The Tapestry (12 page)

“Mistress Joanna, I’m sorry,” Culpepper said. “I can see I’ve offended you. But I fear for you—and not just because the man who attacked you is still at large. At Whitehall, people get hurt in all sorts of ways.”

I swallowed. “I am aware, Master Culpepper.”

He said quietly, “I fear I was mistaken about your role in this for a time. I thought that you knew about Mistress Howard from that first day. When I came to speak to you in her rooms, to convey the king’s invitation to dinner, you looked distraught. She hadn’t told you then?”

I shook my head. We were merely a moment from the shore.

“But you were weeping. Are you sure that Mistress Howard did nothing to cause you sorrow?”

That grim disapproval in his voice that always curled around her name—it grieved me. “Catherine is a friend, a kind person,” I insisted. “My tears were for myself. I was planning to be married last year, and it did not—it did not take place.”

Culpepper sat back in the boat. “Now, that surprises me more than anything else. That you, Joanna Stafford, would seek marriage.”

“Because I was a novice in a Dominican order?” I asked.

Our boat eased to the pier of the landing of Winchester House. Ropes were tossed and secured. Those around us prepared to disembark.

“Perhaps that is it,” he said. “I don’t know. All the young women who arrive at Whitehall, they want husbands, titles, jewels, lands. You’re better than all that, I saw it from the beginning.” He hesitated, and then said, “You are like someone from one of the ancient stories. A fierce Artemis with her bow.”

Before I could respond to this, Culpepper was on his feet, his hand stretched down to help me out of the boat. Where others stumbled or crouched as they departed the swaying boat, his every movement was as sure and graceful as ever.

On the landing to the bishop’s property, Catherine waited for me. She stood under a freshly lit torch, her auburn hair golden in the reflection of the leaping flames. I hurried toward her, relieved. Now we could finish our conversation.

She said, “I was most concerned when my uncle’s river barge pulled away without you, Joanna. I was inconsolable. But I see there was no need.”

Culpepper, coming up behind me, bowed and said, “Mistress Howard, I trust you are having a pleasant evening.”

She didn’t answer him but turned to me, her eyes glittering as hard as the sapphire dangling from her throat. “My uncle has gone on ahead,” she said. “Will you walk with me to Winchester House, Joanna? I don’t believe you know the way.”

I had been to Bishop Gardiner’s London residence before, but under circumstances I didn’t wish to disclose. So I accompanied Catherine, surprised by her unprovoked rudeness—yet again—to Culpepper.

Greater surprises lay ahead.

Between the river and Winchester House stretched a garden park, dotted with gleaming white statues. We fell in behind other courtiers walking up the well-manicured path slicing through the middle of the park. As if of one mind, Catherine and I slowed our steps so that those who walked ahead could not hear.

I said, “Catherine, what you said before—I hope you know that—”

She stopped me from continuing. “You are accustomed to cautioning me, but I watched you on the river, Joanna, and don’t be too angry when I am the one to caution
you
on a certain matter.”

“Angry? About what?”

“Every girl who comes to court loses her head to Master Thomas Culpepper,” Catherine said. “I wouldn’t want you to make that mistake and end with feeling foolish.”

“Is that what you think?” I couldn’t help but laugh. “I am not smitten with him. Master Culpepper is a friend to me. That’s all.”

“The way he looked at you—and spoke to you—and the way you looked at him, it was more than a courteous conversation. You seem to know each other quite well.”

It was on that path, as the sun set over the trees fringing the bishop’s park, that I finally understood.

“You are in love with Thomas Culpepper,” I said.

“No, not ever,” she fiercely. “I did . . . admire him, I admit it, and he seemed to feel the same. Now, don’t rush me to chapel for more
prayers, Joanna. He did not trifle with me. He never did more than kiss my hand. Because, you see, I wasn’t good enough for the exalted Thomas Culpepper. He has never seen a woman he’d wed, and although I was foolish enough to think he cared for me, he turned away from me, too.”

We had reached the archway to the Winchester House courtyard. I drew her off the path—there was much to say now that I knew the truth, a truth I should have detected before now.

“I’m sorry, Catherine.”

She tossed her head. “Do not feel sorry for me, Joanna. I am the most envied woman of the court. I shall be honored, not disgraced. You’ll see—and so shall Master Culpepper.”

A woman’s voice shouted, “What a lovely dress, Catherine.” I recognized the voice as Lady Rochford’s, and I tried to think of some way to repel her long enough to continue to speak to Catherine. But as Jane Boleyn neared us, I was struck dumb by her bizarre appearance. She wore a tight crimson dress with a low square neckline—her exposed bosom and throat and face were rendered chalky white, whiter than any complexion I’d ever witnessed, with two bright red spots rubbed onto the tops of her cheeks. She looked like a malevolent puppet.

Other women sprang up around her, one of them as chalky white as Lady Rochford. They surrounded Catherine, cutting her off from me as effectively as the Duke of Norfolk had earlier on the river. All of them loudly admired her gown and necklace. I recognized two of the women from the dinner with the king and queen. Anne of Cleves was on no one’s mind tonight.

Bishop’s pages threw open the main door to Winchester House and called to us to enter. I followed the others into the looming manor house, my head bowed. We were ushered into the long gallery I remembered, lined with exquisite paintings and tapestries. It seemed that we were all of us expected to wait here; the banquet hall must not be ready to receive this horde of courtiers. Pressed among the others, it was unbearably hot in the gallery, with the shrill laughter of Lady
Rochford making my head throb. I backed away from the other guests, spotting a door to a dimly lit side room that might offer a respite.

To my joy, it was a chapel, lit by fresh white candles behind the altar but quite empty. A painting of the Virgin—dressed in light blue, hair flowing long and hands outstretched—hung in an oak frame layered with golden leaf.

I knelt before the altar. Despite this being the official establishment of a bishop, I had rarely felt more out of place than among such guests. The revelations of both Thomas Culpepper and Catherine Howard left me unsettled. Prayer could calm my disordered thoughts.

Father, you alone are truly good. Hear the prayers I address to you. Grant my petitions, and give me more than I dare to ask
, I prayed.

Because the door between chapel and gallery hung open and the guests talked so loudly, I wasn’t aware for a time—I will never know how long—that someone else had stepped inside. It wasn’t until I heard the undoubted creak of floorboard behind me that my prayers faltered. My body tensed, as it had the night before, on the stairs of the Whitehall gatehouse. But this time I pushed down the fear. No one would seek to harm me so close to fourscore guests of the Bishop of Winchester.

I crossed myself, rose, and turned, chin held high.

Sir Walter Hungerford, the man who had unsettled me with his musings on evil, was on his knees, two pews behind.

“My lord,” I said, dipping the shallowest of curtsies, eyeing the doorway behind him.

But he did not rise. Sir Walter said, “When I look at you here, Mistress Stafford, I think of my book on the teachings of Aristotle. He wrote so eloquently of his classifications. Every single creature on earth was classified. But how could Aristotle—or anyone else—ever define you?”

What possible answer was there to such a question? Remaining silent, I stepped into the aisle of the chapel.

Rising at last, he said, “I was a witness to the Duke of Norfolk’s poor conduct on the other side of the river. I tried to make my way
to you, to offer myself as escort, but Tom Culpepper got to you first. With the women of the king’s court, Culpepper is always quarry. Only with you do I see him in pursuit.”

I hated the way this man could make anything, any action, seem sordid.

“I intend to join the other guests now,” I said.

But Hungerford stepped into the aisle, blocking me. “You are a woman of high birth, an obedient daughter of God, modest, disdainful, but when I look in those black eyes, I know you are something different. You have
seen
things, my lady. Things I have seen, too.”

Repelled, I tried to dart around him, to reach the door of the chapel.

Hungerford grabbed me by the sleeve and spun me around. His bearing was not lustful, nor mocking, but strangely respectful.

“You have great courage,” he said. “I have seen it. Not at Whitehall. On Tower Hill.”

I pulled my sleeve from his fingers. So Hungerford was there, among the onlookers, when Edward Courtenay and Lord Montagu were executed. That was the occasion when he first saw me.

“You said a prayer that helped a man to the other side,” he said.

The other side?
I had never heard of anyone describe death like that.

“Joanna Stafford, you know that there is a different conduit for man to achieve power,” Hungerford said. “Not just through prayer to God or service to the king.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said.

“That’s not true,” he insisted, and then said: “The covenant is made. The guide secured and the others are chosen. But no matter what the priests say about the frailty of woman, you would be the perfect companion for the journey.”

A covenant? It offended me—and frightened me, too—that Hungerford used that word. I realized it could be used to simply describe an agreement between men, but it had a holy meaning, too, one from Scripture. Man made a pact with God to accomplish a deed, a difficult and punishing deed, by forming a covenant.

I spat the words: “If you do not release me, I will scream, and I am quite capable of screaming loud enough for every single person in Winchester House to hear.”

His grave, hollow-eyed expression sank into a sardonic smile. “I’m sure you are,” said Sir Walter Hungerford, and he let go my arm.

I rushed into the gallery, horrified by this encounter, which seemed not just bizarre but blasphemous. No one noticed my state, though, for their attention was on the far end of the hall. Sir Anthony Denny had appeared and was saying something.

“His Majesty requests the presence of a certain lady in the receiving room of Bishop Gardiner,” said the king’s gentleman.

A titter rose and Lady Rochford, standing close to Catherine, called out, “Sir Anthony—I believe that we have the lady at hand.” Catherine had the grace to blush.

Exchanging smirks, the men and women parted in the gallery, pressing themselves back to allow Sir Anthony to make his way to Catherine and her party. Once the gentleman of the privy chamber reached her, she stepped forward, curtsying gracefully.

“Not her,” said Sir Anthony. He turned and searched the faces around him until he spotted me.

“The king requests the presence of Mistress Joanna Stafford.”

16

A
s I followed Sir Anthony Denny, every single person in the gallery scrutinized me: some curious, others contemptuous. None of their reactions were as strong as Lady Rochford’s when I was requested instead of Catherine. She was incredulous, furious, her eyes traveling up and down, taking in my dark dress and plain hood, my lack of adornment beyond a pair of tiny pearl earrings, the only jewelry I possessed. Catherine rapidly concealed her surprise at my name being called, but Lady Rochford could not manage to do the same, as if my summons were a personal affront.

I was delivered to this same receiving room two Novembers ago. On that tumultuous night, Bishop Gardiner and the Lady Mary sat side by side in high-backed chairs on a platform, with the Duke of Norfolk pacing between the windows. Two of those same three people were here now, but instead of the Lady Mary, it was her father, King Henry, who sat on the platform, with both Bishop Gardiner and Norfolk standing before him. The king wore cloth of silver and a pendant heavy with rubies and diamonds. His leg rested on a scarlet silk stool set before him. But his mood was anything but restful. He was deep in serious conversation with the duke and bishop. This seemed more an impromptu council meeting than a banquet.

Why on earth was my presence required? A feeling came over me that this was a dreadful mistake, and I tried to capture the attention of Sir Anthony Denny to ask him. He never acknowledged my
attempt, his pace respectful but steady as he neared the king with me in tow. I was now close enough to hear their conversation.

The Duke of Norfolk was speaking. “Your Majesty, what Bishop Gardiner is trying to say is—”

The king interrupted, his voice pitched higher than usual: “We need no interpreter, for we are well aware of the bishop’s meaning, Norfolk. He judges ill of our stance toward Doctor Barnes. Is not the man imprisoned in the Tower? What else could be required of us, Bishop?”

Norfolk said hastily, “It is more than sufficient, Sire.”

“And so you continue to speak for the Bishop of Winchester?” demanded the king, his eyes narrowed to slits in his heavy face.

A tense silence mounted. Bishop Gardiner faced the king, so I could not gauge his reaction. The Duke of Norfolk, for years his friend and closest ally, clenched his hands. Plainly, this was the moment for the bishop to say what King Henry wanted to hear.

But to my amazement, he did not. “My concern is that Doctor Barnes has twice been released from prison, free to resume the spread of his heresies and lies,” said Bishop Gardiner.

King Henry pounded the arm of his carved and gilded chair. “God’s wounds, was there ever a vainer bishop?” he roared, spittle flying through the air. “You care only for your own pride, Gardiner. You are not capable of understanding what we require, that at times a man close to Luther is needed to communicate with those German princes. But your diplomacy has always been flawed—always—by such vanity. Is it any wonder you are banned from our Privy Council?”

I’d heard stories all my life of the king’s anger, as deadly as plague for those who provoked it. Even though he was not angry with me, I felt frightened by this display, even a little sick. Norfolk grimaced, also dismayed. As for the bishop, he bowed, stiffly. “My concern is for the immortal souls of those who dwell in your kingdom, Your Majesty.” I braced myself for another royal outburst, astounded that Bishop Gardiner still did not submit himself. His choleric humor
was in direct conflict with his own advice to me not to provoke the anger of Henry VIII.

The king took a series of deep breaths, as if struggling to rein in his temper. When he spoke again, his voice was calm. “Fear not, Bishop, all our subjects’ souls shall be rendered safe from Doctor Barnes soon enough. You shall have your wish—and more.
Much
more.” With those last two chilling words, his lips curved into a tight smile. I preferred the shouting to the smile.

It was at that moment that King Henry took notice of me and Sir Anthony Denny.

“Sit beside us, Cousin Joanna,” he called, his voice nothing but friendly. “Gardiner, has our special guest arrived?”

“I shall inquire, Sire,” said the bishop, who turned, his head tipped, and hurried from the room, so quickly he nearly stumbled over me. For an instant, he glared at me with pure loathing. What must it be like for a man such as Stephen Gardiner to realize that I had heard every word of the king’s lashing out? I’d just glimpsed the bishop’s true feeling for me, not the “You will always be my Sister Joanna” of the privy garden.

Wishing I had a choice, I took a seat next to the king. He nodded with approval, though I had no idea why. When I dined with him, his mood had shifted over the stretch of hours but nothing like this. Such lightning-swift changes in humor were most disconcerting.

I was also rendered uncomfortable by the room’s warmth. Not only were the windows tightly closed but also flames flickered in a fireplace. No doubt the servants who’d set the fire did so expecting a typical April evening and did not want to risk the king’s growing cold. No one could have predicted this bizarre wave of warmth that would not subside.

Henry VIII might have felt it, too, for he drank deeply from the goblet perched next to him. He wiped his lips with the back of a jeweled hand and then said, “Two of our fellow monarchs, the most eminent monarchs, are blessed in a certain regard, Joanna. The emperor Charles possesses a widowed sister, Mary, who has declined
all offers to marry again in order to serve as his regent in the Netherlands, and with great dedication. My ambassador tells me she barely sleeps at night because of all the work. The king of France, too, has a sister who has always helped him. Marguerite of Angoulême was responsible for soliciting poets and artists to come to the French court. It was she who negotiated Francis’s release when the emperor held him for ransom.”

The king paused to take another sip. “Our own two sisters are with God now, may they rest in peace. Though even while Margaret and Mary lived . . .” He did not finish the sentence, but bestowed on me a rueful smile, as if I knew what he referred to. I nodded, uncertainly, stealing a glance at the Duke of Norfolk. He wore a slightly puzzled, guarded look. Thomas Howard understood the point of this discourse no better than I did.

The king continued, “We are lacking in relations to assist us in our efforts to rule this kingdom. It is a perpetual source of regret.”

Because you’ve had them killed
, I thought, while trying to keep my face devoid of expression. Most of his cousins in the House of York, his mother’s family, had been executed. Especially hard for me were the deaths of Henry Courtenay, Marchioness of Exeter, and Henry Pole, Baron Montagu. Those were the executions I witnessed on Tower Hill, and Montagu was the man I prayed for, publicly, while others watched, including Hungerford, it seemed. They had been arrested on false charges and beheaded because their share of royal blood made them a threat—everyone knew that. Courtenay’s widow and son and Montagu’s mother had not yet been released from the Tower of London. I prayed every day for their release, while fearing that a spasm of royal suspicion could send them to the block.

The king reached over and patted my hand. “You have shown by your humble desire to weave tapestries for our court that you wish to serve in any capacity, and do not insist on a position of high standing, as do so many other women. Are you willing to do more than create one or two tapestries for us, to serve the Crown as an example in a way only you can do?”

An example?

I felt the blood rushing from my head—would I faint before the king in the Bishop of Winchester’s house? I had difficulty drawing breath in this suffocating room.

I forced myself to say, “Yes, Your Majesty.”

The king called out to Sir Anthony Denny, “We are ready. Bring him to us.”

My hands crept up to grip the armrests of the chair. I tried to think of who this person could be. In the privy garden, Bishop Winchester had said,
King Henry never does anything without having a secret purpose to it and usually two purposes ahead
.

Sir Anthony Denny reappeared, a taller figure looming behind him.

“Your Majesty, the imperial ambassador, Eustace Chapuys,” announced the courtier.

I flinched in my chair, but there was no place to go—no escape for me. Yes, the trap was closing. The king, no doubt with the help of Cromwell, might well have discovered the conspiracy to kill him and deliver the kingdom to his half-Spanish eldest daughter, Mary. It was I who was meant to kill him—the prophecy said I would set the course of the kingdom—but instead I had taken the chalice from his lips after only a sip. In so doing, I’d defied the spymaster, Chapuys, who now stood in this very room, and Jacquard Rolin, his shadowy operative.

The last time I saw Ambassador Chapuys was eight months ago in Flanders. He looked significantly older, with deep creases around his eyes and new gray hairs. He exhibited no reaction whatsoever to finding me beside Henry VIII.

The king had said moments ago he wanted me to help him. Did that mean I must now disown the ambassador—provide details of the deadly conspiracy? I had once been more devoted to the erudite Eustace Chapuys than to any other man save my father, but that was before Jacquard Rolin told me the ambassador was willing to imprison me, even turn me over to the Inquisition, if I did not cooperate.

I owed no more loyalty to Ambassador Chapuys.

Henry VIII said in melodious French, “Good Chapuys, you know how we rejoiced when you returned to our kingdom. Your withdrawal to Flanders was a loss to our court and to the cause of diplomacy throughout Christendom.”

Chapuys bowed with a flourish of his right hand, an imperial obeisance.

The king continued, “Peaceful relations between England and the empire of your master, Charles the Fifth, have always been our heartfelt wish.”

Chapuys bowed again and said in his own rapid French, “Your Majesty is the cherished friend of the emperor.”

The king leaned forward in his chair, his leg visibly quivering on its silken stool. “But this was not always so,” he said slowly.

Now it comes
, I thought. My heart slammed against my chest. A trickle of sweat rolled down my back, and I braced myself for the charm and affability of the Tudor monarch to darken once more to rage. But instead Henry VIII said, “There were many grievances, many misunderstandings, during the life of the princess dowager.”

A nerve danced in the side of Chapuys’s thin face. That was the hated title that Henry VIII gave to his first wife, Katherine of Aragon, after he annulled that marriage in defiance of the pope. She was no longer styled queen but princess dowager, the widow of Henry’s elder brother, Prince Arthur. It was a title that proud lady never, ever answered to, and I knew for a fact that Chapuys detested it.

The ambassador said nothing. But it was not fear that quieted him; he was nothing like the men and women I had seen quake in the king’s presence. What became more and more clear with each second he maintained his silence was his independence. He bore the prestige of Charles V, whose empire stretched from the Netherlands through Burgundy, Germany, Austria, and Spain and off to discovered lands across the sea filled with gold, spices, and new peoples undreamed of. Compared to this, England was but a tiny island.

Finally, Henry VIII broke the silence by half turning toward me. “You are acquainted with my cousin Mistress Joanna Stafford?”

Chapuys bowed to me. This could well be the moment of accusation. But he exhibited no trepidation, and his steeliness filled me with new strength. I nodded toward the ambassador and sat straighter in the chair.

The king said, “This lady’s uncle, the Duke of Buckingham, was a foul traitor and punished accordingly. Which meant the Staffords, including her father, were broken. Her mother came from Spain as a maid of honor to the princess dowager. Which one could say makes Joanna your master’s subject as well as ours.” The king smiled that same menacing smile as when he promised the bishop a solution for Doctor Barnes. Yet Chapuys showed not a jot of emotion; he didn’t even blink.

The king continued, “Several years ago, Joanna attended the princess dowager, as her mother had before, and when the household was broken up, she returned to Stafford Castle. Joanna then entered the Dominican Order in Kent as a novice, but as part of our just and legal reforms, the priory was found wanting and thus dissolved. Considering all of these events, does she show bitterness toward us? Not in the slightest. She has come in all humility to serve us, eager to weave a tapestry.”

I had never sat through such a humiliating summation of my life, one twisted with distortions and outright lies. Tears of helpless anger pricked my eyes. Not wanting to look the ambassador in the face, I glanced at the windows instead—and the Duke of Norfolk who stood before them. A sneer widened across his craggy face.

Chapuys said in elegant French, “Mistress Stafford’s abject loyalty must bring you great satisfaction, Your Grace.”

“Oh, it does, Chapuys, it does,” said the king, smugly. “And shall be rewarded. Henceforth, Mistress Joanna Stafford will serve as the permanent Tapestry Mistress of the court, to oversee, maintain, and add to our collection, which is the finest in all of Christendom.”