The Crown A Novel

48


My recovery continued. With effort—and much patience from Brother Edmund—I was able to walk across the infirmary on a Monday afternoon. The next day, the prioress sent word that my presence was expected in church.

My spirits stirred. I believed what I’d told Sister Beatrice. For as long as I had left, I wanted to say the prayers, sing the songs, seek a holy union with Christ’s love. With Sister Winifred on one side and Sister Agatha on the other, I walked to the church of Dartford. I knelt and performed our duties.

Although I could not yet move quickly, I made it to each and every office in the church that day and the next and the next. Making full confession filled me with relief and gratitude, freed me from some of my anguish. Brother Edmund proclaimed me well enough to sleep in the dormitory. I was glad to rest on my old pallet, though it made my heart twist to see the empty one against the opposite wall, where Sister Christina had slept.

The next day, I approached the prioress. “Would it be possible for us to finish Sister Helen’s tapestry before Dartford is closed?” I asked.

She looked at me for a very long time.

“Yes,” she said, “if you will lead all of the sisters in the work.”

“I am not capable,” I said, flustered.

“There is none more capable,” she said firmly. “Sister Joanna, you are an extraordinarily talented novice. Learning, mastery of Latin, embroidery, music, mathematics, French, and Spanish—your accomplishments in each area are outstanding.” She paused. “I have not told you this yet because I thought it might bring you pain, but Prioress Elizabeth once told me that with your abilities and your family background, she expected you to make prioress at a young age. She once told me she thought you capable of brilliance.”

I was surprised, saddened—and incredibly moved. “Thank you. I am very grateful to learn of her confidence in me. And yours.”

I bowed and left to find Sister Winifred, who was ecstatic to learn that we would be sewing together again, at our loom.

The next morning, Sister Winifred and I reopened the tapestry room, closed since the death of Sister Helen. The loom and everything else was covered with dust. We worked hard to clean it, and then I went through the silks in the basket, still spilled open on the floor where it had landed the day Sister Helen collapsed.

Brother Edmund and I had discussed our various theories of the tapestries. It was clear now that Sister Helen never knew of the hidden crown. But she must have known of the tunnels beneath the priory, and she certainly was aware of the predatory lust of Lord Chester. The stories of Daphne and Persephone both revolved around innocent young girls who were attacked or brought down by a man, despite efforts to save them. In the Daphne tapestry, Sister Helen went very far in telling the world what happened at Dartford, by putting the face of the real Sister Beatrice into the threads, and placing Prioress Elizabeth in the river weeds as a parent trying to rescue her. After Lord Chester was murdered, Sister Helen must have guessed that Sister Christina had been the one responsible, and that explained Sister Helen’s agitation. And she must have thought back to an older tapestry, the one depicting the Pleiades.

I found the original small drawing she had created for her last tapestry. It was made into a large cartoon and cut into vertical pieces. But the drawing revealed all.

“Yes,” I cried to Sister Winifred. “I see it now.” I began to assemble the color schemes of thread and silk.

“Can we be of help, Sister Joanna?”

Standing in the doorway were Sister Agatha and Sister Rachel and, leaning on her cane, Sister Anne, our oldest member.

“I was a novice when this loom came to Dartford,” said Sister Anne. “I think I remember the secrets of a good weave.”

“But I can’t instruct senior nuns; I am not worthy of that,” I protested.

“Take your place, tapestry mistress,” said Sister Agatha in her loud voice. She pointed to Sister Helen’s stool, nearest the window. I swallowed, and sat, and began to distribute the work.

We made great progress that day, and on the next another two nuns appeared. They took their turns at the benches, to complete the last tapestry Dartford would produce before our suppression.

It was the second week of February, and we’d just finished our weaving for the day. I stretched my arms and, Sister Winifred by my side, walked down the passageway when I heard laughter ahead.

We looked at each other, intrigued.

The laughter came from the cloister garden. As we came around the end of the east passageway, we saw them, a half-dozen sisters, young and old. They were standing in the middle of the garden, their hands stretched up, toward the snow.

It was a blizzard such as I’d not seen in years. The flakes fell fast—the ground was completely covered and there were already three inches, at least, quivering on the branches of the quince trees.

I ran to join them. We kicked the snow; we twirled and bowed. I stretched out my tongue, to taste those huge, exquisite flakes sent down from God’s heaven.

I closed my eyes and made a dancer’s pirouette, from a long-ago lesson.

A hand shook my shoulder. “Sister Joanna!” said someone urgently.

My eyes flew open. A man walked toward me in the snow. It was Geoffrey Scovill, his head and clothes damp and creased with snow, his face reddened with cold.

“Sister Joanna,” he said. A smile burst across his face. “I’d heard you were recovered but did not think I’d find you dancing quite yet.”

“Geoffrey!” I shouted. I was so glad to see him. The other sisters stopped moving around; they were shy, self-conscious before this young man, even though he was the celebrated rescuer of the prioress and myself.

I moved toward him, aware that I should not be so familiar with a man but at that moment simply not caring.

“I am glad you are here,” I said. Playfully, I tossed my handful of snow at him. It shivered and burst on his sleeve.

He laughed. I always liked the sound of his laugh, even when he annoyed me, which was often.

Someone else came up from behind him. It was Brother Edmund, and he looked unhappy. He disliked Geoffrey Scovill—I supposed that would never change.

I glanced back at Geoffrey; he was no longer laughing or even smiling. They exchanged a long look, but not of enmity. There was a shared knowledge of something.

“What is it?” I demanded.

“Your father is here,” Geoffrey said.

I could not believe it for a few seconds. “Oh, Geoffrey, thank you, thank you,” I said.

“It was not my doing; he’d almost made it to Dartford when I came upon him,” Geoffrey said.

“So he was coming to me?”

Brother Edmund said, “Yes.”

“Where is he?”

The two men exchanged another look. “He is in the infirmary,” said Brother Edmund. “I will take you. First, you must know that—”

I was already running. I had been told not to run yet, but I ran anyway, forcing my weakened legs forward. I almost fell against a wall, but pushed myself off from it and kept going.

I came through the door, and there he was. Sitting up on the infirmary bed, where I had mended not long ago. My heart twisted to see his burned, scarred face.

Sister Rachel was giving him something to eat.

“Father,” I said.

“Joanna, ah Joanna.” His voice was weak. But he was alive.

Sister Rachel stepped back while I embraced my father. He was cold and, I could feel through his clothes, much thinner. The tears streamed down my cheeks as I held him and thanked God for bringing him to me. “My little girl,” he whispered, stroking my hair, as he used to. “My little girl.”

Something fell to the floor behind me with a clattering. I turned to look. A boy stood there, not four years old, with shining red-gold hair and a wide smile. He had grabbed a silver pan from the counter and had sent it crashing to the floor.

“Arthur, no,” said my father. “Don’t do that.”

“Who is this boy?” I asked.

My father gripped my arm, tight.

“He is Arthur Bulmer. Margaret’s son.”