The Crown A Novel

21


As All Souls’ Day drew close, we prepared for the requiem feast for Lord Chester. Chairs had to be covered with cloth, made comfortable for the head table, since the only chairs we possessed were bare wood. Tankards and fine plates, tablecloth and embroidered linens—all were foreign to a Dominican Order but must now be obtained. I heard Brother Richard discussing with Gregory which farm animals would be slain. Extra kitchen help was hired, principally a woman knowledgeable in how to prepare rich dishes. A feast for a nobleman must offer meat courses, but at Dartford we ate no meat, except an occasional pudding, and very little fowl.

In the midafternoons, instead of tapestry work, I met with Brother Edmund in the chapter house to practice our music. We were never completely alone. Under the supervision of the porter, workmen moved in and out, preparing the room for noble company. It was unsettling to see our chapter house converted into a hall for a lord’s company, but it was the only space large enough.

The songs of the priory could not be adapted to a lute and vihuela. But the friar and I knew some secular tunes and played them together in the corner, his lute melodies dancing above the deep, gentle strumming of my vihuela. At times, because we lacked other instruments, an improvisation was called for, to fill gaps in the songs. His ideas always impressed me.

“You have a true gift, Brother,” I said on our third day of practice, as I waited for him to replace a string on his instrument. His lute had fifteen strings, and he was ever vigilant of their strengths.

He smiled without looking up from his work. “I enjoy honoring God with my music. At my friary, I was known for three things: my work as an apothecary, my humble skill with the lute, and my interest in history.”

I watched him finish tightening the new string. “Whose history? That of the Dominican Order or of England itself?”

“I would say both.”

I bit my lip. “Then may I ask you something, Brother?”

He looked up, and as always I was struck by the flatness of his large brown eyes. One summer day, in the gardens at Stafford Castle, I had seen a long lizard sunning itself on a rock—I was frightened when it stared at me, unafraid and unblinking. Brother Edmund’s gaze unnerved me in the same way.

I shook off my apprehension. The private library of Dartford had been locked to me ever since my discovery of the Athelstan book, and there was still so much I needed to learn.

“The Prince of Wales whose portrait hangs in the prioress’s office—why is he called the Black Prince?” I asked.

“Yes, I remember that portrait interested you,” he said. “Hmm. He was not always called that. It is something of a new name. It could have to do with his armor—he wore black armor into battle.”

“He was a soldier prince?”

“Yes, he led the armies of his father the king into France. We engaged in a long war during the reign of Edward the Third. You are aware of that?”

I nodded.

“The Black Prince—his name was Edward, too—he took many towns, won many battles, over a period of years. But he was not always a merciful prince.” A shadow passed over Brother Edmund’s face. “There was one act he committed that was so cruel, it could be the reason for this name.”

I saw again the prince’s supercilious eyes. “What did he do, Brother?”

“It’s not a pretty story; I would rather not say.”

I looked at the friar. “Do you think that I can only hear pretty stories? I’ve heard and seen much ugliness in my life already.” The shadow of the Tower of London fell between us.

He sighed and began. “It was the siege of Limoges. A city in the South of France that the prince conquered returned to French control after his army had moved on. He went into a terrible rage. He laid siege to its walls, and when the city fell to him, he would not spare a single citizen. They say he had three thousand people put to death. All were massacred as they begged for their lives. Even the children were killed.”

I stroked the smooth side of my vihuela, trying not to show how sick I felt.

Brother Edmund said, “Those were different times. In most chronicles of the day, he was praised as a great man. He founded the Order of the Garter, after all. Such strength was valuable.”

“It surprises me then that he died before his father. It was not from wounds in battle?”

“Oh, no. He became ill in France, not long before the siege. They say he was carried by litter to the walls of Limoges. After he’d retaken the city, he went back to England. His was a very slow decline. It took years. All the leading physicians in Christendom were sent for by his father the king. Every cure was attempted. I read some of the correspondence about it; I have always been interested in mysteries of medicine. The Prince of Wales was in the prime of his life, but he was gradually wasting away, and they could not find a sure and recognizable symptom of illness. It was neither plague nor lung rot nor the pox. They thought it dropsy for a time, but then decided not. There was one passage I remember . . .”

Brother Edmund pursed his lips, trying to recall it. “The Italian physician wrote, ‘It is as if the force of his mortal existence were being drained away, and no man can stop it.’ ”

A shiver raced up my spine.

Brother Edmund smiled down at me. “Sister Joanna, you have lost your color. Come, let’s try another song.”

I picked up my vihuela, and we resumed our practice. We had completed two of the songs in our planned repertoire when the other novices appeared in the chapter house.

“Thank you for joining us, Sisters,” Brother Edmund said. He half turned to me to explain. “I believe it would be better to have two more musicians join us to play at the feast. I could not ask any of the senior sisters—I fear their dignity might be offended—but perhaps I could employ the two of you? Brother Richard helped me obtain two citterns. They are easier to play.”

Sister Christina had begun shaking her head while the friar still spoke.

“No, Brother Edmund, not this,” she said.

“I can teach you how to play a simple melody,” he said reassuringly.

“I know how to play,” Sister Christina said. Her forehead creased. “I cannot perform for my father. Do not ask it of me, please.”

She turned and ran out of the room.

Brother Edmund said, “I erred in my request. I did not know that Sister Christina disliked her father.”

“Dislike her father?” His words appalled me. “That is not true.”

He bowed his head. “I’ve erred again. Forgive my words, Sister Joanna. And now, shall we attempt some music? Sister, may I show you? I think I remember our mother teaching us both to play a few songs. The knowledge will come back to you.”

Sister Winifred sat down. “Before we begin, I need to ask you a question, Brother.”

“Of course.” He smiled. “Today seems to be a day of questions.”

She leaned forward, her eyes as serious as I’d ever seen them. “When a priory or an abbey is dissolved by the king’s commissioners, what happens?”

Brother Edmund went very still. “I don’t think this is a prudent topic to discuss.”

“May I ask why?”

He reached out and gently cupped her hands in his. “I don’t want to upset you, for the sake of your health.”

“But I am not a child,” she said evenly. “I am a novice pledged to service at Dartford, and I should know what the future could bring.”

He took a breath. “When an abbey is ordered dissolved by the king, all must leave within the month. There are pensions. Some are adequate, others less so. I know of friars who’ve left England, to live in faithful countries. There are not many openings to be found, so they travel from abbey to abbey, in strange lands, searching. Should they remain here, they can turn to the priesthood if they are willing to adapt to the new services. Or leave religion altogether and seek out new professions . . . marry, even.”

“That is the men, but what of the women?” she persisted. “They have fewer possibilities, I think.”

Brother Edmund and I glanced at each other.

Sister Winifred said, a trace of resentment in her voice: “If Sister Joanna may know these things, if she is fit to discuss matters of the world with you, then so should I.”

Brother Edmund smiled ruefully. “Yes. You are right. And they do have fewer possibilities. Women can travel to the Continent in hopes of a European convent taking them in—though I have not heard of anyone doing so. They can seek shelter with their families. Or they can turn from the religious life and marry, bear children.”

Sister Winifred took it in.

“And what of the priories themselves?” she asked. “What happens to them?”

“They are commonly awarded to courtiers favored by the king and Cromwell,” he said. “Some priories are converted into homes, just as they are; others are demolished by the owners, for their value. The buildings are pulled down stone by stone; any gold or silver or valuable stones are melted down; the tapestries and sculptures and books, even the vestments, are taken away; even the lead is stripped off, for what monies it could bring.”

Sister Winifred’s eyes widened; her lower lip trembled ever so slightly. But she looked at the two of us without flinching.

“Thank you, Brother. And now, I’m ready to learn the songs.”