That was pretty much the conclusion John had come to in this last week. He knew which course, if God granted him courage, he would choose. He’d lacked only one thing, and that had been provided him in the same letter from Tyndale warning him ironically yet again not to write on the Eucharist. In John’s letters to and from Kate, they had never broached the subject of his execution, if to speak it was to make it possible. They wrote only of their love and longing for each other. But Tyndale in an early letter had written of a possible outcome, telling him to be of courage. In answer to John’s query about how Kate was taking his imprisonment, Tyndale had responded that she had said that she would not have him deny his faith on her account. He was free to make up his own mind. But what freedom really, when he had professed, like the apostle Paul, to be Christ’s slave?
The room was very quiet as Cromwell waited for him to consider these two possibilities.
“You said a third. Or did I misunderstand?”
Cromwell shrugged and glanced toward the door. “You can escape.”
“Not many men have escaped from the Tower. Not a likely choice.” He remembered that Tom Lasser had once tried to convince him of the possibility of concocting an escape scheme. But it would have been at the captain’s risk. John had refused to consider it.
Cromwell cocked his head as though listening for some outside noise, then lowered his voice so that John had to strain to hear even in the silence.
“First you are to be examined by the archbishop at his palace in Croydon. You will be in the custody of Cranmer’s men. At some point you will be given a chance to escape.” Then he added meaningfully, “The guards will not give chase.”
Was the secretary saying what he thought he was saying? It was some kind of trap. It had to be a trap.
“I know what you are thinking. But you will not be pursued. Archbishop Cranmer as well as Bishop Gardiner, with whom I think you are well acquainted, will preside at your trial along with Bishop Stokesley. They are functionaries of Church law and will be bound to find you guilty if you appear before them. But both the archbishop and Bishop Gardiner have said they will not pursue you if you try to escape.” He shrugged and said as matter-of-factly as if they were discussing the price of grain and not life and death, “Bishop Stokesley, of course, is another matter.”
John shook his head. “I’ll never make it. Stokesley and Thomas More will have spies all along the route.”
“Possibly. But what do you have to lose? If you should make your escape at Brixton Wood, you can go about five miles northeast and arrive at the river close to Greenwich. The guards have been instructed to delay reporting your escape—they will say they were looking for you in the wood, then they will report that you fled west, so you will gain a little time. Follow the river east until you see a certain ship docked. You will recognize the insignia. I believe you and the captain are old friends.”
Tom Lasser! Here at last was hope. He trusted Tom Lasser. But here, too, was a new conundrum. It wasn’t like the last time the captain and Humphrey Monmouth had arranged his escape. That time he was merely a fugitive from illegal persecution. This time he had been formally charged. Would anything less than affirming his position before the assembled Church body be the same as recanting? Would he be, in effect, like Peter at the devil’s campfire, denying the very Christ he’d promised to serve? Even Luther, before seeking sanctuary, had proclaimed his faith to the Church council, declaring, “Here I stand. I can do no other.”
Could John Frith do any other?
Cromwell reached into his pocket and brought out a candle and a small roll of paper and pen. “Cranmer is in Canterbury and says he will not be back in Lambeth for a week. I suspect he did that to give you time to think about the proposal and to give your friend time to complete arrangements. I thought you might want to write down some thoughts in case you decide to proceed with the trial. It is sometimes hard for a man to marshal his thoughts—even a man as smart as you—when faced with the threat of damnation.”
“How did . . .” Better not to say his name. “How did my friend become involved?”
“Bishop Gardiner was also his former tutor. It seems, like you, he abandoned a promising career in the Church—though for a less holy mission than you and Tyndale. He has convinced the bishop to go along with this. But be forewarned, Master Frith, if this window closes, there will be no other.”
Long after John heard the door lock behind his visitor, he sat in the gathering gloom. Twice the raven came back and lit upon the high casement briefly before flying off with raucous cries. If this were a poem, John thought, the great black bird would be a messenger—or a symbolic harbinger of death. But from where he sat, John did not feel like the heroic center of such a poem, and he had not a clue what message the raven might have for him. He just felt like a man, alone and afraid. He longed to see Kate, to ask her advice on what to do. Would she tell him to stand up for his beliefs or would she tell him to escape?
He took out Tyndale’s creased letter and read it yet again. “I would not have the glory of God hindered for my sake,” quoting her own words. Tyndale was meticulous in such matters. The meaning was clear and yet . . . how could he abandon her?
When darkness came, he lit the candle, but he did not put pen to paper. He could not prepare a defense. What was the use? He had published all his arguments. He could only say with Luther, “Here I stand.” But that much he had to do. If he did not, his enemies would brand him as a coward.
He placed his palm over the candle flame and held it there until the pain brought tears to his eyes. Maybe in spite of what Cromwell said, there would be another window for escape, after he had faced down, not just his enemies, but the enemies of the Word. Some way to keep his honor and his life. He closed his eyes and prayed for courage.
Kate saw the Siren’s Song when it entered the harbor. Every day for weeks she’d gone down to the harbor to watch for it, for news of John. When the familiar rigging came close enough so that shading her eyes from the sun she could make out the name on the side, her heart began to pound. For one brief moment she even dared to think John might be on it. His last letter a month ago had been hopeful of his release after the new queen’s coronation. It was a warm June day and the excitement of such a thought made her lightheaded as she ran toward the jetty where she thought the boat would dock.
The captain spotted her immediately and waved for her to come aboard, sending a familiar crewman down to help her. She scanned the deck for any profile that might be John’s, but when she saw the captain, he was standing alone. One look at his face—even the sardonic smile with which he always greeted her was gone—told her John’s homecoming was not imminent.
“When have you seen him?” she asked when they were seated at the captain’s table.
Endor put a plate of the sweet buns that Kate had liked so much in front of them. The smell almost made her heave, but it was not from the rocking of the ship in the harbor. Anxiety closed her throat—something in his manner, in the way he would not look at her—made her breath come fast and hard.
“Not for a few weeks. I have been on business for the league, and when I tried to get in to see him last week they said he was being denied visitors.”
“But he is still . . . alive?” She could hardly say the words.
He looked away. Dear God . . . why would he not look at her? “He is—”
“Yes. He is still alive.” He placed his hand on hers. She looked down at the Venetian lace at his wrist, almost covering her own trembling hand. He withdrew it. “But his prospects are not as favorable as they were.”
Her hand went to her chin to stop its quivering. When she spoke it was more statement than question. “They are going to try him for heresy, aren’t they?”
“Yes, but don’t give up hope, Kate. The archbishop has agreed that if he escapes en route to the trial, he will not be pursued.”
“Has Thomas More agreed? Has the Bishop of London agreed?” She tried to stop the quiver in
her voice. “How can—”
“We have a plan.”
“We?”
“I will help him.”
“You would do that for us? You know what you are risking.” She studied his face, remembering how he’d laughed with John on their journey to Antwerp, how easy they were together.
“I told you once before, I don’t intend to get caught. But there is one thing. He has to agree.”
“But why would he not agree? What could—”
But she knew, even before he said it, she knew.
“I think your husband has that something about him that defines honor very narrowly. I fear he is the stuff of which martyrs are made.”
She struggled for control. Now was not the time. The time for crying would come later when she was alone, suddenly remembering the despair in Mary’s face when her husband was taken, and the way her own mother pined away until she died from grief—Kate had not fully understood that. She had been so naïve, so prideful of her father’s memory. But her father had never been given a choice. Was it not just as honorable to choose to live for one’s belief as to die for it—especially if one had that choice? Even Jesus had prayed in Gethsemane for the cup to pass.
Kate tried frantically to remember if she had ever said anything to John that might influence him. There had been the time when she told him about the shame she felt after her brother gave in. But surely he would not interpret that . . . but why would he not? Had her own feelings not been ambivalent when her brother gave in under torture? Please, God, let them not torture John. Let him recant before he suffers as her brother had suffered. Let him come back to her as her brother had gone back to Mary and Pip. She had to convince him that he would be worth more to his cause alive than dead.
Endor suddenly appeared beside her and, taking Kate’s hand in hers, squeezed it so hard, it almost hurt. She could not speak her sympathy. She did not need to. Kate could read it in her face, in the water welling in her blue eyes. And then she knew. This was what Endor had seen in the water that first time, when she’d run from the cabin upset. That same look of pity and sorrow was on her face today. In Endor’s mind John was already a dead man. With this realization, a numbing calm settled over Kate—a sense of detachment as though she were watching herself from a place removed.
“Take me to him,” she said. “I have to see him.”
“That’s too dangerous—for both of you.”
“Take me to him,” she said. “If you don’t, I’ll find someone else. I know there are passenger ships that go back and forth regularly. I’ll catch one of them.”
He didn’t say anything, just closed his eyes as if working out some difficult problem. When he opened them he locked his gaze on hers and answered grimly.
“Be watching at the window of the English House at dawn. They’ll not let me in. I’ll send a crewman to help you with your gear.”
THIRTY-NINE
I, Frith, thus do think and as I think, so have I said, written, taught, and affirmed, and in my books have published.
—STATEMENT OF JOHN FRITH SIGNED
BY HIS OWN HAND AT HIS TRIAL ON 20 JUNE 1533
John Frith blinked as he was led out into the sunlight. The bright light hurt, but he didn’t want to close his eyes, didn’t want to lose the brilliant blues and greens. A ragged little gorse bush struggled to bloom in the courtyard of the Beauchamp Tower. It was a thing of exquisite beauty. He could not resist touching it.
“Do you want him shackled?”
The two men wearing sidearms who had come to claim him exchanged looks.
“I think not,” one said in a thick Welsh accent.
“He looks to be a reasonable fellow,” the other one, dressed not in livery but in a gentleman’s clothes, added.
The deputy shrugged and signaled for the gatekeeper to open the gate that led to the water stairs where a waterman waited to ferry them across the Thames. As they exited the boat, John looked around for the prison cart he expected to be waiting.
“We’re on foot from here on,” the Welsh porter said, “but don’t worry. We’ve plenty of time. We can rest whenever you want.”
“I’m grateful for the chance to walk,” John said. “My legs want exercise.”
He walked silently between his companions, and since he was the youngest of the three—in spite of his lack of exercise, unless pacing his cell counted—it was easy for him to keep up. His guards ignored him for the most part as they talked of estate matters at Croydon. But they treated him with uncommon courtesy. The Welshman, who John learned was a porter for Archbishop Cranmer, had even brought along a bit of bread and cheese in his pack, which he shared with John. The gentleman declined his offer, but it had been a while since John had tasted fresh bread, and he munched it gratefully.
They’d walked a few miles—maybe as many as five, John guessed; the shadows had already lengthened—when they approached a lonely crossroads. The road to the left was hardly more than a rough path. The porter jerked his head in that direction. The late afternoon shade made the woods look dark and foreboding. This must be Brixton Wood, John thought, just as Cromwell had said. Did they expect him to make a break for it?
The gentleman addressed him directly for the first time. “Here’s where we part company, Master Frith. God’s speed to you. If you can avoid the wolves, you might make it.”
“The fiercest wolves are in London,” John said. “One is in the bishop’s seat and the other hiding in his den at Chelsea. Compared to them, this wood looks hospitable.”
The porter, who had been a jovial enough companion, looked sober. “Well said. We’ll give you a couple of hours before we travel on to Croyden. We’ll tell them you darted off west, that you’ll probably be in Wandsworth by hard nightfall.” Then he grinned. “We gave chase, but you were just too fleet of foot.”
John felt his eyes start to water. Here was such charity. Such generosity. Their actions were not without risk. “What will the ecclesiastical court say when you come up empty-handed?”
“The archbishop will cover for us. We volunteered for this duty.” The porter opened the pack where he’d carried the bread and cheese and produced a small Tyndale New Testament. “Give our thanks to your friend if you make it.”
John looked down at the pocket-sized book. A feeling of immense gratification came over him. “I thank you, good sirs,” he said. “God knows, I thank you, and may God bless you for your courage and steadfastness.” He paused and breathed deeply of the air, reveling in the mossy earthen smell of it after the dank smells of the Tower. “But I’m not going.”
“What do you mean, you’re not going! Are you crazy?”
“I am an honest man. Why should I not stand and defend that which I believe, that which I have written? If there be justice—”
“Justice! There is no justice to be had in the court you’ll be facing.” The porter’s frustration made his voice rise. “You’ll not have the chance of a snowball in hell.”
A scuffling on the ground drew John’s attention. Both men grasped the hilts of their swords. A disturbed squirrel bolted up the tree.
“You’ve been gone a while, and maybe you don’t know what’s been going on here,” the gentleman said, his voice quiet, the voice of reason. “Here in England they tie you to a post and set fire to you for saying the things you say.”
“I’m prepared for that. I will put myself in God’s hands.” It occurred to John then that maybe these were the hands that God was using. That maybe these two men had been sent for just such a purpose. But if he let himself believe that, how could he ever know for sure that it was not devil’s temptation?
The porter sat down hard on a nearby stump, still shaking his head in disbelief. “Let’s sit here a minute, and you think about it.”
“I’ve thought of nothing else for the last week. Believe me. I want nothing so much as to live. I have a wife . . .” No. He could not think about Kate or his courage would melt away.
His guards made no move to resume
the journey.
“If you do not wish to accompany me, good sirs, I shall find my own way to Croydon Palace where I will surrender myself to the archbishop.”
Only then did the porter get up and stride away. For the last leg of their journey they walked in single file, with John bringing up the rear a few paces behind.
Kate spent her first night back in London in her little bed above the print shop. I have completed a circle, she thought, thinking how the past five years had changed her life and yet how really nothing had changed. She lay awake as before, tossing and turning, filled with fear and dread for a man named John.
The captain had gone in through the same boarded-up window John had pried open and unlatched the door for her. She walked into the little bookshop on Paternoster Row and it was as if she had never left, except for a thick coat of dust that covered everything. A familiar weight of dread and loneliness descended on her as though it had hovered there all along, just waiting for her return. She had picked up her broom and started to sweep the cobwebs from the corner, noticing the spotty footprints in the dust below the window where the captain’s larger footprints had blurred John’s.
“Please, let me”—and the captain reached for the broom—“You just sit. I’ll do it,” he said.
“When can I see him?” she asked.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll take you to see him tomorrow. It is too late tonight. The deputy constable will be on duty. I’ve learned that Constable Kingston is the one who is reasonable. Especially if one shows him a gold crown in consideration of his reasonableness.”
“I cannot ever repay you . . . for any of it. You have been very kind to us.”
“I’ll think of a way,” he said. But the grin that he forced was a poor imitation of that mocking smile he usually offered.
After the cobwebs were cleared, he left to go get food. Kate unpacked her small trunk and hung her clothes in the cupboard. When he returned with Endor carrying offerings from her little bake oven, she tried to eat to please him—it seemed important to him and that was the least she could do—but the food had no taste, and it was hard to swallow for the fear lodging in her throat. She was so tired. The smallest movement was an effort. She had not slept at all, since she’d learned of John’s impending trial.
The Heretic’s Wife Page 43
