The Heretic’s Wife by Brenda Rickman Vantrease

the pages, commenting on how the language had changed and the rich pigments of the illuminations.
    At least it would be with someone who appreciated it, she thought.
    “I shall treasure it,” he said.
    “I hope it does not bring you trouble.”
    “It is the Word of God. It should be worth whatever it costs,” he said, handing her the money. Then, wrapping it back up, he said, “I’m sorry John is not here. Tell him that a shipment is due to arrive in Bristol Channel September third. It should be safe for him to meet it.”
    She had not the inclination to say,
I cannot tell him because he isn’t coming back, and he wouldn’t meet your shipment if he could.
Instead she said, “His memory is bad since he came home. Just in case, give me exact details so I can answer if he asks.”
    “Lord and Lady Walsh, in Little Sodbury. They will know where the goods will land as always. I will not be going. I fear my presence might put everyone in danger. My house is closely watched. But one of the other merchants, a man named Swinford, will be going. He went with us once before. Tell John that Swinford will leave from dockside at dawn on September first.”
    “Swinford, Little Sodbury, dawn,” she repeated, as if she would really pass on the information.
    He picked up the Bible and prepared to leave then turned back briefly. “Tell John to call on me when he feels inclined. I would talk with him. And don’t worry about the Wycliffe Bible. You know where it is should you wantit back at any time.” He inclined his head toward the little leather pouch she held in her hand. “That is but a rental fee. Perhaps you can use some of it to buy more inventory. I will merely hold the Bible for you until such a time as it is safe in England to have such a magnificent thing in your possession.”
    When he had closed the door and left with the Bible, Kate felt an uncontrollable urge to cry and break something. But, alas, there was nothing left to break except her heart, and she was determined that should not happen. One broken heart in the family was quite enough. Besides, the ghost of an idea was forming in her mind.
    September first. Little Sodbury. Swinford. Dawn.
    New inventory.
    But she had promised John. Was that promise binding now that he had abandoned the business? Abandoned her? What if she didn’t sell from the shop? She knew the customers who bought from them. She could call on them directly. Or she could change the name to Gough’s Stationer’s Shop—this would keep the letter of her promise, if not the spirit—and operate under the same license, and sell paper and quills and sealing wax and such, and Lutheran books with a wink and a nod to her old customers.
    She was still scheming when she opened the door to the backroom print shop. The smashed press had been pushed to one corner of the room, where it hulked like some great squat beast, taunting her to action. Littering the floor in crumpled balls lay the reminders of her most recent endeavor. Kicking them aside with more force than necessary, she began to rummage in the storage closet until she found what she was looking for. Hanging on a peg behind a couple of old dried, cracked ink pads was a pair of men’s trousers, an old shirt, and one of John’s caps.
    She had a week until September first, a week in which to contemplate the silly notion. It was a foolish fantasy, but at least the idea of such an adventure gave her something to think about besides the bleakness of her future. She wadded her hair into a ball and put the cap on her head. It felt like a perfect fit.

SEVEN

I was by good honest men informed that in Bristol there were of these pestilent books some thrown into the streets and left at men’s doors by night, that where they durst not offer their poison to sell, they would of their charity poison men for naught.
    —S IR T HOMAS M ORE
ON THE SMUGGLING OF B IBLES
    J ohn Frith lay in the dark, fighting the fatigue that threatened to sink him into