She could not breathe. Dare she trust him? What if it were naught but an evil trick? He’d betrayed her once. She turned around to try to read some truth in his eyes. He reached for her hand. His touch burned like a brand. She snatched it away.
“And if he does not set me free? And even if he does, you should know, Brother Gabriel, my forgiveness cannot be as cheaply bought as that remission which you carry in your papal pouch. You will never touch me again of my own free will.”
He withdrew his hand. His gaze met hers, even, unwavering. “So be it, then. If that be my penance, I shall serve it. I will never touch you again without your consent.” He got up and walked toward the door, called out through the window grill, “Warder, bring us a small brazier. It’s freezing in here.”
The warder returned momentarily, carrying a bucket of live coals.
“There be a small fire pit and a flue for drawing smoke built into that wall,” the old man said, gesturing toward the right base of the wall against which Anna had rested her back. He opened a little grate and shoveled the live coals in, then probed them to life with a stick.
“We are not quite finished here,” Gabriel said in his cleric’s voice. “I will call you.”
Anna said nothing. The baby moved inside her. The old man shuffled away, leaving the door slightly ajar. Gabriel closed it all the way, but there was no sound of scraping metal, no key turning in the lock. So much authority his clerical robes invested in him, she thought. Would he give up such status, such power for another human being? Selflessness was not a characteristic for which the powerful clergy was noted.
The child was restless. He kicked inside her. In spite of herself she laughed with the pleasure of it.
“Your child hears your voice and moves. Would you like to touch it?”
“Have I your consent then?” It was VanCleve’s eyes that looked back at her. Just for an instant, then quickly replaced by the colder, more discerning look of Brother Gabriel.
“Only to lay your hands upon him for a blessing, Brother Gabriel.”
He shook his head and turned away. “I’m not worthy to bless him.”
Was that it? Or did he not care to bless him? Either way, the thought saddened her. Surprised her too—that she could feel compassion for a despised Roman prelate.
He opened the pouch and removed the indulgences and, kneeling beside the little brazier, fed one to the flames.
“What are you doing?” She felt panic rising inside her. “No, you cannot—”
Martin had died for this very thing! For the burning of papal indulgences.
“Don’t do it. Not for me. I would not have you— Don’t renounce your faith for me. I would not renounce mine for you.”
“Then perhaps your faith is stronger.” He fed another to the flames. “Or your love weaker,” he said, throwing a fistful into the fire. He didn’t look at her as he said the next words, low but loud enough for her to hear, “Herewith, Anna Bookman of Prague, I, Gabriel, plight thee my troth.”
The fire leaped up, blue at its core. He consigned the last bit of paper to the flames and the pouch followed after. The fire coughed and hissed, almost choking on the velvet cloth.
“No! Don’t do this!” She knelt beside him and would have snatched the papal pouch away, but he restrained her. She was crying, tears running down, collecting salty in the corners of her mouth. She closed her eyes against the vision that formed upon her eyelids. Three poles on Vltava Bridge. But this time it would not be Martin’s dark curls on the center pole. She felt the warmth of the fire against her cheek, smelled the acrid smoke from the burning cloth, but she did not get up. She was conscious of his great black shadow looming over her.
“Anna,” he said, his voice low, soft, filled with emotion, but she could not move. “Anna, do not be afraid. I have every hope that the king can be persuaded to release you. He has asked the archbishop to see the evidence. I told him that I could not remember from which desk I took the banned texts. I will not give evidence against you. I said I thought the abbey only copied the occasional heretical text, perhaps unknowingly, for some Lollard customer. The abbess is determined to protect you too. I petitioned the king that you be pardoned for the books found in your possession. Anna? Won’t you look at mer
But she could not. Fear paralyzed her. Fear that she would see the eyes of VanCleve when he’d left her in Rheims, promising to return.
Finally, she heard the whisper of his hem against the floor. Felt his shadow move away. When she opened her eyes, the door was closing behind him. She was alone in the room.
It had all been some fear-wrought vision, she told herself.
But the charred coals chewed on the remains of the velvet pouch, breaking the chill in the stone chamber.
She tried to conjure the vision of herself and VanCleve, happy in the little house in Rue de Saint Luc. But it would not come. That memory was forever gone, like words scraped clean on a used parchment.
Harry positioned himself in his chair, steeling himself against the confrontation that was to come with the morning council. He knew the Dominican preacher had waited outside his chamber for the last two weeks for an answer to his petition. But the king had a lot on his mind—the dauphin in France uppermost. Henry V, King of England—and France. He liked the sound of it. Some among his advisers counseled pursuits of peace. Others war. Harry listened to both, but he leaned toward war. Battle, not diplomacy, was his forte. Then there was the matter of Sir John. Harry had gone through all the evidence. Sir John’s own words damned him. The man verily called himself a heretic! Harry would have no choice but to sign the arrest warrant Arundel wanted. No choice if he wanted Arundel’s blessing. And without the blessing of the Archbishop of Canterbury, how could he govern? Henry V, King of England—and France—would be an empty dream. But he would not put the friar off any longer. Why was the man so interested in the girl anyway? There was a story there—but he had no interest in it. Harry was a warrior, not a lover.
He had not much interest in the girl either. Indeed, he was about to cede the girl to the archbishop when he’d come across a pleasant piece of evidence that weighed heavily in her favor.
Harry loosened the strings on his ermine-edged robe. The day promised to be brighter. Already the sun checkered the floor at his feet with diamond panes of light.
“Lord Chamberlain, we are ready. Has the archbishop arrived?”
“Aye, Your Majesty. He waits without. As does His Grace, the Lord High Chancellor Beaufort. And the friar.”
“And the girl? Has she been summoned?”
“Aye, Your Majesty. She awaits in the anteroom with the Lord High Constable.”
“Then you may send them in.”
If he could get this business disposed of in a timely fashion, then he could take a turn with his lute in the garden before dinner.
When the constable ushered her into the throne room of the royal apartments, Anna searched the room for Brother Gabriel. There. He stood just below the king’s chair, between the archbishop and another richly dressed nobleman who wore a great gold necklace about his neck. The constable nudged her forward.
She dropped what she supposed was a curtsy, not understanding the protocol for a prisoner. She felt a sharp poke in her ribs.
“This is the King of England, missy, not some piddlin’ knight. On your knees,” he hissed.
“Mistress, you do not assume the supplicant’s position?” the king said to her.
She was surprised at how young he looked despite his severe monklike haircut. Younger than she by some years. She blushed. “If it pleases Your Majesty, I am with child, and it is difficult for me to kneel. But I will try to do as Your Majesty orders me to do.”
“You may stand.” He motioned for her to approach. The few steps seemed a great distance.
He said nothing. The silence was heavy in the room. Her eyelid began to twitch. A sunbeam infused a cloud of smoke from the perpetual fire, turning it blue. She looked up at the king from beneath lowere
d eyelashes. He seemed to be thinking about something else entirely, not gazing at her but following the blue sunbeam to the blaze of sunshine that was its source. A broken robin’s egg lay on the lip of the window. A cloud passed over the sun and the blue sunbeam vanished.
“Who is the father of your child, mistress? He should be here to lend support and plead your case.”
She glanced first at Brother Gabriel, then at the archbishop, who gazed back at her smugly.
“The woman is charged with witchcraft, Your Majesty. Her child, whoever his father is, was probably misbegotten under a devil’s moon in a coven circle of naked crones.”
What a vile imagination the old man has, Anna thought. And this is the man who would lead English souls to Paradise?
The king smiled. “Is this true, madam? Did you hold congress with the devil beneath a full moon?” There was just the slightest hint of mockery in his voice. The chancellor smiled. The archbishop frowned. Brother Gabriel said, “Your Majesty—”
No, you will not say it. You will not endanger yourself for me. I will take nothing from you.
“The father of my child was a man I met in France. He bought a book from me, then seduced me and abandoned me. I have not seen him since.”
That was no lie. The man she knew in France had only existed in her imagination. And how can one see one who lives only in imagination? She kept her eyes fastened on the tapestry hanging behind the throne. A stag had been pierced by a huntsman’s arrow and lay dying in a circle of hounds. The sudden insight into the stag’s plight made her eyelids smart with unshed tears.
“Never fear, Your Majesty. Whatever the witch’s fate, her child will be baptized a Christian, if we have to cut it from her womb to do so. His soul will be nourished by the monks to undo whatever evil seed wrought him.”
There was such vehemence in his voice. He really believes this, she thought. He really believes I am evil.
“Your Majesty, if I may speak in my own behalf?” Her voice echoed back thinly, small and frightened, from the gabled rafters.
“Please, mistress. As there seems to be no one here to speak for you.”
“Your Majesty—” There was pleading in Brother Gabriel’s voice.
The king motioned him to silence. “We have heard your opinion already, priest. Please continue, madam.”
“I am innocent. I am a seller of books. The book of spells found with my belongings, I purchased at a stationer’s in France. Its bindings and parchment are valuable commodities to a scribe and a bookseller. I do not know what it says. I cannot read Hebrew.”
“And what of the charge of heresy? Why did you have the English Bible in your possession?”
“It belonged to my grandfather. He is dead. It is all I have left of him.” She thought of Saint Peter denying Christ before the Roman soldiers’ camp-fire. She thought of her grandfather and his courage. She gazed fully at Arundel, challenging him with her directness. “I read it often. I find great comfort in the words of our Lord.”
The old man gasped. “See, Your Majesty. Find one heretic, find a nest. She can lead us to others. Let her be interrogated. At least the charge of heresy—”
The king raised his hand.
“Madam, are you aware that heretics are either burned or branded? With a hot iron? On even such a lovely face as yours? The letter H burned into your flesh would be a considerable blemish.”
The friar—she could only allow herself to think of him thus—stepped forward, opened his mouth. Again the king held up a restraining hand.
“Have you ever read the Holy Scriptures for yourself, Your Majesty?” Anna asked quietly.
“Insolence! She should be whipped for her insolence, sire!”
The king swatted at the air above his head as though he were swatting a gnat. “Our Latin is … insufficient,” he said.
“Just so, Your Majesty. That is why it has been translated for you. For you and all who would read it. You might find much there to guide you. Advice from the king of all kings to England’s king. You might also find that much the Church tells you is scriptural truth is not there at all.”
The archbishop gasped again and this time was seized by a spasm of coughing.
Anna continued. “Things like the doctrine of Purgatory and the sale of indulgences, and—”
“Enough!” The king sighed. “Why is it that all you heretics are so intent on your own destruction? You leave me no choice, madam. While we conclude that there is not enough evidence to charge you with witchcraft—no witnesses have assembled here to speak against you—we must concur with the learned archbishop that the charge of heresy stands. Your own words convict you.”
The archbishop bowed so low, he seemed about to topple.
Brother Gabriel stepped forward. “Please, Your Majesty, I beg you consider—”
“But,” the king said. “We are coming upon Holy Week. The week when our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, was crucified and rose again for the sins of mankind. In the spirit of the celebration of grace, we offer you an Easter pardon, Anna of Prague. You will return in the custody of Brother Gabriel to the abbey at Rochester, where you will repent your sins and study the true doctrine of the faith under his tutelage.”
“Your Majesty, I most rigorously urge you to reconsider. You are making a grave error.” Arundel sputtered between coughs. “You are sending her back to the very source of the heresy. May I remind Your Majesty that your coronation is imminent.”
The king’s next words made no sense to Anna, some private struggle between the king and the archbishop.
“Don’t threaten us, Archbishop. Do not push your king too far. England has one martyred archbishop at whose shrine to worship. You will have your writ of arrest for Lord Cobham, but do not ask me to help you trap him. You will not use this woman toward that end.”
At those words even the chancellor looked grave.
“Before you go, I would have a word with you, Anna Bookman. I wish to ask you about a piece of music you have copied.” He smiled. “We would like to meet the young man who plays our music. I understand he is your ward.”
Anna’s confusion must have shown on her face.
The king fumbled among the papers in front of him. He held up the paper she had been copying the day she was arrested. “The music composition signed ‘Roy Henry.’ It would give us great pleasure to hear him play our music. With your permission, he may someday play at court.”
It took a moment for this to sink in, then Anna laughed in spite of herself. It was not Brother Gabriel who had secured her release, after all. Nor all her brave rhetoric! It was Bek! The king had simply been flattered that her halfwit son could play his music. And then she just as quickly sobered to think what a mad world she lived in when her fate hung on such a whim as that.
“We all serve at Your Majesty’s pleasure,” she said. And with that she was handed off to Brother Gabriel.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Jews throughout the world were reviled and accused in
all lands of having caused it [the plague] through the
poison which they are said to have put into the water
and the wells … and for this reason the Jews were
burnt … but not in Avignon, for the pope protected
them there.
—FROM THE CREMATION OF THE STRASBOURG JEWRY,
JACOB VON KÖNIGSHOFEN
Anna and Brother Gabriel barely spoke on the long journey back to Rochester. He hired a horse litter for her and rode his horse beside the covered litter. Two of the king’s armed guards rode ahead to ensure protection. Few vagabonds or outlaws would accost a party carrying the king’s banner at its front. The monk—she was determined to think of him thus; how else to guard her heart?—was as careful with her as though he were a knight and she his lady from some chivalric romance, providing her with warm blankets and a cushion for her back, stopping frequently to let her stretch her legs. But he was no knight. And she no lady.
Still, how different this journe
y was from the journey up. And all because she’d copied the king’s music for Bek. They stopped at the same alehouse, but this time Brother Gabriel spread a cloth in the April sunshine outside the inn yard lest the rude company offend her.
“I thank you, Friar Gabriel, for your intervention with the king in my behalf.” She had not formally thanked him and she supposed he deserved that much at least. “And for your courtesy,” she added as he spread their picnic.
She regretted the coldness in her tone when she saw the hurt in his eyes. She was reminded of the wounded stag hanging above the king’s head. She wondered if he too remembered the little picnic in Rue de Saint Luc.
“No longer think of me by that name, Anna. This black habit is no more than a disguise I must wear until we can go away.”
“You are no wool merchant. VanCleve is not your name. How else should I think of you?”
“Think of me as Gabriel. The father of your child. Your husband. Soon to be.”
It was Friday, so their few vegetables were augmented with a bit of pickled herring.
“Where in the Bible, Friar, does it say the faithful should eat fish on Fridays? Oh, I forgot. You have not read the whole of the Bible. So you would not know. But I can tell you, Friar Gabriel, it does not.”
He just looked at her. She saw again the wounded stag. She wished she could cut out her tongue.
They finished the meal in silence and in silence recommenced their journey. She heard Gabriel tell the postilion to make haste, even his cleric’s voice unusually curt. They reached the abbey a little after nightfall.
As she prepared with relief to disembark, he reached up and offered his hand to help her down. Instead she clung to the side of the cart as her feet fumbled for the footstool provided by the postilion.
Sister Matilde rushed out to greet her, wrapping her in a welcome embrace.
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