The Crown A Novel

30


We’d made it only a short distance down the passageway when Sister Eleanor called out to me, “Halt, Sister Joanna.”

She hurried to catch up to us.

“Prioress asked me to accompany you.” She looked Geoffrey up and down, barely concealing her distaste. Fighting a smile, Geoffrey bowed to her.

Sister Eleanor now led the way to the chapter house. I followed a respectful distance, with Geoffrey right behind me. I could feel his breath on the back of my head. His steps were loud on the stone floor.

When we reached the open passageway running along the cloister garden, I no longer heard those steps. I turned to see why. Geoffrey stood next to a column, staring at our garden. The sunlight flickered on the delicate leaves of the quince trees and the neatly tended herbs that flowered in autumn.

“This is so beautiful,” he said. “I’ve never seen the like.”

“Master Scovill, if you please?” Sister Eleanor snapped. “We are very busy at the priory.”

I edged into the chapter house, reluctant to return to this room. But all signs of the feast had been removed, except for the tapestry. There were no tables, no candlesticks, no cloths or silver. The stench of meat had evaporated. Geoffrey walked in just as slowly as I did, his eyes tracking every inch, as if he was re-creating the evening’s mayhem.

Indifferent to his need to concentrate, Sister Eleanor said, “Master Scovill, how much longer will you and the other men from Rochester be here at the priory?”

Geoffrey was now taking in the details of the tapestry. Without looking away from it, he explained, “The coroner is bound to hold an inquest within three days of arriving on the scene of a suspicious death. A jury of twelve local men must hear the evidence, must decide if murder has been committed. A coroner may indict a suspect, and if the jury agrees, a justice of the peace may then bind that accused person over for trial.”

Only two days remained before the inquiry would need to take place, I realized.

“This tapestry is based on a story?” Geoffrey asked.

“It’s a story taken from ancient Greece,” answered Sister Eleanor. “The tale of Daphne, the nymph. She was turned into a tree by her father, a river god.”

“Why did he turn her into a tree?”

Sister Eleanor laughed scornfully. “I hardly think this is based on something that really happened, Master Scovill.”

“I understand that, Sister,” he said, still patient. “But there could be deeper meaning to these figures.” He pointed at the figure of Daphne. “She looks frightened to me.” He turned to examine the three hunters to the left of Daphne. “Is she meant to be frightened of them?”

“I have no idea,” Sister Eleanor said.

“There is more of a story to this,” I said. “I heard that a couple of days ago.”

Geoffrey turned to me. “From whom?”

Too late, I remembered who it had been. “Brother Edmund,” I muttered.

Geoffrey nodded. “Ah, of course. Brother Edmund.”

I did not like the way he said it. “Why do you not speak to him then?” I asked. “You will soon see what kind of person he is.”

“We shall be speaking to Brother Edmund, be assured. He is last on our list.”

Sister Eleanor murmured, “Actually, now that you make mention of it, there is something about this tapestry.” She squinted hard. “The girl, Daphne, she looks like someone I’ve seen. But I can’t think of who.”

“Do you use models for the figures in your tapestries?” asked Geoffrey.

She shook her head.

“Sister Agatha also said she looked familiar,” I recalled.

Geoffrey brightened. “Sister Eleanor, please go and find this Sister Agatha and bring her here.”

She looked at me, unsure.

Geoffrey waved his hand. “Sister Joanna will be fine. I may have more questions about the tapestry for her to answer, so she must remain. Please make haste. As you said, we are all busy people.”

In a moment she was gone and we were, finally, alone.

I cleared my throat and said, “I am pleased to see that you are healthy and well.” How awkward it came out.

Geoffrey said cautiously, “And you, Sister Joanna.” He paused. “The last time I saw you, you did not look at all healthy and well.”

“That’s true. But all is mended.”

He asked, “How did you manage that?”

“I was cleared of all suspicion and released to Dartford,” I said.

“How fortunate.”

I did not know what else to say. I’d arranged for this opportunity, to speak to Geoffrey, and now I’d turned mute.

He was the one who broke the silence.

“They don’t know I was held two nights in the Tower,” Geoffrey said in a low voice. “Sir William Kingston checked my name on the rolls of constabulary office for Rochester—the records were in London—and that, along with my sworn statement, was enough. I was never officially arrested. So when he released me, I went home and told the chief constable I’d stayed at a London inn. I feared for many weeks that someone would come, that a letter would be sent. It never happened.”

“I see.”

He bit his lip. “I would appreciate it if you would not expose my involvement in your case. It could ruin me.”

“But you nearly exposed that I was the one who left Dartford without permission,” I pointed out, still angry.

“I have a duty to perform here,” Geoffrey said. “My loyalty is to Justice Campion, to assist with this inquiry. I owe him a very great deal.”

“Oh?”

Geoffrey looked uncomfortable but continued. “He pays most of my monthly wages from his own private accounts. The job of constable is unpaid—I don’t know if you are aware of that. The chief constable of Rochester is a man of means. But I am not. If it weren’t for Master Campion, I certainly could not hold this position.”

There was the sound of women talking outside, in the passageway. I thought it was Sister Eleanor, returning with Sister Agatha, but the chatter died away.

“Geoffrey, I have something to say,” I began.

His eyes widened at my use of his name.

“What I said about you, in the Tower, when you were brought in—it wasn’t true.” There, at last I had managed it. But Geoffrey still looked dissatisfied.

“Then why did you say it?” he asked.

“The Duke of Norfolk—you don’t know him as I do. I couldn’t speak up for you; it would have set him off.”

Geoffrey narrowed his eyes. “But you spoke up for Brother Edmund—there was no impediment to that.”

“There are far different circumstances,” I protested.

“What is he doing in the middle of a priory? That’s what I want to find out,” Geoffrey said. “My understanding is that nuns are supposed to be kept very separate from friars and monks.”

“We don’t pray together or work together or eat together,” I said.

“Or sleep together?”

Fast as a whip, my hand shot out. The cracking sound of a slap rang out across the chapter house. I stared at my reddened palm, horrified.

Geoffrey held his cheek. “I wager I deserved that.” He laughed. “For a religious house, you all hand out a fair number of blows.”

Before I could respond, Sister Eleanor led in a nervous, flustered Sister Agatha.

“I don’t know how I can be of assistance,” protested the novice mistress.

Geoffrey pointed at the tapestry. “Who is that girl?”

Sister Agatha looked confused. “Daphne. The girl from the fable. She was turned into a tree by her father to save her.”

“Save her from what?” Geoffrey asked.

She pointed at the three hunters. “Them. The men who were hunting her.” She glanced at me and lowered her voice. “We do not discuss why.”

“And the girl was modeled on someone real?” he asked.

“Oh, no,” said Sister Agatha. “We don’t work that way.”

“But you and Sister Eleanor have both said she looks familiar,” he pressed.

Sister Agatha looked at the beautiful blond girl in the tapestry, her legs winding into a trunk, her arms sprouting leaves. “I didn’t see it when we were weaving the tapestry, but now, these months later, when I look at her, I see . . . Sister Beatrice.”

“Yes,” Sister Eleanor gasped. “That’s it.”

His voice hard, Geoffrey said, “Who is Sister Beatrice?”

“She left the priory in 1535,” said Sister Agatha. “When the king’s commissioners came, they brought us all together. They said anyone younger than twenty-five years of age must be released. No one was. Then the commissioners asked if anyone wanted to leave. They said that question was being posed at every priory and abbey, and Sister Beatrice came forward. She was a novice, and she said she wanted to go. She didn’t give any reasons. Once she—”

“That’s enough,” Sister Eleanor hissed.

“Did Sister Beatrice know Lord Chester?”

“Of course not,” said Sister Eleanor.

“Where is she now?” asked Geoffrey.

“I don’t know. With her family, I assume. They had a home near Canterbury.”

Sister Agatha gave a cry and pointed, not at the girl this time but at the corner of the tapestry, where the head of the old river god peered out of the weeds. “Do you know who that looks like? Prioress Elizabeth.”

“Who?” asked Geoffrey.

“Our former prioress, who died last month,” said Sister Eleanor. “But that’s ludicrous. She was my aunt, and I should know that . . . Her voice trailed away. I peered at the figure. And suddenly, to my shock, I saw it: white hair, hooked nose, large blue eyes. There was no denying it: the river god resembled Prioress Elizabeth Croessner.

“Who is in charge of the tapestries?” asked Geoffrey.

We all looked at one another.

Reluctantly, Sister Eleanor said, “Sister Helen. She plans the designs and personally weaves the faces of the figures. I will fetch her and bring her here, although she—”

Geoffrey broke in. “No, you will take me to her now.”

“That would not be appropriate, Master Scovill.”

“We were told we would have all your cooperation, Sister,” he said. “I don’t want any of you to speak to her about this before I do. Where is she right now?”

Sister Eleanor said, “The tapestry room.”

“And is that far?”

She shook her head.

“Then let’s go.”

It was past the usual hour in the tapestry room. We didn’t do our work after the natural light had gone. Loom work by candlelight ruins eyes; moreover, the light makes it impossible to consistently match colors. But the bells still hadn’t rung for prayers, most likely because these men were here, asking their questions, occupying the prioress. And so Sister Helen must have remained. This was the room, after all, that she felt safest in.

Indeed, Sister Helen was alone, behind the loom, when we all walked in. She stood up, confused, her hands full of the exquisite silk and woolen thread bundles we sent for from Brussels.

“Sister Helen, I have questions for you about the tapestry hung at the requiem feast,” Geoffrey said.

She moaned—an awful, guttural noise—and backed into the corner, dropping all of her threads.

Sister Eleanor moved in first. “Don’t be alarmed, Sister. Please. It will be fine.”

Sister Helen bent over, clutching her chest.

“She’s sick,” shouted Sister Agatha, as Sister Helen toppled to the floor. “Get Brother Edmund,” Sister Eleanor ordered the novice mistress.

I knelt next to her, as Sister Helen writhed in pain. She panted, her eyes wild with fear as she looked at Sister Eleanor and me. After what seemed like an eternity but was probably just a minute, she grew quiet and her eyes slid shut. I placed her head in my lap, stroked her damp forehead. “Oh, Sister Helen,” I said, tearful. There was no response.

Brother Edmund ran into the room. He felt her wrists and her throat, and then pulled up her eyelids. Geoffrey watched him from the doorway, wary.

“We must take her to the infirmary,” the friar said. “She must be carried.”

“I’ll help you,” Geoffrey announced. The two of them took their measure of each other, and Brother Edmund nodded. “Thank you, sir,” he said.

They carried her together, each man gripping an opposite end of the long table they lifted her onto. It was a most upsetting sight, the conveying of a deathly ill Sister Helen through the passageways. The sisters cried out and crossed themselves as we passed, and many of them gathered in the infirmary, to be near her. Some of them said they’d noticed Sister Helen earlier, agitated, not herself, moving around the priory. Brother Edmund finally had to plead for quiet because their talk was too distracting. From her corner, Sister Winifred watched all, distraught.

It was proposed that a few of us would assist in the nursing of Sister Helen and Sister Winifred through the night. My time would be two hours after midnight prayers. “The youngest are the strongest and can best endure having little sleep,” Sister Agatha decided.

When I shuffled into the refectory for the evening meal, I was surprised to see Sister Christina at the novices’ table. “My mother has been taken home,” she explained.

“How is she?” I asked.

Sister Christina shook her head. “She’s lost. My father’s will has been hers for thirty years.”

“And how are you?” I laid my hand on her shoulder. It was rigid, like a stone.

“I turn to God for all answers,” she said fiercely. “He must guide us through.”

At the end of the meal Sister Agatha sidled up to us. “Is it true a deputation from London came, to talk to your mother and to the justice of the peace?”

Sister Christina nodded, reluctant. “Yes, they came from the court, from the king’s council, after getting word of my father’s death.”

“And did they seek to take control of the investigation—is it true there is a quarrel?”

“I did not follow it, my concern was prayer and my mother’s lamentable condition,” Sister Christina snapped, and Sister Agatha scuttled away.

After the last prayers of the night, Sister Christina and I climbed the steps to the dormitories. I thought I’d lie down in my habit, try to rest for a short time, so I’d be of more use to Brother Edmund.

When I stretched out, on top of my blanket, something poked my belly. I pulled down the blanket. A sheet of paper had been folded and sealed and placed there.

I broke the seal as Sister Christina busied herself on the opposite side, preparing for sleep. There was one sentence scrawled across the top: “Seek out the Howard tapestry.” It was not signed.

I refolded the parchment and slipped it under my pillow, my pulses racing. Should I give it to Justice Campion? At first that seemed the best plan, but then I turned against it. If the person who wrote it wanted the information to go directly to the investigators, then why give it to me? No, this was placed in my bed. There had to be a good reason.

My instincts told me it was Sister Helen. The message was about a tapestry. She’d tried to speak to me earlier in the day, but we had been interrupted. The other sisters saw her moving around the priory, in agitation. She must have secured parchment and quill, written this message, and then placed it in my bed.

It was not welcome. I did not like to see the name “Howard” or be told to seek out an old tapestry, presumably woven at Dartford and then sold to this family. How was such a search to be accomplished? And if found, what could it tell me?

My mind went round and round until Sister Rachel shook my shoulder. “Wake up, it’s your turn to go to the infirmary,” she said. I didn’t tell her I hadn’t slept a minute. I followed her downstairs, clutching the paper in my sleeve.

“This isn’t necessary,” Brother Edmund said when I arrived. “They’re both quiet, so there’s no aid needed. You should rest.”

I insisted on staying, until at last Brother Edmund relented. My mind was so weary, I had to seek answers from the friar, who was so learned and perceptive and often understood human nature better than I.

As soon as Sister Rachel had gone to her own bed, I produced the paper.

“Who wrote this?” he asked.

“I don’t know, but I think it was Sister Helen.” We both glanced at her slack face; she could tell us nothing.

I waited for Brother Edmund to comment, to explain the message to me. His face was preternaturally still in the candlelight.

“What do you think it means?” I finally asked.

“I don’t know,” Brother Edmund said, “but I think it possible that Sister Helen observed a great many things here, things that other people did not realize she observed.”

Such as the existence of a hidden crown? I thought, my throat tightening. Lord Chester bragged of knowing a secret, and he was murdered. Sister Helen also possessed some sort of knowledge of something that had happened in the priory and may have relayed it through her design of a tapestry. Something that involved a novice named Sister Beatrice and our own dead Prioress Elizabeth. But now Sister Helen lay senseless.

I said no more to Brother Edmund. I couldn’t confide in him any further; it might have been a mistake to have said as much as I had.

We worked in silence. The friar moved back and forth between the two women in his care, while I prepared linens and ground herbs for poultices. He sat in a chair next to Sister Winifred, his elbow propped on the bed. After a few moments his shoulders drooped. He slowly sagged onto the bed, his head resting next to her thin shoulder. He was definitely asleep.

I lit a small candle and ran down the passageway. I must do what I could before he woke.

With all that was going on in the priory, I prayed that locking the library door would have been forgotten. For once, my hopes were answered. I pushed open the door and made my way straight to the section that once had contained the book that could reveal all to me.

It was there. From Caractacus to Athelstan stood on the shelf, sticking out half an inch farther than any of its neighbors, as if it had been replaced in haste.

I hurried to the last chapter, where I had left off two weeks before.

Athelstan brought many other smaller kings and lords under submission to him and built a great kingdom. He established new laws in England. He honored his family, his half sisters and half brothers. His sisters were the most beautiful princesses in all of Christendom. Hugh the Great, Duke of the Franks and Count of Paris, sought the hand of Eadhild, the fairest of all of the sisters. Duke Hugh was a Capet, and his son would become the King of France and father to the race of French kings that had continued on in an unbroken line for centuries.

To make an alliance with Athelstan and become the husband of Eadhild, Hugh Capet made over fine gifts to Athelstan. He had in his possession the relics of Charlemagne, for he was direct descended from that great Christian ruler. He awarded to Athelstan a sword and a spear and chalices and a sacred crown.

There were those who refused to pay Athelstan tribute and bow to his fierce will. They said they would die before becoming “under-king” to England. An alliance formed of three such kings to destroy Athelstan. The Viking king Olaf Guthfrithsson, King Constantine of Scotland, and King Owain the Bold of Wales marched in 937 to meet Athelstan. The morning of the battle of Brunanburh, Athelstan put on his head the crown given to him by Hugh Capet and led his army of soldiers with their shields onto the field. Athelstan was vastly outnumbered. But he was not afraid.

It was a battle great, lamentable and horrible. Athelstan led his men in battle as no king had ever done. He was a magnificent force, unstoppable by any opposing army or alliance or armies and showing no mercy. At the end of the battle, he emerged victorious. It is said that rivers of blood never soaked the ground as deeply as they did at Brunanburh. The corpses were so numerous that the black raven, the eagle, the hawk, and the wolf feasted for many days.

Thus did Athelstan become the first man to rule over one kingdom of England, Wales, and Scotland. There now reigned one king.

The crown. It had to be the same one. The crown came from France, a gift from a king who fathered a race of kings. It was worn by a young English king into a battle that should have been lost but was won. A battle that united our island as never before, because of the implacable, unstoppable Athelstan. And then, for reasons I couldn’t fathom, the king’s crown was taken to France and buried in the ground in Limoges, near the Aquitaine.

I picked up the candle, burning low. Dawn would be coming, and I needed to be in the infirmary when the bells rang summoning us to first prayers.

Outside, in the passageway, it was cold and very dark. Morning wasn’t as close as I had thought; it was still the thickest part of night.

I hadn’t walked more than a few yards when the trail of a dank breeze stirred the air. I hadn’t experienced anything like it inside the priory. The cloister garden was too far away to cause this sort of wind. There were no windows on the passageway.

I stopped and waited. The air had grown thick and still again. And yet there was something else in the passageway. I held up my candle and turned this way and that. No sign of a person—my candle would have revealed the figure of a man or woman. It was a watchfulness. All alone in the passageway of Dartford, I felt myself watched.

Anyone who might have possessed some knowledge of the secrets of Dartford had been struck down. Minutes earlier, I’d read enough to piece together the role of King Athelstan in possessing a crown with powers. He had won a battle that all expected him to lose. Was it because he wore the crown on his head?

I heard something. Not words, not a step on the stone floor. The sound was like breathing, but not air from a warm, mortal body. I felt myself in the presence of a stern, relentless judgment.

The strange shifting breeze crawled through the air again. It was the priory itself. It was stirring to life all around me. The crown of Athelstan moved within the stones and mortar, rippling toward me.

At that very instant, my candle went out, as if extinguished by a breath not my own.

I bolted down the passageway as fast as I’d ever run in my life. I rounded the corner, my arms flailing in blind, terrible panic. I slammed hard into what felt like a person.

I screamed, but only for a few seconds. A large, strong hand clamped tight over my mouth and silenced me.