The Chalice

by Nancy Bilyeau

  He walked the circle again, sprinkling liquid from the second urn. This wasn’t water. It was white, like milk.

  “To find out what they know, the dead must be brought closer to the living, and the living brought closer to the dead,” he said. “It is an extremely dangerous thing to attempt, you understand? I am the master of the rite.”

  I said, “Sister Elizabeth Barton did not evoke the dead.”

  Orobas had finished the second pacing of the circle. He picked up the next urn. “Your first seer was something else. She had a genuine gift for prophecy, but she was untrained. She made mistakes in interpretation—always a risk in our world. And you both saw how she suffered because of her visions.”

  Gertrude asked, “Why did you not help her?” She sounded indignant.

  He smiled. “And reveal myself to the men who serve the king? Am I a fool? From the day she first spoke in public against the king’s divorce, she was closely watched. You should know that, Marchioness.”

  He sprinkled liquid from his third urn as he walked the circle. It was dark this time. I caught a whiff of it—a rich, sweet wine.

  “Now the two of you must come to this part of the crypt,” he said, beckoning to the far pit. Gertrude squeezed my arm. It was a gesture of both support and warning.

  Orobas picked up a large cylindrical object, covered in a cloth. It was no urn. He set it down on the other side of the pit. The foul smell was strongest here, but I couldn’t see why. The candles were far away; the pit was dark.

  He whipped the cloth away in one swift move. It had covered a wooden cage. Something lay motionless at the bottom of the cage. I was certain the animal was dead, but then I heard a weak flapping noise. The cage contained a bird.

  “What are you doing?” I called out. He did not answer, nor did he look in my direction. Instead, he opened the door of the cage, and pulled out a gray bird with a long tail, a swallow. It had a hood tied around its head. At the touch of Orobas’s hand, the poor creature beat its wings harder.

  With one hand, he gripped the swallow tightly around the neck in a way that prevented pecking. With his other hand, he produced a long knife.

  “Stop,” I said. Everything in me rebelled against witnessing this cruel pagan act. Gertrude threw both arms around me, to hold me in a tight embrace. “He must make the sacrifice, Joanna,” she said. “Without it, the soul cannot see or speak.”

  Orobas plunged his knife deep into the breast of the swallow.

  18

  The swallow squawked just once, and then went limp. Blood gushed out of the feathered creature and dripped in a heavy stream into the second pit. Now I knew what the smell was: the blood and flesh of sacrificed birds.

  “No, no, no, no,” I sobbed. I wriggled in Gertrude’s arms, but she would not let me go. I felt as if I were the one gutted over the pit in this ancient tomb. My chest burned.

  Orobas flung the corpse down and then reached up with both hands. Blood trickled down his wrists. He bellowed, “I conjure you and call you to witness. That you come in a benign form. That you should have no rest until you come to me.” He paused for a few seconds and then repeated the invocation.

  I don’t know how many times he said his conjuring chant. My head throbbed from it. Fear fought with doubt in my mind. Next to me, Gertrude panted for breath as she held me tight.

  Suddenly the words died in Orobas’s throat and his face went slack. His knees buckled, and in a slithering movement, he collapsed. Gertrude darted over. She knelt by his side to peer closer.

  “Is he dead?” I asked.

  Gertrude said without looking at me, “No. But this is the most dangerous point. It’s when some go to join the dead instead of pulling them to our side.”

  The minutes crawled by. I couldn’t help but wonder if it wouldn’t be better for us—for the world outside as well—if this man died. But then I was consumed with shame for such thoughts. Every man and woman was worthy of redemption.

  There was a stirring on the other side of Gertrude. Orobas pushed himself up with one hand. He did not stand. He sat on the floor, slumped forward, his chin resting on his black-robed chest. His pale head gleamed in the candlelight.

  “Ethelrea?” Gertrude whispered.

  “Why am I called here?” Orobas said. His voice was different. It was still low and gravelly, but subdued, without any scorn. “Who is responsible?”

  “I did it. I am Gertrude Courtenay.”

  Orobas raised his head. His shoulders were rounded; his face was slack. His eyes found Gertrude. “I see you,” he said. “I have spoken to you. Why do you summon me again?”

  Gertrude beckoned for me to come closer. “I brought the other one,” she said. “The bride of Christ.”

  I did not move. Orobas turned his head, to the left and to the right. He stopped when his eyes fastened on me. “I see her. She must come closer.”

  Gertrude beckoned for me again.

  This is all a sham, I told myself. Orobas is pretending to be a dead Saxon girl to dip deep into Gertrude’s purse. I’ll make a show of believing, and then we’ll depart.

  I knelt next to Gertrude. Orobas studied me, and then shook his head. He stuck out his lower lip, as would a child. It was a good performance, I thought, but only that—a performance.

  “She is no sister of Christ,” Orobas said. “I see no habit or veil.”

  “They were taken from her,” Gertrude said. “Her Dominican priory of Dartford was destroyed.”

  Orobas lifted his chin. His eyes rolled up in his head for a few seconds. Gertrude reached out and gripped my knee, next to hers.

  “Yes,” he said. “All the monasteries . . . swept away. It is a sadness.”

  “But they will be restored?” Gertrude prompted. “When the true faith returns, the monasteries will be restored?”

  Orobas shook his head. “I don’t want to converse with you. Only to her. I will speak tonight of Dartford.” He turned to me. I edged a little closer.

  “My father had a farm near Middlebrook,” he said. “We had a house. He built it with his own hands. It stood on a hill. From the door I could see the river split into three fingers.”

  A chill swept down the back of my neck and tingled all the way to my fingers. I still fought against belief, though. It would be possible for anyone to learn the land and rivers of Dartford.

  “Why did you take the veil?” I asked. It would not be as easy to affect a convincing knowledge of the life of a Dartford nun.

  “It was a vow of my father’s. He had three daughters; I was the second. And one son. Just one son. When I was fourteen, my brother sickened with a fever. The priest gave him up for dead and said the words. My father made a vow that if God spared Caedwalla, he would send over his most beautiful daughter to the Order of Saint Juliana. And Caedwalla lived—he lived.”

  His smile faded. “Vanity is a sin,” he said dully. “We are punished for our sins. Always.”

  “Were you happy with the sisters of Saint Juliana?” I asked.

  “They were harsh. They beat me when I was slow to do the chores. There was more work to do there than at the farm. I was always tired. When I wanted to rest, they said I must pray. They made me repeat the prayers after them. There were so many to learn.”

  “What book of prayers did you use?” I asked.

  “No one had the reading gift. The nuns said that if I recited the prayers I’d learned, if I suffered without much rest or food, it would bring me closer to understanding Saint Juliana. For the first year, I understood nothing but that I hated being a sister.”

  It was getting harder to doubt the words that poured from Orobas’s mouth. He is clever, I thought weakly. The priests say the devil is very clever.

  “Why were you buried here?” I persisted “It’s far from Dartford. Did you run away? How did you reach London?”

  “My life ended here,” he said.

  “When you left the nunnery, you came to London?”

  His shoulders slumped further. “It was
wrong. It was sin.”

  This was all so confusing.

  He said, more rapidly, “There were three hundred ships. The Norsemen pillaged Canterbury, then they turned on London. Everyone who did not flee London was put to the sword. I was one who did not flee.”

  “Was it Orobas who discovered you?” Gertrude asked.

  There was no answer. He looked weary, as if he wanted nothing more than to sleep again.

  “We are honored to hear your story,” said Gertrude in her brittle voice. “But now I must plead with you to turn your sight to the future.”

  “If it must be.” The sulking tone had returned.

  “Two nights ago, you saw the Lady Mary wear the crown of queen of England,” said Gertrude. “But will it be with the help of foreign soldiers? Will the troops of the emperor invade?”

  I grabbed Gertrude’s arm. “That is treason,” I whispered.

  Gertrude whispered back, “How else could Mary take the throne?”

  “I see many ships,” whispered Orobas. “They sail for England.” But he blinked several times, frowning, as if unsure about something.

  “Are they Spanish?” Gertrude demanded.

  Orobas nodded.

  “When? When will they sail? That is what I must know.”

  Another moment crawled by, as he rolled his eyes, searching through the visions. At first he shook his head, as if confused. Then he burst out: “I see Mary as queen. She walks with a man in cardinal’s robes. And a bishop, too. There are priests with her and nuns and monks. The true faith is restored.”

  Gertrude threw herself in my arms. I could feel the tears of relief rolling down her face. I should have been as happy as she was. This was the best future I could conceive of. And yet something felt wrong.

  Orobas moaned and shuddered. A bubble of sweat shivered on his brow.

  “But I see a different vision,” he said. “The king has a second son. Henry VIII will die. Edward will die. Cromwell stands behind the boy who is king now, he rules the land.” Orobas trembled again. “The Lady Mary is in a prison cell; she is abandoned. Cromwell and the boy king are feared by all.”

  Gertrude shrank from him. “No, no, no,” she wailed.

  “How can there be two futures?” I demanded.

  For the first time, Orobas moved a limb. He raised his right arm and pointed at me. “You are the key to all. You will set the path the future must follow.”

  “How?” I asked. “That is impossible.”

  Orobas continued to point at me. “When the raven climbs the rope, the dog must soar like the hawk.” I covered my face with my hands—it was unbearable to hear the words of Sister Elizabeth Barton, words I’d never shared with a living person, pour from his lips.

  “Look to the bear to weaken the bull,” he then said. “Look to the bear to weaken the bull.”

  I had not heard that before. More instructions—but they, too, meant nothing.

  “I don’t know what to do,” I cried. “I can’t choose a future. Your words don’t mean anything to me. They’re as useless as Sister Elizabeth’s.”

  “The third seer will tell you exactly what you must do,” Orobas said faintly. “It is over.” His eyelids fluttered; sweat poured down his brow.

  “Wait!” Gertrude shoved her way forward again. “You saw a cardinal and a bishop walking with Queen Mary. But what of my husband and my son? What of the Courtenays?”

  “Let me go, let me go,” said Orobas.

  “No, tell me,” she ordered. “You must. I will pay you more. Much more. Anything.”

  “Ah, poor Henry Courtenay,” he finally groaned. “The reckoning is coming.”

  I shook with fear. Those were the words screamed by the madman John when I left Dartford with the Courtenays.

  “Why do you say that?” Gertrude was completely frantic. “Why?”

  A thick gurgle of saliva oozed out of Orobas’s mouth. He collapsed and said no more.

  19

  So began my time of torment. Was Orobas genuine—did he reach into the underworld and grab hold of a long-dead Saxon girl who could glimpse into the future? On the face of it, that was both blasphemous and absurd. But when I thought of how Orobas described the river winding through Dartford, or gave voice to the tumultuous feelings of a rebellious young nun, my instincts told me I heard truth. And he spoke the same prophecy as Sister Elizabeth, which forced me to accept the fact that I did have a crucial role to play in the future of our kingdom. Some act I performed would change everyone’s lives. It was an unearthly responsibility that I shrank from just as violently as when I beheld the writhing Sister Elizabeth Barton or heard the strange mutterings of Orobas. How would I ever make confession of all of this, what possible penance could I receive?

  Gertrude and I rode back to the Red Rose in exhausted silence, accompanied by the twins and the other men. It was nearly dawn when we reached Suffolk Lane.

  Gertrude said in a low voice, “I will keep my word to you, Joanna. I’ll go west with Henry. He must never know what was said tonight.”

  I could see how deeply the prophecy about her husband had frightened her.

  I nodded. “And I’ll take Arthur back to Dartford and seek a quiet life.”

  But first I must endure the dinner of Henry Courtenay.

  The Marquess of Exeter came himself to accompany me when the hour approached, two nights later. It was the first time I’d seen Henry since he asked me to spy on his wife. He smiled as he held out his arm. “I will escort you, Cousin Joanna,” he said.

  While we walked to the great hall, we spoke of small matters until, with a half glance at the servants close behind, Henry asked, “So all has been quiet here in my absence?”

  It was the question I’d been waiting for. “Yes,” I said, without missing a step.

  I heard an exhalation of breath—he was relieved to hear it. Henry did not press me. That almost made me falter. I came so close to pulling him into the alcove off the stairway landing, away from the servants, and telling him what had happened two nights ago. To plead with him to get out of London as soon as possible—now, tonight.

  The reckoning is coming.

  “Ah, they’ve lit all the candles—excellent,” boomed Henry. I followed his gaze. The stairs were indeed afire with golden lights, fixed every few feet. The walls and steps never gleamed so bright. The servants must have polished the surfaces for hours. All this hard work, preparing the house for what was, after all, an insignificant dinner for a few friends. How could this be important when the darkness was closing in?

  I couldn’t bear it any longer. I had to warn Henry. But as I opened my mouth, Henry stepped back to examine me in my cloth of silver at the top of the landing, against all the lights. Wearing it was a trial for me, the fabric was so rough against my skin. But evidently it had a different effect on the beholder.

  “You are truly beautiful,” he said, clapping his hands twice. “It’s an honor to escort you to your dinner.”

  The time for revelation had passed.

  “My dinner?” I said. “But Baron Montagu is the guest of honor.”

  Henry smiled again. He was in the best of moods. “Of course he is. Of course. Come, we don’t want to keep him waiting.”

  In minutes we would be in the great hall. I wasn’t afraid any longer. The strange visions I had twice seen couldn’t possibly frighten me after what I had endured in the presence of the second seer.

  But Henry did not escort me into the great hall. Instead he led me to the music room. There was one person waiting for us, the room now alight with candles like all the others. He had his back to the door, hands clasped, as he scrutinized the frieze carved into the wall. Slowly he turned around.

  It was Baron Montagu, but how he had changed. I hadn’t seen him for at least five years, when he visited his sister Ursula at Stafford Castle. As the eldest of the Pole siblings, he was the one responsible for the family after the death of their father.

  Those visits of his always caused a stir. For one
thing, Baron Montagu was a great nobleman of the land, as much a childhood companion to the king as Henry Courtenay. But it was more than that: I knew that some women considered him handsome. I had never thought so, nor found him memorable in conversation. He seemed cold and haughty, avid for gambling, indifferent to books. In short, the perfect aristocrat.

  Montagu was somewhere in his forties. His black hair was salted with white; a cobweb of wrinkles had deepened around his eyes. His face was almost gaunt. He wore a black doublet unadorned with the jewels or chain of office he doubtless possessed. He was like a dark wraith stalking toward us.

  He kissed my hand, with a bit of the courtly flourish I remembered, and said, “Buckingham had such a passion for music.”

  “Yes, my lord,” I said, though I wasn’t sure why he brought up my father’s eldest brother. But then Montagu was always a great favorite of his. My presence must make him think of the Stafford duke.

  “He had a company of incredible lute players,” Montagu said, reaching for the memory. “There was one who played like an angel, though he grew fatter every year.”

  “Oh, yes—that was Robert,” I said. “My uncle had a special tailor brought in to make alterations to his livery. The tailor once stayed up all night sewing so Robert would be presentable for a feast day.”

  Montagu chuckled and, to my own surprise, I laughed, too.

  How delighted Henry Courtenay was. “You see?” he said. “It is possible, my friend, to enjoy life.”

  Montagu grimaced. For some reason, the marquess’s happy words embarrassed him.

  Thankfully, Gertrude appeared just then, beautifully dressed in deep-green velvets. She took her husband’s hand and pressed it to her cheek. It was one of her pet gestures, but I thought it a touch more fervent than usual. She and I locked eyes for an instant. We understood each other perfectly once more. Tonight was Henry’s night; we would both endeavor to make it a pleasing one for him.