The Chalice

by Nancy Bilyeau

  Dudley’s back was to me. I could not see his reaction to the duke’s scorn, ladled out in front of all the men. The object of this was not to deliver us from imprisonment but to humiliate Dudley, whom he plainly hated.

  Norfolk flew off his horse and stalked toward our wagon. In the torchlight his face was scored with even deeper wrinkles than I saw a year ago. He still moved like a young man with the face of a death’s-head.

  “Baron Montagu, Sir Edward, have you been mishandled?” he barked. “Who is the woman with you?”

  It wasn’t until he was near enough to touch the side of the wagon that he recognized me.

  “Christ’s blood, not you,” he howled. “Joanna Stafford, what are you doing here?”

  Dudley dismounted and the two of them stood inches from me, quarreling over my inclusion in the night’s arrests. Dudley was plainly in the wrong—my name was not on a warrant and I’d not said or done anything to incriminate myself. But for that very reason he stood his ground most stubbornly.

  Norfolk did not ask me a single question. All of these men talked about me—my putative engagement to Montagu, my stay at the Red Rose, even my former service at Dartford Priory—but not to me. I found it all most confusing. Why would my fate matter to the Duke of Norfolk? If anything, he should rejoice in my arrest. Last year he’d led the interrogation into my possible treason, pursuant to the execution of my cousin Margaret. Norfolk even struck me in the face when I did not break under questioning.

  “I will take personal responsibility for her—it will be on my authority,” Norfolk said, spittle flying from the corner of his mouth.

  “But she’s not a member of your family,” Dudley said.

  “Are you not even aware that my wife’s a Stafford, and this girl her first cousin?” Norfolk retorted. “My brother-in-law, Lord Henry Stafford, has given me charge of the Staffords’ welfare as well as the Howards’.”

  “That is not true,” I said, but no one heard me but except Montagu. He said warningly, “Say nothing—it’s better Norfolk than the Tower.”

  I shook my head. “They are close to the same thing.”

  But in the next moment, it was decided. These courtiers of the king rescinded my arrest. I was to be released at once. Norfolk pushed his way on to speak next with Henry Courtenay. Dudley mounted his horse to retake his place at the head of the party. He aimed one final look at me, full of loathing, as he trotted past. I turned my attention to Baron Montagu.

  All words seemed inadequate. He was going to the Tower while I had, inexplicably, won my freedom. And what were we to each other? Nothing. Everything.

  “I shall pray for you,” I said finally.

  His lips curved into a smile. “Ah, yes, you were nearly a nun. A woman whom two men were ready to die for tonight. Most incredible.” He took my hand and kissed it.

  The Duke of Norfolk’s men stepped forward, helping me out of the back of the wagon. I left it with a good deal more care than when I went in. The duke himself returned at that moment, shouting, “Find her a horse.” He walked over to his own mount, dispensing more orders to the scrambling Howard retainers.

  “Good-bye,” I whispered to Baron Montagu.

  He nodded, and then called out to the Duke of Norfolk, “A word, Your Grace?”

  Although Norfolk was about to mount his horse, he walked to the back of the wagon to hear what Montagu had to say. I’d never seen him show anyone such respect before—except for Bishop Gardiner and, I assumed, the king.

  “Now there’s no one left but you, Howard,” Montagu said. “Be ready.”

  The duke flinched very slightly—only Montagu and I could have detected it—and then bowed. A whip cracked on the back of the horses pulling the Poles’ wagon. Norfolk’s hand shot out. As the wagon surged away, he clapped the side of the wagon with such force, it almost yanked him off his feet.

  Montagu did not look back. He sat in profile, his head held high. That vaunted pride of his—a pride taken as arrogance by so many—would carry him through, I hoped. It was all he had now.

  I peered over at Norfolk, standing inches away. He seemed fearfully tall until one got close to him. At this moment, his aged face was twisted into a grimace.

  He realized I was looking at him and muttered, “Let’s be off.”

  “Off where?” I asked.

  One of Norfolk’s men, sporting a red beard, stepped forward. “Your Grace, a man has come forward who—”

  “Richard, can you not handle anything yourself, man?” the duke demanded, his anger mixed with a profound weariness. The sight of the Poles, the Courtenays, and Neville rumbling away had truly shaken him.

  “It concerns her.” Richard pointed my way.

  Geoffrey. On the other side of a line of men wearing black-and-gold, he stood under the torchlight.

  He bowed deep to the duke and then said, his voice strong yet respectful, “Your Grace, bearing on the matter of Mistress Joanna Stafford, I—”

  “Stop!” Norfolk held up a hand. “You are familiar to me.”

  My heart sank to the ground. Was it possible that the duke recognized Geoffrey from less than an hour of questioning that took place more than a year ago? The duke struggled for the memory as Geoffrey and I waited, not daring to look at each other.

  “Yes, yes, it was in a Tower cell and . . .” Norfolk whipped around, to look at me. “He was arrested with you at Smithfield. You said he was nothing to you, a man in the crowd. I think you described him as an insect.”

  I flinched. Yes, I had denounced Geoffrey. It was a desperate attempt to remove suspicion from the young constable. I’d succeeded in freeing him, but my words had wounded Geoffrey deeply then.

  “What is going on here?” asked Norfolk.

  I spoke first. I would not denounce Geoffrey again. “Constable Geoffrey Scovill is my friend,” I said.

  The Duke of Norfolk stared at me, incredulous. The other men looked at me, too, clad in my torn cloth of silver gown, and then at Geoffrey, wearing the garb of an ordinary man.

  “By Christ’s holy wounds,” the duke said, and laughed. How he seemed to relish this, uncovering our connection. His grief over the arrests of his fellow noblemen was swept away. I hated his blasphemy as much as I hated that rough cackle.

  “I gather Montagu had no notion he’d be sharing you with this young buck?” the duke jeered.

  “I will not respond to such an unseemly question,” I shot back.

  “You call me unseemly?” the duke said.

  Struggling for dignity, Geoffrey said, “Your Grace, I am a legal representative of the town of Dartford, where Mistress Stafford resides, and in that capacity alone I ask to escort her and her cousin Arthur Bulmer to their home.”

  The duke frowned. “Arthur Bulmer?”

  “Margaret’s son,” I said. “He is at the Red Rose now, sleeping in his room upstairs. I have charge of Arthur now that his parents are dead.”

  The duke’s salacious laughter died. He was the one who had arrested Arthur’s parents in the north of England, as commander of the king’s forces during the rebellion. He brought them down to London for trial. And Margaret was his wife’s half sister.

  The duke thought for a moment. “Arthur Bulmer will be returned to Dartford. The constable can take custody. But you, Joanna Stafford, are coming with me.”

  “But why?” I demanded. “You told Lord Dudley I was guilty of no crime, that my name had never come up in the treason investigation.”

  “If you heard that, then you also heard that I make decisions for the Stafford family now,” Norfolk responded.

  I protested his decision—and Geoffrey made another attempt to intercede. But the Duke of Norfolk had set his mind.

  I turned to Geoffrey. “Arthur will be wild, he will cry and scream,” I said. “Even if he remembers you from the priory, it will be hard.”

  “I can handle him, Joanna,” he reassured me.

  “Please take him to see Sister Winifred and Brother Edmund at once,” I conti
nued, frantic.

  “Joanna, I will arrange everything; Arthur will be cared for.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “And he and I will be with you again very soon.”

  The Duke of Norfolk bellowed to his men that we were about to depart. A man led a mare forward and helped me onto her.

  “I have one more thing to say,” the duke announced, gathering his reins. “You, Geoffrey Scovill, must not come after Joanna again. My wife’s cousin has a taste for commoners. I have been lenient with the two of you tonight, for it’s a taste I share. But that’s at an end now. There can be no more scandals in the family.”

  The highest-ranking nobleman of the kingdom pointed at Geoffrey. “If I see you again in her company, it will be your hanging, Constable. Do you understand?”

  I could not see Geoffrey’s face. But I heard his voice. It was low, subdued. “I understand, Your Grace.”

  “Very good.” The duke slapped the flank of his horse. It bolted forward, and the rest of the horses surged after him. I barely needed to rattle the reins, my animal was so well trained. Norfolk moved fast, and his men and their horses knew how to keep the pace.

  I twisted this way and that in the saddle, but there was no sign of Geoffrey. He did not follow me any longer. No sane man would, after the duke’s warning. I was now at the mercy of the Duke of Norfolk.

  23

  My thoughts churned as I followed the duke along Lower Thames Street. How would I manage it—how would I possibly free myself of Norfolk? There had to be a way to return to Dartford without endangering Geoffrey’s life. My closest friends, my dreams of independence—I could not abandon them for Stafford Castle.

  Norfolk trotted to the Thames, and I heard the cry go out for a boat. We would make a night crossing. The duke’s destination must be Howard House, in Southwark. I’d been to his large London establishment once before with Brother Edmund, a fateful day indeed.

  The boatmen helped me onto their craft. Only three of us would be ferried across the river: the duke, his servant Richard, and myself. I watched the rest of the men gallop for the bridge and wondered why we had been split into two groups.

  I said, “Your Grace, may I inquire—?”

  “No, you may not,” Norfolk said, roughly. “I’ll brook no questions, no women’s pleading or caterwauling. Let me think, damn it.”

  And with that, we eased away from the north shore. There was no sound but the boatmen’s grunts as they pulled hard on the oars. It was not an easy journey; the tides were strong and against us. I could not imagine why Norfolk wanted to do this—surely it made more sense for us all to ride across the bridge to Southwark.

  The wind blew cold on the dank and choppy river. I wrapped my arms around myself and bent over, shivering. The water in the boat bottom soaked my borrowed velvet slippers. A hand tapped my shoulder, and Richard handed me a rough blanket he’d secured from the boatman.

  “Thank you,” I whispered.

  He nodded, his careful eyes on the duke who was hunched over at his seat at the bow.

  Our boat finally reached a large wharf on the south bank. Freshly lit torches soared above it. Four men swarmed down the steps to the landing.

  “Welcome, Your Grace,” one called out. It was not surprising that Southwarkers knew the Duke of Norfolk on sight, for he was a famous nobleman. Still, these did not seem like the type of men who’d find a livelihood on a river wharf. Where were we? A high wall hid what lay beyond.

  We climbed the narrow stone steps to the top of the riverbank. The frigid wind whipped off the river, making my eyes sting and my nose drip. My feet had turned numb in my damp slippers.

  An opening in the wall led to a narrow lane through a wooded park. At the other end was an arch; a large building rose behind it, though the trees obscured much of it. This wharf served a single prosperous establishment. It wasn’t Howard House, though. I remembered that Norfolk’s manor house stood at least one mile from the river.

  I followed the duke and Richard up the dark, well-swept lane. Trees lined both sides; their leafless branches met and mingled above our heads like a lattice.

  The line of trees ended. I stepped into the clearing—and came face-to-face with a pale, staring woman. I stumbled back and fell on the cold ground. It took me a moment to realize that she was a statue. A white marble statue of a woman dancing, or perhaps an angel fleeing the earth. I was suddenly tempted to flee, too. The duke had passed through the arch ahead without stopping for me. I could hide in the woods or run back to the wharf.

  But a night breeze made me shudder anew. I would perish without shelter tonight or the means to secure it.

  The moment I walked through the archway, my breath quickened. I’d entered a bustling courtyard lit with torches. Horses stood waiting on one side, with a half dozen finely dressed attendants standing by. Not Howard retainers—these served some other high-ranking nobleman. Two young servants crossed the courtyard, gingerly carrying glazed stoneware jugs.

  On the far side of the courtyard rose a castle with a slanted-roof hall and a church steeple. Lights flickered in the windows of all three floors. This was a castle fully occupied. But whose?

  Norfolk bounded through the castle’s main entranceway, the initial W topping the doorway. Richard turned and beckoned for me to follow, and then he scrambled to keep up with the duke.

  Inside, the duke shouted for me to wait as he hustled into a room at the far end.

  I half fell into the first chair I found in the warm gallery. My feet began to thaw. The smell of sweet herbs filled my head, emanating from the rushes strewn across the floor.

  Sitting in a gallery such as this began to restore me, to stir my curiosity. What first caught my interest was a large painting of Our Lord Jesus Christ. It pulsed with vibrant golden light. Our Savior gazed out of the painting with directness, a tender immediacy that I’d never experienced before. It was as if he gazed right into my eyes, if not my soul. This vivid work must have been painted in Rome by one of the Holy Father’s most cherished geniuses. Now that I thought about it, the lifelike statue in the park was exquisitely fashioned, too. I felt humbled to be in the presence of such artistry. That was one of the most tragic aspects of the Reformation—its leaders’ virulent hatred of art.

  A young man dressed in velvets, carrying a rolled parchment, nodded to me as he walked past. After a moment I heard the murmured conversation of two more men strolling down the hall. By their collars and dark garb I immediately knew them to be priests. Once the two reached Richard, they fell into pleasant conversation.

  What was this place? Neither palace nor cathedral, and, while religion was woven into much of my surroundings, it was certainly no monastery. This seemed like the residence of a prince of the church. A cardinal, perhaps. But there are no cardinals left alive in England, I reminded myself. There would never be another papal legate in the land.

  Frustrated, I gazed at the painting once more. As impossible as it may seem, Christ’s expression had altered. With a chill, I realized what filled His eyes when He gazed upon me. Pity.

  A bishop. The letter W. A person close to the Duke of Norfolk.

  This was the residence of the bishop of Winchester. Stephen Gardiner no longer served the king as chief ambassador in France. Gardiner, my nemesis and my master, the churchman who I had spied for against my will, had returned.

  I was on my feet. I had no plan—only panic. Two words repeated in my head: Get out. Get out. Get out.

  “Mistress Stafford, what are you doing?” Richard’s voice echoed down the long gallery. I could hear his steps as he rushed after me.

  I didn’t turn around. I pushed open the door with all my strength, but the young page slammed it shut and jumped in front of me to bar my way, his smile gone.

  “Do you serve Bishop Gardiner?” I asked.

  He nodded but was puzzled, as if he could not understand why I would ask such an obvious question.

  “This is Winchester House,” he said.

  The next voice I heard w
as Norfolk’s, ordering Richard to bring me down the gallery. Richard took my arm roughly, with an accusatory glare.

  As Richard forced me to the end of the gallery, I remembered the last time I’d been in the presence of Bishop Gardiner: at Dartford Priory, on my very last day, when he’d flattered and badgered me to continue my spying—unsuccessfully. “Defy me, and you shall bitterly regret it, as shall all my enemies.” So this was why the Duke of Norfolk worked so hard to wrest me from Lord Dudley—to return me to the grip of the bishop.

  When we reached it, Richard knocked twice on the door and then pushed it open. I tried to rid my face of all feeling. It was always a mistake to show fear to Gardiner.

  I expected to encounter two people inside this room: Gardiner and his chief ally, the Duke of Norfolk. And indeed, those two men were present. Norfolk stood by the mullioned window, somber, his hands clasped behind his back. Bishop Gardiner sat in a plush high-backed chair on a platform, his white robes grazing the floor. In Winchester House he wore on his head the bishop’s miter—the base of the imperious cone sparkled with gems. Gardiner had not changed. I felt those same light-hazel eyes on me, scrutinizing me, probing for weakness.

  But there was another chair next to his on the raised platform, and on it perched a third person, a small and forlorn figure, someone whom I had not expected for a single second to see.

  It was the Lady Mary Tudor.

  24

  I curtsied low to the king’s eldest daughter, a formal slide to the floor that my mother taught me before I learned to read.

  The Lady Mary looked ill—no, worse than ill. Her luminous white complexion had turned chalky and loose. Her eyes were rimmed with red.

  The princess held out her arms. I stepped up to the platform to embrace her, and it was like enfolding a frail child, not a twenty-two-year-old woman. The jewel-encrusted crucifix around her throat pressed so hard I thought it would pierce my flesh.