The Chalice (17 page)

It was such a narrow lane that if I stretched out both arms I might have touched the walls of the silent houses we rode past. When we had reached the bottom of the lane, it opened onto a wide street. A bonfire blazed in front of the building closest to us. That is what I had seen from afar. Around it men stood, warming their hands, in disregard of city curfew. Inside the building flickered dozens of candles. The dark silhouette of heads crowded the long, cracked windows on the first floor. It must have been close to midnight, and the building groaned with men. So this was a gaming house. I tensed in the saddle.

I was now near enough to see the hard young faces of the men slouched over the bonfire. And to inhale its surroundings: charred wood, ale, and vomit. It was all so . . .
ugly
. Yes, I had glimpsed the darkness of the soul before—but sinful cravings were usually concealed by pretense, a veneer of morality. Here there was no pretense.

The men at the bonfire peered over at us without interest. My shoulders began to ease. We would not be interfered with; James’s fears had been unwarranted.

A door swung open on the side of the building. A man staggered out, his arm slung around a woman whose breasts spilled out of her bodice. They stopped short at the sight of us. I looked down, quickly, and shook the reins to signal my horse to keep going.

The woman screamed, “What’s this?”

Still I kept my head down.

“Ye taking new whores to the market?” she screeched. “Southwark’s across the river.”

Her companion laughed. Then there was a crackling noise, much nearer. One of the young men at the bonfire lurched toward me. James turned his horse around to head him off. He called out, “We want no trouble tonight—let us pass.” He tried, without success, to keep his tone light and friendly.

“If ye want no trouble, then why do ye come here?” the whore’s companion called out.

“Let us pass,” James repeated.

Out of nowhere, more people appeared at the bonfire. There were now at least ten young men outside of the gaming house, with more tumbling out the door. We were outnumbered.

I
had told Gertrude that I hoped we would be attacked before reaching the second seer. What foolish words. With one hand I gripped the reins of my horse, but with the other I fumbled for the Rosary that hung from my waist.

Gertrude was ahead of me, with five of the hired men and the linkboys huddled around her. Joseph was by her side, too, scowling.

James tried to save me. He had clearly meant to wedge himself between me and the gathering crowd, to move me to the other side of him, with Gertrude. But the men had already reached the street and blocked James’s horse. He could not go farther without knocking someone aside. I saw his eyes dart up and down, as he considered dismounting. He did not.

Now just the crook-backed man stood between me and the drunken gamesters. “Get back,” he shouted, waving his cudgel.

Someone laughed. While I watched, helpless, another man hit my protector in the face. He collapsed. I could no longer see him. But I heard his screams and grunts as the mob took turns kicking him. The cudgel flew up in the air, and they tossed it back and forth, like a toy.

A man with hair hanging past his shoulders shoved his way
past the violent, seething circle. He reached up with one hand out, as if to help me dismount.

I desperately wished for a horsewhip at that instant, but I had none. “Go away,” I said, like a child.

He lunged forward with both hands, trying to get them around my waist. I tried to kick him, but my foot was fastened into the stirrup.

At the top of his lungs, James shouted, “Men of London, we want no trouble. Here—for your troubles—”

James flung a fistful of shillings in the air, to the side of the street. The light of the bonfire made them shimmer like a shower of gold.

The man who had been trying to drag me away whirled to join the scramble for money. The mob jostled for it. With the street clear of human obstacles, I kicked the sides of my horse as hard as I could. James, Gertrude, Joseph, and I charged up the street. At the first turn, James signaled for us to follow him around. We rode until the cries of the gaming-house ruffians had died away behind us.

James held up his hand to wait for the hired men and linkboys to catch up to us on foot. Once they’d reached us, panting and sweat-soaked, James made a count.

“We’ve only lost the one,” he announced.

A tall hired man spoke up; it was the first time he had addressed us. “We need to go back. I know the man and his mother, they be in my parish. He can’t be left there. He’s badly hurt—he may die. They’ll all go back inside and then we can retrieve him.”

“No!” Gertrude said quickly. “There is no time for that.”

I heard one of the men mutter an oath.

“What is the man’s name, sir?” I asked. Gertrude made an impatient noise beside me.

“Owen, my lady,” muttered the man.

“I shall pray for Owen,” I said, “for he received his injuries in defense of me.”

James cleared his throat. “After our night’s business is finished, and we are close to Suffolk Lane, you can retrieve him. My brother and I will assist.”

There was hesitation in their ranks. Hope surged in me. If the men refused to continue, this insane journey might well end. But after a moment they took their original positions. James nudged his horse to lead, but not before shooting Gertrude a glare of resentment. She did not see it. I did, and it sent my thoughts in a new direction: Could James possibly be pried loose from the Marchioness of Exeter?

We rode on, deeper into the darkness of London. All was quiet again.

The linkboy walking in front stopped short. There was no visible sign of anything amiss, yet he looked fearful. James leaned down from his horse to say something to him.

“They’ve lost their nerve, Gertrude,” I said. “They realize you care naught for their lives.”

Gertrude said, “No man’s life is more important than our mission tonight.”

“What about you?” I burst out with. “Would you give your life so that I would hear a prophecy?”

Before she answered, there was a strange muffled cry. We both turned. It was Joseph. He had stopped riding and held his head in his hands.

“What is it, brother?” called out James.

“Not right,” moaned Joseph. “It’s not right.”

My horse, so obedient up to now, backed up a few steps. James’s horse started turning in a circle, and he angrily pulled on the reins to regain control.

The first wind raised my horse’s mane. The air had been sour and still from the moment we left the stables of the Red Rose. But no more. A loose shutter flapped on the building closest to us. There was a sense all along the street of something stirring. Something that had been sleeping and was now awake.

My throat closed in fear.

James had made it to Joseph’s side. But he was unable to calm his brother. “It’s not right,” he said, over and over.

“Do something—he’s frightening the horses,” Gertrude snapped. Her own mount rocked nervously.

“He is not the cause,” I said.

Now Gertrude turned on me. “What do you mean?”

“We don’t have much time,” I said. “It will be a wind without rain, a terrible wind.”

Without another question, Gertrude ordered us to hurry onward. The linkboys led our group, as they struggled to keep their torches from being extinguished by the wind. At the second corner, Gertrude called, “Halt!”

She pointed triumphantly down a street that branched off from ours. At first I saw nothing. Then the clouds eased off the moon and a building came into view. I gasped at the sight of it: a huge stone structure, four stories tall, with a number of soaring stone columns spaced elegantly in front. Rows of windows stretched across each floor. The steeply pitched roof rose so high it seemed possible it would meet the clouds.

“That is where you are taking me?” I said in disbelief.

Gertrude laughed shortly. “No. That is the Guildhall. The Lord Mayor of London and his council rule from there.”

We dismounted, and the hired men were ordered to a stable nearby. Horses and men would wait there for us to return. Only James and Joseph would escort Gertrude and me the rest of the way.

The wind gathered in strength; each fresh burst made Joseph shudder, as if it were causing him physical pain. It was so strong that we lost the torch flame for good. But the moon was not obscured; we could see enough of our surroundings to keep moving.

“Now—let’s go,” said James, and he darted out into the street once more, Gertrude and Joseph right behind.

I followed them to a small wooden building across the street from the Guildhall. A sign with the words
Coneyhope Tavern
was visible. It was long after curfew and no businesses were open, but James peered up and down the street before waving us forward.

In seconds, we four were pressed against the rough wooden door of the building.

Just then the clouds covered the moon. I could no longer see the street, the stone buildings behind us, or the Guildhall soaring above. Someone yanked me inside a gaping door. Candles were lit. For the first time that night, I could see Gertrude’s pallor. She was ashen. I could not think of any reason why we would go to such dangerous lengths to gain entry to a closed, common tavern.

Nothing could calm Joseph. He huddled in a corner, sobbing, “It’s not right, it’s not right, it’s not right.”

After a few minutes more of this, Gertrude said, “James, take him out of here.”

“Where?” said James.

“If Joseph can’t be calmed, he has to go,” she said.

James stared at her, incredulous. I saw my chance and took it.

“Listen to me, James, you know very well this is madness,” I said quickly. “We must all get back to the Red Rose.”

He looked from me to Gertrude and back again. Then, with a snort, he poured himself an ale, downed it in one gulp, and grabbed Joseph. The twins staggered out into the howling blackness.

I felt my face flush hot as I sat on a stool, in this miserable tavern. I expected Gertrude to lash out at me for trying to recruit James to flaunt her. But instead she studied me with pride. “You said the wind would be dangerous, and you said that there would be no rain,” she said softly. “They were right—you do have powers. If only you would stop fighting me every step of the way, Joanna, and
use
them.”

“Who are ‘they’?” I demanded.

Instead of answering me, she said, “There are certain things you need to know before we proceed. Only you can deliver us from the destruction and the evil.”

I snapped, “Sister Elizabeth Barton talked about deliverance from evil, too, and she is dead.”

Gertrude took off her cloak and hood and sank into a chair. From the same tankard James opened, she poured ale into a chipped mug. The first sip made her wince, but she forced it down. “This tastes wretched, but we need to fortify ourselves,” she said. “You must drink, too.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Joanna, you had nothing to eat today,” she said, struggling to control her temper. “It serves nothing to weaken yourself.”

“Gertrude, just tell me what is going to happen to me now.”

She rose and took two steps toward me. “Orobas is one of the most gifted seers in all of England—in all of Christendom, I wager. He knows the ancient rites that others have long forgotten. To practice his art at the highest level, he must come here.”

I peered around the tavern in disbelief.

She said, “Joanna, we will soon make our way to a very, very old chamber far below this tavern. It was once a crypt for the dead.”

“We are going to a
crypt
?” My voice cracked.

“Orobas can obtain a vision of the future only under certain conditions.” Gertrude hesitated, as if trying to decide how to phrase something she knew I would not like.

“Orobas must have contact,” she said. “He must have contact . . . with the dead.”

Necromancy.
My knees weakened and I sank to the floor.

“Christ, forgive me, oh, please forgive me,” I whispered.

“Orobas believes that we will see very clearly tonight,” said Gertrude, determined to pretend that I did not presently kneel
on this filthy floor. “We will know what lies ahead, how long the king will rule and how to prepare the way for who succeeds.”

I clasped my hands in front of me and closed my eyes.

“Lord have mercy on us, Christ have mercy on us,” I prayed.

A floorboard creaked. But unless Gertrude had somehow moved across the room, she did not cause it. I swallowed and forced myself to continue.

Again, there was that creak. And a second later, the sound of walking from another direction. Without a doubt, there were now three people in this room.

I stopped praying and opened my eyes. Inches away from me were taffeta skirts of deep maroon. As I rose to my feet, I looked at the woman who stood before me. Her bodice was cut low, almost as low as the woman’s at the gaming house. Long brown hair fell loose on her shoulders, even though she was no girl. She must have been in her thirties. Her eyes flickered with excitement, the same sort I’d seen in Gertrude’s eyes but more pronounced.

“So you brought the bride of Christ, and just at the appointed time,” she said. “He will be pleased.”

“Yes,” said Gertrude. “I’ve done all that was asked.”

The woman’s stare never wavered from my face. She dipped a shallow curtsy. Her lips parted, and her pink tongue whirled in a tiny circle between her teeth.

“My name is Hagar,” she said. “Welcome to Londinium.”

H
agar picked up a candle and turned away. Behind the bar, in the farthest corner, was a door. She pushed it open and stepped into a narrow walkway. Gertrude tapped me so that I would follow.

About ten feet down the walkway was another door. Inside was a small storeroom with empty barrels lining a shelf. Opposite was a box heaped with bits and scrapings of rotted cabbage, carrots, and leeks. Tiny insects spun and dove into the pile.

Hagar squatted in the middle of the floor. After a few seconds she found a chain and pulled it hard with both hands. A trapdoor shuddered. She scrambled to her feet, yanking it open. I glimpsed steps going straight down. Hagar started down.