The Tapestry

by Nancy Bilyeau

  Geoffrey, who had been eager to return to England and seemed recovered in health, kept generating excuses for both of us to linger in Regensburg. One day, I managed to speak to him alone about it. “This Diet could continue for the rest of the year,” I said. “Why should you and I remain? We have no role in this. We need to return to Dartford.”

  Geoffrey admitted to me that the bishop had refused to allow me to travel with him, even accompanied by a fleet of servants, because of the impropriety.

  “The bishop does not rule over me,” I fumed.

  “Perhaps not,” Geoffrey said. “But you know I have not been able to recover John Cheke’s money and I don’t have the means to travel out of the German lands without Gardiner’s help.” The prince elector of the Palatine, while enraged by the actions of Arnulf and von Seckenburg, had not been able to extract the stolen money from them because the two had disappeared.

  “We have no choice but to stay, although Bishop Gardiner has said I can leave alone at any time and he’d loan me some funds. King Henry gave him a vast sum to travel here with a retinue of servants. But even if I had the money for such a journey, I would not leave you behind. I have a bad feeling, Joanna. A very bad feeling.”

  37

  I lost my position as tapestry mistress in a letter I was not allowed to read.

  It arrived from England in June, bearing the seal of King Henry VIII. A long letter, from the looks of it, bearing instructions to Gardiner on all matter of things. One of the instructions was to tell me that I would not bear responsibility for the tapestries any longer.

  “But why?” I asked, in equal measure hurt and relieved. This meant I would not have to go to court. My life was mine again, to pursue in Dartford, safe from harm and surrounded by friends. This gave me joy. Yet there remained an undeniable part of me enthralled by the king’s exquisite tapestry collection and proud of my responsibilities.

  “This is my correspondence, and I have shared with you the facts that pertain to you,” Bishop Gardiner snapped, and left the room. As the Diet grew more charged with conflict, Gardiner’s temper worsened.

  Edmund was distraught. “Because of your journey to find me, you’ve lost a worthy position, and it revolved around your great talent for tapestries—oh, Joanna, I wish I could think of a way to correct this.”

  I assured Edmund that I would be fine. “The future of the Diet, that seems to be of graver concern.”

  He couldn’t deny it. The fighting grew more heated, the opposing positions more fixed. And one day, Edmund told me that the Diet had failed—the emperor personally implored the Protestants to accept the disputed articles, and they refused. Then the Catholics refused to consider any change in church treatment of transubstantiation, our belief that bread and wine becomes the body and blood of Christ.

  “War shall surely follow,” said Edmund, his voice tight with grief. “Here, in the German lands, in the Netherlands, in France. The wars of religion could annihilate all of Christendom. England shall continue its descent into heresy. And we were so close, I really thought we could do it—achieve unity.”

  I felt the familiar quake of worry over Edmund’s distress. Would he now disintegrate spiritually and end with reaching for opium? That was his tragic pattern. But as I spoke to him more of the failure of the Diet, I realized that Edmund was a different person. Perhaps it was his long sojourn through the wilderness, emulating Saint Dominic, followed by his passionate efforts to heal the religious breach—Edmund had finally found inner strength.

  Bishop Gardiner was another story. He locked himself in the study of his residence and refused food or water. Finally, Edmund and I persuaded him to let us in.

  His eyes were red from weeping, I was shocked to see. I’d thought the Bishop of Winchester impervious to such storms of emotion.

  “God’s plan is hard for me to understand,” he admitted. “I thought that at last we were to be forgiven—that I would be forgiven.” His voice broke. I remembered when I first met Gardiner, in the Tower of London, and he told me that his was the legal mind that supplied King Henry with the strategy he needed to divorce Catherine of Aragon, which led to the break from Rome, thus unleashing forces he could not control.

  “You have done all that you could, surely,” I said.

  “You are needed more than ever, Bishop, to safeguard the souls of those in England who are far from God’s grace,” said Edmund.

  Gardiner was silent for a long time. I’d begun to think we should leave the room when he stood up, nodding. “You have given me valuable support”—he turned to me—“both of you, which God in His wisdom knows that I did not deserve, after how I have treated you in the past. I shall make amends. That, at least, is in my power.”

  I should have rejoiced that relations between myself and the bishop were so harmonious after years of conflict and resentment, but instead I tensed inside. I wasn’t sure that Gardiner’s idea of amends would be to my liking.

  After we left the parlor, Edmund said, “What shall you do when we return to England, Joanna?”

  “Now that I am no longer expected to serve the king, I expect to live in Dartford once more, labor on my tapestries.” I thought for a moment. “I shall renew my efforts to bring Arthur back down.”

  I glanced at Edmund, who was deep in thought.

  “I suppose you will join the bishop’s staff at Winchester House?” I asked. “He has said how highly he esteems you.”

  “Yes,” said Edmund, “that seems to be the plan.”

  It felt strange to realize that when, weeks ago, I’d walked along the Danube with Edmund, I feared he was living in the past. Now he was the one pushing forward into the future and I was retreating to the life I’d led more than a year ago, when the summons arrived on my doorstep from Whitehall. It was like the children’s game that forced the one who threw the marble the shortest distance to creep back to the line of the beginning.

  The hour was late and the house quiet. I wasn’t sure if Geoffrey was awake upstairs. It was past time to retire, but Edmund did not seem to want to say good night.

  Clearing his throat, he said, “I know that I have lost your trust, Joanna, but if you could give me a chance to rebuild, if I knew that we could be friends . . .”

  “We shall always be friends, Edmund,” I said. Hope leaped in his eyes, which pleased me and yet saddened me, too. We could never be married, it was against the king’s law. Did I still wish to be Edmund’s wife? I wasn’t sure. One thing I was quite sure of—Geoffrey wanted a future with me, and there was no legal impediment. But was it right to marry him if I still felt this wistfulness for Edmund? That didn’t seem fair to either of them.

  And so we returned to England, an uncomfortable journey, not because of physical deprivation but because of my confusion. Every day I saw the two of them, and every day I struggled to understand my feelings for these men: Geoffrey and Edmund. Did I love both of them? Neither of them? Was I even someone who was capable of love for a man and should be married? I simply did not know.

  Moreover, I had two conversations along the way that troubled me deeply. The first was with Bishop Gardiner, and at my initiation. I wanted to know what was happening at the English court. My thoughts were much with Catherine Howard, whom I had neglected for so long. Although she must know I was in Germany these many months, she had written no letter to me through Gardiner. She was the queen of England, the first woman of the land, pampered and adored. It was ridiculous to think that the absence of my friendship had caused her any great hardship. But when I thought of her sharing the bed and board of Henry VIII, a strange fear clawed at me. I had to be sure she was safe.

  “Queen Catherine has brought much happiness to the king,” the bishop assured me.

  “My cousin the Earl of Surrey said at the time of the wedding she restored his youth,” I ventured.

  The bishop frowned, and said, “Yes, undeniably
so, in those first weeks. But His Majesty is no boy, it must be said. He’s suffered serious health mishaps in the last year. During one of them, he sent the queen away. I think he could not bear for her to see him like that. It is not always easy for Queen Catherine. And I fear that her household is not of the best quality.”

  I pressed Bishop Gardiner for explanation. It seemed that Norfolk had planted every possible Howard relative in the queen’s household, whether they held the proper qualifications or not, to take part in the spoils of the king’s favor. And Lady Rochford oversaw them all.

  “Does Catherine wield any influence on the king?” I asked.

  “She has attempted it,” Gardiner answered. “She spoke up for Margaret Pole, the king’s elderly cousin still in the Tower.”

  I was impressed that Catherine would show such bravery—Margaret Pole, the countess of Salisbury, was the mother of Reginald Pole, the king’s greatest enemy, and of Henry Pole, Lord Montagu, beheaded for treason.

  But then I noticed Gardiner’s pained expression. “Did it not go well—was the king angry with her?” I asked.

  “The queen’s concern was that the countess suffered from the cold in the Tower last winter, and she asked that blankets and warm clothes should be sent to her, and the king agreed to it.” He paused. “Nonetheless, the king decided that Margaret Pole was a dangerous traitor and she was executed in May while I was away in Regensburg.”

  Horrified, I said, “But the countess was seventy years old. Did anyone find new evidence of her guilt?”

  The bishop shook his head and closed his eyes. We both knew that the crime of Margaret Pole was to possess too pure a strain of royal blood. Yet how could a sick old woman pose any sort of threat? I worried anew for Catherine, married to a man who would do that.

  “But I do believe all is calm now,” said Gardiner, with the firmness of someone trying to convince himself. “The king and queen went on progress to the north of England this summer—we should return to London before they come back to the south. I have received word that it was a successful progress. The king’s motto for Catherine is ‘No Other Will But His.’ He has found the perfect wife, he tells everyone.”

  So Catherine was definitely in high standing. Still, I wouldn’t be at ease until I saw her. I’d just need a pretext for a visit. The only thing I could think of was to finish the tapestry of Niobe, with Catherine’s face. It would be my gift to her, and a way to thaw the ice between us.

  Just as disquieting, but on a different front, was a story Edmund told me about the Black Forest. There was a certain episode he’d omitted when we walked along the Danube, whether it was to spare me or because he was too unsettled to bring it up, I wasn’t sure.

  At Freiburg, the abbot asked Edmund to go to a village in the Black Forest where the people were tormented in spirit. Their terror was caused by a man with access to dark magic, to the secrets of necromancy, who had died in their midst and been buried, but his corpse did not rest in the ground. Because of the Dominican reputation for courage in the face of heresy, the abbot thought that Edmund could calm the village.

  “When I reached the place, I learned that the dead man was no crossroads sorcerer but a German professor named Johann Georg Faust, who practiced astrology and alchemy.”

  “I’ve heard of this man,” I exclaimed.

  “Yes, he was infamous. The most appalling story was that he sold his soul to the devil for the secret of great knowledge.”

  I crossed myself, and Edmund joined me.

  “Faust died in the middle of one of his alchemy experiments nearby. Some sort of horrific explosion. In the past, he had supposedly been in the presence of the nobility, of royalty, and even had an audience with the Emperor Charles.”

  My stomach tightening, I said, “The emperor?”

  “The emperor and his inner circle have always been interested in seers and magicians, though Charles the Fifth is as likely to turn them over to the Inquisition for burning as to listen to their words and believe in their tricks. It is probably a rumor, but in the village I heard that the emperor told Faust, who presented himself as a conjurer, that the man from history he most wanted to see was Alexander the Great—and Faust was able to summon him.”

  I crossed myself again and said, “Edmund, do you believe that the dead can be conjured by these dark magicians?”

  “I don’t know. I only know that the villagers told me that Faust was buried in the ground facing up, but then when some troublemakers dug up the body, the body had turned itself facedown, for better entry to Hell.”

  Now I was churning with fear. Seeing my state, Edmund apologized profusely. “Joanna, to assuage the villagers’ terror, I oversaw the disinterment of the man’s body. The story was untrue. The dead man faced up. I said prayers over the reburial of Faust and sprinkled holy water on the ground.”

  I could not leave it at that. “Edmund, do you believe that there are ways to summon up forces, not through prayer to God but other sorts of forces, that can control what men do?”

  Edmund frowned. “You mean, can magic be practiced such as the type of spells written about by Cornelius Agrippa?” he asked.

  It was the name I most feared hearing, and there it was. I struggled to present a calm face as Edmund pondered my question.

  “There is a danger in reaching into the deepest crevices of the past, of losing your soul to the writing of the ancient scribes—­especially when they are mixed with pagan practices of the forest,” he said. “Even Paracelsus was seduced by that elixir, and he drew close to heresy time and again. But, Joanna, I do not think that a man’s mind can be unduly influenced or damaged if there was no weakness there to begin with. And in the end, only the gentle miracles of Christ can save any of us.”

  Was that the explanation? Sir Walter Hungerford was an immoral man, no question. But my cousin the Earl of Surrey was no worse than reckless and vain, and Thomas Culpepper—what was his weakness? What had changed him? I tried to make sense of all I had learned, in England and in Europe, but could not be sure of anything.

  And so, in September of 1541, we returned to England. Bishop Gardiner hurried to the court of the king, taking Edmund with him, as I had expected. Geoffrey disappeared to his home in Dartford and then resurfaced as the constable of the town, to the joy of those who had missed him. I waited for Geoffrey to come to me, but he did not, which caused me both relief and regret. Every time I saw him, he was most cordial. But the closeness between us had vanished. It was as if I never laid my head on his shoulder in a cart rumbling to Heidelberg.

  I tried to take up my life again. I wrote to my cousin Lord Henry Stafford, asking again that he send Arthur back to Dartford. I visited Agatha and John Gwinn, and learned that the farmers were blessed with the year’s harvest. The nightmare of the previous year was not repeated. I went to see Sister Eleanor and the other nuns of the priory, too, and there I was presented with my tapestry of The Sorrow of Niobe, finished except that the face of the central figure, the tragic queen, was a blank. I thanked them profusely and, grateful for a task to occupy me, set about completing the weave. Hans Holbein’s sketch of Catherine’s lovely face would guide me.

  I woke up quite early one morning, intent on finishing my work. It was the first week of November and cool, but no clouds obscured the sun. Enough light poured through the front window to work efficiently. The design of the tapestry was balanced between in the upper left an angry god of Olympus stretching down from a thunderous cloud with one hand and Niobe, in the lower right, her hands outstretched, as she was changed to stone. Her beautiful shimmering dress hardened to a gray slab where feet and legs should be. Because the agony of her children’s deaths was so unbearable, the gods agreed to the transformation. I had worried all along that Catherine’s cheerful face would be too hard to incorporate into the tragic tableaux. But I was able to capture her features and coloring without sacrificing the mood of despair. />
  I finished the tapestry by early afternoon and was preparing to remove it from the loom when a pounding sounded at the door.

  “Joanna, Joanna—let me in!”

  It was the Earl of Surrey, his voice rough with panic. He tumbled into my home, travel-stained and disheveled. He had ridden hard down from London. Two bewildered Howard retainers stood behind him.

  “You have to help them,” he said. “You are the only one who has the sense and the strength to help them.”

  “What is it—who should I help?” I beckoned him inside.

  The minute the door slammed behind him, Surrey said, “The queen. Catherine. She is in great danger. The king has ordered her investigated.”

  As stunned as I felt in the first seconds, there was recognition, too, of the moment I had waited for, in dread, for months. Henry VIII turned against everyone eventually: his family, his ministers, his wives.

  “Is she taken to the Tower?” I asked heavily.

  “Not yet. She is kept close in her apartments at Hampton Court.”

  “What are the charges?”

  “That she was lewd before marriage.”

  I said angrily, “Is this a joke of yours? Everyone knows she was the king’s mistress before their marriage.”

  “Not with the king. With someone else. Such a corruption threatens the succession should the queen have a child.” Surrey’s eyes narrowed. “Wait. You knew, didn’t you?”

  I saw no point in keeping Catherine’s secret now, when we must pool our knowledge to save her. “I knew such a man existed, but not his name. How could this be matter for investigation? It was long ago.”

  Surrey told me that the question was whether Catherine had relations with the man after marrying the king. “He is her private secretary, Francis Dereham. The king received a letter containing reports that she knew Dereham when very young, that she committed wanton acts with him in the house of the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk.”