She thought for a moment, and glanced around us, taking in the stares of the other nuns. I noticed her habit was made of linen, not the coarse wool everyone else wore. When nuns grew very old, they could receive permission to wear fabric softer to the skin.
Finally, she smiled at me again. “Of course, Sister Joanna. Walk with me.”
As soon as we reached the passageway, out of the earshot of the others, I said, “Sister Anne, I am very interested in learning about the earlier days of our priory. I heard Sister Agatha mention the visit to Dartford of Prince Arthur. Were you at Dartford then?”
“I was here, yes.” A sadness flitted across her face. “I am now the only one alive from that time. He came with his mother, Queen Elizabeth, at the end of 1501. He was only fifteen.”
“Did you see the prince yourself?”
“Oh, no. The old queen always met with Sister Bridget in the
locutorium
. When she brought her son and daughter-in-law to visit with Sister Bridget, they remained in that room. They would never enter the cloister.”
My spirits sank. We continued along the passageway, past the lavatory; I could hear the shuffle of the other sisters’ feet behind us.
Sister Anne continued, “There was another sister then who was most anxious to see the prince with her own eyes. What was her name?” She thought for a moment. “Ah, Sister Isabel. She was perhaps unsuited to priory life. She was quite . . . lively. She persuaded the porter to allow her into
the front rooms of the priory. She told me that she saw only the back of Prince Arthur as he walked away, toward the front door. He had blond hair, she told me, and his wife, Princess Katherine, had red hair.”
Sister Anne laughed softly. I tried to force a smile.
“Sister Isabel had foolish ideas,” she reminisced. “There was something else she said about Prince Arthur’s visit. Something about his disappearing.”
“What?” My voice rang out in the stone passageway. I recovered, and in a lower voice, said, “I would be most interested, Sister Anne, to hear everything about it.”
“I dislike passing on foolishness,” she said. “Especially when it revolves around incorrect behavior.”
With great difficulty, I kept myself from begging her for the story. I did not want to frighten her. We passed the cloister garden; the quince trees bristled in the evening breeze.
To my relief, she picked up the memory again. “Sister Isabel said she was so determined, she made her way to one of the front rooms with windows facing the front lawns and gatehouse, so she would be able to see the royal party leave. She watched the old queen appear, with her ladies-in-waiting. They were taken to their horses and attendants. But the prince and princess did not join her. Sister Isabel saw the queen wave in the direction of the doorway and then depart, so she thought that meant Prince Arthur had decided to stay longer. After a few minutes, Sister Isabel came out to the passageway to find where he was, but she couldn’t. Not the prince or the princess. She said she checked every room in the front of the priory. The porter said he hadn’t seen the royal couple. They hadn’t entered the cloister area, he was certain of that. And during this time, he hadn’t seen Prioress Elizabeth, either.”
Sister Anne and I had reached the archway to the church. The other sisters glanced at us, curious, as they passed. I asked quickly, “So she never saw the prince again?”
“No, but she heard him. She heard him leave. About an hour later, she heard the orders called outside, in the front, for the royal horses. By the time she found a window, the prince and princess were riding away.”
Most of the nuns had filed
into the church, and Sister Anne plainly wanted to follow them. Sister Rachel scowled at me as she walked in, followed by Sister Helen and Sister Agatha. But I had to know it all—now.
“So where was Prince Arthur that day?” I persisted, reaching out for her arm.
Sister Anne pulled away from me, puzzled by my vehemence.
“Please, I beg you, tell me the rest of the story,” I whispered.
With a final shrug, she said, “Sister Isabel told this story to us many times, and she always said the same thing at the end. That there must be a secret room in Dartford. You see? She was very foolish.”
A secret room in Dartford
.
“And Prince Arthur has been dead oh so many years now,” she mused. “So young to die only a few months after coming to Dartford. And of such a strange sickness.” She shook herself out of her reverie, and we took our places in church, she with the oldest, most senior nuns, and myself with the novices.
I missed two of the responses in prayers that night because I was so distracted. If some sort of secret chamber existed, where could it be located? I knew the row of rooms in the front of the priory; they were orderly and sparely furnished. Between the walls? It didn’t seem likely, the prioress squeezing into a narrow hidden chamber, followed by a royal couple. And what happened in that secret room? Did it have something to do with the Athelstan crown? Katherine of Aragon’s dying words rumbled in my head:
“The legend is true. The Athelstan crown. Poor Arthur.”
More and more, I was convinced that to discover the hiding place of the crown I must learn more about King Athelstan. After Vespers, I murmured excuses to Sister Winifred and Sister Christina and darted out of the church.
I scuttled in the opposite direction of the rest of the sisters, toward the passageway leading off the cloister garden to the library. The last light of dusk filtered down. A taper fixed to the stone wall flickered outside the infirmary, but I saw no sign of activity within. Brother Edmund must have retired to the friars’ quarters.
I turned the handle to the library door. To my amazement, it opened. Inside, the room was dark, so I removed the wall taper to better see.
I hurried to the section holding
the books of general interest. Again, I saw the history of the Plantagenets, a collection of maps. But where I had found the dark-brown
From Caractacus to Athelstan,
there was now just a gap. Brother Richard might not have known its correct place, so I searched the entire library, checked every single book.
I couldn’t find it. The book was gone, just like the letter from Prioress Elizabeth to her successor.
It was as if someone knew what I searched for, and was able to move things just out of my reach, moments before.
At that moment, I heard something. Whispering. Right outside the door. I blew out the taper and stood still. The whispering died down. I took a step to the door and heard something else. The patter of feet running along the passageway. Then silence again.
My breaths came fast; I quivered with fear. I had learned just hours ago of a secret room, and now I heard furtive movements. But I couldn’t hide in the library much longer. Sister Eleanor always checked the novice’s room before retiring to her bed. If I were not in my bed, an alarm would be called.
I turned the knob on the door, oh so slowly, and pushed it open a crack. Nothing. The passageway was dark and silent. I crept out of the library and made my way toward the cloister.
Behind me, in the infirmary, I heard it once more. A burst of whispers. And then a girl’s giggle.
The Westerly children!
I stormed into the infirmary, and there they were, huddled near the fire that was no more than dying embers. Harold saw me first and gave a frightened cry, jumping to his feet. Martha threw her little arms around him but broke into giggles when she saw me.
“Hello, Sister Joanna,” said Ethel, the only one who kept calm.
“Children, what are you doing here?” I said. “I know you wish to be near your mother, but to hide in the cloister after dark? It’s completely forbidden.” I looked around the infirmary. “Do you sleep here?”
“Cook let’s us sleep in the pantry,” piped up Martha. “As soon as dawn comes, we hide in the—”
“Shhhhh,” ordered Ethel.
There was a bundle in front of Harold. He tried to edge it out of my sight.
“What’s that you have?”
I demanded.
The trio said nothing.
I reached down and uncovered the bundle. To my surprise, it was a heap of fresh yellow cakes.
“Where did you get these?” I asked.
“Cook made them for us,” said Harold.
Ethel said, “They’re soul cakes. We’re going to give them away in the village tomorrow, on All Hallows’ Eve.”
I winced at her pronouncement of a pagan holiday.
Ethel said defiantly, “When you get a soul cake on All Hallows’ Eve, you are supposed to pray for someone’s soul. It’s the day of the year when the wall is thinnest between the living and the dead. We’ll get lots of villagers to pray for our mother, that she doesn’t die.”
“No, no, no,” I said, upset over her knowledge of druid practices. “In the priory,
we
will pray for your mother, as we always do. God will look after her.”
Little Martha’s lip quivered. “You won’t take our soul cakes away, Sister? You won’t stop us from saving Mother?”
I groaned. How to make them understand?
“Is your father still in London?” I asked.
“He’s still in Southwark,” Harold said.
I heard a faint wheezing breath from the corner. It thickened to a gurgle. Their mother sounded even worse. Harold looked at his sisters and at me, his eyes filling with tears.
I made my decision.
“It’s dark now; you couldn’t make your way safely to town anyway. Get to the pantry, children.”
“You won’t tell on us?” begged Harold.
“Not tonight, but this is
not a
fit solution. I will pray on what to do and say.”
I led the Westerlys out of the infirmary and toward the kitchen pantry. Martha slipped her hand in mine as we walked. Her warm, stubby little fingers gripped mine with surprising force.
I settled them in their forlorn corner, which I now realized was the children’s usual sleeping quarters. They pulled torn blankets out from behind baskets. “Eat the cakes yourselves,” I pleaded. “Don’t use them for prayers. It’s against God’s wishes.”
Martha threw her arms around
my neck. A wet kiss covered my cheek.
“I love you, Sister Joanna,” she said in her singsong voice.
“I love all of you,” I said. My voice broke.
Ethel looked at me, startled.
I pulled Martha’s arms off of my shoulders and backed away. With a final awkward little wave, I left the children behind in the pantry, to make my way to my own novice bed.
23
T
he
next day we lost the sun.
It had been pleasant, this last October week. The afternoon sun warmed the gardens and grounds, caressed the red and orange leaves heaped everywhere. The sisters filled baskets with light-green quince fruit that had ripened in the cloister trees. Most mornings, the sour yet pleasing smell of bonfires drifted in through the windows.
But a cold, fierce wind came before dawn on All Hallows’ Eve. It brought sheets of rain that ripped the last loose leaves from the trees. On an ordinary day at the priory, I would be inside, oblivious of the tempest. But this morning I tucked my letter to Bishop Gardiner into my habit’s sleeve and, with muttered excuses, made my way to the barn. After making sure no one was watching, I trudged to the leper hospital on the northwest edge of priory property, just beyond a hill fringed with tall trees.
I had donned a cloak so my habit would not be soaked through. I could have pulled its hood over my head, but I scorned such protection. I wanted to feel the cold rain on my face. I longed for the wind to sting my eyes.
My mood was wretched. I had written and sealed my letter to the Bishop of Winchester, and it was lamentably short. I relayed that Prioress Elizabeth had died on the morning of my return and that her last communication had gone missing. A story told by our oldest nun suggested that a secret room might exist at Dartford and that, when he visited the priory in 1501, Prince Arthur may have gone to this room. I had no precise knowledge of its location, but the room must be in the front part of the priory, not the cloister. There could be hidden the Athelstan crown. “Suggested . . . may have . . . might . . . could.” I pictured a clerk handing him my letter, and the bishop breaking the seal, impatient
for news, his face darkening with rage after he’d raced through my few sentences.
I reached the top of the hill and paused to take shelter under the trees. A red squirrel darted away from me, upset that I’d penetrated his dry domain within the bushes.
Just below, in a hollow, stood the leper hospital. It had been abandoned before I came to Dartford; I didn’t know when exactly. Twenty years ago? Fifty? One hundred? Half the roof had collapsed. I could see the brown field through a ragged gap in the back wall. Green ivy choked every yawning window; the vines had long ago crawled inside, eager to claim the rooms once denied them.
But what of the lepers, those poor despised souls? Had they gone to another hospital to be cared for, or were they driven to find corners of London to hide in, frightened and sick? There was no one to ask.
Looking down on the hospital, the tears on my cheeks mingled with the raindrops. Fifty years hence, some girl might look at an abandoned Dartford Priory and wonder:
What happened to the nuns once sheltered there? Why did they leave their parents and forsake marriage and motherhood to live in such a place?
There’d be no one to tell the girl who we were or what we believed in: humble service to Christ, support of one another, learning, and contemplation.
Halfway down the hill to the hospital, I stumbled and fell to my knees. Heavy rains had turned the countryside to mud. I recovered and walked a more careful path to the front archway. The door was long ago torn off its hinges—for firewood, no doubt. Carved in stone over the arch were the words L
EPER
H
OSPITAL OF
S
AINT
M
ARY
M
AGDALENE AND
S
T.
L
AUDUS
. Below, in smaller words, was T
HE
O
RDER OF
S
AINT
L
AZARUS OF
J
ERUSALEM
. I knew a little of this order: a medical one created by the Knights Templar. The Crusades. My boy cousins loved playing crusaders at Stafford Castle. They’d storm down the wide halls, brandishing wooden swords and shouting, “God wills it!”