The Heretic’s Wife

by Brenda Rickman Vantrease

  “But he’s not. Thomas More doesn’t have him.” He thrust the letter at her.

  She stopped swaying and snatched it from him, devouring it with her eyes as she held it in trembling hands.

  “This says that he is in the Tower. That Thomas Cromwell has him and not Thomas More,” she said, breathlessly.

  “And that’s very good news,” he said. “Concentrate on that. Do not give up hope. If he is patient, there is a good chance he will be free. He may never have to stand trial.”

  She stood up then and faced him, her eyes wide with fear and determination. “Take me to him,” she said. “I want to see him.”

  “I do not think that’s wise—”

  “I don’t care what you think.”

  “You have to think of your child.”

  “I am thinking of the child. I want him to at least hear his father’s voice before—” And then she started to cry. This time when he put his arms around her, she did not pull away but leaned into him momentarily, then her body tensed as it struggled for control.

  “Will you take me to him?” she asked, looking up at him. “Please.”

  “I will do whatever you wish, Kate. But I think—no, just hear me out—if they learn of your existence, they will use you against him. You will become an instrument of . . .” He stopped, searching for a word other than torture. “Something they can use to break him down, to make him confess. Now he knows that you and the baby are safe. That gives him something to hold on to. That will keep him strong and give him comfort. I know it would me—if I were in his place.”

  “But—”

  “Let me go in your stead. I will try to get in to see him. I will do everything I can. If all else fails, others have escaped from the Tower—”

  She looked up at him then with uncertainty in her eyes. “You would do that? Put yourself in danger for him?”

  He just shrugged and said, “He is a good man, and I don’t like Thomas More and his band of heretic hunters. A man should have a right to believe what a man wants to believe.”

  She looked at him as though she were trying to take his measure, asking herself if she could trust him, then she said quietly, “You are a good man too, Captain. I’ve always known it.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  Mine heart’s desire in our Saviour Jesus is that you arm yourself with patience, and be cold, sober, wise, and circumspect; and that you keep a-low by the ground, avoiding high questions that pass the common capacity . . . Of the presence of Christ’s body in the sacrament, meddle as little as you can.

  —LETTER FROM TYNDALE TO FRITH

  SMUGGLED INTO THE TOWER, JANUARY 1533

  Kate had not felt the baby move inside her for days, not since the day she got the news that John had been arrested. At first she had talked to it, reassuring it. Could it be possible the child knew? Did it feel her grief? Or just the fatigue she felt? Sleep was her lover now, her solace, her dearest companion, because in sleep she could forget. The honeyed draught mixed with mead and ground poppy seeds that Mistress Poyntz had given her to calm her had become a friend whose comfort and blissful oblivion she sought frequently. Perhaps the baby slept too.

  But even when she did not take the draught but lay sleepless and tormented by her fears so that the child could wake, still it did not stir. She knew then the child was dead. Its heart no longer beat inside her, and her grief was so profound she prayed to die and instantly repented. John will need to know his wife is waiting for him.

  By the time her body expelled the dead child, she had no tears left. Once she called out for John in her pain, and she remembered John was not there, might not ever be there again. When the midwife put her son’s still, small body in her arms, she marveled at the perfection of him and wondered if he had blue eyes, but she would never know. The windows to his soul had never opened. She could not have borne to think his soul lingered in limbo as the priests taught. There was comfort knowing that no such place existed in the Scriptures.

  After the midwife had washed the perfect little body, and they had wound it in the cloth that was to have lined his cradle—the cloth with the crooked stitches now cradling him in eternity—after William Tyndale had said a prayer and read the Gospel about Jesus calling the little children to him, Kate took Saint Anne’s medal from around her neck and, touching it to her lips, placed it in his tiny hand like a rosary. John would not have approved. He put no faith in saint’s medals. But John was not here, and William was too kind to scold. She had worn the necklace close to her heart as her son had lain close to her heart. They buried him in the chapel garden. Kate marked his grave with a cairn of stones as round and perfect as his tiny skull. Master Tyndale scratched a deep cross upon the foundation stone and pressed it firmly into the ground. It did not matter that he had not been baptized, William said, his soul was innocent and would return to God.

  Kate bled for three weeks, until she thought her blood, like the cistern of her grief, must be endless. Then the bleeding stopped, and she regained enough strength to return to her bookkeeping and editing chores. But the grief stayed. She did not return to the Bible study meetings. She no longer had the heart for it.

  They were all kind to her; most of the merchants treated her like the glass their ships brought from Venice, quietly asking news of John, giving falsely cheerful reassurances that she should not give up hope. No one mentioned the child. It was as though he never existed—except to her. Only Master Tyndale spoke to her with understanding.

  He knows what they are risking, she thought. He has always known. And yet he goes on as though he’s acting on a bargain he’s already made. He’s counted the cost and calculated the worth, and he is satisfied. But Kate was not so sure she had made such a bargain with God—maybe her ancestors had, but she had not.

  She talked with William about that, and he said not all were called to such a bargain.

  “Do you think John made such a bargain?”

  “I think he has,” he said soberly, “and when I think what that might mean for you, I am glad I never found a wife.”

  “I would not want John to recant for my sake,” she said. “I would not want that on my conscience. It must be his decision.”

  “Then he will not,” William said, and the certainty with which he said it sent a chill up her spine. In the presence of such a man, it would be easy to catch faith, as one would catch a fever, Kate thought. Maybe that’s what happened to John. She’d had the fever too, once upon a time when the world was fresh with possibility—before she’d lost two babies. Her faith must have been a weaker strain. One did not inherit faith.

  “I suppose we must be content with the will of God,” Kate said, but she was thinking of her father who had died, her brother who had lived, and how both had suffered, how William had suffered, a hunted animal for a decade. If God wanted His word in English, why didn’t God just make it happen without so much suffering? But she couldn’t say that to William Tyndale.

  By Christmas she had regained enough strength to survive, her days filled with pretense and her nights without the poppy-seed drink. Just after New Year’s she had a letter from Captain Lasser. It ran to two pages and she devoured it hungrily. It said that John was being well treated, had not been formally charged with heresy, only suspicion, and was even being given a furlough to visit the palace of his old tutor at Cambridge, Stephen Gardiner, who was now Bishop of Winchester. Since Bishop Gardiner had also been Tom’s tutor during his own brief and unremarkable stay at Cambridge, he hoped to be able to sway him to even more sympathy on John’s behalf. As Bishop of Winchester he would surely sit on any clerical jury, should John ever have to stand trial, which was doubtful, since there was thought not to be enough evidence to influence the king to hand him over to the “black-robed scavengers.”

  John is allowed the occasional visitor in the Tower, some of them even known Bible men. I actually got in to see him once. You would have laughed at my sober cleric’s garb, as he did when he recognized me. He looked well, only a li
ttle pale from being shut inside, but he was in good enough spirits and spoke with great longing of his dear Kate. I assured him that when last I saw you, you were more beautiful than ever and full to the brim, and that you missed him beyond all reason and had to be persuaded not to come to him. He agreed that you should stay where you are. He said to tell you he would have no peace otherwise.

  Shortly after, two letters, both dated before the captain’s, came from John himself, one for Tyndale and one for her assuring them that he was well and that though he had secretly been given pen and ink and paper, writing was a nerve-racking business, because the minute he heard keys at the door, all had to be spirited away. He closed by begging Kate not to think he had broken faith even if he would not make it home by Christmas to welcome their child.

  Her grief came back in a wash of pain. Of course he would not know. How could he know? And then the thought came that if he . . . if the worst happened . . . he might not ever have to know. He would be spared this one grief at least. If he came home, he could better deal with it then. The child had never been as real to him as it was to her. He had not carried it next to his heart.

  “Shall I tell him about his son?” she asked William, knowing what he would say.

  “You have to tell him the truth. But tell him only that you lost the child, not how long you carried him or the circumstances surrounding his death. John was not here to see how beautiful his son was. He will not feel that loss as keenly as you.” She thought she detected a note of wistfulness in his voice. “He will be thinking only of you. Assure him you are well.”

  William always gave good advice.

  John was grateful for his visitors. They were his only break in the dismal monotony of his days. The winter light from the lone window was scant, and the cell was always cold. He’d developed a cough that racked him until his chest was sore. He sat in the dark most of the time, saving the few tallow dips Cromwell allowed him for his intervals of writing. He had almost finished his discourse to John Rastell, Thomas More’s brother-in-law and printer. He knew enough of Rastell to know that he was at least listening to the arguments from the other side. If he should be converted, it would be a great thing; not only was he well placed as a licensed printer in England to help the cause, but John liked him.

  He worked on his argument to Rastell for hours in his head before lighting his precious candle from the flint Cromwell had sent him. He was still writing in his head when he heard the keys jingle at the door.

  His body jerked reflexively, but there was no pen and paper to hide. All the evidence was in his brain. It was too early for supper, so he was to be allowed a visitor then. Perhaps Captain Lasser. He’d promised he’d be back. But when the door opened he knew immediately from the man’s stature it was not the captain. John felt a spur of disappointment, for he knew Tom would have news of Kate and home. But he liked the little tailor.

  “Master Holt, how good of you to come. It’s a long ride from Chelmsford on such a day.”

  “I came to London to buy cloth. We don’t get much fine silk in Chelmsford.”

  His eyes darted about the cell as he moved in front of the still open door, blocking the view. He said loudly enough for the guard outside to hear, “My wife sent you some of her apple cake. You enjoyed it so last time. I’ve cleared it with the chamberlain of the Tower.”

  Then he winked at John and handed him the bundle wrapped in beeswax cloth. The smell of the cinnamon and apples made John’s mouth water, but he did not open it. He would wait until his visitor left, and the door was closed, because he knew contained within the core of the cake would be a candle rolled in parchment.

  “There’s some of that black pudding you’re partial to in the bottle.”

  “I especially love black pudding,” John said, thanking the little tailor with a smile and a nod for the ink. “Thank your wife for me. Will you sit with me a while? Tell me what news you hear in your travels around Essex.”

  Outside the guard shuffled off to join his fellows at the end of the hall. Soon sounds of men swearing as they played dice carried through the open door, masking their own conversation.

  The tailor lowered his voice to a near whisper. “Everyone sends you greetings. They worry for your health.”

  “Tell them to continue in prayer for me, but I am well—” A burst of coughing caused the tailor to raise his eyebrows in alarm. “Well enough under the circumstances.”

  “We spoke of you at our last Bible reading. The subject was the Lord’s Last Supper. I tried to tell them based on the few notes you gave me what you had said, but alas my words lack eloquence.”

  “That is a subject of much contention even among the brethren. Perhaps it is best that you save—”

  “But it was so clear, the way you preached it. I wish they could hear you.” And then a light seemed to go on in his head. “If you could write down your sermon—not just the points, but the phrasing in your own words, and I could read it to them, it would be almost as though you were there. They would be much advantaged in their discernment.”

  When John did not answer immediately, he continued, “Of course, I would not want to do anything to put you in further danger. It’s just that we are so hungry for a true understanding of the Word—the Church has turned what should be sacred into some ancient superstitious rite.”

  How could John deny such a kindred spirit? “How long are you going to be in London?”

  “Just through tomorrow.”

  “I’m not sure I can do it so soon—I have to be so careful lest—”

  William Holt shrugged. “If it is too much . . . maybe another time. Either way, I’ll call on you again before I leave, if they will let me. There’s an inn close by Tower Bridge that makes good meat pies. I’ll bring you one.”

  “Could I prevail on your generosity to bring two? There is a poor man here name of Petite, a grocer who by catching a seeming sweetness in God’s Word fell afoul of Thomas More”—he laughed bitterly—“as we all do sooner or later. They searched his home and found nothing and have no witness to testify against him, but More will not see him released even though he is very ill. Sometimes the chamberlain allows me to visit him. A good meat pie might lift his spirits.”

  “Two pies it shall be then”—and another wink—“and more apple cake to replenish that which you consume tonight. That is little enough pay, for the good work you do. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  His visitor stepped out into the hall. The guard shuffled down a few minutes later and shut the door. As soon as John heard the key turn in the lock and the footfalls fade, he tore into the apple cake, pulling out the pen and paper. Then dragging the rickety little table that Cromwell had procured for him into the center of the room, he climbed upon it and carefully removed the block that had been cut from the ceiling.

  “Psst. Petite,” he called in a whisper. “Are you awake?”

  He heard a raspy answer. “Come to the hole. I’ve a treat for you,” and he shoved a chunk of the apple cake through.

  A hand reached down and grabbed it. “God bless you, John Frith, God bless you.”

  Then climbing down, John lit his tallow dip, took up the pen and dipping it in the “black pudding” began to write: “The mass is not a sacrifice but a remembrance of the sacrifice and assurance of salvation that God has given us.”

  The candle flame glowed steadily and brightly as a new flame does. Its steadfastness distracted him momentarily, mesmerizing him. As if in a trance, he placed his ink-stained forefinger in the flame until he felt the burn. Snatching it away with a grimace of pain, he put it to his lips to soothe it. Thomas Bilney before he was burned used to do this, to condition himself to the pain. Will I have such courage as he showed at the stake? he wondered. Many good men have not.

  Yet to do less would disappoint his Lord and bring shame upon himself—and shame to his wife. He would never forget the sorrow in Kate’s face when she talked about her brother. Taking his finger from his mouth, he put it in the flame agai
n. Was it his imagination or did he hold it longer that time? This time when he withdrew it, he did not put it to his lips, but ignoring the pain picked up his pen.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Anne Bulleine, Marques of Pembroke, was proclaimed Queene at Greenych and offred that daie in the Kinges Chappelle as Queene of Englande.

  —THE EVENTS OF APRIL 12, 1533, AS RECORDED

  IN THE CHRONICLES OF ENGLAND DURING

  THE REIGN OF THE TUDORS

  John watched from a viewing platform built above Tower Green as the queen’s barge came up the Thames. He was more grateful for the sunlight on his face than the opportunity to witness the water parade. Upon the king’s orders that certain prisoners were to be let out to witness the new queen’s arrival as an act of charity, a celebration of new beginnings, Thomas Cromwell had sent down a list of those prisoners who should review the spectacle. Like his fellows, John had been given a green flag to wave as the queen’s barge floated by, and instructed to cheer loudly.

  As he watched the sun rippling off the Thames, he considered whether a man could survive such a jump, wondering how many others standing so near the balustrade shared that thought. But for John it was a mere intellectual curiosity. Captain Lasser had spoken to him of an escape plan, but John had a growing certainty that not to attempt to defend his beliefs now that he had been charged with heresy would put a stain upon his honor and hurt the cause—and besides, it would be a fool’s jump. The archers on the wall were armed. He’d have an arrow in his back before he broke the surface of the waters.

  “That’s the queen’s boat,” the chamberlain who stood with him said, pointing to the biggest barge.

  It was marked with the king’s arms and followed by lesser barges—as far downriver as John could see—belonging to City of London companies. They made an amazing spectacle, festooned with silk banners of Tudor green and white shot through with silver threads that glinted in the light bouncing off the water. Music drifted up from many of the barges as they passed beneath the platform, interrupted by periodic bursts of cannon in salute.