Roses in the Tempest Page 19

  “Yes, I do.” She looked down at the veil in her hands. Mended, patched, she treated it more like samite than the rag it was. No, I could not understand her sentiments. I could not see her giving up so much to stay in such a place, giving up that for which I knew she longed.

  “If you love me still,” I said—such a young man’s voice from such an old man, “then will you consider it? We can go to the bishop…”

  “No, Thomas.” The kindness that glowed in her features shut down, replaced by that of the stern prioress. “You must stop this foolishness. I have been wed to Christ for fifteen years. I cannot be widowed. I have made my vows, and I have every intention of living out my days in this convent. Is that clear enough at last, Lord Giffard?”

  It was the final turn of the bodkin in my gut, the coup de gras, bleeding my heart dry of every ounce of blood, every pulse. Dead. I felt as much. “So much I wanted to do for you, to make up for all the years. So much I wanted to give you…”

  “Your friendship!” she cried, clutching my arms again. “Your friendship has always been my heart’s lightness, my sunshine! Be my friend, Thomas. Put the other thoughts to rest. Marry again, by all means. You should not be alone. You should marry. But just…not me.”

  I breathed, but could taste no breath of flower, though their fragrance had been heavy in the air only moments ago. The ether was stale as if it were closeted. I could smell nothing, taste nothing, not even the vestiges of our kiss.

  I wiped my tears away with my sleeve. “With your permission, may I return again to see you?”

  “With all my heart, Thomas, do I give it.”

  “Then…fare you well, Lady Prioress. I cannot stay today. My heart is too heavy.”

  “I am so sorry, Thomas. But someday you will see the wisdom of it. Look at me.” She spread out her skirts. Her wimple was torn from my vigor, and it smoothed down and hid what was left of the hair on her head, making her resemble a bald man. The veil hung from her hands. A pitiful spectacle. “How could I ever be Lady Giffard?”

  I raised my hand to wipe away the memory, and with it my shame. “There is no need. It is our planning, Dame. When you are night, I am day. When you would sleep, I awaken. We are not so much mismatched as mistimed.” I tried to smile, knowing not if I succeeded. “I will be back. God keep you.”

  “And you, Thomas.”

  I left her. I would not return for months, and by then I was wed again.

  ISABELLA LAUNDER

  OCTOBER, 1534

  Blackladies

  XXI

  The less prudent the prince, the more his deeds oppress.

  –Proverbs 28:16

  When I received the missive—so long ago now—that Thomas Giffard of Caverswall Castle and Stretton, was wed to Ursula Throckmorton, I studied that writing with great interest. He married her three months after asking me. Apparently she was the sister of his close friend, and by all opinion, they were well matched. It must be so, for his much longed-for son and heir, John, was born to him two years later, followed by another son Edward. The Giffard dynasty was assured, and I said many prayers for them, lit many candles, for which the Giffards paid. I looked at those candles even now, their black smoke rising in ribboning wisps, their beeswax scent so much more genteel in the chapel’s space than that of the tallow tapers, whose heft and substance burned with an earthy breath throughout the cloister.

  Layered candle smoke darkened the rafters of the chapel. For years, candles burned and smudged the dark beams to a darker hue. How years can change a room, and matters of all kinds.

  Change has been the hallmark of all our days, for the king’s “Great Matter” became that of the realm’s, insinuating itself even into the Church. He succeeded in divorcing the queen when all the clergy of the world voiced against it…but did nothing. He called his own daughter a bastard, and declared himself the Supreme Head of the Church and Clergy of England, though Parliament at least feared for their own souls and refused to ratify such a heretical title. The pope excommunicated King Henry for so long as he refused to take back Queen Catherine as his lawful wife. Still he refused, and married Anne Boleyn anyway. And then His Majesty ordered the submission of all the clergy in England to him, and Thomas More resigned his office of chancellor the very next day.

  We sisters of Blackladies shuddered to hear that Thomas Cranmer—the king’s priest and councilor—was made Archbishop of Canterbury, the primate of all England’s clergy. It came as no surprise when Cranmer pronounced King Henry’s marriage to Queen Catherine invalid. One could only imagine how the pope fumed at this, but an act of Parliament closed the doors forever on Rome by declaring England an empire, and therefore not obliged to comply with the Holy See’s questions in marital affairs.

  It was a roaring tempest of events, whorling in a terrifying frenzy. We kept the doors shut tight to Blackladies, hoping the storm would pass us by, listening with frightened hearts to all the faint rumblings in the distance. The storm was far away. In London. In Canterbury. In Rome. We feared it might reach us.

  And just as we thought a glimmer of sun peered through the clouds, darkness converged again. The king’s wife—for I could not in good conscience call her queen—bore not the longed-for son, but a daughter, the Princess Elizabeth.

  The tempest brooded on.

  Thomas was naturally busy at court. I prayed for him. These were difficult times. Though not a man for church matters, I knew he was a man of conscience and a great admirer of Thomas More. I wondered how Thomas fared, and I worried his opinions would undo him. Yet he was older now, surely more mature in his dealings at court, and not prone to foolishness. He was becoming a great man in Staffordshire, with sons. There was no need to worry over him Yet I did. I worried that we did not see him, and I worried what that might mean.

  “Prioress?”

  Father William peered at me in the gloom. We were short of candles again, which did nothing to help his failing eyesight. The years paid their respects to him, and he was an old man, hard of hearing, near-sighted, and used a cane now to get about.

  Rising, I straightened my gown. “Yes, Father. It is Dame Isabella.”

  “Child, why do you stay so long in the dark?”

  “I have become used to it.” I took his arm, allowing him to lean upon me. “Will you bide in the chapel?”

  “No, Dame. Take me to your splendid garden. In the chapel I see only poverty, but your garden, even in autumn, it has a regal splendor about it.”

  I shook my head at his words, but escorted him out of the shade of the passage and into the sunny cloister garden. The roses had given up the last of their blooms a month before, and they now stood prickly and empty, pruned down to their skeletal remains. Some of the hedges would remain green even under a frosting of snow, but the flowers were all spent, all gone to seed, to sleep until another spring. The naked trees opened to the sky offering a meager portion of sun. Looking up, I felt the sun’s warmth on my chapped cheeks. I prayed it would be a mild winter, but our faithful horse had already grown a long coat, prophesying a cold season ahead.

  Father William eased onto a bench and sighed, stretching his neck over his ruffled collar. “How long have you been prioress now, Isabella?” he asked quietly.

  I ticked off the years in my head. “Thirteen years, Father.”

  Nodding, his ermine hair softly swayed. “I have been a priest for over fifty years. Fifty years. I have seen two prioresses here at Blackladies. I am feeling old, Madam. My bones creak and barely uphold me.” He raised his chin and watched two finches chase one another in the topmost branches of the empty beech tree, complaining to one another about the scarcity of berries.

  I studied Father William’s sunken cheek, the glitter still evident in his yellowed eyes, the dry lips puckered slightly with age lines. I knew much about my nuns, working and living side by side as we did. I knew of their lives and their families. But in this quiet and pensive moment, I realized I did not know much about the man beside me, who consecrated the
Body and Blood of Christ for us each day, who listened with a gentle heart to our confessions year after year. He was Father William to us, growing greyer and more stooped as the years tolled. I never thought of him as a man, as a son, as a child once. Strange how we image a person who seems more role than reality.

  “I am not a philosopher,” he said, still eyeing the birds at their quibbling. “Nor am I much of a theologian.” He leaned back and flopped his hands up and then down in a gesture of bafflement. “I am only a convent priest. And I love my God.” He turned and rested those mature eyes upon me. “Never before in all these years as a simple priest did I fear. But now, Isabella, I do.”

  “Fear what, Father William?”

  “Satan walks the earth, child. He walks the verdant paths of England. And he would destroy us. Already he has seized the Germans in their own land by the mouth of Martin Luther.”

  “I have heard ill of him. But I must admit, I do not understand what he preaches, or why it is so dangerous.”

  “The foundations of the Church go very deep,” he said patting my hand with his own spotted fingers. “They go to the very feet of the rock of Peter, our first pope. By the grace of God, the Church has held the wisdom of the apostles handed down to them by Christ Himself. Wild-eyed priests, renegades like Martin Luther, think they know what is best for the Church. They seek to rise against her, question her after all her years and all she has gained.”

  “Yet, I have heard that he seeks to reform. Surely there is need of it. Am I in error in this?”

  “He defies the sacraments. He picks and chooses that which conforms to his philosophy, and there are so many willing to follow any wax philosopher that they cleave to him, forsaking their place in Heaven for whimsy today. But that is only the skin on the custard, Isabella. I remember when the pope called King Henry the Defender of the Faith for upholding the Catholic Church against her enemies by refuting this same Luther in a much-treasured book of the king’s own devising, Assertio Septem Sacramentorum. I have that book, Dame, penned by the king’s own hand. But now…”

  “Now what? What more could there be?”

  “There is more. I have heard from the bishop, from other priests. The king’s commissioners will come to exact oaths.”

  “Oaths? We make our oaths to the Church. What oaths does he need that we have not already made to the bishop?”

  “The bishop has no authority in this. That, too, has been taken by the king.”

  “The pope—”

  “The Bishop of Rome, Dame. Remember that. Since he excommunicated His Majesty, he is the ‘Bishop of Rome’ only. The king no longer recognizes what he calls papist titles.” His fingers rested on his cassock-covered thighs, and he drew them back and forth over the woolens, leaving gray streaks on the worn black cloth. “Corruption there is. I am not that sheltered a priest, nor am I a fool. Some men take their vows very lightly—not like you, Madam. Yes, there are terrible things. Terrible misuse of funds. Though these events are in the minority they are an obvious minority. Englishmen have needed little excuse, I fear, for finding a way to cut the ties of Rome. But dammit!” His hand came down sharply on his leg, but it was his curse that startled me more. “Our Blessed Lord chose Peter, a fallible man, to be our pope. He told him to ‘feed My sheep.’ He chose Peter to show us that humility is our teacher, for even those chosen among us to lead have their foibles. Priests, bishops, archbishops. They are men, prone to men’s sins.”

  “I hear that some have stood for the Church, even against the king.”

  “How much longer do you think they will be able to do so?”

  There was no answer, only to watch my own breath rise in griseous clouds. “What are these oaths?” I asked slowly.

  “I know not. I am still unsure of all of it. I wish Thomas Giffard would make an appearance. He will tell us true what there is to know.”

  We never spoke openly of Thomas Giffard, and though in confession I acknowledged my feelings, Father William kept to his seal of the confessional. But I knew he respected Thomas as a patron, and I also knew that Father William kept good watch of me when Thomas was nigh, not as a gaoler, but as a father would.

  “I only hope he is well,” he said quietly.

  For a moment I could not speak. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because he has a reputation for making his pleasure openly known at court, and, as you know, that could be dangerous.”

  “I, too, pray he is well,” I said softly.

  “I have written to the bishop,” he said. “I pray that he can give us counsel. I know not what to expect. I am too old a man to contend with this.”

  “Yes, Father. You should have peace in these years.”

  He patted my hand. “Isabella, I have great admiration for you. You have done Blackladies proud. Now you must take even greater steps. Talk to your sisters. Warn them.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of what I told you. Warn them that a storm is brewing and that they must prepare.”

  I stared at him awaiting further explanation, but I knew by the shift in his eyes and the tremble of his lip that there would be none.

  I clutched at my rosary and rose even as the bells called me to prayer. Mechanically, my legs carried me hence, and I succumbed to the resonance of recited prayer, though I confess, I heard little of it.

  When the prayers were over and we all returned to the hall, my gaze swept them, from the fawn-like movements of Dame Alice, to the assured but careful strokes of the spoon into the porridger from Dame Cristabell, to Dame Felicia’s ardent gnawing of her bread.

  “My sisters,” I pronounced aloud, unaccustomed to the sound of any other voice at meals except that of a reader.

  Three pairs of eyes scrutinized me, chewing halted, spoons held high, dripping with golden droplets. “My sisters,” I said again, resting my hands upon the cloth-covered table. My hand smoothed over the diligent repairs, over the rough stitches from our dear departed Dame Elizabeth, requiescat in pace. “For many years now, we have made our prayers for Queen Catherine, and always for England and its people. As the Lord wills, we have endured the troubles in our kingdom. The bishop of Rome, indeed, seems very far away. We who serve God cannot communicate so easily with his Holiness in times of trouble.”

  “What trouble, Madam, do you speak of?” asked Felicia.

  Her eyes were clear. She always held her head high, a posture for which I was unaccustomed, feeling myself already too tall for those about me. “The trouble, Dame Felicia, is the king’s commissioners. Very soon, I understand, they are to make a visit.”

  Scandalized, Cristabell broke her accustomed silence. “Will they come here?”

  “I am assured of this by Father William. They are under the king’s auspices and we are obliged to admit them. We are obliged to admit all travelers, at any rate, in compliance with the rule of St. Benet, hospitality being utmost.”

  “The king?” cried Felicia. “I see Cromwell’s hand in this!”

  “Dame, I do not know the politics. But I know they will come.”

  “What do they want?” asked Alice timidly.

  A sigh welled up in me. “There are oaths to be taken. I understand not what those are.”

  “When should we expect them?” asked Alice.

  “I know not. Soon, perhaps.”

  Cristabell raised her head. “What oaths would the king want? Is this not the bishop’s responsibility to exact oaths of us?”

  “Yes. But the bishop…it seems… Oh, sisters. Father William intimated that the bishop has little to say on the matter. It is, instead, a matter for the king.”

  Such silent, wondering eyes they turned to me. I knew their thoughts. Had we not endured enough? Instructed to say special prayers for Queen Anne when we knew she was not the king’s lawful wife, we nevertheless bowed our heads and obeyed, because the king is our sovereign and because our bishop told us we must. We obeyed when we were told that the pope must no longer be called so. That he is the Bishop of Rome, as
if he were only the head of a country parish. And we were told this, too, by the king’s word, and we obeyed, because he is our king. And now he would send his commissioners to exact oaths, the nature of which we knew not.

  But again we would obey. We must. I trusted in God and His mercy and I prayed the king’s men were sent for a Godly purpose.

  THOMAS GIFFARD

  NOVEMBER, 1534

  Stretton, Staffordshire

  XXII

  “…as touching the oath, the causes for which I refused it,

  no man wotteth what they be, for they be secret in mine

  own conscience…”

  –Thomas More, 1534

  We took residence in our home in Stretton not too long ago. The estates were well kept and Ursula favored them, as did I. It was only two miles from Brewood.

  I stood looking out the window, each fluid diamond pane revealing a November-wet view through its modulating surface.

  Ursula swept down the stairs, eyeing me as she was wont to do with those stern, dark eyes. She was tall and her features were much like Isabella’s only sculpted with a more genteel hand. I would say that Ursula was more beautiful than Isabella, and different in other ways as well.

  She moved to stand beside me, easily slipping her arm in mine with the familiarity of intimately shared years. I did not mind, and I even turned to press a kiss upon the cheek she obligingly angled toward me. With child again, Ursula was never weakened by her pregnancies, but seemed revitalized. Her face glowed with health and her hair even seemed thicker, its dark tresses heavy, like the mane of a horse. She was not the shrew dear Dorothy had become in that earlier marriage. Ursula was instead a good and faithful wife, one who knew her place in my society and who fostered contentment at home.

  Contentment was a much-needed commodity now, for court was becoming a battleground. On the one side were those who remained faithful to the Church of Rome, and on the other, those who would follow the king’s minions even into Hell. I spoke no treason, I made no man my enemy. But I saw that even loyal men were being imprisoned for their thoughts, even as Buckingham had been executed all those years ago for harboring private thoughts of treason.