The Heretic’s Wife (30 page)

“His Majesty sent for me,” he said to courtiers lounging outside the Presence Chamber. They were playing dice and did not look up. “He’s in the cardinal’s chamber.”

“Is the cardinal with him?”

“With him!” one of them snorted. “The cardinal’s in York, licking his wounds.”

“Licking his wounds?”

“You haven’t heard?” The speaker looked up then and added, “But then, how could you? Haven’t seen you around for a while, Vaughan. You in some kind of disgrace too?”

Stephen ignored the note of derision in his voice. The others laughed, a little nervously, Stephen thought. There was a low snigger as one of the dice players muttered, “His Majesty is probably busy measuring for new tapestries. I’ve heard he plans to change the name of this one from York Place to Whitehall. Has a nice ring to it. What I would give to see Wolsey’s face when he hears!”

The dice clattered on the table.

“Snake eyes. Here, you want to see Wolsey’s face?”

The loser flipped a gold sovereign bearing the cardinal’s visage in the direction of the winner, who grinned and waved the coin in the air. “Face and head. Stamped in gold on the coin of the realm. How the mighty have fallen.”

“Not far enough. Arrogant bastard.” But it was hard to tell if the loser was referring to Wolsey or his gambling companion until he grumbled, “ ’Tis only His Majesty’s good grace that lets that whoreson of a Smithfield butcher keep his head.” And then, as if he suddenly remembered Stephen was standing there, he nodded abruptly. “Go on up. His Majesty said to keep an eye out for you. He’s with his armorer, but he said to send you up anyway.”

Stephen took the stairs two at a time, his short sword clanging against the stair rail.

“Vaughan, come in,” the voice bellowed like a bull.

It was the king’s voice, and it was not a joyous bellow.

But to his relief he soon discovered that it was the armorer who was to bear the brunt of the king’s displeasure.

“Look at this, Vaughan,” the king shouted, and clanged his sword against the codpiece of a full suit of majestic armor behind which the master craftsman was cowering. “Does this look to you like a suitable covering for the king’s manhood, this . . . this . . . paltry codpiece? You must not think your king much of a man, armorer.”

“It was an error, Your Majesty.” The armorer was wringing his hands, visibly shaken. “The apprentice must have misread the king’s . . . splendid proportions. He is an ignorant fool. I will see that he is beaten.”

“And what about you? Who will see that you are beaten for not inspecting the armor before presenting such an insult in our presence?”

The armorer turned white as death. “Your Majesty, please . . .”

“Oh, get out of my sight. And take this
thing
with you.” The king kicked the armor with the heel of his boot. The clang reverberated to the rafters. The armorer cringed as though he’d been struck. “Fix it,” the king snarled. “And bring it to my palace in Richmond a fortnight hence. And don’t disappoint me.”

“Yes, Your Majesty. I will see to it,” he said, backing away. “It will be as majestic as your—”

“Go on. Get out!” The king waved him away. “Leave the sword.”

He picked up the two-handed sword and wielded it overhead to the right, then to the left. Stephen pitied his adversary. “Great Harry,” as the people called him, was known for his prowess with a two-handed sword.

“Nice heft to it. ’Twill do to slice a Frenchman open or an insolent armorer.”

Quick as lightning he tossed the sword to Stephen, who luckily caught it by its gilded hilt and not its honed blade. Stephen carefully laid it aside.

“You see what fools surround me, Stephen.” The king sighed but smiled at him warmly, ignoring the craftsman struggling to wrestle the offending metal suit out the door.

Stephen did not know how to answer or if he should trust the smile. He bowed. “You summoned me, Your Majesty?”

“Yes, what was it . . . ?” Henry paced long enough to set Stephen on edge then gave an “aha” gesture and settled in an armchair. He indicated that Stephen should sit on the bench beside the fireplace. “I have a little errand for you, Master Vaughan.”

Stephen sat on the bench, grateful for the warmth for it was a cold day and York Place, for all its grandeur, was not as cozy as his two-room lodging in Cheapside. He listened, trying mightily to concentrate as Henry outlined his plan for bringing back a scholar in exile to serve at court, wondering what part he would play in such a scheme.

“His name is William Tyndale. He is a brilliant man. He has fallen afoul of the law—and Sir Thomas—with some of his Lutheran writings, but I think he can be persuaded to come home. Back to England and the true Church. That’ll be your job, Vaughan. Tell him his king, his country, is in need of him. If he will agree to the terms which I have written out, he shall receive a full pardon.”

“But he is on the Continent, you say?” Stephen said, trying not to sound anything but pleased to serve his king. “How shall I find him, Your Majesty?”

The king shrugged as though he were merely asking Stephen to go to Lincoln’s Inn or do a little search of the local taverns. “He is thought to be in Antwerp. That is where most of his illegal writings come from. You might start with a printer named Johannes van Hoochstraten. He uses the alias Marburg for Tyndale’s works.” He got up and, rummaging through a chest, drew out a packet wrapped securely in linen and bearing the royal seal. He handed it to Stephen.

“In there you will find sufficient funds to keep you while you are out of the country and specific instructions as well as a pardon for Master Tyndale should he agree. I shall expect a report every two weeks. You may report to me through Master Cromwell at the treasury. Mark your correspondence ‘for the king’s eyes only.’ ”

“Yes, Your Majesty. I shall find him.” Stephen wished he were as confident as he sounded. “Just give me a day or two to put my affairs in order.”

It was as though Henry had not even heard him.

“You will leave immediately. Don’t wait for the tide and don’t go down to the docks. We wish to keep your mission known only to us. A royal boatman will take you out to meet a ship. Just show the captain the king’s seal on that package and say you are his messenger. No captain can refuse you. You’ll be in Antwerp by tomorrow.”

Leave immediately!
For the brief time it takes an arrow to reach its mark, Stephen considered protesting. He had affairs to attend to. Who knew how long he would be gone. Finding a man who did not wish to be found in a city such as Antwerp—assuming he was even in Antwerp—was no easy thing. But he did not ask for more time. He merely nodded and, backing out of the king’s presence, promised to do his best.

“One more thing, Master Vaughan. I almost forgot,” he said, ringing for the servant that was to take Stephen to his ship. “There is another scholar that may be in Antwerp, a friend of Tyndale’s. He is also a fugitive, but he has found an advocate in Lady Boleyn. His name is . . . Frith . . . I think. If you encounter him, extend the king’s grace to him as well. Tell him to come home to England. He has friends here.”

Stephen nodded his assent, but backed out hastily, lest it occur to the king to add yet another name to his burden.

[The clergy] have with subtle wiles turned the obedience that should be given unto God’s ordinance unto themselves.

—W
ILLIAM
T
YNDALE
,
T
HE
O
BEDIENCE OF A
C
HRISTIAN
M
AN

T
om Lasser considered the woman leaning against the quarterdeck rail, her proud profile raised to the sun’s rays, bright hair blowing in the wind. She should be standing in the bow, he thought, like Fair Helen, the face that launched a thousand ships.

“I see your sea legs are still working,” he said.

She turned her face away from the sea, toward him, and smiled. “As long as I have Endor’s magic concoction.”

“I think you’ve brought us good luck and fair winds,” he said, pointing to the full sails.

“God brought the fair winds, Captain, not I.”

He supposed she was right. A man made his own luck, but he couldn’t command the winds. They had rounded the toe of England in two days. Two more days and nights had put them into the Straits of Dover, the narrowest Channel crossing leading to Calais and close enough to the English shore to hear the terns nesting in the white cliffs. They had been challenged only once, when they neared the bend that led to Rye, but the tide and the
wind had been favorable and the ship had been able to outrun the small customs boat.

“Is that wide estuary the mouth of the Thames?” she asked, pointing to where the sea met the river’s brackish waters.

“It is,” he said, giving a fair turn to the wheel to steer the
Siren’s Song
east toward the Continent. He was in an uncharacteristically good mood. A firm breeze gave a light chop to the sea and the sails were full. England still lay to the west and vigilance was still required, but one sharp turn eastward should put them on the docks at Antwerp by nightfall, just one more legitimate merchant ship among the many hundreds that accessed the port each day. But they were not there yet. He was careful to steer in mid-channel, avoiding the English coastline.

“London is just up the river,” he said, “if you sniff the wind you can probably smell it.”

They’d reached the Thames estuary at low tide. Another stroke of luck, he thought, too many mudflats for the London tidewaiters or the customs officers to bother with.

“It smells like home,” she said, a sadness creeping into her voice. He had a sudden urge to smooth the little frown line that formed around her mouth. He was trying to think of some glib remark to make her lift her face to the sunshine in that pose he’d just admired when her husband joined her at the rail.

Tom felt a moment’s discontent as he watched John Frith slip his arm around his wife’s waist, as easily as though it belonged there—which of course it did, he reminded himself.

“The
Siren’s Song
has done her job well, Captain. It has been a good voyage. We are grateful to you and your fine ship. Ulysses could not have done better.”

Tom laughed. He couldn’t help it. He liked the man, liked his easy grace and optimism as though nothing ill had ever touched him. Amazing. Even after all he’d been through, and Tom knew what he’d been through. They’d shared a few pints of ale together and swapped enough stories that Tom would remember him as an amiable companion—and the woman too, he realized, watching her.

“May I ask you a question, Captain Lasser?” she said, her wide mouth tensing in concentration as though she were not sure she really wanted to.

“Ask away,” he said, thinking she was going to ask about the working of the ship, the places he’d been. She’d been full of questions since she found her “sea legs.”

“What happened to Endor’s child?”

That took him unawares. Her husband, too, from the startled look on his face.

When Tom didn’t answer for a startled moment, she continued, “I thought . . . that is, when I saw her outside Fleet Prison—”

“You thought right,” he said, interrupting her to relieve her embarrassment. “She gave birth to the child before I could get her out. It was stillborn. A little boy.”

“Oh.” The puzzled expression crumbled into pain. “That is so sad.”

“It was probably just as well,” he said abruptly, probably too abruptly, but he was anxious to relieve her obvious distress and himself of the subject. His answer did neither. Her expression hardened into anger.

“That is a cruel thing to say about a child—or about its mother!”

“Maybe. But it’s the hard truth. Life can be cruel. Often is.”

Her expression did not change.

He sighed, sucking in the salt air. “Endor was raped. The child would have never known his father.”

Just the cold hard facts.
That was all he could bring himself to say. Even that made the rage boil up inside him, bringing bitterness to his mouth. Rage—and guilt. He gazed out to sea, watching as a seabird dived into the waves and came up with a wriggling fish in its beak. Predator and prey—the way of all things.

“A child is a gift from God.” She said it with indignation, with fervor, as though she were a lawyer before the King’s Bench pleading for the life of the child.

But he would not back down. She might as well know the bitter all of it. Life would not be likely to treat a woman kindly who was married to a refugee.

“This child was a gift from a man, one among many who raped her, cut out her tongue, and left her to bleed to death in a ditch.” Her hands flew to her mouth, her eyes wide with horror. He almost repented his brutal words but he could not stop. “Why, Mistress Frith, would any woman choose to keep such a ‘gift’?”

One small cry escaped her mouth. Her husband hugged her to him. “The captain saved her, Kate,” John said gently. “He took her to a surgeon and they cauterized her bleeding tongue.”

Her bleeding stump of a tongue.
Tom could still hear her screams. And when it was over he’d left her with a little money in a rooming house. Alone. To fend for herself. Hardly the follow-up act of the Good Samaritan.