I handed it to her.
Sister Eleanor said, “Your crimes will be read before all the sisters, in chapter, the week after our requiem feast. Your punishments will be up to Prioress Joan. There are some sisters who believe you should never have been restored to Dartford Priory. Perhaps now they will be listened to.”
I joined the search for the children. I cornered Elene the cook; she of all people would know their whereabouts. But between the frenzied preparation for the feast and her grief over losing her closest friend, Elene was useless.
The motherless Westerly children had gone, and no one knew where.
At the evening meal, the whispers in the room encircled me like a storm. There was no worse choice of nun to know the details of my latest disgrace than Sister Agatha. Everyone with a pair of ears must know all by now.
We ate in silence at the novice table. I kept my head down, not wishing to meet the gaze of Sister Winifred, sitting across from me, or Sister Christina, to my left.
Near the end of the sorry meal, I could bear it no longer. I looked up, straight at Sister Winifred. She looked close to tears.
“There is something you wish to say to me?” I said.
“Oh, Sister Joanna, what happened to you?” she whispered.
My bitter response was out before I could stop it: “A very great deal.”
Sister Christina leaned toward me. “Tell us,” she said urgently. “You must.”
I shook my head. “No.”
“We are your closest of friends,” she pressed. “Why will you not tell us what happened to you in the Tower, so that we can be of support to you?”
I closed my eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t.”
In bed that night I staggered from one nightmare to the next. I searched for the Westerly children, my chest heaving with sobs. But then the scene changed, and I was running, frightened, through the thick forests with my cousin Margaret. We fled a demonic creature that sought to devour us, but every time we thought ourselves well concealed, it discovered us once more.
There was a scream, and for the first few seconds I thought it part of my nightmare. But then it came again, the scream: so frightened, so agonized. I opened my eyes and knew the sound was real. It came in through the small window, high in our room.
“What is that?” groaned Sister Winifred next to me, sitting up.
“I don’t know,” I said, just as hoarse.
“It’s a pig,” said Sister Christina. Her voice was clear, as if she had been awake for quite a time. She didn’t sit up; she lay on her back, on her pallet against the opposite wall. I could just make out her profile in the gray dimness. The night was beginning to lighten; it would be dawn within the hour.
“Pig?” I asked.
“They’re killing it for my father to eat today.”
There was one more scream and then nothing. I lay there, rigid, breathless, waiting for more, but it never came. They must have slit the pig’s throat.
25
I sat in the chapter house, between Brother Edmund and Sister Winifred, my vihuela in my lap, and waited for Lord and Lady Chester to arrive. It was midafternoon. For reasons I didn’t dare ask, the requiem banquet was set to begin hours later than our usual dinnertime of eleven in the morning. Perhaps it was to accommodate a request of our neighbors’. Or perhaps it was to allow enough time for the cooking of the dishes. All morning the smells of roasting meats traveled the passageways, so strong you could not escape them. There was pork, of course; the young pig slaughtered that morning turned on a spit in the kitchen fire, terror seared into its dead eyes. But there was more on the menu: venison, roast beef, lark, rabbit, and capon. All were foreign to our priory, to our senses. When I passed Sister Rachel in the south passageway off the cloister, she pressed a cloth to her nose, her eyes brimming with fury. She pulled the cloth away to spit the word “Defilement,” and then clamped it back down on her nose and mouth.
Now Sister Rachel sat in the same room as the rest of the nuns, her sallow face a shield of resentment. Every space was taken on the stone benches that lined three of the four walls. Sister Christina waited among them, not at the head table. Whether that was at her own request or because of a novice’s low ranking, no one said. She clenched her hands in her lap, a stance of hers that I recognized: it meant she’d turned within herself to pray.
I sat apart, with my fellow musicians, on a narrow stool. Cool air streamed in through the cracks in the mullioned windows behind my head. We’d been placed off to the side of the long head table. I was closest to it, with Brother Edmund in the center and Sister Winifred on his other side.
Only two people sat at the head table: Prioress Joan and Brother Richard. They were far apart, with two empty chairs between them. Brother Philip was not present. At the first Mass of the day for All Souls he’d said a few impassioned things about purgatory. But then he’d pleaded indisposition for the banquet. He was the only who dared.
The appointed time for Lord Chester’s arrival came . . . and went. The minutes crawled by.
Gregory, the porter, rushed in, bowing, and whispered something in Prioress Joan’s ear. Whatever she learned displeased her. She shook her head and whispered something back. The porter scurried out. Brother Richard shot a look at Brother Edmund and then, the ghost of a smile on his lips, raised his goblet of wine for another long sip.
It was possible Lord Chester would not come, even though the feast had been arranged specifically for him. Some gentry lived by whim. It was nothing to them to overturn the plans of those they considered unimportant. All the preparations and expense? Worthy of a shrug. The only reason that I expected Lord and Lady Chester to materialize was not for the prioress’s or the nuns’ sake but for that of their daughter. She was their only living child. Even in times of fear and greed and dissolution, the ties of family exerted their pull.
No one spoke; we all waited, filled with our own unhappy thoughts. I hated sitting here, waiting to perform music for a spoiled lord, while the Westerly children remained missing. I was also wasting valuable time that could be spent searching for the Athelstan crown. How much had my father’s health suffered since I left the Tower? I twitched in my seat as the question tormented me.
My stool’s position afforded me a close view of our prioress. She didn’t touch her goblet or pick from the plates of radishes and salt set before her. Her jaw was tight, and her eyes were wary. She had determined that this requiem banquet would be of help to the priory, and so it had been organized, despite all feelings of disapproval. I admired women of strong character, and the truth was I admired Prioress Joan Vane. She suddenly glanced over, as if she could hear my thoughts, and I was doused with the usual cold suspicion. My esteem for the prioress was not reciprocated.
Weary of her dislike, I gazed up, up at the ceiling of the chapter house. I examined the stone carvings that encircled the top of the four thick pillars. The carvings resembled lilies, the symbol of the Dominicans, conveying the purity and dedication of those who professed our vows. King Edward the Third must have employed the finest artisans in his kingdom to create these stone lilies. They bloomed all over the priory: above the entranceway to Dartford; in the crests in the front wall; along the border running along the cloister passageways; and here, in the chapter house. It was not easy to make out the floral details, both because of the height of the columns and the shadows cast by the afternoon light. It did look as if something else peeked above the lilies: swooping lines that reached a point. I squinted, trying to determine the lines’ direction, when it struck me with such force that I cowered on my stool.
Behind the lilies was the carved outline of a crown.
They were intertwined, the lilies and the crown. Why did King Edward the Third order it? The location of the crown was a dread secret, yet its very presence was proclaimed in the walls. There must be a purpose. Did the lilies signify protection? The Dominican Order, considered the most vigilant of all, was powerful enough to keep the
crown safe from violation.
But something gnawed at me, some fault in that logic. What did Bishop Gardiner say? “And there is prophecy. A prophecy of great reward but not without great risk. It is both blessing and curse.”
There was a faint rushing in my ears as I seized the different strands and wove them together.
The crown was extremely dangerous. It didn’t require protection from the people. People required protection from it.
The treasure in the ground in Limoges included objects of “royal value.” What was more royal than a crown? It was Richard the Lionhearted who first encountered the Athelstan crown, hidden in the earth until a peasant dug it up. He spoke the truth. The treasure was English, sent to France for unknown reasons. When the king lay dying, Richard not only pardoned the crossbowman but also must have ordered the crown concealed again. Still, someone must have known of it, rumors must have lived on, for two centuries later, an arrogant soldier prince, the oldest son of Edward the Third, came looking for it—and found it. “He had delivered to England a shipload of great treasure,” the book had said. The Black Prince brought the crown back to England. Too frightened of its power to destroy it, his father the king must have decided to place the Athelstan crown in a holy place. He had an entire Dominican priory built for concealment. And still, someone must have known and told, for a Tudor boy came thirty-six years ago, and, for a third time, the crown felled a prince of the blood.
“Once you learn where the Athelstan crown is located, communicate that to me alone, in writing,” Bishop Gardiner had insisted. “You must not touch it yourself, not even for an instant. You understand?”
Touch. That was it. To touch the crown was to trigger death, a death that could not be stopped no matter what remedies were applied, what physicians were found. And it was here, somewhere, within the priory. Locked away, inside our walls, or perhaps beneath our feet.
Bishop Gardiner had found out about the crown and sought to gain hold of it. But why? Did he crave it as a weapon, as a means to fatally weaken our sovereign, King Henry? The bishop said he wanted to save the monasteries, but he’d also said, with great passion, “I serve the House of Tudor.” I recalled the bishop’s nickname—“Wily Winchester”—and his reputation for betrayal. I’d glimpsed the darkness within him. Was it possible his plan was to obtain the crown and present it to the king to shore up his faltering status, to ingratiate himself with Henry Tudor? Or did he really want to serve the king, I wondered. How could a man with such a crown bow down before another man who wears a crown?
An elbow nudged my rib, and I jumped on my stool. It was Brother Edmund. He pointed at the doorway with his chin.
A couple, dressed entirely in black, stood just over the threshold of the chapter house. Lord and Lady Chester had arrived at last. I had no choice but to push aside my thoughts of the crown and to endure the requiem feast.
Lord Chester entered the room first. He appeared a handsome man, just past his prime. He towered a full head’s length above the porter, who now backed away, deferential, from our guest of honor. He wore a long black doublet elaborately stitched with silver thread, a costly piece of fashion. As he came closer, I noticed the doublet strained at its buttons because it was too small for him; he was just starting to spread to fat and either did not know it or did not wish to know it. Our neighbor had lost half his hair; his pate shone beneath the thinning chestnut strands. Large jeweled rings gleamed on both hands.
His steps were heavy; it took a long time for him to reach the center of the table and the chair that he assumed—correctly—was reserved for him.
Prioress Joan rose to her feet. “Dartford Priory welcomes you to our requiem feast in honor of All Souls’ Day, Lord Chester,” she said.
He bowed and said in a deep voice, “I thank you, Prioress.” Without looking back, he beckoned carelessly with one hand. “My lady, attend.”
Lady Chester, pale, thin, and short in stature, made her way to the chair next to his. Her black bodice and skirt, her gable hood, made for an ensemble so severe she looked more like one of us than a lady. Not a single jewel, not even a slender ring, adorned her body. These were the clothes of strict mourning, which I realized was only fitting, since Queen Jane died a week ago and her husband served the king.
Lord Chester turned to examine my corner of the room. Now that he was closer, he appeared not so hale. His eyes were bloodshot; his neck was loose. A faint spider’s web of broken red veins mottled his nose.
He smiled with approval at the sight of the musical instruments: my vihuela and the others’ lutes. Lord Chester had requested music; we were ready to perform it.
And then he belched. The stench of wine hit me like a puff of wind.
Lord Chester, it seemed, was quite drunk.
26
Where’s my daughter?” asked Lord Chester loudly. He squinted as he examined the nuns sitting on their stone benches carved from the walls.
My eyes found Sister Christina, across the room. The late-afternoon light stretched across her lap; her face was in shadow. Unreadable.
“Ah, there she is,” Lord Chester said. “Have you no greeting for me, child?”
Sister Christina did not move or speak.
Lady Chester leaned forward in her chair. “Sister Christina, I greet you on this day of remembrance,” she called out, nervous.
“I greet you, Lady Chester,” Sister Christina responded formally. A few seconds later, she added: “And you, sir.”
Prioress Joan broke in: “We all greet you, Lord and Lady Chester. We are honored to have you as our guests at Dartford Priory.”
“Ah, that’s what I like to have said.” Lord Chester nodded at all the nuns, novices, and friars assembled before him. “That’s what I like. Yes. Very good. The beginning of a new era.”
He held up his goblet of wine, as if toasting the prioress, and then took a long, thirsty sip, as if he’d drunk nothing before it this day.
“Prioress, we are behind the appointed time, and for that I apologize,” Lady Chester said. “We first paid a visit to the grave of our son.”
Lord Chester slammed down his goblet and glared at his wife. She looked away. One of the sisters coughed, then another. The air hummed with nervous tension.
Prioress Joan spoke up again.
“Lord and Lady Chester, you have not met our new friar, who comes to us from the Dominican friary of Cambridge. I give you Brother Richard, our new president.” She gestured toward the friar who sat at the end of the table. “In the absence of Brother Philip, I’ve asked him to say a few words before our feast commences.”
Brother Richard got to his feet, and I sat up straighter on my stool.
“We are here,” he began, “to think about the faithfully departed, those who have gone on before us, to enjoy eternal life.”
Lord Chester folded his arms across his chest. His stare was skeptical, and might have given another friar pause.
But Brother Richard showed no sign of intimidation.
“Is it not the Blessed Virgin who makes stronger each day our faith in such eternal life?” he asked, turning directly toward the sisters of Dartford, his hands outstretched. “We are all linked to one another in the faith. Every deed, good or bad, influences us all. And each time one of us prays for a departed soul, it helps not only that soul but also all the others who must purify on their journey to Heaven in order to find eternal rest and peace. And so today I beseech you to pray not just for the loved ones in your life but for all who travel on before you. And do not mourn. Be happy for them, for they are now in the kingdom of Heaven. And be thus strengthened and sustained in your faith in God and the Virgin.”
I thought of my mother. Yes, I prayed she had found peace in God’s kingdom, the peace that had eluded her in life. Next to me, Brother Edmund took a deep breath, and I wondered which departed souls he contemplated.
“And so we bless this meal, which will be laid before you,” Brother Richard concluded, and sat down.
Prioress Joan smiled with pride and, I thought, a touch of surprise.
“That’s very eloquent, Brother,” said Lord Chester, his arms still folded. “Very nicely said. I haven’t heard such a graceful sermon since Bishop Gardiner addressed the court at Saint Paul’s last year, before he was packed off to France.”
Brother Richard, startled, looked at Brother Edmund and then at me. I wondered at Lord Chester’s picking that bishop to form his comparison. Did he know Bishop Gardiner sent us here? We were all three wondering the same thing, I was sure of it—and then realized with a start that in my thoughts I was more bound to these two friars than to the nuns who filled the room.
Lord Chester clapped his hands. “And now it’s time for music.”
I lost track of how many times we played the songs we knew. In no time we worked through the four prepared for the occasion and had to begin again. And again. No one took issue with it. Every time he looked over, Lord Chester would smile approvingly at our playing. His eyes always lingered on my vihuela, an unfamiliar instrument to Englishmen.
The conversation at the head table was dominated by Lord Chester. It had nothing to do with All Souls’ Day. The talk revolved around his newest appointment at court: keeper of the king’s hounds. He spoke of land spaniels and water spaniels, harriers and greyhounds. Because of my music playing, I followed few of the specifics. Lady Chester nodded as he spoke, as a wife should. I saw little of Sister Christina in her, neither in physical form nor attitude. My fellow novice more closely resembled her father, it must be said.
About halfway through the feast, conversation died down. Lord Chester devoted himself entirely to his food. Course after course had appeared, borne into the room on huge silver trays. He enjoyed the roast beef, the rabbit, and the capon. But it was the pork that he devoured with the most gusto. It seemed impossible he could be so hungry. Yet he picked up each and every sliver of pork and tucked it into his mouth, leaving nothing on the plate. His fingers shone with pork grease; it dripped from his mouth and spattered the fine tablecloth. And then there was the wine. I lost count of how many times his goblet was refilled.
The Crown Page 20