The Tapestry by Nancy Bilyeau Read Free Book Online Page B

men lined up in front of both walls, two groups facing each other, the sun slanting through tall, narrow windows. Above us was an interlacing of carved wooden kings. Undoubtedly, I beheld the assembled lords and commons. To my shock, I stood before Parliament itself. They were assembled for Cromwell’s elevation, which I realized now had not yet taken place.
    â€œMy lord Bishop of Winchester,” said Cromwell, not by any means shouting but loud enough so that all conversations going on in the hall ceased.
    â€œYes, my lord Cromwell?”
    My heart sank at the sound of Stephen Gardiner’s voice. A hand closed around my forearm, and Cromwell pulled me toward the voice. There the bishop stood, in the center of the front row of the lords of Parliament, next to his chief ally, Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk.
    Impossible to say which of these two men looked more horrified. Gardiner’s lips pressed together and red patches flared in his cheeks. Norfolk squinted at me and then, recognition breaking, he took a step forward. His strangled curse could be heard above the startled hush of the assembled men.
    My face blazed hot as the attention of everyone in Westminster Hall turned toward me. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a young lord push aside another so that he could get a better look.
    But for Cromwell, there was only one other man in the room. He said to Gardiner, “I have discovered one of your disciples, Mistress Joanna Stafford, and in a most interesting place. She bears a summons to come before the keeper of the wardrobe, yet I found her here, in Westminster Hall.”
    â€œShe is not my disciple,” said the bishop calmly.
    â€œNo?”
    I turned to look at Cromwell. That satisfied smile reappeared, which had twisted his face when he accused me of wearing a crucifix. It did not warm his features; nothing could lighten the grayish hue that could only be caused by working punishing long hours indoors, day after day.
    â€œBut you are well acquainted with this Stafford woman,” said Cromwell. “I think we can trace it to the Tower of London, in the autumn of 1537. That is when she came under your protection.”
    Norfolk flinched—after all, he was the one who first interrogated me in the Tower, who alerted Gardiner—but the bishop reined in all emotion. I knew how hard that would have to be for him.
    Gardiner said, “She is not under my protection. She means nothing to me. You may question her all you like.”
    A high voice rang out across Westminster Hall: “My Lord Cromwell, who have you brought to our proceeding?”
    It was the king.
    Every single person in the hall had been so transfixed by Cromwell and Gardiner’s confrontation—with myself as the hapless cause—that Henry VIII had entered the hall unnoticed. He made his way toward us, his gait stiff and nearly limping. A gold doublet covered with gems stretched over his enormous girth. I was dumbfounded by the sheer size of the king. It took a moment for me to recognize the young man walking behind, to his left. It was Thomas Culpepper, his eyes wide.
    I sank into a curtsy, but it was a bad one, for my legs were trembling.
    Cromwell said, “I thought you still in consultation with your physicians, Your Majesty.”
    Henry VIII made a dismissive gesture with his ringed right hand. “We await your explanation,” he said, turning his assessing gaze on me. Those blue eyes—I remembered them from the day I was presented to him, a shy sixteen-year-old girl. Now they were sunk between bloated cheeks and graying brows. “This lady is known to me, she is of the Stafford family. But just why she has chosen to attend Parliament, a most unusual decision, no one has seen fit to tell.”
    Cromwell hesitated. No one will ever know how long he would have needed to gather his clever lawyer thoughts and deliver his reasons for my presence, because the next voice heard was