In the Shadow of Lions

by Ginger Garrett

  “Your father, he’s going to run these types out,” Goodie continued. “I’ve heard she reads all the banned books, even Hutchins. Stirs the blood, it does. Stirs the blood. She has all the blessings of God and country and spits in the cup she shares with us all. Someone needs to teach her some true religion.”

  Margaret ended the conversation. “Goodie Grisham, could you please show us the suitable fabrics so we may choose and be on our way? You know how my father is if I am not back before the sun quits the day.”

  The words sent Goodie Grisham spinning off in a whirlwind of smiles and commentary, unfolding fabrics all along the tables and calling up the tailors to wait upon them. Rose chose the fabric with the unicorns that had first caught her eye.

  “Unicorns mean God’s fortune and blessing.”

  Margaret chose another design, a swirling brocade.

  “Very good, ladies. Now, I may need an extra week on these, as I’ve had a girl run off on me.”

  Agreeing to this, and saying their good-byes (hearing Goodie Grisham’s twice), they were back in the litter and moving through the streets again.

  “The heat was extraordinary, was it not?” Margaret was waiting for Rose to step down from the litter and enter the house with her. “A crock of cool wine will taste so good!”

  Rose nodded, too tired to pretend to be excited about wine, or fabric, or anything else.

  Still, Margaret persisted. “I know I’m going to drink my weight of it when we sit for supper.”

  Rose smiled and followed her into the house, so grateful to be home. The thought caught her, and she sighed with pleasure.

  Margaret hurried off to change for supper and called for a servant to fetch a drink for them both, as the day had been hot. Something about the day set at an odd angle in Rose’s heart. Perhaps it was the Yeoman, the goodness she perceived in him, although he had spoken not one word and she had done nothing but dishonour his master. Perhaps it was the fever that infected Margaret the longer that Goodwife Grisham prattled. Rose bit her lip, pondering, until she was interrupted by Margaret calling to her.

  “Come, Rose! Let us be refreshed!”

  The room was tar black when she awoke, disturbed again by some movement in the room she sensed rather than heard. She caught her breath and strained to detect what it might have been, but the room was silent.

  Too quiet, in fact, and Rose lifted herself up off her mattress to peek at Margaret’s bed. It was empty.

  Rose jumped up and ran to the door. She still had her shoes on and grabbed the robe she had left by the door. She had been waiting for this moment for weeks.

  Easing down the hall and through the house, she made light, quick steps to the door that led into the garden. As she stepped from the dark house into the night, she saw the moon above her shrouded in a cloud, like an old man’s milky eye. She shuddered and turned to look round when she saw, far ahead on the path towards the gates, Margaret on horseback, her hair flying behind her, the horse making good time on the soft path.

  Rose ran to the stables, her mind working through all the possibilities she had imagined, setting them in order before her as she saddled her horse with great speed. Margaret’s secret was out there, and tonight Rose would know it.

  Her face went pale with long lines deepening on her forehead, like fingernails of fear scraping across her skin. When Rose rode closer, and Margaret recognised her, the fear turned into something else—a tired, cold anger … a fire with the heat gone out of it but unwilling to be swept away.

  Rose pulled her horse alongside and said nothing. Margaret stared straight ahead.

  “Did you think the wine would guarantee my sleep?” Rose asked. “Did you think you could slip away from under my watch?”

  Margaret set her mouth and did not look at her.

  “Since I am here,” Rose continued, “you can tell me where we’re going.”

  “Since you are here,” Margaret spat back, “you can think for yourself. I’ll not say another word to you.”

  Margaret slowed her horse at the edge of the woods. Tying him to a tree, she walked into the forest.

  The trees towered like dark sentinels; something stirred the branches. Rose searched the darkness with her eyes but saw nothing. Whatever it was had moved out of her sight. Rose took a deep breath and followed Margaret farther in.

  There was no path, so she was careful to mark Margaret’s steps and place her own feet in the same places. She could hear animals scurrying away in the underbrush and tried not to think about what they were, or how big. She had lived a rough life before Sir Thomas’s house, but it had still been a city life. It had taken her years to understand its dangers, and here was a whole new world with its own set of rules. Rose pulled her skirts up and closer in to her body, praying nothing touched her and she took no stupid steps.

  A clearing was ahead. Rose saw a gathering of women, one with a small torch that sputtered and burped fat little sputums of glowing wax, hissing as it worked. The women were all in plain nightclothes, some with a shawl thrown over their shifts, some with wraps. Rose could not tell who these women were, for they had none of their day clothes on, the clothes that told of rank and family by their colour and cut. Underneath their robes, every woman wore a linen shift. Tonight, every woman, young and old, looked alike. There was no rank or class among them. Hair hung loosely at their shoulders. Their faces were plain, not pinched or made up. Rose thought she would like to see them painted; their plain beauty would surpass that of the European masterpieces.

  “Come on! We must begin!” The woman with the torch was impatient for Rose to finish navigating the steps behind Margaret, who had already joined the group.

  “Who is she?” someone demanded.

  “She’s mine. A maidservant,” Margaret replied.

  “She can be trusted?” someone else asked.

  Margaret dismissed the question with a nod. “By my troth.”

  The woman with the torch whispered something to a short little woman on her left, whose pale face was luminous in the torchlight. She removed a dagger from a satchel at her feet and walked to meet Rose. Rose let her hand be taken, and the woman held a dagger over it.

  “You will never regret this, sister,” she whispered, and with a delicate, graceful stroke, pierced Rose’s skin with a slash down her palm. The blood bubbled up, little beads that joined together in a red river. Rose clenched her teeth, trying not to scream, watching the women’s eager faces as the blood glistened in the moonlight.

  “Take the oath,” the woman said. “By my blood I pledge my silence.”

  Rose repeated the words. “… and may the words of our Father be my light, the faithfulness of my sisters be my assurance.”

  The woman with the torch passed it to another and opened a book. It was not much bigger than Rose’s hornbook for learning letters, but it had a wide roped spine, and Rose could see it had a thousand letters all running into one long page, page after page being nothing but these letters.

  “We continue. My friends, we have read all the way from the history of the Master unto this, His apostle who carried the message far beyond the Master’s home. We will read for an hour, then we have business to attend to before breaking.”

  She began to read, and Rose was utterly lost.

  “Because therefore that we are justified by faith, we are at peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ: by whom we have a way in through faith unto this grace wherein we stand and rejoice in hope of the praise that shall be given of God. Neither do we so only: but also we rejoice in tribulation. For we know that tribulation bringeth patience, patience bringeth experience, experience bringeth hope. And hope maketh not ashamed, for the love of God is shed abroad in our hearts, by the holy ghost, which is given to us. For when we were yet weak, according to the time: Christ died for us which were ungodly. Yet scarce will any man die for a righteous man. Peradventure for a good man durst a man die. But God setteth out his love that he hath to us, seeing that while we were yet sinne
rs, Christ died for us. Much more than now (seeing we are justified in his blood) shall we be saved from wrath, through him. For if when we were enemies, we were reconciled to God by the death of his son: much more, seeing we are reconciled, we shall be preserved by his life.”

  Her reading went on, but Rose could not bear the words. Her mind was seeing the bleeding Christ hung above the altar, the awful sight she had turned away from in the church. She had condemned the Church for letting Him hang, exposed and brutalized. He chose to die, she realized. He refused to come down. His blood would run until there were no more sinners.

  The thoughts broke open in Rose’s heart as she stared at the leaping, dancing flames. The world, the word, was suddenly alive to her, and she did not move as a great shadow rose from behind her, spreading itself out over the fire. It was the shape of a towering creature with wings, and his arms held a bowl, which he lifted above his head, tipping it out over her.

  Some of the women saw it too and screamed, but Rose lifted her face in rapture as the blood washed over her, making her free, washing the darker stains away forever and making her skin as new and tender as an infant’s. She covered her face in her hands to weep, the new life as sweet as honey under her tongue, the relief sweeping through her tired body like an indescribable ecstasy.

  Someone put their arms around Rose, holding her as she wept, and she realized it was Margaret. Margaret wore a strange expression—one Rose had never seen anyone give her before. She stared at Margaret for a full minute until she could name it. It was envy. She pulled Margaret in, not letting her go, cradling her.

  “His blood is meant for you, Margaret. Do not refuse Him. You can know peace.”

  A bird’s cry startled them all. Margaret pushed away, smoothing her hair down, setting her jaw. Her cheeks were flushed red, but Rose could not decide their meaning.

  “We must depart,” the reader announced, “but we have business.” She closed the book. “Spies are at every port. The apprentices are young and poor and fast to accept a bribe. The work grows harder.”

  “I can’t steal any more money, or my master will surely notice,” a woman protested.

  “No, Hutchins and his men have enough money. Wolsey wanted to stop the books, so he bought every edition they printed. They sold the lot at top price and when they heard it was Wolsey who was paying, they added a fee!”

  The women grinned. Wolsey had stolen enough bread from their mouths to make his own misfortunes a delicious pleasure.

  “Hutchins is using the money to finance a new edition, one with all new plates, none of the typesetter’s errors to be repeated. It will be glorious.”

  “So what does he ask of us?” one girl asked.

  The reader motioned for the women to lean in. “What he needs is your underwear.”

  The shock registered on everyone’s face. Indeed, if everyone’s mouths were to shut at once, Rose thought, there would be a great popping that would give them all away.

  “I’m not wearing any,” a woman ventured.

  The leader continued, in a louder voice now because of the snickers. “Linen. He needs linen for the presses, to make the paper. He cannot buy it for the spies watching every shop. He needs our linen shifts and our husband’s underwear. I’ll get it through the ports and out to him.”

  She pulled a pair of men’s underwear from under her skirt pocket and tossed it on the ground in the middle of the group. The women looked at each other. Margaret was the first to tug at her bodice, but everyone began moving. Some ran behind trees and pulled off their shifts, going bare beneath their robes. Everyone tossed their linen clothing into the pile, trying to contain their giggles.

  “Every gathering of women like us is doing the same tonight,” the leader said. “And there is one other request.”

  One woman yanked her outer wrap tightly about, glaring at the leader.

  “No, not your clothes, Goodwife Lewis.” The leader laughed.

  Goodie Lewis smiled uneasily but did not release her hold.

  “We must try to live as we believe, yes?”

  The women all nodded.

  “We all serve fish on Fridays, do we not?”

  They nodded again.

  “And why?”

  “Because,” one woman answered, “because … it is what the Church commands.”

  “It’s not in the Bible. God never said it. We’re free to eat meat if we want. Any day. All day on Friday if we want.”

  No one looked comfortable. Rose wondered if this Bible would make it into their kitchens.

  “On Friday the fifteenth no one is to prepare fish for the evening meal. Put on sausages, letting them cook all afternoon so that the tempting aromas conquer the entire home, making the men hungry. If anyone asks what you are doing, tell them you prepare it for the next day’s breakfast, but if they want some, please go ahead. Unless, of course, they know of a Bible verse that prohibits it. After all, we are simple women who are not allowed to read the Bible for ourselves. They must teach us the verse, so that we, too, may be sure to follow every law of God. Let’s let the men choose whether to follow tradition or truth.”

  “Aye, we know which side their stomachs will be on!” One woman said with a grin.

  Rose guessed she was long married.

  A lone woman raised her hand. “’Tis the Feast of Assumption, Mary’s Holy Day.”

  “Don’t quit,” the leader urged, as an owl began calling in the darkness around them. “All the women on our side will do this.”

  No one spoke as they retreated into the trees, each woman heading in her own direction, each woman keeping to her own thoughts, none of them wearing underwear.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Anne held her breath and listened. Her Yeoman raised an eyebrow, but she paid no mind, pressing her body against the wall, leaning her upper body in, inch by inch, until she could catch a little glimpse.

  Henry sat on a rather plain wooden chair, surrounded as usual by fanning, doting servants, including his Ward of the Chamber, always ready to follow Henry to the privy and dump the esteemed products with much solemnity. Anne thought her job here was not so different, receiving publicly the favour of Henry that amounted to nothing more in private than rank stench.

  But before Henry knelt, Sir Thomas More, easy enough to pick out for his hook nose and ermine collar, his red robes of the Star Chamber making him stand out in a room of servants in plainer livery. Wolsey stood, either having paid honour to Henry already or feeling no need to do it.

  Anne missed some of what was said; with so many people in the room, the men’s voices were muffled by the simplest movements or deep breaths of others. Anne held her breath more tightly and leaned in, pressing her whole side against the wall, straining her neck to get her ear as close to the door’s opening as she could without being detected.

  More spoke first. “I cannot reply to this.”

  Henry was not pleased with the answer. His hushed tone carried barbs.

  More’s tone did not change. “I do not know how he came into possession of the letters. The Pope is scattering them abroad, though, and by now every foreign power has read them. This is why they came to my attention first, from the diplomatic channels I maintain.”

  Henry screamed at him, and Anne heard a violent smashing, probably the chair meeting its unhappy fate. She jumped but did not cry out.

  “Who is responsible for this?”

  “Good king, this is why I have brought the matter to your attention. The people are angry with Mistress Boleyn. Everyone in the realm knows she desires the crown, though you are still married. They know she has brought the Hutchins book into the court, a court that will not let the public read it. The unrest grows by the hour. Corn prices have not resolved, and families are going hungry. August promises more of the drought’s vengeance. And their fury is not directed at you alone. Wolsey is a target as well. No one in your house is safe from accusation. I am simply advising you how best to correct the course.”

  “Burn
ing? It hasn’t been done in a hundred years or more.”

  “It must be done. There is a plot stirring that will provoke the king’s good patience with these people and this book.”

  “What of me?” Anne heard Wolsey’s thin voice. It was a mistake to ask in front of Henry—even Anne recognized this. Sweat had broken out upon her upper lip from the mention of her name in there.

  “The people are angry at paying the high taxes to the Church, Wolsey. They blame you for their poor state, for everything that they cannot trace back to the king, even the new bouts of sweating sickness plaguing the country. I have this week arrested a group of men in Rochester who were plotting your death.”

  “They were going to kill me?” His voice was not steady.

  “No, this would be a great crime, which even they knew,” More continued. “Your office is held in esteem although they are angry with the man. They were determined not to lay a hand on you, but they were going to drill holes in the bottom of a boat, and set you in it, far out at sea. They would leave it to God’s good pleasure to determine what to do with you.”

  Anne could hear Henry’s laughter. No one else joined in.

  Wolsey spoke next, but his voice was better. Anne imagined him taking a deep breath as he looked round the room, sizing up how best to extinguish the threat. These men were but errant children to him, and he was going to roundly scold them back into place.

  Henry spoke. “It is an English marriage, so it will be decided in an English court. We will convene at Blackfriars’ Church and be done with this. Sir Thomas, see to it that Catherine knows nothing in advance of this, though make sure she is appointed proctors to speak for her. And prevent any of her letters from leaving England. I do not want her playing to the Pope’s sympathies, especially since the Pope is at the mercy of her nephew, King Charles. Can you keep my secrets?”

  “Yes, your majesty,” she heard More reply.

  Anne was knocked off balance by the door slamming back. Wolsey, his billowing red robes riding unevenly across his bulging stomach, stood over her.