The Tapestry by Nancy Bilyeau Read Free Book Online Page B

could lighten the grayish hue that could only be caused by working punishing long hours indoors, day after day.
    “But 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 mine.
    “Your Majesty, I am Joanna Stafford and I am at fault.” I curtsied before him, better this time, my spine straight. After coming back up, my eyes fixed on the stone floor, I continued: “I received a summons to court and I came today, but did not know where to go to find thewardrobe master. Lord Privy Seal Cromwell came upon me, lost, and kindly brought me to these good lords of your kingdom, that they might join together to form a plan.”
    A thick silence filled the hall for what seemed like hours, but might have been five seconds.
    The king said, his voice lilting, “Ah, Cromwell, we always knew you capable of sympathy for a lady’s plight, though others have deemed you indifferent to the fair sex. Would you have thought this possible, Norfolk?”
    The duke called out, “Not until today, Your Grace.”
    Laughter filled Westminster Hall, so loud it echoed against the stone walls and pillars. I finally looked up. The reaction to what Norfolk said exceeded the joke. Norfolk himself laughed the hardest. It was ghastly, the way his lips curled to expose long yellow teeth. Only three men did not shout with laughter: Cromwell and Gardiner, who arranged their faces into benevolence but were still seized by their hatred of each other, and Culpepper, who could not take his eyes off my face.
    “We shall attend to the business of the day,” said King Henry. “But first, we must address our kinswoman.”
    Kinswoman? It was true, of course, my grandmother and the king’s grandmother were sisters, but the Tudors never bore any affection for the Staffords. As the king stepped toward me, he smiled, most benevolent, and a pungent odor encircled me, of musk and lavender and rose water and something else, too, something less appealing.
    “We are most pleased that Mistress Stafford shows her loyalty and willingness to serve the Crown by making her way here, in humble haste,” the king declared. “We shall