Introduction

In the midst of England’s Reformation, a young novice will risk everything to defy the most powerful men of her era.

In 1538, England’s bloody power struggle between crown and cross threatens to tear the country apart. Novice Joanna Stafford has tasted the wrath of the royal court, discovered what lies within the king’s torture rooms, and escaped death at the hands of those desperate to possess the power of an ancient relic.

Even with all she has experienced, the quiet life is not for Joanna. Despite the possibilities of arrest and imprisonment, she becomes caught up in a shadowy international plot targeting Henry VIII himself. As the power plays turn vicious, Joanna realizes her role is more critical than she’d ever imagined. She must choose between those she loves most and assuming her part in a prophecy foretold by three seers. Repelled by violence, Joanna seizes a future with a man who loves her. But no matter how hard she tries, she cannot escape the spreading darkness of her destiny.

To learn the final, sinister piece of the prophecy, she flees across Europe with a corrupt spy sent by Spain. As she completes the puzzle in the dungeon of a twelfth-century Belgian fortress, Joanna realizes the life of Henry VIII as well as the future of Christendom are in her hands—hands that must someday hold the chalice that lies at the center of these deadly prophecies. . . .

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Excerpt

When Preparing for Martyrdom on the night of December 28, 1538, I did not think of those I love. Hiding in a narrow cemetery with seven men, all of us poised to commit violence on the steps of Canterbury Cathedral, I instead stared at the words carved into the tombstone I huddled behind: "Here lieth interred the body of Brother Batholomeus Giles, of Christ-Church Priory, Canterbury, who departed this life on the sixteenth of June, 1525."

How fortunate was Brother Bartholomeus. He prayed, sang, labored, and studied, and after his body weakened, was moved to the infirmary, to die there, blessedly ignorant that his was the last generation to serve God in an English monastery. This humble monk had known nothing of the Dissolution.

A gibbous moon hung above me tonight, swollen and bright in the sable sky, illuminating all the gravestones and memorials. But somehow it was a soft moon, not the sharply detailed orb I'd seen on other winter nights. It must be because we were near the sea. I'd been to Canterbury one other time - the same journey during which I learned of my destiny. Against my will, I was told a prophecy. It was one I feared above all else. Yet here, tonight, I stood ready to fulfill it.

We had each of us picked a stone of concealment in this graveyard, a paean to a departed brother. These seven were like brothers to me now, and one most particularly so. Brother Edmund Sommerville, standing but a few feet away, looked over, and I nodded my readiness. We both knew the time approached. He blew on his frozen fingers, and I did the same. Our hands must be supple enough to grip the weapons we'd brought. I carried a rock with a sharp edge; Brother Edmund held a cudgel. We had no training in combat. Our faith would supply the needed strength.

After King Henry VIII ordered the surrender of our home, Dartford Priory, we had become, to the world, simply Edmund Sommerville and Joanna Stafford. I'd struggled to prevent that. In the last months of Dartford Priory's existence, under duress, I'd searched the convent for the Athelstan crown, an object that Bishop Stephen Gardiner swore to me would stop the destruction. But the search took unexpected - and deadly - turns, and when it was over, our priory, 180 years old, closed its doors, forever, as did other monasteries. So ended the chaste splendors and humble glories of the only house for Dominican sisters in England. We had no choice but to relinquish our habits and veils and depart. I moved into the town close by and, with a handful of other priory refugees, tried very hard to make a new life for myself. Now that was over, too. The cruelty of the royal court has swung close to me once more. I'd seen fear and treachery and loss - and courage too - and innocent blood spilled on Tower Hill.

The figure of a man darted through the cemetery. In the moonlight, the face of Brother Oswald, a onetime Cistercian monk, was a sliver of ivory within his hooded cloak. His wounds of face and body, inflicted by those who hated us and called us Papists, were hidden.

"We will move on the cathedral soon," Brother Oswald said in a ragged whisper.

My hand tightened on the side of the gravestone. Within moments, men sent by King Henry would emerge from this dark cathedral carrying a sacred wooden box. And we would be waiting. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

What role does prophecy play in The Chalice? In what ways does Joanna’s character change over the course of the novel? In the end, how have the events of the novel changed her forever? Sometimes Joanna wants Geoffrey near her, yet at other times she pushes him away. What is your impression of their relationship?

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»	Nancy Bilyeau's website
»	Publisher's Book Info

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