The Chalice by Nancy Bilyeau

of.
    It was when I gazed at the fireplace. High enough for a man to stand inside without stooping, it was swept clean. No flames had licked its walls for months, perhaps years. Two carved limestone figures, jutting out from the overmantel, caught my attention. They were not what you’d usually see on a fireplace: winged lions, with mouths yawning open as if in mid-scream.
    When I stepped closer, to examine the figures, a feeling of dread came over me. An instant later, I heard the fragments.
    First the words: “May Almighty God bless thee.”
    Next came a brief high scream, such as that of a child.
    And then a ripple of men’s laughter.
    It all rushed through my head and was gone. I peered at Gertrude, and behind her, Constance. They didn’t react.
    “Did you hear it?” I asked Gertrude.
    Gertrude, bewildered, shook her head. As did Constance, her face a blank.
    I nearly confided in my cousin’s wife. But the impulse dissolved. I followed Gertrude out the door moments later. After all, the departure from Dartford had not been without trials. I hadn’t slept well my first night at the Red Rose. Perhaps these strains had done me ill. I certainly did not want Gertrude to think me unbalanced of mind.
    Since that first afternoon, I’d had no cause to step inside the great hall. But each time I passed it, the memory of what I’d heard gnawed at me. Was it simply fancies, or something darker? Was it, in fact, a vision ?
    And with that I was propelled back to the terror of Saint Sepulchre and the words of Sister Elizabeth Barton.
    My horrified mother bore me away from the priory that day in 1528. I told her only that the nun had experienced a fit, spoutinggibberish about ravens and dogs; I omitted everything that came before. I knew how susceptible my mother was to the visions of mystics. I had to prevent her from seeking further direction or, God forbid, from pushing me toward fulfillment of prophecy.
    Although the experience at Saint Sepulchre was nearly as frightening as being attacked by George Boleyn, I did not descend again to melancholia. Instead, I made it clear to all that I would reside in Stafford Castle from that day forward. If danger existed for me outside the thick walls of my ancestral home, then I’d remain in the Midlands. It wasn’t necessary, it turned out. It was not I who fell ill that winter, it was my mother. She sickened of an ailment and never recovered. I spent the next years caring for her. There was no more talk of finding another place for me at court or a husband. The importance of my future—the possibility I could advance the Stafford family through royal service or noble marriage—dimmed. My place was nurse to my mother, companion to my father, and helpmate to my cousin Henry’s wife, Lady Ursula, who each year thickened with a new pregnancy.
    I heard of Sister Elizabeth Barton’s activities during that time. Everyone did. Within months of my visit, she became famous. Two cardinals did indeed travel through Canterbury: Cardinal Wolsey, the king’s chief minister, escorted Cardinal Campeggio to London. The Italian prelate was sent by His Holiness to hear the king’s petition for divorce. Sister Elizabeth obtained an audience in Canterbury with Wolsey, and warned him of the dangers of a divorce. In the next several years, she met with many important people, always pleading with them to persuade the king to abandon his quest. She met with the king himself twice. The second time she informed him that if he married Anne Boleyn, he would be dead within three months. He wed her regardless, in 1533.
    The king moved against Sister Elizabeth Barton after those three months had passed and her prophecy had been exposedas wrong. She was arrested for treason, along with her followers. In the Tower of London she was repeatedly questioned, until she signed a document recanting her predictions. In the spring of 1534, Sister Elizabeth Barton was executed at Tyburn, along with a handful of her