The Chalice by Nancy Bilyeau Read Free Book Online Page B

there is something you should know,” he said. “Brussels made a mistake.”
    “What mistake?” I asked.
    “Only half the loom was sent, although of course our record books showed your payment was in the full amount. We will make inquiry and ensure that the other half will arrive by the first Wednesday in November.”
    “I am to wait another month?” my voice rose even higher.
    Mistress Brooke snorted. “So what will be your course of action?”
    “I will take the first half of it today,” I said.
    A trio of men appeared to receive orders from Gregory. He told them to prepare my loom for transport down the High Street.
    But Mistress Brooke intervened.
    “The men must make ready for Sir Francis,” she said. “It is foolish to waste effort on this girl’s errand.”
    Gregory peered at Mistress Brooke, the wife of his superior. “I’m sorry, Mistress Joanna, but I can spare no men today.”
    “Then give me the loom and we will take it from here without the help of men,” I said, Sister Beatrice at my side.
    After a few seconds, laughter sounded from all corners. Arthur, not understanding, joined in.
    “Take us there—now,” I said to Gregory. “You cannot deny me something that is rightfully mine.”
    Gregory threw up his hands. “Very well.”
    It was Jacquard who led me to my loom. It was covered with a blanket in the corner of a warehouse heaped high with the king’s possessions: bricks, stones, nails, rope, and tiles. He watched as Sister Beatrice and I lifted the wooden frame. Jacquard was a puzzle to me. I knew he’d come to England in a party of Germans invited to court by Archbishop Thomas Cranmer and had somehow ingratiated himself with the king and won this position. Why would a Reformer want to help furnish a king’s manor house?
    I focused on the loom. It was long and imposing, half of a square wooden frame. But surely we could carry it a short distance.
    “I wish you luck today, Joanna Stafford,” said Jacquard.
    “Why would you do that?” I retorted. “Is luck not ‘Papist superstition’?” I picked up the loom with Sister Beatrice and we staggered forward.
    On the street, we’d made it less than a dozen steps whenmy shoulders and arms began to burn and then tremble. Arthur skipped next to me. On the other side of him, I could see townspeople stopping to gawk.
    The tremor in my arms turned to wild shaking. Sister Beatrice said, “We can’t do this, Sister Joanna.”
    “We will do it.”
    From behind us came Mistress Brooke’s voice: “Look at them. Disgraceful.”
    Then came another voice I did not want to hear. “The time for repentance is near,” howled John.
    We had to keep going. I willed myself to keep going.
    Sister Beatrice said to me, “Rest, at least. Let’s put it down for a moment and then continue.”
    “No, Sister Beatrice. If we lower it, we’ll never get it back up again.”
    At that instant, Arthur jumped in a puddle and the rainwater spurted into my eyes. I flinched and, in the mud, I tottered. As I crashed headlong into the street, the loom fell on my right shoulder, pinning me down.
    My body, my face, all were enveloped in cold mud. It smelled of firewood and rotten vegetables and horse dung. My eyes stung, I could see nothing.
    But I could hear them.
    “Look at you now, nun!”
    “She’s a foolish, foolish girl.”
    Arthur wailed tears of confusion. I felt Sister Beatrice’s hands on my back and then grappling with the loom, trying to lift it off me—but failing. After much struggle, I was able to lift my head. I could see the skirts and legs of at least a dozen people surrounding me.
    “Behold the harlot of the false prophet,” thundered John. “She does not dance today.”
    “She should go in the stocks for this,” said Mistress Brooke.
    Someone else shouted eagerly, “The stocks, the stocks!”
    But then there was a new cry: “Who are they?”
    Sister Beatrice managed to pull the loom off me. With her help, I staggered to my feet, my