The next morning she sat on her bed looking out the window. It was late in the morning, but water still beaded on the panes, making her crane her neck to catch sight of the trees below. Though it was the end of April, winter and spring still wrestled for the trees. Green leaves had unfolded on all the trees, and only a few had dead brown branches—the stragglers that the last frost had bitten. There were several boulders placed below the trees in her view. She wondered how the men had moved them all into place, for they were large and rough-edged. Moss and green tendrils grew up all around them, content that the boulders would be unmovable features of their world.
A knock at Rose’s door made her jerk, and she grabbed her skirt to be sure she was modestly covered, with no calve or ankle showing.
“Margaret!” she exclaimed, opening her arms as the girl walked in. She was a sweet sight after a night of tears. Margaret rested in Rose’s arms for a moment as Rose inhaled the scent of her hair, powdered and perfumed with roses. Rose relaxed in the softness of the girl, her warm, steady breath, and was surprised love was again in her heart. It had been gone for years and its return made her laugh out loud.
Margaret pushed away, her face serious. “Who does Father whip at the gatehouse?”
“What?” Rose asked.
“I saw him. There is another man at the gatehouse. He was whipped last night, lashed to Father’s Tree of Truth. Did you not hear his cries to God?”
Rose shook her head. She had heard only her own. She wondered who God would answer first. “Has it happened before?” she asked.
“Sometimes. Father says it is a great mercy, for if he turned the men over to Wolsey, they’d be racked. At least here their punishment is over swiftly, and they have much time to recant. Father thinks everyone will worship properly again if they can be broken first.”
The prisons she had seen in Southwark were visions of hell. A whipping here would end; those who entered the gates of a prison were lost forever. Only a gravecloth was ever returned, and this went to the priest as payment for his final services. Guards stole the boots and cloaks.
“I don’t understand, Margaret. What is their crime?”
Margaret sat next to her on the bed. “Can you keep a secret?”
“Yes,” Rose replied.
“They are guilty of reading a book, that’s all. A book by a man named Hutchins. Father knew him. He even visited us the summer that Mother died. Hutchins believed every person could approach God and know Him intimately. Father said God could make no sense to the average man. We must be led by wiser men.”
“If they are being whipped for reading it, it is no secret,” Rose replied.
Margaret squirmed, biting at her cheek.
Rose frowned and reached to assure Margaret, but Margaret pulled away. “Margaret, what is the real secret?”
Margaret grew still and set her face in a cold frown. “I am a little bit afraid, although he promises to keep me safe.”
“Margaret!” Rose shook her. “What is your secret?”
“He is like Father in many ways, you know. Father hates him, but he does not know him like I do. The book is superb, Rose. It will open your eyes. You’ll never think of God the same way again.”
Rose’s stomach turned. She had smelled death when she had first cracked open the spine of a book. She wondered what man would be so bold—or so careless—as to leave such a record of his thoughts and heart so that any man, anywhere, could know them. To see a book open was to see a shield laid down. It made no sense to Rose why anyone would wish to be exposed to their enemies this way. If men could see what was in the heart of the world, they would leave the books closed and the inkwells dry.
Rose jumped from the bed and grabbed the hornbook from her table. Racing into Margaret’s room, she began pulling as many books from the shelves as she could, lifting her skirts to carry them in. She ran to the family room, throwing them into the fireplace, which roared and sprang up, nearly catching the edge of her skirts as she worked. Margaret screamed when she saw what Rose was doing, and the children came running, Sir Thomas just behind them. The fire was blazing out, high and hungry, when Sir Thomas pinned Rose’s arms to her sides, dragging her back from the flames. A book fell from the fire, its pages lined in burning red, sparks biting along its edges as it smoked.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
Margaret was crying. Rose looked around at the children and the other servants, all staring at her with furrowed brows and deep, angry frowns.
“All of you, to your rooms,” he ordered.