The Heretic’s Wife

by Brenda Rickman Vantrease

  The result was a blotched and smeared waste of paper.

  She crumpled it in a ball with a hearty “Damnation!” and began the whole process again. A couple of hours later, and after a few attempts, one thing was becoming clear: she was not nor would ever be a printer. There was only one thing left to do. She had to somehow secure his release if they were going to hold on to the shop.

  She was still fighting back tears, still cleaning up ink splatters, when the bell tinkled in the bookshop. It should have been a welcome sound, but who needed custom without inventory? She sighed heavily and, wiping the sweat from her forehead, went to answer the bell.

  FIVE

  I have borne a long time with thy husband . . . and given to him my poor fatherly counsel, but I perceive none of all this able to call him home; and therefore, Meggie, I will no longer argue nor dispute with him.

  —SIR THOMAS MORE TO

  HIS DAUGHTER MARGARET CONCERNING

  WILLIAM ROPER’S HERESY

  By the time Kate entered the bookshop in the front room, the bell jingled for the second time. She drew her stained apron over her head, flung it toward the peg by the door, and lifted the latch just enough to peek at the woman standing there. She was a young woman of about Kate’s own age. Clearly nobility from the looks of her—richly dressed, her face framed by a heart-shaped cap edged with seed pearls—but not a beautiful woman, not even a very pretty one. Her nose was too big and her brows a trifle ragged, and her eyes were too wide set in her face for perfect symmetry. But those wide-set eyes carried an intelligent gleam, and she bore herself with the grace and self-confidence that only a plain woman of the upper class could master. She was perfectly groomed. Kate’s hand went self-consciously to pat at her own disheveled mop.

  “I’m sorry, my lady, the bookshop is temporarily closed for restocking. Our inventory is pitifully low,” Kate said as she made to shut the door in her customer’s face.

  The woman put a gloved hand on the door and shoved gently. “Then I’ve come at an opportune time,” she said. “For it is not the bookseller I seek, but the printer.”

  “As I told you, we are closed. My brother is the printer. And he’s not here.”

  “Oh, I thought—” She glanced meaningfully at Kate’s ink-stained clothing.

  “I was just cleaning up the press.”

  “Well, when will your brother return?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Then I think I shall wait for him a while,” the woman said, maintaining her regal position. She crossed the room and settled herself onto the lone chair. “Don’t let me keep you from your work,” she said and gave an imperious wave of her hand.

  It was accompanied by a smile and an “if it suits,” but the gesture irritated Kate. How could she say, No, it does not suit, without being unforgivably churlish to her betters? So what she said was, “Then it may be a long wait, my lady. The printer is in gaol.”

  A look of shock at such a blunt declaration was quickly replaced by genuine distress. “Oh my dear. I am verily sorry.” The honest sympathy in this strange woman’s face, together with Kate’s disastrous afternoon’s adventure with the printing press, undid her, and before she knew it, tears were spilling down her cheeks and ill-considered words out of her mouth.

  “It’s not right,” she declared, swiping at a tear. “The legal system is a travesty—Wolsey, More, the whole lot of them, the Church and the king’s lawyers all acting as though they are the law of England. They talk of righteousness and virtue while they destroy the lives of those with whom they disagree.”

  She would have been wise to notice the hardening aspect of her would-be customer’s face, but she was too upset.

  “And the king’s chief councillor, Sir Thomas More—I have but to mention the man’s name in my brother’s presence, and he starts to tremble. He’s the worst of the lot. A pious hypocrite, who delights in the pain of others.”

  Kate was surprised at the vehemence of her diatribe. Her brother had never mentioned Sir Thomas by name—or any of his interrogators. But once, when she’d suggested that they try to appeal to the powerful Thomas More for intervention, John had grown pale and agitated and would not settle down until he’d extracted a promise from her that she would not seek him out.

  “I understand your distress,” the woman said with somewhat less sympathy in her voice, “but you are wrong. If your brother is truly innocent he will be released. It is only a matter of time. Once they hear—”

  “Time, you say. We have no time! And how can they hear, if they won’t listen! I’ve been to them all—turned away too many times to count by the bishop and the lord mayor. I’d even approach Sir Thomas More myself if I could afford the bribe. You don’t understand, Lady—”

  “Margaret.” Her visitor’s voice had chilled, her earlier compassion frozen. “Margaret Roper. Mistress William Roper—daughter of Sir Thomas More.”

  Kate wanted the floor to open up and swallow her. Now she’d done it. Gone and made everything worse. John would never get out of prison. That remark about the bribe. Dear God, if she could only call it back.

  “I’m sorry, my lady. I should not have spoken so bluntly,” Kate stammered. “I did not mean to offer insult. I should have kept my opinions to myself.”

  “So then you are merely sorry for the words and not the sentiment.”

  “I would be less than honest to proclaim other than what my heart and reason teach. That would be equally an insult to my lady.”

  Mistress Roper’s mouth twitched at the corner, an almost smile. “Well said. I admire honesty. And I shall repay the compliment by being likewise honest with you. You know that it is a sin to repeat idle gossip offered up by those jealous of another’s good fortune. All of England knows of my father’s greatness.”

  “I do not deny he is a ‘great’ man, if greatness is defined by power. He hath the king’s and the cardinal’s private ear. But if as our Lord teaches, true greatness is to be found in compassion, then his reputation suffers in some quarters.”

  Mistress Roper got up from her chair and moved with a swish of her finely woven skirts to the window. Kate’s gaze followed hers out to the street to where a liveried servant waited, holding a gray palfrey by the reins. Kate felt relief that the woman was leaving, but then she turned back toward Kate, apparently unwilling to let it lie.

  “It might inform your opinion to know of the many good works for which my father is known. I have just now come from the poorhouse Sir Thomas keeps. Twice weekly, I make the trip down the Thames from Chelsea in a boat laden with food and healthful potions for the inhabitants there. Foodstuffs from my father’s own storehouse. Physics from his own apothecary.”

  It occurred to Kate that Thomas More must be a man of some vestige of goodness, to inspire such love in his daughter that she was bent on securing the good opinion of one who mattered so little. Kate was about to apologize for speaking so bluntly when her memory conjured John’s hollow face and haunted look, and she could not stop her tongue.

  “Charity is a necessary thing in a great man. Sir Thomas is a man of public virtue.”

  She could tell by the flash of irritation on Mistress Roper’s face that she caught the implication of those words, but she recovered quickly.

  “I was returning from a private errand to this almshouse, when I decided to stop in Paternoster Row. I am a great lover of books. My father sees that all his daughters receive a classical education, even his wards. As a bookseller, surely you appreciate the value of that.” She paused to see if this had any softening effect. Kate remained silent. “I saw your printer’s sign, and as I am in need of a printer’s services, I thought I should stop in.”

  A likely story, Kate thought. She knew Sir Thomas’s works were printed by his brother-in-law Rastell. The woman was probably spying for her father.

  When she said nothing Margaret Roper continued. “You may be wondering why I did not go to our usual printer. But this is mine own translation, and I wanted to surpr
ise my father with it. Your shop would have been very convenient, since I pass so close by . . . twice weekly.”

  Her voice rose slightly on the twice weekly. As if to remind again of Sir Thomas’s charity.

  “I’m sorry we cannot claim the custom of so noble a house, Lady Margaret, but as you see we are practically out of business.” She made a sweeping gesture with her hands to indicate the empty shelves. “There is a printer on the other side of St. Paul’s. He can probably help you.”

  “I’m sorry too,” Mistress Roper said, moving to the door. “But perhaps I can help you in another way.”

  Why would you want to help us? Kate wondered. What are we to you? But she had the good sense to stay silent. She thought she knew why. Kate had challenged the perception of her father’s greatness. Mistress William Roper née More could not let that go unanswered—both for love and argument’s sake.

  She was standing at the door, her back to Kate, fingering the door latch. “What are the charges against your brother?” She turned around to face Kate.

  “There are no charges. He was arrested under suspicion of disseminating Lutheran materials.”

  “Does he disseminate Lutheran materials?”

  “They found no evidence either on his person or in this shop to support such a charge. None gave witness against him. He made no confession even under torture. He is being held without due process in the Liberty of the Fleet where his wife and I battle poverty to ensure he has a minimum of creature comforts.”

  “Does he have Lutheran sympathies?”

  Mistress Roper was not a lawyer’s daughter for naught. Kate paused, weighing her answers carefully.

  “My lady, no person can know another’s heart. His testimony is a matter of public record.”

  “I see. And what of you? Do you have Lutheran sympathies?”

  Kate hesitated and looked her interrogator directly in the eyes, so there could be no mistaking her answer. “I have promised my brother we will never sell Lutheran materials in this shop. Whatever my opinions are regarding reform or any other matter are mine alone, and I choose to keep them to myself.”

  Lady Margaret smiled faintly. “A politic answer and one my own father would admire. I do understand the lure of such sentiments. They have infected our own household. My own dear husband has been seduced by the Lutheran zeal for reform.”

  “And yet he remains a free man.”

  Lady Margaret nodded as if to say, I take your point. “I will speak to my father and see what benefit to you and your brother may be gleaned. What is your brother’s name again?”

  “Gough. John.”

  “And your name?”

  Kate hesitated just a fraction of a second, a hesitation that she was sure did not go unmarked by Lady Margaret. But what choice did she have? And there was compassion in the woman’s demeanor. She could hardly be faulted for loving her father. Perhaps she could use her influence to make her point whilst at the same time doing “a good work.”

  “Kate Gough,” she said, curtsying lightly. “My lady, we will be forever grateful for your kindness.”

  “I will do that which I can do, Kate Gough,” she said, “and I shall pray that both you and your brother find your way back to the bosom of the one, true Church.”

  The next day Kate returned from visiting her brother to find the latch bent, the front door to the bookshop open, and the printing press smashed.

  Three days later John came home.

  Kate was disappointed when John did not come back to the shop immediately but stayed at home with his wife and child. He just needs a few days to rest, she told herself. But when she told him about the destruction of the press, his reaction was not what she’d expected. He’d seemed numb to any emotion, even anger.

  “It is a warning,” he said. “We shall heed it.”

  “But how shall we print without a press? And since you burned all our inventory, what shall we sell?”

  “Nothing for a while, I think. It is not a good time to be a printer in England. We can print nothing that is not licensed by the king, and he will never grant a license to the kind of books that have been our stock-in-trade.”

  They were sitting in John and Mary’s daub-and-wattle cottage, sparsely furnished now, with little more than a bed and a table. They had sold the cupboard and most of the plate, even sold the wall hanging that had been a wedding gift from Mary’s parents—sold it all to keep John in the Liberty. The rent on the roof over their heads was due and they could not pay.

  “How shall we live, John, without the press? Shall we sell Pipkin’s cradle next? Are the four of us to live crammed into my tiny room above the shop? Of course, without a press, I suppose we could set up a bed in the print shop,” she said wryly. “But we still have to buy food.”

  She regretted almost instantly the remark about the cradle, but at least it brought some fleeting expression to his face. Pain was after all better than feeling nothing, wasn’t it?

  He did not look at his wife or at her when he answered, just stared at the floor in that habit he’d acquired in prison. “Mary’s father has offered to let us come and live with them in Gloucestershire.”

  He did not even say until the trouble passes, or for the time being. His voice was weighed down with resignation. Kate felt a sudden surge of fear, as though she were watching some fast-flowing stream carry him away from her, and he wasn’t even struggling. “You mean close our father’s shop?” she whispered in disbelief. “Permanently? Move to Gloucestershire and . . . do what?”

  Mary, who had been bouncing her restless son on her knees, set him on the floor and put her arm across her husband’s shoulders in a protective fashion. “It will only be for a little while, Kate. Gloucestershire is really pretty country. And there’s not all the fighting over religion there. Not a bishop within a hundred miles. It smells better than London too. Lots of fresh air for Pipkin. You are to come with us. My parents have plenty of room. They bade me tell you to come. John is going to help my father. His back’s been poorly.”

  Before Kate could stop herself, she blurted out, “John? Herding sheep!” The look of pleading in Mary’s face made her instantly regret the words. “I suppose the fresh air will be good for him,” she added lamely.

  “Good. It’s settled then.” Mary gave them her bravest smile. “You’re coming with us?”

  Kate shook her head, unable to quite believe what she’d just heard. “That is very dear of your parents, Mary. But I think I’ll stay right here for a while and watch the shop. I have a bit of money still and one or two things left I can sell. I can at least make it through the summer. Who knows what may happen by then?”

  “But you will come for a visit? Tell her she must come for a visit, John.”

  John raised his head and looked at her. The deadness in his eyes frightened her. “You must come for a visit,” he said.

  It turned out that the only thing Kate had left to sell was the Wycliffe Bible that had been passed down to her from her great-grandmother Rebecca. She had never known her grandmother Becky, but even as a child she’d loved the big Bible, loved the way the words with their funny spellings crawled across the crowded pages, loved the little pictures in the margins. It was not like the books the printing presses turned out. This one was all written out by hand, supposedly by some long-ago relative, an illuminator who lived in Bohemia over a hundred years ago.

  On the July morning that John and Mary and little Pipkin, who held on to her and could only be pried away with the promise of a lamb, departed, Kate took the Bible out from its special hiding place beneath a loose stone in the hearth. Who would buy such a thing? she thought as she removed the linen wrappings and rubbed her hand over its tooled leather binding. Few could afford it. Who would dare take the risk of owning it in such perilous times?

  She opened it carefully, remembering how her father used to show it to her with such pride before he was arrested, how her mother could no longer bear to see it after he died. It opened to a brightly illu
strated picture of the baby Moses floating down a blue Nile River in his little basket. Everything was in miniature—his perfect baby’s face, each rib of the basket so perfectly executed she could almost feel the texture of the reed—and all within the intricate capital that swirled and swooped in brilliant reds and blues and a tracing of gold down the margin of the page. The face of Miriam, his sister, peered into the basket at the child. That long-ago artist had captured in her expression the love she must have felt for her baby brother. It was a beautiful face. Kate wondered about the model. She looked so different from the women Kate knew—exotic somehow, with a fall of dark hair and almond-shaped eyes and tawny skin that glowed.

  How could she could bring herself to sell such a book?

  She sat for a long time on the cool stones of the hearth, tears pooling in the wells of her eyes. She thought of Pipkin and his little lamb and how she should have gone with them but knowing that she could not for she would surely wither like a flower in winter without her books or literate companions, with only Pipkin and his little lamb for company—and the worst part: she would be existing on the charity of others. She was turning the pages absently, no longer absorbed in the parade of colors but mired in her own gray loneliness, when she came to a folded piece of parchment interleaved and stuck so tightly that she thought at first it might have been bound with the text. She tugged gently and it came away.