Henry VIII’s gray face mottled with red. His voice shrill, he said, “Do you not realize there are laws in our kingdom and she broke the law? She is guilty of high treason.”
I took a step closer and then knelt, bowing my head.
“You are the law,” I said. “You are our anointed king and supreme head of the Church of England.”
This was the moment. He would either move toward considering my idea or punish me savagely for suggesting it.
But Henry VIII did neither.
“Do you think I do not realize how they laugh at me?” he said, his voice now rough with pain and grief. “How forsaken I appear to every man in England. If I let Catherine live, I am no longer a ruler of this land.” He had dropped the royal “we,” I realized with a start.
I could think of nothing else to say but, “She is nineteen. Can you not find it in your heart to show mercy?”
There was silence as I stared at the polished floor, still on my knees. I prayed to God to move the king’s heart. Through my prayers, the stench of the king made me feel like choking. There was no more musk or floral waters. There was only the rotting of his leg. Like the stench of death.
“If I spare her, I could lose my throne.”
I understood now. For so many years I’d feared him, we’d all of us feared him. But beneath the jewels, crowns, satins, and furs, behind the heroic tapestries and posturing murals, was the truly terrified man. So much of the violence, both of the flesh and the soul, was committed from his fear, not his strength. Culpepper said weak men were drawn to the center of the court. But at the center was the weakest of all.
“You may see her, to say farewell,” said Henry. “That is all I can do.”
I rose and curtsied a last time, my eyes filling with tears, as I managed to choke out, “I thank Your Majesty.”
Sir Thomas Heanage gently guided me from the chamber and made the arrangement for me to go to Syon.
As I walked across the room once used by sisters and novices and abbey servants and now devoted solely to Catherine, I saw a woman changed as much as her husband. She had lost all her plump, dimpled, girlish prettiness. The fallen queen who sat rigid in her chair was a haunted beauty of high cheekbones and solemn eyes.
“Joanna,” she said simply, her hands in her lap.
“I’m told I can only have a moment or two,” I said.
“Shall we pray together?” she asked.
“If you wish,” I said, “but I think I should tell you about what happened when I saw Thomas Culpepper.”
Her face blazed with life. “You saw him?” she said. “I thought no one saw him.”
I told her that I had prayed with and spoken to Culpepper. “I know that you loved Thomas very much.”
She bowed her head. “I tried my best to be a good wife, to be the queen that Henry wanted me to be, what my uncle the Duke of Norfolk needed me to be.” She paused. “In some ways, my husband is not as terrible a man as you think he is, Joanna. In other ways, he is very much worse.” Her face hardened at some difficult memory. “But I betrayed him, and now no one speaks for me or attempts to see me. Except for you.”
“I am so sorry,” I said.
“Some days I have courage, like today, but others I am so afraid, Joanna.” Her voice trembled. “Is there anything you can tell me that Thomas said, anything that could help me through what we both know is still to come?”
“He said his chief regret was hurting you, for committing this sin,” I said.
She took that in. At first it comforted her, but then her face fell again. “Nothing else, Joanna?” she asked, desperate. “Nothing to help me?”
I took a deep breath, asking God for forgiveness. I would pray for her, by her side, now, and before the altar of every church I entered for the rest of my life. But there was something I could do for her today to ease her suffering, even though to do so was a sin.
I said, “Thomas told me that you were the only person in his life he had ever loved.”
Catherine collapsed into my arms, saying, “Thank you,” again and again. The last words she spoke to me rang in my ears for days and weeks afterward: You were always my dearest friend.
41
And so, the week before Christmas, I returned to Dartford for good. I planned never to set foot in the court of Henry VIII again. And I would never sell The Sorrow of Niobe. I would keep it with me, always. Before leaving London, I’d heard the king ordered the destruction of every painting of Catherine Howard, the works created by Master Hans Holbein and every other artist. My tapestry could be the only image of her that survived.
I ordered another drawing from Brussels. I would not have royal commissions, but there were other people in England who would pay good money for a beautiful tapestry.
By the time the new drawing arrived, I would be busy indeed. I’d received word from Stafford Castle—my cousin Henry had finally agreed to send Arthur back to Dartford. His mind had been changed by the Earl of Surrey, who apparently materialized at Stafford Castle and made a passionate case for me. Being half Stafford, he was listened to. What a passionate, reckless person my cousin was. So he had been listening in Whitehall when I told him how much I wanted to get Arthur back. All these months later, he decided to do something about it. He careened through life, damaging some people’s fortunes, repairing others. I suspected there was guilt in his actions, but if it brought Arthur to me, I didn’t care.
Tapestries to weave, Arthur to raise, friends to cherish. It was what I wished for. Yet soon there was more.
The day before Christmas, Edmund reappeared. I saw his familiar gait as he made his way up the High Street, his white-gold hair gleaming in the winter sun. I went back to my house, considering what to do. After an hour of pacing around my house, I followed in the direction I had seen him walk.
My heart pounded as I made my way up the street, passing the townsfolk I had come to know. Gregory, our onetime porter, waved to me, his baby daughter in his arms, and I forced myself to smile in return.
Yes, Edmund returned to the infirmary he once ran. It had stood empty, the simple furniture remaining but the medicines and herbs sold off. He had a box of fresh potions with him, and was restocking the shelves.
“Oh, Joanna, you’re here,” he said, smiling as I slipped in the door.
“Are you no longer in the employ of Bishop Gardiner?” I asked.
“No,” said Edmund. “It was impossible.”
He explained that he had resigned as secretary for the bishop. The reason was the work he had been compelled to do to substantiate the bill to be put through Parliament to justify the execution of Catherine Howard. “It was clear to me that an annulment was more just because her intimacy with Francis Dereham constituted a marital precontract,” said Edmund. “And I believe the king could have been persuaded, but Bishop Gardiner would not risk attempting it.”
“No, of course he wouldn’t,” I said bitterly.
Edmund said, “I think it came down to a question of how much was I willing to sacrifice of my soul, my conscience, for what Bishop Gardiner called a higher purpose. He would do anything if it meant bringing him—and this kingdom—close to God.”
“He has always been that way.”
“The bishop felt that to fight to spare Queen Catherine’s life would weaken him too greatly and that the spiritual cause in England was more important.” He shuddered. “I could not live with myself, though, the sins of omission when it came to the queen. I could not do it.”
“He must have been angry with you,” I said.
Edmund said quietly, “The bishop was disappointed.”
Glancing at the half-stocked apothecary shelves, I said, “So now you will use all of those skills in diplomacy and negotiation, your study of theology, here, in Dartford?”
Edmund, placing his hand on a box of dried, greenish-brown her
bs, said, “Paracelsus taught me that the meaning of creation, of the life God gives, can be understood in the properties of the humblest plant.” His brown eyes saddened. “Paracelsus died at the end of September. I just had a letter telling me of it.”
I told Edmund how sorry I was for his loss.
“It is time for me to step forward—I have too long sought out mentors to guide me: my priors when I was a friar, Bishop Gardiner, even Paracelsus.” He looked out the window and then back at me. “The bishop said that he would still sponsor the exception allowing me to marry. I shall be an apothecary for the rest of my days. My vows as a Dominican friar can be permanently set aside.”
I sat down at his apothecary bench, fingered the familiar grooves in the wood.
“Is that what you really want, Edmund?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said.
I looked at Edmund for a long moment. I had to be certain. When I knew that I was, I took out the letter I’d brought with me when I saw his return. John Cheke sent it to me, with an accompanying note: “Once I showed you a letter to bring about a result. Now I share with you another letter, and I think you will see why.”
I put the letter on the table. “You wrote this to John Cheke in Regensburg, before I came,” I said. “In it you expressed excitement because you’d met someone at the Diet who spoke of forming a new order and you were considering joining.”
Edmund stared at the page of his own writing. “Yes,” he said. “The pope last year gave permission to Ignatius of Loyola to form a Society of Jesus, to strengthen and purify the Catholic Church.” He looked up at me. “But the order is based in Rome. And the men who join it must be ordained priests.”
“I know that,” I said.
Edmund’s sensitive face quivered with warring emotions. “But, Joanna,” he said so softly I could barely hear him, “I don’t want to leave you again.”
“You can’t go back, neither of us can,” I said. “What we must do is seek ways to go forward. There is an artist in the king’s court, his name is Hans Holbein. He became my friend. He spoke to me of the need for transformation. I was never certain of what he meant until today.”
Edmund nodded, closing his eyes.
“It is a most confusing world, full of danger and sorrow,” I said. “But there are possibilities, too. I know that your hope for our church is what gave you strength. You have to follow that hope.”
He opened his eyes and said, “You are the only woman I ever loved, and the only woman I shall ever love.”
I pushed myself up from the apothecary table and I said good-bye to Edmund Sommerville.
I needed to ask three different people where the house of Geoffrey Scovill was. The tanner knew, and I set out, the winter sun creating a bit of a muck on the narrow road leading out of town. By the time I’d reached his small farmhouse, my skirts were drenched and dirty.
Geoffrey was chopping wood behind his house. I called out to him when the ax was down. I knew that he would be surprised by my arrival and I certainly didn’t want the ax to fly out of his hand.
“May I speak with you?” I asked.
He took a long look at me, a smile curled and was gone, and he said, “I suppose so, but Christmas is tomorrow, and I have many matters to attend to.”
In his kitchen, he poured me some sweet wine to sip while he lit a fire. Then, sitting down across from me, he said, “What’s wrong, Joanna?”
“Quite a few things,” I said. “I hope you can help.”
He nodded, resigned. “Please relay the list.”
I said, “What’s wrong is that I don’t have you to talk to. Or to walk with, to laugh with, to quarrel with. I don’t have you to make plans with.”
Geoffrey showed no reaction.
This was a mistake.
My heart beginning a fast, painful beat, I went on. “I suppose you are right—we don’t get on well.”
“No, we don’t,” Geoffrey said. He was coming around, pulling me to my feet and kissing me, cupping my face in his hands, pulling off my cap so he could run his hands through my hair.
“You came,” he said, kissing my throat. “You finally came.”
“I wasn’t sure you wanted me to,” I said. “We’ve been here, in Dartford, for three months, and you didn’t say a word.”
“I made a new covenant with myself, Joanna. I vowed that I would not harry you or work to persuade you or anything else. If we are to marry, then it must be what you really want. Not many women would come to a man to tell him how they feel. But you’re not a typical woman, Joanna. I just had to wait.”
I kissed Geoffrey, the sort of kiss that I knew would banish any doubts that he could have about me ever again. The fire crackled and snapped, and finally burned down, before we let go of each other.
“Geoffrey,” I whispered, “Merry Christmas.”
And we laughed, together, and I kissed him again, and told Geoffrey Scovill to rebuild the fire.
LIST OF CHARACTERS
THE STAFFORDS
Joanna Stafford, former Dominican novice
Sir Richard Stafford, Joanna’s father and younger brother to the Duke of Buckingham
Lady Isabella Stafford, Joanna’s mother and maid of honor to Catherine of Aragon
Henry Stafford, third Duke of Buckingham, executed 1521
Margaret Bulmer, illegitimate daughter of Buckingham, executed 1537
Arthur Bulmer, Margaret’s son
Lord Henry Stafford, Buckingham’s oldest son
Lady Ursula Stafford, Lord Henry’s wife and daughter of Margaret Pole
THE TUDORS
Henry VIII, crowned king of England in 1509
Anne of Cleves, fourth queen of Henry VIII
Mary Tudor, Henry VIII’s daughter by his first wife, Catherine of Aragon
Elizabeth Tudor, Henry VIII’s daughter by his second wife, Anne Boleyn
Edward Tudor, Henry VIII’s son by his third wife, Jane Seymour
THE HOWARDS
Thomas Howard, third Duke of Norfolk
Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey, the duke’s heir
Catherine Howard, daughter of Edmund Howard, the duke’s younger brother
Charles Howard, Catherine’s brother
Elizabeth Howard, Duchess of Norfolk and daughter of the Duke of Buckingham
Agnes Howard, the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk, the duke’s stepmother
THE KING’S COURT
Thomas Cromwell, Earl of Essex and Lord Privy Seal
Stephen Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester
Thomas Culpepper, gentleman of the privy chamber
Sir Walter Hungerford, lord of Farleigh Hungerford Castle
Hans Holbein, court painter
Jane Boleyn, Lady Rochford, widow of George Boleyn
Sir Andrew Windsor, keeper of the king’s wardrobe
Sir Anthony Denny, gentleman of the privy chamber
Sir Thomas Heneage, chief gentleman of the privy chamber
Doctor William Butts, court physician
Samuel Clocksworth, barber-surgeon
Father Francis, priest and confessor in Chapel Royal
John Cheke, instructor at Cambridge University
PEOPLE OF DARTFORD
Geoffrey Scovill, constable
Edmund Sommerville, former friar of Dartford Priory
Oliver Gwinn, farmer
Agatha Gwinn, second wife of Oliver Gwinn and former novice mistress
Sister Eleanor Watson, a former nun of the priory
Father William Mote, priest of Holy Trinity Church
Gregory, clerk and former porter of the priory
IMPERIAL COURT
Charles V, Holy Roman Emperor and King of Spain
Queen Mary of Hungary, sister to Charles V and regent of the Netherlands
Jacquard Rolin, spy in the service of Charles V
Pedro Hantaras, aide to Chapuys
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The Tapestry was written and researched, in part, in the New York Public Library, Stephen A. Schwarzman Building. Within that grand and historic building, I worked at my allotted space in the Wertheim Study, endowed for future authors and scholars by Barbara Tuchman. I am grateful to Jay Barksdale for renewing my status in the Wertheim so that I could once again take advantage of the NYPL’s world-renowned collection and be inspired by the building’s beauty.
The other exquisite New York City institutions I drew inspiration from were the Cloisters Museum and Gardens of the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the Cathedral of Saint John the Divine. Both of them display spectacular tapestries from the fifteenth, sixteenth, and seventeenth centuries and are sources of information on tapestry design and production.
Touchstone Books published my trilogy of novels in North America, and I am fortunate to have such a team. The Tapestry was acquired by the wonderful senior editor Heather Lazare, who oversaw the publication of The Crown and edited The Chalice. Lauren Spiegel edited The Tapestry and I am grateful for her talent and insights and her sense of humor, too, which helps in all situations. On these three books, I’ve been fortunate indeed to work with senior publicist Jessica Roth and marketing manager Meredith Vilarello. I thank art director Cherlynne Li, production editor Martha Schwartz and copyeditor Anne Cherry, and editorial assistant Etinosa Agbonlahor.
The Tapestry would not exist without my literary agent, Heide Lange of Sanford J. Greenburger, and her topnotch assistants Rachel Mosner and Stephanie Delman. Without such guidance, I would be lost. I am also grateful to the agents at HSG in New York City and Abner Stein in London.
When an author sets out to dive deep into sixteenth-century history, there is no chance of success without help. I am grateful to Mike Still, assistant museum manager of the Dartford Museum, for his store of knowledge of life in Dartford in centuries past. Hans van Felius and Jochen Schenck helped me with the task of re-creating sixteenth-century Antwerp, Brussels, and Germany. Sister Mary Catharine Perry, OP, Dominican nuns of Our Lady of the Rosary, kindly read my book for accuracy. I enjoyed my theological discussions with my sister, Amy Bilyeau.
The Tapestry: A Novel Page 39