Baron Montagu escorted me to the great hall, with the Courtenays walking behind us. “I must offer you my condolences on the passing of your wife,” I said. I regretted how stiff my words sounded. It did not seem quite the best moment, but better now than in a hall filled with food and drink.
He thanked me, just as formally. “And how sorry I was to hear of your father’s death,” he said. “I knew Sir Richard Stafford my whole life. He was never anything but honorable and generous.”
“We’ve both lost people we love,” I said as we approached the entranceway to the great hall.
He said nothing to that. My comment seemed to pain him, just as Henry’s exhortations had earlier. I was so wretched at this, at entertaining others with conversation. I should not have brought up the death of his wife. Behind us, the Courtenays laughed at each other’s jokes.
The two other guests waited for us in the lavishly decorated great hall: Sir Edward Neville, a portly man with a warm smile, and Baron Montagu’s sister-in-law, Lady Christine Pole. She was a little older than I, with the fair hair and pink-and-white skin that an admired Englishwoman should possess.
“Oh, my, cloth of silver!” she exclaimed. “Is this how nuns now adorn themselves?”
My face turned hot. Gertrude swiftly explained that though my tastes were modest, she had insisted on presenting the dress as a gift to me.
“How nice to have such friends—you are the luckiest woman I know,” said Lady Pole, clutching her goblet of wine. Her nails were bitten to the quick. “Very lucky.”
There was some meaning behind her words I did not understand—and did not like. I reminded myself that her husband was confined in the Tower of London. That was a great trial; how well I knew that. I fell into the same silence as Baron Montagu. He’d wandered away from the rest of us, to examine the walls and artwork of the room.
Everyone else made his or her way to the last place I wanted to be: the huge fireplace. I stood by the table, alone. Gertrude gestured for me to join them. I pretended not to see.
“Montagu, bring Joanna over here,” Courtenay called out.
Again Montagu held out his arm and escorted me. I tried as hard as I could to affect nonchalance. Don’t be foolish, I told myself.
Taking a breath, I looked at the fireplace and at the stone lions that crouched above it.
A sickening dread stirred in my belly.
“What is the matter, Joanna?” asked Baron Montagu.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I murmured, closing my eyes.
With a tug on my arm, he pulled me a few feet away, so that my back was to the others. “Does being here again disturb you?” he said in a low voice.
“Yes, it does,” I said. My eyes sprang open. “How would you know?”
“Because it disturbs me, too, a little,” he said. Baron Montagu’s huge dark eyes were filled with a mournfulness that matched my own.
“Do you see the visions, too?” I blurted. His sadness made him somehow trustworthy.
“Visions? What sort?”
Haltingly, I told him what I had seen and heard twice when I gazed at this stone fireplace. The boy dressed as a cleric and the frightening giant. The sound of mocking adult laughter all around me.
Baron Montagu pulled me even farther from the rest of the party. “Joanna, those aren’t visions—those are memories. You were here, in this room, as a small child. Perhaps six years old. The Christmas feast. That was Buckingham’s party.”
“Why would my uncle give a party here, in the Courtenays’ home?”
Baron Montagu shook his head, as at something he found difficult to believe. “Because it didn’t belong to the Courtenays then. It was the London residence of the Duke of Buckingham. The king gave your uncle’s house to Henry after the execution and attainder. Christ’s blood, didn’t Henry or Gertrude tell you that?”
I could not speak, overwhelmed.
Baron Montagu said, “The duke loved to host Christmas parties in the old tradition. For many, many years, it was the custom to dress a boy like a bishop and have him administer blessings, and to hire a giant for good luck.”
“And the sense I had, of flying up?”
“You really did fly. Buckingham noticed that you were afraid of the giant, and so you were lifted up to face him, so to speak. But the giant was a bit simple, and he was more afraid of you than you of him. I do remember how everyone laughed. That was unkind, yes. I fear the party guests had had a great deal to drink. It was the third day of Christmas festivities.”
After a moment, I said, “I am surprised my father would do that to me. He was always sensitive to my nature. The last thing I’d ever want to be was the center of attention.”
“It wasn’t your father,” said Baron Montagu and rubbed his temples. “Ah, Joanna, don’t you remember? It was me. I lifted you up as high as I could.”
As I stared at him, the memory was complete. It was a handsome dark-haired man in his twenties, laughing, who whipped me off my feet. Now I knew why I’d always felt this antipathy for Baron Montagu.
“I am so very sorry, Joanna, for frightening you,” said the somber man who stood before me now. “Permit me to atone? Can we go to the fireplace now and banish those memories?”
We walked together, to gaze at the stone lions. That is all they were now, just lions that grimaced like gargoyles on a cathedral. I was overwhelmed with relief—my visions weren’t real, but simple fragments of memory. Though now I saw Henry Courtenay with new eyes.
“I should have been told the true history of the Red Rose,” I said.
Baron Montagu answered me in the same hushed tone: “Please do not blame him. Henry may have assumed you knew and did not want to broach the delicate topic. Or else he was ashamed to benefit so by your family’s fall. It is hard for him, the shifts we must make in these dangerous times.”
A woman’s voice cried out, “So I see all is progressing very well indeed.”
I turned to see a smiling Lady Pole bearing down on me and Baron Montagu.
Gertrude Courtenay said, warningly, “That’s sufficient, say nothing more.”
But Lady Pole laughed. “Why all the pretending? These two aren’t children. None of us are children.”
I truly did not care for this woman. “What are you trying to say?” I asked.
“Henry Courtenay has decided you would make an excellent second wife for his closest friend, and by the look of it, my brother-in-law agrees.”
Nothing inspired more scorn in me than heartless party games. And I did not appreciate being the object of a joke. I opened my mouth to say as much to Lady Pole when I realized something. Everyone in the room was miserable. Gertrude and Henry glared at Lady Pole. Sir Edward Neville appeared to wish he were elsewhere. And Baron Montagu’s face was rigid with embarrassment.
“This is impossible,” I stammered. “Impossible.”
Henry Courtenay hurried toward me. “Joanna, I’m sorry. I wanted you to meet Montagu again, for you to see each other, and then to see if you wished to proceed.”
Baron Montagu stepped forward. “And I should not have allowed Henry to arrange this. He was thinking of my happiness—and yours, too. But you should have been told.” His eyes shone with even more regret than when he admitted his role in the Christmas party.
“Yes,” I said, embarrassment mingling with anger. “You’re right. I should have been told about a great many things in this house.”
Across the room, Charles cleared his throat.
“My lords, there is a disturbance with the children, I regret to inform you. Master Arthur Bulmer must see Mistress Stafford. It has something to do with a child who is a guest. The tutors and servants are unable to calm Master Arthur.”
“That would be my son’s doing.” Baron Montagu sighed.
I held up my hand. “I will attend to this,” I said.
Gertrude said, “This is my house, I must accompany you and make matters right.”
“I go alone,” I announced to the roo
m with some ferocity.
Once I was out of their sight, I picked up my skirts to move faster, up the stairs, across the landing, and down the passageways. From outside his room, I could hear Arthur crying. I burst open the door. Arthur was flailing in the bed, while Edward Courtenay stood by, worried. I learned that Baron Montagu’s fourteen-year-old son had teased Arthur relentlessly until Arthur exploded and had a full-fledged fit of temper. Servants separated them; I did not know where the other boy was now.
“Arthur, hush, all will be well, Joanna is here,” I said, cradling him in my arms. His cries subsided into hiccups.
“I’m sorry I didn’t defend Arthur better,” said Edward Courtenay. “That beast Montagu is our guest. He kept mocking the way Arthur speaks. I wasn’t sure what to do.”
I patted Edward’s arm. “You did your best, you are a good boy.”
Once Arthur was calm, I straightened my skirts. I had to return to the party, although it was the last place I wanted to be. As I walked along the passageway, I thought of Baron Montagu. I was not the only one embarrassed tonight. I did not want him to think that when I cried “Impossible,” it was because he was unacceptable. Baron Montagu had shown sensitivity in how he handled the Christmas party of the Duke of Buckingham. And he had also spoken well when his sister-in-law exposed this plan. Pole marrying Stafford, on the face of it this was a natural solution. His sister was the wife of my cousin. And I did not dislike him. Quite the opposite. But I could never marry anyone.
I’d reached the landing when a man whispered, “Joanna.”
I turned, confused. A servant would never address me by my given name.
But it was a man dressed in Courtenay livery who emerged from the alcove at the top of the landing. He kept his face from the full candlelight. With a quick movement, he beckoned for me to come to him.
“Sir, I will not go with you,” I said, offended and a little frightened. “Shall I call for the others?”
The man took another step and the light fell on his face. It was Geoffrey Scovill.
I froze.
He charged the rest of the way, grabbed me by both hands, and pulled me into the darkness of the alcove.
“Why are you here?” I choked.
He held me an arm’s length away. “By God’s good grace, look at you. I’ve never—in my life—seen anyone as lovely.”
Whether it was the shock of seeing him amid my mounting fears of everything in London, I will never know. But I stepped forward and laid my forehead against his chest. Tears burned my eyes.
“Geoffrey,” I said.
In an instant, his arms were around me. So tight I thought he would grind the costly, rough fabric into my skin and incinerate me. But I burrowed even tighter into his embrace.
“Joanna,” he whispered, his lips on my ear and then my throat. “Joanna.”
It was the same as before, at the priory last spring, when he came to give me the last piece of news. My eyes closed, I sought out his lips. I kissed him with as much fervor as he kissed me.
I felt the first sharp twist of shame at my weakness. My eyes fluttered open and I caught the shimmering outline of the candles at the top of the landing. I tore myself out of Geoffrey’s arms.
“Are you here because of my letter?” I said. “But why disguise yourself like a servant, why come here tonight? I am leaving tomorrow, with Arthur.”
Geoffrey shook his head. “No, Joanna. You must leave here tonight—within the next few minutes. I am here to get you and Arthur out. The king is sending men to the Red Rose, they should arrive within the hour. They have warrants for arrest. The charge is high treason.”
20
But Henry Courtenay is no traitor,” I told Geoffrey, once I’d found my voice.
“Nonetheless, they are coming for him,” he said. “And Courtenay’s is not the only name written on the arrest warrant. Pole and Neville are to be taken as well. By coming together in private here, away from the court—members of three families with royal blood—they stir much distrust. God knows the king and Cromwell were already suspicious.” Geoffrey shook his head, exasperated. “There could be no cause important enough for them to sup together in secret now, when His Majesty fears conspiracy at home and invasion from abroad.”
I covered my mouth with my hand.
Geoffrey took me in his arms again. “The name Stafford isn’t on the warrants, Joanna.” He kissed my forehead. “If I get you out now, there’s a chance you won’t be drawn into the investigations. It’s a slim chance—I won’t lie to you. But it’s your only one. You can’t be here when the king’s men pound on the door.”
I pulled back. “If there are to be questions tonight, then I must present myself, to speak for Henry and the others. I can explain why the guests are here. It has absolutely nothing to do with any treason.”
He shook his head. “The man who comes to arrest them is Lord John Dudley. He’s a soldier. And a seeker of the king’s favor. He won’t listen to the explanations of a woman. And not a woman named Stafford, for certain. He’s ambitious enough to throw you into the Tower on his own authority, because you’re from a traitor family.”
The thought of returning to the Tower of London made my stomach turn cold and sick. But I managed to steady myself.
“No, Geoffrey. I can’t run away. You don’t understand—this is all my fault. The reason that—”
But he would not let me finish my sentence. “That’s nonsense,” he said. “Nothing is your damn fault. Joanna, why must you always fight with me?” Frustration—and fear, no doubt—turned his voice to anger. I took two steps back from Geoffrey, leaving the protection of the alcove. I felt the glow of the candlelight warm the back of my head.
“Joanna, is that you?” cried a man’s voice from below.
Geoffrey raised both hands, slowly, in a calming gesture. In the faintest whisper, he said, “Say nothing to anyone.”
“I have to warn them,” I mouthed back.
Alarm flickered in his eyes. “No. Get rid of him and come back.”
Geoffrey must be protected, there could be no question of that, I decided.
Baron Montagu was halfway up the stairs, his forehead creased with concern. I rustled down the stairs, to head him off.
“How are the children?” he asked.
“All is well with them, Baron Montagu,” I said stiffly.
“But not with you.” He shook his head. “Ah, Joanna, you are so upset. I am deeply sorry for what happened here tonight.”
“There is no need for you to apologize.” I peered past Baron Montagu, to the bottom of the stairs leading to the entranceway of the manor. Would Lord John Dudley pound on this door? How much longer did we have?
“There is every need in the world,” said Baron Montagu, turning to look in the same direction I’d peered in. “We are alone here, Joanna. And here is where I will say what must be said.”
“No, no.” I rushed down the rest of the way. I was so frantic to prevent Baron Montagu from speaking, I covered his mouth with my hand. He removed it. But he did not let go of me. His hand was cooler than Geoffrey’s.
“Henry is my oldest and closest friend, and he sees me through those eyes,” Baron Montagu said. “He actually believes that to be the wife of Baron Montagu is a happy station. While I am certain it is quite the opposite.”
“My lord, I must implore you to rejoin the others,” I said, growing desperate. “We can speak of this at a later time.”
“No.” He still held my hand. His mournful eyes hardened with determination.
“I bear a great name and I have my title, but my purse is not full, like Henry’s. No great fortune came to me at my father’s death. And the troubles of my kin are beyond compare. My mother depends on me for every matter. My youngest brother is imprisoned. You can see what it is like to keep company with his wife, though she, too, is my responsibility now. My other brother is the greatest enemy of the king’s. I wrote to Reginald, at His Majesty’s request, and chastised him for his d
isloyalty. Not that it would make the slightest difference to Reginald, who has never listened to me. He places us all in the greatest peril, but insists he must follow his conscience.”
His mouth twitched. “Then there are my children. Their mother was everything to them. My oldest boy—who was tormenting your cousin, no doubt—tells me he wishes I were dead instead of her. It’s ridiculous what he expects of me. I have brought him up as my father did me, as all sons are brought up in our families.” He winced at his own words. “Oh, but I must begin anew with him—I will—if it’s not too late.”
I was torn between deepening sympathy for Baron Montagu and anguish over how he would react if he knew someone beside myself were listening.
But nothing Geoffrey had heard so far could compare to what followed.
“I tried to dissuade Henry from this enterprise of his,” said Baron Montagu. “But he kept insisting that you could be my helpmate as well as my wife. He wanted me to see you again, in social surroundings, without obvious pressure. I asked Neville to come, too—he is my late wife’s brother and a fine man. My brother Godfrey’s wife invited herself. She is under great strain because of his imprisonment. Try to forgive her rash words if you can.”
I nodded, though my view of her was unchanged.
He continued: “I admit that I did not see this fiery spirit he described—until you ordered us all back in the great hall and insisted you would attend to the children alone. I saw the Stafford in you then.”
There was nothing haughty about him any longer. A spark of hope, of dawning affection, softened his features.
I simply could not let it go any further.
“Baron Montagu, I have to—”
Again he cut me off. “Allow me the courtesy of finishing what I mean to say. Then we can proceed to make our plans or I can leave and never trouble you again.” He turned my hand over and cupped it in both of his. “Perhaps Henry knows me better than I think. For you are the perfect woman for me. I could not take up a match with a silly young girl who has no experience with the harshness of my world—she would be but another burden for me. But I am also, and I admit it, an exceedingly proud man. I couldn’t marry a widow, couldn’t bear to take into my bed a wife who’d known another.”
The Chalice Page 16