The Heretic’s Wife

by Brenda Rickman Vantrease

  —STATEMENT MADE BY JAMES BAINHAM

  UPON HIS BURNING, APRIL 1532

  Cold crept into the back of the wagon with the evening shadows. John Frith pulled his wool coat tightly about him and tried to think. Most likely, his captors were taking him either to Bishop Stokesley in London or to Thomas More’s house where he was certain to suffer the kind of illegal interrogation that More had been conducting for years. His best chance of escape was before they reached their destination.

  One of the men had ridden on ahead—no doubt to collect his reward for running his prey to ground—and one of them was driving the team of horses. That increased his odds, but the giant grinning beside him with dagger drawn was big enough to snap him in two. John had initially tried to engage him, hoping to win over his sympathy. Apparently he had none.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “You’ll know when we get there.”

  “I don’t suppose you would consider tying my hands in front instead of behind? If you are delivering me to the bishop, he might not want damaged goods.”

  The guard looked suspicious. “What difference does it make where they’re tied?”

  “My arm has gone numb, and my wrist keeps bumping against the rail.”

  “It’s just an hour back to London.”

  The wagon bumped and jolted to the rhythmic clip-clopping of the horses and the creaking of the iron wheels. John closed his eyes, pretending to sleep, while his mind darted into blind alleys. If he was going to escape he had to make them stop somehow. Maybe he could fake some kind of seizure to create a diversion. But he would have to be fast, would have to take the guard by surprise. And they would have to be someplace other than this open road so that he could find cover if he made it out of the wagon alive.

  As they neared Bishopsgate, he heard hoofbeats approaching. He was reconstructing in his mind the layout of the alleys and lanes around Bishops-gate when the hoofbeats ceased abruptly. The wheels creaked to a halt as the driver reined in.

  Now! This was his chance to bolt if he could take the guard by surprise. From his sleeping posture, John opened his eyes halfway to calculate his timing. His eyes popped wide open. Soldiers! The riders wore the king’s livery. The guard shifted closer to him.

  “We’ve a prisoner for Bishop Stokesley,” the driver said, his voice carrying to the back of the wagon. John opened his mouth to speak. The dagger poked his side, a gentle reminder from the guard.

  “Who is he?” One of the soldiers peered into the wagon.

  “Frith,” John shouted. “John Frith.” The dagger dug into his side, but he knew they would not kill him here. This was his only chance.

  “I am a scholar from Antwerp, come to see Master Cromwell. These men are holding me against my will. They are thugs and robbers.”

  John felt the dagger dig deeper, thankful for his heavy mantle and thick serge doublet. “Take me to Master Cromwell—”

  “He’s a heretic,” his guard growled. “The bishop has ordered his arrest.”

  “I have been wrongfully abducted. Under Parliament’s new law, the bishop has no jurisdiction for arrest and detention. If I am to be held on charges, I must be held by the king, not the bishop.”

  The soldier looked thoughtful.

  “Take me to Master Cromwell, if you doubt it. If I am wrong, you can deliver me to the bishop yourself. If I am right, you will have prevented a miscarriage of justice and earned Master Cromwell’s favor.”

  The soldiers conferred briefly, and then to John’s great relief, one of them indicated with a jerk of his head that the driver of the wagon should get in the back with the prisoner. He handed the reins of his horse to his companion and took the driver’s seat. Within an hour, John was in custody of Constable Kingston of the Tower.

  John’s first night in the Tower proved not to be as bad as he had feared. The old warder on duty led him to his cell, saying that the constable had already retired to his private quarters and would question the prisoner on the morrow. At least there was a window, high and open to the sky, which would give some light come morning. The starlight filtering through it now revealed the bleakness of the stark little chamber. A mattress with a straw ticking still clean-smelling enough to be preferable to the cold stone floor was the only furnishing.

  He was also given a decent meal, though no one had asked him to pay for it, which was good, because he had only one coin for his passage home sewn into the hem of his cloak. He was determined he would not spend that even if he starved.

  He was so exhausted he slept well, and to his surprise was given breakfast the next morning, not hearty, just a stale piece of bread and some thin porridge, yet a man could live on it. But how did a man exist without books and writing materials? He couldn’t even write to Kate to tell her his arrival was not as imminent as he had thought. If he could just tell her he’d encountered a small delay, not to worry, all would still be well, it would set his mind at ease.

  He pondered the thickness of the stone casement and was wondering if anyone had ever escaped from such a fortress when his cell door opened and two men walked in. The tall one with the short sword strapped around his velvet doublet introduced himself as the constable. His companion was also richly dressed but in a velvet cap and robe, obviously a man of some importance, though nothing in his appearance bespoke the noble courtier. Neither did he look like a bishop.

  “Master Frith, I will have to admit, I am well pleased to make your acquaintance. I have been curious about you.”

  “This is Master Cromwell,” the constable said. “He takes a special interest in all prisoners who are charged with heresy. You are under his specific jurisdiction, but as I’ve been told by your arresting officers, you already know that.”

  John clambered up from the floor, gathering his dignity as best he could, and gave a small bow of recognition to one of the most powerful men at court. “Master Cromwell, all of England has heard of you, but how came you to know of me?”

  Cromwell smiled. “I have read your Disputation of Purgatory.”

  “I am honored,” John said, taking full measure of the man, surmising that he was susceptible to flattery. “The more so that the reading of my work defines you as a man of courage since it is banned.”

  “It is indeed a bold statement. Especially in these times,” Cromwell said.

  “It is a time for bold statements, don’t you agree?”

  “If you’ve a taste for martyrdom. If you do not, I would caution prudence. If you are prudent, you may even turn this circumstance to your advantage. The new queen will have some influence in your behalf.”

  New queen? Of course. Cromwell was looking ahead. He was known to be a supporter of Anne Boleyn.

  “She has taken a special interest in the survivors of the fish cellar. But the Church, the bishops and the archbishop, still pass judgment on matters of heresy through their courts. Even Archbishop Cranmer, who is . . . sympathetic to your cause will be hesitant to overrule a guilty verdict. Bishop Stokesley will be on that court. Thomas More will be his legal advisor. Now is the time for prudence, Master Frith, not boldness. If you are as smart as I think you are, that is all I need to say.”

  “You are very kind, Master Cromwell. I am honored by your interest and pleased to have your advice. If I may presume to ask one more favor, might I have some writing materials?”

  Crowell frowned, narrowing his puffy eyes to slits. “After what I have just said to you, Master Frith, I would not advise—”

  “So that I may write to my wife.”

  “I would not advise that either. Such a letter might lead to your wife or to . . . other friends. Your wife could be used as a lever to gain information or to get you to recant. Your abjuration would be quite a plum.”

  John suddenly remembered what had happened to James Bainham, how when they could not break him upon the rack, they had thrown his wife in the Fleet. Thank God, More and Stokesley did not know he had a wife or where she lived.

  Cromwell placed hi
s hand in a brotherly fashion upon John’s shoulder. “Constable Kingston, you need not worry overmuch about the locks. I think our young friend can be given the freedom to visit some of the other prisoners. He is a man of God, a man of compassion.” His lips curved into a sliver of a smile. “He may bring comfort to some of them. Also, let him see those visitors who may inquire of him.”

  The constable nodded.

  “And give him whatever he needs in the way of basic necessities. You may charge it to my account.”

  “I am grateful for your kindness, Master Cromwell,” John said, and he was, though there was something about the man he did not quite trust. He was known as a sympathizer of the protestant movement, but he would not be the first man to ride the wave of needed change to power. There was shrewdness in his eyes that bespoke self-interest, and after all, he’d been recruited and trained by Wolsey, that paragon of self-interest.

  “I will speak to the king when he returns on your behalf. The king, for all his quarrels with the Church, remains devoted to the mass. Remember that in your conversations with residents and visitors to the Tower. More and Stokesley are not above sending in a spy or two.”

  “And writing materials?” John pressed. “At the risk of abusing your gracious generosity. It would be a great boon.”

  Cromwell nodded. “Your status as a theologian could be very useful to the king, should you find that your conscience allows you to write or speak favorably of his decision to put away the old queen. You are fortunate to be in my hands and not your enemies’, Master Frith. But be forewarned, there is only so much I can do.”

  After he had gone and John’s dinner had appeared, with it was a lone candle, some writing materials, a book of Erasmus’s sermons—not banned; Erasmus was a master of circumspection, preaching against many abuses of the Church the “heretics” derided but always falling short of heresy, remaining a friend to More—an example of Cromwell’s prudence. But after John had finished his meat pie and weak cider, he did not light the candle or pick up the book or the writing materials. He sat with his back to the wall, staring out at one lone star in the narrow patch of black sky visible to him.

  He wondered if Kate was looking at the same star. If somehow she knew he was in peril. A loneliness as black as that patch of sky settled on him.

  Captain Lasser was taking on cargo at the Steelyard when he heard the news that John Frith had been arrested. He put down the parcel he was handing off to a crewman. “Does Frith’s wife know he’s been taken?” he asked Sir Humphrey, who hailed him with the news.

  “I doubt it. We’ve just got word this day. We are trying to get to him to see if there’s anything he needs that we can provide. I’m trying to find the words to write to his wife. It’s a hard duty. Her brother was a printer and a runner for us before he was caught and his press smashed. She sold me a Bible, a fine old family heirloom, to raise money after her brother’s printing business was shut down.” He shook his head, and stroked his beard, shaping it to a dagger’s point. “How do you tell a woman her husband has been arrested for heresy?”

  “As gently as you can,” Tom said, thinking how hard it would be to write such a letter—even if it were not to a beautiful young woman and the wife of a man he admired. “I got to know them both when I helped them escape. They were newly married, then. When you sent me to pick him up, you didn’t say anything about a wife.”

  “I didn’t know. It was a complication. But thanks to you, it worked out.”

  “Frith is a good man, and a smart one. He may yet survive. Where is he being held?”

  “In the Tower. At least More and Stokesley can’t get to him.”

  “But he’ll still have to stand trial?”

  “Most likely. Whenever they think they have enough evidence.”

  “Which they are as busy gathering as a squirrel gathers nuts, I’ll wager. When you finish writing that letter, give it to me. I’ll take it to her.”

  “That’ll be hard duty too, Captain.”

  Tom nodded and picked up a crate marked “spices” and put it in a pile for loading. It did not smell of spice, but Tom had learned not to inquire. All he needed to know was that it was marked with a double X and would require special handling.

  “Hard duty,” he agreed. “But she doesn’t need to receive such a letter from the hand of a strange messenger.”

  As his arms were busy loading the crates and fardels marked with a double X, he considered his dilemma. He’d always forsworn direct involvement with the reformers—there was no profit and lots of risk. No bishop knew his name and that was a condition most desirable—he’d always been able to sail just beneath their notice—just another smuggler who could bribe his way if caught. But the hard truth was John Frith did not deserve to die at the hands of Thomas More. And the brave young woman he’d first met outside Fleet Prison did not deserve this double portion of pain. If he could promise help, give Kate some hope that her husband could be free, the news would go down less hard with her. But could he really do that? Risk everything to free Frith? Maybe not.

  By the time Monmouth returned with his letter and the Siren’s Song had set sail, Captain Lasser had convinced himself that he should give her a shoulder to cry on when she received the news. She deserved that at least.

  Kate finished sewing a hem in the lining of her baby’s cradle and examined the tiny stitches with satisfaction. Not perfect, she thought, but not too bad either. She spread the soft fabric in the cradle and gave it a little push with her foot.

  Resting her hands on her stomach, she spoke softly to the child inside her. “This world is a hard place, but you’ll have a soft bed—though it may have a crooked stitch or two in the pillow.” The baby kicked as if in response. Kate laughed. “Save it for your father so he can see how strong you are. He’ll be here to welcome you into the world as he promised. Maybe sooner.”

  John had said by Christmas when he’d left, but in his last letter two weeks ago, he’d said he was passing London by and would be home earlier. By All Saints’ Day even. “He’ll think your mother really is as fat as the baker’s wife.” She was contemplating that with just a whisper of anxiety running swift-footed through her mind—would he think her misshapen and ugly?—when the maid told her she had a visitor.

  “Who is it?”

  “I don’t know, mistress. I’ve never seen him before.”

  “You know we are not to receive strangers here. He could be a spy.”

  “He says he is with the Hanseatic League, and he showed me a seal to prove it.”

  “Did he give his name?”

  “Captain . . . Lasser, I think.”

  Kate considered briefly. Tom Lasser always made her uneasy in some vague way. Besides, he was probably here to see John. “Tell him my husband is not here.”

  The maid bustled off but returned almost immediately. “He says it’s you he needs to see, madam. Says he has a letter for you from Humphrey Monmouth.”

  Humphrey Monmouth. It might be news of John. Please, God, let it not be bad news. I cannot bear it. Not now.

  “I will see him in the chapel,” Kate said. “We will have privacy there.” And in that sacred space, she thought, perhaps a measure of protection against evil news.

  When Tom entered the plain little chapel, he did not see her in the dim light. The tiny room was in shadow except for a sunbeam of dust motes from a high-up window that illumined the simple altar with white light. When she stood up and turned to face him, the light gathered her in as well, and it was suddenly hard to breathe in the closeness of that little room.

  “You look . . . radiant,” he said, his heart sinking at the sight of her heavy with child. As if this task were not hard enough already. “When is the child due?”

  “Around Christmas.”

  She did not smile at him. There was no welcome in her voice. Instinctively he took a step closer.

  She stepped back. “You mentioned you had a letter?”

  “May we sit here for just a minute?�
�� He gestured toward the bench in front of the altar.

  “I do not need to sit. If you do not mind, I am needed in the accounts room.”

  “Please, sit. I need to talk to you first, before you read the letter.”

  She went pale. “John? Is it about—”

  He put his arm around her waist, guiding her down onto the bench then, feeling her shrink from him, took it away.

  “You are shivering,” he said.

  She sat with her hands folded in her lap. He reached out and touched them. They were cold and pale as though no blood flowed to them. There was only a small brazier in the chapel, and it was not lit. He took off his doublet and placed it around her shoulders.

  She seemed to shrink into it. “Tell me what you have come to tell me, Captain.” Her voice was small, husky with fear.

  “John is fine, and you are not to be overly alarmed if you hear disconcerting news.”

  “What is overly alarmed, Captain?” she asked, her voice rising. “What degree of alarm should I have?”

  He was not doing this well. The anxiety he felt coming from her, the fear he felt for her, all was distracting him.

  “What disconcerting news?”

  “John is going to be . . . delayed.”

  “Delayed? Is that all? There is more, I can see it in your face. Tell me and get it over with, please, or just give me Sir Humphrey’s letter and let me read it for myself.”

  “John has been arrested,” he said, careful to keep his expression benign, his voice level.

  Her hands flew first to her face—“Oh God”—and then to her belly as if she could stop the child from hearing. She started to sway back and forth. “Oh please, God, no—”

  He tried to put his arms around her to comfort her, but she shrugged him off as though his touch burned. “My husband is in the hands of Sir Thomas More, the man who lives to burn other men, and you are telling me not to be overly alarmed!”