Margaret was looking out over the black water, watching the barge move away into the grey fog. She had received a letter, written in coarse charcoal, from her father. As Margaret read it aloud, Rose came to understood its content in just a few sentences.
He was unwell, dying from the imprisonment. He did not know if he would be well enough to walk to his own execution. They had beheaded Cardinal Fisher this week. The letter said that cannons were fired to alert the king his enemy was dead. That was how Sir Thomas knew his own time was close. At least these were the words that Margaret shared aloud.
Weeks had passed since he had arrived in the Tower, each cold winter week falling upon the next, a stinking pile of frustrations. Margaret was at the end of her third month of helplessness. Sir Thomas still refused to sign the Act. He refused to comment at all on Henry’s marriage to Anne Boleyn or the break with the church. He found death preferable to a life with his children—this was how Margaret put it to Rose.
Margaret had not yet sent Rose away. Rose did not know why. Rose preferred life on the street, the freedom she had once known, to this prison. There were other women, she knew, women who had lost sons and husbands, who read these same words. Many were in the Tower themselves, dying slow, shameful deaths. If their families had no money, they would not be able to pay the guards for food, or a shawl to keep warm, or even clean straw for a toilet. Rose could help them. She knew how to earn money. Anything could be forgiven to save these martyrs. She would not let these people die the same lonely, unloved, uncertain deaths of her brothers.
Margaret refused to release her. She only smiled, seeing something in Rose’s future that was secret and delicious, wanting to wait for it to spring up.
Rose had kept the Bible, seared at the edges. She read it alone, at night, seeing Margaret’s sneer through the dim candlelight as she glided past.
Now Margaret broke the silence. “There is other news, the boy bringing the letter told me. Servants are falling ill at the palace all around Anne. It begins with a red spotted rash, red eyes, and spots even inside their mouths. It’s from the devil, they say, the stinking pits of hell. They’re afraid of the light, say it hurts their eyes. My only comfort is that Anne Boleyn can no longer hide who or what she is. She is a witch. She has no more victims in the court, so she turns on her servants. She’s already gotten rid of the men who opposed her: Are they not all dead? Cardinal Fisher is dead, Cardinal Wolsey is dead, my father in the Tower, a condemned man. Can you not see her whole and only goal has been to exterminate the church? Father is a good man, a strong man, to resist her to the end.”
Margaret had that faraway sound in her voice, but a new pride in her father was seeping into it.
“What news of the king?” Rose asked. “Has he received your petition for your father’s life?”
“I do not know. Henry has fled to Hampton Court. He wants no part of this new sickness.”
“Margaret, you must release me! I can do no good here! Let me return to the city, where at least I can tend to my people!”
“Your people?” Margaret laughed. “The only family you have are those pock-faced wenches, selling their bodies for a bowl of soup. Your brothers are dead, your son is dead—there is no one left who loves you, Rose.”
“How did you know?”
“Father knew everything about you when you came here. You were his little experiment in social justice, to show those at court that even the basest person could be elevated through education. He used you to gain acceptance for his ideas, his methods. The more nobles paraded through our living room and saw you at your embroidery, or reading your hornbook, the higher father moved through the ranks of court. You served him well, Rose. Or didn’t you?”
Rose slapped her.
“It doesn’t matter. You’ve done more for him than you know.” She was smiling. “But if you want to run away, I will take you to the city myself. We have an engagement.”
She shoved the letter to Rose and walked away. Rose read it for herself, stopping with a sharp breath at the end.
The execution date was set.
Chaper Twenty-seven
Anne looked away as her servants emptied the bowl. She could not stop retching. The river winds rocking the boat were a curse to her.
Her servants fanned her religiously though it was cold. Anne should have been shivering, but she was hot. Nothing comforted her or calmed her stomach. When they pulled into the dock of Hampton Court and the guards rushed to help the women out, Anne exhaled her sigh of relief.
She was out of the barge before the men could open the door to her litter. She slipped on the wet grass, but another boy caught her, blushing with shame. Anne wondered if it was modesty or if he, too, had heard the rumours.