by Jean Plaidy
And now that she was to see him, now that she might take boat and go down the river to the Tower, she must be ready to offer him words of comfort. She must try not to beg him to do that which was against his conscience.
She reached the stairs; she alighted from the barge. Will helped her out, for he had insisted on coming as far as the Tower with her. Will would wait for her. Dear, good Will, the best of comforters, the dearest of husbands! She would bless the day her father had brought him to the house; for she must think of her blessings, not her miseries.
How she hated the place—the place that impressed her with its might and its horror! She looked up at the round towers, at the narrow slits which served as windows, at the dungeons with the bars across the slits. And here, in this place, was her father, her beloved father.
A jailer took her up a winding staircase and unlocked a heavy door. She was in a cell, a cell with stone walls and a stone floor; and then she saw no more of it, for there he was, smiling at her, hurrying to greet her.
She looked into his face and noticed how pale he was, how hollow were his eyes. He had changed. Yet… he could still smile, he could still feign a gaiety which he could not possibly feel.
“Meg … my own Meg!”
“My Father!” She was kissing him, clinging to him. “Oh, Father, how are you? What have they done to you? You have grown thin and your beard is unkempt, and your clothes … Oh, Father … Father … what can I do? What can I say?”
“Come,” he said. “Sit down, Meg. My jailer is a kind man. I have these stools…. Many people have been kind to me, Meg. My good friend, Bonvisi… he sends meat and wine … and I am allowed to have my good John a Wood here with me to look after me. You see, I am not treated badly. I am well looked after here.”
She tried to smile.
“Why, Meg, how are you? You are looking well. The sun has touched you. How are my dear sons and daughters? Bid them be of good cheer, Meg. You can do it.”
“To be of good cheer!” she cried. “Father, let there be no pretence between us. Do not let us deceive ourselves and say, ‘This will pass,’ when we know there is only one way in which it could pass, and that you have determined against it.”
“Let us talk of other things, dear daughter.”
“How can I? What can I tell the children?”
“It may be, Meg, that you will have to speak to them of death. And if that be so, let them see it as a beautiful thing. Let them see it as release to beauty, to joy, to happiness such as this Earth cannot offer. Tell them that the man is dreaming who thinks in this life he is rich, for when death wakes him he will see how poor he is. Tell them that those who suffer at the hands of unjust men should take hope. Let kindly hopes console your suffering, Meg. He who is carried away by great wealth and empty pride, he who stands so bold among his courtiers, will not always be so bold. One day he will be equal with the beggars. Ah, what gift has life given that compares with death? You will find that he who can in life inspire fear, in death inspires nothing but laughter. Oh, Meg, Meg, lift up thy spirits. Do not grieve because I must come to that which awaits us all. My spirit is ready to break its shell. What matters it who cracks that shell. It may be the King. It may be the King's ministers. It may be the King's mistress.”
“Do not speak of her, Father. When you do, my heart is filled with hatred. I think of her as when we first heard of her and she seemed naught but a frivolous girl. I did not know then that she was a wicked wanton … a would-be murderess of saintly men.”
“Hush, Meg! Do not speak ill of her. Pity her rather than condemn. For how do we know, poor soul, to what misery she may come?”
“I will not pity her, Father. I will not. But for her, you would be with us at home in Chelsea … all together … as we used to be. How can I pity her? How can I do aught but curse her?”
“Meg, you must have pity. She dances gaily at the Court, I hear; and these dances of hers will prove such dances that she will spurn our heads off like footballs; but, Meg, it may not be long before her own poor head will dance the like dance.”
“Father, what does it matter … what does anything matter if you but come home to us? Could you not… ?”
“Nay, Meg, I know what I must do.”
“But what will happen?”
“We shall see.”
“My lord Bishop of Rochester is also in the Tower.”
“My jailer told me. I knew my dear friend Fisher must do this … even as I must.”
“The monks of the Charterhouse refuse to acknowledge the King's Supremacy, Father.”
“My good friends? It is what I would expect of them.”
“But, Father, is it right… is it lawful that they should imprison you for this? What have you done? You have merely refused to take an Oath. Is it then the law that a man may be imprisoned for this?”
“Ah, Meg, the King's pleasure is the law. It is a great pity that any Christian prince should, by a flexible Council ready to follow his affections, and by a weak clergy lacking grace constantly to stand to their learning, be so shamefully abused with flattery.”
“But, Father, is it worth it, think you? Could you not… take the Oath … and retire from Court life altogether? Live with us … your family … as you long to live. You have your library … your home … all that you love. Father, you are no longer young. You should be at home with your sons and daughters, with your wife….”
“Why, have you come here to play the temptress, then? Nay, Mistress Eve, we have talked of this thing more than once or twice. I have told you that if it were possible to do this thing that would content the King, and God therewith would not be offended, then no man would have taken the Oath more gladly than I.”
“Oh, God in heaven,” she cried, “they are coming to tell me I must go. Father … when shall I see your face again?”
“Be of good cheer, Meg. Ere long, I doubt not.”
She embraced him, and she saw the tears on his cheeks.
She thought: My coming has not cheered him; it has distressed him.
ALICE HAD permission to visit him.
She was truculent, more full of scolding than usual; that was because she was so unhappy.
She stood in the doorway, her sharp eyes taking in the cell in all its comfortless gloom.
“What the good year, Master More!” she cried. “It is a marvelous thing to me that you have always been taken for such a wise man. Here you are, playing the fool, as is your wont. You lie here in this close, filthy prison, and you are content to be shut up with mice and rats, when you might be abroad and at your liberty, enjoying the favor of the King and his Council. And all you must do is as the Bishops and learned men of this realm have done. And seeing you have at Chelsea a right fair house, your library, your gallery, your garden, your orchards and all other necessaries so handsome about you, where you might be in the company of your wife and children and with your household be merry, I muse what in God's name you mean, here so fondly to tarry.”
“Alice … Alice, it is good to see you. It is good to hear you scold me. Come, wife. Sit down. Sit on this stool which my good jailer has provided for me. We do well, here, John a Wood and I. My good friend Bonvisi sends more meat and drink than we need. Have no fear.”
“So you like this place better than your home. Is that it? Is that what you would tell me?”
“Is this house not as nigh Heaven as my own?” he asked.
“Tilly valley! Tilly valley! What nonsense you talk! All the prisons in the world could not alter that, I see.”
“But answer me, Alice. Is it not so?”
“By the good God, will this gear never be left?”
“Well, Mistress Alice, if it be so, and I believe you know it to be so and that is why you will answer with nothing but ‘Tilly valley!’ that is well. I see no great cause why I should have much joy in my handsome house or in anything belonging to it, when if I should be but seven years buried under the ground and then arise and come thither, I should not fail t
o find someone therein who would bid me get out of doors and tell me it was none of mine. What cause have I then to like such a house as would so soon forget its master?”
“Tut and tut! Have done with this talk. What of your clothes? Have you anything for me to wash? And what a filthy place is this! And what does Master a Wood think he is doing not to look to your comforts more? It seems to me Master More, that you are a fool… surrounded by fools….”
And he saw the bright tears brimming over onto her cheeks; he pretended not to see them. She scolded on, while in her way she was begging him to come home, even as Margaret had done.
FROM THE windows of her husbands mansion, Ailie looked out over the park. She was tense and waiting. Soon, she believed, Lord Audley would come riding to the house in the company of her husband, and she had told Giles that when they returned he must leave her that she might have a word with the Chancellor.
“Oh, God help me,” prayed Ailie, more fervently than she had ever prayed before. “Help me to do this.”
Lord Audley could help her, she believed. But had he the power? He was the Lord Chancellor, and when her father had been Chancellor many had brought their petitions to him.
Ailie could not bear to think of the house in Chelsea now. Margaret wrote to her often; so did Mercy. But the feigned cheerfulness of their letters only served to tell her how changed everything was. Would this dreary summer never pass?
She heard the huntsmen's horns and looked in the polished Venetian mirror her husband had given her and of which she had once been so proud. Her eyes were hard and bright; her cheeks were flushed; she looked at her trembling, twitching mouth.
Then, composing herself, she ran down to greet the returning huntsmen.
Audley was talking excitedly about the deer he had killed in the park. What could it matter? There was only one thing that mattered now.
Giles was smiling at her tenderly, full of understanding. He led the way to the stables, where the grooms rushed forth to take the horses. Ailie was walking with Lord Audley, and Giles saw that they were left alone.
“ 'Twas a good day's sport, I trust, Lord Audley?”
“It was, Lady Allington. Your husband is fortunate to have such happy hunting grounds at his disposal.”
“You must come often to hunt with us.”
“That I will.”
Ailie laid a hand on the arm of the Lord Chancellor and smiled up at him.
“My lord, you are a man of great influence at Court.”
Lord Audley smiled his pleasure.
“You could do something for me as you wished.”
“Lady Allington, I would willingly do anything in my power to please you.”
“You are gracious, my lord. It is of my father, I would speak.”
Lord Audley gave a quick, rather harsh laugh. “Why, Lady Allington, he has all the means at his disposal to help himself.”
“That is not so.”
“I beg of you, forgive the contradiction, but it is so. He has but to sign the Oath of Supremacy, and he would be a free man tomorrow.”
“But that he cannot do.”
“Cannot! Cannot sign his name!” Lord Audley laughed. (He was proud of saying, “I am no scholar!” which meant he had a certain contempt for those who were.) “But we have always heard that he is such a learned man!” he went on.
“My lord, he feels this to be a matter of conscience.”
“Then he should reason with his conscience. My dear lady, I would do as much for your father as I would for my own… for your sake; but what can I do? The remedy lies with him. I marvel that he should be so obstinate in his conceit.”
“Could you not persuade the King that, in my fathers case, this matter of the Oath could be waived?”
“My dear lady, you know the ways of Parliament.”
Then the Chancellor began to tell Ailie one of Æsop's fables.
“This,” he said, “you, being the daughter of such a learned man, have doubtless heard before.” It was the fable of the few wise men who tried to rule the multitude of fools. The few were flogged by the many. “Were they such wise men after all, Lady Allington? Were they, I wonder.”
Ailie looked into the cold, proud face beside her, and her heart felt leaden.
They had reached the house, and she stepped on ahead of him. Giles came forth and, seeing her state, engaged their guest in conversation so that she was free to run upstairs to her bedroom.
This she did, with the tears flowing down her cheeks, and her face set in a mask of utter hopelessness.
THERE WERE no more visits to the Tower, and the months were dragging on. Christmas came; and it was last spring when he had been taken from home.
What a different Christmas was this from that which they usually spent! They were all together, but how could they be happy without him?
They lived for the letters they received from him. They were allowed to send a servant to the Tower to take letters to him and receive his. The faithful Dorothy Colly made the journey, for she was almost one of the family, and Thomas was fond of her. She would come back and tell them everything he had said.
“He wishes to know what you are doing, how you spend your days. No little detail is too small. It pleases him much to hear these things. He must have news of the latest sayings of the children.”
To Margaret, when they were alone, she said: “He kissed me when I left. And I was to tell you, he said, that he loves me as one of the family. He said: ‘Have you married John Harris yet, Dorothy? You should. Tell Margaret. She will help you to arrange it, for marriage is a good thing; and if two people grow together in love and comradeship, there is no happier state in the world.’”
Margaret kissed her maid. She knew that John Harris loved her; and she knew that her father meant: “Be happy. Do not continue to grieve. Go about your ordinary business. If there is a wedding among you, rejoice and celebrate. Your father is with you in all you do.”
“I must see him soon, Dorothy,” she said. “We cannot go on like this.”
HE HAD changed very much since his imprisonment; he was thin and ill. He had his books with him, and they brought him much comfort. He was writing what he called A Dialogue of Comfort. This was a conversation between two Hungarians, an aged man Antonio and his nephew Vincent. These two discussed the coming invasion of the Turks. The allegory was easily understood by Margaret— for he sent his writings to her.
“I cannot read this to you,” he wrote, “but I need your opinions as I ever did.”
Margaret guessed who the Great Turk was meant to be, for Thomas wrote: “There is no born Turk so cruel to Christian folk as is the false Christian that falleth from his faith. Oh, Margaret, my beloved daughter, I am a prisoner in a foul place, yet I am happy when I take up my pen to write to you, and I would rather be Margaret's father than the ruler of an Empire.”
Rich, the Solicitor-General, paid him many visits. Thomas understood the purpose of these visits; they were to entrap him. Now they were trying to make him deny the King's supremacy; but Thomas was too learned in the ways of the law to do this. He was fully aware that he could not be condemned merely for refusing to sign the Oath. If he preserved silence on his views, he must be guiltless. There was no law under which it was possible to punish a man because he refused to sign an oath.
In vain did Rich seek to entrap him; Cromwell, Norfolk, Audley, the whole Council did their best to please the King by making a case against him; but Thomas was the greatest lawyer of them all. Not one of them—even Cranmer—could lure him to say that which would condemn him.
He knew that his friend Bishop Fisher was in the Tower. Fisher was a brave man, but he was no lawyer. Thomas wrote notes to him, and Fisher answered him; their servants found means of exchanging these notes, for the jailers were willing to make the incarceration of two such saintly men as Fisher and More as comfortable as was possible.
“Have great care, my friend,” Thomas begged the Bishop. “Be on your guard against the questions
which are put to you. Take great care that you do not fall into the dangers of the Statutes. You will not sign the Oath. That is not a crime in itself. But guard your tongue well. If any ask you, be sure that you say not a word of the King's affairs.”
The Bishop was a very sick man and his imprisonment had greatly affected his health.
One day Richard Rich came to the Bishop and, smiling in a friendly fashion, assured him that this was not an official visit; he came, not as the King's Solicitor-General, but as a friend.
The Bishop, worn out with sickness, suffering acutely from the closeness of his confinement, from heat and from cold, bade the Solicitor-General welcome. The latter talked about the pity of this affair, the sorrow it was causing many people because such men, so admired and respected as were Bishop Fisher and Sir Thomas More, must lie in prison on account of a matter such as this.
“I talked to the King of you but yesterday,” said Rich, “and he said that it grieved him to think of you in prison. He said that he respected you greatly, and that his conscience worried him concerning you. He fears that he may not have been right in what he has done. And indeed, where is the son that God would have given him had He approved the new marriage? He has but a daughter— a healthy child, it is true, but a daughter! The King's conscience disturbs him, and you could lighten it, my lord Bishop. The King has promised absolute secrecy, but he wishes to know your mind. He says that what you say—as a holy man of the Church—will be carefully considered by him. Now, my lord Fisher, if I swear to you that what you say is between you, myself and the King, will you open your mind to me?”
Fisher answered: “By the law of God, the King is not, nor could be Supreme Head on Earth of the Church of England.” Rich nodded and smiled: he was well pleased with himself Fisher had answered exactly as he had hoped he would.
THERE WERE others in the Tower for the same reason as were those two brave men.
The Carthusians had been asked to sign the Oath of Supremacy. This they had found they could not do in good conscience, and the Prior of the London Charterhouse, with those of Lincoln and Nottinghamshire, was very soon lodged in the Tower. Others quickly followed them there.
