William Tyndale patted the breast pocket of his jerkin for the twentieth time since leaving St. Bart's Fair. Still there. But of course it was. Even the pettiest thief among this lot would not risk the stocks to steal a book worth no more than three shillings. It had probably cost no more than ten pence to print, but it was priceless to him.
He strode down the middle of the street to avoid the slime-filled ditches, ignoring the jeers and catcalls from the drunks and painted women who groped each other in the shadowy doorways of Cock's La
Tudor England is a dangerous place to harbor Lutheran sympathies, yet brave souls like John Gough and his sister Kate smuggle protestant bibles into the country and translate them into English for