In the Shadow of Lions: A Novel of Anne Boleyn (Chronicles of the Scribe #1)(21)

“Sometimes. Father says it is a great mercy, for if he turned the men over to Wolsey, they’d be racked. At least here their punishment is over swiftly, and they have much time to recant. Father thinks everyone will worship properly again if they can be broken first.”

The prisons she had seen in Southwark were visions of hell. A whipping here would end; those who entered the gates of a prison were lost forever. Only a gravecloth was ever returned, and this went to the priest as payment for his final services. Guards stole the boots and cloaks.

“I don’t understand, Margaret. What is their crime?”

Margaret sat next to her on the bed. “Can you keep a secret?”

“Yes,” Rose replied.

“They are guilty of reading a book, that’s all. A book by a man named Hutchins. Father knew him. He even visited us the summer that Mother died. Hutchins believed every person could approach God and know Him intimately. Father said God could make no sense to the average man. We must be led by wiser men.”

“If they are being whipped for reading it, it is no secret,” Rose replied.

Margaret squirmed, biting at her cheek.

Rose frowned and reached to assure Margaret, but Margaret pulled away. “Margaret, what is the real secret?”

Margaret grew still and set her face in a cold frown. “I am a little bit afraid, although he promises to keep me safe.”

“Margaret!” Rose shook her. “What is your secret?”

“He is like Father in many ways, you know. Father hates him, but he does not know him like I do. The book is superb, Rose. It will open your eyes. You’ll never think of God the same way again.”

Rose’s stomach turned. She had smelled death when she had first cracked open the spine of a book. She wondered what man would be so bold—or so careless—as to leave such a record of his thoughts and heart so that any man, anywhere, could know them. To see a book open was to see a shield laid down. It made no sense to Rose why anyone would wish to be exposed to their enemies this way. If men could see what was in the heart of the world, they would leave the books closed and the inkwells dry.

Rose jumped from the bed and grabbed the hornbook from her table. Racing into Margaret’s room, she began pulling as many books from the shelves as she could, lifting her skirts to carry them in. She ran to the family room, throwing them into the fireplace, which roared and sprang up, nearly catching the edge of her skirts as she worked. Margaret screamed when she saw what Rose was doing, and the children came running, Sir Thomas just behind them. The fire was blazing out, high and hungry, when Sir Thomas pinned Rose’s arms to her sides, dragging her back from the flames. A book fell from the fire, its pages lined in burning red, sparks biting along its edges as it smoked.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

Margaret was crying. Rose looked around at the children and the other servants, all staring at her with furrowed brows and deep, angry frowns.

“All of you, to your rooms,” he ordered.

Alone, he stared at her but did not release his grip. She didn’t want him to; she wanted to be shaken from her fear, her dread broken by his hands.

“It is the books, Sir Thomas,” Rose began. “A man in your gatehouse is paying in blood for this man Hutchins, and your own children are curious about the book! I burned these books, and I would burn more, if it can save the children from their influence! They must not be tempted by the world beyond this one.”

She didn’t notice his crushing grip on her arms; it would be only later she would see the bruising. His face was so near hers that his breath washed over her neck and bodice. She had been overpowered by men in a life that was far away. She had never been forced to stillness at that moment so that a man could see what was in her eyes.

“You are salvation to me,” she whispered.

For a long moment they stared at each other, his heart beating through his doublet, the heat of his body touching hers. He was pulling her closer in so that she was pressed against him, the distances between them being sealed off and forgotten.

Her knees were weak, but she did not fall; his grip on her was too tight. She stopped trying to stand on her own and let him take her weight, lifting her face to kiss him on the mouth. She needed this kiss, needed to be taken hold of and firmly fixed in his world of grace. She could see his lips parting as he leaned down, and she closed her eyes.

Then Sir Thomas shoved her away, a push so fierce it landed her on the floor. He did not look down as he left the room.



Rose didn’t move from her bed, not for supper or evening prayers. No one came to fetch her. She watched as the red sunset faded through the garden and she could no longer see the trees that danced in the night breeze. Only the birds, still singing, were oblivious to the boundaries of More’s home. She wondered what they had seen today in London. Had they seen madmen and lost women, or mothers whose arms were as empty as their stomachs? Where would they go when they left here? She hoped they would fly to the bosom of God and tell. She wished she could follow, but she saw the world and doubted God would receive her. She stank of it.

How long she lay in this position, curled into a ball, her face towards the garden, she did not know. In total darkness a noise had stirred her mind and she awoke.

It was a dull keening, the soft groaning of a man. The hairs on her arm lifted, and Rose closed her eyes, listening hard to know where the sound came from. It was somewhere beyond her room, beyond perhaps the walls of the house. She eased her feet off the bed and pried the door back, careful to make no noise. As she crept down the hall, she saw that everyone was asleep and in several rooms the candles had burned out. The servants snored like drunks; Rose did not doubt a few of them kept refreshments under their mattresses for lonely nights such as this.