The Crown A Novel

25


I sat in the chapter house, between Brother Edmund and Sister Winifred, my vihuela in my lap, and waited for Lord and Lady Chester to arrive. It was midafternoon. For reasons I didn’t dare ask, the requiem banquet was set to begin hours later than our usual dinnertime of eleven in the morning. Perhaps it was to accommodate a request of our neighbors’. Or perhaps it was to allow enough time for the cooking of the dishes. All morning the smells of roasting meats traveled the passageways, so strong you could not escape them. There was pork, of course; the young pig slaughtered that morning turned on a spit in the kitchen fire, terror seared into its dead eyes. But there was more on the menu: venison, roast beef, lark, rabbit, and capon. All were foreign to our priory, to our senses. When I passed Sister Rachel in the south passageway off the cloister, she pressed a cloth to her nose, her eyes brimming with fury. She pulled the cloth away to spit the word “Defilement,” and then clamped it back down on her nose and mouth.

Now Sister Rachel sat in the same room as the rest of the nuns, her sallow face a shield of resentment. Every space was taken on the stone benches that lined three of the four walls. Sister Christina waited among them, not at the head table. Whether that was at her own request or because of a novice’s low ranking, no one said. She clenched her hands in her lap, a stance of hers that I recognized: it meant she’d turned within herself to pray.

I sat apart, with my fellow musicians, on a narrow stool. Cool air streamed in through the cracks in the mullioned windows behind my head. We’d been placed off to the side of the long head table. I was closest to it, with Brother Edmund in the center and Sister Winifred on his other side.

Only two people sat at the head table: Prioress Joan and Brother Richard. They were far apart, with two empty chairs between them. Brother Philip was not present. At the first Mass of the day for All Souls he’d said a few impassioned things about purgatory. But then he’d pleaded indisposition for the banquet. He was the only who dared.

The appointed time for Lord Chester’s arrival came . . . and went. The minutes crawled by.

Gregory, the porter, rushed in, bowing, and whispered something in Prioress Joan’s ear. Whatever she learned displeased her. She shook her head and whispered something back. The porter scurried out. Brother Richard shot a look at Brother Edmund and then, the ghost of a smile on his lips, raised his goblet of wine for another long sip.

It was possible Lord Chester would not come, even though the feast had been arranged specifically for him. Some gentry lived by whim. It was nothing to them to overturn the plans of those they considered unimportant. All the preparations and expense? Worthy of a shrug. The only reason that I expected Lord and Lady Chester to materialize was not for the prioress’s or the nuns’ sake but for that of their daughter. She was their only living child. Even in times of fear and greed and dissolution, the ties of family exerted their pull.

No one spoke; we all waited, filled with our own unhappy thoughts. I hated sitting here, waiting to perform music for a spoiled lord, while the Westerly children remained missing. I was also wasting valuable time that could be spent searching for the Athelstan crown. How much had my father’s health suffered since I left the Tower? I twitched in my seat as the question tormented me.

My stool’s position afforded me a close view of our prioress. She didn’t touch her goblet or pick from the plates of radishes and salt set before her. Her jaw was tight, and her eyes were wary. She had determined that this requiem banquet would be of help to the priory, and so it had been organized, despite all feelings of disapproval. I admired women of strong character, and the truth was I admired Prioress Joan Vane. She suddenly glanced over, as if she could hear my thoughts, and I was doused with the usual cold suspicion. My esteem for the prioress was not reciprocated.

Weary of her dislike, I gazed up, up at the ceiling of the chapter house. I examined the stone carvings that encircled the top of the four thick pillars. The carvings resembled lilies, the symbol of the Dominicans, conveying the purity and dedication of those who professed our vows. King Edward the Third must have employed the finest artisans in his kingdom to create these stone lilies. They bloomed all over the priory: above the entranceway to Dartford; in the crests in the front wall; along the border running along the cloister passageways; and here, in the chapter house. It was not easy to make out the floral details, both because of the height of the columns and the shadows cast by the afternoon light. It did look as if something else peeked above the lilies: swooping lines that reached a point. I squinted, trying to determine the lines’ direction, when it struck me with such force that I cowered on my stool.

Behind the lilies was the carved outline of a crown.

They were intertwined, the lilies and the crown. Why did King Edward the Third order it? The location of the crown was a dread secret, yet its very presence was proclaimed in the walls. There must be a purpose. Did the lilies signify protection? The Dominican Order, considered the most vigilant of all, was powerful enough to keep the crown safe from violation.

But something gnawed at me, some fault in that logic. What did Bishop Gardiner say? “And there is prophecy. A prophecy of great reward but not without great risk. It is both blessing and curse.”

There was a faint rushing in my ears as I seized the different strands and wove them together.

The crown was extremely dangerous. It didn’t require protection from the people. People required protection from it.

The treasure in the ground in Limoges included objects of “royal value.” What was more royal than a crown? It was Richard the Lionhearted who first encountered the Athelstan crown, hidden in the earth until a peasant dug it up. He spoke the truth. The treasure was English, sent to France for unknown reasons. When the king lay dying, Richard not only pardoned the crossbowman but also must have ordered the crown concealed again. Still, someone must have known of it, rumors must have lived on, for two centuries later, an arrogant soldier prince, the oldest son of Edward the Third, came looking for it—and found it. “He had delivered to England a shipload of great treasure,” the book had said. The Black Prince brought the crown back to England. Too frightened of its power to destroy it, his father the king must have decided to place the Athelstan crown in a holy place. He had an entire Dominican priory built for concealment. And still, someone must have known and told, for a Tudor boy came thirty-six years ago, and, for a third time, the crown felled a prince of the blood.

“Once you learn where the Athelstan crown is located, communicate that to me alone, in writing,” Bishop Gardiner had insisted. “You must not touch it yourself, not even for an instant. You understand?”

Touch. That was it. To touch the crown was to trigger death, a death that could not be stopped no matter what remedies were applied, what physicians were found. And it was here, somewhere, within the priory. Locked away, inside our walls, or perhaps beneath our feet.

Bishop Gardiner had found out about the crown and sought to gain hold of it. But why? Did he crave it as a weapon, as a means to fatally weaken our sovereign, King Henry? The bishop said he wanted to save the monasteries, but he’d also said, with great passion, “I serve the House of Tudor.” I recalled the bishop’s nickname—“Wily Winchester”—and his reputation for betrayal. I’d glimpsed the darkness within him. Was it possible his plan was to obtain the crown and present it to the king to shore up his faltering status, to ingratiate himself with Henry Tudor? Or did he really want to serve the king, I wondered. How could a man with such a crown bow down before another man who wears a crown?

An elbow nudged my rib, and I jumped on my stool. It was Brother Edmund. He pointed at the doorway with his chin.

A couple, dressed entirely in black, stood just over the threshold of the chapter house. Lord and Lady Chester had arrived at last. I had no choice but to push aside my thoughts of the crown and to endure the requiem feast.

Lord Chester entered the room first. He appeared a handsome man, just past his prime. He towered a full head’s length above the porter, who now backed away, deferential, from our guest of honor. He wore a long black doublet elaborately stitched with silver thread, a costly piece of fashion. As he came closer, I noticed the doublet strained at its buttons because it was too small for him; he was just starting to spread to fat and either did not know it or did not wish to know it. Our neighbor had lost half his hair; his pate shone beneath the thinning chestnut strands. Large jeweled rings gleamed on both hands.

His steps were heavy; it took a long time for him to reach the center of the table and the chair that he assumed—correctly—was reserved for him.

Prioress Joan rose to her feet. “Dartford Priory welcomes you to our requiem feast in honor of All Souls’ Day, Lord Chester,” she said.

He bowed and said in a deep voice, “I thank you, Prioress.” Without looking back, he beckoned carelessly with one hand. “My lady, attend.”

Lady Chester, pale, thin, and short in stature, made her way to the chair next to his. Her black bodice and skirt, her gable hood, made for an ensemble so severe she looked more like one of us than a lady. Not a single jewel, not even a slender ring, adorned her body. These were the clothes of strict mourning, which I realized was only fitting, since Queen Jane died a week ago and her husband served the king.

Lord Chester turned to examine my corner of the room. Now that he was closer, he appeared not so hale. His eyes were bloodshot; his neck was loose. A faint spider’s web of broken red veins mottled his nose.

He smiled with approval at the sight of the musical instruments: my vihuela and the others’ lutes. Lord Chester had requested music; we were ready to perform it.

And then he belched. The stench of wine hit me like a puff of wind.

Lord Chester, it seemed, was quite drunk.