“More lies! More heresy! The Church is holy! Her saints are holy! Never speak a word against them, or I will throw you out, girl.” He rose to his feet, his face pinched and flushed with blood.”
She didn’t want to argue. She didn’t want to break him. But some truths could turn to poison in your veins if they’re not spoken.
“I was Wolsey’s mistress. He abandoned me to the street when he found I had slept with another priest. I had a son.”
“Another man has known you?” he whispered. Something like hope fell away from his face.
She looked at him plainly. “No man has known me. Many have had me.” She paused to let her words find him. “We are all stained,” she said quietly.
Margaret walked in, the door swinging in its arc and startling Rose and Sir Thomas. Margaret, seeing their faces, grabbed the door to stop it and retreat.
“I am finished with her,” Sir Thomas said to Margaret, with a light voice that strained to sound carefree. He left without looking back.
Margaret looked so tired, Rose thought. She had aged these last few months, and when she turned her head, the candlelight showed the woman she was becoming. There was so little of the child left in her. Rose tried to pretend it was only childhood passing away, not innocence. She could not live with the guilt if Margaret became hardened.
Rose was stupidly holding the bag, her secret plainly between them. But she did not set it down.
Margaret looked up at her. “I do not wish him to die, Rose. I love him, did you know that? He was once one of us, seeking patronage among the rich, among Father’s friends. A good-looking boy, with red cheeks and dark hair. He was so earnest, so impassioned. I believed in him deeply, though I met him only a handful of times, often as he was leaving a house, dejected that no one was interested in his ideas. He wanted to translate the Scriptures—not from the older translations, but go back, he said, to the original texts. He would master Greek and Aramaic and translate from these. Everyone thought he was a fool. The Vulgate was hard enough to understand for the priests. Why did we need a boy’s interpretation of the original text?”
Her voice was far off, and she stroked her skirt as she smiled. “But I believed in him, though I had no idea what he was really talking about. I gave him a coin I had stolen from my father’s purse, and he kissed me on the mouth, sweetly. It was my first kiss.” She sighed. “It has been my only kiss.”
She pressed her palm against her mouth, closing her eyes. “I want that life, Rose. I want to know a man and be kissed every night. I want to be in a home where books do not matter as much as love.”
“Margaret,” Rose began.
“We do not wish him to die, do we? Let us take the money we can gather and send it to him for secure passage. There is a safe house in Antwerp where the law will protect him. If he can make it to this house, no one can arrest him as long as he dwells in it. We will pay for his safe arrival and board. ”
Rose did not move or reply.
“Everything will be all right, Rose. You’ll see.”
Margaret took off her shoes and lay on top of her bed in her clothes. She closed her eyes for sleep and shared her last thoughts of the day. “Sentiment is turning in Henry’s court. Hutchins is gaining favour. Anne promotes him freely. My father will have to accept Hutchins. The differences of theology will be mended, and he’ll see how I have changed from that girl to a woman, how I have aided him in secret here, how I have read his works as no other woman has, with great intensity and clarity of mind. He will be entirely captivated.”
Rose held the bag and looked at her. Margaret’s face had settled into peaceful lines. Rose set the bag on the night table between them and blew out the candle.
Rose heard the rain, a thousand little drummers against the roof. The room had a chill, and she pulled her blankets up, tucking them under her chin. This season was the most accursed on the streets. The autumn rains were heavy and often, and the wind came behind them to freeze your skin to the bone. The sun slunk away, defeated earlier every day, so that by the time you found something to eat at noon, you had to worry about the night. Sir Thomas had rescued her from that life, and he had not thrown her back to it, not yet.
Margaret was up and dressing herself, so Rose heaved herself out of the warm bed to help her. The room was dark; the sun had not broken through the dark clouds. Margaret laughed at Rose’s fumbled attempts on the buttons of her bodice. She had been so sweet these past few weeks; no more had been spoken of the leather purse, or Hutchins, or his book. Rose was uneasy about this new peace. It was not from God—that much she could tell. Something had passed between father and daughter that Rose did not know and could not understand, having no father herself.
A servant holding a brass candleholder knocked and eased the door open. “Come, come! Sir Thomas has a visitor. He wants to see you.”