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A Tale of Souls - The Church in Turmoil

By Karen Rees

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CHAPTER 1 - MAY 1535 - ANTWERP, THE LOW COUNTRIES

"Jane, they've arrested William Tyndale!"
Anna Poyntz's frantic cry erupted with her from the passage connecting street to courtyard and momentarily drowned out St. Jacob's distant chiming bells.
Jane Alton, mending her husband's linen shirt in the May sunshine, jerked upright to stare at the plump panting woman before her.
For years she'd feared this would happen, prayed that it wouldn't. Now it had.
Anna threw her apron over her head and burst into tears.
"Who arrested William? And when?"
Anna lowered the apron and took a shuddering breath.
"I don't know. But that judas Henry Phillips sprung the trap."
An image of the young Englishman, newly arrived in Antwerp, flashed across her mind. Anna continued.
"They bound William and dragged him off not five minutes ago."
“You mean men dared to enter the English House and arrest him?"
"No. It was outside the passageway. I was returning from the tailors and saw it all. Phillips was taking William out to dine. Just when they stepped into the street, I saw him point at William. Then two men sprang out. They grabbed that poor priest and carried him off. Why did he have to go out? He was safe in the English House with us.”
As Anna finished, Jane struggled to order her thoughts. They must help William. But how? They didn't even know who'd arrested him. Her mouth tightened. Whoever it was, the Church would be involved.
"Where have they taken him?"
"I've no idea. I couldn't think of anything but to tell you. Thomas is gone to Barrow for a month. I thought your husband...."
"Owen's on a buying trip." A thought abruptly came into focus. "Did they confiscate William's writings?"
"They just hustled him away."
"They'll come back.” She leaped to her feet. “Whoever took William will want his writings. We've got to save them."
She glanced around. Four-year-old Margaret, armed with a stick, was digging in the lavender bed. She hurried to the house and leaned through an open window. A maid was polishing the pewter. She called the servant to watch her daughter, grabbed Anna's arm and dashed for the street.


The English House, granted to the Merchant Adventurers sixty years earlier by Antwerp's city fathers and viewed almost as inviolate as a foreign embassy, lay just around the corner on Wool Street. Most of the English merchants, including Thomas Poytnz, made their home there. A few like Jane's husband, Owen Alton, rented a private dwelling. Now Jane sped along the narrow busy street praying to beat time.
"But do we dare remove anything?" Anna asked as they were blocked momentarily by a cart piled high with broadcloth bales.
She made no answer. The cart lumbered past. Just ahead, tucked between a mercer's shop and the high wall of a rich man's dwelling, lay the English-House entrance. She rushed down the narrow passageway, Anna at her heels, and came out into the cobbled courtyard of the huge brick complex with its unusual hourglass-shaped tower.
"What if they return and catch you?" Anna said as they entered the house. Under her pale brows, her blue eyes were wide with fright.
"Stay here and keep watch. If they come, stall them.”
Without waiting for agreement and battling her own fear, Jane raced across the long hall, up a flight of wooden stairs and down a windowed gallery to that portion of the English House where the Poltnz family dwelt. Once there, she sped up a second flight, across two smaller rooms and up a third and steeper set of stairs. She halted at the top, legs wobbling, hand braced against the wall.
When her legs steadied, she hurried across the passage room and into William's small chamber. Despite the lack of physical comforts, it provided him a welcome haven after eleven years of running from churchmen for the crime, punishable by death, of producing England's first printed, vernacular New Testament.
She glanced frantically around. Evidence of William's diligent scholarship lay everywhere. Erasmus's Greek New Testament, Jerome's Vulgate and a copy of the Septuagint were stacked with a Hebrew lexicon on the small table beside his narrow bed. Copies of his revised Testament and printed Pentateuch shared a long bench with stacks of paper. More books could be seen through the latticework of a small wall-hung cupboard. The writing table under the single glazed window held ink pot, quills and paper, some blank, most covered with script and stacked.
She swallowed, bewildered. How could she know what William would have her save? Better to take the most irreplaceable works, the ones not yet printed.
She hurriedly scanned the top pages on the writing table. They were part of William's recently completed book on the sacraments. She scooped up the thick pile and started for the door. The sound of Anna's protests halted her. She peered out. A black felt cap appeared coming up the stairs at the far end of the passage room. She was too late.
She noiselessly shoved the door shut and glanced around the room, desperately seeking an escape. The window was useless. It dropped thirty feet to the cobblestone courtyard. Abruptly, she recalled the hiding place that Thomas and Owen had built for William in a recess beyond the bed.
She quickly stepped to the corner and groped along the panel edging for the release. Anna's voice again rose in objection. Something moved. A wall section swung out. She stepped through into the dark confines and pulled in her skirt tails. Grasping the leather strap, she jerked the panel shut just as William's chamber door crashed open.
Clutching the precious sheets close, hardly risking a breath, she listened as the men set to work. Having once witnessed the results of just such a search, she could easily visualize the scene. The men would be scooping William's possessions into coarse cloth sacks, heedless of torn pages and broken book spines.
A piece of furniture crashed to the floor. She heard voices and the smooth sound of cloth ripping.
Her stomach lurched. William had entertained Phillips in this very room. Had the traitor somehow learned of this bolthole? She tightened her grip on the leather strap.
"He had money from the merchants." That was Phillips, his tone sharp with avarice. "Did you find it?"
"It was in his pallet."
"I'll take it." Phillips again.
"No, I'll carry it."
"Are you sure that was all?"
"We know how to do a proper job. That's the lot. Let's go."
Footsteps neared her hiding place. Her heart stopped. After a lifetime, they moved away. She heard a door latch drop. Silence.
Her heart started again. She slowly counted to ten then cracked the panel. The room was empty. She let the door swing wide, her hand still tight on the leather pull, as she looked around.
William's gutted pallet lay crumpled on the bed frame, its straw stuffings scattered indecently across the floor. An overturned ink pot, a runnel of black and a single broken quill were all the writing table now held. The rough wooden bench lay on its side under the empty wall cabinet. Except for the furniture, the room was bare. Not a book or pamphlet, not a single sheet of paper, used or blank, remained. Even William's few simple garments were missing from their pegs. All sign of his nine month sojourn here had disappeared as surely as had he himself.
Hardly daring to breath, she stepped from her haven, quickly deposited the rescued writings inside and shoved the panel closed. She tiptoed across the room and lifted the latch. The passage room was empty.
Heart pounding anew, she fled William's room and hurried for the stairs. Halfway there, her knees began to bang together. Curious that, now it was over, she should start shaking. She collapsed onto a window seat. Only when she reached to steady her twitching jaw did she discover that her face was wet with tears.
When her legs could finally carry her to the ground floor, she found Anna slumped on a bench in the hall.
"Where were you?" Anna said. "I was sure they'd catch you. They burst in just moments after you went up the stairs."
She joined Anna on the bench.
"I hid in William's secret hole."
"You were a fool to run such a risk."
"I didn't expect them so soon.” She took a deep unsteady breath. “Owen should be back tomorrow. Send Thomas a message. He'll want to know. We also need to tell John Rogers."
"The house chaplain isn't the only one to tell. Governor Marsh will be furious. They've violated the English-House privileges."
"If only we knew where they were taking William."
Anna's despondent expression lifted fractionally.
"To Vilvorde Castle, twenty miles from here. One of the officers told me. Oh, Jane, what should we do now?"
"Pray, and wait for our husbands. There's little else we can do."


Jane tenderly brushed back a strand of her daughter's brown hair before tucking her in for her nap. Eight years of marriage had produced two miscarriages, one stillborn son and this hazel-eyed cherub. As she bent to kiss Margaret's cheek, she heard the clomp of boots on brick in the courtyard below. She crossed to the open casement and looked out. Her husband was home.
Owen was entering the parlor as she came down the stairs. He dropped his traveling bag onto the red-painted chest and turned to greet her. His sacking-brown hair hung in lank sweat-darkened strands, and his gray eyes were abnormally bright.
She peered anxiously into Owen's flushed face and lay a hand against his strong neck.
"You've a fever."
"I know. A storm caught me yesterday. I awoke this morning full of aches. All I want now is bed."
Slipping an arm around her, Owen started for the stairs. She pulled back, weighed down with bad news that must be told. First, though, she would see to his needs.
"Go on up. I'll fetch warm water and have Cook make some gruel."


A short while later, washed and wearing a clean nightshirt, Owen settled back against the feather pillows with a contented sigh. She could delay no longer. She perched on the mattress edge and took one of his square calloused hands between her slender ones.
"Owen, I've bad news. Officials from Brussels arrested William yesterday. They took him to Vilvorde Castle."
Owen's hand tightened on hers, and his face blanched under its tan.
"The churchmen will see him burned."
With an anguished groan, he sat up and pulled her close. She held him tightly, her cheek pressed against his bowed head. She knew how important William was to him. Despite the dangers, Owen had spent the last eleven years smuggling the priest's scriptures into England.
He released her and shifted back against the bolster.
"He's been so careful to stay hidden all these years ... and now with so many friends to warn him of danger ... even some of the town council.... How could they have gotten him?”
"An Englishman named Henry Phillips arrived in Antwerp just days after you left. I think someone sent him to trap William." Vision blurring, she described William's capture. "Anna has sent word to Thomas. We're expecting him in a day or so."


Anna's message brought more immediate results. A well-lathered horse delivered Thomas Poyntz that same night. The following morning, while a robin sang from the apple tree in the Alton's tiny back garden, Jane, Thomas and John Rogers gathered at Owen's bedside. Owen sat draped in a murrey coverlet, his eyes almost free of fever.
"How has the English House taken William's arrest?" Owen asked.
"Governor Marsh plans to lodge a protest with the Brussels government since they didn't have authorization to take William's belongings," the young sandy-haired chaplain answered. "He says it's a matter of honor and country's rights."
"That's all he cares about," Thomas said, setting his bearded jaw. "He's never been favorable toward William. He only tolerated his presence because so many of the merchants were for him."
"Letters of protest could give the Brussels government second thoughts," Owen said.
"Some think a knife between Phillips's ribs is the best recourse," John said.
"If only King Henry would intervene with Charles V," Thomas added.
"The Emperor isn't likely to heed anything the King wants," John broke in. "Not after Henry divorced his aunt Catherine and declared his cousin Mary a bastard. Besides, for all we know, the King may have sent Phillips. He's certainly tried in the past to get William."
"I suspect one of the bishops like Stokely," Owen said. "With Queen Ann, Archbishop Cranmer and Thomas Cromwell all favorable to the Reformed faith and having the King's ear, his attitude toward William should have softened."
Thomas turned to Jane.
"Anna said you saved some of William's work. What did you get?"
"His manuscript on the sacrament."
"You didn't get his Old Testament translations?"
She shook her head in dismay.
"I have them in my chamber," John said. "I'd asked to see them a few days ago.”
"Thank God. I had so little time."
"Hide them with what Jane took," Thomas said. "We can't risk losing them to a further search. Phillips may know about them. If he does, so will the churchmen." Then, "How are we going to get William out of Vilvorde?"
Silence fell. She fiddled with her ruby ring as she mulled on the problem. Owen broke the oppressive stillness.
"Pray fervently, and flood the Brussels court with protest letters. If King Henry would send one also...."
"We could write to Thomas Cromwell asking him to speak to the King," John said.
Owen nodded. "We'll need someone to deliver the letter."
"I'll do it," she said. Ignoring Owen's look of startled objection, she continued. "I once met Master Cromwell at Sir Thomas More's house. I can bring William's plight to the Secretary's notice."


After seeing John and Thomas on their way, she returned to their bedchamber. Owen, draped in the coverlet, was standing by the window staring down at the back garden. She joined him, knowing what he would say.
"I don't want you to go to England."
"I may not need to," she said lightly. "Thomas and John will be looking to find a man. They were too polite to say, but they don't think a woman capable of gaining Cromwell's help."
"That's not what concerns me.”
She continued as if he'd not spoken.
"I can understand John thinking that. He's not married. At least not yet. Hearing the talk, he may soon be, thanks to a certain Flemish mercer's daughter. But Thomas should know better. Anna manages her properties quite well."
"There's a difference between managing a business and walking into danger."
“You never objected before when I went to England.”
“Those times you were going on manor business. This time you'd be going to London on behalf of a renowned heretic.” He enfolded her in the coverlet. "How many people have gone to the stake in England since we came to Antwerp? In the last few years alone, nearly twenty have died, and many more were forced to recant. I've known five of them personally. It's not been two years since John Frith was burned at Smithfield with that young tailor's apprentice. If he'd stayed here, he'd be alive today."
"The church officials aren't interested in me,” she said, leaning back in his arms. “I haven't written reformist books like John or preached sermons like Hugh Latimer."
"But what if Sir Thomas discovered you spied for the Bible smugglers?”
"Father would have written to tell me. Besides, even if Sir Thomas did suspect, who would listen to him now that he's in the Tower?"
She lay a hand against Owen's neck. He felt cooler than he had yesterday.
"I could also see Howard Willcotte," she said. "It's time he let me hire a new bailiff for Wynnfield Manor. He always has reasons for delaying when I write. Now that you've inherited Stoke Hall from your mother, I suspect he's keeping an eye on your bailiff as well. He could have general oversight for both manors, but let others do the hard work. I want him to enjoy his final years."
"You want to go, don't you.” Then, “Would you see the Denzils?”
She met his sober look.
"Yes." She glanced down at her ruby ring. "Apart from Richard's letter three years ago telling me of Father's death, there's been silence from them for these eight years."
"His letter was kind."
"But carefully impersonal. I need to make my peace with him, and with Nicholas and Cecily. It's still hard to believe that we were friends all those months without knowing Martin Denzil had fathered us all."
"Your mother kept her secret well."
"Too well. I have to face them some day and see if Richard's forgiven me. You do understand, don't you, Owen? With William arrested and the letter to be delivered ... it seems the time's come."
Owen drew her back within the coverlet.
"I still don't like the idea. England's becoming too dangerous for people like us.”
Despite his words, she could tell he was weakening.
"While I'm gone, you can help Thomas flood the Brussels court with protest letters."
"Thomas and John can handle that themselves. I'm going to Vilvorde."
She stiffened in apprehension.
"An Englishman nosing around will draw attention. It's you who'll be walking into danger, not me."
"I'll go as a German merchant like I did when I was smuggling William's Testaments from Worms. I wasn't found out then. I won't be now." Owen released her. "I can't sit here doing nothing. At least I may find a way to contact him before the end."
The finality of his tone caused her to look at him sharply. Her heart quivered.
"You don't think he can be saved?"
"He once told me he expected to end at the stake. But I'll not stop trying to save him as long as there's anything to do."
"Then you'll let me carry the letter to England?"
"Yes," reluctantly, "if Thomas doesn't find a better courier."

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