In the Shadow of Lions: A Novel of Anne Boleyn (Chronicles of the Scribe #1)(44)

Anne’s head lifted, and Rose saw white trails on her face, where a river of tears had washed away black filth. “I have read the Scriptures,” Anne said. “Christ and His apostles ne’er put one soul to death.”

Sir Thomas did not reply. He swept his hand to the back of the crowd. “Bring out Bilney!”

A man was dragged through the center of the crowd, but this man Rose did not know. She was relieved, as if his death would be less terrible to her, and was ashamed. Bilney was a tall, emaciated creature with a shaved head and burn marks evident all over his arms. Some were white and blistered, some red and oozing. He was draped in a thin linen shift that barely covered him down to his thighs.

“He’s been practicing,” a woman whispered near Rose. “Practicing over a candle, willing himself to be strong when he is burnt whole.”

Wolsey stood and took over the prosecution as More collected himself.

“Thomas Bilney, you are charged with reading the work of heretics, this foul book in English. You have read this work and given it to others, including women. Will you repent?”

Bilney did not answer. Rose saw a thin treadle of spit hitting the grass at his feet as his head hung. Whatever tortures had been spared Anne for being a woman were surely visited on this man.

“Do you believe the church has authority to forgive sins?” Wolsey asked. The people strained to hear if there was an answer. Attending a bear-baiting was not nearly such sport. These matches provided great wit. Rose did not know how many in the crowd were swallowing back tears.

“No man, no thing, takes away sin but the blood of Christ.”

The crowd gasped to hear Bilney’s strong reply. There was no strength left in his weak frame for this.

“It is a sin for you to sell forgiveness.”

“You are a heretic. I alone judge all matters of religion in this realm,” Wolsey replied easily, as if he was brushing away a fly. “I am the Pope to you, and I say that the church offers cleansing through repentance and taking of the sacraments.”

“What is the Pope to me? I do not find him in the Scriptures. I only find Jesus,” Bilney answered, holding his head steady as his guards held him up under his arms.

“Oh, we have a true apostle!” Wolsey cried out, and the crowd snickered. “What say ye about Masses for the dead? Do they minister to those departed?”

“Nay! I must consider but one death, and that is Christ’s. No one can help those who are already gone.”

This was the reply Wolsey had hoped for. An angry spirit swept over the people, those who had lost children and lovers and sold everything they had to provide release for them from purgatory.

Rose threw her hand over her mouth, trying to stop herself from being sick. She did not know what Bilney was talking about, and prayed he was not right, and prayed he was not wrong. She had spent her money on a baptism for her baby and not medicine. She had spent what little she had to secure God’s welcome for him into eternity. If Bilney was right, she had let him die, and would God forgive her that? Would the child, or her heart?

The crowd’s faces swirled, and Rose’s knees gave way. She heard Bilney yell out that Wolsey was the wolf who would not feed the flock but instead would eat them. As a man caught Rose and cradled her in his arms, she saw Sir Thomas trying to catch a glimpse of her over the crowd. She was dizzy and sick, but his kind eyes kept finding her, and she tried to focus on them, to give herself a center to steady the spinning world.

Anne and Bilney were led to separate iron stakes and secured to them by chains, a pile of wood all around them up to their thighs. No one in the crowd talked. The sheriff stepped forward and lit the fire, his back to the wind to give the flames a good start. Neither of the condemned spoke, their pale faces looking white against the blackened chains pinning them to the stake. The flames snaked through the wood, scorching their feet. Anne screamed. The wind gusted past the sheriff, extinguishing the flames. Rose looked to the sky, to see if a strange deliverance was at hand, but the clouds were gone. There would be no rain, and the wind would not hold.

The sheriff tried to light the fire again, but the wind snuffed out his bundle of wood. Again he dipped his faggot in a torch burning on the lawn of the hospital, and this time the flames roared ahead of the wind, consuming the dry wood, the flames going as high as their thighs. Anne’s shift, being longer, caught fire, and she was lost behind a veil of flames. Rose tried to stop herself from hearing her screams, but the effort of putting her hands to her ears swept her off balance again, and her rescuer pulled her from the crowd to Sir Thomas’s carriage.



The stallions ran with great speed. The bumps and dips clacked her teeth together. Margaret sat, her eyes too bright, a doll’s smile on her mouth.

“Why such haste, Father?”

More was looking at Rose but turned his attention to Margaret. “I learned today how deep the heresy is rooting here. Hutchins has been delayed finishing his translation of the Old Book into English, because the plague is moving again through Europe this summer. I must finish my public reply to his poisonous book and get it to the people to read.”

Margaret’s eyes were brimming, Rose saw.

“It’s only a book, Father—little words on a page! Why did they have to be burnt?” she asked. “Perhaps Anne thought she was doing the right thing, letting women hear the words in English, so they could more correctly live by them.”