I edged inside. The prioress closed the door.
Sister Elizabeth wore the same black habit as the others. She didn’t turn around. I felt awkward. Unwanted. The minutes crept by.
“It’s a wind that brings no rain,” said a young voice.
“Yes, Sister,” I said, relieved that she spoke. “There wasn’t any rain.” But a second later I wondered how she knew anything about the weather without a window in the room. Another nun must have told her, I concluded. Just as someone told her my name—the monk Dr. Bocking, perhaps. I did not believe that she possessed the powers my mother spoke of. Although fiercely devout, I held closer to the spirit of my pragmatic father in such matters.
White hands reached out, and Sister Elizabeth turned herself around, slowly, sitting on the floor. This nun was but a girl, and so frail looking. She had a long face with a sloping chin.
As she gazed up at me, sadness filled her eyes.
“I did not know you would be so young,” she whispered.
“I am seventeen,” I said. “You look to be the same age.”
“I am twenty-two,” she said. “You have intelligence, piety, strength, and beauty. And noble blood. All the things I lack.” There was no envy. It was as if she mulled over a list of goods to be purchased at the market.
Ignoring her assessment of me, which I found embarrassing, I asked, “How can you say you lack piety when you are a sister of Christ?”
“God chose me,” she said. “I was a servant, of no importance in the world. He chose me to speak the truth. I have no choice. I must submit to His will. For you it is different. You have a true spiritual calling.”
“I am not a nun,” I said.
She suddenly frowned, as if she were responding to someone else’s voice. She slowly rose to her feet. She was spare and small, at least three inches shorter than I.
“Yes, the two cardinals are coming,” she said. “It will be within the month. They will pass through here on the way to London. I will have to try to speak to them. I must find the courage to go before all the highest and most powerful men in the land.”
My mother had said nothing of Sister Elizabeth leaving Saint Sepulchre to go before the powerful. “Why would you do that?” I asked.
“To stop them,” she said.
I was torn. A part of me was curious, but another, larger, part was growing uneasy. There was nothing malevolent about this fragile nun, yet her words made me uncomfortable.
At last the curious part won. “Who must you stop, Sister?” I asked. “The cardinals?”
She shook her head and took two steps toward me. “You know, Joanna.”
“No, Sister Elizabeth, I don’t.”
“Your mother wants to know your future—should she marry you off to someone who will take you with a meager dowry or try to return you to the court of the king? Your true vocation leaps in her face but she cannot see. Poor woman. She has no notion what she has set in motion by bringing you to me.”
How could the Holy Maid of Kent know so much of my family? I said nervously, “Sister, I don’t know what you are talking about.”
Her lower lip trembled. “When the cow doth ride the bull, then priest beware thy skull,” she said.
My stomach clenched. At last, I heard a prophecy.
“Those are not my words,” Sister Elizabeth continued. “They come from the lips of Mother Shipton. Do you know of her?”
I shook my head.
“Born in a cave in Yorkshire,” she said, her words coming fast. “A girl without a father—a bastard of the north. Hated and scorned by all. Not just for deformity of face but for the power of her words. Crone, they call her. Witch. It is so wretched to know the truth, Joanna. To see things no one else can see. To have to try to stop evil before it is too late.”
“What sort of evil?” The instant I asked the question, I regretted it.
Again the nun’s lower lip trembled. Her eyes gleamed with tears.
“The Boleyns,” she said.
I stumbled back and hit the stone wall hard. I felt behind me for the door. I hadn’t heard the prioress lock it. I would find a way out of this room. I must.
“Oh, you’re so frightened—forgive me,” she wailed, tears running down her face. “I don’t want this fate for you. I know that you’ve already been touched by the evil. I will try my hardest, Joanna. I don’t want you to be the one.”
“The one?” I repeated, still feeling for the door.
Sister Elizabeth stretched her arms wide, her palms facing the ceiling. “You are the one who will come after,” she said.
The gravity of her words, coupled with the way she spread her hands, chilled me to the marrow.
Sister Elizabeth opened her mouth, as if to say something else, and then shut it. Her face turned bright red. But in a flash, the red drained away, leaving her skin deathly pale. I glanced at the candles. How could a person change color in such a manner? But the candles burned steadily.
“Are you unwell, Sister?” I said. “Shall I seek help?”
She shook her head violently, but not to say no to me. Her head, her arms, her legs—every part of her shook. Her tongue bobbed in and out of her mouth. After less than a minute of this, her knees gave way and she collapsed.
“It hurts,” she moaned, writhing on her back. “It hurts.”
“I will get you help,” I said.
“No, no, no,” she said, her voice a hoarse stammer. “Joanna Stafford . . . hear me. I . . . beg . . . you.”
Fighting down my terror, I knelt on the floor beside her. A thin trail of white foam eased out of her gaping mouth. She thrashed and coughed. I thought she would lose consciousness, but she didn’t.
“I see abbeys crumbling to dust,” she said. The choking and thrashing ended. Incredibly, now her voice was strong and clear. “I see the blood of monks spilled across the land. Books destroyed. Statues toppled. Relics defiled. I see the greatest men of the kingdom, their heads struck off. The common folk will hang, even the children. Friars will starve. Queens will die.”
Rocking back and forth, I moaned, “No, no, no. This can’t be.”
“You are the one who will come after,” she said, her voice stronger still. “I am the first of three seers. If I fail, you must go before the second and then the third, to receive the full prophesy and learn what you must do. But only of your own free will. After the third has prophesied, nothing can stop it, Joanna Stafford. Nothing.”
“But I can’t,” I cried. “I can’t do anything. I’m no one—and I’m too afraid.”
In a voice so loud it echoed in her cell, Sister Elizabeth said, “When the raven climbs the rope, the dog must soar like the hawk. When the raven climbs the rope, the dog must soar like the hawk.”
The door flew open. The prioress and Sister Anne hurried to the fallen nun, kneeling beside her. Sister Elizabeth said just two words more, before the prioress pried open her jaw and Sister Anne pushed in a rag. She turned her head, to find me with her fierce eyes, and then she spoke.
“The chalice . . .”
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The Crown Page 46