The Crown A Novel

37


When Brother Edmund had almost reached the top of the hill, I stepped out from behind the tree to show myself. My head was full of shocked and angry words, but in the end all I could manage to utter was one.

“Deceiver,” I said.

Brother Edmund threw up an arm in front of his face, as if I had hit him. He stumbled back down the hill and nearly fell. When he’d righted himself and lowered his arm, his face flooded red with shame.

“How much do you know, Brother?” I demanded.

“Nothing,” he choked. “I don’t break your seals. My instructions from Bishop Gardiner were to take your letters from the secret place in the window and arrange for them to be couriered to Paris with all speed. I receive and send parcels all the time because I am an apothecary; no one questions it.”

“And you have no idea why I was sent here?” My voice rose in disbelief.

“It’s true,” he insisted. “The bishop said that I was never to ask, that it would be dangerous to know. I am just the means of communication.”

I shook my head. “But why would you do this for Gardiner?”

Brother Edmund’s lower lip trembled. “That I can’t tell you.”

I was so angry, I literally danced up and down on the cold ground.

“You can’t tell me—is that what you just said?” I shouted. “But do you want to know why I do it? Why I spy on the sisters of Dartford? Do you, Brother Edmund?”

He did not answer me. He looked truly ill. But I could no longer restrain myself. “He tortured my father to induce me to come here and work for him. Did your esteemed Bishop Gardiner supply you with that fact?”

Brother Edmund’s mouth fell open. “By the Holy Virgin, that cannot be possible.”

“He was racked in the Tower, right in front of me, with Gardiner giving the orders!” Tears of rage filled my eyes. “The bishop forced me to come back here, where I was not wanted. You heard from the commissioners how I was arrested at Smithfield and imprisoned. Bishop Gardiner pressured the priory to take me. My father is still in the Tower. I am here to find something at Dartford, something hidden for a very long time. If I ultimately fail, God alone knows what will happen to my father . . . and to me.”

Brother Edmund whispered, “What does he seek, Sister Joanna, that he would go to such terrible lengths to secure it?”

I said, “If he had wanted you to know, he would have told you.” Brother Edmund flinched, and I felt a twinge of regret over my cruelty.

Neither of us spoke. Two red-breasted birds landed on the front wall of the leper hospital and began calling out, singing a cheerful duet. I was seized with an urge to throw something at the birds—a rock, a tree branch, anything to smash their joyfulness. It was terrible, to feel such murderous anger.

“What of Brother Richard?” I asked. “Why was he sent to Dartford?”

“I’m not sure,” said Brother Edmund. “We don’t speak of it, not . . . directly. But I believe Gardiner placed him here to protect the priory while you investigate.”

“And in return he gets his own monastery someday—he’ll finally make prior?” I asked bitterly.

“Actually, I don’t require that level of quid pro quo,” said a voice behind us.

Brother Richard emerged from the bank of trees.

“I followed you, Sister Joanna,” he said, not the least embarrassed. “I thought in a time of crisis, more aggressive action needed to be taken.” He brushed the dusty brown leaves off the shoulders of his friar’s robes as he walked toward us. “I’ve had quite enough of skulking in the trees, thank you.”

Neither Brother Edmund nor I could find words.

“You are as perceptive as always, Brother Edmund,” he continued. “Bishop Gardiner instructed me to protect Dartford Priory and, as much as possible, to protect Sister Joanna during her investigation. Which has proved quite challenging at certain junctures.” He sighed deeply.

Brother Edmund said, “But what is the crisis, Brother? Cromwell’s commissioners left without ordering our dissolution.”

Brother Richard kicked the ground. “It’s hard, isn’t it? Winter is upon us. It wouldn’t be so easy to take down a priory such as Dartford, as mighty as a castle, in such a season, particularly if there must be digging beneath. That scope of necessary destruction must wait until spring, when the ground softens.”

“Is there no way to avoid such a fate?” I asked.

He laughed humorlessly. “There is, indeed. I believe the prioress has brokered some sort of arrangement with Layton and Legh. They have told her what they seek, and she intends to find it for them.”

“She told you this?” Brother Edmund asked.

“Of course not. Part deduction, part listening at the door. There is a reprieve on the priory until spring. If she produces the desired object, they spare Dartford. If she does not, they tear it apart, brick by brick.”

“No, no, no,” I moaned.

“But if the commissioners were not able to find it thus far, nor Sister Joanna, how will she manage it?” asked Brother Edmund.

“The prioress cannot be underestimated,” he said somberly. “Oh, this woman. How she plagues me.” He rubbed his temples, weary. “She is the most dangerous combination: a person who possesses terrible judgment and tremendous cleverness, in equal measure. She believes that if she gives Layton and Legh what they want, it will save the priory.”

“Save it?” I cried. “That is why the priory was built: to conceal it. If she uncovers it without understanding its power . . . My voice trailed away as Brother Richard’s eyes bored into me.

“It would, of course, assist me immeasurably if I knew what everyone was searching for,” Brother Richard said. “Gardiner would not tell me.”

Now both friars looked at me, with grave expectation.

“But that is the very thing I can’t tell anyone,” I cried. “I promised someone, a very great personage, I would never breathe a word of the secret of Dartford Priory. I only told Bishop Gardiner under duress. At the end, his instructions were specific—that I was to say nothing to the friars.”

Brother Richard turned away, anguished.

“Brother, he keeps us divided out of suspicion,” said Brother Edmund gently. “If we could work together, we would stand a greater chance of success, but Bishop Gardiner fears it too much—the strength and unity of purpose that come with knowledge. This object must possess such powers that he does not trust us with it. He has Sister Joanna in such a grip of fear of him, it is only she whom he trusts. And even she is kept in half ignorance.”

Brother Richard nodded. He turned his face up to the November sun and shut his eyes, as if in meditation. In the harsh light, I saw gray hairs I’d not noticed before.

“Bishop Gardiner is wrong,” he said, his eyes still closed. Brother Edmund and I looked at each other, startled.

“The savage politics of the court have soured his judgment of humanity.” Brother Richard opened his eyes. “There’s very little time left. It is not a matter of saving our homes, our habits of living. These monasteries are all just bricks and mortar and glass. What has been torn asunder can be rebuilt. Those who were cast out can be summoned again. Saint Dominic walked among the people barefoot to preach the word of God; he slept on the ground at night and ate next to nothing. No, what is being destroyed is the soul of England. The darkest forces are gaining in strength, fostering ignorance and pain and destruction. All that has been created here, in our island kingdom, all of the labor and wisdom and beauty of our holy church, it stands in the gravest peril.”

My heart pounded in my chest. Yes, if all were made right, Brother Richard should lead other Dominicans in service of God. He possessed a true gift, the gift of inspiration.

“Bishop Gardiner believes there is something in Dartford Priory,” he continued, “something that, in the right hands, could halt the destruction of the monasteries.”

“But how?” asked Brother Edmund.

“We can’t know that unless we know what it is. You realize its existence is why we were sent here. That is why the commissioners came, with the pretext of Lord Chester’s murder. We three must join in trust now; we must work together to achieve the end that the bishop himself desires above all other things. No one has been able to stop Henry Tudor thus far. Sister Elizabeth Barton, the nun of Kent, prophesied against the king’s divorce and was hanged for it. Cardinal Fisher and Sir Thomas More refused to swear the Oath of Supremacy to the king, and they were executed. They died martyrs, revered throughout Christendom, but it did not slow the king’s determination to rule over the church. Others refused and were tortured and killed, those poor abbots and monks and priests. And it mattered not a whit. The entire North of England rose in rebellion, calling for the restoration of the monasteries and the saints’ days, to protest the prominence of Cromwell, and their army was crushed. Their leaders horribly killed.”

I thought of my cousin Margaret, and my whole body ached.

“But I can’t find it,” I whispered. “I’ve tried and tried. I can’t.”

“Let us help you,” Brother Edmund said. “Sister Joanna, won’t you tell us what it is, so we can help you?”

His plea moved me. Brother Richard’s words stirred me. But I could not tell them of the Athelstan crown. I could not take such a risk. It was not simply for my own safety—it was my father’s life. I wished I could make them both understand.

A painful silence filled the air. The birds had stopped their singing; there was only the whisper of the wind in the trees. My bones were chilled.

Brother Edmund cleared his throat. “We have been away from the priory a long time. I think we should return.”

“We shall, Brother, but give me a few minutes more,” said Brother Richard. “I came here vowing to help Bishop Gardiner in his quest. We know Sister Joanna has been guided by love of her father and fear for his life.”

I started, in surprise. I had not thought him capable of such understanding.

Brother Richard nodded. “Yes, Sister Joanna, I grieve that you were handled so roughly in the Tower. These desperate times have brought out the worst in Bishop Gardiner. Although that excuse has been made for savage methods since time immemorial.”

“But I thank you for your words,” I said.

He turned to Brother Edmund. “And now—what of you? Why did Gardiner select you? I must know that, at least.”

Brother Edmund winced. “It was not to my better instincts the bishop appealed, as with you,” he said angrily. “It was more along the lines of Sister Joanna’s experience.”

“This is the time to disclose it,” said Brother Richard. His words were calm but carried a hint of command.

A haunted look came over Brother Edmund’s face. “You spoke of the Oath of Supremacy before. Of those who refused to take it and embraced martyrdom instead. I did not want to take it, to forsake the Holy Father and swear allegiance first to King Henry the Eighth, a man obsessed with lust for his wife’s handmaiden.” He bit his lip. “And yet, I was afraid. I prayed for courage, but it eluded me. I’d heard about the Charterhouse monks. I could not face the reality of a full execution for high treason. Of being hanged and taken down while still alive, of then being slit open and my intestines and organs removed before my eyes as I experienced the most intense pain.”

I swayed on the hill with the horror of what he depicted. To be hanged, drawn, and quartered—yes, it was the most terrifying death of all.

“That was when I first took it,” Brother Edmund said in a voice so faint I could hardly hear him.

“Took what?” asked Brother Richard.

“The red flower of India.”

Brother Richard gasped. “No, Brother, no.”

I had no idea what he was talking about. How could a person “take” a flower?

Brother Edmund said, “Do you remember, Sister Joanna, when I was nursing Lettice Westerly, and I gave her something for the pain? I told you then.”

It took only a moment to recall that eerie name. “The stones of immortality?”

He nodded. “A certain red flower of the East has a powerful effect on the mind. Many apothecaries and physicians know that, but they use it rarely because it is so difficult to know how much is the correct dose for each patient. Just slightly too much of it will kill. I give it only when the patient is sure to die soon anyway.”

“So you risk death each time you take it yourself?” I asked, aghast.

“No, no, I consume it in a different form: in a tincture, using proportions taught me by a traveling monk, Brother Mark, who learned it in Germany. He told me to use it sparingly to calm the nerves and ease the suffering of the soul.”

He swallowed. This was a very hard story for Brother Edmund to tell.

“I was so tormented by my cowardice over the Oath of Supremacy, I took my first dose the day that the king’s men arrived to administer it. And Brother Mark was right. It did ease my suffering. I felt quite calm. I hardly minded swearing the oath at all. But I did not want to face what I had done. I was warned to take it sparingly, but I took more the very next day.”

He laughed, a high-pitched, ragged, frightening sound. Brother Richard patted his shoulder, but he swung away. “I cannot accept your sympathy,” he insisted. “I am cursed with this, bedeviled. And have been for three years.”

“So why do you keep taking it?” I asked.

“I have no choice!” Brother Edmund cried. “If I try to pull away, if I cease taking it completely, I become sick, nauseated, agitated—eaten up with fears. And the nightmares. Oh, you cannot imagine the nightmares it inflicts when you try to break free.”

“That is what you are enduring now,” I said. Now I understood his radically changed appearance and behavior.

He nodded. “I hid a small amount in my cowl the day that Geoffrey Scovill took me to gaol in Rochester. But it ran out, and I began to suffer the torment of addictus.”

“How did Bishop Gardiner find out about you?” asked Brother Richard.

“I receive my drug in parcels from Venetian traders; everyone does. There are secret sufferers at monasteries all over Europe. Physicians, too.”

Brother Richard said solemnly, “I’d heard rumors of this.”

“Bishop Gardiner has many contacts on the Continent, and I believe he paid someone in Venice to learn who received the red flower here, in England. When he came to our abbey, he already knew. At first I denied it, but it was easy for him to get the truth from me.” Brother Edmund’s eyes glittered. “He told me I was to accompany you to Dartford Priory, Brother Richard, to serve as apothecary and help you in any way you saw fit. But then we received those new separate letters, remember? The orders had changed. We must report to the Tower of London and accompany Sister Joanna Stafford to Dartford. And I must take her letters from the place at the leper hospital and courier them to France without opening them or telling you anything about it. If I refused to go to Dartford or failed in my mission, I’d be put out on the road with the other displaced friars, but he would also make public my weakness. I’d be damned forever.”

“Oh, Brother Edmund, I am so sorry,” I said.

“I realized something in that gaol cell.” His voice broke. “I would rather be dead than go back to the pain of addictus. I will not order any more of it—ever. I will pray that God eases my torment, but if He does not, I accept my punishment and shall willingly die.”

His tears turned to sobs. Brother Edmund covered his face with shaking hands and hunched over, abandoning himself to despair.

Hearing him weep, realizing all that he had suffered, I felt the devouring flames of a new rage. Brother Richard was correct. We faced opposing forces of tremendous ruthlessness. So many lives had been destroyed by the king’s quest for absolute power: over his wives, over his people, both noble and common, and now over the church. My uncle the Duke of Buckingham, my cousin Margaret—both had met terrible ends. Now my father rotted in the Tower of London. The king’s saintly wife of two decades, Katherine of Aragon, died abandoned; God only knew what fate awaited the recalcitrant Princess Mary. The parade of martyrs to Henry the Eighth stretched very long.

“Brother Edmund,” I said. “I have something to tell you.”

He lowered his hands and looked at me, his face a ruin of grief.

“What Bishop Gardiner seeks, what King Henry and Thomas Cromwell seek, is an object known as the Athelstan crown.”

The brothers sank to their knees in prayer of gratitude.

I told them everything on that hill above the hospital of the lepers. About Athelstan wearing a precious crown into a historic battle, how the crown was at some point sent to France. How over the centuries it was buried, discovered, hidden again, revealed, and finally delivered unto England. I shared with them what I’d read of the deaths of King Richard the Lionhearted and the Black Prince and Prince Arthur Tudor, each an untimely death after encountering the crown in some way. I relayed the story of Arthur coming to Dartford Priory with his bride, Katherine of Aragon, and his mother, Queen Elizabeth. I described the carvings I’d seen of the crown and the lilies throughout Dartford, but that without the last letter of Prioress Elizabeth Croessner, I’d been unable to determine where the crown was hidden, despite all my searching.

Brother Edmund was riveted by my words. But he seemed puzzled, too.

“I’ve read a little of Athelstan and know him to be an important early king,” he said. “But why would a crown from a French monarch, given to win a bride, mean so much to him? Why would he wear it into the battle of Brunanburh? And how could it assume such tremendous powers centuries after his death? How would it halt the dissolution?”

The same questions had plagued me, and we stared at each other, frustrated.

He took a deep breath. “Tell me everything you know of how the crown came to Athelstan.”

“The crown was one of the relics that Hugh Capet inherited,” I said.

Brother Edmund grabbed my arm. “Relics?” he said. “Of which saint?”

“The book didn’t specify.”

“And from whom did Hugh Capet inherit them?” he persisted. His grip was so tight my arm burned.

Then I remembered. “Oh, yes, the relics came down from Charlemagne. Hugh Capet was descended from Charlemagne.”

For a minute I thought Brother Edmund had frozen. He did not move, did not even blink. Brother Richard reached out and shook him. “Is the sickness upon you?” he asked. “Brother, speak to us.”

The deluge came. It was tears, mixed with laughter, uncontrolled. For the first time, I was frightened of Brother Edmund. “Calm yourself,” I begged. “Please.”

Brother Edmund charged halfway up the hill, then whipped around to race back to us. “Don’t you know?” he demanded, a crazed light dancing in his eyes. “Can’t you put it together?”

“No,” I said. “Tell us.”

“Charlemagne lived in the eighth century. He brought the conversion of thousands of souls to the true church. He founded cathedrals, universities, monasteries, shrines. He had the will and the power and the devotion to collect and preserve the most sacred relics of the newfound Catholic Church. Don’t you know whose crown he possessed?”

“Ce n’est pas possible,” cried Brother Richard. He crossed himself.

“Tell me,” I implored. “I don’t know.”

Brother Edmund said, “It was the crown of Christ himself, worn at his crucifixion. That is one of the relics Charlemagne is believed to have had. The crown of thorns.”