The door was cracked open. Rose pressed against the wall and slid closer to the opening, leaning her head in to get a sly view. Margaret was standing with her back to the door, her hand in her skirt’s pocket. She pulled something out and crouched on the floor. Sliding her arm deep under her feather mattress, she began pulling back, and Rose could hear a familiar crackle. Margaret had been hiding a leather pouch under her mattress and it contained papers. She removed a sheet, a feather, and set to work. She placed the paper on the bed and grabbed a tiny well of ink from her night table. Her hand was fast and skilled, scratching out the words without careful deliberation. Dropping a few coins into the center of the paper, she folded it, again and again, until it was a tight parcel. She slipped it between her bosom and her bodice.
“I did not!”
John protested so loudly to the tutor that his words reached Margaret’s room. Rose stiffened against the wall as Margaret spun to face the door.
“You counted wrong! You gave me less than the girls!”
Margaret laughed, a nervous laugh.
Rose shook her head. Whatever mischief Margaret dreamed of, it was in Germany and she was stealing for it.
Rose wondered if she dared confront Margaret. She was probably taken with a soldier she had seen in town who was traveling in Germany on some errand for Sir Thomas or the king. Or a past tutor who had moved on when his commission for More was finished. But what harm could come from a boy so far away, Rose thought, when Sir Thomas locked his daughters away behind three guard houses and acres of protected gardens. Even the squirrels only got in by More’s grace.
The thought took her breath for a moment. More knew the world as she did. He would never know the role she had played, but he knew what was beyond his home. He had built these walls, not to keep his children in, but to keep this world out. And he had brought her in, brought her here, to save her from it. What puzzled Rose was that he required nothing for it. Even her body, freely offered, was rejected.
“Rose.”
His voice startled her and she cried out, stupidly, she thought.
Margaret was at her door in a flash and the pair stared at her, father and daughter.
Rose touched the cross on her neck and gathered her wits. “I was coming to check on Margaret. She was unwell during morning lessons.”
Margaret glared at her, then softened her face to smile at her father. Rose noted how she shifted a bit, as if something were poking her in her bodice.
“I did leave morning lessons, Father, forgive me. I must have spent too long in the garden yesterday and the sun was too much. Summer is coming early, I should think. The falcons were restless to fly. It would have been good if you had joined us.”
Sir Thomas spoke to Rose but did not look at her. He had not looked at her since that night she had burned the books. She saw that there was a stain creeping above his doublet vest, turning his linen undershirt a dark red colour. She could say nothing.
“Well, Margaret, take your rest this afternoon but join us for evensong prayers. And you, Rose, take care not to go creeping down these halls unannounced, even if your intentions are pure.”
Rose walked heavily back to the servants’ wing, her shoulders feeling like two great hands were pressing down, driving the sorrows into her frame and expelling lighter breaths.
She thought of her son … his sweet soft skin, the pursed lips that moved as he slept. God was right to have taken him from her. All she could do was pray that her offering had bought his freedom from purgatory. That when she died, she would have no fear to meet him. She had wanted salvation for her son. She had purchased it with what she had, but she had never known how far above her Christ hung. She could not reach Him. All of her troubles—were they not of her own making? Here she was in this place of second chances, of unending devotion, where prayers and matins were said morning and night and she was given children to love, and she was making a wretched mess of it. Death was stealing in, she was sure. It had found her here, too, and was stealing in on the pages of a book, leering at her in her dreams.
She passed his office and drew herself up, taking a deep breath. She could be worthy of salvation herself if only she tried. She could wash the past off and please Sir Thomas. She would stop death from claiming anyone else she loved.
As she passed, she heard a man’s voice peppering Sir Thomas with spicy words and invective.
“I swear this is it! Our moment! The printer’s men were dead drunk, drowning in their barrels, they were, and our wolf spared no expense to keep them in their cups all night until at last one talked. Hutchins has completed the diabolical work, and it’s on its way to our shores! We’ve had only scraps of it until now. When the whole thing is here, chaos will destroy the city!”
Rose heard Sir Thomas make a gruff noise. The man rose to his own defense.
“But I ain’t lying! This time we’ve got him! The printers are working night and day to set up the presses, and Hutchins hovers over them like a fussy nursemaid pecking at a new babe. And this time, it’s not just one chapter. It’s the whole thing!”
Rose knew she shouldn’t stop at this door and listen.
“How will it come into the country?” Sir Thomas asked.
“Aye, the usual way. New book, same tricks. They’ll smuggle it in at the ports, each bundle marked with a blue cloth tied around it. Thomas … we can bring him in before the damage is done.”
“All right. Give the order to raid the printer’s shop. Confiscate everything. I doubt your men can read, so I don’t want them choosing what it is that I want. Confiscate the presses, the dyes, the letters, the papers, and above all else, get me Hutchins.”