The Heretic’s Wife

by Brenda Rickman Vantrease

  “She just sees visions in still water.” He nodded to the woman, who looked uncomfortable being at the center of their conversation. “Endor, come here. Bring that bowl of water and place it on the table.”

  Kate was suddenly curious, and anxious that John’s attitude not give offense, less to Tom Lasser, she told herself, than to the woman who had served them so carefully. “What can it hurt, John? Aren’t you even a little bit curious?”

  “Yes, Master Frith,” the captain said with a challenge in his voice and another mocking smile, “aren’t you a little bit curious?”

  “Well, I suppose it can do no harm.” John shrugged and stuttered a nervous little laugh, his good manners winning out over his objections.

  With a sweep of his lace-cuffed sleeves, the captain exclaimed, “Our lovebirds would see their future, Endor . . . if you will be so kind.”

  John fidgeted beside her as the woman nodded and solemnly wiped the inside of the empty soup bowl then placed it in the center of the table. She filled it to the brim from the pitcher on the sideboard and, leaning forward, gripped the table as if to steady it, or herself, and closed her eyes. John signaled his disapproval of the whole procedure with a lifted brow and tightened lips, but Kate was glad that he made no verbal protest.

  The captain grinned. He is enjoying watching John squirm, she thought, and was about to signal that she had changed her mind when the woman’s eyes popped open and stared into the bowl.

  The ship rocked gently in a swell.

  Endor shook her head ever so slightly and closed her eyes again.

  “Really, Captain . . .” But the captain lifted two fingers to his lips in a shushing motion.

  They all waited for the water to grow still again. No one spoke. The only sounds were the creaking timbers above as the sailors went about their work and a scratching noise beneath the floors. Rats in the hold. Kate gave a little shiver. All ships had rats—didn’t they? She was suddenly very grateful that John had asked for the light.

  Suddenly, like a puppet on a string, Endor jerked her eyes open and again stared into the bowl. Kate was wondering how she could hold them so wide and unblinking, when without warning the woman gave a troubled grunt, gesticulated violently, and pushed the bowl aside. Some of it sloshed onto the white linen cloth. She shook her head vigorously and, without waiting for permission, opened the door leading to the main deck and ran from the room. A few minutes later they heard footsteps running overhead.

  Captain Lasser gave a nervous little laugh. “I guess her gift cannot be summoned at will. Don’t read anything into it. She was just embarrassed that she saw nothing in the water.”

  But Kate noticed that the mocking smile had disappeared.

  “Yes, I’m sure that’s all it was,” John said. He sounded relieved that the whole silly charade was over.

  “Will she be all right? Shouldn’t we go after her? She was upset,” Kate said.

  “No. She’s just gone up on the poop deck for a bit of fresh air. It’s her favorite spot.”

  But Kate wasn’t so sure. She wished she could talk to the woman. Ask her exactly what it was that upset her. She leaned forward and looked at the still water, but all she saw was the reflection of her own troubled face. The ship rocked gently and that image too disappeared, but Kate felt an uneasiness stirring in her stomach.

  Whether her queasiness was caused by the ship’s motion or Endor’s reaction to whatever she had seen in the water, she wasn’t sure. But she was sure she regretted that last spoonful of leek soup.

  For the remainder of their first evening at sea, and for a good part of the next, Kate lay in the narrow bunk and wanted to die. For the first couple of hours John held her head as she threw up into a basin not only the leek soup but everything she’d eaten for the last week.

  “I don’t want you to see me like this,” she moaned the first time. By the time she got to the dry heaves, she no longer cared. When she had nothing left to throw up, she lay exhausted on the bed while John went up to rid the little cabin of the foul contents of the basin. She was thinking that being captured might not be so bad if she could just get her feet on dry land again when John returned. He carried in his hand a mug of something hot and steaming.

  “Captain Lasser says this will help,” he said, holding it up.

  “He does, does he? If you were sick too, I’d suspect him of poisoning us.” She raised her head and shoulders, supporting herself on her elbows but unwilling to commit to sitting up. “What is it?”

  “Ginger brew,” he said. “The captain says if it’s seasickness, it will settle you,” he said, putting it to her lips.

  Her stomach clutched, but she sipped the spicy, pungent brew more to please him than because she had any faith in it.

  “Come on. That’s my girl,” he coaxed. “Captain Lasser says you should drink it all. Says it’ll help you find your sea legs.”

  Don’t treat me like a child, John. “I don’t want to find my sea legs. I don’t ever plan to use them again.” And then between sips, “How long did you say it was going to take us to get to Antwerp?”

  “Four, maybe five days, depending on the wind.”

  “Two hours,” she moaned. “It takes two hours to cross the Channel. If we’d gone that way we’d already be there.”

  “Or in the Tower,” he said soberly. “Come on, drink up. We’ll be settled in our new lodgings and will have made new friends well before Christmas. You’ll never have to set foot in a boat again.”

  Kate drank the spicy, honeyed mixture. She had to admit it soothed her innards. She lay back and closed her eyes. But if her stomach was more settled, her thoughts were still churning. Christmas in another country across the sea with her new husband. It all seemed unreal. Kate knew a little about Antwerp: knew that it was a great city of the Holy Roman Empire—probably bigger even than London—and the publishing capital of Europe. Many of the Tyndale books bore the imprimatur of Antwerp. Thank God Lady Walsh had given them the names of a contact that would help them.

  “John, do you know where—”

  “Shh. Don’t start worrying. I have a plan. I have friends there. You will love them, and they you. Just rest.”

  After about five minutes, she felt his lips brush her forehead.

  “Better?” he asked.

  She managed a nod.

  “I think I’ll go up on the quarterdeck and give the captain a report. He seemed so anxious to help. You know, he really isn’t a bad sort.”

  Kate did not open her eyes but waved him away. The cabin was quiet now. The sea was calm again. And so was her stomach.

  She didn’t even awaken when John returned to the twilit cabin an hour later.

  Kate did not awaken until the next morning. The cabin was empty. She could tell the morning was well on by the light streaming through the lone porthole. She stood up gingerly, surprised to find the dizziness and nausea had departed. Poor John. He must have slept on the blanket left in a huddle on the floor. A surge of emotion flooded over her as she remembered how dear and tender he had been to her. How could she have found such a perfect husband?

  A bowl of fresh water and a bar of Castilian soap—apparently the well-heeled captain liked his little luxuries—waited on the table where last night’s dinner had been served. She pushed the image of the steaming soup from her mind, lest her stomach rebel. But she was thinking that she really should eat a little something when Endor brought another mug of the ginger concoction. Kate shook her head in protest, but the woman pointed to the mug and nodded vigorously. Then she held up two fingers and uncovered a few buns and a bit of cheese hidden beneath an oiled cloth.

  “I don’t understand.”

  Endor pointed to the cup, made a drinking motion, then to the bread.

  “You want me to drink this first, and then I can have the bread?”

  Endor nodded.

  Well, it had served her well enough the first time, she supposed. She drank the brew, surprised to find that it was not as noxiou
s as she had thought it last night. Endor cut off a hunk of cheese and, placing it with the bun, handed it to her.

  Kate took a bite and chewed slowly, relieved to find that her stomach made no protest. “Do you remember me?” Kate asked, licking the crumbs from her fingers.

  The woman nodded.

  “I am glad you are safe.” And then a thought occurred to her. How did she know the woman was safe? She was clearly a servant but what other duties did she perform for the captain? “I mean, you are here of your own free will?”

  The woman gave a little knowing smile and, nodding, clasped her hands together and touched them to her lips.

  She is in love with the dashing captain, Kate thought, pitying her. It showed in the soft, misty expression in her eyes. Then she remembered something else about the woman in Fleet Prison. She had been obviously pregnant. She wondered if the baby had been the captain’s and what had happened to it.

  “My name is Kate and your name is . . . Endor?”

  Again the woman smiled and nodded and pointed to the sunlight streaming through the porthole. Then she pointed at Kate and to a ladder that Kate had not noticed before because of the clutter piled in front of it. She had assumed that the only way up was through the door onto the main deck that Endor had used last night.

  “That leads directly to the upper deck? Is my husband there?”

  One quick nod affirmed both questions. Endor spread her arms in a sweeping motion across the table, moved her hands in a quick circular motion in front of her stomach, and gave three mock pulls on a bell rope. Kate understood completely.

  “Dinner is at three bells. We will be ready.” She was about to ask about the baby. “When last we met you were with child; may I ask—” But the woman had already picked up the chamber pot and was hustling out the door. Either she didn’t hear Kate or anticipated the question and deliberately chose to ignore it.

  As she pulled a clean linen shift from her trousseau that consisted largely of the cast-off garments that once belonged to Lady Walsh’s household—though they were superior in construction and material to anything Kate was leaving behind in her little rooms above the shop in London—the scent of dried lavender mingled with the briny smell of the sea, and was soon joined by the aroma of the smooth white soap. She pulled the clean garment over her head, then giving a good shake to her second-best skirt, she climbed into it. A quick tug on the comb through her tangle of curls and she gave it up, leaving it free-flowing beneath a simple cloth cap.

  The sun beckoned and she felt refreshed—all trace of the sickness gone. God bless Endor and her magic elixir—maybe she’d found her sea legs after all. She stuffed another of the sweet buns into her mouth and one for John in her pocket. As she maneuvered her clumsy skirt up the ladder, she had a fleeting wish for the discarded pants she’d left behind.

  The young courtier was dismayed when he got the summons to attend the king at York Place. Being summoned to court was always gut-wrenching, and when court was at York Place, it was especially so. The London palace was the property of Cardinal Wolsey, Archbishop of York, but was often used by the king, and being summoned there was a little like an invitation to the Star Chamber at Westminster. As Stephen Vaughan gave his horse over to the groom at the gatehouse, he did a quick mental inventory to think if he’d given insult or injury to any powerful persons of late. He could think of none.

  He was fencing with shadows. As he well knew, the king was capable of calling a man to travel miles on a mere whim, to play a game of chess or listen to his latest song. Or it could be something as simple as wanting Stephen to plan a masque for court or marshal a tournament. But it had been a while since His Majesty had sent for him, and Vaughan had supposed the king had found himself another general dogsbody. And that was just as well. He hated being among so many hypocrites and hangers-on, not to mention the anxiety of always wondering whether he was being called to answer for some perceived, or trumped-up, misdeed or if he might—God forbid—stumble in the discharge of whatever duty the king had summoned him for.

  “His Majesty sent for me,” he said to courtiers lounging outside the Presence Chamber. They were playing dice and did not look up. “He’s in the cardinal’s chamber.”

  “Is the cardinal with him?”

  “With him!” one of them snorted. “The cardinal’s in York, licking his wounds.”

  “Licking his wounds?”

  “You haven’t heard?” The speaker looked up then and added, “But then, how could you? Haven’t seen you around for a while, Vaughan. You in some kind of disgrace too?”

  Stephen ignored the note of derision in his voice. The others laughed, a little nervously, Stephen thought. There was a low snigger as one of the dice players muttered, “His Majesty is probably busy measuring for new tapestries. I’ve heard he plans to change the name of this one from York Place to Whitehall. Has a nice ring to it. What I would give to see Wolsey’s face when he hears!”

  The dice clattered on the table.

  “Snake eyes. Here, you want to see Wolsey’s face?”

  The loser flipped a gold sovereign bearing the cardinal’s visage in the direction of the winner, who grinned and waved the coin in the air. “Face and head. Stamped in gold on the coin of the realm. How the mighty have fallen.”

  “Not far enough. Arrogant bastard.” But it was hard to tell if the loser was referring to Wolsey or his gambling companion until he grumbled, “ ’Tis only His Majesty’s good grace that lets that whoreson of a Smithfield butcher keep his head.” And then, as if he suddenly remembered Stephen was standing there, he nodded abruptly. “Go on up. His Majesty said to keep an eye out for you. He’s with his armorer, but he said to send you up anyway.”

  Stephen took the stairs two at a time, his short sword clanging against the stair rail.

  “Vaughan, come in,” the voice bellowed like a bull.

  It was the king’s voice, and it was not a joyous bellow.

  But to his relief he soon discovered that it was the armorer who was to bear the brunt of the king’s displeasure.

  “Look at this, Vaughan,” the king shouted, and clanged his sword against the codpiece of a full suit of majestic armor behind which the master craftsman was cowering. “Does this look to you like a suitable covering for the king’s manhood, this . . . this . . . paltry codpiece? You must not think your king much of a man, armorer.”

  “It was an error, Your Majesty.” The armorer was wringing his hands, visibly shaken. “The apprentice must have misread the king’s . . . splendid proportions. He is an ignorant fool. I will see that he is beaten.”

  “And what about you? Who will see that you are beaten for not inspecting the armor before presenting such an insult in our presence?”

  The armorer turned white as death. “Your Majesty, please . . .”

  “Oh, get out of my sight. And take this thing with you.” The king kicked the armor with the heel of his boot. The clang reverberated to the rafters. The armorer cringed as though he’d been struck. “Fix it,” the king snarled. “And bring it to my palace in Richmond a fortnight hence. And don’t disappoint me.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. I will see to it,” he said, backing away. “It will be as majestic as your—”

  “Go on. Get out!” The king waved him away. “Leave the sword.”

  He picked up the two-handed sword and wielded it overhead to the right, then to the left. Stephen pitied his adversary. “Great Harry,” as the people called him, was known for his prowess with a two-handed sword.

  “Nice heft to it. ’Twill do to slice a Frenchman open or an insolent armorer.”

  Quick as lightning he tossed the sword to Stephen, who luckily caught it by its gilded hilt and not its honed blade. Stephen carefully laid it aside.

  “You see what fools surround me, Stephen.” The king sighed but smiled at him warmly, ignoring the craftsman struggling to wrestle the offending metal suit out the door.

  Stephen did not know how to answer or if he should trust the
smile. He bowed. “You summoned me, Your Majesty?”

  “Yes, what was it . . . ?” Henry paced long enough to set Stephen on edge then gave an “aha” gesture and settled in an armchair. He indicated that Stephen should sit on the bench beside the fireplace. “I have a little errand for you, Master Vaughan.”

  Stephen sat on the bench, grateful for the warmth for it was a cold day and York Place, for all its grandeur, was not as cozy as his two-room lodging in Cheapside. He listened, trying mightily to concentrate as Henry outlined his plan for bringing back a scholar in exile to serve at court, wondering what part he would play in such a scheme.

  “His name is William Tyndale. He is a brilliant man. He has fallen afoul of the law—and Sir Thomas—with some of his Lutheran writings, but I think he can be persuaded to come home. Back to England and the true Church. That’ll be your job, Vaughan. Tell him his king, his country, is in need of him. If he will agree to the terms which I have written out, he shall receive a full pardon.”

  “But he is on the Continent, you say?” Stephen said, trying not to sound anything but pleased to serve his king. “How shall I find him, Your Majesty?”

  The king shrugged as though he were merely asking Stephen to go to Lincoln’s Inn or do a little search of the local taverns. “He is thought to be in Antwerp. That is where most of his illegal writings come from. You might start with a printer named Johannes van Hoochstraten. He uses the alias Marburg for Tyndale’s works.” He got up and, rummaging through a chest, drew out a packet wrapped securely in linen and bearing the royal seal. He handed it to Stephen.

  “In there you will find sufficient funds to keep you while you are out of the country and specific instructions as well as a pardon for Master Tyndale should he agree. I shall expect a report every two weeks. You may report to me through Master Cromwell at the treasury. Mark your correspondence ‘for the king’s eyes only.’ ”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. I shall find him.” Stephen wished he were as confident as he sounded. “Just give me a day or two to put my affairs in order.”