by Jean Plaidy
“But the King is fond of you. He and the Cardinal find you useful.”
“You are right, Margaret, and I will say to you what I would say to no other: Both the King and the Cardinal are only fond of those who can be useful to them, and only so long as they are useful. A man can grow out of his usefulness.”
There was one matter which shocked Thomas deeply. It concerned both King and Cardinal, and taught him much concerning these men; yet when he looked back he realized that it had taught him little that he had not known before—rather it had confirmed his opinion.
The Cardinal had drawn closer to Thomas in those years during which they worked together. To Thomas he was sometimes frank, and when he was sure they were quite alone he would discuss the King in such a manner that, if it were known, might have cost him his head. Such was the measure of his trust in Thomas.
There was in the Cardinal an overweening pride. He believed himself indispensable to the King; and indeed it seemed that this might be so. The King made few decisions without his chief minister beside him. The King was content to amuse himself, knowing that matters of state rested in the capable hands of Thomas Wolsey.
There was no one—apart from the King and Lady Tailbois— who, in the first place, had been more delighted than the Cardinal when the King's natural son had been born to that lady. This had happened some four years ago, a year after the birth of the Princess Mary.
Now, in the year 1521, when the Queen had failed to give the King a son to follow Mary, the Cardinal was faintly disturbed by the affair and he opened his heart to Thomas.
“Why, Master More, when the boy was born, His Grace was like a child with the finest toy that has ever been given to him. He had a son—and for years he had been longing for a son. The Queens abortive attempts at child bearing have worried him considerably, for, as you know, he sets great store upon his manhood; and although it is His Graces custom to blame his partner in an adventure if blame should be necessary, there has been in him a slight fear that he may not be able to get him a son. Elizabeth Blount—or Lady Tailbois, if you wish—has proved him capable of getting a son; and little Henry Fitzroy is the apple of his eye. I was delighted in His Grace's delight. But the years have passed and there is still no male heir to the throne—nor even another girl. Master More, the King is restive, and the Queen does not grow younger: If she were not such a great Princess, and if I did not fear to offend the Spaniards I would suggest the marriage should be dissolved and another Princess found for him—one who could give him sons as Elizabeth Blount has shown that she can do.”
“But there could be no honorable reason for dissolving the marriage,” argued Thomas. “The Queen is the most virtuous of ladies and … she is not past bearing children.”
“You have a fondness for Her Grace, I know; and she favors you. I, myself, have the utmost respect for the lady. But a Queens piety is one thing, her usefulness to her King and country is another. The main object of a royal marriage is to get heirs, and that she has not done with any marked success.”
“These matters are surely in the hands of God.”
The Cardinal smiled his slow, cynical smile. “My friend, if God is slow to act, then it is sometimes necessary for a King's ministers to act without Him. Ah, would the lady had not such powerful relatives! Imagine … a new Queen. A French princess or a protégée of the Emperor Charles of Spain? Think what I could do … keeping them in suspense … having them both in fear that I should ally England with the other. A French princess, I think, would at this time hold the balance of power to greater advantage.”
“My lord Cardinal,” said Thomas, “the gown you wear proclaims you to be a man of God, but the words you speak …”
But Wolsey interrupted: “The words I speak betray me as the Lord Chancellor, the Prime Minister of England. I serve England, which I believe it is my duty to do.”
Nay, thought Thomas, you serve neither God nor England; you serve Thomas Wolsey.
Yet Thomas More understood Thomas Wolsey; he understood that the humble scholar, the tradesman's son, finding himself possessed of a quick brain and great wisdom, together with a quality which could charm a King, could not but rejoice in these possessions. Wolsey was not, by nature, a bad man, but a man made bad by an overwhelming ambition; he was a man who enjoyed his wealth and delighted in it more because he had earned it.
It was all very well for such as Norfolk, Suffolk or Buckingham lightly to assume the honors which they had inherited by their birth; but the man who had inherited no such glory, who by his quick and clever cunning had created honors for himself, naturally prized them the more highly. And how great Wolsey's pride must have been when he considered those noblemen, and could reasonably believe that had they been born the sons of Ipswich merchants, they would doubtless have remained Ipswich merchants for the whole of their lives.
Nay, Wolsey was not entirely bad, for he was kind to his servants and they loved him. All he asked of them was that they should pay homage to his greatness; then he would be the benevolent father to them, caring for them, feeding them and, in his way, loving them.
He had illegitimate children. Not that he was a sensual man. His union with the woman of his choice would seem to lack nothing but regularity. He did not consort with women promiscuously; there was only one woman. As he had decided to use the Church as his ladder to fame, he was denied marriage; therefore he dispensed with the marriage ceremony; but, being a normal man, he did not intend to dispense with all that marriage would have brought him. So he had settled into a quiet and steady relationship which, but for the facts that there had been no ceremony and he was a priest, would not have seemed different from the marriage of Thomas More himself.
He loved his children, but his love took a different form from that of Thomas; and yet Thomas saw that in some ways it was similar. Thomas wished to give his children that which he most treasured; Wolsey wished to shower on his children what he most treasured in the world—power and riches. His son, who was still a boy, was already Dean of Wells and Archbishop of York and Richmond, and thus the possessor of much wealth and power in his own right.
Not a bad man, but a man who worshipped, according to Thomas, false gods. But as Thomas told himself this he knew that Wolsey would say of him: A clever fellow, but a fool in some ways, for he seems to have no idea how to advance his fortune.
Now Wolsey talked of state affairs and how it would be a simple matter to get the King's approbation of his plans. The King was immersed in a new love affair—a saucy girl had taken his attention and made big demands upon it.
“The daughter of Thomas Boleyn. Doubtless you know him. Well, Master Boleyn will enjoy some favor, I doubt not, when his pretty daughter Mary whispers her requests into the King's ear. He found the girl when we went to France last year. She has pleased him ever since. We shall see the brother's advancement too. George Boleyn is a bright boy. It must be his Norfolk blood—at least, I doubt not Norfolk would tell us so. I believe there is a younger girl… in France just now. We much watch this family, for a man like Thomas Boleyn will give himself airs if favored too highly. If little Mary becomes too demanding we shall have to find another lady for His Grace. Ah, Master More, you like not this talk. You would have the King's household like your own in Bucklersbury. But there are few families like yours in the kingdom. That is why I must take such pains to enlighten you.”
This sign of the Cardinal's favor would have delighted most men; it made Thomas uneasy; it meant that he was in danger of being more closely entangled in that from which he longed to escape.
He was disappointed in the young King. Henry seemed bent on pleasure, and much of that treasure which had been left by his father had already been squandered—not only on war, but on futile displays like this last one of the Field of the Cloth of Gold.
What useful purpose had been served? It was known now that England could squander wealth to glorify the King and his Court; and that France could do the same for its gay young King. But what of th
at? Both these monarchs were developing into lechers whose minds could be continuously occupied with devising new sensations in amorous adventurings, rather than in studying a wise state policy.
England had Wolsey; and all Englishmen should be glad of that, because with all his pride, with all his ambition and his love of pomp, Wolsey was a great statesman.
Yet how he was hated by some! It was largely due to Wolsey's carelessly expressed hatred of the Duke of Buckingham that Thomas became aware of new and terrible elements about him.
It was Buckingham's duty at this time to hold the gold bowl in which the King washed his hands; and on one occasion— doubtless to avenge a slight which either Buckingham had given Wolsey, or Wolsey imagined he had, and to show his intimacy with the King—when Henry had washed his hands, Wolsey dipped his own into the bowl and proceeded to wash them.
This was more than the noble Duke could endure, for he could never forget that royal blood ran in his veins and that he was related to Edward the Fourth. That he should be expected to hold the bowl while the son of an Ipswich merchant washed his hands was intolerable. He immediately threw the water over Wolsey's feet.
The King might be amused at this incident and Wolsey might appear to take it lightly, but Buckingham had offended that great pride of the Cardinal's, and no man could do that with impunity.
Now Thomas witnessed the beginning of that terrible feud which could only end in tragedy.
Buckingham had forgotten two things when he made an enemy of the Cardinal. He was in a dangerous position, for his royal blood was something Henry had never liked; he also possessed great wealth, which Henry liked very much. He was one of the richest peers in England.
It was therefore a simple matter for the Cardinal to murmur a few well-chosen words into the royal ear. The King could be reminded that were Buckingham executed on a capital charge, his wealth would become the property of the King; moreover, Buckingham had boasted of his royal blood, and it was not difficult to find someone who had heard the haughty Duke's statement that if the King died without heirs he, Buckingham, would be very near the throne.
The Duke was summoned by the King, and came to Court thinking that he was to be asked to take part in some jousting or jollity. He found himself in the Tower, tried by his peers—none of whom dared find him anything but guilty, since this was the will of the King. Old Norfolk, his friend, must find him guilty, though he shed tears as he did so.
The murder of the Duke shocked England and the Continent as well as Thomas More. It showed what manner of King was this fair-faced boy on whom the marks of lechery and good living had not yet appeared. The handsome boy was exposed as a cruel boy; bluff King Hal had set out on his career of royal murder, to which the deaths of Empson and Dudley were but a prelude.
Thomas now longed more than ever for the solitude of his home, for converse with his friends. Erasmus had written to him: “So you have deserted the scholars for the sake of the Court. Our learned philosopher has become a courtier.”
“Yes,” muttered Thomas; “but most reluctantly.”
There had been a time when it had been said among scholars that the three most learned men in the world were Erasmus of the Netherlands, More of England and Budé of France; but now Mores name was no longer mentioned in this connection. A young Spaniard, Vives, had taken his place.
Yet those in the King's Court knew nothing of that lost eminence which had meant so much to Thomas. They saw him about the Court, and they knew him as a man destined for greatness.
“Thomas More is rising in the world,” they said.
He could not tell them that he did not wish to rise in the world, but to continue to shine in his own.
Meanwhile Martin Luther had published his book, which he called Babylonish Captivity of the Church. The Pope was up in arms and Europe was divided. The Cardinal had another secret conversation with Thomas More.
“His Grace has been expressing much interest in you of late, Master More.”
“Indeed? And for what reason?”
“There are two people in the world whom he hates, fears and envies, while he most jealously observes them. Doubtless you know to whom I refer?”
“The rulers across the water?”
“You are right. The mighty Emperor Charles, who rules other lands besides his native Spain, is one. And perhaps, more than the King hates Charles, he hates the King of France. They know each other well; they are of an age; they are both seekers after pleasure and sensation. Charles and Francis are servants of the Pope. Charles is the Most Catholic King; and Francis is the Most Christian King. Our King has no title to set beside those two, and that grieves him. He feels that this is a matter on which you, more than any other man, can help him.”
“I?”
The Cardinal laid his hand on Thomas's shoulder. “You underestimate yourself. Go now to His Grace. He would have speech with you. Be not too modest. Luck favors you. Go in… and win your honors.”
It was with disturbed thoughts that Thomas made his way to the royal apartments.
WHEN THOMAS entered the King's audience chamber it was to find him with those three friends and statesmen, the Duke of Norfolk, the Duke's son the Earl of Surrey and Henry's brother-in-law the Duke of Suffolk.
This, Thomas realized, was honor indeed, to be received in such company. Here was the King, familiarly talking with his friends, and smiling to receive Thomas More among them; but as he knelt before the King, Thomas was aware of the speculating eyes of the three noblemen.
All were well known to him.
Suffolk was not only the King's brother-in-law, but his greatest friend; a clashing handsome fellow, he had accompanied Henrys sister Mary to France when she had married old Louis, and when, after a few months of life with the vital young Mary, the French King had died, Suffolk had, with great daring, married her before their return to England. But Henry had forgiven that rashness long ago.
The old Duke of Norfolk, Lord Treasurer and Knight of the Garter, was a sturdy old warrior, proud head of one of the noblest families in the country, and was still reaping the rewards of his victory at Flodden Field.
His son, Surrey, slightly older than Thomas, was a gallant soldier, shrewd and high in the favor of the King in spite of the fact that his wife was the daughter of the recently murdered Duke of Buckingham. The King was amused by Surrey at this time, and he liked those who amused him. Surrey—the grim, stern soldier— had become enamored of his wife's laundress, and there was much ribald comment throughout the Court concerning Surrey and Bess Holland.
“Ha,” cried the King. “Here comes Master More to join us. We were talking of this madman Luther, Master More. You have seen this new outrage of his, I doubt not?”
“I have, Your Grace.”
“By God, I have a mind to answer him with my own pen. Now, you are a master of words, and it is on this matter that I wished to speak to you.”
“Your Grace honors me.”
“We have read some of your writings and found merit in them. We are giving orders that this evil composition of the German monk's shall be publicly burned in St Paul's Churchyard. We are instructing Bishop Fisher to preach a sermon against him. Master More, this man is an agent of the devil. Now… my friends, leave us. I would speak alone with our friend here on literary matters.”
The three noblemen retired, and the King smiled at Thomas.
“Now, my friend, we can get down to work. Since I read this … this … what shall I call it?… this evil document… I have felt an anger burning within me. I hear the voice of God urging me to act. This cannot go unanswered, Master More; and it needs one to answer it whose writing will astonish the world. Who better than the King of England?”
“Your Grace has written this book?”
“Not yet… not yet. I have made my notes … notes of what I wish to say. They shall go ringing round Europe. If I had the fellow here in my kingdom he should suffer the traitor's death. But he is not here. I cannot chastise his body, so I will answe
r him with words. I will show you what I shall call my Assertion of the Seven Sacraments, and you will see that what I intend to do is to answer this monstrous piece of writing of this villainous monk. Now, come hither. This is what I have prepared.”
Thomas took the notes which were handed to him. “And my duty, Your Grace?”
Henry waved a hand “Well… you will arrange them … and set them into a form that… you know of. You are a man of letters. You will see what has to be done. I am a King. I have my affairs of state to attend to, but I have written the core of the thing. You will…” The King waved his hands in an expansive gesture. “But you know what is your task, Master More. To make this into a book. I have chosen you out of my regard for you.”
“Your Grace is determined to honor me”
“As I am always ready to honor those who please me … whose learning adds luster to this realm. Now, Master More, your duties from now on will be undertaken in my small antechamber, to which I shall now conduct you. You shall have everything you require, and I should like the task completed with all expediency. Spare not the evildoer. We will talk to the world … even as he has. And we will speak in literary language, Master More; for they tell me you are a master of such language. You are excused all other duties. My friend, do this task well and you will be rewarded. Ah, it pleases you?”
“Your Grace could not have given me a task which delights me so much. To have a pen in my hand once more and on such a composition! It is something I have wanted for a long time.”
The King's hand came down on his shoulder; it was a heavy blow, but its very heaviness expressed not only approval, but affection. The eyes were shining with pleasure; the cheeks were flushed.
“Come, Master More. This way.”
The King threw open the door of a small room, which was richly carpeted and hung with exquisitely worked tapestry.
When Thomas saw the young woman, she was on the window seat in an ungainly attitude, her legs tucked under her skirt. Her bodice was low-cut and her dark hair fell about her bare shoulders. What astonished him in that half-second was that she did not rise when the King entered, but threw him a saucy smile.
