Roses in the Tempest

by Jeri Westerson

“As best we can. ‘Pay the worker his wage,’ Dr. Legh. We make certain the servants are paid before ever we use the funds. Oft there is scarce enough left.”

  “Enough left for what?”

  I looked up at last. “For food, Dr. Legh.”

  He cleared his throat and swallowed more beer. He slid his cup toward the jug and made as if to take more, but he seemed to think better of it. “Show me your chapel, Lady Prioress.”

  “Anything, my lord.” I rose and pulled my veil around me.

  We reached the dim chapel and I reached into the font to sketch a cross over my forehead before bowing to the crucifix.

  Both Legh and Cavendish hastily becrossed themselves and squinted at me. “Have you no candles, Lady?”

  “We have the sanctuary light, Dr. Legh. We light no others unless we celebrate the mass. Beeswax candles are expensive. We use some of our own beeswax, but we sell most of it.”

  “You paint a gloomy picture, Prioress.”

  “Do I? I assure you, it is not gloomy here. We are all very happy, in fact.”

  “Indeed,” said Cavendish. “According to this,” and he consulted his own book, “the annual income of this house is £20 13s 4d. But come. I understand that your patron donates lavishly to this house. Where is it, Madam? Where do you put these donations? If not in candles, then where? Are they not given to the poor?”

  “The donations are given to this house for the specific upkeep of the nuns and their welfare. May I remind you, Dr. Cavendish, that we are poor.”

  “You need not be,” said Legh, squinting into the dimness. “You may go back to your homes, after all.”

  For the first time, I recognized in them something foreign, something malignant and tarry, stinking like peat. I heard in their voices, saw it in their eyes, a breath of evil. Oh, I knew it existed. From the truth of the scriptures, I knew it was in the world, but I never before encountered it myself. And now I feared, for I knew what these commissioners wanted. They wanted our destruction. They were not after reformation or to root out abuses, but to destroy God’s Church. I finally understood that if the king were to rule a Church, it must be his own and not that of St. Peter’s. I saw at last what brave Englishmen were afraid to utter, afraid to believe that their sovereign was capable of. Even Thomas, in all his veiled warnings, never suspected this. Lord, I prayed, preserve me and my nuns from such malignancy. Help us to overcome your enemies. In Christ’s precious name I beg. “This is our home, Dr. Legh, Dr. Cavendish. We are holy sisters. We belong to God, as did the Holy Mother.”

  “This is not a proper home, Madam. A proper home has a man at its head, with a woman to wife and children.”

  “A home can be in many forms. We are God’s handmaids. We toil for Him.”

  “Toil? At what, Madam? Poverty?”

  “We pray, Dr. Legh. For all mankind. And we do so in our poverty as Christ Jesus did on this earth. I can best serve God by possessing great compassion for His creatures…Even for you, Dr. Legh.”

  He snorted and hitched up his belt over his considerable middle. “Prayers, Madam, are not a worthy occupation for young women who can better suit the realm by begetting children for the king’s army.”

  I frowned. “You are indelicate, sir.”

  “I am no more indelicate that the supposition that your playacting at poverty can do the world at large any shred of good.”

  “If no good then no harm, at least. And we do serve the poor. How much in your capacity as a king’s commissioner do you do so, my lords?”

  He ignored the last and puffed bigger, a cockerel in a barnyard. “And yet there are still poor in this parish, Madam.”

  “As I said. We are poor ourselves. We cannot alleviate all the poverty in this land alone.”

  “We are not here to discuss the doings of your charitable acts. I am instructed by the crown to question you and your nuns.”

  I bristled and straightened to my full height, which was taller than Legh. “Then ask your questions.”

  He consulted his book again, but found he could not read it in the dim light. He stepped out onto the porch and expected me to follow. I did so slowly in my due time, my skirts gliding across the stone floor in ripples.

  After a pause, he raised his head. “Are you chaste, Madam?”

  Involuntarily, I turned my shoulder toward him as if to fend off the blows of his words. “I object most strenuously to such a question! You insult me!”

  “By no means, Madam.” Without change to his expression, he looked at his book, and then again at me. “I am instructed to ask you and to ask your nuns about you—whether any immorality of any kind goes on here.”

  “I shall answer nothing without my confessor present.”

  “That will do you no good, Lady. I am instructed to obtain an answer from you or suppose a conspiracy of silence. Silence condemns as easily as confession.”

  “By your reasoning, how can anyone be innocent?”

  “Come, come, Lady. I see you have a fondness for dramatics. Let us not have a disguising here. Now answer. Are you chaste?”

  Looking him in the eye did no good. I have heard of the king’s torturers. Rumor had it that they were deaf to the pleas of their victims. There was no mercy in this man’s eyes. He wanted his answer, and like the torturer, he would extract it by any means. “I came to this priory a virgin twenty years ago,” I said softly, “and I remain so to this day, as God is my witness.”

  “Is that so?”

  “What proof do you require, my lord?”

  He smiled that warped expression again. “Your word, Madam. And that of your ladies. Now. How are your funds distributed?”

  I screwed up my fists. “I have accounting books which you may look through. As I said, our servants are paid first, and then our bishop, and then to Rome.”

  “The crown, Madam? What of the crown?”

  “The…the bishop sees to that, Dr. Legh.”

  He huffed a clouded breath into the cold afternoon and consulted his book. “Where is the plate and good stuffs?”

  “Plate, my lord?”

  “Yes, yes. The plate. The gold. Surely there are vestry items.”

  “Gold? There is no gold. The communion cup that resides back in the chapel is silver. There is no plate.”

  “Surely you have stores of the Church’s riches, Madam.”

  Was the man incapable of understanding? Or did he think me a liar? “Dr. Legh, I beg you to look around you. We have no riches. These poor gowns are all we have.”

  “Do you trifle with me, Madam? Do you expect me to believe—”

  “Yes, sir! I do expect you to believe when I say so. This is a house of God, and I respect my position even if you do not.”

  His expression laid bare his soul. The Devil showed his hand at last. “I find very little to respect here, Madam. You forget, I have been through most of England, and I have seen deceits and immoralities that would cause a blush to your cheek. Scandal aplenty, Madam. Spare me your sermons. Do not speak to me of respect. Respect is earned.”

  “And what have I done to deny it?”

  “It must be earned, Madam. And a fool does not earn my respect, for only a fool would chose to live in poverty for an ideal that cannot be met.”

  “You are a most ungodly man!”

  “Perhaps. I have no stomach for clerics.” He stepped closer, his shade Cavendish glaring at me from behind his wispy brows. “Why do you persist in these useless antiquated rituals? You are a sensible woman.”

  “It is precisely because I am a sensible woman that I persist in what you deem ‘useless ritual’. Oh, how I feel for you. Yes, we are under a yoke, but obedience to God and His word is a most pleasant yoke. The world is large, and sometimes frightening. We know what it is to be a child of God. A child obeys or is crushed by such a world. But a child also learns. A child lives within the framework of her family. The Church is my family. No matter how fragmented or how distant its members, I will know them by the covenant they keep. I wi
ll always know them.”

  “Pleasant speeches, Madam, do not change the subject. The king is displeased with papist practices that traffic in relics and graven images.”

  I strode back down the chapel of St. Mary, my feet surely never before making such a cacophony across those sacred stones. I gestured to the statue of Our Lady with a trembling hand. A small candle burned at her feet. She rose out of that glow into the gloom of the chapel, but her face was sedate, serene in the turmoil around her. A little cracked from the years and the damp, paint peeling slightly, she was still regal in her niche, still mild as her lowered lids kindly regarded those at her feet. “Is this a graven image? Is it? Do you think I worship this? This is merely a portrait of our dear Mother. Do you think me a fool? I know it is not she, any more than that image carved by artisans on the cross to be our Lord. Papists are not fools, my lords. We are merely devout. We want the tangible. We want to look into the face of God, peer into Heaven only to know it better. For in that, we hope to find our path there through the narrow gate.” I purposely glared up and down the corpulent Legh. “And it is a very narrow gate, my lords.”

  Cavendish coughed into his hand, but Legh did not stray his gaze from mine. “This we will see. Call in your sisters. We would question them as well.”

  He turned and made back for the hall. I won nothing. There was nothing to win. I did not know what would happen, but I did know that no matter what was said here, we had lost. The Church had lost, for the decision was made far before these men passed our threshold.

  I hurried to the kitchen. Startled by my arrival, my nuns bolted to their feet, faces as white as their wimples. I took a deep breath. “Sisters, you are to come now. These commissioners will ask you questions.”

  “What kind of questions?” asked a breathless Alice.

  I shook my head, unable to believe it all. “Terrible questions. Insolent and discourteous questions. And you will answer them, because the king demands it and we are his servants.”

  “I will go with you,” said Father William, pushing himself to his feet with his cane. I could not object. I could no longer speak. I led my nuns in prayer first, and then I preceded them all to the hall.

  We entered and faced our judges. We stood while they sat upon our benches, drinking our beer from our few cups.

  “We have asked questions of your prioress,” said Legh, consulting his wretched black book, “and now we will ask you nuns. Who will be first?”

  None of them moved. I could hardly blame them. I trembled, though I could not tell if it were more from fear or outrage. At last, one moved forward and I raised my eyes in surprise to Cristabell.

  “And you are?” asked Legh.

  She stood stiffly but erect. A woman to reckon with was our Cristabell. “Dame Cristabell Smith,” she answered, voice steady as a rock.

  “Very well, Dame,” he said, making note in his book. “How many nuns are you here?”

  “We are four, as our bishop charged. He said there are to be no more than four at Blackladies, and no more there are.”

  “And so. Do you and your sisters regularly perform your Divine Office as proscribed by your order?”

  “We do.”

  Legh pursed his lips. “Do you live according to the Rule of your order, following its statutes without straying?”

  “We do.”

  “The sick, Dame. Are they treated well?”

  “Yes.”

  “And travelers. Are they given safe haven and hospitality as is mete?”

  “Yes.”

  Legh tapped his fingers on the table with irritation. “Do you have anything to add to your terse comments, Dame?”

  Cristabell blinked once. “No.”

  “One thing more. Besides your servants and your priest here, are men allowed within the precincts of the convent?”

  Cristabell looked at them steadily, seeming to measure their worth by the gold about their necks and the fur on their gowns. “But men are not allowed in the cloister.”

  Legh sat back, fingering the gilt belt buckle at his waist. “I have been told, Dame, that your patron Thomas Giffard often comes to the priory. Is that correct?”

  Though my own breath left me, Cristabell’s was steady. I saw her shoulders rise and fall evenly, and the fog spin from her nostrils from the cold. “Yes. He is patron, as you said.”

  “Does Lord Giffard come within the precincts of the cloister?”

  As steady as I have ever seen her, she even leaned closer to Legh when she said, “That would be forbidden, my lord.”

  “Indeed. But you did not answer the question. Does Lord Giffard come within the precincts of this cloister?”

  “Lord Giffard is, and always has been, a gentleman of the highest rank. He well knows the rules as do we.”

  “And yet you did not answer me straight, Dame.”

  “She answered you,” said Father William.

  “Indeed, sir, she did not. Answer me, Dame. For I see a conspiracy of the worst kind forming.”

  “Lord Giffard would take a horsewhip to you both, my lords,” barked Dame Felicia, “were you to dare utter such in his presence.”

  Legh glared at her. “And who are you?”

  “I am Dame Felicia Bagshawe. F-e-l-i-c-i-a—”

  “I have it, Dame,” he muttered, scratching it down.

  “And further, Dr. Legh,” she went on, “that you should plainly ignore all the good we do in order to satisfy your salacious appetites—”

  Legh bolted to his feet. “Prioress! Silence your nun!”

  “Dame Felicia. Your answer has sufficed.”

  “As you will, Lady Prioress.” She bowed her head to me, and stepped back with the others.

  Legh’s face blushed red. Stuffed as it was in its furred collar, it resembled a crabapple bursting up from a peat bog. Flustered, he shuffled the many gold chains over his gown and slowly sat, resting his nubbin fingers upon the table. Cavendish leaned toward him and whispered something. Legh nodded, his cheeks returning to their tawny hue.

  “I am compelled to tell you that all who wish to leave this convent may do so immediately without censure and without punishment.”

  “What of our vows?” cried Felicia.

  Legh turned his eye to her, his jowl sagging with a sneer. “What of them, Madam? The king instructed me to inform you that you are not bound by the dictates of foreign princes. You therefore owe no vows to anyone save the king.”

  “And God!” said Father William.

  “That is so,” said Legh with a curt bow to his head. “All who wish to, may go. Indeed, if any of you are under twenty-four years of age you are compelled to go. The vicar general insists. Dame. You. The young one. What is your name?”

  Alice moved forward tentatively, clutching at the hem of her veil. “D-Dame Alice Beche, my lord.”

  “Are you under twenty-four?”

  “No, my lord. I am two and thirty.”

  “It matters not. You may still leave this convent, if you wish. Though I remind you that you are all still bound by your vow of chastity.”

  “Lest we breed more papists?”

  “My Lady Prioress!” he said, in feigned shock. “Who is being indelicate now?”

  “Little good it should do a young nun released from the convent if she cannot find solace in a husband! Come, come. This is absurd.”

  “You call the king’s commands absurd?”

  “I call you absurd! This interview is over.”

  “No, my Lady Prioress. It is not over. Further, we have more demands to make. One, that there be no displaying of relics for gain, and that you, Lady Prioress, are confined to the precincts of the priory. If stay you will, there shall be no wandering about.”

  “Is that all, Dr. Legh?”

  “All, Lady?” He smiled, nodding toward Cavendish. “Yes, Lady. That is all. For now.”

  I closed my eyes, summoning the peace of Christ. By obfuscation—may God forgive us—we saved ourselves. But for how long? I raised my lid
s and calmly gazed at our guests, for guests—no matter how despicable—they were. “Then, may I offer you the hospitality of our house? The supper is almost ready and we can accommodate you in our lodgings. We sisters will set up hay on the floor in here while you may take our room.”

  Legh’s expression of triumph faltered as he scanned the hall, its chipped paint and draughty windows. He must have smelt the faint aroma of our poor vegetable pottage as its steam arose from the kitchen fires, planting not hunger in his belly, but revulsion. I was reminded of his liveried men as he smoothed out his gown with bejeweled fingers. “No, thank you, Lady Prioress. We will find accommodations in the village.” He rose. “We will return again tomorrow to inspect the premises.”

  Dame Felicia offered to escort them to the door, and Dr. Legh warily acknowledged her. Never was there a time we were more pleased to lock the gates behind a soul who visited us.

  When Felicia returned, we glanced worriedly at one another. “And that is what comes from having King Hal as our pope!” she trumpeted.

  THOMAS GIFFARD

  NOVEMBER, 1537

  Hampton Court

  XXVI

  “ …I have never read in any doctor approved by the Church that a secular prince can or ought to be the head over things spiritual.”

  –Thomas More, 1 July 1535

  At the wedding of King Henry and Anne Boleyn, it was remarked how apt were their initials carved onto the new doors of the palace, and embroidered on banners and robes. “HA” it read. “HA, HA” all over London. What a grand jest, indeed, it was to be perpetrated upon the English people. They refused to laud her as queen because she unlawfully supplanted our good Queen Catherine, and there were many who would have thrown more than garlands. It was said that townsfolk were paid to cheer her on the streets, but even those were sparse.

  They laughed in earnest, when years later, her head rolled off her neck under the facility of a French swordsman.

  Though she was no more guilty of a conspiracy of adultery than our good Queen Catherine was of not being the king’s legal consort, Anne Bullen helped instigate this calamity which struck down the Church as we knew it. No tears were shed for Mistress Anne Bullen, dead now over a year.