Page 93 of The Queen’s Witch

“Heretics!”

More men and women gathered outside the church, more riders from great estates, anger feeding anger.

The church doors opened, and people streamed out, asking those outside what had happened. The murmuring grew to shouting. A group of men beside the cathedral wall boosted a man dressed in fustian and leather onto the narrow ledge of a window. From that perch the man faced the crowd to call out in a voice both loud and commanding.

“Friends! Do ye want our taxes raised agin?”

Shouts of “No!” interspersed with a few of “Ye go at it, Nick!”

“Do ye want bishops who be false to the true faith to advise and mislead our most noble King Henry?”

“No!”

“Do ye want our abbeys and priories and monasteries be closed and nuns and brothers—kin to most of ye—left to shift best they can?”

“No!”

“Do ye want the plate in our own church here be taken into the grand houses of Cromwell’s commissioners?”

“No!”

“Do ye want even the baptisms of our babes be taxed?”

“No!” Each response was more thunderous than the last. This man had a gift for oratory.

The shouts died away as men in velvet and satin under fur cloaks emerged from the church. It was evident that they already knew what was transpiring outside. The man on the window ledge shouted, “Sir Edward! Be ye with us or agin us?”

Sir Edward replied, loudly and without hesitation, “We stand with you, Cobbler Melton, against the usurper Cromwell, and in defense of the Church.”

So many cheers rose that I did not hear hoofbeats until a small group of horsemen were almost upon me. I whirled to see Roger’s big bay reined to a hard stop, leading a group of mounted riders. He did not notice me. Over the heads of the mob, Roger shouted, “Sir Edward! This is not the best course!”

Sir Edward curled his mouth and lifted his chin. I knew that look; I had seen it often enough at court. It was the expression of contempt from one born to rank toward one unaccountably raised beyond his station. Anne Boleyn to Mark at Winchester: You must not speak to me as if you are a nobleman. You are an inferior person. Words that Mark had also said to me.

The man on the window ledge, inflamed enough to ignore rank, shouted again to Roger, “Be ye with us or agin us?”

The bay wheeled, and Roger brought him sharply to rein. “I stand with you in defense of the true faith. But—”

No one heard his objection or counsel or caution, not even I. The man on the ledge had reclaimed attention and the crowd cheered him on.

Roger finally noticed me. He rode over and leaned down. “What are you doing here?”

“Lady Cecily—”

“My mother is here? Where?”

“Inside. She—”

“Name of God, Sarah, it is not safe! Get her home at once! I cannot accompany you. I must stay with this mob to try to limit any violence.”

Get her home at once. Cecily had guards, a steward, friends among the great landowners here, yet Roger spoke as if I were in charge. Before I could answer, he turned his horse and moved away. I pushed my way back into the cathedral. Only a few people milled around the wide aisles; most had gone outside. I found Cecily, wrapped in her furs, in a closed pew guarded by three men from Gysbourne Manor.

“Master Ainley was here briefly, my lady. He wishes you to return home immediately and barricade inside the hall.” I added that last on my own. Roger might trust his tenants, but I knew that if violence and looting began, the unscrupulous would not confine themselves to the enemy.

One of the men said, “Mistress, the carriage be seized by the mob. But John and Will stand guard over our horses. They be well armed.”

“Then we will ride,” Cecily said. She looked more like the woman I remembered from Bredham Abbey, calm and capable. “What of Peter Coachman?”

“Safe in his mother’s cottage, my lady.”