The Heretic’s Wife

by Brenda Rickman Vantrease

  “There is that risk that profits the soul and not the pocketbook,” Lady Walsh called to the departing skiff.

  “I never dispute a lady,” the captain called back, “even when I have the time.”

  “God’s speed to the Siren’s Song, Tom,” Lord Walsh called, and then turned to the little shore party. “We’d best be off too. The priest of St. Martin’s at Worle will give us out and go home.”

  Kate watched as the little boat headed into the silver wake of the setting moon, heard the waves lapping against its hull. The hilt of the captain’s sidearm flashed in the moonlight. She frowned, remembering the feel of his fingers on her chin, and wiped at it with her shawl.

  The eastern horizon had begun to lighten by the time the smuggling party returned to Little Sodbury. Exhausted, Kate followed Lady Walsh to her bedchamber, wondering where and when she would be able to sink into blessed oblivion. They had carried the crates and bundles up the staircase to the octagonal turret in the little church at Worle where they would “rest” for a few days among the rafters of the church roof until such a time as they would secretly be emptied out parcel by parcel, cask by cask, to the various distributors and buyers who would come for them.

  The only one they kept in their possession was the small box marked with a B, which Lady Walsh now secreted beneath her bed. “It’s for Lady Anne Boleyn,” she whispered. “And it’s not the first one,” she added as, rummaging in her cupboard, she pulled out a clean linen shift and handed it to Kate. “They say she’s very reform minded.”

  “But you mean—”

  “Yes. And she may one day be queen, if the king has his way. Who knows where that might lead?” She lit two candles from the lamp beside her bed and gave one to Kate. “I’ve put you in the chamber where Master Tyndale himself stayed when he was tutor to our children. They were well past the age when they needed tutoring, but his ideas were so stimulating, and he was doing such good work in this little room. It’s quite cozy. You’ll be comfortable there.”

  She led Kate down the corridor and up a winding stair to a small room furnished with a bed and a desk and a chair. A pale gray light from a narrow window crept into the room, revealing a pen and inkwell on the desk. Probably the very one Tyndale used when he stayed here.

  “I’ll leave you to your rest, my dear. We’ll talk tomorrow,” she said. Then added with a weary smile, “It’s already tomorrow, I guess. I think I may be getting too old for these little adventures. I’m going to grab a few winks, too, as soon as I check on Master Frith.”

  Kate collapsed onto the bed and blew out her candle. She lay in the gray light, listening to the stirrings of the servants rousing to their dawn chores, and feared she was too tired to sleep. It had been, all in all, she thought, the most exciting day and night of her life, and how she longed to tell her brother about it. But he would probably only scold her and remind her of her promise. Perhaps Master Frith would be well enough tomorrow that she could tell him about the grand adventure he had missed.

  At least now she would have some inventory to take back to London to sell. She would do it discreetly at first, but if the king’s favorite had Lutheran sympathies, it was probably just a matter of time before they could sell openly again. Maybe John and Mary could return and John could reopen the print shop. He would be glad she had not abandoned it then. Things could be as they were before.

  But as fatigue overtook her the last image in her mind was not of Master John Frith or of her brother John, but of Captain Tom Lasser with his dark eyes and mocking laugh. She’d never met a man so reckless or so arrogant, she decided, so completely devoid of honor, despite what Lord Walsh had said. She pitied his wife—if that unfortunate woman existed—for he was sure to find a hangman’s noose at the end of his adventures.

  ELEVEN

  Turkies, herisies, hops and beer

  All came to England in one year.

  —FROM TUSSER’S HOP-YARD

  BY THOMAS TUSSER (SIXTEENTH CENTURY)

  Kate woke the next morning to a gentle knocking, followed by a maid carrying a pitcher of steaming water with a fresh towel and soap balanced on top. Kate sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes, uncertain at first where she was. Then she remembered—Little Sodbury Manor. She was waking up in the very room that was once inhabited by William Tyndale, the man whose name she’d seen on so many books.

  “Good morning,” Kate said to the chambermaid. The girl looked to be barely more than a child. She bobbed a small curtsy in Kate’s direction, then poured the water into a bedside basin.

  “Good morning, mistress. I’m Tildy. My lady said to see that you have everything you need,” she said, pulling a comb and silver-backed hand mirror from the voluminous pocket of her apron, followed by a handful of dried herbs that she crushed into the water. The sweet smell of lavender rose on the steam. From the other pocket, she removed several clean linen strips and placed them beneath the mirror without comment. Then also without comment, she picked up the wad of Kate’s soiled linen and slipped it discreetly into the now empty pocket. “My lady said to tell you she will be in the brewery this afternoon and she would like to speak with you. When it suits you.”

  “What time is it now?” Kate asked more to cover her embarrassment at having someone else do something so personal for her than from any real need to know the time. She supposed this was what it was like to be noble. Well, she for one would rather have disposed of her own soiled linen had she had someplace to do it.

  “A little after eleven bells,” the maid said, reaching for the chamber pot under the bed. “I am also to tell you that if you go to the kitchen, Cook will give you something to tide you over until dinner.” She disappeared momentarily and came back carrying the empty pot. She returned it to its spot. “Is there anything else I can get for you?”

  “The young man who came here with us,” Kate said, “do you know if he is well?”

  “I do not know, mistress, but I can tell you that the older gentleman who came with you left early this morning.”

  “Left! But where—I was to return to London with him.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know where he was going. Only that he took the wagon. I do not think he was planning on returning tonight because I saw Cook give him some provisions. Would you like me to inquire?”

  “No. I’ll ask Lady Walsh myself,” Kate said.

  The maid just stood there as though waiting for further instructions. Finally she said, “May I help you dress?”

  “Thank you, no. I can manage,” Kate said. The girl looked crestfallen. “It’s just that I’m used to doing such things for myself,” Kate said, thinking she had succeeded not only in embarrassing herself but also the servant girl.

  “My lady has said that I should look after you while you are her guest.”

  “That’s very good of you, Tildy, and of Lady Walsh, but I don’t expect to be here very long. I thought I would be leaving today.”

  The girl gave another little curtsy and backed out of the room, leaving Kate to wonder why Swinford had left without her—if he had left without her. Maybe they were just meeting some other cargo, but if that was the case, she would have liked to have gone with them.

  But her first task was to find something to eat—she was suddenly ravenous—and then to see what she could find out about the prospects for the young man whose escape from the heretic hunters had been so unfortunately postponed. She was stuffing her wild mop of hair underneath the cap Lady Walsh had provided, when it occurred to her she could find out about Master Frith and ask in the kitchen for directions to the brewery. But first she had to find the kitchen.

  After Kate had eaten a boiled egg and drunk a glass of sweet milk, milk fresher than any she had ever gotten in London, and learned from Cook that Master Frith had eaten his breakfast—that was a good sign, she thought—she inquired as to the location of the brewery.

  “Down the path leading from the kitchen garden and to the left. Ye’ll know it by the alebush hanging by the door.” />
  “Alebush?”

  Cook clucked her tongue. “You beint from the country, be ye?” And then by way of explanation, “It’s the broom used to stir the mash. The yeast left on the broom helps start the next batch working. So they just hang it up by the door till next time it’s needed.”

  Cook must have known Kate didn’t understand a whit of what she said. “Ye’ll recognize the brewery by the smell. Just follow yer nose.”

  She was right. As Kate neared the small hut, the smoke coming from the flue in the center of the roof carried a strange smell that became stronger as she opened the door. She entered the room and inhaled the steam from two huge boiling vats hanging over a fire pit in the center of the floor. It was not altogether an unpleasant smell, heady and pungent. She inhaled a bit more deeply. A lethargic, drowsy feeling crept over her, causing her to wonder if the ale they were brewing was so strong it caused light-headedness just to breathe it. She would be careful not to suck in her breath too deeply.

  Lady Walsh seemed to feel no effects from the fumes. Her hair bound in a loose kerchief and her face glowing from the steam, she was overseeing the sorting and bagging of small brownish cones into loosely woven sacks hanging from the lowest roof beams. “Here, these are ripe enough,” she said, passing a sack to one of the servants. “Add about two pounds.”

  She motioned for Kate to come in. “We’re sorting this year’s hop harvest. We grow them ourselves from seeds that Lord Walsh brought back from Flanders.” Then she added with a wink and a nod, “Lord Walsh is very particular about his brew—he prefers beer to ale. It’s for our own personal use—and that of our tenants and servants, of course. Anything else would be . . . unlawful.”

  The irony of this statement was not lost on Kate.

  “Your timing is excellent. I need a break. I hope you slept well,” Lady Walsh said, taking off her apron and dropping it on the sorting table. The linen was streaked with powdery yellowish stains, and her hands were coated with the same yellow substance. She wiped them on the apron as carelessly as only a woman who never had to worry about laundry and stains would do.

  “I’ll be back in two hours to help you pour off the first water,” she called to the four servants minding the vats. “Come on—stir lively.” She made an exaggerated sweeping motion with her hands. “Sing. It’ll keep you awake.” And then to Kate as they closed the door behind them, “The steam from the malt is a soporific. I’ll be lucky if I don’t come back to find them all asleep and the mash burned.”

  As they bustled back toward the manor house, Kate had to step “lively” to keep up. The woman had to be at least fifty years old. How did she have so much liveliness left in her?

  “My lady,” Kate said, catching up to her and trying not to appear out of breath, “I am truly grateful for your kind hospitality.” She was feeling her way, trying to think how best to bring up what the maid had said about Swinford leaving. “But I—that is, the maid said—”

  “You want to know when you can get your books and return to London.” They had reached the heavy oaken door of the back entrance and Lady Walsh sat down on an oak bench beside a pretty little knot garden. “Let’s rest here a minute, enjoy this glorious autumn sunshine,” she said, patting the spot beside her. A few yellow and red leaves had gathered in between the knots of herbs. She raked at them with the toe of her shoe, releasing the fragrance of rosemary.

  “Tildy told you Swinford left, didn’t she? That girl has a sharp eye—and a loose tongue,” Lady Walsh said as a fleeting look of irritation crossed her face. “She wants training in the ways of a great house. But at least she was correct in her information. I took the liberty of letting Swinford go back to London without you. He had to leave early to pick up another shipment for Sir Humphrey on the way back, and I knew you needed your rest.”

  “But how—”

  “I hope you’re not upset. I realize that it was presumptuous of me. But you can return to London on the morrow. I will send you back with a safe escort. A young gentlewoman doesn’t need to be traveling in the back of a wagon like a common washerwoman. It isn’t safe and it isn’t . . . seemly.”

  “But that will be such an imposition, and I’m already in your debt,” Kate said.

  “It is no imposition, I assure you. We have frequent traffic back and forth to London. It’s been a while since I’ve had your particular ailment, but I know you’ll feel more like traveling in a few days. You can go as early as tomorrow, if you like.” She paused, as though uncertain how to proceed. “There is one thing you could do this afternoon, if you’re feeling rested.”

  “Anything, my lady.”

  “Would you mind sitting with Master Frith a few hours? He’s gravely ill. Gilbert, Lord Walsh’s most trusted manservant, watched over him all night, but he needs to sleep a few hours, and I really am needed in the brewery.”

  “But Cook said Master Frith ate his breakfast,” Kate said, not quite certain why she should feel so dismayed at this news. “I thought that meant he was better.”

  “Gilbert ate his breakfast. We plan to tell the servants that he was well enough to leave.”

  “Well, of course, I’ll do whatever I can. He seems like such a nice man, but I don’t know much about nursing.”

  Lady Walsh looked relieved. There were dark circles under her eyes. Kate wondered how much sleep she’d had. “That is very kind of you. Gilbert has already seen to his personal needs. You just need to be there if he wakes up to give him water or reassure him. Apparently he has a fever in the blood, probably from his ill-treatment in the cellars. I’m afraid his escape and subsequent journey have proven too much for him in his weakened condition.”

  “But he will live, right? Have you sent for a doctor or a barber surgeon?”

  Lady Ann smiled. “I’m afraid, my dear, that we are in a bit of a quandary. His presence here needs to be kept as quiet as possible. There are those in the village who would not hesitate to turn in a friend of William Tyndale’s. He’s made more than a few enemies among the local clergy. And in this environment of persecution—”

  Kate nodded. She understood completely—she might not have a few months ago, but she did now after John’s ordeal.

  “That’s why I’m so grateful for your offer to help. In such a large household—well, you’ve already seen how servants yap about what they overhear even without meaning to do harm. The fewer people who know of his presence here, the better. That’s why we can’t ask another of the servants . . . well, you’ve already seen how prone to gossip Tildy is.”

  It’s not like you have someone to hurry back to, a little voice in Kate’s head said. The image of John Frith, wan and pale, his head slumped over as he slept in the wagon, his black lashes against his white cheek, the brilliant smile he’d flashed at “John Gough” whom he thought a “brother,” intruded. Before she knew it, Kate said, “I can stay a day or two longer to relieve Gilbert, if you think it will help.”

  And before she could retract her statement, Lady Walsh grasped her hand. “Oh, would you?”

  As Kate pondered the foolishness of her offer, a crimson leaf drifted down, followed by another and another until there was a little garland of them draping the rosemary bushes. Thinking to amend her promise, she inhaled sharply. The air carried the faintest scent of wood smoke flavored with the bitter hops. Lady Walsh stood up, smiling, certain that the matter was resolved.

  “You’ll not be sorry, my dear. We will make it worth the delay. There is nothing quite like an English autumn in the country,” Lady Walsh said. The shadows under her eyes seem to visibly lighten. “Now, if you are sufficiently rested from our little adventure last night, you can begin your duties right away, and I can finish with the brewing.” She took Kate’s hand in hers, half pulling her to her feet. “I’ll take you to your patient,” she said.

  It’s only for a day or two. Kate repeated in her head. Only a day or two at the most. Where’s the harm in that?

  TWELVE

  Omnia vincit amor: et
nos cedamus amori. [Love conquers all things: let us too surrender to love.]

  —VIRGIL, ECLOGUES

  It was there, just out of reach, a light flickering in blind Cyclops’s cave, and he struggled toward it, but the monster named fatigue dragged him back—as always. The same voice that had beckoned him to consciousness time and again pleaded, “Master Frith . . . please. I saw your eyelids flutter. I know you’re in there,” and yet he sank deep, deep, deeper, until the voice, fading and expanding like distant music, sank just below his consciousness.

  But he felt her touch, light as gossamer, bathing his brow with cool water. Another voice, a man’s voice, strong and guttural, echoed down the dry cistern where his will lay curled and brittle as a winter leaf. “Three days. A man can’t live without water. Dip your fingers in the water. Place them between his lips.”

  Send Lazarus to dip his fingers in water.

  Not Lazarus, though. These fingers were small and smooth and cool as pearl, and wet against his hot tongue. If he could swallow them he would surely never thirst again.

  “He’s sucking the water drops! Quick, dip the corner of the rag in water.”

  Her fingers slid from between his lips, and he would have cried at such a loss if he’d had tears. He chewed at the rag, tentatively at first. Its rough texture abraded his parched lips. It was not soft and smooth like the other—but wetter. He sucked hungrily, like a starving infant who latches onto his mother’s breast for the first time.

  “That’s it. You can do it.” Her hair brushed against his cheek as she leaned forward. It smelled of lavender. He sucked harder.

  The water squirted down his throat, strangling him. She lifted him to a sitting position. Gasping and sputtering for breath, he opened his eyes long enough to see the face of the angel who held him in her arms.

  “Quick. Run and tell milady he’s awake,” he heard her say. And then turning back to him, she stroked his forehead as all the while she murmured soothing sounds in his ear.