The Crown A Novel

38


The argument began on the hill overlooking the leper hospital and continued in the priory library later that night, where we three gathered again. Brother Richard came up with an excuse for the prioress: a request had arrived from Bishop Gardiner for research urgently needed. “She was suspicious, but she does not dare to gainsay Gardiner,” he said.

Not yet, I thought.

Now, sitting at a table covered with books and priory documents, Brother Richard and Brother Edmund quarreled, as only two highly educated Dominican friars could, over a point of religious history. Did the crown bestowed on King Athelstan once rest on the precious head of Christ?

“The crown of thorns is housed in the Sainte-Chapelle in Paris, heavily guarded,” Brother Richard said wearily. “It has never been in England. It was kept in the Holy Lands, until the crusader King Baldwin of Constantinople obtained it in the thirteenth century and sold it to Louis the Ninth.”

“But haven’t you ever wondered at Baldwin’s unveiling Christ’s crown of thorns just when he had fallen into dangerous debt to the Venetians?” asked Brother Edmund. “Louis paid one hundred thirty-five thousand livres for it and cleared Baldwin’s debts.”

I squirmed, uncomfortable with the image of a holy object being bought and paid for by earthly kings.

“Remember, this sale was made after the third crusade,” Brother Edmund continued. Talking about history pumped life into him; his illness, his torments, receded. “For centuries all manner of relics and sacred objects had been discovered in the Holy Lands and brought to Europe by crusaders. A steady stream of them came west. At the end of all this, the crown of thorns appears on the international market?”

“Then you’re saying that Louis the Ninth—the revered Saint Louis—and all of the French kings since, have been fools,” countered Brother Richard. “Don’t forget it was two Dominican friars who escorted the crown to Paris. Say what you will about the monarchs of Europe, but a Dominican friar could never be duped. And yet you persist in thinking the crown was part of a dowry, in the tenth century, to win an obscure English princess?”

“Stop, please!” I begged, waving my hands in their impassioned faces. “I’m so confused.”

Brother Edmund and Brother Richard both smiled sheepishly. “Forgive us, Sister Joanna, we could debate such matters all night,” said Brother Edmund. “Let us start at the beginning.”

Brother Richard stood up. “Agreed. And the beginning is . . . Golgotha.” He took down a book of scripture and searched for a passage. Translating from Latin, Brother Richard said, “Then Pilate took Jesus, and had him scourged. And the soldiers plaited a crown of thorns, and put it on His head, and they put on Him a purple robe, and said, ‘Hail, King of the Jews!’ and they smote Him with their hands. Then came Jesus forth, wearing the crown of thorns, and the purple robe. And Pilate said, ‘Behold the man.’ ”

Brother Richard said quietly, “The crown of thorns has always represented something very profound to me, about suffering and humiliation, yes, but also about how we must all experience pain to find transcendence.”

Brother Edmund nodded. “The cross that Jesus was crucified on, the nails that pierced his body, the crown of thorns, the scroll that said, ‘King of the Jews,’ the spear that a Roman used to pierce his side—these are the relics of the Passion. After His crucifixion, they were preserved in Jerusalem by His followers, and nothing happened for a few hundred years. But then Rome became Christian, and Saint Helen traveled to Jerusalem.”

“Saint Helen, the mother of the first Christian emperor?” I asked.

“Yes, very good, Sister,” exclaimed Brother Edmund. I learned how Helen went to Jerusalem in A.D. 326, to collect evidence of His life. She located the true cross, in pieces, and oversaw the building of a church to house it. In the next centuries, other relics of the Passion were discovered, and Christians traveled to the Holy Land to view them.

The sighting of the crown of thorns was first written about in the sixth century, Brother Richard explained. By that time, the unscrupulous activities had begun: the thefts of relics, the ransacking of crypts. Even the smallest part of a minor saint’s body—a fingernail, a lock of hair—was thought to have healing powers.

“Shrines were built everywhere for the pilgrims who came to make vows, to be healed . . . and to give up their coins,” said Brother Edmund with a grimace. “And then in the eighth century came Charlemagne, the first sovereign of a truly Christian empire of the West. He was a very devout—and very wealthy—collector of relics. To me, it makes a great deal of sense that along with the nails of the cross and the spear and all of the other relics of the Passion, Charlemagne secured the crown of thorns. And so it passed down to his descendant, the first Capet.”

Brother Richard tapped the table with his fingers. “There is another explanation.”

The two friars stared at each other, and then Brother Edmund nodded, as if he read the other’s mind. “The distribution.”

Irritated, I said, “Brothers, please?”

“Forgive us again, Sister,” said Brother Edmund. “It is possible that both the crown that Hugh gave to Athelstan and the one residing in Paris today are holy.”

“How?”

“It is said that seventy thorns adorned the branches of the crown Jesus wore. There are reports that they were not all kept together, that the crown was at some point broken up and the thorns distributed.”

“But who would commit such a violation?” I asked, aghast.

Brother Richard answered, “The world of relics has always been shaded with darkness. Humans are frail creatures, subject to pride and greed.”

I recoiled at his cynicism. “Perhaps in the past, in times of ignorance to God’s truths, some mistakes were made,” I said. “But not today, surely. No one would misrepresent the validity of the relics at the shrines of England.”

A sad, heavy silence settled over the library. Neither friar met my gaze.

“No—that can’t be true,” I cried. “You cannot say that lies are told in our monasteries today. That’s impossible.”

Brother Edmund sat down and leaned across the table. “Sister Joanna, you are a strong young woman. You must hold on to your faith through what I am about to tell you.” He took a deep breath. “At Hailes Abbey, in Gloucestershire, there is a phial of blood—it has been on display since the thirteenth century, purporting to be the blood of Christ.”

“Yes, of course I know of it, my cousins Margaret Bulmer and the Duchess of Norfolk made a pilgrimage there many years ago,” I said. “You aren’t trying to say that . . .”

The words died in my throat. I could see Margaret, by the fire, telling me, awed, about the spiritual beauty she’d found at her pilgrimages.

“The monks used pig’s blood,” said Brother Richard flatly. “There had been rumors, but then last year they admitted it, under pressure. There are similar incidents, at other monasteries.”

If I had learned one thing in my life, it was the frailty of man. And yet this latest disillusionment hit me with brutish strength. I rose to my feet, as the friars watched.

I said, “If that is indeed true—and I cannot believe you would be so cruel as to tell me this unless you were certain—than what is the point of our struggle to save the monasteries, to stop Cromwell from destroying our way of life, if everything is built on lies?”

Brother Edmund jumped to his feet and clasped my hands in his palms. “It is not all lies. There is some small corruption in the religious houses of England, yes. Why do you think these commissioners have been able to make reports that justify dissolving the abbeys? If anyone looks long enough, they can find error. But there is also dedication and true spirituality.”

“We are on a journey that has brought us to Dartford, Sister Joanna,” said Brother Richard. “For wisdom, for truth, for justice . . . for God. You were forced into this part of it, as was Brother Edmund, but I think you also believe in the journey.”

I bowed my head. A memory sprang to mind, of we sisters of Dartford, in a circle, praying and weeping together as one of our own, poor mute Sister Helen, died. How we helped one another and supported one another through all hardships—and amid the harsh yet beautiful, mysterious, and transcendent power of our faith.

“Yes,” I said, looking up. “I believe.”

Brother Edmund’s face flooded with relief.

“Then let us turn our attention to the Athelstan crown,” he said. “We agree that the Saxon ruler was presented with a crown that was once, in some form, the crown of thorns?”

Brother Richard nodded, convinced.

“Now the crown of Jesus has no inherent powers that I have read about, beyond being revered. Therefore, the dangerous aspects of coming into contact with it—the suspected deaths of King Richard, the Black Prince, and Prince Arthur—must have come later, in the time of Athelstan. That king somehow oversaw its transformation. But it must have become so powerful or so uncontrollable that it was hidden away, and the need for secrecy became profound.”

A memory stirred. “Lord Chester spoke of the secrets of Dartford Priory the night he died.”

Brother Richard inhaled sharply. “Yes, he did. Could it be possible that such a debauched man had knowledge of the crown?”

“At one point, Geoffrey Scovill believed His Lordship’s death had something to do with knowledge of a priory secret,” I said.

The friars both scowled at the mention of Geoffrey’s name, and I took that opportunity to tell them the story of our odd friendship: how Geoffrey protected me from harm at Smithfield, was imprisoned for it, and asked me not to reveal his stint in the Tower to the investigators he worked with.

“Despite his having assisted you, I have no fondness for Master Scovill,” huffed Brother Richard. “And yet . . . it’s true that there are aspects of Lord Chester’s behavior at the feast—some of the words he said—that also puzzle me.”

“Such as the tapestry,” said Brother Edmund thoughtfully. “The way he reacted to it was so strange. As if there was a message that Sister Helen had woven into it that only Lord Chester understood.”

Brother Richard said, “Then you believe Sister Helen knew of the crown’s existence at Dartford and was trying to convey it to the world through her designs of the tapestries?”

I clapped my mouth with my hand. “The note!” I cried. Brother Edmund drew back. “Oh, yes,” he said.

“What note?” Brother Richard asked.

“I found a note slipped into my bed that said, ‘Seek out the Howard tapestries.’ I believe it was put there by Sister Helen shortly before she collapsed. Do you think that the tapestries now owned by the Howards could contain clues?”

“What of the tapestry that is unfinished?” asked Brother Richard. “Could that help us?”

I shook my head. “There are no finished faces to look at. Sister Helen died before she reached that stage in the work.”

Brother Edmund agreed. He explained that he, too, had examined the newest tapestry and found nothing in its story or its figures that seemed to have deeper meaning.

“If only we could see that Howard tapestry now,” I said, frustrated.

Brother Richard furiously dove into his pile of ledgers and scrolls. “I know that a record exists of the Dartford tapestries sold over the years,” he muttered. It took him a minute to find the right ledger, his finger racing down a list. “Here it is,” he said. “Large tapestry, Greek myth, sold to the Duke of Norfolk . . . 1533 . . . for a wedding gift to the Duke and Duchess of Richmond . . . to hang in Wardour Castle, Wiltshire, jointure property of the Duchess of Richmond.”

“Any description of the tapestry itself, beyond ‘Greek myth’?” asked Brother Edmund, eagerly.

“I’m afraid not.”

They turned to me. “This was well before you came to Dartford, Sister Joanna, but do you remember hearing anything of this tapestry?” asked Brother Richard.

“No,” I said regretfully. “But the Duchess of Richmond should be able to describe it to me.”

Brother Richard looked at me, askance. “Why should she do that for you?”

“Because she is my cousin once removed,” I said. “Before she married, the Duchess of Richmond was Mary Howard, the daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Norfolk. I am related to the duchess.” I remembered well the pretty red-haired girl who had come to Stafford Castle with her mother—and with Margaret and Charles Howard—ten years ago. I’d seen her a few times afterward; Mary always favored her Stafford relations.

“I’ll write her a letter tomorrow,” I promised. “The Duke of Richmond died last year, but if Wardour is her jointure property, she may reside there now. I will ask for as many details as possible.”

Brother Richard smiled. “Ah, your connections are never to be underestimated.”

I shrugged. Pointed mention of my Stafford background always embarrassed me.

Brother Edmund rubbed his temples, more troubled than ever. “Finding the crown is essential, but is only half of our quest. We need to understand its power. To do that, I must learn more of its history, why it was so important to King Athelstan. I am thinking of what Bishop Gardiner said to Sister Joanna. ‘It is more than a relic. It is a blessing, and it is a curse.’ I wish I was knowledgeable about Athelstan’s reign.”

“Is there a library you could use, that would have books and documents on that period?” I asked.

Brother Edmund stared at me, and his face lit up with the same strange fire I’d seen on the hill overlooking the leper hospital. “I am a fool,” he said in a strangled voice. He leaped to a wall of books, grabbing one so ferociously I thought he would rip off the cover.

It was a book listing the abbeys and priories of England. Brother Edmund quickly found the page he sought and jabbed a page with a trembling finger. At the top it said, “Malmesbury Abbey, founded A.D. 675.” I saw a list of names following, of the prior and resident monks—it was a large establishment—and a description of the abbey’s possessions.

Brother Edmund pointed at a paragraph. “Look,” he gasped.

I read aloud: “The abbey also contains the tomb of King Athelstan of the Saxons, who requested he be buried there in the year 940. Documents of his fifteen-year reign are preserved there.”

“His tomb!” I cried. “Where is Malmesbury?”

“The northern tip of Wiltshire,” said Brother Edmund. “Not much more than a week’s journey from here.”

“But are you well enough to travel?” asked Brother Richard.

“Oh, yes. I just need another two days to nurse Sister Winifred, to be sure she is safely recovered. Then I ride to Malmesbury.”

“I can easily explain your absence,” said Brother Richard. “Bishop Gardiner gave me a copy of his seal in case of a crisis. He anticipated I might need to generate a document, an order coming from him.”

Brother Edmund peered at him. “You will falsify documents?”

“Like all good Dominicans, I am a pragmatist,” said Brother Richard. “As president and steward of Dartford Priory, I can authorize departures for limited periods of time.”

“This is an excellent plan,” said Brother Edmund. They smiled at each other.

It was then that I spoke. “Brothers, it is an excellent plan,” I said. “Except for one thing.”

The friars had forgotten I was in the room. Now both turned to me, surprised.

“What’s that?” asked Brother Edmund.

“I am going with you,” I said.