In the Shadow of Lions: A Novel of Anne Boleyn (Chronicles of the Scribe #1)(38)
Some of the women saw it too and screamed, but Rose lifted her face in rapture as the blood washed over her, making her free, washing the darker stains away forever and making her skin as new and tender as an infant’s. She covered her face in her hands to weep, the new life as sweet as honey under her tongue, the relief sweeping through her tired body like an indescribable ecstasy.
Someone put their arms around Rose, holding her as she wept, and she realized it was Margaret. Margaret wore a strange expression—one Rose had never seen anyone give her before. She stared at Margaret for a full minute until she could name it. It was envy. She pulled Margaret in, not letting her go, cradling her.
“His blood is meant for you, Margaret. Do not refuse Him. You can know peace.”
A bird’s cry startled them all. Margaret pushed away, smoothing her hair down, setting her jaw. Her cheeks were flushed red, but Rose could not decide their meaning.
“We must depart,” the reader announced, “but we have business.” She closed the book. “Spies are at every port. The apprentices are young and poor and fast to accept a bribe. The work grows harder.”
“I can’t steal any more money, or my master will surely notice,” a woman protested.
“No, Hutchins and his men have enough money. Wolsey wanted to stop the books, so he bought every edition they printed. They sold the lot at top price and when they heard it was Wolsey who was paying, they added a fee!”
The women grinned. Wolsey had stolen enough bread from their mouths to make his own misfortunes a delicious pleasure.
“Hutchins is using the money to finance a new edition, one with all new plates, none of the typesetter’s errors to be repeated. It will be glorious.”
“So what does he ask of us?” one girl asked.
The reader motioned for the women to lean in. “What he needs is your underwear.”
The shock registered on everyone’s face. Indeed, if everyone’s mouths were to shut at once, Rose thought, there would be a great popping that would give them all away.
“I’m not wearing any,” a woman ventured.
The leader continued, in a louder voice now because of the snickers. “Linen. He needs linen for the presses, to make the paper. He cannot buy it for the spies watching every shop. He needs our linen shifts and our husband’s underwear. I’ll get it through the ports and out to him.”
She pulled a pair of men’s underwear from under her skirt pocket and tossed it on the ground in the middle of the group. The women looked at each other. Margaret was the first to tug at her bodice, but everyone began moving. Some ran behind trees and pulled off their shifts, going bare beneath their robes. Everyone tossed their linen clothing into the pile, trying to contain their giggles.
“Every gathering of women like us is doing the same tonight,” the leader said. “And there is one other request.”
One woman yanked her outer wrap tightly about, glaring at the leader.
“No, not your clothes, Goodwife Lewis.” The leader laughed.
Goodie Lewis smiled uneasily but did not release her hold.
“We must try to live as we believe, yes?”
The women all nodded.
“We all serve fish on Fridays, do we not?”
They nodded again.
“And why?”
“Because,” one woman answered, “because … it is what the Church commands.”
“It’s not in the Bible. God never said it. We’re free to eat meat if we want. Any day. All day on Friday if we want.”
No one looked comfortable. Rose wondered if this Bible would make it into their kitchens.
“On Friday the fifteenth no one is to prepare fish for the evening meal. Put on sausages, letting them cook all afternoon so that the tempting aromas conquer the entire home, making the men hungry. If anyone asks what you are doing, tell them you prepare it for the next day’s breakfast, but if they want some, please go ahead. Unless, of course, they know of a Bible verse that prohibits it. After all, we are simple women who are not allowed to read the Bible for ourselves. They must teach us the verse, so that we, too, may be sure to follow every law of God. Let’s let the men choose whether to follow tradition or truth.”
“Aye, we know which side their stomachs will be on!” One woman said with a grin.
Rose guessed she was long married.
A lone woman raised her hand. “’Tis the Feast of Assumption, Mary’s Holy Day.”
“Don’t quit,” the leader urged, as an owl began calling in the darkness around them. “All the women on our side will do this.”
No one spoke as they retreated into the trees, each woman heading in her own direction, each woman keeping to her own thoughts, none of them wearing underwear.
Chapter Fifteen
Anne held her breath and listened. Her Yeoman raised an eyebrow, but she paid no mind, pressing her body against the wall, leaning her upper body in, inch by inch, until she could catch a little glimpse.
Henry sat on a rather plain wooden chair, surrounded as usual by fanning, doting servants, including his Ward of the Chamber, always ready to follow Henry to the privy and dump the esteemed products with much solemnity. Anne thought her job here was not so different, receiving publicly the favour of Henry that amounted to nothing more in private than rank stench.
But before Henry knelt, Sir Thomas More, easy enough to pick out for his hook nose and ermine collar, his red robes of the Star Chamber making him stand out in a room of servants in plainer livery. Wolsey stood, either having paid honour to Henry already or feeling no need to do it.