The Crown

by Nancy Bilyeau

  “Very well, Gregory, show him in. Brother Edmund, you may as well remain, but Sister Joanna, you may go. Sext prayers will be soon.”

  I bowed and hurried out. I had almost reached the church when it came to me who had spoken of the Black Prince. I heard again the voice of Bishop Gardiner in my Tower prison cell: “Do you know of Edward the Third? His son, the Black Prince? What of Richard the Lionhearted? Or our king’s dead brother, Prince Arthur?”

  There was a reason Bishop Gardiner had spoken of the Black Prince; there was a reason for everything he said. I struggled to make sense of the mention of those men’s names. Edward the Third founded Dartford Priory. The Black Prince was heir to the throne but died before his father. Prince Arthur, the brother of our King Henry the Eighth, visited Dartford months before he himself died. What the significance of Richard the Lionhearted was, I couldn’t see. He lived and died centuries before Edward the Third—but centuries after King Athelstan. My head spun. What connection could there possibly be between them all?

  The two dozen nuns of Dartford Priory had assembled in the chapel when I joined them, taking my place with my fellow novices.

  Sister Winifred leaned over to whisper, “Thank you for helping me, Sister Joanna.” On the other side of her, Sister Christina looked my way, in a kinder fashion than any time since my return. Relief coursed through me. With time, both my friendships might flourish again.

  I heard a whoosh as the prioress strode up the center aisle to the front of the church, and smelled a whiff of her pomander ball. As with Prioress Elizabeth, she did not enter the church until we were all seated and prepared. But in many other ways, she carried out her duties as spiritual leader very differently than the serene dead prioress. It was hard to accustom myself.

  When she turned around to face us, I saw something had happened.

  “Sisters, before we begin, I must share some grievous news with you,” she said in her clear, sure voice.

  I felt my body tense.

  “Our queen has died. The king’s most beloved consort, Jane, passed from a fever contracted in her childbed. We shall now sing the office of the dead. For the next month we shall hold special vigils for Her Majesty.”

  I looked over at the iron grate hung with black cloth that separated the nuns from the friars in church. I couldn’t see Brother Richard or Brother Edmund, but I wondered at their response to this sorry news. They’d pinned their hopes on the woman whose body now lay cold in a royal chapel. Queen Jane was twenty-eight years old, one year older than I. She must have had the most highly trained physicians in the land when her time came. Yet she had suffered and died, in a haze of blood and fever, all the same.

  I have heard that some outsiders believe we take the veil because we loathe men and fear bearing children. If only it were possible to make others understand. Becoming a nun has nothing to do with fear and hate; it is the opposite. I thought of Saint Catherine of Siena’s famous words: “Everything comes from love.” Love of God, love of one another, and devotion to those who’ve come before. When I sat in this stall, I could feel the presence of decade upon decade of eager young novices, learning prayers and songs. In merging my soul with theirs in our holy observances, I came the closest a person could to embracing eternity. Dartford was the only place I’d ever found spiritual peace or feeling of true worth. Again, I felt the claw of panic. How could God in His mercy allow this way of life to end?

  Forcing down my fears, I folded my hands and prayed for the young dead queen, that the soul of Jane Seymour would move swiftly through the perils of purgatory and on to the kingdom of heaven.

  21

  As All Souls’ Day drew close, we prepared for the requiem feast for Lord Chester. Chairs had to be covered with cloth, made comfortable for the head table, since the only chairs we possessed were bare wood. Tankards and fine plates, tablecloth and embroidered linens—all were foreign to a Dominican Order but must now be obtained. I heard Brother Richard discussing with Gregory which farm animals would be slain. Extra kitchen help was hired, principally a woman knowledgeable in how to prepare rich dishes. A feast for a nobleman must offer meat courses, but at Dartford we ate no meat, except an occasional pudding, and very little fowl.

  In the midafternoons, instead of tapestry work, I met with Brother Edmund in the chapter house to practice our music. We were never completely alone. Under the supervision of the porter, workmen moved in and out, preparing the room for noble company. It was unsettling to see our chapter house converted into a hall for a lord’s company, but it was the only space large enough.

  The songs of the priory could not be adapted to a lute and vihuela. But the friar and I knew some secular tunes and played them together in the corner, his lute melodies dancing above the deep, gentle strumming of my vihuela. At times, because we lacked other instruments, an improvisation was called for, to fill gaps in the songs. His ideas always impressed me.

  “You have a true gift, Brother,” I said on our third day of practice, as I waited for him to replace a string on his instrument. His lute had fifteen strings, and he was ever vigilant of their strengths.

  He smiled without looking up from his work. “I enjoy honoring God with my music. At my friary, I was known for three things: my work as an apothecary, my humble skill with the lute, and my interest in history.”

  I watched him finish tightening the new string. “Whose history? That of the Dominican Order or of England itself?”

  “I would say both.”

  I bit my lip. “Then may I ask you something, Brother?”

  He looked up, and as always I was struck by the flatness of his large brown eyes. One summer day, in the gardens at Stafford Castle, I had seen a long lizard sunning itself on a rock—I was frightened when it stared at me, unafraid and unblinking. Brother Edmund’s gaze unnerved me in the same way.

  I shook off my apprehension. The private library of Dartford had been locked to me ever since my discovery of the Athelstan book, and there was still so much I needed to learn.

  “The Prince of Wales whose portrait hangs in the prioress’s office—why is he called the Black Prince?” I asked.

  “Yes, I remember that portrait interested you,” he said. “Hmm. He was not always called that. It is something of a new name. It could have to do with his armor—he wore black armor into battle.”

  “He was a soldier prince?”

  “Yes, he led the armies of his father the king into France. We engaged in a long war during the reign of Edward the Third. You are aware of that?”

  I nodded.

  “The Black Prince—his name was Edward, too—he took many towns, won many battles, over a period of years. But he was not always a merciful prince.” A shadow passed over Brother Edmund’s face. “There was one act he committed that was so cruel, it could be the reason for this name.”

  I saw again the prince’s supercilious eyes. “What did he do, Brother?”

  “It’s not a pretty story; I would rather not say.”

  I looked at the friar. “Do you think that I can only hear pretty stories? I’ve heard and seen much ugliness in my life already.” The shadow of the Tower of London fell between us.

  He sighed and began. “It was the siege of Limoges. A city in the South of France that the prince conquered returned to French control after his army had moved on. He went into a terrible rage. He laid siege to its walls, and when the city fell to him, he would not spare a single citizen. They say he had three thousand people put to death. All were massacred as they begged for their lives. Even the children were killed.”

  I stroked the smooth side of my vihuela, trying not to show how sick I felt.

  Brother Edmund said, “Those were different times. In most chronicles of the day, he was praised as a great man. He founded the Order of the Garter, after all. Such strength was valuable.”

  “It surprises me then that he died before his father. It was not from wounds in battle?”

  “Oh, no. He became ill in France, not long before t
he siege. They say he was carried by litter to the walls of Limoges. After he’d retaken the city, he went back to England. His was a very slow decline. It took years. All the leading physicians in Christendom were sent for by his father the king. Every cure was attempted. I read some of the correspondence about it; I have always been interested in mysteries of medicine. The Prince of Wales was in the prime of his life, but he was gradually wasting away, and they could not find a sure and recognizable symptom of illness. It was neither plague nor lung rot nor the pox. They thought it dropsy for a time, but then decided not. There was one passage I remember . . .”

  Brother Edmund pursed his lips, trying to recall it. “The Italian physician wrote, ‘It is as if the force of his mortal existence were being drained away, and no man can stop it.’ ”

  A shiver raced up my spine.

  Brother Edmund smiled down at me. “Sister Joanna, you have lost your color. Come, let’s try another song.”

  I picked up my vihuela, and we resumed our practice. We had completed two of the songs in our planned repertoire when the other novices appeared in the chapter house.

  “Thank you for joining us, Sisters,” Brother Edmund said. He half turned to me to explain. “I believe it would be better to have two more musicians join us to play at the feast. I could not ask any of the senior sisters—I fear their dignity might be offended—but perhaps I could employ the two of you? Brother Richard helped me obtain two citterns. They are easier to play.”

  Sister Christina had begun shaking her head while the friar still spoke.

  “No, Brother Edmund, not this,” she said.

  “I can teach you how to play a simple melody,” he said reassuringly.

  “I know how to play,” Sister Christina said. Her forehead creased. “I cannot perform for my father. Do not ask it of me, please.”

  She turned and ran out of the room.

  Brother Edmund said, “I erred in my request. I did not know that Sister Christina disliked her father.”

  “Dislike her father?” His words appalled me. “That is not true.”

  He bowed his head. “I’ve erred again. Forgive my words, Sister Joanna. And now, shall we attempt some music? Sister, may I show you? I think I remember our mother teaching us both to play a few songs. The knowledge will come back to you.”

  Sister Winifred sat down. “Before we begin, I need to ask you a question, Brother.”

  “Of course.” He smiled. “Today seems to be a day of questions.”

  She leaned forward, her eyes as serious as I’d ever seen them. “When a priory or an abbey is dissolved by the king’s commissioners, what happens?”

  Brother Edmund went very still. “I don’t think this is a prudent topic to discuss.”

  “May I ask why?”

  He reached out and gently cupped her hands in his. “I don’t want to upset you, for the sake of your health.”

  “But I am not a child,” she said evenly. “I am a novice pledged to service at Dartford, and I should know what the future could bring.”

  He took a breath. “When an abbey is ordered dissolved by the king, all must leave within the month. There are pensions. Some are adequate, others less so. I know of friars who’ve left England, to live in faithful countries. There are not many openings to be found, so they travel from abbey to abbey, in strange lands, searching. Should they remain here, they can turn to the priesthood if they are willing to adapt to the new services. Or leave religion altogether and seek out new professions . . . marry, even.”

  “That is the men, but what of the women?” she persisted. “They have fewer possibilities, I think.”

  Brother Edmund and I glanced at each other.

  Sister Winifred said, a trace of resentment in her voice: “If Sister Joanna may know these things, if she is fit to discuss matters of the world with you, then so should I.”

  Brother Edmund smiled ruefully. “Yes. You are right. And they do have fewer possibilities. Women can travel to the Continent in hopes of a European convent taking them in—though I have not heard of anyone doing so. They can seek shelter with their families. Or they can turn from the religious life and marry, bear children.”

  Sister Winifred took it in.

  “And what of the priories themselves?” she asked. “What happens to them?”

  “They are commonly awarded to courtiers favored by the king and Cromwell,” he said. “Some priories are converted into homes, just as they are; others are demolished by the owners, for their value. The buildings are pulled down stone by stone; any gold or silver or valuable stones are melted down; the tapestries and sculptures and books, even the vestments, are taken away; even the lead is stripped off, for what monies it could bring.”

  Sister Winifred’s eyes widened; her lower lip trembled ever so slightly. But she looked at the two of us without flinching.

  “Thank you, Brother. And now, I’m ready to learn the songs.”

  22

  At the last meal of the day in the refectory, I heard bits of conversation among the sisters. I saw the resentment in their faces about the requiem feast in three days’ time.

  Sitting next to me at the novices’ table, closest to the door, Sister Christina barely touched her soup or bread. I felt protective of her; I believed she was embarrassed by her father’s request. I knew that many novices and even nuns struggled with the desire of parents to remain in our lives, even though we must be shut up to the outside world. We did not wish to hurt them, we loved and honored them, but our lives must part from theirs.

  Contemplating Sister Christina’s father made me think of my own. The bread turned to dust in my mouth. No matter whether we lived together or apart, he was my only family. I so feared for him in the pitiless Tower, the place that haunted my dreams. But his liberation was nowhere near. The next day I had to deliver my letter to Bishop Gardiner, but I had little to report. I had failed my father.

  Sister Agatha may have thought she kept her words low enough so as not to be overheard, but our novice mistress’s grating voice carried over several tables.

  “No, we’ve never had a feast in the priory before now,” she said, “but we have been visited by members of the royal family. When the king’s mother visited Sister Bridget here, many years ago, she might well have been served food and drink. A precedent could exist.”

  I could see Sister Anne shake her head. Our senior member sat across from Sister Agatha at their long wooden table. She said something to the novice mistress, but her voice was much softer, and all I could make out was “Prince Arthur.”

  I sat up straighter on my hard wooden bench. Of course—Sister Anne! I made a mental calculation of her age against the year of Prince Arthur’s visit with his mother and his bride, Katherine of Aragon. Yes, it was just possible she had lived in Dartford in 1501.

  The instant Sister Anne rose from her place, I jumped to my feet and made my way over to her. A few of the other senior sisters drew back at the sight of my approach—novices were expected to keep to themselves—but I didn’t see how I could get another opportunity to talk to her tonight.

  “Sister Anne?” I asked, with a respectful bow.

  She was bent over with age, her face sagged with wrinkles, but Sister Anne smiled at me. “Oh, Sister Joanna, are you well?”

  “Yes, Sister. May I walk with you to Vespers? It would be much appreciated.”

  She thought for a moment, and glanced around us, taking in the stares of the other nuns. I noticed her habit was made of linen, not the coarse wool everyone else wore. When nuns grew very old, they could receive permission to wear fabric softer to the skin.

  Finally, she smiled at me again. “Of course, Sister Joanna. Walk with me.”

  As soon as we reached the passageway, out of the earshot of the others, I said, “Sister Anne, I am very interested in learning about the earlier days of our priory. I heard Sister Agatha mention the visit to Dartford of Prince Arthur. Were you at Dartford then?”

  “I was here, yes.” A sadne
ss flitted across her face. “I am now the only one alive from that time. He came with his mother, Queen Elizabeth, at the end of 1501. He was only fifteen.”

  “Did you see the prince yourself?”

  “Oh, no. The old queen always met with Sister Bridget in the locutorium. When she brought her son and daughter-in-law to visit with Sister Bridget, they remained in that room. They would never enter the cloister.”

  My spirits sank. We continued along the passageway, past the lavatory; I could hear the shuffle of the other sisters’ feet behind us.

  Sister Anne continued, “There was another sister then who was most anxious to see the prince with her own eyes. What was her name?” She thought for a moment. “Ah, Sister Isabel. She was perhaps unsuited to priory life. She was quite . . . lively. She persuaded the porter to allow her into the front rooms of the priory. She told me that she saw only the back of Prince Arthur as he walked away, toward the front door. He had blond hair, she told me, and his wife, Princess Katherine, had red hair.”

  Sister Anne laughed softly. I tried to force a smile.

  “Sister Isabel had foolish ideas,” she reminisced. “There was something else she said about Prince Arthur’s visit. Something about his disappearing.”

  “What?” My voice rang out in the stone passageway. I recovered, and in a lower voice, said, “I would be most interested, Sister Anne, to hear everything about it.”

  “I dislike passing on foolishness,” she said. “Especially when it revolves around incorrect behavior.”

  With great difficulty, I kept myself from begging her for the story. I did not want to frighten her. We passed the cloister garden; the quince trees bristled in the evening breeze.

  To my relief, she picked up the memory again. “Sister Isabel said she was so determined, she made her way to one of the front rooms with windows facing the front lawns and gatehouse, so she would be able to see the royal party leave. She watched the old queen appear, with her ladies-in-waiting. They were taken to their horses and attendants. But the prince and princess did not join her. Sister Isabel saw the queen wave in the direction of the doorway and then depart, so she thought that meant Prince Arthur had decided to stay longer. After a few minutes, Sister Isabel came out to the passageway to find where he was, but she couldn’t. Not the prince or the princess. She said she checked every room in the front of the priory. The porter said he hadn’t seen the royal couple. They hadn’t entered the cloister area, he was certain of that. And during this time, he hadn’t seen Prioress Elizabeth, either.”