Sir Thomas, looking pale, sat on a couch. “Is it my job, that I secure the king’s annulment? So he may marry the Boleyn girl?”
“Aye, sir, the king holds great respect for the universities of England, of which you are a brilliant example. He is satisfied you will bring speedy justice to the matter.”
A household servant walked, unawares, into the room. He looked frightened to see all gathered around More, who did not look well. He studied the livery the messenger wore and fell to his knees. “Long live the king!” he cried out.
More looked up, the spell broken. He laughed, a small, unmerry snort. “There is no reason to fear. What do you need?”
The boy focused his glazed stare on Sir Thomas. “Bainham, sir. He will not abjure.”
Sir Thomas sighed. Rose thought he looked heavier around the face and midsection. Perhaps it was just the angle he sat at. She wondered if the burnings and persecutions worked upon his appetite, making him ever more hungry. Could he feast on the deaths? She wondered how a kind face could hide such secrets.
He caught her staring at him and she blushed, her stomach tightening with nervous pinches.
Sir Thomas addressed the messenger. “A heretic,” he explained. “I had him whipped at my Tree of Truth, but to no avail. This madness runs deep. I cannot dig the whip in far enough to scourge it out.” He turned to the servant. “Have him sent to the Tower for racking.”
The servant bowed and left.
More turned to the king’s messenger.
“I will accept this charge, with my most humble obedience to the king. God preserve Henry and England!”
The messenger left, and Sir Thomas put his head in his hands. “I have heard such rumours, always rumours, trailing the king like body servants. There was a rumour that Anne served sausage on a Friday just to taunt the faithful. All these whispers, but the truth is as black as the stain of rumour. She is a witch, despising the things of God, consorting with the devil to cause England to fall.”
He rose and walked round the room, biting his lips in thought. “Witches can be saved only through burning, but I cannot get to her.” More didn’t speak this to anyone but the air.
“I cannot understand Henry’s mind in dispensing with Wolsey, save that she has cursed him,” he said. “Wolsey was his link to the Church. How can Henry take the law into his own hands and dispense with the Church?”
He was becoming agitated, speaking. “I heard Anne gave him a copy of the Hutchins book. Filth! I have sent my own treatise on the subject to the king but received no word back. Perhaps the Boleyn witch got to it before he did and destroyed it. Dear God, save me! This evil woman may desire my death! I will fall under her curse unless You save me, unless I work against her. As long as she is near him, he cannot be made to see truth, for he is bewitched. She has to burn, or he will not be released.”
He stopped and looked up, past the girls, not seeing them, his eyes wild before they closed in prayer. “Oh, God, may this cup pass from me!”
Margaret heaved Rose’s mattress up on one side, peering beneath. Scowling, Margaret dropped the mattress back to the floor and walked to the door as Rose watched.
“Do not leave this room tonight. I will attend my father and return later.”
Rose sat on her mattress when Margaret was gone, not sure what to do, not even sure what to think. Sir Thomas said Anne had served sausage on Friday. Was Anne truly a reformer, or was she just provoking the faithful? Who could be trusted? A king with two women or a chancellor with two lives? Sir Thomas had as many secrets as any man she had met, yet he had a veneer of honour. Yes, he was honourable, was deeply good, and this is what comforted him as he did the bloody work. He was willing to educate girls but burned those who read the wrong book. He loved his queen, Catherine, and served the king who betrayed her. And the last secret, Rose knew, was what he kept in his heart for her—the thing that pushed him to punish himself each night with a whip and scourge.
The birds were loud tonight in the garden. One called above the others, a single voice piercing through the twitterings and wisps of songs. She listened to him, waiting for each new call, wondering what made him sing. A cool breeze caught her from the window and refreshed her. She had not realized how tired she was, how flushed and sweaty. She had needed this air.
Her gown was too hot and she couldn’t bear it touching her skin. The linen shift beneath it was damp and sticky, the bodice too tight for a good deep breath. Rose got up and fled the closed hot room. She would find comfort tonight in the garden, the buds and blooms that stayed constant whether storm or sun.