The Chalice (37 page)

My mouth had gone dry. “What source do you speak of?” I asked. “Who tells you what must happen to me?”

Chapuys looked at me steadily. “You will not be able to travel under your own name. Not after Cromwell took interest in you. He sees the names of all the people requesting permission to leave England. This will take time—we must create documents, we must devise a way for you to leave Dartford without arousing suspicion.”

“What are you saying?” I asked.

“Juana, you must now go to the Low Countries, to the city of Ghent. It is the birthplace of the Emperor Charles. It is only there and at the appointed time that you can receive the prophecy of the third seer.”

A
mbassador Eustace Chapuys was a man famous throughout Christendom for his intelligence, his scholarship, his courage, and perhaps most of all, his calm. But he came close to losing that calm when confronted with my refusal to leave England to learn the third and final part of the prophecy.

“You come from an English family that was destroyed by the king, you served Katherine of Aragon, you prayed at the executions of the Lady Mary’s friends,” he said, incredulous. “This very night you were willing to die to protect the sanctity of England’s most beloved saint—and yet you will not take the next step in learning the prophecy that concerns you? The Holy Father has condemned Henry the Eighth. There can be no sin in any act you commit.”

I shook my head.

Chapuys rose to approach me, his sharp features quivering.

“In a few weeks’ time, King Francis will reach Spain to renew his peace treaty with the Emperor. I have information, good information, that the pope will implore the Catholic kings of France and Spain to form a holy pact to declare war on the heretical king of England. Every year Henry grows more inhumane and cruel. He must be deposed.”

“I see many ships—they sail for England
”—those were the words of Orobas.

“If invasion is imminent, it will bring countless soldiers and weapons.” I said. “How could I possibly make any sort of difference?”

Chapuys shook his head. “Juana, you took vows of obedience to the Dominican Order, the most esteemed order in Spain, France, Italy—everywhere. It makes no difference that this English king dissolved your priory. You must obey us. Those vows are
unbreakable
.”

I took a deep breath and said, “I have never sought out this role to play; I’ve fought it since I was seventeen years old. It has brought terrible things into my life. I cannot be guided by these seers, by these powers. You will tell me nothing of this man and yet I am to leave England? It is too much.”

Chapuys returned to his chair behind the table. He poured himself some wine. His fingers on the goblet, his gaze settled on Jacquard, who had been silent for some moments. Something seemed to pass between them, some silent decision.

The ambassador sipped the wine, then said in his usual imperturbable manner, “Nothing must be decided now. There is a naval embargo between England and Flanders and the rest of the kingdoms of the emperor. No matter what, arranging travel and the necessary papers will require not weeks but months of effort. And so this plan will go forward. By the time all is in place, you may have changed your mind.”

“Please do not count on that,” I said. “I cannot think of what could make me do so.”

“In the memory of your mother, a faithful daughter of Spain, will you at least keep the possibility open?” pressed the ambassador.

My mother. How could he know that three years after her death, she had a hold over me like no one else? I’d always felt I was a disappointment to her. How could I be perceived as other than a failure? I’d fled service with the queen, I never married. She died not knowing I’d waited on Katherine of Aragon on her
deathbed and then taken novice vows. Perhaps that would have finally made her proud of me.

“I’m sorry,” I said miserably. “I can’t.”

The ambassador remained calm. “Very well, Juana. We will see that you are conveyed back to Dartford.” He turned to Jacquard. “Please give the orders for the Dominican friar to join the others in the jail of Canterbury.”

“No, no, not Brother Edmund,” I cried. “Can’t you use your influence to free him along with me?”

Chapuys sighed. “Even if that were achievable, Juana, I cannot allow for the possibility that you will tell him of our plans, of the existence of the third seer. I know that you have formed some sort of attachment to Brother Edmund Sommerville.”

“I will say nothing—nothing,” I said. “I promise you that, and I am not someone who breaks promises.”

Jacquard spoke up then: “You know the most secret plans of the emperor. You are half Spanish and so more trustworthy than the English. But if your Brother Edmund were to learn anything—anything at all—he would have to be eliminated.”

Eliminated.
How casually Jacquard used the word.

The ambassador said, “If I were to bring about his freedom, Juana, if I could do that for you, can we then agree that not only will you tell him nothing but that when the time comes, when the plan is made, you will at least consider taking your place in it?”

After a moment of agonized indecision, I said, greatly reluctant, “Yes, I agree.”

I detected it again, that silent, meaningful gaze between Jacquard and the ambassador.

“When you do come back to me, though, should I refuse, then that must be the end of it,” I blurted. “You cannot force me against my will to go anywhere or do anything. That is part of the prophecy and always has been.”

“Of course not, Juana,” Chapuys said. “Of course not.”

Dawn broke over the frozen fields when I left Saint Sepulchre
with Brother Edmund. We returned to Dartford unimpeded. For weeks, I had no contact with Ambassador Chapuys. I felt free to make plans for my life—to marry, to begin my tapestry business at last.

T
he winter passed, and the stirring of spring brought with it hope for a normal life. The days were uneventful, filled with moments of quiet happiness. Until one April afternoon when I realized that my life could never, ever be normal.

Most of the day was spent at the loom. Thanks to our tireless efforts, the phoenix tapestry was all but complete. The red-gold body of the legendary bird took shape nicely. Its eagle-like beak had a pride to it; the feathers of violet and green shimmered. But now the bottom quarter of the tapestry must be woven. And this, I feared, was where the entire image could be ruined. Flames curling around a bird’s nest required precision.

“Concentrate on your weaves,” I urged Sister Beatrice and Sister Agatha, who sat on either side of me on the loom. Sister Winifred read from a martyrology on her stool. I’d tried as much as I could to re-create the working conditions of Dartford Priory. I hated having to admonish them, but both women had a tendency of late to drift in their work. They were lost in daydreams—perhaps not so surprising, since both of them were engaged to be married. Sister Agatha’s wedding to Master Oliver Gwinn was only three days away, April 20. Sister Beatrice would marry Geoffrey Scovill in June.

My wedding date was set for May 16, when I would become Joanna Sommerville. After Easter had passed and weddings were once again allowed, three women formerly of Dartford Priory would marry in rapid succession.

Sister Agatha probably should not be weaving at all, with her wedding day so close, but she always insisted on helping. It was her way of thanking me for welcoming her into my home. When she became engaged to Master Gwinn, the other sisters did not
take it well. They perceived this vow breaking as a flouting of their commitment to live together as brides of Christ. I understood their feelings—and yet I felt sympathy for Sister Agatha. I invited her to live with me and Arthur until she married and she gratefully agreed. I enjoyed her chatter in our house.

I believe that of the three of us soon to wed, Sister Beatrice was the most altered by impending wifehood. She was, quite simply, radiant. Of course I welcomed her marrying Geoffrey. Under the circumstances, it was the only decent response possible.

There was a happy shout on the street. A moment later, the door opened. Brother Edmund brought in Arthur, returning from the afternoon’s lesson. To teach Arthur his letters called for extraordinary patience. No one but Brother Edmund was equal to it.

“It was a good day, a good day,” he said, smiling at me, and then all the others.

I steadied. My fears never disappeared altogether, but they receded whenever I was near Brother Edmund. Edmund. If only I could banish the “Brother,” in thought and in speech. For some maddening reason, it proved difficult.

“I need to go to London with a few men from town,” he said. “Sister Winifred, could you possibly sleep here, at Joanna’s house, while I am away? I hope to be back tomorrow.”

I stepped off the bench of my loom. “But why must you go?” I asked. From the corner of my eye, I saw my friends smiling at one another.

Edmund said, “It’s John—we’ve received word that he is in London and in great distress. His cousin has formed a party to secure him.”

The town madman disappeared two months ago. John had gone away before but always returned in a few days. This time was different, and we had all begun to assume that John died in some sad, lost place.

I said gently, “John’s obsession was you—and yet now you endeavor to return him to his favorite spot for further tormenting.”

“But I must do all I can to help him—you understand that?” he said.

“Yes,” I said. “I do.”

“John may need medicines,” he continued. “I’ll gather them at the infirmary now before joining the others.” Ever since our return from Canterbury, Edmund’s business had blossomed. It was Master Oliver Gwinn. He combatted the prejudices spread by Timothy Brooke and his parents. The infirmary was now so popular that Edmund had taken on a skilled apprentice named Humphrey.

“Will you come outside with me for a moment?” Edmund said to me.

The High Street was muddy that afternoon. A furious spring downpour had soaked the ground a few hours ago. The sun now eased out from behind fresh clouds.

Edmund looked up and down the street, his forehead crinkling with worry. “It’s possible that a man has come again to Dartford to observe us, Joanna. I was busy in the infirmary yesterday morning. The butcher’s son broke his arm playing and the whole family came with him. But there was this other man: very thin, rather tall, with brown eyes, close-set. He stood in the back, and when next I looked over, he was gone. Today, at Mass, I saw him again in the back of the church. I’ve made discreet inquiries and no one knew who he was.”

“I’ve not noticed such a man,” I said, and I hadn’t.

“You are rarely alone, I know that, Joanna. But still, please be cautious,” Edmund said. “Will you promise me?”

“Of course.”

He turned to walk down the High Street. He hadn’t made it far when I called out to him.

“Wait, Edmund!” I darted after him, picking up my skirts so that they would not be muddied. Edmund smiled at me quizzically.

“You must promise me you’ll be back in time for Sister Agatha’s
wedding—it will provide a perfect opportunity for you to practice your dancing,” I said.

“Ah, yes, my dancing,” he said, chuckling. Edmund had never been taught to dance as a child. I, on the other hand, had been drilled in dancing for most of my life. I’d taught him steps, to prepare for our wedding, but without musicians, it was difficult to demonstrate.

He squeezed my arm and kissed me, lightly, on the forehead. “I will be back soon,” he said, and resumed his way down the High Street.

I watched him disappear: that loping gait, the long hair so light and fine it looked like white gold in the sun. He’d have to have it cut for our wedding.

I went back to my house, to tell my friends I’d need time to complete an errand. I walked in the other direction that Edmund had gone in—up the High Street. Now that this buoyant sun had emerged, the street was crowded with townsfolk. All of them were intent on the next task, the next meal, the next embrace.

When I reached the Building Office, Gregory, the onetime porter of Dartford Priory, was alone in the front room.

“I need to speak to Jacquard Rolin,” I said. “Could you tell him that the tapestry order needs to be adjusted?”

How dismayed I was when I discovered, shortly after our return to Dartford, that Jacquard remained. “If I leave my position as commissioning clerk for His Majesty’s Dartford Manor House, Cromwell will want to know why,” he’d said when I confronted him. “And where else should I go? I cannot return to the Low Countries now.”

Edmund never knew that Jacquard was at Saint Sepulchre or anything about his true mission. I relayed to Edmund the same story that Chapuys had given Lord Dudley: because of his affection for me and my Spanish family, the ambassador bribed Dudley to spare me as well as my friend. Our two names
were kept off the report to the king. “Telling truth mixed with a lie is always preferable to telling a complete lie,” Chapuys had advised me.

That night in Saint Sepulchre, Edmund took our freedom from imprisonment as a sign from God that we should pursue peace and cease the struggle to unravel the prophecy. He mourned Brother Oswald’s death, as did I. And he worried about the fate of the imprisoned monks, confessing to me the guilt he felt over not sharing their fate. It was terrible, what had been wrought in Canterbury that night. And for what? The king had the body of Saint Thomas Becket in his possession. Did he defile the remains or bury them in dignity—we did not know which, and might never know.

A smiling Jacquard appeared. “Good afternoon, Joanna Stafford,” he said warmly. “I understand you have questions on that order. I do have something to show you.”

I followed Jacquard. These were the exact words he’d given me to use should I have need of him. After that first confrontation, we’d seen each other in church or at market, but never alone. As part of a group, he’d congratulated me and Edmund on our engagement. Edmund, to my relief, barely knew who Jacquard was. Even now, trailing him as he moved through these rooms, it seemed impossible that this slender young man who called out greetings to all we passed was a highly trained spy for the Holy Roman Emperor.