The Tapestry: A Novel

by Nancy Bilyeau

  Frowning, Catherine said, “I agree that Joanna should not be alone, but you’re proposing to guard her as if the criminals of London were plotting another attack. She is safe here. There is no safer place in the kingdom.”

  As I listened to his cool, careful tone while he worked out the hours of protection, I suspected that, like me, Geoffrey realized this was no robbery attempt. He was a constable and knew better than anyone in the room, perhaps better than anyone in the palace, what a common thief was capable of. That was not who I encountered this morning.

  Catherine refused to leave my side until two hours past sundown. She fed me gruel and fussed over my comfort, asking me over and over if I were better. I assured her I was, although the relentless pain in my head and arm meant that true comfort was impossible and sleep should prove elusive.

  A moment after Catherine finally kissed my cheek and left, Geoffrey Scovill took the stool beside my bed.

  “I know you are weak and in pain, but, Joanna, you must tell me more than what you’ve disclosed so far,” he said. “If I am to save your life, I must know what you know. Hold nothing back. Because even if you tell me absolutely everything, the odds are not necessarily in your favor. If you keep lying to me, the odds drop to your having no chance at survival at all.”

  I swallowed, and said, “But these underconstables of London—won’t they find out who killed Richard and tried to kill me?”

  “No, they won’t. They are searching for thieves, and you and I both know the men in question were not thieves. I told them of the man wearing a Howard doublet just like Richard’s leading you up the lane, but they don’t believe me, a country constable. It is too fantastical, they say. But I know what I saw.”

  “But—but if you guard me, you and the others, will I not at least be safe here?”

  He said, “Your friend Thomas Culpepper told me everything.”

  “Everything?” It was impossible to hide my shock.

  “That’s correct, Joanna. So you should abandon this pose. I know that someone impersonating a page led you through Whitehall and attacked you in a storeroom. Since the method of the crime is so similar, it is definitely the same men who attacked you today.”

  “‘Men’? You think a group is at work?”

  “It’s obvious that a group is working to kill you, one whose members possess intelligence, daring, experience—and money. And they are familiar with the streets of London and the layout of the palace. I had the devil of a time gaining admittance to Whitehall, while these men move about it with impunity.”

  I covered my eyes with my right hand, and pleaded, “Stop, you’re frightening me.”

  But Geoffrey lifted my hand and placed it back by my side. “I want to frighten you, Joanna. It is the only way I can think of to break down your stubbornness and to make you grasp what is happening. This is a game of cat-and-mouse such as I’ve never seen in my life. And, Christ’s blood, what a cat you’ve got after you.”

  Geoffrey ran his hand through his hair. He was exhausted. But there was more to it—he, too, was afraid.

  “You know who it is, don’t you?” I said.

  “I have a pretty good idea, yes,” Geoffrey said. “Joanna, the men who want you dead must be King Henry the Eighth and Thomas Cromwell.”

  23

  The master spy Jacquard Rolin taught me that when you are trapped in a corner with someone who demands to know things, things you do not wish to disclose, one way to buy more time is to make a gift out of a choice selection of your secret. “Think of it as a portion of cake—share the sugar topping so your opponent will be so delighted with his delicious morsel, he may never ask for the whole slice.”

  Geoffrey Scovill was saying he was certain that the king and his chief minister lured me to Whitehall under the pretense of desiring a tapestry. And then, when the first attempt on my life failed, they’d devised a second. Who else, he said, possessed both the ready resources and the advance knowledge of my traveling to London besides the men at the very top?

  I said, “I find I cannot agree with your theory, Geoffrey, but to explain why, I will have to tell you something that I’ve disclosed to no other person, including Thomas Culpepper. If I tell it to you, it must be under the condition that you tell no one else, not even John Cheke—on your honor.”

  Geoffrey said, “Of course I give you my word, you need have no fear of that.” His eyes shone with eagerness. I felt guilty for my feint.

  I said, “Did Master Culpepper tell you that Cromwell ran across me in a room in Westminster Hall and dragged me into the great hall where Parliament waited, to see him made Earl of Essex?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Is that not true?”

  “I was dragged into the great hall, yes, but there was more to the way we met. Master Culpepper left me in a small, empty room while he set out to attend the ceremony in the hall. What happened was that Cromwell himself stepped into the room and, while I watched, unobserved, he gave way to a moment of great distress.”

  “What sort of distress?”

  “He buried his face in his hands and he groaned and said, ‘Oh no.’ He was quite upset.”

  Geoffrey was as astounded as I thought he’d be. “Why would the Lord Privy Seal, valued above all other men by the king and on the brink of being raised to an earldom, be upset?”

  “I don’t know. But what I do know is that he was deeply shocked and then angry to see me in the corner of the room.”

  “Perhaps he was surprised because he was the one who devised the plot against you and did not expect to see you alive and at liberty.”

  “No,” I said. “His anger came from embarrassment.” I hesitated, trying to find the words to explain something I’d been brooding over for quite some time. “It’s as if Cromwell and I have made an unspoken pact with each other. I shall remain silent about what I saw, and he shall not move against me as long as I do.”

  Geoffrey said, “Now I have a better understanding of why you insisted to Culpepper that the attack against you not be reported once the two of you discovered that someone stole a page’s livery. You were trying to maintain this delicate balance, to not bring more attention to yourself.”

  I nodded, relieved that Geoffrey took this attitude.

  But then he pushed on, saying, “The summons to appear at Westminster was signed by Cromwell but it was the king’s command. Perhaps it is all the king’s idea, not Cromwell’s. Wouldn’t this be the perfect way for King Henry to eliminate another Stafford, a family he is known to despise?”

  I understood why Geoffrey seized on these theories, but his reasoning was flawed because of his lack of firsthand knowledge of the court of Henry VIII. Something that I now, somewhat unfortunately, possessed. “It’s true that my family has fallen from favor, but that is not the king’s way,” I said. “If he wanted to strike me down, he’d have me arrested on trumped-up charges and sent to the Tower. I’ve personally witnessed him do that to others.”

  Glancing back at the door to make sure no one could hear him, Geoffrey said in a low voice, “But this king is known for deviousness.”

  “Yes, he is, but, well, King Henry is also an impatient man. I’ve witnessed that, too. If he were unhappy with me, he’d have me punished immediately. To sanction these conspiracies that take weeks, if not months, to bring to fruition? No.”

  Geoffrey ran his knuckles up and down his cheeks, as if trying to keep himself awake. He was not ready to give up. “King Henry loathes the people of the monasteries, and you were once a Dominican novice. I find it hard to believe that he would put aside his feelings against the abbeys and against the Staffords, to obtain some tapestries. Nothing you weave could be that extraordinary.”

  That statement stung. I remembered now that my tapestry enterprise always seemed to puzzle Geoffrey, and that he had never had the faith in my abilities that Edmund had.

  Geoffrey did
not notice that I was hurt and continued, “To plan the ambush takes time, and the king is the one who set the date of your ride into London. He and Cromwell were the only ones who knew when you would leave Whitehall.”

  I said wearily, “No, they weren’t. Sir Anthony Denny and Sir Thomas Heneage, gentlemen of the privy chamber, were present when the order was given. Royal secretaries were present.” A thought occurred. “How did you know, Geoffrey? These others have accepted that you happened to be in London on the very street where I was nearly abducted. But I know you must have followed me.”

  “I don’t deny it,” he said stoutly. “John Cheke heard about the ride to the Great Wardrobe from your artist friend, Master Holbein, at dinner in the great hall yesterday. Cheke was at the same table as Holbein and a Sir Andrew Windsor. He told me when I came to see him later. I could see that you were hiding something at Bishop Gardiner’s palace, and I had a feeling—a strong feeling—that you were in some sort of danger. I thought I would wait for you to leave the palace and follow, while keeping a bit of distance, just to be sure.”

  At least Geoffrey had the grace not to point out how right he was.

  “But if you could learn of my leaving Whitehall the next day, so could others,” I pointed out. “It was spoken of at a table in the great hall. News spreads very fast in a palace. Everyone knows everything about each other.”

  Geoffrey sat back. The candle lit in the corner flickered low behind him and I couldn’t read the expression on his face, now in shadow.

  “Very well,” he said. “Who do you think is behind these attacks? You must have your own ideas.”

  “I don’t know,” I said, frustrated. “I truly don’t.”

  For once Geoffrey did not get angry that I failed to give him an answer. He was quiet for another long moment and then said, “Who hates you in the palace, Joanna? Who are your enemies? We shall try to address the problem that way.”

  Here I was, back in the same corner, with the shrewd and relentless Geoffrey Scovill asking all the questions I dreaded.

  I blurted, “Let’s just say that I would have rather recovered from my injuries in the open road than at the house of the Duke of Norfolk.”

  Geoffrey gave a low chuckle and said, “Joanna, I must agree, since the first time I met His Grace the Duke of Norfolk, he was in a cell in the Tower of London, and the second time, he said he would hang me if he ever found us together again.”

  It was impossible not to laugh, though pain shot through my left arm as I shook with it. “Stop, no, Geoffrey, I can’t laugh.”

  “Sorry.” He smiled, and pressed his hand on my right shoulder to still me, as if I were a rocking horse that must stop rocking.

  I realized at that moment that I had not been alone with Geoffrey like this for a very long time. He got to his feet. Had his thoughts been running along the same lines?

  “You must rest, Joanna. I will be just outside this door until Cheke comes to relieve me.”

  He said the words quickly and with that, he was gone.

  I was grateful to have Geoffrey’s protection, but there was no rest. The pain from my injuries was too severe for me to sleep, yet my mind and body were extraordinarily fatigued. I kept sinking into a fragmented dream state, and visions would run past me: a man wearing Howard livery who waved in a jaunty way at the top of a lane, a horse that wouldn’t stop bucking, a short man with a peacock feather in his hat who screamed at a huge crowd of Londoners, yet his words seemed just for me: Will no one rid me of this troublesome priest?

  The pain in my head and arm pulled me out of this vision as with all the others, and hurled me back into my narrow bed in the warm, airless palace. Hours passed this way until dawn broke and Catherine Howard returned. One look at me, and she ordered that the barber-surgeon be called for. Then she busied herself with making sure I ate some freshly baked bread. I had no appetite at all, but did my best to oblige her.

  “I never would have expected that a crime on the streets of London would bring us back together as friends, Joanna,” she said timidly.

  “I was always your friend, and I always shall be,” I said. “I only wish I had helped you when you required it most.”

  “What do you mean?”

  My voice shaking, I said, “I should have protected you from the king. I failed to do that and now—”

  Catherine’s face turned scarlet but she did not weep or bluster. She said, “I know you have suffered at the thought that the king took my virtue.”

  “And he has not?” I said in disbelief.

  She whispered, “I was not a maid when the king took me, Joanna.”

  I could not speak for the shock of it. A girl of tender years and of good family, how was such a violation possible? I had never known of a daughter of a noble house being despoiled before marriage. But the Howards were careless, immoral people. They had not taken proper care of a motherless girl. And, knowing she was damaged goods, they had not hesitated to push her toward the king for further soiling.

  “You do not know the man, and it ended just before you and I were together at Howard House. I can say no more—please, promise me you will tell no one,” Catherine pleaded.

  I promised her silence, my heart aching with pity. Her childhood had been a grievous one. Now she had fine clothes and jewels; important people like Doctor Butts and the barber-surgeon came when she called and Master Hans Holbein painted her portrait. But that would all change when her stint as royal mistress was over. Without husband or parents, it would be as if she were Mary Magdalene, fending off stones thrown in the street. More than ever, I intended to be of support and help to her when that time came.

  The barber-surgeon was not as alarmed as Catherine by my appearance. He focused on the fact that my blurred vision and dizziness had eased. It was now safe to give me potions to help me sleep, he announced. The first herb to ease my pain and bring me true rest was a pot of comfrey tea. I recognized its foul smell from the days when I would brew batches of it for Edmund, to give to his customers in Dartford.

  “You should be well within the fortnight, Mistress Stafford, though your arm will need bandaging for a month and be stiff for a time afterward,” said the barber-surgeon. “Doctor Butts’s fear was of infection and fever from your arm wound, which is almost always fatal. But do not be troubled—I assured him, as I do you, that no one can set a bone better than I in the Palace of Whitehall. The king’s physicians never touch a patient, yet they consider themselves wiser than those of us who do.”

  The physicians and the barber-surgeons always quarrel, and both of them look down on the apothecaries. That is what Edmund always used to say to me. I took a deep, shaky breath. Why was Edmund Sommerville so often in my thoughts as I lay, injured and dazed? When John Cheke arrived to take his turn at my bedside, I resolved to raise the subject of my former betrothed.

  “Do you think that this German physician, Paracelsus, has found a cure for Edmund’s affliction—is that why he traveled so far to seek him out?” I asked.

  Cheke said, “I’ve wondered that myself, but none of the inquiries I’ve made in the last six months indicate that Paracelsus has found a cure. My best guess is that Edmund sought him out for discussion of his opium craving, yes, but also to speak of healing and of philosophy. Edmund was not alone in making such a pilgrimage, you realize. For a generation, others have turned to the wisdom of Germany, and by that I do not mean the teachings of Luther. They seek the secrets of the magical world.”

  At first I could not believe it, that words so close to Hungerford’s came from the lips of Cambridge scholar John Cheke.

  “Who dispenses this wisdom?” I asked, as beads of sweat rolled off my forehead.

  “Ah, well, there was John Trithemius, Abbot of Spanheim. He wrote a book about magic, about communication with spirits. A scholar and alchemist named Johann Georg Faustus travels the country offering to conjure up demons,
if not Lucifer himself.”

  I crossed myself.

  Cheke said, “Then there was another man, a scholar and astrologer, who seems to be the most venerated of them all. He’s dead now—been dead for at least five years—but for a time it was the fashion in Europe to try to gain an audience with him or purchase his books. Even Englishmen traveled to see him.”

  One of the few advantages of being wounded and bandaged, stretched out in bed, is that when something distresses you, no one realizes it.

  “Don’t you know the man’s name?” I asked.

  “Let me think. It’s a peculiar one that doesn’t sound completely German, just as with Paracelsus.”

  He pondered, squinting, and then brightened. “I have it! His name was Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa.”

  Not wanting to raise any suspicion whatsoever, even in John Cheke, I counted to five before I asked, “This Agrippa and Paracelsus, are they of like mind and philosophy?”

  “Yes, there is a group of them throughout Europe, loosely connected, who seek knowledge from the same sources. Physicians, scholars, astrologers, alchemists, even monks. Some call it the invisible college.”

  “Why do they hold such influence, these men—and why would anyone, whether it be Edmund or others, travel to see them or read their books? The magical world is so dangerous. Don’t they fear the Inquisition?”

  Cheke thought for a moment and said, “Do you know that in the last twenty-five years there have been junctures when a great many people believed that the world was coming to an end? They sold all their goods and gathered in wait of the apocalypse. These are harrowing times we live in, Joanna, times of discovery and learning but also the greatest turmoil of faith in a millennium. There are the wars, some religious and some for power alone, such as the sack of Rome that unleashed such atrocities. The most horrific of them all took place in the south of Germany, when the peasants revolted to overturn the order of the world. Thousands upon thousands died. In the face of such a revolt, and the rise of Martin Luther and John Calvin, that part of the world is where people search most desperately for answers. And there will always be those who step forward to supply answers to the desperate. For a price, though. If not coin, then a man’s soul . . .”