“Anne, Anne,” he whispered, stroking her hair. “Finish it and we will be together.”
Anne began to say something but Henry whispered again.
“If it proves too difficult for you, I will finish. But I will write more. Your brother, for instance. He is guilty of an unspeakable crime, isn’t he? One deserving a wretched, public death.”
Anne clenched her jaw and forced the seal into the wax. The servants slipped the papers from under her hands and fled.
Anne turned and looked at Henry, her stomach sickened. She thought she was going to faint and reached out to him to catch herself. He caught her and dragged her into his embrace.
“That was,” he said, “delicious.”
Chapter Twenty
Rose shoved the coins into the leather drawstring. She looked around the room for anything else of value that might fit. She spied a ring with a nice thick pearl. Margaret never wore it. It would not be missed. She was slipping it into the bag when she was aware of someone watching her.
Spinning around, she saw Sir Thomas in the doorway.
“You’re stealing from Margaret,” he said and sat on her bed with a sigh.
Rose held the bag in plain sight, being too late to hide it.
“She’s gone to the kitchen to ask for milk,” he said. “We’re alone.”
Rose did not like him sitting on the bed or his casual manner. It frightened her.
“What have you done, Rose? What have you infected my children with?”
“I do not know what you mean,” she replied.
“They were obedient children until you came here. Margaret is reading this snake they call Hutchins; her mind is poisoned by sick rhetoric. Who are you, Rose? A spy sent by him to destroy me? To get at me through my children?”
“I was no one before I came here. I never heard of Hutchins.”
“That’s a lie. The day I questioned you in my study, you told Cardinal Wolsey and me that he was preached in your parish.”
“I just wanted to give you the answer you wanted. I was afraid you might throw me out if I didn’t please you.”
“I’m going to throw you out now.”
“No, you’re not. Margaret needs me.”
“Margaret needs a steady hand. I won’t have her infected by the world. Not their lies and not yours. I will keep her in this house, and in the Church, and you will not taint her!”
Rose bowed her head. “Everyone is tainted, Sir Thomas. We are all scarred, we all have secrets, and not one of us is clean. This is the truth you hide from the people, and from your daughter.”
“More lies! More heresy! The Church is holy! Her saints are holy! Never speak a word against them, or I will throw you out, girl.” He rose to his feet, his face pinched and flushed with blood.”
She didn’t want to argue. She didn’t want to break him. But some truths could turn to poison in your veins if they’re not spoken.
“I was Wolsey’s mistress. He abandoned me to the street when he found I had slept with another priest. I had a son.”
“Another man has known you?” he whispered. Something like hope fell away from his face.
She looked at him plainly. “No man has known me. Many have had me.” She paused to let her words find him. “We are all stained,” she said quietly.
Margaret walked in, the door swinging in its arc and startling Rose and Sir Thomas. Margaret, seeing their faces, grabbed the door to stop it and retreat.
“I am finished with her,” Sir Thomas said to Margaret, with a light voice that strained to sound carefree. He left without looking back.
Margaret looked so tired, Rose thought. She had aged these last few months, and when she turned her head, the candlelight showed the woman she was becoming. There was so little of the child left in her. Rose tried to pretend it was only childhood passing away, not innocence. She could not live with the guilt if Margaret became hardened.
Rose was stupidly holding the bag, her secret plainly between them. But she did not set it down.
Margaret looked up at her. “I do not wish him to die, Rose. I love him, did you know that? He was once one of us, seeking patronage among the rich, among Father’s friends. A good-looking boy, with red cheeks and dark hair. He was so earnest, so impassioned. I believed in him deeply, though I met him only a handful of times, often as he was leaving a house, dejected that no one was interested in his ideas. He wanted to translate the Scriptures—not from the older translations, but go back, he said, to the original texts. He would master Greek and Aramaic and translate from these. Everyone thought he was a fool. The Vulgate was hard enough to understand for the priests. Why did we need a boy’s interpretation of the original text?”
Her voice was far off, and she stroked her skirt as she smiled. “But I believed in him, though I had no idea what he was really talking about. I gave him a coin I had stolen from my father’s purse, and he kissed me on the mouth, sweetly. It was my first kiss.” She sighed. “It has been my only kiss.”
She pressed her palm against her mouth, closing her eyes. “I want that life, Rose. I want to know a man and be kissed every night. I want to be in a home where books do not matter as much as love.”
“Margaret,” Rose began.
“We do not wish him to die, do we? Let us take the money we can gather and send it to him for secure passage. There is a safe house in Antwerp where the law will protect him. If he can make it to this house, no one can arrest him as long as he dwells in it. We will pay for his safe arrival and board. ”
Rose did not move or reply.
“Everything will be all right, Rose. You’ll see.”
Margaret took off her shoes and lay on top of her bed in her clothes. She closed her eyes for sleep and shared her last thoughts of the day. “Sentiment is turning in Henry’s court. Hutchins is gaining favour. Anne promotes him freely. My father will have to accept Hutchins. The differences of theology will be mended, and he’ll see how I have changed from that girl to a woman, how I have aided him in secret here, how I have read his works as no other woman has, with great intensity and clarity of mind. He will be entirely captivated.”
Rose held the bag and looked at her. Margaret’s face had settled into peaceful lines. Rose set the bag on the night table between them and blew out the candle.
Rose heard the rain, a thousand little drummers against the roof. The room had a chill, and she pulled her blankets up, tucking them under her chin. This season was the most accursed on the streets. The autumn rains were heavy and often, and the wind came behind them to freeze your skin to the bone. The sun slunk away, defeated earlier every day, so that by the time you found something to eat at noon, you had to worry about the night. Sir Thomas had rescued her from that life, and he had not thrown her back to it, not yet.
Margaret was up and dressing herself, so Rose heaved herself out of the warm bed to help her. The room was dark; the sun had not broken through the dark clouds. Margaret laughed at Rose’s fumbled attempts on the buttons of her bodice. She had been so sweet these past few weeks; no more had been spoken of the leather purse, or Hutchins, or his book. Rose was uneasy about this new peace. It was not from God—that much she could tell. Something had passed between father and daughter that Rose did not know and could not understand, having no father herself.
A servant holding a brass candleholder knocked and eased the door open. “Come, come! Sir Thomas has a visitor. He wants to see you.”
They followed her into the family room lit by candles, though the curtains were drawn back. The windows showed the sky being a dour grey colour, tinged with modest blue.
Sir Thomas sat on the couch, a low piece of furniture with a soft yellow covering. Around him were bits of grass and herbs, dried flowers, and a thick blanket sweet smoke. Rose inhaled, trying to place the odour. When she realized it was frankincense, the scent of the Church, her stomach sickened. A woman dressed in a nun’s robes stood in the corner not looking at any of them. She held her arms at her sides and spoke in
whispers to herself.
Sir Thomas must have decided to let most of the household sleep, for there were only Rose, Margaret, the oldest boy, and a few of the servants. Sir Thomas did not look well and perhaps had not slept. His eyes had puffed, loose bags beneath them, and his mouth was drawn tight with exhaustion.
He looked at Rose, studying her slowly as if she were appearing in his dream. He sighed, shook his head, and began.
“God has heard my prayers. This is a praise to Him, and it is my fear.” He was standing, walking to look out the dark window. “All of my life, have I not exhorted that He was close? The wickedness of man would bring Christ to earth in vengeance. What I did not understand, my children, is that many would be caught in His net.”
He addressed the nun. “Do you still wish to speak to the children?”
“Darkness falls on the land in the ninth hour!” she crooned, her voice waving and rolling in crescendo. Rose wanted to slap her. It was a cheap way to earn a living. What Rose had done had no honour, but it was still better than this.
“The faithful must endure many sufferings,” the nun cried, “but blessed is he who remains faithful to the end!” She wrapped her arms tightly around her chest and spoke in whispers to no one.
Rose listened but heard only rain. Not even a bird sang in this storm.
Sir Thomas addressed Margaret, keeping his eyes averted from Rose. “Cardinal Wolsey has been arrested. Henry accused him of praemanuire, of taking too much authority, depriving the king of influence.”
He dropped the curtain’s edge that he was holding back, and it fell. He sighed, twisting his lips. “But Wolsey died yesterday, on his way to the trial. He just dropped dead. It was grief that killed him. He was the only father Henry truly ever had, and Henry tossed him aside for the pleasure of a fleeting kiss. There is no one near Henry who loves him. He killed the only friend he had.”
Rose sat still, every muscle tensed, wondering what Margaret might say or do.
Sir Thomas smiled at them, a faraway look in his eyes that told her he did not really see them. “But God is good. He fights on for us. The sweats are striking the city of London again, and there are rumours that the plague has returned, too. The king has fled to the country and his courts are on hold. All the good people are locked up in their homes. The rest, those filthy reformists carrying about Martin Luther’s works or the heresy from that man Hutchins. My men have had an easy time these last few days, picking these pestilent fleas off the streets and disposing of them.” More squished his thumb and forefinger together as he said it.
Margaret interrupted. “You wish us to remain at home?”
“You are to remain loyal!” he snapped at her. “All fell away from Christ at His hour of crucifixion. Things will happen, things that make you sore afraid. Do not lose hope. Do not abandon Christ.”
“I had only thought to bring comfort to Catherine,” Margaret answered. Rose could see she was holding onto tears. “She has been forgotten.”
Sir Thomas considered it, chewing his lips. “This would please God. She has friends, powerful men, in Europe, who can still affect our will. Yes, you may go. Only straight there and return. She is at an estate of Wolsey’s, not in the city. You will not encounter any sickness.”
Margaret and Rose stood.
More turned his back, looking out again over his garden, clipped and hedged to perfection. “Ask Catherine to pray for me. You must pray for me too, as dear children. My enemies are many and time is short. I am racing the devil for the soul of England.”
The carriage made fast work of the deserted streets, lurching wildly when the driver took a hard curve, unused to having the entire lane to navigate. Yellow sunlight fighting through the clouds burnt against the orange leaves of autumn. To Rose, it looked as if all of England was on fire. The leaves would be dropping soon in great numbers. These, and the winter rains, would make these streets slick and treacherous.
When the carriage slowed to its familiar crawl, Margaret lifted the curtain concealing them and protecting them from the debris and dirt flying up from the street. A group of men and women, stripped to rags, bearing unlit torches on their backs, walked slowly through the streets, their eyes on the ground. In front of them a soldier carried a sign that identified them as heretics. The few on the streets were spitting and cursing them.
One woman stumbled and could not catch herself. Her arm hung oddly at her side. She cried out and tried to stand again, but her limbs gave her difficulty; she only rose after heaving herself up against her thigh. A soldier behind the group hit her with the broad side of his sword, a fast, thick smack that sent her reeling again.
Margaret let the curtain fall back into place. “It won’t do any good, you know.”
“What?” Rose asked.
“They’ll persist in their sin. It’s the only thing they’ve truly ever owned.”
The estate was abandoned; only a dog ran out to greet the carriage. A few leaves, early fallen, swirled around the wood door framed by a white stone archway. Margaret and Rose alighted and pushed open the door.
Inside the main room was a bed, with candles burning on a night table and sun-bleached linens piled high around a shrunken figure. A servant, saying her beads over the bed, was startled by Rose and Margaret’s arrival. The figure in bed turned her head and looked at the women.
“Praise be to God,” she said, her voice high and thin.
“My queen,” Margaret said, not moving.
Rose breathed through her fear, the secret horror of seeing death eating away at a woman. She would not let Margaret run from this. This was the end of life, of passion and first kisses. She grabbed Margaret’s hand and forced her to the bed.
“What happened?” Margaret asked.
Rose winced at the girl’s cold fingers digging into her own for courage.
Catherine smiled. Her face was nothing but hollows and caverns, deep etchings of sorrow. Tiny popped veins were evident around her nose and eyes, from tears that had not ceased. Every bone on her face could be plainly made out.
“I am dying, child. It started when I was at court. I knew the signs, but Henry would not permit me treatment. He wanted a son.”
Margaret nodded as if she understood.
“But young girls do not go visiting without their fathers. These are remarkable times.” The queen exhaled and started to close her eyes. “I know why you’re here.” Her eyes snapped open. “Has the Hutchins book called you, Margaret?”
Margaret went red as Catherine’s eyes narrowed.
“It has. Margaret, mark my dying frame. Look what has become of me! I refused it, and it swept me from my home.” She turned as if to look out the window, but her face fell back against the pillow, eyes closed.
The servant stood to escort them from the room but Margaret came alive.
“My queen!” she said loudly.
Catherine opened her eyes.
Margaret reached into her robes and set a leather purse on the table before she leaned in and said something to Catherine. A shadow passed over the queen’s face.
“Your father approves?” Catherine asked.
“This is what he wants,” she answered.
Margaret laid her head on the queen’s chest, but Catherine had already slipped under, into one last dream.
“You didn’t save her.”
The Scribe shook his head. “I don’t save. What writer ever could?”
“Why are you telling me this story?”
“You could have sent me away. You wanted to write these words. I wanted to tell them.”
“But that’s it? I’m going to write the story down and die. I don’t get a second chance?”
“Second chances aren’t your forte, are they?”
“I have unfinished business!”
“More than you know.”
“What was David talking about? Why didn’t I get into the research study?”
“I do not have permission to tell you this story.”
�
��But there is a story.”
“Yes.”
“Is there anyone else who would tell it to me?”
I hated myself for asking, fearing another angel would appear. I suspected none of them would look like the imaginary angels I saw in gift shops, skinny women with flowing hair and harps. Real angels would terrify.
Crazy Betty started screaming—it was time for her vitals check. She always screamed when the nurses woke her in the dead of night. Sometimes Mariskka screamed back.
The Scribe nodded and I understood.
Chapter Twenty-one
In winter, London was a feast for the senses: the smoky fragrances of burning coals, roasting hazelnuts, and the last of the young venison, the ringing of horses with bells on their harnesses, the sight of the vendors’ stalls lined with hanging birds of every variety for the cooks—woodcocks, thrushes, robins, hens, wrens, quail, hawks, pheasant, partridge—though the palace cooks insisted that from now until Lent, hens were the only proper bird to be eaten. The rag dealers would be doing a fine business, selling the castoffs from the shearers and weavers.
Anne spied a group of heretics being led and kicked down a side street. A small crowd followed them, mainly children who were glad to be entertained by a suffering worse than their own. The poor souls looked ill used, and Anne had no doubt they had been tortured, either for information or pleasure. Henry had never liked the reformists; their kind had caused such unrest in Germany that they threatened to unseat the authorities. And he had once loved the Church. Now he set about destroying it, breaking her back until she swayed easily in his embrace.
Many more people had read the Hutchins book and the blame fell partly to Anne. They thought they were safe, that she had much influence, that the crown was becoming fond of their secret passion. She did not want to suffer; how could she have led these people to it?
Anne fingered the dress that sat next to her. It had looked lovely when Goodie Grisham had presented it to her, but the woman had been so tight-lipped that Anne decided against trying it on for one last fitting. She would make do with it. She touched the design at the neck.
In the Shadow of Lions Page 17