“I can’t bear to see you this distressed,” said Gertrude, her voice shaking.
I looked up, surprised. The marchioness barely knew me. But a greater surprise swiftly followed.
Gertrude Courtenay darted across the room to fling herself at my feet. Her large brown eyes glittered with tears. For the first time, I smelled her perfume: sage and chamomile and rosemary, laced with something strangely bitter.
“Finding you was an omen, it has to be,” she cried. “I had planned to make inquiry at the church of your whereabouts, then send Constance with a message, to see if you’d receive me today. But to ride into town and see you thrown down before me at the moment of arrival? It can’t be without significance. God has sent us both a sign.”
I stared down at her. “What are you saying?”
“I am meant to save you—it is my purpose,” she said. “Joanna, I have so much and you have so little. Let me help you. We will be as sisters. Leave this dreadful town and come away with me—now. Today.”
Gertrude Courtenay’s offer of a home so startled me that I could not speak. “But my friends . . . my tapestries . . . Arthur.”
“The son of Margaret Bulmer would be as welcome as you are,” she said, still kneeling at my feet. “I humbly beseech you to share a roof with me.”
I could see that her proposal was sincere. As gently as I could, I said, “Please, Gertrude, you must get up.” After she’d done so, I took her by the hand. “To live in London and be part of the life of the court—that is not a choice for me.”
“I never go to court,” she said quickly. “Henry must attend, of course, but since the death of Queen Jane, no functions require my presence. And we only spend four or five months of the year in London. In the spring, we return west. That’s where many of Henry’s properties are. It’s beautiful in Cornwall; I would love to show it to you. The sea, the forests, the flowers—”
The sound of shouting downstairs interrupted her reverie. The marchioness beckoned for Constance, and the lady-in-waiting slipped out. I made for the door.
“Joanna, wait,” Gertrude said. Her elegant fingers closed around my wrist. “Don’t put yourself in harm’s way again.”
I pulled free. “This is my home,” I said. “I must attend to it.”
I’d made it halfway down the stairs when I saw him. The two Courtenay retainers left to guard my house struggled with a single man. My front door hung open behind them. The young man, tall and strong, shoved his way forward, leading with his right shoulder, to the center of my front parlor. Both of the Courtenay men tried—and failed—to stop him.
With a grunt, the taller Courtenay man fell back and drew his sword. “Cease—or I will have cause to use this,” he said.
“Not until you tell me what has become of Joanna Stafford,” shouted the man.
“Geoffrey, I’m right here!” I shouted.
Geoffrey Scovill looked up at me. “So you are,” he said.
6
A smile of relief split Geoffrey’s face. With one hand, he pushed away the tip of the Courtenay sword that quivered in his face, saying, “It seems this won’t be necessary.” With the other he tugged on his doublet, half torn off in the struggle, to make himself presentable. “Ah,” he said, “I’ve lost a button.”
I burst out laughing, I could not help it. And Geoffrey laughed with me, a touch sheepish.
Here was the young underconstable of Rochester, who had come to my aid at Smithfield, the day of Margaret’s burning. Since then our fates had intertwined, at times uncomfortably.
Today he looked different. His light brown hair was newly cut. He’d trimmed it into a straight fringe across his forehead, the same style I’d seen on men who followed London fashions. I’d never known Geoffrey to ape the styles of the day. His clothes, too, were freshly stitched, not the patched-together ensembles he commonly wore. But his deep blue eyes were familiar, crinkling with amusement in a face faintly ruddy from all the hours spent outdoors.
“What is so funny?” asked Gertrude, coming down the stairs. Her tone was light, though her step was determined.
It was with some difficulty that I managed to stop laughing. “This man is my friend, Geoffrey Scovill,” I said, breathless. “He is a constable in Rochester. ”
I introduced the marchioness and Geoffrey bowed deep, but not before I saw surprise in his face.
“He told us he was the constable here—for Dartford—before he started acting like a madman,” said the smaller Courtenay man, suspicious.
“If you’d simply answered my inquiry at the door, there wouldn’t have been a disturbance,” Geoffrey said.
“We don’t answer strangers’ inquiries unless my lord or lady orders us to,” the larger man retorted.
As I introduced Gertrude to Geoffrey, I noticed Sister Beatrice in the corner. She had not gone upstairs but she hadn’t left my home, either. Now she clasped her hands with an excitement I’d never seen. “Oh, Geoffrey, the appointment has been secured?” she asked.
“I don’t understand,” I said. “What appointment?”
“There is a need for a constable here in Dartford, and I’ve been approved for the position. I’m no longer charged with Rochester.” He spoke to me, yet his eyes darted in Sister Beatrice’s direction.
I was taken aback by this news. Geoffrey here, in Dartford, every day? It made me feel queer, uncertain. I had seen him just once in the last six months, in July. It was the afternoon he escorted Sister Beatrice and me to Saint Margaret’s Fair. But it was an odd day. Geoffrey had been distracted; he did not seem to enjoy the music, the donkey races, the pole climbing, or even the archery contests. When daylight faded, he hurried us back to town and I saw him no more.
“What about Justice Campion?” I asked. The old justice of the peace had paid much of his wages, for he depended on Geoffrey’s quick mind and vigor when a serious enough crime required it.
“Justice Campion has died,” Geoffrey said. “But now I must know what happened today, and why you are under guard.”
I hadn’t finished the tale when Geoffrey slapped his leg in anger.
“Couldn’t Sommerville help you?” he demanded. “Blast it, the man is of no use at all.”
“It’s not Brother Edmund’s fault,” I said.
“No, nothing ever is,” muttered Geoffrey.
I felt someone’s gaze hot on me. It was Gertrude, standing by the wall. She had listened to the whole exchange. There was surprise in her eyes, and something else, too. That speculative look had returned, as if she were trying to decide which jewels to wear.
A knock sounded. Henry’s steward, the serious-looking man named Charles, led in two people—Gregory from the Building Office and Mistress Brooke—and informed Gertrude who they were and what happened in the Building Office and on the High Street afterward.
Bubbles of sweat sliding down his brow, Gregory looked miserable. But Mistress Brooke exhibited only defiance. “I’ve broken no law,” she declared. “And I was brought here under protest. Although I know well enough why.” Mistress Brooke shot me a look of hatred.
Geoffrey, the representative of the law in the room, stirred to action. “Not on the face of it, no. But your actions merit further inquiry, Mistress Brooke, which I shall busy myself to.”
“Constable, if I may?” said Gertrude, still standing near the wall. Without waiting for his reply, she took a step toward Mistress Brooke.
“Do you know who I am?” Her voice was a melodic caress.
“You are the Marchioness of Exeter,” answered Mistress Brooke.
“Yes, but do you know what that means?” Gertrude took another step. A diamond twinkled on her velvet shoe.
Mistress Brooke looked sullen.
“Permit me to explain it to you.” Gertrude folded her hands as if in prayer. “My true and loving husband, Henry Courtenay, is the grandson of King Edward the Fourth. He was raised with our King Henry and his sisters. He is the most trusted of all of the king’s relations. In fact, he
is the only man who is allowed to enter the king’s private chambers without being announced by the chamberlain. You have seen the servants who attend us. They are but a portion of our staff. The king allows us to give our men arms, to issue livery. Whatever we do, in the West, in London, or here, today, in Dartford, is sanctioned by the king.”
Mistress Brooke peered back at the door to the street. She did not like this.
“This young woman, Joanna Stafford, is my husband’s cousin,” continued Gertrude. “Therefore, she is also a relation of the King’s Majesty. She is an intimate of the Lady Mary Tudor.” Geoffrey looked at me, startled. He had not been aware of my friendship with royalty. I wished Gertrude had not announced it.
“When you dishonor Joanna Stafford, you dishonor the nobility of this kingdom,” said Gertrude. Her voice was no longer melodic. “For what you have done today, I could, with just a few words, crush you, Mistress Brooke. Is that something you can understand? You, your husband, your family. Today your husband oversees the hiring of workmen for building the king’s manor house? Tomorrow he would be discharged. He’d be most fortunate to secure work lifting stone from a quarry.”
Mistress Brooke’s hands quivered at her sides as if she were struck with plague.
In truth, I felt ill, too. A fever coursed through me, but not a weakening one. I, who had been powerless, witnessed power being wielded on my behalf. A dark gloating pulsed in my blood. Yes, crush her, I exulted. Make her suffer.
But hard on this excitement came another feeling: shame.
“No, please,” I said, reaching out to touch Gertrude’s shoulder. “I am not blameless. I provoked her.”
Gertrude shook her head. As before, she was unwilling to see any fault in my actions. I searched through my mind, frantically, for prayers that could guide us. “My lady, blessed are the merciful, for they shall have mercy shown to them. Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God. And blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be recognized as the children of God.”
The storm of rage that darkened Gertrude’s soul receded. With a cry, she seized both of my hands in hers and gripped them so hard I winced.
“Joanna, thank you for showing me the Christian spirit I must cleave to,” she said. “Through you I understand God’s grace anew.”
She ordered that Mistress Brooke and Gregory be sent away. Geoffrey saw them to the door, speaking in a low voice to Mistress Brooke. A moment later, there was another stirring on the street. Henry Courtenay had returned, well pleased with Holy Trinity Church.
“Father William showed me a wonderous mural painting of Saint George in one of the chapels,” he said.
I wager he didn’t tell you that the painting would be whitewashed by order of Cromwell, I thought. So Father William was nothing but unctuous to the marquess of Exeter. It must be that way wherever Henry Courtenay went. He was fawned over by men and women who were cruel to others.
“How did Arthur fare?” I asked. I half dreaded the reply.
“Look for yourself,” said Henry.
From the window, the High Street was like I had never seen it before—transformed into a place of play for Arthur. Courtenay men had cleared a long, empty space. Henry’s son, Edward, tossed him a ball and Arthur leaped after it, laughing.
How Arthur glowed. It was as if he’d grown two inches in the last hour.
“Joanna, are you all right?” asked Henry. “You’re crying.”
I touched my damp cheeks. “It’s been difficult, just Arthur and me. I don’t know if I am doing the right things. I worry for his future.” I barely knew this cousin of mine, yet I was confiding in him fears I’d not shared with anyone, not even Brother Edmund.
“Ah. Well, for a beginning, he shouldn’t be wearing a child’s gown any longer,” said Henry. “He’s ready for the clothing of a boy, a boy of a good family.”
“Do you think so?”
“He’s five years old. He’s also ready for a tutor and for lessons in sport,” said Henry.
My face must have shown my disbelief.
“Arthur is strong and quick, Joanna. He may not be ready for a hornbook in his hand. But that is no impediment to living as a respected gentleman—or even to having a career at court. Norfolk’s said often enough that it’s book learning that ruined the nobility.” He laughed, not noticing how I stiffened to hear the name Norfolk. I’d never forget how the duke hounded me in the Tower of London, even striking me in the face when I didn’t submit to his questioning.
“My husband is the finest father in all of England,” said Gertrude, joining us on the front steps. She stroked her husband’s arm.
“Cousin Joanna, why not bring Arthur for a visit?” asked Henry. “Stay with us for a time. We have a host of tutors. He needs to learn to ride and dance and handle himself. It would be good for Edward, too, if a younger boy were about.”
“I’ve already invited Joanna to stay with us in London, but she said there was much for her to do here in Dartford,” said Gertrude lightly.
Henry spread his hands. “Then come for a month. We could do much for Arthur in four weeks. In November you can return.”
As I looked at them, my heart pumped faster than at any other time that day, even when I was trapped beneath my loom in the street. Could I do this—stay with the Courtenays? It would mean living in London, the city I feared, the city where I’d watched Margaret burn. But Gertrude had already assured me that she’d not go near the king’s court. They were both so eager to help. I would finally be privy to the wisdom of parents in raising a child.
“If you will pardon me for a moment,” said Geoffrey Scovill. Watching Arthur, I’d forgotten about Geoffrey, about Mistress Brooke—everything. But Geoffrey hadn’t left, and now he had something to say to me.
Henry looked him up and down. “And you are . . . ?”
“This is a friend of Joanna’s, his name is Geoffrey Scovill,” said Gertrude, with elaborate politeness. “He is a constable.”
“I see.” Henry smiled at him, but his eyes showed confusion. He probably could not imagine why a Stafford would befriend a town constable.
“I would like to speak with Mistress Stafford for a moment in private,” said Geoffrey.
Henry’s smile faded.
“Geoffrey knew my father.” At once, I regretted saying that. It sounded as if I were trying to elevate Geoffrey’s status. But it served its purpose.
Curious eyes tracked us as I led Geoffrey out of the parlor. I closed the door once we were inside the kitchen. The wooden table still bore the crumbs of Arthur’s bread and cheese from hours before. My young servant, Kitty, had never appeared. My stomach ached; I was quite hungry. And weary, too. I’d slept so little the night before.
Geoffrey grabbed me by both shoulders and pulled me toward him. We were so close I could smell the soap he’d scrubbed into his skin. It was ashy, bitter. The sort of soap that servants use because it costs next to nothing. Not the choice for a man who attempts a fashionable haircut. Alongside my shock at his grabbing me I felt a strange tenderness at Geoffrey’s fumbling toward gentility.
“Joanna, listen to me,” Geoffrey said. “You mustn’t go with these people.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not safe for you.”
I wriggled out of his grasp. I’d felt such relief at the prospect of the Courtenays helping me with Arthur. The grinding burden of raising him would be lifted. Now Geoffrey wanted to sour the plan.
I said, “You do know that the Courtenays are one of the wealthiest families in the land? They have an army of servants. How could anyone hurt me while I am their guest?”
“That’s not the sort of danger I am thinking of.”
“Then what?” I demanded.
He did not answer me. I could see he was weighing his words, trying to decide how to frame something. Much as Gertrude Courtenay had measured her words upstairs, when telling me of the Lady Mary.
“How does Sister Beatrice know you were planning to come to Dar
tford, to be the town constable?” I asked.
Geoffrey frowned in surprise. “She wrote to me after the fair. I answered her letters.”
“I see.”
“I would have been only too happy to write to you, Joanna. But of course you sent me no letters.”
An awkward tension filled my kitchen. I couldn’t correspond with Geoffrey. Writing might have encouraged his hopes of more than friendship. I’d thought he no longer harbored such feelings for me, since I’d seen him only once since his declaration in the priory barn, last spring.
“At Saint Margaret’s Fair,” I began, and then faltered.
“The fair? What of it?”
“You were not . . . at ease. I don’t know why.”
There was bewilderment in Geoffrey’s face, but then it shifted to something else. He laughed. It was not the easy, boyish laugh of earlier.
“You have no notion, do you, Joanna? I’ve sometimes wondered if you were aware—I’ve thought, ‘No, she has to realize. She’s certainly not stupid.’ ”
“Realize what?”
“Your effect on men. How they respond to you, how they look at you. And then when you add Beatrice to it—God’s blood! Two beautiful young women, novices no more but unmarried, fatherless, wandering about the countryside. One dark, one fair. I may have seemed ill at ease, Joanna, because I feared that in a crowd of men who’d downed ale, I might not be able to defend you. Fortunately, no one meddled with us. But I wager that was part of the reason the town wanted to put you in the stocks today. Your looks can be . . . discomfiting.”
“This is not true,” I said, my voice rising. “What you’re saying is distasteful. And absurd.”
“Must I remind you under what circumstances we met?” he asked.
I winced at the memory of the ruffian who’d attacked me at Smithfield. I said, “What does this have to do with the Courtenays?”
“Nothing. But their home is not a safe place for you. Not now. It’s not anything that they’ve done—obviously they are noble people. But it is who they are.”
The Chalice Page 6