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Also by NANcy bilyeAu
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THe
CHALICE
NANcy bilyeAu
A T o u C H s T o n E B o o k
P u B L I s H E d B y s I m o n & s C H u s T E r
N e w y o r k l o N d o N T o r o N T o s y d N e y N e w d e l H i
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TouchstoneA Division o Simon & Schuster, Inc.
1230 Avenue o the Americas
New York, NY 10020
This book is a work o ction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are
products o the authors imagination or are used ctitiously. Any resemblance to
actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright 2013 by Nancy Bilyeau
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereo
in any orm whatsoever. For inormation address Touchstone Subsidiary Rights
Department, 1230 Avenue o the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
First Touchstone hardcover edition March 2013
TOUCHSTONE and colophon are registered trademarks
o Simon & Schuster, Inc.
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Designed by Claudia Martinez
Manuactured in the United States o America
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Library o Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Bilyeau, Nancy
The chalice / Nancy Bilyeau
p. cm.
A Touchstone Book.
1. Great BritainHistoryTudors, 14851603Fiction. I. Title.
PS3602.I49 C47 2013
813'.6 2012031205
ISBN 978-1-4767-0865-2
ISBN 978-1-4767-0867-6 (ebook)
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To Kate McLennan, for her encouragement,
just when I needed it
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And Jesus said, Father, i you be willing, take
this cup rom me.
Luke 22:42
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THe
CHALICE
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ProLoguE
When preparing or martyrdom on the night o December28, 1538, I did not think o those I love. Hiding in a nar-row cemetery with seven men, all o us poised to commit vio-
lence on the steps o Canterbury Cathedral, I instead stared
at the words carved into the tombstone I huddled behind:
Here lieth interred the body o Brother Bartholomeus Giles,
o Christ-Church Priory, Canterbury, who departed this lie on
the sixteenth o June, 1525.
How ortunate was Brother Bartholomeus. He prayed, sang,
labored, and studied, and ater his body weakened, was moved
to the inrmary, to die there, blessedly ignorant that his was
the last generation to serve God in an English monastery. This
humble monk had known nothing o the Dissolution.
A gibbous moon hung above me tonight, swollen and brightin the sable sky, illuminating all the gravestones and memori-
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2 N A N c y b i l y e A u
als. But somehow it was a sot moon, not the sharply detailed
orb Id seen on other winter nights. It must be because we were
near the sea. Id been to Canterbury one other timethe samejourney during which I learned o my destiny. Against my will,
I was told o a prophecy. It was one I eared above all else. Yet
here, tonight, I stood ready to ulll it.
We had each o us picked a stone o concealment in this
graveyard, a paean to a departed brother. These seven were
like brothers to me now, and one most particularly so. Brother
Edmund Sommerville, standing but a ew eet away, looked
over, and I nodded my readiness. We both knew the time ap-
proached. He blew on his rozen ngers, and I did the same.
Our hands must be supple enough to grip the weapons wed
brought. I carried a rock with a sharp edge; Brother Edmund
held a cudgel. We had no training in combat. Our aith would
supply the needed strength.
Ater King Henry VIII ordered the surrender o our home,
Dartord Priory, we had become, to the world, simply EdmundSommerville and Joanna Staord. Id struggled to prevent that.
In the last months o Dartord Priorys existence, under duress,
Id searched the convent or the Athelstan crown, an object that
Bishop Stephen Gardiner swore to me would stop the destruc-
tion. But the search took unexpectedand deadlyturns,
and when it was over, our priory, 180 years old, closed its doors
orever, as did the other monasteries. So ended the chaste
splendors and humble glories o the only house or Dominican
sisters in England. We had no choice but to relinquish our hab-
its and veils and depart. I moved into the town close by and,
with a handul o other priory reugees, tried very hard to make
a new lie or mysel. Now that was over, too. The cruelty o
the royal court had swung close to me once more. Id seen ear
and treachery and lossand courage tooand innocent blood
spilled on Tower Hill.The gure o a man darted through the cemetery. In the
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T H e c H A l i c e 3
moonlight, the ace o Brother Oswald, a onetime Cistercian
monk, was a sliver o ivory within his hooded cloak. His wounds
o ace and body, inficted by those who hate us and call us Pa-pists, were hidden.
We will move on the cathedral soon, Brother Oswald said
in a ragged whisper.
My hand tightened on the side o the gravestone. Within
moments, men sent by King Henry would emerge rom this
dark cathedral carrying a sacred wooden box. And we would be
waiting.
Thomas Becket, archbishop o Canterbury, was murdered
inside that cathedral 368 years ago because he would not sub-
mit to the will o an earthly king. Ater his death, Rome pro-
claimed Becket a saint. His grave became a shrinethe holiest
destination in all o England. But Henry VIII had declared our
revered saint a criminal, stripping his shrine. Tomorrow was the
anniversary o Beckets assassination. Beore the rst valiant pil-
grims arrived, the desecration would have taken place. Kingsmen were at this moment stealing the eretrum, the adorned
box containing the bones o the archbishop. The remains o
Becket would be burned, his ashes scattered to the wind.
It was the nal cruelty rom the king who had already taken
everything rom me and rom all o us who had lived enclosed
and spiritual lives.
I heard the priors prayers rom the side door, said Brother
Oswald. He begged the kings men to be allowed to pray be-
ore they took away the eretrum, and they relented. We shall
go to the street in a ew minutes.
The monk crossed himsel. God will be with us, he said,
a little louder. We do His work tonight. Do not orgetthe
Holy Father will bless us. He has no knowledge o our business
here, but once it is done, all Christendom will give proound
thanks.Not much time remained. Brother Oswald, our leader,
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4 N A N c y b i l y e A u
dropped to his knees and prayed, his hands trembling with er-
vor. Thirteen months ago, when Brother Edmund and I met
him, he was a monk who smiled, suused with hope. BrotherOswald had been turned out o his monastery but was con-
dent hed learn Gods purpose by roaming the land with a dozen
other displaced monks. Weeks ago, I ound him again, this time
ending o blows. There were no more smiles rom Brother
Oswald. But when was the last time I had smiled, or, or that
matter, eaten a meal or slept a night through? I wasnt sure.
A dog barked on the cobbled street between the cemetery
and the cathedral. Its mad cries echoed o the towering cathe-
dral. I hunched over, covering my mouth with my hand so my
warm breath wouldnt orm a white cloud above the tombstone.
Another dog answered, arther down the street. The rst
beast ran toward it, barking ever more rantically. Then they
ran together, through Canterbury, seeking mischie. Their
sounds died away.
Sister Joanna?It was Brother Edmund. Even lit by moonlight, the change
in him startled me. His determination to take this course o ac-
tion several days ago had blessed my riend with a serenity o
purpose. But now his brown eyes fickered with pain.
Are you no longer o a mind to do this? I whispered.
He opened his mouth and then shut it. Is it Sister Win-
ired? I asked. I knew how much he loved his younger sister.
As did Ishe was my closest riend.
He still didnt answer. The others were nishing the Rosary;
the sounds o murmured prayers and clicking beads drited
across the graves.
And youwhat o Arthur? Brother Edmund nally said.
I looked down at Brother Bartholomeuss tombstone. I
didnt want Brother Edmund to see my eyes, earing he would
read my thoughts. For it wasnt Arthur, the orphaned boy whodepended on me, who had leaped into my mind but a grown
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T H e c H A l i c e 5
man. I could see the angry ace o Georey Scovill and hear his
words once more: Youre a ool, Joanna. What youre doing is
madnessand it will change nothing.I I were killed here, tonight, on the streets o Canterbury,
it would ree Georey, the constable who had helped me time
and again. Our bond, so raught or so long, would be severed
and he could begin a new lie. He was twenty-nine years old,
two years older than I. Not quite young, but not old either. This
was a selfess goal. I should have taken strength rom it, and yet
I elt quite the opposite. My belly leaped and tumbled; I was so
dizzy I had to rest my orehead against the gravestone.
It is time, brothersand sister, said Brother Oswald. The
others stepped out rom behind monuments. Brother Edmund
moved orward with determination. I pushed o rom the grave
marker with one handclutching my sharp stone with the
otherand took my place in the line moving slowly toward the
street.
The gate creaked as our leader pushed it open and slippedthrough.
One o the monks cried, Theyre coming out! Lights
moved deep inside the cathedral.
There was a loud clattering o hooves on the narrow cobbled
street, and a single man on horseback appeared. I recognized
his green-and-white livery as Tudor colors. He was a kings
soldierhe must have been stationed outside while the oth-
ers charged into the cathedral. He pulled up on his horse and
stared at us, arrayed beore him in an uneven line.
One o the monks next to me hissed. It was taken up by
another. Then another.
The soldier finched in his saddle; his mouth dropped open.
He was young, I could see that now. Eighteen at the most. In
our long tattered cloaks and robes, hissing at him, we must have
seemed terriying wraiths.He shook the reins and kicked the side o his horse, to re-
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6 N A N c y b i l y e A u
turn to the ront o the cathedral and doubtless warn the other
soldiers. Brother Oswald scrambled ater him, and his ollowers
went with him.Brother Edmund looked at them and then at me, torn.
Go, go, go, I choked. Dont tarry.
I pushed Brother Edmund away rom me with all my
strength. To my relie, he went. But I couldnt ollow. My legs
were rozen. The moon spun slowly in the sky.
A distant door opened with a thud and men cried out. I
could hear it all, the noises boomed rom the ront o the ca-
thedral, but I couldnt see anything. A noise pulsed in my ears.
It was like the roaring sea. Snow came down aster, in stinging
gusts. I stuck out my tongue to taste the fakesId do any-
thing to stave o ainting.
I staggered to the wall o Canterbury Cathedral. How could
I be struck down by such weakness? This was what was sup-
posed to happenand my place in it was critical.
What youre doing is madnessand it will change nothing.I kept hearing the words, scornul yet pleading, o Georey
Scovill. It was as i he sapped my strength rom miles away.
Frustrated, I grabbed the bricks to pull mysel along the wall. I
had to ght alongside Brother Edmund and the others. No mat-
ter the consequences, Id nally determined to do this, to stop
hiding rom the uture.
I dragged mysel to the end o the wall.
Two resh torches blazed on either side o the entranceway.
Cowering in the doorway was the plump prior, his hands cup-
ping his shiny ace. He had no idea o our plans tonight, any
more than he had o the royal mission to dele Beckets shrine.
It had been easy or the soldiers to despoil the cathedral. That
was one thing that always worked in King Henrys avor: the
paralysis o the aithul, our inability to resist the destruction
o our aith because we couldnt believe this could actually behappening to us. Until tonight. Each o us had sworn to take
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T H e c H A l i c e 7
control o our destiny by trusting in God that this was what God
wanted us to do. It did not matter whether we survived. Only
whether we succeeded.In ront o the prior stood our o the kings soldiers. I had
expected more than this. One man carried a long boxthe
reretum. The others charged down the steps, to conront the
monks, who ormed a semicircle on the street.
Brother Oswald thundered: In the name o the Holy Fa-
ther, I command you to cease your desecration. His hood ell
back. In the torchlight his albino skin glowed like an advent
candle o purest white wax.
I was accustomed to Brother Oswalds pallor, but the sight o
him had a terriying eect on the soldiers. One o them cried,
Gods blood, what is he?
My attention was drawn to the aged box, gripped by a kings
soldier. Within seconds, my dizziness evaporated. A ery rage
surged through me, singeing every inch o my body. Everything
Id been told in London was truethe night beore the an-niversary, the kings men were secretly removing the holy re-
mains.
I could not let them dele the bones o Saint Thomas.
Gripping my rock in my right hand, I scrambled up the rst
two steps o Canterbury Cathedral.
This is the city where it began, I thought as I raced to the door.
And this is the city where it will end.
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PArT onE
TEn yEArs EArLIEr
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1
CAnTErBury
sEPTEmBEr 2 5, 1528
Beore the lash o the wind drew blood, beore I elt it rstmove through the air, our horses knew that something wascoming.
I was seventeen, and I had made the long journey down to
Canterbury rom my home, Staord Castle. At the beginning o
each autumn my ather traveled to London to attend to amily
business, but he had not wanted me or my mother to accom-
pany him. A bout o sweating sickness struck the South that
summer and he eared wed lose our lives to the lingering reach
o that disease. My mother would not be dissuaded. She told
him she eared or my lie i I did not take the healing waters at
a bath she knew o in Canterbury, to cure me o melancholia.
Once in London, my ather remained in our house on the
Strand, seeing to business, while we rode on with two servantsto Canterbury. The day ater we arrived, my mother, greatly
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1 2 N A N c y b i l y e A u
excited, took me to the shore overlooking the sea. But when
we reached it, and I gazed or the rst time at those churning
gray waves, my mothers temper changed. She had not seen thesea hersel since coming to England rom Spain at ourteen as a
maid o honor to Katherine o Aragon. Ater a ew moments o
silence, she began to weep. Her tears deepened into wrenching
sobs. I did not know what to say, so I said nothing. I touched
her shoulder and a moment later she stopped.
The third day in Canterbury I was taken to be healed.
Below a tall house on a ashionable street stretched an ancient
grotto. We walked down a set o stairs, and then two stout
young women lowered me into the stone bath. It brimmed with
pungent water bubbling up rom a spring. I sat in it, motion-
less. Every so oten, I could make out strange colors beneath
the surging water: bright reddish brown and a deep blue-gray.
Mosaics, we were told.
A Roman built this bath, explained the woman who ad-
ministered the treatment. There was a orum in the city, tem-ples, even theaters. Everything was leveled by the Saxons, but
below ground its still here. A city below the city.
The bath mistress turned my head, this way and that. How
do you eel, mistress? Stronger? She so wanted to please us.
Outside London and the ranks o the nobility, it was not known
how much our amily lost in the all o the Duke o Bucking-
ham, my athers eldest brother. He was executed ater being
alsely accused o high treason, and nearly all Staord land was
seized by the Crown. Here, in a Canterbury bath, we were mis-
taken or people o importance.
I eel better, I murmured. The woman smiled with pride.
I glanced over at my mother. She reolded her hands in her lap.
I had not ooled her.
The next morning, I expected to begin the journey back to
London. But while I was in bed, my mother lay next to me. Sheturned on her side and ran her ngers through my hair, as she
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T H e c H A l i c e 1 3
used to when I was a child. We had the same black tresses. Her
hair thinned later onin truth, it ell out in patchesbut she
never grayed. Juana, Ive made arrangements to see a youngnun, she said.
There was nothing surprising about her making such a plan.
In Spain, my mothers amily spent as much time as possible
with nuns and monks and riars. They visited the abbeys that
dotted the hills o Castile, to pray in the churches, bow to the
holy relics, or meditate through the night in austere cells. The
religious houses near Staord Castle could not compare. Not a
single mystic within a days ride o here, shed moan.
As we readied ourselves, my mother told me about Sister
Elizabeth Barton. The Benedictine nun had an unusual story.
Just two years earlier shed worked as a servant or the stew-
ard o the Archbishop o Canterbury. She ell ill and or weeks
lay senseless. She woke up healedand her rst question was
about a child who lived nearby who had also sickened, but only
ater Elizabeth Barton lost consciousness. There was no wayshe could have known o it. From that day on, she was aware o
things happening in other rooms, in other houses, even miles
away. Archbishop Warham sent men to examine her and they
concluded that her gits were genuine. It was decided that this
young servant should take holy vows and so be protected rom
the world. The Holy Maid o Kent now resided in the priory o
Saint Sepulchre, but she sometimes granted audiences to those
with pressing questions.
Her prayers could be meaningul, my mother said, push-
ing my hair behind my ears. There was a time when meeting
such a person would have intrigued me. But I elt no such an-
ticipation. With our maids help, I silently dressed.
When I rst let the household o Queen Katherine over a
year ago, I would not speak to anyone. I wept or I lay in bed, my
arms wrapped around my body. My mother had to orce oodinto me. Everyone attributed it to the shock o the kings re-
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1 4 N A N c y b i l y e A u
quest or an annulmentthe queen, devastated, wailed loudly;
the tall, urious monarch stormed rom the room. This hap-
pened on the rst day I entered service, to be a maid o honorto the blessed queen, as my mother had beore me. The annul-
ment was without question a rightening scandal.
But, rom the beginning, my mother had suspected some-
thing else. She must have pressed me or answers a hundred
times. I never, ever considered telling her or my ather the truth.
It was not just my intense shame. George Boleyn bragged that
he was a avored courtier. His sister Anne was the beloved o
the king. I my ather, a Staord, knew the truththat Boleyn
had violently touched me, his hand clapped over my mouth,
and would have raped me had he more timethere is no orce
on earth that could have prevented him rom trying to kill
George Boleyn. As or my mother, the blood o ancient Spanish
nobility, she would be even more erocious in her revenge. To
protect my parents, I said nothing. I blamed mysel or what
happened. I would not ruin my parents livesand those o therest o the Staord amilybecause o that stupidity.
By the time summer ended in 1527, a certain dullness
overtook me. I welcomed this reprieve rom tumultuous emo-
tion, but it worried my mother. She could not believe Id lost
interest in books and music, once my principal joys. I spent
the ollowing monthsthe longest winter o my liedriting
in a gray expanse o nothing. The apothecary summoned to
Staord Castle diagnosed melancholia, but the barber-surgeon
said no, my humors were not aligned and I was too phlegmatic.
Each diagnosis called or conficting remedy. My mother ar-
gued with them both. When spring came, she decided to trust
her own instincts in nursing me. I did regain my health but
never all o my spirits. My Staord relatives approved o the
quieter, docile JoannaId always been a headstrong girlbut
my mother retted.That morning in Canterbury, when wed nished dressing,
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T H e c H A l i c e 1 5
my mother declared we had no need o servants. The priory o
Saint Sepulchre was not ar outside the city walls.
Our maid was plainly glad to be ree o us or a ew hours.The manservant was a dierent matter. Sir Richard said I was
to stay by your side at all times, he said.
And I am telling you to occupy yoursel in some other
way, my mother snapped. Canterbury is an honest city, and I
know the way.
The manservant aimed a look o hatred at her back. As much
as they loved my ather, the castle sta loathed my mother. She
was dicultand she was oreign. The English distrusted all
oreigners, and in particular imperious emales.
It was a air day, warmer than expected or the season. We
took the main road leading out o the city. Majestic oaks lined
each side. A low brick wall surrounded Canterbury, most likely
built by the Romans all those centuries ago.
As we neared the wall, my horse stopped dead. I shook
the reins. But instead o starting up again, he shimmied side-ways, edging o the road. I had never known my horseor any
horseto move in this way.
My mother turned around, her ace a question. But just at
that moment, her horse gave her trouble as well. She brandished
the small whip she always carried.
The winds came then. I managed to get my horse back onto
the road, but he was still skittish. The wind blew his mane back
so violently, it was like a hard ringe snapping at my ace. By
this time, we had managed to reach the gap in the wall where
the road spilled out o Canterbury. All the trees swayed and
bent, even the oaks, as i paying homage to a harsh master.
Madre, we should go back. I had to shout to be heard over
the roar.
No, we go on, Juana, she shouted. Her black Spanish
hood rose and fapped around her head, like a horned halo. Wemust go on.
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1 6 N A N c y b i l y e A u
I ollowed my mother to the priory o Saint Sepulchre.
Dead brush hurtled over the ground. A brace o rabbits
streaked across the road, and my horse backed up, whinnying.It took all my strength on the reins to prevent him rom bolt-
ing. Ahead o me, my mother turned and pointed at a building
to the let.
I never knew what struck me. My mother later said it was
a branch, careening wildly through the air. All I knew was the
pain that clawed my cheek, ollowed by a thick spreading wet-
ness.
I would have been thrown but or a bearded man who
emerged rom the windstorm and grabbed the reins. The man
helped me down and into a small stone gatehouse. My mother
was already inside. She called out her gratitude in Spanish. The
man dampened a cloth, and she cleaned the blood o my ace.
Its not a deep cut, thank the Virgin, my mother said, and
instructed me to press the cloth hard on my skin.
How much arther to the priory? I asked.We are at Saint Sepulchre now, this man is the porter, she
said. Its just a ew steps to the main doors.
The porter escorted us to the long stone building. The wind
blew so strong that I eared Id be sent fying through the air,
like the broken branch. The porter shoved open tall wooden
doors. He did not stayhe said he must see to the saety o our
horses. Seconds later, I heard the click o a bolt on the other
side o the door.
We were locked inside Saint Sepulchre.
I knew little o the lie o a nun. Friars, who had reedom o
movement, sometimes visited Staord Castle. I had not given
thought to the meaning o enclosure. Nuns, like monks, were
intended to live apart rom the world, or prayer and study.
That much I knew. But now I also began to grasp that enclo-
sure might require enorcement.There was one high window in the square room. The wind
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T H e c H A l i c e 1 7
beat against the glass with untamed erocity. No candles bright-
ened the dimness. There was no urniture nor any tapestries.
A ramed portrait o a man did hang on the wall. The manwore plain robes; his long white beard rested on his cowl. He
carried a wooden sta. Each corner o the rame was embel-
lished with a carving o a leaed branch.
My mother gasped and clutched my arm. With her other,
she pointed at a dark orm foating toward us rom the ar end o
the room. A ew seconds later we realized it was a woman. She
wore a long black habit and a black veil, and so had melted into
the darkness. As she drew nearer, I could see she was quite old,
with large, pale blue eyes.
I am Sister Anne, I welcome you to the priory o Saint
Sepulchre, she said.
My mother, in contrast to the nuns gentle manner, spoke
in a loud, nervous tumble, her hands in motion. We were ex-
pected, she said. A visitation had been granted with Sister Eliz-
abeth Barton, the storm roughened our journey, and Id beenslightly injured, but we expected to go orward. Sister Anne
took it all in with perect calm.
The prioress will want to speak with you, she said, and
turned back the way she came, to lead us. We ollowed her
down a passageway even darker than the room wed waited in.
The nun must have been at least sixty years o age, yet she
walked with youthul ease.
There were three doors along the hall. Sister Anne opened
the last one on the let and ushered us into another dim, empty
room.
But where is the prioress? demanded my mother. As Ive
told you, Sister, we are expected.
Sister Anne bowed and let. I could tell rom the way my
mother pursed her lips she was unhappy with how wed been
treated thus ar.In this room stood two wooden tables. One was large, with
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1 8 N A N c y b i l y e A u
a bench behind it. The other was narrow, pushed against a wall.
I noticed the foor was reshly swept and the walls showed no
stains o age. The priory might have been modest, but it wasscrupulously maintained.
How is your cut? my mother asked. She lited the cloth
and peered at my cheek. The bleeding has stopped. Does it
still hurt?
No, I lied.
I spotted a book mounted on the narrow table and de-
cided to inspect it more closely. The leather cover was domi-
nated by a gleaming picture o a robed man with a white
beard, holding a stasimilar to the portrait in the ront
chamber but more detailed. The beatic pride o his expres-
sion, the olds o his brown robe, the clouds soaring above
his headall were rendered in rich, dazzling colors. Running
along the square border o the mans picture was an inter-
twined branch: thin with slender green leaves. With great
care, I opened the book. It was written in Latin, a languageI had dedicated mysel to since I was eight years old. The Life
of Saint Benedict of Nursia, read the title. Underneath was his
span o lie: AD 480 to 543. There was a black bird below the
dates, holding a loa o bread in its beak. I turned another
page and began to absorb the story. Underneath a picture
o a teenage boy in the tunic o a Roman, it said that Saint
Benedict orsook his amilys wealth, choosing to leave the
city where he was raised. Another turn showed him alone,
surrounded by mountains.
Id been concentrating so closely that I didnt hear my
mother until she stood right next to me. Ah, the ounder o
the Benedictines, she said. She pointed at the branches that
stretched across the border o each page. The olive branch is
so lovely; its the symbol o their order.
My nger roze on the page. I realized that or the rst timesince last May, when I submitted mysel to the profigate court
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T H e c H A l i c e 1 9
o Henry VIII, I elt true curiosity. Was it the violent orce o
the windhad it ripped the lassitude rom me? Or had I been
awakened by this spare, humble priory and the dazzling beautyo this, its precious object?
The door opened. A woman strode into the room. She was
younger than the rst nunclose in age to my mother. Her ace
was sharply sculpted, with high cheekbones.
I am the prioress, Sister Philippa Jonys.
My mother leaped orward and seized the prioresss hand to
kiss it and go down on one knee. It was not only theatricality:
I knew that in Spain, deep obeisance was paid to the heads o
holy houses. But the prioresss eyes widened at the sight o my
prostrate mother.
Pulling her hand ree, the prioress said, I regret to hear o
your mishap. We are a Benedictine house, sworn to hospitality,
and will oer you a place o rest until you are ready to resume
your journey.
My mother sputtered, But we are here to see Sister Eliz-abeth Barton. It was arranged. I corresponded with Doctor
Bocking while still at Staord Castle.
I stared at my mother in surprise. My impression had been
that the trip to Saint Sepulchre was spontaneous, arranged in
Canterbury or London at the earliest. I began to comprehend
that the healing waters served as an excuse to get us here. Com-
ing to Saint Sepulchre, without servants to observe us, was her
purpose.
I have not been inormed o this visitation, and nothing
occurs here without my approval, the prioress said.
Most would be intimidated by such a rebu. Not Lady Isa-
bella Staord.
Doctor Bocking, the monk who I understand is the spiri-
tual advisor o Sister Elizabeth, wrote to me granting permis-
sion, my mother said. I would have brought his letter as proo,but I did not expect that the wie o Sir Richard Staordand
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2 0 N A N c y b i l y e A u
a lady-in-waiting to the queen o Englandcould be disbe-
lieved.
The prioress clutched the leather belt that clinched herhabit. This is a priory, not the court o the king. Sister Eliza-
beth is a member o our community. We have six nuns at Saint
Sepulchre.Six. There is much work to be done, earthly respon-
sibilities as well as spiritual. These visits rob Sister Elizabeth o
her health. Will this harvest be better? Will I marry again?
She cannot spend all o her time with such pleadings.
I am not here to inquire about harvests, snapped my
mother.
Then why are you here?
With a glance at me, my mother said, My daughter has not
been well or some time. I I knew what course to takewhat
her uture might hold
Mama, no, I interrupted, horried. We were ordered
by Cousin Henry never to solicit prophecy, ater the Duke o
BuckinghamsBe silent, scolded my mother. This is not o the same
import.
There was a tap on the door, and Sister Anne reappeared.
Sister Elizabeth said she will see the girl named Joanna
now, the elderly nun murmured.
Did you tell her o these guests? demanded the prioress.
Sister Anne shook her head. The prioress and nun stared at
each other. A peculiar emotion throbbed in the air.
My mother did not notice it. Please, without urther delay,
show us the way to Sister Elizabeth, she said, triumphant.
Sister Anne bowed her head. Forgive me, Lady Staord,
but Sister Elizabeth said she will see the girl Joanna alone. And
that she must come o her own ree will and unconstrained.
But I dont want to see her at all, I protested.
My mother took me by the shoulders. Her ace was fushed;I eared she was close to tears. Oh, you must, Juana, she said.
Por favor. Ask her what is to be done. Sister Elizabeth has a
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T H e c H A l i c e 2 1
git, a vision. Only she can guide us. I cant cope with this any-
more all alone.I cant.
I had not realized how much my spiritual afiction troubledmy mother. Her suering lled me with remorse. I would go to
this strange young nun. The visit should be brie; I intended to
ask ew questions.
The prioress and Sister Anne spoke together, in hushed
tones, or another minute. Then the prioress beckoned or me
alone to ollow.
She led me down the passageway, through the ront en-
tranceway, and down another dim corridor. Following her, I
thought o how the elegance o her movements contrasted with
the ladies Id grown up with. Hers was certainly not movement
calculated to draw admiration. It was grace that derived rom
simplicity and economy o movement.
I also tried to plan how I could speak to Sister Elizabeth
Barton without disobeying the command o Lord Henry Sta-
ord, my cousin and head o the amily. It had been the proph-ecy o a riar, much distorted, that was the basis or arresting
my uncle, the Duke o Buckingham. During the trial, he was
charged with seeking to learn the uturehow long would
Henry VIII live and would he produce sonsso that the duke
could plot to seize the throne. Aterward, my cautious cousin,
his son, said repeatedly that none o the amily could ever
have anything to do with prophecy. My ather agreedhe
harbored a personal distaste or seers, witches, and necroman-
cers. It was one o the many ways in which he diered rom
my mother.
The prioress rapped on a door, gently. She hesitated, her
eyebrows urrowing, and then she opened it and we stepped
inside.
This room was tiny, as small as a servants. A lone gure sat
in the middle o the foor, slumped over, her back to us. Therewas no window. Two candles that burned on either side o the
door provided the only light.
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2 2 N A N c y b i l y e A u
Sister Elizabeth, will you attend Vespers later? asked the
prioress.
The gure nodded but did not turn around. The prioresssaid to me, I shall be back shortly, and gestured or me to
step orward.
I edged inside. The prioress closed the door.
Sister Elizabeth Barton wore the same black habit as the
others. She didnt turn around. I elt awkward. Unwanted. The
minutes crept by.
Its a wind that brings no rain, said a young voice.
Indeed, Sister, I said, relieved that she spoke. There
wasnt any rain. But a second later I wondered how she knew
anything about the elements without a window in the room.
Another nun must have told her, I concluded. Just as someone
told her my namethe monk Doctor Bocking, perhaps. I did
not believe that she possessed the powers my mother spoke o.
Although ercely devout, I held closer to the spirit o my prag-
matic ather in such matters.White hands reached out and Sister Elizabeth turned her-
sel around, slowly, sitting on the foor. This nun was but a girl,
and so rail looking. She had a long ace, with a sloping chin.
As she gazed up at me, sadness lled her eyes.
I did not know you would be so young, she whispered.
I am seventeen, I said. You look to be the same age.
I am twenty-two, she said, and continued: You have in-
telligence, piety, strength, and beauty. And noble blood. All the
things I lack. There was no envy. It was as i she mulled a list
o goods to be purchased at market.
Ignoring her assessment o me, which I ound embarrassing,
I asked, How can you say you lack piety when you are a sister
o Christ?
God chose me, she said. I was a servant, o no impor-
tance in the world. He chose me to speak the truth. I have nochoice. I must submit to His will. For you it is dierent. You
have a true spiritual calling.
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T H e c H A l i c e 2 3
Sister Elizabeth Barton was conused. I am not a nun, I
said.
She rowned, as i she were responding to someone elsesvoice. She slowly rose to her eet. She was spare and small, at
least three inches shorter than me.
Yes, the two cardinals are coming, she said. It will be
within the month. They will pass through on the way to Lon-
don. I will have to try to speak to them. I must nd the courage
to go beore all the highest and most powerul men in the land.
My mother had said nothing o Sister Elizabeth leaving
Saint Sepulchre to go beore the powerul. Why would you do
that? I asked.
To stop them, she said.
I was torn. A part o me was curious, but another, larger, part
was growing uneasy. There was nothing malevolent about this
ragile nun, yet her words made me uncomortable.
At last the curious part won. Whom must you stop, Sister?
I asked. The cardinals?She shook her head and took two steps toward me. You
know, Joanna.
No, Sister Elizabeth, I dont.
Your mother wants to know your utureshould she marry
you o in the country to someone who will take you with meager
dowry, or try to return you to the court o the king? Your true vo-
cation leaps in her ace, but she cannot see. Poor woman. She has
no notion o what she has set in motion by bringing you to me.
How could the Holy Maid o Kent know so much o my
amily? Yet I said, nervously, Sister, I dont know what you are
talking about.
Her lower lip trembled. When the cow doth ride the bull,
then priest beware thy skull, she said.
My stomach clenched. At last, I had heard a prophecy.
Those are not my words, Sister Elizabeth continued.They come rom the lips o Mother Shipton. Do you know o
her?
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2 4 N A N c y b i l y e A u
I shook my head.
Born in a cave in Yorkshire, she said, her words coming
ast. A girl without a athera bastard o the north. Hated andscorned by all. Not just or deormity o ace but or the power
o her words. Crone, they call her. Witch. It is so wretched to
know the truth, Joanna. To see things no one else can see. To
have to try to stop evil beore it is too late.
What sort o evil? The instant I asked the question, I
regretted it.
Again the nuns lower lip trembled. Her eyes gleamed with
tears.
The Boleyns, she said.
I stumbled back and hit the stone wall, hard. I elt behind
me or the door. I hadnt heard the prioress lock it. I would nd
a way out o this room. I must.
Oh, youre so rightened, orgive me, she wailed, tears
spattering her ace. I dont want this ate or you. I know that
youve already been touched by the evil. I will try my hardest,Joanna. I dont want you to be the one.
The one? I repeated, still eeling or the door.
Sister Elizabeth stretched her arms wide, her palms acing
the ceiling. You are the one who will come ater, she said.
The gravity o her words, coupled with the way she spread
her hands, chilled me to the marrow.
Sister Elizabeth opened her mouth, as i to say something
else, and then shut it. Her ace turned bright red. But in a fash,
the red drained away, leaving her skin ashen. I looked at the
candles. How could a person change color in such a manner?
But the candles burned steadily.
Are you unwell, Sister? I said. Shall I seek help?
She shook her head, violently, but not to say no to me. Her
head, her arms, her legsevery part o her shook. Her tongue
bobbed in and out o her mouth. Ater less than a minute othis, her knees gave way and she collapsed.
It hurts, she moaned, writhing on her back. It hurts.
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T H e c H A l i c e 2 5
I will get you help, I said.
No, no, no, she said, her voice a hoarse stammer. Joanna
Staord . . . hear me. I . . . beg . . . you.Fighting down my terror, I knelt on the foor beside her. A
trail o white oam eased out o her gaping mouth. She thrashed
and coughed; I thought she would lose consciousness. But she
didnt.
I see abbeys crumbling to dust, she said. The choking
and thrashing ended. Incredibly, the voice o Sister Elizabeth
Barton boomed strong and clear. I see the blood o monks
spilled across the land. Books are destroyed. Statues toppled.
Relics deled. I see the greatest men o the kingdom with
heads struck o. The common olk will hang, even the chil-
dren. Friars will starve. Queens will die.
Rocking back and orth, I moaned, No, no, no. This cant
be.
You are the one who will come ater, she said, her voice
stronger still. I am the rst o three seers. I I ail, you must gobeore the second and then the third, to receive the ull proph-
esy and learn what you must do. But only o your own ree will.
Ater the third has prophesied, nothing can stop it, Joanna Sta-
ord.Nothing.
But I cant, I cried. I cant do anything. Im no oneand
Im too araid.
In a voice so loud it echoed in her cell, Sister Elizabeth said,
When the raven climbs the rope, the dog must soar like the
hawk. When the raven climbs the rope, the dog must soar like
the hawk.
The door few open. The prioress and Sister Anne hurried
to the allen nun, kneeling beside her. Sister Elizabeth Barton
said just two words more, beore the prioress pried open her jaw
and Sister Anne pushed in a rag. She turned her head, to nd
me with her erce eyes, and then she spoke.The chalice . . .
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2
dArTford
oCToBEr 2, 1538
On a dismal Tuesday night, ten years ater that visit to theseer and two months beore the desperate mission to Can-terbury, I lay sleepless in my bed. I mourned the past and wor-
ried or the uture, but without any conception o what was to
come. The events o the ollowing day would set me once more
on the path to prophecy that Sister Elizabeth Barton warned o
long ago. But as I stared at the ceiling, there was only one thing
predictable: the depth o the next days mud.
The rain began hard on midnight, hours ater I crept into
bed. It was a ne bed: a mattress placed on a board, propped up
on our short wooden legs. By any measure, it was more com-
ortable than my old bed at Dartord Priory, a straw-stued pal-
let laid on the stone foor o the novice dormitory. We slept in
stretches there: Ater Vespers we rested or a ew hours, thenawoke to the bells calling us to Matins, at midnight. Ater that
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T H e c H A l i c e 2 7
observance, wed return to our dormitories, to sleep until the
pealing o the bells announced Lauds.
Now there was nothing to disturb me between sunset andsunrise, yet sleep eluded me as it had so many nights beore.
I listened to the rain and to the light snoring o Arthur, on the
other side o the small room.
With you, Arthur will be sae, my ather said to me last
winter. Hed come to plead with me to take care o Arthur, then
our years old, the only son o my cousin Margaret. She was
gone, and my ather soon ollowed, his health broken by his im-
prisonment in the Tower and the other horrors o the past year.
To all o England, Margaret Bulmerthe bastard daughter
o my uncle the Duke o Buckinghamwas an inamous trai-
tor, burned at the stake at Smitheld or her part in the Pilgrim-
age o Grace. But to me she was the trusted companion o my
childhood. I would never regret going to Smitheld, breaking
the rule o enclosure o my Dominican Order, to stand by Mar-
garet. O course I would protect and care or her son. And Iwould never reveal to a living soul the truth o his birththat
he was not the child o Margarets husband.
Id always ound it a soothing sound, the drumming o rain
on windows, both at Staord Castle and at Dartord Priory. And
why not? The elements never impeded me. Beore Arthur, I
spent most o the hours o the day inside.
But now I was at the mercy o the elements. Only vigorous
play kept Arthur occupied: running and climbing and digging
and tossing balls. As the rain grew stronger, a dread took hold o
what the next day would bring. How could I cope with Arthur i
a rainstorm trapped us inside? Id need all my strength to man-
age him . . . yet the sleepless minutes stretched into hours. My
thoughts coiled round and round in my head.
We must not submit to sel-pity, Brother Edmund oten
said. He was correct. But it wasnt quite sel-pity that plaguedme. It was my inability to understand why God allowed this
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2 8 N A N c y b i l y e A u
to happen: the dissolution o the monasteries, the end o our
way o lie. I had been told over and over to submit to the will
o Christ Our Lord. To my shame, I ound that very dicult.More than anything else, I elt lost.
Finally, merciully, a sodden exhaustion silenced the ques-
tions and I ound sleep.
It was Arthurs rm shake o a shoulder that woke me, just
ater dawn.
Joannahungry.
As weary as I was, the sound o Arthurs halting voicehe
did not speak as well as most ve-year-oldsand the sight o
his round, handsome ace heartened me. I pulled mysel rom
bed, dressed him in his childs gown, and led him downstairs,
his warm little hand clutching mine.
I lit a re in our kitchen and sliced the bread. I discovered
most o the cheese had gone rancid but managed to nd a de-
cent slice or Arthur. My serving girl, Kitty, oten orgot to store
ood properly in our tiny larder. I was her rst employer. Shelived with her parents nearby and came in most aternoons to
sweep, wash our clothes and linen, churn and cook. None o
it was done well. But she was kind and needed money and I
sought to help. Arthur was gobbling his second piece o bread
when a knock sounded on the ront door.
Sister Bea! he crowed.
Into my home slid Sister Beatrice, shaking the rain o her
cloak. Droplets clung to her long blond eyelashes. Shed been a
novice beore me and away rom the priory or more than a year,
but returned as a lay sister a ew months beore its closing. Now,
like mysel, she was in limbo: a woman orced rom a religious
lie but not o a mind and spirit to embrace the secular world.
As Arthur reached up to hug her waist, Sister Beatrice gave
her usual smile, a curve o her lip without the showing o teeth.
She was a woman sparing o words. Id not seen a blush on herwhite skin nor anger in those slanted green eyes.
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T H e c H A l i c e 2 9
As I handed her a hunk o bread, she took a long look at me.
I suspect my near-sleepless night had let my ace a misery. But
she didnt make inquiry. Neither o us meddled in the otherstroubles or secrets.
Ill be dressed in a moment, I said, or I was still in my
nightclothes.
Ater you return rom Mass, shall we all go to the Building
Oce? she asked. Sister Beatrice looked ater Arthur while I
attended Mass, or he simply could not keep silent in church.
In an instant my torpor ell away. Oh, yes, Id orgotten.
Its the rst Wednesday o the month. Hurrah! I danced with
Arthur through the kitchen. He laughed so hard that bits o
hal-chewed bread few through the air.
Today was the day to secure my tapestry loom.
At the priory, wed woven tapestries, exquisite silk ones.
They were sold to hang on castle walls. Each one told a story
based on ancient myths or parables in Scripture. Novices had
been expected to weave or at least three hours a day, when thelight was strongest. My mother personally trained me in needle-
work and, although tapestry work was very dierentwe sat at
a large wooden loom, sometimes pressing oot pedalsI took
to it at once.
Four months ago, Id had the idea to continue the tradi-
tion o Dartord tapestry-making as a private enterprise. The
challenge was securing a loom, since o course the priorys was
carted away at our dissolution, as was every other object we pos-
sessed. Such looms were not even constructed in England, so
I ordered one rom Brussels, the center o tapestry production
or all o Christendom, and arranged to have it shipped rom the
Low Countries to Dartord. It was no simple matter, because o
all the trade diculties, but I managed it. The rst Wednesday
o the month was the day when new imported goods were dis-
tributed to waiting customers, at the building oce.I raced up the stairs to dress, wriggling into my kirtle and
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3 0 N A N c y b i l y e A u
pinning up my thick black hair. I pulled my cleanest white
hood over my hair.
I kissed Arthur on his cheek and scrambled out the door,calling over my shoulder, Be ready by the time I return. I shall
bring reinorcements!
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