The Tapestry: A Novel

by Nancy Bilyeau

  “Until we form some sort of plan, you’ll have to come with me, since I can’t leave you alone and unprotected,” he said. “I must attend this special convening at Westminster.”

  “What sort of convening?” I asked, apprehensive.

  “Just yesterday, the king called for his council, the nobles, and the commons to appear at Westminster Hall this afternoon. He intends to make Thomas Cromwell the Earl of Essex.”

  5

  Master Culpepper was in a hurry to witness the elevation of Thomas Cromwell, but I was not.

  “You would not see the actual ceremony,” he said. “There will be no women present, certainly. I know Westminster Hall well, and there is a small room you can wait in, undisturbed. When the ceremony finishes, I will reclaim you.”

  “I do not want to be seen by any member of the king’s council.”

  Glancing again at my filthy kirtle, Culpepper said, “I can’t blame you for that.”

  I was content for him to believe that it was fashion which motivated me to steer clear of such men as Bishop Gardiner and the Duke of Norfolk.

  “If you can guarantee concealment, I will accompany you,” I said. “But are you certain that afterward we will be able learn the name of this page?”

  With great confidence, Culpepper assured me he would find a way. And so I followed him down the walkway past the gardens of Whitehall, toward Westminster Hall, struggling to keep up, since my hip and my shoulder throbbed.

  But what troubled me more was Master Culpepper’s popularity. While no one had spoken to the page who led me across the grounds to the room of my attack, every single person we passed on this walkway called out a salutation, or made a quick bow. Who was my young protector? I had come to harm by not exercising all caution. That practice must change.

  “A moment, sir?” I called out. “I must speak to you.”

  He swiveled around. “Could it be later, Mistress Stafford? The Great Hall is not directly connected to the residence, and I fear we have not much time.”

  “No,” I said, stopping. “It must be now.”

  Concern outweighed impatience, and Culpepper drew me off the walkway, to a path to the garden, presently chained.

  “I can see you are a respected courtier, but I must know your exact position here before I accept any further assistance,” I said, despising my awkward little speech.

  Master Culpepper took no offense, though. Drawing himself up with pride, he said, “I have the great fortune to be a gentleman of the privy chamber to His Majesty.” He scrutinized my face and then chuckled. “The minute most people discover that, I am buried in petitions and requests for favors, grants, if not marriage proposals. You look as if I’d just declared I were a rag-and-bone man.”

  As always, my face betrayed my feelings. I was indeed dismayed that a man who waited personally on the king, entrusted to dress him and sleep in his bedchamber at night, knew anything about me.

  More somberly, Culpepper said, “You fear the king? Is it because you are a Stafford, and your uncle the Duke of Buckingham was executed for treason? I know that your family is not in favor, that the fortune is gone. That is perhaps why your dress is humble, why no family members accompany you, nor even a servant—why, indeed, you find yourself seeking a commission to weave?” I drew back, surprised. It was a more perceptive analysis than I’d given him credit for.

  Culpepper’s voice softened. “I know what it is like to be worried about losing everything, Mistress Stafford. The king favors me, yes, but what is here today may vanish in a fortnight. And I would then be no better than my brother, whose hand is always out for coins and advantages. What must sustain us is . . . true friendship. I told you God’s truth when I said that a relation of the Earl of Surrey would be awarded my every courtesy. If Surrey were at Whitehall, I would take you to him. But, in his absence, I shall help you however I can.”

  These were heartfelt words, and, looking into his clear brown eyes, I knew, without a doubt, that Thomas Culpepper would not harm me. I also knew that he deserved a measure of honesty in return. It was a gamble, but I took the plunge.

  “My Stafford birth puts me out of favor,” I said, “but also, I was once a novice at the Dominican Order of sisters in Dartford, now dissolved. That is, I assume, another mark against me, sir.”

  Culpepper showed no disapproval but nodded. “If you were pledged to a priory, I can see why the elevation of Cromwell would disturb you.”

  To that I was silent. Criticism of Cromwell was highly dangerous. He was a man alert to threat and aggressive to protect himself. When, over a year ago, he’d seen me at the tragic execution of Henry Courtenay and Baron Montagu on Tower Hill, he’d made it his business to learn more about me, which inaugurated a frightening period of surveillance.

  “I wager that half the nobles will watch today’s proceeding with anger in their heart,” continued Culpepper. “But no man could ever be of more value to the king than Thomas Cromwell.”

  There was an edge to his voice, and I wondered if this gentleman of the privy chamber shared such anger. But I was careful to betray none of my own hatred of Cromwell.

  Culpepper led me into the palace, up some stairs and then, to my surprise, we were outside and atop the gatehouse, walking across it to a manicured walkway that paralleled the street where petitioners still swarmed. It would not do for the courtiers to walk on the same street as the unfavored to the Great Hall and the abbey.

  My heartbeat quickened when a man wearing a red doublet swerved in front of us on the walkway. Before I could say a word, Culpepper grabbed him by the arm. But the man who whirled around to face us was . . . barely a man. A red-haired page of perhaps sixteen gaped at us.

  “Never mind, lad, be about your business,” Culpepper said, and we continued to Westminster Hall, walking so quickly that it was but a beat short of running.

  The instant we reached it, I spotted a doublet that plunged me into a different sort of panic. In front of the main entrance to Westminster Hall milled groups of men, and among them were at least three wearing black doublets sporting golden lions, meaning they were retainers of the House of Howard. The Earl of Surrey was my friend, but his father, Thomas Howard, the third Duke of Norfolk, was my sworn enemy.

  As I nervously scanned the crowd for a slight but vigorous man with graying hair, I remembered my last encounter with the duke, on Tower Hill, the same horrific day I came to the notice of Cromwell. To break free of Norfolk’s control, I had threatened him with a letter revealing his role in a sordid attempt to procure my cousin Margaret Bulmer for the king’s bed. I could still see his reaction so clearly: his lower lip trembling as he glared at me, his obvious desire to tear me limb from limb, thwarted only by the presence of so many potential witnesses surrounding us.

  “This is not over,” the Duke of Norfolk had whispered, his black eyes murderous, before leaving me behind on Tower Hill.

  It was a desperate gamble, to threaten the duke like that, and with a letter that did not even exist. His despicable procuring was real; he was known for his shoving of young women into the king’s bed. But I had no written proof of what he’d done to Margaret. It was the only thing I could think of, the only weapon that a powerless woman could wield against the senior nobleman of the kingdom. But now, should I come before the duke, I shuddered to contemplate his reaction.

  It was just another reason why coming to Whitehall today was an astoundingly risky decision.

  Culpepper, fortunately, led me to the far end of Westminster Hall, away from the crowd. We hurried to a narrow door, easy for someone like me to miss, but plainly my new friend was an expert of the court and all of its buildings.

  Inside was a narrow passage sparsely occupied. At the far end, I could hear the low rumble of many men’s voices. That must be the large hall where the commons and lords convened. As Culpepper had promised, the room in question was discreet. Insi
de was a dusty chair by the narrow slit of a window and, on the other side, far from the light, a plain bench.

  “What is the room for?” I asked as I stepped inside.

  Culpepper shrugged. “A place to rest from the proceedings? Contemplation?” He pivoted. “I must hurry now, it’s to begin any moment.”

  And with that he was gone.

  I chose to wait on the bench. It was quiet here, giving me the first opportunity to collect my thoughts since I left Dartford at dawn. I was exhausted, and thirsty, too. So much had transpired, and there was so much yet to come.

  In this dim little room, recalling what happened since I set foot in Whitehall, it all became absurd. Why would a page wish to hurt me, a woman of a fallen family carrying a commission for tapestries? For there was no question that he knew who I was, he used my name in that passageway, when trying to convince me, against my judgment, to follow him. Had he used my name earlier? I thought back to the beginning, when I stood before the gatehouse, when I handed my summons to the official, when the page stepped forward to escort me, when I said good-bye to Agatha. And then it hit me, a realization so frightening that the breath rushed out of my body.

  Neither I nor anyone had ever said my name aloud at the gatehouse or in the palace. And the page never read the summons.

  Impossible, I whispered into the dusty quiet. For this would mean that he was prepared for my arrival, he was waiting for me. There was a plot to hurt me—perhaps to kill me—and the page was the instrument. He was not a deranged creature but an assassin.

  This was not a matter for chivalrous Thomas Culpepper, nor for any of my innocent friends. I should get as far away from the court as possible. The only question was where. Where?

  As I sat there, convulsed with fear, the door opened, and a man walked into the room. The ceremony must already be over.

  But this was not gentleman of the privy chamber Thomas Culpepper.

  He was thicker and older than Culpepper. He did not speak nor turn toward me, and as he moved toward the window, I saw at once that he did not know anyone else was within. He thought the room empty and did not detect my presence in the shadowy far end.

  I should declare myself—I opened my mouth—when something about his profile made the words falter in my throat. Had I seen this man before?

  Before I could place him in my memory, the man turned from the window and buried his face in his hands, his shoulders hunched.

  “No,” he groaned. “No.” Was this illness? Or grief? Had he suffered some loss? It was quite wrong of me to bear witness to such a private moment. This man was in distress.

  I must have shifted on the bench—made a noise—for the man turned to face me, his hands dropping from his face. We stared at each other, both of us shocked by the face beheld across the room.

  The man in the room with me was Thomas Cromwell.

  6

  Joanna Stafford,” Thomas Cromwell said, as if he could not himself believe it. “Why are you here?”

  I could not speak, could not move.

  He bore down on me and I flinched, as if preparing for a blow, the sort of vicious smack I’d suffered more than once from the Duke of Norfolk. But the king’s chief minister did not strike me. He took the summons from my hand and read it.

  “Of course,” he said, his voice very quiet. “Gardiner uses the king’s passion for tapestry to set his spy on me.”

  That helped me find my voice.

  “I am no spy, my lord,” I sputtered. “The Bishop of Winchester had nothing to do with my coming to court. It is your signature on the summons.”

  “Why come here?” he countered. “This summons directed you to the keeper of the wardrobe, not to Westminster Hall. This is where Parliament convenes. It’s a stupid mistake, and we both know you are not a stupid female.”

  His calm words were laced with anger. It was not my being in this room that infuriated him but the fact that I had witnessed his distress, his fear. He was the second-most-important man of the kingdom. I knew that Cromwell and Gardiner were enemies, but he couldn’t truly believe that the wily bishop would ask me to follow him here—in the building that housed Parliament? If I were to disclose the truth, it would end his suspicion. But I did not want to tell him why I’d come to Westminster Hall. If I did that, then I must also disclose the attack on me, and how could I trust this distressing business to Thomas Cromwell? It wasn’t just that. I had to protect Culpepper—I owed him that much, at least.

  Cromwell took a step backward, nodding. “No answers for me, of course. But I shall have my answers, Mistress Stafford. Come.”

  I rose, but I was so full of fear that my legs wobbled. To steady myself, I touched the chain round my neck.

  Cromwell opened the door with a mirthless smile. “I expect that is a crucifix you fondle, Mistress Stafford. Before nightfall, we shall know for sure—and all of your other Papist secrets.”

  He was a man whose eyes missed nothing, whose mind worked faster than any other’s. How long would it be before he knew every single thing about me?

  In the passageway outside the room stood five men, all startled at the sight of me. “This lady shall accompany me,” Cromwell said by way of explanation. The men immediately fell in behind us, as the Lord Privy Seal escorted me down the hall.

  A way out of this suddenly occurred to me, and I said, “My Lord Cromwell, how could I be accused of spying on you if you entered that room after me?”

  Cromwell said smoothly, “That is not yet an established fact, mistress, who was present in the room first.”

  So he intended to alter the facts. It would be my word against his, and who would believe Joanna Stafford? As I walked down the passageway, my thoughts circled around Agatha Gwinn. How distraught she would be. My onetime novice mistress had sensed danger for me beyond the palace gatehouse, and she had been right.

  I expected that some sort of small room, sterile and windowless, would be my destination, the sort of place where Thomas Cromwell got answers to his questions, whether the targets be the lovers of Anne Boleyn or the friends of Henry Courtenay. But instead I was ushered into what was quite simply the largest hall I had ever stood in.

  There were rows of men lined up in front of both walls, two groups facing each other, the sun slanting through tall, narrow windows. Above us was an interlacing of carved wooden kings. Undoubtedly, I beheld the assembled lords and commons. To my shock, I stood before Parliament itself. They were assembled for Cromwell’s elevation, which I realized now had not yet taken place.

  “My lord Bishop of Winchester,” said Cromwell, not by any means shouting but loud enough so that all conversations going on in the hall ceased.

  “Yes, my lord Cromwell?”

  My heart sank at the sound of Stephen Gardiner’s voice. A hand closed around my forearm, and Cromwell pulled me toward the voice. There the bishop stood, in the center of the front row of the lords of Parliament, next to his chief ally, Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk.

  Impossible to say which of these two men looked more horrified. Gardiner’s lips pressed together and red patches flared in his cheeks. Norfolk squinted at me and then, recognition breaking, he took a step forward. His strangled curse could be heard above the startled hush of the assembled men.

  My face blazed hot as the attention of everyone in Westminster Hall turned toward me. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a young lord push aside another so that he could get a better look.

  But for Cromwell, there was only one other man in the room. He said to Gardiner, “I have discovered one of your disciples, Mistress Joanna Stafford, and in a most interesting place. She bears a summons to come before the keeper of the wardrobe, yet I found her here, in Westminster Hall.”

  “She is not my disciple,” said the bishop calmly.

  “No?”

  I turned to look at Cromwell. That satisfied smile reappeared,
which had twisted his face when he accused me of wearing a crucifix. It did not warm his features; nothing could lighten the grayish hue that could only be caused by working punishing long hours indoors, day after day.

  “But you are well acquainted with this Stafford woman,” said Cromwell. “I think we can trace it to the Tower of London, in the autumn of 1537. That is when she came under your protection.”

  Norfolk flinched—after all, he was the one who first interrogated me in the Tower, who alerted Gardiner—but the bishop reined in all emotion. I knew how hard that would have to be for him.

  Gardiner said, “She is not under my protection. She means nothing to me. You may question her all you like.”

  A high voice rang out across Westminster Hall: “My Lord Cromwell, who have you brought to our proceeding?”

  It was the king.

  Every single person in the hall had been so transfixed by Cromwell and Gardiner’s confrontation—with myself as the hapless cause—that Henry VIII had entered the hall unnoticed. He made his way toward us, his gait stiff and nearly limping. A gold doublet covered with gems stretched over his enormous girth. I was dumbfounded by the sheer size of the king. It took a moment for me to recognize the young man walking behind, to his left. It was Thomas Culpepper, his eyes wide.

  I sank into a curtsy, but it was a bad one, for my legs were trembling.

  Cromwell said, “I thought you still in consultation with your physicians, Your Majesty.”

  Henry VIII made a dismissive gesture with his ringed right hand. “We await your explanation,” he said, turning his assessing gaze on me. Those blue eyes—I remembered them from the day I was presented to him, a shy sixteen-year-old girl. Now they were sunk between bloated cheeks and graying brows. “This lady is known to me, she is of the Stafford family. But just why she has chosen to attend Parliament, a most unusual decision, no one has seen fit to tell.”