“I’m not sure that happiness is my lot,” I blurted.
His eyes widened. The music separated us again. A moment later, he said, very intently, “That’s a strange thing for a woman to say who’s getting married within the month.”
I said nothing, just twirled and prayed for the dance to be soon over.
“I’ve never thought you grim, Joanna,” he said. “You are—you are—”
The song ended. He should have bowed and retreated, but instead he took a step closer to me, pulling an object from his doublet pocket, a very small cloth sack. He pulled open the strings and carefully emptied its content into his left palm.
It was a glittering dark stone, no more than an inch in diameter.
“Do you know what this is?” he asked.
“No.”
The music began anew. Once again we were going to be in the way.
Geoffrey said, “Opal. They call it Black Fire. I bought it from a merchant a month after we met in Smithfield, after we went to the Tower together, when I never thought to see you again. I wanted a reminder of you.”
I took a step back, dismayed. “Oh, Geoffrey, do not show me this. Not here—not anywhere. It’s not fitting.”
Geoffrey shoved the opal in his bag and put it back into his pocket. “I know it isn’t.”
Everyone was dancing around us, while we stood in the middle of the floor. Heads turned; I could hear the whispering under the music.
I edged away from him. I’d slip between the dancers and make my way to the other room.
He caught up to me. He grabbed my hand and pulled me to him. It was as if we were back at Smithfield, that very first day. I was always struggling to get away from Geoffrey Scovill. And he was always following. And, God forgive me, there was a part of me that was glad he followed.
“In the barge, when we went up the Thames to the Tower, when I woke up, my head was in your lap. You took care of me. And even though I was in pain—and arrested, God help me—it was something incredible. How you did that for me.”
My eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Geoffrey, no. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“There’s one more thing I have to tell you, Joanna,” he said, pulling me even closer. “The day you went to Canterbury, I knew that if I struck some sort of bargain with the king’s men, if I informed, you’d never forgive me. But I also knew that you might be killed in Canterbury, and I couldn’t bear that. Even if it meant you hating me, even if it meant driving you so far toward Sommerville there wasn’t a prayer for me anymore.” His blue eyes shone with tears, something I thought I’d never see. “I couldn’t live if you were dead. That’s the truth.”
Suddenly he released my arm. Geoffrey looked over my shoulder.
I turned slowly.
Just a few feet away stood Edmund. He stared at me and then at Geoffrey, his face white with shock. And then he turned and left, pushing more than one man out of his way to get away as fast as he possibly could.
“Edmund,” I cried. “Stop!”
I hurried after him, dodging the dancers as they leaped and twirled around me. I couldn’t see Edmund anywhere. He was lost to me.
I rushed from the dancing room, desperate to find him. The last person I saw, the man standing by the door, his arms folded, was Jacquard. There was a girl with him, wearing a pale green hood. He spoke to her, and nodded as he did so, but his eyes were on me.
38
I searched the crowded rooms but could not find Edmund. After I was certain that he was not inside the house, I rushed outside. Clumps of people spoke on the lawn overlooking the gardens. But he was not there, either. I ran down the path connected to the road, my side aching. I scanned the road for signs of Edmund on the way back to town. Nothing.
Back at my house, Sister Winifred cared for Arthur, unaware of her brother’s return. I decided not to tell her of my upsetting encounter—how would I begin to explain it? But I knew that he must at the very least collect his sister. I’d wait with her, here. Edmund was aware that Geoffrey Scovill and I shared a tumultuous past, although it was a subject not discussed. But Geoffrey’s future was with Sister Beatrice—and I belonged with Edmund. I’d make him see that.
A note came to my house after supper, delivered by Edmund’s apprentice. John had been found and brought back to Dartford; their mission succeeded. But Edmund had subsequently learned that an old friend had need of him and he’d be away for an additional few days. He’d see us both before the next Sabbath.
I sobbed as I held Edmund’s cool note, written in his elegant script.
“Sister Joanna, please do not despair so—there is no reason for it,” said Sister Winifred, much concerned. “Shouldn’t he see an old friend now? You two will spend the rest of your lives together, after all.”
The next four days were terrible for me. I expected Edmund to break our betrothal when next I saw him. Perhaps I did not deserve to be his wife—or anyone’s. But still, I wanted a chance at redemption.
On a damp Friday afternoon, restless, I went to the infirmary. There was one person in the front room of the infirmary: Edmund stood over his apothecary table, working, as if nothing was out of the ordinary.
I walked through the door. He was making a fresh batch of pills—next to a bowl of powdered herbs was a smaller one of honey for the mixing. He rolled the pills on a wooden board.
He must have heard my steps on the floor, yet Edmund did not look up from his work. Slowly I walked around, to stand with him on the same side of the table.
Now that I was close, I saw that one of the bowls was almost empty.
“May I refill the honey, Edmund?” I asked. My voice sounded surprisingly normal.
“Yes, that would be helpful,” he said softly.
I took the bowl to the back counter, and spooned more honey into it. My fingers shook with nervousness, and the honey was sticky on the spoon, so it took me longer than it should have to complete the task.
When I walked back to him, I suddenly couldn’t bear this anymore. “Do you still wish to marry me?” I said.
Edmund finished pinching off a pill he’d made. I saw how tired he was—there were deep lines in his forehead and around his mouth.
“More than anything in the world,” he said.
We were in each other’s arms. He kissed me on the cheeks and the forehead as I clutched him. And then he kissed me on the lips, with more passion than ever before. Whenever we embraced, he’d always reined himself in. I could feel it in the tension of his arms, the coolness of his lips. But not now. I felt something new—wild and angry—in how he kissed me. I lost my breath; I thought I would faint from it.
A discreet cough at the doorway made us part. It was Humphrey, returned and hiding a smile behind his hand. We resumed all proprieties. I remained at the infirmary for an hour; Edmund had supper with me later; he gave Arthur a lesson that night. We were betrothed, that had not changed, to my profound relief and gratitude. But there was a new tentativeness between us. I waited for him to bring up Geoffrey Scovill. He did not—and I did not.
Our wedding day drew nearer. I was stunned when my cousin Lord Henry Stafford and his wife, Ursula, and their six children arrived in Dartford. As a family courtesy, I had written to him of my impending marriage, never expecting their attendance. Henry had not left Stafford Castle for years. His adult life had one driving force: to avoid politics and anything dangerous. Traveling south, through London, to Dartford, was unprecedented.
Henry and Ursula looked so much older than when I saw them last, just two years ago. They were stooped, their faces careworn. But Henry said firmly, “Joanna, I must be the one to give you away at your wedding. I owe it to your father.”
My own house being small, there was no alternative but that my Stafford cousins and their servants reside in an inn. Although I could tell the prospect was distasteful to Henry, he put a brave face on it. The Staffords took up residence in the Saracens Head Inn—but only for a few hours. News of their presence swept through the t
own, and by dinnertime, Master Hancock had arrived to insist on housing my relations. It was an invitation graciously accepted. I spent much of my time going back and forth, with Arthur. He was thrilled to meet these older cousins, and they played with him very patiently.
Two days before my wedding date, when the children were occupied, Ursula sought me out. Although we’d never in our lives quarreled, neither did I feel strong affection for Henry’s wife. When I lived at the castle, she gave birth to a child almost every year and was much preoccupied, if not dazed.
But when we were alone, it was with utter clarity that Ursula asked, “Did you love my brother Montagu?”
I decided that she deserved nothing but truth in return.
“No,” I said. “I cannot say I loved him or would have ever loved him. That was Henry Courtenay’s idea, for me to be your brother’s second wife. I will say that I felt an—an affinity with him.”
For an instant, I was in the back of the wagon with Baron Montagu. I felt his hands cupping my face and heard him say, “Joanna, you can’t fall in love with a dead man.”
“I know that you prayed for him at Tower Hill in the last moments before his death,” said Ursula, and she gripped my hand. “He was not an easy man. Undoubtedly arrogant. But he was a loving brother. I mourn him. You don’t know how much.”
“I mourn him, too,” I said. “I am glad that I was able to help him, even though it was so little.”
“It wasn’t little,” she said fiercely. I looked at Ursula—and I suddenly knew why she and Henry had come to Dartford for my wedding. It wasn’t just because of my father’s memory. She had made her husband do it, in gratitude for what I did for Montagu at his execution.
“The Poles are as much ruined as the Staffords now,” she said. “My brother Reginald is hated by the king more than any other living man. Godfrey is broken. He’s been pardoned by His Majesty but damned by all for giving false testimony. He and his wife have left England—what else could they do? Now my poor mother is under guard in her own home. They question her night and day, attempting to draw her into the Exeter conspiracy. She is nearing seventy years old, Joanna, and blameless.”
The king had turned his vindictive obsession for the House of York on an elderly woman. I wished I could think of something, anything, to ease Ursula’s torment.
“My friends have written to tell me the worst is over, that it is possible the king will relent and leave my mother alone,” she said. “Gertrude Courtenay was never tried for any crime; it is possible she will one day be freed, as will her son.”
I found it hard to understand that Gertrude, who did in fact conspire against the Crown, could walk out of the Tower, while her husband, who was loyal, had lost his life. Perhaps they were never able to secure evidence against her besides those flags in the West that Chapuys spoke of.
Ursula said, “I’ve heard that King Henry shows distinct signs that he may be tiring of Cromwell’s heresy.”
“What?” I said, startled.
“Do you know that on Good Friday, the king crept to the cross from the chapel door like the most faithful Catholic?” she said eagerly.
I threw up my hands. “Yet here, at Holy Trinity Church, the images of saints are removed as superstition and a Coverdale Bible is chained to the altar.” I found this news of the king’s seeming return to the true faith not comforting but enraging. We were all the victims of his whims.
“Yes.” Ursula sighed. “The kingdom is in tremendous confusion. They say that in the Parliament just opened, no one can come to agreement on religious policy. We are lost—lost. The only path to follow is to live very quietly and avoid the king and his court.”
I said, “Yes, and that is exactly what Edmund and I intend to do.”
I learned that Henry had exchanged letters with the Howards. My cousin Elizabeth would not attend my wedding, for she’d once more left her husband. Negotiations were begun to arrange a separate income for the Duchess of Norfolk. Catherine Howard still lived in Horsham, the country house of her step-grandmother. There she’d await the arrival of the next queen—if there ever were to be one.
Edmund’s people came in two groups. The first to arrive was from Cambridge, a party of three men. Two of them were former Dominican friars. One had become a preacher, the other a tutor. The third man had never been a friar—quite the opposite. He was a Reformer, a young student named John Cheke.
Edmund said, “He is a very likable person—you will see.”
And I did. For Master Cheke was cheerful and kind and had the liveliest mind—full of curiosity and commentary. He wanted to know everything about my tapestry enterprise and pleaded to see my phoenix, which was nearly completed. Flattered, I agreed.
“Brother Edmund is so fortunate to have a wife this accomplished,” Master Cheke said as he examined the tapestry. Then he reddened. “I’m sorry, I should not call him ‘Brother’ anymore. I of all people should rejoice in the change, but it’s difficult for me to adjust.”
“I quite understand,” I said. “Please do not apologize.”
The second party of Edmund’s to arrive was his elder brother, Marcus. He had a large farm in Hertfordshire and a family, but left them behind. He had darker hair than Edmund or Winifred and in fact looked very little like them.
“I don’t know whom I should speak to about this, but someone needs to converse about dowry,” Marcus announced to Edmund and I over supper at the inn. He stayed at the Saracens Head, and no one suggested otherwise.
Edmund shook his head, and they began to argue.
Marcus pointed at me. “She is from a noble family. How could you agree to this marriage without a dower agreement?”
My body stiffened with resentment.
“None of this has anything to do with you,” Edmund said.
“I’m the head of the family,” Marcus retorted.
“You’re not the head of my family,” I said, and got up from the table. Edmund rose with me.
“You are welcome to attend the wedding, but we will not discuss this matter any further,” said Edmund, and we left together.
Out on the street, I said, “I understand everything now.”
Edmund did not answer. I saw what a strain this all was on him—the expectations and demands of family and friends. His religious calling had removed him from such a tumult, but now, due to his love for me, he was besieged. If I were to suggest, at this moment, that we not marry, how would he respond? In my heart I feared he was a man formed for life as a solitary friar. Straining toward this new role was so difficult. I felt a twist of sharp guilt.
Yet, when he said good night, Edmund kissed me on the lips. “I love you, Joanna,” he whispered, and all of my doubts receded. Once we were married, and all of these people left us alone, our life together would truly begin.
As unpleasant as the conversation was with Marcus’s brother, there was one more left, and this one to be initiated by me.
I went to the Building Office to tell Jacquard Rolin, “Please make the necessary arrangements to leave Dartford for a short time, for if you stay here, it would be strange should you not attend. And I would prefer that you not attend my wedding.”
I could not bear the thought of a spy who had mused over the “elimination” of Brother Edmund being among the guests.
Jacquard, who seemed to take no offense, smiled and bowed. “I have a mind to travel to London,” he said.
The night before my wedding, only women attended me. Arthur slept with his Stafford cousins at Master Hancock’s manor house. Ursula had brought a lovely pale gold dress for me—“We all know how much you dislike fashion, but this is your wedding”—and, with Kitty’s assistance, she prepared the dress and worked on the garland to place on my black hair. I felt as if this were all being done to another Joanna, and my true self watched from afar.
While she stripped away some little leaves from a flower for the garland, Ursula said, “You should let us take Arthur back to Stafford Castle.”
“What—for a visit?” I asked, taken aback.
“Henry and I can raise him. We could even make him an official ward. Your father should not have pressed him on you, Joanna. I don’t know why he did that. Margaret’s son should be our responsibility. You must devote yourself now to your husband, and to the children you two shall have.”
“I made a promise,” I murmured. “I couldn’t break it.”
Perhaps because Ursula had said Margaret’s name, Margaret was in my dream that night, and we were home. She had a secret. She pressed a finger to her lips, as if to silence me, but she was smiling, too. It was a very strange dream because within it I knew that Margaret was dead and that seeing her was impossible. But I was content to have her alive again, in our secret place in Stafford Castle, a room in the oldest wing that no one else ever went to. We were not children, but we talked about the things we loved as children: the stories of Arthur and Guinevere, and those beautiful saints, the Roman virgins who martyred themselves rather than deny their Christian faith. In my dream, we were sure that nothing bad could ever happen to us.
The day of my wedding to Edmund was not as sunny as Agatha Gwinn’s, but there was no rain yet. I was up early, my stomach hollow with nerves. I had never liked being the center of attention. Ursula descended again, to dress me and plait my hair, to drink cider and nibble cakes. I couldn’t eat a thing, which made everyone smile.
I, too, left my house as the church bell rang. My cousin Henry Stafford offered me his arm and we trod across the High Street. There were even deeper throngs of people gathered to observe me than at Agatha’s wedding. I suspected that it was not fondness for me but curiosity about the Staffords. It was not pleasant to have such sour suspicions on my wedding day.
But as I drew closer to Holy Trinity Church, I saw Edmund at the door, waiting for me. Every qualm and fear and doubt vanished. He waited for me there, tall and proud, his blond hair trimmed above the collar of the fine gray doublet.
He would be my husband. Everything was as it should be.
The Chalice Page 31