She handed the boy a silver groat and he fairly skipped back down to the steps at the bottom of the garden, back on the barge to return to the city. He had been thrilled to deliver the papers because it lined his pocket. His mother might eat well tonight, or his sister. Sir Thomas’s impending death was feeding the world, Rose thought bitterly. They were feasting upon him already.
The papers, signed with a seal from the Star Chamber of King Henry, read:
That he should be carried back to the Tower of London and from thence drawn on a hurdle through the City of London to Tyburn, there to be hanged till he should be half dead; that he should be cut down alive, his privy parts cut off, his belly ripped, his bowels burnt, his four quarters set up over four gates of the City, and his head upon London Bridge.
Rose braced herself and went inside.
“They will be coming! We must save what we can.” Candice was in the room, ghostlike, lifting a silver candlestick and setting it inside a pillowcase. She was taking the silver, leaving the portrait Holbein had done of the family, looking with an ashen face round the room.
“Who will be coming? Who will be coming?” Margaret demanded.
Candice didn’t respond.
Margaret grabbed her, shaking her until Candice’s face settled on hers.
“The king’s men. When your father is dead, all his property is forfeit. You will be turned out,” Candice said.
“But he is not dead yet! There is still hope!” Rose cried.
“Children, go through the house. Bring me everything Father has written to you. All our books too.” Margaret commanded.
Margaret herself ran into his office, bringing out papers and banned books he had hunted. She threw them into a pile in the garden and set it on fire. She grabbed a Hutchins book to throw in, but Rose stopped her.
“What else do we have left to cling to but these words?”
“Look what they have done, Rose! Everything my father did was to prevent these words from being in the hands of little fools like you! And look what mischief they have done! Laws overturned, churches desecrated, priests treated like criminals!”
“But I have read this book, Margaret. It says none of those things. It gives life to those who read it, not death!”
Margaret began to laugh.
“What is amusing?” Rose asked, confused.
Margaret refused to answer. Instead she turned to the children gathered around her, their chins trembling, fingers in their mouths. “I will encourage Father to sign the Act of Supremacy. He was once Henry’s favoured servant, and his life will be spared if he agrees to this. Do not give up hope!”
Rose waited at the edge of the garden. Everything was lifeless. Winter’s rains and winds had stripped the leaves from every plant. Those that remained were curled and brown. She pulled her shawl around her shoulders, waiting for her mistress.
Margaret was looking out over the black water, watching the barge move away into the grey fog. She had received a letter, written in coarse charcoal, from her father. As Margaret read it aloud, Rose came to understood its content in just a few sentences.
He was unwell, dying from the imprisonment. He did not know if he would be well enough to walk to his own execution. They had beheaded Cardinal Fisher this week. The letter said that cannons were fired to alert the king his enemy was dead. That was how Sir Thomas knew his own time was close. At least these were the words that Margaret shared aloud.
Weeks had passed since he had arrived in the Tower, each cold winter week falling upon the next, a stinking pile of frustrations. Margaret was at the end of her third month of helplessness. Sir Thomas still refused to sign the Act. He refused to comment at all on Henry’s marriage to Anne Boleyn or the break with the church. He found death preferable to a life with his children—this was how Margaret put it to Rose.
Margaret had not yet sent Rose away. Rose did not know why. Rose preferred life on the street, the freedom she had once known, to this prison. There were other women, she knew, women who had lost sons and husbands, who read these same words. Many were in the Tower themselves, dying slow, shameful deaths. If their families had no money, they would not be able to pay the guards for food, or a shawl to keep warm, or even clean straw for a toilet. Rose could help them. She knew how to earn money. Anything could be forgiven to save these martyrs. She would not let these people die the same lonely, unloved, uncertain deaths of her brothers.
Margaret refused to release her. She only smiled, seeing something in Rose’s future that was secret and delicious, wanting to wait for it to spring up.
Rose had kept the Bible, seared at the edges. She read it alone, at night, seeing Margaret’s sneer through the dim candlelight as she glided past.
Now Margaret broke the silence. “There is other news, the boy bringing the letter told me. Servants are falling ill at the palace all around Anne. It begins with a red spotted rash, red eyes, and spots even inside their mouths. It’s from the devil, they say, the stinking pits of hell. They’re afraid of the light, say it hurts their eyes. My only comfort is that Anne Boleyn can no longer hide who or what she is. She is a witch. She has no more victims in the court, so she turns on her servants. She’s already gotten rid of the men who opposed her: Are they not all dead? Cardinal Fisher is dead, Cardinal Wolsey is dead, my father in the Tower, a condemned man. Can you not see her whole and only goal has been to exterminate the church? Father is a good man, a strong man, to resist her to the end.”
Margaret had that faraway sound in her voice, but a new pride in her father was seeping into it.
“What news of the king?” Rose asked. “Has he received your petition for your father’s life?”
“I do not know. Henry has fled to Hampton Court. He wants no part of this new sickness.”
“Margaret, you must release me! I can do no good here! Let me return to the city, where at least I can tend to my people!”
“Your people?” Margaret laughed. “The only family you have are those pock-faced wenches, selling their bodies for a bowl of soup. Your brothers are dead, your son is dead—there is no one left who loves you, Rose.”
“How did you know?”
“Father knew everything about you when you came here. You were his little experiment in social justice, to show those at court that even the basest person could be elevated through education. He used you to gain acceptance for his ideas, his methods. The more nobles paraded through our living room and saw you at your embroidery, or reading your hornbook, the higher father moved through the ranks of court. You served him well, Rose. Or didn’t you?”
Rose slapped her.
“It doesn’t matter. You’ve done more for him than you know.” She was smiling. “But if you want to run away, I will take you to the city myself. We have an engagement.”
She shoved the letter to Rose and walked away. Rose read it for herself, stopping with a sharp breath at the end.
The execution date was set.
Chaper Twenty-seven
Anne looked away as her servants emptied the bowl. She could not stop retching. The river winds rocking the boat were a curse to her.
Her servants fanned her religiously though it was cold. Anne should have been shivering, but she was hot. Nothing comforted her or calmed her stomach. When they pulled into the dock of Hampton Court and the guards rushed to help the women out, Anne exhaled her sigh of relief.
She was out of the barge before the men could open the door to her litter. She slipped on the wet grass, but another boy caught her, blushing with shame. Anne wondered if it was modesty or if he, too, had heard the rumours.
Anne would not allow these thoughts. They would be treason, punishable by death. To accuse Anne of infidelity put Henry’s line of succession in question. It could unseat him and plunge the realm into civil war. Anne kept a close ear to the rumours, trying to ferret out the source, but she could not. It was as if the devil himself were at court whispering in people’s ears.
The sun broke through the heavy c
louds, touching her face. Anne stopped and inhaled, letting the breath go deep within, like a draught of crisp spring water. All would be well yet.
The litter whisked her through the entrance into base court, shielding her from the awful odours that could waft up from the Great Hall of Easement. Anne stepped out, her mind and stomach swimming as she was assaulted by the vast number of turrets, windows, and chimneys all around. The faces of dead Roman emperors glared at her from high above as the water clock struck the hour, telling her the tide was turning. Anne was glad to be done with the trip.
The cobbled courtyard made her unsteady on her feet; her pattens dug into her soft soles and she minced her steps, reaching out for her Yeoman. His arm was like an iron bar, and she clung to it.
From a dark staircase a throng of people burst forth, Henry and Jane in the center.
Anne tried to smile, but the skin was stretched thin across her lips.
The two groups stopped, and neither side of courtiers knew the protocol for the moment. It was Henry who moved first. He dropped the hand of Jane, who receded into the shadows, fleeing with soft giggles among her maids.
“Anne. Are you well? I heard rumours of measles at the palace.”
“I couldn’t stay there.”
He circled, cocking his head as he studied her. “Why? Why would you follow me here?”
“Come and kiss your wife, Henry.” She extended her arms to him.
“How does Elizabeth fare?” he asked. “Is she well?”
“Her nursemaid says she’s grown with great vigor!” she replied, waiting.
Henry took her arms, pulling her in, kissing her on the mouth in full view of her court and the women who giggled in the windows above. Anne could see their white faces, set on either side of Wolsey’s coat of arms, little fat cherubs hoisting his name above her. She turned her body a bit to the side so none of them would miss what she did next.
She moved Henry’s hand to her belly, just beginning to swell. She tried a bright smile, hoping it would distract her from being sick. Jane’s perfume was nauseating.
The sky in winter could be so impossibly blue that she was sure England was the only jewel in Christ’s crown. The sun was high, warming her cold arms and face, and her heart.
“Winter is ending—can you feel it?” she asked, reaching out and touching the barren twigs of the garden. “There is life within.”
Henry cast a glance behind them, up at the windows.
“I want that girl gone, and any like her, Henry.”
“Which girl?”
“It makes me unwell to see all these bosoms and pursed lips around you. We must be more careful this time. And you must join me, my good king, at night. We can read to each other and play cards. Your company is good medicine.”
“I have things to tend to.”
“What greater matter is there than your heir?” She slipped her arm through his. “It will be a glorious spring.”
The nausea began to stop. The baby was kicking every hour, and she loved the first swishes of its limbs in her womb. Her maids slept well but she did not, exhausting herself in her prayers, praying for the movements to tell her if the child was a boy.
Henry often slipped from the bed early in the evening. She did not ask where he went, for she had rid the court of the seducing women that plagued her. Instead she would steal his pillow, inhaling his scent, and return to sleep.
In the early hours of dawn, just before the turtledoves returned to the garden, she dreamed.
She was floating in the Thames, trying desperately to reach an empty barge. Others were in the water, and she heard their cries, but she cared only about the barge, about securing herself in it. Ahead of her was London Bridge, black and monstrous, its limbs plunging deep into the swirling water, lording its might over those in the river. It would not raise to let the ships through, and they scraped its belly as they crumpled under it, with sparks and groans littering the air ahead.
She grasped the barge, heaving herself in, and saw that Elizabeth was holding onto its edge. She reached to save her, but Elizabeth slipped away, under the black waters, and was lost to her.
“Oh, God!” she cried out, awakened. Her heart was beating too fast. She tried to steady herself, lest she harm the baby, and began to cry.
“I do not know what it means!” she said to the dark room.
Nothing stirred.
“Do not show me this, and give me no hope! Tell me what it means!”
Something stirred in the darkness beside her bed, and as an enormous hand passed over her face, Anne fell into a deep sleep.
He spoke. “It is a dream of Noah, Anne. Have you not read? ‘By faith Noah honoured God, after that he was warned of things which were not seen, and prepared the ark to the saving of his household, through which ark, he condemned the world, and became heir of the righteousness which cometh by faith.’”
She knew his voice, and it comforted her. He continued.
“‘Wherefore let us also (seeing that we are compassed with so great a multitude of witnesses) lay away all that presseth down, and the sin that hangeth on, and let us run with patience unto the battle that is set before us, looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith, which for the joy that was set before him, abode the cross, and despised its shame, and is set down on the right hand of the throne of God. Consider therefore how that he endured such speaking against him of sinners, lest ye should be wearied and faint in your minds. For ye have not resisted unto blood-shedding, striving against sin.’”
He said nothing more, and Anne remained in her sleep until morning, the words replaying in her mind, with no dreams to interrupt them.
When she awoke, she refused breakfast until her servants had found and delivered the book. She began reading, determined to unlock its secrets. She had flirted around it for too long, embraced the fashion and form of the new learning and the men of the book, without becoming one of them herself.
She had not gotten deep into the book when her Yeoman opened the door to her chamber, and Henry entered. His face told her the news was not good, and her hand instinctively went to her belly. That was silly, she knew, for if anything had happened to the child, she would have known first. But she feared he had heard an omen or dreamed vividly, as she had.
He stopped when he saw she was reading the Hutchins book and exhaled.
“What is it, Henry?”
“It is nothing. Matters of state.”
“Why don’t we take a walk in the gardens?”
“It is not warm enough yet. Perhaps later in the day. Would you like for me to read to you?”
“No, no,” she said.
He rose to leave but Anne caught his hand. “Henry.”
“Let me be!” He left with a hurried stride.
She walked to her window, pausing to let a bit of sickness sweep over her and pass. There were men outside in the courtyard, and she could not decide who they were. By their livery, they served Henry, but she did not recognize their voices.
“It happened last week. Every petition of Henry’s failed.”
“They will declare war on us.”
“No, no, they won’t. They did this to spite him. And her.”
“They say an Englishman paid for it. Henry will be looking for him.”
“Nay. Henry knows exactly where this man is. He just doesn’t know how he did it.”
Something or someone must have alerted the men and they stopped talking. When Anne leaned out further, to hear any last bit, they looked up and saw her. One man crossed himself and fled. The others froze, staring in horror at her pale face in the window.
A servant came in, carrying a tray of breakfast. He saw the book laying on Anne’s bed, and the tray shook in his hands, the crockery bumping against each other. A bit of wine spilled from her pewter cup and onto her linens.
He looked up at Anne in fear. “Begging your pardon, my queen! Forgive me!”
Anne saw her chance. “You’ve ruined my linens.”
>
“I’m so very sorry, my queen!”
“What’s your name?”
“John, and it please you.”
“Well, John, I can have you thrown in the Tower or cast outside naked, depending on my mood. Which would you prefer?”
His answer stuck in his throat.
“Or you can tell me a little news, to amuse your queen after disturbing her so greatly.”
“I, I could tell news! Um, the cooks have ordered new pewter goblets for Hampton Court that—”
She cut him off. “No. What has happened that has the court talking in whispers? Last week, something was done that made Henry mad. It was done in another country. Some say it was to spite me.”
He shook his head, but Anne could see it was from fear, not because he had no reply.
“I have always been a merciful queen. You have nothing to fear by telling me the truth.”
He looked at his feet, and Anne could see the colour rising in his face. She waited.
With a quick glance at the door and back to her, he confessed it.
Chapter Twenty-eight
The early spring air was chilly, but beads of sweat dotted Rose’s upper lip. No one stirring in the house had the stomach for breakfast. The servants had set the table anyway, and bowls of porridge steamed, their vapors dispersing into the air above them. Rose could not look at them.
No one had slept; this was plain on their pinched, tear-stained faces. But a noise from the back bedroom caught her ear. Dame Alice, back from her travels, was snoring loudly. She must have drunk much wine and exhausted herself from packing. Rose did not expect the woman to be there when she returned today.
Sir Thomas had been held at Lambeth palace. Rose heard much news of him through the messengers that ran continually up and down the river below the gardens. All of London was picking and piecing together the story of their favoured scholar being treated as a criminal. Some told it differently. The fiend of London, who scourged the innocent and broke the weak, was at last suffering too.
Rose closed her mind to their interpretations; what did they know of him? Indeed, what did she know of him? His secrets clung too closely about him, and she had never been able to draw near. But she knew some facts of these recent weeks: Henry had given him space and reason to reconsider his rejection of Henry’s supremacy over the church. Sir Thomas did not have to reject the church or reject Henry as monarch; he could have both, if only he would admit that Henry had the right to reign unfettered in the realm. The law of the land would begin and end in the king, not priests.
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