The Crown A Novel

31


It was only after Brother Edmund had wrapped me in blankets and given me ale to drink that I could put a sentence together.

After he had run into me in the passageway, he’d lifted me up, kicking and weeping, and carried me to the infirmary. I’d waited there while he searched the dark passageway, armed with a long stick from the infirmary.

“I didn’t find anyone, Sister Joanna,” he said. “Now tell me exactly what you saw.”

I shook my head. “I didn’t see a person,” I said. “I heard what sounded like . . . breathing.”

“Where was it coming from?”

I couldn’t answer. Now that I was in the infirmary, looked after by Brother Edmund, I feared nothing so much as for him to think me mad.

“Sister Joanna?”

I couldn’t meet his gaze. “It seemed as if the walls were breathing. As if the priory were . . . alive.”

He didn’t laugh or show alarm. “How long since you last slept?” he asked.

“God’s servants don’t require sleep,” I murmured.

“To best serve God, we require sleep and food and drink,” he said firmly. “I have known strong men to imagine fearful things when they are severely weakened. Now I want you to lie down on the pallet next to Sister Winifred’s.”

“Not here,” I said, alarmed.

“You must. I can’t enter the dormitories, so I’m unable to escort you, but I don’t want you walking around the priory alone again.” He steered me to a pallet. “You’ll get no more than an hour sleep, but you need it. I’ll wake you for Lauds.”

Brother Edmund was right. I was exhausted. I fell asleep less than a minute after I stretched out on the pallet. The last thing in my mind was a question: Why hadn’t Brother Edmund asked me why I left the infirmary in the first place? But then sleep pulled me down, and I puzzled over it no more.

True to his word, the friar woke me for Lauds. I hadn’t heard the bells. I went through the motions of our morning routine, heavy with tiredness and confusion. In the midmorning, I glanced outside the kitchen window and was startled to see Geoffrey Scovill walking alongside the barn, with Justice Campion stomping behind him, pointing at things with his cane.

Sister Agatha materialized next to me. “They’ve been here for hours,” she whispered. “The coroner met with Lady Chester. He’s questioning the prioress again; then they say they will go through all of the servants and get statements.”

As much as I hated to think any of our servants a murderer, I was relieved to see their suspicion move away from Brother Edmund or Brother Richard. By the end of the following day, they would hold their inquiry.

“Does the girl in the tapestry really look like Sister Beatrice?” I asked.

Sister Agatha nodded. “Oh, yes.”

“Why did she leave the priory?”

She looked around to make sure no one was listening, and then delivered up the history of Sister Beatrice to me. The onetime novice was the youngest child of a large family, her father a merchant. A few months after her father died, her mother had sent her to Dartford. “She never had a good word to say about her mother,” Sister Agatha whispered. “They quarreled all the time; the mother was hard-hearted, she told me. Prioress Elizabeth tried to be patient with her; she said that Sister Beatrice had spirit and that it should not be crushed but molded. She was a beautiful girl—she loved music the most.”

I smiled. “She sounds like someone I would have liked to know.”

“But then when the king’s commissioners came, it was a grievous embarrassment that she stepped forward and said she wanted to leave us. We were so surprised. She hadn’t been the easiest novice, but no one expected that.”

“And what happened? She left, just like that? What must her mother have said about it?”

Sister Agatha thought for a moment. “I don’t know,” she said finally. “The next day she was gone. We never heard another word about her.” She craned her neck to look out the window. “Until now.”

I finished my work in the kitchen; I sang the offices and ate dinner with the others. I attempted to carry on, with normalcy. But all day, growing inside me, was a sick dread. It grew worse when I went to the infirmary and was told Brother Edmund was in the prioress’s chamber, being questioned again. Sister Winifred was out of her bed, but wringing her hands, disconsolate.

“Where is he?” she pleaded with Sister Rachel. “Why would he need to go to the prioress’s chamber?” Because of her fragile state, we had decided to keep Lord Chester’s murder from Sister Winifred, but it necessitated so many small falsehoods and evasions, I regretted the choice.

I took Sister Winifred’s cold hands in mine. “It will be fine, Sister. Don’t distress yourself, please.”

“Yes, don’t distress yourself,” said a voice behind us.

“Oh, I’ve missed you,” Sister Winifred cried, throwing herself into Brother Edmund’s arms. He patted her back and shoulders, and then smiled at me. His large brown eyes gleamed with calm.

Waves of relief washed through me.

After he’d calmed Sister Winifred, he turned to me and said, “Sister Joanna, I would like to show you something.”

I followed him to his apothecary cabinet. Brother Edmund took a handful of dark leaves from a box on the wall and sprinkled them in the bowl. He leaned over the fire and demonstrated how close the bowl needed to be to the flames.

“It’s important,” he said, “that the leaves not incinerate.”

I drew close to him, so close that the heat from the fire made my fingers tingle. “Why,” I whispered, “are you showing me this now? She’s not having a fit.”

“Sister Joanna, I need you to pay attention and to remember.”

“But why?” I repeated. “You are the one who administers the remedy. Why would I need to do it?”

The church bells rang, and I was forced to leave the infirmary without getting an answer. The end of the day arrived without any more developments. And the next day we saw nothing of the trio from Rochester. It seemed that all suspicion had passed over the friars and the others who lived here. Perhaps they had found the man who killed Lord Chester and had not yet informed us.

Just after dinner I returned to the infirmary to help Brother Edmund with his patients. Sister Rachel was attending Sister Helen, who was still unconscious. I said a Rosary with Sister Winifred while Brother Edmund prepared a poultice for her.

There was an outcry behind us. “Brother Edmund, hurry!” called out Sister Rachel.

Sister Helen’s eyes were still closed, but she gasped for breath. There was a terrible wet rattle in her throat; she could not seem to draw in any air. Her fingers twitched as if she were trying to fight for it. Brother Edmund opened her mouth and pressed down her tongue; afterward, he rubbed her arms.

Within minutes, a dozen sisters had come in to gather around her. We formed a chain, holding hands as we prayed. The prioress joined us, her clear voice the loudest of all. I could feel the love we all harbored for Sister Helen pulsing in the air. It seemed that together, tapping into such a force, we could save Sister Helen. One heart and one soul seeking God.

But that day God willed otherwise.

Brother Edmund stepped back. “It’s over,” he told Prioress Joan.

I burst into tears, as did some of the others. The prioress called out, “Sisters, listen to me. Listen. Remember what Saint Dominic said on his deathbed: ‘Weep not, for I will be of more use to you in heaven.’ Sister Helen will be in heaven, and she will do God’s work just as beautifully there as she did here. She will find true peace.” The prioress closed her eyes, and her lips moved in a silent personal prayer.

I drew comfort from her words. Sister Helen had been a remarkable presence at Dartford; we had all been fond of her, protective of her. But no one could say that, after the horrible execution of her brother, she had been at peace.

There was a strange hissing noise next to me. It was Sister Rachel. “What are you doing here?” she seethed.

I turned, shocked, to see whom she referred to.

On the other side of Sister Rachel, Geoffrey Scovill stood in the doorway to the infirmary. Gregory, the porter, hovered behind him, unhappy.

There were other shocked sounds as the sisters realized his presence. Prioress Joan opened her eyes. “Master Scovill, you cannot enter the cloistered part of the priory without my express permission,” she said. “And to come here, at such a time? It is not fit.”

Sister Rachel could not contain herself. She pointed a finger at Geoffrey. “It was you who killed Sister Helen—you frightened her to death.”

A few other sisters took up her accusation. “He did this to her!” someone agreed.

“No,” I protested, “he didn’t.”

Geoffrey shot me a quick glance and then took a step inside the infirmary. He had something in his hand. “I am sorry to disturb you, and I deeply regret the passing of Sister Helen,” he said somberly. “But, Prioress, I come here on urgent legal business.”

He held up his paper. “I am here to bring Brother Edmund Sommerville to the coroner’s inquest in the village of Dartford. Twelve men have been summoned to hear evidence in the murder of Lord Chester. An indictment has been prepared for Brother Edmund, and the jury will decide whether to confirm it.”

“No! No!” cried the sisters of the priory, who now formed a protective circle around the friar.

But Brother Edmund wouldn’t allow it. He gently pushed his way through the sisters and walked to Geoffrey, his head high.

“I am innocent of this crime but ready to obey the law,” he said.

Geoffrey reached into his pocket and removed something. To my horror, he was binding Brother Edmund’s wrists.

“What is happening?” called out Sister Winifred, in a panic. “What did that man say? Edmund? Where are you taking him?”

Brother Edmund sent one sad look to his sister, and then turned to all of us and said, simply, “Good-bye.”

In a moment he was gone.

Sister Agatha went to Sister Winifred and tried to calm her. I could not move or speak. It was as if my mind refused to accept what had just happened.

After a few minutes, Gregory, the porter, returned. He also held a piece of paper. It bore a large red seal.

“This just came from London,” he said, and handed it to Prioress Joan.

With a frown, she broke the seal. I could see it was a short letter. She read it while we watched. The only sound was Sister Winifred, crying in the corner, in Sister Agatha’s arms.

All the color drained from the face of the prioress.

“What does it say?” asked Sister Rachel.

The prioress looked at her, and then at all of us.

“The letter is from Thomas Cromwell, the Lord Privy Seal and Vice Regent,” she said. “Because of Lord Chester’s murder, Dartford Priory is the scandal of the kingdom and must be newly examined for error. The king’s chief commissioners, Layton and Legh, are changing their schedule of visitations to come here now, instead of in the spring. They should arrive in Dartford within three weeks’ time.”