I followed the group to the end of the street and then down another one lined with taverns. It opened into an enormous flat clearing, teeming with people already arrived and awaiting the day’s execution. There were hundreds of them: men and women, sailors and seamstresses, children as well. A family pushed ahead of me, the mother carrying a basket of bread, the father with a boy sitting on his shoulders.
Without warning, a foul stench filled my nose, my throat, and my lungs. My eyes watered. It was worse than anything I’d breathed in London so far. With a cry I clutched my burning throat.
“That’s the butcher yards to the east,” said the woman I had ridden with. “When ye catch the wind, the blood and offal can be rank.” She touched my
elbow. “Ye be unused to Smithfield, I can see that. Walk with me, stay close.”
I shook my head, blinking. I wouldn’t bear witness to the end of Margaret’s life with such a heartless creature. She shrugged and melted into the mob. I stood alone.
Trembling, I reached into my pocket once more and removed the letter, the one Margaret wrote to me days before the outbreak of the Northern Rebellion, what we call the Pilgrimage of Grace. I unfolded the tight rectangle of cream-colored paper and admired, as always, her sloping, delicate script.
My most entirely beloved Joanna:
I have learned from my brother that you plan to enter the Dominican Order at Dartford Priory and take vows to become a bride of Christ. I admire you so much for your choice of a holy life. I lit extra candles at morning Mass to honor you, dear cousin.
I only wish that somehow you would find a way to know my second husband, Sir John. He is a good, honest, true man, Joanna. He loves me. He cherishes me. I have finally found peace in the North, the same peace I hope you will find at Dartford Priory.
I cannot but think these are hard, wretched, frightening times. Those who serve God as our Holy Father ordains are scorned and persecuted. There is heresy everywhere. It is different in the North. Every night I say three prayers. I ask God to protect our monasteries. I seek salvation for the soul of my father. And I pray that someday I will see you again, Joanna, and that you will embrace me and forgive me.
Written at my manor in Lastingham in York, the last Thursday of September
Your cousin and dearest friend for eternity
Margaret Bulmer
I replaced the letter, pulled my hood over my head as far as it could go so that not a single strand of hair showed, and stepped into Smithfield.
2
S
tanding
on the edge of the clearing, filled with people eager for the sport of Margaret’s burning, I remembered something my father said about Smithfield. “That was where the Plantagenet court once held their most magnificent jousts, Joanna. That’s why they chose it. Not far from the palaces was a ‘smooth field.’ And it became Smithfield.”
My father wasn’t a man ready with fine words. But he could describe a joust. He had been a champion in his youth, one of the finest jousters in the kingdom. That was before the execution of my uncle the duke for high treason when I was ten years old, and my parents’ banishment from court. Before the fall of the Staffords.
It had been many years since he’d jousted. But the memories were sharp. I’d close my eyes and listen to him tell the story and feel as if I were on horseback: thundering down the course, divided in two by a low wooden fence. Silver armor blazing in the sun. A shield in the left hand, a lance in the right. In the distance, an opponent draws closer . . . closer . . . until the other jouster is a few feet away and down come the lances with a mighty crash.
When I imagined that moment of contact, when a man might die if a lance pierced below armor, I’d shiver and my father would smile. That quick grin was like a boy’s, no matter his thick chestnut hair showed a few strands of gray.
I hadn’t seen that grin for a very long time. When I told him last year I wished to become a novice and profess vows, he argued with me, tried to change my mind, but not for long. He could see I was sincere in my longing for a higher life, far from the clamor of human voices and the touch of man. My father wrote the necessary letters and, with some difficulty, paid for my endowment at the priory. He did it to make me happy, since he knew no other way to do so.
And for some months at Dartford
I
was
happy. In a contemplative life, I found certainty and purpose, the grace I’d longed for, insulated from the selfishness and vanity, the mindless pomp of the world. But it was a fragile happiness. I had come to a religious life that was not just in decline—far fewer people entered monasteries today than in past centuries—but under vigorous attack. Our king had broken from the Holy Father. In the last two years, England’s smallest abbeys and priories had been closed, their monks and nuns sent onto the road. Prioress Elizabeth reassured the sisters that the larger religious houses such as ours would not be touched, but the fear of another round of closings haunted the stone passageways, the cloister garden, even the dormitories of Dartford.
It was just a week ago, on my way to Vespers, that I’d heard her name whispered for the first time, ahead of me on the south passageway. “The woman who helped lead the second Northern Rebellion, Lady Margaret Bulmer . . .”
I cried out, “Whom do you speak of?” and the two sisters who’d been walking together stopped and turned around. A novice should never address her superiors in such a way.
“Forgive me, Sister Joan and Sister Agatha.” I bowed my head low and clasped my hands and then peered up at their faces. Sister Joan, the
circator,
the enforcer of rules, regarded me with cold disapproval. But Sister Agatha, novice mistress, could not resist sharing her gossip. “The last rebel leaders were brought down to London and tried at Westminster,” she said, her voice a quick whisper. “All were found guilty. The men will be hanged, including Sir John Bulmer, but his wife, a lady, will be burned at the stake at Smithfield. It is the king’s pleasure.”
I tilted and reached out with one hand to grip the damp stone wall to keep from falling.
“Yes, isn’t it terrible?” clucked Sister Agatha.
But Sister Joan’s shrewd eyes were on me. “Sister Joanna, did you know Lady Bulmer before you came to Dartford?” she asked.
“No, Sister.” Just like that, a grievous sin committed.
Sister Agatha continued, “I always wonder what becomes of them . . . afterward. Would the family of Lady Bulmer be allowed to take her poor body for burial, even though the crime is high treason?”
Sister Joan gave her a stern look. “Such matters are not our concern. I’m sure the lady’s family has the means to bribe the
guards afterward if necessary. It is souls that we attend to, not mortal flesh.”
We’d reached the church. Sister Joan and Sister Agatha bowed to the altar and took their assigned places. I followed suit and made my way to the novice stall, at the front. My place, as youngest, was next to the chancel step. My voice rose in song. I made all the correct responses in the chanting of the office.
Yet within my mind I stitched together a plan. I knew that our terrified Stafford relations would have nothing to do with Margaret or her burial. I could not bear the thought of her dying, alone and frightened, without the presence and the prayers of a loved one to ease her suffering, and then having her poor corpse consigned to oblivion. God desired me to bear witness, I was absolutely sure of that.
I’d leave Dartford Priory and travel to London, to Smithfield, and since the Dominican Order observed strict rules of enclosure for novices as well as nuns, I’d have to go without permission.
It frightened me, yes. The consequences for breaking enclosure were so serious, the only greater offense was violation of our chastity. For the next two days I wavered, not sure of my decision. I sought direction in prayer.
At the office of Matins, at midnight, enlightenment came. Dartford novices were abed customarily by nine, ordered to rest, but my eyes never closed that night, I was so troubled. I filed into church with the others, and between the Pater and the Ave, it struck me. All of my doubts and fears and worries fell away, as if I stood in a waterfall, cleansed by the purest streams. I would go to Smithfield. All would be well. I raised my arms and turned up my palms, toward the altar, my cheeks damp with gratitude.
As we shuffled up the stairs, back to the dormitories for a few more hours of sleep until Lauds, Sister Christina, senior novice, nudged me. “Did you find Divine Truth?” she whispered. “It appeared so.”
“Perhaps,” I said.
“I pray I receive the same blessing,” said Sister Christina, her voice fierce. She was remarkably devout and sometimes wore a hair shirt under her novice habit, although she’d been reproved for it. Novices were discouraged from seeking mortification of the flesh. We weren’t ready.
Sister Winifred, the other novice, who had professed three months before me, squeezed my arm. “I am happy for you,” she said in her sweet,
lilting voice.
I made my preparations to leave in secret. The night before Margaret’s execution, I slept but an hour or so. In the thick darkness of our novice dormitory, I dressed myself in the kirtle I’d worn when my father brought me to Dartford last fall. I crept down the stairs and made my way to the kitchens. I knew one of the windows had a broken lock. I eased through it and ran across the grounds, through the barn, past the sleeping stable hand, and out the door. I most feared discovery at the large gatehouse out front, for sometimes our porter assigned a watchman. To stay clear of it, I went over the stone wall that surrounded the priory at a low point. I walked up the slope, the grass damp under my feet, to meet the lane leading through the woods to the main road.
The moon hid behind heavy clouds; it was so very dark on the lane, under the trees. There was just the song of the night creatures. They were not disturbed by my presence. No, it was like passing through the ranks of an undisciplined choir—crickets and other shrill insects took the soprano part while the toads and owls played bass. Their gleeful serenade did not please me. My business was deadly serious, and, as ridiculous as it is to admit, I felt mocked in the woods. I was glad that when I reached the main road, the sky to the east was lightening. Soon the impetuous night choir would fall silent.
With a pair of lady’s earrings clinking in his pocket, the sleepy warden for Hedge House Wharf helped me into a boat, but with reluctance. “I pray the young lady knows what she is about,” he muttered. I did not answer him. As the boat eased away on the River Darent, past the fishery, I thought I heard the faint peal of the bells of the priory, for first prayers, but I may have imagined it.
Dartford is nearly a day’s journey on foot from London, two hours by good horse and more than four hours by water. The River Darent twists and turns before meeting the Thames. It is not the way most would choose to travel to London, but I feared being seen in the village if I tried to hire
a conveyance. I must disappear long enough to complete my mission.
Soon after we departed, rain pattered on the river and the oarsman tossed me a long covering to shield my head. The last person to wear the covering had eaten salted fish; I could still smell it. A thick, cool white mist enveloped me on the river. I could see next to nothing. There was just the pinprick of rain on the river and the rhythmic grunts of the man sitting behind me as he pulled his oars out of the gray water. I took out my crucifix and wooden beads from the purse and began to say the Rosary.
Margaret, I am coming. I won’t abandon you.
The mist parted to introduce a dull sky. As the river widened on its trek, other boats joined us, large and small. A few oarsmen called out to mine, making rude remarks over his passenger being young and female and unaccompanied. I fingered my beads and ignored their coarse foolishness. The instant we docked, well south of London Bridge, I leaped out of the boat. My greatest fear was that I would reach the appointed place too late.
Now I was here, I had indeed reached Smithfield before the burning, but I had not expected such crowds and confusion. All I could see were common people, milling around, laughing, drinking, or crying out to one another. I walked among them, this way and that, searching for some sign of where the execution would take place.
When I came upon a tight circle of men shouting, my pulse quickened. I pushed my way forward to find an opening.
In the middle of the circle was not a person but a chicken. Misshapen and bloody, its eyes flickering in terror, it had one foot tied to a wooden stake. A pockmarked man across from me held a small wooden bat over his head, readying it for his target.
The man hurled the bat with a loud grunt, and it struck the bird.
“God’s wounds, what have ye done, ye stupid arse?” bellowed the man next to me as he wiped a splotch of dripping red liquid from his cheek. The bird had been struck so hard a geyser of blood sprayed him.
Uncaring, the pockmarked man scrambled into the circle. “She’s me dinner!” he howled. “And it’s not even Shrove Tuesday.”
I looked down and
saw my own dark skirts spattered with bright fresh blood. “Sweet Mother Mary,” I moaned and backed away, slipping into a muddy patch. On the way down, I grabbed the arm of a young woman next to me.
It was a mistake. Red-faced, with a laundress’s bag slung over her shoulder, she swatted me away, screaming, “Are ye stealing from me?”
“Madame, I was breaking a fall,” I said. “I apologize.”
The laundress made a mock curtsy. “No, my lady. Forgive
me.
”
Someone laughed. A few heads turned.
A burst of hot fetid breath singed the side of my neck at the same second two thick arms encircled my waist from behind. I tried to pull away and could not.
“Hullo, poppet,” growled a voice.
I yanked myself away from the stranger. “Take your hands off me,” I ordered him.
He spun me around, and I saw my attacker. He was at least a foot taller than me and barrel-chested. A greasy beard hid his face except for a pair of bulging eyes and a nose bent to the left.