The Heretic’s Wife (62 page)

“Could I prevail on your generosity to bring two? There is a poor man here name of Petite, a grocer who by catching a seeming sweetness in God’s Word fell afoul of Thomas More”—he laughed bitterly—“as we all do sooner or later. They searched his home and found nothing and have no witness to testify against him, but More will not see him released even though he is very ill. Sometimes the chamberlain allows me to visit him. A good meat pie might lift his spirits.”

“Two pies it shall be then”—and another wink—“and more apple cake to replenish that which you consume tonight. That is little enough pay, for the good work you do. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

His visitor stepped out into the hall. The guard shuffled down a few minutes later and shut the door. As soon as John heard the key turn in the lock and the footfalls fade, he tore into the apple cake, pulling out the pen and paper. Then dragging the rickety little table that Cromwell had procured for him into the center of the room, he climbed upon it and carefully removed the block that had been cut from the ceiling.

“Psst. Petite,” he called in a whisper. “Are you awake?”

He heard a raspy answer. “Come to the hole. I’ve a treat for you,” and he shoved a chunk of the apple cake through.

A hand reached down and grabbed it. “God bless you, John Frith, God bless you.”

Then climbing down, John lit his tallow dip, took up the pen and dipping it in the “black pudding” began to write: “The mass is not a sacrifice but a remembrance of the sacrifice and assurance of salvation that God has given us.”

The candle flame glowed steadily and brightly as a new flame does. Its steadfastness distracted him momentarily, mesmerizing him. As if in a trance, he placed his ink-stained forefinger in the flame until he felt the burn. Snatching it away with a grimace of pain, he put it to his lips to soothe it.
Thomas Bilney before he was burned used to do this, to condition himself to the pain. Will I have such courage as he showed at the stake?
he wondered.
Many good men have not.

Yet to do less would disappoint his Lord and bring shame upon himself—and shame to his wife. He would never forget the sorrow in Kate’s face when she talked about her brother. Taking his finger from his mouth, he put it in the flame again. Was it his imagination or did he hold it longer that time? This time when he withdrew it, he did not put it to his lips, but ignoring the pain picked up his pen.

Anne Bulleine, Marques of Pembroke, was proclaimed Queene at Greenych and offred that daie in the Kinges Chappelle as Queene of Englande.

—T
HE EVENTS OF APRIL 12, 1533, AS RECORDED
IN
T
HE
C
HRONICLES OF
E
NGLAND
D
URING
THE REIGN OF THE
T
UDORS

J
ohn watched from a viewing platform built above Tower Green as the queen’s barge came up the Thames. He was more grateful for the sunlight on his face than the opportunity to witness the water parade. Upon the king’s orders that certain prisoners were to be let out to witness the new queen’s arrival as an act of charity, a celebration of new beginnings, Thomas Cromwell had sent down a list of those prisoners who should review the spectacle. Like his fellows, John had been given a green flag to wave as the queen’s barge floated by, and instructed to cheer loudly.

As he watched the sun rippling off the Thames, he considered whether a man could survive such a jump, wondering how many others standing so near the balustrade shared that thought. But for John it was a mere intellectual curiosity. Captain Lasser had spoken to him of an escape plan, but John had a growing certainty that not to attempt to defend his beliefs now that he had been charged with heresy would put a stain upon his honor and hurt the cause—and besides, it would be a fool’s jump. The archers on the wall
were armed. He’d have an arrow in his back before he broke the surface of the waters.

“That’s the queen’s boat,” the chamberlain who stood with him said, pointing to the biggest barge.

It was marked with the king’s arms and followed by lesser barges—as far downriver as John could see—belonging to City of London companies. They made an amazing spectacle, festooned with silk banners of Tudor green and white shot through with silver threads that glinted in the light bouncing off the water. Music drifted up from many of the barges as they passed beneath the platform, interrupted by periodic bursts of cannon in salute.

“What about the old queen?” one of the prisoners murmured.

“There is no old queen. You must be referring to the ‘princess dowager,’ ” he mocked. There was laughter all around.

“Must be good to be a king,” one of the guards whispered to another. “I’ve got myself an old woman I’d like to replace with a sweet young thing.”

The lead barge turned and swung around, closer to the Tower.

“Now! Here she comes,” the guard yelled. “Shout! Wave your banners.”

A chorus of hoots and cheers erupted around him. Caught up in the moment, John shouted, “God save the queen,” and waved his banner, more vigorously than he might have except for the sheer joy of the movement of his arms. It wasn’t that he begrudged the new queen her triumph. She was after all a reformer and even had sent him her best regards through Master Cromwell, saying she hoped for a day when all such as he would be free in England. Cromwell had suggested that the king knew of John’s reputation as a scholar and that if Master Frith would write favorably concerning the marriage John might find himself celebrated rather than incarcerated. But so far John had not been able to do that. A man, even a king, should not easily break a vow made before God. In that and that alone John agreed with Thomas More, who it was said deplored the marriage though it meant risking his own preferment. On much different grounds, John told himself. It was probably not the breaking of a vow that More despised nearly so much as the putting away of a Catholic queen in favor of a protestant one.

The new queen looked up at the prisoners on the platform. John could not see her face well enough to read the expression, but he read pure joy in her movements as she blew kisses and waved her arms high in the air. He wondered what Kate would make of the spectacle. He couldn’t say for sure, but he thought she might spare a moment of regret for the abandoned Queen Katherine. Kate was very tenderhearted, and it might just be that she also
felt abandoned. She had said as much to him when they first argued over his leaving, before she had agreed to let him go.

Had he not shown his love for his wife in a thousand ways? Yet he had left her behind to serve a cause that if asked he would have to say was greater than one man, one woman—greater even than his love for her. What was that if not abandonment? Captain Lasser had told him about the child. John remembered how it was the last time and grieved that he had not been there to comfort her. He thanked God for Tom Lasser. He was a good friend.

A cloud drifted over the sun, turning the sparkling water gray. The April breeze seemed suddenly sharp. The entourage had moved out of sight.

“Show’s over. Time to go in,” the guard said.

John fell in line with the others to go back to his bleak cell. Even Petite was gone now, and though he was glad for his comrade’s release, there was nobody to whisper to in the black heart of the night. Nobody at all.

Anne Boleyn turned in a fury to the king, aware as she did so that he hated her tantrums, but she seemed unable to control her temper since she’d become pregnant. It was almost as though some demon had entered her with Henry’s seed. She flung the gold-inlaid walking stick across the privy chamber as she would have liked to fling the giver. The stick had been a New Year’s gift to the king from Thomas More when he was chancellor.

“The pious, hypocritical Thomas More disdains to come to my coronation dinner! And you will stand by and let your queen be thus insulted?”

Her trip down the Thames had been exhilarating, people lining the shores in every village, shouting from the quays and jetties, all eyes trained on her even from the wall of Tower Prison as she stood in the bow of the boat, waving, laughing, while the sunlight sparked the jewels at her throat and the pearls sewn in perfect patterns down her sleeves.

But the dinner afterward had not gone well. She had been uneasy, feeling the tension in the room, as the courtiers exchanged furtive looks, bowing to her, sometimes with mockery in their eyes, all the while Henry watching like a hawk, his eyes and ears alert for the obvious slight. Charles Brandon had already been sent home in anger for a reported slight. As Archbishop Cranmer spoke to the assembled nobles and bishops in glowing terms of the new queen’s love for the king and her love for England, Anne had taken inventory from her place on the dais. She looked at the board reserved for the king’s council. Thomas More was conspicuous in his absence.

Henry carried the tension left over from the dinner too. It was visible in the tightness of his face, the curtness of his tone when he answered her. “Thomas More is of little matter.” He picked up the walking stick and examined it thoughtfully, picking at the gold inlay until one piece came loose. He laid it carelessly aside. “He is no longer chancellor.”

“Of course it matters! He is still a king’s councillor and probably the most respected man in England. You can mark it—his absence will be noted and commented on. It will give heart to Katherine’s supporters.”

“When Master More thinks on it, his good sense will prevail. He pleaded illness, but he will be at Westminster for your coronation with the rest of the court.”

She felt her temper rising with her voice at his easy dismissal of her fears.

“Good sense? When has he shown good sense? Did he show good sense when he spoke against the reform of the clergy in Parliament?” She paced, clenching her fists. “Did he show good sense when he refused to sign the petition to the pope?”

“Would you have him brought in chains to salute you, my lady? The ‘most respected man in England’? How think you that would look to Katherine’s loyalists?”

Anne heard the steel in his voice and stopped pacing, unclenched her fists. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, struggling for control. When she answered him, her voice was an octave lower.

“You are right, of course, as you always are. It’s just since our wedding was so secret, I would like a public display so that all your subjects can see how happy their king is and know that England will soon have a prince.” She reached out and pulled his hand forward so that it touched her belly. “If they treat me with less respect than a queen deserves, they might also fail to respect . . . our son.”

His face relaxed into an almost boyish grin. “We will have such a grand ceremony that no one will notice if Thomas More is absent. They will be too blinded by the glory of their queen.”

“Tell me,” she said, suddenly as greedy as a child, the anger melted away by the prospect of all of London at her feet.

“After Cranmer puts the crown on your head and says the proper prayers, you will progress through the streets of London in an open litter draped in white silk. Standing beneath a silk canopy garlanded with flowers and silver bells, you will wave at the throngs who line the streets to get a glimpse of
their beautiful queen. I will ride in front upon my most noble steed to protect you and herald your arrival.”

“Yes, yes?” Anne said. “Go on.”

He moved closer and kissed her throat, murmuring between the kisses, “Pageants . . . at every stop . . . singing your praises . . . choirs of children . . . trumpets . . .”

And I in my white dress, my dark hair flowing free beneath a jeweled coronet, I shall wave to my adoring subjects. I, a simple knight’s daughter, Queen of England at last.

It was a lovely vision that left her breathless.

“Let’s to bed, my lord,” she said, taking him by the hand.