Anne quickly approached the great hall, where the babble of voices grew louder. One voice stood out, energetic and mischievous. She tiptoed closer.
The voice belonged to a middle-aged chaplain clad in long wool robes trimmed with fur, who was talking to some men she did not know.
‘Do you know who the most diligent bishop in England is? I see you listening and hearkening that I should name him. I will tell you.’ The man kneaded his hands together. ‘It’s the Devil. He’s never out of his diocese; you shall never find him idle. Call for him when you will, he is ever at home, he is ever at the plough. Where the Devil is resident, they’re away with books and up with candles. Away with Bibles and up with beads. Away with the light of the Gospel and up with wax tapers. At noonday down with Christ’s cross and up with the purgatory pick-purse.’
The eyes of the listening men were wide. One of them went to speak, but the chaplain raised his hand. ‘Away with clothing the naked, the poor, and the impotent. Up with the decking of images and garnishing of stones and stocks. Down with God and the most holy word. Up with traditions, human councils, and a blinded pope. Oh, that our prelates would be as diligent to sow the corn of good doctrine as Satan is to sow cockle and darnel.’
One of his companions laughed and patted the speaker on the back. ‘Never a truer word spoken, Hugh. This is why ordinary men need educating.’
Anne smiled at the man’s passion, his words having impassioned her too, and stepped into the hall. ‘Behold the sower went forth to sow and as he sowed some fell by the wayside,’ she said with great feeling.
The chaplain stood up. ‘Aye, my lady, indeed. Man is but a grain of mustard seed.’
Anne’s response was instant. ‘Which is less than all seeds but when it is grown, it is greater than the herbs and becometh a tree, so that birds of heaven come and lodge in its branches thereof.’
‘Christ’s third parable,’ the man said with a smile on his lips, and he beckoned her forward. ‘I am Hugh Latimer.’
‘Anne Boleyn.’
Latimer turned to the man on his left. ‘This is Thomas Cranmer.’
‘My Lady,’ Cranmer said and nodded.
Anne dipped him a curtsey and studied him for a moment. He was tall and stocky with dark almond-shaped eyes that flashed her a look of approval.
‘And this gentleman is Nicholas Ridley.’
The younger man smiled warmly. ‘Sir Thomas’s younger daughter?’
‘I am,’ said Anne, pulling her shawl closer around her.
‘You’re welcome to join us. We are just about to discuss some Bible passages over a jug of wine,’ smiled Hugh Latimer.
‘That’s kind of you, but I’m on my way to find the Duke of Northumberland’s son, although I’d be honoured to take wine with you another time.’
‘I’ll look forward to it. You’ll find Percy of Northumberland below.’ Hugh waved her on her way and Anne hurried across the hall to the door that led down to the wine cellar.
