Chapter 26
The authorities did not waste any time in implementing the new law. In the middle of February came news of the first burnings.
“The Lord Chancellor has condemned five persons to death for heresy,” Francis announced, his expression somber.
Kate looked up from her account book, alarmed. “Who were they?”
“The Bishop of Gloucester and a married priest called John Rogers. I had the news from my anonymous friend at court, and he did not tell me any other names. He mentioned Rogers because he was the first to suffer. When they took him to Smithfield, the mood of the crowd was angry and there were loud protests, especially when it became clear that the poor wretch would not be allowed to say goodbye to his wife and children.”
“God have pity!” Kate wept, thinking how Francis would feel if he were in Rogers’s place and had been denied that last crumb of comfort before facing the agony of the flames.
Francis’s jaw was clenched as he read the letter to himself. “I will not tell you more, darling. My friend’s account of the burning of Bishop Hooper at Gloucester is too terrible to relate, especially to a lady in your condition.”
“No, tell me!” Kate insisted.
Francis shook his head. “It will horrify you, and it might upset the babe.” He went into the bedchamber and she heard a cupboard door close.
“Do not dwell on these things,” he said, coming back into the solar. “I do not want you distressed at this time. But you had to know that the burnings had started. Forewarned is forearmed.”
When he had gone downstairs to meet with a tenant who was seeking to have repairs to his cottage put in hand, Kate could not contain her morbid curiosity.
She needed to know what had happened at Bishop Hooper’s execution.
It was like the tales of ghosts and witches that had both fascinated and terrified her as a child: she had insisted on being told, even though she knew she would have nightmares later.
And so it was now. She must know how a man could endure such suffering—and how awful it could be.
She knew where the key to the cupboard was kept. It was at the bottom of the chest in which Francis kept his clothes. She retrieved it and opened the door, then read the letter.
She immediately wished she hadn’t. She wished she had heeded Francis.
For the details were truly hideous. They had hung a bag of gunpowder around the Bishop’s neck to ensure a quick end, but it did not explode and he burned for three-quarters of an hour, pitifully begging the crowd to fan the flames in order to end his agony.
There was more, but she had to stop reading lest she vomited.
And this could happen to her, and it could happen to Francis.
—
As the weeks passed, they received more reports of the persecution.
Kate and Francis were heartened to hear that there had been a public outcry.
Many men and women had been brave enough to speak out against the burnings, and large numbers had been clamped in the pillory for slandering the Queen’s justice.
Francis was grimly jubilant. “It is clear that, far from converting our people to the Roman faith, these burnings have hardened their resolve and inflamed their anger against the Queen. The bravery of those who have died has obviously been an inspiration to many; already, they are seen as martyrs with beliefs worth dying for.”
But the Queen, it seemed, as time went by, was taking no notice.
Kate shivered when she learned that, aside from preachers, most of those who had been sent to the stake were craftsmen, farm laborers, or poor, ignorant folk who either could not recite the Lord’s Prayer or did not know what the sacraments were.
“I have no doubt that some parish priests are being overzealous in apprehending people and sending them before their bishops,” Francis fumed.
“And now they are ordering more guards to be present at the burnings to stop the people attempting to aid or comfort the victims. And to think that this is England! We might as well be in Spain!”
“This must be costing the Queen the love of many of her subjects,” Kate said, as she moved around him, making their bed.
“Yes, not everyone likes to see Protestants made martyrs, even if they don’t agree with their beliefs.
I must confess, Kate, that I have wished for a bad outcome to the Queen’s pregnancy—may God forgive me—and I know I am not alone in looking to the Lady Elizabeth as our deliverer.
I’ll say it again: she is our only hope. ”
“But for her to succeed to the throne, the Queen has to die.” Their eyes met. They were speaking treason, for it was against the law even to imagine the death of the sovereign. “I too have had such thoughts,” Kate whispered, looking about nervously in case the walls had ears.
She paused for a moment, letting the counterpane drop. She had missed her correspondence with Elizabeth. Every day, she had thought about her and wondered how she was faring at Woodstock. No one seemed to have any news of her, and it would have been foolhardy to write to her.
They learned in Easter week that the King and Queen had gone to Hampton Court to await the birth of their child.
Security around them was tight, for there had been demonstrations against the burnings and the Spaniards, who were hated in England.
No one seemed certain when the royal baby was expected; some said May, others June.
But already, Mary had gone into seclusion, which must mean that the birth was imminent.
Kate estimated that she herself had about two months to go.
Every time she felt her infant move, she was seized with anxiety, wishing she were not bringing new life into a world where so many dangers lurked and people could do unspeakable things to each other in the name of religion.
She had got out the swaddling bands and wrapping cloths she had used for her previous babies and had them laundered in readiness for the young master, as the servants liked to call her bump.
She was stitching a new bedcover for the cradle, and planned to make herself two smocks of the finest Holland cloth for her lying-in.
The babe was heavy in her belly and half of her wanted this pregnancy to be over, while the rest of her felt a powerful urge to keep the child safely inside her for as long as possible.
She was troubled by a terrible story she had heard some of the congregation at church discussing.
Whether it was true or not, she did not know, but it was keeping her awake at night.
They had spoken of a pregnant woman condemned to the stake, whose baby had burst from her body as she was burning and been thrown into the fire by the guards.
She could not get it out of her mind. Sometimes, she thought it would be better for her sanity to convert back to the Catholic faith and be done with it.
Yet she could not, in her heart, abjure her religion.
It was a part of her now. And she knew that Francis, for all his outward conformity, would never convert. They must be more careful than ever.
She finished making the bed and saw her husband look up from his letter and smile.
“The Lady Elizabeth is back at court. I suspect she has been summoned as a hostage for King Philip’s safety. If Mary dies, his future will depend on Elizabeth. Apparently, people are already speculating that he will marry her.”
“I doubt she will have him—or any man,” Kate said, sitting down on the opposite side of the hearth.
“Pure maidenly modesty,” he observed dismissively.
“Don’t be too sure. She has never wavered from that opinion since she was eight.”
“Well, she may have to. If she ever does become queen, she will have to marry.” He looked again at the letter. “She was brought to court secretly because she is still under the Queen’s displeasure, but she is staying in apartments near to those of King Philip. What do you make of that?”
“Maybe it signifies his favor toward her. I hope so.”
“It is strange for him to be her advocate!”
“Perhaps he thinks he can turn her.”
“It sounds as if she is still under house arrest, for she is not allowed to leave her rooms, although she is permitted to receive visitors.”
“You don’t think…” An idea had just occurred to Kate. “If I went to court, I might be able to see her.”
“No!” Francis looked alarmed. “It says here that most people are staying away, so if you did, you would be drawing attention to yourself. And it would not be seemly for you to appear at court in your advanced condition. Besides, you have no business to be there.”
Kate subsided, feeling frustrated. “Could I write to her?”
“Not yet. Let us see how the wind is blowing.”
—
When, in late May, a letter arrived from one of Francis’s former colleagues in the Gentlemen Pensioners, they learned that Elizabeth had had a private meeting with King Philip.
No one knew what had passed between them, but Elizabeth was now at liberty and in high favor with him, although it was said that the Queen was not so warm toward her, and that Elizabeth was keeping largely to her rooms. So far, there was no sign of the royal baby arriving.
Prayers were being offered up for the Queen’s safe deliverance. So much depended on it.
“It does indeed,” Francis commented, his face set in stone.
—
It was an unseasonably cold, rainy summer. In the muddy fields, the corn failed to ripen, presaging a bad harvest and the prospect of famine during the winter months. Old folks were saying that the like had not been seen for fifty years.
“It is a judgment of God upon the Queen for the persecution,” Kate said bitterly.
“God would not be so cruel,” Francis reproved her.
“But He governs the weather, does He not?” Kate retorted.
“You should not speak so flippantly of Him,” he admonished. “He works in mysterious ways, and maybe His hand is to be seen in what is happening in London.”