In the Shadow of Lions (20 page)

“Let this sin be on the man. Let me taste first.”

“Have you not thought that perhaps the will of God is bound up in the will of men? I fear your desire for me is God’s judgment on the Church. That to have me, you must free the people to read the Scriptures for themselves. Let the Hutchins book go out. Call off Wolsey and More. I am afraid there is a coming war.”

“Is what they say true? Are you a witch, sent by the reformers?”

She took his hand and pushed it into her bodice, between her breasts, to the hot, flushed place where, beneath, her heart was beating too fast.

She wanted to kiss him, to let him feel her willingness beneath his touch.

Henry’s face turned stern as he moved his hands to pull her in close, his eyes lingering on the place his hand had been. He pulled her in tight, too tight, so that his strong hands were bending and snapping the bones of her bodice, digging them in to her side. She bit her lip to keep from crying out.

He whispered in her ear. “If I am driven from the garden for this, I will not go alone.”

He released her and called to a servant who ran and listened to a quiet message. The boy returned, the court scribe close behind, trying not to spill ink from the black glazed inkwell, the feather dancing in his hand over the flapping papers. A boy behind him carried a candle and dish and was sweating profusely as he tried to keep the flame alive despite his fast pace.

The scribe, clearing a place on a table near them, set down the goods and prepared to write. The servant ran and fetched a little stool from the kitchen and the scribe thanked him, then cleared his throat and looked in Henry’s direction.

“Write for me two warrants,” Henry said.

The scribe picked up the feather quill, dipping it in ink and tapping.

“Write for me an arrest warrant for Cardinal Wolsey. He is to be tried for praemanuire, challenging the king’s authority by exercising too much of his own. He will be tried in Leicester at my first convenience. Write a warrant for Cardinal Fisher, too, the priest who botched Catherine’s trial and sent the case to the Pope. The Pope finds great delight in this man’s clever thinking. We will send the Pope his head, with our best wishes for a speedy conclusion to my great matter.”

The scribe made a noise like he was choking as he tried to swallow. Anne’s skin grew hot and prickly, her breath shallow as she met Henry’s eyes. He was smiling. The scribe worked quite fast, no doubt having written many such warrants for Henry in his time here. His was, in fact, the only safe job in the castle, as Henry’s wrath was always narrowly focused on another when his work was being done.

The scribe stood, the documents finished. He held a dish over the candle and nodded in Henry’s direction. Henry took off his ring and handed it to Anne.

“Seal the warrants,” he said.

Anne held the heavy gold ring with his seal.

The scribe poured the melted red wax onto the paper, and Anne watched the thick red pool as it reflected the candlelight. All waited. She felt them all tensing, all except Henry, who pursed his lips in pleasure, as if watching a cockfight. She held the ring a moment more, and wished it were a dagger that she could drive into her stomach. She heard a heavy coarse breathing, and realized it was her own. The wax was cooling on Wolsey’s warrant. She tried to summon an image of the man at his worst but instead saw his watery eyes, looking at her with pity on her first visit to his office. He had not wanted her here, and he had been right.

“I will send men to investigate Sir Thomas,” Henry promised. “Perhaps there is something out of order in his estate.”

She plunged the seal into the wax, scalding her fingers where she held the ring too close. Wolsey had not saved her, and he was damned. Maybe they both were.

Next was Cardinal Fisher’s warrant. The scribe poured the wax and stepped back. Anne turned and looked at Henry. He looked alive with pleasure. He saw her faltering and stepped to her side.

“Anne, Anne,” he whispered, stroking her hair. “Finish it and we will be together.”

Anne began to say something but Henry whispered again.

“If it proves too difficult for you, I will finish. But I will write more. Your brother, for instance. He is guilty of an unspeakable crime, isn’t he? One deserving a wretched, public death.”

Anne clenched her jaw and forced the seal into the wax. The servants slipped the papers from under her hands and fled.

Anne turned and looked at Henry, her stomach sickened. She thought she was going to faint and reached out to him to catch herself. He caught her and dragged her into his embrace.

“That was,” he said, “delicious.”

Chapter Twenty

Rose shoved the coins into the leather drawstring. She looked around the room for anything else of value that might fit. She spied a ring with a nice thick pearl. Margaret never wore it. It would not be missed. She was slipping it into the bag when she was aware of someone watching her.

Spinning around, she saw Sir Thomas in the doorway.

“You’re stealing from Margaret,” he said and sat on her bed with a sigh.

Rose held the bag in plain sight, being too late to hide it.

“She’s gone to the kitchen to ask for milk,” he said. “We’re alone.”

Rose did not like him sitting on the bed or his casual manner. It frightened her.

“What have you done, Rose? What have you infected my children with?”

“I do not know what you mean,” she replied.

“They were obedient children until you came here. Margaret is reading this snake they call Hutchins; her mind is poisoned by sick rhetoric. Who are you, Rose? A spy sent by him to destroy me? To get at me through my children?”

“I was no one before I came here. I never heard of Hutchins.”

“That’s a lie. The day I questioned you in my study, you told Cardinal Wolsey and me that he was preached in your parish.”

“I just wanted to give you the answer you wanted. I was afraid you might throw me out if I didn’t please you.”

“I’m going to throw you out now.”

“No, you’re not. Margaret needs me.”

“Margaret needs a steady hand. I won’t have her infected by the world. Not their lies and not yours. I will keep her in this house, and in the Church, and you will not taint her!”

Rose bowed her head. “Everyone is tainted, Sir Thomas. We are all scarred, we all have secrets, and not one of us is clean. This is the truth you hide from the people, and from your daughter.”

“More lies! More heresy! The Church is holy! Her saints are holy! Never speak a word against them, or I will throw you out, girl.” He rose to his feet, his face pinched and flushed with blood.”

She didn’t want to argue. She didn’t want to break him. But some truths could turn to poison in your veins if they’re not spoken.

“I was Wolsey’s mistress. He abandoned me to the street when he found I had slept with another priest. I had a son.”

“Another man has known you?” he whispered. Something like hope fell away from his face.

She looked at him plainly. “No man has known me. Many have had me.” She paused to let her words find him. “We are all stained,” she said quietly.

Margaret walked in, the door swinging in its arc and startling Rose and Sir Thomas. Margaret, seeing their faces, grabbed the door to stop it and retreat.

“I am finished with her,” Sir Thomas said to Margaret, with a light voice that strained to sound carefree. He left without looking back.

Margaret looked so tired, Rose thought. She had aged these last few months, and when she turned her head, the candlelight showed the woman she was becoming. There was so little of the child left in her. Rose tried to pretend it was only childhood passing away, not innocence. She could not live with the guilt if Margaret became hardened.

Rose was stupidly holding the bag, her secret plainly between them. But she did not set it down.

Margaret looked up at her. “I do not wish him to die, Rose. I love him, did you know that? He was once one of us, seeking patronage among the rich, among Father’s friends. A good-looking boy, with red cheeks and dark hair. He was so earnest, so impassioned. I believed in him deeply, though I met him only a handful of times, often as he was leaving a house, dejected that no one was interested in his ideas. He wanted to translate the Scriptures—not from the older translations, but go back, he said, to the original texts. He would master Greek and Aramaic and translate from these. Everyone thought he was a fool. The Vulgate was hard enough to understand for the priests. Why did we need a boy’s interpretation of the original text?”

Her voice was far off, and she stroked her skirt as she smiled. “But I believed in him, though I had no idea what he was really talking about. I gave him a coin I had stolen from my father’s purse, and he kissed me on the mouth, sweetly. It was my first kiss.” She sighed. “It has been my only kiss.”

She pressed her palm against her mouth, closing her eyes. “I want that life, Rose. I want to know a man and be kissed every night. I want to be in a home where books do not matter as much as love.”

“Margaret,” Rose began.

“We do not wish him to die, do we? Let us take the money we can gather and send it to him for secure passage. There is a safe house in Antwerp where the law will protect him. If he can make it to this house, no one can arrest him as long as he dwells in it. We will pay for his safe arrival and board. ”

Rose did not move or reply.

“Everything will be all right, Rose. You’ll see.”

Margaret took off her shoes and lay on top of her bed in her clothes. She closed her eyes for sleep and shared her last thoughts of the day. “Sentiment is turning in Henry’s court. Hutchins is gaining favour. Anne promotes him freely. My father will have to accept Hutchins. The differences of theology will be mended, and he’ll see how I have changed from that girl to a woman, how I have aided him in secret here, how I have read his works as no other woman has, with great intensity and clarity of mind. He will be entirely captivated.”

Rose held the bag and looked at her. Margaret’s face had settled into peaceful lines. Rose set the bag on the night table between them and blew out the candle.

Rose heard the rain, a thousand little drummers against the roof. The room had a chill, and she pulled her blankets up, tucking them under her chin. This season was the most accursed on the streets. The autumn rains were heavy and often, and the wind came behind them to freeze your skin to the bone. The sun slunk away, defeated earlier every day, so that by the time you found something to eat at noon, you had to worry about the night. Sir Thomas had rescued her from that life, and he had not thrown her back to it, not yet.

Margaret was up and dressing herself, so Rose heaved herself out of the warm bed to help her. The room was dark; the sun had not broken through the dark clouds. Margaret laughed at Rose’s fumbled attempts on the buttons of her bodice. She had been so sweet these past few weeks; no more had been spoken of the leather purse, or Hutchins, or his book. Rose was uneasy about this new peace. It was not from God—that much she could tell. Something had passed between father and daughter that Rose did not know and could not understand, having no father herself.

A servant holding a brass candleholder knocked and eased the door open. “Come, come! Sir Thomas has a visitor. He wants to see you.”

They followed her into the family room lit by candles, though the curtains were drawn back. The windows showed the sky being a dour grey colour, tinged with modest blue.

Sir Thomas sat on the couch, a low piece of furniture with a soft yellow covering. Around him were bits of grass and herbs, dried flowers, and a thick blanket sweet smoke. Rose inhaled, trying to place the odour. When she realized it was frankincense, the scent of the Church, her stomach sickened. A woman dressed in a nun’s robes stood in the corner not looking at any of them. She held her arms at her sides and spoke in whispers to herself.

Sir Thomas must have decided to let most of the household sleep, for there were only Rose, Margaret, the oldest boy, and a few of the servants. Sir Thomas did not look well and perhaps had not slept. His eyes had puffed, loose bags beneath them, and his mouth was drawn tight with exhaustion.

He looked at Rose, studying her slowly as if she were appearing in his dream. He sighed, shook his head, and began.

“God has heard my prayers. This is a praise to Him, and it is my fear.” He was standing, walking to look out the dark window. “All of my life, have I not exhorted that He was close? The wickedness of man would bring Christ to earth in vengeance. What I did not understand, my children, is that many would be caught in His net.”

He addressed the nun. “Do you still wish to speak to the children?”

“Darkness falls on the land in the ninth hour!” she crooned, her voice waving and rolling in crescendo. Rose wanted to slap her. It was a cheap way to earn a living. What Rose had done had no honour, but it was still better than this.

“The faithful must endure many sufferings,” the nun cried, “but blessed is he who remains faithful to the end!” She wrapped her arms tightly around her chest and spoke in whispers to no one.

Rose listened but heard only rain. Not even a bird sang in this storm.

Sir Thomas addressed Margaret, keeping his eyes averted from Rose. “Cardinal Wolsey has been arrested. Henry accused him of praemanuire, of taking too much authority, depriving the king of influence.”

He dropped the curtain’s edge that he was holding back, and it fell. He sighed, twisting his lips. “But Wolsey died yesterday, on his way to the trial. He just dropped dead. It was grief that killed him. He was the only father Henry truly ever had, and Henry tossed him aside for the pleasure of a fleeting kiss. There is no one near Henry who loves him. He killed the only friend he had.”

Rose sat still, every muscle tensed, wondering what Margaret might say or do.

Sir Thomas smiled at them, a faraway look in his eyes that told her he did not really see them. “But God is good. He fights on for us. The sweats are striking the city of London again, and there are rumours that the plague has returned, too. The king has fled to the country and his courts are on hold. All the good people are locked up in their homes. The rest, those filthy reformists carrying about Martin Luther’s works or the heresy from that man Hutchins. My men have had an easy time these last few days, picking these pestilent fleas off the streets and disposing of them.” More squished his thumb and forefinger together as he said it.

Margaret interrupted. “You wish us to remain at home?”

“You are to remain loyal!” he snapped at her. “All fell away from Christ at His hour of crucifixion. Things will happen, things that make you sore afraid. Do not lose hope. Do not abandon Christ.”

“I had only thought to bring comfort to Catherine,” Margaret answered. Rose could see she was holding onto tears. “She has been forgotten.”

Sir Thomas considered it, chewing his lips. “This would please God. She has friends, powerful men, in Europe, who can still affect our will. Yes, you may go. Only straight there and return. She is at an estate of Wolsey’s, not in the city. You will not encounter any sickness.”

Margaret and Rose stood.

More turned his back, looking out again over his garden, clipped and hedged to perfection. “Ask Catherine to pray for me. You must pray for me too, as dear children. My enemies are many and time is short. I am racing the devil for the soul of England.”

The carriage made fast work of the deserted streets, lurching wildly when the driver took a hard curve, unused to having the entire lane to navigate. Yellow sunlight fighting through the clouds burnt against the orange leaves of autumn. To Rose, it looked as if all of England was on fire. The leaves would be dropping soon in great numbers. These, and the winter rains, would make these streets slick and treacherous.

When the carriage slowed to its familiar crawl, Margaret lifted the curtain concealing them and protecting them from the debris and dirt flying up from the street. A group of men and women, stripped to rags, bearing unlit torches on their backs, walked slowly through the streets, their eyes on the ground. In front of them a soldier carried a sign that identified them as heretics. The few on the streets were spitting and cursing them.

One woman stumbled and could not catch herself. Her arm hung oddly at her side. She cried out and tried to stand again, but her limbs gave her difficulty; she only rose after heaving herself up against her thigh. A soldier behind the group hit her with the broad side of his sword, a fast, thick smack that sent her reeling again.

Margaret let the curtain fall back into place. “It won’t do any good, you know.”

“What?” Rose asked.

“They’ll persist in their sin. It’s the only thing they’ve truly ever owned.”