Besides, he knew what fate awaited him if he stayed in England.
Rain pelted down on the little wherry as it floated up the Thames toward Reading. Kate was grateful for the protection of the heavy cloak John had left hanging on a peg by the door.
It had been hanging there since the night he was arrested. These many weeks, she’d been loath to take it down, wanting to leave it there, until he would come back to claim it. Well, it could at least help to hide her figure, she had thought when she took it down and shook it out, holding it up for closer scrutiny. She was as tall as John . . . maybe with just a little padding stuffed into the shoulder lining . . .
It had worked.
In the pale light of early dawn, the merchant Swinford had not questioned her. To his “Glad to see you’re a free man again, Gough,” Kate had croaked in a raspy whisper, “But not a well man,” and pointed toward her throat.
An auspicious beginning and a sign, she thought, a sign that she was supposed to follow through on her plan. Indeed, it was too late to turn back now. She’d lain awake the night before fretting over her silly scheme, finally deciding to abandon it and go to sleep. But somewhere a rooster’s herald of the dawn had wakened her again, so at first light, dressed as her brother John, she’d headed toward the docks, thinking she should turn back, thinking that the merchant would probably already be gone and the docks would be deserted, thinking he would see through her immediately.
But he had only nodded at her and climbed into the little boat tied up at the dock, motioning for her to follow. “We’d best hurry. The weather will slow us down and we’re moving upstream.”
Then he’d leaned forward to untie the rope from the dock, and Kate had her first moment of panic, wondering if she could copy his surefooted movement.
He held the boat steady. “A man just out of a damp prison cell could get the ague in this drizzle. This time you’d best get behind me. My back’ll protect you from the worst of it. In Reading we’ll at least get off the river and maybe grab a few hours of sleep. Same place as always. We’re to pick up a wagon and some horses. And I think a passenger.”
Kate had merely nodded and held on to the dock post with one hand, as she gingerly put one foot in the boat. The strange freedom of movement that the trousers gave her under the heavy cloak caused her to misjudge the distance, and the boat rocked beneath her feet. She sat down hard on the board in the center.
Swinford pushed away from the dock with the oar, and she realized with a sinking feeling that he would expect her to man the other oar. Thank God, she’d often been rowing with John when they were younger, before he married, so at least she knew how. She was supposed to row from the other side, she remembered, so she scooted to the right and picked up the oar. As she dipped the paddle into the water, she felt the drag of the current and matched her rhythm to his. She should just count herself lucky, she thought, that he was not a young man and paused to rest his own arms at those places where the river flowed wider and the current was less strong. But such respites were brief. Soon the boat would start to drift downstream, and he would pick up the oar again.
By mid-morning the rain had begun in earnest.
By noon her arms were aching. The rain had settled to a mist that clung to her skin and breath. The woolen cloak was much too hot for such exertion, but she dared not take it off. Its wool helped repel the water in a way her linen shirt would not. Without the cloak, her shirt and trousers would quickly become wet and clingy. The mist thickened to fog, and they moved closer to shore, avoiding the larger boats in the main channel. Kate was breathing heavily.
But what was worse, she needed to make water.
She averted her eyes when Swinford stood up and, fumbling at the closure of his pants, moved to the edge of the boat. Her face was still flaming when he settled into his seat again.
“You look a bit flushed,” he said. “You’d best not overdo in your weakened condition. I can manage alone a while.”
“I’d be grateful for the break,” she croaked.
But her respite brought little relief. The occasional swell caused by the wake of the larger boats in the channel added to her discomfort. The earthy banks and the rotting reeds had a rank, peaty smell, but she did not feel sick. She was just wet and miserable and even a little hungry. Why hadn’t she thought to bring a biscuit? All she had with her was the little pouch of money that Sir Humphrey had given her, the plan being to use some small part of it to pay for some of the goods they were receiving.
The rain started up again, coming down in sheets. It puddled in the bottom of the boat.
“We’d best pull in and find a bit of shelter or at least find something to bail with,” Swinford shouted.
Nodding, she picked up the oar and applied it vigorously, ignoring the burn in her upper arm. Once they reached the shore, she could find a private place to relieve herself. For the first time that day, she blessed the rain.
By the time they made Reading, the church bells were tolling compline, and Kate was too tired to even wonder where they were going as she followed her companion up a twisting street to a row of half-timbered houses leaning into the alley. Swinford stopped at the third house and tapped lightly on the door. A woman wearing a lace-trimmed nightcap and shawl over her nightdress answered the door. She carried a candle but shielded it with her hand to keep the light from spilling into the street.
“We’d ‘bout given you out,” she said in a low voice. “The other one is already here. I’ve put down a couple of straw mattresses by the hearth in the kitchen for the two of you.” As she spoke, she was leading them into the kitchen where the smell of boiled barley and beef lingered, causing Kate’s stomach to rumble a little. The woman lit the rush lights on the wall from the candle she carried. Shadows danced along the walls. “There’s some bread on the table and soup still simmering in the kettle. It should warm you. I’ll bid you good night, then.”
But Kate was too weary to eat. She tore off a crust of bread to feed the rumbling in her stomach. She wondered as she lay down on the cot if it was safe to remove her soggy cap but decided that it would look stranger still to sleep in it. She had braided her hair tightly and bound it with a kerchief. Her scalp felt tight and it itched. At least she could take off the coat in the semidarkness of the kitchen. She blessed the kindness of the mistress of the house for leaving a clean coverlet—and for her good housekeeping; the blanket smelled of lye and lavender. She pulled it up to her chin.
“You should try some of this soup. It’s tasty,” Swinford said.
“I’m too tuckered to eat,” Kate said, surprised to find she didn’t have to feign the hoarseness now because she had a real rasp in her throat.
She fell asleep to the sound of Swinford slurping his soup and dreamed of black river water and a sheep who bleated pitifully on the shore. On his head was John’s soggy tricornered cap.
Kate woke early. Stiff from sleeping on the floor and with a sore arm from yesterday’s rowing, she put on her cloak and cap and went out into the early light to relieve herself. The rain had stopped, but water drops still clung to the grass and late-blooming roses in the bit of a garden. After finishing her business behind a shed at the back of the garden, she strolled down the lane.
So this is Reading, she thought. I’ve heard John speak of Reading. Not a bit like London, she thought, looking around with greedy eyes. She’d been disappointed that she’d not been able to see more of the fogbound shoreline yesterday, since she’d never been farther upriver than Cardinal Wolsey’s grand new palace at Hampton Court. No grand palaces here. Just a sleepy little hamlet, it looked to her, though she knew there was an abbey somewhere near here with an abbot who was sympathetic to the Lutheran cause. If last night was any indication, the townsfolk were sympathetic, too, and the householders here harbored Bible smugglers at great risk to their own lives and properties. She was wondering how far it was to the abbey when she noticed smoke curling from some of the chimneys. The smell of cook-fires mingled with the d
amp earth smell, and she hoped the hospitality of the house extended to breakfast. That thought and the light told her it was time to turn back. Swinford would be anxious to get away.
She reentered the kitchen to the welcome smell of frying salt meat. This time she did not wait to be asked, but took a bit of the bacon that was piled in the center of the long deal table and a slice of last night’s bread. A pitcher of milk and some cups were on the table as well. She poured herself a cup and gulped it down, and then cut a piece of the bread, and tucking the meat inside the bread, slid both into the pocket of John’s coat. Who knew when she would eat again?
She was wiping her mouth on the sleeve of her coat when Swinford came back. He brought with him a man of about Kate’s age. It appeared he was dressed for traveling also but in clothes hung too loosely on him, as though he had, like Kate, borrowed his from an older brother.
“We need to be off, if you’re up to it,” Swinford said, looking at Kate. “The wagon’s hitched and the horses waiting.”
“I’m ready,” Kate tried to say, but found that she had no voice at all. The words came out in a hoarse whisper. At least she wouldn’t have to fake it.
“This is John Frith. He’s going with us to Bristol. He was one of the students shut up in the cellars at Oxford for buying books from Garrett. Fresh from the hospital.” He grinned and then added, “Under somewhat hurried circumstances, from what I hear.”
“Pleased to meet you, Gough. I see we have much in common,” the stranger said. “I commend you for your willingness to jump back into the fray. I’m going to the Continent where I hope to be able to assist Tyndale. I’m a translator too. I can’t wait to tell him how bravely you and others like you support his work.”
He thinks I’m John. And he’s commending me for bravery, she thought, noticing that despite Frith’s youth and apparent vigor he looked uncommonly pale. His hand held a slight tremor when he extended it to her. She tried to grip it firmly—as her brother John would have gripped it once upon a time.
“I can see we are going to be fast friends,” he said and smiled.
It was the most charming smile Kate had ever seen. It warmed her all over.
EIGHT
Will ye resist God? . . . Hath He [God] not made the English tongue? Why forbid ye Him to speak in the English tongue, then, as well as in the Latin?
—WILLIAM TYNDALE,
THE OBEDIENCE OF A CHRISTIAN MAN (1528)
With as much manly swagger as she could muster, Kate hoisted herself into the back of the narrow wagon, praying as she settled in the corner opposite John Frith that she would be able to maintain her pose. They still had a journey of several hours ahead. Swinford had sat in front of her on the way upriver, and the day had been overcast, the light too poor to notice that the smooth skin of his companion’s cheek had never felt the slide of a razor’s edge or borne even the faintest stubble. But John Frith was sitting close enough that she could see the shadow of a dark beard on his pale face and smell the wood smoke clinging to his clothes. Arrows of bright sunlight pierced the clouds, inviting a more careful scrutiny. Trying to ignore the uncomfortable tug of her braided and bound hair, she pulled John’s tricornered hat lower on her forehead to avoid Frith’s intelligent gaze.
She need not have worried. Frith gave her a cheerful smile, said, “Have a nice ride, Gough,” and was asleep in minutes, his head slumped forward onto his chest. Even the bouncing and jarring of the wagon across the rutted roads did not interrupt his rhythmic snoring. Two hours later, he was still sleeping, having left Kate to enjoy the passing countryside untroubled by her need to posture.
By midday the heat was rising and sunlight was playing tag with piles of clouds. Swinford stopped to rest the horses. Kate relieved herself in a nearby copse, hoping her traveling companions would not choose the same spot. But when she climbed back into the wagon, Frith had not moved and Swinford was holding the reins.
“You’re one for modesty, Gough, I’ll give you that.” Swinford laughed.
“A touch of the runs. I wouldn’t want to offend your sensibilities,” Kate answered gruffly, as she thought one man might answer another’s jibe. She jerked her head toward Frith. “Shouldn’t we wake him?” Kate asked. “At least he could stretch his legs.”
“Naw, let him sleep. He’s had a rough time, that one has. Sleep’ll do him good. We’ll stop again. If not, he can just piss off the side of the wagon.”
Kate tried to banish the notion of Frith “pissing off the side” from her head, as Swinford slapped the reins and the wagon lurched forward. Digging into the pocket of John’s cloak, she pulled out the bit of meat and bread and chewed absently. She considered her sleeping companion. He looked innocent, even boyish, in his slumber, despite the darkening stubble on his face—and very pale. His long white neck looked about to break, all slumped over in that position. A tendril of wavy brown hair fell forward, stark against his complexion. Kate resisted the urge to wad up a piece of sacking and place it like a pillow behind his neck.
It was an intelligent face—at least the part she could see—with a determined jaw and a noble brow. He was a translator, he’d said, a Lutheran sympathizer, going to the Continent to meet Tyndale. And though he hadn’t said so, not directly, she guessed he was a fugitive. She doubted that the prelates would let the students out free and clear. This one had no doubt escaped from the hospital. Prematurely, if his lack of strength was any indication.
He stirred and stretched. “Sorry to be such a bad traveling companion,” he said. “It’s just that, well . . . no use going there. I’m glad to be out of that stinking cellar.”
“It must have been awful,” she said, keeping her hand over her smooth chin.
He waved her off with a smile. “Small price, aye? We’re men of the Word, you and I, Gough. Brethren,” he said, draping his arm over her shoulder and shaking her lightly.
She felt a jolt go all through her body, a jolt that had nothing to do with the rough bumping of the wagon. Her face flushed with embarrassment. How unlike her own brother he really was, though she would have delighted in being his friend, and perhaps more. His easy charm and his courage tugged at her heart. She wished she could have known him better. John would have liked him too; she knew it. At least the John she used to know.
“You all right, Gough?” Frith asked. “You look like somebody just stepped on your grave.” His voice was light, friendly, but Kate saw concern in his dark eyes and felt a stinging in her own, remembering how Frith had congratulated her—congratulated her brother—on his courage.
“Just a bit of road grit in my eye,” she growled, and suddenly hoped with all her soul that they would make it in time for this John to meet his ship and make good his escape.
By the time they reached Little Sodbury, the long shadows had disappeared behind threatening storm clouds. Though Kate’s companion no longer slept, he had turned pensive and seemed disinclined to talk. A mask of endurance replaced the cheerful demeanor she’d seen at breakfast. His dark eyes were clouded with pain.
But by now Kate had her own discomfort to think about. It had begun about an hour past with an ache in her lower belly, and with each bounce and jolt of the wagon, it had spread farther into her back. It must have been brought on by the jarring ride or maybe the anxiety attached with what now seemed like a very silly scheme. But whatever had precipitated the untimely arrival of her woman’s curse, she was ill prepared to cope with it. She was yet again grateful for John’s dark and heavy cloak. Once they got to Sodbury Manor—please, God let us get to Sodbury Manor soon—she could figure out what to do. After all, what could they do but scold if they found out she was an impostor? They would surely share the inventory with her for John’s sake, if naught else.
Lightning illumined the underbelly of the threatening clouds. The wagon lurched and a little groan escaped her lips. She glanced at Frith. His head was thrown back against the side of the wagon and his eyes were closed. If caught, he would face much more than embarrassment a
nd a little scolding. He appeared not to have noticed either the lightning or her whimper.
“We’re here,” Swinford shouted. “And none too soon. You two get down and I’ll take the horses round to the stable.”
A growl of thunder answered, accompanied by a gusting wind. Kate stood up, tried to jump down on rubber legs, felt the warm rush between her legs and instinctively tensed her thighs together to try to hold back the flow. John Frith followed her and seemed almost as unsteady. Surely the gates of paradise would be no more welcome than the entrance of the beautiful manor house with its lit lamps glowing in the window.
Lord and Lady Walsh were standing at the door. “Come in and welcome. We’ve not much time to waste,” he said. “But you’ve time to take a bit of refreshment before we meet the shipment,” she said.
Candles in sconces, hanging from the high-beamed rafters and along the wall, fought back the gloom of the approaching storm. An occasional flash of lightning lit a pair of stained-glass windows set high and on either side of a great chimney, though any sound of rumbling thunder was muted by the thick plaster walls. The candles flickered as Swinford came in, brushing a few drops of rain from his shoulders.
In the center of the hall, a table had been laid with sliced roast meats and fresh-baked bread. A basket of apples and rosy pears glowed beneath lit candles in a silver candelabra. Kate realized that she was ravenously hungry, but the aching in her lower back and belly reminded her that she had more urgent matters to attend to before she fed that hunger.
“My lady, may I speak with you?”
Lady Walsh looked at her expectantly.
The Heretic’s Wife Page 9
