“I knew that Eleanor of Castile first promoted our existence. Queen Katherine’s mother was Castilian. It made perfect sense to me—the Dominicans originated
in Spain, and Queen Katherine was of Spain. Dartford is the only Dominican nunnery in England.”
“What did the prioress make of the queen’s desire for you to take vows at Dartford?”
“I never told her,” I answered.
“Why not?”
I paused, searching for the right words. “To parlay my conversation with the queen in that fashion, with a dying woman, it would seem as if I were trying to draw attention to myself, to put myself in a special light. I wanted to be accepted on my own merits.”
Bishop Gardiner stared at me. “You are an unusual person, Sister Joanna.”
I had no response to that.
Fatigue was returning; my eyelids felt heavy. From a distance I heard him say, “It is a moment worth recording for posterity, when a question like this one is answered.”
“Answered?” I asked dully.
“Yes, I know now that the Athelstan crown exists. And it is at Dartford Priory.”
I struggled against my fatigue. “But the queen must have been confused. It’s not there. I don’t even know what it is. I’ve never heard anyone there say the words
Athelstan crown
. And I was at Dartford for seven months.”
“Katherine of Aragon was an astute and formidable woman, even at the hour of her death. The crown exists. It is carefully hidden and has been for generations. But it won’t be for much longer.”
“Why do you say that?” I asked, full of dread. “Are you going to Dartford Priory?”
A grim laugh from Bishop Gardiner. “With Cromwell’s spies everywhere, watching everything I do? I think not.”
His eyes settled on me.
“No, Sister Joanna, I’m not going to find the Athelstan crown. You are.”
15
I
t’s
not prudent to laugh at a man. And most assuredly not prudent to laugh at Stephen Gardiner, the Bishop of Winchester, who had demonstrated within the past hour that he was no stranger to torture. But what he had said was so absurd, I couldn’t help it.
“Do you think that I can walk into Dartford Priory and start opening drawers—peer into the dark corners?” I asked, breathless. “I broke my vows to go to Smithfield; I have been imprisoned here in the Tower since May. I’m forever disgraced.”
The bishop did not take offense.
“Don’t you want to return . . . to be a novice again?” he asked quietly.
“Even if I did, it would not be possible.”
“Sister Joanna, you insist on underestimating me. I am the Bishop of Winchester. I have only to write the letter to your prioress, and you will be restored without question.”
I shook my head. “The Dominican Order does not answer to an English bishop.”
Now it was his turn to laugh. “All of you, including your prioress, took an Oath of Supremacy, to obey King Henry the Eighth, as head of the Church in England. I am his representative. The Prioress of Dartford has no choice but to submit to me.”
Excitement stirred in my belly at the thought of resuming my life at Dartford.
One heart and one soul seeking God.
Those were the words of Saint Augustine, so many centuries ago, when he founded the first religious community. Prioress Elizabeth repeated them to me that first afternoon, when I sat, nervous, in her office. It was such a simple creed and so true. I heard the singing, smelled the incense clouds, felt the silks in my fingers at the tapestry loom. It was hard to fight down the longing to experience those sensations again.
“I could never do anything to harm my order,” I muttered.
Bishop Gardiner slapped the table. “You still distrust me?”
“There can never be trust between us,” I said. “You had my father
tortured
.”
“I don’t want to hurt anyone,”
he said. “You are the one who forced that encounter. I am doing what I have to do in order to save the monasteries from destruction. I am responsible for thousands of souls.”
“But the king is not proceeding any further,” I said, bewildered. “He suppressed the smaller abbeys and priories, or the ones that had fallen into disarray. But the larger houses—they are safe. My prioress told us that they could
never
be closed down. It’s not possible.”
Bishop Gardiner’s smile was bitter. “Do you think, Sister Joanna, that having added the income of the sale of those small houses, those worth two hundred pounds or less, to the royal treasury, that Master Cromwell will halt? That he does not hunger for the destruction of the larger houses? To gain centuries’ worth of riches at a time when the royal treasury is close to empty?”
I swallowed. Such evil lay beyond my imagination. “But how could finding a crown stop Cromwell and the king, if they be so determined? I don’t even know what it is. A crown of the king’s?”
“No Tudor has ever worn this crown—nor any Plantagenet, for that matter.”
“Is it a relic?” I asked.
Bishop Gardiner smiled, though it was closer to a grimace. “You have a nimble mind, Sister Joanna.” He walked over to the other end of the room. The sunlight pouring through the mullioned window bathed his face.
“It is more than a relic,” he said softly.
“More?” I didn’t understand.
“Cromwell and his minion Richard Rich and the other heretics—they sit in their chambers and make mockery of the holy relics, the shrines, the saints’ days. They call it superstition and work day and night to sweep the Catholic Church away. But the Athelstan crown could not be swept away. It could not be denied. If I had it in my possession, I could put pressure on Cromwell to stop his destruction.”
The bishop tapped his long fingers. I waited. I saw he was struggling with how much to tell me, and I would not hurry him. Near me stood a shelf of newly bound books. I studied the words on their bindings. A handsome new crimson one was engraved with the words
The Prince
.
“There is more to the Athelstan
crown than its place in history,” he said finally. “Recall what Katherine of Aragon said.”
“ ‘The legend is true,’ ” I whispered. “So there is a legend to it?”
The bishop’s face went white. “Yes. And there is prophecy. A prophecy of great reward but not without great risk. It is both blessing and curse. It has a power, Sister Joanna, that has never been unleashed, for if it were, it would change the lives of every man, woman, and child living in England—and beyond.”
My skin prickled with fear.
“Is that why it must be hidden?” I asked.
A sharp banging at the door made us both jump. The bishop laughed a little, laid a hand on my shoulder, as if to steady us both. The touch of his hand made me shudder. He did not notice.
The young lieutenant was at the door.
“Bishop Gardiner, your secretary is here with two friars,” he said.
“Ah, yes!” He turned toward me. “There is much to do. Wait here.”
He shut the door behind him.
For months I’d seen not a single friar, monk, or nun. Curious, I peered outside the window. Bishop Gardiner talked to three men on the green. One, a young priest, clutched documents; I assumed he was the secretary. The two other men wore belted white gowns, covered by black cloaks, hoods gathered at their shoulders: the habit of the Dominican Order. One friar was tall, thin, and fair; the other was stouter and much darker. They both looked to be about thirty years of age—far younger than the decrepit friars I was accustomed to seeing at Dartford Priory. While Bishop Gardiner talked animatedly, his teeth flashing in the sun, they listened, hands folded, heads tilted with respect.
After a time the bishop ushered the friars inside Bell Tower, to the room where I waited.
“This is Sister Joanna Stafford, novice at Dartford Priory,” he said with a grand gesture, as if I were a new painting he’d commissioned.
The two friars looked at me
doubtfully. I wore no novice habit.
The bishop said, “I present to you Brother Edmund.” The fair one bowed his head, with grace. “And Brother Richard.” The dark one bowed slightly. His eyes were cold, speculative.
“You will leave in an hour,” Bishop Gardiner told them. “I am having food brought in for you first. You must eat before the journey.”
The bishop turned toward me. “Dartford is blessed to have the services of these brothers.”
“Dartford?” I cried.
“They have been valued members of the Dominican community at Cambridge, which Cromwell has ordered to be suppressed.” Brother Richard winced at the word
suppressed
. Brother Edmund’s pale face showed no reaction. Gardiner continued: “It has been in the works for some months now, to transfer them to Dartford. Up to now, your priory has housed a few friars from Kings Langley Abbey to officiate over Mass, to manage the sisters’ finances, and to perform other administrative duties. One of the brothers is sick with dropsy, correct?”
I nodded, taken aback that poor old Brother George’s ailment was so widely known.
“He has been recalled to Kings Langley, to Hertfordshire. Brother Richard will take his place as president and steward. Brother Edmund has skills as an apothecary. Your village infirmary will be transformed by him.”
The door behind Bishop Gardiner swung open, and Bess appeared with another maid, carrying trays of food.
“Excellent.” The bishop beamed. “Sister Joanna, it is essential that you eat, too. I calculate your arrival at Dartford at just after sunset, and you can’t be sure of a late meal there.”
I gripped the chair I stood behind. “I am going to Dartford tonight?”
“All three of you are.”
“But the prioress does not know of this.” I sounded panicked.
“A message went by fastest horse ten minutes ago, informing her of your release and that you would be accompanying these good friars,” he said smoothly. “The roads are dry. The message will precede you by two hours. Now, please sit.”
I fell into the chair pulled
up to a table.
Bess laid out food: platters of meat tiles, strips of dried cod, and bread. The rich smell of the tiles—made of chicken, crawfish tail, and almonds—filled the room. Brother Richard fell on it as if it were the first meal he’d consumed in days, while Brother Edmund ate little.
Bess looked around to make sure no one was watching her, and then flashed me an excited smile. To her, this must be joyous news—not only was I being released but I was also being restored to my former life. I wondered what she’d think if she knew I’d broken a deathbed promise of silence to Queen Katherine of Aragon and agreed to go to Dartford in order to betray a prioress’s trust.
But wait—when had I agreed to anything?
My thoughts churning, I sipped the warm spiced wine Bess had poured and ate a piece of meat tile—I hadn’t tasted anything like this in many months. We had meat only on feast days at Dartford, and then it was meat pudding.
Bishop Gardiner stood at the head of the table and nibbled a cod strip while talking to the friars of Cambridge. He asked for details of a new printing press, then for news of the head of the university. After Brother Richard told a long gossipy story, the bishop threw back his head and laughed, “Ah, how I’ve missed Dominican arrogance.” Brother Richard smiled up at him. Bishop Gardiner seemed very much at ease with the friars. “He favors the old ways,” Charles Howard had told me. No one seeing this would argue it.
I felt someone watching me watch Bishop Gardiner. It was Brother Edmund: his large brown eyes made for an odd contrast with his ash-blond hair. Suddenly, I had a curious feeling of recognition. Had I seen him somewhere before?
Gardiner held up a lettuce leaf and announced, “When I was a boy student, boarded in Paris, Erasmus stayed in the same house for a week. I took it upon myself to help serve him his food. He favored lettuce—how I slaved over it, dressing it with butter and sour wine. He said he had never enjoyed a dish more daintily served.”
Brother Richard drew back in his chair. “And you have no regrets, waiting on Erasmus with such solicitous care?”
Gardiner shook his head. “I know what you’re about to say—that Erasmus lit the torch
that Luther made to blaze. But it’s much more complicated than that.”
There was a noise in the doorway. The lieutenant stood there, glaring at all of us. His eyes lingered on the tonsured heads of the friars. To him, this convivial gathering was something repulsive.
He walked in the room, reluctantly, and thrust a parcel in my hand, then turned on his heel and left. Bishop Gardiner’s narrowed eyes tracked his every move.
The parcel contained the books I’d been given, the tomes of Thomas Aquinas. Something else fell out, too: the purse I’d brought with me to Smithfield, with my small jewels and trinkets. My heart in my throat, I fished out the pendant of Thomas Becket and wrapped it around my wrist.
Bishop Gardiner’s secretary reappeared, and they spoke in low tones, at the other corner of the room, as the friars finished their meal.
Bess was clearing dishes from the table, placing them on her wooden tray, when I pulled on her sleeve. I slipped the purse containing the jewels onto her tray. Bess looked at it and then at me, her face a question.
“Remember me,” I whispered.
“The Virgin Mary will protect you,” Bess whispered back. I watched her strong, solid back retreat from the room and knew I could never forget her.
Bishop Gardiner took charge. The friars were ushered out by his secretary, to be taken to a waiting wagon. I would follow, he said, after a few final words. He drew me into the corner of the room where he’d whispered with his secretary.
“Be careful how you proceed, Sister Joanna,” he said. “You must use subtlety to ascertain location. Do not draw attention to yourself with obvious searching. It is very important you tell no one of my charge. Not your prioress, nor the sisters, nor the friars I send you with. Absolutely no one. Once you learn where the Athelstan crown is located, communicate that to me alone, in writing. You must
not
touch it yourself, not even for an instant. You understand?”
I frowned and said, “We are not permitted to write letters or receive them except by permission of the prioress, who may read all correspondence.”