The Crown A Novel

PART


TWO





16


Friar, won’t you buy an apple?”

The boy, no more than seven years old, stood in the middle of Watling Street, holding up his apple to Brother Richard. Even in the gathering dusk, the piece of fruit gleamed; it was a deep, luscious red.

London lay safely behind us. It was past Michaelmas; the wheat and barley fields were stripped of harvest. Apple trees hugged the west side of the road to Dartford, the road that stretched from London all the way to Dover. I sucked in the scent of their heavy sweetness. It all felt unreal, a dream of delirium, that I rode free through the countryside, hours after being imprisoned in the Tower of London.

The trees’ branches were skimpy of fruit close to the ground, but higher up, where a nimble boy could climb, the red globes hung more thickly. I saw the boy sitting under the largest tree, his feet sticking out into the road, when our wagon rounded a bend. He scrambled out to Brother Richard to peddle his wares.

The child’s eyes, though, were not on the man but on his horse. At the Tower, when I’d been led to the waiting friars and a wagon, Brother Richard already sat tall on one of the finest horses I’d ever seen: a slim dappled gray, with a glossy coat and bright eyes. Brother Richard made it clear that not only did the mare belong to him, but he would not tie her to our wagon, pulled by less aristocrat steeds. Sweeping his black Dominican cape to the side, he’d vaulted into the saddle and seized the reins, ready to ride to Dartford. Brother Edmund and I, it seemed, would follow, sitting in the back of the wagon, driven by a rotund Tower servant.

The boy said eagerly, “We grow the best apples in Kent, Friar—I’ll sell you a basket for three farthing.”

“Be off with you!” snapped Brother Richard, untempted.

The boy’s thin shoulders sagged, and he shuffled back to his place under the tree. Certainly, this was not the time to buy fruit, but Brother Richard’s rebuff seemed to me over rude. I snuck a sideways glance at Brother Edmund, who hadn’t spoken since we left the Tower of London.

The fair-haired friar nodded, as if he’d heard my thought.

“This is a very hard thing for Brother Richard, the suppression of our friary,” he said quietly.

“But he has a place to go to,” I pointed out.

“Yes, and we are both grateful for the arrangements made by Bishop Gardiner, to have us transferred to Dartford Priory.” He paused, weighing his next words. “But what you must understand is that someday Brother Richard was expected to make prior at Cambridge. He boarded there as a child, professed as soon as he came of age, and was extremely dedicated. He’s a true theologian; he’s published works read on the Continent.”

I looked at Brother Richard doubtfully. A sharp tongue did not always lead to a sharp mind, in my experience.

And then there was the trunk.

Two trunks rode in the back of the wagon. One was small and weather-beaten—it contained Brother Edmund’s apothecary supplies. The other was large and burgundy, with a gold-plated lock and trimming. It belonged to Brother Richard, but I couldn’t imagine what was inside. The rules of Dominican conduct were chastity, humility, obedience, and poverty. Perhaps in Cambridge they’d followed different rules.

“And for you, Brother Edmund, is this . . . difficult?” I asked.

“I am a friar, I serve God wherever I go,” he replied. “And it means I will share a roof again with my younger sister, Winifred.”

That is why he looked familiar. He shared the same unusual coloring—ash-blond hair and brown eyes—as my fellow novice and friend, Sister Winifred. “She will be very pleased to see you,” I said. “She once told me that she had a brother who was a friar and that she missed him.”

“I have missed her, too,” he said. “Though I hoped to one day make her proud of what I had achieved in the eyes of God, not to come crawling to her priory as a supplicant.”

The words were bitter. Yet Brother Edmund’s face was calm. In fact, his large dark eyes looked positively serene. It was impressive—though a trifle strange—how the friar managed to control himself.

“In any case,” he continued, “if we need be sent to a nunnery, Dartford is a prestigious one. Brother Richard’s administrative skills will be put to use managing the priory’s wealth.”

“Wealth?”

“It is the seventh richest establishment in all of England—you didn’t know that?”

I shook my head no.

“Brother Richard says it is because of the original charter granted by Edward the Third. The priory is exempt from all taxes and is granted one hundred pounds a year. He told me Dartford is a substantial landholder in Kent. Not just open farmland but income from mills, businesses, manors, even quarries. The priory has holdings in London, too. He said he’d never in his life seen such care taken by a king to ensure financial security for a religious house.”

“We are most fortunate,” I muttered.

Our road curved, and I caught a glimpse of the River Darent. Our wagon rumbled on, and a large black building came into view—it was the Lowfield Almshouse for the poor, which our prioress oversaw and visited at least once a week. We’d reached the outskirts of the town of Dartford.

Even though the evening air had turned cool, my palms felt hot, itchy, and moist. This was happening so fast. I’d be face-to-face with Prioress Elizabeth and all the sisters within minutes. What would I say to them? What had Bishop Gardiner already told them in the letter that preceded me?

When she was angry or dismayed, Prioress Elizabeth would look away from the object of her disappointment, as if the sight of that person was too painful. She’d purse her lips, fold her hands. She never stayed angry for long. How long before she would look at me again with those wise, kind eyes? I longed for her forgiveness, even though I had no right to expect it.

I thought of the sisters, too—of the gossipy novice mistress, Sister Agatha, and the silent tapestry mistress, Sister Helen. I was closest to the other novices, naturally. Sister Winifred, whose brother I sat next to, was one of the kindest people I’d ever known, as selfless as my cousin Margaret. Sister Christina, the senior novice of the three of us, had her turbulent moments. For that very reason, I felt even closer to her; we shared certain unspoken understandings. She, too, came from an old family. Her father, Lord Chester, was a wealthy Kent landowner who had for years been a favored hunting companion of the king’s; her mother was a Neville, a family as respected as the Staffords.

Brother Richard turned around on his horse, smiling. “Pilgrims ahead!” he called out.

Along the side of the road, three figures walked single file, dressed in long coarse robes. As we grew closer, I could see they were barefoot.

Brother Edmund looked at me inquiringly.

I said, “There are many pilgrims who stop at Dartford on their way to the shrines at Rochester and Canterbury.” I pointed to a distant line of treetops, above which peeked a row of tall, whitewashed buildings. “Those are the inns where they stay.”

Brother Richard called out to the pilgrims, addressing the tallest. But the man did not answer. The second pilgrim turned to make explanation: “Brother, I’m sorry, but my father does not speak,” he said in a high, polite voice, that of a boy no older than twelve. “We are on the road to the shrine of Saint William of Rochester, he will speak there, to beg for forgiveness for his sins.”

Brother Richard cocked his head. “Sins?”

“We lost our mother to plague this year, and the harvest was so poor we may lose our farm. My father fears he sinned greatly to have earned God’s displeasure.”

“I pray you find the blessed mercies you seek,” said Brother Richard. He turned back on his horse and said to Brother Edmund, excitedly, “Did you hear that? They do believe in the shrines. Christ still moves among the people!”

Brother Edmund nodded, his large brown eyes so placid yet impenetrable they looked like gemstones.

The friars puzzled me. I wondered why Bishop Gardiner plucked these two from Cambridge for salvation. Could it be a coincidence that he chose Dartford as their destination? It was true that we were the only Dominican nunnery in England, and other abbeys were likely full to bursting with friars. Dominicans could serve only next to their own kind. I had been ordered not to discuss the Athelstan crown with either of them, and I had no intention of doing so. But how could I be sure they didn’t know something—even if it were an inkling—of my mission?

My mission. It felt impossible. The bishop instructed me to use “subtlety.” I wasn’t a particularly subtle woman. My emotions always showed on my face, and even when I was a child, I’d never been good at deception. I once read a story about a female spy in Rome, during the time of the Borgias. After failing to break the secret codes contained in a letter she’d stolen from a wicked cardinal, she was about to drink a vial of poison—only to be rescued by a husband who’d escaped from prison. This silly book was the extent of my knowledge of spy craft. Real spies existed, I was aware of that. Privy Seal Thomas Cromwell was notorious for his network of operatives. It was said that one of the reasons he looted the monasteries was for the gold needed to bind all men to him. From lowly pages to foreign ambassadors, they secretly worked in his service. As I secretly worked for Bishop Gardiner. I bowed my head. But not for money, I told myself fiercely. For the life of my father.

The wagon slowed. Ahead lay the center of the village: the inns, the tall parish church, a thriving market, dozens of shops—bakers, tanners, butchers, tailors—and a few small shipping firms. But we wouldn’t be going into the village. Dartford Priory lay just north of the village. The narrow road I knew so well emerged from between two graceful elm trees.

Just as the driver pulled on the reins to turn, I heard bells. Very faint. I hardly paid them any mind. But they kept pealing . . . and pealing. I’d never heard bells ring that long. Our wagon had started up the priory road, and still the bells pealed. Brother Richard noticed it, too, and held up his hand. We halted . . . and listened. After a minute there were yet more bells, and louder, layered onto the first set. It was as if the orders to ring started far away, and then other churches, ones that were closer to Dartford, pulled the ropes to their bells, too.

“The bells mean it’s a son,” Brother Richard cried.

We all crossed ourselves, even the wagon driver.

“It’s a sign from God that He blesses this marriage, don’t you see?” Brother Richard exulted. “The queen will be able to help us now!”

He kicked his horse, to hurry up the road to Dartford. I looked to Brother Edmund for an explanation. He glanced at the cart driver and then said in a low voice, “The queen favors the old ways; she supports the monasteries. But when she tried to intervene late last year, to ask that we be spared, the king ordered her to be silent. With a prince on her lap, she could become a respected adviser.”

I nodded, though it all seemed unlikely. Would this king listen to any woman, for any reason? I spared a quiet prayer for Katherine of Aragon’s daughter, the Lady Mary. She was five years younger than me, motherless, declared illegitimate by her father, and now officially displaced by a prince. The king might not consider Mary—or Anne Boleyn’s girl, Elizabeth—a fit heir. But in Spain, women could rule in their own right. Katherine of Aragon’s mother, Queen Isabella, was but one example. On this island, sadly, a female still meant very little.

Our wagon resumed its journey up the lane to the priory. The sun had just fallen in the sky. It was high dusk: violet light bathed the open fields to our left. I craned my neck, anxious to see the priory, but a grove of trees blocked my line of sight.

Brother Richard, out front, glimpsed Dartford first. I saw him freeze in the saddle. Yes, even he would be impressed.

The wagon cleared the grove of trees, and, rising above the stone walls encircling it, I saw my home.

The first thing that always struck me was the priory’s size: the tall, square front walls. It wasn’t grim or imposing, though. The walls were a creamy light gray, made of Kentish ragstone. But what always moved me was the symmetry of the design, its confident elegance. Four large carved crests of the Dominican Order stood out along the top of the wall. There wasn’t quite enough light to decipher their faces now, but I knew the design by heart. Black-and-white shields represented joy and penance. On those shields bloomed lilies, the symbols of our faith.

The cruciform church rose from behind the front wall, from the center; the last dying rays of light reflected off the triangles of stained glass. Smaller buildings spread behind: the friars’ quarters, the stables and brewery. All perfectly balanced. It would always be the most beautiful place I’d ever seen.

“Sister Joanna?” someone was saying.

“Yes, what is it?” I gasped, dashing the tears from my cheeks.

Brother Richard pointed at a distance hill to the left of us. “Is that where Lord Chester’s property begins?” he asked. “I’ve met his younger brother, the Bishop of Dover.”

I nodded, still not able to manage myself. Brother Edmund examined me with his usual expression of distant calm. I turned away from the friars, irritated.

We reached the large gatehouse in front of the priory—it was dark and empty. The driver of the wagon looked back at us, unsure of what to do.

“There should be someone out front to greet us,” Brother Richard said.

“The priory has a porter,” I told him—my voice had thankfully returned to normal. “Sometimes he’s in the gatehouse, but after dark, he’s most often inside the front priory.”

“Without lighting torches outside for us?” Brother Richard asked accusingly, as if I were responsible.

Brother Edmund said, “It will be an easy matter to make him aware we’ve arrived.” We climbed out of the wagon. With a loud sigh, Brother Richard dismounted and handed the reins of his horse to the wagon driver.

The entrance to Dartford Priory struck most people dumb. Even the two friars seemed impressed.

One entered the priory through a soaring, near-pointed archway. On each side the statue of a king stared forward—our founder, King Edward the Third. Across the top of the archway was carving stone celebrating the ascension of the Virgin.

Brother Richard knocked on the thick wooden door. He waited less than a minute, and knocked again. No one answered.

“I can think of no excuse for this,” Brother Richard said.

Finally, the door creaked open. To my relief, Jacob, the elderly porter, shuffled outside. He frowned as he looked at the friars; when he saw me, his expression changed to shock. “Sister Joanna, is that you?” he quavered.

“Yes, Jacob,” I answered.

“Didn’t your prioress inform you of our arrival?” demanded Brother Richard.

Jacob shook his head.

Brother Edmund said in his gentler voice: “Was there no messenger from London today?”

“Yes, Brother, there was a messenger.”

“What did the prioress say to you after reading it?”

Jacob looked at Brother Richard, and his eyes widened. His mouth flapped open and shut. I’d never seen our porter like this—so at a loss.

“Jacob, what is wrong?” I asked.

But he would not answer me, either.

“Take us to your prioress,” said Brother Richard.

Jacob backed away from him. “No, no.”

“Take us to your prioress—now!” the friar thundered.

With a final flap of his mouth, Jacob turned and led us into the priory.

The ivory statue of the Virgin Mary on her throne gleamed in the front antechamber. I expected Jacob to bear left and take us to the locutorium, the room where nuns could meet with visitors, while he fetched Prioress Elizabeth. The men were Dominican friars, yes, but chapter rules dictated that no men, religious or otherwise, were allowed access to where the sisters served, unless it was sanctioned in advance by a prioress.

But to my shock, Jacob turned away from the locutorium and the other rooms where outsiders were permitted—the prioress’s front office chamber, the lodging rooms for boarders and overnight guests—and headed for the heart of the priory.

He took out his keys at the door leading to the cloister, chapter house, church, refectory, kitchens, and dormitories.

“Jacob, what are you doing?” I asked.

He opened the door without answering.

“So far I have seen rules broken—first of hospitality, and now the strictest one of all, enclosure,” Brother Richard fumed. “The good report I had of this priory was much mistaken.”

I glanced at Brother Edmund, hoping he would calm his agitated fellow friar. But he stayed silent, wrapped in his own thoughts.

Jacob looked only at me. “Go to the church,” he whispered, holding open the door.

The three of us stepped over the threshold, and Jacob locked the door behind us.

It must be time for Compline, a sacred Dominican office, a deeply inappropriate moment to reappear, and with two friars in tow. But I didn’t know what else to do—Jacob had plainly lost his senses. He had always been so dedicated to the prioress. I couldn’t imagine what had happened to him.

“Follow me,” I said.

We moved toward the cloister: the open courtyard and garden in the center of the priory. Columned passageways squared off on each side. In moments we reached the far corridor leading to the church. My joy at being in the priory again was tamped down by confusion. I couldn’t hear a thing: neither singing nor chanting nor spoken responses. Compline was not a silent gathering.

From the minute we’d arrived I sensed something was wrong. Now I was overwhelmed by fear.

We reached the archway opening to Dartford’s exquisite church. We bowed, and then dipped our fingers in the holy water in the stoup and made the sign of the cross. But I couldn’t see much of anything. A burst of thick incense enveloped me, filling my nose, throat, eyes. I’d never smelled so much at one time. It was not just lavender, either; I detected rosemary afloat in the air. Candles flickered at the apse, creating points of light that shimmered through the fragrant cloud. I felt slightly woozy.

The sisters of Dartford were indeed all there. The two dozen women stood in their assigned stalls. And now that I was in the same room as them, I realized they were not silent. They were weeping.

I looked again. On the side of the apse stretched a long platform draped in black cloth.

As the incense cloud thinned, a white face came into view. A person was laid out on the platform. Those weren’t drapes, but a long black cape.

I took a step closer, then another. And another. I knew that profile, those wrinkled cheeks. It was Prioress Elizabeth Croessner lying on the platform.