The Chalice

by Nancy Bilyeau

  We stopped at the dining hall for the friars. The porter wanted to show off the refectory’s windows. The room was ten times the size of Dartford Priory’s refectory. I was humbled by its sweeping grandeur, topped by row upon row of windows set in the west wall. Through them filtered the last gasp of dusk, a grayish-purple light of melancholy humor. Sixteen friars? The room could fit six hundred.

  I caught sight of one small object on a far table. It was a wooden bowl, half filled with mixtum, the breakfast for all who live in a monastery. As I stared down at the hard, dried lumps of bread, I realized that I was looking at the last meal of Blackfriars. I could imagine it: One of the older ones was too heartsick to eat all of his meal. He pushed this bowl away and then left the cloister forever, carrying his only possessions across the cobblestone courtyard.

  “Sister, aren’t you coming?” bellowed the porter from across the refectory, interrupting my reverie. “We’re bound for the great hall next.”

  Naturally, this room in Blackfriars dwarfed every single great hall I’d been in, including the ones of the Courtenays and Howards.

  “Parliament met in this room twice, and this was where the annulment proceedings were held for King Henry and Queen Katherine, before the two cardinals,” said Brother Edmund.

  “All gone, all gone,” said the porter brokenly. “The unbreakable Blackfriars is broken, and by the great-grandson of a Welsh groom.”

  Brother Edmund said immediately, “No, no, Master Portinary, you must not speak such of the king. Buck up your spirits.”

  The porter nodded. “You were always a fine friar, Brother Edmund. They said you could be one of the greatest Dominican scholars in all of England. And look what’s happened to you—an apothecary practicing in a small town of no distinction. It’s a damnable tragedy, and yet you comfort me.”

  Brother Edmund stood very still. There was not enough candlelight for me to read his expression, but I didn’t need to. I’d always known that within him burned a desire for achievement. Although he insisted that healing others was a true calling, that being an apothecary was sufficient, I sadly doubted it.

  Master Portinary caught an inkling that he’d wounded Brother Edmund. “What am I saying? Too much wine, too much wine. I must to bed.” He stumbled toward the entranceway of the great hall. “I shall see you on the morrow, Brother, and your sweet sister, too. I will lock the cloister. No one will disturb you.”

  The next thing I heard was a ditty, hummed by the porter in a distant room. It slowly faded to silence.

  Brother Edmund and I were alone in Blackfriars.

  29

  Should we truly stay here?” I whispered.

  “The rooms may not be too comfortable, but I can think of no place safer,” he answered. “Certainly we cannot seek out a lawyer tonight. They’ve all left their chambers. But we have time to work in the library.”

  Holding his candle, Brother Edmund led me deeper into the cloister. On our walk through London, from the bridge to the monastery, he’d told me of the riches of the library and scriptorium. People came from all over Europe to see the Blackfriars collection: the illuminated manuscripts, the ancient scrolls, the collected philosophies.

  Yet the moment we stepped inside the library, we saw that all was amiss. Some shelves were empty; others still held books, but they were turned upside-down or jammed together haphazardly.

  For Brother Edmund, this was acutely painful. “All the illuminated manuscripts—taken,” he choked. “Do you know how long a man would spend creating one? His entire life. And it wasn’t only to serve God—it was to provide spiritual sustenance for the man who would come after. We are a chain, Sister Joanna, honoring who’s come before and helping the ones yet to come. That’s why we take vows, to become part of something bigger than ourselves. What do we do when the chain is severed—destroyed—by our king?”

  I could think of nothing to say that would comfort him. The sacking of the monasteries was a wound that would never heal, for any of us.

  As Brother Edmund looked through the books left behind, I moved toward a stone statue of Saint Dominic. It stood next to the doorway to the scriptorium.

  I approached the image of our founder slowly, reverently. A large stone dog sat faithfully at his side, a torch between its teeth. Saint Dominic’s mother had a dream when she was pregnant with him, that a dog would emerge from her womb carrying a torch. When, fearful, she approached her priest, he told her that that the torch would set the world on fire through preaching the word of Christ. That was a prophecy that came true—and the dog became our symbol.

  When the raven climbs the rope, the dog must soar like the hawk.

  “Brother Edmund,” I cried, “I may understand one of the codes.” Pointing at the statue, I said, “If the dog symbolizes the Dominican Order, then there can be no doubt that I am the dog.”

  “Yes, Sister Joanna, yes,” he exclaimed. “I should have thought of it already. But what of the raven? What does it represent? Sister Elizabeth Barton was a Benedictine, and their symbol is the olive branch, for their pursuit of peace. I wonder who the raven could be.”

  Another memory stirred.

  “At Saint Sepulchre, I saw their book,” I said slowly. “I believe it was one of the illuminated manuscripts you spoke of. There were olive branches on the pages, but a bird, too, perhaps.”

  “Saint Gregory’s life of Saint Benedict is found in every convent library—we will search for one,” vowed Brother Edmund. He took one half of the room and I took the other.

  We searched for at least an hour, perhaps two. I did battle with weariness, rubbing my eyes in order to see clearly. When I doubted I could read the words on another cover, I paused to watch Brother Edmund. He stood over a table strewn with books. The candlelight gave birth to a glow pulsing around his long blond hair. He never paused; he worked furiously to find answers in this forlorn library.

  Brother Edmund is my guardian angel, I thought. A fierce tenderness flooded through me.

  I shook my head. I must get hold of myself. Such thoughts were not seemly.

  “I have it!” he cried, holding up a small book with a leather cover.

  Brother Edmund and I turned the pages together, translating Latin at the same speed.

  I gasped when the turning of a delicate page revealed a large black bird. “Yes,” I cried. “I knew I saw that same bird in the book.”

  Brother Edmund and I ran our fingers along the sentences eagerly. It was a story from Saint Benedict’s early days in the wilderness:

  At mealtimes a raven used to come out of the nearby wood and take bread from Benedict’s hand. This time, when it came as usual, the man of God threw down in front of the raven the bread that the priest had handed him that had been poisoned, saying, “In the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, take this bread and drop it somewhere where no one can find it.” Again and again the man of God told him to do it, saying, “Pick it up, pick it up. Do not be afraid.” After hesitating a long time, the raven took the bread in its beak, picked it up and flew away. Hours later it came back, after having thrown the bread away, and received its usual ration from the hands of the man of God. And so the raven and Benedict in the beginning were intertwined.

  “The raven was a symbol of the Benedictines in the beginning,” I whispered. “And if this is the fulfillment of an ancient prophecy . . .” My voice trailed away.

  A more disturbing realization followed.

  “Sister Barton was hanged, was she not?” Brother Edmund said. “So the raven did ‘ride the rope,’ I’m afraid. Which means that the time of the raven is finished and now it is the time of the dog, a dog who becomes a hawk.”

  “But what does the hawk symbolize?” I asked, deeply frustrated that unlocking each riddle only left us with more.

  Brother Edmund paced the floor, deep in thought. At last, he turned to me. “In this case, it may not be what it is but what it does. Hawking is the favorite sport of kings, and hawks are incredible killers. The bird is famous for
hiding and then, when it sees its prey, moving fast—swooping down.”

  I snatched up my Rosary and gripped it so hard it hurt my palm. “You think the hawk symbolizes me and it means I have to kill? Please, Mother Mary, let that not be true. I could never kill anyone. It is a mortal sin.” I stared up at Brother Edmund. “And neither could you. You could never take a life.”

  “No, Sister.”

  Something in his voice sounded strange. I stared at him, waiting.

  Finally, Brother Edmund said, “My life has been dedicated to service, to learning and teaching, healing, and helping others. That is the way of those who take holy vows. Peace.”

  His lips twisted. “And that is why it has been so easy for the king and Cromwell to crush us,” he said.

  “We don’t fight back,” I whispered, echoing Gertrude’s plea the night we went to Londinium. Heavy with dread, I said, “Do you think yourself capable of committing an act of violence, in service of a greater good, Brother Edmund?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered. “That is the truth.”

  Perceiving my confusion and fear, Brother Edmund said, “The intent of the prophecy may not be harm. Perhaps you actually save someone. Or prevent something terrible from happening. The smallest act, at the right time and the right place, can have profound effects.”

  I slumped in a chair and held my head in my hands. The room spun around me.

  “We are in need of prayer, of spiritual guidance,” Brother Edmund said firmly. “Let us go to chapel.”

  In the exquisite chapel of Blackfriars, I knelt before the altar. Brother Edmund knelt beside me. It felt odd to be so close. At Dartford Priory and at Holy Trinity Church, men and women sat separately.

  His voice firm and clear, Brother Edmund began the prayer for the Dominican dead, “Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord. Lord, hear my voice!” He paused and looked at me. With a start, I realized he wanted me to say the prayer with him, at the same time. He was not going to preach to me. We would say the prayer together.

  And so the words unfurled from our lips, overlapping: “Let your ears be attentive to my voice in supplication. If you, O Lord, mark iniquities, Lord, who can stand? But with you is forgiveness, that you may be revered. My soul waits for the Lord, more than sentinels wait for the dawn.”

  When we’d finished, I rose and we walked together, in silence, down the nave of the chapel. It had been stripped of all valuables. But beneath the last pew, by the light of the candle I carried, I spotted a plain wooden cup.

  I stopped walking.

  “The chalice,” I said.

  Brother Edmund frowned. “What?”

  “I didn’t tell you—I’d nearly forgotten—but the very last thing that Sister Elizabeth Barton said to me was, ‘The chalice.’ ”

  “Chalices can be used simply for drinking, but the chalice also holds first place among sacred vessels, for it is used in celebration of the Mass,” Brother Edmund said slowly. “Perhaps the prophecy must be followed in order to protect the chalice—and the Mass.”

  My heart thumping, I said, “I don’t think that is what she meant. I can’t tell you anything except that it felt like a—a warning.” And then I cried, “Oh, Brother Edmund, I’m afraid. I don’t want this to happen to me. I’ve never wanted it.”

  Brother Edmund nodded. “And Jesus said, ‘Father, if you be willing, take this cup from me.’ ”

  “Gethsemane,” I whispered.

  Brother Edmund continued. “There Christ prayed, for he was full of fear over what he knew would come. God appeared and Jesus said, ‘Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me; yet not my will but yours be done.’ ”

  I turned away from Brother Edmund, overcome.

  He laid his hand on my shoulder. “You must know that I will do everything in my power to help you. I don’t want you to go through this alone, Sister Joanna. You will have me, always.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Everyone has said that you must learn the prophecy of three seers—the third one will tell you exactly what you must do. But you can only hear it of your own free will and unconstrained. So if you choose not to learn more, it stops now.”

  That look of hunger seized Brother Edmund once more. I knew how passionately he longed for a return to our old lives. Yet still I recoiled from my destiny. Anger rose—why must this burden fall upon me?

  As if he could read my thoughts, Brother Edmund said, “You have been chosen for a great task.” He paused. “But it’s not just because you’re from a noble family and you took vows to become a Dominican novice. It’s you. You are a woman unlike any other, Sister Joanna. I’ve tried to define this quality that sets you apart. I’ve never quite been able to.”

  I gazed at Brother Edmund, and I trembled with emotions I did not understand.

  Saying we were exhausted and would resume our discussion the next day, Brother Edmund took me to the calefactorium off the chapel. Every monastery had one—it was where fires were lit, but only between All Hallows’ Eve and Good Friday, to warm the faithful. While I waited, he gathered wood and a pallet for me to sleep on. He proposed that I spend the night here, near the fire, and he in a room down the passageway.

  Brother Edmund slipped the kindling into the shallow square in the center of the calefactorium floor. I heard that first sigh of fire catching and then the eager whispers of new flames. They popped and crackled. Golden spears flickered as they devoured the wood. The room now pulsed with light.

  Sitting a few feet away from him on the stone floor, I watched the shadows leap across Brother Edmund’s face.

  He leaned back, nodding, and half turned to me. “You shall be safe and warm here, Sister Joanna.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I will be nearby.” He stood up. “No one will be able to get to this room without passing mine first.”

  I stood up, too. He reached for my hands and squeezed them. When he started to step back, I gripped those hands tight.

  “Don’t go,” I said.

  He looked down at me, his brown eyes uncertain. “Do you wish me to stay a little longer?”

  I was silent. I knew I must send Brother Edmund away now. But I couldn’t part from him.

  “Stay with me.”

  I could not draw breath. It was as if I still wore one of Gertrude Courtenay’s bodices, too tight for me to inhale. He did not take back his hands, but I could feel his whole body stiffen.

  “I’m not sure what you want of me, Sister Joanna,” he said.

  I looked into his face. There was surprise there and a new wariness. But his lips parted as if he, too, could not easily draw breath.

  That it was sinful was never in doubt. But I slipped my arms around him. I reached high, and higher, feeling his smooth back. I turned my face up to his and, in terror, closed my eyes. I had thought Brother Edmund’s body would be cool, but it wasn’t. He was warm and lean, and tense as a strung bow.

  I waited, with eyes shut. After I don’t know how long, his lips pressed against mine, but so gently I almost doubted it was happening. I had never felt a touch this tender. I ached for more from him.

  The next moment he pulled away, abruptly. I stood alone. My eyes were still shut as I wove in the air.

  “This is wrong,” he said. “Remember that night at Malmesbury Abbey? I made a vow to you then before God. I said that I would never violate your faith and trust in me. Tell me you haven’t forgotten.”

  “I haven’t,” I said.

  “We’ve learned so much today, together, about things that may come to pass,” he continued. “The monasteries could be restored. It is part of the prophecy. Sister Joanna, how could we rejoin our brothers and sisters, take our place beside those who trust us, if we succumb to this? We took vows of chastity—and so we would be unclean.”

  I nodded and turned away. My eyes were blinded by humiliation.

  “Don’t cry, please; you mustn’t cry,” he said, anguished. And then, “I will go now—I must go now.” And with
out waiting for me to speak, Brother Edmund left the calefactorium.

  After a few moments, I made my way to the pallet that he had dragged in for me. The fire crackled high and merry, in a mocking conflagration. I stared into the twisting yellow flames. What I did was so weak, despicable. I couldn’t believe that it happened.

  Now I understood evil—I was able to grasp the cunning power of the devil. What other explanation could there be for how I had offered myself to Brother Edmund than that my body and spirit were seized by the devil? And to do it here—in a place that was until weeks ago a renowned monastery—was doubly horrific. I longed for the Sacrament of Penance. On my knees, I would confess my desires and seek absolution. If grace were restored to my soul, then I could resist sin.

  But I must also beg Brother Edmund’s forgiveness. And there must be no reoccurrence. What happened this night must never again. I simply could not survive without Brother Edmund’s friendship. That was the most important thing. There is nothing on this earth to be prized more than true friendship, he said to me at Howard House. I would prove myself worthy.

  After I’d made my resolution, my eyelids grew so heavy, I slumped onto the pallet and found sleep.

  The next thing I felt was hands dragging me from my pallet. I was pulled to my feet and shaken, my legs flailing helplessly above the floor.

  The Duke of Norfolk slapped my face hard. I heard a small rip at the same instant that hot pain ripped through me, from my scalp to the tip of my shoulder.

  “By my trowth, you are a wayward bitch,” the duke roared. His spit drenched my forehead.

  A half dozen men crowded into the room. Behind the duke stood Bishop Gardiner. There was no sign of Brother Edmund.

  “You think you’re clever, don’t you?” said Norfolk. “Corrupting that fool Catherine into aiding your escape with a miscreant friar. But my men aren’t fools. They saw two ladies leave and one return. Once I was informed, I had my men combing Southwark and London and Dartford all night—all night—to track you down. It wasn’t until we found this crookback at dawn that we learned of the fair man and the dark woman headed for Blackfriars.”