The Heretic’s Wife (13 page)

He held the boat steady. “A man just out of a damp prison cell could get the ague in this drizzle. This time you’d best get behind me. My back’ll protect you from the worst of it. In Reading we’ll at least get off the river and maybe grab a few hours of sleep. Same place as always. We’re to pick up a wagon and some horses. And I think a passenger.”

Kate had merely nodded and held on to the dock post with one hand, as she gingerly put one foot in the boat. The strange freedom of movement that the trousers gave her under the heavy cloak caused her to misjudge the distance, and the boat rocked beneath her feet. She sat down hard on the board in the center.

Swinford pushed away from the dock with the oar, and she realized with a sinking feeling that he would expect her to man the other oar. Thank God, she’d often been rowing with John when they were younger, before he married, so at least she knew how. She was supposed to row from the other side, she remembered, so she scooted to the right and picked up the oar. As she dipped the paddle into the water, she felt the drag of the current and matched her rhythm to his. She should just count herself lucky, she thought, that he was not a young man and paused to rest his own arms at those places where the river flowed wider and the current was less strong. But such respites were brief. Soon the boat would start to drift downstream, and he would pick up the oar again.

By mid-morning the rain had begun in earnest.

By noon her arms were aching. The rain had settled to a mist that clung to her skin and breath. The woolen cloak was much too hot for such exertion, but she dared not take it off. Its wool helped repel the water in a way her linen shirt would not. Without the cloak, her shirt and trousers would quickly become wet and clingy. The mist thickened to fog, and they moved closer to shore, avoiding the larger boats in the main channel. Kate was breathing heavily.

But what was worse, she needed to make water.

She averted her eyes when Swinford stood up and, fumbling at the closure of his pants, moved to the edge of the boat. Her face was still flaming when he settled into his seat again.

“You look a bit flushed,” he said. “You’d best not overdo in your weakened condition. I can manage alone a while.”

“I’d be grateful for the break,” she croaked.

But her respite brought little relief. The occasional swell caused by the wake of the larger boats in the channel added to her discomfort. The earthy banks and the rotting reeds had a rank, peaty smell, but she did not feel sick. She was just wet and miserable and even a little hungry. Why hadn’t she thought to bring a biscuit? All she had with her was the little pouch of money that Sir Humphrey had given her, the plan being to use some small part of it to pay for some of the goods they were receiving.

The rain started up again, coming down in sheets. It puddled in the bottom of the boat.

“We’d best pull in and find a bit of shelter or at least find something to bail with,” Swinford shouted.

Nodding, she picked up the oar and applied it vigorously, ignoring the burn in her upper arm. Once they reached the shore, she could find a private place to relieve herself. For the first time that day, she blessed the rain.

By the time they made Reading, the church bells were tolling compline, and Kate was too tired to even wonder where they were going as she followed her companion up a twisting street to a row of half-timbered houses leaning into the alley. Swinford stopped at the third house and tapped lightly on the door. A woman wearing a lace-trimmed nightcap and shawl over her nightdress answered the door. She carried a candle but shielded it with her hand to keep the light from spilling into the street.

“We’d ‘bout given you out,” she said in a low voice. “The other one is already here. I’ve put down a couple of straw mattresses by the hearth in the kitchen for the two of you.” As she spoke, she was leading them into the kitchen where the smell of boiled barley and beef lingered, causing Kate’s stomach to rumble a little. The woman lit the rush lights on the wall from the candle she carried. Shadows danced along the walls. “There’s some bread on the table and soup still simmering in the kettle. It should warm you. I’ll bid you good night, then.”

But Kate was too weary to eat. She tore off a crust of bread to feed the rumbling in her stomach. She wondered as she lay down on the cot if it was safe to remove her soggy cap but decided that it would look stranger still to sleep in it. She had braided her hair tightly and bound it with a kerchief. Her scalp felt tight and it itched. At least she could take off the coat in the
semidarkness of the kitchen. She blessed the kindness of the mistress of the house for leaving a clean coverlet—and for her good housekeeping; the blanket smelled of lye and lavender. She pulled it up to her chin.

“You should try some of this soup. It’s tasty,” Swinford said.

“I’m too tuckered to eat,” Kate said, surprised to find she didn’t have to feign the hoarseness now because she had a real rasp in her throat.

She fell asleep to the sound of Swinford slurping his soup and dreamed of black river water and a sheep who bleated pitifully on the shore. On his head was John’s soggy tricornered cap.

Kate woke early. Stiff from sleeping on the floor and with a sore arm from yesterday’s rowing, she put on her cloak and cap and went out into the early light to relieve herself. The rain had stopped, but water drops still clung to the grass and late-blooming roses in the bit of a garden. After finishing her business behind a shed at the back of the garden, she strolled down the lane.

So this is Reading,
she thought.
I’ve heard John speak of Reading.
Not a bit like London, she thought, looking around with greedy eyes. She’d been disappointed that she’d not been able to see more of the fogbound shoreline yesterday, since she’d never been farther upriver than Cardinal Wolsey’s grand new palace at Hampton Court. No grand palaces here. Just a sleepy little hamlet, it looked to her, though she knew there was an abbey somewhere near here with an abbot who was sympathetic to the Lutheran cause. If last night was any indication, the townsfolk were sympathetic, too, and the householders here harbored Bible smugglers at great risk to their own lives and properties. She was wondering how far it was to the abbey when she noticed smoke curling from some of the chimneys. The smell of cook-fires mingled with the damp earth smell, and she hoped the hospitality of the house extended to breakfast. That thought and the light told her it was time to turn back. Swinford would be anxious to get away.

She reentered the kitchen to the welcome smell of frying salt meat. This time she did not wait to be asked, but took a bit of the bacon that was piled in the center of the long deal table and a slice of last night’s bread. A pitcher of milk and some cups were on the table as well. She poured herself a cup and gulped it down, and then cut a piece of the bread, and tucking the meat inside the bread, slid both into the pocket of John’s coat. Who knew when she would eat again?

She was wiping her mouth on the sleeve of her coat when Swinford came
back. He brought with him a man of about Kate’s age. It appeared he was dressed for traveling also but in clothes hung too loosely on him, as though he had, like Kate, borrowed his from an older brother.

“We need to be off, if you’re up to it,” Swinford said, looking at Kate. “The wagon’s hitched and the horses waiting.”

“I’m ready,” Kate tried to say, but found that she had no voice at all. The words came out in a hoarse whisper. At least she wouldn’t have to fake it.

“This is John Frith. He’s going with us to Bristol. He was one of the students shut up in the cellars at Oxford for buying books from Garrett. Fresh from the hospital.” He grinned and then added, “Under somewhat hurried circumstances, from what I hear.”

“Pleased to meet you, Gough. I see we have much in common,” the stranger said. “I commend you for your willingness to jump back into the fray. I’m going to the Continent where I hope to be able to assist Tyndale. I’m a translator too. I can’t wait to tell him how bravely you and others like you support his work.”

He thinks I’m John. And he’s commending me for bravery,
she thought, noticing that despite Frith’s youth and apparent vigor he looked uncommonly pale. His hand held a slight tremor when he extended it to her. She tried to grip it firmly—as her brother John would have gripped it once upon a time.

“I can see we are going to be fast friends,” he said and smiled.

It was the most charming smile Kate had ever seen. It warmed her all over.

Will ye resist God? . . . Hath He [God] not made the English tongue? Why forbid ye Him to speak in the English tongue, then, as well as in the Latin?

—W
ILLIAM
T
YNDALE
,
T
HE
O
BEDIENCE OF A
C
HRISTIAN
M
AN (1528)

W
ith as much manly swagger as she could muster, Kate hoisted herself into the back of the narrow wagon, praying as she settled in the corner opposite John Frith that she would be able to maintain her pose. They still had a journey of several hours ahead. Swinford had sat in front of her on the way upriver, and the day had been overcast, the light too poor to notice that the smooth skin of his companion’s cheek had never felt the slide of a razor’s edge or borne even the faintest stubble. But John Frith was sitting close enough that she could see the shadow of a dark beard on his pale face and smell the wood smoke clinging to his clothes. Arrows of bright sunlight pierced the clouds, inviting a more careful scrutiny. Trying to ignore the uncomfortable tug of her braided and bound hair, she pulled John’s tricornered hat lower on her forehead to avoid Frith’s intelligent gaze.

She need not have worried. Frith gave her a cheerful smile, said, “Have a nice ride, Gough,” and was asleep in minutes, his head slumped forward onto his chest. Even the bouncing and jarring of the wagon across the rutted
roads did not interrupt his rhythmic snoring. Two hours later, he was still sleeping, having left Kate to enjoy the passing countryside untroubled by her need to posture.

By midday the heat was rising and sunlight was playing tag with piles of clouds. Swinford stopped to rest the horses. Kate relieved herself in a nearby copse, hoping her traveling companions would not choose the same spot. But when she climbed back into the wagon, Frith had not moved and Swinford was holding the reins.

“You’re one for modesty, Gough, I’ll give you that.” Swinford laughed.

“A touch of the runs. I wouldn’t want to offend your sensibilities,” Kate answered gruffly, as she thought one man might answer another’s jibe. She jerked her head toward Frith. “Shouldn’t we wake him?” Kate asked. “At least he could stretch his legs.”

“Naw, let him sleep. He’s had a rough time, that one has. Sleep’ll do him good. We’ll stop again. If not, he can just piss off the side of the wagon.”

Kate tried to banish the notion of Frith “pissing off the side” from her head, as Swinford slapped the reins and the wagon lurched forward. Digging into the pocket of John’s cloak, she pulled out the bit of meat and bread and chewed absently. She considered her sleeping companion. He looked innocent, even boyish, in his slumber, despite the darkening stubble on his face—and very pale. His long white neck looked about to break, all slumped over in that position. A tendril of wavy brown hair fell forward, stark against his complexion. Kate resisted the urge to wad up a piece of sacking and place it like a pillow behind his neck.