The Heretic’s Wife

by Brenda Rickman Vantrease

  The slant of light through the windows told him it was almost time. Already the servants were coming to set up the boards. This might well be his last dinner in this grand hall. The king was already decorating the walls. Soon Wolsey would be asked to surrender his chancellor’s seal. Tomorrow he would leave for home, praying his enemies did not pursue. Let the jackals fight over the great seal. Thomas Cromwell or Thomas More. Wolsey cared not a rusty bucket of donkey shit. Though he pitied whoever wore the great chain. It had been naught to Wolsey but a chain of burden ever since Henry had decided to set aside his Spanish queen.

  “Where shall we put the king’s coat of arms, Your Eminence?”

  Wolsey stood for a long moment, considering his own crest high on the wall at the end of the hall. Sacred symbols painted on a field of red beneath a cardinal’s hat: the cross and the keys to the kingdom rested above the motto Dominus michi adjutor. “The Lord my helper,” he muttered, pondering the irony of it.

  “Your Eminence?”

  “Put it there,” he said gruffly, pointing to his own crest. “Pack that one up and send it to York. And use the board cloths of gold,” he said. “So the king will judge us well.”

  He departed the hall for one last tour of the kitchens and the cellar. He would choose the wine himself.

  Thomas More entered the kitchens at Hampton Court on a mission. He wrinkled his nose at the frontal assault on his senses. The place reeked of smoking chimneys, burning fat, and the blood from freshly butchered meats. Good God, the noise alone was enough to unhinge a man’s sanity: sounds of banging pans, shouting voices. An acrid smell of smoke burned his nostrils. He coughed to draw a breath. It was like entering hell. But through the blue haze that hovered over the largest kitchen, where a butcher was spearing a deer carcass onto a spit, he spied his quarry and pushed through the harried, sweating workers—some in livery, some in rags—who rushed to and fro within the warren of preparation rooms. A few recognized him and parted before him like the Red Sea before Moses.

  Hampton Court was not Sir Thomas More’s favorite place, even in the sumptuously appointed rooms above. While it was true Thomas liked nice things about him—pictures, books, a bountiful table—there was a seeming lack of order in excess that unnerved him, and a superfluity of wealth was the hallmark of the court. The whole palace, from its glorious gardens to its ornate chapel, stank of the noxious odors of intrigue and anxiety. Entering the pandemonium where food was prepared twice daily for the hordes of sycophants that marched through its portals stretched his nerves taut as harp strings. He longed to be back at Chelsea in his library after a simple meal with his family, but the king had summoned him to Hampton Court tonight, and so he had decided to put the evening to good use.

  He spotted the man he’d come to see, manhandling a log as big as a tree trunk. Thomas struggled to remember the name of the man who’d ferried him once or twice from Hampton to Chelsea.

  Albert . . . Alfred . . . no, farther down the alphabet . . . James . . . Paul . . . Peter . . .

  “Robert,” he called, hurrying in the direction of the workman.

  The servant hurled the log into the giant maw of the fireplace that made up one whole end of the room and moved with a bundle of small wood toward the bake ovens along the other wall. He looked up at the sound of his name, pausing long enough to wipe the sweat from his brow with the crook of his arm. “Sir Thomas! I’m surprised to see you here. I mean down here.”

  “And I you. When I didn’t see you at the dock, I inquired and was told to try the kitchens. Have you been permanently moved?”

  “When the king comes to dinner, we are all pressed into service if we want to keep our waterman’s license. But I’ll be finished here and back on the docks if you need a waterman to ferry you home tonight.”

  “That’s good, Robert. You are among the swiftest boatmen on the river. But that’s not why I came looking for you. Is there somewhere we could talk privately?”

  Robert glanced at the ovens.

  “It’ll only take a minute, I promise.”

  “The dresser’s room is most like to be empty.”

  “You lead, I’ll follow,” Thomas said, following him into a small room where two roasted peacocks sat redressed in their colorful plumage waiting on the ledge to be picked up for presentation at the king’s board. Trays of cakes shaped like crowns and gilded with real gold waited for their servers also. One of those cakes would no doubt be placed before him at dinner. He hoped the king would not be looking when he scraped the gold away. Precious metals were for wearing—not eating.

  The man began to fidget.

  “I’ll get right to the point so you can get back to work. The last time you rowed for me, you told me about a man named Harry Phillips, whose father’s house you worked in—a ‘ne’er-do-well,’ I think you called him, a man who would do anything if the price was right. Do you know where I may find this man?”

  The servant looked perplexed, though Thomas knew he would not dare to ask outright why a man of his station and reputation would be seeking such a one.

  “I have a bit of a cleanup job at Chelsea. The kind of job only a man desperate for money will tackle. It’s a bit much for those in my regular service to take on. I believe you said this Harry was a man of learning with some unfortunate but expensive vices. That kind is frequently desperate.”

  Robert once again wiped his brow with the crook of his elbow. Sweat beads glistened on the hairs of his forearm. From the large rooms behind the dresser’s room came a shout—“Where’s Robert, we need more wood for the bread ovens”—accompanied by the clanging of pans.

  “You go on back to work. We wouldn’t want the cardinal’s bread to be half baked.”

  “Aye, we wouldn’t that.” Robert grinned.

  “I’ll be down at the docks after the feast. If you’ll get me home in time for breakfast with my dame, I’ll make it worth your loss of sleep. We can talk more about this Harry Phillips later and whether or not he might suit the job. No great matter.”

  Roberrrt!

  “I’m coming,” the servant boomed in the direction of the unknown voice, and then to Sir Thomas, “I’ll be there, milord, if I can get away.”

  “I’ll put a word in the cardinal’s ear at dinner. I’ll ask that my favorite waterman be made available.”

  But Thomas didn’t have to wait until dinner. On the way out of the kitchens he passed the landing leading down the couple of steps to the room where the wine casks waited like fat round pupae in neat rows. Among the barrels he spied Wolsey’s bright scarlet cope and cap bent over in inspection as the master of the cellar cut a hole into a barrel, inserted a spout, and prepared to draw the wine into a cup. At the soft hiss of Thomas’s slippers upon the stone floor, Wolsey looked up.

  “Thomas,” he said, beckoning, “come taste this. See if you think it fit for the king’s board.”

  The steward swirled the red wine in the cup, releasing its plummy fragrance. Thomas sipped. It was a fruity, full-bodied wine and carried the faintest hint of the oak in which it lay, like a woman newly risen from her bed, who still carries the fragrance of her dreams upon her skin.

  “It is an excellent wine, Your Eminence, a fine burgundy.”

  “You’ve a good nose, Thomas.” Wolsey’s faint smile showed his pleasure that Thomas had liked the wine. “That’s what being highborn gains a man. An appreciation for the finer things.”

  Always the son of a butcher, Thomas thought. Not quite sure in his own taste. Ever choosing the gilded lily over nature’s glorious own. That explained a lot about the excess of Hampton Palace.

  “This wine was a gift of the Duke of Burgundy when he last visited,” Wolsey continued. Then his voice dropped and he muttered as though talking to himself. “Powerful men have wandered the halls of this great palace.” And then he seemed to remember he was not alone. “But I’ve never encountered one in my kitchens before. What brings you to this nether region when all others are strolling the gardens? Some secret plan
?”

  “You have heard, I suppose, that one of the Oxford students has escaped. He’s probably already on his way to the Continent,” Thomas said.

  “Yes.” The cardinal, still preoccupied with the wine, sniffed it again and handed it back to the steward. “This one will do,” he said with a nod of dismissal. “Draw it an hour before it is served so it can breathe. The jeweled decanter for the king’s board. The silver for the knights.”

  “And for the others?” the steward asked.

  “You choose.” The cardinal waved him away. “Now leave us alone for a minute.”

  With a nod to Sir Thomas, the steward backed out of the cask room.

  “ ’Tis a pity we did not have a watch on young Frith. I have heard that he’s a friend of William Tyndale’s. You might have run your man to ground quickly, Master More. You could have followed him as a hound follows a fox.”

  “My man? Your Eminence, I thought that you above all others—”

  “Yes, yes, of course. But few have the passion for seeking out heresy that you have. A bit strange when one considers that you are not really a churchman yourself but a . . . lawyer.”

  Thomas read the word mere in the cardinal’s pause.

  “That is precisely why,” Thomas answered, hearing the curtness in his voice and not caring if Wolsey heard it also. “Frith and Tyndale and their kind are breaking the law. The king’s own law. I am merely carrying out my duties.”

  “Yes, yes, of course, Thomas.” He waved his beringed fingers airily. “You are wise to do your duty well. That way lies advancement. And there are about to be two posts available. One is the Master of the Stool—an important job. For that one controls access to the king in his most private moments. But somehow I don’t think you fitted for wiping the king’s arse.” He chuckled. “What brings you to my kitchens?”

  Though Wolsey was known for his mercurial temperament, he was in a strange mood tonight. Thomas decided he should speak carefully.

  “I was looking for one of your watermen, thinking he could ferry me home.”

  “You came down here looking for a boatman?”

  “I was told at the jetty he would be here. He is an exceptionally fast waterman. I promised Dame Alice I would be home for breakfast.”

  “What is this boatman’s name?”

  “His name is Robert, Excellency.”

  “Ah, that one. He has the shoulders of an ox. And he’s talkative.”

  “He helps to pass the time on the journey home,” Thomas said warily.

  “Anything in particular that you talk about?”

  There was suspicion in Wolsey’s voice. He’d gotten ever more paranoid with his inability to procure the king’s divorce. Thomas decided to be direct.

  “He told me about a man named Phillips. A man who is desperate enough to do unusual work. It occurred to me that we need a man on the Continent to seek out Tyndale. It is best to know where one’s enemies are at all times.”

  The cardinal pursed his lips and looked at Thomas with a hooded glance, followed by a knowing smile. “An astute observation.”

  Thomas nodded to fill the pause. Wolsey leaned against one of the casks for support.

  “I’m tired, Councillor. I am beginning to feel like an old man. I will see you at tonight’s feast.” He crossed the room, leaving Thomas standing in the midst of the wine cocoons, then turned back when he reached the threshold. “You know that other post of which I spoke.” His voice was so low Thomas had to strain to hear. “I think it’s time for me to retire to York. The chancellorship is about to become available. The king favors you. Says you are a man of integrity,” he mumbled. “Though now that I think upon it, you may not be suited for this post either because it involves the king’s great hairy arse as well.” He chuckled, pausing for effect. “You either have to wipe it or kiss it. Somehow I don’t see you doing either. That seems more your rival’s strong suit.”

  “My rival, Eminence?”

  “Master Cromwell. Surely you’ve felt his hot, ambitious breath on your neck. He is as ruthless as you, but perhaps less principled. It will be interesting to see who the king favors. The ardent heretic hunter or the Lutheran reformist lying in the weeds.”

  Thomas was shocked at the cardinal’s candor, though not at the announcement. The whole court knew Wolsey was in trouble because he’d been unable to obtain a divorce, but such language could be called treasonous. Thomas wished he had not heard it. And Thomas Cromwell! He could almost laugh out loud at the thought that the hawk-eyed fortune hunter and sycophant would ever get any further at court than Wolsey’s aide. His ambition was blatant, but he was clumsy in his machinations. The fact that he held private sympathies with reform was not news either. The cardinal probably suffered this viper in his bosom because of the common bond they shared. That the son of a butcher might glory in the advancement of the son of a brewer over Sir John More’s son should come as no surprise.

  He must make a formal protest at the cardinal’s indiscreet remarks. Who knew who might be listening at the door? “Your Eminence—”

  Wolsey waved him silent. “By the by, Councillor, the king’s whore will be at tonight’s feast. You may get your first opportunity to practice your arse-kissing.”

  TEN

  I am amazed at your foolishness in getting entangled, even engaged, to this silly girl at court. I mean Anne Boleyn.

  —CARDINAL WOLSEY TO LORD PERCY AS

  QUOTED BY CARDINAL WOLSEY’S SERVANT

  The trumpets sounded. The marshal of the hall raised his white wand and proclaimed in a tonsil-baring bark above the general din of music and snarling dogs and laughter, the scraping of chairs and benches, “His Majesty the King.” A general hush fell on the assembled courtiers as Lady Anne Boleyn entered the great hall at Hampton Court on the magnificent arm of Henry Rex. Anne arched her back and thrust up her chin in the proud pose that denied her lower status as the mere daughter of a knight among the dukes and earls who watched her progress toward the dais.

  But Anne did not step with Henry onto the dais. Having finally persuaded him that such a premature action would only inflame her enemies, she paused instead at the table just below, where the king handed her off to her brother George. Anne tried self-consciously to withdraw her hand as the ceremonial kiss lingered overlong. But Henry, like a small boy caught with his spoon in the honey jar, gave her a wicked smile and held on. He revels in flinging it in their faces, she thought.

  She was aware of every eye in the room watching, speculating on the king’s public gesture of affection. She was glad she’d worn the yellow brocade gown and the green satin sleeves lined with miniver. The fur was warm in the overheated hall, but the matching black velvet bandeau embroidered with emeralds and golden thread made her dark eyes look brighter. The gown was Henry’s favorite and the headpiece and sleeves had been a gift from him.

  Henry mounted the dais and seated himself in the high-backed chair on the platform directly in front of Anne. More scraping and shuffling, and the courtiers settled into their seats. That’s it. That’s the worst of it, she was thinking as she smiled reassuringly at Henry. It was a see-it-is-better-this-way smile. He smiled back at her briefly—that mischievous, bedevilment grin—that usually augured ill for somebody. She was wondering who was the target of his scheming this time—her archenemies perhaps—when he lifted his glass and, staring right at Anne, shouted, “Master of the Hall, a toast to the lovely Lady Anne Boleyn who favors us with her presence.”

  Anne, though she felt her face flush with embarrassment, stared back at him, refusing to drop her gaze in some hypocritical pose of maidenly modesty. He always said he liked her spirit; well, she would show it to him. She stood up and curtsied deeply in one graceful swoop, her elbows almost brushing the floor. A diffident applause broke out among the courtiers. Without removing his gaze from her, Henry lifted his goblet and drained it, then laughed as exuberantly as he drank.

  Fill up that majestic belly, Henry, she was thinking, for she kne
w he would send for her at evening’s end and the more he ate and drank, the less trouble she would have fending off his too amorous advances. He would as like as not fall asleep mid-wooing and she would be spared her increasingly awkward and even dangerous evasive maneuvers.

  As the musicians began playing and the servants poured wine at the other boards, Anne considered her enemies on the dais. Beneath lowered lids, she watched Wolsey, the man she hated most in the world, the man who had banished her lover from court, watching her from his place on the dais, his face a curious blend of disapproval and disbelief. She noticed, too, how the king ignored him.

  How is it, my lord cardinal, to feel the heat of the king’s disfavor? If I have any influence you will know more than disfavor. And I will have influence. You banished in disgrace my sweet Percy, sent him to his father with his tail tucked between his legs like some sniveling pup, instead of the glorious youth of my dreams. Well, who is the silly one now, my lord archbishop? If this silly daughter of a knight cannot have a lord perhaps she shall have a king.

  Thomas More flanked the hated cardinal on one side. At the toast in her honor he had lifted his glass but had not raised it to his lips. Not an oversight, she was sure. But on the other side sat Secretary Thomas Cromwell, his expression far different from the stoic faces of his companions. He was almost smiling. It was rumored among the courtiers that he had secret Lutheran sympathies, which would explain his singular lack of antipathy toward Anne. Or perhaps he was just another of the many sycophants who always smiled at the king’s actions. Whichever, she was cultivating a tentative alliance with him, contriving to gain his approval with smiles and entreaties for his opinions.