In the Shadow of Lions (10 page)

Rose crossed through the servants’ wing and peered down the hall that would lead her to the children, but it was as dark and quiet as a closet. She went down the stairs next and peered into Sir Thomas’s study. It was empty. A candle burned before an open book, and a crucifix hung on the wall above his desk. In the shadows it appeared as if Christ moved upon His cross, and Rose fled the room. There was no movement or noise on this floor, so she looked at the heavy double doors leading to the garden, a side entrance for the household. She was debating the wisdom of leaving the house on a dark night, just after a man had been whipped there, but she saw she would not be the first to do so. One door stood slightly back from the other, not having been closed all the way after someone’s exit. She took a deep silent breath and decided.

The door slid quietly, but the cold air that met her made her gasp. She hunched down, drawing herself in tightly, and stepped out into the garden. The dull keening continued but sounded wet, and there were not so many moans.

She followed the path down through the gardens, the rows and plots of plants marked into squares, each for its own kind, going farther down the path until the house was nearly out of her sight. The voice grew louder, and she heard whispers of Latin, a man’s pleas punctuated by a long cry for mercy. This word,
mercy,
was the only one she knew, for it was the only one in English. She held her breath, waiting for the last cry, which would surely be a wail of death. The dull pounding continued.

“I have made a covenant with mine eyes!” he cried out, his teeth grinding down on the last two words as a bolt of pain hit.

Rose crept a few more paces, keeping to the side of the path, shrinking into the shadow as best she could, willing herself to make no noise no matter what she should see. As she came around one last curve, she saw the Tree of Truth. A man was beneath it, with a heavy stone in his hand, and a scourging whip in the other. In the moonlight, he glistened. It was the black glistening of blood. Stepping closer, she knew him.

It was Sir Thomas.

She stumbled back, her steps making the stones of the path scratch together.

Sir Thomas stopped and stared into the darkness. “Who goes there?”

Rose held her breath, mouthing a silent prayer that she would not be discovered.

A rabbit jumped from behind a tree in between them and ran down past the gatehouse. Sir Thomas watched it go, and Rose watched him. He exhaled and raised his scourge again. Rose was more careful with her next steps and made it back to her room undiscovered. She eased the door closed and hung her head.

She lay on her bed but could not face the garden, for she knew another of its secrets. Instead, restless, she turned to face the door, her mind exhausting itself of what might happen next. She could be thrown out or demoted to tending animals instead of children. She would certainly lose Margaret’s affection, and Margaret was a girl thirsty for affection. What would happen to the girl if Rose was thrown out?

There were so many worries and visions that Rose could not tend to them all before sleep found her. It was a deep and dreamless sleep, and when she awoke, unsettled and unsafe, sleep having done nothing to put distance between her and her fears.

She noticed her door was ajar. She rose and shut it. Perhaps it had swung open of its own accord, a breeze from an open window somewhere doing this.

There was no breeze in the house. She opened it again, perplexed, and stepped into the hall to see if anyone had been there. Perhaps another servant had been trying to summon her to breakfast. The hall was empty. She heard the other servants just beginning to stir.

A pebble on the wooden plank floor caught her eye. Bending to pick it up, she saw that it smeared in her hands. The stain was rust coloured, a stitch of bright red breaking through.

Chapter Nine

“Show me Germany,” Margaret asked again, shoving the map once more to Rose. Rose had no more idea about Germany than the moon, and she lost her patience.

“Goodness and mercy, but you’re restless,” Rose chided. “Set about another lesson.”

Their lives had resumed as if nothing had happened. Sir Thomas replaced the lost books, and the children found it amusing that Rose had burnt books on proper cookery and gardening. Rose had worked harder on her own lessons.

Margaret pulled the map to her chest and sighed. She showed no signs of working.

“What is it about Germany?” Rose whispered. “Why are you pulling a face like a moonstruck calf? Here. The English love stories, the Germans love beer, and the French love anything in a skirt. There. I’ve just explained the world. Quit wondering about it.”

Margaret, still clutching the map, leaned in to Rose. The other children looked up from their work, and their tutor switched them with a feather. He was teaching the youngest to count money, and each child had a stack of coins in front of him, to practice counting and making change.

“Margaret!” the tutor called. “Let the servants alone and finish your work!”

Margaret blushed and set her mouth in that firm way of her father’s. “I’m going to my room to lie down. I’m not up to my lessons today.”

Rose watched as Margaret stood and marched out, her soft shoes not yet having their wooden heels strapped on for the garden walk to follow the morning work. Margaret stopped only to kiss her little brother John on the head and wrap her arms around him for a quick hug. He giggled and pushed her away.

Seeing there was to be no further dramatics, Cicely, Elizabeth, and John returned to their work as their tutor, Candice, watched. They enjoyed the routine and never made a peep as they sifted through books upon books upon papers and lessons. Only Margaret was unwilling to devote all her mind to the work. She scored brilliantly on her tests, and the tutors marked this as progress, but Rose could see there was nothing in this class that held her attention. Something was speaking to her, stirring her, and Rose knew its name.

She followed Margaret’s exit with her own, making sure to close the door behind her so that no eyes would be on her. She crept from the study room, past More’s empty office, through the family sitting room, looking for Margaret but not seeing her. She moved on towards Margaret’s bedroom.

The door was cracked open. Rose pressed against the wall and slid closer to the opening, leaning her head in to get a sly view. Margaret was standing with her back to the door, her hand in her skirt’s pocket. She pulled something out and crouched on the floor. Sliding her arm deep under her feather mattress, she began pulling back, and Rose could hear a familiar crackle. Margaret had been hiding a leather pouch under her mattress and it contained papers. She removed a sheet, a feather, and set to work. She placed the paper on the bed and grabbed a tiny well of ink from her night table. Her hand was fast and skilled, scratching out the words without careful deliberation. Dropping a few coins into the center of the paper, she folded it, again and again, until it was a tight parcel. She slipped it between her bosom and her bodice.

“I did not!”

John protested so loudly to the tutor that his words reached Margaret’s room. Rose stiffened against the wall as Margaret spun to face the door.

“You counted wrong! You gave me less than the girls!”

Margaret laughed, a nervous laugh.

Rose shook her head. Whatever mischief Margaret dreamed of, it was in Germany and she was stealing for it.

Rose wondered if she dared confront Margaret. She was probably taken with a soldier she had seen in town who was traveling in Germany on some errand for Sir Thomas or the king. Or a past tutor who had moved on when his commission for More was finished. But what harm could come from a boy so far away, Rose thought, when Sir Thomas locked his daughters away behind three guard houses and acres of protected gardens. Even the squirrels only got in by More’s grace.

The thought took her breath for a moment. More knew the world as she did. He would never know the role she had played, but he knew what was beyond his home. He had built these walls, not to keep his children in, but to keep this world out. And he had brought her in, brought her here, to save her from it. What puzzled Rose was that he required nothing for it. Even her body, freely offered, was rejected.

“Rose.”

His voice startled her and she cried out, stupidly, she thought.

Margaret was at her door in a flash and the pair stared at her, father and daughter.

Rose touched the cross on her neck and gathered her wits. “I was coming to check on Margaret. She was unwell during morning lessons.”

Margaret glared at her, then softened her face to smile at her father. Rose noted how she shifted a bit, as if something were poking her in her bodice.

“I did leave morning lessons, Father, forgive me. I must have spent too long in the garden yesterday and the sun was too much. Summer is coming early, I should think. The falcons were restless to fly. It would have been good if you had joined us.”

Sir Thomas spoke to Rose but did not look at her. He had not looked at her since that night she had burned the books. She saw that there was a stain creeping above his doublet vest, turning his linen undershirt a dark red colour. She could say nothing.

“Well, Margaret, take your rest this afternoon but join us for evensong prayers. And you, Rose, take care not to go creeping down these halls unannounced, even if your intentions are pure.”

Rose walked heavily back to the servants’ wing, her shoulders feeling like two great hands were pressing down, driving the sorrows into her frame and expelling lighter breaths.

She thought of her son … his sweet soft skin, the pursed lips that moved as he slept. God was right to have taken him from her. All she could do was pray that her offering had bought his freedom from purgatory. That when she died, she would have no fear to meet him. She had wanted salvation for her son. She had purchased it with what she had, but she had never known how far above her Christ hung. She could not reach Him. All of her troubles—were they not of her own making? Here she was in this place of second chances, of unending devotion, where prayers and matins were said morning and night and she was given children to love, and she was making a wretched mess of it. Death was stealing in, she was sure. It had found her here, too, and was stealing in on the pages of a book, leering at her in her dreams.

She passed his office and drew herself up, taking a deep breath. She could be worthy of salvation herself if only she tried. She could wash the past off and please Sir Thomas. She would stop death from claiming anyone else she loved.

As she passed, she heard a man’s voice peppering Sir Thomas with spicy words and invective.

“I swear this is it! Our moment! The printer’s men were dead drunk, drowning in their barrels, they were, and our wolf spared no expense to keep them in their cups all night until at last one talked. Hutchins has completed the diabolical work, and it’s on its way to our shores! We’ve had only scraps of it until now. When the whole thing is here, chaos will destroy the city!”

Rose heard Sir Thomas make a gruff noise. The man rose to his own defense.

“But I ain’t lying! This time we’ve got him! The printers are working night and day to set up the presses, and Hutchins hovers over them like a fussy nursemaid pecking at a new babe. And this time, it’s not just one chapter. It’s the whole thing!”

Rose knew she shouldn’t stop at this door and listen.

“How will it come into the country?” Sir Thomas asked.

“Aye, the usual way. New book, same tricks. They’ll smuggle it in at the ports, each bundle marked with a blue cloth tied around it. Thomas … we can bring him in before the damage is done.”

“All right. Give the order to raid the printer’s shop. Confiscate everything. I doubt your men can read, so I don’t want them choosing what it is that I want. Confiscate the presses, the dyes, the letters, the papers, and above all else, get me Hutchins.”

“Alive?”

There was a silence, and the hairs on Rose’s neck began to rise.

“Aye, alive. He should die in full view of the English people. A fire consuming the flesh is a mercy to these types, purging them of their sin before they meet the Almighty, who will show them so much less grace. And perchance his miserable screaming death will save a good citizen from ruin. The commonwealth does not know the pestilence this man brings. It will be my honour to save them from it.”

A hand on Rose’s arm made her jump, but another shot out and clasped itself on her mouth. Rose spun and saw Margaret. Margaret released her, motioning for silence, and fled to the garden.

“What is it they said?” Margaret demanded.

“What were you doing in the hall?” Rose asked.

“Oh, pox! What is it they said?”

The air was chilly, a late-morning rain still playing on the extravagantly green leaves, and Rose frowned. The wind blew raindrops into her face.

“If I tell you, can we go inside?” Rose replied.

Margaret nodded and leaned in. Seeing her father exit the house with a man dressed in the red livery of a law clerk, she wrapped her arm through Rose’s and pretended to stroll about. Neither man paid them notice though the rain grew heavier.

“There is to be a raid on a printer’s press, and Hutchins is going to be captured alive, to be brought here for burning.”

Margaret chewed her lips. “All right” was all she said as she released Rose’s arm and turned to run back to the house.

Rose caught her. “What’s going on?”

“Go back to your quarters, Rose. This does not concern you. It is simply his work, and you should see to yours.”

Rose pressed in close to her, looking down with a stern grimace. “You are my work. Something is going on which I suspect your father would be displeased by. You’re young and stupid. There is nothing beyond those walls that you want, Margaret.”

Margaret looked pale. “Whatever you think you know, Rose, keep it to yourself, I beg you. My father could be ruined.”

“What on earth are you up to that could ruin him?”

Margaret wouldn’t answer. She turned her attention to her shoes, wiggling her toes and watching them in earnest.

“All right,” Rose finished. “I’ll not say a word on one condition.”

Margaret looked at her.

“Move me to your bedroom. I’ll sleep on the trundle.”

Margaret started to protest, but Rose waved her off. “Servants know how to give orders too. I am decided in this. You need to be watched. And Margaret, I have mastered my letters. I want to read everything you touch: every book, every letter.”

Margaret went limp, her mouth opening as she pointed beyond Rose. “It’s the queen!”

I shook my hands out. “I agreed to take down one story, not two. What are you trying to do, kill me?”

“There is only one story,” he said.

The joke was lost on him.

“Why Anne Boleyn?” I asked. “Everyone and their brother has written an Anne Boleyn story. You might be a great angel, but you’d starve as a writer.”

He paid no mind. “There are angels in England. The air in London is thick with them in this age. It is they who move the women into place, who move about positioning the players so that His will may be done.”