He leaned forward and gently touched his lips to hers. He is leaving on the tide . . . he is leaving on the tide. “Marry me,” he whispered.
Her breath refused to come. “I beg your pardon,” she finally stammered.
“Marry me. I am asking you to marry me, Kate Gough,” he said. “I am asking you to marry me. Come with me to the Continent.”
THIRTEEN
Hey nonny no!
Men are fools that wish to die!
Is’t fine to dance and sing
When the bells of death do ring?
—SIXTEENTH-CENTURY SONG
FROM CHRIST CHURCH MANUSCRIPT
Master Frith has asked me to marry him,” Kate said, struggling to keep her composure, “and of course it is impossible.”
They were in Lady Walsh’s chamber. When the lady had tactfully not returned to the garden and the wind had picked up, Kate had urged her patient to retire to his little room in the attic to rest. “You have been very ill,” she’d said, trying to summon reason, which seemed to have abandoned the field. “You are anxious. This is no time in your life to be proposing marriage to women you hardly know.”
“Uno. One woman,” he’d said, holding up one finger. “One very beautiful and very desirable woman. My angel.”
She merely shook her head in chagrin and with trembling hands gathered up the remains of their uneaten feast. Over his protests, she thrust the picnic basket at him with instructions to enjoy it in the warmth of his chamber.
She had fled in search of Lady Walsh, who seemed delighted with her news.
“I knew it!” she said, clapping her hands. “I told Lord Walsh the two of you would be perfect together! Just perfect. But why is it impossible? Oh.” She looked crestfallen. “You are already betrothed.”
“No. No, I’m not. It’s just that . . .”
“Well, then, my dear, any other obstacle can surely be overcome. I know a priest in Reading who will marry you without the publishing of the banns—when he hears the circumstances.”
“But . . . but, Lady Walsh, John Frith is a fugitive! Leaving on the next full moon. In a week! I would have to leave my home, leave England. And he doesn’t even know me—not really. He knows nothing about me, about my life. He doesn’t know I have no dowry. He doesn’t know what he’s doing or what he really feels. It’s probably as much out of gratitude as anything. He thinks I saved his life. He called me his ‘angel of grace.’ ”
“And that’s a bad thing?” Lady Walsh laughed and cupped both hands around Kate’s face and drew her close. “What about you, my dear? What do you feel?”
“That’s just it. I don’t know. I am very fond of him. Very fond, I’ll confess it. He is gentle and charming and so smart. Do you know he reads Greek and Latin and German and Hebrew? I will not be like to ever meet his equal again. But I have only known him three weeks. Three weeks!”
“A woman never really knows any man until she marries him and bears his children. You are fortunate. Most girls never have a choice. My daughters married men their father chose for them. Fortune, or God—we can’t always know the difference—has chosen for you. What did you tell Master Frith?”
“I told him he needed to think about the fact that he’s been very ill, that he is understandably feeling uncertain and afraid, and that I would not hold him to such a rash proposal.”
“Very sensible of you. And what did he say?”
“He said he’s not leaving unless I go with him.”
Lady Walsh laughed. “Well, there you have it, my dear. His life is in your hands.”
The next morning Kate assembled her patient’s breakfast, as she did each morning, from the tray that Tildy brought. Carefully securing the contents against prying eyes in a lady’s sewing basket, she put in the boiled eggs—all three of them—and two rashers of bacon and two loaves of bread with a pot of sweet butter from the Little Sodbury dairy. Kate hadn’t eaten any of it, only pretending to nibble at the bread while Tildy watched with wary eyes. After what seemed like an eternity, the girl had finished her tidying and left. Looking at the food made Kate’s throat tighten. Her stomach, like her heart, seemed to have lost its proper function.
She’d not slept at all.
Her mind just kept reliving John Frith’s words and that kiss over and over. But it was foolishness, she told herself. Of course. A young man’s folly. Impetuous foolishness. He was probably already regretting it. Of course he would be. Well, she would save him and herself the embarrassment of having to retract a proposal made in haste. She would simply leave the basket with Gilbert and inform Lady Walsh that she was going home. Today.
But when she knocked gently at the door, it was not Gilbert who opened it.
“Somebody will see you,” she scolded.
“I don’t care,” the patient said. “I mean, of course I care, but I was so anxious I’d scared you away I forgot to be careful.”
“Step aside, please, and close the door.” Agitation and anxiety showed in her curt tone. As he accepted the basket from her, her gaze fell on Gilbert’s empty cot by the door.
“Gilbert’s not here. I sent him away.”
“You may regret that. I see you have prepared the chessboard.”
He grinned a devilish grin. “I thought we could play for it. I win, you marry me. You win, I marry you. That way we both win.”
His way of acknowledging his foolishness? A clumsy attempt to ease embarrassment by making a joke? “You may have need of Gilbert’s company after all,” she said. “I’ve come to tell you, I’m going home today.”
She watched his expression carefully for a look of relief, but he set the basket down and ran his fingers through his hair, his eyes suddenly sober, no more smile. “So. It was as I feared. I did scare you away. I should not have been so . . . abrupt. But it’s just that there’s so little time . . . and when I heard that you weren’t married . . .” He paused, his eyes widening as if in sudden understanding. “But of course, there is somebody else. How could there not be?”
The disappointment in his voice stole her breath away, and for a moment she wanted to throw her arms around him and tell him yes, that she would marry him, she would follow him to the ends of the earth. But that would be a silly thing. Kate was not a silly woman. If only there were more time. If only . . . “No. There is not . . . it’s just . . . impossible. That’s all.”
“If there is no one else, why is it impossible?”
She closed her eyes, shutting out his face, searching for the right words inside her head.
“I promise . . . I will be a good husband. I won’t beat you . . .” His laugh trailed off. “All right, a bad joke.” Then scarcely above a whisper, “You might even learn to love me.”
She opened her eyes to meet his gaze, his eyes startling in their directness. How could any woman with a heart not love you? she thought.
“I can see you feel affection for me now, Master Frith, but I fear it is an affection born of . . . circumstance. You may in time come to repent your choice as hasty and ill-considered. I could not bear that.”
He pulled her to him then. She heard the sound of the chessboard crashing to the floor as though it were far off and not right beside them. But when he kissed her, she heard only the blood rushing in her ears. From somewhere she gathered the strength to push him away. When he let her go, she drew a deliberate breath and waited for her heart to stop racing. Red-faced, he bent to retrieve the chessboard and placed it on the table, then picking up some scattered pieces, he piled them in a heap on the board.
“I have no dowry,” she said.
“Dowry! You think I care about a dowry? What have I to offer you?” He took both her hands in his, grasping them with a gentle pressure against her pulling away. “I’m only asking you to consider, Kate. You say I have made a hasty choice. It is you who are in danger of making a hasty choice. Don’t throw away a chance for our happiness without due consideration. At least stay until the boat comes. Do that much for the man whose life you save
d.”
“I didn’t save your life.”
“You made me want to live. It’s the same thing.”
She couldn’t think rationally, not with him so close, not with him looking at her like that. She pulled her hands away and, bending, picked up two errant chess pieces. She placed the bishop in his proper place on the board, but he took the pawn from her, weighing it with his words. “We are more than pawns, Kate. We are free to make our own choices. Kings and bishops shall not forever determine the fate of free men.”
“You’re fleeing the wrath of a bishop, aren’t you, and the king’s soldiers on your heels? How can you be anything but a pawn in a dangerous game?”
“My choice, Kate. My choice not to play by the bishop’s rules. A man whose spirit is free will never be a pawn in somebody else’s game no matter what the consequences of his choice. My place is with William Tyndale. And your place will be with me, if you choose it to be so. But either way, it will be your choice.”
He placed the faceless pawn on the board in opposition to the intricately carved bishop. Brave words, she thought. Everybody knew where the power lay in such a configuration—apparently everybody but John Frith. He was either a fool or the bravest, smartest man she’d ever known. But her brother had spoken thus and even their father. Now she mourned them both. One had lost his life and the other that same free spirit of which he’d also boasted.
“You are an exceptional man, John Frith. You have paid me the greatest honor of my life. The woman that marries you will be blessed. But I’m not sure . . . I have the courage required of such a woman.” And I cannot think rationally with you looking at me like that. “I need a proper distance from which to consider what you have said. Shall I find Gilbert for you?”
He shook his head. “I am content to be alone, if I am to be deprived of your company.”
“Very well,” she said, as she opened the door enough to peer into the hallway.
“You will not leave, then, without saying good-bye?” She felt his fingers caress the back of her neck, smoothing a strand of hair that had escaped her linen cap. His touch felt cool against her hot skin.
“I will not leave without wishing you God’s speed. I promise.”
“The Siren’s Song will return in five days by the lunar calendar,” Lady Walsh said later that day as Kate helped her mark the dates on the cellar barrels. “You need to give him an answer. If you delay much longer, time will make the decision for you.”
“I know. I know.” The cellar suddenly felt close, the damp air heady with the sour smell of fermenting apples and too heavy to breathe. “But even if—what about the shop . . . and my brother? I can’t just leave the country without telling my brother where I’m going. I can’t abandon the print shop our father left.”
“Lord Walsh could send an agent to look after the property. Where is your brother? We can send a messenger, but you may feel you need his permission.”
“In Gloucestershire. Clapham Farm. Somewhere near Gillingham Manor.”
“Why, that’s just in the next shire, within a day’s ride of here if you leave early. Of course, you may want to spend one night. I suspect we’ve time for that. Go see your brother tomorrow, dear. It will relieve your mind. I know it would not be easy to go into exile with unfinished business. I’ll send an escort with you.”
It had not occurred to Kate that she might be that close. What would John say, if she told him about Frith? Would he tell her to go? Or would he just say nothing with that vacant look he’d had since being released from prison? At least she could see him and Mary and Pipkin before leaving. Leaving? It’s an absurdity, Kate. Lady Walsh said exile.
“I would be so grateful for the chance to visit my brother if it’s not too much trouble. Even if . . . even if—”
“No trouble at all. Do you ride?”
“I’m afraid not. We always lived in London. I had little occasion—”
“No matter. I’ll send a carriage with a driver. It will take a bit longer, but you’ll be more comfortable. I’ll see Lord Walsh about making the arrangements right now.”
And before Kate could protest, Lady Walsh had swished out of the cellar and up the stairs, leaving Kate standing alone among the oaken casks. She marked the last barrel with white chalk then followed after, her next move apparently having been decided.
Hey nonnie, ho nonnie . . . Mary Gough was singing as she drew water from the well. It was the first time she’d felt like singing since coming to her parents’ cottage. But it was a beautiful afternoon, cool and brisk, with brief, bright sunlight warming her face, and Pipkin bouncing around her skirts making her laugh with his own monotone contribution of non . . . non . . . non.
These last weeks had been hard. It had wounded her pride to return destitute to the home of her girlhood, bringing with her a husband and young child, dependent on her parents’ charity for their very bread. To be back in her mother’s house, doing things the way her mother did, to swallow without comment her mother’s unsolicited advice whenever Pipkin was cross, to constantly have to come to John’s defense for a circumstance that her good Catholic parents could not possibly understand: all of it had sucked the joy right out of her.
More than once she’d heard her father mutter as he chewed on a frayed willow twig, “A man’s a fool to lose everything like that, and for what? Just so some jackanapes upstart can read the Bible for himself. Couldn’t understand it if he could read it, most like. Isn’t that what the priest is paid to do?” Her mother would roll her eyes in the direction of where Mary was kneading dough or sewing or nursing Pipkin—who her mother said should be weaned by now, and maybe he should be, but it brought Mary great comfort to snuggle him at her breast. Heaven knew she got scarce comfort from John these days. Little affection passed between them in the close confines of the four-room cottage.
Indeed, John had taken little interest in anything around him. Most days he just sat staring at the fire as though he were alone in the room, answering in monosyllables whenever her father tried to engage him, until the old man had given up trying. But this afternoon the pattern diverged from the usual. John got up from his stool by the fire and announced that the wood supply needed replenishing before the winter set in hard. Her parents had signaled each other with their eyes as if to say at last.
Pipkin had held up his arms. “Go,” he’d demanded.
“No, Pipkin,” Mary had said, hoping the child would not start to cry. “Your papa has work to do. Come with me. You can help draw water from the well.”
So John had departed alone, carrying an axe and an empty bag over his shoulder, and if he was not singing, at least there was a familiar confidence in his stride, a sense of purpose that had gone missing of late. Now Mary and Pipkin were on their twentieth song and their tenth bucket of water—back and forth—his small legs pumping to keep up and her back aching from stooping over so the child could “help” carry the water, then lifting him with one arm so he could watch it splash into the rainwater barrel by the kitchen door.
Each time, he squealed and clapped his hands and shouted, “Pash.” Each time as they returned to the well, he tugged with both his chubby hands at the rope while she pulled the bucket up the creaking wheel. She was wearing herself out, and there was still supper to help with. But she was wearing him out as well. Maybe he would nap and she could get some peace. Her mother would look fondly at her sleeping grandson and comment on what a cherub he was—she only called him that when he slept—and John would come home, carrying a large bundle of firewood. He would stack it by the hearth with a smile of satisfaction on his face. Her mother would be pleased. Her father would be pleased. And her husband would have made himself tired enough with honest labor that he might actually sleep the whole night through. They would all sit down at the table for once without her stomach in a knot.
She sighed at this tableau of imagined domestic bliss that she’d constructed in her head, knowing it was just that and no more. “I think that’s enough for the wa
shing up. We’d better save some water for the gnomes that live at the bottom of the well.”
Pipkin’s eyes grew wide. “I’ll tell you about them after supper if you’ll promise to be good and not touch Granny’s spindle.” She emphasized the word not. The spindle had been a particular sore point of late.
After they had “pashed” the last bucket into the cistern, Mary put the child down and, arching her back to ease it, lifted her face to catch a late-afternoon breeze. Chilly now that the sun was so low-slung. She took off her shawl and wrapped it around the child, drew him against her legs, enjoying the wriggling warmth of his hard little body. Mare’s tail clouds, clumped in the sky beyond the hills, were already glowing with the approaching sunset. She would have liked to linger here to watch them turn pink and mauve and gold, but she had chores to do.
John should be back anytime. He’d probably gone to the poplar thicket beyond the pasture. She looked down the road to see if she saw any sign of him, but all she saw was a carriage pulled by four horses. They got little traffic this far off the trodden path, so she was surprised to see the elegant coach, bearing a crest that Mary did not recognize, and more surprised to see the smartly liveried driver rein in sharply in front of the cottage. The chickens around the front stoop left off their pecking and, squawking their protests, fluttered away in a cloud of feathers and dust. Mary grabbed her son by the arm while, with her other hand, she shielded her eyes from the bloated sun to better see the visitors. Maybe she could sneak in the kitchen door and make it to the bedroom her little family shared before the callers saw her. She took a few steps in that direction, still holding Pipkin tightly by the hand.
Then she heard someone call her name. She turned around. Even with the sun in her eyes, Mary could see the curiosity in the discerning gaze of her sister-in-law as she stepped from the carriage with all the grace of a lady to the manor born.
The Heretic’s Wife Page 15
