The Heretic’s Wife (45 page)

“Isn’t that dangerous? What if he should be seen?”

“He says nobody knows what he looks like. He’s quite clever the way he just blends into the crowd. Pulls his cap down, his collar up, and goes out over the garden wall behind the chapel in case somebody is watching the house. I saw him on the street the other day and almost passed him by, thinking him just another yeoman laborer. He was sharing a pie with a hunchback beneath the shade of a plane tree. They were laughing together as though they were old friends—a hunchback beggar and the greatest linguist in England, maybe all of Europe!”

Kate had never seen John happier. It was gratifying to see him completely engaged in the labor he loved, gratifying, too, to know that as absorbed as he was, he wanted her nearby. Tyndale, Chaplain Rogers, and John had set up a little workshop marked off with a carved wooden screen in one corner of the solar. John’s worktable was positioned so that he could see where Kate sat with her books or her embroidery or even the English House accounts with which she helped Mistress Poyntz, who complained of being burdened with “so much ciphering.” (It seemed little enough for Kate to do in payment for the many meals they took at the English House, and it gave Kate blessed relief from the hateful embroidery.) But if she wandered into the kitchen to help or into the garden or went with Mistress Poyntz to her bedchamber to see some newfangled fashion, John would look up, his pen dripping ink, and smile as she reentered the room. “I think better when I can see my beautiful wife. You give me inspiration.”

And so pleasantly the summer passed into autumn. She still didn’t quite know what to make of the infamous translator. That he was brilliant, she was sure. Driven, surely, one might even say obsessed. Indeed, it seemed that his desire to bring an English Bible to England was all he ever thought
of—a worthy life goal to be sure and one deserving of personal sacrifice, even peril. The man was truly much to be admired for his courage, and yes, even though she was reluctant to admit it to John, not wanting to encourage him overmuch in his bond with such a dangerous man, there was that gentleness of spirit that seemed to abide in him.

But what troubled her about him was that same singleness of purpose that she so admired. After all, there were other things in life—like family and children and music and beauty. She hoped Tyndale’s fervor was not something one could catch like the pestilence. For if it was, her John surely stood within reach of it. And who knew how that might end?

It was Tuesday, and John was hoping to wind up his work at the Kontor early. The days were growing shorter, and Kate liked him to get home before dark. Glancing up from the bill of lading he was translating for a German merchant, who waited patiently in a chair beside his table, he saw with satisfaction that his chamber in the countinghouse was almost empty. Only one man waited, standing with his back to John’s table watching the late-afternoon shadows creep across the street.

John stamped the German’s papers with the official Hansa seal and handed them to him.

“Danke. Herr Frith.”

“
Ich freue mich, von Nutzen zu sein.
”

The man standing in the arched doorway stepped aside to let the German pass.

“Hoe kan ik u helpen?”
John said, looking up, addressing the newcomer in the more widely used language in Antwerp.

The light from the open door lit the man’s face in profile. John’s heart flipped over and then plummeted into his boots. The door closed behind the German merchant, leaving the two of them alone in the room.

“So we meet again . . . Master Gough,” Stephen Vaughan said in English as he turned to look John full in the face.

Master Gough.
Maybe he hadn’t heard the German call him by his real name.

Vaughan moved over to the writing table and without invitation took the seat the German had vacated. “How fortuitous that I should encounter you by chance,” he said. “I met your lovely wife a few weeks ago. She invited me to your home, but alas I must have . . . misunderstood the address.”

The tone of his voice, the little pause before the word
misunderstood,
signaled that he knew he’d been given the wrong address on purpose.

“I apologize if my wife gave offense. A woman alone encountering a slight acquaintance, well, you can understand how she might think it imprudent to disclose where she lived . . .” John heard the nerves in the sharp little laugh he gave and hoped Vaughan did not notice. “So . . . well. It is good to see you again. Now, how may I be of service? You said you were a glover, right?”

“Oh, I’m not here on mercantile business. I’m still making inquiries. This seemed like a good place to inquire—especially since you are in the
export
business, as I recall.”

John ignored the barb and feigned surprise. “Still on the king’s business, then? It’s been almost a year. Or is this some new inquiry?”

“No. Same inquiry. This has been a difficult one to resolve. But I think I’ve about run my quarry to ground.” He paused, then smiled broadly. “One of them, at least.”

There was no mistaking his meaning.

“Well then, congratulations,” John said, still pretending ignorance as he glanced out the window hoping to see anything that might allow him to conjure some distraction. The Kontor was a great square of a building with as many chambers as a rabbit warren. If he could just make it to the courtyard . . . “I’m sure you are anxious to complete the mission and return to England.”

“Don’t look so anxious, Master Frith. I’m not here to arrest you. As I told you on the boat, I’m an agent for the king, and I have been commissioned to make you an offer of pardon.”

“Pardon for what and from whom? To whom do you report?” John asked, not allowing himself to be drawn in by the man’s easy reassurance, wondering if he could take him—he was taller than John but of slender build, and he was not wearing a sidearm.

“Not to Chancellor More, if that’s what you are thinking. My correspondence to the king goes through Thomas Cromwell. For the king’s eyes only.”

“And Tyndale?”

“The same. The king is prepared to offer both of you safe passage and his protection—if you will return to England.”

“Why? In exchange for what?” But John thought he knew. “I will not recant. I will not be put on parade with symbolic faggots for burning pinned
to my cloak. I will not ride an ass backward down High Street while the priests incite people to abuse me with refuse and stones.”

Vaughan laughed. “I don’t blame you. But be assured, you will not be made a mockery nor asked to recant your past deeds or even your beliefs—at least not in public spectacle. His Majesty is aware of Master Tyndale’s superior talents and of your reputation as a scholar. As a scholar and linguist himself, King Henry is much impressed. He thinks your intellect and talent will be an . . . asset to his court.”

“He is not influenced by More’s and Wolsey’s hostility toward our endeavors?”

“Wolsey no longer wields any influence. And as for More . . . well, the king makes up his own mind.”

“How do I know this is not a trick? How do I know that you are who you say you are?”

Vaughan reached into his surcoat and took out a rolled parchment, unfurled it, and placed it on the table in front of John. “You will see it bears the king’s signature. I trust you can read the Latin,” he said, smiling at his own joke.

He waited patiently as John read. What the man said appeared to be the truth. It was a full pardon—but with royal strings attached, asking only that “Master Frith” cease heretical writings from this point on and that “Master Tyndale” halt his illegal translations and that the two men devote their wealth of talent and intellect to the service of their king.

“Lest you think the document a forgery, please consider that it would be a treasonous offense to forge the king’s signature and seal.”

“It appears to be as you have said. But I will have to think on it,” John said. “I will discuss it with my wife. Surely you understand that.”

Vaughan shrugged acknowledgment. “I assume you are living in the English Merchants’ House. As you probably know, I have not been allowed admittance there. Will you be here tomorrow?”

“Thursday. I will give you my answer on Thursday.”

“Very well,” Vaughan said. “Very well indeed.” He looked thoughtful and drummed his fingers on the table as though considering his next words carefully. “I would not presume to give you advice on the matter. I’m just the messenger. But be assured, Master Frith, I have no authority to arrest you and no desire to do so. I will not pursue you further whatever your decision. I cannot say the same for others.”

He spoke with such sincerity that John almost believed him.

“You may show the document to your wife. And I would suggest if you know of William Tyndale’s whereabouts that you show it to him as well. You would do your friend a great service. The chancellor is known to have his own spies.”

He stood up and walked to the door and, tipping his cap with a smile, said, “Thursday.”

Minutes later, John left the Kontor with the king’s invitation and statement of pardon in his pocket. He did not go home, but went straight to the English House.

By the end of the following week Stephen Vaughan was back in London, again being escorted into the king’s presence, again wearing a dread as heavy as chain mail when he entered the gates at Whitehall. But in spite of the fact that after his meeting with Tyndale, he had written the king of an unlikely successful outcome, Henry was in a good humor. Pity the poor messenger who must intrude upon that good humor, Stephen thought, but so be it. He’d fulfilled his commission as messenger. How could he be held responsible for its outcome?

“Your Majesty.” Stephen bowed first to the king, then a slighter bow to the Duke of Suffolk. “Your Grace.”

“Vaughan. At last.” The king pushed back his chair and stood up.

He’s put on weight, Stephen thought, noting the way his doublet strained across his chest. The year’s activities must have included more sedentary sports than jousting. Then he noticed the chessboard set up between Henry and the Duke of Suffolk.

“Leave us, Brandon. We would speak with Master Vaughan privately. He has been on business for the Crown.” And then with a glance at the chessboard, he added, “Don’t worry. We will not disturb the board. You’re going to lose anyway.”

As Brandon got up and swaggered away, Vaughan wondered what fool would dare to best the king at chess—or at any game for that matter. Brandon might, he thought. After all, he’d on occasion beat him in the joust and dared to marry the king’s sister without permission. But apparently he’d been forgiven. Stephen hoped Henry was still in a forgiving mood.

“Sit, sit. Take Suffolk’s place,” Henry said. “And tell me what news you have. Cromwell reports that you found Tyndale. Your letter showed him to be an agreeable sort. You said he was visibly moved by the offer of pardon.”
Henry closed his eyes as if searching his memory. “ ‘Water stood in his eyes when he read the gracious words,’ I believe you said.”

“Aye, Your Majesty. The man was visibly moved by your offer of mercy.”

“And what of the other? The scholar Frith? Did you find him also?”

“He arranged the meeting with Tyndale.”

“Good man. Good man. I can’t wait to see More’s face when he comes face-to-face—never mind. Are they without? Of course, there will needs be a Church official present to affirm the king’s pardon; Cranmer will be most easily bent in that direction. In the meantime they will be housed in the Tower. Comfortably, of course.”

“Your Majesty.” Vaughan coughed to clear his throat of a sudden choking sensation. “They did not return with me.”

Henry picked up the black bishop, Brandon’s bishop, and fingered it thoughtfully. Then set it back down. He cocked one well-combed eyebrow at Stephen. “Then when may we expect them?” he said quietly.

“As I told you in my letter, although both men were much moved by Your Majesty’s mercy—Tyndale sent this reply.” He reached into his pouch and withdrew a roll of parchment, handed it to the king across the chessboard.

“Do you know its contents?”

“I do not, Your Majesty . . . It is addressed to Your Majesty, and it is written in Latin. I do not read Latin.”