The Chalice

by Nancy Bilyeau

  I cried, “That is a most vicious thing for a priest to say to his flock.”

  Brother Edmund raised his hand. “Do not blame him entirely, Sister Joanna. Two years ago, Archbishop Cranmer sent directives across the kingdom, giving priests those exact words for the pulpit.”

  Master Gwinn made a face of misery. “It’s wrong—and I am so, so sorry.”

  After the widower shuffled from the infirmary, Brother Edmund cleaned his wooden bowl and pestle while I sat at the table, my head in my hands. The tears spilled down my cheeks. This roiling hopelessness was so painful, I couldn’t bear it. Would I live the rest of my days in the grip of despair?

  “If I knew who the third seer was, I would go to that person now—today—to receive the prophecy,” I blurted. “I must do something to take charge of my life.”

  Brother Edmund was silent for a moment. I could not discern his feeling.

  Then he said, softly, “When the raven climbs the rope, the dog must soar like the hawk.”

  He had been turning the prophecy over in his mind, all these weeks. While I struggled to push it from my thoughts, he had done the opposite.

  “Perhaps we could piece the prophecy together ourselves,” I said finally. “We made a start of it at Blackfriars.”

  “Perhaps we could,” he nodded. “But Christmas Day is not the most propitious of days to do so. We must calm ourselves before we meet the others.”

  I wiped away the tears as best I could. How worried Sister Winifred would be if I appeared at her Christmas dinner in a wrecked state. I must rally to ensure that Arthur had a pleasant day, at the very least.

  Brother Edmund reached over and patted my hand, but with a certain tentativeness. I remembered his comforting embrace at Howard House and, later, how it felt to slip my arms around him in Blackfriars. I fought off my longing to feel that again.

  The sound of singing drifted into the infirmary. The townsfolk were making their way up the street with their serenading. Their words of cheer and friendship were not for us but we heard them nonetheless:

  On Christmas five and twenty

  Fum, fum, fum

  Comes a most important day

  Let us be gay, let us be gay.

  Brother Edmund carefully withdrew his hand from mine and turned on his stool to stare out the front window of his infirmary.

  “I was promised to the monasteries when I was eight years old,” he said slowly. “I can’t remember a time when I thought to be other than a man of religion. I accepted that I would never be a husband or father. Of course, those things mean nothing to a child.”

  My breathing quickened. He had never confided in me like this before. Was Brother Edmund attempting to explain why he turned away from me at Blackfriars?

  The singing continued, fainter and farther down the street:

  Oh, a child was born this night

  So rosy white, so rosy white

  Son of Mary, Holy Virgin

  In a stable, mean and lowly . . .

  Neither of us spoke. The tension in the room had become unbearable. I couldn’t help but wonder if he was waiting for me to fumble toward the unspoken question.

  “Brother Edmund,” I said faintly, “have you ever had doubts about celibacy?”

  Staring down at the table between us, he replied, “Scriptures say, ‘A man who governs his passions is master of his world. We must either command them or be enslaved by them.’ ”

  I felt a sharp pang, which was ridiculous. I knew very well how Brother Edmund felt, how could I expect anything different? He did not seem angry at me, at least. To steer the conversation back to safer ground, I said, “But you became a friar, not a monk for the monastery.”

  Brother Edmund said: “What was important to my father was that I take vows, whether it be monk in the cloister or friar among the people meant nothing to him. I was the one who asked to be a friar of the Dominican Order. He agreed to it.”

  There was something odd about this. Seeing the question on my face, Brother Edmund continued, “I am the second son. My brother Marcus is ten years older than me. My father had some money, but not a great deal of it. He didn’t want to divide between us. Everything must go to Marcus. I must not divert from him in any way. My father himself was a second son. You would expect my father to have sympathy with the position of second son. But it was just the opposite.”

  This was not at all how I imagined the family of Brother Edmund. Yet while telling this story, his face remained neutral. He did not seem upset, and in truth, it was not unheard of for a father to regard his boys so.

  “What was it like for Sister Winifred?” I asked.

  After a moment, he said, “There are three sisters in our family. So there were several dowries to pay for. Winifred was a sickly child—I heard him call her the ‘runt.’ Father feared he’d never be able to marry her off without a dowry. He borrowed the money to endow her at Dartford as a novice and that was that.”

  The creases deepened in his forehead. Their father’s scarce love for Sister Winifred bothered him more than his own treatment.

  I asked, “What does your father think now that the two of you are no longer at Dartford?”

  Brother Edmund said, still staring out the window, “He passed into God’s hands seven years ago.”

  After a moment, I said, “But what of your brother now? Perhaps he never wished for these sorts of actions to be taken. He may regret your father’s stance, and wish to form a bond with you.”

  Brother Edmund turned to face me. “How is it possible,” he said, “that after all you have been through, all the losses suffered, you can still see the best in people, Sister Joanna? It is so very remarkable.”

  For the first time in weeks, I felt a warmth, a steadiness, rise inside me. Yet, as welcome as his praise was, I winced, too. Why did a kind word from Brother Edmund transform me so? It was time I acted as a grown woman, not a weak and adoring child.

  Brother Edmund jumped to his feet and put his arm around me. But my exhilaration swiftly shifted to fear, for his face was full of alarm. His act was one of protection. I looked toward the door, to see what he saw.

  Jacquard Rolin stood just inside the infirmary. He had somehow opened the door without either of us hearing it.

  “What are you doing back here?” I said angrily.

  Jacquard said, “I came to make inquiry about my friend Master Gwinn.”

  Brother Edmund cleared his throat. “He left some time ago. The poultice should speed the healing.”

  “That is good,” said Jacquard. But he did not turn to leave.

  “Is there anything else, Master Rolin?” asked Brother Edmund.

  “I have received such interesting news,” Jacquard said. “It has the potential to change everything in the kingdom of England.”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Pope Clement has decided to issue the bull against King Henry the Eighth. Your ruler is now formally excommunicated from the Catholic Church.”

  34

  After Jacquard left, Brother Edmund put out the fire in the infirmary, and I thought about what this news meant. Papal excommunication was rare and serious. Extraordinarily serious. The last person to be cast out of the Catholic Church by the Holy Father was Martin Luther, in 1520.

  I remembered what Gertrude said on our ride to Londinium: “It would be the duty of other Christian kings to depose him. And we could not rally to the defense of King Henry. Not if we wished to remain faithful to the Holy Father.”

  During our time in the infirmary, it had gotten colder outside. A damp fullness hung in the air, the sort that suggested snow. The serenaders were nowhere to be seen. Most everyone was indoors now, fires roaring, as they enjoyed Christmas dinner.

  When we reached the High Street, I saw a group of people at the top of it, walking toward the center of town but very slowly. To our shock, it was Brother Oswald and his followers. We hadn’t expected them to return.

  The Cistercian was so exhausted, I feared he
would collapse in the street. His followers looked just as bad: dirty, bruised, and disheveled.

  “What has happened?” I cried.

  “All is well, Sister Joanna,” said Brother Oswald faintly.

  “I see no new face—did you find the friar you seek in Aylesford?” asked Brother Edmund.

  No one answered.

  Arthur burst out of the Sommerville house, outraged by my lateness. I hurried the coatless boy inside. It took a few more minutes for Brother Edmund to join us, leading in the new guests for his table.

  I’d rarely been so proud of Sister Winifred as when she serenely greeted Brother Oswald and his followers. While I served each of the men a cup from the wassail bowl, she transformed a dinner for four into ten. Every guest had a bit of roasted goose with a slice of mince pie. It was a wonderful pie, with the mutton seasoned to perfection and not too many raisins.

  Arthur was ecstatic over Christmas. I wondered if he remembered the one that came before: a day spent with grieving relatives in the North of England, an orphan no one wanted until my father came looking, and brought him south. And what memories did he hold of a Christmas two years ago, spent with loving parents? I prayed that Margaret would think her son well treated, that I was not failing her memory. Yet what would she think of me for turning her painful secret into barter so that I could force my way home to Dartford? My throat clenched with remorse. I should have won my freedom another way.

  But today, at least, Arthur was happy, and his smiles and curiosity and laughter pleased everyone else at the table, though the monks said very little. Brother Edmund asked no questions; he quietly saw to their comfort, as would any host. But I knew him well enough to see he was as perplexed as I. Something went wrong in Aylesford. What could it be?

  Kitty materialized to clean up the dinner. I asked Sister Winifred if she would mind looking after Arthur for a short time, so that I could show Brother Oswald my new tapestry loom.

  The monks examined the first weeks of stitching on the loom, greatly interested. No one made the connection that Jacquard had—that the phoenix might resemble the rebirth of the monasteries.

  In the privacy of my home, I felt freer to urge them, “Please tell us what happened in Aylesford.”

  The same sadness settled over the group. All peered at Brother Oswald, awaiting his decision. At last, he said, “If it would please you, Sister Joanna,” and he sat on the floor. That was his way—Cistercians were so profoundly humble.

  “Aylesford Friary was so beautiful,” began Brother Oswald. “When we arrived, it was twilight, and to see it so, ah, it was like a dream. Three hundred years old, built in the time of the Crusades . . .”

  Brother Oswald’s voice faltered as he stared at the candle smoking in front of him. I could see that the wound on his face dealt by the ruffian in Southwark had not healed.

  “We found Brother Paul. He had been living there, in hiding. He could not light a fire for cooking or for warmth, for fear of discovery. Brother Paul said he took it as a sign from God that we came when we did—that all was not lost. We prayed together and then found places to sleep. How comforting it felt to be together in that room, as if we’d found a religious house once more.”

  Brother Oswald bowed his head. “The next morning we could not wake Brother Paul. He died in the night.”

  How terrible. I now regretted I’d pressed him for answers.

  Brother Oswald straightened his shoulders. With great effort, he said, “We will not despair—no, we will not. God has a purpose. I think that our next pilgrimage will reveal God’s will. Yes, I am sure of it.”

  “Where do you go from Dartford?” Brother Edmund asked.

  “To Canterbury Cathedral, to pray to the relics and make offerings at the shrine of blessed Saint Thomas Becket on the morning of the anniversary of his death,” answered Brother Oswald. “It is in four days.”

  “No,” I cried. “Oh, no.”

  I never told Brother Edmund what the Duke of Norfolk said would happen on the night before that anniversary. I had not forgotten it, of course—but I had pushed it from my thoughts, like a vile nightmare.

  My heart pounding, I said, “The king plans to send men to the cathedral, the night before the anniversary, to remove the box that contains the bones of Saint Thomas.”

  “Why?” choked one of the monks.

  I said faintly, “His Majesty means to have the body defiled—the bones burned and the ashes thrown onto the ground—to make example of a man of God who defied a king.”

  Brother Oswald eyes squeezed shut and he made the sign of the cross. The others clutched one another, in sorrow and pain.

  I felt a hand grab my arm. It was Brother Edmund. “Why didn’t you tell me this—why?” he demanded. “When did you learn it, Sister Joanna?”

  “At Blackfriars,” I whispered. “From the Duke of Norfolk.”

  Brother Edmund said, “Yes, this is why the king has been excommunicated. I knew it had to be some sort of terrible desecration that would force the pope to finally issue the bull. If Norfolk knew, and told you, then others must know at court. This horrific act may have been planned months ago. The word traveled to Rome—and Pope Clement had no choice. A saint cannot be defiled this way.”

  A new noise filled the room. It was Brother Oswald, kneeling in the middle of the floor and sobbing. The others were thrown into a panic at the sight of their leader’s distress. Another monk knelt before Brother Oswald and said, “Maybe we can stop this. We could go there now, before the king’s men, and convince the prior to let us take Saint Thomas to safety.”

  Brother Edmund said, “I’m afraid the prior of Canterbury Cathedral would never allow that. He won’t dare defy the king.”

  “We will go!”

  It was Brother Oswald. The Cistercian had ceased weeping. “We will be there the same night that the king’s men arrive,” he said, rising to his feet. “We will wait for them to emerge with the box—the sacred feretrum—and then we will take it from them.”

  “Yes! Yes! Yes!” the others cried. They all agreed at once to a plan that seemed to me highly dangerous. I could understand their wanting to do it. The king’s indomitable hatred caused despair and great pain. This plan removed the pain. Hope was restored. But how could they get the better of king’s soldiers? I looked at Brother Edmund—he must talk them out of this.

  “I shall go with you to Canterbury,” Brother Edmund declared.

  I rushed to him, saying, “I beg you to listen to me. Haven’t we been taught, ‘Arm yourself with prayer, rather than a sword; wear humility, rather than fine clothes’?”

  He turned to me—I saw that his eyes, like Brother Oswald’s, glittered like hard gems. “We have been humble too long, Sister. See what has become of us as a result. I must go.”

  “But Brother Edmund, they’ll kill you—all of you,” I said. “None of you have seen what the king’s men are capable of. Not as I have.”

  “And if I should die in this attempt—an attempt to prevent an act of hate and blasphemy—then my life at last has been infused with meaning, Sister Joanna,” he said passionately. “You of all people know what it cost me to take the Oath of Supremacy to King Henry five years ago. I denied the Holy Father. I haven’t known grace since, not the true grace of God. I was weak; I feared torture and death; I swore the oath. I cannot live with that any longer.”

  “And Sister Winifred?” I asked.

  “If we succeed in Canterbury, then she can be proud of me,” he said. “And if I fail, she will take pride in knowing that at last I showed courage when courage was called for. As will you, Sister Joanna.”

  “I am proud of you, Brother Edmund,” I said. “Now, tonight, and always.”

  He stared at me, wildly, and for an instant I thought I’d won. But then he backed away, to join the others.

  Helpless, frightened, I watched them talk together, their faces flushed with purpose. They were in the grip of a destiny now, one they had chosen for themselves.

 
; Destiny.

  There is a destiny one creates. And there is a destiny ordained.

  I walked slowly, toward the middle of the circle of men. Everyone stopped talking and waited for me to speak.

  “I will go with you to Canterbury,” I said.

  35

  The fire of purpose, once ignited within me, did not falter. When I ran to the doors of Canterbury Cathedral, three nights later, Brother Oswald had already wrested the feretrum from the soldiers.

  The oldest soldier, gray-haired, stood between me and Brother Edmund, tall and vengeful, waving his cudgel. I screamed at him. I felt like a Queen Boudicca, driven mad by rage.

  The old soldier backed away from the both of us, retreating into the cathedral and past the dazed prior. We frightened him. Within minutes, we’d be able to spirit away the remains of our dead saint to a place of safety.

  I felt a powerful excitement coursing in my blood. I was fulfilling my destiny. But it was even more than that. For the first time I, Joanna Stafford, a novice trained in peaceful contemplation, understood why men chased after wars and sought the honor of the field. The unity of purpose with Brother Edmund, Brother Oswald, and the five other monks, our shared devotion to the service of God, no matter the personal cost . . .

  The sound came from behind me, from the top of the wide street. It was a roar, not unlike the one inside my head when I fought for consciousness outside the monks’ graveyard, but a hundred times louder.

  “No, no, no, no,” said Brother Edmund, in a chant of anguish.

  At least twenty soldiers in royal livery galloped toward us. As the first line reached us, the men flew off their horses and swarmed up the steps. Silver flashed in the torchlight—they carried swords. These were not frightened boys or old men. Two of them wrested the feretrum from the monks. But my attention was not on the remains of England’s revered saint.