The King's Confidante: The Story of the Daughter of Sir Thomas More

by Jean Plaidy

  Alice marshaled the family together. They stood, as Ailie had said they should, in the hall, waiting to receive him. Thomas watched them all, and he was smiling as though he found this convention somewhat amusing. Amusing! Alice was beside herself with anxiety. Would the beef be done to a turn? How were they faring in the kitchen? She should be there … yet she must be here.

  And now she heard the great booming voice. “Why, this is a pleasant place you have here at Chelsea, Master More. We have heard much of it. Norfolk has sung its praises when he has sung yours.”

  And now the King was stepping into the hall.

  Alice went forward and sank to her knees. All the rich color had left her face; she was trembling.

  “Why, Lady More,” said the King. “Rise … rise … good lady. We have heard much of your excellence. We have come to see for ourselves what it is that calls our Chancellor so frequently from our Court.”

  Alice had risen uncertainly. “Your Grace,” she stammered. “Your … most… gracious … Grace …”

  The King laughed; he liked her. He liked reverence. It was good to see how his subjects stood in awe of him. He placed his great hands on her shoulders and kissed her heartily.

  “There … there … We are as glad to come as you are to have us. Now we would see this family of yours.”

  One by one they came forward. The King's eyes smoldered as they rested on Jack. A fine healthy boy! He felt angry when he saw the fine healthy boys of other men. Now the girls. He softened. He was fond of young girls. Lady Allington was a fair creature, but all women other than Anne were insignificant to him now; when he compared them with the incomparable they could interest him but little. He gave Lady Allington a kiss for her beauty; and he kissed the others too. Thomas's girls were hardly beauties … but pleasant creatures.

  Afterward he sat at the table with the family about him; his courtiers who had accompanied him ranged among the family.

  It was an appetizing meal. The food was simple, but well cooked; he complimented the lady of the house and it did him good to see the pleasure he gave her in so doing.

  The conversation was interesting—he could rely on More to make it so; and naturally that matter which was becoming more and more a cause of disagreement between them was not mentioned in such company.

  More was at his best at his own table—gay and witty, anxious to show the cleverness of his children, particularly the eldest girl. The King liked wit and laughter, and, in spite of the man's folly at times, he liked Thomas More.

  It pleased Henry to see himself as the mighty King, accustomed to dining in banqueting halls, the guest of kings and princes, yet not above enjoying a simple meal at the humble table of a good subject.

  After the meal he asked Thomas to show him the gardens. Taking it that this meant he wished to talk with his Chancellor alone, the courtiers stayed in the house discoursing with the family.

  Alice was beside herself with pride.

  This was the happiest day of her life. She would talk of it until the end of her days.

  Now she must slip away from the company—she could safely leave the entertaining of her guests to her daughters for a short while—and go to the top of the house, whence she could command a view of the gardens; and there, walking together, were the King and his Chancellor. Alice could have wept for joy. About the Chancellors neck, in a most affectionate manner, was the arm of the King.

  The wonderful visit was nearing its end. With what pride did Alice walk down to the royal barge, receive his words of congratulation and make her deep respectful curtsy!

  “I shall remember Your Majesty's commendation of my table to my dying day,” she said.

  The King was not to be outdone. “Ah, Lady More, I shall remember my visit to your house to the end of my life.”

  Alice was nearly swooning with delight; and, oddly enough, the others were almost as delighted. They stood in respectful attention while the royal barge slipped along the river.

  Alice cried: “To think I should live to see this day! If I were to die now … I should die happy.”

  “I rejoice in your contentment, Alice,” Thomas told her.

  She turned to her family. “Did you see them … in the gardens together? The King had his arm … his arm … about your fathers neck.”

  “Then he loves Father well,” said Will. “For I believe that to be a mark of his highest favor. I have never heard of his doing that with any other than my lord Cardinal.”

  Thomas smiled at their excitement; but suddenly his face was grave.

  He said slowly: “I thank our Lord, son Roper, that I find the King my very good lord indeed; and you are right when you say that he favors me as much as any subject in this realm. But I must tell you this: I have little cause to be proud of this, for if my head would bring him a castle in France, it should not fail to go. That, my dear ones, is a sobering thought.”

  And the family was immediately sobered—except Alice, who would not allow her happiest day to be spoilt by such foolish talk.

  DEATH TOUCHED the house in Chelsea during the early months of the year 1532.

  The winter had been a hard one, and Judge More had suffered through this. He had caught cold, and all Mercy's ministrations could not save him. He grew weaker; and one day he did not know those about his bedside.

  He passed peacefully away in the early morning.

  There was much sorrow, for it seemed that no one could be spared from this home.

  Thomas declared that he was sorry he had given the house in Bucklersbury to his son and daughter Clement, for it meant that he saw much less of them than if they had continued to live in Chelsea. There had been regrets when Hans Holbein had left the house and Mr Gunnel had taken Holy Orders. It was a large household, as Thomas said, but none could be spared from it.

  They mourned the old man for many weeks, and one day, in April of that year, when Margaret and her father were walking together in the gardens, he said to her: “Meg, we should have done with grieving, for I believe that your grandfather was a happy man when he died; yet had he lived a few months longer he might have been less happy.”

  “What do you mean, Father?”

  “Like Mother, he took great pride in my position; and it is a position which I may not always hold.”

  “You mean that you are shortly to be dismissed?”

  “No, Meg. I do not think that. But I think that I might resign. Oh, Meg, I am happier about this matter than I have been since that day, nearly three years ago, when I was given the Great Seal. Then I saw no way in which I could refuse; now I believe I can resign.”

  “The King would let you go?”

  “Events have been moving, Meg, though sluggishly, it may seem, to those outside the Court. It is now four years since the King made his wishes for a divorce known to us, and still there is no divorce. That is a long time for a King to wait for what he wants. He grows impatient, and so does the Lady Anne. When I was given the Great Seal, you will remember, the Cardinal, who had managed the affairs of this country for so long, was falling out of favor and there seemed no one else capable of taking his place. So was I pressed into taking office. But now matters have changed. The King has at his elbow two clever men, from whom he hopes much. He loves them dearly because they work for him … solely. They have no mind but the King's mind, no conscience but the King's conscience, no other will than his. They have two brilliant suggestions which they have put before the King, and the King likes those suggestions so much that I believe he will follow both of them. Cromwell suggests that the King should break with Rome and declare himself Supreme Head of the Church of England; in which case he would have no difficulty in gaining the divorce he wants. That is Master Cromwell's suggestion. Cranmer's is equally ingenious. He declares that, since the marriage of the King and Queen was no true marriage, there is no need for divorce. The marriage could be declared null and void by the courts of England. You see, Margaret, these two men have, as the King says, ‘the right sow by the ear.’
I, His Grace would tell you, have the wrong sows ear in my grasp.”

  “Father, as Chancellor, you would have to agree with these two men?”

  “Yes; that is why I believe nothing will be put in the way of my resigning from the Chancellorship. There is a very able man, a great friend of the King's, and one who he knows would willingly work for him. That is Lord Audley. I doubt not that the King would be willing enough that I should hand the Great Seal over to him.”

  “Father, that means that you would be home with us … you would go back to the law … and we should be as we were in Bucklersbury.”

  “Nay, Meg. I should still be a member of the Council, and a lawyer cannot leave his practice for years and take up the thread where he dropped it. Moreover, I am not as young as I was in those days.”

  “Father, I know. I have watched you with great anxiety. We will nurse you, Mercy and I. Oh, I beg of you, give up the Great Seal. Come home to us as soon as you can.”

  “You must no longer be anxious for me, dearest Meg, for this poor health of mine gives me the reason I shall need, and which the King will like, for giving up the Chancellorship.”

  “I long for that day.”

  “And poverty, Meg? Do you long for that? We shall be poor, you know.”

  “I would welcome it. But it will surely not be our lot. Will is well placed in his profession.”

  “This is a big house and we are a large household. Meg, in spite of our big family and the positions they have secured for themselves, we shall be poor.”

  “We shall have you home, Father, and out of harm … safe. That is all I ask.”

  “So, Meg, I will continue my little homily. Do not grieve because my health is not as good as it was, since because of it I shall come home to you. And do not grieve for your grandfather; he died the father of the Lord Chancellor; and had he lived he might have died the father of a much humbler man.”

  She took his hand and kissed it.

  “I shall remember life's compensations, Father. Never fear. And how deeply shall I rejoice when you leave the Court, for that has been my dearest wish for many a long day.”

  “Dear Meg, I may not be blessed with good health and the King's favor—but I'd throw all that away for the blessing of owning the dearest daughter in the world.”

  MARGARET WAS waiting. She knew that it must happen soon. The King had now declared himself to be Supreme Head of the Church. Her father was detained at Court, and she heard that Bishop Fisher had become ill with anxiety.

  They were at church one morning—a lovely May morning when the birds sang with excitement and the scent of hawthorn blossom filled the air.

  Morning prayers were over, and suddenly Margaret saw her father. He was standing by the door of that pew in which the ladies of the family sat. Margaret took one look at him and knew.

  He was smiling at Alice, who had risen to her feet and, in some consternation, was wondering what he was doing there at that hour. He bowed low to her as his gentleman was wont to do, and he said: “Madam, my lord is gone.”

  Alice did not understand.

  “What joke is this now?” she demanded.

  He did not answer then, and they walked out of the church into the scented air of spring.

  Margaret was beside him; she slipped her arm through his.

  “What nonsense is this?” demanded Alice as soon as they had stepped out of the porch. “What do you mean by ‘My lord is gone’?”

  “Just that, Alice. My Lord Chancellor is gone; and all that is left to you is Sir Thomas More.”

  “But… I do not understand.”

  “'Tis a simple matter. I have resigned the Great Seal and am no longer Chancellor.”

  “You have … what?”

  “There was naught else I could do. The King needs a Chancellor who will serve him better than I can.”

  “You mean that you have resigned? You really mean that you have given up … your office?”

  Alice could say no more. She could not bear this sunny May morning. All her glory had vanished.

  Her lord had gone in very truth.

  7

  HEY GATHERED ABOUT HIM THAT NIGHT—ALL THOSE whom he called his dear children. Mercy and John Clement came from Bucklersbury, for the news had reached them. Ailie had heard, and she also came to the house in Chelsea that she might be with him at the time of his resignation. “My children,” he said when they were all gathered together, “there is a matter which I must bring to your notice. We have built for ourselves a fine house here in Chelsea; we have many servants to wait upon us; we have never been rich, as are some noble dukes of our acquaintance….” He smiled at Alice. “But… we have lived comfortably. Now I have lost my office and all that went with it; and you know that, even in office, I was never so rich as my predecessor.”

  He smiled now at Dauncey—Dauncey who had hinted that he did not take all the advantages that might have been his. But Dauncey was looking downcast; his father-in-law was no longer Chancellor, and Dauncey's hopes of advancement had not carried him very far. He had a seat in Parliament, representing, with Giles Heron, Thetford in Norfolk; Giles Allington sat for the County of Cambridge, and William Roper for Bramber in Sussex. This they had achieved through their relationship with the Chancellor; but all that seemed very little when compared with the favors which had been showered on Wolsey's relations. Moreover, wondered Dauncey, did these people realize that a man could not merely step from high favor to obscurity, that very likely he would pass from favor into disfavor?

  Dauncey and Alice were the most disappointed members of the household; yet, like Alices, Dauncey's disappointment was overshadowed by fear.

  Thomas went on: “My dear ones, we are no longer rich. Indeed, we are very poor.”

  Margaret said quickly: “Well, Father, we shall have the comfort of your presence, which will mean more to us than those other comforts to which you refer.”

  Ailie said: “Father, Giles and I will look after you.”

  “Bless you, my dear daughter. But could you ask your husband to take my big household under his wing? Nay, there will be change here.”

  “We have always heard that you are such a clever man,” Alice pointed out. “Are you not a lawyer, and have not lawyers that which is called a practice?”

  “Yes, Alice, they have. But a lawyer who has abandoned his practice for eleven years cannot take it up where he left it. And if he is eleven years older and no longer a promising young man, but an old one who has found it necessary to resign his office, he is not so liable to find clients.”

  “What nonsense!” said Alice. “You have a great reputation, so I have always heard. You … Sir Thomas More … but yesterday Lord Chancellor!”

  “Have no fear, Alice. I doubt not that we shall come through these troubles. I have been brought up at Oxford, at an Inn of Chancery, at Lincoln's Inn, also in the King's Court; and so from the lowest degree I came to the highest; yet have I in yearly revenues at this present time little above one hundred pounds. So we must hereafter, if we wish to live together, be contented to become contributaries together. But, by my counsel, it shall not be best for us to fall to the lowest fare first. We will not therefore descend to Oxford fare, nor to the fare of New Inn, but we will begin with Lincoln's Inn diet, which we can maintain during the first year. We will the next year go one step down to New Inn fare, wherewith many an honest man is contented. If that exceed our ability too, then we will the next year after descend to Oxford fare; and if we cannot maintain that, we may yet with bags and wallets go abegging together, hoping that for pity some good folks will give us their charity.”

  “Enough of your jokes!” cried Alice. “You have thrown away your high post, and we are not as rich as we were. That is what you mean, is it not, Master More?”

  “Yes, Alice. That is what I mean.”

  “Then mores the pity of it. No; don't go making one of your foolish jokes about Mores pity … or such kind. I have no pity for you. You're a fool, Master More, an
d it was by great good luck, and nothing more than that, that you took the King's fancy.”

  “Or great mischance, Alice.”

  “Great good luck,” she repeated firmly. “And His Grace is a kindly man. Did I not see him with mine own eyes? It may be that he will not accept your resignation. I am sure he likes you. Did he not walk in the garden with his arm about your neck? Ah… he will be here to sup with us again, I doubt not.”

  They let her dream. What harm was there in dreaming? But the others knew that the King had no further use for him; and those who knew the King's methods best prayed that the King might feel nothing but indifference toward his ex-minister.

  They brought out their lutes, and Cecily played on the virginals. They were the happy family circle. There was not one of them during that evening—not even Alice nor Dauncey—who did not feel that he or she would be content if they could all remain as they were this night until the end of their days.

  But they knew that this was not possible.

  Even the servants knew it, for the news had reached them.

  How could the household go on in the same comfortable way? Some of them would have to go; and although they knew that Sir Thomas More would never turn them away, that he would find new places for them—perhaps in the rich households of those whom he had known in his affluent days—that brought little comfort. There was no one who, having lived in the Chelsea household, would ever be completely happy outside it.

  A YEAR passed.

  They were very poor during that year; the house at Chelsea was indeed a large one and there were many living in it to be fed. Yet they were happy. The hospital continued to provide succor for the sick; there was little to spare in the house, but it was always shared with those who were in need. There was always a place at the table for a hungry traveler, and if the fare was simpler than before, it appeased the hunger. Alice took an even greater pride in her cookery; she discovered new ways of using the herbs which grew wild in the fields. They collected fern, bracken, sticks and logs, which they burned in the great fireplaces; and they would gather round one fire to warm themselves before retiring to their cold bedrooms.