Regarding his wife, Henry was in a benevolent mood. He was happier than he had been since they had brought him the news of Catharine Howard’s infidelities. The fact was he had needed a wife, and now he had one. She was a good little woman who gave him much pleasure. He wished, therefore, to be left alone with his pleasure; and if Master Gardiner had the good sense he imagined himself to have, he should realize this.
“Your permission, Sire, to search the houses of Windsor, and I will bring you proof.”
“Oh…very well, Sir Bishop. Go to your searching.”
“Every room in Windsor, Sire, shall be ransacked in the service of Your Grace.”
The King narrowed his eyes. “You’ll not search the Castle apartments, my lord. You’ll keep your fingers out of them, Sir Bishop.”
Gardiner bowed, well pleased. So the King already knew of the Queen’s sympathies, and he did not wish to be disturbed with the knowledge. This could mean only one thing: the present Queen was in such high favor that her religious opinions were of little moment. They were to be ignored… for the time being.
Certainly the Bishop was not displeased. Once the King had tired of his little pig, he would be only too eager to listen to an account of her heresies. And, cogitated the Bishop, if and when that came about, and Master Thomas Seymour returned to court …the stage would be set.
THE BISHOP’S FIRST action after that interview with the King was to send for a certain Dr. London, whom he knew to be in the town of Windsor.
Gardiner had a special reason for sending for this man. He had watched the career of the Doctor of Divinity and knew him for a man of great resource and cunning. Dr. London had worked under Thomas Cromwell in the dissolution of the monasteries and he had been the perfect tool of his master. Cromwell had said: “Bring me evidence of the infamies which persist in such and such an abbey.” And Dr. London had never failed to bring what was required of him; he was an indefatigable exposer of foulness; he was a reviver of old scandals; and if he could find no scandal foul enough to please his master, well then, he was a man of ready wit and it was not beyond his power to invent them.
Moreover, Dr. London was a man who needed to show the Bishop his loyalty. As he had once been Cromwell’s man, he could not easily become Gardiner’s. In these dangerous times a man must take sides; and Dr. London had shown the Bishop that he wished to establish himself as a good Catholic.
The man had wisdom. He looked into the future. The present King was ailing; his son was weak; and there was Catholic Mary waiting to take the throne. Dr. London—like Gardiner—saw a return to Rome not far distant. He had no wish to feed the flames of Smithfield.
Such a man, the Bishop was sure, would work with zeal.
“Dr. London, I have work for you. You have shown me that you wish for preferment. You have sworn loyalty to me and the true religion. Now is the time to prove it.”
“I am at your service, my lord Bishop.”
“The task to which I am appointing you, good Dr. London, is the smellingout of heretics in Windsor.”
“Ah. They abound in this town, sir. They abound.”
“Alas, ’tis true. I have the King’s order to bring them to justice. Whom do you suspect of heresy?”
“There is a priest, Anthony Pearson. I have made notes of his sermons, your lordship. He has said enough to send him to the stake.”
“Mayhap examination of his house will lead you to others.”
“I doubt it not.”
“Go to it, good Doctor. I doubt not that you will find evidence against these rogues.”
“My lord Bishop, it is said that these people are given aid by some at court.”
The Bishop nodded. “For the time, Doctor, let us keep to the herd. We will shoot at the head deer later.”
The Doctor’s eyes gleamed. He understood. Great things lay ahead of him. This was but a beginning. He would perform the task required of him, and another and greater would come his way. That was what the good Bishop, the mighty Bishop, was telling him.
“How many heretics would my lord Bishop require?”
“Not too many. We might say… four. They should be humble men. The court is to be left alone. Start with this priest Pearson and see whither that leads.”
The Doctor bowed himself out of the Bishop’s presence and at once went to his task.
AS HE LEFT THE Castle of Windsor, John Marbeck was singing softly. It had been a successful evening, a wonderful evening indeed when the King had singled him out to express his pleasure.
John Marbeck was a simple man, a deeply religious man, a man of ideals. His greatest desire was not that he might win fame and fortune at court, but that he might help to give the Bible to the people of England.
He had many friends in Windsor, men with ideals similar to his own; he met them in the course of his duties at church and he sometimes joined gatherings at their homes and, on occasions, they visited his. During these meetings there was one subject which they discussed with passion: religion.
Each of these men wished to do some work which would aid others to reach the great Truth which they believed they had discovered.
Pearson did it by his preaching, as did Henry Filmer, a friar, who, being turned from his monastery, had become interested in the new learning and was now a vicar in Windsor.
Marbeck’s friend Robert Testwood, a fine musician and the head of the choir to which Marbeck belonged, had introduced him to these men; and how happy Marbeck had been to show them the great work which he was doing!
“I shall go on working at my Concordance,” he told them, “until I have made possible a greater understanding of the Bible.”
“Then keep it secret,” Pearson had warned him.
It was strange, thought Marbeck, looking back at the gray walls of the castle, how simple men such as himself and his friends, knowing the risks they ran, should continue to run them.
Robert Testwood had said: “This is more than a religious issue, my friends. We do these things because within us we feel that a man should have freedom to think as he wishes.”
Marbeck was not sure of that. The religious issue, to him, was all-important. And on this night he wished merely to be happy. The King had complimented him on his voice; the Queen had smiled graciously upon him—the Queen, who, some said, was one of them.
He smiled, thinking of the future. Perhaps he would dedicate his Concordance to that gracious lady.
He was singing the song he had sung before the King, as he let himself into his house.
He stood at the door listening. He heard noises within. Strangers were in his house.
His heart was beating fast as he opened the door and went into that room in which he did his work. There stood two men; he noticed that his cupboard had been turned out, as had the drawers of his table. In the hands of one were several sheets of his Concordance. These men had forced the lock; they had discovered his secret.
“What… what do you here?” he stammered.
“John Marbeck,” said one of the men, “we come on the King’s business. You are our prisoner. There will be questions for you to answer.
“Questions… questions? I beg of you, give me those papers…. They are mine….”
“Not so,” said the man. “These papers are our prisoners also. Come, master chorister. There is no time to waste.”
“Whither do you take me?”
“To London. To the Marshalsea.”
Marbeck was trembling, remembering tales he had heard and had bravely not heeded. Now they were close to him and he would have to heed them. He thought of torture and death; and as he left Windsor for London in the company of his captors he thought of the smell of crackling wood and burning flesh; he thought of the martyr’s death.