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Also by NANcy bilyeAu

The Crown


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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.

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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

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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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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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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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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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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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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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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.


22/37


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


23/37


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


24/37


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


25/37


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


26/37


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


27/37


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.


28/37


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.


29/37


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?


30/37


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.


31/37


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 . . .


32/37

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


33/37


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


34/37


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.


35/37


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


36/37


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!


37/37

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