In the Shadow of Lions: A Novel of Anne Boleyn (Chronicles of the Scribe #1)(43)
Wolsey did not wait long for the crowd to silence so he could speak. Rose heard the murmurings around her; this waxy, fat cardinal lived in great luxury while they suffered to pay his men. Wolsey traveled through their streets upon a white horse, with two men carrying gilded crosses before him, lest anyone forget whose business Wolsey arrived on. The crosses, Rose thought, were a wise touch, as they were all that checked the wagging tongues around her. But it had always been this way, she knew. Nothing contented the people of the streets except money, and money was never enough. Poverty infected the blood with a painful hunger that nothing would ever fill. Justice herself was consumed and spat out in little shards; there were always rumours of a great Judge to set all things right someday. The rumours had not enough meat to sustain a child on, but they kept the half-truths with them always.
Wolsey held up a copy of a book, only slightly bigger than his own hand. “I have here a book of heresy!” he proclaimed.
The crowd listened.
“A man named Hutchins has translated the Holy Scriptures into the English language. This is his New Book, the words of Christ torn from their beautiful perch of Latin and discarded at your feet in a base language.”
Not many spoke or moved. Rose knew most did not read anyway—what was a book to them?
“I offer a cash reward—five silver groats—to anyone who turns in this book today, or gives information about those who read it or sell it. It contains grievous, poisonous errors, great heresies against the Church, and it must be destroyed! If you want truth, come into the churches, good brethren! Do not be tempted to destruction by reading the Scriptures alone, without aid and instruction. Indeed, to our shame, even women and simple idiots gobble this book up, as if it were the fount of all truth!”
The crowd laughed and Margaret tried to jerk her hand away, growing so nervous she was shaking all over. Rose held her hand with more force, turning to catch her eye and steady her with a cold gaze. Margaret stopped fluttering and rested against Rose, like a stunned animal.
Wolsey continued, waving the book over them all. “It is a door to hell, leading these prisoners to a most pitiful death, which by God’s infinite mercy may purge them of His wrath before they encounter Him face-to-face today!”
Guards parted the crowd, leading a woman covered in blood and feces through. She stank, her greasy hair hung like ribbons around her face, and her body was broken in so many hidden places that the guards had to drag her, supporting her under her arms. The woman lifted her head to catch the drizzling rain on her tongue, and Rose cried out. It was Anne Askew. The crowd began taunting her, pelting her with soiled rags and withered apples. As the crowd parted before the guards, Rose saw that a stake had been set at Wolsey’s feet, not far from the pulpit, with iron chains attached and bundles of wood laid all around it, several feet high.
Sir Thomas stood. “Anne Askew, you are guilty of reading the Scriptures in English to other women. Do ye name them?”
Rose gripped Margaret’s hand for strength.
Anne’s head hung limp, and Rose did not knew if she was still alive. “Oh, God save us, she’s been racked!” Margaret whispered.
“Anne Askew, profess to the truth and receive God’s mercy. Do you believe in the sacraments of the Holy Church?”
Anne lifted her head and the crowd gasped.
“The Bible speaks only of baptism and the Lord’s supper, my lord. I cannot find the others there.”
A few giggled under their breath. It meant nothing to them to see this; they wouldn’t burn when the fires were lit. Rose began praying under her breath. It was all she could think of to do, but the prayers she knew were in Latin and she did not know what they meant. She whispered them anyway, the words in her mouth like a talisman, gone over and over again. She hoped God accepted them.
“What say ye about the sacrament of the host? Do ye receive the very body, bone, and blood of Christ when ye take communion?”
“I receive the spirit of His sacrifice. It is a great sin to push me to say more.” Anne shook her head at More, and droplets of blood flung out, landing on her guards. They grimaced, and she drew a deep breath.
“I will ask you a question, Sir Thomas,” she said. “If a mouse steals a bit of the bread, does he in fact nibble away the very body of Christ? Is it the bread or the spirit at work in communion?”
Many in the crowd laughed. Sir Thomas’s lips set in a thin line and he shook a finger at her. “Saint Paul commanded that women must ever be silent, never to speak or talk about the Word of God!”
“Nay, this is not what Paul said,” Anne replied, “for I have read the passage. Women are not to speak in church to disrupt the teaching of Christ’s words. I have not hindered the words of Christ! Have you read the Bible, sir? I do not think you understand the charges, so how can you prove my guilt?”
Sir Thomas grabbed the book from Wolsey and slammed it to the ground. No one moved.
“God’s mercy upon me for my weakness!” he screamed. “If I was about my own business, I would see you burnt slowly today. But I am God’s man, and I will offer you your life if you name the women of your sect.”
Rose’s blood rushed through her heartbeat, the violent beating rocking her off her feet. She clung to Margaret, who was staring at her father in a trance.
Anne’s head dropped back down. She said nothing.
“I sentence you to burning!” Sir Thomas screamed again.