“But why isn’t Mass enough—worshipping in a church?” the lieutenant asked. “What could possibly be accomplished by all of those nuns and monks, shut away?”
“We gather in community to seek grace through prayer and obedience,” I said patiently. “At Dartford, we follow the same Rules of Saint Benedict as at all the other nunneries and the monasteries—the sisters gather at eight fixed hours: Matins, Lauds, Prime, Terce, Sext, None, Vespers, and Compline. There is Mass as well. We chant and we sing. We pray for the souls of the dead.”
He narrowed his eyes. “And if someone pays the priory enough money, they receive extra prayers for salvation—or forgiveness for sins not even committed?”
Now I understood his hostility. These were the ideas of those who sought to destroy the Catholic Church, who swore salvation should be received through faith alone.
With a sneer, he said,
“Someone once told me that nuns learn Latin and study and write books.”
“That’s true,” I said through gritted teeth.
The lieutenant stopped walking. “All these years, the rich monks and nuns sit in their abbeys and sing and write and chant their Latin, and what does it all do? What does it accomplish? Purgatory is but superstition: that is what the new learning says. All the intercessional chanting at all the monasteries to shorten the pains of purgatory—” His face was twisted with contempt. “When we die, our souls immediately appear before God the creator and judge.”
I backed away from the lieutenant, from his hate and his heresy. These were the words of a Lutheran.
The lieutenant took note of my reaction. A smile spread across his face as he leaned closer to me. “I know what you’re thinking. I am no Lutheran, but he did have the correct view on women. Martin Luther said, ‘Females should remain at home, sit still, keep house, and bear and bring up children.’ That is their only purpose, in my opinion.”
“And now that I’ve heard your opinion,” I said hoarsely, “I would like to return to my cell.”
With a bow, he complied.
One evening the sky opened and sheets of rain beat down on the Tower. Thunder cracked. I stood pressed to the windows, catching the cool stinging drops on my face, when the door flew open and Bess stood there, with my tray. I gave a cry of excitement, and her wide pockmarked face split into a smile.
Duty rosters had kept her from me, she explained while I ate. Susanna’s charge was the prisoners of Beauchamp and hers was those of the White Tower and to be at the beck and call of Lady Kingston. “We’ve been kept so busy with Lady Douglas, I’ve never worked so hard in my life.”
“Lady Douglas?”
“The king’s Scottish niece. Didn’t you know? She’s been here for months. She became engaged to a gentleman of the court without permission of the king, so he sent them both here. It is treason for a member of the royal family to arrange her own marriage because of the succession.” Bess sighed. “She’s very difficult to please because of—”
Another crack of thunder
drowned her out, and a gust of wind blew inside. “Why aren’t you drenched from the rain?” I asked, curious, looking at Bess’s dry dress.
“Underground tunnels connect the buildings,” she said. “But I can’t stay long. It would look suspicious. I could only come now because it’s Susanna’s day to visit her family in Southwark.”
“But what of my situation? What have you heard?”
“Not a word,” she said. “I listen every day, but Lady Kingston hasn’t mentioned you, nor has anyone else.”
Two weeks later, Bess managed to visit me, and again, she had nothing to report. “It’s so strange, it’s as if you aren’t even here,” she said.
That was it.
I don’t exist anymore,
I thought, not listening as Bess prattled on about Lady Douglas and her crying fits.
The heat of the summer passed. The nights grew cooler. One day, on an afternoon walk with the lieutenant, I saw a spattering of gold leaves in the mulberry trees. It made me unbearably sad, to see proof of time passing. What had happened to my father? What was going on at Dartford Priory? My throat ached, and tears ran down my cheeks. The lieutenant pretended not to see.
That day I entered my most difficult period in the Tower. A dull sorrow weighed me down, body and mind. I could no longer concentrate on Thomas Aquinas. Some days I never rose from my bed. At night, always the time my fears were most urgent, I abandoned myself to weeping. I thought of my mother a great deal. In the last years of her life, her health was broken, yes, but also her spirits frayed. She slept in darkened rooms. I could still feel the dread in my heart as I’d walk down the passageway of Stafford Castle, carrying her tray, knowing that I’d push open her door to see her once again slumped in bed, listless and despairing. I felt a dark kinship with her now.
Everything changed when, one cool evening, past the time when my dinner tray was removed, I was surprised to hear a jingle of keys at the door.
Bess burst in, her eyes bulging.
“Your father is in the Tower,” she said, breathless.
“What?” I shot toward her.
“I heard that Sir Richard Stafford is being kept in the White Tower, on the lower level. They
brought him in two days ago. Something is happening to you tomorrow.”
I took Bess’s hands in mine. “Bess, I want you to tell me exactly what you heard. Leave out nothing.”
“I came in to clear the table, and Lady Kingston said, ‘Is it true he’s coming to examine Joanna Stafford tomorrow?’ And Sir William said, ‘Yes, that’s why they sent over her father two days ago. Norfolk brought him in to deal with the Staffords. He’s the only man Norfolk pays heed to, save the king.’ ”
“That’s all?”
“Yes. There was nothing else. But I heard one of the warders say earlier that there was a new man, a nobleman, on the lower level of the White Tower. It must be your father.”
All my lassitude, my despair, and my fear disappeared, replaced by a fierce, raging purpose.
My father is alive. My father is here. I must find a way to see him.
Bess said gravely, “Mistress Stafford, I could be whipped and branded for it, but I’ve brought paper and quill with me. If you write him a message, I will take it to him and ask him for reply.”
As I stared at her, the plan slipped into my mind, fully formed.
“No, Bess,” I said. “You’re going to take me to my father tonight. And I know a way to do it.”
10
B
ess
, stop trembling.” The candlelight leaped and shook against the dark walls, because of her unsteady grip.
“I’m sorry, Mistress Stafford, I can’t help it.” Bess’s loud voice echoed down the long tunnel.
“Don’t use my true name,
please
.”
She ducked her head, and I regretted having to scold her. But Bess risked her life for me, and I had to do everything in my power to protect her.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
The sound came from behind me, like long ragged fingernails clawing a wooden stake. This time I didn’t turn around. Bess had warned me that vermin overran the underground tunnel. “We keep setting loose more cats, but it’s the cats that disappear, not the rats.”
Ever since I’d set foot in this dank tunnel, I’d heard them: mostly behind us, but sometimes I’d catch a glimpse of one ahead, a long shiny tail whipping across the narrow passage, on the edge of our quivering circle of candlelight.
“Rats and ravens,” Bess muttered. “My sister’s friends think I put on airs. Humph. It’s rats and ravens everywhere. Not the sort of royal palace they expect.”
I let her go on. Nervous grumbling could help settle her nerves.
Not more than an hour ago, I’d managed to persuade her to help me on my mission. Wearing a makeshift white hood, I posed as Susanna, toting a bundle of clean bedsheets. The male prisoner who faced questioning the next day by the Duke of Norfolk needed new bedding—that was what we would tell anyone who made inquiry. Susanna and I were of similar height and figure, with the same black hair. She was some five years older, but at night, with my eyes cast down, wearing her
trademark hood, I hoped to pass for her, scuttling after Bess. She was a maid of the prison, while Bess served Lady Kingston. It was to be expected that Susanna would walk behind.
We’d come across only one yeoman warder so far, checking some papers on the main floor of Beauchamp Tower. I’d held my bundle of sheets as high as I could, so that my face was nearly obscured. It worked as well as I’d prayed. The warder glanced at Bess and me and then returned to his papers. Within minutes Bess had unlocked the door to the underground tunnel and we were down the steps.
At the other end was the White Tower . . . and my father.
I’d thought of him so often, it felt unreal that I would finally come face-to-face with him, speak to him, gain his counsel on what I should do when interrogated tomorrow. Bess said we dared stay only a few minutes. Would there be time, I fretted, would it be possible for me to ask the question pressing on my mind for months. It was, unfortunately, the same question that the Duke of Norfolk tossed at me in such a crude fashion: “Your father almost blew himself up with gunpowder—why would he do that for his dead brother’s bastard?” I simply did not know. My darkest fear was that, without the company of wife or child, my father had gone a little mad at Stafford Castle. If through some miracle he and I were to be freed from the Tower, I’d already vowed to make him the center of my life. There was no question of returning to Dartford. My offenses against the Dominican Order were too serious. But if I could look after my father, at Stafford Castle or anywhere else he deemed best, I would never stop thanking Christ for His mercies. I cherished a picture in my mind, of ladling soup into a bowl for my father as he smiled at me, restored to hale health, his hounds at his feet, a fire roaring.
Bess suddenly stopped short, and I bumped into her. She nearly dropped her ring of keys.
Two enormous rats squatted in front of us, in the center of the tunnel floor. They didn’t scuttle away like all the others. They half turned to face us, the candlelight reflected in their fiery red eyes.
“Lord keep us,” whispered Bess. “They’re like demons, aren’t they? It’s a bad omen, I know.”
I needed to vanquish these rats, or Bess could lose courage. Slowly, I edged
around her to get out in front. My heart pounding, I took one step forward, then another.
The rats did not budge.
“Be gone!” I cried, and stomped my right foot hard, just a few inches from their heads.
This, at last, drove them back. Both rats scampered to a hole at the bottom of the tunnel wall and pushed their swollen bodies through it. The second rat paused halfway through, as if stuck, then, turning sideways, squeezed the rest of the way, its thick tail twirling and slapping the side of the hole like a whip before disappearing.
“Thank you,” Bess said. In the candlelight she was pale as ivory, beads of perspiration bubbling on her upper lip.
“Are we almost there?” I asked.
“Yes—look.” She held up her candle to toss the light farther and show me the steps that appeared at the end. As she did so, her hand shook again, and she looked at me, her face an apology. We both knew that it was within the White Tower that we ran the greatest risk of discovery.
I shifted my bundle to my left hip and laid my right hand on her shoulder.
“ ‘Behold, now bless ye the Lord, all ye servants of the Lord. In the night lift up your hands to the holy places, and bless ye the Lord. I have cried to thee, O Lord, hear me; hearken to my voice when I cry to thee. And protect me ever after. Amen.’ ”
“That was beautiful,” Bess whispered.
I smiled sadly. “The words of Saint Dominic, the founder of my order.”
“Mistress, I pray I don’t fail you.”
“You have already done more for me than anyone else since . . .” My voice trailed away as Geoffrey Scovill’s young face flashed in front of me, his eyes brimming with pain over my insult, the last words he’d heard from me. There was no point to this now. I shoved him out of my thoughts.
“Let us go forward, Bess.”
We climbed the steps, and when we reached the top, Bess unlocked the door to the White Tower.
We stepped into an enormous hall. The light from Bess’s candle didn’t even reach the back wall of it.
There was not a sound. I knew that Sir William and Lady Kingston kept apartments in the White Tower, as did the king’s disgraced niece, Lady Margaret Douglas, and perhaps others down below, too, besides my father. Yet now, in this eerily silent space, we seemed quite alone.
Bess and I hurried across the stone floor. The air felt much cooler than in the dank tunnel; a faint breeze fingered my bare neck, though I couldn’t make out any windows. I realized from the jutting shape of one stone wall that it was a massive bulwark. With a chill, I felt the strength of the keep’s creator: the greatness but also the fear and greed of William the Conqueror. He’d fashioned this citadel five hundred years ago to house his Norman pride and crush the Saxons. This must have been an enormous banquet or reception hall for early kings. I fought down an absurd fear that the conqueror himself would stalk toward me from the shadows, his chain-mail armor clanking on the smooth floor.
We passed through a series of vaulted rooms. Larger windows shed more moonlight. I could see a faint gold and scarlet light shimmer at the other side of one of the rooms. It wasn’t from the moon or from candlelight; it was something else entirely. I tugged on Bess’s arm. “It’s the chapel,” she said hurriedly, without stopping. So those were stained-glass windows. I longed to go there, to pray for divine assistance, but of course there was no time.
After a few more minutes, I saw another light flickering in the distance, stronger than a candle. It was a torch fixed to a wall. Bess straightened her shoulders in front of me, and I knew this was our destination. My heart beat faster as I followed her.
Below the torch sat an empty chair and a table. I heard a footfall, another, and then a yeoman warder came into sight, a tall one with a long black beard.
“Hello, Tom,” called out Bess.
I raised the bundle higher, so that it covered the lower half of my face, even though doing so made my arms ache.