The Chalice by Nancy Bilyeau Read Free Book Online Page A

house for King Henry VIII atop the rubble of the priory.
    The door swung open and I thought of yet another reason why Sister Winifred would not have wanted to come with me. Gregory, once the trusted porter of Dartford Priory and now the clerk of the Building Office, ushered us inside.
    “I wondered if we’d see ye today,” he said gruffly.
    Unlike the other sisters, I did not blame Gregory for taking this position, for putting his knowledge of the priory in the service of destroyers. All of our former servants had to shift for themselves, without the benefit of pensions.
    No, if there were work to be found in Dartford, it must revolve around the building of the new royal manor house. Although most dissolved monasteries were made gifts to men loyal to the Crown, King Henry was keeping this one for himself.But he had not preserved any part of it. Dozens of workmen had spent the entire summer swarming over the property, demolishing it.
    I said, “Yes, I’ve come to take possession of my loom.”
    He gestured to an underclerk. “Tell Jacquard to arrange for transport.”
    I stiffened. No one was a less welcome sight to me than Jacquard Rolin, a man of the Low Countries hired to coordinate the ordering of materials. King Henry’s taste ran toward French and Flemish décor, and Jacquard knew where to procure the latest designs in tile, furniture, windowpane, and, of course, tapestry. Jacquard had taken a persistent interest in my tapestry enterprise. Ordinarily I would have enjoyed such discussion. But we could never be friends, for Jacquard was a full Protestant, a follower of Luther, I’d been told.
    Arthur stirred next to me. I tightened my grip on his hand and prayed he’d not disrupt business here.
    The door swung open and I turned to see Mistress Brooke push her way inside.
    “What business have you here?” I asked.
    “What business have I?” she repeated, incredulous. “My husband has been entrusted by the king to oversee the hiring of men to raise his manor house of Dartford.”
    Gregory nodded his assent.
    Her voice growing louder, she said, “But I should ask why you are here, distracting the men from their business.”
    “Joanna Stafford is here for her tapestry loom.” The voice was soft and cultured, with an accent. Jacquard Rolin came to stand next to Gregory. He was young and rather slight of build, and he always unsettled me. His red lips formed an insinuating smile. His eyes were large and liquid, brown with flecks of gold. I had seen his gaze dazzle others. For me, though, there was something . . . uneasy in those eyes.
    “Tap-stree, tap-stree!” Arthur bellowed.
    Mistress Brooke demanded, “How is it that she, a girl of the priory, could have the means to buy a loom?”
    “It is none of your affair,” I insisted.
    Gregory winced. And Jacquard bit his lip, his face tensing. I wondered, fleetingly, why should Jacquard care if I quarrel?
    “Tap-stree! Tap-stree!” Arthur jumped up and down.
    “Silence this awful dim child,” Mistress Brooke said.
    That tipped me into rage. “He is neither dim nor awful, and his name is Arthur Bulmer. He is the son of Margaret Stafford, the daughter of the third Duke of Buckingham, and he is due all respect.”
    Jacquard shot over, to stand between us. He flourished a palm in some sort of Low Country gesture.
    With a smile, he said, “Mistress Brooke, you have a letter in your hand. Is it for your husband? Presently he is at the building site. Will you permit me to facilitate?”
    She nodded, her eyes still on me. “A messenger from London brought it to the house, for some reason. Sir Francis Haverham will be here tomorrow, to check progress.”
    “Tomorrow?” repeated Gregory. “The king’s master builder is coming here tomorrow?”
    Gregory called out an alert to the men in the back of the Building Office.
    “I shall claim my loom and then you can be about your business,” I said to Gregory.
    Jacquard cleared his throat.
    “Joanna Stafford,