The Chalice (34 page)

His tone was nothing short of rapturous. Master Gwinn seemed besotted with Sister Agatha. It occurred to me that Sister Agatha could be the one among us to marry. It was happening across England: former monks, nuns, and friars finding someone to marry. When I first heard this, I felt upset. But slowly, as with other things, I was getting used to the idea.

“This
is
good care—very good care,” Master Gwinn said. “What the others say is wrong.”

I asked, “Who are the others?”

“The people in town,” said Master Gwinn. He peered at Brother Edmund and then at me, realization dawning. “Do you mean you don’t know? Now I have made a muck of things.”

“I know that in the last two months, I’ve seen very few people come to this infirmary for treatment, beyond my friends who were passing through,” Brother Edmund said quietly.

This greatly surprised me. Why hadn’t he told me about this?

Master Gwinn sighed. “It’s Brooke’s boy—the preacher Timothy.”

“The one on the stump,” I muttered.

“He speaks against the sisters and you even more so, Brother Edmund,” Master Gwinn said. “Said good Christians should mistrust your popish remedies. I’m very sorry to have to repeat such slander.”

Brother Edmund applied the herbal salve to Master Gwinn’s hand and then bandaged it. “Please do not feel badly, sir,” he said. “I have suspected it.”

“It’s not just Timothy,” Master Gwinn said. “It’s all built up from months of what Father William used to preach to us, too. He doesn’t say it now, of course, when you sit among us, but he used to say that if the monasteries fell, then King Henry would never have to impose another tax on the people, because the treasury would be full for the rest of our lives.”

I cried, “That is a most vicious thing for a priest to say to his flock.”

Brother Edmund raised his hand. “Do not blame him entirely, Sister Joanna. Two years ago, Archbishop Cranmer sent directives across the kingdom, giving priests those exact words for the pulpit.”

Master Gwinn made a face of misery. “It’s wrong—and I am so, so sorry.”

After the widower shuffled from the infirmary, Brother Edmund cleaned his wooden bowl and pestle while I sat at the table, my head in my hands. The tears spilled down my cheeks. This roiling hopelessness was so painful, I couldn’t bear it. Would I live the rest of my days in the grip of despair?

“If I knew who the third seer was, I would go to that person now—today—to receive the prophecy,” I blurted. “I must do
something
to take charge of my life.”

Brother Edmund was silent for a moment. I could not discern his feeling.

Then he said, softly, “When the raven climbs the rope, the dog must soar like the hawk.”

He had been turning the prophecy over in his mind, all these weeks. While I struggled to push it from my thoughts, he had done the opposite.

“Perhaps we could piece the prophecy together ourselves,” I said finally. “We made a start of it at Blackfriars.”

“Perhaps we could,” he nodded. “But Christmas Day is not the most propitious of days to do so. We must calm ourselves before we meet the others.”

I wiped away the tears as best I could. How worried Sister
Winifred would be if I appeared at her Christmas dinner in a wrecked state. I must rally to ensure that Arthur had a pleasant day, at the very least.

Brother Edmund reached over and patted my hand, but with a certain tentativeness. I remembered his comforting embrace at Howard House and, later, how it felt to slip my arms around him in Blackfriars. I fought off my longing to feel that again.

The sound of singing drifted into the infirmary. The townsfolk were making their way up the street with their serenading. Their words of cheer and friendship were not for us but we heard them nonetheless:

On Christmas five and twenty

Fum, fum, fum

Comes a most important day

Let us be gay, let us be gay.

Brother Edmund carefully withdrew his hand from mine and turned on his stool to stare out the front window of his infirmary.

“I was promised to the monasteries when I was eight years old,” he said slowly. “I can’t remember a time when I thought to be other than a man of religion. I accepted that I would never be a husband or father. Of course, those things mean nothing to a child.”

My breathing quickened. He had never confided in me like this before. Was Brother Edmund attempting to explain why he turned away from me at Blackfriars?

The singing continued, fainter and farther down the street:

Oh, a child was born this night

So rosy white, so rosy white

Son of Mary, Holy Virgin

In a stable, mean and lowly . . .

Neither of us spoke. The tension in the room had become unbearable. I couldn’t help but wonder if he was waiting for me to fumble toward the unspoken question.

“Brother Edmund,” I said faintly, “have you ever had doubts about celibacy?”

Staring down at the table between us, he replied, “Scriptures say, ‘A man who governs his passions is master of his world. We must either command them or be enslaved by them.’ ”

I felt a sharp pang, which was ridiculous. I knew very well how Brother Edmund felt, how could I expect anything different? He did not seem angry at me, at least. To steer the conversation back to safer ground, I said, “But you became a friar, not a monk for the monastery.”

Brother Edmund said: “What was important to my father was that I take vows, whether it be monk in the cloister or friar among the people meant nothing to him. I was the one who asked to be a friar of the Dominican Order. He agreed to it.”

There was something odd about this. Seeing the question on my face, Brother Edmund continued, “I am the second son. My brother Marcus is ten years older than me. My father had some money, but not a great deal of it. He didn’t want to divide between us. Everything must go to Marcus. I must not divert from him in any way. My father himself was a second son. You would expect my father to have sympathy with the position of second son. But it was just the opposite.”

This was not at all how I imagined the family of Brother Edmund. Yet while telling this story, his face remained neutral. He did not seem upset, and in truth, it was not unheard of for a father to regard his boys so.

“What was it like for Sister Winifred?” I asked.

After a moment, he said, “There are three sisters in our family. So there were several dowries to pay for. Winifred was a sickly child—I heard him call her the ‘runt.’ Father feared he’d never be able to marry her off without a dowry. He borrowed
the money to endow her at Dartford as a novice and that was that.”

The creases deepened in his forehead. Their father’s scarce love for Sister Winifred bothered him more than his own treatment.

I asked, “What does your father think now that the two of you are no longer at Dartford?”

Brother Edmund said, still staring out the window, “He passed into God’s hands seven years ago.”

After a moment, I said, “But what of your brother now? Perhaps he never wished for these sorts of actions to be taken. He may regret your father’s stance, and wish to form a bond with you.”

Brother Edmund turned to face me. “How is it possible,” he said, “that after all you have been through, all the losses suffered, you can still see the best in people, Sister Joanna? It is so very remarkable.”

For the first time in weeks, I felt a warmth, a steadiness, rise inside me. Yet, as welcome as his praise was, I winced, too. Why did a kind word from Brother Edmund transform me so? It was time I acted as a grown woman, not a weak and adoring child.

Brother Edmund jumped to his feet and put his arm around me. But my exhilaration swiftly shifted to fear, for his face was full of alarm. His act was one of protection. I looked toward the door, to see what he saw.

Jacquard Rolin stood just inside the infirmary. He had somehow opened the door without either of us hearing it.

“What are you doing back here?” I said angrily.

Jacquard said, “I came to make inquiry about my friend Master Gwinn.”

Brother Edmund cleared his throat. “He left some time ago. The poultice should speed the healing.”

“That is good,” said Jacquard. But he did not turn to leave.

“Is there anything else, Master Rolin?” asked Brother Edmund.

“I have received such interesting news,” Jacquard said. “It has the potential to change everything in the kingdom of England.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“Pope Clement has decided to issue the bull against King Henry the Eighth. Your ruler is now formally excommunicated from the Catholic Church.”

A
fter Jacquard left, Brother Edmund put out the fire in the infirmary, and I thought about what this news meant. Papal excommunication was rare and serious. Extraordinarily serious. The last person to be cast out of the Catholic Church by the Holy Father was Martin Luther, in 1520.

I remembered what Gertrude said on our ride to Londinium:
“It would be the duty of other Christian kings to depose him. And we could not rally to the defense of King Henry. Not if we wished to remain faithful to the Holy Father.”

During our time in the infirmary, it had gotten colder outside. A damp fullness hung in the air, the sort that suggested snow. The serenaders were nowhere to be seen. Most everyone was indoors now, fires roaring, as they enjoyed Christmas dinner.

When we reached the High Street, I saw a group of people at the top of it, walking toward the center of town but very slowly. To our shock, it was Brother Oswald and his followers. We hadn’t expected them to return.

The Cistercian was so exhausted, I feared he would collapse in the street. His followers looked just as bad: dirty, bruised, and disheveled.

“What has happened?” I cried.

“All is well, Sister Joanna,” said Brother Oswald faintly.

“I see no new face—did you find the friar you seek in Aylesford?” asked Brother Edmund.

No one answered.

Arthur burst out of the Sommerville house, outraged by my lateness. I hurried the coatless boy inside. It took a few more minutes for Brother Edmund to join us, leading in the new guests for his table.

I’d rarely been so proud of Sister Winifred as when she serenely greeted Brother Oswald and his followers. While I served each of the men a cup from the wassail bowl, she transformed a dinner for four into ten. Every guest had a bit of roasted goose with a slice of mince pie. It was a wonderful pie, with the mutton seasoned to perfection and not too many raisins.

Arthur was ecstatic over Christmas. I wondered if he remembered the one that came before: a day spent with grieving relatives in the North of England, an orphan no one wanted until my father came looking, and brought him south. And what memories did he hold of a Christmas two years ago, spent with loving parents? I prayed that Margaret would think her son well treated, that I was not failing her memory. Yet what would she think of me for turning her painful secret into barter so that I could force my way home to Dartford? My throat clenched with remorse. I should have won my freedom another way.

But today, at least, Arthur was happy, and his smiles and curiosity and laughter pleased everyone else at the table, though the monks said very little. Brother Edmund asked no questions; he quietly saw to their comfort, as would any host. But I knew him well enough to see he was as perplexed as I. Something went wrong in Aylesford. What could it be?

Kitty materialized to clean up the dinner. I asked Sister Winifred if she would mind looking after Arthur for a short
time, so that I could show Brother Oswald my new tapestry loom.

The monks examined the first weeks of stitching on the loom, greatly interested. No one made the connection that Jacquard had—that the phoenix might resemble the rebirth of the monasteries.

In the privacy of my home, I felt freer to urge them, “Please tell us what happened in Aylesford.”

The same sadness settled over the group. All peered at Brother Oswald, awaiting his decision. At last, he said, “If it would please you, Sister Joanna,” and he sat on the floor. That was his way—Cistercians were so profoundly humble.

“Aylesford Friary was so beautiful,” began Brother Oswald. “When we arrived, it was twilight, and to see it so, ah, it was like a dream. Three hundred years old, built in the time of the Crusades . . .”

Brother Oswald’s voice faltered as he stared at the candle smoking in front of him. I could see that the wound on his face dealt by the ruffian in Southwark had not healed.

“We found Brother Paul. He had been living there, in hiding. He could not light a fire for cooking or for warmth, for fear of discovery. Brother Paul said he took it as a sign from God that we came when we did—that all was not lost. We prayed together and then found places to sleep. How comforting it felt to be together in that room, as if we’d found a religious house once more.”

Brother Oswald bowed his head. “The next morning we could not wake Brother Paul. He died in the night.”

How terrible. I now regretted I’d pressed him for answers.

Brother Oswald straightened his shoulders. With great effort, he said, “We will not despair—no, we will not. God has a purpose. I think that our next pilgrimage will reveal God’s will. Yes, I am sure of it.”

“Where do you go from Dartford?” Brother Edmund asked.

“To Canterbury Cathedral, to pray to the relics and make offerings at the shrine of blessed Saint Thomas Becket on the morning of the anniversary of his death,” answered Brother Oswald. “It is in four days.”

“No,” I cried. “Oh, no.”

I never told Brother Edmund what the Duke of Norfolk said would happen on the night before that anniversary. I had not forgotten it, of course—but I had pushed it from my thoughts, like a vile nightmare.

My heart pounding, I said, “The king plans to send men to the cathedral, the night before the anniversary, to remove the box that contains the bones of Saint Thomas.”

“Why?” choked one of the monks.

I said faintly, “His Majesty means to have the body defiled—the bones burned and the ashes thrown onto the ground—to make example of a man of God who defied a king.”