The Tapestry (16 page)

“You are from Flanders, sir?” I asked Master Moinck. If we were to work in tandem, which seemed inevitable, I must get our acquaintanceship on a better footing.

Chin trembling, he responded, “How did you know that? Are you one who distrusts all foreigners, Mistress Stafford?”

“I hardly think so, being that my mother was born in Spain,” I said, exasperated. I took a breath. Best to try again. “I recognized your accent and I am also aware that those from Flanders possess discerning taste when it comes to furnishings and decoration and—”

Jacquard Rolin.
That was how I pinpointed his homeland and how I knew of the Flemish reputation for excellent taste. He spoke with the same accent. I hastily shoved the imperial spy from my thoughts.

Sir Andrew stepped in again. “Mistress Stafford, we should have the inventory ready for you by the day of the tournament.”

“May I be of assistance?” I asked.

“How exactly do you propose to assist?” asked Master Moinck.

“By taking it on,” I replied. “I will complete the inventory. You said you are unduly taxed with preparing for the tournament and other duties. If someone can instruct me, I shall begin today.”

Sir Andrew silenced Master Moinck’s scoffing noises with the order for the books to be brought to me here, at the keeper of the wardrobe’s chamber. Master Moinck himself stalked away to oversee the transfer.

Sir Andrew said with a wistful glint in his eyes, “I was a friend to the Duke of Buckingham, and I must tell you that you remind me of him in several respects.” He lowered his voice to just above a whisper. “But you were also a novice of the Dominican Order, correct?

“Yes,” I said. Searching his face for condemnation, I saw none and continued: “As you must then know, service in a priory means I am not afraid of work.”

Nodding, Sir Andrew said, loudly enough for everyone in the
room to hear, “After the tournament, I will see that you are welcomed at the tapestry workshop in London. I have been informed that you have your own tapestry to weave. You shall receive all necessary assistance.”

The inventory books were assembled and explained and I politely declined the offer of a clerk to assist. Like it or not, I now had my own servant, and the least Richard could do was carry books for me as I made my way around the palace.

Sir Andrew’s final words, delivered as he escorted me out of the chamber, carried a warning. “Master Moinck has his reasons for being reluctant to welcome a newcomer to the keeping of His Majesty’s tapestries. He shall not be your ally at any stage of your enterprise.”

“Understood,” I said.

Another person at the king’s court who wished me ill. The list grew lengthy.

I did my best to ignore the stares of the courtiers as I performed the inventory of Whitehall’s tapestries over the next four days. There were more than two hundred pieces hanging in this palace alone. Others were either part of the permanent collection of Henry VIII’s many castles or stored in the tapestry workshop, for repair or cleaning.

To my surprise, Richard showed enthusiasm for the task. Up and down and around we progressed, stopping at every tapestry, large and small, to note the placement, dimensions, design, and present condition. Up until now, he’d been used as the lowest level of servants for the Howards—a strong back for the guarding of family members. But he was capable of more. And Richard never complained, no matter how long I asked him to stand nearby, balancing a book for me to write in. It could be hot work, too, for this uncomfortable dry spell continued, just as the strange old riverboat man had predicted.

But the clammy warmth of the palace was the least of my troubles. As much as I labored on the inventory, making notes in the books about this tapestry and that one, I could not quiet my fears. Thomas Culpepper’s near-violent reaction to my May Day question haunted
me, every hour of the day and deep into the night. What sort of dangerous conspiracy had he formed? He and Sir Walter Hungerford both used the word
covenant
. Did it have anything to do with hatred of Thomas Cromwell—that is what I sensed. But why must some unknown action take place on the day of a tournament joust? I had not seen Culpepper for even a moment since he delivered me to the keeper of the wardrobe, and I strongly suspected that he was avoiding me.

Just as unfathomable was Geoffrey Scovill’s plan to travel to Germany to track down Edmund. Not only did I find it baffling that Geoffrey would do such a thing, I also feared anew for Edmund. I’d never understood why he’d journeyed to an impregnable corner of Germany and now I found it chilling that his friend John Cheke shared my apprehension. I ached that Edmund suffered from the ravages of his opium craving to the extent that he must travel for months on end to seek help—and was he safe from its power now? No one had heard a word in six months.

And, though I knew full well that it was unfair, I blamed Geoffrey and John Cheke for the renewal of my suffering over Edmund Sommerville. An old scar had been ripped open. But also I couldn’t block from my mind the sight of Geoffrey, hollow with exhaustion and sadness, slumped in Cheke’s room. It made me feel that something should be done—but what? I would have wagered that I was the last person Geoffrey would accept help from. The weight of these troubling thoughts was so heavy that it was as if I carried the tapestry books up and down stairs, not Richard.

Still, it was another matter altogether that brought me to tears, and Master Hans Holbein was the agent.

“I’ve heard such fine stories of your enterprise, Mistress Joanna,” said Holbein when he came to see me. “But they come as no surprise to me—were you not my artist’s assistant for four enjoyable days? How I have missed you since.”

“And I have missed you,” I said, and meant it. It brought a moment of real happiness to see his broad, smiling face and hear his soft German voice.

“I suppose you are impatient for the tournament in two days’ time?” he asked.

“No,” I said, and waited for him to exclaim over my foolishness in not embracing the grand pageant. But Master Holbein said somberly, “The last tournament was something I can never forgot—but for reasons less than pleasant,” and then shook his head, as if to banish some memories. His tone turned teasing. “It’s not often that work is commissioned of me and then forgotten. I decided it was time to call on you with my sketch.”

He unfurled the image of Catherine Howard.

Holbein certainly captured the blessing of Catherine’s beauty: smooth pink-and-white complexion, even features, and shiny auburn hair. A dimple danced low in her right cheek, as if she verged on one of her bursts of giggling. But in those green-gray eyes a shadow lurked. Staring at her image, I felt as if she were trying to tell me that she knew all such blessings would recede before something that could not be charmed or appeased or, finally, forestalled.

“Forgive me, Catherine,” I gasped through a harrowing sob. “Forgive.”

Holbein enveloped me in a hug, a fatherly comfort I’d not experienced for years. I was grateful and, resting my head on his broad shoulder, I found it impossible to rein in my regret and grief.

Holbein leaned down to say something in my ear, and said it softly, with restraint, as if he were afraid others could hear him even though we were utterly alone.

“I’m afraid for her, too.”

He patted me soothingly, until my weeping finally died down, and we could hear the faint roar of the court in the crowded palace on one side and the rivermen shouting on the Thames on the other.

19

H
ow many toppled priories paid for the May Day tournament? It was impossible not to wonder about this as I walked with Master Hans Holbein to the tiltyard of Westminster, just outside the palace walls. After living in Whitehall for thirteen days, I was no stranger to King Henry VIII’s taste for pomp. But neither was I ignorant of where the funds for it came. After the king spent the vast inheritance of his own father, he faced an empty treasury. It was Thomas Cromwell who filled it again with gold—the spoils of the abbeys. Henry VIII was able to indulge with a fury his passion for seizing and rebuilding castles. He owned more homes than he could possibly make use of. The luxurious furnishings, all the servants’ wages, the epic dinners, his perpetual adornment in furs, jewels, and crowns—all made possible by sacked shrines and plundered acres.

My mind had not been on today’s grand event, but rather on the tapestries. I’d labored through the night on Thursday so that the inventory would be ready by the appointed time. Sir Andrew Windsor had promised me his cooperation, but when I sent word early Friday that I was prepared to present my work on the agreed day, he sent back a curt message of postponement: “His Majesty wishes to receive the inventory of arras on the day after the tournament’s end, the Fifth of May.”

I read the message three times, stunned, before tossing it on the floor.

Hans Holbein, who’d become a frequent visitor since comforting me over Catherine Howard, chuckled at my ill temper.

“You had better accustom yourself to the king’s whims,” he advised. “Take relief from a postponement, for I have seen it work the other way. The king can be most impatient and demand to see something finished that no earthly power could have completed in the time he allots.”

“It is all grossly unfair.”

“There is only one man in the kingdom who can decide what is fair, and at present he is occupied with the tournament,” Holbein said. “Which is another reason why you and I must attend, and be seen to attend.”

And so I agreed to accompany him. The sport of the joust did have some meaning for me, because my father made a name for himself in the king’s tournaments, before I was born. He once said that Henry VIII and his favored companions had a lust for war that fueled their love of the tiltyard. Of course, the days of the king himself donning armor and holding the lance were finished. It was a sport for the young.

Moments after we set out that Saturday morning, I asked Holbein, “How will we even be noticed in this great a crowd?” I’d heard that the king sent word to France, Flanders, Scotland, and Spain for all comers to “undertake the challengers of England.” The entire court was expected to assemble, its nobility hosting the knights and burgesses of the Commons, the Mayor of London, even the city aldermen and the richest cloth merchants. After the tournament, the most esteemed were expected to feast at nearby Durham House.

“The king always knows who is missing at such events,” said Holbein in that instructional voice I would surely find irritating were it not coming from a trusted friend. “He took note of every person who failed to appear at Anne Boleyn’s coronation, and in time each of them was sorry for it.”

I was about to say that nothing could have induced me to cheer that particular coronation when a strange sensation took hold. We
had just come out of the doorway of the king’s gallery, onto the grounds leading to the tiltyard. A stream of people pushed forward, as would be expected, but I felt that among the mob, someone watched me in particular. It was as if eyes burned holes into the back of my head and my shoulders. I stopped and carefully looked in all directions, but no one met my gaze. Neither did I spot anyone acting suspicious.

It was similar to the feeling I’d had when riding into London with my friends weeks ago. Then, hours later, I was attacked. I had never connected those two things before. Doing so made me feel odd. A link was impossible. The man who impersonated a page awaited me at the gatehouse; he couldn’t have watched me as I approached the city. Moreover, how could I be at risk here, today, with Master Hans Holbein in this jubilant crowd? Anyone would laugh to hear of my fears.

My steps faltered as I thought of one person who wouldn’t laugh. Elderly Father Francis, the chaplain I’d sought out for confession this morning, whispered afterward, “Be careful, Mistress Joanna, this is a day when not all may be safe.” I glanced at him, surprised, but his lip fastened like a button and he hurried the next penitent into the confessional.

What had the priest meant?

The king’s gallery faced the tiltyard. On the other side of it stretched the fields of Westminster. On those fields workmen had raised a series of enormous white tents for the use of the knightly challengers and defenders. The flags and streamers mounted at the high points of the tents, all in the Tudor red, hung limply. This was the hottest spring day yet, and a singularly still one, too. The tournament tents languished, like ships at Gravesend, waiting for the wind to fill their sails.

Just as Master Holbein and I found our places along the side of the ninety-foot-long tiltyard, trumpets blared. In strict order of precedence, the members of the court shuffled onto the open gallery, to take their places. Here came Bishop Gardiner and the Duke
of Norfolk, together as always, but filing in before them were their hated rivals for the king’s favor, Chief Minister Thomas Cromwell and Thomas Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury. It was the second time in my life I’d glimpsed the archbishop and I was taken aback by his mild expression and unassuming stance. Not what I expected.

To the cheers of the crowd, the king strode out, wearing cloth of gold. He took the hand of Anne of Cleves and led her to their places in the gallery as if he were the most devoted of husbands. How lovely the queen looked. She wore a gown of the royal purple, its French cut flattering her figure. I finally saw that smile again, the one that brightened her face on the boat from Calais but had been starkly absent at our Whitehall dinner.

With some nervousness, I watched the queen’s attendants, led by Lady Rochford, find their spots alongside the queen, but there was no sign of Catherine Howard.

Reading my thoughts, Holbein said, “Oh, she won’t appear at a great function such as this. That is not the king’s way. He is very discreet.”

“There was little discretion at Winchester House,” I said sourly.

“That was different. Here you will see Parliament, the bishops of the church, and all sorts of ambassadors and dignitaries of the courts of Europe, with Cleves among them. Everyone must play their part. There is no place for Catherine.”

I could not decide who I felt worse for, the queen deceived by this spectacle into believing her husband cared one whit for her, or the girl who loved parties and pageantry, sitting miles away at Howard House.

One of the king’s chamberlains made a speech to the crowd: “It having pleased God to establish between Christian princes more concord than ever there was, so that in the idleness of peace there is danger that noble men may themselves fall into idleness or give occasion of idleness to others; and as, in the past, feats of arms have raised men to honor, both in God’s service against his infidel enemies and in serving their princes; and as there are six gentle
men, naming themselves knights of blood and name, who, without pretending to excel all others, feel bound to do what they can to further this object, they intend, by the grace of God, Our Lady, Saint George, and all the Court Celestial, and license of their Prince, to defend . . .”

The rest was drowned out, as the crowd gave a great “Ahhhhhh” at the sight of the defenders: six men rode the length of the tiltyard, wearing polished suits of armor and carrying lances, their horses’ saddles hanging with white velvet. A page walked alongside each of them, toting the helmet, shield, and other gear of the chosen athlete.

This celebration of the “feats of arms” made me feel strange. No matter the bloodlust of his youth, I knew quite well how much Henry VIII feared a real war, the invasion of his island by the Catholic powers of France and Spain that hovered over him the last two years. He’d fortified the kingdom, mustered his citizens, even taken a foreign bride whose family would, if it came to it, defend England. But that was not enough. In a frenzy Henry VIII had the nobles he imagined disloyal arrested on false charges and killed.

“
That
is interesting—Sir Thomas Seymour comes first,” said Holbein, and then in a tone of explaining, “Seymour is the brother of—”

“I know him,” I said shortly. Was there ever a prouder man than Thomas Seymour, his shoulders thrown back, grinning, his reddish-brown beard quivering, as he led the defenders? I was sure he would take full advantage of his leading position later, with boasts and careless flirting

Holbein said, “Next comes Lord John Dudley. What intrigues me about him is his father’s history, for—”

“I know it,” I said, shuddering at the sight of his handsome face. I could never forget the man who pounded on the door of the Courtenays’ house to make arrests that November night, or who charged Canterbury Cathedral when Edmund and I scrambled there on our quest to protect the bones of Thomas Becket.

His voice dancing with laughter, Master Holbein said, “I see you are better acquainted with the young gentlemen of the court than I
understood. Do you also know Anthony Kingston?” He gestured at the next challenger.

Swallowing hard, I said, “Is he related to Sir William Kingston, the constable of the Tower?”

“His son,” said Holbein.

As the memories of months of imprisonment in the Tower of London took hold, I turned away from the tiltyard course. Each of the three men caused me some level of distress. Holbein, perceiving that I was genuinely disturbed, ceased his teasing.

I did not think it safe for me to look upon the tournament until the horn blew and the next batch of knights announced. These were the men who would joust with the defenders today.

Even from across the length of the tiltyard I recognized the red-gold Plantagenet hair of my cousin the Earl of Surrey. A ways behind him rode Thomas Culpepper. Now my fears churned again, but for different reasons. What were they up to? What was the covenant they’d pledged, something so secret that if I knew of it, my life would be at risk, as Culpepper had insisted?

“Mistress Stafford, I have found you at last,” said a man’s voice in the crowd.

At first I could not believe it. I had seconds ago puzzled over the pact formed by the Earl of Surrey, Thomas Culpepper, and a third man—and Sir Walter Hungerford materialized right in front of me, among the spectators. It was incredible, as if he had been conjured from my very thoughts. But, as I took a closer look, my surprise turned to disgust. Each time I’d been in his presence before, Sir Walter had observed decorum of dress. Now I looked at a man with dirty hose and a torn right sleeve. Sweat covered his face, more than was warranted even for this warm day. Some say that the evil within the soul must show itself outwardly, and knowing something of Sir Walter’s depravity, such disarray seemed inevitable.

No one else existed for him in the crowd but me. Wringing his hands, he cried, “Only you could understand our journey, only
you
.”

“Calm yourself, sir,” I snapped, but that only seemed to agitate him further. Heads swiveled to see what the fuss was about.

“Can I be of assistance?” said Master Holbein. Sir Walter turned, slowly, to examine him. His eyes, which were bloodshot, took a moment to focus on my companion.

“Master painter,” he finally said, “you are also a propitious sight, for you embody the wisdom of Germany.”

Stepping even closer, Holbein said, his strong hand clamping round Sir Walter’s wrist, “Desist, sir. This is not the time or place to speak of Martin Luther.”

To my further amazement, Sir Walter Hungerford threw back his head and laughed—a horrible laugh, hysterical, piercing. More curious heads turned. We were becoming of greater interest than the jousters on their fine horses.

“
That
is not the man whose wisdom I follow, oh, you are mistaken,” said Sir Walter. “I revere other Germans—such as the genius Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa.” He burst out laughing again, a diseased howl.

“Hungerford!”

It was the Earl of Surrey, on his horse. He had reached the closest point to us, and must have heard the disturbance. He guided his mount to the perimeter of the running course, holding the reins tight. The earl looked furious. Not only that—I could see, from the purplish-yellow bruise covering his forehead, that Surrey had already suffered some sort of blow.

Behind him, Thomas Culpepper nudged his horse to get closer without breaking the line of procession.

“Go home, man,” shouted Surrey. “For the love of Christ and the Virgin, go home.”

With a final howl of amusement, Sir Walter stumbled back, and then, pushing and shoving the spectators out of his path, he charged away from the tiltyard. “That man was
drunk
,” commented one spectator, and a titter of laughter went round the mob.

Surrey and Culpepper rejoined the line of challengers and rode on, followed by more knights. The bizarre behavior of Hungerford was forgotten in the reflection of men wearing such glittering armor.