The Heretic’s Wife

by Brenda Rickman Vantrease

  “It was a great grief to me,” Kate said, trying to keep her voice from breaking.

  Endor nodded and closed her eyes, then gave her head a little shake as though shaking off the memory.

  Kate slid her hand from beneath Endor’s and picked up the cup, took a sip. It was clear and cool and still full almost to the brim. She could see her own eyes reflected in it as she lifted it to her lips. There was no other way to say it but to ask. Just ask.

  “Is that what you saw in the water before, Endor? Did you know that I would lose my child?”

  Endor’s eyes grew wide, her mouth pursed into a tight line. She withdrew her hand from the table and scooted closer to the edge of her seat, poised ready for flight. Kate remembered how upset she had become before. She should not ask her to do it again. It would be a sin, not just a stain upon her own soul but on Endor’s soul as well. And it was prohibited. Like trafficking in English Bibles, a burning offense. Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live, the Bible said. But surely Endor was no witch. She only had a gift. Maybe it was God who gave her the gift. There was nothing evil about her.

  Kate set the cup down in the middle of the table.

  “Will I have another child?” she whispered.

  Endor did not move. This time it was Kate who stood up and turned away upset. She should not have asked, had determined that she would not. The words had just slipped out. “I’m sorry. I had no right—”

  A tug on her sleeve urged her back down. Endor nodded, then wrapping her hands around the base of the cup, pulled it toward her. She stared into the water. Kate held her breath, but Endor just gave a little shake of her head. Then she closed her eyes and stared unblinking into the cup again, her face a mask of concentration. Kate was unconscious that her own eyes were unblinking in sympathy with Endor’s until they began to burn and water. Endor smiled, her sharp little chin nodding rapidly. She held up one finger.

  “One child,” Kate said, her breath scarcely coming. “You saw one child.”

  Endor nodded then pointed with two fingers to her eyes, then to the porthole, then back to her eyes.

  Kate shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

  Endor pointed to her eyes again.

  “My child will have . . . eyes—”

  Endor pointed to the map on the wall mounted beside the water keg. It was a blue map of the world.

  “My child will have . . . blue eyes!”

  Again the sharp little chin bobbed. “But John has brown eyes and mine are green . . . how . . . oh, what does it matter? I don’t care if it has purple eyes. Thank you, Endor. Thank you,” she said, hugging the woman to her.

  Endor nodded and shrugged as if to say it was a small thing.

  Later that night, Endor lay awake contemplating the spangled velvet sky through the slice of night outside her open door as she listened to the night sounds: the scraping of anchor ropes against the hull, the creak of the boards, the laughter of the night watch as they played at dice. Not these familiar sounds but a little pinch of guilt chased away her sleep. Since that last time when the captain had asked her to gaze into the bowl, she had prayed for the gift of second sight to be removed. It brought great trouble to her heart. Not trusting in the prayers, she had not looked long enough into still water again to see the visions.

  Until tonight.

  Endor could feel the woman’s pain in her own heart. How could she not give what comfort she could? And yet it seemed that the silent and unknowable God who had flung those millions of stars across the heavens had heard her prayers after all.

  For all Endor had seen in the still water was the reflection of her own blue eyes.

  The cabin was dark when John came back. The moonlight, filtering through the porthole, lent a ghostly presence. Kate was asleep on the narrow bed, her hair spread out across the pillow. Except for the rhythmic movement of her breathing, she might have been a dream. He lightly touched her hair. She stirred but did not waken. He yearned for the feel of her body next to his, just as he imagined the Greek lord of the underworld must have yearned for Persephone, or David for Bathsheba, Menelaus for his stolen Helen. She was almost irresistible.

  Almost. For all John Frith needed to quell his manhood was the memory of the bloody dress lying in a sodden crumpled heap on the floor and the vision of Kate’s face, red and swollen with tears, the sadness in her eyes that lingered still. He knew she thought it was selfishness on his part whenever he pulled away, selfishness because he was so caught up in his work and his goals that he did not want to share his life with children. That was why she kept bringing up Luther, reminding him without putting it into direct words that the great Dr. Martin Luther had children and he still found time to work.

  He spread the blankets on the floor and lay down on them, trying not to disturb her. He did not want to see the accusation in her eyes when he turned away from her. He could hear her even breathing, softy exhaling into the stillness of the room, as he lay awake, listening, too, to the sound of the ocean’s breath as it kissed the ship. He longed to press his mouth against hers, sucking her breath into his body, drawing her spirit in to make it one with his. He wanted to possess her soul so that there could be no division between them.

  He slept fitfully and dreamed he was Ulysses, alone, shipwrecked, floating on a wide plank in an endless ocean. He drifted toward a longed-for shore that he could see but never reach. Just before dawn, he woke to find her lying beside him on the floor. She whispered his name and he opened his arms to her. She was Bathsheba. She was Persephone. She was Helen. She was irresistible in her wooing.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  I shewed you that I neither was, nor wolde be curious of any knowledge of other mennes matters, and lest of all eny matter of princes or of the realme.

  —SIR THOMAS MORE IN A LETTER TO

  ELIZABETH BARTON (AKA THE HOLY

  MAID OF KENT)

  The chapel of the English House was John’s favorite place in Antwerp—next to the studio he shared with his wife, of course. Sometimes he came there because he sought a simple, sacred space. But today he’d come seeking Chaplain Rogers to report on the Augsburg conference called by the Holy Roman Emperor to facilitate peace among the warring religious factions in the realm. The chapel was a tiny chamber at the dead end of a narrow passage leading to the main hall of the English House. It had a simple altar and two narrow rows of benches, a shaped window in the old style, and a heavy wooden door that opened into a walled garden where one could take one’s devotions if the life of the house intruded on the quiet, which it seldom did. Its walls were thick.

  Rogers was all ears, still nursing his disappointment that circumstances had prevented his going. “You didn’t really miss anything—it’s all there.” John pointed to the Augsburg Confession. “They printed it in both German and Latin. I brought you the Latin. I couldn’t get my hands on the German. I expect all the copies were done away with after it was read aloud in German, over the protests of the diet who tried to prevent its reading.”

  “How was it received by the emperor?”

  “I don’t really know, since I wasn’t allowed in the small chamber where it was read, but I know it was read because the reader spoke in a strong, clear voice that carried beyond the doors. When he got to the abuses at the end concerning false teaching, there was great applause and cheering—at least outside the chamber.”

  Rogers held up the document and translated: “ ‘The churches among us teach with great consensus . . .’ ” Then after scanning the twenty-nine articles, he asked, “Do you agree with the document?”

  “For the most part. Certainly on the key issue of salvation by faith and not works, which strikes at the heart of the whole Roman penitential system, and I agree with permission for the clergy to marry, of course, but I’m not sure that private absolution for one’s sins remains within the Church. I’m more inclined to every man his own priest, a kind of priesthood of the believer as the early Lollards taught, but what I really don’t understand is why L
uther refuses to see the fallacy in the doctrine of transubstantiation.” He shrugged. “Of course, it really doesn’t matter since the diet refused to consider any of it.” And then John suddenly remembered his manners and the reason Rogers had begged off at the last minute. “What about your ailing friend? Is he better?”

  “He will recover, God willing.”

  “Well, you made the wiser choice by staying here. When you have studied that hastily printed document, you will know as much as those of us who made the journey. That copy bears a rough facsimile of Luther’s signature and seal, so it is probably worth keeping for all its poor quality and may be a document of some importance one day. It lays out the reformed position pretty clearly even though it falls somewhat short to my thinking.”

  “No sign of our mutual friend at the conference, I suppose?”

  “Not a hair.”

  Rogers’s hands curled the papers into a roll and slapped it gently on John’s shoulder, his eyes alight with pleasure. “Well, we heard from him in your absence. We can expect him any day.”

  “You mean—”

  “Tyndale knows you are in Antwerp. He says that he’s coming here to work on his Old Testament translation and that you and I can be of help to him.”

  “That is great news. Great news.” Before he could stop himself, John had jumped up, grasped his friend by the shoulders and given him a hearty shake that almost knocked him off his feet.

  Rogers laughed. “Yes, it is great news.”

  John could feel the anticipation rising. At last.

  “Say nothing about his coming, except to your wife, but caution her. We must be very discreet. Only yesterday, someone knocked at the door inquiring for Master William Tyndale. The porter tried to get rid of the man, but he was fairly insistent, almost belligerent. This was the second time he’d been here. Now that I think on it, the first time was about the same time you arrived. Said he was an Englishman, a glover by trade, and was seeking a fellow Englishman.”

  John felt a vague stirring of unease.

  “This time he sounded a little desperate, insisting he had a message for Master Tyndale from His Royal Majesty, Henry VIII, King of England, that he’d been informed he was here, and he wasn’t leaving until he spoke with somebody in authority. Mistress Poyntz finally called me to persuade him to leave.”

  “Do you remember the man’s name?”

  “I don’t think he gave his name.”

  “Did he have a neat little red beard, shaped in a point, and thinning hair? Tallish, lightly built, a little older than me?”

  “Yes,” Rogers said in surprise. “Do you know him? Should we not have turned him away?”

  “It is good you turned him away. His name is Vaughan. Stephen Vaughan. He was on the same boat that brought Kate and me to Antwerp. If he’s still here after all this time, he is a spy for somebody, rightly enough, but it may not be the king. Thomas More, most likely.”

  “This is a bothersome development,” Rogers said, laying the Confessio Augustana on the altar, and running his fingers through his hair as if he could comb out the irritant. “I have assured Tyndale of protection.”

  “Should we warn him away?”

  Rogers considered for a moment. “No. I think not,” he said. “He would be as safe here within the walls of the English House, safer probably, as anywhere in Europe. It shall be his sanctuary. We shall see to it.”

  “Sanctuary.” John nodded in agreement. “If ever a man deserved it, William does.”

  It was mid-afternoon and the smells from the kitchen wafted down the passage and through the open door. “He’ll have a safe place to work here—and be well fed at the same time.”

  The chaplain laughed. “Can you stay and break bread with us?” He picked up the rolled document and waved it invitingly. “We can discuss the Confessio Augustana in detail.” When John hesitated, Rogers added further inducement. “This is Monday. Rabbit dumplings.”

  “I know,” John said. “I smell the succulent little creatures simmering with their dumplings, but tempting as both the conversation and the victuals are, I promised Kate I would not be long.”

  “Ah, marital bliss.” He hesitated and then asked, “Is it still?”

  “Still what?”

  “Bliss?”

  John groped for a witty answer, wondering whether more than idle curiosity had prompted his friend’s question.

  “Most days,” he said. “Most days, I feel that I am Adam and she is my Eve, and I cannot imagine life without her. But sometimes . . . it can be . . . well, you have a double portion of joy but sometimes a double portion of pain as well.”

  “So would you recommend it, then, to those of us who are single?”

  “Ask me again in thirty years,” he said with a smile. Then as an afterthought he added, “Say nothing about this Stephen Vaughan to Kate. I do not want to worry her needlessly. She’s been . . . a little anxious lately.”

  “It will be our secret,” Chaplain Rogers said.

  It was late in the day and Kate was in the Thursday street market to purchase fresh bread and pickled herring for tomorrow’s Bible class. The lesson was from the story of the miracle of the loaves and fishes, and the food would be a kind of object lesson for the children. She was headed for the fish market when the man hailed her.

  “Mistress Gough, Mistress Gough.”

  Who would know her in this strange city by that name, unless . . . She turned to see Stephen Vaughan hurrying toward her. It was too late to run. She turned her back to him, pretending to be preoccupied, examining apples from the top of a pyramid piled high on a vendor’s cart, hoping Vaughan would think he was mistaken when she did not respond. Aware of him standing close by, observing her, she questioned the vendor in her halting Flemish about the freshness of the apples. The vendor, from whom she’d purchased fruit often, answered her in English, “Clinging to the tree this dawn.”

  She felt a light tap on her shoulder. “Mistress Gough, how fortunate and well met. I had despaired of seeing you again.”

  She turned around then, thinking there was no recourse but to brazen it out. “Sir, you must be mistaken . . . Oh, I remember. You are the young man whom we met on our return from England. Master . . .” Kate said, trying to buy time.

  “Vaughan,” he said.

  “Yes, Stephen Vaughan, right? I would have expected that you had long ago terminated your . . . reluctant errand and returned to England.”

  “My business for the king is not complete, alas. That’s why I am so happy to encounter you. I neglected to get directions to your residence when we parted.”

  “Directions? But why—”

  “I found your husband to be very amiable company, and since he is a resident of Antwerp and a fellow Englishman, I thought he might be able to help with my errand. I inquired at the mercer’s guild for an exporter named Gough, but nobody seemed to know him.”

  “He is not with the mercer’s guild. He is with the . . . he deals . . . in rare metals.” She shifted her basket of foodstuffs. “I really must be going, Master Vaughan. My husband will be expecting me.”

  “Let me escort you home. I can carry your basket.” He reached for her basket, but she held on with some force. The tug-of-war that ensued would have been comical had she not felt so threatened.

  “No. That is . . . most . . . kind of you . . . but I have to make a couple of stops on my way.” And then, when she saw that he was not going to be so easily gotten rid of, added, “You may call tomorrow. We live in a cottage on . . . Rutted Road Way. Number three. About one mile east of town. Just ask anybody.” She pulled away quickly, thinking to join the crowd of shoppers in the busy heart of the street.

  “But wait, I—”

  “I’ll tell John to expect you. Tomorrow around midday.”

  In her haste she brushed too closely against the apple cart and a mound of rosy orbs cascaded to the ground between her and Vaughan. Behind her, the vendor swore, berating the unfortunate Vaughan as if the accident had b
een his, demanding payment for the bruised apples, threatening to call the authorities if he did not pay. Ducking behind a parked wagon with a load of hogsheads, she darted through the square, not stopping until she reached the other side of the market to scan the crowd. No tall thin man with a red pointed beard in sight. But just in case he was following her—after all, if he were an agent of the king, who knew how skillful he might be?—she headed in the opposite direction from home.

  The basket was heavy on her arm by the time she turned into her street and, checking once again, ducked into her doorway.

  John met her at the door at the top of the stairs with a worried look on his face.

  “I was just about to come looking for you. I thought you’d gotten lost.”

  “Worse than that,” she told him, putting down her basket and unwinding the kerchief that bound her hair. She had worked herself into a sweat with so much hurrying.

  “What could be worse than that?” He smiled, pulling her to him and kissing her on the forehead.

  “Stephen Vaughan,” she said, pulling away to look him in the eyes. “The spy who came over with us. He’s still here and he’s looking for you.”

  “I know,” he said, thinking badly of Mistress Poyntz for gossiping. “But don’t worry. It’s a big city. He won’t find us.”

  “He found me!” she said.

  “You saw him?” His eyes clouded, his brow furrowed slightly. “Where? When?”

  “Just now. In the marketplace. He hailed me by the name Captain Lasser gave him, remember? Gough. He called me Mistress Gough. He asked for you. Asked where we lived.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I lied. I just made up the name of a street.”

  “How blessed is a man with a wife who is not only beautiful but clever. Even if he does find such a street, he will be asking for somebody else.” He took her hand and lifted it to his lips. “Don’t worry, my darling. Antwerp is a big city. We’ll not likely run into him again, and if we do, he doesn’t know who we are—thanks to the good captain.”