THE BARRON’S HALL, PENSHURST PLACE, KENT, AUTUMN 1523
‘More wine,’ Henry shouted to his cupbearer. ‘We are having a Camelot-themed joust. Anne would make a good Guinevere, would she not, Tom?’
‘No,’ Wyatt said, softly, his eyes narrowing. ‘I think Anne would make a much better Igraine.’
Anne gave Wyatt a thoughtful look. She knew what he meant immediately; that he’d said it aloud made her a little afraid for him. Igraine could read the secrets of men’s hearts, and she saw in the dark heart of the King that he wanted to violate her.
The King put down his cup.
‘Igraine was a witch,’ Moore said as he approached.
‘Have a seat,’ the King said, gesturing to a stool.
Moore did as he bid. ‘Which brings me onto another matter, Your Grace.’
Henry inclined his head. ‘That is?’
‘The matter of witches and charmers. The clergy reports their numbers are growing here in Kent.’
‘Healers are growing in number here,’ her father remarked. ‘The crops have failed, and there is sickness and hunger amongst the layfolk.’
‘The women I speak of are not healers, Thomas, they’re instruments of the Devil who spread his heresy,’ Moore snapped back.
Wyatt shifted uncomfortably and patted the King’s dog, Cutt, who laid down at his feet like a threshold rug. ‘God created plants with healing properties, my Lord. The cunning folk hereabout cultivate them to cure ailments.’
‘It is by the power of the Devil that they produce their miracles,’ Moore spat.
Her father rolled his eyes in exasperation. ‘You claim the Saints perform miracles by prayer and power, do you not?’
Moore sighed and, with his handkerchief, patted his sweaty forehead.
‘The passions of the mind change the body. It’s the same with angry and frightened men; they break out into a sweat,’ her father remarked.
A slow smile spread across the King’s face, and he took a sip of his wine.
‘You don’t seem to appreciate the danger, Sir Thomas,’ said Moore.
Her father gave a lazy shrug. ‘A few peasant women who work the land, yule the harvest, and heal the sick. Where is the danger?’
‘Witches stir up the elements aided by the Devil, driving men to madness and inordinate lusts.’ Moore rested his eyes on Anne.
Anne looked away.
‘God disturbs the elements, which drive to distraction the minds of men, such as those who have lost their faith in him,’ her father retorted.
Moore slammed his goblet down. The wine slopped onto the trestle. ‘Do you suppose I have lost my faith in him? The failed harvests were wrought by the medium of fallen angels, at whose hands the children of Israel in the desert were afflicted. The Devil is working through the medium of witches in the guise of healing. Their incarnations, charms, and conjurings spread heresy.’
Her father’s eyes narrowed. ‘Moses smote Egypt with ten plagues.’
‘You’re beating the air, Sir Thomas, and blinding yourself to the truth,’ Bishop Fisher remarked as he joined them. ‘The Devil’s power is far greater than mere bodily power. It performs spiritual actions. Assuming the body through dreams. Changing the perceptions and befouling the emotions of rational men.’ He cast a glance at Thomas Boleyn. ‘They are unable to discern when the Devil is therewith.’
Her father shook his head and sighed. ‘The power of the imagination changes the body.’ He pointed at the blazing fire in the middle of the hall. ‘If there were no fire in the grate you’d jump over it. But when a fire burns within it, you wouldn’t dare because your imagination would press upon your mind the idea of being burnt. You see, it has nothing to do with the power of the Devil, and everything to do with the power of the human mind as God intended.’
Bishop Fisher shook his head with a sigh. ‘Holy scripture tells of the fire that fell from Heaven, that struck Job’s sheep and servants. And of a violent wind that threw down the four corners of his house, killing his children.’ His voice sharpened a notch. ‘All these things the Devil can do alone, for his power is great, but he makes use of a witch because he is seeking perdition in her.’
From his chair by the fire, Lord Wyatt erupted in a thunderous laugh that seemed to shake the very air.
Heads turned towards him in shock. The tension simmered like a boiling pan.
Lord Wyatt pointed his finger at Bishop Fisher. ‘O scorpion, what poison you have in your tail. Your pestilent leaven turns the sweet bread of Christ’s doctrine to the bitterness of gall.’
‘My lord,’ Fisher exclaimed, his voice a mix of shock and indignation.
‘My Lord Bishop.’ Lord Wyatt’s voice was louder than the bishop’s.
Anne felt her nerves tighten.
‘Who gave you the authority to persecute?’ Wyatt’s father demanded. ‘God commands you to bless. He says, Bless them that persecute you. Love thy neighbour. I’ve listened to you this evening prattle on about how long you’ve been in the priesthood, yet the word of God is as foreign to you as it is to a Turk. Christ saved many.’ He raised a finger. ‘And not by ransoms to buy indulgences or by seeking to enlist dead saints to pray for us. These things are the falsehoods of the Devil.’
Moore’s face twisted with anger, ready to retort, but Fisher raised a hand, his own expression set and forceful. ‘The Pope has the power to abrogate laws, and to dispense with all things, even the precepts of Christ,’ he declared. With a nod that indicated he considered the discussion closed, Fisher turned to the King. ‘I bid Your Grace goodnight. God keep thee and protect thee.’ Looking to the others, he said, ‘I shall pray for you all.’ Then he walked away.
Lord Wyatt shook his head. To the King he said, ‘I shall also retire, since we have a long ride to Greenwich tomorrow.’
Henry nodded, his expression bland.
‘I believe we must introduce heresy hunters, Your Grace,’ Moore said, as if what had gone before had not occurred. His dark eyes were like a window into hell, and the intensity of his stare unnerved Anne. He was unclean in his dealings with others, like one of the wild animals spoken of in Leviticus. She had heard tales of bloody violence against women while in France. Of perfectly innocent incidents twisted into witchcraft. Given the men’s reactions to one another, Anne did not say anything more. It was wiser to listen. There was a madness amongst them that was contagious.
‘What should be done?’ Henry asked in a sceptical tone.
‘Witches poison the wellsprings of life,’ Moore replied with an earnestness that was truly unnerving. ‘They must be rooted out and destroyed.’
Anne wondered how Henry tolerated Moore, but like Bishop Fisher, Moore had served his father and had known Henry since he was a boy, teaching and influencing him in matters of faith. Along with Bishop Fisher and Cardinal Wolsey, Moore kept a tight grip on the business of the land, which allowed the King to spend his days hunting and feasting.
Henry’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you suggest?’
Moore took a swig of wine. ‘Most excellent,’ he said, licking his lips. ‘Confession cleanses the soul and torture reintroduces feeling into their numb bodies.’
Anne saw Wyatt exchange a glance with her father, whose opinion of Moore’s proposal was clear on his face. Henry maintained a dignified countenance, keeping his thoughts to himself.
‘Pilliwinckes upon the fingers will ensure we obtain confessions,’ Moore insisted.
Anne shivered, and even her father gasped. That Moore’s evil thoughts might find a lawful outlet filled her with fear.
‘You’d advocate the use of thumbscrews on innocent women. They crush the flesh and bones,’ her father said, furiously.
‘I would,’ Moore said with equal fury. ‘Pilliwinckes will leave them crippled so they could be identified and tracked. And that is mercy. Some would say they should meet the rough rope and short drop.’
Wyatt glowered murderously at Moore. ‘What you are suggesting is preposterous. The women amongst the cunning folk are healers of the sick, not handmaidens of the Devil!’
‘Where do they get their power to heal?’ Moore hissed. Addressing Henry, he said. ‘If pilliwinckes fail, I suggest wrenching to break them.’
‘That would create further discontent amongst the villagers, causing them to fear their King. In Europe, such a response has caused lynch mobs and uprisings,’ Anne’s father pointed out.
The King looked thoughtfully between her father and Moore. ‘I am satisfied there is no need to employ heresy hunters here in Kent. The Church has a means of dealing with maleficent magic.’ A calculating note entered Henry’s voice. ‘You may employ whatever means you please in the jurisdiction of your property,’ he said to Moore.
‘I shall employ the methods cited in the Malleus Maleficarum.’ Moore’s lips curled in sour satisfaction.
‘The book is an abomination that advocates the extermination of innocent women,’ spoke Wyatt, looking to Anne’s father for support.
‘The Devil works through a witch, you say?’ her father said to Moore, who nodded, and Anne knew he was going to say something that would be difficult for Moore to counter. Moore’s shoulder twitching told her he knew it too.
‘The witch is his instrument?’ her father pressed.
‘Yes.’
‘It stands to reason then, that since an instrument depends upon the will of whoever uses it and does not act of its own free will, no charge or punishment should be bought against these women.’
‘You are very wise, Sir Thomas,’ said the King. ‘But I shall have no more talk of witches or charmers tonight as I intend on enjoying my time here in Kent.’ He sipped his wine and stared at Anne with predatory eyes and moistened lips, putting an end to the distasteful discussion with the finality of royal prerogative. ‘Your daughter is beautiful tonight, Thomas. She looks as innocent as a snow-white deer in that dress.’
Her father’s eyes flickered from one to the other. ‘Ahh, she is, but she looks tired to me.’
‘I am, papa.’ Anne gave a deliberate yawn.
The voices of Compton and Suffolk drifted through the air and a moment later they staggered into the hall, clearly drunk. ‘Forgive the late intrusion, I’ve cleared him out at dice,’ Suffolk told them, putting a comforting arm around Compton’s shoulder.
Anne seized the opportunity afforded by their entrance and rose to her feet, dusting the breadcrumbs from her gown. ‘May I be excused?’ she asked, having no desire to listen to the ramblings of Compton and Suffolk, who were coarse and unruly when drunk.
‘Of course,’ her father said. ‘I will join you too, if Your Grace doesn’t object?’
‘And I,’ Wyatt added.
The King waved them away. ‘You have leave.’