by Jean Plaidy
Gardiner nodded. “That is good.”
“Well, is it not enough?”
The Bishop shook his head. “It’s that accursed leg. The woman is such a good nurse.”
“You think he is so fond of her still that he seeks no other?”
“While the King breathes he will always be ready to seek another wife—providing the current one has shared his bed for a month or more.”
“My lord Bishop, it was but a week ago that he said to me: ‘Three years of marriage, Wriothesley, and no sign of fruitfulness. I cannot think the fault is mine; therefore must I wonder if my marriage finds favor in the sight of God.’”
“That was good.”
“And have you seen the looks he casts at my lady of Suffolk?”
“Not so good. She, like the Queen, inclines to heresy. I would my lady of Richmond did not worry his conscience. The warmer his feelings grow for her the better. Everything depends on the warmth of his feelings.”
“But…if he should turn to Brandon’s widow?”
“We must see that that does not happen. But first we must rid him of Katharine Parr.” Gardiner looked grave. “We must practice the utmost caution. Remember Dr. London, who has since died of the humiliations inflicted upon him.”
“I do remember him. But the jailor admitted the woman came from the Queen.”
“The word of a lowborn jailor could not be of great account. We must remember this, friend Chancellor: The situation is not a simple one. When Cromwell found evidence against Anne Boleyn, the King was already impatient for marriage with Jane Seymour. Now it is less simple. At one moment the King wishes to be rid of his wife, and at the next he remembers that she is his nurse and necessary to him. To bring the jailor’s evidence before the King when he needs his nurse, might bring down Heaven knows what on our defenseless heads. Nay! We must learn by the mistakes and successes of others. Think of the King’s love for Catharine Howard. Cranmer was fully aware of that. What did he do? He presented the King with undeniable evidence of his Queen’s guilt. That is what we must do. But the word of a lowborn jailor is not enough.”
“You mean the woman herself—this Anne Askew—must speak against the Queen?”
“That is what I mean.”
“But you know her mind. She will say nothing against anyone. ‘Kill me,’ she will say. ‘I’m not afraid of death.’ And, by God, you will have but to look at her to know that she speaks truth.”
“It is easy for a fanatical woman to say these things, and to die quickly is easy. But to die slowly…lingeringly…horribly…that is not so simple. The bravest men cry out for mercy on the rack.”
“But…this is a woman.”
Gardiner’s thin lips smiled faintly. “This, dear Chancellor,” he said, “is our enemy.”
IN HER CELL in the Tower, Anne Askew daily waited for the doom which she felt must certainly be hers.
She had knelt by the barred window and prayed, and praying lost count of the hours. On the stone walls of this cell which had been occupied by others before her were scratched names, messages of hope and words of despair. She prayed not for herself but for those who had suffered before her. She knew that there was some grace within her, some extra strength, which would enable her to meet with courage whatever was coming to her.
It was midnight when she had knelt, and now the dawn was in the sky. It filtered through the bars of her cell; another day was coming and she was still on her knees.
It was some days since Nan had visited her. She had had little to eat, yet she did not feel the need of food. There were times when her mind wandered a little—back to her childhood in her father’s house, back to the days when she and her sister had wandered in the gardens and been happy together.
Anne had always been the serious one, loving books more than play. Her elder sister had laughed at her, and there had been times when Anne had envied her. She was so normal, that elder sister of Anne’s; she liked good things to eat, fine clothes to wear. She had said: “Anne, you are strange. Sometimes I think you are a changeling—not the child of our parents. You are like a fairy child, and in your eyes there burns such fervor that I feel your sire must have been a saint.”
Sometimes Anne imagined that she was back in the days of her sister’s betrothal to Mr. Kyme.
She could hear her sister’s light chatter. “He is very rich, Anne. They say he is the richest man in Lincolnshire, and I like him well enough.”
“How can you go into marriage lightly?” Anne had asked, shuddering. “How I rejoice that it is not for me. I shall go into a nunnery. That is what I long for…quiet…peace…to learn that of which Martin Luther has written.”
Looking back it seemed that she lived again through those tragic days of her sister’s death. Death was ever near. It swooped suddenly, and one could never be sure from what source it came.
“Now that your sister is dead,” her father had said, “you must take her place with Mr. Kyme.”
She could see him clearly—Mr. William Kyme, a young and ardent man in need of a wife. He was very willing to take the younger sister in place of the elder.
In vain she had prayed and pleaded with her father. “A daughter’s first duty is obedience; so said the Scriptures,” she was told.
So said the Scriptures. And she would not fight her destiny.
Now was the most horrible of all her memories: the warm, eager hands of Mr. Kyme, and herself trembling supine in the marriage bed.
He had been kind at first. “My poor sweet child, you do not understand. You are so young…so innocent. You must not be afraid.”
She had lain, shuddering, bearing that torture as later she would bear others.
Resignation came to her at length, but Mr. Kyme did not wish for resignation. There were angry scenes. “Unnatural!” That was the word he had flung at her.
“Leave me alone,” she had begged. “Divorce me…do what you will. But release me from this life which is distasteful to me.”
He had not been, she was sure, more brutal, more unkind than any man would have been. “I will not let you go,” he had stormed at her. “You are my wife and you shall be my wife.”
She would awake even now with those words in her ears, so that she was almost glad to be in this cold cell because it at least meant escape from a life which had been too humiliating and distasteful to be borne.
“I will make a normal woman of you yet,” he had said; but he had changed his mind when he had discovered her books.
“What is this?” he had demanded. “Are you one of these Reformers?”
“I believe in the teachings of Martin Luther.”
“Do you want to make us the King’s prisoners?”
“I would as soon be a prisoner of the King as of your sensuality.”
“You are mad. I will stop this reading and writing.”
He had locked her in her room, destroyed her books.
But she had found him to be vulnerable, and she rejoiced that this was so. The servants were talking of her leanings toward the new faith, and when a man’s wife is implicated, how easy it is to cast suspicion on that man!
Mr. Kyme was such a rich man; and it often happened that rich men were considered most worthy prey by those who wished to bring an accusation which might result in the confiscation of lands and goods. He trembled for his possessions; he was ready to give up his wife rather than place his lands and coffers in jeopardy.
“You will leave this house at once,” he had said. “I’ll dissociate myself from you and your evil teachings.”
And the day she left his house was a happy one for her. Now, kneeling in her cell, she was glad of that experience. It had taught her courage; and she knew she would have great need of courage.
Early that morning she heard footsteps in the passage outside her cell; the door opened and two men came in.
“Prepare yourself for a journey, Mistress Askew,” one said. “You are to go to the Guildhall this day for questioning.”
SH
E STOOD BEFORE her judges. The strong, pure air had made her faint; the sunlight had seemed to blind her; and her limbs would scarcely carry her. But she did not care, for though her body was weak, her spirit was strong.
She looked up at the open timber-work roof and down at the pavings of Purbeck stone. It was warm in the great hall, for the early summer sun was streaming through the windows, picking out the carvings of the Whittington escutcheons.
Her trial was considered of some importance; yet she was not afraid. She knew that she was in the right, and it seemed to her that, with God and his company of angels on her side, she need have no fear of the Lord Mayor of London, of Bonner, Gardiner, Wriothesley and all the nobles of the Catholic faction who were there to discountenance her and hasten her to the stake.
She heard the words of the Lord Mayor:
“You are a heretic and condemned by the law if you stand by your opinion.”
Her voice rang out—a strong voice to come from such a frail body. “I am no heretic. Neither do I deserve death by any law of God. But concerning the faith which I have uttered, I will not deny it, because, my lords, I know it to be true.”
Wriothesley said: “Do you deny the sacrament to be Christ’s own body and blood?”
“Yes; I do. That which you call God is but a piece of bread. The son of God, born of the Virgin Mary, is now in Heaven. He cannot be a piece of bread that, if left for a few weeks, will grow moldy and turn to nothing that is good. How can that be God?”
“You are not here to ask us questions, madam,” said Wriothesley. “You are here to answer those which we put to you.”
“I have read,” she answered, “that God made man, but that man can make God I have not read. And if you say that God’s blood and body is in bread because man has consecrated that bread, then you say that man can make God.”
“Do you insist in these heresies?” demanded the Lord Mayor.
“I insist on speaking the truth,” she answered.
“You are condemned of your own mouth,” she was told.
“I will say nothing but that which I believe to be true.”
“Methinks,” said Gardiner, “that we should send a priest that you may confess your faults.”
“I will confess my faults unto God,” she answered proudly. “I am sure He will hear me with favor.”
“You leave us no alternative but to condemn you to the flames.”
“I have never heard that Christ or His Apostles condemned any to the flames.”
Her judges whispered together; they were uncomfortable. It was ever thus with martyrs. They discomfited others while they remained calm themselves. If only she would show some sign of fear. If only it were possible to confound her in argument.
“You are like a parrot!” cried Gardiner angrily. “You repeat…repeat…repeat that which you have learned.”
Wriothesley’s eyes were narrowed. He was thinking: I should like to see fear in those eyes; I should like to hear those proud lips cry for mercy.
She spoke in her rich clear voice. “God is a spirit,” she said. “He will be worshipped in spirit and in truth.”
“Do you plainly deny Christ to be in the sacrament?”
“I do. Jesus said: ‘Take heed that no man shall deceive you. For many shall come in My name saying I am Christ; and shall deceive many.’ The bread of the sacrament is but bread, and when you say it is the body of Christ, you deceive yourselves. Nebuchadnezzar made an image of gold and worshipped it. That is what you do. Bread is but bread…”
“Silence!” roared Gardiner. “You have been brought here, woman, to be tried for your life, not to preach heresy.”
The judges conferred together and, finding her guilty, condemned her to death by burning.
They took her back to her dungeon in the Tower.
TO DIE THE martyr’s death!
Had she the courage to do that? She could picture the flames rising from her feet; she could smell the burning faggots, she could hear their crackle. But how could she estimate the agonizing pain? She saw herself, the flames around her, the cross in her hand. Could she bear it with dignity and fortitude?
“Oh God,” she prayed, “give me courage. Help me to bear my hour of pain, remembering how Thy Son, Jesus Christ, did suffer. Help me, God, for Jesus’ sake.”
She was on her knees throughout the night. Scenes from the past seemed to flit before her eyes. She was in her father’s garden, with her sister, feeding the peacocks; she was being married to Mr. Kyme; she was enduring his embraces; she was in the barge which was carrying her to prison; she was facing her judges in the Guildhall.
At last, swooning from exhaustion, she lay on the floor of her cell.
But with the coming of morning she revived. She thought: Previously it was so easy to contemplate death, but that was when I did not know I was to die.
WITHIN THE PALACE they were talking of Anne Askew.
She had deliberately defied her judges. What a fool! What a sublime fool!
“This is but a beginning,” it was whispered.
Those who had read the forbidden books and had dabbled with the new learning, were, in their fear, looking for plausible excuses.
“It was just an intellectual exercise, nothing more.”
“It was not a heresy…not a faith to die for.”
The Queen took to her bed; she was physically sick with horror. Anne—delicate Anne—condemned to the flames! This thing must not be allowed to happen. But how could she prevent it? What power had she?
The King had been irritable with her; he had ignored her when the courtiers were assembled. Once he had made up his mind regarding the Duchesses of Suffolk and Richmond he would find some means of disposing of his present Queen.
Her sister came and knelt by her bed. They did not speak, and Lady Herbert’s eyes were veiled. She wanted to beg her sister to plead for Anne; yet at the same time she was silently begging the Queen to do nothing.
Little Jane Grey went quietly about the apartment. She knew what was happening. They would burn Mistress Anne Askew at the stake, and no one could do anything to save her.
Imaginative as she was, she felt that this terrible thing which was happening to Anne was happening to herself. She pictured herself in that cold and airless cell; she pictured herself facing her judges at the Guildhall.
That night she dreamed that she stood in the square at Smithfield, and that it was about her own feet that the men were piling faggots.
She was with the Prince when Princess Elizabeth came to see him.
Elizabeth was a young lady now of thirteen years. There were secrets in her eyes; she wore clothes to call attention to the color of her hair, and rings to set off the beauty of her hands. She could never look at a man without—so it seemed to Jane—demanding to know whether he admired her. She was even thus with her tutors. And it was clear that Mistress Katharine Ashley, who thought her the most wonderful person in the world, now found her a difficult charge.
Everyone, even Elizabeth, looked sad because of Anne Askew. Elizabeth liked the new learning as much as Jane did—but differently. Elizabeth appreciated it, but would be ready to abandon it. Jane thought: I would not. I would be like Anne Askew.
“Something must be done to save her!” said Jane.
Edward looked expectantly at his sister, for she was the one who was always full of plans. If something could be done, Elizabeth would invariably suggest the means.
But now she shook her head.
“There is nothing to be done. Those with good sense will keep quiet.”
“We cannot let them send her to the stake!” insisted Jane.
“It is no affair of ours. We have no say in the matter.”
“We could plead, could we not?”
“With whom could we plead?”
“With the King.”
“Would you dare? Edward, would you dare?”
“With those near the King perhaps?” suggested Edward.
“With Gardiner?” cried the P
rincess ironically. “With the Chancellor?”
“No, indeed.”
“Then with Cranmer? Ha! He is too wise. He does not forget how, recently, he himself came near to disaster. He will say nothing. He will allow this affair to pass away and be forgotten—as we all must.”
“But it is Anne—our dearest Mistress Askew!”
“Our foolish Mistress Askew. She dared to stand up and say that the holy bread was not the body of Christ.”
“But that is what we know to be true.”
“We know?” Elizabeth opened her eyes very wide. “We read of these things, but we do not talk of them.”
“But if she believes…”
“I tell you she is a fool. There is no place in this court…nor in this world, I trow, for fools.”
“But you…no less than ourselves….”
“You know not what you say.”
“Then you are against Anne, against our stepmother? You are with Gardiner?”
“I am with none and against none,” answered the Princess. “I am…with myself.”
“Perhaps Uncle Thomas could put a plea before my father,” said Edward. “He is clever with words, and my father is amused by him. Uncle Thomas will know what to do.”
“’Tis true,” said Elizabeth. “He will know what to do, and he will do what I shall do.”
She smiled and her face flushed suddenly; it was clear to Jane that Elizabeth was thinking, not of wretched Anne Askew, but of jaunty Thomas Seymour.
THE KING WAS in a merry mood. He sat, with a few of his courtiers about him, while a young musician—a beautiful boy—played his lute and sang with such sweetness that the King’s thoughts were carried away from the apartment. The song was of love; so were the King’s thoughts.
It should be my lady of Suffolk, he decided. She would bear him sons. He pictured her white body and her hair, touched with the bright yellow powder which so many used to give that pleasant golden touch. She was a fine, buxom woman.
Her glances had told him that she found him attractive. He liked her the better because she was the widow of Charles Brandon. There had always been friendship between himself and Charles. How readily he had forgiven the fellow when he had so hastily married Henry’s own sister, Mary Tudor, after old Louis’ death. Henry chuckled at the recollection of the old days, and a great longing for them swept over him.