In the Shadow of Lions (18 page)

With that, Anne speared a great sausage and commenced eating. If there were whispers of protest, she didn’t hear them, for her heart was beating too loudly.

Chapter Eighteen

“Destroy it!”

Margaret stood above her, with a finger jabbed in her face. Rose closed the book and stood, clutching it to her chest, shaking her head. They were in Margaret’s bedroom. No one else was near; all the others were taking their exercise. Rose had begged off, saying her head hurt, but Margaret knew why she sought time alone.

“Listen to what I read today, Margaret:

“And behold, a woman in that city, which was a sinner, as soon as she knew that Jesus sat at meat in the Pharisee’s house, she brought an alabaster box of ointment, and she stood at his feet behind him weeping, and began to wash his feet with tears, and did wipe them with the hairs of her head, and kissed his feet, and anointed them with ointment.

“When the Pharisee which bade him, saw that, he spake within himself, saying: If this man were a prophet, he would surely have known who and what manner woman this is which toucheth him, for she is a sinner. And Jesus answered … There was a certain lender which had two debtors, the one ought five hundred pence, and the other fifty. When they had nothing to pay, he forgave them both. Which of them tell me, will love him most?... I entered into thy house, and thou gavest me no water to my feet: but she hath washed my feet with tears, and wiped them with the hairs of her head. Thou gavest me no kiss: but she, since the time I came in, hath not ceased to kiss my feet. Mine head with oil thou didst not anoint: but she hath anointed my feet with ointment. Wherefore I say unto thee: many sins are forgiven her, for she loved much.…

“And he said unto her, thy sins are forgiven thee.… Thy faith hath saved thee, Go in peace.”

“Shut the book.” Margaret’s voice was cold. Nothing had reached her.

“Margaret, the priests are wrong! They are teaching error! You must trust me: This is life or death to the simple! You did not know me before I came here. I trusted the priests and it wrought death! Here is the truth! Please, Margaret, open your eyes. It is the Church that must be destroyed!”

Margaret slapped her with such force that Rose fell back against the bed.

“The Church is my father!” she shouted at Rose. “The Church is law and orderly lives, and these things my father has given his life to. I will not see it undone by a
servant
.” She spit that last word out of her mouth as if it were sour to her.

A great shouting out in the hall startled them both. The boys were whooping and running about, and Margaret went to the door to peer out. She turned back to Rose, her face still hard.

“Wipe the tears from your face, Rose. The king’s messenger is here.”

Margaret swept from the room. Rose started to replace the book under her mattress, but she knew Margaret would look for it there. There were not many other hiding places in the room. There was a washstand and little desk, plus Margaret’s bed. Rose slipped the book under Margaret’s mattress and wiped her palms across her face to clear it before she ran out.

“What is the meaning of this?” Sir Thomas looked horrified to be holding a red velvet pouch.

“Cardinal Wolsey has been fired. He surrenders the Great Seal and the king ordered it delivered to you. You are to replace him.”

“On what grounds was Wolsey fired? What has happened?” More asked. He still held the pouch out and away from his body.

“His many failures are known to the king, chief among them his failure to obtain the annulment from his master the Pope. The Bible says one cannot serve two masters, so Henry has freed him from his burden.”

Sir Thomas opened the bag, as if he was uncertain whether the messenger spoke true. He emptied it into his palm, and Rose saw a wide silver medallion, catching the light enough to make the figure of a king on horseback visible even from her distance.

Sir Thomas, looking pale, sat on a couch. “Is it my job, that I secure the king’s annulment? So he may marry the Boleyn girl?”

“Aye, sir, the king holds great respect for the universities of England, of which you are a brilliant example. He is satisfied you will bring speedy justice to the matter.”

A household servant walked, unawares, into the room. He looked frightened to see all gathered around More, who did not look well. He studied the livery the messenger wore and fell to his knees. “Long live the king!” he cried out.

More looked up, the spell broken. He laughed, a small, unmerry snort. “There is no reason to fear. What do you need?”

The boy focused his glazed stare on Sir Thomas. “Bainham, sir. He will not abjure.”

Sir Thomas sighed. Rose thought he looked heavier around the face and midsection. Perhaps it was just the angle he sat at. She wondered if the burnings and persecutions worked upon his appetite, making him ever more hungry. Could he feast on the deaths? She wondered how a kind face could hide such secrets.

He caught her staring at him and she blushed, her stomach tightening with nervous pinches.

Sir Thomas addressed the messenger. “A heretic,” he explained. “I had him whipped at my Tree of Truth, but to no avail. This madness runs deep. I cannot dig the whip in far enough to scourge it out.” He turned to the servant. “Have him sent to the Tower for racking.”

The servant bowed and left.

More turned to the king’s messenger.

“I will accept this charge, with my most humble obedience to the king. God preserve Henry and England!”

The messenger left, and Sir Thomas put his head in his hands. “I have heard such rumours, always rumours, trailing the king like body servants. There was a rumour that Anne served sausage on a Friday just to taunt the faithful. All these whispers, but the truth is as black as the stain of rumour. She is a witch, despising the things of God, consorting with the devil to cause England to fall.”

He rose and walked round the room, biting his lips in thought. “Witches can be saved only through burning, but I cannot get to her.” More didn’t speak this to anyone but the air.

“I cannot understand Henry’s mind in dispensing with Wolsey, save that she has cursed him,” he said. “Wolsey was his link to the Church. How can Henry take the law into his own hands and dispense with the Church?”

He was becoming agitated, speaking. “I heard Anne gave him a copy of the Hutchins book. Filth! I have sent my own treatise on the subject to the king but received no word back. Perhaps the Boleyn witch got to it before he did and destroyed it. Dear God, save me! This evil woman may desire my death! I will fall under her curse unless You save me, unless I work against her. As long as she is near him, he cannot be made to see truth, for he is bewitched. She has to burn, or he will not be released.”

He stopped and looked up, past the girls, not seeing them, his eyes wild before they closed in prayer. “Oh, God, may this cup pass from me!”

Margaret heaved Rose’s mattress up on one side, peering beneath. Scowling, Margaret dropped the mattress back to the floor and walked to the door as Rose watched.

“Do not leave this room tonight. I will attend my father and return later.”

Rose sat on her mattress when Margaret was gone, not sure what to do, not even sure what to think. Sir Thomas said Anne had served sausage on Friday. Was Anne truly a reformer, or was she just provoking the faithful? Who could be trusted? A king with two women or a chancellor with two lives? Sir Thomas had as many secrets as any man she had met, yet he had a veneer of honour. Yes, he was honourable, was deeply good, and this is what comforted him as he did the bloody work. He was willing to educate girls but burned those who read the wrong book. He loved his queen, Catherine, and served the king who betrayed her. And the last secret, Rose knew, was what he kept in his heart for her—the thing that pushed him to punish himself each night with a whip and scourge.

The birds were loud tonight in the garden. One called above the others, a single voice piercing through the twitterings and wisps of songs. She listened to him, waiting for each new call, wondering what made him sing. A cool breeze caught her from the window and refreshed her. She had not realized how tired she was, how flushed and sweaty. She had needed this air.

Her gown was too hot and she couldn’t bear it touching her skin. The linen shift beneath it was damp and sticky, the bodice too tight for a good deep breath. Rose got up and fled the closed hot room. She would find comfort tonight in the garden, the buds and blooms that stayed constant whether storm or sun.

It was a child’s rain, soft and toying, tapping gently, unseen on her shoulders and the top of her head. Only a spider’s web caught the shimmering, winking little droplets, pinning them against the deep green leaves. The birds sang, but she couldn’t see them nestled in the trees and among the roses. There were no other noises, save for her footsteps as she moved between forgetful blossoms that gave no care to the wind’s sharp reminders. She stopped and sat on a bench, pinching and picking off the green lichen that grew and reminded her faintly of turnips.

She stayed until her damp shift was cold and a chill crept into her bones. The summer was almost past. Though flowers remained, and jasmine surrounded her as it crept over the walls, she knew the winter was creeping nearer. She didn’t want it to come. She didn’t trust it.

No lights were flickering in the windows above her. The children and servants must be in bed, she realized with a start. She had stayed too long. Margaret would be furious. Margaret was ready to throw her from the house, Rose knew, except that Rose could spill her secrets and bring shame to the family. Margaret wanted to keep a tight leash on her.

She crept past the torch at the garden gate and to the torch dancing in the breeze near the house door. She slipped off her pattens from her shoes so she would make no noise as she crept to her room. She entered the silent home and kept a hand along one wall as she moved, not waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Voices caught her attention and she slowed.

It was Sir Thomas; she could tell by his inflection and the deep bass of his voice. The servants had all been so nervous due to the whippings of prisoners at the gatehouse that their voices had grown higher lately. The other voice was softer, a woman’s voice.

Rose crept down the hall to his study and listened. Yes, it was Sir Thomas, and she thought the second voice was Margaret’s. To be sure, she crept closer and peered in through the door left cracked open for a breeze from the garden gate.

Margaret was lifting off a hair shirt from her father—a bristled, thick garment. Rose saw that Sir Thomas’s broad back was red with scratches and wounds. Margaret dabbed on an ointment from an amber-coloured glass jar. Sir Thomas groaned under his breath. The medicine smelled like lavender to Rose; its sharp scent flowed out to find her.

“Let me take this away,” Margaret said softly.

Sir Thomas shook his head.

“It has done its work,” she protested.

Sir Thomas shook his head.

Margaret picked up the shirt, lowering it over Sir Thomas’s head as he moved to put his arms through it. Rose could hear him suck wind through clenched teeth as it touched his skin. Next, Margaret lowered a linen shirt over his head and helped him into this.

“The Church teaches our suffering catches the eye of God,” Sir Thomas said. “Suffering makes Him inclined to answer our prayers.”