The Tapestry

by Nancy Bilyeau

  Something happened as we walked along the passageway leading to the river. Catherine’s fingers lightly resting on my arm tightened into the grip of a frightened child. She bubbled with smiles and greetings to those we passed, but her fingers dug into my arm, deeper and deeper. I did not flinch. I wanted Catherine to know that I would not leave her side, now or later.

  The wide landing stretched from the palace wall out into the Thames. Boats jostled for a place, with oarsmen eager for pence shouting to one another. The bishop’s guests wore blinding finery. A dozen shades of velvet, silk, and brocade flitted in front of the bluish-gray river. All those jewels, dangling at throats or sewn into doublets, caught the rays of the sun trembling atop the London horizon. I hoped that sunset would bring coolness to this uncomfortable day.

  An expectant trill danced in the voices of the women; the men stamped their boots as they laughed at their own jokes. A peculiar smell wove its way through the crowd. It took me a moment to determine its origin: the stench of the Thames, cut with scented oils that the noble guests had drenched themselves with before setting out for this party.

  “Shall we go to Dartford, Joanna?”

  Catherine said it so softly that at first I wasn’t sure I’d heard the words at all. Her lips curled into a smile but her thick-lashed eyes brimmed with fear. My mind raced to come up with a plan.

  “There you are, Catherine,” shouted the Duke of Norfolk. He bore down on us in seconds, flanked by his son the Earl of Surrey, Catherine’s brother, and about ten other men, all on the move, headed for a grand river barge at the front of the line manned by oarsmen wearing Howard livery. To my chagrin, Catherine’s moment of doubt was lost in the tumult of her arrogant and ambitious family, and we were swept up—conveyed to the edge of the landing.

  In less than a moment, the men had all jumped aboard the barge; now it was our turn.

  Catherine had to let go of me when the Howard servant lifted her onto the barge. The men handled her as gingerly as if she were a piece of Venetian sculpture. I recognized the growl of the duke as he spoke to her, but I couldn’t understand his words.

  I waited for someone to turn and lift me onto the barge, too. ­Instead, there was the thwack of ropes thrown onto the landing, and the unmoored boat pushed away. I watched a solid line of men’s backs gliding past me; there was no sign of the diminutive Catherine. Only the tallest of the men, my cousin the Earl of Surrey, looked back at me, his face scrunched with shame. Leaving me behind was no oversight.

  It had gone very quiet on this part of the landing— until a man snickered behind me. Another hushed him, quickly.

  I felt the gentlest tug on my elbow. I turned, my cheeks flaming, ready to take on whoever was set to make a mockery of me. But it was Thomas Culpepper. He made a deep bow.

  “I’d be honored to escort you to Winchester House, Mistress Stafford,” he said.

  I murmured my thanks as he led me to a much smaller boat and, with a few words, ensured that we would be ushered aboard next. The gentleman of the king’s privy chamber and the lady he escorted took precedence.

  Once we were seated, side by side, Culpepper said, his voice low, “I have been most worried about you. Have there been any other attempts to—?”

  “None,” I said firmly. Someone hovering above me on the stairs hardly rose to the level of assassin—that was what I had decided.

  “I confess, I thought you would be back in Dartford by now, not attending parties, particularly not this one,” he said. “I was surprised to see you among the guests tonight.”

  “But I was invited.”

  “Illness can be feigned. It’s served others to avoid attending a party such as this.”

  “Such as what?” I turned to face him, but Culpepper stared straight ahead, not answering or looking me in the eye. His disapproval, followed by his refusal to explain himself, stung. I flashed back at him with: “I’m surprised, too, Master Culpepper. To find you colluding with all these other men, encouraging a young girl without protection of parents to submit to the king. It’s a dishonorable business.”

  That forced him to meet my gaze. “I don’t encourage it,” he said. “I had nothing to do with putting Catherine Howard in the king’s path. But I obey the commands of my sovereign, as I’m bound to do. As we are all bound to do.”

  I gripped the wooden seat with both hands. We said nothing to each other for a time. The oars slapped hard in the dank water, bearing us closer to the bishop’s palace across the Thames.

  Culpepper broke the tense silence. “This business with Hans Holbein—you were attempting to keep her away from Norfolk and Gardiner, weren’t you?”

  “You are aware of the sketch by Holbein?” I said, surprised.

  “The whole court knows of it. You don’t understand—everyone watches everyone else, nothing is missed. Everyone makes use of one another.”

  “You are saying that by commissioning Master Holbein to sketch Catherine for the tapestry, I am making use of him? I would hardly describe it in such a way.”

  Exasperated, Culpepper said, “No, Mistress Joanna, he makes use of you. Holbein hadn’t received a royal commission since the king married Anne of Cleves. Now he is a man in the center of things again. He’ll abandon the queen and all her party, using this sketch of Catherine Howard as a way to switch sides and worm his way back into favor. Holbein must have been so eager to win your commission, I wager he didn’t charge you more than a few pence. And he’s always desperate for money.”

  Could this appalling interpretation be correct? Master Holbein’s friendship had seemed genuine, but there was no denying that what Culpepper said had sense to it. I stared bleakly at the nearing riverbank. The Howards were disembarking from their barge. We would be next to arrive.

  “Mistress Joanna, I’m sorry,” Culpepper said. “I can see I’ve offended you. But I fear for you—and not just because the man who attacked you is still at large. At Whitehall, people get hurt in all sorts of ways.”

  I swallowed. “I am aware, Master Culpepper.”

  He said quietly, “I fear I was mistaken about your role in this for a time. I thought that you knew about Mistress Howard from that first day. When I came to speak to you in her rooms, to convey the king’s invitation to dinner, you looked distraught. She hadn’t told you then?”

  I shook my head. We were merely a moment from the shore.

  “But you were weeping. Are you sure that Mistress Howard did nothing to cause you sorrow?”

  That grim disapproval in his voice that always curled around her name—it grieved me. “Catherine is a friend, a kind person,” I insisted. “My tears were for myself. I was planning to be married last year, and it did not—it did not take place.”

  Culpepper sat back in the boat. “Now, that surprises me more than anything else. That you, Joanna Stafford, would seek marriage.”

  “Because I was a novice in a Dominican order?” I asked.

  Our boat eased to the pier of the landing of Winchester House. Ropes were tossed and secured. Those around us prepared to disembark.

  “Perhaps that is it,” he said. “I don’t know. All the young women who arrive at Whitehall, they want husbands, titles, jewels, lands. You’re better than all that, I saw it from the beginning.” He hesitated, and then said, “You are like someone from one of the ancient stories. A fierce Artemis with her bow.”

  Before I could respond to this, Culpepper was on his feet, his hand stretched down to help me out of the boat. Where others stumbled or crouched as they departed the swaying boat, his every movement was as sure and graceful as ever.

  On the landing to the bishop’s property, Catherine waited for me. She stood under a freshly lit torch, her auburn hair golden in the reflection of the leaping flames. I hurried toward her, relieved. Now we could finish our conversation.

  She said, “I was most concerned when my uncle’s river b
arge pulled away without you, Joanna. I was inconsolable. But I see there was no need.”

  Culpepper, coming up behind me, bowed and said, “Mistress Howard, I trust you are having a pleasant evening.”

  She didn’t answer him but turned to me, her eyes glittering as hard as the sapphire dangling from her throat. “My uncle has gone on ahead,” she said. “Will you walk with me to Winchester House, Joanna? I don’t believe you know the way.”

  I had been to Bishop Gardiner’s London residence before, but under circumstances I didn’t wish to disclose. So I accompanied Catherine, surprised by her unprovoked rudeness—yet again—to Culpepper.

  Greater surprises lay ahead.

  Between the river and Winchester House stretched a garden park, dotted with gleaming white statues. We fell in behind other courtiers walking up the well-manicured path slicing through the middle of the park. As if of one mind, Catherine and I slowed our steps so that those who walked ahead could not hear.

  I said, “Catherine, what you said before—I hope you know that—”

  She stopped me from continuing. “You are accustomed to cautioning me, but I watched you on the river, Joanna, and don’t be too angry when I am the one to caution you on a certain matter.”

  “Angry? About what?”

  “Every girl who comes to court loses her head to Master Thomas Culpepper,” Catherine said. “I wouldn’t want you to make that mistake and end with feeling foolish.”

  “Is that what you think?” I couldn’t help but laugh. “I am not smitten with him. Master Culpepper is a friend to me. That’s all.”

  “The way he looked at you—and spoke to you—and the way you looked at him, it was more than a courteous conversation. You seem to know each other quite well.”

  It was on that path, as the sun set over the trees fringing the bishop’s park, that I finally understood.

  “You are in love with Thomas Culpepper,” I said.

  “No, not ever,” she fiercely. “I did . . . admire him, I admit it, and he seemed to feel the same. Now, don’t rush me to chapel for more prayers, Joanna. He did not trifle with me. He never did more than kiss my hand. Because, you see, I wasn’t good enough for the exalted Thomas Culpepper. He has never seen a woman he’d wed, and although I was foolish enough to think he cared for me, he turned away from me, too.”

  We had reached the archway to the Winchester House courtyard. I drew her off the path—there was much to say now that I knew the truth, a truth I should have detected before now.

  “I’m sorry, Catherine.”

  She tossed her head. “Do not feel sorry for me, Joanna. I am the most envied woman of the court. I shall be honored, not disgraced. You’ll see—and so shall Master Culpepper.”

  A woman’s voice shouted, “What a lovely dress, Catherine.” I recognized the voice as Lady Rochford’s, and I tried to think of some way to repel her long enough to continue to speak to Catherine. But as Jane Boleyn neared us, I was struck dumb by her bizarre appearance. She wore a tight crimson dress with a low square neckline—her exposed bosom and throat and face were rendered chalky white, whiter than any complexion I’d ever witnessed, with two bright red spots rubbed onto the tops of her cheeks. She looked like a malevolent puppet.

  Other women sprang up around her, one of them as chalky white as Lady Rochford. They surrounded Catherine, cutting her off from me as effectively as the Duke of Norfolk had earlier on the river. All of them loudly admired her gown and necklace. I recognized two of the women from the dinner with the king and queen. Anne of Cleves was on no one’s mind tonight.

  Bishop’s pages threw open the main door to Winchester House and called to us to enter. I followed the others into the looming manor house, my head bowed. We were ushered into the long gallery I remembered, lined with exquisite paintings and tapestries. It seemed that we were all of us expected to wait here; the banquet hall must not be ready to receive this horde of courtiers. Pressed among the others, it was unbearably hot in the gallery, with the shrill laughter of Lady Rochford making my head throb. I backed away from the other guests, spotting a door to a dimly lit side room that might offer a respite.

  To my joy, it was a chapel, lit by fresh white candles behind the altar but quite empty. A painting of the Virgin—dressed in light blue, hair flowing long and hands outstretched—hung in an oak frame layered with golden leaf.

  I knelt before the altar. Despite this being the official establishment of a bishop, I had rarely felt more out of place than among such guests. The revelations of both Thomas Culpepper and Catherine Howard left me unsettled. Prayer could calm my disordered thoughts.

  Father, you alone are truly good. Hear the prayers I address to you. Grant my petitions, and give me more than I dare to ask, I prayed.

  Because the door between chapel and gallery hung open and the guests talked so loudly, I wasn’t aware for a time—I will never know how long—that someone else had stepped inside. It wasn’t until I heard the undoubted creak of floorboard behind me that my prayers faltered. My body tensed, as it had the night before, on the stairs of the Whitehall gatehouse. But this time I pushed down the fear. No one would seek to harm me so close to fourscore guests of the Bishop of Winchester.

  I crossed myself, rose, and turned, chin held high.

  Sir Walter Hungerford, the man who had unsettled me with his musings on evil, was on his knees, two pews behind.

  “My lord,” I said, dipping the shallowest of curtsies, eyeing the doorway behind him.

  But he did not rise. Sir Walter said, “When I look at you here, Mistress Stafford, I think of my book on the teachings of Aristotle. He wrote so eloquently of his classifications. Every single creature on earth was classified. But how could Aristotle—or anyone else—ever define you?”

  What possible answer was there to such a question? Remaining silent, I stepped into the aisle of the chapel.

  Rising at last, he said, “I was a witness to the Duke of Norfolk’s poor conduct on the other side of the river. I tried to make my way to you, to offer myself as escort, but Tom Culpepper got to you first. With the women of the king’s court, Culpepper is always quarry. Only with you do I see him in pursuit.”

  I hated the way this man could make anything, any action, seem sordid.

  “I intend to join the other guests now,” I said.

  But Hungerford stepped into the aisle, blocking me. “You are a woman of high birth, an obedient daughter of God, modest, disdainful, but when I look in those black eyes, I know you are something different. You have seen things, my lady. Things I have seen, too.”

  Repelled, I tried to dart around him, to reach the door of the chapel.

  Hungerford grabbed me by the sleeve and spun me around. His bearing was not lustful, nor mocking, but strangely respectful.

  “You have great courage,” he said. “I have seen it. Not at Whitehall. On Tower Hill.”

  I pulled my sleeve from his fingers. So Hungerford was there, among the onlookers, when Edward Courtenay and Lord Montagu were executed. That was the occasion when he first saw me.

  “You said a prayer that helped a man to the other side,” he said.

  The other side? I had never heard of anyone describe death like that.

  “Joanna Stafford, you know that there is a different conduit for man to achieve power,” Hungerford said. “Not just through prayer to God or service to the king.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” I said.

  “That’s not true,” he insisted, and then said: “The covenant is made. The guide secured and the others are chosen. But no matter what the priests say about the frailty of woman, you would be the perfect companion for the journey.”

  A covenant? It offended me—and frightened me, too—that Hungerford used that word. I realized it could be used to simply describe an agreement between men, but it had a holy meaning, too, one from Scripture. Man m
ade a pact with God to accomplish a deed, a difficult and punishing deed, by forming a covenant.

  I spat the words: “If you do not release me, I will scream, and I am quite capable of screaming loud enough for every single person in Winchester House to hear.”

  His grave, hollow-eyed expression sank into a sardonic smile. “I’m sure you are,” said Sir Walter Hungerford, and he let go my arm.

  I rushed into the gallery, horrified by this encounter, which seemed not just bizarre but blasphemous. No one noticed my state, though, for their attention was on the far end of the hall. Sir Anthony Denny had appeared and was saying something.

  “His Majesty requests the presence of a certain lady in the receiving room of Bishop Gardiner,” said the king’s gentleman.

  A titter rose and Lady Rochford, standing close to Catherine, called out, “Sir Anthony—I believe that we have the lady at hand.” Catherine had the grace to blush.

  Exchanging smirks, the men and women parted in the gallery, pressing themselves back to allow Sir Anthony to make his way to Catherine and her party. Once the gentleman of the privy chamber reached her, she stepped forward, curtsying gracefully.

  “Not her,” said Sir Anthony. He turned and searched the faces around him until he spotted me.

  “The king requests the presence of Mistress Joanna Stafford.”

  16

  As I followed Sir Anthony Denny, every single person in the gallery scrutinized me: some curious, others contemptuous. None of their reactions were as strong as Lady Rochford’s when I was requested instead of Catherine. She was incredulous, furious, her eyes traveling up and down, taking in my dark dress and plain hood, my lack of adornment beyond a pair of tiny pearl earrings, the only jewelry I possessed. Catherine rapidly concealed her surprise at my name being called, but Lady Rochford could not manage to do the same, as if my summons were a personal affront.

  I was delivered to this same receiving room two Novembers ago. On that tumultuous night, Bishop Gardiner and the Lady Mary sat side by side in high-backed chairs on a platform, with the Duke of Norfolk pacing between the windows. Two of those same three people were here now, but instead of the Lady Mary, it was her father, King Henry, who sat on the platform, with both Bishop Gardiner and Norfolk standing before him. The king wore cloth of silver and a pendant heavy with rubies and diamonds. His leg rested on a scarlet silk stool set before him. But his mood was anything but restful. He was deep in serious conversation with the duke and bishop. This seemed more an impromptu council meeting than a banquet.