The Heretic’s Wife

by Brenda Rickman Vantrease

  Catherine shrugged. “I only saw her from a distance. She is younger than Dr. Luther by half. Small oval face, plain clothes. Eyes wide apart, and looking more wise than pretty. Her mouth a little . . .” She pursed her own mouth into a pout to show what she could not say. “Her name is Kate, like you. Kate von Bora. A great family, but they disowned her when she broke her vows.”

  “Broke her vows? She was a nun?”

  “She ran away from a cloistered house with eight other . . . nuns. After converting to Luther’s ideas.”

  An apostate nun and a renegade priest living together openly as man and wife. Kate wondered how they managed to stay out of prison.

  “She must really be committed to the Lutheran cause to marry a man twice her age because of his writings.”

  “Or maybe, as you English say, she just ‘burns’ for her Martin.”

  “Maybe,” Kate said. Her face flushed just thinking about the way her heart leaped and her flesh quivered at John’s touch. She was aware of Catherine’s amused smile.

  “I’m glad you are happy here with your new husband,” Catherine said, then added after a brief pause, “and I’m glad you’re living in my house. I think we might become friends. I meet with a few women every Friday. We study the Bible together. Maybe you would like to join us. Two of the women speak some English. They would like to practice on you.”

  “Do you meet at the English House?”

  “No. We meet here. The Flemish women would not be admitted to the English Merchants’ House, and besides, they sometimes bring their children.”

  “Is it safe?”

  Catherine shrugged. “Safe enough. Nobody will bother us. The authorities consider us harmless, just gossiping hausfraus.”

  “I’ll look forward to it,” Kate said. She stood up and moved to the window, watching for John to turn the corner. “I’ve been meaning to tell you, I saw the altarpiece in the cathedral. Your brother was very talented. The figure of the dead Christ looked so—”

  “Very, very dead?” Catherine’s mouth pursed of its own accord this time. “Quentin was talented. But sometimes I think his pictures to be a little too . . . real.”

  “The sketch in the studio of the old woman—”

  “If it . . . disturbs, I will remove it. It was an oversight to leave it. His sons took away all the paintings. The unfinished sketch, they perhaps didn’t think it was to be valued.”

  “No,” Kate said. “Don’t take it away. I’ve come to live with it. Like a melancholy but kindly ghost. Was it the portrait of a real woman?”

  “No. At least I don’t think so. I think it was meant as a commentary on old woman’s vanity.”

  “Old woman’s vanity! What of old man’s vanity!” Kate said, without taking time to edit the scorn from her voice. “Quentin Massys should have painted their withered calves in fine silk stockings and skinny haunches sheathed in gold brocade, their squinty eyes leering out of pockmarked faces at every full bosom that bounces in front of them—”

  Catherine’s sharp little laugh echoed in the shop.

  “Forgive me,” Kate said, realizing too late how rude her comment sounded. “I didn’t mean it as an insult to your brother.” Having abandoned the delicate unicorn’s horn, she stabbed at his neck with her needle. “I should learn not to give voice to every opinion that walks through my head.”

  “No. It is . . . honest talk. Quentin admired honest talk. He preferred people with opinions. He hated empty faces. He would have painted your portrait with your eyes wide with . . . umbrage. It was just the kind of thing he did best—any kind of emotion. The portrait of the moneylender and his wife, in it the greed shows in their faces.”

  The stamping and neighing of a horse drew Kate’s attention to the window. “It appears you have a customer. I should probably take my opinions and my round-eyed umbrage upstairs. John will be home soon. He should not have to seek out his wife when he comes home. I’ll look forward to Friday,” she said over the jingle of the bell above the shop door.

  Kate was able to meet only a few times with Catherine Massys and her little group of Bible women before the torrential rains began. But it was enough for her to know it was something she wanted to keep doing. Though they prayed and sang and even debated in Flemish, two of the women spoke fair English, translating for Kate when the discussion of the Lutheran Scriptures became lively, even asking for her opinion. And she could guess at the content of their prayers. Some of the women silently mouthed affirmation of the words Catherine prayed out loud. Kate knew enough Flemish to know that the words were not from any prayer book or Roman liturgy. These prayers were ardent and earnest and personal. She could tell by the way they hugged their children to their hearts as they prayed.

  The second week, at Catherine’s suggestion, Kate brought her Tyndale Bible and after Catherine read from the Gospel of John—from Luther’s German Bible since there was no Flemish translation—Kate read aloud from the Tyndale English Bible. “ ‘I am the Vine. Ye are the branches . . .’ ”

  The third week Kate taught them to sing one of Luther’s hymns that she had copied from John’s translation. The little choir numbered a dozen women’s voices and made quite a joyful noise unto their Lord, singing each verse of “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God” first in English and then in German with more sincerity than melodious tone. As they sang the last verse, Kate was reminded how much she and John had in common with its German author and his Kate—not the least of which was the danger they all courted. These women, who suckled their young as they worshipped, were developing a kind of liturgy of their own. And Kate was sure it was not a liturgy of which the Church prelates would approve.

  “We will not be harassed in Antwerp as long as we do not celebrate the mass,” Catherine had assured her, but still when they were singing and the large iron knocker sounded on the barred shop door, Catherine waved the women to silence. Kate could see the fear in their faces, and she was afraid too. In England a man could be whipped or worse for saying the Lord’s Prayer in his own language. What would John say, she wondered, if his wife were arrested for illegal worship? Would he be proud of her or would he be angry? One thing was sure, he would be worried. She could spare him that at least. Sometimes she wished she knew less about the dangerous waters he and William Tyndale waded in.

  The fourth week the rains began and the deluge continued unabated until the low-lying streets and gutter sewers flooded. The women could no longer meet. Only the highest streets farthest from the river stayed dry. One soggy day wept into the next. Each day, fewer and fewer desperate or hardy souls ventured into the waterlogged streets, and most of the first-floor shops had to close.

  Since she could no longer keep the shops open, Catherine Massys went back to her home in Leuven. Quentin’s son sent a servant to collect the six shillings in rent. He spoke no English. Watching his futile attempts to sweep the water from inside the shop each time he came, Kate was glad their little nest was on the second floor. She looked out her large windows at the empty, flooded streets and thought this must be the way Noah’s wife felt and wondered if the rain came down in sheets like this across the Channel in England. John inquired, and word from the English House was yes, it was raining in England “like the end of the world.” The Thames could not hold all the runoff from England’s rivers and the undercroft at St. Paul’s was below water. That meant the print shop was probably flooded too. She wondered what she would find when she went back there—if she ever went back there.

  On the fourth week of the rains, the rain dwindled to a drizzle and the street below Kate’s window drained sufficiently to be almost navigable. Kate put a sign on the door of the shop, directing the women upstairs. If they came they would be welcomed, and she intended to be prepared. As she scrounged among John’s papers for discards, he looked up from putting on his coat. “What are you looking for?”

  “Just a few pieces of paper and bits of charcoal so the children can draw Noah and his ark.”

  He frowned. “I
thought that was over now that Catherine has gone back to her parents’ house in Leuven.”

  “Why does it have to be over? Anyway, some of them don’t know that Catherine is gone, and they may come since the rain has let up.” She held up a paper with scribbles all over it, one that had obviously been edited and re-copied. “Can we use the back of this?”

  He glanced at it briefly, then nodded and rummaged in the pile until he found two more. She kissed him to show her thanks and started to slice what was left of last night’s loaf in thin enough slices that there would be at least eight—enough for the children if they all came. There was still a teaspoon or two of conserve that hadn’t molded. He glanced disapprovingly at the thin smear of jam she was spreading, though she knew it was not the conserve he begrudged.

  “Kate, meeting with Catherine and those women was one thing. But I’m not sure this is such a good idea. I don’t think—”

  “You worry too much.”

  “If suspicion is aroused they will come after the leader. With Catherine gone, they might think you are the leader.”

  She sighed in mock exasperation. “We’re just a group of hausfraus, John, meeting to gossip. What harm in that? I’m just telling stories to the children, teaching them a few English words, while the women talk of other things.”

  “What things?”

  “Women’s things.” She wiped the knife on a bit of cloth and turned her gaze away. “Certainly no learned discussions like you and the chaplain have.” And then she added, to soften the hard edges of the deception, “Sometimes we sing a little—one of Luther’s hymns or—”

  “Luther’s hymns! Kate—”

  “Please, John, Don’t be cross. Do you not think I worry about your activities? This is very important to me. It gives me a way to make a contribution while you are occupied with your great cause.”

  He frowned then, cupping her face with his hands, kissed her lightly on the forehead. Looking at her soberly, he said, “You make a good point. Who am I to deny you? But just be very cautious, Kate. You must be ever watchful of what you say. The Church’s spies are everywhere.” He reached out and snatched the paper from her. “Don’t use this. It would lead them right to our door.”

  Spies! A little shudder passed up her backbone. Of course, the paper showed his translations of contraband material. “I should have thought of that. I promise to watch for dastardly spies and hand out nothing,” she said lightly, to hide her unease. “Now shoo. Maybe they have some work at the Kontor for you today.”

  But by midday the rains began again in earnest and continued on into the next month. No Bible women came. Kate was almost relieved.

  Business in the sodden Grote Markt slowed down to a terrapin’s pace. The traffic on the river Scheldt slowed, too, and the merchants had less for John to do. They had a little bit of savings to get them through, and they were dry and high, and most days the water was not so high that the milkman’s horse and cart could not get through. Venturing out between the downpours, Merta still provided them with fresh bread and cheese curds. Only a few market stalls were open, but one day John found some withered turnips for sale from a street vendor huddling under the cathedral eaves and another day some dried apples. The English House was on higher ground, so Lady Poyntz sent word for them to come there and eat whenever they felt like braving the wet and the cold.

  They made do. There was only the two of them. But that was something else that was beginning to bother Kate. Her courses were as reliable as the clock on the Merchants’ Guild Hall, though heaven knew it was not for lack of opportunity that she did not conceive. Each time she and John lay together, she thought, This time. This time there will be a child, and she remembered Pip and even the tiny babe the woman had left in her care and how the child looked out of wise blue eyes, awakening a longing in Kate that would not go away.

  By the end of February, the rains had almost ceased and the Bible women had returned, grateful they could still meet in Catherine’s absence. But business at the Kontor had not resumed fully, and John was showing signs of restlessness.

  “Have you had any news from Chaplain Rogers or your friend Tyndale?” she asked one day as he stared listlessly out the window to the empty streets below.

  “Funny you should ask, sweet wife. You must have read my mind. I was just thinking about him. The last news anybody had of him was that he was in Worms. But it is thought that he plans to come to Antwerp to print his second edition and work on his Old Testament translations.” He continued to stare out the window as if at any moment Master Tyndale might emerge from the clouds. “The rain has lessened a bit,” he said. “I think I’ll go over to the English House and see what news there is.”

  You’ve just come from the merchants’ guild, if there were news you would have heard it, she thought, but she did not say it.

  “Do you want to come with me?”

  “No.” The thought of spending one more evening in the company of a group of men and only the ragged unicorn to occupy her did not appeal. “I’ll stay here in the dry.”

  “You’re not feeling poorly?”

  “No. I’m fine. I just am not in the mood to get wet. You go on. I should probably write a letter to my brother and Mary. Let them know we are safe and settled. Mistress Poyntz said she would send it with her correspondence to Lady Walsh.”

  That was no lie. She’d been putting off the letter for weeks, wanting to tell them when she did that she was pregnant. But she might as well go ahead and do it.

  His lips pecked her cheek. “If you’re sure then,” he said, smiling broadly as if the clouds had parted, and the sun had come out. He was already shrugging into his cloak. “I’ll bring you some food back, and I won’t be long.”

  After he left she sat for a long time in the gathering twilight, listening to the intermittent splatter of the rain against the windows. Finally scolding herself for having wasted the natural light, she lit a candle and gathering quill and ink sat down to write at the little corner desk where John worked.

  Dearest brother,

  I hope you and Mary and Pip are well. This is to let you know that my husband and I arrived safely in Antwerp and have settled in. This is a very big city. Its streets teem with beasts of burden and creaking carts and people shouting in many different languages. John has found work with the English merchants here. I have joined a kind of Bible class for some local women and their children, which was thriving until the winter rains. We hear it is flooding there as well. I hope the water has not gotten into our father’s shop, though there is little left there to ruin. Lord Walsh promised he would see that it was boarded up and protected against vagrants until we decide what to do with it. Have you started building your new home yet or are you still with the Claphams? I suppose . . .

  She sat while the candle spit and danced with her pen poised above the paper trying to figure what it was she “supposed,” until sighing heavily she finally put down the pen and blotted what she’d already written. She would finish it tomorrow.

  She went to bed alone, sinking into the feather mattress like a stone, missing John. She was still awake when she heard his footfalls on the stairs. As he bent over her and kissed her lightly, she put her arms around his neck and drew him closer.

  “I’m glad you waited up,” he said, laughing. “I missed you.”

  She slapped him lightly on the face, a lover’s pat. “I didn’t wait up, you oaf, you woke me up with all that happy whistling. I don’t think you missed me overmuch.”

  But how could she feign discontent with him here, beside her, nibbling at her ear? She lay awake for a long time after they made love, listening to the sound of the rain and the even rhythm of his breathing, wondering if tonight they had made a child.

  Anne Boleyn had fled after New Year’s. She had summoned her brother George and demanded he escort her to their father’s home. She would not stay at Hampton Court and be made a laughingstock. The king had of course come after her, riding all the way to Hever Castle, bring
ing with him Charles Brandon and Lord Neville, “so they could witness his contrite apologies,” he’d said. Did he not know these two who had witnessed her humiliation would be the last people she wished to see?

  But how could she not forgive him when he braved the cold and the rain to bring her a new miniature likeness, the same as the other but with the offending H K painted out and a diamond and emerald necklace besides and three bolts of crimson cloth of gold? What woman could withstand Henry Tudor in all his glory, especially Henry Tudor bearing gifts? He had decked out his horse and himself in such finery as would make the sun blush in envy.

  “I see from your attire that you have not been hunting, Your Majesty.”

  They stood in the hall looking out over the rain-sodden garden. Her heart skipped a little, whether at the aggressiveness of his suit or the splendor of the suitor she wasn’t sure.

  “I am hunting.” He flashed his smile at her. “Some quarry deserves more splendid dress.”

  “Am I no more than prey to be stalked, then, my lord?” she said quietly, just out of earshot of Neville and Brandon.

  “Such prey as is worthy of a king. And I am yours. Quarry worthy of a queen.” She could feel her heart beating in her temple. She wanted to swear at him and beat his chest with her hands. She wanted to brush her lips against his and feel the pressure of his need against her body. She did neither but mustered her will to stand before him in the presence of his henchmen as demurely as any maid.

  He pressed the miniature into her hand. “Someday there will be H A in gold on all of the king’s portraits. Henry and Anne.” He paced a bit. Looked away, out the window to yew trees in the garden where the rooks sheltered from the rain. The smile disappeared as quickly as it came. “Will you be satisfied then?”

  “I will be satisfied, my lord. I am always happy in your presence. Shall I return now with you to court?”