It had been so long since Rose had experienced the spirits of the street, the meanness that lived here, the desperation. From the carriages and litters, the early morning London streets were beautiful, the grey stones wrapped round with white fog, the spires rising far above them into the heavens, the dragons and unicorns that appointed every post from a child’s happy dream. But when humanity stirred and awoke, the fog became suffering and the dream was far away.
Sir Thomas sat to Wolsey’s left, looking regal in his chancellor’s robes and fur, watching his daughter and her servant with pleasure. Rose knew he expected this to be a great lesson for them. Seeing sin purged violently from another was the surest defence against allowing it to creep into one’s own life. The public burnings, he said, were not only good for the condemned’s soul but for the soul of England herself. Much mischief would be cut short here today.
Wolsey did not wait long for the crowd to silence so he could speak. Rose heard the murmurings around her; this waxy, fat cardinal lived in great luxury while they suffered to pay his men. Wolsey traveled through their streets upon a white horse, with two men carrying gilded crosses before him, lest anyone forget whose business Wolsey arrived on. The crosses, Rose thought, were a wise touch, as they were all that checked the wagging tongues around her. But it had always been this way, she knew. Nothing contented the people of the streets except money, and money was never enough. Poverty infected the blood with a painful hunger that nothing would ever fill. Justice herself was consumed and spat out in little shards; there were always rumours of a great Judge to set all things right someday. The rumours had not enough meat to sustain a child on, but they kept the half-truths with them always.
Wolsey held up a copy of a book, only slightly bigger than his own hand. “I have here a book of heresy!” he proclaimed.
The crowd listened.
“A man named Hutchins has translated the Holy Scriptures into the English language. This is his New Book, the words of Christ torn from their beautiful perch of Latin and discarded at your feet in a base language.”
Not many spoke or moved. Rose knew most did not read anyway—what was a book to them?
“I offer a cash reward—five silver groats—to anyone who turns in this book today, or gives information about those who read it or sell it. It contains grievous, poisonous errors, great heresies against the Church, and it must be destroyed! If you want truth, come into the churches, good brethren! Do not be tempted to destruction by reading the Scriptures alone, without aid and instruction. Indeed, to our shame, even women and simple idiots gobble this book up, as if it were the fount of all truth!”
The crowd laughed and Margaret tried to jerk her hand away, growing so nervous she was shaking all over. Rose held her hand with more force, turning to catch her eye and steady her with a cold gaze. Margaret stopped fluttering and rested against Rose, like a stunned animal.
Wolsey continued, waving the book over them all. “It is a door to hell, leading these prisoners to a most pitiful death, which by God’s infinite mercy may purge them of His wrath before they encounter Him face-to-face today!”
Guards parted the crowd, leading a woman covered in blood and feces through. She stank, her greasy hair hung like ribbons around her face, and her body was broken in so many hidden places that the guards had to drag her, supporting her under her arms. The woman lifted her head to catch the drizzling rain on her tongue, and Rose cried out. It was Anne Askew. The crowd began taunting her, pelting her with soiled rags and withered apples. As the crowd parted before the guards, Rose saw that a stake had been set at Wolsey’s feet, not far from the pulpit, with iron chains attached and bundles of wood laid all around it, several feet high.
Sir Thomas stood. “Anne Askew, you are guilty of reading the Scriptures in English to other women. Do ye name them?”
Rose gripped Margaret’s hand for strength.
Anne’s head hung limp, and Rose did not knew if she was still alive. “Oh, God save us, she’s been racked!” Margaret whispered.
“Anne Askew, profess to the truth and receive God’s mercy. Do you believe in the sacraments of the Holy Church?”
Anne lifted her head and the crowd gasped.
“The Bible speaks only of baptism and the Lord’s supper, my lord. I cannot find the others there.”
A few giggled under their breath. It meant nothing to them to see this; they wouldn’t burn when the fires were lit. Rose began praying under her breath. It was all she could think of to do, but the prayers she knew were in Latin and she did not know what they meant. She whispered them anyway, the words in her mouth like a talisman, gone over and over again. She hoped God accepted them.
“What say ye about the sacrament of the host? Do ye receive the very body, bone, and blood of Christ when ye take communion?”
“I receive the spirit of His sacrifice. It is a great sin to push me to say more.” Anne shook her head at More, and droplets of blood flung out, landing on her guards. They grimaced, and she drew a deep breath.
“I will ask you a question, Sir Thomas,” she said. “If a mouse steals a bit of the bread, does he in fact nibble away the very body of Christ? Is it the bread or the spirit at work in communion?”
Many in the crowd laughed. Sir Thomas’s lips set in a thin line and he shook a finger at her. “Saint Paul commanded that women must ever be silent, never to speak or talk about the Word of God!”
“Nay, this is not what Paul said,” Anne replied, “for I have read the passage. Women are not to speak in church to disrupt the teaching of Christ’s words. I have not hindered the words of Christ! Have you read the Bible, sir? I do not think you understand the charges, so how can you prove my guilt?”
Sir Thomas grabbed the book from Wolsey and slammed it to the ground. No one moved.
“God’s mercy upon me for my weakness!” he screamed. “If I was about my own business, I would see you burnt slowly today. But I am God’s man, and I will offer you your life if you name the women of your sect.”
Rose’s blood rushed through her heartbeat, the violent beating rocking her off her feet. She clung to Margaret, who was staring at her father in a trance.
Anne’s head dropped back down. She said nothing.
“I sentence you to burning!” Sir Thomas screamed again.
Anne’s head lifted, and Rose saw white trails on her face, where a river of tears had washed away black filth. “I have read the Scriptures,” Anne said. “Christ and His apostles ne’er put one soul to death.”
Sir Thomas did not reply. He swept his hand to the back of the crowd. “Bring out Bilney!”
A man was dragged through the center of the crowd, but this man Rose did not know. She was relieved, as if his death would be less terrible to her, and was ashamed. Bilney was a tall, emaciated creature with a shaved head and burn marks evident all over his arms. Some were white and blistered, some red and oozing. He was draped in a thin linen shift that barely covered him down to his thighs.
“He’s been practicing,” a woman whispered near Rose. “Practicing over a candle, willing himself to be strong when he is burnt whole.”
Wolsey stood and took over the prosecution as More collected himself.
“Thomas Bilney, you are charged with reading the work of heretics, this foul book in English. You have read this work and given it to others, including women. Will you repent?”
Bilney did not answer. Rose saw a thin treadle of spit hitting the grass at his feet as his head hung. Whatever tortures had been spared Anne for being a woman were surely visited on this man.
“Do you believe the church has authority to forgive sins?” Wolsey asked. The people strained to hear if there was an answer. Attending a bear-baiting was not nearly such sport. These matches provided great wit. Rose did not know how many in the crowd were swallowing back tears.
“No man, no thing, takes away sin but the blood of Christ.”
The crowd gasped to hear Bilney’s strong reply. There was no strength left in hi
s weak frame for this.
“It is a sin for you to sell forgiveness.”
“You are a heretic. I alone judge all matters of religion in this realm,” Wolsey replied easily, as if he was brushing away a fly. “I am the Pope to you, and I say that the church offers cleansing through repentance and taking of the sacraments.”
“What is the Pope to me? I do not find him in the Scriptures. I only find Jesus,” Bilney answered, holding his head steady as his guards held him up under his arms.
“Oh, we have a true apostle!” Wolsey cried out, and the crowd snickered. “What say ye about Masses for the dead? Do they minister to those departed?”
“Nay! I must consider but one death, and that is Christ’s. No one can help those who are already gone.”
This was the reply Wolsey had hoped for. An angry spirit swept over the people, those who had lost children and lovers and sold everything they had to provide release for them from purgatory.
Rose threw her hand over her mouth, trying to stop herself from being sick. She did not know what Bilney was talking about, and prayed he was not right, and prayed he was not wrong. She had spent her money on a baptism for her baby and not medicine. She had spent what little she had to secure God’s welcome for him into eternity. If Bilney was right, she had let him die, and would God forgive her that? Would the child, or her heart?
The crowd’s faces swirled, and Rose’s knees gave way. She heard Bilney yell out that Wolsey was the wolf who would not feed the flock but instead would eat them. As a man caught Rose and cradled her in his arms, she saw Sir Thomas trying to catch a glimpse of her over the crowd. She was dizzy and sick, but his kind eyes kept finding her, and she tried to focus on them, to give herself a center to steady the spinning world.
Anne and Bilney were led to separate iron stakes and secured to them by chains, a pile of wood all around them up to their thighs. No one in the crowd talked. The sheriff stepped forward and lit the fire, his back to the wind to give the flames a good start. Neither of the condemned spoke, their pale faces looking white against the blackened chains pinning them to the stake. The flames snaked through the wood, scorching their feet. Anne screamed. The wind gusted past the sheriff, extinguishing the flames. Rose looked to the sky, to see if a strange deliverance was at hand, but the clouds were gone. There would be no rain, and the wind would not hold.
The sheriff tried to light the fire again, but the wind snuffed out his bundle of wood. Again he dipped his faggot in a torch burning on the lawn of the hospital, and this time the flames roared ahead of the wind, consuming the dry wood, the flames going as high as their thighs. Anne’s shift, being longer, caught fire, and she was lost behind a veil of flames. Rose tried to stop herself from hearing her screams, but the effort of putting her hands to her ears swept her off balance again, and her rescuer pulled her from the crowd to Sir Thomas’s carriage.
The stallions ran with great speed. The bumps and dips clacked her teeth together. Margaret sat, her eyes too bright, a doll’s smile on her mouth.
“Why such haste, Father?”
More was looking at Rose but turned his attention to Margaret. “I learned today how deep the heresy is rooting here. Hutchins has been delayed finishing his translation of the Old Book into English, because the plague is moving again through Europe this summer. I must finish my public reply to his poisonous book and get it to the people to read.”
Margaret’s eyes were brimming, Rose saw.
“It’s only a book, Father—little words on a page! Why did they have to be burnt?” she asked. “Perhaps Anne thought she was doing the right thing, letting women hear the words in English, so they could more correctly live by them.”
“There are priests to teach women how to live, Margaret. Women cannot understand the whole of the gospel and render just opinions on its meaning. The Bible is law, and laws are administered by those with training. If every man tried to judge the meaning of the law for himself, would not chaos be the result?”
“But you taught us to search for truth!”
“Oh, Margaret, did I not teach you first to trust?”
Margaret wept, burying her face in her hands. Sir Thomas leaned across his seat and took her in his arms, patting her back. Rose cast her glance away, ashamed to witness this. It was her curse, wasn’t it, to condemn those people who were to her the blessings of God, even as she fumbled in service to Him? She looked away from the pair and did not look back, even when Margaret spoke.
“I am sorry I doubted you, Father. I pray that book will be destroyed, and all who read it will fall under your just and merciful hand.”
Chapter Seventeen
The first burning was in the city today; she had heard news from the servants. Closing her eyes, Anne saw the Pope’s reedy, grim fingers encircling the city, choking believers, weighing purses and loyalties. Reformers wanted nothing but God’s law taught plainly; the Church taught that this would lead only to chaos, if every man judged the law for himself.
Anne looked out over the Thames and knew she was the only woman with such a close view of this truth. She watched Henry, day by day, choosing whom to believe and when. He kept the Church close, despising its passions and coveting its power. He gave free reign to Sir Thomas to scourge and burn believers who presented inconvenient arguments of reason. More and Wolsey, who mocked grace and mercy, were destroying the city. She had heard such rumours about Sir Thomas that they set her teeth on edge. He persecuted heretics and scooped beggars and lost souls from the streets, forcing them to work in terrible conditions, living as slaves in his house. His wife had died under mysterious conditions, she had heard, no doubt driven to her death by his violent manner. Any man who was so cruel to heretics in public could only be a monster in private. Anne was sorry for his children and their certain suffering.
Henry would give him free reign to murder as it pleased the Pope, until the Pope gave him the annulment so he could marry Anne. She shuddered and was glad she had only peeked at the Hutchins book in her rooms, never submerging herself completely in the pages. She would not be drawn further in.
She inhaled and caught a whiff of fire. Probably a fire from the kitchens behind her in Greenwich Castle, but the smell of the roasting spits turned her stomach. She had business with the cook, however. She needed to speak to him.
As she walked from the kitchens, back through the portico shaped like a sun, the warm stones under her feet, she heard the hooves of horses and saw a servant running to raise the royal flag. Henry was back in residence. Anne rushed to find a place to hide. She was ashamed and betrayed, having trusted in him. She had thought he was becoming a man of comfort and righteousness. But he had spent all his good intentions in Catherine’s bed, hadn’t he? Anne looked the fool. Whether queen or concubine, forever she would be giving her heart and losing her dignity, in a dance that returned her again and again to this cowering moment. Shame burned in her stomach, branding her cheeks with red blotches. How could she have been stirred to love him? How could he have slept with Catherine if he professed to love Anne? She had not slept with Henry, but this was in obedience to God’s law. How would God let her be humiliated for it?
A whiff of the fires caught her again, turning her stomach. God was on no one’s side in this. Anne frowned.
A hand on her shoulder made her jump. Her Yeoman had found her, huddled in a dark hallway, unsure of where to run. It was a gesture that could cost him his life, but neither moved. His grip flooded her with peace. She closed her eyes, letting it wash down her body and work into every knotted muscle. She remembered being a child, when her father would cradle her or her brother would take her hand as they walked. There was still goodness in the world, she thought. There was still hope.
He dropped his hand and led her back into the portico. Henry was just entering and saw her. The Yeoman stepped into the shadows. Anne reached for him, but he was gone.
Henry took the distance between them in four strides. He towered over her, taking her hands in his own an
d lifting them to his lips. She was pulled into his embrace. His hands circling around her waist, she was tempted to believe she was wrong. Henry stroked the hair back from Anne’s face, tucking it behind her ear, her jeweled crescent hairpiece letting too much hair spring loose. Henry ran his fingers over her face, setting little curls back into place.
She looked at him as he loomed over her. Her doubts were too weak to stand in his presence. He bent to kiss her, but she pulled back.
“What is it, Anne? Am I not to have even this?” His voice had an edge.
“I thought you would have had your fill,” Anne replied, her heart pounding. She couldn’t believe she had the sudden strength to test him. It was strange to her that he could make her so weak and so enraged in the same breath.
“And if I had, what business is it of yours?” He could turn in the same breath too.
She saw the courtiers all frozen, some from fear at witnessing an intimate moment, others in great hunger for more detail. This would make the gossips favoured seating partners at tonight’s dinner.
“Leave off!” he shouted. Everyone fled like scurrying mice.
Now Anne was completely alone, drifting in the center of the portico. Henry circled around her, his anger setting itself in his jaw, flashing in his eyes. She looked down at her feet. The hairs along her arms prickled and rose. She could sense Henry behind her.
His arm shot out, grabbing her around the waist, and she screamed as he dragged her into the shadows.
They were alone in a stairwell, the cool air tainted with the scent of mould and leaching moss.
“I’ll not be made sport of in public,” he said.
“You come from Catherine’s bed and accuse me of making sport with you?” she asked.
“Anne, she sent her case to the Pope, refusing to acknowledge me as her authority. I went there to convince her to step aside with grace, to save what little dignity she has left.”
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