The Heretic’s Wife (58 page)

“Holbein?”

The bishop’s affectation of knowledge of the fine arts offended Thomas. He despised such posturing.

“No. An Antwerp artist of some renown. His name is Quentin Massys.”

“Oh.” Obviously the bishop had never heard of him and seemed to quickly lose interest.

“Massys is dead now,” Thomas said, trying to draw out the conversation so that Stokesley would not remember the conversation that had interrupted
them. Listening at doors was what the nosy bishop did best. “Massys’s art will probably go up in value, if his name is not tainted by his sister’s heretical association. She has started a Bible-reading society in Leuven.”

There, that should divert him. More talk of heresy.

Stokesley put down the miniatures and looked at Thomas, lowering his lids ever so slightly.

“The man at the door—”

“It was only my servant. Luther’s influence in the Holy Roman Empire has been more pernicious than—”

“No. The Franciscan named Risby. Isn’t that the monk who is associated with the Maid of Kent? The one who has prophesied against the king in the matter of his divorce?”

“It is.”

Stokesley picked up the blob of amber, appeared to study it carefully, waiting for Thomas to expand upon his answer, which Thomas declined to do. But the bishop was not a man to leave any scrap of information in the field when he gleaned.

“What do you think of her prophesies?” he asked.

“I think she is a maid who is ill used, more mad than prescient.”

“Have you met with her?”

This was the question Thomas dreaded. He hated to give even his friends—today’s friends, perhaps tomorrow’s enemies—anything to use against him if called before the King’s Bench.

“Once. In my capacity as chancellor.”

“What did Risby want?”

“He wanted me to meet with her again.”

“Will you?”

“I will not. She has prophesied the king’s death. That is treason. And treason carries a greater penalty even than speaking against the king’s policy in Parliament.”

The bishop, who had no rejoinder, hastily gathered up his maps and left with a promise to begin the hunt for John Frith.

That same man that runneth away may again fight another day.

—E
RASMUS
,
A
POTHEGMS (1542
)

J
ohn Frith looked around the little Lollard congregation in the Essex farm cottage near Chelmsford. He’d walked many miles and had not slept for two days, but the receptiveness to his preaching energized him. Upon his arrival, the congregants had cheered him, waving their English New Testaments in the air.

“I cannot wait to tell the translator about you,” he said. “He will be greatly heartened by your faith. I wish that he could be here to see you for himself.”

It had been the same everywhere he preached for the last few weeks, from Reading to East Essex. He never gave his real name but called himself Jacob, saying he was a friend of the Bible men from across the sea. He accepted only a warm cloak or a bed for the night, as the October weather had grown chilly even in daytime, and sometimes a little food for the road. But to the many kind souls who offered monetary support, he directed them to deliver what support they could spare to the leaders of their congregations, who would in turn deliver them to the Hanseatic League at the Steelyard, care of Sir Humphrey Monmouth, or if they lived closer to Reading, to the prior at the abbey there.

But he warned them to be cautious. “This arrangement protects both you and me,” he said, “as your contributions will be anonymous, and if I should be taken, I will not have your letters of affirmation on me”—and then added soberly, “or know from whom they came.”

Now, only miles from the coast, he was feeling better about not being taken, though he knew he could not let his guard down. That’s where the danger was strongest. Yet it was hard not to be distracted when he longed to see his Kate and hold her in his arms—if he could still get his arms around her. She was in her seventh month. She would never forgive him—he could never forgive himself—if he were not there for the birth of their first child.

A letter from her had been delivered to him from a messenger at the Steelyard when he’d passed through St. Albans. He’d read and reread it until it was creased and falling apart. He’d managed to send an answer by the same messenger telling her to let Tyndale know that a secret account had been set up at the Antwerp Kontor for them to draw from. If she needed anything, Tyndale would provide it. He’d assured her he would be home shortly, and though he told her how gladly he’d been received everywhere, he did not tell her about the times he’d been followed or his stint in the stocks at Reading.

This Chelmsford congregation had been his largest gathering yet, but he was glad it was drawing to a close. He was weak with exhaustion. Even as the benediction was being said, he was thinking to inquire about a nearby stable where he might stay overnight—he didn’t like to endanger the families of the homes where he preached. But the last “amen” had scarcely been offered before a man approached him.

“Father, may I speak with you a moment?”

A man of fairly diminished stature and a sincere demeanor held out his hand.

John grasped the extended hand with what energy he had left. “Please, call me brother or simply J . . . Jacob. As our Lord reminded us, there is only one who is worthy to be called ‘Father.’ And your name?”

“William. William Holt. I am a tailor from Epping.”

“That’s where I’ve seen you before. I thought you looked familiar.”

“Yes. I was in Epping. You preached there on the Eucharist, and I was so moved by what you said about the miracle of the heart’s transformation being the important thing and not the Real Presence of Christ’s body . . . the way you described it, it made perfect sense. I tried to remember to tell it to my friend, but alas, I lack for words.”

“Well, it isn’t so hard to understand—just say to your friend—”

“Here. Could you write it down? The points of your sermon in Epping?”

From somewhere the tailor produced a bit of paper and a small inkhorn, the kind a traveling scribe might use, and shoved it toward John.

He hesitated for the briefest moment. Tyndale had warned him not to commit anything to writing on the doctrine of the Eucharist. That subject was more certain than any other to incite the wrath of not only the clergy but the king as well.

“I wouldn’t ask, but I’m so miserable with words. It makes sense when you say it. When I say it . . . and I couldn’t remember your second point.”

John grasped the paper and wrote down a simple statement on the doctrine of the Eucharist, listing the three points he’d preached on in Epping, which questioned the very foundation of the mass.

“Thank you, sir. Thank you. Now I can convince my friend of his wrong thinking,” he said, glancing at the paper. “Oh. One more thing. Would you sign it?” He smiled apologetically. “So he’ll know I didn’t just make it up.”

Without thinking, John scrawled his name at the bottom of the scrap of paper.

The tailor glanced at it briefly, then smiling, folded it up and put it in his pocket, reached out and once again pumped John’s hand.

As he watched William Holt’s receding back, John realized that he’d signed his real name. He started to call him back. But what would he say? If he asked for the paper back, he would not only insult the man, but perhaps even call attention to it. Besides, the tailor looked to be an honest man, and even if his enemies did get hold of it, what would it matter? They could just add it the growing pile of heretical sermons preached by John Frith. In two days’ time he’d be in Southend. He’d be in Kate’s arms, safe at the English House before the next Sabbath, and none of it would matter.

“I am accompanying the king to Calais day after tomorrow,” Anne Boleyn announced to her ladies of the queen’s privy chamber.

Anne had returned to Hampton Court with a new confidence after her investiture as the Marquess of Pembroke. The king was as devoted to her as a puppy to its master. Verily, she thought, if she held a biscuit in front of him, he would sit up and beg—well, not a biscuit but an incentive of another
kind. Of course, she would never do that. It was not prudent to make a king beg.

She had just come from attending mass offered by Thomas Cranmer, the new Archbishop of Canterbury, in the Royal Chapel where she had sat with the king in the royal pew. The trip to Calais had been Cranmer’s idea.

“It would be a courtesy to include the plans for your annulment in your talks with the king of France. You might even consider, Your Majesty, taking Lady Anne with you. It would give Francis an opportunity to meet the woman who is to be your new queen.”

If Anne had any doubts about this new archbishop, they were laid to rest with that suggestion.

Now she watched with some satisfaction as Lady Margaret Lee tried to choke down her surprise. “Shall we lay out your gowns, my lady?”

“Yes,
s’il vous plaît.
I’d better practice my French. Be sure to include the crimson kirtle. The king has requested it particularly, and the mantle lined with ermine. We are staying at the exchequer’s palace, and they say it is drafty. Also my suede sleeves and kirtle. We will probably go hunting with Francis.”

She opened her jewel chest and pulled out a few baubles. Her eye lit on a silver tiara. Too presumptuous? No, she decided. It would go with the crimson dress, and Henry might find it amusing. If he did not, she would simply take it off. She tossed it on the pile. She did not miss the look that passed between the two women.

“Be sure and pack in layers with the velvets on top and with bits of lavender in between.”

Lady Margaret Lee curtsied her obedience.

“Will we be accompanying you, my lady?” the Seymour woman asked, her pale cheeks almost pink with excitement.

“No, I think not. It will be but a short journey. My personal maid will be sufficient. No need to wrest you from your comforts here.”

The Seymour woman looked crestfallen and dropped her perfunctory curtsy.

“Now, if you’ve enough to keep you occupied, I’m off to the courtyard, where His Majesty has challenged me to a game of lawn bowling.” Anne flounced out of the room, trying not to grin at the look of disappointment on Seymour’s face.
I wonder if I will be any happier than this when I am queen?
she thought. It was almost a certainty now. She had missed her last period. But even if it had not already happened, it would.

Henry had whispered in her ear that the French ambassador had assured him of adjoining rooms.

John Frith was thinking only of the narrow strip of sea separating him from safety and the arms of his wife as he approached the docks at Southend. Tonight he would sleep in his own bed—if his overworked body could make it that far. The muscles in his legs trembled with fatigue and his stomach growled. Thinking that he must stop to meet at least some of his physical demands, he paused long enough to buy a pint and a pasty from a tavern, but the pint was only half finished when he left the Fox and the Hound, carrying the half-eaten pasty with him.

Had John been less preoccupied, less hurried, he would have noticed the big man sitting alone in the corner, watching him intently, would have been aware as he followed him from the tavern, would have seen the telling nod to a second man in yeoman dress lounging in a doorway across the street. He was also unaware, as he munched happily on his pie, that a third man joined the other two at the juncture where the street opened onto the wharf.