I held up Brother Edmund’s hand, grateful for my mask. “We are pleased and happy to take our places, my lord,” I said loudly. I led Brother Edmund to the front of the line, next to Surrey’s stage. “Just follow what I do,” I whispered right before we had to part and take our places.
“That’s the right spirit, my fine brunette,” said the earl said with a flourish and a bow. “And now, before we dance, let me bring out the guests of honor. For there is an excellent reason we don the habits of the monastery and the nunnery today. One of their champions has returned to our shores.”
A door next to the stage opened, and two older men appeared.
They were Thomas Howard, third Duke of Norfolk, and Stephen Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester.
44
B
rother
Edmund and I stood, frozen, just inches from the stage. I could hear the creak of the three wooden steps as first Norfolk and then Gardiner climbed them. What was the Bishop of Winchester doing back in England? Had he already learned I was not at Dartford Priory, and neither was Brother Edmund?
“Thomas, this is flattering to be sure, but not a fit occasion,” I heard Gardiner say in his low, mild voice.
“Oh, come, Bishop, take it in the right spirit,” cried the Earl of Surrey. “My father has missed your presence greatly. We all have—and hope you will stay with us and not return to France too soon.”
Surrey turned to the musicians’ gallery. “Play for my father the duke and the mighty Bishop of Winchester!” he commanded.
And it began.
The allemande is a simple dance. If the earl had called for a galliard, we would have been doomed. No, the allemande is a procession, down a line, with each couple holding hands across the center and moving sideways. Every three steps comes a halt, a hop, and a kick; then the line resumes. As the dancers reach the end of the line, they recombine on opposite sides.
Because Brother Edmund had no idea what to do, he did not stop after three steps, he crashed into a fellow dancer, a man who flinched with an “Oomph!” and looked over, angry. I glanced back at the stage; the three men talked among themselves and did not notice Brother Edmund’s gaffe.
But the next time, Brother Edmund did stop at three steps and the time after that, he even hopped and kicked. He was picking up the dance quickly, his love of music no doubt helping him.
I turned my attention to the tapestries, hanging on the wall behind Brother Edmund’s head. He could not see without twisting around, and with the demands
of the dance, that was impossible.
Yes, one of the tapestries was from Dartford. All the telltale signs of our workmanship were present. And it was the longest one I had ever seen; it must have taken at least two years to construct. There was a group of female figures depicted, and yes, they danced. But ironically, with all of the people dancing and kicking and shifting before me, I could not make much sense of it. There seemed no story here, no myth plucked from ancient Greece. Seven young women cavorted in a line. There might have been something frenzied to their dance, something almost angry to the way they moved their arms upward, toward the heavens woven at the top of the tapestry.
Brother Edmund and I made it to the end of the hall. I pulled him forward, then turned him, so he would face the side of the hall bearing the tapestry. “Tell me what you see,” I cried over the music. “It means nothing to me.”
We began our dance back toward the direction of the stage. By now Brother Edmund knew the dance. His eyes were glued to the tapestry; I prayed he would decipher its meaning.
I was halfway across the room when it happened. Brother Edmund, staring at the tapestry on the wall, gave a cry so loud our neighboring dancers heard. Just then the third step was supposed to take place, but he stood there, rooted to the floor, and the man to his side kicked so high that he and Brother Edmund collided and both stumbled. Brother Edmund did not fall. But the costume monk’s cap dropped off his head and revealed his tonsure.
“What’s this?” mocked his neighbor. “Don’t you think you take the disguise a bit far, sir?” His laugh died as he realized the true oddness of Brother Edmund having the tonsured head of a friar.
The musicians played on, oblivious. Brother Edmund frantically scrambled on the floor, to find the cap. Heads were turning all the way up the line, to the stage itself. I spotted it and dove to the floor to retrieve his silk cap, and, with trembling fingers, toss it to Brother Edmund. My throw fell short. It dropped to the floor between us.
“Hold!”
The Duke of Norfolk sprang off the stage. His son, confused, gave the musicians the signal to stop playing. The duke reached us in seconds. Everyone stared and whispered.
“What mummery is this?” roared the duke. “What true man of the monastery would
dance in disguise?”
Brother Edmund removed his mask and bowed to the Duke of Norfolk.
“Bring him to me, Your Grace.” The voice of the Bishop of Winchester rang out across the floor.
“Do you know this man?” asked the duke, incredulous.
“Just do it!” spat Gardiner.
I stared at the floor; I could not look in the direction of the bishop.
Brother Edmund calmly followed the duke. He pretended I was not there. I was still in costume—unknown. I realized he ignored me to protect me.
The duke pushed him forward, to hasten his walk to the stage. They were almost there when the duke came to a complete halt.
Ever so slowly, he turned around and walked back to the center of the room. He looked down at the cap, still crumpled in the middle of the dance floor, and then up at me, the closest person to it and Brother Edmund’s apparent partner.
“Turn around,” he growled.
I did so, and felt his rough soldier’s hands on the ties of the mask as he ripped it off my head.
I will never forget the expression on the duke’s face after he turned me around to get a look at me. No man had ever been so stunned as Norfolk at the moment of recognition.
I stepped into the custody of the duke once more. I turned to face the stage: Brother Edmund’s face was a story of sorrow. Bishop Gardiner, standing next to him, had turned red. He fists were clenched at his sides.
I tried not to panic, to show fear. I had learned long ago it was paramount not to expose weakness to these two men.
And so it ends,
I thought as I walked to the stage. We could offer no possible explanation for our presence here. Probably, within the next day, I would be back in the Tower. My deepest regret was pulling Brother Edmund down with me. I wished I had listened to him and to Brother Richard and not insisted on going to Wardour Castle, to Malmesbury, and now here. “You are an impetuous girl!” I heard my mother say, exasperated.
Bishop Gardiner came down
the steps, with Brother Edmund.
“Where shall we take them?” he asked the duke.
Before Norfolk could answer, there was a stirring at the other end of the room, at the entranceway. The Howard family page ran into the room, flustered.
“Your Grace, she is here!”
“Who?” Norfolk growled.
“The Lady Mary!”
Everyone bowed and curtsied as one when the king’s oldest daughter swept into Norfolk House, followed by two maids.
I had not seen Mary Tudor since she was three years old and I was eight, at Christmas festivities at Greenwich. Now she was past twenty, and shorter than I expected, not much taller than young Catherine Howard, but thinner and dressed all in black. A jeweled crucifix dangled from her neck. I felt awe but also great protectiveness. Her mother, Queen Katherine, had wanted me to help her, all those years ago.
Despite her small size, Mary Tudor moved with a dignity that no other woman in the room possessed. She was too somber to be called pretty, although there was a definite loveliness to her; the princess’s skin was luminous, purest white. Dark eyebrows delicately arched above her piercing hazel eyes. She took in every detail of the room, all of the costumed guests. I saw her mouth tighten in disapproval.
In a clear, deep voice, she said, “I came here because I heard that Bishop Gardiner had landed and was to be honored by the Howards, and I could not wait to see him again. I must say, the manner in which he is honored surprises me. I had not thought it time for parties. I have been much preoccupied with mourning my stepmother, good Queen Jane.” She crossed herself. “And the mocking of the religious faithful cannot be pleasing to my friend the bishop.”
“It is not meant as mockery, my lady,” protested the Earl of Surrey.
The duke scowled at him. “I apologize, Lady Mary.”
“You spoil your children, Your Grace,” she said. “You are a most indulgent father.” But she did not scold; there was wistfulness to her words. She had been reconciled to him after her mother died, but I could not imagine King Henry was an indulgent father.
Bishop Gardiner stepped
forward, and, to my surprise, he went down on one knee before Mary Tudor. “Please forgive what you see here tonight—and accept my heartfelt gratitude that you would seek me out,” he said fervently. “My eyes rejoice to see you, Lady Mary.”
He kissed her hand, and I could see a bond existed between them. I remembered what I’d heard at Malmesbury—that Gardiner was a cousin to the royal family through an illegitimate strain—and wondered if Lady Mary was aware of their blood tie.
Then it was the turn of the Duke of Norfolk to kiss her hand, with a reverence I’d never seen him show anyone. Yes, she was the heroine and hope of their party. Although deemed illegitimate by the king, she could yet be restored to the succession. If the king did not marry again, she would be second in line after an infant boy.
Gardiner peered at me out of the corner of his eye. In a moment an order would be given, and Brother Edmund and I would be swept out of her sight—to be dealt with later.
This was my only chance.
I made a deep curtsy, not one seen in the English courts, but the sort of curtsy that was practiced in the castles of Castile, where my mother was raised. As was Katherine of Aragon.
“Dona Maria, es un honor estar en su presencia,”
I said.
She drew back in surprise. “
Seniorita, habla el español muy bien.”
“
Dona Maria, yo hablo la lengua de mi madre, Lady Isabella Stafford.”
She trembled, and for a moment, I thought Lady Mary would collapse. A violet vein quivered on the side of her pure white throat.
“You are Joanna Stafford!” she gasped. “I have wanted to meet you for so long. Maria de Salinas told me you attended on my mother. I wanted to find you, but Maria died before you could be located.” She turned to the Duke of Norfolk, eagerly. “Is there some place I could speak to her privately, here in your house?”
“Of course,” the duke said, between gritted teeth. “Follow me.”
I saw him send Gardiner a look, his head extending ever so slightly in Brother Edmund’s direction. They meant to get their hands on him now, at least.
“Lady Mary,” I said swiftly, “allow me to present a friend of mine, Brother Edmund.”
“You are a man of the monasteries—truly?
This is no disguise?” she asked, a radiant smile transforming her delicate face to beauty.
Brother Edmund bowed, with great dignity.
“Then come with us, please.” She turned to the Duke of Norfolk. “Lead the way, Your Grace,” she ordered. He had no choice but to do so.
Soon we were all upstairs. The Lady Mary walked the entire way with her arm linked with mine, as if we were already the closest of friends. It was a tremendous honor to walk next to a king’s daughter, not behind. My heart pounded as I tried to decide how much to reveal to her.
In the dim, quiet parlor facing the lawns of Norfolk House, Lady Mary asked me about the last weeks of her mother, at Kimbolton Castle. We stood close to each other, by the window, watching the guests streaming out of Norfolk House. Apparently the party had been cut short. There would be no masque tonight. While the rich young aristocrats mounted their horses and rode away, I re-created that cold, lonely house off the fens and her mother’s brave death. Tears spilled down the Lady Mary’s cheeks, and she fingered her crucifix as she listened. Norfolk, Gardiner, and Brother Edmund stood silently, a discreet distance away. After I described how the queen made it to dawn, to hear the last Mass, and then faded into death, I bowed my head. No one spoke for a moment.
Lady Mary said, “I know that you came as replacement for your mother, but the service you rendered my mother, the queen, will always be cherished by me. I reward those who have shown my mother a kindness. Tell me how I can begin to repay you.”
I shot a look at Brother Edmund. I was still not sure what to say—if only he and I could consult with each other. But it was not possible.
“Do you live at court now?” she asked. “I have never seen you there, Mistress Joanna.”
“No, my lady, I took novice vows after the queen’s death.”
She drew back, confused. “So this is not a costume?” she asked, examining my nun’s habit.
“It
is
a costume,” I said haltingly. “I am a member of the Dominican Order at Dartford Priory.”
“Ah, Dartford,” she said, smiling. “My mother spoke of the Dominican Order to me. She admired
them, I know. In Spain, they are honored above all.”
I took a deep breath. “Lady Mary, I professed at Dartford because your mother asked it of me.”
Tears filled her eyes again. “Truly, you are a woman dearer to me than any other living. Ask anything of me, anything, Sister Joanna, and I will grant it.”
I could feel the men tense on the other side of the room. I took a step closer to the Lady Mary. “I ask not for myself but for my father, Sir Richard Stafford, who is in the Tower of London. He is charged with interfering with the king’s justice in the matter of the execution of my cousin, Lady Margaret Bulmer.”
She looked at me with regret. “I can do nothing for a prisoner in the Tower. I cannot gainsay my father’s commands.”
“But he is imprisoned on the authority of the Duke of Norfolk and Bishop Gardiner,” I said. “Not the king.”
She turned on them. “Is this true? Bishop, why would you do this? Is this man considered dangerous—is he a traitor to His Majesty?”