The Crown

by Nancy Bilyeau

  It took a long time to realize why, but it finally came to me. I had responded to Geoffrey Scovill—although it was morally wrong, I had been able to do it. All these years, I’d been filled with shame and fear and disgust because of what George Boleyn had done to me when I was sixteen years old—and I’d recoiled from the prospect of any man touching me again. Sister Christina, even in her madness, had sensed that something happened to me. But Boleyn’s defilement had not permanently damaged me, as I had thought for all these years. I knew something else at last, with certainty: I had not sought out Dartford Priory as a novice because of fear of man but because of hope for a spiritual life and true faith in Christ.

  My tears spent, I rose to my feet and returned to my duties in the priory.

  I dreamed that night, the most disturbing one I’d had since my imprisonment in the Tower. We women clung to each other, terrified. The axes were at the door, and we could hear the shouts. Smoke filled the room. I panicked and clawed for the window. Sister Christina tried to pull me back. Her fingers closed around my neck.

  “No, Sister Christina, no—don’t hurt me!” I screamed, hurtling out of sleep.

  I lay in the dark, sweating and confused. My heart hammered so loud it rang in my ears.

  “Jana?” said Arthur.

  “I’m well, go back to sleep,” I choked. I patted his plump little arm.

  I took deep breaths and made a plan for tomorrow.

  Sometimes the early spring throws up a day, a winsome day that thaws our bodies and souls. The sun shone warm and bright when, after morning prayers, I took Arthur by the hand and led him to the site of the ancient ruined nunnery on the hill.

  In his other hand he had a long garden shovel. Arthur loved digging; a part of the barn was set aside for that activity after we discovered it would occupy him, happily, for long stretches.

  “Look, Arthur, we can walk a square,” I said. “Watch me.” I found the stone foundation in the earth, where green shoots were just beginning to fight their way up out of the winter-scarred sod. I walked carefully, finding the rocks with my feet. Arthur happily followed.

  I walked to the center of the square of Saint Juliana, something I had not done with Sister Christina on All Hallows’ Eve. Was this where they gathered, the nuns, when they immolated themselves? I looked down and noticed a place where the ground was fresh and torn.

  I stared at it for a long time, while Arthur jumped and giggled and threw pebbles.

  “Arthur,” I finally said. “Give me your shovel.”

  He didn’t understand, so I pulled it gently from his hand. “Dig,” I said. “We dig.”

  We dug for at least a half hour. My back and hands ached from it. But Arthur never got tired. He was the one who tapped on the top of the box, then smiled at me, gleefully, as any boy would at the sight of buried treasure.

  I pulled up the box from the earth. I started to open the lid, but I couldn’t, my hands were shaking too much. “Open, Arthur,” I said. “Open.”

  And he did. My little brother reached into the hole in the ground and opened the lid. I couldn’t look down into the box because I was too terrified. I stared at Arthur’s awestruck face.

  I could see the jewels of the Athelstan crown reflected in his eyes.

  I fought down my panic and prayed, out loud, seeking humble guidance and wisdom. I pointed my hands to heaven and begged for it, my eyes shut tight.

  Arthur made a noise. I knew what had happened in the second it took for me to open my eyes.

  Arthur wore the crown on his head.

  “No!” I cried. “No, Arthur. Oh, no.”

  I snatched it off his head—it was so heavy, how had he managed it?—and shoved it back into the box.

  My weeping upset Arthur. He didn’t understand it. I hugged him, desperate, crushing him with my terrified embrace.

  “Are you all right, Arthur?” I asked over and over. But of course he didn’t answer me. I dried his eyes and kissed his cheeks. A wobbly smile returned to his face.

  “Everything will be all right, Arthur,” I said. “Everything will be all right.”

  51

  A group of sisters have decided to live together after the suppression of Dartford Priory,” said the prioress. “In other priories and abbeys, similar decisions have been made. Some of you will return to your families, but some shall pool your pensions and live in one house, a short journey from here, and attempt to follow Dominican rules for living. There won’t be official enclosure, but you can, as much as possible, try to live out your ideals.”

  She was speaking to us in the chapter house, in the last official weeks of Dartford Priory’s existence.

  “Many of the largest abbeys and priories are submitting to the will of the king,” she said. “By the end of this year, or possibly the next, I think it likely we shall all be suppressed.”

  I bowed my head.

  “The fate of Dartford Priory has been decided,” she said. “Several nobles and men of the court put in requests to receive the priory, and even one churchman. The Bishop of Dover expressed interest in Dartford.” It was disgusting for a bishop to try to grab hold of a priory for personal gain, but it surprised no one that the brother of Lord Chester had made such a request. “I must tell you that the king has decided to grant Dartford to no other person. He is keeping it for himself. It will become royal property.”

  There were a few sobs in the room, from the stone benches. Even though we had all learned of it months ago, schooled ourselves to accept, this was still so deeply terrifying, the end of something that had lasted for centuries. King Henry the Eighth had personally stolen our home. And now we faced the prospect of a barren life devoid of the rich beauty of our faith.

  The prioress said, “The friary is sending an almoner to dispense the pensions, since our abbey no longer has a president and steward.” The prioress lost her poise for a moment as the shadow of Brother Richard stretched across the room. She righted herself and went on. “Sister Joanna and her young cousin will ride to Stafford Castle next week. Brother Edmund and Sister Winifred will accompany them on this journey. When he returns, Brother Edmund will attempt to continue his work in the infirmary in the village, no longer as a Dominican friar but as an apothecary and healer.”

  Everyone made approving noises.

  “And now,” said the prioress, “we will not have chapter correction. We will instead go to the tapestry room, to see the work that has just been completed under the leadership of Sister Joanna.”

  The sisters slowly filed out of the chapter house and made their way to the tapestry room. We had hung our tapestry on the wall, for all to see. I proudly stood before it as they crowded in.

  “The Greek myth that Sister Helen chose for her final tapestry was that of Icarus,” I said. “Brother Edmund has shared with me the full story of the myth, and now I pass it to you.”

  On the side of the tapestry, an older man stood on the shore of a sea. “This is Daedalus, a talented craftsman. A cruel king imprisoned Daedalus and his son, Icarus, on the island of Crete. They were desperate to break free. They fashioned wings for themselves, to fly to freedom.”

  I pointed at the beautiful young man in the tapestry’s center, huge white wings springing from his back, soaring toward a pulsing sun, his hands stretched upward.

  “Icarus was warned not to fly close to the sun, but it was so beautiful to him, he was drawn to it, to its greatness. He flew too high—” My voice broke. “He flew too high . . .” I simply could not continue. I looked out at the nuns and saw they, too, were fighting tears. We all knew why Sister Helen had picked this myth for the last tapestry of Dartford.

  Sister Winifred surged forward. “Icarus’s wings were melted and singed by the sun he flew toward, and he fell to the sea,” she explained. I was so grateful for her help, for her strength. She continued: “But Sister Helen’s intent was not to show Icarus falling and dying. She wanted to show the bravery of his ascent. And that is what Sister Joanna and the rest of us
want to show you now.”

  We stood together, the nuns of Dartford, to celebrate the flight of Icarus. And then the bells pealed, and we filed into our church, to sing hymns and chant, to pray and honor God in all of His magnificent glory.

  • • •

  One week later, Brother Edmund, Sister Winifred, Arthur, and I gathered to leave. The brother and sister I’d grown so close to would return to Dartford for a short time, and then leave with the others. I’d never see the priory again.

  I received the blessing of the prioress. She was accompanied by Sister Agatha, Sister Rachel, and Sister Anne. I’d asked the prioress not to have the entire community see me off, just a few nuns. I needed to ensure my departure would be as calm as possible; it upset Arthur to see me weep. Of course the prioress knew which nuns to select, which ones had touched my life most profoundly. For so long we’d been at cross-purposes, but now Prioress Joan and I understood each other perfectly.

  Brother Edmund straightened the saddle on the gray palfrey once owned by Brother Richard. I’d learned that the day after we’d left for Malmesbury, Brother Richard had made his will and specified that all his belongings should go to Brother Edmund. He’d fully grasped the dangers he faced and taken all measures. It both deepened my respect for him and sharpened my grief over his death.

  John would accompany us north. His wife had given birth to a daughter, and he had been hired as a servant by Brother Edmund after the priory closed. John had secured our belongings in all of the saddle packs, and we were about to mount our horses when there was a stir on the priory lane.

  Sister Winifred’s mouth fell open. “What is that?” she whispered.

  Two horsemen approached, and behind them stretched something that looked like a small, low rectangular room, pulled in front and behind by other horses.

  “It’s a litter,” I said. I’d not seen one in years.

  We waited for the litter, this curtained platform for the old, the sick, or the wealthy to travel in. Brother Edmund shook his head, baffled. But I knew who was riding up the road, because he had come in my dreams so many times before today.

  Once the party had reached us, a large white hand reached out and parted the curtains, and Stephen Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester, peered out.

  He took in our packed horses and riding clothes.

  “Salve,” he said pleasantly.

  The prioress moved forward to greet him first, as was fitting.

  “I came here for Easter Masses; I return to France tomorrow,” he informed her. “I wanted very much to see Dartford Priory before . . . its next stage.”

  He moved toward the entranceway. “Yes, the statues of the kings,” he murmured, pointing at Edward the Third and the Black Prince. “Cardinal Wolsey looked upon this; he came here in 1527, on his way to France, with a retinue of hundreds, but I was not with him. I had already gone on, to Rome.” I shuddered involuntarily. What mission did he devote himself to in Rome on that occasion—arguments before the Holy Father to divorce the king from Katherine of Aragon? Or was he searching through documents stored at the Vatican to find proof of the powers of the crown of Athelstan?

  His head tilted up, Bishop Gardiner studied the carvings over the door, the Ascension of the Virgin. His eyes widened, and I knew it was because he had detected the carved outline of the crown.

  Arthur, bored, banged a toy against a rock on the side of the drive. Bishop Gardiner turned to look at him, and then at me with those light-hazel eyes.

  “Ah, little Arthur Bulmer,” he said.

  Horrified that the bishop knew who he was, I scooped Arthur up in my arms.

  The prioress said firmly: “Bishop Gardiner, I would be honored to accompany you into the priory. There is much to show you. But first we should say good-bye to Sister Joanna and her party. They have a long journey ahead of them, to Stafford Castle.”

  The bishop took his measure of her.

  “Prioress, where is Brother Richard buried?” he asked.

  “That cemetery is on the hill to the west; it is between the priory and an abandoned building, a leper hospital,” she said.

  “I will go there now,” he announced. “Sister Joanna will escort me.”

  Brother Edmund said, “I wish to accompany you as well, Bishop.”

  “No, Brother, that will not be necessary,” said Gardiner dismissively. “Sister Joanna can do without you for a short time.”

  Brother Edmund’s lips tightened. I lowered Arthur to the ground and whispered to the friar, “Take care of my cousin.”

  And I turned to the Bishop of Winchester, to lead him to the graves.

  We walked in silence. I could feel the eyes of the others as we rounded the corner of the priory, some of them fearful, some confused, some no doubt impressed with the coming of a famous bishop to Dartford.

  When we reached the grave of Brother Richard, Gardiner knelt to say a prayer. I veered to my father’s grave, which I had visited the day before in order to place a few mementos. I wondered if the bishop felt any remorse at all for what he had done to these men, to all of us.

  Bishop Gardiner finished his prayer and stood up. “Sister Joanna, I want you to know that I forgive you for failing me.”

  I couldn’t believe it.

  “I . . . failed . . . you?” I choked out.

  “Dartford will be suppressed, as will Syon and Glastonbury and the rest of the great religious houses,” he said harshly. “All are being torn down, distributed, liquidated by Cromwell’s minions. Nine hundred years of spiritual beauty and dedication—destroyed. England’s centers of prayer and learning, of civilization and incalculable blessings. All made plunder for the royal treasury.”

  His eyes met mine for a fleeting instant; they brimmed with pain, with guilt, with regret.

  In a thick voice, he said, “If we had been able to gain hold of the Athelstan crown, it could all have been stopped.” He pointed at the graves of my father and Brother Richard. “Was the quest not worth some sacrifice and hardship?”

  I was so angry I blurted the question that had tormented me since Malmesbury: “What would you have done with it if I’d found it for you? Would you have used the crown as a weapon in your private war with Cromwell? Or retained it for other purposes?”

  He stared at me, a nerve quivering on the side of his throat, and then said, “Take me to the leper hospital.”

  I stalked ahead of him, tears of impotent rage rolling down my cheeks. I pushed through the grove of trees, fragrant with new growth, and went down the hill.

  I waited for him at the open door. A burst of yellow and white flowers lined the front wall, under the crumbling window where I had left my letters to him.

  The bishop hovered just outside the ruins. He did not seem to want to enter. “I wonder,” he said, “if years from now, people will walk among the ruins of our abbeys and wonder about those who lived within their walls.”

  I was startled that he would have a thought so like my own.

  He took a step toward me, a fierce purpose in his eyes. “You have made a great champion of the Lady Mary. She keeps bringing you up in her letters to me, to everyone. It will not be easy, but we should be able to make you one of her ladies-in-waiting, and then you can be of great use to us. I think you should marry first; I have several well-trusted candidates in mind.”

  “No, no, no—stop,” I cried, putting my hands over my ears.

  “Your chastity will be honored; it can be a marriage in name only,” he said soothingly, as if that were what offended me most. “Marriage will put some distance between your vows as a novice and your service to the princess. You will arouse less suspicion if you carry a husband’s name and title.”

  “Why would you go to such lengths to arrange this, to place me in her service?” I demanded. “You believe me to be a wretched failure.”

  He hesitated, and then admitted, “It is possible that the crown was destroyed by that accursed mad girl in the very first days you were back in the priory.”

&n
bsp; I winced at his description of Sister Christina.

  The bishop studied me even more closely. “You are headstrong and difficult, yes, but the way you maneuvered yourself out of danger in Norfolk House . . . I had not seen the likes of it before. You are exceptional, Sister Joanna; I knew that before I ever came to your cell in the Tower. You cannot spend the rest of your life in Stafford Castle, an insignificant member of a fallen house. And I don’t believe it is what you truly desire, either. Or why would you have left the family home to take vows in Dartford Priory at all? You wished a more meaningful role for yourself. A spiritual existence.”

  I swallowed. I had no answer to that.

  “And then, while you were here, why did you go to such lengths to learn about the crown, about all that had happened in the priory? That was not what you were charged with. But you sought to learn all, to gain knowledge and experience.” His voice was loud, almost thundering. I had never heard him speak this way—as if we were not in an abandoned hollow but a cathedral pulpit. “You wanted to infuse your life with meaning, Sister Joanna. And now, that need not end. It is just beginning. The forces that have massed against us are strong and devious. With my guidance, you can still serve God and the righteous cause of restoration of our faith.”

  “But not through political machinations,” I insisted. “I have no interest in politics.”

  “No?” He circled me. “You went to Smithfield to pray for and to comfort your cousin, the rebel Lady Bulmer. You risked much for family feeling, but I have long been convinced it was more than that. You believed in what she believed—and you do now. If you will not become involved in our cause for your own sake, then do it for hers, for the memory of your cousin, who suffered and died at the stake.”