The Heretic’s Wife (60 page)

The constable nodded.

“And give him whatever he needs in the way of basic necessities. You may charge it to my account.”

“I am grateful for your kindness, Master Cromwell,” John said, and he was, though there was something about the man he did not quite trust. He was known as a sympathizer of the protestant movement, but he would not be the first man to ride the wave of needed change to power. There was shrewdness in his eyes that bespoke self-interest, and after all, he’d been recruited and trained by Wolsey, that paragon of self-interest.

“I will speak to the king when he returns on your behalf. The king, for all his quarrels with the Church, remains devoted to the mass. Remember that in your conversations with residents and visitors to the Tower. More and Stokesley are not above sending in a spy or two.”

“And writing materials?” John pressed. “At the risk of abusing your gracious generosity. It would be a great boon.”

Cromwell nodded. “Your status as a theologian could be very useful to the king, should you find that your conscience allows you to write or speak favorably of his decision to put away the old queen. You are fortunate to be in my hands and not your enemies’, Master Frith. But be forewarned, there is only so much I can do.”

After he had gone and John’s dinner had appeared, with it was a lone candle, some writing materials, a book of Erasmus’s sermons—not banned; Erasmus was a master of circumspection, preaching against many abuses of the Church the “heretics” derided but always falling short of heresy, remaining a friend to More—an example of Cromwell’s prudence. But after John had finished his meat pie and weak cider, he did not light the candle or pick up the book or the writing materials. He sat with his back to the wall, staring out at one lone star in the narrow patch of black sky visible to him.

He wondered if Kate was looking at the same star. If somehow she knew he was in peril. A loneliness as black as that patch of sky settled on him.

Captain Lasser was taking on cargo at the Steelyard when he heard the news that John Frith had been arrested. He put down the parcel he was handing off to a crewman. “Does Frith’s wife know he’s been taken?” he asked Sir Humphrey, who hailed him with the news.

“I doubt it. We’ve just got word this day. We are trying to get to him to see if there’s anything he needs that we can provide. I’m trying to find the words to write to his wife. It’s a hard duty. Her brother was a printer and a runner for us before he was caught and his press smashed. She sold me a Bible, a fine old family heirloom, to raise money after her brother’s printing business was shut down.” He shook his head, and stroked his beard, shaping it to a dagger’s point. “How do you tell a woman her husband has been arrested for heresy?”

“As gently as you can,” Tom said, thinking how hard it would be to write such a letter—even if it were not to a beautiful young woman and the wife of a man he admired. “I got to know them both when I helped them escape. They were newly married, then. When you sent me to pick him up, you didn’t say anything about a wife.”

“I didn’t know. It was a complication. But thanks to you, it worked out.”

“Frith is a good man, and a smart one. He may yet survive. Where is he being held?”

“In the Tower. At least More and Stokesley can’t get to him.”

“But he’ll still have to stand trial?”

“Most likely. Whenever they think they have enough evidence.”

“Which they are as busy gathering as a squirrel gathers nuts, I’ll wager. When you finish writing that letter, give it to me. I’ll take it to her.”

“That’ll be hard duty too, Captain.”

Tom nodded and picked up a crate marked “spices” and put it in a pile for loading. It did not smell of spice, but Tom had learned not to inquire. All he needed to know was that it was marked with a double
X
and would require special handling.

“Hard duty,” he agreed. “But she doesn’t need to receive such a letter from the hand of a strange messenger.”

As his arms were busy loading the crates and fardels marked with a double
X
, he considered his dilemma. He’d always forsworn direct involvement with the reformers—there was no profit and lots of risk. No bishop knew his name and that was a condition most desirable—he’d always been
able to sail just beneath their notice—just another smuggler who could bribe his way if caught. But the hard truth was John Frith did not deserve to die at the hands of Thomas More. And the brave young woman he’d first met outside Fleet Prison did not deserve this double portion of pain. If he could promise help, give Kate some hope that her husband could be free, the news would go down less hard with her. But could he really do that? Risk everything to free Frith? Maybe not.

By the time Monmouth returned with his letter and the
Siren’s Song
had set sail, Captain Lasser had convinced himself that he should give her a shoulder to cry on when she received the news. She deserved that at least.

Kate finished sewing a hem in the lining of her baby’s cradle and examined the tiny stitches with satisfaction. Not perfect, she thought, but not too bad either. She spread the soft fabric in the cradle and gave it a little push with her foot.

Resting her hands on her stomach, she spoke softly to the child inside her. “This world is a hard place, but you’ll have a soft bed—though it may have a crooked stitch or two in the pillow.” The baby kicked as if in response. Kate laughed. “Save it for your father so he can see how strong you are. He’ll be here to welcome you into the world as he promised. Maybe sooner.”

John had said by Christmas when he’d left, but in his last letter two weeks ago, he’d said he was passing London by and would be home earlier. By All Saints’ Day even. “He’ll think your mother really is as fat as the baker’s wife.” She was contemplating that with just a whisper of anxiety running swift-footed through her mind—would he think her misshapen and ugly?—when the maid told her she had a visitor.

“Who is it?”

“I don’t know, mistress. I’ve never seen him before.”

“You know we are not to receive strangers here. He could be a spy.”

“He says he is with the Hanseatic League, and he showed me a seal to prove it.”

“Did he give his name?”

“Captain . . . Lasser, I think.”

Kate considered briefly. Tom Lasser always made her uneasy in some vague way. Besides, he was probably here to see John. “Tell him my husband is not here.”

The maid bustled off but returned almost immediately. “He says it’s you he needs to see, madam. Says he has a letter for you from Humphrey Monmouth.”

Humphrey Monmouth. It might be news of John. Please, God, let it not be bad news. I cannot bear it. Not now.

“I will see him in the chapel,” Kate said. “We will have privacy there.” And in that sacred space, she thought, perhaps a measure of protection against evil news.

When Tom entered the plain little chapel, he did not see her in the dim light. The tiny room was in shadow except for a sunbeam of dust motes from a high-up window that illumined the simple altar with white light. When she stood up and turned to face him, the light gathered her in as well, and it was suddenly hard to breathe in the closeness of that little room.

“You look . . . radiant,” he said, his heart sinking at the sight of her heavy with child. As if this task were not hard enough already. “When is the child due?”

“Around Christmas.”

She did not smile at him. There was no welcome in her voice. Instinctively he took a step closer.

She stepped back. “You mentioned you had a letter?”

“May we sit here for just a minute?” He gestured toward the bench in front of the altar.

“I do not need to sit. If you do not mind, I am needed in the accounts room.”

“Please, sit. I need to talk to you first, before you read the letter.”

She went pale. “John? Is it about—”

He put his arm around her waist, guiding her down onto the bench then, feeling her shrink from him, took it away.

“You are shivering,” he said.

She sat with her hands folded in her lap. He reached out and touched them. They were cold and pale as though no blood flowed to them. There was only a small brazier in the chapel, and it was not lit. He took off his doublet and placed it around her shoulders.

She seemed to shrink into it. “Tell me what you have come to tell me, Captain.” Her voice was small, husky with fear.

“John is fine, and you are not to be overly alarmed if you hear disconcerting news.”

“What is
overly
alarmed, Captain?” she asked, her voice rising. “What degree of alarm should I have?”

He was not doing this well. The anxiety he felt coming from her, the fear he felt for her, all was distracting him.

“What disconcerting news?”

“John is going to be . . . delayed.”

“Delayed? Is that all? There is more, I can see it in your face. Tell me and get it over with, please, or just give me Sir Humphrey’s letter and let me read it for myself.”

“John has been arrested,” he said, careful to keep his expression benign, his voice level.

Her hands flew first to her face—“Oh God”—and then to her belly as if she could stop the child from hearing. She started to sway back and forth. “Oh please, God, no—”

He tried to put his arms around her to comfort her, but she shrugged him off as though his touch burned. “My husband is in the hands of Sir Thomas More, the man who lives to burn other men, and you are telling me not to be overly alarmed!”

“But he’s not. Thomas More doesn’t have him.” He thrust the letter at her.

She stopped swaying and snatched it from him, devouring it with her eyes as she held it in trembling hands.

“This says that he is in the Tower. That Thomas Cromwell has him and not Thomas More,” she said, breathlessly.

“And that’s very good news,” he said. “Concentrate on that. Do not give up hope. If he is patient, there is a good chance he will be free. He may never have to stand trial.”

She stood up then and faced him, her eyes wide with fear and determination. “Take me to him,” she said. “I want to see him.”

“I do not think that’s wise—”

“I don’t care what you think.”

“You have to think of your child.”

“I am thinking of the child. I want him to at least hear his father’s voice before—” And then she started to cry. This time when he put his arms around her, she did not pull away but leaned into him momentarily, then her body tensed as it struggled for control.

“Will you take me to him?” she asked, looking up at him. “Please.”

“I will do whatever you wish, Kate. But I think—no, just hear me out—if
they learn of your existence, they will use you against him. You will become an instrument of . . .” He stopped, searching for a word other than
torture.
“Something they can use to break him down, to make him confess. Now he knows that you and the baby are safe. That gives him something to hold on to. That will keep him strong and give him comfort. I know it would me—if I were in his place.”

“But—”

“Let me go in your stead. I will try to get in to see him. I will do everything I can. If all else fails, others have escaped from the Tower—”

She looked up at him then with uncertainty in her eyes. “You would do that? Put yourself in danger for him?”