The Heretic’s Wife (59 page)

John scanned the ships anchored there. He spotted one with the flag of the Hanseatic League. That would the one he should approach first for passage. A knot of people had gathered and were peering expectantly at a large ship sailing past in the distance. “Look, it’s His Majesty’s ship,” someone shouted. “Carrying more of our money to France, I’ll be bound,” another said. “Probably got that whore Nan Bullen on board with him.”

Shading his eyes with one hand and cramming the last bite of his pie in his mouth with the other, John peered in the distance at the grand ship with the Tudor flags flying. If he could just get on that ship, he could make his plea to the king without having to reveal himself to the layer of courtiers with connections to his enemies. He looked around for a small boat that could give chase. The king might be amused by so bold a move, and if he had Anne Boleyn on board, even predisposed to hearing him out. It was risky. There would be cannon on that ship; the captain might just fire and sink the small boat. But if he succeeded in getting close enough, he was sure he could talk his way aboard.

“Master Frith?”

Startled to hear his real name being hailed in such a crowd, he hesitated just a moment too long before pushing into the crowd to hide.

“John Frith! Stop. We would speak with you.”

He darted quickly away from the docks, but he’d only taken a few steps when three burly men surrounded him.

“Unhand me immediately or I shall report you to the dock watch.”

He didn’t know if there was such a thing as a dock watch, but it was the first thing that came to mind.

“You are to come with us.”

John tried to muster what indignation his fatigue would allow. “Under whose order?”

“The Bishop of London.”

Suddenly his fatigue was gone as fear pumped new energy into him. His mind cleared. There were some matters about which he did not have to bluff. “The Bishop of London has no authority to make arrests. That authority rests with the king.”

“King beint here, Master Frith,” one of them said, laughing, and pointed to the ship. “He’s too busy to bother with the likes of you.”

The men closed in, one wresting John’s arm behind his back. The point of a dagger poked through the thick serge of his jerkin.

“The bishop has no right, I tell you. Parliament has passed a law—”

“Tell it to the bishop,” one of them growled, pushing John forward.

He was outnumbered. Even if he struggled free, he would not likely get away. He spotted a customs officer, who was taking somewhat of an interest in the whole affair but had obviously decided this was not in his jurisdiction.

“Unlawful abduction,” John screamed in the direction of the officer. “Send to Master Cromwell at Whitehall. Tell him John Frith is being unlawfully arrested. I throw myself on the mercy of the king and demand lawful treatment.”

He said it more than once, loudly enough so that anybody listening with a sympathetic ear could carry the message, even if the customs officer chose not to. He was still screaming it, when he felt such a jerk on his arm that the pain shot into his wrist. One of the men slapped a hand over his mouth. “Shut your mouth, or I’ll have to break your arm.”

But as John stumbled forward with his arm throbbing, he was sure that the news would be all over Essex by nightfall—
And to Cromwell’s ears, please, God,
he prayed, remembering the fish cellar. He did not think he had the strength to endure that again. This time was different. This time more than his life was at stake. This time there was Kate—and the child they had made together. Thank God she does not know, he thought. Someday, I will tell her. When I have escaped. When all is well.

I come hither, good people, accused and condemned for an heretic, Sir Thomas More being my accuser and my judge. And these be the articles that I die for. First, I say it is lawful for every man and woman to have God’s book in their mother tongue. Second, that the Bishop of Rome is Antichrist . . . The Lord forgive Sir Thomas More.

—S
TATEMENT MADE BY
J
AMES
B
AINHAM
UPON HIS BURNING
, A
PRIL 1532

C
old crept into the back of the wagon with the evening shadows. John Frith pulled his wool coat tightly about him and tried to think. Most likely, his captors were taking him either to Bishop Stokesley in London or to Thomas More’s house where he was certain to suffer the kind of illegal interrogation that More had been conducting for years. His best chance of escape was before they reached their destination.

One of the men had ridden on ahead—no doubt to collect his reward for running his prey to ground—and one of them was driving the team of horses. That increased his odds, but the giant grinning beside him with dagger drawn was big enough to snap him in two. John had initially tried to engage him, hoping to win over his sympathy. Apparently he had none.

“Where are you taking me?”

“You’ll know when we get there.”

“I don’t suppose you would consider tying my hands in front instead of behind? If you are delivering me to the bishop, he might not want damaged goods.”

The guard looked suspicious. “What difference does it make where they’re tied?”

“My arm has gone numb, and my wrist keeps bumping against the rail.”

“It’s just an hour back to London.”

The wagon bumped and jolted to the rhythmic clip-clopping of the horses and the creaking of the iron wheels. John closed his eyes, pretending to sleep, while his mind darted into blind alleys. If he was going to escape he had to make them stop somehow. Maybe he could fake some kind of seizure to create a diversion. But he would have to be fast, would have to take the guard by surprise. And they would have to be someplace other than this open road so that he could find cover if he made it out of the wagon alive.

As they neared Bishopsgate, he heard hoofbeats approaching. He was reconstructing in his mind the layout of the alleys and lanes around Bishops-gate when the hoofbeats ceased abruptly. The wheels creaked to a halt as the driver reined in.

Now! This was his chance to bolt if he could take the guard by surprise. From his sleeping posture, John opened his eyes halfway to calculate his timing. His eyes popped wide open. Soldiers! The riders wore the king’s livery. The guard shifted closer to him.

“We’ve a prisoner for Bishop Stokesley,” the driver said, his voice carrying to the back of the wagon. John opened his mouth to speak. The dagger poked his side, a gentle reminder from the guard.

“Who is he?” One of the soldiers peered into the wagon.

“Frith,” John shouted. “John Frith.” The dagger dug into his side, but he knew they would not kill him here. This was his only chance.

“I am a scholar from Antwerp, come to see Master Cromwell. These men are holding me against my will. They are thugs and robbers.”

John felt the dagger dig deeper, thankful for his heavy mantle and thick serge doublet. “Take me to Master Cromwell—”

“He’s a heretic,” his guard growled. “The bishop has ordered his arrest.”

“I have been wrongfully abducted. Under Parliament’s new law, the bishop has no jurisdiction for arrest and detention. If I am to be held on charges, I must be held by the king, not the bishop.”

The soldier looked thoughtful.

“Take me to Master Cromwell, if you doubt it. If I am wrong, you can
deliver me to the bishop yourself. If I am right, you will have prevented a miscarriage of justice and earned Master Cromwell’s favor.”

The soldiers conferred briefly, and then to John’s great relief, one of them indicated with a jerk of his head that the driver of the wagon should get in the back with the prisoner. He handed the reins of his horse to his companion and took the driver’s seat. Within an hour, John was in custody of Constable Kingston of the Tower.

John’s first night in the Tower proved not to be as bad as he had feared. The old warder on duty led him to his cell, saying that the constable had already retired to his private quarters and would question the prisoner on the morrow. At least there was a window, high and open to the sky, which would give some light come morning. The starlight filtering through it now revealed the bleakness of the stark little chamber. A mattress with a straw ticking still clean-smelling enough to be preferable to the cold stone floor was the only furnishing.

He was also given a decent meal, though no one had asked him to pay for it, which was good, because he had only one coin for his passage home sewn into the hem of his cloak. He was determined he would not spend that even if he starved.

He was so exhausted he slept well, and to his surprise was given breakfast the next morning, not hearty, just a stale piece of bread and some thin porridge, yet a man could live on it. But how did a man exist without books and writing materials? He couldn’t even write to Kate to tell her his arrival was not as imminent as he had thought. If he could just tell her he’d encountered a small delay, not to worry, all would still be well, it would set his mind at ease.

He pondered the thickness of the stone casement and was wondering if anyone had ever escaped from such a fortress when his cell door opened and two men walked in. The tall one with the short sword strapped around his velvet doublet introduced himself as the constable. His companion was also richly dressed but in a velvet cap and robe, obviously a man of some importance, though nothing in his appearance bespoke the noble courtier. Neither did he look like a bishop.

“Master Frith, I will have to admit, I am well pleased to make your acquaintance. I have been curious about you.”

“This is Master Cromwell,” the constable said. “He takes a special interest in all prisoners who are charged with heresy. You are under his specific jurisdiction, but as I’ve been told by your arresting officers, you already know that.”

John clambered up from the floor, gathering his dignity as best he could, and gave a small bow of recognition to one of the most powerful men at court. “Master Cromwell, all of England has heard of you, but how came you to know of me?”

Cromwell smiled. “I have read your
Disputation of Purgatory.
”

“I am honored,” John said, taking full measure of the man, surmising that he was susceptible to flattery. “The more so that the reading of my work defines you as a man of courage since it is banned.”

“It is indeed a bold statement. Especially in these times,” Cromwell said.

“It is a time for bold statements, don’t you agree?”

“If you’ve a taste for martyrdom. If you do not, I would caution prudence. If you are prudent, you may even turn this circumstance to your advantage. The new queen will have some influence in your behalf.”

New queen?
Of course. Cromwell was looking ahead. He was known to be a supporter of Anne Boleyn.

“She has taken a special interest in the survivors of the fish cellar. But the Church, the bishops and the archbishop, still pass judgment on matters of heresy through their courts. Even Archbishop Cranmer, who is . . . sympathetic to your cause will be hesitant to overrule a guilty verdict. Bishop Stokesley will be on that court. Thomas More will be his legal advisor. Now is the time for prudence, Master Frith, not boldness. If you are as smart as I think you are, that is all I need to say.”

“You are very kind, Master Cromwell. I am honored by your interest and pleased to have your advice. If I may presume to ask one more favor, might I have some writing materials?”

Crowell frowned, narrowing his puffy eyes to slits. “After what I have just said to you, Master Frith, I would not advise—”

“So that I may write to my wife.”

“I would not advise that either. Such a letter might lead to your wife or to . . . other friends. Your wife could be used as a lever to gain information or to get you to recant. Your abjuration would be quite a plum.”

John suddenly remembered what had happened to James Bainham, how when they could not break him upon the rack, they had thrown his wife in
the Fleet. Thank God, More and Stokesley did not know he had a wife or where she lived.

Cromwell placed his hand in a brotherly fashion upon John’s shoulder. “Constable Kingston, you need not worry overmuch about the locks. I think our young friend can be given the freedom to visit some of the other prisoners. He is a man of God, a man of compassion.” His lips curved into a sliver of a smile. “He may bring comfort to some of them. Also, let him see those visitors who may inquire of him.”