The Heretic’s Wife (11 page)

“What about the others?”

“Release them immediately.”

“But surely they will shout it abroad that they were unlawfully imprisoned and ill-used.”

“How many are still alive?”

“Two or three, I think.”

“Two or three? Which is it?”

The cardinal lowered his head like a ram about to charge, warning Thomas that his tone was offensive. His lips barely moved as he said, “Frith and Betts and I can’t remember the name of the other one.”

Thomas looked away. One did not interrogate the chancellor of England in the same tone one took with a common criminal at the bar, he reminded himself. “Be reassured, Your Eminence. This is manageable,” he said with soothing tones.

“I was sure we could count on you for this at least,” Wolsey said, pursing his lips.

Thomas ignored the barb. “These students have not only broken the law of the school but they have broken the law of the land. For this latter they shall have their due process: official interrogation and then a charge of heresy. When the law is done with them, they’ll be in no condition to shout anything abroad. I can virtually guarantee they will be begging to kiss the pope’s jeweled slippers.”

“All done within the law?”

“Always within the law, Eminence.”

Wolsey smiled. “Your reassurance has given me an appetite,” he said, the joviality returned. “The king has invited us to dine in his chamber.”

Thomas hesitated, wondering if he dared offer an excuse.

“You do not need to look so uncomfortable, Sir Thomas. He will not broach the subject of the divorce with you—not in company. Sounding you out and persuading you to our side on that matter is my job.”

“Your Eminence—”

“Say no more,” Wolsey said, holding up his hand, “lest I feel my temper rise. And that might interfere with my digestion. You would not want that on your conscience now, would you?”

“Not for all the world,” Thomas said, smiling, “for that would interfere with mine.”

Kate was glad as she approached the merchants’ hall that she had decided against taking the Wycliffe Bible with her. Such a large parcel would attract the curious—and besides, it was heavy. It was a very hot day. The sweat was already running down between her breasts and the crease between her shoulder blades. If Monmouth wanted to buy the Bible from her, surely he wouldn’t mind stopping in at the bookshop—former bookshop, she thought wryly—to pick it up. But when she inquired at the guildhall, the sergeant at arms told her that Sir Humphrey was probably down at the docks.

She paused the briefest moment to consider whether or not it was prudent to go down to the docks alone. Shielding her eyes against the sun that glinted off the Thames, she glanced in the direction of the crates and barrels and sacks piled up dockside. Only one or two men labored in the noon heat, unloading what looked like grain sacks, and they were too busy and wilted to pay her any attention. In the distance she saw Sir Humphrey. She recognized him by his fancy clothes, though in the heat he looked more hot than splendid. Poor man. Kate had seen him twice before when he’d come to speak to John. His wife had come with him once and she’d been likewise absurdly overdressed. From what Kate remembered of the wife’s manner, Sir Humphrey probably thought it easier to go about in heavy leggings and padded doublet during the height of summer than to incur his wife’s sharp tongue.

Sir Humphrey was coming from the direction of the lone ship docked in the sun-sparked river. Above his large lace collar his face wore an expression of intense satisfaction. He was perusing a small book. He smiled broadly, then quickly secreted the book inside his voluminous doublet, causing
her to wonder if perhaps his extravagant dress served another purpose than to please his wife.

Kate Gough, you’re a fool!
Here was a man who imported Bibles. Why would he need another? What was it exactly that she was going to say to him, anyway? It would have been better to write him a note asking him to come to the shop. She had decided that she would go back and ask the sergeant at arms if she might leave him a message when he called her name.

“Mistress Gough,” he said, his calves bulging in their peacock-blue stockings as he hurried toward her, waving. “What news of John?”

“He is out of prison,” Kate said, and then added, not knowing what else to say, “but he is not himself.”

“Give him time,” he said, “I myself have some knowledge of what kind of fear that sparks in a man’s soul. The great Thomas More himself searched my house. Fortunately, like John, I got enough warning to burn the damning evidence.” He shook his head, clucking his tongue. “I heard some of Garrett’s clients at Oxford were caught in the sweep and some even died of the sweating sickness while they were shut up like criminals in a stinking cellar. I guess John and I have been spared to continue the fight.”

Kate felt the heat from the sun intently and longed to be away, not wanting to say that John had no fight left in him. “Yes, I suppose so . . .”

“Is there anything you need, Mistress Gough? With John in gaol so long you may be pressed for resources. I know he has a wife and child too . . .” He reached into his doublet and withdrew a small leather purse.

She shook her head at his offer of charity. “We will survive. We still have a few things to sell.” She took a deep breath. Here was her chance. “Indeed, Sir Humphrey, I have something in which you might be interested. It is a family heirloom. An illuminated Bible.” She lowered her voice, even though now the two lone dockworkers appeared to have deserted in search of shade. “A Wycliffe translation. I thought—”

The expression on his face stopped her cold. “But, of course, how foolish of me,” she said. “If Thomas More came back, that’s the last thing you would want displayed with your prized possessions. I’m sorry to—”

“It is likewise dangerous for you. I’m surprised that John would allow . . .”

“He tried to burn it with the rest. I stopped him. It seemed such a shame. It is so beautiful, and it is well hidden.”

He paused only a moment. “How much?” he said, and she caught a glimpse of the merchant negotiator.

“Ten pounds.”

He whistled softly. “You hold it very dear!”

“I know that you could buy a Tyndale translation for pence on the pound, but this is a Bible for the ages. I am sure if you saw it—”

He chuckled lightly. “You should be bargaining for Hansa, Mistress Kate.” He smiled at her, a warm, sincere smile above his little pointy gray beard. “I will come by the shop tomorrow and take a look at it.”

John Frith woke from a drugged sleep to the image of a severe-looking nun of advanced years hovering over him. The broad face held a clucking tongue and a mouth that moved. “Stay still if ye don’t want yer throat cut.”

He froze, trying to still even the twitching muscle on his eyelid while she ran the razor’s honed edge down his jawbone. As he achieved full consciousness, he realized he no longer lay on the earthen floor of the cellar but on a straw mattress with a reasonably clean woolen blanket over him. He realized, too, with something of a start that underneath that blanket he was naked.

“Where am I, Sister?” he asked when she paused to flick away his scruffy beard from the blade. He gripped the sheet covering him with all his strength, surprised to find that he could. And not only could he grip the blanket, he could tuck it under his armpits and hold it there with purpose.

“This be St. Bart’s Hospital. Since ye’ve decided to open yer eyes and have a look around, I’m thinking ye’ll probably survive. It looked unlikely when they brought ye in last week looking more dead than alive. Since I saw some sign of life this morn I thought ye might like a shave. Now I’m thinking it’s some real food ye may be wanting more.”

“A glass of water?”

She gave a rueful laugh. “Ye’re a great one for water. Ye’ve drunk enough to drink the Fleet River dry since ye’ve been in here. And peed almost as much.”

His face grew hot but he hugged his blanket more tightly beneath his armpits. She poured a beaker of water from a pitcher beside his bed and handed it to him. “When we’ve finished here, I’ll send somebody from the kitchen down with some broth and calf’s foot jelly, but best go easy on it.”

He took a swallow of water and let it linger on his tongue. He finished off the glass and set it down. She resumed shaving him.

“It be yer great good fortune that ye were too sick to take to the Lollard Tower with the others.”

“What possible difference could that make to the pap—to my tormentors?” he asked.

“They want ye alive—to abjure. Like the others.”

Frith made no retort—just closed his eyes. The twitch had died on its own—probably from fatigue.

Abjure, he thought, knowing full well what instruments of torture were used on his friends to solicit such repentance, knowing, too, that one misstep after a public abjuration was an automatic sentence of burning without trial. If others had abjured, he was sure to be no better than they, no braver than they. His only chance was to escape.

The nun had finished shaving him. She arched her neck back and turned her full scrutiny on him. “There now! Well. That’s better. Ye look almost like a man again. And, once those hollows fill out under those cheekbones, a man not ill-favored, I’d say. Not ill-favored at all.”

She cleaned the blade and put it back into the little leather case hanging at her belt beside her rosary. “ ’Twould be a shame to lose such a handsome head in the cause of heresy.” She stood and picked up the basin with the remnants of his foul beard floating in the soapy water. “A real shame. They say ye are a brilliant young scholar.” That clucking tongue went back into action. “I don’t see how a brilliant man can poke his finger in the eye of Almighty God.”

“But it’s not Almighty God,” he said with more vigor than he thought his body could summon, more vigor, too, than he should probably use to this woman who had been ministering to him so carefully and who still served that Church. “It’s not Almighty God. It’s the almighty Church—and therein lies a great difference. It has been taken over by corrupt men. If the people can read the Bible for themselves, they will see that some of the doctrines these men teach are false and self-serving.”

“Well, even if I should grant that some of what you say is true, which I do not, a wise man ought to know who to pick a fight with. Especially a brilliant man with a bright future.”

“Sometimes we don’t get to choose our fights, Sister,” he said wearily. “Sometimes they are chosen for us. But I thank you for the well-meaning advice. I thank you, too, for the shave.” He smiled. “And most of all I thank you for the water. All of it.”

“Well, you might get the chance to choose. At least this time.” She leaned forward as if straightening the blanket. She lowered her voice to a near whisper at his ear. “I’m thinking they’ll be coming for ye tomorrow.
The chamberlain empties the slops at midnight. He’s usually too lazy to lock the door until he’s finished all the wards.”

What she was telling him registered too late.

“My trousers?” he said to her retreating back. But she’d already moved on down the ward, past the last two sleeping patients. If she heard him she gave no sign.

When Humphrey Monmouth came to pick up the Bible, he said nothing about the empty shelves of the bookshop. Tears stung the back of Kate’s eyes as she handed it to him. She wanted to hold the Bible to her and not let it go, even as she wondered at this sudden and overwhelming sentimental attachment. It was just that everything dear and familiar was slipping away.