“It seems ye are not friendless, mistress. This came fer ye. A heavy box to be lugging up these stairs.”
Anna almost cried when she saw her traveling chest. At least she was not forgotten. She fell upon the chest as soon as the old man departed, muttering complaints under his breath. She fingered the oak, inhaling its aroma. Clean clothes. She smothered her face in the clean, sweet-smelling linen. I would sell my soul for a bath, she thought and then realized she could still hear the warder’s slow shuffle outside in the hallway.
She pounded on the door and shouted. “Please, master chamberlain, I know it would be trouble, and you’ve been so kind to me already, but if you could just provide me with a small basin of water for washing …”
Moments later, the metal covering on the narrow window in the door grated open. His wizened face appeared—or at least the stubble-covered part of it. She saw his mouth working, heard him mutter more imprecations under his breath, something about high-handed airs, before his face disappeared.
She returned to her pallet, easing her increased bulk down gingerly and rubbing her arms for warmth. She could smell the fear and sweat on the chemise that she had worn for days. But she could not bring herself to put on a clean one without washing. She considered the small beaker of drinking water. But she was hard put to keep her thirst at bay as it was. At least she had the soap and the rag. She was thinking that the next time it rained she would wet the rag in the rain that collected on the floor beneath the archer’s slit, when she heard her door unlock.
A pitcher and a washbasin appeared and then the door slammed shut again.
Anna washed herself and was just putting on her clean chemise when she heard the lock grate again. She threw her cloak around her, not wanting the old warder to see her thus. But it was an old woman. “I’ve come to empty yer slops,” she said and picked up the foul-smelling chamber pot in the corner.
That at least answers one concern, Anna thought.
“Tuesdays and Saturdays,” the old woman hissed through the spaces where her teeth should have been.
That answered another.
“Could I trouble you to leave the little window in the door open, good woman? It would make the air a little less foul.”
The crone studied her a moment, a sly look in her eyes, then answered. “Aye, I’ll do that fer ye, missy. And I’ll take that dirty chemise to the castle laundry.”
Anna shivered, thinking that if the old woman wanted her filthy shift, she must be more desperate than she. Or maybe there really was a castle laundry where the castle’s mountains of dirty linen were scrubbed and boiled. Either way, Anna would probably not see her shift again.
“I hope yer not a heavy bleeder, it’ll make both our lives harder,” she said as she flung the soiled shift over her shoulder and backed out of the door holding the chamber pot in both hands.
Seconds later she was back. She’d probably done no more than hurl the contents from a convenient window.
“Thank you for emptying that for me, and you needn’t worry. I won’t bleed,” Anna assured her. Not regularly, at least, remembering what Gilbert the Englishman had said about breakthrough bleeding. “I am with child.”
“Oh. Well. That be yer good fortune, then, missy. That’ll buy ye a few weeks”—she eyed Anna speculatively—”mayhap even a few months.”
She said it so casually she might have been talking about bartering for grain.
“Visitors to this chamber don’t usually stay long.” And then a look of sympathy crossed her face. “I’ll bring ye a pillow fer yer back. Left by a fancy gentleman on t’other end. It was the headsman’s ax instead of the hangman’s rope for him. ’Twere nobility. Most here are. Rest go to Newgate or the Clink.” Then, as if considering that this might not have been the most comforting thing she could say, she sought to make amends. “I’ll bring ye fresh water for bathing on Tuesdays and Saturdays too—usually I get a few pence for the extra burden, but never mind. I can tell ye probably haven’t a groat to yer name. Else ye’d have a few more comforts in this hellhole.” She gave Anna the benefit of her toothless smile. “I’ll do it for the wee one in yer belly.”
After she had gone, Anna sat for a long time, her hands on her rounded belly, which strained against the too-tight chemise, thinking about the “wee one in her belly.” A scalding tear slid down her cheek.
Don’t start bawling, Anna. She eyed the chest on the floor. It could be worse. You are not without friends.
She picked up the brush and, wincing, dragged it through the tangled mass of hair.
“The war with France, my liege. It is a drain on the treasury. And there’s the matter of the Lollards. Arundel wants—”
Harry answered his new Lord Chancellor abruptly. “Arundel is not the king.”
“With all respect, Your Majesty, neither are you until the Archbishop of Canterbury places the crown on your head and gives you the blessing of Rome.”
“Odd that you should make the archbishop’s argument for him. You know he’s already angry with me because I have made you chancellor.” That should remind Beaufort of his place.
“I am aware of that, my liege. And though it pains me to think my appointment might prove troublesome, I can assure you that my loyal service to you will more than balance the scales. Indeed, to show my loyalty to you, I do make his argument in this one part. You know the Lollards preach against the sale of the papal indulgences. I would point out to Your Majesty that the loss of the revenues from the sale of those indulgences would further impoverish your treasury, already drained by the French wars.”
Harry knew the truth of that. “And they also preach against the pilgrimages that do much to help the treasury,” he said.
“Exactly so, Your Majesty! It is true. If tomorrow all the holy shrines should disappear, the pilgrims quit their traveling, the badge sellers would have no custom, nor the alehouses and the inns—what then would happen to England’s economy? It may be holy, my liege, but it is still commerce.”
Harry shifted, restless in his great high-backed chair. “Yes, yes, I know that, uncle, but he wants an arrest warrant for Sir John. For all the gossip, we are not talking about some slack-gutted buffoon, but a noble lord of courage who has served England well and honorably.”
“Sir John leaves you no choice. You read the statement he sent in answer to the ecclesiastical summons. It was a blatant declaration of heresy!”
Harry laughed in spite of himself. “You have to admit, uncle, he has the balls of a bull.”
“Well, Arundel would make a bullock of him. There are witnesses. One awaits her interrogation even now within these very walls. Do you doubt she will give evidence of whatever her interrogators press her for? It is not Sir John’s courage that is the issue, Your Majesty. It is his orthodoxy and his loyalty to his king. I urge you to put aside the luxury of friendship and consider signing the arrest warrant.”
“And what of my loyalty to a friend?”
“You owe him no more than you can give. You do not owe him England. A king has no friends. His loyalty must lie with his kingdom.”
“You make the matter of a little unorthodox religion sound so grave. Just because a few people want to read the Bible for themselves and choose to interpret it differently?”
“It is grave. Whenever Lollardy has been preached there have been uprisings. The commoners feel empowered by the reading of the Word for themselves. They no longer rely on the Church. They say they answer only to Christ himself. Not to the archbishop.” He paused to weight his next words with meaning. “Or to the king.”
“But doesn’t the Bible tell them the king rules by divine right and must be obeyed?”
“I have not read it for myself, my liege, but apparently it does not.”
“But this is Sir John Oldcastle, Lord Cobham! Not some rabble-rousing priest! God’s wounds, uncle, he has a seat in Parliament!”
The chancellor sighed. “Sign the warrant, Your Majesty. Let him be brought in. Perhaps you can per
suade him to recant out of the bond you share. If he does not, then it is he who breaks that bond and not you.”
A timid knock offered a welcome interruption.
The chamberlain opened the door, bowing at the waist, “Your Highness, the armorer is here. You said to tell you, and there’s another, a Brother Gabriel, who says he would speak with you on an urgent matter.”
“A cleric, you say?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. He said to tell you by way of introduction that he was on the council at Lambeth Palace on the problem of heresy.”
Harry frowned. Here was probably more piling on. Best to get it over with. “Send them both in,” he said. “We’ll hear the priest whilst the armorer measures us.”
“A new suit, Your Majesty?” Beaufort smiled.
“Aye, and I pray it does not weigh as heavily as the crown.”
THIRTY-SIX
But when nothing but God can console you, then truly
God does console you, and with him everything that is
joy consoles you.
—FROM A 14TH-CENTURY SERMON BY
MEISTER ECKHART, GERMAN MYSTIC
Anna had been in Tower Prison five days and nobody had come to question her or charge her formally. Were her tormentors waiting so that her own fears could work against her? Or had they forgotten about her? At night her dreams were haunted by nightmare images. Women screamed and writhed as fires were lit beneath them. Disembodied heads dripped blood— her own and Martin’s. On poles. On the Vltava Bridge. Black ravens, instead of gulls, circling.
Every morning she thought, Today will be the day, and prayed for courage not to endanger Sir John and the abbess. Every night she thought, Tonight. They will come in the night like the soldiers in Gethsemane, terror flickering in their torchlight, to drag me down the winding stairs.
Another day was drawing to a close and still she waited.
She was sitting on her pallet, the headless nobleman’s fine silk pillow at her aching back. The perpetual gloom of the chamber deepened. Through the indigo slit high above, the first evening star had appeared. The day had been warmer and the breeze created between the open window in the door and the archer’s slit had made the air less foul. The light from one precious candle kept the night from intruding untimely, but it was insufficient for her task.
And not only the light, but the level of her skill. The tedious picking out of the seams and restitching was bloodier work than the failed embroidery of the pilgrim badges. She’d abandoned that project, but she could ill afford to abandon this one, else she would have to shred her shift to give some ease for her growing child. The high-waisted dresses would serve but not the narrow undergarment. The easing of the seams would buy her but a few weeks.
“A few weeks,” the old woman had said. Please, God. In the name of Holy Jesu, our Lord and Savior, let that be enough. Do not let my child be born in this foul nest, she prayed. Praying was what she did when she was not stabbing at the linen and pricking her thumbs. Or when she was stabbing at the linen and pricking her thumbs. Praying and reciting from memory the verses that she’d so often copied. She couldn’t really say they gave much comfort— comfort was elusive in such a place—but she had to admit she could not bear the stench and discomfort and icy hot fear without them.
She’d worked out long, elaborate prayers in her head, translating them from Latin, to English, to Czech—which language, God, will please you most? Or is it as my grandfather said, that you can read my heart and have no need of language ? Well, if you can read my heart, Lord, you know it’s broken in any language, and Vm in need of such a miracle as only you can give.
And then she remembered Jetta. No angel had come in answer to that prayer—unless Anna was supposed to have been the angel, Anna who hesitated, trembling with fear, on the bank of the river while Jetta sank beneath the rippling water. The memory shamed her. If you e chosen an earthly angel to do your bidding, please, Lord, choose better this time. Do not let him be as craven as I. And then she always added, If not for me, Lord, then for the innocent life within me.
She punctuated her stitching with her prayers—or her prayers with her stitching. Her conversations with God had grown so familiar, sometimes she talked aloud to Him as though he sat on the bed beside her. Sometimes she screamed at Him, to ask Him, Why? At other times she whimpered to Him, wanting only to curl up in His love. “Come unto me all you that are weak and heavy laden and I will give you rest.”
“That’s me, Lord. That’s me. Anna. I’m here. I’m heavy laden. And I’m waiting.” And she would cry to Him, “Abba, Father,” as she shivered on her straw mattress.
Was that what the apostle Paul meant when he said to pray unceasingly? Or would He consider such familiarity profane? She had a fleeting image of the nuns at prayer, the rituals of the office. What if her grandfather had it all wrong? What if God was offended by her simple language? Considered her prayer in this fetid stinking place to be unworthy? Then she remembered Gethsemane. In his most urgent hour Christ had not gone to the temple to pray.
But look what happened to him, the devil whispered in her head.
She felt the child move inside her body. Her breath caught in her throat with a little heart leap of unexpected joy, as it had each time she felt the stirring inside her womb. She put her hands on her belly to comfort him. “Shh, little one, all will be well.” The movement ceased, and she tried to calm her thoughts by envisioning his tiny body curled inside her, lest her child, like God, listen to her heart and not her words.
She was at the end of the seam. She bent her head to bite the thread in twain. The door creaked on its hinge.
“Is it Saturday?” she asked, not looking up. “I hope I’m last on your rounds, so we can talk. I felt the babe move—”
“Nay. ’Tis only Thursday. I’ve brought you a visitor, missy.”
The black skirt of her visitor’s cassock where it met the floor reminded her of the ravens roosting on the crenellated towers. The ravens of her dreams. “I have no need of a priest.” She lifted her head to confront the intruder.
He stood outside the candle glow, his cowl pulled up, leaving his face in shadow. Like the pictures she’d seen of the Grim Reaper. Was that why he was here? To confess her before her ordeal? Was it beginning? She put her hands on her belly, instinctively, protectively.
“You may leave us now, good wife,” her visitor said in his cleric’s authoritarian tone.
She recognized the timbre of the voice!
Her heart hammered. “No! Don’t leave him here with me. I told you I have no need of a priest!”
“I’ll be at the end of the hall, Father. Just holler when ye want to leave.” The old woman shut the door behind her.
He stepped forward and pulled back his cowl.
“Anna, please. Don’t be afraid,” he pleaded. “I’ve come to help you!” He stepped into the little circle of candlelight and reached out to take her hand.
She dropped the linen to the floor, recoiling from his touch. “Don’t touch me! You have helped me enough!”
He dropped his hand. “I can believe that you are a witch,” he said softly. “How completely you have cast your spell on me.”
“Well, then, Father, abracadabra! I release you,” she hissed at him, waving her hands in the air in a ridiculous caricature. “If I were a witch, I would have turned you into the vile creature that you are. What? A toad? No, a serpent! A serpent with a forked tongue who sheds his skin as easily as he lies.”
He sat down beside her, put his head in his hands. She recoiled. Then he raised his head and said, not looking at her but staring at his hands, speaking to his hands, “But that’s the trouble, Anna. You cannot release me. You are in my blood and bone and sinew. My soul is infected with you. Only God can release me. And he has not.”
She heard the bitterness in her laughter and would have stopped it if she could. “How prettily you speak, Brother Gabriel, to woo a maid who is no longer a maid, made so by your own sly deceit. First I a
m a witch and now a pestilence. Look about you, Brother, Father—whatever ecclesiastical title you prefer. Smell the fetid air I breathe. Feel the chill of these hard, gritty walls. This is your doing. You have betrayed me for your Church! I hope it brought you the reward you seek!”
He did not answer her anger. He didn’t even raise his voice but said simply, “The abbess told me you were with child.”
“That is your doing too.” The words fell like stones into the stillness, but they were said quietly, her shrewish fury spent. “Go away. I told you I have no need of a priest. You are but a false priest, anyway. You broke your vows of celibacy. And you sell that which is not yours to sell. You sell the very mercy that our Lord gives freely to all who ask. So go peddle your grace somewhere else. I have no coin to pay.”
“I have given it up,” he said.
“Given it up? But you still wear the habit. You still carry the indulgences.” She pointed to the black silk pouch hanging at his waist, the pouch that carried the receipts of remission.
“Only to gain entrance here. Only to gain admittance to the king, where I have this day gone to beg for your release.”
She felt both dizzy with hope and a great weight of dread that it could only be a false hope, if it came from him. As false as his paper pardons. Turning her back on him, she looked out at the narrow slit of sky that had deepened to a royal blue, like a great illuminated I carved into the stone wall. I for illegitimate, like the child that had quickened in her womb.
“My son will not be born a bastard,” he said to her back. “Neither will he become a pawn of the Church.”
There was a bitterness in his tone she’d never heard before. What had he to be bitter about?
“The king has taken your case under advisement. I’m to return to him tomorrow or the next day for his answer. I should still be wearing the cloth. If he refuses clemency, I will need to maintain it to gain access to you. If he sets you free, I shall renounce my vocation and marry with you. We will go away. Perhaps back to Rheims, where we were happy.”
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