Alone, he stared at her but did not release his grip. She didn’t want him to; she wanted to be shaken from her fear, her dread broken by his hands.
“It is the books, Sir Thomas,” Rose began. “A man in your gatehouse is paying in blood for this man Hutchins, and your own children are curious about the book! I burned these books, and I would burn more, if it can save the children from their influence! They must not be tempted by the world beyond this one.”
She didn’t notice his crushing grip on her arms; it would be only later she would see the bruising. His face was so near hers that his breath washed over her neck and bodice. She had been overpowered by men in a life that was far away. She had never been forced to stillness at that moment so that a man could see what was in her eyes.
“You are salvation to me,” she whispered.
For a long moment they stared at each other, his heart beating through his doublet, the heat of his body touching hers. He was pulling her closer in so that she was pressed against him, the distances between them being sealed off and forgotten.
Her knees were weak, but she did not fall; his grip on her was too tight. She stopped trying to stand on her own and let him take her weight, lifting her face to kiss him on the mouth. She needed this kiss, needed to be taken hold of and firmly fixed in his world of grace. She could see his lips parting as he leaned down, and she closed her eyes.
Then Sir Thomas shoved her away, a push so fierce it landed her on the floor. He did not look down as he left the room.
Rose didn’t move from her bed, not for supper or evening prayers. No one came to fetch her. She watched as the red sunset faded through the garden and she could no longer see the trees that danced in the night breeze. Only the birds, still singing, were oblivious to the boundaries of More’s home. She wondered what they had seen today in London. Had they seen madmen and lost women, or mothers whose arms were as empty as their stomachs? Where would they go when they left here? She hoped they would fly to the bosom of God and tell. She wished she could follow, but she saw the world and doubted God would receive her. She stank of it.
How long she lay in this position, curled into a ball, her face towards the garden, she did not know. In total darkness a noise had stirred her mind and she awoke.
It was a dull keening, the soft groaning of a man. The hairs on her arm lifted, and Rose closed her eyes, listening hard to know where the sound came from. It was somewhere beyond her room, beyond perhaps the walls of the house. She eased her feet off the bed and pried the door back, careful to make no noise. As she crept down the hall, she saw that everyone was asleep and in several rooms the candles had burned out. The servants snored like drunks; Rose did not doubt a few of them kept refreshments under their mattresses for lonely nights such as this.
Rose crossed through the servants’ wing and peered down the hall that would lead her to the children, but it was as dark and quiet as a closet. She went down the stairs next and peered into Sir Thomas’s study. It was empty. A candle burned before an open book, and a crucifix hung on the wall above his desk. In the shadows it appeared as if Christ moved upon His cross, and Rose fled the room. There was no movement or noise on this floor, so she looked at the heavy double doors leading to the garden, a side entrance for the household. She was debating the wisdom of leaving the house on a dark night, just after a man had been whipped there, but she saw she would not be the first to do so. One door stood slightly back from the other, not having been closed all the way after someone’s exit. She took a deep silent breath and decided.
The door slid quietly, but the cold air that met her made her gasp. She hunched down, drawing herself in tightly, and stepped out into the garden. The dull keening continued but sounded wet, and there were not so many moans.
She followed the path down through the gardens, the rows and plots of plants marked into squares, each for its own kind, going farther down the path until the house was nearly out of her sight. The voice grew louder, and she heard whispers of Latin, a man’s pleas punctuated by a long cry for mercy. This word, mercy, was the only one she knew, for it was the only one in English. She held her breath, waiting for the last cry, which would surely be a wail of death. The dull pounding continued.
“I have made a covenant with mine eyes!” he cried out, his teeth grinding down on the last two words as a bolt of pain hit.
Rose crept a few more paces, keeping to the side of the path, shrinking into the shadow as best she could, willing herself to make no noise no matter what she should see. As she came around one last curve, she saw the Tree of Truth. A man was beneath it, with a heavy stone in his hand, and a scourging whip in the other. In the moonlight, he glistened. It was the black glistening of blood. Stepping closer, she knew him.
It was Sir Thomas.