“Your daughter has broken the law,” the cleric said.
“I—I have never seen this book before,” Thomas stammered. “I knew she was working on it, but I had no idea she was close to finishing it. I assure you it will be withdrawn immediately if we cannot gain license to publish. My daughter committed this offense in ignorance, and I beg—”
“See to it immediately. We would not want to have to call it to the king’s attention. Not now. Not when you are marked with the king’s favor.”
Now, in the quiet of his study, Thomas thumbed through the book, noting the clean structure, the clear prose style. If only she’d shown it to him first. Certainly a man “marked with the king’s favor” could have gained permission for his daughter to publish a pious little booklet, even in English. But maybe not. The image of Wolsey, who had also once been marked with the king’s favor, packing up his study to leave his beloved Hampton Court leaped to mind. Thomas had interrupted him at his study window. The cardinal was watching the garden below where the king’s whore flirted with Secretary Cromwell. “Look out for that pair, Thomas,” the old man had said. “They’re very friendly of late.”
It was only a face-saving ruse that the cardinal was retiring to York to take over more of his duties as archbishop. The talk at court was that Henry would not suffer him long. Wolsey had grown too powerful, and he had failed in the king’s great matter. It was only a question of time before the lord chancellor would be asked to surrender the seal. There was talk—more of that pernicious gossip—that Parliament might even bring him up on charges of violating the Statute of Praemunire because he was a legate to Rome. Wolsey was a legate to Rome because of his own ambition—in his cardinal’s heart he’d no doubt harbored the ambition to one day be pope—but he was also a legate because Henry had asked him to be. Sometimes, in the darkest shadow of his soul, Thomas quaked at what entanglements he’d gotten himself into.
“Be careful of the king’s favor, Master More,” the old man had mumbled. “It is more easily lost than a woman’s virtue.”
A servant tiptoed into Thomas’s study with a coal scuttle and bent to stoke the fire in the grate.
“Barnabas, summon Mistress Roper,” Thomas said to his servant’s back. “Tell her that her father would speak with her on a matter of extreme urgency.”
Margaret Roper did not look up when her father’s servant appeared at the door. She was unpacking the boxes from the printer. At last. The books! The winged bird that was her heart must certainly burst its ribbed cage with so much fluttering. Her hands caressed the leather bindings—that had cost her a pretty penny. She would have to wear last year’s cloak and bonnet to pay for it. But it was worth it, she thought as she turned to the title page and traced the letters there: “Treatise of the Paternoster by Desiderius Erasmus, translated to the English by Margaret Roper.” How pleased Father would be when he saw it.
“What is it, Barnabas?” she said, without looking up.
“You father wishes to see you, mistress.”
“Tell him I’ll wait upon him anon.” Maybe she should not have printed so many, she was thinking. Perhaps the girl in the bookshop on Paternoster Row would sell some for her when she reopened. Her shelves were fair sparse. She might be glad to have the inventory on consignment.
Barnabas coughed discreetly. “Sir Thomas said it was urgent.”
“Well then, I’ll go now,” she said, clutching a book to her chest, suddenly eager to see his face. Whatever his “urgent” matter, this should certainly make him smile.
But when she entered her father’s study a few minutes later, she found him in a rare temper. He wore such a scowl as he scarcely ever showed to her—to others maybe, but not to her.
“What is it, Father?”
He held up a book. She recognized the cover with dismay. “Oh,” she said. “You’ve already seen it. I was hoping to surprise you—”
“You succeeded admirably,” he said dryly. “I might add that it was not a pleasant surprise.”
“I don’t understand—”
He slammed the book down on his desk, rattling the ink bottles and quill pens lined up there like little soldiers. It was like a slap across the face. “The vicar-general showed it to me. It seems, daughter, that you have broken the law.”
“Broken the law! But how—”
He opened the book to the front matter, shoving it so close to her face she shrank away to see it. “Look. Do you see anything wrong with this?”
She tried to focus on the letters. What could possibly be wrong? She’d given due credit to the author. Spelled the title of the work correctly. She shook her head as she fought back tears of chagrin.
He took down a book from the shelf and opened it to the title page, thumped it with his knuckle. “Here, right here. You did not get the king’s permission. It is the law, Margaret. You cannot publish without the Church’s permission and the king’s seal.”
“I am so sorry, Father. I did not realize—but how did he come to even have it? I have only just—you were to receive the first copy. What did you tell the vicar-general?”
“They have their spies everywhere. I told him we would take care of it. We’ll have to destroy them if we can’t get a license.”
All that work—all that expense. “Even the beautiful leather bindings?” She could no longer hold back the tears.
He sighed heavily. “Calm yourself, Margaret.” The frowning visage softened slightly. “We can salvage the leather bindings. The printer can bind them with a new title page. I think I can get a license. It is a matter of following procedure. There is nothing theological in Erasmus’s work to which the Church can possibly object. It is a work meant only for scholars. Even in English, it is not something that would interest the common sort.”
“Father, I’m sorry. I thought you would be pleased. I thought you would be proud of my scholarship. I never thought about—”
He took both her hands in his and gave them a hard squeeze before releasing them. “I am proud of you. But we must be careful. The law can be a valuable tool or a formidable weapon. Now go on back to what you were doing. I’ll take care of this,” he said with a dismissive wave.
“I was unpacking the books,” she said ruefully.
“How many do you have?”
“Four dozen.”
“Send them back by Barnabas. See that not one single copy is left out.”
She was about to leave when a thought occurred to her. “Father, do you remember the printer in Paternoster Row that I told you about?”
“What printer was that?” he said absently. He was perusing her book, a half-smile playing across his face, apparently his fit of temper past now that he had a plan of action. He was a great one for a plan of action—her father.
“His name was Gough. He was in prison for selling contraband books. I asked you to help him.”
“Yes, I remember,” he said, turning the page. “I ordered his release.”
“Do you know what happened to him? I went by there on my way to the almshouse the other day and the shop was all shuttered up. There was a great chain on the door.”
“The shop is probably closed for good. I ordered his printing press destroyed as punishment.”
“As punishment! But hadn’t he already been punished enough?”
He looked up then from the book and fastened his hazel-eyed gaze on her. “The law is a strict taskmaster, Margaret. Remember that.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, chastened. But as she slid silently from the room, it occurred to her if the household of the great Thomas More could run so easily afoul of the law, what chance would a lesser man have?
“Master Frith, are you listening?” The cleric frowned at him.
“Forgive me, please,” John said. But in truth he had hardly heard a word the man said, some question about consanguinity, he thought. He was too distracted to concentrate. What if Kate turned him down? What if she didn’t return before the ship came? He had thought her tied to another m
an, and when he found that she was not, he had vowed not to leave without her. No other woman had ever moved him so—not even as a youth growing up in Seven Oaks where he’d flirted shamelessly with the Kentish girls and danced the Maypole with the winsome, apple-cheeked Lottie. But when Kate Gough smiled, the clouds parted. He drew comfort from her voice; her touch sent his senses reeling. Though he knew it was wrong of him to ask her to tie herself to a fugitive, to leave her country and all that was dear and familiar behind, he was helpless to do anything else.
He smiled apologetically and reassured the friar who had come all the way from Reading. “I was listening. No. I assure you we are in no wise related. Since we are both strangers in this community, publishing the banns would only be a formality. I’m sorry for appearing distracted. It’s just that the woman we are discussing has not yet given me a definite answer and I can think of little else.”
“Oh, but I was under the impression . . . Lady Walsh said—”
“Lady Walsh has been a dear friend. She is also very optimistic. She just wanted you to be in residence . . . because of the urgency . . . should Mistress Gough . . .”
“Well, for goodness’ sake, man, summon the woman and tell her she must make up her mind. Only yesterday, we received word from Lady Anne Boleyn that the king’s men are scouring every port for you. It is extremely urgent that you leave immediately. Even Lord and Lady Walsh will not be able to harbor you once a hue and cry is published.”
Scouring every port! And if they caught her with him, what would happen to her? How foolish he had been to place her in such danger.
“She isn’t here, I’m afraid,” he said. And then before the friar could give voice to what his arching brow exclaimed, John hastily added, “But I expect her back at any time. She went yesterday to bid her family farewell and obtain their blessing.”
A discreet knock at his bedroom door interrupted them, and Gilbert appeared. “Master Frith, Mistress Gough has returned,” he said. “Lady Walsh has asked that you attend her in her chamber. I will take you there.” Then with a nod to the friar. “Supper awaits you in your chamber, Father. Lady Walsh asked me to thank you for your patience and says to ask if you will be so kind as to say a vespers service in the chapel.” He paused for emphasis. “She said to say that the service will be a very private affair.”
“Will there be witnesses . . . should we need them?”
Were they saying what he thought they were saying? Had Kate already returned and given her answer to Lady Walsh? The physical weakness that he thought he’d beaten threatened dizziness. Was he doing the right thing? If he truly loved her, would he place her in such danger?
“Well, man, don’t just stand there,” the priest said, giving up a little half-smile. “Unless I’m sadly mistaken, I believe you are about to be married.”
Kate met her bridegroom at the altar in the tiny chapel. They stood in front of a table beneath a simple Lutheran cross. Behind them four small benches arranged in pairs held only Lord and Lady Walsh and Gilbert.
The stern expression on the priest’s face made her want to run. She could scarcely breathe. Then John held out his hand and drew her forward, murmuring, “I was afraid once you were out of the range of my multitude of charms you wouldn’t return.”
She inhaled deeply. “Your charms, sir, have quite a long range,” she murmured back, and then the priest cleared his throat.
“Who giveth this woman to be married?” the priest intoned, whereupon Lord Walsh stepped forward and placed Kate’s hand in John’s. He smiled at her and mouthed silently, “I love you.” Her hand shook so that when John reached out to place the ring on it—a lovely circlet of garnets donated by Lady Walsh—he had to steady it. She thought she detected a small tremor in the hand that held hers but decided not. Her bridegroom looked as calm as though this were the sort of thing he did every day.
Maybe he does! Maybe he has done it before! Maybe he already has a wife! What do you really know about him anyway? She fastened her gaze on the cross above the altar to keep from swooning. Lord Jesus, please let this be right. She drew a ragged breath and the dizziness passed.
It all happened so quickly. The priest mumbled something in Latin that Kate didn’t understand and elevated the Host, and Kate realized she was celebrating her first communion with her new husband. Her husband! Her mind could scarcely comprehend.
She was married. She was Mistress John Frith. And tomorrow she would be leaving England, maybe for good.
But first there was tonight to be gotten through.
After the four of them had eaten a light supper in the privacy of the solar with Gilbert alone serving—Kate tasted nothing that she put in her mouth, not even the golden cream pudding that John spooned onto her tongue—she and Lady Walsh retired to Lady Walsh’s chamber. The room glowed extravagantly. Kate had never seen so many candles lit at one time.
“This shall be your bridal chamber, my dear.”
Kate opened her mouth to protest such generosity.
Lady Walsh placed her finger on her lips to gesture silence. “I can put up with Lord Walsh’s snoring for one night in a good cause. Gilbert will stand watch outside your door to keep the servants away.” She reached into a wooden chest and pulled out a fine lawn shift. “Here. This is my present to you.”
Kate fingered the intricate lace on the diaphanous material.
“Lord Walsh brought it back to me from Venice. Apparently he hasn’t taken a good look at me in some time—which is probably a good thing. It is a trifle binding in the hips.” She laughed. “But you will look like a nymph in it. Not that you will have it on for very long.”
Kate’s knees felt weak. She grabbed hold of the bedpost for support.
“Here, let me help you,” Lady Walsh said as she began to untie Kate’s bodice, and together they lifted off her dress. She handed Kate a rag dipped in lavender water with which to freshen herself, then discreetly turned her back as Kate employed it. Kate pulled the garment over her body. It felt like gossamer, and she felt naked in it. Little bumps of gooseflesh rose on her skin.
“I know you are nervous, dear,” Lady Walsh said, and pinched Kate’s cheeks to make her skin rosy. She handed her a sprig of parsley. “Here, chew this to freshen your breath.” Then she took a few precious drops from a glass bottle of perfume and dabbed at Kate’s temples. “All brides are nervous the first time,” she said. “But since you don’t have a mother to instruct you and calm your fears, let me.”
“I shall never forget your kindness,” Kate said, suddenly feeling teary, thinking of her own mother so long gone.
“Go ahead, climb into bed, and I’ll brush your hair until it gleams like copper. Your new bridegroom will be unable to resist you. Not that I think he needs any help. He seems quite enchanted with you. You are a very lucky girl.”
Kate climbed the little wooden steps at the side of the giant four-poster bed, wondering which side John would prefer. Since she didn’t know, she moved over to the far right. She didn’t need much room. The small cot she’d grown accustomed to would have fit three times into this one.
She pulled the embroidered coverlet up to her armpits and, while Lady Walsh brushed her hair, considered the twisting vines decorating the carved bedposts and twining in the canopy. Spreading out in the center carving of the canopy was what looked like a giant tree. Two figures stood at the base of the tree and the woman, clothed only in long, flowing hair, was holding out an apple to the man whose torso was half hidden by the trunk of the tree.
Lady Walsh continued, “As for the marital act itself, you need not be worried. Master Frith does not seem at all the brutish sort. He speaks of you with such tenderness.” Lady Walsh talked in rhythm with the brush strokes. “And you don’t really have to do anything but lie there and relax. The man has to do all the work.”
Lie there and relax! She wished she’d drunk the wine she’d been offered at supper. She tried to remember the kiss in the autumn garden, the taste of John’s lips, tried to dist
ract her mind by watching the curving vines climb up the post to gather at the base of the apple tree.
“There might be a little pain the first time and then after that”—she gave a self-conscious little laugh—“it can even be quite . . . pleasant.”
There was a muted knock at the door. Kate flinched as though she’d been stung. Lady Walsh put down the brush and fluffed Kate’s hair, spreading it out across the white linen pillow.
“The gentlemen are without.” Gilbert’s voice was low.
“Bid them enter,” Lady Walsh said, with a little reassuring pat to Kate’s shoulder. “The bride is ready.”
“I thought they’d never leave,” John said as the door closed behind Lord and Lady Walsh.
“I suppose that’s the way the nobility does things.” Kate swallowed a nervous laugh.
She did not know what to do with her hands. She held them rigidly across her chest. She didn’t know what to do with her eyes either. She couldn’t look at John. The whole procedure had been excruciating. Lord Walsh helping John undress, assisting him into bed, then the pair of them standing on each side of the bed until the couple was properly bedded.
“I think it has something to do with rightful heirs and primogeniture and—”
He leaned over her and stopped her mouth with a kiss . . . “But they are gone now, and we are alone at last,” he said.
She clutched the counterpane more tightly. He took her hands in his and gently pulled the cover back. For a brief moment she felt the cold in the room through the flimsy material of her shift, but it did not make her shiver. Her skin was hot even in the cold room. But he quickly covered her up and lay back on the pillow. He didn’t look at her, just stared at the roof of the bed, his hands behind his head.
The Heretic’s Wife Page 17
