The Crown A Novel

14


Drink this wine,” Bishop Gardiner ordered.

He had moved me to a room on the main floor of the Bell Tower, one furnished with tables, chairs, and shelves of books.

The vision of my father, disfigured and terrified, stretched taut on the rack, came back to me in searing detail. I felt something nudge my hand. The bishop tried to offer me a goblet. I shrank from him, shuddering.

He sighed and put the wine on the table. I could feel his impatience.

“I will tell you all of it,” I whispered. “But I feel sick.”

“Close your eyes. Take three deep breaths.”

I did as he said; I had no choice.

“Now, Sister Joanna Stafford, start at the beginning. The day you arrived at Kimbolton Castle to wait upon Katherine of Aragon. When was this?”

“The second week of December in 1535,” I said. “It rained all that day. My father brought me. The roads were impossible because of the mud. Our horses stopped again and again. If we’d come by wagon or litter, we would have never made it. There was a village nearby, a poor one, and an old woman gave me her blessing when we asked which road to take to the castle. ‘God bless our poor Queen Katherine.’ I was surprised by that. We’d been told that by the king’s orders no one was to address her as queen since the divorce. But the common folk always loved her.”

“Quite so,” the bishop said dryly. “Continue.”

I opened my eyes and went on: “I was surprised, too, by how small Kimbolton Castle was. Just a manor house, not a castle, and built on low ground. It was hard to believe that a queen resided there.” I stopped short, afraid that I had erred by giving her that title. But Bishop Gardiner waved me on, to continue.

“The owner of Kimbolton, her keeper Sir Edmund Bedingfield, came out to meet us. We were expected. My father had sent a messenger on ahead that I was coming in my mother’s place. Sir Edmund took me to the door that connected his home to the apartments of the queen, and then he withdrew. She would not allow him into her rooms because he addressed her as princess dowager and not queen.”

“How many people were with her?”

“She had two ladies-in-waiting, two serving women, her confessor, and her doctor, Don Miguel de la Sa. That’s all. The furniture was old. The plates and bowls were cracked. She didn’t even have a tapestry on the wall. The queen was in bed and very weak, although she said she was happy to see me. But it was hard. I knew that she was dying—that is why she was permitted to have Spanish attendants again. Her appearance was so altered I would not have known her.

“How so?”

“All of the weight she had lost. Her bones stood out from her body. She was in pain most of the time. Sometimes just drawing breath seemed to hurt . . .”

I faltered at the memory of her sufferings, but a glance at Bishop Gardiner’s hard face pushed me on.

“I tried to make the queen as comfortable as I could. It was very cold. No snow. But a damp wind came through the windows, off the fens. We tried to block the cracks around windows and keep the fire high. But it never felt completely dry in that room. I was told there was no help for it.

“One day the Spanish ambassador, Eustace Chapuys, came to visit her. We knew he had been given permission by the king to see her a last time after many months of his pleading. We made her bedchamber as presentable as we could and dressed the queen with all of our care. She didn’t have any jewels. They had all been taken from her, given to Anne Boleyn, years before. But we did our best.

“When the ambassador came into the room, she was so happy that she wept. She said, ‘Now I can die in your arms, not like a beast alone in a field.’ That made me feel ashamed, because I had worked so hard to make her comfortable. But I tried to be happy for her, that someone who had worked so long in her interests had come to visit.”

“Were you there during any of their conversations?”

“The first day we were all present. She wanted it made plain that she had nothing to hide from the king’s majesty. Even Sir Edmund was asked to attend. The second day only a couple of us were within the distance that they could be heard.”

“What did they talk about?” The bishop was very curious.

“Her daughter, the Lady Mary. She was frantic about the princess, about what the king would do to her for refusing to accept the divorce. The ambassador swore that he would do everything in his power to protect her, that the Emperor Charles, his master and her nephew, would keep her safe. He would not stand by to see the princess who was a cousin mistreated.”

“And yet she has been mistreated, and for years,” Bishop Gardiner said in a strange voice.

“Yes, Dr. de la Sa told me that when we were alone. He said that Ambassador Chapuys was not honest about the dangers that the Lady Mary had to face. The anger of the king is death; nothing has ever been more truly said. But the doctor could not blame Ambassador Chapuys, because fear for her daughter tormented the queen. And what could the queen do for her now . . . when she was dying?”

“Continue.”

“The ambassador stayed with us for four days. The first two days she seemed stronger, but talking to him drained her, perhaps, for the third day he was with her only a short time. That was the night I spent with her alone.”

I stopped, kneading my hands, and glanced up at the bishop again. His eyes gleamed. He knew I neared the telling of the secret.

“After the ambassador bade her farewell the third day, that was when she drifted in her mind. She spoke about her brother, Prince Juan, who died so long ago. She spoke as if he were there with her, doing his lessons as a child. It worried me. I gave her some broth, and she was quiet for a time. And then she began to talk about coming to England when she was fifteen years old, to be married to the Prince of Wales.”

He leaned forward. “Leave nothing out. Tell me exactly what happened.”

I swallowed. “It was the night Dr. de la Sa overslept. The two of us usually tended her together after nightfall. She spoke Spanish at night, and we were the only ones who understood her. That was when she was the most . . .” I searched for the right word.

“Vulnerable?” he asked.

Again, the bishop had pulled thought from my mind.

“After I came to Kimbolton, Dr. de la Sa said that one of the two of us must be with the queen at all times. So even though I was weary myself, I sat by the queen’s bed and didn’t call for anyone else. He slept on and on. I was afraid that if one of the other ladies saw my fatigue, she would insist that I go to bed. I couldn’t allow that.”

“Why did one of the two of you have to be by her side at all times?”

I was surprised that the bishop needed to ask. “Poison,” I answered. “Dr. de la Sa said all of Europe knew the Boleyns were trying to poison the queen. They already tried to poison Fisher, her greatest champion. Not a drop of food or drink could touch the queen’s lips that had not been tested in his presence or mine.”

“But why did he trust you over the others? Hadn’t some of them served the queen far longer than you?”

“Because of my mother—my Spanish blood,” I said.

The bishop’s eyebrows shot up. “All English are potential poisoners?”

I shrugged. “That is how he felt. That is how my mother felt, too. That the English could never be fully trusted.”

“And did you see any sign of poison?” he asked.

“None,” I admitted. “And she ate very little anyway.”

He nodded. “Tell me about this night when you were alone with her.”

“She spoke of King Henry the Seventh, her father-in-law, at first.” I paused. “The things she said were not pleasant. It was the first time I ever heard her criticize anyone.”

“Don’t leave anything out. Do you hear me?”

“I didn’t realize she was referring to old King Henry for a time. She spoke of a beggar. She said, ‘He was a beggar, a beggar in exile.’ She was quiet, then said, ‘No one thought a Tudor could be King of England.’ The queen said this three times: ‘A beggar cannot be a kind king.’

“She told me that every day he was on the throne he feared losing his riches. Her exact words were: ‘He was so cruel and suspicious. He was cruel to his wife and to his sons. Inside, he was twisted. And he twisted his son.’ ”

“Which son was she referring to?” As we both knew very well, Katherine of Aragon was sent by her parents to marry England’s Prince of Wales, to form a dynastic alliance. First she wed Prince Arthur, but he died five months later. Then she married his younger brother, who became Henry the Eighth.

“It was Arthur. She said: ‘The prince could not lie with me after we married. He was so afraid of his father. Terrified. He wanted to be a man. That is why he took me to Dartford Priory.’ ”

I heard Bishop Gardiner’s sharp intake of breath. “Those were her words?”

“Yes.”

“Then what did the queen say?”

“Not much more. She said, ‘The legend was true. Poor Arthur.’ She was quiet for a long time; I thought she’d fallen asleep. But she moaned, and then she said so loudly I thought it would wake the ladies in the next room, ‘I was wrong. He is worse than the father. Sweet Jesu, protect my daughter.’ ”

“She spoke of King Henry the Eighth then?”

“I’m not sure. After that she fell asleep.”

Bishop Gardiner thought for a moment, his brows creased. “But when did she speak of the Athelstan crown?”

“The night she died. Right after the ambassador left for good, her lady-in-waiting Maria de Salinas finally arrived. She had come to England with her from Spain, as my mother did, and was very close to the queen. But it was then that the queen grew much, much worse. It was almost as if she had been waiting for Maria. Just after midnight, she asked if it was dawn yet. She knew she was dying and wanted to hear a last Mass. Her confessor said we could have a Mass immediately, for her. But she said, ‘No, we must wait until dawn.’ She quoted scripture to us, about how Mass could never be heard before dawn. The queen was so devout. She wore a hair shirt under her nightdress, from the Order of Saint Francis.

“Those were the longest hours of my life. We prayed together the whole time. We were weeping, although we tried to hide it from her. It was still hours before dawn when she asked me, ‘Juana, are you pious?’ I said, ‘Your Highness, I try to be.’ Then she said, ‘You are unmarried?’ I said, ‘Yes.’ She was quiet, and then she said, ‘You should take vows at Dartford Priory.’ She looked at me so intently, and everyone else looked at me, the doctor, Maria de Salinas, her confessor. I said, ‘Yes, Madame.’ That seemed to give her peace.”

Bishop Gardiner stared at me. “So Katherine of Aragon gave you the idea?”

I nodded defiantly. “Yes, she did.”

“But the Athelstan crown? You still haven’t gotten to that, Sister.”

“It was about an hour later. The queen turned her head a bit, she could hardly move, and she looked at me. I bent down, and she whispered, ‘Arthur. Mary. Dartford. The Athelstan crown. Protect my daughter. Promise me, Juana. Protect the secret of the crown for her sake. And tell no one. If you love me, tell no one.”

I looked at the floor, flooded with anguish.

Bishop Gardiner repeated it: “Arthur. Mary. Dartford. The Athelstan crown. Protect my daughter.” He bit his lip, thinking. “No one else heard the queen?”

“They may have, but she spoke in Spanish. The doctor was not close by at that moment, and neither was Maria.”

The bishop took a deep breath. “So Katherine of Aragon sent you to Dartford Priory.”

“No, she did not send me,” I said, my voice thick. “She suggested I take vows there. When I returned to Stafford Castle, I began to consider it in seriousness, as a way to find purpose. After a few weeks of prayer, it seemed the right thing to do.”

“Did you ever tell your prioress about the Athelstan crown?”

“Of course not.”

His questions flew at me.

“Did you never wonder why she wanted you to profess at Dartford in particular?” he demanded.

“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.”