The Chalice (51 page)

I stood at the shop, chatting with the clothier whom I’d met before, when I felt someone tugging on my piece of sewing. I turned, surprised, to face a stout, middle-aged woman wearing a wide hat.

She turned to two men. One was young and thin and resembled a scholar; the other was aging and dressed as a nobleman. The woman spoke a language I didn’t know. The young man listened, and then spoke in French to the older. The nobleman nodded and turned to me.

“I am the Earl of Southampton,” he said. “I am charged with the protection of the Lady Anne of Cleves, the bride of the king of England. Mother Lowe is the head of the maids of the household. She wants to know who you are, because she says she hasn’t seen such good needlework since she left Germany.”

Revealing myself was happening much sooner than I desired—but there was no help for it. I could not enter the orbit of the royal family without a name. “I am from England,” I said. “My name is Joanna Stafford.”

Southampton’s eyes lit up. “Stafford?” he asked. “Related to the Duke of Buckingham?”

“My uncle, my lord.”

“But why are you here?” he asked. “The English ladies of the queen’s household meet her in Dover, in Canterbury, or in Greenwich. It’s all arranged.”

“I’m not one of the queen’s ladies,” I said as steadily as possible. “I’ve been traveling in Europe and am now, through a happy coincidence, returning to England at the same time. So I’ve booked passage on one of the ships escorting Her Majesty.”

Mother Lowe said something in German to the young scholar. He spoke in French to the earl—he said Mother Lowe wanted to know about me at once.

Back and forth it went in such a way, German to French to English.

“Yes, yes—why not?” said the Earl of Southampton. “There are few families more esteemed than the Staffords.”

He turned to me. “Mother Lowe says that the Princess Anna will wish to meet an English lady from a noble family who does good needlework. We hope to sail tomorrow. Your belongings will be transferred to the galleon that conveys the queen to England, so that you may attend her.”

My heart pounding, I made a curtsy.

We did not sail the next day. Or the next. Spotters were stationed on the line of water, day and night, to give word when the weather cleared enough for the thirty-mile sail across the channel. On the third, Saturday, December 27, as dawn broke, they fired their guns. The signal was given.

I raced to the shore and was ferried to the largest one.

No one spoke to me on board; the princess and all of her German ladies were already below. It was too cold to observe the unfurling of the sails on deck. I assumed myself forgotten, which I was content with, when the Earl of Southampton came to collect me.

What a large crowd was gathered around Anne of Cleves in the room she occupied. I couldn’t even see her for the ring of German ladies and English gentlemen.

One young man pushed his way forward, looking me up and down, and said, “I didn’t think that there were any Staffords on this journey. Especially not ones this lovely.” He bowed. “I’m Thomas Seymour.” So this was the brother of the dead queen, the “wastrel and lout” Mary Howard Fitzroy refused to marry.

Southampton said impatiently, “The princess is waiting.”

Mother Lowe and the scholar stood to the left of a young woman, ornately dressed, sitting on a cushioned chair, bent over her needlework. She wore an enormous hat, folded into three corners.

Mother Lowe spoke in German to the young woman, who raised her head. She nodded, and looked over, toward Southampton, and then at me. She appeared to be in her late twenties, with skin not as pale as most Englishwomen’s. It was a complexion closer to my own. She had a long nose, a delicately pointed chin, and large hazel eyes with long lashes. Her gaze was steady and dignified, as befitted a queen.

The princess’s voice was low as she spoke that same harsh-sounding language to Mother Lowe. Evidently she had no English, either—or French. I wondered how she planned to communicate with her husband.

“Her Majesty would like to see your needlework,” the earl informed me. “That is her favorite occupation, sewing.”

I watched as the future queen inspected my embroidery. As she turned my work this way and that, a delighted smile lit up her face. I suddenly felt apprehensive to think of her being handed over to Henry VIII. Her brother, the Duke of Cleves, must be not only ambitious but heartless.

Translations passed back and forth, and I was asked to tell the queen about myself.

Southampton said, “She wants to know if you are married.”

I shook my head no.

The next question was where I lived with my parents.

“You may tell Her Highness that my parents are dead and I live in a house by myself,” I said.

Anne of Cleves looked confused when Mother Lowe informed her of my status, and I was asked how it was possible for a woman of noble birth—or any woman—to live alone.

I sighed. There was no use trying to conceal things.

“Please tell Her Highness that I was a novice in a Catholic priory, one that no longer exists,” I said.

Southampton winced.

“That is the truth,” I said.

He finally told the scholar, who glanced over at me, nervous, and then spoke to Mother Lowe. To my amazement, when Anne of Cleves heard what her mistress of maids said, she beamed another delighted smile.

Southampton said to me, “Her Majesty’s mother is very fond of nuns and counts an abbess as a close friend.”

I stared at him, dumbfounded. The earl leaned closer to me: “The mother still practices the Roman Catholic faith, while her son, Duke William, is Lutheran.”

There was a flood of German. The princess said that someone like myself, who was of good family, possessing excellent housewife skills—should be married at once. Now that I was no longer a nun, arrangements must commence. If I agreed, she, the queen, would speak to her husband, the king, about a match.

The earl turned a bit red after relaying this. He knew, as did all English officials, of the Act of Six Articles that forbade the ex-religious to marry. He waited, apprehensive, for my response.

“I thank Her Majesty for her great kindness. But I must now turn my attention to my business enterprise. In my town of Dartford, I’ve nearly finished my first tapestry, and must search for a buyer.”

This led to many excited questions from the queen, which
Southampton conveyed to me. The ship rocked and pitched as we sailed toward the coast of England; several of the queen’s German maids became seasick. But the princess herself was unimpaired.

Unfortunately, Anne of Cleves returned to the topic of my marriage.

Southampton said, “Her Highness feels most strongly that you should contract a marriage and have a family. She says that children are the greatest joy a woman can experience. God willing, she hopes to bear the king of England sons and daughters. She hopes he will grant her family’s humble request to name their eldest son after her brother, William.”

Cromwell and the boy king are feared by all.

I stood there, on the swaying ship, looking at the sweet and sincere face of Anne of Cleves, and was filled with terror.

“Are you not well, Mistress Stafford?” asked the earl of Southampton.

“No, I fear not,” I murmured.

My apologies were conveyed. Before I could edge away, the earl said, “Her Highness requests that you accompany her party on the progression to Greenwich, where she will meet the king. Is that convenient?”

I stared at him.

“Mistress Stafford, is it convenient?” he repeated.

“Yes, of course.” I dropped a deep curtsy, and left the cabin.

What should I do? I could not bear the thought of my kingdom being devoured by the Emperor Charles and his allies after the king was poisoned. But now I could see the prophecy of England’s future, should Anne of Cleves bear a son, turning to reality.

A few hours later, when it was nearing sunset, our ship reached the coast of England. We landed at Deal and were taken to Deal Castle by order of the Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports. All of the queen’s party was to stay in the castle
overnight, including, now, myself. Tomorrow we’d progress to Dover, and then on to Canterbury. I’d heard that the queen was expected to reach London the third or fourth of January.

I joined the trail of attendants walking to the entrance of Deal Castle, lit with blazing torches. A thin crowd lined the path, braving the cold to look us over. There was a small group of dignitaries greeting us—I assumed I would now see the Lord Warden.

But when I reached the front of the line, a lavishly dressed couple awaited: a tall stout man of middle years and a very young woman. I heard someone say “the Duke and Duchess of Suffolk.” I remembered hearing about them at the Red Rose a year ago. Catherine Brandon was the daughter of Maria de Salinas, who married the closest friend of King Henry.

When it was my time, I curtsied before the couple.

“I am Mistress Joanna Stafford,” I said.

The young duchess, dressed in a long velvet cloak, peered at me more closely. A large dog poked his head forward, too.

“Are you the woman who served with my mother?” Catherine Brandon asked. “I would like to speak with you later this evening.”

“I am at your service,” I said, curtsying again, and then joined the throng stepping into the castle itself. The queen and Mother Lowe and her ladies had been taken upstairs to the royal apartments, along with the earl of Southampton. The duke and duchess of Suffolk must be with them, too.

The rest of us were ushered into a great hall where food was laid out on long tables. The room roared with conversation. I found a place and nibbled some supper as I struggled to come up with explanations for the Duchess of Suffolk—and those who would doubtless come after her—that would make sense as to why I was in the party of Anne of Cleves.

“Pardon me, Mistress Stafford?”

I looked up into the smiling face of Sir Thomas Seymour.

“I’ve been asked to fetch you,” he said. “Beseeched, actually. There’s a young lady who says you know her and she most urgently needs to speak to you.”

“Young lady?” I asked, confused. “No one with the queen’s party?”

“I’m not sure,” he said. “May I take you to her—and then perhaps later, should there be dancing, you’ll allow me to partner you?”

“Please just take me to the person who wishes to speak to me,” I said coolly.

A spark lit in Seymour’s eyes; this was, unfortunately, a man who enjoyed a challenge.

He steered me down a passageway that led deeper into the castle, which filled me with suspicion. Just when I was about to charge him with mischief, he led me to an alcove where a young woman stood, holding a candle.

It was Nelly, my servant on Saint Paul’s Row. She wore a long cloak, but even so, I could see that she was with child. Her eyes were full of pleading.

“Do you know this girl?” Seymour asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Thank you, Sir Thomas.”

“I shall see you later, I’m sure,” he said meaningfully, and left.

“Nelly, what are you doing here?” I asked. With a sudden chill, I said, “Señor Hantaras is not with you, is he?”

“No, my mother and I are now in service in a household in Dover,” she said. “I came to see the new queen arrive at the castle—but then I saw you, Mistress Stafford. And I wanted to talk to you about . . . Jacquard. He’s supposed to be back in England by now.”

If only I had protected her in London, this wouldn’t have happened.

“Is Jacquard the father of your child?” I asked.

“Yes,” she whispered. “And he has been gone from England
for so long with no word. I don’t want anyone to hear us, please—I think we can use a room down here.” She pulled me down the passageway, and pushed open the door to a small, cluttered room.

“Nelly,” I said. “I am sorry to have to tell you this. But it’s only right you should know. Prepare yourself—Jacquard may never return to England.”

Nelly didn’t say anything. The candlelight glowed as an odd expression filled her eyes.

“Yes,” she said. “I know.”

At that instant, she looked over my left shoulder. A new shadow leaped across the floor. The last thing I saw was Señor Hantaras, holding something in his hand. Something he raised over his head, and then swung directly at me.

There was pain. And then an enveloping darkness.

I
knew nothing for a very long time. Then I began to swim up from the nothingness. I couldn’t see and I couldn’t move. Eventually I realized it was because there was a cloth tied around my eyes and ropes tightly binding my hands. But I did not mind it. I enjoyed the sensations coursing through me. I felt serene and calm, floating in this sea of darkness.

A cloth was untied from around my eyes. Blinking, I looked up at a dark-haired woman I had never seen before—she was in her late thirties.

“Drink this,” she said curtly, and gave me a sip of weak ale.

“Thank you,” I said. I drank and looked around. I was tied up in the back of a large wagon, not moving. There were blankets heaped on me to keep me warm. The wagon had a roof and walls, concealing us from whatever was outside. It was as if I were in a traveling box. Daylight peeked in from the cracks of the roof.

“Are you Nelly’s mother?” I asked.

“Of course she is,” said a man sitting in the opposite corner. Señor Hantaras shimmied over to where I lay on the floor of the wagon.

“It will save us time and a great deal of pain on your part if you tell me why you arrived at Deal Castle in the party of Anne of Cleves,” he said.

I knew that his words were threatening. I should have felt fear. Instead I said, “Hello, Señor Hantaras.” And, incredibly, I smiled.

He turned to the woman and said, “You gave her too much.”

She looked down at her lap. She held in one hand a bottle, it resembled an apothecary’s bottle. At the bottom were black beads.

The stones of immortality.

I recognized the beads from Edmund’s priory infirmary. He gave them to our dying laundress to ease her suffering. And later he confessed that he ground them to make a different tincture for himself. I was being given the same sort of dose that Edmund grew addicted to. The red flower of India, he called it.