The Chalice (10 page)

The king moved against Sister Elizabeth Barton after those three months had passed and her prophecy had been exposed
as wrong. She was arrested for treason, along with her followers. In the Tower of London she was repeatedly questioned, until she signed a document recanting her predictions. In the spring of 1534, Sister Elizabeth Barton was executed at Tyburn, along with a handful of her supporters. Her low birth excluded her from the privilege of being killed at the Tower.

It had saddened me to hear of her death, but to my shame, I was relieved, too. She had publicly recanted her visions, saying the men around her placed notions in her head. Some people thought Sister Elizabeth a tool of those who opposed the divorce; others said she was mad. Or driven by a tormenting illness. Whatever the cause, it meant that nothing Sister Elizabeth said to me was true. I was
not
singled out for some terrible task. When I went to the side of Katherine of Aragon in my dead mother’s place, and later professed at Dartford Priory, I did not think I had any role to play in the future of the kingdom. When Bishop Gardiner forced me to take part in his plots, I did not make a connection back to Sister Elizabeth Barton. What happened in my search for the Athelstan crown had nothing to do with the dead nun of Saint Sepulchre.

Still, I was careful to avoid astrologers, seers, mystics, and witches—anyone else who might spout prophecy. She had said that two would follow her. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t free my mind of that.

When I was a little girl, I first heard the word
necromancy
. My father discovered that two Stafford servants had met a country sorcerer who said he carried a severed head in a bag and, if paid a shilling, would pose questions to it. After being placed in front of a magical mirror, the head would answer. My father said sternly, “Men, this sorcerer is nothing but a charlatan. And even if he weren’t, such practices stray very far from God. You risk damning your souls to hell if you traffic with someone who uses the flesh of the dead. That be nothing but necromancy.”

Whenever I was plagued by uncertainties, I often turned to the sensible words of my beloved father. Today I decided to banish my fears of strange visions by entering the great hall once more and seeing for myself that there was nothing amiss.

The room was brighter this time. Sunlight streamed through the long bay windows facing the inner courtyard of the Red Rose. It was but a vast, empty space—at least three times longer than it was wide. At the far end, up high, was a stone balcony. Doubtless for minstrels.

My velvet-clad feet padded soundlessly across the floor, to the spot where I’d heard the noises almost two weeks ago.

What a strange choice, to mount grotesque stone figures on a fireplace. What had possessed him, the house’s builder? I remembered his name now, Henry Courtenay had told me it—Sir John de Poulteney. Why did he raise a manor house with a great hall, as if it were the country castle of a magnate. This room didn’t belong on Suffolk Lane. His strivings saddened me. How impossible to explain the truth of the aristocracy, that beneath the arrogance—the shallow pride and invariable suspicion—there was . . . emptiness. As empty as this room.

I drew even closer to the fireplace’s two figures, the winged lions on opposite corners. Was it true the lion never closed its eyes, even in sleep? That it was the most vigilant of all God’s creatures?

All at once, the dread consumed me, stronger this time. Like the feeling of helpless, galloping nausea just before vomiting.

I heard the fragments, but there was more. Now visions flashed before my eyes.

“May Almighty God bless thee.”
It was a clerical blessing, but bestowed by a smiling boy, no older than eight, wearing bishop’s robes that fit him perfectly.

A high, young scream. Mocking adult laughter. But I also saw a second person, a man so tall he towered above a jostling
line of other men. His shoulders were broad, his clothing ragged. But his face was that of a simple child: filmy eyes and a thick, wet lower lip that trembled. He looked straight into
my
eyes and shuddered, as if afraid.

I staggered back from the fireplace. My borrowed shoes slipped on the floor and I fell.

B
y the time I got up and scrambled to exit the hall, the visions and voices faded. I stood in the corridor, with my back pressed against the door, struggling to catch my breath—and to comprehend what I’d just seen and heard.

A young chestnut-haired man carrying a tray approached. He was one of the twins employed here. Outwardly identical, even to the length of their hair, they could be told apart by bearing. James was the capable one. Joseph was slower-witted. This day, it was definitely James who walked toward me. He did not look away, in the respectful manner of most of the manor’s servants. Would I be the subject of gossip? “That Stafford girl is a strange one,” he’d say in the servant quarters tonight.

I straightened my shoulders and, with more determination than ever, continued on my way to Gertrude’s rooms.

This had nothing to do with Sister Elizabeth Barton, I decided. It was possible malevolent spirits possessed the Red Rose. Perhaps Gertrude and the whole household would think me mad, but I had no choice but to tell her what had happened in the great hall.

My mother not only believed in spirits, she swore she’d made the acquaintance of a slew of them, in the family’s ancient castle of Castile. Of course my father scoffed at that, too. I
once pointed out what others thought, that certain spirits were so restless they haunted the living. It could be because they’d died without Last Rites—or experienced such horrors in life that their souls roamed past burial. “No, Joanna, when people die, they stay dead,” my father said.

But I had experienced these sights and sounds myself, twice. And I was
not
mad.

When I crossed the threshold of her elegant receiving room, brushing by her gentleman usher, I saw that Gertrude was not alone. Constance was elsewhere, but two young girls, thirteen or so, who came from good families in the orbit of the Courtenays, perched on large pillows, embroidering. They served her as maids of honor would a queen, learning the fine points of conduct.

Gertrude herself reclined on her favorite cushioned chair, her head tilted back so far it rested on the chair’s back. Her skirts were emerald green, gathered at her tiny waist. Her elegant hands—younger and creamier than the skin of her face or throat—rested on the arms of her chair. Sitting next to her was a smooth-faced man somewhere between thirty and forty years old. He wore flowing black robes but was not a cleric. A round cap perched on his head, tied under his chin. A bag rested against his legs, stuffed with tall square objects that bulged against its burlap skin.

“I’ve never understood how you could know what she was capable of—such an insignificant person for so long,” the man was saying.

Staring up, Gertrude answered, “Because I perceived her secret wish. What everyone has, even if they don’t fully understand it themselves.”

The man leaned forward, eager. “What was hers?”

“To escape from the dominion of her family. This was her way not only to escape from the brutish men of her clan but to rule over them.”

They couldn’t have been speaking of me. But something about Gertrude’s words—delivered with such canny detachment—gave me pause. I cleared my throat.

Gertrude’s head snapped up and she swiftly assumed the expression I always saw when I entered her presence: a warm regard tinged with triumph.

The man jumped to his feet.

“Is this she?” he breathed. “Could
this
be Mistress Joanna Stafford?”

His eyes swept up and down my figure. Inwardly, I raged at Geoffrey Scovill. I had never been aware of it before, but now each time a man looked at me, with that sly, prowling hunger, I heard Geoffrey’s words:
“Your
effect
on men. How they respond to you, how they look at you . . . your beauty can be discomfiting.”

The man then kissed my hand. I felt his plump palm, his wet lips on my skin. For a wild instant, I was reminded of the slobbering mouth of the giant I’d seen in the great hall moments ago. It took all my self-control not to yank my hand away.

“What a very comely young woman you are,” Gertrude’s guest said. He let go of my hand and turned toward the marchioness. “I detect a resemblance, my lady.”

“Mistress Joanna is my husband’s relation, not mine,” she said. “But we are both half Spanish. That would explain a likeness.”

He swept the room with both hands in a grand gesture. “Then Mistress Joanna is the moon to your sun.”

I cringed, and wished myself elsewhere.

Gertrude tilted her head as she shifted in her chair. Just before making an observation, she would shift just so. “Mistress Stafford does not invite compliments and, once made, she does not enjoy their presence.”

“Ah, yes, of course, the priory has left its mark,” said the man, his voice hushed in a show of respect.

Gertrude turned to me. “This is Doctor Branch, one of
the finest physicians in the land. He studied at Montpellier for three years. I would never take consultation from one who had only attended our College of Physicians.” They chuckled together at some private joke.

“Are you or Henry unwell?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Nothing new. My dear husband’s digestion is always a concern. And I’ve never been the same since 1528. Doctor Branch’s remedies are the only ones that help.” I knew well what struck England ten years ago—a vicious epidemic of sweating sickness, the same bout that killed so many just before my family and I traveled to Canterbury. The sweat had damaged Gertrude. One night she confided she was unable to bear more children. Edward must be sole heir to the Courtenay line.

Gertrude frowned. “You do not look quite yourself, Joanna.”

I did not want to tell Gertrude of my fear of spirits in the great hall, not in front of Doctor Branch, whose eyes glistened as he continued to size me up.

“I heard a town crier tell news of the Emperor Charles and I wasn’t sure of its import,” I said.

“The defeat at Preveza.” Gertrude slapped the chair with her palm. “The Muslim Turk has laid low the Holy League.”

As always, I was struck by how well informed she was.

“Can this be true—the barbaric Muslim enslaves Christians?” exclaimed Doctor Branch.

“The emperor will prevail against them,” Gertrude said.

The doctor replied, “For months I’ve heard rumors in London. Now that France is no longer our ally, we are isolated. Perhaps this defeat in the Mediterranean—the threat of the Muslim—will distract the Holy Roman Emperor from invasion of England.”

Invasion.
The word chilled me, as it would anyone who lived on our island kingdom. As when I first learned of this looming threat, my next thoughts were for the Lady Mary.

Speaking carefully, I said, “But the diplomatic alliances, and how they affect England—and the prominent persons who live here—they are unchanged?”

Gertrude and I locked eyes. “Such persons are, from what I understand, still safe,” she said. Her chin lowered and rose. It was such a small gesture, not discernible, perhaps, to Doctor Branch. Yet I felt as if she had slipped into my mind, my innermost thoughts, and there reassured me. In our devotion to the king’s daughter, we were in harmony.

“I am so glad you chose to join me, Joanna,” she said. “It saved me having to send for you. Please sit across from the doctor.”

“But I am of sound health,” I said.

“Doctor Branch practices another art,” she said.

With growing dread, I watched Doctor Branch rifle through a bundle of papers. He pulled loose a single sheet, using great care. It was covered with globes, arrows, and diagonal lines.

“Doctor Branch is second to none in his mastery of astrology,” Gertrude said.

I gripped the back of the chair I was meant to sit in. “I wish I had known of this idea ahead of time. Forgive me, but this is . . . impossible.”

The doctor, surprised, glanced up from his drawings.

“Impossible?” he asked.

“I cannot have my planets cast,” I said.

Gertrude’s light laughter filled the room. “What nonsense is this, Joanna? Surely you don’t fear that astrology is the invention of the devil? Such an assumption was discredited centuries ago.”

“That is not why I am averse.”

“Then why?”

“My cousin, Lord Henry, made everyone in the family, all who lived at Stafford Castle, swear oaths that we would never have our planets cast. Not after what happened to my uncle, the Duke of Buckingham.”

“Ah, yes,” said Doctor Branch. “The duke used a friar?”

“A monk,” I said. “At his trial, the gravest charge laid against His Grace was that he dabbled in . . . prophecy.” My voice, unfortunately, shook on the word
prophecy
. “My uncle did
not
request the foretelling of the king’s death nor ask whether there would ever be Tudor male heirs—such testimony was false. But he was found guilty, and we lost everything.”

A respectful silence filled the room.

Gertrude said, “We would never, ever, make inquiry into the king’s future.”

She jumped up and encircled my waist with her arm, clutching me close. Her grasp was surprisingly strong.

“Doctor Branch is here to
help
you, Joanna. Once we know the date and precise time of your birth, we can determine the composition of your humors and best protect your health.” She pointed at Doctor Branch with her other hand. “Please explain your art. You do it so well.”

The doctor patted the empty chair across from him. “Will you sit, Mistress Joanna?”

“I do not wish to give offense, but I cannot take part in this.” I couldn’t risk exposing myself to any sort of prophecy, no matter how benign. This was what I’d vowed on the stone floor of Saint Sepulchre.

Gertrude withdrew her arm. “Doctor Branch is my guest—and my longtime friend,” she said, her tone cooling. “I can’t think why you wouldn’t sit and listen. If afterward you still feel this way, then of course no one will force you, Joanna.”