The Crown

by Nancy Bilyeau

  She grabbed me by my shoulders and shouted, “They burned themselves to death! When the fire died down, the door was hacked to bits, but all they found was burned flesh. The Norsemen were so angry, they destroyed the nunnery; every brick was scattered across the field.”

  The rough gray sky spun around me, and my knees weakened. I knelt, gagging.

  In a much different voice, Sister Christina said, “Oh, Sister Joanna, I didn’t mean to do this to you. Forgive me.”

  She squatted down and patted my heaving back. “I didn’t think you would be so upset. You’ve been in prison, in the Tower of London. Interrogated. I thought that I could tell you of this, that you could bear the tale. People of the village of Dartford know it; it’s been carried down for centuries. I heard it before I came to the priory.”

  She helped me back up to my feet. I took a deep breath. “I simply can’t hear stories like that, but you had no way of knowing it, Sister.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said again. “I can see that you would not have the same view as I on the deaths of the nuns.”

  “I grieve for them. What other view could there be?”

  “In their deaths, they shared in the suffering of Christ in a special, most holy, way,” said Sister Christina. “The flames were purifying; they were a form of”—she searched for the right words—“a form of divine ravishment. Do you see?”

  “Not entirely,” I admitted.

  Movement at the priory entrance cut short our conversation. The prioress, Sister Eleanor, and Sister Rachel walked out into the cold, wet courtyard without their black cloaks to protect them, carrying baskets.

  “Look.” Sister Christina pointed at the priory lane emerging from the woods. A line of people approached. I recognized the man leading them. The poorest people of Dartford had come to receive alms from the priory, as they did twice a month. It was a tradition established generations ago. The head of our priory would make the distribution of food and coins on the other side of the gatehouse.

  Unnoticed, Sister Christina and I made our way for the priory. Beholding the majestic entrance of Dartford was a comfort, after seeing the crumbled walls of the leper hospital and the fragments of the ancient nunnery.

  So many times I’d hurried past them, but now I paused to examine the stone statues of the king on either side of the door. Someone had told me when I came to Dartford that they were two versions of King Edward the Third: one young and one old. The statue on the left was bearded and wore long robes. The figure on the right was clean-shaven and wore chain-mail, armor, and carried a sword.

  I took a closer look at the stone warrior on the right. “Wait,” I said. “Before we go in, do you know the histories of these statues?”

  “The old one is King Edward the Third; the young one is his son, the Black Prince. The prince died before the priory doors opened.”

  I was taken aback. “You are quite familiar with the era.”

  She shrugged. “I grew up in Dartford, remember? I came here for lessons as a child. I know everything about the priory.”

  She pointed at the tableau of stone carvings over the entrance. “I prefer the story of the Virgin to that of the kings.”

  I looked at the figures, all genuflecting before Jesus and Mary. The figure of Christ stretched His hands over her head as His mother bowed before him. Above her head, carved deep in the back of the stone wall, nearly covered by lilies, was the outline of a crown. I had never noticed it before. It hovered over the exact center of the pointed archway that welcomed all to Dartford Priory.

  Sister Christina followed my startled gaze and beamed as she, too, studied the carvings.

  “Sister Joanna, you love the coronation of the Virgin, as well? Isn’t it wonderful? Her son is crowning her as the queen of heaven.”

  24

  Between the pagan holiday of All Hallows’ Eve and the sacred celebration of All Souls’ Day fell All Saints’ Day. I’d always looked forward to it as a child. At Mass, huddled with my cousin Margaret in our family chapel, listening to the priest, we’d be frightened but also thrilled by details of the martyrs’ deaths. Our favorite was Saint Agnes, who at the age of twelve was devoured by lions as the crowd roared in the great coliseum of Rome. Martyrdom was but a ghoulish game to us.

  Now, at the All Saints’ Day Mass at Dartford Priory, I honored the women and men who endured pain and terror and untimely death for our faith. Cromwell and the heretics who followed him were terribly scornful of our saints. I could not understand it.

  “It is this day more than any other that we celebrate the martyrs,” intoned Brother Philip, at the apse of the church. “And we revere their sacred bodies, who have become our blessed relics in monasteries and churches across Christendom. How can we, the low and the miserable, comprehend the sacrifices of those who shed their own blood for the Lord God and the Virgin Mary? I call on Saint Jerome to shed the light for us today. For it was he who said, ‘We venerate the relics of the martyrs in order to better adore Him whose martyrs they are.’ ”

  I thought of touching those bricks the previous day, the foundation bricks for the Saint Juliana nunnery on the hill. I shivered as I prayed for the women, they who chose to end their lives just outside our thick limestone walls. Next to me, Sister Christina moaned and swayed in the pew. We shared the same intensity of devotion.

  After Sext prayers, everyone scattered in different directions to prepare for the next day’s feast. I met Brother Edmund and Sister Winifred for a last session of music practice in the chapter house. But my fingers were nervous on the vihuela; I kept missing notes. It was a relief when Gregory and two servants trudged in, carrying a rolled-up tapestry. We all stopped playing to watch them hang it behind the head table.

  The tapestry was Dartford’s most recently completed one, borrowed from its owners, a local shipbuilding family. They were more than willing to lend it for the occasion. Everyone wanted to honor Lord Chester, the town’s most prominent citizen.

  “How wondrous,” Brother Edmund said when they unfurled the five-foot-long tapestry. Sister Winifred and I looked at each other, proud. We’d both worked on The Myth of Daphne; it had been finished just before Lent.

  The tapestry tableau was based on a Greek story: a river god turns his beautiful daughter, Daphne, a nymph, into a tree. Sister Helen always completed the human figures herself, and in this case she had outdone herself: a lovely blond girl pauses midflight, her white limbs sprouting branches and leaves as a group of men watch. Sister Helen had worked in more than twenty different shades of green for the forest alone. I know she had not only used silks imported from Brussels but had dyed some of the threads herself. Beautiful flowers sprouted on the banks of the river: daffodils and roses and violets. In the lower right-hand corner, through a burst of water lilies and weeds, poked the gray-haired head of Daphne’s father.

  Gregory shouted at the servants, “Be careful, fools!” as they struggled to hang the tapestry evenly on the back wall, behind the center of the dais.

  “Music is at an end, don’t you agree, Brother?” Sister Winifred said. I’d already put down my vihuela.

  Brother Edmund did not answer. He could not take his eyes off the tapestry.

  “It is a beautiful sight, agreed?” I asked.

  “Yes, certainly,” he said slowly, “but the story of Daphne is a strange choice of subject for a priory. Not just for you to create, but to be displayed tomorrow at a requiem feast.”

  I nodded. “I used to feel that way about such stories. But Prioress Elizabeth assured us that the classics displayed in art are not blasphemy.”

  Brother Edmund opened his mouth, as if to say something else. He glanced at his sister, and me, and then appeared to think better of it. His usual serene expression returned.

  Brother Richard beckoned to him from the doorway. “You’re needed in the infirmary,” he called out to his fellow friar.

  Brother Edmund handed his lute to his sister and hurried off. I, too, left the chapter house, to continue m
y other work. In the passageway loomed Sister Eleanor, even more serious than usual. I saw why in a moment: six nuns followed her, carrying the treasures of our church. They bore chalices, plates, and, most precious of all, our reliquary. It had been brought out for the Mass of All Saints’ Day and now was being moved to the chapter house for display before our guests. A priory’s precious objects were the pride of the house.

  I flattened myself against the wall to make room for the procession. Sister Rachel carried the reliquary as if it were a newborn infant. The Dartford Priory reliquary was a pale life-size carving of a woman’s hand that sprouted from a cylindrical gold-gilded base, encrusted with diamonds and small rubies. It was more than two centuries old, a founding gift of Edward the Third’s. I had held it myself; it looked delicate but was surprisingly solid. Reliquaries are meant to contain relics—a lock of hair, a fingernail, some fragment of a saint’s body—but this one came to us empty. Still, we revered its intent and its beauty. My pulse quickened as Sister Rachel carried it past me. The reliquary was beautiful—and yet I found it frightening. Sometimes it seemed as if the two fingers pointing straightest would grab hold of me.

  Sister Eleanor called out to the last nun in the group: “Sister Agatha, when you’ve brought in the chalice, don’t forget to go to the library for our Life of Saint Matilda.”

  I quickly stepped forward. “Sister Agatha, may I assist you?”

  The novice mistress brightened at my offer. “Yes, Sister Joanna, why don’t you open the library and wait for me? I will be there in a moment.” She fished in her pocket and removed a key from a ring.

  It was all I could do not to sprint to the library. My hand trembled as I unlocked the door. Once again, I went straight to where I’d once found the book on Athelstan. But there was nothing but a gap. It still hadn’t been replaced.

  Above it, though, my eyes settled on The History of the Plantagenets. I wondered if it would touch on the life of Richard the Lionhearted. My hand was on the cover when Sister Agatha bustled in. I jumped back to face her, but she hadn’t noticed what I was about.

  “Oh, thank you, Sister Joanna. This is such a delicate manuscript, and Sister Eleanor gets so angry if I make any mistakes.”

  We turned to The Life of Saint Matilda, one of the priory’s five illuminated manuscripts. Each colorful drawing that faced a page of words must have taken the monks many weeks to complete.

  As she fumbled to undo the bindings that tied the manuscript to a stand, Sister Agatha said, “Lord Chester has never struck me as a man of books and learning, but then my opinion is not solicited or listened to.”

  “You have been in the presence of Lord Chester?” I asked, surprised.

  “Haven’t you?”

  I thought for a moment and then shook my head.

  Sister Agatha pursed her lips. “He was a frequent visitor for a time; not surprising, I suppose, since he is our neighbor. But now that I think on it, he has not been to the priory more than once in the last two years. Not since his daughter professed.”

  She finally managed to free the manuscript from its stand. I moved closer, to help with the carrying.

  Sister Agatha’s mouth twitched; she had something else to say.

  “Young blood is good for any priory, of course. Our prioress is forty-one years of age; she still has the strength to accomplish much. But a thirty-year-old circator? It is not easy to bear. Not that I mind Sister Eleanor being so much younger than Sister Rachel and myself and having a higher rank. That is not the difficulty.”

  While Sister Agatha kept on her stream of talk, we bore the heavy book out of the library. With my free hand I closed the door behind us. She did not ask me to lock it.

  In the chapter house, I helped her place The Life of Saint Matilda on the long table, next to the reliquary, mounted on a plaster pillar. At the sight of the Daphne tapestry, now evenly hanging, she brightened and joined the other sisters who stood rapt before it.

  “Yes, this one is our greatest accomplishment,” she announced, and then pursed her lips. “Oh but wait, the girl in the middle. Her face looks familiar to me. Who is it?”

  With a bow, I eased away from the sisters, backing toward the door. I paused, waiting for Sister Agatha to call out, Sister Joanna, I must have my key back.

  She did not.

  This was, if anything, a sin of omission, I told myself as I hurried down the passageway. By Vespers, I’d make sure that Sister Agatha had her key again.

  Back in the library, a fresh candle on the table, the door closed, I pulled down the Plantagenet book.

  I quickly found a chapter on Richard the Lionhearted, the second Plantagenet king of England, and leafed to the end:

  In the last year of his reign, after his return from the Holy Lands and release from imprisonment, Richard was much preoccupied with his quarrels with the French king over territory. Richard’s Château Gaillard, on the bank of the Seine, was a mighty fortress, completed in the year 1198. But it had required much money to build, taken from the treasury of England and from Richard’s kingdom of Aquitaine, granted to him by his mother, Queen Eleanor.

  In the spring of the year 1199, Richard held state in his court of the Aquitaine when he received word that treasure had been discovered deep in the ground, near the Château of Châlus-Chabrol, not far from his residence. It was in the territory of the Viscount of Limoges, who was bound to be Richard’s vassal but who had many dealings with the French king and thus was not trusted.

  Richard journeyed to Châlus-Chabrol and claimed the treasure, for he had sore need of money. It had been dug up by a peasant. Richard said after he examined the treasure, which was gold coins and objects of royal value, that it was of English origin.

  Lord Montbrun of the Château of Châlus-Chabrol, who was a relative and ally of the Viscount of Limoges, was much offended and said that the treasure could not have come from so far away. He publicly charged that Richard had stolen it. This was a belief many held. But it was a grave insult that no sovereign could let stand. Richard called for his armies to fight the French lord, and the château prepared for a siege. It took one month for the soldiers to assemble with the necessary siege works.

  On the evening of March 25, Richard walked around the walls of the Château of Châlus-Chabrol. His men begged him to wear his armor because French soldiers on the walls still had many arrows. Richard refused to do so. He called out to one crossbowman on the wall and laughed and bade him fire, and the man complied. His second arrow hit King Richard in the left shoulder. The king returned to his tent and removed the arrow himself, but it broke off and part of it remained inside his body. The king would accept no treatment for the wound.

  He began a fever and after a few days it was feared that he would die. But Richard, as his final command, directed that the crossbowman must be pardoned and never harmed. Richard said he was not worthy to be king and had already become weak before he was struck with the arrow. His words caused his nobles much grief, and they protested that he was the most valorous man they ever served.

  When he died on April 6, in the Year of Our Lord 1199, his men disobeyed his command. The château was taken. The crossbowman was found, and the English lords flayed him alive.

  All Christendom mourned the death of such a mighty sovereign. He was forty-two years of age. He had reigned for ten years.

  The book slipped from my fingers. For a long time my thoughts whirled around the strange death of Richard Coeur de Lion. Why would the most experienced battle commander of his time invite a shot from a crossbowman who held a position on top of a castle wall? Richard said he was not worthy to be king and had already become weak before he was struck with the arrow. It made no sense.

  Finally, I resumed my reading. I leafed through the book, until I found the story of the life of the Black Prince. The treasure was found in land belonging to the Viscount of Limoges; the Black Prince laid siege to the town of Limoges. There must be a connection.

  But there was not much written about t
he terrible siege that I hadn’t already learned from Brother Edmund. The Black Prince grew sicker after the town’s citizens had been slain, and he returned home. The book said: “He had delivered to England a shipload of great treasure.”

  I raced ahead to the description of his death:

  The Prince of Wales bore all his sufferings patiently. In the last moments he was attended by the Bishop of Bangor, who urged him to ask forgiveness of God and of all those whom he had injured. For a time he would not do this, but at last joined his hands and prayed that God and man would grant him pardon and so died in the Royal Palace of Westminster in his forty-sixth year.

  The library door swung open, and Sister Eleanor hurtled inside.

  “Sister Joanna!” she cried. Behind her stood Sister Agatha, just as shocked as the circator.

  I placed my book back in its place on the shelf. Sister Eleanor didn’t look at the book, only at me. Her eyes danced with rage. “Once again you violate our trust and our rules. We all knew of your crimes against the Dominican Order. But we were assured that you had committed yourself to redemption.”

  I felt my face turn hot. “Sister Eleanor, I lost myself to reading. I beg forgiveness. I realize there was work to be performed, but—”

  “Lettice Westerly died one hour ago,” she said, interrupting me. Her children became hysterical. We couldn’t calm them, no matter what we said or did. They asked for you—the littlest one begged for you. No one could find you.”

  I rushed past her, to the door. “Where are the children now, Sister?”

  “Gone,” she said. “They ran away. We all went looking for you, and when we came back, they’d disappeared.”

  “But their father is in London; he’s not at their house in town,” I said, frantic.

  She nodded. “That’s correct. So, Sister, whatever befalls the Westerly children, let it be on your conscience.”

  I swallowed.

  Sister Agatha edged forward. “I’ll take the key back, Sister Joanna.”