The Heretic’s Wife (20 page)

Omnia vincit amor: et nos cedamus amori. [Love conquers all things: let us too surrender to love.]

—V
IRGIL
, E
CLOGUES

I
t was there, just out of reach, a light flickering in blind Cyclops’s cave, and he struggled toward it, but the monster named fatigue dragged him back—as always. The same voice that had beckoned him to consciousness time and again pleaded, “Master Frith . . . please. I saw your eyelids flutter. I know you’re in there,” and yet he sank deep, deep, deeper, until the voice, fading and expanding like distant music, sank just below his consciousness.

But he felt her touch, light as gossamer, bathing his brow with cool water. Another voice, a man’s voice, strong and guttural, echoed down the dry cistern where his will lay curled and brittle as a winter leaf. “Three days. A man can’t live without water. Dip your fingers in the water. Place them between his lips.”

Send Lazarus to dip his fingers in water.

Not Lazarus, though. These fingers were small and smooth and cool as pearl, and wet against his hot tongue. If he could swallow them he would surely never thirst again.

“He’s sucking the water drops! Quick, dip the corner of the rag in water.”

Her fingers slid from between his lips, and he would have cried at such a loss if he’d had tears. He chewed at the rag, tentatively at first. Its rough
texture abraded his parched lips. It was not soft and smooth like the other—but wetter. He sucked hungrily, like a starving infant who latches onto his mother’s breast for the first time.

“That’s it. You can do it.” Her hair brushed against his cheek as she leaned forward. It smelled of lavender. He sucked harder.

The water squirted down his throat, strangling him. She lifted him to a sitting position. Gasping and sputtering for breath, he opened his eyes long enough to see the face of the angel who held him in her arms.

“Quick. Run and tell milady he’s awake,” he heard her say. And then turning back to him, she stroked his forehead as all the while she murmured soothing sounds in his ear.

Where this celestial creature lives must surely be paradise, he thought, and he longed to stay. But the light hurt his eyes and made his head pound. He tried to shape his wooly tongue around the words to ask her if she was real or a mere dream conjured by a fevered brain, but the monster sucked him under until he could no longer see her face or hear her voice.

He would have cried at such a loss, if he’d had tears.

Kate jerked awake with a start. Her neck was stiff from sleeping in the chair. The candle had guttered out, but the room was light so it must be morning. She got up, ignoring the pins and needles in her legs, and leaned over her patient, to feel his brow with her palm.

He opened his eyes. “You are much prettier than Lazarus,” he whispered.

“Master Frith, you are awake!” she said, peering into the large dark pools of his eyes. “And your fever has broken.” She felt her face relax in a smile.

“I’ve been awake a while. I’ve been watching you sleep,” he said. “You looked so peaceful, you made me feel peaceful.” His voice was low and hoarse. It hurt her to hear it, but an almost smile livened his pale face, softening the hollows beneath his eyes.

She blushed and, suddenly conscious of how disheveled she must look, smoothed her wild hair back from her forehead. “That is probably not a pleasant sight for a man returning from death’s portal,” she said. “Anyway, it is I who was supposed to be watching you sleep.”

“Then it was my turn, wasn’t it?” He cleared his throat and his voice grew clearer. “It was a sight sufficient to bring a man back from death’s portal.”

“You must be starved. It’s been three days since you’ve had anything to eat or drink.” She poured a half cup of water and held it to his lips. “Sip slowly.”

He drank two swallows, and she removed the cup.

“I remember a few drops of water from an angel’s hand. That’s why I said you’re prettier than Lazarus. You know, in the Bible? Where the rich man is in hell and asks for Lazarus to be sent with a few drops of water?”

“The name Lazarus applies more to you than me, I think,” she said, and put the cup to his lips again. “Do you think you could take some nourishment? Maybe some broth?”

“Actually, I—” He tried to push himself up and fell back weakly onto the pillow.

“You’re too weak to stand. Just tell me what you want.”

His ashen face actually colored a bit and suddenly she understood.

“That’s a good sign after so long without water. I’ll call Gilbert. He’s the one who has been helping you. I just looked after you when he couldn’t.” As she reached for the bellpull he gave a little sigh of relief.

“So I have you to thank for my return from near death, and I don’t even know your name.”

“You have Lord and Lady Walsh to thank. And my name is Kate Gough.”

“You are the wife of the man who came here with me then.”

She hesitated for an instant then refilled the water cup and held it to his lips. “If you don’t feel sick, you probably could drink a bit more to give nature . . . inspiration.”

He shook his head and lay back on the pillow, his face suddenly drained of expression.
Please don’t let us lose him again.
But his breathing was even. He closed his eyes and appeared to sleep.

She heard Gilbert’s shuffling gait as he entered the room. “You rang for me, mistress,” he said, rubbing his eyes. Gilbert slept in the adjoining chamber. A hole had been punched in the wall and a bellpull installed so that Kate could summon him when she needed him. When he was not sleeping, he kept watch just outside the door.

“Our patient is better,” she said. “I’m going to the kitchen to see if I can wheedle some broth while you tend to his personal needs.”

If John Frith heard her, he gave no sign.

“Play that song ‘Greensleeves’ again,” Anne Boleyn said to the lute player who accompanied her into the herb garden at Hampton Court. “It has a pleasing melody.”

Pleasing now, though less so when she first heard it three days ago. But
Henry had sent her a parchment wrapped around a ruby necklace with the words of the song written out in his own hand and a postscript begging her pardon if he had caused her embarrassment. She noticed with satisfaction that the window overlooking the garden was slightly ajar. “Pluck the strings with vigor, so the sound can carry to others who might enjoy it,” she instructed.

She was gathering lavender before the winter frosts took it. Her maid had suggested that she place it between the layers of her dresses in the chest in her room and had offered to gather it, but Anne had said she would go herself. The garden was directly below Cardinal Wolsey’s study window. He would be leaving for York on the morrow and was probably packing up his books and papers—no doubt a melancholy task. It pleased her to think that the vision of her making herself at home in what was no longer his garden would be one of the last memories of the palace he had so loved, that his memory of his time here would be forever tainted, as were her memories of being in Queen Katherine’s service. She’d cried all day when Percy went away.

She felt the cardinal watching her, and looking up she gave him a courtier’s false smile and waved. He shut the window. She could not tell for sure if he moved away—the light was such that she could only see the river reflected in its leaded panes—but she thought not. When she saw Secretary Cromwell walking past, she hailed him for the benefit of the watcher at the window.

“Come sit with me for a moment, Master Secretary. I find your company agreeable,” she called loudly.

“I am honored, my lady.”

They sat together on the bench and talked of the weather, the coming winter, the uses of lavender. Anne broke off a sprig and held it to his nose, flirting shamelessly, when it occurred to her that she really did have something to talk to him about after all.

“Master Cromwell, when last we spoke, you told me of your sympathy for certain reformist ideas, which as I assured you I also entertain. You mentioned some young Bible men who died in the fish cellar. Did the cardinal know that they were imprisoned without benefit of a hearing?”

“There is not much the cardinal misses, my lady. I’m sure it would have been reported to him.”

“And you spoke of Sir Thomas’s ‘interrogations.’ Did the cardinal know about those?”

“I would assume so.”

“Would you go so far as to say Cardinal Wolsey approved such?”

Cromwell’s eyes narrowed. “I would say by doing nothing to stop them, he might be said to have given tacit permission, yes.”

Anne pretended to drop her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Master Cromwell, wouldn’t the denial of due process be an egregious violation of English law—even for the chancellor?”

“If it could be proven.”

“I see,” she said, “but how could a cardinal make an enemy powerful enough to go to all that trouble?” She got up and continued to gather the lavender, releasing its fragrance into the air. Then keeping her tone light, as though it were an afterthought, “It’s such a pity about the young men in the fish cellar. And that parson from Honey Lane. I suppose he has lost his living even though he recanted. One would like to do something to help him and the others too, at least the ones who survived.” She paused here for effect, then lifted her gaze and held his. “Master Cromwell, I think I’m in need of a private chaplain. Perhaps you can see if the parson of Honey Lane is agreeable.”

Cromwell looked startled but recovered quickly. “I will look into it, my lady. Of course, the king would have to agree.”

“And what about the others, what were their names?”

“One was named Betts and one Frith.”

“What of them?”

“Betts is still recovering, though whether from the fish cellar or the interrogation it is hard to say. Frith has disappeared.”

“Disappeared, you say.” She laughed. “Well, good for him.”

“Well, it may not be good for him. I know that Sir Thomas is scouring the countryside looking for him. He’ll probably try to flee, but they’re watching all the ports. He is a very bright young man, but I doubt he’ll make it.”

“Can we not do something to help him?”

“I’m afraid not, my lady. He has broken the law. If he’s caught, he’ll be brought in and ‘interrogated’ until he recants.”

A shudder passed through her body. “Then I shall pray for him,” she said. She’d forgotten all about the watcher at the window and did not see two shadows move away.

During the next week Kate’s patient grew stronger every day, strong enough for her to leave, she thought. When she suggested as much, Lady Walsh
said, “Fine, my dear, whatever you wish. You have been very kind. I know you never meant to stay this long, but Master Frith is very restless cooped up in that room. Your company is a sweet diversion for him. But the decision is yours, of course.”

So every day she thought,
Maybe tomorrow,
until another week had passed. Leaving was not easy. When she was with him, she forgot about the uncertain future before her.

“Tell me about yourself,” he said. “How you and your husband came to be in the smuggling business.” So she told him about the print shop and the raid, about the contraband books that had had to be burned and now must be replaced. But she did not tell him that John Gough had capitulated to his enemies—or that he was her brother and not her husband. He would only wonder why she had not corrected him when he first made the assumption, and she did not really know why, except that she remembered the casual way he’d draped his arm across her shoulders, when he’d mistaken her for John. She had not wanted to tarnish that intimate moment of warmth and friendship, had not wanted to tarnish his admiration for her brother. She didn’t have to. Master Frith would be leaving for the Continent soon, and Kate would go home to London. Their paths would probably never cross again.