The Heretic’s Wife (22 page)

The next morning Kate assembled her patient’s breakfast, as she did each morning, from the tray that Tildy brought. Carefully securing the contents against prying eyes in a lady’s sewing basket, she put in the boiled eggs—all three of them—and two rashers of bacon and two loaves of bread with a pot
of sweet butter from the Little Sodbury dairy. Kate hadn’t eaten any of it, only pretending to nibble at the bread while Tildy watched with wary eyes. After what seemed like an eternity, the girl had finished her tidying and left. Looking at the food made Kate’s throat tighten. Her stomach, like her heart, seemed to have lost its proper function.

She’d not slept at all.

Her mind just kept reliving John Frith’s words and that kiss over and over. But it was foolishness, she told herself. Of course. A young man’s folly. Impetuous foolishness. He was probably already regretting it. Of course he would be. Well, she would save him and herself the embarrassment of having to retract a proposal made in haste. She would simply leave the basket with Gilbert and inform Lady Walsh that she was going home. Today.

But when she knocked gently at the door, it was not Gilbert who opened it.

“Somebody will see you,” she scolded.

“I don’t care,” the patient said. “I mean, of course I care, but I was so anxious I’d scared you away I forgot to be careful.”

“Step aside, please, and close the door.” Agitation and anxiety showed in her curt tone. As he accepted the basket from her, her gaze fell on Gilbert’s empty cot by the door.

“Gilbert’s not here. I sent him away.”

“You may regret that. I see you have prepared the chessboard.”

He grinned a devilish grin. “I thought we could play for it. I win, you marry me. You win, I marry you. That way we both win.”

His way of acknowledging his foolishness? A clumsy attempt to ease embarrassment by making a joke?
“You may have need of Gilbert’s company after all,” she said. “I’ve come to tell you, I’m going home today.”

She watched his expression carefully for a look of relief, but he set the basket down and ran his fingers through his hair, his eyes suddenly sober, no more smile. “So. It was as I feared. I did scare you away. I should not have been so . . . abrupt. But it’s just that there’s so little time . . . and when I heard that you weren’t married . . .” He paused, his eyes widening as if in sudden understanding. “But of course, there is somebody else. How could there not be?”

The disappointment in his voice stole her breath away, and for a moment she wanted to throw her arms around him and tell him yes, that she would marry him, she would follow him to the ends of the earth. But that would be a silly thing. Kate was not a silly woman. If only there were more time. If only . . . “No. There is not . . . it’s just . . . impossible. That’s all.”

“If there is no one else, why is it impossible?”

She closed her eyes, shutting out his face, searching for the right words inside her head.

“I promise . . . I will be a good husband. I won’t beat you . . .” His laugh trailed off. “All right, a bad joke.” Then scarcely above a whisper, “You might even learn to love me.”

She opened her eyes to meet his gaze, his eyes startling in their directness.
How could any woman with a heart not love you?
she thought.

“I can see you feel affection for me now, Master Frith, but I fear it is an affection born of . . . circumstance. You may in time come to repent your choice as hasty and ill-considered. I could not bear that.”

He pulled her to him then. She heard the sound of the chessboard crashing to the floor as though it were far off and not right beside them. But when he kissed her, she heard only the blood rushing in her ears. From somewhere she gathered the strength to push him away. When he let her go, she drew a deliberate breath and waited for her heart to stop racing. Red-faced, he bent to retrieve the chessboard and placed it on the table, then picking up some scattered pieces, he piled them in a heap on the board.

“I have no dowry,” she said.

“Dowry! You think I care about a dowry? What have I to offer you?” He took both her hands in his, grasping them with a gentle pressure against her pulling away. “I’m only asking you to consider, Kate. You say I have made a hasty choice. It is you who are in danger of making a hasty choice. Don’t throw away a chance for our happiness without due consideration. At least stay until the boat comes. Do that much for the man whose life you saved.”

“I didn’t save your life.”

“You made me want to live. It’s the same thing.”

She couldn’t think rationally, not with him so close, not with him looking at her like that. She pulled her hands away and, bending, picked up two errant chess pieces. She placed the bishop in his proper place on the board, but he took the pawn from her, weighing it with his words. “We are more than pawns, Kate. We are free to make our own choices. Kings and bishops shall not forever determine the fate of free men.”

“You’re fleeing the wrath of a bishop, aren’t you, and the king’s soldiers on your heels? How can you be anything but a pawn in a dangerous game?”

“My choice, Kate. My choice not to play by the bishop’s rules. A man whose spirit is free will never be a pawn in somebody else’s game no matter what the consequences of his choice. My place is with William Tyndale.
And your place will be with me, if you choose it to be so. But either way, it will be your choice.”

He placed the faceless pawn on the board in opposition to the intricately carved bishop. Brave words, she thought. Everybody knew where the power lay in such a configuration—apparently everybody but John Frith. He was either a fool or the bravest, smartest man she’d ever known. But her brother had spoken thus and even their father. Now she mourned them both. One had lost his life and the other that same free spirit of which he’d also boasted.

“You are an exceptional man, John Frith. You have paid me the greatest honor of my life. The woman that marries you will be blessed. But I’m not sure . . . I have the courage required of such a woman.”
And I cannot think rationally with you looking at me like that.
“I need a proper distance from which to consider what you have said. Shall I find Gilbert for you?”

He shook his head. “I am content to be alone, if I am to be deprived of your company.”

“Very well,” she said, as she opened the door enough to peer into the hallway.

“You will not leave, then, without saying good-bye?” She felt his fingers caress the back of her neck, smoothing a strand of hair that had escaped her linen cap. His touch felt cool against her hot skin.

“I will not leave without wishing you God’s speed. I promise.”

“The
Siren’s Song
will return in five days by the lunar calendar,” Lady Walsh said later that day as Kate helped her mark the dates on the cellar barrels. “You need to give him an answer. If you delay much longer, time will make the decision for you.”

“I know. I know.” The cellar suddenly felt close, the damp air heady with the sour smell of fermenting apples and too heavy to breathe. “But even if—what about the shop . . . and my brother? I can’t just leave the country without telling my brother where I’m going. I can’t abandon the print shop our father left.”

“Lord Walsh could send an agent to look after the property. Where is your brother? We can send a messenger, but you may feel you need his permission.”

“In Gloucestershire. Clapham Farm. Somewhere near Gillingham Manor.”

“Why, that’s just in the next shire, within a day’s ride of here if you leave early. Of course, you may want to spend one night. I suspect we’ve time for
that. Go see your brother tomorrow, dear. It will relieve your mind. I know it would not be easy to go into exile with unfinished business. I’ll send an escort with you.”

It had not occurred to Kate that she might be that close. What would John say, if she told him about Frith? Would he tell her to go? Or would he just say nothing with that vacant look he’d had since being released from prison? At least she could see him and Mary and Pipkin before leaving.
Leaving? It’s an absurdity, Kate. Lady Walsh said exile.

“I would be so grateful for the chance to visit my brother if it’s not too much trouble. Even if . . . even if—”

“No trouble at all. Do you ride?”

“I’m afraid not. We always lived in London. I had little occasion—”

“No matter. I’ll send a carriage with a driver. It will take a bit longer, but you’ll be more comfortable. I’ll see Lord Walsh about making the arrangements right now.”

And before Kate could protest, Lady Walsh had swished out of the cellar and up the stairs, leaving Kate standing alone among the oaken casks. She marked the last barrel with white chalk then followed after, her next move apparently having been decided.

Hey nonnie, ho nonnie
. . . Mary Gough was singing as she drew water from the well. It was the first time she’d felt like singing since coming to her parents’ cottage. But it was a beautiful afternoon, cool and brisk, with brief, bright sunlight warming her face, and Pipkin bouncing around her skirts making her laugh with his own monotone contribution of
non . . . non . . . non
.

These last weeks had been hard. It had wounded her pride to return destitute to the home of her girlhood, bringing with her a husband and young child, dependent on her parents’ charity for their very bread. To be back in her mother’s house, doing things the way her mother did, to swallow without comment her mother’s unsolicited advice whenever Pipkin was cross, to constantly have to come to John’s defense for a circumstance that her good Catholic parents could not possibly understand: all of it had sucked the joy right out of her.

More than once she’d heard her father mutter as he chewed on a frayed willow twig, “A man’s a fool to lose everything like that, and for what? Just so some jackanapes upstart can read the Bible for himself. Couldn’t understand it if he could read it, most like. Isn’t that what the priest is paid to do?”
Her mother would roll her eyes in the direction of where Mary was kneading dough or sewing or nursing Pipkin—who her mother said should be weaned by now, and maybe he should be, but it brought Mary great comfort to snuggle him at her breast. Heaven knew she got scarce comfort from John these days. Little affection passed between them in the close confines of the four-room cottage.

Indeed, John had taken little interest in anything around him. Most days he just sat staring at the fire as though he were alone in the room, answering in monosyllables whenever her father tried to engage him, until the old man had given up trying. But this afternoon the pattern diverged from the usual. John got up from his stool by the fire and announced that the wood supply needed replenishing before the winter set in hard. Her parents had signaled each other with their eyes as if to say
at last
.

Pipkin had held up his arms. “Go,” he’d demanded.

“No, Pipkin,” Mary had said, hoping the child would not start to cry. “Your papa has work to do. Come with me. You can help draw water from the well.”

So John had departed alone, carrying an axe and an empty bag over his shoulder, and if he was not singing, at least there was a familiar confidence in his stride, a sense of purpose that had gone missing of late. Now Mary and Pipkin were on their twentieth song and their tenth bucket of water—back and forth—his small legs pumping to keep up and her back aching from stooping over so the child could “help” carry the water, then lifting him with one arm so he could watch it splash into the rainwater barrel by the kitchen door.

Each time, he squealed and clapped his hands and shouted, “Pash.” Each time as they returned to the well, he tugged with both his chubby hands at the rope while she pulled the bucket up the creaking wheel. She was wearing herself out, and there was still supper to help with. But she was wearing him out as well. Maybe he would nap and she could get some peace. Her mother would look fondly at her sleeping grandson and comment on what a cherub he was—she only called him that when he slept—and John would come home, carrying a large bundle of firewood. He would stack it by the hearth with a smile of satisfaction on his face. Her mother would be pleased. Her father would be pleased. And her husband would have made himself tired enough with honest labor that he might actually sleep the whole night through. They would all sit down at the table for once without her stomach in a knot.