him clearly—Mr. William Kyme, a young and ardent man in need of a wife. He was very willing to take the younger sister in place of the elder.
In vain she had prayed and pleaded with her father. “A daughter’s first duty is obedience; so said the Scriptures,” she was told.
So said the Scriptures. And she would not fight her destiny.
Now was the most horrible of all her memories: the warm, eager hands of Mr. Kyme, and herself trembling supine in the marriage bed.
He had been kind at first. “My poor sweet child, you do not understand. You are so young…so innocent. You must not be afraid.”
She had lain, shuddering, bearing that torture as later she would bear others.
Resignation came to her at length, but Mr. Kyme did not wish for resignation. There were angry scenes. “Unnatural!” That was the word he had flung at her.
“Leave me alone,” she had begged. “Divorce me…do what you will. But release me from this life which is distasteful to me.”
He had not been, she was sure, more brutal, more unkind than any man would have been. “I will not let you go,” he had stormed at her. “You are my wife and you shall be my wife.”
She would awake even now with those words in her ears, so that she was almost glad to be in this cold cell because it at least meant escape from a life which had been too humiliating and distasteful to be borne.
“I will make a normal woman of you yet,” he had said; but he had changed his mind when he had discovered her books.
“What is this?” he had demanded. “Are you one of these Reformers?”
“I believe in the teachings of Martin Luther.”
“Do you want to make us the King’s prisoners?”
“I would as soon be a prisoner of the King as of your sensuality.”
“You are mad. I will stop this reading and writing.”
He had locked her in her room, destroyed her books.
But she had found him to be vulnerable, and she rejoiced that this was so. The servants were talking of her leanings toward the new faith, and when a man’s wife is implicated, how easy it is to cast suspicion on that man!
Mr. Kyme was such a rich man; and it often happened that rich men were considered most worthy prey by those who wished to bring an accusation which might result in the confiscation of lands and goods. He trembled for his possessions; he was ready to give up his wife rather than place his lands and coffers in jeopardy.
“You will leave this house at once,” he had said. “I’ll dissociate myself from you and your evil teachings.”
And the day she left his house was a happy one for her. Now, kneeling in her cell, she was glad of that experience. It had taught her courage; and she knew she would have great need of courage.
Early that morning she heard footsteps in the passage outside her cell; the door opened and two men came in.
“Prepare yourself for a journey, Mistress Askew,” one said. “You are to go to the Guildhall this day for questioning.”
SHE STOOD BEFORE her judges. The strong, pure air had made her faint; the sunlight had seemed to blind her; and her limbs would scarcely carry her. But she did not care, for though her body was weak, her spirit was strong.
She looked up at the open timberwork roof and down at the pavings of Purbeck stone. It was warm in the great hall, for the early summer sun was streaming through the windows, picking out the carvings of the Whittington escutcheons.
Her trial was considered of some importance; yet she was not afraid. She knew that she was in the right, and it seemed to her that, with God and his company of angels on her side, she need have no fear of the Lord Mayor of London, of Bonner, Gardiner, Wriothesley and all the nobles of the Catholic faction who were there to discountenance her and hasten her to the stake.
She heard the words of the Lord Mayor:
“You are a heretic and condemned by the law if you stand by your opinion.”
Her voice rang out—a strong voice to come from such a frail body. “I am no heretic. Neither do I deserve death by any law of God. But concerning the faith which I have uttered, I will not deny it, because, my lords, I know it to be true.”
Wriothesley said: “Do you deny the sacrament to be Christ’s own body and