Rose jerked her stare from the cardinal to Sir Thomas and tried to smile. She was afraid it was telling, so she stopped and cleared her throat. “How can I please you, Sir Thomas?”
“Well, tell the cardinal what you saw in church,” he said and turned to Wolsey. “Rose has a heart of devotion unmatched by any noblewoman I’ve met. She gave everything to the church, even to the point of despairing of her life when she could not make a pilgrimage.”
“Truly?” Wolsey replied.
“Go on, Rose. Did anyone ever read from the book of Hutchins? Tell us of the church you attended and if any of these madmen were about.”
Rose’s mind began the journey back to this story, but her mouth did not move. Her eyes remained on the floor as she saw the great spreading stain blurring her vision, turning even this peaceful refuge an angry red.
Long ago, he had lain there, troubling Rose with much talk. There was no place in his world for her class, and she resented him always drawing her in, prattering on every time about delicate troubles she would never be graced with. She wanted to stab him on mornings like this, when he arrived dejected, annoyed to be left alone for the day, annoyed that his name was always second on everyone’s tongues, annoyed that the king’s salt was moved out of his reach. He was like a child who needed constant kisses and plucky encouragements. Despite herself, she gave them both. She did not mind that the words rang false. They were, but he paid better when he was happy.
Her own troubles, what could she say of them? When her two little brothers took ill with the sweats, she begged his help, and he gave it. He arranged for them to be declared orphans and put into the king’s charity hospital. They died before the week was out. She only knew they were dead when she saw another boy wearing their clothes. Her mother had been such a poor weaver that her work stood out, even among the pitiful. Her grief was like a mouth full of pebbles. She was dry and brittle from the choking dust of lost hope, and she had no tears. His petulant stories became a distraction, and his body a refuge.
“You can’t live on the streets. You’ll lose your looks within a year.” The outbreak of sweats had alarmed him, she could tell. He swept his quill across a dry parchment, and she was established in an apartment. He saved her. She never saw her home again and remained indoors, waiting for him to return. She began to listen for the noises from the street, hearing her past through the filter of his money, which paid for these walls. It sounded so different to her. She was different. She was dead too.
He had other wives. She could tell their strident perfumes apart from the beckoning aromas of the court: the lavender sprinkled over the rushes, the breads rising on stone slabs in the open kitchens. She wondered how they all lived, which one he loved. Not that it mattered.
She rolled over with a sigh as he prattled. She was wedged tightly between the two worlds in London and wanted neither side as her own. The restlessness this fine and fancy man unburdened stayed with her, growing with every soft-spoken confession. She had given him no mercy, lying there in silence, making no move to invite his own sorrows to roost and tarry. But they had. The great crowing hunger pecked at her until she did what was once inconceivable.
She went to church. London was the city of God, he had told her, and it was true. Bells rang out at Mass when the host was elevated, choral chants floated through the streets, monks and priests milled about everywhere. Rose had never entered this world. Before this time, it had belonged to others … not to her. And why would she choose to be anchored to anything in this world? From her first cry as a baby she had awakened to hunger. Nothing ever satisfied. Life was a continual torment.
The cold cobbled path led her to two enormous wood doors overlaid with iron bars and creeping ivy that ate away at the wood and stone.
The world inside took her breath away. The ceiling rose far above her. Towering beams of darkest timber lined the ceiling, making a high sharp vault, with so much air between her and the roof … air she couldn’t breathe. Jesus hung crucified above the altar, above it all, and she averted her eyes from His shameful nakedness. He was barely covered by a loose cloth, His frail body bleeding and pierced.