by Barbara Kyle
For a moment, standing before the commissioners, he shut his eyes to subdue the shudder and in that moment a high-pitched laugh from the garden pierced the room, a laugh rich and ribald. More raised his head, eyes open. “My lords,” he said, “I cannot swear this Oath.”
Along the table the commissioners glanced at one another as if unsure of what they had heard.
“Cannot?” asked Cromwell.
“My conscience will not allow of it.”
“The law of the land requires it,” Cromwell said.
“Then must I refuse the law.”
There was silence. A bumblebee trapped inside a window thumped against the glass.
Chancellor Audeley cleared his throat. “Sir Thomas, all the learned, honorable men in the garden—bishops and abbots—all have sworn.”
“Not all in the realm will, I think.”
“All will who value their heads!” came Cromwell’s stern reply.
More had been about to correct him, for the threat was not strictly accurate. The charge for refusal to swear the Oath was misprision of treason which was not a capital offense as was high treason. But the penalty was still terrible: forfeiture of all possessions and imprisonment at the King’s pleasure, perhaps for life. But More said nothing.
Archbishop Cranmer asked, as if to clarify a point, “Sir Thomas, these learned prelates who have already sworn—do you say that they were wrong to take the Oath?”
“My lords, I do not say any of these gentlemen are wrong to swear. I leave every man to his own conscience and think it not unreasonable that every man should leave me to mine.”
The commissioners buzzed together for a moment. Then Bastwick spoke. The puckered smile of victory on his lips was so controlled, so subtle, that only More was conscious of it. “Sir Thomas, is it that you do not approve the Royal Succession?”
The other commissioners quieted for the answer.
“My lords,” said More, “I am right willing and ready to swear to the succession as it is decreed by Parliament.” But no farther, he thought.
“Then why will you not swear the Oath?” Audeley asked with a perplexed frown. “For what cause?”
“The cause of obstinacy,” Cromwell growled. “The King will not tolerate this, sir.”
“If the King will grant me immunity I will gladly give my reasons.”
“Immunity?” Cromwell scoffed. “Impossible.”
“Then, if I may not declare the causes without peril, to leave them undeclared is no obstinacy.”
“Tell this commission why you will not swear,” Cromwell demanded.
“My lord,” said More, “I will not.”
Archbishop Cranmer made a small, conciliatory laugh. “But if—oh, do let us find our way happily out of this thicket, Sir Thomas—if you will not swear, yet you do not say that those who do so are wrong, then you must be in some doubt as to whether to swear or no. And one thing you will agree as certain is that a subject’s duty is to obey his Prince. The King has ordered you to take the Oath. The certainty of your duty should prevail over your doubt.”
More suppressed the smile of derision that rose to his lips. He said only, “Were that so, my lord Archbishop, then might we say that if a man had any doubts about what his conscience required of him, an order from the King would settle all.”
“And so it should,” cried Cromwell.
“Unless a man sets himself up above the King,” Bastwick said pointedly.
“I have never,” More quickly declared, “set myself above the statutes of the King in Parliament, nor never will. Well I know there are times when the edicts of the state must overrule a citizen’s right to private judgment. But the moral authority of the state is delegated to it by the community of all Christian souls—” He stopped abruptly, afraid of saying too much.
The Abbot of Westminster sputtered, “Surely, Sir Thomas, you must know yourself in error when you see that the Parliament and the King’s whole council of the realm stand on the other side, and you stand alone in this refusal!”
“My lord Abbot, if I believed that I stood utterly alone, indeed I would tremble to set my mind against so many. But I am not alone. I have on my side as great a council, and greater: the general council of Christendom. I will not swear.”
Cromwell threw up his hands. “And will not say why not!”
“And must not say why not.”
They stared at him.
“Why not walk a while and think?” Audeley had suggested.
At the window of the burned chamber More rested his forehead against the stone casement and tried to will the shudder to subside. As he did, the babble of the churchmen in the garden faded. The gray, barren space behind him hummed with the holy silence of sanctuary. When he lifted his forehead, he saw that his sweat had left a smudge, dark like the traces of smoke beside it.
Soon, he told himself, I must go and stand before the commissioners again. And this time they will ask only once. I must hold the course of silence. Silence, in law, cannot be construed as an admission of guilt. Silence will be my sanctuary. He closed his eyes and realized that the shudder, and the trembling of his hands, had finally stopped. He had conquered his body. He had beaten its craven urge to capitulate.
“Thank the Lord,” he whispered. “The field is won.”
29
The Petitioner
There was a faint creak outside the door of the attic room, and Honor whirled around from the window. A dagger lay on a barrel beside the single candle. She lunged for it, raised it, and stood watching the door. Silence returned. She relaxed. The Sydenham’s once-great house was now a bleak, dilapidated tenement, and although its rooms below her were crammed, the inmates slept the exhausted sleep of poverty. Still, she tensed at every scrape and thud that echoed through the barren corridors and crept up the rickety stairs to the attic. She was hollow-eyed from lack of sleep. Since bolting from Cromwell’s, she had been hiding in this garret.
“I think I’ve been followed,” she had whispered to Bridget Sydenham at the front door. Even as she had spoken, the gaunt, wasted face before her had made her regret her decision to come. “I’ve endangered you,” Honor had said, turning. “I’ll go.”
But the bony hand had pulled her across the threshold. “If God has set your footsteps toward me, who am I to question His wisdom?”
That had been two days ago.
In the garret, Honor walked back to the window and looked out at London’s skyline thrusting into the cold moonlight—the spire of St. Paul’s, the jagged roofs on London Bridge, the fortress of the Tower. Her mind still swam with confusion. Nothing made sense. Except that everything had unraveled. That much was terrifyingly clear.
There was a clatter outside the door. Honor snuffed the candle, pressed herself into the shadows against the wall, and lifted the dagger. From the window a shaft of silver-blue moonlight bisected the small room and fell just short of the doorway.
The door swung halfway open. Bridget Sydenham leaned in, her hand cupped around a candle. Honor sighed her relief. Suddenly, a man’s body obscured the flame. Honor flattened against the wall again, her dagger lifted, her heart thudding. There was nowhere to run to, but she would fight before she would let them take her.
The man kicked the door fully open and stepped into the darkness. His knee thumped the barrel. “Curse it!” he muttered. “Where is she?”
“Richard!” Honor sprang out and flung her arms around his neck, knocking him backwards a step. “You came!”
Bridget Sydenham turned away with her candle and softly closed the door.
In the darkness, Thornleigh pulled Honor away from him. He had seen the glint of metal as her arms went around his neck. He disarmed her and tossed the dagger onto the barrel.
They looked at one another. To Honor, Thornleigh’s face in the shadows appeared expressionless. But he had come to her!
“Are you alright?” he asked.
“I am now.”
“Honor, I—”
; “Oh, Richard, I’m so sorry. For the dreadful things I said.”
“No, it was my fault. I acted like an idiot.”
“But you were right! I should never have left. I don’t even know what’s happening anymore. You were so very right.”
“No. I was wrong to demand…to say what I did. I should have helped you, not tried to stop you. God knows I don’t want you to change. And I will from now on. Help you, I mean. Whatever you want to do.”
“I only want to be with you. All this…it’s madness. I’m finished with it. Forever.”
He gathered her to him and kissed her long and hard. As they caught their breath, she hugged him, pressing her cheek against his chest. He smelled of horses and sweat, and she could taste salt from his kiss. She drew back and pulled him into the shaft of moonlight to look at him. His clothes were spattered with muck. On his chin grime was smeared over stubble. His eyes were red-rimmed with fatigue. She calculated the speed with which he must have made the journey. She had sent Jinner galloping north with the news as soon as Mrs. Sydenham had taken her in, but Jinner could not possibly have reached Great Ashwold much before noon. “My God,” she said, “you must have ridden without a stop.” She caressed his cheek. “My love,” she whispered.
He grabbed her hand and kissed it. His face betrayed his worry, and when he spoke his voice was low and urgent. “We’re leaving England. At first light.”
“What?” Her eyes widened. “What have you heard?”
He held her hand between his, as if to steady her. “I stopped to change horses in Chelmsford. I saw…” He looked down for a moment. “Honor, they burned Frish.”
The tendons in her knees dissolved. Thornleigh caught her by the elbows and held her up. She buried her face in her hands. “My God,” she whispered. “What have I done?”
He drew her to him and held her and stroked her hair. “You have done nothing. Others, though, have done nothing less than murder.”
She looked up into his eyes. She was suddenly so cold that her head shivered and her teeth began to chatter. “It was I who delivered him up to them!”
“No. You could not have known.” He tightened his hold on her arms. “It’s not your fault. Frish wanted to come. He knew the dangers. He’s always known the dangers.”
The injustice of it, the pure, black evil of the atrocity swept her. She beat her fists on Thornleigh’s chest. “Bastards! I’ll find them! I swear, whoever is responsible—”
Thornleigh shook her. “No!” He held her steadily. “Honor, this is not the hill to die on. There’s nothing we can do now for Frish. We’ve got to leave.”
Fury and remorse tore at her heart, but she knew that he was right. Frish was gone. Nothing could change that. And screaming at the man who loved her and had rushed to her side was a waspish child’s response. A solution to their crisis was what was needed. She swallowed her rage, and nodded to show him she was rational again. “But leave England? How can we?”
“How can we not? They’ve killed Frish and they’re after you. We can’t stay.”
“What about Adam?”
“He’s safe with my sister for now. We can send for him. When all’s calm.”
“But what if I’m being watched? Richard, I think I was followed from Cromwell’s.”
“If you were, you must have given them the slip before you reached this door. Otherwise, what could they be waiting for?”
“I don’t know. I don’t even know who’s after me. Or why. I’ve done nothing illegal in months.”
“Except bring Frish back. An arch-heretic,” he grimly reminded her.
“Brought him at the King’s command! No, it makes no sense. Who could possibly be behind this?”
“It has to be a man of the Church. You and Frish have no other enemies. The Bishop of London?”
“Why would he bother now? He’s capitulated to the new order along with all the other churchmen.”
“Archbishop Cranmer?”
She shook her head. “He lives to oblige the King, and I was acting for the King.”
“Well it can’t be Cromwell. Why would he betray you when you were only following his orders? Unless,” he scratched his chin, thinking, “unless his own orders were changed.”
“Changed? How?”
“Do you think the King could have had second thoughts? About Frish? If so, maybe he and Cromwell had some kind of falling out.”
“But when I went to Cromwell’s I heard laughter from his hall, and music. A strange way to carry on if he’d fallen foul of the King.”
“Cromwell’s a man who’d land on his feet no matter what the fall.”
“You mean, if something happened to turn the King against Frish, then—”
“Then Cromwell would cut you off as neatly as the bishops have cut off the Pope. Their bread is buttered by the King, and so is Cromwell’s. He’d sacrifice you.”
“But to whom? The King? Oh, Richard, can the King be so vindictive?”
Thornleigh shook his head as if to clear his mind of everything but essential facts. “Look, we can’t wait to find out any of this. Our best chance is to get out now. I’ve sent a message to an old friend, a merchant of the Hanse. He’s sailing to Rotterdam tomorrow.”
“From the Steelyard?” She felt a surge of hope. The Hanse merchants of the Baltic enjoyed special privileges, including their own autonomously controlled riverfront territory with warehouses and wharf called the Steelyard. Because of the invaluable trade they brought, the government was always loath to harass them, even when they had sometimes illegally imported heretical books. If she and Thornleigh could make it to the Steelyard, Honor realized, it would be a kind of sanctuary from which they could embark to safety.
“We must be there at dawn,” Thornleigh said. “And trust that my friend Guttman has received my message.”
“But do you think he—”
She stopped, hearing a noise outside the attic door. They both stood still and listened. Feet shuffled on the stairs. A fist knocked on the door. Bridget Sydenham opened it and entered with her candle.
“Master Thornleigh,” she said, “it may be nothing, but I’ve been watching a man outside the gate. He’s been lurking there for some time.”
Thornleigh strode to the door. “Stay here,” he told Honor.
He went out with Mrs. Sydenham and closed the door.
Honor waited in the silence. She paced until she could stand it no longer. She had to know what was happening.
Softly, she went down one flight of stairs. She heard the crash of the front door slamming. She ran to the landing and looked down. Thornleigh was hauling in a man by the collar. The man turned, tossing back long black hair streaked with silver, and Honor saw his face. He was a stranger to her.
“I tell you, sir,” the man protested, “I was only looking for a haven! I was told—” He stopped abruptly, as if afraid he had said too much.
“Told what?” Thornleigh demanded.
The man hesitated, then closed his eyes and blurted, as if to hazard all, “Told this was a safe house.”
“Who said so?” Thornleigh shoved the man hard, making him stumble back against the wall, cringing. Bridget Sydenham stood at the front door to block his escape.
“Oh, please, sir, it was at a secret meeting, and he didn’t give his name. But he told me, if ever I had need, this house would hide me.”
Something in the man’s voice caught Honor off guard. It was a low, rumbling voice, unhurried even in his extreme agitation, and it tugged at some string of memory. Yet his face, coarse and red, meant nothing to her.
Thornleigh was watching the intruder with clear suspicion. “Why have you picked tonight to come?”
“Oh, sir, as God is my witness, I have need of a haven now!”
That’s it! Honor thought. This was the voice from the hold of the Dorothy Beale—the guard who had searched with his whining mate while she crouched in the pit.
As if he had heard her thoughts, the man glanced up at the landi
ng where Honor stood and she realized that he had seen her; it was useless to hang back any longer. She started down the steps.
“My lady!” the man cried. His face lit up, as if with recognition. The surprise of it made Honor stop.
The man bounded over to the foot of the stairs and threw himself on his knees below Honor. Steel scraped as Thornleigh drew his sword from its scabbard and lunged. The man’s hands flew into the air like a caught felon. Thornleigh halted his sword point an inch from his throat.
Though the man held his head rigid above Thornleigh’s blade, the black hair that flowed to his shoulders quivered with tension. “I beg you, my lady, save a drowning man!”
“Who are you?” she asked warily. “How do you know me?”
“From Yarmouth, my lady,” he cried happily. “No, you don’t know me, but I’ve seen you. And you do know my master. Dr. Pelle. I’m with his harbor patrol.”
Honor and Thornleigh exchanged tense glances.
“Yes,” the man cried, “I know of your secret work.”
He flinched as Thornleigh’s sword jerked to his throat and the tip pricked his skin. “Please, my lady!” he cried, “I am one of you! For months I’ve kept my true heart hidden from Dr. Pelle!”
“And kept on working for him?” Thornleigh growled.
“It was wrong, I warrant, to dissemble and still do his bidding.” His face creased with the strain of his guilt. “Wrong to do—” he paused and looked at Honor with intense contrition “—to do many of the bad things I’ve done. I’m heartily sorry for it. But, you see, I’m a poor fellow, my lady, and a father. I pray God will forgive a sinner with a wife and five babes to feed. For since the blessed day when I first heard the Word of God at that secret meeting—”
