The Heretic’s Wife

by Brenda Rickman Vantrease

  “John, is there something wrong . . . ?” Her voice was very small. She could hardly speak the words.

  “No. There is nothing wrong, Kate.”

  “Then I don’t understand.” She was trying to keep from crying. It had been such a long day—the journey from Clapham Farm and then the rush to the ceremony. She’d not even been alone with him since her return.

  “You are beautiful,” he said, his voice scarcely above a whisper. They were both aware that Gilbert was just outside the door. “And I have dreamed about being here together with you like this, but I can’t . . . we can’t . . . until I know that you fully understand what you are tying yourself to. In the eyes of the Church, our marriage is not valid until it is consummated. You can have it annulled after I leave.”

  “Is that what you want, John? You said you would not leave without me when you were wooing me. Was it only the chase that excited you?”

  He raised himself onto one elbow and turned to her, his face so close to hers she could smell the mead that still lingered on his lips. “I just don’t want you to have regrets. You are marrying a fugitive, Kate.” He reached out and touched her hair, traced his finger down the center of her forehead, caressing that blue vein she’d always hated. “I don’t know what our future holds, but I know it will be shaped for good or ill by the purpose that drives me.”

  “Have you forgotten why I came here in the first place? We share that cause,” she said quietly.

  “It’s not only that. When I fled Oxford I left all my worldly goods behind—and they weren’t all that much—but we’re not . . . I’m not penniless. My father has sent me twenty pounds through Lord Walsh, and Lady Walsh has given me a letter of introduction to her friends who run a boardinghouse for English travelers in Antwerp. I think I am resourceful enough, with God’s help, to keep a roof over our heads and food on the table even in a strange country.” He paused, his gaze searching her for any sign of hesitation. “I love you enough that I will leave without you if you have any doubts.”

  She smiled up at him in relief. He was so sweet, so almost childlike in his utter sincerity, that if she had any doubts they were all swept away. “I hope you haven’t tired of me so soon!”

  He opened his mouth to answer. She placed her finger on his lips, stopping his disclaimer. “You will give me beautiful children, husband,” she said. “And I have ten pounds to add to your twenty, so we are far from broke. Now let’s get this done so we can sleep. It has been a very long day.”

  A candle flickered in the wall sconce and went out, leaving only the flame burning nearest the bed, but it gave enough light that Kate could see his face.

  “Don’t be afraid, Kate. I won’t hurt you . . .” he said. “I will stop whenever you want.”

  His earnestness was so touching that it, or nerves, threatened to bring tears. He touched her hair, her face, trailed his hand down her throat—surely he could feel her pulse pounding beneath her skin. “You are beautiful,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. And then he murmured something in Latin that sounded almost like a prayer, but it was not from any familiar liturgy, and she did not recognize the words.

  He cupped one hand around her breast, gently massaging it. His touch burned like a brand through the fine lawn of her shift. She could no longer control her breath.

  With the other hand he lifted her shift and, hovering over her, moved against her in some ancient rhythmic movement that her body seemed to recognize and answered.

  Even her bones were melting.

  When he entered her, she was surprised that there was any solid part of her to press against, but one sharp stab of pain told her there was nothing left of her maidenly resistance. And the two shall become one flesh. For the first time she understood—really understood—what that meant.

  . . . one flesh . . . one flesh . . .

  His breath was moist against her neck as he said her name and then “my angel,” one flesh . . . one flesh . . . “my angel of grace,” one flesh . . . and then she felt his life force spill inside her.

  It is over. We are one flesh, she thought as he rolled off her. He sighed and then, murmuring her name again, kissed her one last time, a passionless kiss but a loving kiss, upon her cheek.

  I am a married woman now. His seed is inside me. He may have given me a child.

  He reached for her hand and rolling onto his side drew her after him until her body curled around his. As she lay listening to her husband’s rhythmic breathing she thought how Lady Walsh had been right—on all counts—though she had not mentioned the delicious lassitude that followed the marital act. Kate drifted pleasantly in that little space between wakefulness and oblivion. She wished John had not gone to sleep so suddenly. She stroked his hair gently and whispered his name. He did not stir.

  The candle had guttered out, but a full moon was setting just outside the large mullioned double window, spreading its light across the bed. It shone across John’s face. She shifted the cover to deflect the light.

  Lunar madness. That was what the old wives said would happen if the moon shone across a sleeping person’s face.

  Maybe he was already a little mad. Maybe they both were. But she was happy in her madness. She snuggled against the solid weight of him as he slept next to her, and she felt safe for the first time in a long time.

  The ivy carved in the bedpost twisted and curved in its climb up to where Adam and Eve stood below the Tree of Life. As she closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep, Kate did not see the tiny serpent’s head crowning the largest vine, buried deep within the shadow of the leafiest bough.

  FIFTEEN

  Thou shalt not uncover the nakedness of thy brother’s wife: it is thy brother’s nakedness.

  —FROM LEVITICUS 18:16 (USED BY HENRY VIII AS JUSTIFICATION FOR ANNULMENT OF HIS MARRIAGE TO KATHERINE OF ARAGON)

  Tom Lasser scanned the horizon as he guided his ship into the cove. Nothing. Yet it was usually what you didn’t see that posed the greatest threat. He’d been around long enough to know a customs agent when he saw one, and the Bristol docks, usually so free, today had been pocked with them. “Thick as fleas,” he’d said to the landlord of the pump room where he’d ordered his ale and meat pie.

  “It’s a man they’re looking for this time,” the publican said as he wiped the tankard with a dirty towel, “not contraband.”

  “If that’s for me, use a clean towel, please,” Tom said. Then he added, “Must have stolen the archbishop’s purse to draw so many. Where do they think he’d be running to from the west side of England? Five shillings and a couple of hours would get him from East Anglia across the North Sea Channel, and he’s on the Continent. From here, it’s five hundred miles around the bottom. Man would be a fool to choose Bristol Channel.”

  “Or a fox,” the publican said, still wiping. “Romney Marsh and that whole east coast is crawling with informers. The spotters say More and the archbishop want this one real bad and are willing to pay. They think he’ll lead them to that Bible translator. Just don’t be taking on any strange passengers is my advice, Captain.” He held the glass up to the light. “That be good enough for you?”

  “Good enough, my man, good enough,” Tom said, and shoved half a crown across the table, generous compensation for a pint of ale and a clean towel, but reliable sources were hard to find—a clean towel even harder.

  So this was the passenger the Siren’s Song was picking up, he thought as he steered his vessel through the channel markers. Monmouth wisely hadn’t told him, just said a passenger for the Continent wanted to leave England because of pressures from “certain quarters.” Tom hadn’t really wanted to know more. Until now. The stakes had gone up, it seemed. Forewarned was forearmed.

  Now, as he scanned the peninsula at Sand Point, something about the too quiet look of it bothered him. It was midday and the sea was calm as a mirror. Nothing, not even a bit of flotsam, pocked the polished surface. Even the scavenger seabirds that usually trailed after the ship, circling and swooping
for scraps, were nowhere to be seen. The peninsula was likewise deserted. No sign of his passenger. He looked back out to sea. Something there—he was sure of it. He stared into the distance until he thought he saw the merest speck on the horizon, but it was enough to raise the hackles on his neck. Two crewmen spotted it at about the same time and pointed. “Captain!”

  “I see it. Change course,” Tom shouted, loping across the deck. “Hoist the sail to windward. Sail south around Sand Point,” he said, loosening the ropes to the skiff attached to the starboard side. “Maybe they’ll give chase and try to board. Make no protest. They’re likely looking for a man, not contraband.”

  “But what if they ask for you, Cap’n?” the first mate asked as it dawned on him what Tom was about to do.

  “Tell them I’m in my cabin, sick with a fever,” he said, climbing into the skiff, gesturing for the first mate to lower the boat. “Show them the manifests and the cargo. Offer to take them to me. They’ll not want to see for themselves. I’ll meet you at Burnham where the Severn empties into the sea. From there she could outrun any customs boat.”

  “Aye, Captain.” The first mate grinned. He loved a chase. “I’ll have her there.”

  “You’d better,” Tom shouted as the skiff hit the waterline with a great splash, wetting his shirt. He flung the rope out to be hauled up. “If you don’t, I’ll hunt you down and hang you from the yardarm.”

  He laughed to soften the words. But he knew the first mate would hear the threat, as would any other big ears among the crew.

  Tom swore under his breath as he settled into the bow of the small boat and picked up the oars. Contraband was one thing. A man could shed himself of those easily enough. An outlaw passenger was something else. He didn’t know what the penalty for smuggling a fugitive out of England was but he doubted it was a simple fine. This day’s work should go a long way toward discharging his debt to Sir Humphrey Monmouth, he thought as he rowed toward shore.

  He beached the skiff and, hiding it behind a rocky outcrop, settled down to wait for his passenger. He didn’t have to wait long.

  From the shadows of the trees where he waited, he spotted the four of them. Hell’s bells. They were walking down the beach as nonchalantly as though they were out for an afternoon promenade. The sun sparked off the short sword at Lord Walsh’s side. Might as well send out a trumpet blast to signal their presence. Couldn’t they have just let the man wait by himself without coming with him to hold his hand and maybe attract more attention? Lord Walsh was a good sort, but a bit too sure that his noble estate could protect him. This was not some little game they were playing. This was not like running black-market wine or illegal Antwerp books where he would be fined or his cargo confiscated and sold back to him by a corrupt official. He could lose his ship over this. No more. He would tell Humphrey Monmouth, he would run cargo only from now on.

  As they grew closer, he tried to take the measure of his passenger. The other two were in skirts so the one with the wavy brown hair must be his man. He looked young and more like a yeoman with his porkpie hat and simple peasant’s tunic than a scholar. They said he had been very ill, but he looked vigorous enough. He was matching Lord Walsh stride for stride whilst the two women hung back a few steps, deep in conversation.

  As they drew near, Tom stepped out from the trees that fringed the shingle beach.

  “My word, Captain, you gave us a start.” Lord Walsh laughed. “Where’s your ship?”

  “Well away, my lord. As we should be with all due speed.” He tried to keep the irritation from his voice.

  “Well, of course. But I’m sure there is no need to be testy. The beach looks quite deserted.”

  “Looks can be deceiving,” he said, holding out his hand to the young man. “I’m Captain Tom Lasser. You are the passenger, I presume.”

  “John Frith.” The young man flashed him a ready smile. “But I’m afraid there are two of us.”

  “Two! But Sir Humphrey never—”

  “Sir Humphrey didn’t know. I’ve married, you see, and I wish to take my wife with me.”

  Irritated at the presumptuousness of young Master Frith, Tom only half glanced at the woman standing a little apart with Lady Walsh. “I’m afraid that’s impossible. Your wife will need to make the journey overland. She can easily and much more cheaply get a boat from Yarmouth. Nobody is looking for her.”

  “I’m sorry. That’s likewise impossible. I’m not leaving without her. If you cannot accommodate us both, I will go overland with her. We’ll both leave from Yarmouth.”

  “Don’t be a fool, man. They’d catch you before you even get to Yarmouth.” Tom was trying to control his temper. All this and now the cheeky upstart was playing the brave hero in front of his bride.

  The woman stepped forward, and Tom got a good look at her for the first time as she said, “If it’s a question of money, I can pay—”

  The voice. The broad brow with a faint blue line beneath skin so fine it was almost translucent. All too familiar.

  She looked straight at him, just the slightest challenge in the tilt of her chin.

  “You already have, Mistress Gough,” he said, sighing. “One penny plus interest.”

  “Mistress Frith,” she said, taking her husband’s hand. And then she whispered to her puzzled bridegroom but loud enough for Tom to hear, “I’ll tell you later, John.”

  “It’s not just a question of money,” he said gruffly. “I might do it out of human kindness.”

  She had the grace to blush. It was most becoming. As was the stubborn way she went after what she wanted. Had he noticed before how striking she was? He’d only seen her in the gray light outside his prison cell and once again in the shadow of a campfire light. He’d thought her pretty enough. Now in the full sunlight, it struck him that she was quite remarkable with her bright hair and intelligent eyes—green the color of the sea. He grudgingly conceded why Frith might be reluctant to leave her.

  “Let’s go,” he said gruffly, pulling the boat from behind the rock.

  The two women tearfully embraced. He pitched an oar to Frith.

  “Here, bridegroom, you can help me row, if you’ve the strength for it.”

  King Henry always did his best thinking astride a horse, and the ride back from Greenwich, where he’d just come from visiting his brother’s widow—that was how he thought of Katherine of Aragon these days, never his wife, never his queen. It was all so clear to him now.

  For eighteen years, he had slept with his brother’s wife in an attempt to make an heir for England. Each act of copulation a grievous sin, each act more an onerous duty than before, until it was a wonder he could perform at all. And there had been no heir—the surest sign that God was not pleased—just one girl child, Mary, a girl child who might be queen and marry a Spanish prince, or God forbid, even a Frenchman. Their issue would inherit. England’s enemies would win the sovereignty that English kings before him had fought to maintain without ever having to spend a ducat of Florentine gold or a drop of blood.

  His father had foisted Katherine upon him at the tender age of eighteen, largely because he did not want to give back the dowry her father King Ferdinand paid for her marriage to Arthur. From the first day, Henry had thought to do his duty and was determined to find her a suitable wife. But as the sin festered in his soul so did his distaste for her. For many months the thought of any physical relationship with her had repulsed him. More and more she disgusted him: her pendulous breasts, her Spanish blood, the habit of the order of St. Francis that she wore beneath her robes of state, her excess of piety in general. She never laughed. Not even at Will Somers the court fool—who could make a statue laugh. Not even at Henry’s jests—surely a wise wife would. A wiser woman would not answer her husband’s jokes with that long-suffering smile that smacked of tolerance and condescension.

  Though he had to admit she was not without her virtues, something her supporters never tired of pointing out. She was intelligent, well read—a lover of the new le
arning coming out of the universities—and could hold her own even with the great Sir Thomas in theological and political dispute. And it was all too plain that she adored her husband, even tolerating the occasional fling like the one he’d had with Mary Boleyn. Tolerated it by spending more hours on her knees praying for him. Somehow that took the edge off a man, knowing that while he was engaged in a little manly “sporting,” his wife was home praying for him.

  She had been on her knees when he found her this morning. He had greeted her by calling her “sister-in-law.”

  “I am Queen Katherine, wife of the sovereign king of England, Henry VIII,” she had said in her thick Spanish accent, never looking up. “What God hath joined together let no man put asunder.”

  “You are not my lawful wife, Katherine. You were never my lawful wife. You are my brother’s wife.”

  “How say you ‘not lawful,’ Your Majesty, when we were married before God and the archbishop? The court at Black Friars did not declare our marriage unlawful.”

  “With your pitiable display you rendered the court impotent to give a legal rendering. A queen on her knees like a common beggar.”

  “Your expression of love for me in the presence of the court then, that was not true?”

  She still did not look at him but down at her prayer book, studying its jeweled cover as though she would find the answer there. The hands that held the Book of Hours were trembling. He felt a surge of compassion for her that threatened to unman him. Sighing, he turned his gaze away from those trembling hands.

  “True or not. It doesn’t matter. You were married to Arthur, Katherine. That marriage was annulled at my father’s request. The annulment of my brother’s marriage should never have happened. Our marriage should never have happened.”

  “My marriage to your brother was annulled because it was never consummated. You, my lord king, are the only husband I have ever had, will ever have.”