The wagon slowed. Ahead lay the center of the village: the inns, the tall parish church, a thriving market, dozens of shops—bakers, tanners, butchers, tailors—and a few small shipping firms. But we wouldn’t be going into the village. Dartford Priory lay just north of the village. The narrow road I knew so well emerged from between two graceful elm trees.
Just as the driver pulled on the reins to turn, I heard bells. Very faint. I hardly paid them any mind. But they kept pealing . . . and pealing. I’d never heard bells ring that long. Our wagon had started up the priory road, and still the bells pealed. Brother Richard noticed it, too, and held up his hand. We halted . . . and listened. After a minute there were yet more bells, and louder, layered onto the first set. It was as if the orders to ring started far away, and then other churches, ones that were closer to Dartford, pulled the ropes to their bells, too.
“The bells mean it’s a son,” Brother Richard cried.
We all crossed ourselves,
even the wagon driver.
“It’s a sign from God that He blesses
this
marriage, don’t you see?” Brother Richard exulted. “The queen will be able to help us now!”
He kicked his horse, to hurry up the road to Dartford. I looked to Brother Edmund for an explanation. He glanced at the cart driver and then said in a low voice, “The queen favors the old ways; she supports the monasteries. But when she tried to intervene late last year, to ask that we be spared, the king ordered her to be silent. With a prince on her lap, she could become a respected adviser.”
I nodded, though it all seemed unlikely. Would this king listen to any woman, for any reason? I spared a quiet prayer for Katherine of Aragon’s daughter, the Lady Mary. She was five years younger than me, motherless, declared illegitimate by her father, and now officially displaced by a prince. The king might not consider Mary—or Anne Boleyn’s girl, Elizabeth—a fit heir. But in Spain, women could rule in their own right. Katherine of Aragon’s mother, Queen Isabella, was but one example. On this island, sadly, a female still meant very little.
Our wagon resumed its journey up the lane to the priory. The sun had just fallen in the sky. It was high dusk: violet light bathed the open fields to our left. I craned my neck, anxious to see the priory, but a grove of trees blocked my line of sight.
Brother Richard, out front, glimpsed Dartford first. I saw him freeze in the saddle. Yes, even he would be impressed.
The wagon cleared the grove of trees, and, rising above the stone walls encircling it, I saw my home.
The first thing that always struck me was the priory’s size: the tall, square front walls. It wasn’t grim or imposing, though. The walls were a creamy light gray, made of Kentish ragstone. But what always moved me was the symmetry of the design, its confident elegance. Four large carved crests of the Dominican Order stood out along the top of the wall. There wasn’t quite enough light to decipher their faces now, but I knew the design by heart. Black-and-white shields represented joy and penance. On those shields bloomed lilies, the symbols of our faith.
The cruciform church rose from behind the front wall, from the center; the last dying rays of light reflected off the triangles of stained glass. Smaller buildings spread
behind: the friars’ quarters, the stables and brewery. All perfectly balanced. It would always be the most beautiful place I’d ever seen.
“Sister Joanna?” someone was saying.
“Yes, what is it?” I gasped, dashing the tears from my cheeks.
Brother Richard pointed at a distance hill to the left of us. “Is that where Lord Chester’s property begins?” he asked. “I’ve met his younger brother, the Bishop of Dover.”
I nodded, still not able to manage myself. Brother Edmund examined me with his usual expression of distant calm. I turned away from the friars, irritated.
We reached the large gatehouse in front of the priory—it was dark and empty. The driver of the wagon looked back at us, unsure of what to do.
“There should be someone out front to greet us,” Brother Richard said.
“The priory has a porter,” I told him—my voice had thankfully returned to normal. “Sometimes he’s in the gatehouse, but after dark, he’s most often inside the front priory.”
“Without lighting torches outside for us?” Brother Richard asked accusingly, as if I were responsible.
Brother Edmund said, “It will be an easy matter to make him aware we’ve arrived.” We climbed out of the wagon. With a loud sigh, Brother Richard dismounted and handed the reins of his horse to the wagon driver.
The entrance to Dartford Priory struck most people dumb. Even the two friars seemed impressed.
One entered the priory through a soaring, near-pointed archway. On each side the statue of a king stared forward—our founder, King Edward the Third. Across the top of the archway was carving stone celebrating the ascension of the Virgin.
Brother Richard knocked on the thick wooden door. He waited less than a minute, and knocked again. No one answered.
“I can think of no excuse for this,” Brother Richard said.
Finally, the door creaked open. To my relief, Jacob, the elderly porter, shuffled outside. He frowned as he looked at the friars; when he saw me, his expression changed to shock. “Sister Joanna, is that you?” he quavered.
“Yes, Jacob,” I answered.
“Didn’t your prioress inform
you of our arrival?” demanded Brother Richard.
Jacob shook his head.
Brother Edmund said in his gentler voice: “Was there no messenger from London today?”
“Yes, Brother, there was a messenger.”
“What did the prioress say to you after reading it?”
Jacob looked at Brother Richard, and his eyes widened. His mouth flapped open and shut. I’d never seen our porter like this—so at a loss.
“Jacob, what is wrong?” I asked.
But he would not answer me, either.
“Take us to your prioress,” said Brother Richard.
Jacob backed away from him. “No, no.”
“Take us to your prioress—now!” the friar thundered.
With a final flap of his mouth, Jacob turned and led us into the priory.
The ivory statue of the Virgin Mary on her throne gleamed in the front antechamber. I expected Jacob to bear left and take us to the
locutorium,
the room where nuns could meet with visitors, while he fetched Prioress Elizabeth. The men were Dominican friars, yes, but chapter rules dictated that no men, religious or otherwise, were allowed access to where the sisters served, unless it was sanctioned in advance by a prioress.
But to my shock, Jacob turned away from the
locutorium
and the other rooms where outsiders were permitted—the prioress’s front office chamber, the lodging rooms for boarders and overnight guests—and headed for the heart of the priory.
He took out his keys at the door leading to the cloister, chapter house, church, refectory, kitchens, and dormitories.
“Jacob, what are you doing?” I asked.
He opened the door without answering.
“So far I have seen rules broken—first of hospitality, and now the strictest one of all, enclosure,” Brother Richard fumed. “The good report I had of this priory was much mistaken.”
I glanced at Brother Edmund, hoping he would calm his agitated fellow friar. But he stayed silent, wrapped in his own thoughts.
Jacob looked only at me.
“Go to the church,” he whispered, holding open the door.
The three of us stepped over the threshold, and Jacob locked the door behind us.
It must be time for Compline, a sacred Dominican office, a deeply inappropriate moment to reappear, and with two friars in tow. But I didn’t know what else to do—Jacob had plainly lost his senses. He had always been so dedicated to the prioress. I couldn’t imagine what had happened to him.
“Follow me,” I said.
We moved toward the cloister: the open courtyard and garden in the center of the priory. Columned passageways squared off on each side. In moments we reached the far corridor leading to the church. My joy at being in the priory again was tamped down by confusion. I couldn’t hear a thing: neither singing nor chanting nor spoken responses. Compline was not a silent gathering.
From the minute we’d arrived I sensed something was wrong. Now I was overwhelmed by fear.
We reached the archway opening to Dartford’s exquisite church. We bowed, and then dipped our fingers in the holy water in the stoup and made the sign of the cross. But I couldn’t see much of anything. A burst of thick incense enveloped me, filling my nose, throat, eyes. I’d never smelled so much at one time. It was not just lavender, either; I detected rosemary afloat in the air. Candles flickered at the apse, creating points of light that shimmered through the fragrant cloud. I felt slightly woozy.
The sisters of Dartford were indeed all there. The two dozen women stood in their assigned stalls. And now that I was in the same room as them, I realized they were not silent. They were weeping.
I looked again. On the side of the apse stretched a long platform draped in black cloth.
As the incense cloud thinned, a white face came into view. A person was laid out on the platform. Those weren’t drapes, but a long black cape.
I took a step closer, then another. And another. I knew that profile, those wrinkled cheeks. It was Prioress Elizabeth Croessner lying on the platform.
17
S
ister
Joan Vane saw me first. She eased out of her stall and rushed down the center aisle.
“Why are you in here?” she asked, her voice sharp. “You should be in the
locutorium
. And to bring these friars in here?” She frowned at the sight of Brother Richard and Brother Edmund.
I was too full of shock at the sight of the prioress to answer her. I couldn’t take it in. I had been thinking of what I would say to Prioress Elizabeth, imagined her words to me, heard her soft, cultured voice.
Sister Joan grabbed my arm and propelled me toward the friars, who were waiting at the back of the chapel. It did not surprise me that Sister Joan had taken charge. She was always a diligent
circator,
ensuring that rules were followed.
Brother Richard asked her: “Is that your prioress?”
“Yes,” said Sister Joan. “God has taken her to Him.”
The friars crossed themselves. I did the same, my right hand shaking.
“When?” asked Brother Edmund.
“This morning,” she said. “I knew of your arrival, but I did not think you’d come so soon after the messenger from London. I have not had an opportunity to tell the sisters anything. I wanted to give them time with Prioress Elizabeth before she is taken for burial.”
At the mention of burial, a low moan escaped from my lips. Tears bubbled up and coursed down my cheeks. Sister Joan ignored me.
“It is good that I am here,” announced Brother Richard, “for there is much to do. I am familiar with the procedure for selection of a new prioress. Letters must be written and sent at once.”
Sister Joan raised her pointed chin. She was already a tall woman—suddenly, she seemed even taller. “There is no need for that.”
“No need?” he repeated.
“I am the next Prioress of Dartford,”
she said proudly.
Brother Richard stared at her as if she were mad. “On whose authority?” he finally asked.
There was a stir behind us. A trio of nuns stood a few feet away, staring. It was my fellow novices, Sister Winifred and Sister Christina, and between them the stout novice mistress, Sister Agatha. Other nuns clustered behind, straining to see us.
“Edmund, is that you?” quavered Sister Winifred, blinking with confusion.
Brother Edmund took a step toward her, his face lit up with a gentle smile. How much they resembled each other. “Yes, dear sister,” he said.
Sister Winifred’s eyes flitted uncertainly from his face to mine. “And Sister Joanna?” she gasped. “We were told you were in the Tower.”
“Enough!” said Sister Joan. “We will speak outside of the church. Sister Agatha, come with us.” She raised her voice so she could be heard by all the nuns. “Please, Sisters, the rest of you remain here. You have your turns assigned to you, for the nightly vigil of watching over our leader. At dawn, she will be cleaned and wound in her sheet.”
A fresh burst of sobs erupted.
Her voice rising louder, Sister Joan cried, “I will return shortly. For now, you must respect our beloved prioress, even if others do not.” She glared at me.
I saw Sister Winifred turn to her fellow novice, upset and overwhelmed. Sister Christina hugged her; over the smaller woman’s shoulders, she shot me a furious, suspicious look.
I followed Sister Joan and Sister Agatha out of the chapel, the friars coming last. I wiped the tears from my cheeks.
In a moment we were all inside the chapter house, next to the church. Sister Agatha nervously lit candles.
Brother Richard spoke first. “I need to know on whose authority you have assumed the position of prioress,” he said briskly. “Was it the Bishop of Rochester?”
Her eyes narrowed. “What is your name?” she asked.
“I am Brother Richard.”
“Then, Brother Richard, I must
tell you first that I am not answerable to you in any way,” she said smoothly. “But neither do I wish to conceal anything, for all has been done properly. The members of the priory elected me this day, following a recommendation. And no, it was not from the Bishop of Rochester, though arguably we do fall under his jurisdiction. As you must be aware, I did not approach your patron, either—the Bishop of Winchester. My authority comes direct from the second man in the land, from the Lord Privy Seal and Vice Regent of Spiritual Affairs, Thomas Cromwell.”
Brother Richard shrank from her, as if she had conjured up Satan. His voice hoarse, he stammered, “But . . . but . . . Cromwell is the man who seeks to destroy the monasteries.”
A flush spread over Prioress Joan’s face. “While monasteries stand in this land—and, Brother, we all pray that the dissolution will proceed no further—Cromwell is the authority we report to. That is according to the Oath of Supremacy.”
“How did he even become aware that a new prioress would be needed here?” Brother Richard demanded.