The Chalice (46 page)

“No,” I said. “I go no further with this. There have been two deaths already—I cannot bear the burden of these mortal sins committed on my behalf. No penance can cleanse me.”

Jacquard rose to his feet. “You either walk with me to the house of Ambassador Chapuys or I’ll have you trussed up and conveyed in the back of a wagon. Choose.”

I also rose. I gripped the back of the chair as I leaned forward and said, “I will walk, Jacquard. But after that I only proceed if it’s of my own free will—do not forget that.”

He said nothing for a moment—I could see him struggling to restrain himself. “I don’t forget it,” he said finally. “If you wish to veer off, there’s nothing and no one that can force you, it is true. Though I would like to see how you return to England without the aid of the ambassador or myself. You have not a single coin and your papers are forged.”

He paused, allowing this to sink in. “Before you make your decision, talk to Chapuys.”

And so I walked to the house of Eustace Chapuys at the side of Jacquard Rolin, a murderer, a liar, a plotter, a seducer of young girls—and, according to the papers he carried, my husband.

Jacquard spoke to Chapuys first, just the two of them. Then
it was my turn for a private audience. I was ushered into the study of the man, an oak-paneled room filled with books and paintings and precious objects.

The ambassador’s sharp features softened as he looked upon me.

“You’ve suffered greatly, Juana,” he said. “Ah, I am sorry.”

He led me to a table with food and drink laid out.

“I’m not hungry,” I said.

Chapuys urged me to eat. “I cannot have you fall ill,” he said.

“Because I am of use to you,” I said bitterly. “You look on me as a farmer regards his prize pig, to be fed and cared for up until the moment of slaughter.”

“Is that what you think of me?” he said quietly.

“I don’t know what to think,” I exploded. “My journey to the seers has been marked by sin and death. I know that you and others look to me to put a stop to evil. But in so doing, I am
creating
evil. I have sworn that I will do all I can to restore England to the Catholic faith. But these murders along the way? The man who spied for Gardiner in Hertfordshire and now Master Adams? God would not have it so—I know in my heart it’s not right.”

Chapuys nodded. After a moment, he gestured to his bookcases of leather-bound tomes. “Do you know this is why I bought a house in Antwerp? My passion for books. I was a friend of Erasmus, a good friend. I spent long evenings debating the principles of humanism with him and others. Antwerp is the center of the world for books. You could probably smell the ink in the air when you walked the streets.”

I nodded.

“You also love books, I know that about you, Juana. So you and I would agree, in theory, that printing is good. Come to the window with me, please.”

I joined Chapuys at the large gabled windows, opened to
the summer night. Our window was on the third floor of his handsome house. We looked over the many buildings of Antwerp, with the Scheldt gleaming beyond.

“Down there, right now, the presses, more than fifty of them, are turning out books to fuel the Protestant movement. So you see how the good shifts into evil? Sweden, Norway, Denmark, Switzerland—they are, for now, lost. Of course, Germany is riddled with heresy. And the infection spreads fast through France and Scotland. England, as we well know, is engulfed. Our religion must not fall, Joanna. A thousand years of wisdom and devotion cannot be annihilated. One man—just one—stands between the civilized world and anarchy. You know this. The Emperor Charles the Fifth.”

His words were persuasive. But I had a question, the same one that preoccupied me since Canterbury: “If the emperor is so powerful, then why would he need me to do anything?”

Chapuys grimaced.

“Because the alliance with France is fragile. King François is a liar, without any honor whatsoever. The treaty still stands—but we know François secretly bargains with the Turks. They are as great an enemy to the Holy Roman Empire as the Protestants. My master, Charles the Fifth, is forced to do battles with the followers of Luther on the one side and the followers of Muhammad on the other. Can you conceive of the difficulties in this? But, no matter whether he is allied with France or not, the emperor will press on. Can you not find it within you to help our holy cause, Juana, to learn the prophecy that concerns you?”

I could feel my resolve to halt, so firm in that ghastly tavern, beginning to weaken.

“If I agree to push on to Ghent,” I said, “it will only be after you tell me something of the third seer. Gertrude Courtenay, your operative, told me next to nothing of the second seer and I was ill prepared. Nothing is served by keeping me
in complete ignorance. I’ve asked many times—your refusal insults me.”

Chapuys regarded me thoughtfully.

“If you will eat supper, then I will tell you what I can of this man,” he said with a gracious smile.

I agreed to this bargain. I sat and raised the first spoonful of stew, which Chapuys called
vlaamse stoofkarbonaden,
to my lips. The mixture of peppercorn and cloves, tender beef and carrots, all simmered in beer, left me reeling. I devoured the whole bowl. I was sad and frightened and angry—but I was also ravenous.

While I ate, Chapuys talked of the Lady Mary Tudor, of his fears for her safety now that he had been recalled. “The removal of the concubine did not restore Mary to prominence as we hoped. The king does not trust her. That is why he arrested and killed the nobles who had ever shown her kindness. I fear this new Protestant queen from Germany will treat her very badly.”

I shared the ambassador’s fears for the Lady Mary. In this we were united. And so, after finishing my meal, I folded my hands and asked what I most needed to know—the identity of the third seer.

Chapuys said, “The man who is being brought to Ghent is a prisoner of the emperor. That is why there was no question of his being sent to England. He is under guard in the Low Countries.”

The beef stew churned in my belly. “I shall hear my prophecy from a criminal?”

“He’s not a dangerous man,” Chapuys said. “He was questioned as part of a heretical proceeding, and his power of prophecy emerged. After repeated interrogation, he disclosed the prophecy about you. He is without question the most gifted seer of our time, Juana. He spoke of a Dominican novice in England—with Spanish blood—who would change the balance of power in Christendom. He has disclosed a series of visions
of you that we’ve tried to respond to, first through Gertrude Courtenay and then just myself and Jacquard. The third part of the prophecy can be disclosed only in the city of Ghent, the birthplace thirty-nine years ago of the Emperor Charles. I wish it were otherwise. I am truly sorry for what you’ve endured so far, Juana. The Dominican friar who first questioned him and learned of your part in the future stands guard over the man even now in a completely secure prison.”

I sat in silence for a good long time, taking this in.

“Is the man a Protestant?” I asked. “You said he has committed religious crimes.”

“No,” he said. “The third seer was being questioned by the Inquisition because he was suspected of being a
converso
. In the course of the investigation, the man’s prophecies were revealed, of the dog that will fly like a hawk and weaken the English bull forever.”

The Inquisition.
Of course I knew of it, although I had never been in the presence of an inquisitor. The Dominican Order oversaw the Holy Office of the Inquisition, created it to root out heresy in Spain. One of its chief priorities was to investigate those of Jewish or Muslim faith who falsely claimed to have converted to Christianity.

Now I had finally discovered the truth about the third seer. He was a man accused of reverting to the Jewish faith of his family—a
converso
.

The ambassador said: “Ghent is a three-day ride from here, and we must move with all speed. You must hear the prophecy before midnight on August fourteenth, that is the latest information I’ve received from the Dominican who controls our seer. That is four days from now. But Jacquard knows the land well—he will get us there in time.”

“Must Jacquard accompany us?” I whispered.

The ambassador leaned forward. “I realize you two do not get on well together. But has he ever physically harmed you?”

“No,” I admitted.

“Nor will he. In any case, from now on, I will be with you, Juana.”

I thought for a moment.

“Very well, I will go with you to Ghent. I have come so far—how can I turn back? But no matter what happens, I will never forgive Jacquard for killing Charles Adams.” I bowed my head. “And I will never forgive myself.”

F
or this last part of the journey, I abandoned my brown hairpiece and no longer put myself forward as Catherine Rolin, the bride from Derbyshire. Jacquard insisted that I dress as a young man—there would be no woman in the party traveling to Ghent. Although his continued worry after the murder of poor Charles Adams seemed to me ridiculous, I so loathed pretending to be his wife that I tied up my hair under a hat and bound my breasts under a man’s doublet without protest.

I said little during the ride south to Ghent. The roads here were wider than most of those stretching across my native land. We rode through tidy villages and past many prosperous-looking farms. I found myself missing the wilder beauty of the English countryside, the impenetrable green forests and the rocky hills.

I wondered what Arthur was doing—was he happy at Stafford Castle? Had I done the right thing? I longed for Edmund more than ever. I missed not only his sensitivity and kindness but his judgment. I feared to contemplate what he would have made of this decision of mine to pursue my destiny. Would he disapprove—or perhaps be angry that I hadn’t taken action sooner?

Chapuys and Jacquard rode side by side, talking. I heard the words
Ghent
and
the burghers
and
the guilds
over and over. They
were apprehensive about entering the city, but not because of the third seer. It had something to do with the instability of the people of Ghent.

On the evening of the second day of our travel, Jacquard insisted on doing something odd: Chapuys and I would ride ahead with their servants to a town’s inn they knew of, but Jacquard planned to linger. Why, no one told me. I nurtured a hope that Jacquard would leave our party for good, and I’d continue to Ghent with the ambassador.

Chapuys and I reached the inn and secured rooms. I had eaten a late meal and was preparing for sleep when a sharp rap sounded at the door. It was one of Chapuys’s servants.

The moment I entered the ambassador’s room I saw two things that disturbed me: Jacquard had returned, and the ambassador looked more agitated than I’d ever seen before.

“We’ve been followed from England by a spy,” Chapuys said, rubbing his forehead.

“Oh,
no,”
I said. “No, no, no.”

“I sensed that I was being watched on the ship,” Jacquard said. “I did not see any evidence of surveillance in Antwerp. But once we were on the road to Ghent, I felt it again. That is why I held back and then set my trap for him. He appeared on the road shortly after you left.”

“But who is he?” I asked.

“The same spy that Bishop Gardiner sent to observe you in Dartford,” answered Jacquard. “The thin one with close-set eyes. He was sent here because he had seen you in Dartford and could identify you. He paid the captain a small fortune to hide aboard the ship. Gardiner did indeed suspect that you left the country with me, posing as my wife. He had a feeling about it and pursued his feeling to the end.”

“This mission cannot continue,” I said. “Bishop Gardiner knows too much—how can I return?”

“It
must
go forward,” Chapuys said with passion. “We will find a way to reinsert you into England.”

Jacquard said, “Gardiner’s spy did not send any word to England yet on what he’d discovered. He hadn’t taken a good enough look at you to determine if you were Joanna Stafford. And he hadn’t the time to send a message to England before shadowing us on our journey. I was able to extract that much.”

The word
extract
made me go cold. “Is the man dead?” I asked.

Jacquard looked at me steadily. There was no need of reply. Now a third death was laid on my conscience.

After a night of tormented sleep, I woke and once again assumed my costume of a man. The heat was already oppressive, and we would need to ride hard to reach Ghent before nightfall. Tonight was the appointed time for me to hear the third prophecy; we could not delay even a single day.

But the problem of the heat was nothing compared to what I learned next.

“I cannot go any farther,” Ambassador Chapuys told me. “No one must know of my involvement in this plot, Joanna. Those are the commands of the emperor himself.”

“You promised you would not abandon me,” I said.

Chapuys gripped me by the shoulders and shook. “Trust in me,” he said. “Do you trust me?”

I nodded.

“Solutions will be found,” the ambassador said. “You will return to your homeland. If, after the deed is done, you cannot live safely in England, then arrangements will be made for you to live in Europe. You could be reunited with the Dominican Order—I can easily find a place for you in a priory in the Low Countries or Spain. You will be taken care of, never fear.”

I knew Chapuys was right. It was too late for me to turn back.

Jacquard and I rode as fast as possible, with two men following. It was so hot that my face and body dripped with sweat; with all my strength, I fought against the numbness of the mind such conditions wrought.

It was nearly sundown when Jacquard Rolin and I came to the place where the Scheldt met the river Leie. Where I would hear the third and final prophecy.

The city of Ghent seemed as large as Antwerp. We passed a magnificent gray cathedral on our way into the city. Elegant houses and abbeys and guildhalls marked the curved streets. But there was a markedly different mood here than in Antwerp. That port city exuded an open and dazzling charm. Here I could see suspicion and distrust in the faces of all the people we passed.