“Oh, Brother Edmund, I am so sorry,” I said.
“I realized something in that gaol cell.” His voice broke. “I would rather be dead than go back to the pain of
addictus.
I will not order any more of it—ever. I will pray that God eases my torment, but if He does not, I accept my punishment and shall willingly die.”
His tears turned to sobs. Brother Edmund covered his face with shaking hands and hunched over, abandoning himself to despair.
Hearing him weep, realizing all that he had suffered, I felt the devouring flames of a new rage. Brother Richard was correct. We faced opposing forces of tremendous ruthlessness. So many lives had been destroyed by the king’s quest for absolute power: over his wives, over his people, both noble and common, and now over the church. My uncle the Duke of Buckingham, my cousin Margaret—both had met terrible ends. Now my father rotted in the Tower of London. The king’s saintly wife of two decades, Katherine of Aragon, died abandoned; God only knew what fate awaited the recalcitrant Princess Mary. The parade of martyrs to Henry the Eighth stretched very long.
“Brother Edmund,” I said. “I have something to tell you.”
He lowered his hands and looked at me, his face a ruin of grief.
“What Bishop Gardiner seeks, what King Henry and Thomas Cromwell seek, is an object known as the Athelstan crown.”
The brothers sank to their knees
in prayer of gratitude.
I told them everything on that hill above the hospital of the lepers. About Athelstan wearing a precious crown into a historic battle, how the crown was at some point sent to France. How over the centuries it was buried, discovered, hidden again, revealed, and finally delivered unto England. I shared with them what I’d read of the deaths of King Richard the Lionhearted and the Black Prince and Prince Arthur Tudor, each an untimely death after encountering the crown in some way. I relayed the story of Arthur coming to Dartford Priory with his bride, Katherine of Aragon, and his mother, Queen Elizabeth. I described the carvings I’d seen of the crown and the lilies throughout Dartford, but that without the last letter of Prioress Elizabeth Croessner, I’d been unable to determine where the crown was hidden, despite all my searching.
Brother Edmund was riveted by my words. But he seemed puzzled, too.
“I’ve read a little of Athelstan and know him to be an important early king,” he said. “But why would a crown from a French monarch, given to win a bride, mean so much to him? Why would he wear it into the battle of Brunanburh? And how could it assume such tremendous powers centuries after his death? How would it halt the dissolution?”
The same questions had plagued me, and we stared at each other, frustrated.
He took a deep breath. “Tell me everything you know of how the crown came to Athelstan.”
“The crown was one of the relics that Hugh Capet inherited,” I said.
Brother Edmund grabbed my arm. “Relics?” he said. “Of which saint?”
“The book didn’t specify.”
“And from whom did Hugh Capet inherit them?” he persisted. His grip was so tight my arm burned.
Then I remembered. “Oh, yes, the relics came down from Charlemagne. Hugh Capet was descended from Charlemagne.”
For a minute I thought Brother Edmund had frozen. He did not move, did not even blink. Brother Richard reached out and shook him. “Is the sickness upon you?” he asked. “Brother, speak to us.”
The deluge came. It was
tears, mixed with laughter, uncontrolled. For the first time, I was frightened of Brother Edmund. “Calm yourself,” I begged. “Please.”
Brother Edmund charged halfway up the hill, then whipped around to race back to us. “Don’t you know?” he demanded, a crazed light dancing in his eyes. “Can’t you put it together?”
“No,” I said. “Tell us.”
“Charlemagne lived in the eighth century. He brought the conversion of thousands of souls to the true church. He founded cathedrals, universities, monasteries, shrines. He had the will and the power and the devotion to collect and preserve the most sacred relics of the newfound Catholic Church. Don’t you know whose crown he possessed?”
“Ce n’est pas possible,”
cried Brother Richard. He crossed himself.
“Tell me,” I implored. “I don’t know.”
Brother Edmund said, “It was the crown of Christ himself, worn at his crucifixion. That is one of the relics Charlemagne is believed to have had. The crown of thorns.”
38
T
he
argument began on the hill overlooking the leper hospital and continued in the priory library later that night, where we three gathered again. Brother Richard came up with an excuse for the prioress: a request had arrived from Bishop Gardiner for research urgently needed. “She was suspicious, but she does not dare to gainsay Gardiner,” he said.
Not yet,
I thought.
Now, sitting at a table covered with books and priory documents, Brother Richard and Brother Edmund quarreled, as only two highly educated Dominican friars could, over a point of religious history. Did the crown bestowed on King Athelstan once rest on the precious head of Christ?
“The crown of thorns is housed in the Sainte-Chapelle in Paris, heavily guarded,” Brother Richard said wearily. “It has never been in England. It was kept in the Holy Lands, until the crusader King Baldwin of Constantinople obtained it in the thirteenth century and sold it to Louis the Ninth.”
“But haven’t you ever wondered at Baldwin’s unveiling Christ’s crown of thorns just when he had fallen into dangerous debt to the Venetians?” asked Brother Edmund. “Louis paid one hundred thirty-five thousand livres for it and cleared Baldwin’s debts.”
I squirmed, uncomfortable with the image of a holy object being bought and paid for by earthly kings.
“Remember, this sale was made after the
third
crusade,” Brother Edmund continued. Talking about history pumped life into him; his illness, his torments, receded. “For centuries all manner of relics and sacred objects had been discovered in the Holy Lands and brought to Europe by crusaders. A steady stream of them came west. At the end of all this, the
crown of thorns appears on the international market?”
“Then you’re saying that Louis the Ninth—the revered Saint Louis—and all of the French kings since, have been fools,” countered Brother Richard. “Don’t forget it was two Dominican friars who escorted the crown to Paris. Say what you will about the monarchs of Europe, but a Dominican friar could never be duped. And yet you persist in thinking the crown was part of a dowry, in the tenth century, to win an obscure English princess?”
“Stop, please!” I begged, waving my hands in their impassioned faces. “I’m so confused.”
Brother Edmund and Brother Richard both smiled sheepishly. “Forgive us, Sister Joanna, we could debate such matters all night,” said Brother Edmund. “Let us start at the beginning.”
Brother Richard stood up. “Agreed. And the beginning is . . . Golgotha.” He took down a book of scripture and searched for a passage. Translating from Latin, Brother Richard said, “Then Pilate took Jesus, and had him scourged. And the soldiers plaited a crown of thorns, and put it on His head, and they put on Him a purple robe, and said, ‘Hail, King of the Jews!’ and they smote Him with their hands. Then came Jesus forth, wearing the crown of thorns, and the purple robe. And Pilate said, ‘Behold the man.’ ”
Brother Richard said quietly, “The crown of thorns has always represented something very profound to me, about suffering and humiliation, yes, but also about how we must all experience pain to find transcendence.”
Brother Edmund nodded. “The cross that Jesus was crucified on, the nails that pierced his body, the crown of thorns, the scroll that said, ‘King of the Jews,’ the spear that a Roman used to pierce his side—these are the relics of the Passion. After His crucifixion, they were preserved in Jerusalem by His followers, and nothing happened for a few hundred years. But then Rome became Christian, and Saint Helen traveled to Jerusalem.”
“Saint Helen, the mother of the first Christian emperor?” I asked.
“Yes, very good, Sister,” exclaimed Brother Edmund. I learned how Helen went to Jerusalem in
A.D.
326, to collect evidence of His life. She located the true cross, in pieces, and oversaw the building of a church to house it. In the next centuries, other relics of the Passion were discovered, and Christians
traveled to the Holy Land to view them.
The sighting of the crown of thorns was first written about in the sixth century, Brother Richard explained. By that time, the unscrupulous activities had begun: the thefts of relics, the ransacking of crypts. Even the smallest part of a minor saint’s body—a fingernail, a lock of hair—was thought to have healing powers.
“Shrines were built everywhere for the pilgrims who came to make vows, to be healed . . . and to give up their coins,” said Brother Edmund with a grimace. “And then in the eighth century came Charlemagne, the first sovereign of a truly Christian empire of the West. He was a very devout—and very wealthy—collector of relics. To me, it makes a great deal of sense that along with the nails of the cross and the spear and all of the other relics of the Passion, Charlemagne secured the crown of thorns. And so it passed down to his descendant, the first Capet.”
Brother Richard tapped the table with his fingers. “There is another explanation.”
The two friars stared at each other, and then Brother Edmund nodded, as if he read the other’s mind. “The distribution.”
Irritated, I said, “Brothers, please?”
“Forgive us again, Sister,” said Brother Edmund. “It is possible that
both
the crown that Hugh gave to Athelstan and the one residing in Paris today are holy.”
“How?”
“It is said that seventy thorns adorned the branches of the crown Jesus wore. There are reports that they were not all kept together, that the crown was at some point broken up and the thorns distributed.”
“But who would commit such a violation?” I asked, aghast.
Brother Richard answered, “The world of relics has always been shaded with darkness. Humans are frail creatures, subject to pride and greed.”
I recoiled at his cynicism. “Perhaps in the past, in times of ignorance to God’s truths, some mistakes were made,” I said. “But not today, surely. No one would misrepresent the validity of the relics at the shrines of England.”
A sad, heavy silence settled over the library. Neither friar met my gaze.
“No—that can’t be true,” I cried. “You cannot say that lies are told in our monasteries today.
That’s
impossible
.”
Brother Edmund sat down and leaned across the table. “Sister Joanna, you are a strong young woman. You must hold on to your faith through what I am about to tell you.” He took a deep breath. “At Hailes Abbey, in Gloucestershire, there is a phial of blood—it has been on display since the thirteenth century, purporting to be the blood of Christ.”
“Yes, of course I know of it, my cousins Margaret Bulmer and the Duchess of Norfolk made a pilgrimage there many years ago,” I said. “You aren’t trying to say that . . .”
The words died in my throat. I could see Margaret, by the fire, telling me, awed, about the spiritual beauty she’d found at her pilgrimages.
“The monks used pig’s blood,” said Brother Richard flatly. “There had been rumors, but then last year they admitted it, under pressure. There are similar incidents, at other monasteries.”
If I had learned one thing in my life, it was the frailty of man. And yet this latest disillusionment hit me with brutish strength. I rose to my feet, as the friars watched.
I said, “If that is indeed true—and I cannot believe you would be so cruel as to tell me this unless you were certain—than what is the point of our struggle to save the monasteries, to stop Cromwell from destroying our way of life, if everything is built on lies?”
Brother Edmund jumped to his feet and clasped my hands in his palms. “It is
not
all lies. There is some small corruption in the religious houses of England, yes. Why do you think these commissioners have been able to make reports that justify dissolving the abbeys? If anyone looks long enough, they can find error. But there is also dedication and true spirituality.”
“We are on a journey that has brought us to Dartford, Sister Joanna,” said Brother Richard. “For wisdom, for truth, for justice . . . for God. You were forced into this part of it, as was Brother Edmund, but I think you also believe in the journey.”
I bowed my head. A memory sprang to mind, of we sisters of Dartford, in a circle, praying and weeping together as one of our own, poor mute Sister Helen, died. How we helped one another and supported one another through
all hardships—and amid the harsh yet beautiful, mysterious, and transcendent power of our faith.
“Yes,” I said, looking up. “I believe.”
Brother Edmund’s face flooded with relief.
“Then let us turn our attention to the Athelstan crown,” he said. “We agree that the Saxon ruler was presented with a crown that was once, in some form, the crown of thorns?”
Brother Richard nodded, convinced.
“Now the crown of Jesus has no inherent powers that I have read about, beyond being revered. Therefore, the dangerous aspects of coming into contact with it—the suspected deaths of King Richard, the Black Prince, and Prince Arthur—must have come later, in the time of Athelstan. That king somehow oversaw its transformation. But it must have become so powerful or so uncontrollable that it was hidden away, and the need for secrecy became profound.”
A memory stirred. “Lord Chester spoke of the secrets of Dartford Priory the night he died.”
Brother Richard inhaled sharply. “Yes, he did. Could it be possible that such a debauched man had knowledge of the crown?”
“At one point, Geoffrey Scovill believed His Lordship’s death had something to do with knowledge of a priory secret,” I said.
The friars both scowled at the mention of Geoffrey’s name, and I took that opportunity to tell them the story of our odd friendship: how Geoffrey protected me from harm at Smithfield, was imprisoned for it, and asked me not to reveal his stint in the Tower to the investigators he worked with.