The Heretic’s Wife

by Brenda Rickman Vantrease

  “Oh dear, I’m truly sorry. I never thought . . . but whatever you said . . . I am sure poor Catherine is thrilled to have you as tenants. She was devoted to her brother, but she worried that his studio would become a sort of shrine and be invaded by his students. Now she can plead her tenants’ privacy whenever some artist wants to nose around his studio. Quentin was quite famous. He did the triptych in the cathedral and was very well known for his portraits—one of them was even praised by the great Sir Thomas More.” She made a little face. “We know Sir Thomas because he negotiates with the merchants.”

  Kate’s alarm must have shown in her face.

  “Don’t worry, my dear, that is the be-all and end-all of our relationship with Sir Thomas More. He comes to Antwerp frequently, but he will never be invited to the English House. Anyway, he and the Dutch philosopher Erasmus—do you know of him?”

  Kate nodded, indicating that she did.

  “Well, Erasmus and Sir Thomas More are the greatest of friends, I understand, and they both have a fondness for Flemish culture.” She motioned for the housemaid to clear the table. “Quentin even engraved a medal for Erasmus. Though I don’t much care for his work. Quentin’s . . . not Erasmus’s. Quentin’s work is very . . . literal. Very exaggerated. Almost grotesquely so. What do you think of his Christ descending from the cross?”

  “The panel in the cathedral? I haven’t seen it yet. Though there are some sketches left behind in our bedchamber . . . I know what you mean about exaggerated. The sketches are of an old woman in old-fashioned dress, really exquisitely dressed—one can see every thread in the embroidery of her horned headdress—but she is so . . .”

  “Ugly?” Lady Poyntz laughed.

  “Who would commission her portrait?”

  “Who indeed? But I don’t think that one is really a portrait—at least not of anybody we know. It is supposed to make some kind of point about the vanity of old women.”

  There was something sad and very sobering about that . . . about the vanity of old women as though old women could not, should not even try to, be beautiful. She glanced at John, wondering if he would find her beautiful when they were old, trying to picture him with gray streaking his hair. But the dimple would still be in his cheek. He would still speak with the same animation with which he was conversing with John Rogers. The house chaplain was assuring him that, yes, he was in touch with William Tyndale and would be happy to inform him of his friend’s presence in Flanders.

  Mistress Poyntz excused herself and went to the kitchen to supervise the putting away of the plate. The candles flickered low in their sconces and Kate, sighing in obvious frustration, put down her embroidery. John glanced in her direction lovingly and, rising with smiles and handshakes all around, bade the merchants good night.

  The drizzle had settled into fog as they walked the few blocks home. He reached for her hand. His touch was warm and comforting and the voice of the town crier assured them that it was nine of the clock and all was well—though he assured them in Flemish. But Kate was learning the language a little.

  “You seem pensive,” John said. “Did I tire you by keeping you in that raucous company overlong?”

  “No. Well. Maybe a little tired. But it was a fine supper, and I like Lady Poyntz.” The smell of the fog rolling in from the river, the taste of it in her mouth, was familiar. It reminded her of England. “John, did you know that Sir Thomas More is the negotiator between England and the merchants and that he comes to Antwerp sometimes?”

  “So that’s what’s bothering you.”

  He gave a little sigh. She imagined the vapor of that sigh mingling with the fog, sweetening it with his breath.

  “No, I didn’t know. But I’m not surprised. This is an important city. It is expected he would come here from time to time.”

  “What if he should see you?”

  “He wouldn’t know me. He might recognize my name, but . . . I’ll be watchful. Don’t worry, my angel. I’m small fish. The mighty Sir Thomas wouldn’t bother with me. It’s Tyndale who has to be worried. That’s why he moves so frequently. Though Lord Poyntz says he’s trying to convince him that the English House is the safest place for him. There he would have immunity from arrest by German authorities, and no one is allowed in except by invitation.” He squeezed her hand. “Don’t worry. We are safe,” he said, unlocking the door to the stairway that led to their second-story chamber.

  By the time the town crier had called ten of the clock and all well, John lay sleeping beside her and she snuggled in the crook of his arm. The beating of his heart against her cheek comforted her. She was about to drift off to sleep herself when she remembered the sketch of the grotesque old woman she had turned to the wall. Will you love me when I’m old, John, she whispered. Will I be your angel then?

  John’s gentle snoring gave no answer. But as Kate rolled on her side and tried to sleep, she felt a surge of compassion for the woman who’d sat for that sketch.

  “Go on. Touch it if you want,” the king whispered in Anne Boleyn’s ear. “When you are queen you will have your own and a saltcellar to match”—he flashed his quicksilver smile at her—“with rubies as big as your eyes.”

  Anne pulled back her hand. She was not queen. Not yet. Not as long as Katherine of Aragon was his legal wife. But as she withdrew her hand, her fingers caressed the pearls circling the base of the beautiful covered bowl. It was by far the most exquisite piece of plate she had ever seen, rock crystal, gold, sea-green enamel, and all inlaid with precious stones.

  It was the Twelfth Night masque and Henry had declared to Anne that this year’s revels would be a joyous celebration of his intent. This time she had agreed to sit at the great table beside him. The gilded mask gave her some anonymity, though all the court would guess whose eyes looked out from behind the jeweled feathered mask. But since the protocol was less stringently observed for a masque, Anne had agreed.

  Light and color filled the hall at Hampton Court. It seemed to Anne, as she glanced down the boards from her elevated place of honor, to be an almost heavenly vision: the troubadours strolled among the guests, strumming their lutes; cupbearers filled golden goblets at a fountain pouring fine French wine; heady smells of perfume and beeswax mingled with the succulent smells wafting up from the kitchens below. The candlelight danced, and the light shifted to reveal a jeweled cuff here, a lace collar of spun gold there, a silver snood woven fine as a spider’s web: an incandescent swirl of color shifting in light and shadow. Two liveried heralds bearing trumpets appeared at the back of the hall.

  “My lords, attend ye,” the marshal of the hall shouted, and the processional began.

  Servant after servant bearing great crystal bowls upon red velvet cushions tasseled with gold marched down the hall as the cry “Wassail, wassail!” echoed down the boards. “Wassail, wassail!” to the pounding of fists upon the boards. The candelabra hanging from the rafters shook, making the lights dance. As the cupbearers and sewers began to serve the Twelfth Night libation, a choir began to sing and the voices hushed until each cup had been filled. Then the king stood and lifted his own golden cup.

  “Wassail,” he cried and laughing drained his cup. Anne lifted her own cup. One sip of the spicy, sweet wine and she imagined she could feel it going to her head. She put the cup down. There was the dancing to get through. Her senses needed to be sharp.

  “Your Majesty’s master of the revels is to be commended,” Anne said. “I have never seen such pageantry.”

  “This is nothing,” he said, laughing. “Wait until you are crowned my queen; then you shall see pageantry. Come, let’s show them how well their sovereign dances.”

  Her heartbeat quickened as, taking his hand, she let him lead her onto the stage that had been built for the six dancing pairs, each couple carefully selected, carefully dressed, carefully choreographed. At intervals the couples emerged from behind the painted cloths that formed a backdrop to join the dance. Each was dressed as the king and Anne were dressed, in cloth of g
old slashed with Tudor green, their elaborate sleeves decorated with Tudor roses, the men in velvet, feathered caps, their ladies in pearled coifs of green velvet attached to snoods of fine gold mesh. All the dancers wore identical gilded and feathered masks.

  “Your Majesty, for such a powerful athlete, you are light of foot,” she said as the pipers joined the harpists, and the last couple emerged. A great tree had been erected in the center of the stage, and they danced around and around it, until Anne felt almost dizzy.

  “See, already they have lost us,” the king said. “They are laying bets on which is the king.”

  A series of painted cloths to resemble arches formed a backdrop. As the couples circled the tree, they wove in and out of the cloth archways. The pipers played faster. The dancers moved in and out among the arches, in and out, around the tree, faster still, among the arches, around the tree—and suddenly the king grasped her waist and pulled her behind the real archway, a stone archway above the stairway leading to the kitchens below.

  Henry let escape a staccato laugh as with a wave of his hand another couple looking almost identical to Henry and Anne joined the dance.

  “Come, we’ll go out through the kitchens and enter the hall from the other side.”

  He was like a small boy at play, so pleased with himself. Breathless from the dancing, she had to run to keep up with him, as they dodged sewers and cooks carrying trays and stirring pots who paused only briefly to drop a curtsy with a smile and a nod or a “high-ho, Your Majesty” as if it were every day their sovereign sprinted through their workplace.

  “Who was that dancer, Your Highness, so much like you in height and weight and bearing?” she gasped between quick breaths.

  “Not as good a dancer, though, sweet Anne.” He threw the words over his shoulder at her with no hint of breathlessness. “Say ye not nary as good a dancer.”

  “I did not dance with him, Your Majesty, how should I know?”

  He laughed at her impudence. “It was Edward Neville. From the privy chamber. See that you do not find occasion to dance with him.”

  He was still running and she still breathless when they entered the hall and removed their masks.

  After the king had had his fill of merriment and dancing, after all wagers had been satisfied as to which masked dancer was the king—and nobody winning except Lord Neville, who gleaned all winnings by his proxy Charles Brandon, Lord Suffolk, as reward for his part in the foolery—and after the feasting was done with its divers courses of turtledove, swan, peacock and plover, garlicky beef, neats’ tongues, and spiced whale meat, which Anne did not care for but tried to eat anyway because it was a great delicacy, after the confections and subtleties were presented to huzzahs and bravos—these she also did not care for and found somewhat sacrilegious; there was something profane about the Virgin and Child made of sugar—Henry was still sober enough to suggest they retire to his chamber.

  “Your Majesty, the evening waxes full and I must plead fatigue. Besides, it is unseemly for—”

  “Lord Neville will be there. As will Charles Brandon and of course your lady’s maid. Your virtue and your reputation will remain intact. I agree we must be circumspect. I have a gift for my closest confederates to mark this occasion. Surely you may be counted among the king’s close friends.”

  So with feet weary from too much dancing, head aching from too much wine, and stomach bloated beneath its tight stomacher from too much feasting, Anne put on a docile smile and followed the king to his chamber. Where did the man get his stamina? He was not mortal. He’d eaten and drunk and danced more heartily than anybody at the revels, and he appeared to feel none the worse for it. As they passed the hallway leading to her chamber she thought longingly of her bed. And besides, she did not think Charles Brandon, the king’s boyhood comrade and husband to his sister Mary, approved of her. No doubt Henry was trying to win him over by insinuating her into the king’s most intimate circle, but she was too weary to play the charmer. However, he had mentioned New Year’s presents. One did not refuse a king.

  Henry was as good as his word. He had gifts for everyone: finely honed swords for Lord Neville and Charles Brandon, poetry manuscripts in his own hand for Brandon and Neville along with garters banded with the Tudor rose and jeweled buttons, even leather gloves of finest lambskin for Anne’s maid.

  “And take this for your lady wife, our dear sister Mary, with the message we forgive her for her wanton disregard of our favor in marrying you.”

  His expression matched his icy tone as he handed Brandon a small package. Anne wondered what was in it. As much as he loved his boyhood friend, Henry had planned a different kind of marriage for his widowed sister Mary Tudor, one of political advantage for the Crown. Brandon dropped his head in acknowledgment of his gratitude at being reinstated in the king’s good graces. But Anne felt a moment’s pang for the disgraced Mary, who had not been invited to the Twelfth Night revels. If Brandon could be restored to the king’s favor, why not the king’s sister Mary? She felt a flash of anger for Lord Suffolk, who had left his wife behind in the dismal cloud of her disgrace.

  But one did not refuse a king.

  “There is one more gift, for our special friend, Lady Anne.”

  He bade Anne close her eyes and placed a small velvet envelope in her hand. But before she closed her eyes she’d seen the look exchanged between Neville and Brandon and it was not a look that warmed her heart. She fingered the little envelope, trying to recapture her excitement at the thought of another present from the king—too flat for a ring or even a jewel of any size. It felt like a small square with sharp edges.

  “Don’t look yet,” he said. “Just open the envelope.”

  She slipped her fingers in the velvet pouch and took out the small flat thing, feeling the smoothness of its surface and the sharp pointed edges. She heard a little intake of breath from Neville or Brandon, she didn’t know which.

  “Open your eyes, my lady, and look at your king’s gift.”

  Anne opened her eyes. And what she saw distressed her so she could not stop the welling tears. She dropped her gaze so the courtiers would not see.

  It was a miniature portrait of Henry, beardless as he was now, so it was a recent likeness. He had shaved his beard for the Christmas revels. It was a perfect miniature likeness, his little-boy mouth, his chin slightly cleft above its fleshy throat. He was wearing a simple surcoat and a featherless black hat and a single gold chain. The watercolor image was set against a dark blue background and framed by a thin gold circle within a red rectangle. And it was within that rectangular border that Anne found the source of her tears.

  Gilt angels at the corners, both top and bottom, carried golden letters on a scarlet background: H K. Top and bottom. She could see them clearly through the tears.

  Henry and Katherine.

  “Your Majesty, I cannot accept this. I do not deserve such a token of your and the queen’s generosity.” The hated object swam before her, the king’s image distorted through her tears. “I feel the evening has quite overcome me. I must bid you good night.”

  She curtsied as quickly as she could and backed out of the chamber, then picked up her skirts and fled from the king’s presence. The sound of his rage pursued her down the hall.

  “I’ll have that painter whipped for such an insult,” he shouted.

  But all Anne could think about was the smug look on Charles Brandon’s face.

  TWENTY

  This is not my doing; but would to God I could in this way, give liberty to enslaved consciences and empty the cloisters of their tenants!

  —MARTIN LUTHER ON HEARING THAT NINE

  REFORMED NUNS HAD ESCAPED FROM AN

  AUGUSTINIAN CONVENT. KATHARINA VON

  BORA WAS ONE OF THOSE NUNS. (1523)

  During the winter Kate went out less. Catherine Massys turned the lower floor, where Quentin’s art school had formerly met, into two small shops. A chandler leased one, and she ran the other herself, offering artist’s tools
for sale: pigments and canvases and sable brushes. It was a good way to be rid of some of her brother’s inventory, she said. The artists in his school had come to rely on him for supplies, but she didn’t intend to give them out for free.

  On cold, gray days Kate enjoyed sitting with her in the shop, struggling over the unicorn tapestry. They talked of women’s things: the new caps offered for sale in the shop window across the street, the slight measure the Venetian cloth merchant gave when measuring silk, but they talked of other things too.

  It was from Catherine Massys that Kate learned just how much greater a foothold the religious reformists had gained on the Continent than in England and that Dr. Martin Luther, the man who started it all and whose theology Kate had come even more to embrace since her exile, was a married man.

  “Sometimes his wife travels with him,” Catherine said, “and the children too. I saw her once.”

  “But I thought Luther was a monk. A priest,” Kate said.

  “You do not approve of priests who marry?”

  “No. I mean, I suppose I always thought of him as too . . . devoted to marry. The lonely monk in his cell. Of course, I see no reason why the clergy shouldn’t marry. Saint Paul said it was better to marry than to burn.”

  “Burn?” Catherine’s brow bunched when she didn’t understand some English idiom.

  “With lust,” Kate answered. “Feel tempted by . . . you know . . .”

  Catherine smiled and nodded. “I understand. Burn. Like fire burns. An all-consuming love. English is a poetic language,” she said. Then, “Do priests marry in England . . . or do they just . . . burn?”

  “Some marry.” Kate thought of Cardinal Wolsey, who rumor said had a wife, and Bishop Cranmer, who was said to carry his wife around with him in a box. “But they keep it secret.” Kate picked at a knotted thread. A small hole was beginning to appear in the tip of the unicorn’s horn where she’d picked it once too often. “What’s she like, this wife of Martin Luther?” she asked, tugging at the fibers as if that could make the hole go away.