Part of me wanted to rush out of this room, dressed in only the shift I wore under my kirtle and bodice. My fingers trembled on the door. Those words Geoffrey said at the Rose Tavern—it was a declaration that roused some feeling in me I didn’t want to have. But then I remembered Surrey saying, The constable that follows you everywhere—I hated that my cousin described him so. I didn’t want to keep taking advantage of Geoffrey. Traveling together, the two of us—it was wrong. There must be another way to find Edmund while ensuring my safety. I turned and crept back into the bed. I would reopen the discussion tomorrow, I decided.
But when we gathered again to break our fast, Hans Holbein announced he would join us. “I’ve been needed by my wife and friends in Augsburg for far too long,” he said. “I shall complete my portrait of Queen Catherine in the next two weeks in time to travel.”
What a jolt that was—“Queen Catherine.”
Geoffrey responded with enthusiasm to Holbein’s announcement. I suspected that he, too, welcomed the presence of another person, so that we would not travel as, inevitably, a couple. Holbein would be able to accompany Geoffrey through the German lands, which solved many a problem.
Although nothing out of the ordinary happened the night before, Geoffrey told me as we left Master Holbein’s that he would take no chances. This time, we’d hire horses to ride the other direction, through the heart of London, and then circle around to Dartford. Wearily, I agreed.
Thus I bore witness to something as terrifying as what I’d witnessed on Tower Hill—and more heartbreaking.
The ride through London seemed like any other until we found ourselves on a narrow, shaded street opening to a much wider one up ahead, mobbed with people waiting for something—or someone. They were packed so tight we’d not be able to ride through.
“We can turn around, or wait for the crowd to dissipate and continue this way,” Geoffrey said.
“Let’s wait and rest our horses,” I said. “At least they will have respite from the sun.”
We dismounted and waited for whatever was expected to pass. It did not take long. A ripple of shouting grew louder—jeers mixed with cheers. I felt uneasy. This was no diversionary tactic. No one could herd hundreds of unruly Londoners onto a street with that as motive. But this was beginning to remind me of the spirit of the mob at Smithfield, as the soldiers dragged Margaret to the stake for burning.
“I think we should leave now,” I said to Geoffrey. Nodding, he organized our mounts.
We got back on our horses, but that, tragically, afforded me a clear view of the middle of the street over the heads of the mob. If we’d stayed where we were, at the back of the crowd, I’d not have seen anything.
Down the middle of the street a team of horses pulled a hurdle. I was right—these Londoners gathered to witness a procession to an execution. But it was not just one person strapped to the board. No, it was two men, wearing rags, chained side by side. One of them shouted something but the mob screamed so vehemently, I could not make it out. The other, a much older man, had his eyes shut tight, his lips moving.
I sat on my horse, rigid, disbelieving, while Geoffrey spoke to a dark-haired man standing nearby.
“Geoffrey,” I said, but he could not hear me in this cacophony. He was too busy taking in what the dark-haired man told him.
The crowd’s cheers grew louder. I did not understand it—the pair of prisoners had passed. Why did they applaud now? Part of me wanted to kick my horse and ride away without seeing the cause of renewed excitement. But the devil entered into me—what other explanation could exist for why I remained to gawk down the street, like any other hard, pitiless Londoner?
I saw, and what I saw defied understanding. A second team of horses pulled a hurdle of two men bound together; behind them appeared a third.
Seized with panic, I kicked my horse to ride away. There was no choice. I had to get far, far away from this parade of prisoners.
By the time I reached the opposite end of the street, Geoffrey caught up with me. He did not chastise me for bolting. He, too, looked shaken.
“Tell me,” I said.
“You may not be able to bear it, Joanna.”
I laughed, a mirthless sound. “If you knew how much I have borne already . . .” I forced myself to stop. That was a dangerous path to take. “Please tell me about those prisoners, Geoffrey.”
“The soldiers are taking six condemned men to Smithfield.”
“Yes, I knew it was Smithfield,” I moaned. “It had the same spirit as Margaret’s death. You were there, Geoffrey. You remember. Is that what is to take place—will they be burned?”
Geoffrey hesitated, choosing his words.
“Half will be burned—and half will be hanged, drawn, and quartered.”
I stared at him, uncomprehending.
“The man who was shouting, who came first, is Doctor Robert Barnes, a Lutheran ally of Cromwell’s. He will be burned today for heresy. But the man bound next to him, his eyes shut, is Richard Featherston, he was chaplain to Catherine of Aragon and a tutor to her daughter, the Lady Mary. He will be hanged, drawn, and quartered as a traitor who serves the pope in Rome over his king. The three Lutherans will be burned while the three Catholics are hanged and then torn to pieces.”
So King Henry VIII showed his true heart. He did not favor the Catholics, nor did he follow the Lutherans. It was impossible to understand him, to live safely in his kingdom. The removal of Cromwell had not made him a better man. There was something twisted—even diseased—in a mind that would command that the condemned be paired as opposites on the hurdles. How foolish Bishop Gardiner and the Howards were to think they could predict what King Henry would do—or control his actions.
“We need to return to Dartford as soon as possible—by whatever way you think safest,” I said. “And then we must leave England. Geoffrey, I don’t know if I will ever want to come back.”
They were words spoken in distress, but in the weeks leading up to our departure by ship, I did not come to feel differently. All that I had experienced since coming to Whitehall in April—in addition to all that passed before—fired within me a deep distaste for the king whose household I had officially entered as tapestry mistress. The final arrangements for my appointment were made with the keeper of the king’s wardrobe. After a visit of up to six months to Brussels, I would take up my duties at court. The week before we were to set sail, a royal messenger arrived with a fat purse of coins—the first installment of my wages. Standing in the parlor, holding the purse, I felt unclean.
I will use this money to find Edmund, I vowed.
I did not know what to say to Catherine, child bride to a monster. I could not bring myself to send her anything besides a short and stilted letter of congratulations. She did not reply; no doubt her life was too full of demands to take much notice of my quietude.
It took some doing, but I persuaded the sisters of Dartford Priory who lived in community to accept payment for their labor in weaving The Sorrow of Niobe. Sir Andrew Windsor had suggested that the male workers at the Great Wardrobe weave the tapestry in my absence, but I did not know the abilities of these men. I did have every confidence in the women of the priory. They had begun the work with me, and I was well pleased. I made arrangements for the loom and silks and the drawing to be transported to their farm. I would someday finish it personally, using the chalk drawing of Catherine Howard as model for the face of Niobe. But it was hard to picture myself returning.
Geoffrey and I took a wagon to Gravesend that late August morning. My packed belongings filled a large box; Geoffrey brought one satchel. As he pointed out, I’d need to live in comfort in Brussels while he traveled far.
And so there was every reason to feel relief and some anticipation when setting eyes on our ship, anchored at Gravesend. But I didn’t. The ship off Gravesend was shadowed for me. What was I doing, making such a trip?
How much of the reason was fear for Edmund and how much fear for myself?
A smiling Master Hans Holbein waited for us at the wharf, with unusual-looking groups of people clustered on either side of him. There was Doctor Harst, the ambassador to Cleves, and a quartet of women. I knew one of them: Mother Lowe, of middle years and stout. She had been in charge of the queen’s maids. Another woman was of her years but thinner and well dressed. Rounding out the group were two girls who looked about seventeen.
We soon learned that Doctor Harst had made the travel arrangements for the German women and escorted them to the boat to bid farewell. To the surprise of all people I knew, Anne of Cleves had decided to stay in England after the divorce. King Henry announced that if she remained in his kingdom, she was to be treated as his sister, with houses and income, and she’d agreed. But her household could not be as large as a queen’s, and so Mother Lowe and these other three attendants returned to Cleves.
On Holbein’s other side, a greater distance away, stood a different kind of group: a woman wearing a long, hooded light-gray cape leaned on a cane. I recognized it as the clothing of the blind. A young man hovered at her side, with a servant besides. Holbein told us that the woman, Mistress Collins, was indeed blind and in weak health, and her son had booked passage for her to stay with another son living in Antwerp and take some new cures in Flanders.
There were some fifty passengers in all, and we boarded in an orderly fashion. Doctor Harst waved goodbye to the German women—he was set to remain in England, and continue to look out for the interests of Anne of Cleves. The blind woman’s son and servant went further, helping her on board and settling her in her cabin below, and then rowing back to shore.
The passengers milled about the deck, excited. It was a fine ship. The voyage to Antwerp could take anywhere from two days to a week, depending on the wind and weather.
After a bit, Geoffrey took me aside and said, “There’s a problem for you. Only one small cabin was set aside for women passengers, and originally that was to be occupied by only you and Mistress Collins. The German women are a late addition, and no doubt the captain was put under pressure to take them. The ship is full and they can’t sleep among the men, obviously, so you’ll be packed in very tight in that room.”
I shrugged. “It doesn’t matter to me,” I said. “But there is something I need to speak of with you.”
“Something’s wrong?”
“Not necessarily.” I took a breath. “Have you considered the possibility that someone was put on the ship to hurt me?”
Frowning, Geoffrey said, “Your enemy shows resourcefulness, but I think that is going very far. Have you had any feelings of being watched, on the wharf or here on the ship, any hint that you are in danger?”
“None,” I admitted.
After a moment, Geoffrey said, “Of course I will take precautions. Do you have any thoughts on where the threat could present?”
Speaking carefully, I said, “Perhaps you could make sure that there is no one hiding aboard the ship. I cannot think that anyone who booked passage is a threat, but if there were a stowaway . . .”
“It will be done,” Geoffrey said.
30
The ship set sail, all of the passengers gathered along the side to watch the shore ease away. The winds did not blow as strong as they had when I left England with Jacquard last year. The sails billowed rather than snapped.
Hans Holbein was in his element, striding about the ship, friendly to all, speaking English to us and German to the former ladies of Anne of Cleves. “What I should be doing is teaching you German,” he said to Geoffrey. “You will find few English speakers on your journey to Salzburg. Some of the men speak French; and some of the clerks and priests, what is left of them, speak Latin. No woman of the German lands speaks anything but German.”
Geoffrey replied, “I can hold my own with French and with Latin, and I don’t expect I will be needing to communicate with the ladies. It’s not that kind of trip.”
Holbein erupted into laughter, clapping Geoffrey on the back; both of them cast apologetic looks my way for enjoying a joke that I might deem rude.
Their joking did not offend me in the least, for I had another matter on my mind. I continued to do battle with feelings of unease. Geoffrey told me the second morning aboard that he’d inspected the ship from bow to steer, searching every corner, and found no stowaways. He’d even concocted an excuse to speak with the captain about the passengers in his capacity as constable, and he learned all were vetted to some degree and considered utterly respectable.
But I could not relax. I slept only a few hours in the women’s cabin, where we were indeed packed as tightly as fish boxed for market. My place was against one side, the German women slept in the middle, and Mistress Collins rested on the far side. Everyone was careful of her; and in her broken English, Mother Lowe often asked if the blind woman needed anything: food, drink, assistance to the stool closet. Anything.
“No, I am fine, but thank you,” Mistress Collins would say in her faint, low voice. She didn’t want anyone to be bothered; I saw her eyes were bandaged within her hood, and felt sorry for her plight.
The second day the winds did not pick up sufficiently to convey us to Antwerp by evening, and the captain put out the word that it could require three or even four days to reach our port.
“I don’t mind, for I quite enjoy this,” said Geoffrey, pointing at the aquamarine waves foaming and cresting. “It’s so . . . open.”
He turned to lean backward onto the railing of the ship, sliding his arms out on either side. Closing his eyes, his lips parted, Geoffrey tilted his face up, toward the sun, as if trying to eat up its rays. I had never seen him like this before. There was something . . . intimate about his openness, and I had to look away, anywhere, toward the mainland that had not yet materialized.
Later Hans Holbein entertained us, beginning with fond memories of his youth in Augsburg and spreading to the fantastical children’s stories of his homeland. We three sat on boxes at the bow of the ship sailing to Antwerp and heard about a witch turning a boy into a fish and his sister into a lamb, of a frog who emerged from deep in a well to bully a princess before becoming a handsome prince, of a servant who cut off a piece of a king’s snake and could then understand the thoughts of the animals, the ravens, and even the fishes, of a wolf pounding on the door of a cottage to entice the children to come out to be eaten.
“There is an element of transformation in most of your stories,” I said.
Our ship sailed east, and the sun lowering behind us cast an orange glow on Master Holbein’s face as he smiled, and tugged his beard, and said, “It’s appealing, isn’t it, Mistress Joanna, the possibility of transformation?”
“I suppose so,” I said, unsure of his meaning.
“For the man Geoffrey seeks, Paracelsus, transformation is a subject of fascination, I believe,” Holbein said. “He studies the properties of many things, some say because he is nothing but a money-seeking alchemist. But I think he studies the essence of men, of defining who we are. There is something he is fond of saying that was repeated to me.” The artist paused to remember the exact words. “ ‘Let no man belong to another who can belong to himself.’ ”
Geoffrey asked, intent, “Do you think that a man would have sought out Paracelsus because he did not know his own essence?”
“It’s possible,” said Holbein. “But if that were the case with your Edmund Sommerville, I can’t say. I never met him.”
Hearing those words of Paracelsus, I should have instantly recognized whether they’d have some meaning for Edmund, but I felt only confusion. I did know that while Edmund trusted profoundly in God, at times he despised himself, what he perceived as his own weaknesses. A sadness rose in me.
I turned to Master Holbein and said, “The stories enchant me, but there is something that is a little horrible ab
out them, too.”
“Yes—yes,” he chuckled. “You begin to understand the German temperament, what our essence is, and why we love our poetry and magic more than any other people in Christendom.”
I suppressed a shudder at the word magic, for it brought to mind a forbidden grimoire and a rite that drove one man mad and a second to violence, and the necromancer himself to suicide.
Geoffrey said, “You make it sound a magical land, Holbein, but we know there is another side. You spoke of it yourself, that day at the Rose Tavern, of the bloodshed of the German wars.”
The artist went very quiet and then said, “I did not personally witness a battle, none took place near Basel, where I lived in 1525, but the Peasants’ War decimated the German lands, and all who survived it were deeply changed by it.”
“ ‘All who survived,’ ” Geoffrey repeated. “I have heard some unbelievable numbers of how many were killed in the Peasants’ War.”
“Two hundred thousand died—and you can believe that,” said Hans Holbein.
“But that number is extraordinary,” protested Geoffrey. “And it was all because the people were thrown into a fervor by Martin Luther?”
“You English blame all ills on Luther, as if he were a fiend from hell with powers beyond any man’s,” scoffed Holbein. “Luther distanced himself from the peasants, he even appealed to the princes to punish them.”
I was struck by how Holbein now distanced himself from us, even though he’d lived in England for years and years. Drawing closer to his homeland seemed to increase his ancestral pride. “It was the injustice, the starvation and misery, that the peasants suffered for centuries that caused them to take up arms,” explained Master Holbein. “It’s true that Martin Luther defying the pope opened everyone’s eyes to the possibilities of freedom, but the causes of that war belong not in Rome but with the princes and the dukes and the margraves and the knights and the abbots and the bishops—all those who oppressed the common people. Before the war was over, they learned to their great cost that all are equal in the eyes of God.”
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