. Ambassador Chapuys is fully back in the king’s favor.”

  “Ambassador Chapuys is here?” I asked, aghast. “But that can’t be; he left court—he was recalled last year. He lives in Antwerp.”

  “No, Chapuys returned to England.”

  I had seen no sign of the Emperor Charles’s ambassador, nor heard the whisper of Chapuys’s name.

  “When?” I could not hide the desperation in my voice. “Do you know the date that he arrived?”

  “Perhaps a month ago,” answered Holbein. “But may I inquire as to why this concerns you so? Eustace Chapuys is a man respected throughout Christendom for his diplomacy, learning, and culture. Have you ever met the imperial ambassador?”

  “Yes,” I murmured. “My mother was Spanish.”

  I was horrified but not shocked. This was what I’d sensed, ever since I learned that the man who attacked me must have stolen a page’s doublet. A plan that clever, it reeked of Chapuys and the amoral man sent to spy on me and then train me: Jacquard Rolin. Jacquard’s twisted lessons were with me still. My telling Holbein the truth about knowing Chapuys, but only a small part of the story, that was what Jacquard taught me to do. “Tell the truth whenever you can,” Jacquard always advised. “It is stupid lies that will ensnare you.”

  But I wasn’t certain. There was also a recklessness, a difficulty, to the plot against me that did not seem like something Chapuys would sanction. He was so careful. And still I did not understand why I should be attacked at Whitehall instead of in Dartford. If it were true he’d been in England for a month, that would have allowed enough time to dispatch an assassin. Nothing about this made sense.

  Holbein was saying, “You favor your mother in your coloring, then. I was wondering. Forgive me, but you do not resemble the king nor any of his children.”

  “You are most assuredly forgiven,” I said.

  Hearing that, Holbein shook with a laugh, swiftly suppressed. “Tell me, Mistress Joanna, how I may best be of service today. I believe His Majesty wishes me to discuss tapestries and your weaving of them.”

  “Oh, yes?” I felt disappointed. I’d hoped otherwise. The grinning skeleton reaching for the ruler, that image haunted me, even with all of my fears and problems. I ached to know what spurred him to paint it and all those other skeletons the king described. This courteous man who spoke gently and took such pains to make me comfortable, I could not connect him with The Dance of Death.

  “Tell me of your plans,” Holbein said, trying again to coax me into conversation.

  “They are not my plans. The king wishes to commission me to weave my next one, The Sorrow of Niobe, here, in London.”

  “That is most exciting, and I congratulate you,” said Holbein. “I am sure it will be the first of many more commissions.”

  What a horrible future he painted for me: bound to the king forever, a poor relation trapped in the orbit of the court.

  “Mistress Joanna, I do not pry into the feelings of others unless they wish me to, but why such sadness?” Holbein asked. “You are a woman of tragedy here in my workshop. And although that interests me—any artist would be intrigued—I am concerned, too.”

  “Did the king tell you that he wishes me to use a living woman as the model for Niobe?” I asked. “And that the woman, Catherine Howard, is a maid of honor to the queen?”

  I had my answer at once. Holbein sighed and then laughed, but not the deep joyful sound of before. It was a weary chuckle. “Of course, of course. When he is like this, the king does not see clearly, he does not perceive the position of others,” he said. “He is sensitive only to himself, and to the lady in question. Sometimes not even her.”

  “This lady,” I said quickly, “is a friend of mine. She is not the sort you may assume her to be, Master Holbein.”

  “I apologize for any offense given,” he said, squeezing my hand in his fatherly fashion. “Then you plan to use Mistress Howard as your subject?”

  I shrugged. “T
he timing is difficult. The faces of a tapestry are finished at the end of the weave. I have already purchased a design from Brussels, and certainly the face can be modified to resemble a specific person. But it will be months before I reach that stage.”

  Holbein pleaded with me once more to have cake and wine. Once I’d relented, he poured himself a tall goblet, too. “For digestion,” he said, and sipped with appreciation. The cake was dense but moist; when I broke off a piece, not a single crumb floated to my plate. It was more sugary than anything I’d tasted in months, so sweet my tongue ached. As for the wine, it was light and reminded me of strawberries, a welcome change from the heavy wine at the king’s table.

  “Would you require a subject to sit for you?” he asked. “Unless you are trained in portrait drawing, it might not serve your purpose. I would think a sketch or painting of Mistress Howard—as close a likeness as possible—would better serve.”

  “Yes, that makes sense. However, there is none that I know of.”

  Holbein said, still musing, “I could draw her for you, but it would require a portion of Mistress Howard’s time.”

  An idea, fully formed, jumped into my head. “How much time?” I asked.

  Holbein said, pulling on his beard, “I was able to paint Christina of Milan when given no more than three hours of her time, but ideally I would like four days, in a row.”

  “Can you begin at once? And of course you must inform me of your fee.”

  Holbein waved his hand. “I am paid a handsome wage by King Henry, I do not need to extract coins from you, Mistress Stafford. I wish to help you—but I have no assistant at present. His mother is ill and I have excused him from his duties until May Day.”

  “I am terribly ignorant, but could I serve as apprentice?” I asked.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Holbein agreed because a drawing that used chalk would not require as much assistance as paints.