The Heretic’s Wife

by Brenda Rickman Vantrease

  John was frustrated because William Tyndale did not attend the conference as he had hoped. The weather was hot, and Kate was stuck with a smelly crowd of mostly men outside the hearing room doors, straining to hear the discourse while John scanned the crowds in the vain hope of spotting his friend. This did not make him the most agreeable of companions, and he was incensed that the conference had been moved to a smaller venue and that in the end the “confession” had been summarily rejected.

  “They didn’t want the people to hear their paltry refutations or the strength of Luther’s argument.”

  But in spite of his disappointment, she had to admit he tried to be attentive and not preoccupied, so much so that she wondered if she was becoming a burden to him.

  They were sitting on a bench on the docks, in the shade of a warehouse, watching for a ship to come in to take them home, as they ate bread and sausage and drank some bitter-tasting brew that John seemed to relish. The smell of it reminded Kate of the Walshes’ brew house. She wrinkled her nose and took a sip. At least it was wet and she was thirsty.

  “Really, when you think about it, why should Tyndale have come? I mean, if he’s a fugitive because of his religious beliefs, wouldn’t it be foolish of him to attend a conference where all the officials of the realm have assembled to consider the doctrines they are hostile to?”

  “Very perceptive of you, wife. That’s exactly the way Jan Hus of Bohemia was captured after having been promised safe-conduct to a papal council.” He took a bite of the sausage. “You’re not eating. Is it too spicy for you? Shall I get you something else?”

  “No. John, I’m fine. Really. What happened to Hus?” she asked, taking a small bite to placate him.

  “Once he got to the conference he was betrayed, arrested and burned without trial. Luther learned from his Bohemian predecessor. He seldom ventures out of Protestant Saxony where he lives under the protection of the prince.”

  “Then how can it be called a Lutheran confession without Luther to confess it?”

  “He sent his approval of the document by his friend Melanchthon.”

  That had been another disappointment to Kate. She was curious to see the great Martin Luther and maybe even his wife. It was said Katharina von Bora often traveled with him.

  “Where does he live? Is it far? Do you think we could get an audience with him?”

  “One seeks an audience with the pope,” John said, tossing back the mug and reaching for hers, still half full, and the rest of her uneaten sausage. “I understand Luther meets with anybody regardless of status or reputation who wants to discuss the doctrine or even just to ask a favor. Now that I think on it, he might even know where Tyndale is.”

  “But if you can’t find Tyndale how could you find Luther?”

  “Easily. Luther doesn’t have to hide as long as he stays in Saxony. I introduced myself to some members of the Lutheran delegation—we had an interesting discussion on the nature of grace. Anyway, they told me Luther lives in an old Augustinian convent in Wittenberg.”

  “How far is that?”

  “I don’t know exactly. Way northeast of here. Too far. At least from here.”

  That’s just as well, Kate thought. She’d had enough of spicy meat and bitter German beer. She was even looking forward to the English House. At least the food was good. But first they had to find a northbound ship. They’d only booked passage one way, thinking to catch another merchant ship on the way back. They had been told at the Kontor, the countinghouse of the Hanseatic warehouse looming behind them on the docks, that there were frequent ships plying the Rhine route between Augsburg and Antwerp. So far today there had been only one ship headed north and that one had no room for passengers. But Kate could see two more on the horizon that were coming from the south. She hoped one of them could accommodate them. The larger of the two ships was coming closer. It had a familiar look to it, though she couldn’t be sure.

  “John, is that—”

  “I think it just might be,” he said, stooping to pick up the chest at their feet. She shaded her eyes with her hand as the Siren’s Song sailed closer.

  “Yes, it is. Come on. Let’s go down to where she’s off-loading cargo.”

  “But there’s no passenger cabin. Remember that tiny little bench of a bed.”

  “I remember,” he said, his eyes glinting. “As I recall we made it just fine.” And then added, “If you’re too cramped, I’ll sleep on the floor.”

  “But Captain Lasser had to give up his own quarters—”

  “He’ll be glad to have us. We got to be pretty good friends.”

  “While I was puking my insides out. That’s what I recall.”

  She didn’t understand her reluctance. The other journey had been pleasant after she got over her sickness, but there was just something about Captain Tom Lasser that made her anxious.

  “Would you rather wait for another?” he asked.

  “No,” she said, feeling silly. “Who knows how long we’d have to wait? After all, it’s just a way to get home.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  [Thomas More has] the best knack of any man in Europe at calling bad names in good Latin.

  —BISHOP FRANCIS ATTERBURY,

  SEVENTEENTH-CENTURY ANGLICAN

  Thomas More left the Star Chamber, carrying the excitement of a hound with a fresh scent in his flared nostrils. The new Bishop of London was proving a much more valuable ally than his predecessor. Cuthburt Tun-stall had been a friend and a man of learning, but he had lacked the necessary stomach for the job, whereas Bishop Stokesley had reminded Thomas that to attack with words was worthy, but such a threat as heresy could really only be burned out. Thomas couldn’t agree more. The real work was about to begin.

  Today they’d made great headway. They had secured a public confession before the court from a man named George Constantine, a chief distributor of heretical translations and tracts. After some persuasion in More’s private garden at Chelsea and a little rest in the stocks at the porter’s lodge, Constantine had been generous in his Star Chamber testimony, giving up the names of his contacts, not only in England but in Antwerp as well. John Frith, the author of a bold and blasphemous tract that referred to the pope as the Antichrist in Rome, was one such name. Another brilliant young mind lost to the influence of Luther—that cacodemon, that shit-devil.

  Indeed, it came as no surprise to learn that Frith was in Antwerp, since he was known to be a protégé of Tyndale’s, or that there was a nest of heretics there, especially in the English House. He had long suspected it, but the English Crown had no authority in Flanders. Though the Catholic authorities would be happy to cooperate, merchant treaties protected the inhabitants of the English House from interference by all foreign authorities. What they needed was a spy inside, and now they had one. Henry Phillips was both a coward and the kind of pond scum that would betray his own father for money. Just the kind of man they needed. What Henry Phillips couldn’t be bribed into doing, he could be intimidated into. But Bishop Stokesley had learned something else through his network of spies. Something very troubling.

  Thomas passed through the heavy doors of Westminster Hall, shrugging off the ever-present crowd of supplicants in New Palace Yard . . . Sir Thomas More, I have been wronged! Sir Thomas. I seek justice . . . you are known to be a man of justice . . . A woman who would not be ignored pressed through the throng and thrust a package into his hands . . . A gift, Sir Thomas, for rendering a just verdict in my husband’s case. He paused long enough to give it back to her—he must avoid at all cost the appearance of bribery; Wolsey had done enough damage to the office of the chancellorship—but she was as quickly gone as she appeared. Preoccupied with what he had just learned from Bishop Stokesley, he thrust the object inside his robe of state and forgot about it. He had more important matters to ponder.

  According to the bishop, the king was making independent inquiries concerning some of these same men he knew Sir Thomas and Stokesley were pursuing. That worried Thomas s
omewhat. Why would he not have informed his chief advisor that he’d sent a man named Stephen Vaughan to ferret out Frith and Tyndale? He feared England’s sovereign was becoming more open-minded than he need be. No doubt, the influence of the Boleyn woman.

  Or maybe it was simply that the king did not fully trust his new chancellor, even entertained some remorse at his choice. Thomas had only to recall the king’s visit to Chelsea a fortnight past to know the source of the coolness between him and his sovereign. Thomas had been pruning roses as he waited for the king’s messenger to bring documents for his signature, when Henry turned up with the documents himself. Thomas should not have been surprised, he thought now; Henry liked to catch his courtiers off guard. He was at his most dangerous then.

  “Thomas,” he had said in his best hail-fellow-well-met voice. “I had a yen for some witty companionship so I thought I’d bring these personally.” He waved a sheaf of parchments above his head.

  Thomas wiped his hands on his smock, self-conscious in his plain dress, thinking how ill-prepared his household was to entertain the king, whose entourage would be waiting on the small barge in the harbor expecting hospitality. But the king knew that. It had been part of his strategy all along, to gain the advantage.

  Henry commented on the beauty of Chelsea’s broad lawns as if he’d just dropped in to pay an old friend a visit. “We can sit at that pretty picnic table beneath the willow. No need to trouble your lady with hospitality.” He draped his arm across Thomas’s shoulder as they walked, laughing and joking about the court fool’s latest jibe. “You should have seen the look on Brandon’s face when Will Somers mocked him.”

  But Thomas knew that when the king was affable and jocular to put a man at his ease, it was then the man should be most on his guard. They sat down on the garden bench in the dappled sunlight, and Thomas perused the court documents, signing them one by one: an order for increased provender for the royal stables—the spring rains had laid waste much of the pasture; a new tax to be levied on exported wool—the cloth merchants would not like that one, but it had been passed by Parliament at More’s urging; mostly mundane, everyday things that a messenger could have brought.

  “Oh, I believe there is one more.” Henry had pushed the rolled parchment in front of him. “You have a peaceful haven here, Chancellor,” he said, gazing out at the river. “You are a lucky man.”

  Thomas looked at the petition with its gold illumination and its regal black script. This was no routine matter of state. It was a document admonishing the pope “to declare by your authority what so many learned men proclaim,” that the marriage of Henry and Katherine of Aragon is unlawful and should be set aside, freeing the king to marry again. It was followed by twin columns of names, names of scholars from the universities and renowned churchmen. Some, like Thomas Cranmer’s, he was not surprised to see. Others like Bishop Stokesley’s made him waver for a moment in his resolve. Which loyalty took precedence? Crown or Church? But with Thomas there was no room for doubt. There could be no compromise. He put down his pen and pushed the document aside. To repudiate the Spanish queen would be to repudiate everything she stood for. And she stood for a Catholic England.

  “Your Majesty, it is with much regret that I must remind you I cannot in good conscience sign this.”

  Henry looked at him directly, his eyes narrowing to slits. The muscles in his jaw made a tight little line of knots. He said nothing. A jay in the tree above them squawked some kind of protest—or warning.

  “Your Majesty has long known of my views on this matter.”

  Henry’s smile tightened. He withdrew the petition and, furling it tightly, shoved it inside his doublet. “We would not ask you to go against a matter of conscience, Master More. I had thought perhaps you could merely lend your signature—one among many, all men of conscience, for this last effort to present to the pope—as a favor to your king.”

  Last effort? Did that mean he was giving up if this petition failed to persuade His Holiness that the marriage should be annulled?

  “Exactly so, Your Majesty. One of many. The signature of a layman will not be missed.”

  “Layman or not, it is the signature of the chancellor of England.” Henry allowed himself one abrupt slap on his knee before assuming a more nonchalant demeanor, as if it didn’t matter at all that his chancellor was an impediment to his heart’s greatest desire. “But it is a small thing. If this does not work, I may seek a better course of action.”

  He had not chosen to make his chancellor privy to what that better course of action might be, but Thomas didn’t have to ask. There were those advisors surrounding the Boleyn woman who were pouring poison into the king’s ear, telling him the pope did not sit in authority over an anointed king, telling him England could break with Rome.

  The king had taken his leave abruptly, and had not spoken directly with Thomas since. But be that as it may, Thomas was not going to be distracted by that memory or deterred from his purpose. Today they’d made headway. If they could break the back of the smuggling chain and burn a few of the providers, the world would be restored to its proper order.

  Thomas hailed his waterman lounging by the landing of Westminster Stairs. As they rowed away toward Chelsea, he remembered the package inside his jacket. He took it out and unwrapped it under the watchful eye of his waterman.

  “A gift for your wife?” Richard, the waterman, asked.

  “No, a gift from a woman for whose husband the court ruled favorably.”

  “Oh?” Richard looked surprised.

  “A just ruling,” Sir Thomas answered the unasked question.

  It was a silver vase of unremarkable quality. It would bring a few pounds in the marketplace. He would sell it and give the money to the almshouse. He wrapped the vase back up, and closed his eyes to sleep a little during the long trip home.

  Captain Lasser considered Kate Frith as she ate her fish stew with less enthusiasm than he had remembered. Noting the restlessness in her hands, he thought her changed in some way he could not quite fathom. He wondered if she was happy in her life of exile. Her husband seemed much the same as before, as though he’d drunk some magic elixir from a perpetual fountain of cheer. He wore that same infectious warmth of personality that made him a hard man to dislike—though there was that something in Tom’s mind that tried. Really tried.

  “So you found employment with the Antwerp countinghouse? Is it sufficient? I could speak—”

  “Oh no, I assure you we are managing. Even though the Kontor is just a subsidiary countinghouse, they have more than enough work, but it’s not the work I want to be doing. As soon as my friend Tyndale returns to Antwerp, I’ll have more than I can do.”

  “I’m surprised Tyndale could afford to pay you. I mean . . . I know his translations and tracts sell; I’ve shipped enough of them, but they are cheaply bought, and he probably has some trouble finding printing at market rate given the risk to the printer.”

  “Oh, I don’t expect pay. Some things one does just for the good of it,” Frith said, a little pompously, Tom thought. “I’m hoping to save enough so that when he does come to Antwerp, my wife and I will have enough to manage. So far there’s just the two of us.”

  Tom noticed the way Kate closed her eyes at his words, just a slow blink really, but she also looked away from her husband, as though she could not bear to hear those words.

  Embarrassed at intruding upon some private pain, Tom too glanced away. Outside the porthole, where blue sky should have been, sheer cliffs rose in a wall of rock. “We’re entering the gorge. The channel is narrow here. I’d best go up on deck.” Then he added, “You might want to come with me. The view of the cliffs is as splendid as any cathedral.”

  “I want to visit with Endor a while,” Kate said. She did not look at her husband as she added, “You go on up, John.”

  It sounded to Tom like a dismissal, but John seemed not to notice as he gave his wife a perfunctory peck on the cheek and followed Tom up the ladder.

&nb
sp; “I am pleased to see you again, Endor. Have you been well?” Kate said after the men had left.

  Endor nodded solemnly and, breaking into a smile, reached for Kate’s hand and patted it as if to say yes, she was well and also pleased. She picked up Kate’s wine cup, with a question in her eyes.

  “No. No more wine. But I would like some water.” Then realizing that fresh water might not be easily come by at sea, she added, “If you have any.”

  Endor smiled and nodded, then taking Kate’s cup placed it beneath the spigot of a small wooden keg mounted on the wall. Kate had assumed it contained ale.

  “Will you sit with me a moment?” she said as Endor handed her the water.

  Looking surprised but pleased, Endor sat at the table opposite Kate, not settled back in the chair but perched on its edge like a bird about to take flight.

  “I think about you often.” Kate reached inside her bodice and pulled out the emblem of Saint Anne that hung around her neck. “I have this to remind me of you.”

  Endor smiled and nodded.

  Kate returned the necklace inside her chemise, feeling the cool metal as it slid between her breasts, then placed her palms straight down on the table to stop the fidgeting of her fingers. Her index fingers rubbed ever so slightly against the smooth ridges in the boards of the table. Not knowing how to begin, she inhaled deeply of the sea air mingled with the smell of linseed oil and old wood. Endor looked at her expectantly. The muted sounds of the water, lapping against the ship’s hull, punched into the silence.

  “We have something else in common now, Endor,” she said. “I too have lost a child.”

  Endor’s hands reached across the table and covered her own. They were rough and strong and comforting. The cup of water sat just to the right of their joined hands.