The Chalice (21 page)

Geoffrey shook his head. “No, Joanna. You must leave here tonight—within the next few minutes. I am here to get you and Arthur out. The king is sending men to the Red Rose, they should arrive within the hour. They have warrants for arrest. The charge is high treason.”

B
ut Henry Courtenay is no traitor,” I told Geoffrey, once I’d found my voice.

“Nonetheless, they are coming for him,” he said. “And Courtenay’s is not the only name written on the arrest warrant. Pole and Neville are to be taken as well. By coming together in private here, away from the court—members of three families with royal blood—they stir much distrust. God knows the king and Cromwell were already suspicious.” Geoffrey shook his head, exasperated. “There could be no cause important enough for them to sup together in secret
now,
when His Majesty fears conspiracy at home and invasion from abroad.”

I covered my mouth with my hand.

Geoffrey took me in his arms again. “The name
Stafford
isn’t on the warrants, Joanna.” He kissed my forehead. “If I get you out now, there’s a chance you won’t be drawn into the investigations. It’s a slim chance—I won’t lie to you. But it’s your only one. You can’t be here when the king’s men pound on the door.”

I pulled back. “If there are to be questions tonight, then I must present myself, to speak for Henry and the others. I can explain why the guests are here. It has absolutely nothing to do with any treason.”

He shook his head. “The man who comes to arrest them is Lord John Dudley. He’s a soldier. And a seeker of the king’s favor. He won’t listen to the explanations of a woman. And not a woman named Stafford, for certain. He’s ambitious enough to throw you into the Tower on his own authority, because you’re from a traitor family.”

The thought of returning to the Tower of London made my stomach turn cold and sick. But I managed to steady myself.

“No, Geoffrey. I can’t run away. You don’t understand—this is all my fault. The reason that—”

But he would not let me finish my sentence. “That’s nonsense,” he said. “Nothing is your damn fault. Joanna, why must you always fight with me?” Frustration—and fear, no doubt—turned his voice to anger. I took two steps back from Geoffrey, leaving the protection of the alcove. I felt the glow of the candlelight warm the back of my head.

“Joanna, is that you?” cried a man’s voice from below.

Geoffrey raised both hands, slowly, in a calming gesture. In the faintest whisper, he said, “Say nothing to anyone.”

“I have to warn them,” I mouthed back.

Alarm flickered in his eyes. “No. Get rid of him and come back.”

Geoffrey must be protected, there could be no question of that, I decided.

Baron Montagu was halfway up the stairs, his forehead creased with concern. I rustled down the stairs, to head him off.

“How are the children?” he asked.

“All is well with them, Baron Montagu,” I said stiffly.

“But not with you.” He shook his head. “Ah, Joanna, you are so upset. I am deeply sorry for what happened here tonight.”

“There is no need for you to apologize.” I peered past Baron Montagu, to the bottom of the stairs leading to the entranceway of the manor. Would Lord John Dudley pound on this door? How much longer did we have?

“There is every need in the world,” said Baron Montagu, turning to look in the same direction I’d peered in. “We are alone here, Joanna. And here is where I will say what must be said.”

“No, no.” I rushed down the rest of the way. I was so frantic to prevent Baron Montagu from speaking, I covered his mouth with my hand. He removed it. But he did not let go of me. His hand was cooler than Geoffrey’s.

“Henry is my oldest and closest friend, and he sees me through those eyes,” Baron Montagu said. “He actually believes that to be the wife of Baron Montagu is a happy station. While I am certain it is quite the opposite.”

“My lord, I must implore you to rejoin the others,” I said, growing desperate. “We can speak of this at a later time.”

“No.” He still held my hand. His mournful eyes hardened with determination.

“I bear a great name and I have my title, but my purse is not full, like Henry’s. No great fortune came to
me
at my father’s death. And the troubles of my kin are beyond compare. My mother depends on me for every matter. My youngest brother is imprisoned. You can see what it is like to keep company with his wife, though she, too, is my responsibility now. My other brother is the greatest enemy of the king’s. I wrote to Reginald, at His Majesty’s request, and chastised him for his disloyalty. Not that it would make the slightest difference to Reginald, who has never listened to me. He places us all in the greatest peril, but insists he must follow his conscience.”

His mouth twitched. “Then there are my children. Their mother was everything to them. My oldest boy—who was tormenting your cousin, no doubt—tells me he wishes I were dead instead of her. It’s ridiculous what he expects of me. I have brought him up as my father did me, as all sons are brought up in our families.” He winced at his own words. “Oh, but I must begin anew with him—I
will
—if it’s not too late.”

I was torn between deepening sympathy for Baron Montagu and anguish over how he would react if he knew someone beside myself were listening.

But nothing Geoffrey had heard so far could compare to what followed.

“I tried to dissuade Henry from this enterprise of his,” said Baron Montagu. “But he kept insisting that you could be my helpmate as well as my wife. He wanted me to see you again, in social surroundings, without obvious pressure. I asked Neville to come, too—he is my late wife’s brother and a fine man. My brother Godfrey’s wife invited herself. She is under great strain because of his imprisonment. Try to forgive her rash words if you can.”

I nodded, though my view of her was unchanged.

He continued: “I admit that I did not see this fiery spirit he described—until you ordered us all back in the great hall and insisted you would attend to the children alone. I saw the Stafford in you then.”

There was nothing haughty about him any longer. A spark of hope, of dawning affection, softened his features.

I simply could not let it go any further.

“Baron Montagu, I have to—”

Again he cut me off. “Allow me the courtesy of finishing what I mean to say. Then we can proceed to make our plans or I can leave and never trouble you again.” He turned my hand over and cupped it in both of his. “Perhaps Henry knows me better than I think. For you are the perfect woman for me. I could not take up a match with a silly young girl who has no experience with the harshness of my world—she would be but another burden for me. But I am also, and I admit it, an exceedingly proud man. I couldn’t marry a widow, couldn’t bear to take into my bed a wife who’d known another.”

I was so distraught about Geoffrey Scovill listening to this proposal, to Baron Montagu’s most intimate thoughts, that my arms shook.

“Ah, you are trembling,” he said tenderly. “This cannot but frighten you. After all, you expected to live as a nun. I promise you that I will—”

“Enough!” cried Geoffrey Scovill from the top of the stairs.

Baron Montagu was simply incredulous. “Who are you?”

I turned around. Geoffrey, already on the third step down, strode toward Baron Montagu, his lips set in that determined line I knew all too well.

“I need to explain some things to you, my lord,” he said.

“You will explain to
me
?” His voice, his bearing, every bit of Baron Montagu quivered with indignant fury. Here stood a Pole of the House of York, the descendant of kings.

Before I could say or do a thing, Baron Montagu had sprung up the steps and was moving incredibly fast toward Geoffrey.

“Wait!” I cried, running after him. My voluminous skirts slowed me. Before I could intervene, Baron Montagu had reached him.

Geoffrey said, “My lord, this concerns you and the Courtenays and Neville, too—not just Joanna.”

“You use her name?” Baron Montagu said. “God’s blood, I will teach you manners.”

I’d reached them by then. “Geoffrey, let me speak,” I pleaded.

Baron Montagu whirled around. His mouth parted in shock. “You are familiar with this servant?” he demanded of me.

“I’m not a servant,” said Geoffrey, his hold on his temper fraying.

“Baron Montagu, listen, please,” I said. “He has something important to tell you.”

He stared at me, confusion warring with pain. And then rage swept everything from its path.

“I will thrash Henry Courtenay for this,” he said. “For pushing me toward a woman who plays the part of a lady—who even wore a novice habit, for the love of Christ—but who whores with the rabble.”

“Don’t talk about her that way,” said Geoffrey, tightening his fists. He took a step closer to Baron Montagu.

“You were having your way with her up at the top of the stairs, weren’t you?” said Baron Montagu. “And I thought she was seeing to the needs of children.”

To my horror, Geoffrey slammed the heel of his palm into Montagu’s chest. “That’s enough,” he said.

Baron Montagu stumbled back but righted himself quickly. A mirthless grin twisted his features. “Yes, it is—quite enough. For you have laid violent hands on a peer of the realm, and now I have the right by law to kill you.”

He reached deep into his doublet and pulled out a knife.

“Stop,” I cried. I reached out for Geoffrey, to push him out of the way. But Geoffrey pivoted and then pulled a knife from his own doublet.

“You’re not going to kill me, old man,” he said.

The grin vanished from Baron Montagu’s face. His hand tightened on the knife handle so hard that his knuckles turned pure white. “You will die tonight, be assured,” he choked.

“This is madness,” I said. “I will get Henry—I will get all the others.”

They circled each other, their eyes flicking up and down, searching for a point of attack. Geoffrey was the younger and fitter man, but Baron Montagu’s knife was longer. Its blade gleamed in the light of the candelabras. And Montagu moved with calculated agility up and down those steps, like a dark cat preparing to pounce.

I peered up and down the stairs. Still there was no one else in sight. I was the only one who could stop this before it came to blood.

“There’s no time for this,” I said. “Geoffrey’s a constable of Dartford who came here to warn me. The king’s men are on their way. They have warrants for arrest. Yours and Henry’s and Sir Edward Neville’s, too.”

Baron Montagu’s eyes flickered. “I don’t believe you.”

Geoffrey stopped circling him. He took a deep breath. He turned the knife around and offered it, handle first, to Baron Montagu.

“Everything she said is correct,” he said. “I am a constable of Dartford. I must apologize for striking you, my lord, and I do disarm.”

My heart pounded so hard I thought I could hardly bear the pain of it. I waited, as did Geoffrey, to see what Baron Montagu would do.

Slowly, very slowly, he lowered his knife. He waved off Geoffrey’s.

“Who bears the warrants?” he asked quietly.

“A man named Lord John Dudley has the king’s charge in this matter,” Geoffrey replied.

Baron Montagu bowed his head. “There was never a doubt this day was coming,” he said. I realized he spoke not to either of us but to himself.

He straightened his shoulders and returned his knife to his doublet. “I must return to my friends—we will prepare,” he said.

“But not her?” Geoffrey said quickly. “Her name is not on the warrants. I came here and took this livery as disguise to remove Joanna and Arthur from the Red Rose.”

Baron Montagu’s face was made of stone. He said, “For the love and respect I bore your father and your uncle, the Duke of Buckingham, I will see to it that your name is not mentioned.”

He started down the stairs.

“My lord, wait,” I said.

He turned, wary.

“Geoffrey’s name must not be mentioned either—you must not say who gave you this information,” I said. “Do you agree?”

“As you wish, Mistress Stafford,” he said dully.

My throat ached as I watched him walk down the stairs, his head held high. Geoffrey took my arm and hurried me up the
stairs. He had endangered himself to come here. In the fight with Baron Montagu, my fears had been for Geoffrey’s life. I’d kissed him with shameful passion just moments ago. Yet now I could not bear to look at him.

“We must get Arthur without delay,” I said, leading him down the corridor.

We hadn’t made it twenty steps when men’s voices could be heard ahead, from around the corner. I recognized the deep voice of Charles. I grabbed Geoffrey, to pull him out of sight.

“Do not fear—I’ve walked past other Courtenay servants tonight and no one stopped me,” Geoffrey whispered. “It’s such a large household. They see the livery and that is enough.”

“But Charles is the steward,” I said. “Also, he came with the Courtenays to Dartford—I believe he saw you there.”

Geoffrey stopped, and with a curse, he returned with me to our place of concealment.

The voices of Charles and the other servant did not grow louder. Nor did they die away. I realized they must have stopped to talk. I edged out so that with one eye I could peer around. Yes, I could see them at the end, chatting. There was no way to move past without their getting a direct look at Geoffrey.

I whispered, “Why did you do this, wear Courtenay livery? Why not just send me a message?”

“I attempted to,” he answered. “And was attacked by twin men. One of them said he must break the seal of my letter and read it first. It was devilish hard to pull my note—and myself—away from him after I refused. This household is like a fortress.”

“Then how did you get this?” I pulled on his jacket.

Geoffrey grimaced. “Best not to ask.”

Charles’s laughter rang down the corridor. How much longer would they tarry there? Geoffrey gnawed on his lip.

“You knew it wasn’t safe for me to stay with the Courtenays weeks before these arrest warrants—how?” I asked.

“The Marquess of Exeter has royal blood, and the king hates all rivals for the throne, no matter if they are family or if they swear loyalty to him,” said Geoffrey. “It’s well known that the Courtenays are in a difficult position.”