The Crown

by Nancy Bilyeau

  No one else at the head table showed nearly as much appetite for food or drink. Lady Chester picked at her meal. The prioress and the friar discreetly avoided the meat courses, eating only bread, cheese, and fruit. The rest of us had nothing, of course. We’d all had bread and broth earlier in the day, and that would be all. It was no hardship. We were accustomed to going for many hours, even a day, without food. We welcomed it.

  The room had lost all natural light when Lord Chester finally reached his fill. Servants lit candlesticks, including a huge candelabra at the head table. The priory’s Mass for All Souls’ Day was supposed to commence before nightfall but would plainly have to be delayed. The rules of hospitality meant we could not rush our guests from the table.

  With another of his belches, Lord Chester made a show of pushing back his plate. We laid down our instruments, grateful. It was almost over.

  Lord Chester turned to the prioress. “This has been a fine feast.” His words were slurred.

  “I am glad you enjoyed it, sir,” she said.

  He sighed and tilted back in his chair. “It will be such a tragedy,” he said, “when the rest of the abbeys and priories are dissolved.”

  One of the sisters gasped, I couldn’t tell who. Brother Edmund bowed his head, and on the other side of him, Sister Winifred reached for his arm.

  But no one was as stricken as Prioress Joan. She blinked and swallowed, as if she could not believe what had been said.

  “It won’t be like before,” said Lord Chester. “When the commissioners come, they’re not rooting around for evidence of any laxness in the orders, any sins committed, or any monies hidden away.” His words were less slurred now as he warmed to his topic. “They’re coming to tell the heads of all the houses in person what the king wants them to do: Resign. Go quietly. Dissolve of your own free will. If you do, every person in the house will be pensioned, every monk and friar and nun. The king’s not going to go so rough this time. He doesn’t want his courtiers stripping the monasteries with such base and obvious greed. Doesn’t look good. They’ll be given the monasteries as royal gifts, but it must be done quietly. And he doesn’t want any more martyrs. No more monks and friars starving themselves to death or getting themselves hanged at Tyburn because they won’t take the Oath of Supremacy. Too provocative.”

  Brother Richard’s face had turned red. He held on to the edge of the head table with both hands. I could hear the rapid clicking of the prioress’s pomander ball.

  But Lord Chester paid no heed to the offense—the pain—his words caused anyone. “Nobody wants another rebellion, eh?” He chortled. “There are enough heads on Tower Bridge.”

  While we all watched, he rose to his feet.

  “You’ll all get a pension; no one will starve,” he called out to the room, swaying a little.

  Lady Chester tugged on his black taffeta arm. “My lord, enough.”

  He shook her off and moved the other way, past Brother Richard, who recoiled, his face twisted with loathing. Lord Chester didn’t notice, didn’t care. He lumbered toward the long table that bore the prized possessions of Dartford.

  “Ah, look at all of this,” he bellowed. “Just look at it. Worth a fortune. Believe me, there are lords of the court lined up outside Cromwell’s chamber, right now, clamoring for Dartford Priory.”

  He thumped his chest with one hand. “Not me. I’m rich enough. I don’t have to sack the religious houses. But for some of the others, a thing like that”—he pointed at the jewel-studded reliquary—“is just too tempting.”

  He swayed back and forth, and I thought for a moment Lord Chester would fall. But then he steadied himself.

  “I will know tonight what’s inside it,” he announced.

  I saw a nun rise off the bench. It was his daughter, Sister Christina. Her eyes blazed in the candlelight. “Father, you cannot touch our reliquary,” she said.

  “Can’t I?” He turned on her. “You can’t tell me what to do, daughter. No one can. Not you, not the old bitch who used to be prioress here, not the one up there now.” He pointed at Prioress Joan. “I want to see what’s inside it, and I shall.”

  The prioress jumped to her feet. “It is empty, Lord Chester. It came to us that way—everyone knows that. It was the will of the king who founded us, Edward the Third.”

  “ ‘Everyone knows that,’ ” he mimicked the prioress. “That’s what you say. But what if I don’t believe you? The king does not believe you. He does not trust the monasteries. People say it’s all to get money for the treasury, or because he’s still in a rage that the abbeys opposed his divorce. That’s why he’s dissolving the houses. But I know better. He’s said it to me, more than once.” Lord Chester’s voice rose an octave as he now mimicked the king: “ ‘They have their secrets in the monasteries, their devious purposes. Their first loyalty is not to me.’ ”

  Lord Chester narrowed his eyes at the prioress. “And I know you have secrets. No one knows better than I do about the secrets on Dartford Priory. “ He laughed. “Tonight I will learn another of them.”

  Before anyone could say or do anything more, Lord Chester charged for the reliquary. He grabbed it with his grease-drenched fingers and turned it around, looking for the delicate little door.

  I felt light-headed. What if, I thought frantically, it wasn’t empty—what if inside the reliquary was part of the Athelstan crown? Who will be hurt, if not killed, because of what he’s doing?

  “Ah, I’ve got it.” He wrenched open the door in the base of the reliquary and stuck his hand inside.

  All over the room, the nuns wailed at the desecration. Sister Christina started for her father, as if to stop him herself, but Sister Agatha and Sister Rachel restrained her, one on each side. Brother Richard, on his feet, called out something to Prioress Joan, but I couldn’t make out what he said above the sound of weeping. Lady Chester, crouched in her chair, had her face buried in her hands.

  “There’s nothing,” Lord Chester said angrily. “Empty.”

  Prioress Joan made her way around the table, toward the man she had invited to a requiem feast. “Lord Chester, I ask you to put our sacred reliquary back on the table.”

  Lord Chester put it down. “I was simply curious. Don’t worry. I don’t want your gold, your treasure. I’ve never wanted that.”

  He swung back toward the head table and started laughing again. “I always prefer human treasure.”

  He turned, away from the prioress and Brother Richard, both approaching him.

  Lord Chester, to my terror, staggered toward me.

  “You, there,” he shouted. “Novice! What’s your name?”

  I jumped up from my stool.

  He came closer. “What’s your name?” he repeated.

  Brother Edmund rose to step in front of me.

  “Get out of my way, Friar,” roared Lord Chester. “Don’t you know who I am? I am a member of the king’s household, and I will be told the name of this novice.”

  I backed away from him, against the wall, the back of my head hitting the window panel.

  “Joanna Stafford,” I spat at him.

  “Stafford?” he reared back like a spooked horse. “Oh, that’s not a good name. No, no, no. That’s a very bad name. The king hates the Staffords; he hates all of the old nobility. Like the family of my blessed wife.” He gave a mock bow to Lady Chester, still hiding her face.

  He cocked his head at me. “It’s not only that. You’re dark, aren’t you? I don’t like them dark. I prefer them fair . . . like this one.”

  He lunged for Sister Winifred and had her in seconds. He tore off her novice cap and her ash-blond hair tumbled down over her shoulders. She screeched in fear, struggling in his arms.

  It happened so fast, I barely saw it. One minute Lord Chester was attacking Sister Winifred, the next he was on the floor on his belly.

  Brother Edmund stood over him, his fist raised high.

  27

  Lord Chester sprawled across the floor of the chapter hous
e, rubbing his jaw.

  Brother Richard ran over to his fellow friar and grabbed Brother Edmund by the arm, yanking him back. “No more, Brother, you can’t,” he pleaded.

  Lord Chester got up on all fours.

  “I’ll make you pay, Friar.” He lumbered to his feet, his left cheek bruised and a trickle of blood on his jaw. “I’ll have you whipped for this. I’ll have you hanged at Tyburn.”

  He faced the prioress and Brother Richard, standing in front of the head table. All of us looked at one another, frightened and repulsed, waiting for his next move. It felt like a bear baiting, with all of us surrounding a strong, crazed, enraged animal.

  But that is the moment when Lord Chester froze. He stared over the left shoulder of Prioress Joan. His mouth hung open as he looked at the tapestry that hung on the wall behind the head table, where he had sat for hours. The flickering candlelight illuminated the silken threads of Daphne, transformed in the deep forest.

  His head moved back and forth as he scrutinized the tableau, each figure depicted.

  “How could you do this?” he finally asked. “How?”

  He turned to look at the nuns, half of them on their feet, the other half cowering on the benches. All of his leering rage had gone. He seemed unsure, even cowed.

  “Who did this?” he asked.

  There was a noise at the door, and it was Gregory, the porter, along with a trio of male servants. John, the stable hand, carried a long stick in his right hand, his face fearful.

  “Prioress, what do you want us to do?” called out Gregory.

  She held up a hand, ordering him to wait. “Lord Chester,” she said, “I would prefer if you would leave the priory now of your own will, rather than have my men compel you. Will you do so?”

  I heard a wheezing cough. It was Winifred, her hair still down around her shoulders. She was going into a fit. Brother Edmund moved her away from our stools and loosened her collar. I was the closest one to him now.

  Lord Chester gave no sign he’d heard the prioress’s question. He spoke in a hoarse whisper, one only I could hear.

  “How could you know?” he asked. “How could you know about her?”

  His knees buckled and Lord Chester collapsed to the floor, unconscious.

  “Is he dead?” Brother Richard hissed. “Brother Edmund, go!”

  The blond friar carefully placed his sister down on a stone bench and went to Lord Chester. He knelt beside the man he’d struck minutes before.

  “Do not hurt my husband,” Lady Chester pleaded. She had pushed past the nuns and servants to get to him. Her face was puffy from weeping.

  “Brother Edmund is an apothecary, as good as a physician,” the prioress said.

  With no sign of anything but medical interest, he felt the lord’s wrists and lifted his eyelids.

  “Lord Chester is alive,” Brother Edmund said, matter-of-fact. “It is the wine that did this. He will recover.”

  “Yes, he has reached this state before,” Lady Chester said. “He will sleep for many hours, impossible to rouse, and then he’ll awaken, with pain in his head.”

  The prioress beckoned for Gregory. “You must carry him out and put him in a wagon, take him to his manor house. Use more men if necessary.”

  “Yes,” said Brother Richard. “Get him off the property as quickly as you can.”

  “No, no, please, not that.” Lady Chester grabbed the prioress’s shoulder. “Do not have him hauled out like a common criminal. It will cause even greater scandal. You have lodging rooms here, don’t you? Let him stay here tonight; let us both stay here. We will leave as soon as he awakens. He must walk out of Dartford. It will be in the morning, I promise you.”

  The prioress shook her head.

  Lady Chester said, “He is much upset . . . because of our son.” Her voice broke. “He still grieves his death, a year later. What my lord said and did here tonight—he was not himself. It was the wine. I beg you not to have him hauled out. Think of the consequences.”

  There was an angry stir from the crowd of nuns in the room. Sister Rachel burst forward like an avenging archangel.

  “Prioress Joan, he must not remain in this priory,” she shouted. “This man’s defilement must end now. He is evil. We saw evil here, in our chapter house. Both words and deeds.” She gestured toward Sister Winifred, gasping for air, in the arms of Sister Agatha.

  A murmur of agreement rippled through the group. Sister Eleanor looked especially tormented, trapped between her loathing of Lord Chester and her loyalty to the prioress.

  Weeping, Lady Chester called out, “Christina, where are you? Help us. Please.”

  Sister Christina moved toward her mother. Her face was filled with torment. She stopped in the middle of the floor, her hands trembling at her sides.

  Brother Edmund helped his gasping sister to the door. “No matter what is decided about Lord Chester, Sister Winifred needs treatment in the infirmary,” he said. “With your permission, Prioress?”

  She nodded, and brother and sister left.

  Brother Richard cleared his throat. “Prioress, much damage has been done here. I fear what will happen if he remains, even for one night.”

  Lady Chester wept harder, crouched next to her husband.

  Prioress Joan frowned at the sight of the senseless Lord Chester. We all waited for her decision.

  “Gregory,” she said to the porter. “Have Lord Chester carried to our guest lodging rooms. They are not well prepared, but he and Lady Chester will have to make do. Then lock the cloister doors so there can be no reentry.”

  She turned to face us, her head held high. “This is my judgment. We are still a religious house, bound to hospitality if it is requested, by chapter rules. We will return our sacred objects—our reliquary and book and other possessions—to the church and library. We will hold Mass for All Souls’ Day. We will still honor the departed as Brides of Christ, as our vows compel. We will continue.”

  Brother Richard scowled, but he said nothing. Doubts and fears registered on the faces of the other nuns. But we all bowed to the will of the prioress.

  Sister Eleanor said loudly, “Come, you’ve heard what we must do. Lift up our holy treasures.”

  Sister Rachel hurried to the reliquary. “I will cleanse it myself,” she said, her voice breaking. “I will try to remove the defilement.”

  A group of senior nuns picked up the other objects on the table. Gregory and his men moved toward Lord Chester, to carry him out.

  I left the chapter house with Sister Christina. I had seen enough tonight to understand what had brought her to Dartford with such fierce commitment, why she’d sworn never to leave.

  At the requiem Mass that night a grave Brother Phillip said a few special words on All Souls’ Day, though they were not as inspiring as Brother Richard’s, it must be said. The Mass was so late that not much time elapsed before the bells rang again, compelling us to Matins at midnight.

  Afterward, climbing the stairs to our dormitory, I tried to express my sympathy for Sister Christina. I didn’t want her to misinterpret my silence for any sort of censure. Her parents’ offenses were not hers.

  “Sister Christina,” I began, “in your life before Dartford, it must have—”

  She turned on me, anguished.

  “Do not ask me anything. I beg you, Sister Joanna. Do not speak of my family—of my father. I can’t say a word about him. You of all people must understand that he must never be spoken of.”

  “Of course, Sister.”

  When we had changed into our shifts and were lying in bed, Sister Agatha stuck her head in. “Sister Winifred will sleep in the infirmary tonight. She is not well at all. Brother Edmund will remain with her and look after her.”

  She looked at me and shuddered, her plump jowls shaking. “Nothing like this has ever happened at Dartford Priory before. Nothing. I can’t imagine what was—”

  “Good night, Sister Agatha,” said Sister Christina brusquely, and turned her face to the wall.
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  I blew out the candle.

  It took a long time to fall asleep. I’d feel myself sinking into a dream, but then, right at the brink, I’d jerk awake, and stir, restless, in my bed. I couldn’t quiet my mind. I kept hearing the music we played, seeing the reliquary hand on the table, flinching at the profane shouts of Lord Chester.

  When the bells rang just before dawn for Lauds, my limbs felt heavy and my head throbbed. I glanced over at Sister Christina, sitting on the edge of her pallet as she pulled her habit on over her head, her movements just as sluggish.

  Filing down the stairs to our church, I noticed the other sisters looked worn, too, even haggard. No one had slept well at Dartford. Sister Rachel looked as if she’d aged ten years in a single night.

  I was waiting my turn, with Sister Christina, at the back of the line, to bow and take our place in the church, when a long scream rippled through the passageway. This was no animal facing slaughter. I heard a woman, a terrified woman.

  Sister Christina froze. “That is my mother,” she said.

  I grabbed her and we ran together, past the cloister garden, to the door leading to the front of the priory.

  “Gregory!” I shouted, pounding at the door. “Let us in. Unlock the door.”

  In no time, Prioress Joan was there, with Sister Eleanor and Sister Agatha, and, five steps behind, Brother Richard.

  “Get back to the church,” the prioress ordered Sister Christina and me.

  “But she says it’s her mother,” I protested.

  The door swung open. Gregory stood there, ashen-faced. Sister Christina and I pushed past him and ran to the guest lodgings. They were to the west, at the end of the passageway, at the opposite end from the prioress’s chamber.

  We’d almost reached it when Lady Chester staggered out of the doorway. Wearing the same black dress as she had the night before, she came toward us, feeling the wall as if she’d turned blind and must cling to the bricks to keep from falling. She fell into her daughter’s arms.