Just before I stepped into the litter, I glanced at the intricate gatehouse, the same one that had so fascinated me when I first came to Whitehall. It seemed fitting that it would be the last thing I looked on now.
There was a flash of movement on top. I tensed. Some final attempt to attack me before I left court? A man definitely watched me from above. But as I craned my neck to better see, I recognized him: Thomas Culpepper. What a lonely silhouette he made atop the rampart. Before I could make a gesture of farewell, Culpepper disappeared. My friend was gone.
The distance between London and Dartford can be covered in a few hours riding briskly, but in this litter it took the entire day. I spent the hours in a daze, alternating between prayers and snatches of sleep. It was yet another dry, hot spring day. For safety’s sake, Geoffrey had ordered the curtains be fastened, so I saw nothing. We stopped frequently to rest the horses carrying this heavy contraption and for Geoffrey to peer in and check on me. I drank when it was offered. But it was still an ordeal of heat and of dull, pounding fear.
Someone wanted me dead. Someone wanted me dead. As I stared at the shifting wall of my litter, the sun hurling strange shapes against the cloth, I wondered what kind of mind could conceive of distracting and delaying me by means of putting on a play. And not just any play, but the story of Archbishop of Canterbury Thomas Becket being murdered by knights wishing to please their king. A rush of dread moved through me as the identity of my would-be killer began to take form. I know you, I gasped. But as my mind made a final leap, I fell back into confusion. My enemy remained a shuddering outline without substance within, like the hidden forms dancing against the litter cloth.
I was too weak to manage a full Rosary but repeated over and over, clutching my crucifix, the bit of psalm beloved by Saint Dominic: “Oh God, come to my assistance. Oh Lord make haste to help me.”
The moment finally came when the litter stopped, the curtains were unfastened, and, when I peered outside, there rose the buildings of the High Street of Dartford.
“I thank God and the Virgin for bringing you home to us!”
Such were the teary words of welcome from Agatha Gwinn, who was the first of my friends to embrace me, gingerly. Perhaps it was because the hour was near twilight—or because we’d left behind the crowds of London and Westminster. But whatever the reason, it felt so much more pleasant here. What a relief to see Agatha and the five Dominican sisters, all gathered to greet me, for Geoffrey had sent word ahead. Even Gregory our former porter stood among them, with his young wife. She gamely smiled in welcome while looking bewildered. It must have been a strange sight—the vestiges of the priory of Dartford gathering one of their own back into the fold—to anyone who had not endured what we had endured. I knew from their exchanged glances how dreadful I must appear: head and arm wrapped in bandages, face flushed and sweating, moving slowly out of the litter and toward my house. But no one said a word—for a few moments, at least.
Once over the threshold of my little house, freshly swept and tidied by these dear friends, Sister Eleanor, who outside Holy Trinity Church had pleaded with me not to go to Whitehall in the first place, could no longer contain herself.
“Sister Joanna, what have they done to you?” Her voice ripped through the cheerful murmurs.
Agatha Gwinn said, with a tight smile, “Come now, Sister Eleanor, that isn’t helpful, is it?”
Moving toward me as if Agatha had not spoken, Sister Eleanor stared into my eyes, her brows gathered in a scowl, and then pressed her palm to my forehead. After a few seconds she removed it, alarmed.
“Sister Joanna,” she said. “You are burning up.”
“The ride was long and the day is hot,” I said.
“No,” she said. “You have fever.”
25
How do I explain the next month and a half of my life? The first fortnight I could barely describe to anyone—a jumble of delirium and aching pain, not just in my head and arm but all the joints in my body. I was dimly aware of those who cared for me: Agatha and Sister Eleanor primarily. Agatha because she still felt like a mother to all the novices she trained, and Sister Eleanor because she had served as healer at the priory—that is, before a friar named Edmund Sommerville arrived and set up infirmaries for convent and town. Neither Edmund nor the sisters had ever put much stock in leeches and other popular remedies used to treat disease, such as a plaster of honey and bird dung. No, my friends washed me with cloths soaked in vinegar and made herbal poultices of sorrel and chamomile and pressed them on my forehead. They beseeched me to sip liquid or nibble bits of bread. The virulent fever went on day after day, and without sustenance I could not hope to outlast it.
Geoffrey was there much of the time, his eyes clouded with worry. “Perhaps we should send word to Whitehall,” he said one day to Agatha and her husband, John, gathered by my bedside.
“No, no, no,” I cried out, teeth chattering, for that was during a spell when I was fairly lucid but shivering as if it were winter outside and not blazing hot. “If it’s an infection of bone, I shall die. And if it’s an ailment, it is possible I will live. It’s in the hands of God.”
Agatha crossed herself and murmured prayers. But Geoffrey, looking even more troubled, said, “It’s not that I don’t have faith in God—I do as much as the next man. But you must fight, too, Joanna. You’ve always been a fighter. You must fight to live.”
I was silent. I had no wish to deceive Geoffrey. The truth was, I had given myself up to God’s will entirely. As I suffered the agony of this prolonged fever, I became convinced it was the culmination of a series of divine punishments. First there were the attempts on my life, then the cruel injuries, and now this ravaging disease. I had offended God—there was no question of it. Geoffrey was right, my nature was obstinate and hot-tempered. I was a fighter. But was this not part of my offense? A true daughter of Christ accepted God’s wisdom. I sensed that I was being put to the test now, and I would display to God true submission.
As the days ground by, I found it harder and harder to speak. I was aware of Agatha weeping beside me, and I struggled to comfort her but couldn’t form the words. “I used to pray for patience in my dealings with you,” she said brokenly. “You were one of my most trying novices. So headstrong. Prioress said from the beginning she saw great promise in you, but it took me months to see it, to grow to love you. I admit that in the beginning I prayed to God to tame your spirit. What I would give to see a shadow of that spirit now.”
I tried to speak, to comfort her, but I could not.
One evening the fever that boiled my blood seemed to reach a new, excruciating level. There was a crackling, followed by a rushing in my ears. “Help,” I cried, but I was alone in my bedchamber and no one heard me downstairs. Then the heat fell away and I was soaked in sweat. My face, my arms, my chest, even my legs. Something stirred in me, something new.
Slowly, using the headboard to pull on with my right hand, I sat up. I did not faint, nor cry with pain or confusion.
God had decided in His Mercy to spare me.
“Oh, Christ’s nails!”
I heard a man’s booming voice, full of anger, and then shoes pounding up the steps. Geoffrey exploded into the room, his face frantic. At the sight of me sitting up in bed, his mouth fell open.
“Geoffrey,” I said.
He raced toward me, a smile lighting up his tired face.
“I believe—I believe I’m hungry,” I said.
He burst out laughing. “You shall eat, Joanna. A feast!”
I’m told that in Holy Trinity Church, prayers were said the next morning in gratitude for my fever breaking. Both Agatha and Sister Eleanor insisted it was nothing short of a miracle. “I thought twice I should send to Father William for Last Rites,” confided Agatha. “But I know how much you detest him, so I postponed it.”
Father William, bending over me, gloating over my d
emise as he proclaimed “In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti . . .”
“Oh, thank you,” I said. “I would not wish his to be the last face I see.”
The recovery from such a virulent illness promised to be lengthy, made even more of a challenge because of my tender skull and aching arm. But, thanks to the steadfast nursing of my friends, I made progress on all fronts. Sister Eleanor praised it as an excellent sign when I complained one day of boredom. Even I, who loved Scripture, could bear only so much being reading aloud to. I wanted to study my own books, sit at my tapestry loom, and walk along the High Street.
Most of all, I did not want to impose on my friends any longer, and a solution was found in a brother and sister who’d recently begun working for the Gwinns. Pierre and Aimée were French; they’d come to London with a merchant but were left stranded when their master died suddenly without leaving instructions or money for the servants. Due to Londoners’ distrust of foreigners, they found no employment and were destitute when Master Gwinn came upon the siblings and brought them to Dartford. He offered me their service while I remained in town, a service I insisted on paying for. It was a comfort to have people living in the house: Pierre was capable of any task, and Aimée loved practicing her English with me. It was left vague about how long they’d be needed. None of my friends thought I should return to London—and they didn’t even know about the plots against my life. Only Geoffrey and I knew what happened to me, and one day when he came to visit me, he shared with me a curious observation.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you: Why did you curse on the stairs that day?” I asked.
“Because you were completely alone,” he said. “It seems there was a mistake in my communications with Mistress Gwinn and she did not know I counted on her to be with you that night.”
“How long had I been alone?” I said, surprised.
“You were unprotected for at least four hours,” he said.
We stared at each other for a moment. “Then my enemies have not followed me here,” I concluded. “For surely if anyone observed that I was alone in my house, they would have taken the opportunity to . . .” I couldn’t finish the sentence.
“I have not seen anything amiss since we returned,” he said. “No suspicious strangers in town and no evidence of anyone observing you at all.”
“Geoffrey, there was never any trouble here in the months before I journeyed to court, either,” I pointed out to him. “And I was alone much of the time. Which is part of the reason I didn’t believe at first that anyone plotted to harm me. Wouldn’t it be a simpler matter here in Dartford to dispatch me?”
Geoffrey’s eyebrows shot up at my choice of phrase, but he agreed. “You are correct. It’s only when you leave Dartford and go to London that these incidents occur.”
We both of us pondered that unsettling realization for a while, trying to make sense of it. And were unable to. I thought of the moment in the litter, coming down from London, when I’d felt close enough to perceiving who was trying to kill me, based on the choice of Thomas Becket’s murder as the subject of a play. But now there was nothing but a blank. That rush of recognition must have been a product of my fever, nothing more.
“Well,” Geoffrey said with a sigh, “if you’re strong enough to take on the question of attempts on your life, you’re strong enough for your correspondence.”
He handed over five letters that he had been saving for me. Three from Catherine Howard, one from Sir Andrew Windsor, and one from my cousin Lord Henry Stafford.
I read Catherine’s first. She apologized profusely for not visiting me in Dartford but promised me that she prayed continually for my health. In each of the short, hastily written letters, she hinted at big changes soon to come. “Be assured, you shall rejoice that Catherine Howard is your friend,” she scrawled in the third.
Shaking my head, I turned to the letter from Sir Andrew. He inquired after my health and asked that as soon as I was fully recovered, I make arrangements to receive the king’s instructions regarding his tapestry collection. Also to be resolved was the question of whether I should travel to Brussels to make inquiries about the new series The Triumph of the Gods.
I could feel the king’s impatience quivering through the careful script of the letter. If only I had a sound plan for how to proceed on the tapestry position—or anything else. The wrath of the king would flare once more if, after all he had said of the value of his collection and the need for family to help, I did not take up my duties. I then opened the fifth and final letter, the one from Stafford Castle. I didn’t see how it could upset me more than Sir Andrew’s. I was wrong.
My dearest and most beloved cousin,
The Duke of Norfolk, my esteemed brother-in-law, informs me of the terrible accident that befell you in London. He conveys that you are expected to heal completely and I thank God for it. We will light candles of thanks in chapel. But taking this into consideration, it would be unwise to send Arthur down and into your charge. Perhaps in one year the question can be taken up again . . .
I threw down the letter, tears of disappointment filling my eyes.
When he knew the cause, Geoffrey expressed sympathy. “He is a hale boy, I miss his brand of mischief. But at least you can try again with your relation next year. In the meantime—”
“Meantime?” I cried. “What is to be my meantime? I cannot take up my tapestry position at the court for fear of an assassination. Am I to live here in some sort of limbo, without livelihood or Arthur to care for? It is intolerable!”
He said, “I see I was wrong to give you this correspondence.”
“I cannot live like a child, shielded from unpleasant news.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” he said lightly. “I have sometimes thought that your life would be much happier had you experienced a little more shielding.”
I loosened my grip on my foul mood. “Geoffrey, you know I am grateful for all you have done for me. But in all seriousness, I must repeat what I said in the palace: I cannot be a burden to you.”
“And I repeat, Joanna, that you must wait until you get your full strength back and then make all your decisions.”
I continued to recover. I even managed to put on a little weight, to the joy of my friends. All the dizziness and soreness of the head disappeared; one wonderful day, Sister Eleanor removed the splint from my arm. It was stiff but, with practice, I should regain its full use, she assured me. After my repeated pleadings, Agatha took me for a short walk on the High Street, but it was less than enjoyable. Even though the hour approached Vespers, it was blazingly hot. The first time I attended church I heard, among all the well-wishers’ greetings, distress from the townsfolk over the drought, which began in spring and had worsened.
In the last decade Dartford had already been pummeled with change. This was once a town that revolved around religion and not just because of the existence of my Dominican priory. The inns on the High Street had always catered to the pilgrims on their way to Canterbury. Now that the king had destroyed Saint Thomas Becket’s shrine, far fewer people were stopping at Dartford. In the last two years, the construction of a new manor house on the rubble of the priory employed many of the townsfolk. The manor house was complete—it stood luxuriously empty—and so that source of work petered away. All that was left was the land itself. If the harvest suffered, poverty was sure to follow. I thought about what the old boatman said the night of the bishop’s banquet: This summer will be a time of want and pestilence. The lady of the river told me. I had been so caught up in my own frights, and so isolated from the town because of my illness, that I hadn’t realized how much the people were hurt by this unrelenting and unnatural heat. With the bulk of the summer before us, there was palpable dread in Dartford: What was yet to come?
After another fortnight passed, I woke up one day feeling completely restored in strength. I broke my fast with a slice of manchet
prepared by Aimée, and then I searched for the drawings for my new tapestry I’d purchased from Brussels months ago. I carefully placed the main one, the one meant to serve as background for the weave, on the loom. The beautiful long form of Niobe stretched across the wooden poles and boards and pulleys. I’d brought down with me Hans Holbein’s sketch of Catherine, but I wasn’t ready to inspect it again. I had no choice but to use it, yet I regretted incorporating my friend’s face in the weave. Niobe’s was a story of punishment by the gods and death.
Still, surveying my loom, I felt a new determination. I wasn’t sure where, or how exactly, but I must take up my responsibilities as tapestry mistress. It wasn’t a calling—my calling for the life of a nun died with the priories—but it was an affinity. My future was in tapestries.
I wrote a note asking Geoffrey to call on me and gave it to Aimée. He had not come to visit me much of late—perhaps my sharp tongue had driven him away, or he was simply busy with his resumed constable duties. But this could not wait.
The sun had reached its highest point when I heard a sharp rapping at the door. I was surprised to find on my doorstep not just Geoffrey but two visitors come from court: John Cheke, whom I’d not been expecting, and Doctor Butts, even less so. They were good friends, it seemed, despite their disparity in age.
In the parlor of my house, Doctor Butts looked me over himself, an uncalled-for honor from the royal physician. “Mistress Howard wanted to be certain of your recovery, and I am most relieved that I will not disappoint her,” he explained.
Perhaps it was because I’d been away from the court and its flowery phrases, but such deference to Catherine seemed excessive.
“Yes, I am myself again, and I regret that you came so far on this errand,” I said.
John Cheke cleared his throat and said, “Before we return, you should see the church in town, Doctor Butts. It’s of great interest— I’ve been told that Henry the Fifth’s funeral ceremony was held there.”
The Tapestry: A Novel Page 24