The Chalice
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To Kate McLennan, for her encouragement,
just when I needed it
And Jesus said, “Father, if you be willing, take this cup from me.”
—Luke 22:42
W
hen preparing for martyrdom on the night of December 28, 1538, I did not think of those I love. Hiding in a narrow cemetery with seven men, all of us poised to commit violence at Canterbury Cathedral, I instead stared at the words carved into the tombstone I huddled behind: “Here lieth interred the body of Brother Bartholomeus Giles, of Christ-Church Priory, Canterbury, who departed this life on the sixteenth of June, 1525.”
How fortunate was Brother Bartholomeus. He prayed, sang, labored, and studied, and after his body weakened, was moved to the infirmary, to die there, blessedly ignorant that his was the last generation to serve God in an English monastery. This humble monk had known nothing of the Dissolution.
A gibbous moon hung above me tonight, swollen and bright in the sable sky, illuminating all the gravestones and memorials.
But somehow it was a soft moon, not the sharply detailed orb I’d seen on other winter nights. It must be because we were near the sea. I’d been to Canterbury one other time—the same journey during which I learned of my destiny. Against my will, I was told of a prophecy. It was one I feared above all else. Yet here, tonight, I stood ready to fulfill it.
We had each of us picked a stone of concealment in this graveyard, a paean to a departed brother. These seven were like brothers to me now, and one most particularly so. Brother Edmund Sommerville, standing but a few feet away, looked over, and I nodded my readiness. We both knew the time approached. He blew on his frozen fingers, and I did the same. Our hands must be supple enough to grip the weapons we’d brought. I carried a rock with a sharp edge; Brother Edmund held a cudgel. We had no training in combat. Our faith would supply the needed strength.
After King Henry VIII ordered the surrender of our home, Dartford Priory, we had become, to the world, simply Edmund Sommerville and Joanna Stafford. I’d struggled to prevent that. In the last months of Dartford Priory’s existence, under duress, I’d searched the convent for the Athelstan crown, an object that Bishop Stephen Gardiner swore to me would stop the destruction. But the search took unexpected—and deadly—turns, and when it was over, our priory, 180 years old, closed its doors forever, as did the other monasteries. So ended the chaste splendors and humble glories of the only house for Dominican sisters in England. We had no choice but to relinquish our habits and veils and depart. I moved into the town close by and, with a handful of other priory refugees, tried very hard to make a new life for myself. Now that was over, too. The cruelty of the royal court had swung close to me once more. I’d seen fear and treachery and loss—and courage, too—and innocent blood spilled on Tower Hill.
The figure of a man darted through the cemetery. In the
moonlight, the face of Brother Oswald, a onetime Cistercian monk, was a sliver of ivory within his hooded cloak. His wounds of face and body, inflicted by those who hate us and call us Papists, were hidden.
“We will move on the cathedral soon,” Brother Oswald said in a ragged whisper.
My hand tightened on the side of the gravestone. Within moments, men sent by King Henry would emerge from this dark cathedral carrying a sacred wooden box. And we would be waiting.
Thomas Becket, archbishop of Canterbury, was murdered inside that cathedral 368 years ago because he would not submit to the will of an earthly king. After his death, Rome proclaimed Becket a saint. His grave became a shrine—the holiest destination in all of England. But Henry VIII had declared our revered saint a criminal, stripping his shrine. Tomorrow was the anniversary of Becket’s assassination. Before the first valiant pilgrims arrived, the desecration would have taken place. King’s men were at this moment stealing the feretrum, the adorned box containing the bones of the archbishop. The remains of Becket would be burned, his ashes scattered to the wind.
It was the final cruelty from the king who had already taken everything from me and from all of us who had lived enclosed and spiritual lives.
“I heard the prior’s prayers from the side door,” said Brother Oswald. “He begged the king’s men to be allowed to pray before they took away the feretrum, and they relented. We shall go to the street in a few minutes.”
The monk crossed himself. “God will be with us,” he said, a little louder. “We do His work tonight. Do not forget—the Holy Father will bless us. He has no knowledge of our business here, but once it is done, all Christendom will give profound thanks.”
Not much time remained. Brother Oswald, our leader,
dropped to his knees and prayed, his hands trembling with fervor. Thirteen months ago, when Brother Edmund and I met him, he was a monk who smiled, suffused with hope. Brother Oswald had been turned out of his monastery but was confident he’d learn God’s purpose by roaming the land with a dozen other displaced monks. Weeks ago, I found him again, this time fending off blows. There were no more smiles from Brother Oswald. But when was the last time I had smiled, or, for that matter, eaten a meal or slept a night through? I wasn’t sure.
A dog barked on the cobbled street between the cemetery and the cathedral. Its mad cries echoed off the towering cathedral. I hunched over, covering my mouth with my hand so my warm breath wouldn’t form a white cloud above the tombstone.
Another dog answered, farther down the street. The first beast ran toward it, barking ever more frantically. Then they ran together, through Canterbury, seeking mischief. Their sounds died away.
“Sister Joanna?”
It was Brother Edmund. Even lit by moonlight, the change in him startled me. His determination to take this course of action several days ago had blessed my friend with a serenity of purpose. But now his brown eyes flickered with pain.
“Are you no longer of a mind to do this?” I whispered.
He opened his mouth and then shut it. “Is it Sister Winifred?” I asked. I knew how much he loved his younger sister. As did I—she was my closest friend.
He still didn’t answer. The others were finishing the Rosary; the sounds of murmured prayers and clicking beads drifted across the graves.
“And you—what of Arthur?” Brother Edmund finally said.
I looked down at Brother Bartholomeus’s tombstone. I didn’t want Brother Edmund to see my eyes, fearing he would read my thoughts. For it wasn’t Arthur, the orphaned boy who depended on me, who had leaped into my mind but a grown
man. I could see the angry face of Geoffrey Scovill and hear his words once more: “You’re a fool, Joanna. What you’re doing is madness—and it will change
nothing
.”
If I were killed here, tonight, on the streets of Canterbury, it would free Geoffrey, the constable who had helped me time and again. Our bond, so fraught for so long, would be severed and he could begin a new life. He was twenty-nine years old, two years older than I. Not quite young, but not old either. This was a selfless goal. I should have taken strength from it, and yet I felt quite the opposite. My belly leaped and tumbled; I was so dizzy I had to rest my forehead against the gravestone.
“It is time, brothers—and sister,” said Brother Oswald. The others stepped out from behind monuments. Brother Edmund moved forward with determination. I pushed off from the grave marker with one hand—clutching my sharp stone with the other—and took my place in the line moving slowly toward the street.
The gate creaked as our leader pushed it open and slipped through.
One of the monks cried, “They’re coming out!” Lights moved deep inside the cathedral.
There was a loud clattering of hooves on the narrow cobbled street, and a single man on horseback appeared. I recognized his green-and-white livery as Tudor colors. He was a king’s soldier—he must have been stationed outside while the others charged into the cathedral. He pulled up on his horse and stared at us, arrayed before him in an uneven line.
One of the monks next to me hissed. It was taken up by another. Then another.
The soldier flinched in his saddle; his mouth dropped open. He was young, I could see that now. Eighteen at the most. In our long tattered cloaks and robes, hissing at him, we must have seemed terrifying wraiths.
He shook the reins and kicked the side of his horse, to return
to the front of the cathedral and doubtless warn the other soldiers. Brother Oswald scrambled after him, and his followers went with him.
Brother Edmund looked at them and then at me, torn.
“Go, go, go,” I choked. “Don’t tarry.”
I pushed Brother Edmund away from me with all my strength. To my relief, he went. But I couldn’t follow. My legs were frozen. The moon spun slowly in the sky.
A distant door opened with a thud and men cried out. I could hear it all, the noises boomed from the front of the cathedral, but I couldn’t see anything. A noise pulsed in my ears. It was like the roaring sea. Snow came down faster, in stinging gusts. I stuck out my tongue to taste the flakes—I’d do anything to stave off fainting.
I staggered to the wall of Canterbury Cathedral. How could I be struck down by such weakness? This was what was supposed to happen—and my place in it was critical.
“What you’re doing is madness
—
and it will change nothing.”
I kept hearing the words, scornful yet pleading, of Geoffrey Scovill. It was as if he sapped my strength from miles away. Frustrated, I grabbed the bricks to pull myself along the wall. I had to fight alongside Brother Edmund and the others. No matter the consequences, I’d finally determined to do this, to stop hiding from the future.
I dragged myself to the end of the wall.
Two fresh torches blazed on either side of the entranceway. Cowering in the doorway was the plump prior, his hands cupping his shiny face. He had no idea of our plans tonight, any more than he had of the royal mission to defile Becket’s shrine. It had been easy for the soldiers to despoil the cathedral. That was one thing that always worked in King Henry’s favor: the paralysis of the faithful, our inability to resist the destruction of our faith because we couldn’t believe this could actually be happening to us. Until tonight. Each of us had sworn to take
control of our destiny by trusting in God that this was what God wanted us to do. It did not matter whether we survived. Only whether we succeeded.