They followed her into the family room lit by candles, though the curtains were drawn back. The windows showed the sky being a dour grey colour, tinged with modest blue.
Sir Thomas sat on the couch, a low piece of furniture with a soft yellow covering. Around him were bits of grass and herbs, dried flowers, and a thick blanket sweet smoke. Rose inhaled, trying to place the odour. When she realized it was frankincense, the scent of the Church, her stomach sickened. A woman dressed in a nun’s robes stood in the corner not looking at any of them. She held her arms at her sides and spoke in whispers to herself.
Sir Thomas must have decided to let most of the household sleep, for there were only Rose, Margaret, the oldest boy, and a few of the servants. Sir Thomas did not look well and perhaps had not slept. His eyes had puffed, loose bags beneath them, and his mouth was drawn tight with exhaustion.
He looked at Rose, studying her slowly as if she were appearing in his dream. He sighed, shook his head, and began.
“God has heard my prayers. This is a praise to Him, and it is my fear.” He was standing, walking to look out the dark window. “All of my life, have I not exhorted that He was close? The wickedness of man would bring Christ to earth in vengeance. What I did not understand, my children, is that many would be caught in His net.”
He addressed the nun. “Do you still wish to speak to the children?”
“Darkness falls on the land in the ninth hour!” she crooned, her voice waving and rolling in crescendo. Rose wanted to slap her. It was a cheap way to earn a living. What Rose had done had no honour, but it was still better than this.
“The faithful must endure many sufferings,” the nun cried, “but blessed is he who remains faithful to the end!” She wrapped her arms tightly around her chest and spoke in whispers to no one.
Rose listened but heard only rain. Not even a bird sang in this storm.
Sir Thomas addressed Margaret, keeping his eyes averted from Rose. “Cardinal Wolsey has been arrested. Henry accused him of praemanuire, of taking too much authority, depriving the king of influence.”
He dropped the curtain’s edge that he was holding back, and it fell. He sighed, twisting his lips. “But Wolsey died yesterday, on his way to the trial. He just dropped dead. It was grief that killed him. He was the only father Henry truly ever had, and Henry tossed him aside for the pleasure of a fleeting kiss. There is no one near Henry who loves him. He killed the only friend he had.”
Rose sat still, every muscle tensed, wondering what Margaret might say or do.
Sir Thomas smiled at them, a faraway look in his eyes that told her he did not really see them. “But God is good. He fights on for us. The sweats are striking the city of London again, and there are rumours that the plague has returned, too. The king has fled to the country and his courts are on hold. All the good people are locked up in their homes. The rest, those filthy reformists carrying about Martin Luther’s works or the heresy from that man Hutchins. My men have had an easy time these last few days, picking these pestilent fleas off the streets and disposing of them.” More squished his thumb and forefinger together as he said it.
Margaret interrupted. “You wish us to remain at home?”
“You are to remain loyal!” he snapped at her. “All fell away from Christ at His hour of crucifixion. Things will happen, things that make you sore afraid. Do not lose hope. Do not abandon Christ.”
“I had only thought to bring comfort to Catherine,” Margaret answered. Rose could see she was holding onto tears. “She has been forgotten.”
Sir Thomas considered it, chewing his lips. “This would please God. She has friends, powerful men, in Europe, who can still affect our will. Yes, you may go. Only straight there and return. She is at an estate of Wolsey’s, not in the city. You will not encounter any sickness.”
Margaret and Rose stood.
More turned his back, looking out again over his garden, clipped and hedged to perfection. “Ask Catherine to pray for me. You must pray for me too, as dear children. My enemies are many and time is short. I am racing the devil for the soul of England.”
The carriage made fast work of the deserted streets, lurching wildly when the driver took a hard curve, unused to having the entire lane to navigate. Yellow sunlight fighting through the clouds burnt against the orange leaves of autumn. To Rose, it looked as if all of England was on fire. The leaves would be dropping soon in great numbers. These, and the winter rains, would make these streets slick and treacherous.