Where this celestial creature lives must surely be paradise, he thought, and he longed to stay. But the light hurt his eyes and made his head pound. He tried to shape his wooly tongue around the words to ask her if she was real or a mere dream conjured by a fevered brain, but the monster sucked him under until he could no longer see her face or hear her voice.
He would have cried at such a loss, if he’d had tears.
Kate jerked awake with a start. Her neck was stiff from sleeping in the chair. The candle had guttered out, but the room was light so it must be morning. She got up, ignoring the pins and needles in her legs, and leaned over her patient, to feel his brow with her palm.
He opened his eyes. “You are much prettier than Lazarus,” he whispered.
“Master Frith, you are awake!” she said, peering into the large dark pools of his eyes. “And your fever has broken.” She felt her face relax in a smile.
“I’ve been awake a while. I’ve been watching you sleep,” he said. “You looked so peaceful, you made me feel peaceful.” His voice was low and hoarse. It hurt her to hear it, but an almost smile livened his pale face, softening the hollows beneath his eyes.
She blushed and, suddenly conscious of how disheveled she must look, smoothed her wild hair back from her forehead. “That is probably not a pleasant sight for a man returning from death’s portal,” she said. “Anyway, it is I who was supposed to be watching you sleep.”
“Then it was my turn, wasn’t it?” He cleared his throat and his voice grew clearer. “It was a sight sufficient to bring a man back from death’s portal.”
“You must be starved. It’s been three days since you’ve had anything to eat or drink.” She poured a half cup of water and held it to his lips. “Sip slowly.”
He drank two swallows, and she removed the cup.
“I remember a few drops of water from an angel’s hand. That’s why I said you’re prettier than Lazarus. You know, in the Bible? Where the rich man is in hell and asks for Lazarus to be sent with a few drops of water?”
“The name Lazarus applies more to you than me, I think,” she said, and put the cup to his lips again. “Do you think you could take some nourishment? Maybe some broth?”
“Actually, I—” He tried to push himself up and fell back weakly onto the pillow.
“You’re too weak to stand. Just tell me what you want.”
His ashen face actually colored a bit and suddenly she understood.
“That’s a good sign after so long without water. I’ll call Gilbert. He’s the one who has been helping you. I just looked after you when he couldn’t.” As she reached for the bellpull he gave a little sigh of relief.
“So I have you to thank for my return from near death, and I don’t even know your name.”
“You have Lord and Lady Walsh to thank. And my name is Kate Gough.”
“You are the wife of the man who came here with me then.”
She hesitated for an instant then refilled the water cup and held it to his lips. “If you don’t feel sick, you probably could drink a bit more to give nature . . . inspiration.”
He shook his head and lay back on the pillow, his face suddenly drained of expression. Please don’t let us lose him again. But his breathing was even. He closed his eyes and appeared to sleep.
She heard Gilbert’s shuffling gait as he entered the room. “You rang for me, mistress,” he said, rubbing his eyes. Gilbert slept in the adjoining chamber. A hole had been punched in the wall and a bellpull installed so that Kate could summon him when she needed him. When he was not sleeping, he kept watch just outside the door.
“Our patient is better,” she said. “I’m going to the kitchen to see if I can wheedle some broth while you tend to his personal needs.”
If John Frith heard her, he gave no sign.
“Play that song ‘Greensleeves’ again,” Anne Boleyn said to the lute player who accompanied her into the herb garden at Hampton Court. “It has a pleasing melody.”
Pleasing now, though less so when she first heard it three days ago. But Henry had sent her a parchment wrapped around a ruby necklace with the words of the song written out in his own hand and a postscript begging her pardon if he had caused her embarrassment. She noticed with satisfaction that the window overlooking the garden was slightly ajar. “Pluck the strings with vigor, so the sound can carry to others who might enjoy it,” she instructed.
She was gathering lavender before the winter frosts took it. Her maid had suggested that she place it between the layers of her dresses in the chest in her room and had offered to gather it, but Anne had said she would go herself. The garden was directly below Cardinal Wolsey’s study window. He would be leaving for York on the morrow and was probably packing up his books and papers—no doubt a melancholy task. It pleased her to think that the vision of her making herself at home in what was no longer his garden would be one of the last memories of the palace he had so loved, that his memory of his time here would be forever tainted, as were her memories of being in Queen Katherine’s service. She’d cried all day when Percy went away.
She felt the cardinal watching her, and looking up she gave him a courtier’s false smile and waved. He shut the window. She could not tell for sure if he moved away—the light was such that she could only see the river reflected in its leaded panes—but she thought not. When she saw Secretary Cromwell walking past, she hailed him for the benefit of the watcher at the window.
“Come sit with me for a moment, Master Secretary. I find your company agreeable,” she called loudly.
“I am honored, my lady.”
They sat together on the bench and talked of the weather, the coming winter, the uses of lavender. Anne broke off a sprig and held it to his nose, flirting shamelessly, when it occurred to her that she really did have something to talk to him about after all.
“Master Cromwell, when last we spoke, you told me of your sympathy for certain reformist ideas, which as I assured you I also entertain. You mentioned some young Bible men who died in the fish cellar. Did the cardinal know that they were imprisoned without benefit of a hearing?”
“There is not much the cardinal misses, my lady. I’m sure it would have been reported to him.”
“And you spoke of Sir Thomas’s ‘interrogations.’ Did the cardinal know about those?”
“I would assume so.”
“Would you go so far as to say Cardinal Wolsey approved such?”
Cromwell’s eyes narrowed. “I would say by doing nothing to stop them, he might be said to have given tacit permission, yes.”
Anne pretended to drop her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Master Cromwell, wouldn’t the denial of due process be an egregious violation of English law—even for the chancellor?”
“If it could be proven.”
“I see,” she said, “but how could a cardinal make an enemy powerful enough to go to all that trouble?” She got up and continued to gather the lavender, releasing its fragrance into the air. Then keeping her tone light, as though it were an afterthought, “It’s such a pity about the young men in the fish cellar. And that parson from Honey Lane. I suppose he has lost his living even though he recanted. One would like to do something to help him and the others too, at least the ones who survived.” She paused here for effect, then lifted her gaze and held his. “Master Cromwell, I think I’m in need of a private chaplain. Perhaps you can see if the parson of Honey Lane is agreeable.”
Cromwell looked startled but recovered quickly. “I will look into it, my lady. Of course, the king would have to agree.”
“And what about the others, what were their names?”
“One was named Betts and one Frith.”
“What of them?”
“Betts is still recovering, though whether from the fish cellar or the interrogation it is hard to say. Frith has disappeared.”
“Disappeared, you say.” She laughed. “Well, good for him.”
“Well, it may not be good for him. I know that S
ir Thomas is scouring the countryside looking for him. He’ll probably try to flee, but they’re watching all the ports. He is a very bright young man, but I doubt he’ll make it.”
“Can we not do something to help him?”
“I’m afraid not, my lady. He has broken the law. If he’s caught, he’ll be brought in and ‘interrogated’ until he recants.”
A shudder passed through her body. “Then I shall pray for him,” she said. She’d forgotten all about the watcher at the window and did not see two shadows move away.
During the next week Kate’s patient grew stronger every day, strong enough for her to leave, she thought. When she suggested as much, Lady Walsh said, “Fine, my dear, whatever you wish. You have been very kind. I know you never meant to stay this long, but Master Frith is very restless cooped up in that room. Your company is a sweet diversion for him. But the decision is yours, of course.”
So every day she thought, Maybe tomorrow, until another week had passed. Leaving was not easy. When she was with him, she forgot about the uncertain future before her.
“Tell me about yourself,” he said. “How you and your husband came to be in the smuggling business.” So she told him about the print shop and the raid, about the contraband books that had had to be burned and now must be replaced. But she did not tell him that John Gough had capitulated to his enemies—or that he was her brother and not her husband. He would only wonder why she had not corrected him when he first made the assumption, and she did not really know why, except that she remembered the casual way he’d draped his arm across her shoulders, when he’d mistaken her for John. She had not wanted to tarnish that intimate moment of warmth and friendship, had not wanted to tarnish his admiration for her brother. She didn’t have to. Master Frith would be leaving for the Continent soon, and Kate would go home to London. Their paths would probably never cross again.
They talked at first of serious things: about the mutual threat they shared, of their common enemies, of their faith, of his plans to join Tyndale and translate and write from that safer distance. Once he cried out in his sleep, and when she asked him if he wanted to talk about his nightmare he told her about the fish cellar. She held him while he cried over the death of his comrades, and she cried too.
He told her stories from Virgil and Homer, his animation growing as his strength returned, and there was laughter too—a lot of laughter. Lady Walsh provided a chessboard, and they played for hours—Kate had forgotten how competitive she was. As his appetite returned and she was employed more and more in the subterfuge of feeding him without betraying his presence, they conspired like children, even sneaking out one midnight whilst Gilbert kept watch, to raid the kitchen. She had not felt so merry for a very long time.
“Kate Gough, your husband is a blessed man,” he said one day, after she had finally beaten him at chess, and they had laughed at her exultation in that win. He reached out and touched her hand, a friend’s spontaneous gesture of affection, but he withdrew it quickly, snatching it back as though the contact burned his skin. “I wonder if he knows what a treasure he has in you,” he said quietly. She longed to tell him the truth, but by then it would have been an embarrassment between them and would serve no purpose.
She could no longer avoid thinking about returning to the empty shop and her lonely room above it. It would seem emptier now. But there would be the books she would take back with her, and she still had the ten pounds she’d gotten for the Wycliffe Bible to buy pens and papers and inks that she could resell. Maybe Winifred and her baby would visit again, and they could become friends.
When she looked up from the chessboard, Frith had lain back on the bed and closed his eyes. He appeared to be sleeping.
She tiptoed quietly from his room.
Another week passed and Kate still lingered, though it was clear her patient no longer needed her. Last night a waxing moon had appeared in her window, reminding her that all too soon the Siren’s Song would come and John Frith would pass out of her life. Both Lord and Lady Walsh had pronounced him fit for travel.
She had known him scarcely three weeks, and it was as though they had been together forever. His nimble wit and easy laughter made it increasingly hard to leave. She felt alive when she was with him—more alive than she’d felt in a very long time. When he smiled at her, it was like feeling the sun on her face after a long winter.
But she would not think about leaving today. Today she and John Frith and Lady Walsh were enjoying a picnic in the Walshes’ private garden. It was Lady Walsh’s idea—to take advantage of the last of the late-season sunshine, she said, and cheer Master Frith, who seemed to have grown pensive these last few days. Lady Walsh had packed a basket of cold roast chicken and cherry conserve and fresh bread with soft ripened cheese.
“Cook is getting suspicious, I think,” Kate said as she spread a cloth on the little table Gilbert had set up. “She cocked an eyebrow at me and commented on how my appetite has increased of late.” She laughed, obviously enjoying the fact that they’d been able to keep their secret from leaking into the village. “Tildy has taken to bringing me a double portion without my even having to ask,” Kate said. “I wonder what they must think of me in your kitchen.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it, my dear. We think you are wonderful, don’t we, Master Frith?”
But Master Frith appeared not to be listening to this chatter. He had his eyes closed and was slumped in a posture of indifference. At the sound of his name he opened his eyes. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Master Frith, are you unwell? Is it too cool? Should we go back inside?” Kate asked.
“No. The sunshine feels good. I’m sorry. I was just distracted. Stupid of me when I should be taking advantage of such company as even the gods would envy. What is it you were saying?”
“No need to apologize, John. It is not an easy thing to leave one’s home behind, to go into virtual exile. I was just commenting on how wonderful we think Kate is.”
He smiled weakly. “Yes. Quite wonderful. I’m surprised her husband is content to be so long apart from her.”
His voice was tense, almost curt. Kate wondered if she had done something to offend him, then she suddenly realized that Lady Walsh would not know about Frith’s misperception. The fact of her earlier disguise had been so quickly forgotten in the crisis of caring for him that she and her hostess had never really discussed it again. She tried to catch Lady Walsh’s glance to warn her, but she was bent over fussing with the little brazier that Gilbert had set up against the light chill.
“Husband!” Lady Walsh gave a little laugh. “Wherever did you get such a notion, John? Kate is unmarried,” she said, as she stood up and turned her attention to unpacking the basket. “She is a plum ripe for picking for some fortune-favored man.” She looked up, first at Kate, then at Frith. The hand holding the plate of roast chicken froze in mid-task. “Oh my,” she said, her teasing smile disappearing. “I seem to have spoken out of turn.”
After a moment of excruciating silence, Kate stuttered, “I . . . I think Master Frith . . . may have assumed . . . which of course is understandable given the circumstances that—”
“John Gough is not your husband?” he asked sharply.
“No. He is not. I am unmarried. John Gough is my brother.”
“The man who rode with me in the wagon is your brother?”
Lady Walsh coughed lightly. “My dears, I think this meal needs some hot cider. You two start without me. I’ll be back shortly.”
And suddenly they were alone in the garden, surrounded by the smell of wood smoke and the slant of autumn light—and Kate’s deception. She could feel his gaze on her, but she did not look up to meet it as she said quietly, “There was no man in the wagon with you.”
“No man in the wagon! But I was not so ill as to be that delusional. There was a man in the wagon. We even talked of our shared trials. I remember his voice was hoarse from—”
“I was the man in the wagon. I dressed in my brother�
�s clothes and impersonated him.”
He looked at her incredulously. She looked down at her fingers pleating the edge of her shawl, willing them to be calm.
“Just a bit of road grit in my eye,” she said in the hoarse whisper she had used when she said those words to him before. She tried to say it lightly, like a joke.
When he did not laugh, she raised her head to gauge his reaction. Would he be shocked, even angry at her deception? His face was inscrutable. He was not looking at her but was gazing into the middle distance, distracted by some vision in his own head. But of course he was, she thought with relief. He had more important things on his mind than the silly misunderstanding between them. It was as Lady Walsh had said. It must be so very hard to leave behind everything that was familiar, harder still to know that he was being hunted by his enemies. She envied him his travel to the Continent, but she did not envy him his exile.
“Lady Walsh said to start without her,” he said, breaking off a sliver of bread. He slathered it with cherry conserve and took a bite, then held it out to Kate. A gesture of forgiveness?
She took a bite. It tasted like wet wool.
“I am sorry that I did not correct you when you assumed . . . but it just seemed easier . . . and what difference—”
He looked at her intently, his eyes studying her face as though he were trying to memorize every feature. She grew uncomfortable under his scrutiny.
“You have a bit of cherry conserve right there,” he said, reaching out his hand and wiping it away from the corner of her mouth with one finger. He put the finger to his lips and tasted it.
“It is sweeter now,” he said.
It was such an intimate gesture, so laden with implication, that she felt almost faint from the pounding of her heart. He is leaving on the full-moon tide, she told herself. There is only heartbreak here. It was so unfair. She felt the stinging of tears at the back of her eyelids. Silly girl, she chided; he’ll forget you in a week and you him.
The Heretic’s Wife Page 14
