I took Sister Winifred’s cold hands in mine. “It will be fine, Sister. Don’t distress yourself, please.”
“Yes, don’t distress yourself,” said a voice behind us.
“Oh, I’ve missed you,” Sister Winifred cried, throwing herself into Brother Edmund’s arms. He patted her back and shoulders, and then smiled at me. His large brown eyes gleamed with calm.
Waves of relief washed through me.
After he’d calmed Sister Winifred, he turned to me and said, “Sister Joanna, I would like to show you something.”
I followed him to his apothecary cabinet. Brother Edmund took a handful of dark leaves from a box on the wall and sprinkled them in the bowl. He leaned over the fire and demonstrated how close the bowl needed to be to the flames.
“It’s important,” he said, “that the leaves not incinerate.”
I drew close to him, so close that the heat from the fire made my fingers tingle. “Why,” I whispered, “are you showing me this now? She’s not having a fit.”
“Sister Joanna, I need you to pay attention and to remember.”
“But why?” I repeated. “
You
are the one who administers the remedy. Why would I need to do it?”
The church bells rang, and I was forced to leave the infirmary without getting an answer.
The end of the day arrived without any more developments. And the next day we saw nothing of the trio from Rochester. It seemed that all suspicion had passed over the friars and the others who lived here. Perhaps they had found the man who killed Lord Chester and had not yet informed us.
Just after dinner I returned to the infirmary to help Brother Edmund with his patients. Sister Rachel was attending Sister Helen, who was still unconscious. I said a Rosary with Sister Winifred while Brother Edmund prepared a poultice for her.
There was an outcry behind us. “Brother Edmund, hurry!” called out Sister Rachel.
Sister Helen’s eyes were still closed, but she gasped for breath. There was a terrible wet rattle in her throat; she could not seem to draw in any air. Her fingers twitched as if she were trying to fight for it. Brother Edmund opened her mouth and pressed down her tongue; afterward, he rubbed her arms.
Within minutes, a dozen sisters had come in to gather around her. We formed a chain, holding hands as we prayed. The prioress joined us, her clear voice the loudest of all. I could feel the love we all harbored for Sister Helen pulsing in the air. It seemed that together, tapping into such a force, we could save Sister Helen. One heart and one soul seeking God.
But that day God willed otherwise.
Brother Edmund stepped back. “It’s over,” he told Prioress Joan.
I burst into tears, as did some of the others. The prioress called out, “Sisters, listen to me. Listen. Remember what Saint Dominic said on his deathbed: ‘Weep not, for I will be of more use to you in heaven.’ Sister Helen will be in heaven, and she will do God’s work just as beautifully there as she did here. She will find true peace.” The prioress closed her eyes, and her lips moved in a silent personal prayer.
I drew comfort from her words. Sister Helen had been a remarkable presence at Dartford; we had all been fond of her, protective of her. But no one could say that, after the horrible execution of her brother, she had been at peace.
There was a strange hissing noise next to me. It was Sister Rachel. “What are
you
doing here?” she seethed.
I turned, shocked, to see whom she referred to.
On the other side of
Sister Rachel, Geoffrey Scovill stood in the doorway to the infirmary. Gregory, the porter, hovered behind him, unhappy.
There were other shocked sounds as the sisters realized his presence. Prioress Joan opened her eyes. “Master Scovill, you cannot enter the cloistered part of the priory without my express permission,” she said. “And to come here, at such a time? It is not fit.”
Sister Rachel could not contain herself. She pointed a finger at Geoffrey. “It was you who killed Sister Helen—you frightened her to death.”
A few other sisters took up her accusation. “He did this to her!” someone agreed.
“No,” I protested, “he didn’t.”
Geoffrey shot me a quick glance and then took a step inside the infirmary. He had something in his hand. “I am sorry to disturb you, and I deeply regret the passing of Sister Helen,” he said somberly. “But, Prioress, I come here on urgent legal business.”
He held up his paper. “I am here to bring Brother Edmund Sommerville to the coroner’s inquest in the village of Dartford. Twelve men have been summoned to hear evidence in the murder of Lord Chester. An indictment has been prepared for Brother Edmund, and the jury will decide whether to confirm it.”
“No! No!” cried the sisters of the priory, who now formed a protective circle around the friar.
But Brother Edmund wouldn’t allow it. He gently pushed his way through the sisters and walked to Geoffrey, his head high.
“I am innocent of this crime but ready to obey the law,” he said.
Geoffrey reached into his pocket and removed something. To my horror, he was binding Brother Edmund’s wrists.
“What is happening?” called out Sister Winifred, in a panic. “What did that man say?
Edmund?
Where are you taking him?”
Brother Edmund sent one sad look to his sister, and then turned to all of us and said, simply, “Good-bye.”
In a moment he was gone.
Sister Agatha went to Sister Winifred and tried to calm her. I could not move or speak. It was as if my mind refused to accept what had just happened.
After a few minutes, Gregory,
the porter, returned. He also held a piece of paper. It bore a large red seal.
“This just came from London,” he said, and handed it to Prioress Joan.
With a frown, she broke the seal. I could see it was a short letter. She read it while we watched. The only sound was Sister Winifred, crying in the corner, in Sister Agatha’s arms.
All the color drained from the face of the prioress.
“What does it say?” asked Sister Rachel.
The prioress looked at her, and then at all of us.
“The letter is from Thomas Cromwell, the Lord Privy Seal and Vice Regent,” she said. “Because of Lord Chester’s murder, Dartford Priory is the scandal of the kingdom and must be newly examined for error. The king’s chief commissioners, Layton and Legh, are changing their schedule of visitations to come here now, instead of in the spring. They should arrive in Dartford within three weeks’ time.”
PART
THREE
32
T
his
leech was different than the others. The dark-brown creature that the barber chose for Sister Winifred’s face was thinner and livelier than the three he’d already applied to her forearms. It squirmed in the air when the barber plucked it from his water jar and calmed only when it attached to her left cheek, near her ear.
It bit her. I could always tell when the leeches bit because Sister Winifred’s eyes would widen and her lips would part. I was leeched three times myself, as a child, and I remembered that stinging twinge, followed by a spread of numbness.
I leaned forward to catch Sister Winifred’s gaze. I prayed that this leech would draw out the ill humors from her blood. But as I watched, her eyes glazed over; the dullness returned.
Two weeks earlier, the jury of inquiry in Dartford took an hour to decide it was Brother Edmund who must stand trial for the killing of Lord Chester. Coroner Hancock, Justice Campion, and Geoffrey Scovill took him directly back to Rochester, to gaol—we did not see him again. Brother Edmund would stand trial in Rochester when the winter session of the Courts of Assize opened. I overheard a distraught Brother Richard tell the prioress that he had never heard of a murder trial where the accused went free. All murder defendants were found guilty—and all were hanged or burned.
I sat by Sister Winifred’s bed when she heard the judgment of the coroner’s jury. She understood; she thanked the prioress. But then the melancholia truly consumed her. She went from speaking very little to not at all. It reminded all of Sister Helen. However, our tapestry mistress had been very much a part of the bustle of the priory. Sister Winifred, on the other hand, didn’t want to get out of bed, and she didn’t want to eat. Despite our best efforts, she’d shrunk alarmingly since Geoffrey Scovill
had taken Brother Edmund away. Her cheeks grew more sunken; her ribs seemed to arch from her body. Soon there would be nothing left.
The suffering of Sister Winifred was but an extreme case of how we all felt. Dread of Cromwell’s commissioners hung in the air of the priory, mingling with grief over the death of Sister Helen and revulsion over the horror of Lord Chester’s murder. It was so unbearable an atmosphere that two of our servants left Dartford, even though work was scarce. The parents of the girls who learned lessons at the priory withdrew them from attending, and that was especially painful for me. Ours was the only school for females in northwest Kent.
When the leech had drunk its fill, it trembled, and the barber returned it to his second jar, to swim with the others that had fed off her. He examined Sister Winifred. “I don’t see any stirring of the spirit,” he announced. “Shall we try another one, Prioress? I could do three more leeches for the agreed fee.”
“No, that’s sufficient,” said Prioress Joan. “We may still see improvement later today, or tomorrow, correct?”
“It’s possible,” said the barber in a tone suggesting otherwise.
After he’d left, Sister Rachel spoke up. She had resumed her duties in the infirmary, with my assistance whenever possible. “Prioress, it costs a great deal, but there is a physician in London who treats the insane. He cuts holes in the skull and sees startling improvement. We could send for him.”
“Sister Winifred is not insane,” I said hotly.
Sister Rachel frowned at my rudeness. I knew it was best for me to assume silence, but I simply couldn’t. “If Brother Edmund were to return,” I said, “that would bring her back to us, not cutting holes in her head.”
The prioress said, “It is too soon to take that particular action, Sister Rachel, but I will bear it in mind, thank you. For now, we will continue with our nursing. Tender care and prayer will prevail, I believe.”
Sister Rachel nodded.
The prioress turned to me: “Fetch a bowl of broth. Get as much into her as you can.”
“Yes, Prioress,” I said. I hurried for the door.
“And Sister Joanna?”
Something in the prioress’s tone made me freeze. “Yes?”
“We will meet in chapter house
in one hour’s time to discuss the various infractions committed by our members in the last month. It has been too long since correction.”
“Yes, Prioress.”
As I waited in the kitchen for the cook to heat the broth, I chafed at the prospect of chapter discipline. It wasn’t because I was unquestionably the one who would be receiving the most of it. We had seen death inside these walls, both natural and unnatural, and one of our own had been imprisoned—wrongfully. We faced imminent dissolution. What could be served by a round of chastising?
But it was no use fretting. Whatever the prioress willed would, of course, be done.
I peeked inside the pot strung up above the fire; the broth did not yet bubble. Restless, I paced around the kitchen until my eyes fell on a poignant sight: the rag doll of Martha Westerly’s, carefully propped next to a box of herbs on a shelf.
“Why would Martha leave her doll behind?” I wondered aloud. The cook, busy chopping vegetables, paused in her labor. We looked at each other, both struck with sadness at the thought of the Westerly children.
“Or did she give it to you?” I asked, curious.
“John found the doll and brought it to me,” the cook said, resuming her chopping.
“John, the stable hand?”
She nodded.
I walked over to the cook and gently tapped her hand, to stop her from chopping. “When did John find the doll?” I asked.
She thought for a moment. “Sister, he gave it to me the day the men came from Rochester.” She lowered her voice. “He had to stand guard that morning, outside of the room where Lord Chester’s dead body lay.”
I was taken aback. The Westerly children had nothing to do with the murder of Lord Chester. Connecting the two, even through the finding of a doll, upset me. I’d heard that the day after Brother Edmund was taken away, the Westerlys’ father appeared at the priory to claim his wife’s body, and showned anger when told she’d been buried already in the priory graveyard.
Word had been sent to his house in town the night of her death, but no one had responded, so the sisters took initiative. It was an honor for a servant to be buried there, but Master Westerly didn’t see it that way. He left uttering curses and refused to answer inquiry about the safety of his children beyond that it was no one’s business but his.
The broth bubbled and popped behind me, on the fire. The cook ladled some into a bowl, and I bore it on a tray to the infirmary.
Something about the doll bothered me. At first, I couldn’t sort it out. I sat next to the listless Sister Winifred, preparing to feed her, when it struck me.
“What if they saw something?” I asked aloud.
Sister Rachel, measuring out some healing potions, jumped. Purple liquid spilled onto her table.
“Sister Joanna, see what you’ve done?” she scolded. “What are you talking about? Who saw what?”
“Can you feed Sister Winifred?” I scrambled for the door. “I’m sorry, but it’s very important.”
Without waiting for a reply, I raced back to the kitchen and persuaded the cook to let me borrow the doll.
It was a sullen November day, and I ran to the stables without a cloak. But I didn’t care. For the first time in weeks, purpose sang in my veins. I’d felt weary and defeated ever since Brother Edmund had been taken and, more than anything, was preoccupied with Sister Winifred’s decline. I’d learned not one thing more about the Athelstan crown, and since that terrifying night when I’d felt the priory breathing around me, I had never again sensed its mystical powers. Most of the time I despaired, feeling I would never find the crown, nor puzzle through the identity of Lord Chester’s killer. My father would never be freed from the Tower.