The Heretic’s Wife Read Online Free PDF Page A

shadow as he recognized Meg’s voice. He shouted, his tone unusually harsh. “Is that you, Margaret? You know this part of the garden is forbidden. Where are you?”
    Her tone was chastened when she answered. “I’m by the fishpond, Father. There was a messenger for you from the king.”
    “Wait where you are. I’ll come to you,” he shouted. Then to the servant, he hissed, “Take him back to the porter’s lodge,” indicating with a toss of his head the circuitous direction the servant should lead the prisoner.
    “Aye, milord. But the porter said to remind you that this is the tenth day and under the law—”
    “The porter reminds the king’s legal advisor of the law? How very
judicious
of him. Tell him I know the law as well as any man in England, and under the law a prisoner under suspicion of heresy may be interrogated. And so can a servant in sympathy with heretics.” His gaze locked with the prisoner’s. Thomas looked away. “Put him back in the stocks,” he said as he stalked off toward the fishpond.
    The moonlight reflected coldly off the pond, picking out a slight ripple in the water where the wind ruffled the surface, picking out, too, his daughter’spale face beneath her velvet caplet. She hugged herself and shivered in the moonlight. “I’m sorry, Father. It’s just that I thought you—”
    He immediately relented. “If I sounded curt to you, it’s because I care only for your safety. At night the keepers let Samson roam free. And during the day, if he should see you, he might frighten you.”
    “But he doesn’t frighten you.”
    “Ah yes, daughter. But you see, I am very familiar with the beast. Where is the king’s messenger?”
    “He is in your library. Actually, there were two messengers. The first was from Bishop Tunstall. He left his message after I assured him I would place it myself in your hands. But the king’s messenger . . . I thought . . .”
    “You were right to summon me,” he said, “but next time, send one of the grooms.”
    Putting his arm around her shoulders, he led her up the front steps. The dark face of the red brick façade loomed over them, its black windows like all-knowing eyes. As they approached the library, Thomas could see the Tudor-liveried messenger pacing before the fire. Best not to keep him cooling his heels overlong. He bade his daughter good night at the door, watching her affectionately as she curtsied and then melted with a swish of satin skirts into the deepening shadows beyond the hall.
    The messenger was a familiar face that Thomas had seen often at court. With a curt nod of recognition, he took the scroll and quickly broke the king’s red wax seal. He scanned the words quickly, his heart sinking.
    “This requires an answer,” he said, without looking up. “It is late. I will consider it and give you my written response in the morning.” He pulled a rope and a servant appeared almost immediately. “Sam here will provide you with a bed in the guesthouse and refreshment—or whatever else you require. You will not find the hospitality of Chelsea House lacking. Return to this chamber after prime; I will give you a message for His Majesty.”
    Sighing wearily, Thomas laid the court document on his desk and settled into the chair beside the fire. He rubbed his fingers back and forth across his furrowed brow as he studied the embers.
So. Finally it has come. You can no longer dance around it,
he told himself. There had been hints, both subtle and not, but he’d always been able to sidestep the implications. Now here it was. A direct request from Henry VIII, Defender of the Faith—a title Sir Thomas had helped his sovereign obtain by writing the refutation of the Lutheran doctrine that gained him that honor—to help the king with his “great matter.”
    There was a sudden chill in the room. He shivered, igniting the fire beneath his hair shirt. The shifting coals on the hearth sighed, as if in reminder that one refused a king,