Roses in the Tempest

by Jeri Westerson

  For the first time I smiled. “Surely not, Mr. Legh.”

  “He smiles,” said Legh, good-naturedly…or mendaciously. It was difficult to tell when he wore his smiles as broad as he wore his gowns. “Perhaps he recollects.”

  “No, I do not recollect, but I must abide by your word that it was so. My apologies. My thoughts must have been otherwise occupied.”

  “‘Tis true. You did not seem to be half listening to me. At that time, it was also true that I was only a secretary in the late Wolsey’s employ, and now, as you see, I am a king’s commissioner.”

  My gaze slid from one man to the other. Merciful God. What had they to do with me? Did not Cromwell just ask if I took the oath? God have mercy.

  “But what was I saying?” said Cromwell unnecessarily. “Oh yes. We were speaking of oaths and of abbeys. And patronage.”

  “There are so many abuses by these clerics,” said Legh, shaking his head. “If you knew the lasciviousness, the greed I have encountered, Lord Giffard, you would surely withdraw any and all patronage of these despicable houses.”

  “I have no doubt that such abuses occur,” I said levelly, “for abuses transpire in all institutions. Greed, for instance, is apt to snare a man who has the best intentions. Even…a king’s commissioner.”

  For a moment, Legh merely glared at me, his dark eyes sketching me in his mind. Then, he burst into ignoble laughter, catching the attention of those standing nearby.

  Cromwell chuckled. “You are a man of wit, Lord Thomas. I wonder…are you a deeply religious man?”

  “That depends. A man can be deeply religious sometimes only when he needs it the most. When he is in peril, for instance.”

  “Do you think you are in peril?” he asked in a quiet, unctuous voice. He enjoyed his role too much for my taste. I could not help but cringe in mild disgust.

  “Am I?”

  He laughed again, and Legh joined him. “My lord, you listen too much to wagging tongues at court. I am a harmless man, a simple man, from simple beginnings. As you see, I find my comfort in humble clothes and modest means.”

  “Are you a religious man, Lord Cromwell?” I could not help but ask.

  His smile was fixed. “I am God’s humble servant and also that of the king.”

  “I see you put it in proper order, Lord Chancellor.” I rose. “And now…if you will excuse me.”

  “But my Lord Thomas, I am not done speaking with you.”

  I dreaded stopping, but he grabbed me by the sleeve. “Was there something you wanted, then?”

  He put his hand to his chest and spoke to me with his head somewhat bowed from long practice with talking to the king. “I only ask about religion, Lord Thomas, because it is heavy on the king’s mind, he being the Supreme Head of the Church in England.”

  “Yes, my lord.” I said nothing more than was sufficient. It was becoming increasingly difficult to remain civil to him. Perhaps that was his design all along.

  “His worry has been with the monasteries and with the display of relics for profit.”

  “Are those his words?”

  Cromwell sucked his teeth for a moment. “Not his words precisely, my lord. But the gist of it was this: that he is most interested in discovering which monasteries are guilty of these grave offenses and to…clean them out.”

  I raised my voice. I did not wish to be supposed conspiring with the likes of Cromwell. “Clean them out? Ruination, my lord?”

  Cromwell moved closer and spoke in lower tones. “Not ruination. Reformation. To rectify abuses and create uniformity of religion. He has appointed me to gather commissioners to examine the monasteries. My men have already begun their tasks.”

  “And so? What is it you want of me?”

  “I would appoint you a commissioner, Lord Giffard. You would go to the monasteries within your demesnes and take inventory of their goods and property, and give a proper accounting to the king.”

  “Why does the king need an accounting of their goods and property?”

  “To root out abuses, of course. Abbots have been known to sell off small parcels of the abbey lands for gain, I am afraid, Lord Thomas. And such commerce there is in relics! It would shame you to know.”

  “I see.” I could little argue with what he said, for I, too, knew such abuses to be true, but I wondered what deeper thing was intended by these visits. The king wanted an accounting, eh? I dared not postulate what that implied.

  “I thank you for your kind consideration of me, Lord Cromwell. Your confidence in my house is not without merit. But I must decline your commission, for I have many duties to attend to on my lands and at court.”

  Cromwell did not look surprised, but instead feigned his disappointment. “As I suspected, my lord, you are a busy man. And the king favors you and your kin. It is good to stay in the king’s favor.”

  “That, my lord, I have always striven to do. It is good advice. I do not take it lightly.” I bowed, and exited as swiftly as I could.

  I met Ursula some time later at the other end of the hall. We watched as the king danced with one of the queen’s ladies, one of the Seymour.

  “My dear,” I said to her quietly. “I was approached—cornered, I should say—by Cromwell. He had the gall to ask me to be one of his commissioners to inventory the abbeys in my demesnes.”

  “What did you say to him?”

  “In all politeness, I refused.”

  She clutched my hand. Hers were pale. “Perhaps you should not have done that, husband.”

  “I will not be under Cromwell’s thumb,” I hissed. “Mark me. He, too, will fall, just like Wolsey. Though by Christ’s blood, I did not ever think I would miss the days when Wolsey darkened the halls. For at least he loved the Church and would have preserved it. Ursula, I felt such dread when Cromwell spoke of the Church. He is a man with no love of clerics. I do not understand why the king tolerates his like.”

  “His Grace goes through clerics like a man consumes a meal,” she said, shaking her head. “When he has his fill, he discards the course to start on another. But now it is the monasteries themselves. Have not all the religious taken the oath?”

  We leaned our heads together for to speak as quietly as we could. “Those that did still live. Yet clerics are not half the problem. It is all very well and good to become one’s own Church, to disinherit your daughter and heir, and to get you another wife before the first is dead, but the rest of Europe does not have to abide by it.”

  “You speak of the Princess Elizabeth.”

  “I do. Yesterday the king’s advisors discussed using her betrothal to secure certain treaties, but the French ambassador already intimated to me and others that she is no bargaining tool for this realm. Not when the rest of the crowned heads consider her the bastard.”

  “Keep your voice low, husband.”

  “It is the truth.”

  “Just men have died for the truth before this. Witness Thomas More.”

  “I sicken when I think of that. I sicken to think that my king, the man I have respected and served… It must be the likes of Cromwell to turn his head. He is behind this venture into the monasteries and it holds nothing good. I do not like this turn at all, Ursula.”

  “You will want to return home to warn them at Blackladies, will you not?”

  I did not look at her. How much did she truly suspect? How much did she know? “Yes, I will.”

  “Then let’s away as soon as we might.”

  We departed the next day and arrived at Stretton with somber postures. All the while I was thinking of Isabella and what could be done, but as soon as I crossed the threshold of Stretton, I made straight for our private chapel.

  Alone, I walked in under the solemn arch, glancing at the flame in the sanctuary light that signified God’s presence in the tabernacle. I stood a long moment before the small altar, examining the golden crucifix, before I was compelled to kneel. My gaze fell upon the cross, its intricate carvings flickering in amber radiance from the candle f
lames. In that moment, I was suddenly fearful. Fearful of all that was and would not be again. Why did I lift no finger to stop it all? Is a man’s earthly life so precious that he would do anything to keep it?

  And then I thought of Thomas More, and my eyes burned.

  I brooded over the crucifix a long time. No man would dare question my honor, and those who tried, fell to the point of my sword. But where was the honor in this? How was a man to be a man, serve his God, and serve his king, if he must put a lock on his conscience?

  Before long my mind fell again upon Isabella and her decaying convent. No love had I for convents, especially Blackladies that kept her prisoner. But—God help me—it was the life she chose when no choices there were, and I was grateful for such a harbor for her.

  What scheme was the king planning now that he needed accountings from such destitute places?

  “Will you go, husband?”

  Ursula’s slim silhouette slashed the bright light of the doorway. If I squinted, if I looked at her at just the correct angle, she could almost be Isabella; tall, thin, a face worn from years and worries, of troubles far from her control.

  I told her I would go, and moved to stride past her. Softly, her voice whispered in the sacred gloom, only a whisper. “Is it… Do you…love her?”

  There was no anger in my heart, and none upon my face when I turned toward her. “Do you truly wish to know?”

  Her composure vanished. Color bloomed in her cheek and her eyes lowered, blinking. “No. I find…I suddenly do not.” Her eyes rose again, seizing mine fiercely, possessively.

  Was it possible to love two women? I pressed my hand to hers with the impossibility of expression, before I left quickly for Blackladies.

  ISABELLA LAUNDER

  WINTER, 1535

  Blackladies

  XXV

  …malicious and lying witnesses have risen against me.

  –Psalm 27:12

  When Thomas warned us all those months ago, I expected the commissioners to come over the hill at any moment. When they did not come, I contented myself that the commission was over, having found nothing amiss. But when the appointed commissioners did come at last, local men—Sir John Talbot, Walter Wrottesley, John Grosvenour… and Sir John Giffard—they took inventory of the entire household, including that in the cheeseloft and brewhouse. Embarrassed by our poverty and our piety, they soon went away again, apologies upon their lips and coins of offering left in the almsbox. I thought that was that, but foolish was I. For this simple inventory was not all there was to it. More commissioners were to come, men who were not local nor concerned for the monasteries in their midst. These were commissioners from court, and I was troubled by what they might want.

  “No good at all,” said Father William as he watched the three of us—Dame Felicia, Cristabell and I—prepare the evening repast. Felicia chopped and peeled the garden roots and crumpled dried herbs into the cooking pot while I stirred it all with a large wooden spoon, its savory steam rising about me. I cast a glance to our salt cellar with its dwindling inventory. “They will come and look at our poor priory and sit in judgment,” he went on. “These tradesmen and rustics. They, who have never spent a decent hour in prayer, will say to us we are wasting our time.”

  “We will do our best to show them otherwise.”

  “What is it they want this time, Lady Prioress?” asked Felicia.

  “They seek abuses. Reform, not ruin, so it is said.”

  “But there are no abuses here,” said Felicia. She leaned forward like an alewife, her forearm lying across the table. “Except, perhaps, for the continual presence of Thomas Giffard.”

  Silence followed her pronouncement, and I could not help but raise my eyes to Cristabell, doing her best to scrub the color from the wooden table.

  “Do you credit these visits to be abuses, Dame Felicia?” I asked softly.

  She twisted her lips, pulling her whole face with it rather like a rabbit’s twitching nose. She glanced once at the prudent Father William. “You are prioress. If you do not deem it unseemly, then neither do I. He is our patron. He brings us news. Faith! I wish he would come today and tell us about all this foolery!”

  “He has already warned us countless times. I only wonder how many more times we are to worry over such visits from court.”

  It was then I turned to the doorway. Still as death and just as pale, Dame Alice stood. At first I thought her to be ill, and I moved toward her, but she raised a hand and said in a roughened voice, “They are here, Dame. The commissioners are here.”

  No one moved at first. Father William braved the inevitable. “I will greet them,” he said.

  “No, Father,” I heard myself say. “I am prioress. I will greet them.”

  I patted his hand in reassurance before walking forth with heavy steps. I untied the napron and flung it away from me. I gathered my confidence in the smoothing out of my gown, in affixing my rosary, and in straightening my veil, all motions I readily did on any given day out of practice. Today, my hands went through the motions as if I were a ghost on her nightly hauntings, mocking that which she did in life.

  At length I reached the front gate and unlocked it, glancing at the round man at the portal and the taller man beside him. There were men in livery behind them. I wondered if they meant for all of them to enter as well.

  “You are the Lady Prioress?” the first asked me.

  “Yes, my lord. Prioress Isabella Launder.”

  “I am Dr. Legh. And this, my associate Dr. William Cavendish. Here, my brother Richard.”

  “My lords,” I said to them, bowing. He caught my gaze flicking toward the other men, and a warped smile creased his face.

  “My men can wait without. Too many men in a woman’s cloister would not do, eh?”

  With relief I bowed again. “Let me take you to the hall.”

  He spoke quietly to his brother who waited in the courtyard with the liveried men. I led the way with no further conversation. I felt their glare upon me, two sets of scrutinizing eyes, deciphering my very soul from beneath the folds of my gown.

  Once in the hall, I gestured to the benches and retrieved two ceramic cups that I filled from a jug of beer. I apologized for the lack of wine and explained that we seldom served it at Blackladies.

  They both glared into their cups as if they never saw the drink before, but after a moment, quaffed each in turn. I filled them again.

  “You need not stand, Lady Prioress,” said Dr. Legh. “Sit. We will talk. Certainly you are anxious. I mean to relieve you of your fears.”

  I reached behind for the seat and slowly lowered myself to the bench, sitting closest to Cavendish. His straw-colored hair reached almost to his shoulders and an equally light-hued beard, shot with streaks of gray, covered his chin. Dr. Legh was round and squat like a turnip, and his dark velvet gown only added to his girth. He wore a black furred hat with ear flaps. His nose was red and chapped from the weather.

  We all watched each other’s breath rise in soft white clouds. I stuffed my hands within my scapular for warmth. The fire had burned down to gray ash in the hearth. In order to conserve fuel, I ordered that no fire should burn in any room when no one was present.

  “Madam,” said Legh cordially, “we are here by the king’s commission to discover whether abuses are transpiring. Many of the monasteries in this realm are flagrant in their abuses. We have seen much of it already.” He paused as he pulled a black book from his scrip. Licking the end of his thumb, he leafed through it, until coming to the spot he desired. He withdrew a pencil and placed the pencil’s tip to the page. “Now, Madam. You do acknowledge his gracious majesty as Supreme Head of the Church in England, do you not?”

  “I have sworn the oath, my lord.”

  He looked up at me with expressionless eyes. “That I did not ask you, Madam. I asked if you acknowledged the king as the Supreme Head of the Church in England.”

  “The king rules England,” I said soberly, “and he is the patron of
the churches on English soil. Verily, King Henry is the head of the churches.”

  “Church of England,” Legh corrected.

  I shook my head, but did not raise it. “Church, churches. You put too fine a point on grammatical matters, Dr. Legh.”

  “And you obfuscate by them, Madam.”

  I felt light-headed, but crushed my nails into my palms to keep thoroughly alert. “But so. It goes without the saying.”

  “I am afraid, Madam, that it very much must be said. Tell me, how do you take the king?”

  “I…take him as God and the Holy Church take him, as one hopes he takes himself.”

  Cavendish drew forward. “You must play no games with us, Madam. These are serious matters.”

  “Forgive me, sir,” I said softly, but the Lord gave me strength within my outrage. “Forgive me for the slow creature I am, for I am but a woman and weak of mind. These concepts are hard learned by me. You say that the king is the head of the Church and that the bishop of Rome is no longer to have the title pope, and so I must attend to you. Is our king, then, now the apostle on the seat of Peter? For just England or all the Churches of the world?”

  Cavendish blinked at me before casting a wary glance at Legh. “Well…His Majesty… he is… he sits in power over England’s Church. No foreigner will dictate his authority here.”

  “I see. Then I thank you for setting us aright.”

  Legh scowled at Cavendish and waved his fusty hand. “That is all well, then. Let us go on.” He consulted his book again. “How many sisters have you here?”

  “Four, including myself.”

  “Four? Four keep this house?”

  “Yes, my lord. And several servants. We could not do it without their generous help. We are blessed by such attendance.”

  “Indeed. And are they justly compensated?”