But in spite of his assurances, she saw him casting furtive glances out the window.
“I don’t think I was followed. I was careful. That’s what took so long.”
“See, what did I say? Beautiful and clever.” He took the lid off the basket and peeked in. “Now, what can we find in here to eat? I gave up rabbit stew, just to dine on bread and cheese with my beautiful and clever wife.”
“Just bread. No cheese. I was too busy trying to get away.” A vision of the disturbed apple cart popped into her head and she remembered. “But we have some nice, crisp apples.”
“And a bottle of good beer that Mistress Poyntz sent,” he said. “Life is good. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you,” and he kissed her, a long satisfying kiss that made even her scalp tingle.
“Umm. Life is good,” she said, “but you’d better enjoy the apples. They may be the last we have for a while.” Then they laughed together as she told him about the upset apple cart.
But though he pretended not to be worried, she couldn’t help but notice how his eyes searched the street outside the window. And when it grew dark and they lit the candles, he closed the shutters, shutting out the breeze on a warm summer night. She thought about Stephen Vaughan and prayed he would not be watching from the shadows when the Bible women came on the morrow.
It was hot in the great hall at Chelsea, so Dame Alice had directed that dinner should be served outside in the courtyard. She inspected the dining board. All was as it should be: the second-best plate, pewter not silver, laid on snowy white linen, a simple meal of jellied herring and lamb slices kept cool in the cellar on a bed of mint leaves, accompanied by cucumbers and onions pickled in vinegar infused with herbs from her own garden and imported peppercorns, and bread and butter churned just this morning. There was a simple egg custard, dusted with fine white sugar, to complete the unpretentious meal that should suit a Franciscan brother from Canterbury.
She hesitated, then picked up the great bowl of custard and turned back toward the house. The Franciscan might think the white sugar from France an extravagance. There was time to swap it out. She could substitute a cheese and fresh pears instead. She pirouetted again—as much as a large-hipped woman wearing a farthingale can pirouette—and set the custard back down. No, this was the chancellor’s board and a visitor, even a humble visitor, expected something extra.
It was a fine line she walked as hostess for a great man, never knowing who would show up at her table. Thomas had a habit of inviting to dinner at Chelsea whoever suited his fancy, be it a justice from the King’s Bench, some visiting artist or university scholar, or a beggar he’d decided to feed—whether from charity or intellectual curiosity she could never tell. Sometimes he invited all of them at the same time. It could be a real challenge, though lately it was a challenge that she missed.
After he was made chancellor, she’d gone out and bought better linens, an elaborate gilded saltcellar, carved spoons, more silver, all in the expectation they would have a surfeit of royal visitors. But Sir Thomas invited few courtiers to Chelsea and the king had visited only once, staying with Thomas in the garden the whole time and then leaving in a huff before she could even get the fine saltcellar from out of its wrappings.
Lately, preoccupied with his writings, her husband had taken his meals, what meals he took, in his study. At least he would be joining his family for this meal, since they were to have a guest, and there would be erudite conversation and cheerful spirits. That was a good thing. She had not heard Thomas jest in a while. He must have exhausted his wit in his writings, along with that finely honed sarcasm—which she missed even though it was more often than not directed at her.
An occasional welcome breeze from the river ruffled the board cloth and the strings of her everyday bonnet—no use in getting fancied up for a Franciscan—but the breeze brought with it the rank smell of the Thames in summer. She pondered for a moment whether the Franciscan would find finger bowls of fragrant flowers floating in lavender water an extravagance, and decided she didn’t care. They would help dispel the smell of seaweed and dead fish wafting from the river.
Or maybe that odor was wafting from the herring. She picked up the platter and sniffed. No, whatever fishy smells the herring gave off were quite overwhelmed by the sharp aroma of the jellied wine that bathed them.
She was just placing the last of the flower bowls, hurriedly assembled by two kitchen maids, when she looked up to see her lord chancellor coming toward her, the brown-cassocked brother in tow.
“Alice, this is Richard Risby of the Francisan Observants at Canterbury. He will be stopping with us tonight.”
Alice bowed her head to acknowledge the introduction. “You are welcome to join us for a humble family meal. Others of our household will be joining us shortly.”
The brother nodded. “Chelsea hospitality is legendary, Dame Alice. I thank you.” His eyes quickly scanned the food she’d spread out. “Ah, egg pudding with French sugar. My favorite,” the cassocked visitor exclaimed, rubbing his hands together. “Sometimes in the refectory we grate a little cinnamon onto it.”
Apparently vows of poverty did not extend to the Franciscan larder, Alice thought, but while she was trying to think of a comeback that didn’t give offense—she was never as quick-witted as Thomas—the others of her household appeared as if by magic.
“My daughter Margaret Roper,” Thomas said, and spreading his hand to casually include the others who were settling at the other end of the long table, added, “and her husband, William, and my two other daughters, my ward, and Alice’s daughter,” not bothering with their names. “Come. Let’s eat before those thunderheads building on the other side of the river decide to join us. Margaret, you sit next to our guest. I would have him see how well versed my daughters are in the classical languages and Holy Scripture.”
They were soon all seated. The More household was nothing if not disciplined and well ordered. Being late to dinner or anything else would not be tolerated. Thomas had no doubt got that from his old father of whom Alice was not fond. She blamed those few flaws she saw in her husband’s character on John More and devoutly wished Thomas tried less to be like him. She was glad they were not suffering his company today. Though he took most of his meals at Lincoln’s Inn, he often came to Chelsea whenever there was to be a guest of note. But a cleric would not interest him.
Alice sat on the other side of Margaret and she could hear them jabbering away in Latin, God bless ’em, while Thomas looked on proudly. She didn’t know for sure, but she was guessing from the heavy look of concentration on Risby’s face that he was hard-pressed to keep up with Margaret’s erudition.
“Perhaps we should converse in English so that others might enjoy our conversation,” he said. “You are to be commended, Master More, on the superior education you have given your daughters, though one wonders . . .”
Here he wisely did not voice the words that, Alice suspected, were forming on his lips, something about the waste of learning on women, a sentiment with which she did not wholeheartedly disagree.
“One wonders if half the ordained brethren could speak so well,” the Franciscan muttered as he reached for a second helping of the egg custard.
“Yes. One wonders.” Thomas smiled and winked at Alice.
That wink to her was as good as a kiss from any other man.
“What news do you bring from Canterbury, Brother Risby?” Thomas asked, as the sewer put the platter of lamb in front of him. Alice was relieved to see he took a large slice. Now if he would only eat it.
“News of a holy maid. The whole countryside is murmuring of her miraculous visions. Have you heard of her?” the Franciscan said.
“If you mean the mad nun of Kent, then yes, I have heard somewhat.”
“Mad? How say you mad, sir?” The brother held his spoon suspended in midair. Alice watched in dismay as sauce from the herring dripped on her fresh cloth.
“Elizabeth Barton? All England has heard of the young maid�
��s visions,” Margaret said. In English.
Alice poked her in the ribs to remind the girl of her manners. She might be able to read and write Latin and Greek but she didn’t know a lady should never interject herself into a conversation between men. Well, almost never. Except for the sake of a good argument.
“Holy visions, Mistress Roper,” Risby answered.
“Mad visions, some say,” Sir Thomas corrected evenly. “Somehow a rhyming doggerel of her prophesy reached the king’s eyes—through Master Cromwell, one suspects—foretelling of grave happenings to his person and his kingdom should he persist in . . . certain matters. The king asked my opinion of it.”
“What thought you of it?”
“I told him it seemed but the harmless ranting of a simple mind.”
“To prophesy against the king . . .” Margaret said, “wouldn’t that be treasonous?”
“It would be. Unless of course it was the harmless outpouring from a simple mind gone mad, or a simple mind being manipulated by unscrupulous persons, or a maid who had merely lost her wits.”
“William says—”
“I do not wish to hear what William says, Margaret. This talk about Elizabeth Barton is foolish gossip, and you know gossip and the carrying of ruinous tales is not permitted in this household. We will speak no more of the maid of Kent and her . . . visions.”
With this pronouncement his gaze lingered on Margaret and then moved to Alice and finally to his son-in-law Roper, who colored visibly and jabbed at Margaret under the table. Alice had a moment’s sympathy for him. To be a member of this household and not be held in Sir Thomas’s good opinion was not a comfortable place to be. It was a testimony of Thomas’s fondness for Margaret that he’d allowed the marriage at all.
“Now let’s talk of things that better serve digestion. Speaking of news from Canterbury, I have some for you, Brother Risby. One whom you may know, Bishop Cranmer, has lately come into the king’s good favor. What think you of him?”
“I think . . .” Risby paused as if choosing his words carefully. The clouds had humped menacingly on the horizon and a wind had risen. It ruffled the leaves above them and whipped at the tablecloth. “I think Thomas Cranmer is no friend of Queen Katherine.”
A large raindrop plopped into the center of the custard bowl.
“I think a storm is about to break over our heads,” Thomas said, rising. “We’d best heed the warning. Everybody grab a dish,” he shouted and picked up the platter of lamb.
The Franciscan grabbed the custard bowl and followed Sir Thomas. The party gained the shelter of the house just as the heavens opened up.
The lamps burned late in Sir Thomas’s study that night. Alice knocked at the door at bedtime.
“Go on to bed, Alice. I’ll see our guest to his chamber.”
Alice was sure she had heard the name Elizabeth Barton before she knocked. Apparently the prohibition on gossip did not extend to the master of Chelsea.
TWENTY-FIVE
If those things which I have written be true, and stand with God’s Word, why should his majesty, having so excellent a guide of knowledge in the Scriptures, move me to do anything against my conscience?
—WILLIAM TYNDALE UPON
BEING OFFERED THE KING’S CONDITIONAL PARDON
August passed in a flurry of excitement. Tyndale had finally come to the English Merchants’ House, and John was happily at work with him on his Old Testament translation. Kate spent more time than she wanted hunched over her ragged embroidery with Mistress Poyntz. Kate’s poor unicorn more closely resembled a deformed donkey than a regal, magic beast—but if she wanted to be close to John, she had to be where he was. And every day, except Tuesdays and Thursdays, days he still worked at the Hansa Kontor, he was happily engaged aiding the great translator at the English House.
Kate knew her husband was an Oxford scholar, but it was gratifying to see a great man like William Tyndale desiring his assistance. The men labored late and long, arguing even during meals over just the right word to convey original meaning. “Simple, man. Keep it simple! It’s Scripture, not Virgil. A plowman would not know such a grand word, Frith. Save the classical allusions for your next polemic. Your erudition will enrage More and his cohort.” And then he’d laughed, as though it were some scholarly contest with “More and his cohort” and no matter of life and death.
John always gave in with hardly any resistance and with good humor. Kate thought his respect for Tyndale teetered on the edge of worship.
“He’s not Jesus Christ, John,” she once said when they were back in their little studio chambers. “You are brilliant. Stand up to him. I thought your choice was better than his.” Though she couldn’t remember the particular word in dispute and hoped he did not call her on it.
“He may not be Christ, but he certainly has Christ in him. More of Christ than any robed cleric I’ve ever known. Do you know what he does on Tuesdays and Thursdays while I’m at the countinghouse? He goes out into the streets of Antwerp, down to the poorest part of the city, and seeks out the hungry and the hurt, just to give them a bit of food or a warm shirt.”
“Isn’t that dangerous? What if he should be seen?”
“He says nobody knows what he looks like. He’s quite clever the way he just blends into the crowd. Pulls his cap down, his collar up, and goes out over the garden wall behind the chapel in case somebody is watching the house. I saw him on the street the other day and almost passed him by, thinking him just another yeoman laborer. He was sharing a pie with a hunchback beneath the shade of a plane tree. They were laughing together as though they were old friends—a hunchback beggar and the greatest linguist in England, maybe all of Europe!”
Kate had never seen John happier. It was gratifying to see him completely engaged in the labor he loved, gratifying, too, to know that as absorbed as he was, he wanted her nearby. Tyndale, Chaplain Rogers, and John had set up a little workshop marked off with a carved wooden screen in one corner of the solar. John’s worktable was positioned so that he could see where Kate sat with her books or her embroidery or even the English House accounts with which she helped Mistress Poyntz, who complained of being burdened with “so much ciphering.” (It seemed little enough for Kate to do in payment for the many meals they took at the English House, and it gave Kate blessed relief from the hateful embroidery.) But if she wandered into the kitchen to help or into the garden or went with Mistress Poyntz to her bedchamber to see some newfangled fashion, John would look up, his pen dripping ink, and smile as she reentered the room. “I think better when I can see my beautiful wife. You give me inspiration.”
And so pleasantly the summer passed into autumn. She still didn’t quite know what to make of the infamous translator. That he was brilliant, she was sure. Driven, surely, one might even say obsessed. Indeed, it seemed that his desire to bring an English Bible to England was all he ever thought of—a worthy life goal to be sure and one deserving of personal sacrifice, even peril. The man was truly much to be admired for his courage, and yes, even though she was reluctant to admit it to John, not wanting to encourage him overmuch in his bond with such a dangerous man, there was that gentleness of spirit that seemed to abide in him.
But what troubled her about him was that same singleness of purpose that she so admired. After all, there were other things in life—like family and children and music and beauty. She hoped Tyndale’s fervor was not something one could catch like the pestilence. For if it was, her John surely stood within reach of it. And who knew how that might end?
It was Tuesday, and John was hoping to wind up his work at the Kontor early. The days were growing shorter, and Kate liked him to get home before dark. Glancing up from the bill of lading he was translating for a German merchant, who waited patiently in a chair beside his table, he saw with satisfaction that his chamber in the countinghouse was almost empty. Only one man waited, standing with his back to John’s table watching the late-afternoon shadows creep across the street.
John stamp
ed the German’s papers with the official Hansa seal and handed them to him.
“Danke. Herr Frith.”
“Ich freue mich, von Nutzen zu sein.”
The man standing in the arched doorway stepped aside to let the German pass.
“Hoe kan ik u helpen?” John said, looking up, addressing the newcomer in the more widely used language in Antwerp.
The light from the open door lit the man’s face in profile. John’s heart flipped over and then plummeted into his boots. The door closed behind the German merchant, leaving the two of them alone in the room.
“So we meet again . . . Master Gough,” Stephen Vaughan said in English as he turned to look John full in the face.
Master Gough. Maybe he hadn’t heard the German call him by his real name.
Vaughan moved over to the writing table and without invitation took the seat the German had vacated. “How fortuitous that I should encounter you by chance,” he said. “I met your lovely wife a few weeks ago. She invited me to your home, but alas I must have . . . misunderstood the address.”
The tone of his voice, the little pause before the word misunderstood, signaled that he knew he’d been given the wrong address on purpose.
“I apologize if my wife gave offense. A woman alone encountering a slight acquaintance, well, you can understand how she might think it imprudent to disclose where she lived . . .” John heard the nerves in the sharp little laugh he gave and hoped Vaughan did not notice. “So . . . well. It is good to see you again. Now, how may I be of service? You said you were a glover, right?”
“Oh, I’m not here on mercantile business. I’m still making inquiries. This seemed like a good place to inquire—especially since you are in the export business, as I recall.”
John ignored the barb and feigned surprise. “Still on the king’s business, then? It’s been almost a year. Or is this some new inquiry?”
The Heretic’s Wife Page 30
