Roses in the Tempest (21 page)

I left Stretton at breakneck speed without thinking further of so estimable a wife…God forgive me. I thought only of nuns, of one in particular. Horse and rider clattered over the roads until the church spire of Brewood appeared above the black nettles of naked trees. I skirted the town and tore along the Ladies Brook to the outer walls of Blackladies, its stone and timber not as impenetrable as the nuns would think. There are so many chinks in a stone wall, after all, so many places where a foundation can be worn away without the owner’s knowledge, that a sudden storm could loosen it, toppling the whole affair.

I trotted along the vine-draped wall, its ivy browned from an early frost. Absently I rubbed the stallion’s velvety black neck, his piquant odor rising as his muscles rippled. We came to a low spot along the wall and I gazed outward to Blackladies’ fields. The barley and wheat in all but one field was harvested down to stubble. Goats moved along the sloping fields, nibbling their share of the crop. The last of the wheat in a far field was golden, running up the slopes in blurred amber like a fire rushing a hill. Rooks bedeviled the seed heads and, like the rooks, the nuns in their black habits walked the fields along with the fieldworkers, waving distractedly at the vandalizing birds. Some of the servants brandished scythes and smote the stalks as if sending the Devil himself back to Hell.

There she was, standing near the center of the empty field, a black tower of a creature among the milling gray bodies of muddy goats. The sun wore on the landscape today, gilding the brown-leafed thickets, but the air was still cold.

Another nun—I could not tell which—stood at the far end of the field with an older man, a crook in his hand. Three motley goatherds.

I spurred the stallion and he cleared the wall before we soberly galloped up to her. She noticed my arrival in a spatter of straw-speckled mud. Her astonishment would have been charming if there had been time to consider it. But there was no time. I slid unsteadily from my horse, tossing the reins behind me.

“I need to speak with you. Now.”

She did not question me as I took her by the arm. I could not even excuse myself for roughly handling her, but neither could we stay within view of the others, for they had noticed my inauspicious arrival. Instead, I led her back through the fields to the gate, and under its hiding shade. I stopped and glared at her, yet still she waited for whatever dread thing I wished to announce. If I could only trust her to be obedient, I would have nothing to fear. But I knew her superiors would not instruct her in this.

“It is important I talk with you about this, Isabella. Very soon, the king’s commissioners will come and make you swear an oath.”

“I know, Thomas. Though I know not the nature of this oath. What is it exactly? I knew you would know.” Her face was white, drained of even the faint blue veins that oft smudged her lids. A sprig of straw clung to her veil, waving gently with each of my desperate breaths.

“Earlier this month, Parliament passed the Act of Succession. In it are several points. Point one, that the heirs of the king and Queen Anne are lawful. Two, that the marriage between His Majesty and the Princess Dowager—”

“Queen Catherine!”

“The Princess Dowager! You must now call her that. That the marriage between His Majesty and the Princess Dowager was never valid and that the issue from that marriage is a bastard.”

“Oh Thomas! How can I?”

“There is more. Three, that any foreign authority, prince or potentate, may not exercise any authority over those subjects in this realm.” I let the last stew in her, watching for understanding to bud upon her face. When it did at last, I clutched her arms, silencing her protests. “You must take this oath, Isabella. There can be no nonsense about it.”

“I certainly will not! You are asking me to swear that I shall no longer be obedient to the pope—”

“The bishop of Rome,” I corrected.

“That I shall no longer be obedient to the pope!” she sneered. “And that the poor Princess Mary is to be called a bastard by the very same subjects who lauded her as heir to the throne!”

“That is precisely what I am telling you to do.”

“I will write to the bishop at once. He can counsel us. He can speak to the king…”

I released her and moved to lean against the arch. The stone warmed in the burnishing sun, invoking an earthy aroma of clay and of meadows long dead. My gaze fell to the trees edging the borders of Blackladies, to its surrounding low sloping hills meandering toward the sleepy village, a village innocent of courtly ways, of such schemes plodding inescapably closer.

“Do you not smell that in the wind, Isabella? It is the stench of unprincipled men and clerics, the offal of Englishmen drinking from the cup of Luther.”

“But, Thomas. I do not understand.”

“Do you think the king will stop with this? He no longer fears the pope. Why should he? He is the anointed of God. Defender of the Faith…and now supreme head of the Church in England. King Hal is now our pope and he is looking long and hard at these monasteries and at the monks and nuns within them. If Hal is the pope, why do you then swear your loyalty to a distant monarch? If he is to have his religion as he desires it, you need be his servants. Smell the wind, Isabella, and see which way it blows. It blows away from the direction of Rome.”

“Even so. I cannot say this oath.”

My Isabella, strong and determined. Yes, she could have run the Giffard estates without suffering any mischief. She could have governed with an iron hand but been beloved by all beneath her, for she possessed the talent of winning hearts to her reasoning. But now was not the time for such vainglory. Now was the time for submission. Christ’s blood! How I wish she was my wife and bound to obedience to me! “You must. It is treason to disobey.”

“But an oath must be taken in conscience. We can choose not to take it.”

“Like Thomas More? He languishes in prison even now for refusing to say such an oath, or for saying why he refused. Even his lawyer’s clever mind could not find the way to save himself. This is no game, Isabella. Do you know what it is to die a traitor’s death? Do you? A nobleman is allowed decapitation, though his head is mounted on a pike so that the ravens may peck out the traitor’s eyes and then his traitorous tongue—”

She held her hand up, her cheek even paler. “Stop…”

“But not for you, Isabella. It would be fire for you. Burning hot like the flames of Hell, to purge you, your skin peeling off, sizzling up like a pig’s!”

“Stop, Thomas!”

“Or hanged, struggling, choking on knotted rope, your bowels emptying on the scaffold. Is that what you want?”

“Oh God, help us!” she cried, crumpling to the ground.

My heart seized within me, and I, too, fell, grasping and rocking her, laying my head against hers.

“Hush, sweeting, hush. I will never let them take you. Never.”

She wept. I held her a long time, relishing her weight against me, inhaling the scent of meadow clinging to her worn wool gown.

At last I used all my courage to release her, helping her to her feet. But I could not resist wiping her tears away with my fingers.

She lifted her head. Her eyes were reddened but just as bold as before. “You said so yourself. Thomas More would not take the oath.”

“Dammit, woman! You are not Thomas More! You are just a woman, and no one will rise up at your death… No one except me.”

Her hazel eyes searched mine. “Have you taken the oath?”

I nodded briskly, shame spotting my cheeks. “Yes. I did. I spoke it loud.”

“Why, Thomas? How?”

“Because I am loyal to the king, and I believe this madness will pass. But while it rides this wave, those of us loyal to the true Church must survive. If we are all gone, who will restore it when this time is done?”

“But the king’s heirs. When the king’s wife delivers up another child, surely that child will be raised in heresy.”

“It may be so…but there is the Princess Mary.”

“But you yourself have said that she was declared a bastard.”

“Other bastards were considered for the throne before this one. And much can happen between now and that time.”

“It is madness, Thomas.”

“It is all madness.” Standing before her with a softened expression, I gently lifted her chin with a finger. “That is why clear heads must remain on their shoulders. The king likes the Giffards,” I assured, and let her chin go. “As you show by example, so, too, shall I by mine. The Catholic Church is the Church, and His Majesty shall know it by my actions. Were I in prison, it would mean nothing to him.”

“Thomas, I am frightened.”

“Do not fear. God is with us.” We fell silent, listening to the breeze rustle through the fields, and goats braying softly on the wind. “I will teach you the oath. You must find a way to swear it.”

She shook her stubborn head again. “I cannot. How can I be God’s servant and deny that which I know is true?”

“Then lie.”

“Thomas!”

“Lie, Isabella. All of your sisters must lie for their own sakes. They will execute you if you do not.”

“I cannot deny my faith.”

“Then we will find a way to satisfy both. In your heart, you can reason a solution to all they ask you.”

She raised her head, eyes shadowed under her veil. “When I stand before God, how shall I answer Him? Shall I save my life only to lose it?”

“Promise me, Isabella. Swear on the cross you will take the oath.”

“Thomas! No!”

I dug into my doublet, ripping buttons from their threads. I pulled forth the silver crucifix and plunged it into her dirty hands. I closed my hand painfully over hers. “Swear, Isabella! Swear!”

Desperately she tried wrenching her hand free. She grimaced at my harsh strength, even as I surely impressed the figure of Christ into the flesh of her palm. Futilely she struggled, until my vigor wearied her and she surrendered with a weakened, “I…I…swear, Thomas. I…promise.” Satisfied, I released her, pulling the cross from the imprisonment of her hand. “Why did you do that?” she accused. I cringed under the assault of those eyes, burning with rancor.

“I will not let you die, you stubborn woman. There are better ways to fight them than martyrdom.”

“I am weak,” she lamented, her whole body sagging. “I could have refused you.”

“They need you. Your nuns. You. Do not desert them. Guide them.”

“How?”

“I will show you. Will you trust me?”

Her tender words rose gently from her whitened lips. “With my life.”

“And always,” I said as tenderly, “my heart is likewise in your hands.”

NOVEMBER, 1534

Blackladies, Brewood

XXIII

I will speak openly your decrees without fear even before kings.

–Psalm 119:46

Vespers was done, and I should have risen to lead my sisters to the hall and to a well-earned supper, but I could not make my legs move. Thomas had left soon after he made a disgrace of me, and I went to the chapel to pray until the office, to ask forgiveness for succumbing to his insistent pleas.

Were it any other man, would I have succumbed so easily?

The sisters were patient and did not stir. I sat, merely looking at their feet from across the narrow aisle. Frayed shoes, frayed hems, frayed women. The four of us, so small amid the larger world. What harm could we do with our aging faces and scratchy voices? Who were we, but women, nuns? We were so small and so poor a house that we needed monthly stipends from the Giffards to put enough food upon our tables. How often did we go to bed with bellies growling in order to feed our dear servants, whose features showed their weariness but whose voices were silent on it?

Men went into battle to die for the king. Who would battle for our like?

The time passed, and still I did not rise. They shuffled, stifling a cough behind a hand in case I was asleep and needed a gentle reminder. But I raised my head to show I was fully awake before breaking the silence of the chapel and of the sanctity of our office. “My sisters. I cannot lead you to your supper. Not yet. Not when my heart is so heavy.”

Their solemn faces, like brushstrokes of white upon the swath of black that was their veils, awaited my explanation. And what was I to say to them? Was I to say, “Come sisters, it is time to toss away your vows. You must lay your hand upon the precious word of God…and lie”?

“Thomas Giffard was here today,” I announced unnecessarily. “He brought very grave tidings. Soon, the king’s commissioners will come to exact the oath of succession from each of us.”

“What is this oath?” asked Alice. “Did he tell you?”

“Yes. I wrote it down.” From within my scapular, I brought forth the wrinkled page. I unfolded it and smoothed it out upon my lap. “It is in four parts. With our hand upon a Bible, they will ask us each in turn.” I squinted at the page in the dim candlelight. “‘Do you acknowledge our gracious sovereign as supreme head on earth of the Church in England?’“

I glanced up from the paper to study their faces. Cristabell’s was stony, while Alice twisted her lower lip between her teeth. Felicia raised a brow, but listened attentively. I cleared my throat and began again. “‘Do you allow the bishop of Rome, or any of his servants, to have any authority over you?’“

This time, Dame Felicia’s scoffing irritation rumbled up from her throat, but I read on. “‘Do you acknowledge the legality of our sovereign’s marriage to Queen Anne?’“

“Ha!”

I looked up for only a moment to acknowledge Dame Felicia’s brief commentary. She remained silent, her eyes fixed upon me.

“‘Do you acknowledge the annulment of our sovereign’s former union with the Lady Catherine…and the illegitimacy of its issue?’“

For a moment longer, I stared at my own scrawl on that hurried document before lowering it. “Sisters,” I said, crushing the paper in my curled fingers. “This is the oath we will be asked to swear.”

Cristabell threw back her head and noisily huffed her annoyance into the musty air. “How can we swear this oath?”

I could not look at her, so fearful was I that she could turn my course. But I had promised Thomas on the body of our precious Lord…

“If you do not swear it, it shall be considered treason and Lord Giffard assured me that you will hang or burn. He said that others have already done so.” I folded my hands in my lap. “I will not order any one of you to swear it or not.”

“What of the bishop?” asked Cristabell. “Will he not stop this?”

“The bishop can do nothing.”

Alice raised trembling fingers to her cheeks, searching from face to face. “If the bishop has no power…then what if it is true? Perhaps we have been in error…”

“Do not be a fool, Alice,” rasped Cristabell. She made a careless gesture with her hand in the air. No doubt she would rather have slapped Alice.

Felicia, thoughtful in her silence, offered at last, “I think we should make a decision and all abide by it.”

“Stand together?” I asked, hopefully.

“Yes,” she answered with a firm nod. “Or die together.”

“I do not want to die!” cried Alice jumping to her feet.

“Hush, Alice.” I moved to her and engulfed her in my arms, much as Thomas did for me. “None of us wants to die before our time. But to die for our faith…that is another matter.”

Cristabell stared at me with her small, determined eyes, eyes that before had always glared at me with suspicion, but now looked with ill-deserved confidence. “What should we do, Prioress?”

Courage fading, I shook my head. “I know not. If the king—surely anointed by God—decides on this course, then who are we to dispute it?”

“The king is not the head of the Church,” snorted Cristabell. “The pope is the head of the Church.”

“The bishop of Rome, Cristabell. Say no other title.” I stared thoughtfully a long moment at the crumpled paper betwixt my fingers. “Though let us consider,” I said slowly, thoughtfully. “The king rules all in this land. It is he who chooses his archbishops and gives land to monasteries. He was so called the defender of the faith at one time.”

“He is a heretic,” Cristabell said.

“If we cannot agree…”

Felicia sat forward. “What will you do, Prioress?”

“I…I have made a promise that I will swear the oath.” I lowered my face, crushing my lip so hard with my teeth that I tasted the flavor of steely blood on my tongue. “I know not whether God wishes me to die for this or to take up the quiet struggle in humility and modesty.”

“How do you mean?”

I positioned myself forward, and without realizing it, the others did so, too, listening deeply to my conspiratorial tones. “If we took the oath, we would live and remain reminders of that power which is greater even than kings. We would be living proof of God’s Church on earth through the passion of Christ. To see us, would be to envision Rome.”

“I will abide by your say so, Prioress.” I glanced at Cristabell, so sober, so confident. Too few years ago she would have happily seen me burn.

“S’trooth!” cried Felicia in her full-breathed gasp. “I will take this oath, and any other to keep the king’s men off our backs!”

“Dame,” I said, attempting to quiet her ardor. “Do you take your oaths so lightly? Men have died in consequence of keeping their conscience.”

“If a choice is offered, Lady Prioress, I would keep my head, for a poor trophy it would be to the king. As for me, I will take the oath…if it be your will that we do so.”

I looked to the others and they, too, nodded in agreement. I took courage from them, though my fists knotted tightly to the point of aching. “Then this is what we will do. The oath is the fiery furnace of Daniel, and we will walk through it unscathed. It is not that we must agree to that which we swear, but merely abide by it. We will swear to our king our loyalty, for indeed, as good English nuns, we do belong as subjects to him.”

“I hope Cromwell himself comes,” boomed Dame Felicia. “I will have an oath to give him!”

I chuckled with frightened giddiness. “Would that we all possessed Dame Felicia’s courage!”

“Courage, Madam? I am scared half out of my wits! But I do not fear with you as our general.”

“God is our general,” I kindly corrected.

“Then you are His lieutenant. I can march proudly behind so appointed a soldier.”

An unlikely soldier, I thought. But now the only one they had.