by Jean Plaidy
And then, as his glance strayed from her, he had been aware of Jane. Jane, the quiet one whom they all twitted because she was not so ready with her tongue, because she was the eldest and because no man had sought her in marriage.
Jane had been looking at her sister with admiration and envy. Not malicious envy. Jane was of too gentle a nature to experience unadulterated envy. It was merely that she became more insignificant than usual when her sister chattered; and as he watched her, Thomas More found his love for the younger girl infringed by his pity for the elder one.
He had tried to draw her into conversation, but she would keep aloof like a frightened doe. He found her alone in the gardens and he said to her: “You must not be afraid to speak, little Jane. Tell me, why are you afraid to speak?”
She had said: “I have nothing to say.”
“But,” he had protested, “there must be something behind those eyes…some thought. Tell me what it is.”
“It would sound silly if I said it. Everyone would laugh.”
“I should not laugh.”
Then she told him how she thought the scent of gilly-flowers was the best in the world, and when she smelt it, she would always—no matter where she was—imagine that she was in the walled garden at New Hall. And she told him she feared she was a coward, for when they killed the animals in November, she shut herself in her room, stopped up her ears and wept. And sometimes she wept during the salting.
“Those are kindly thoughts, Jane,” he had said. “And thoughts that should be told.”
“But they would laugh if I told them. They would say that I am even sillier than they believed me to be.”
“I should not laugh, Jane,” he had told her. “I should never laugh.”
Then she had answered: “But you would laugh more than anyone because you are cleverer than any.”
“Nay. Because I know more of what is in books than do your brothers and sisters, the more I understand. For is not understanding knowledge? When people laugh at others it is often because those others differ from themselves. Therefore the ignorant think them strange. But if you study the ways of men, you learn much; and as your knowledge grows there is little to surprise you. The man who travels the world, in time becomes no longer astonished by the looks and customs of men of other lands. Yet the man who lives in his village all his life, is amazed by the habits of the man dwelling but ten miles away.”
“I do not entirely understand your words,” Jane had told him. “But I understand your kindness.”
“Then, Jane, you are clever, for if more understood the intentions behind men’s words, the world would be a happier place, and it is those who achieve happiness and lead others to it who are the clever ones of this world.”
Then she had told him how astonished she was that he, who was so much cleverer than others, should not frighten her so much; and that he, who had friends among the most learned of men, should know more than others how to be kind to a simple maid.
After that she would give him her quiet smile, and he would see the pleasure in her face when he spoke to her.
Others had noticed his friendship with Jane; and one day, when he had arrived at New Hall, it was to find that young Mistress Colt had gone away, and, with a sudden shock, he realized that he was expected to marry Jane.
To marry Jane! But it was merely a tender pity that he felt for her. It was her gay, tantalizing sister who had shown him that a monk’s life was not for him.
His first impulse had been to ride away or explain his feelings to Master Colt.
Her father might have guessed his reluctance. He said: “Jane is a good girl. The best in the world. The man who married her would get a good wife.”
Master Colt was not a subtle man; but if Thomas More was not moved by the desire of a country gentleman to get his daughter off his hands, he was deeply touched by the mute appeal of Jane.
He saw at once what he had done. With his kindness he had sown seeds of hope. Jane had a new gown; Jane had won the respect of her family, for which she had always longed, because they believed that a man wished to make Jane his wife.
What could he do? Could he ride away and never return to New Hall? Could he still ask for the hand of the girl with whom he had fallen in love?
And what of Jane? Meek and mild she was; but it was those of her temperament who suffered most cruelly. And her sister—what of her? But she was a gay spirit and there would be so many to admire her. She was very young, and he doubted whether she had ever thought very seriously about one who would seem elderly to her.
If he hurt Jane, if he wounded her pride, if he was responsible for bringing upon her her family’s scorn, how could he forgive himself? He had meant to make her life easier. Could it be that in his blind folly, he had made it harder for her to bear?
Being the man he was, he saw only one course open to him. He must turn tenderness into love; he must marry Jane. He must turn her into a woman such as he wished to have for his wife. Why should it not be so? She had been a docile daughter; she would be a docile wife. So he removed the girl he loved from the picture of domestic bliss and set Jane there in her place. He saw pleasant evenings when they would sit over their books while he talked to her in the Latin tongue. And after Latin…Greek.
And so, as Thomas More came into the garden to speak to Jane, he was picturing the future…their happy home, their children and his learned friends…all merry together.
“Why, Jane,” he said, “we saw you through the window and your father bade me join you.”
“You are welcome,” she answered with her quiet smile.
And in the garden, with the hot sun upon him and the girl beside him, her eyes downcast, there came to him a reminder that he had not yet spoken those words which would make it impossible for him to turn back. Suddenly he thought of the quiet of the Charterhouse, of those years when he had lived with the Carthusian monks, and he longed to be back with them. He wanted another chance to think, to brood on this matter, to talk it over with his friends.
But because he was silent so long, she had lifted her eyes to his face; she had been looking at him for some seconds in anxious bewilderment before he realized this.
How young she was! How pathetic! How could he leave her to the mercy of her family? Dear Jane! He guessed what her life would be if he rode away now. Her sisters would taunt her; the whole family would let her see that she had failed; she would become Jane-of-no-account, in very truth.
Life was unfair to such women.
Pity colored all his thoughts. It was ever so. When he saw the poor in the streets he could never resist giving alms. His friends said: “The word goes round among the beggars: ‘Thomas More comes this way!’ And they uncover their sores, and some feign blindness. Make sure that in enriching the beggars you do not beggar yourself.” And he had answered: “There may be some who are not so poor as they would seem to be; there may be some who feign distress to win my pity and with it money from my pocket. But, my friends, I would rather be the victim of a rogue than that any man should be the victim of my indifference to his suffering.”
Pity. Sweet Pity. A nobler emotion that passion or desire. Here then, he thought, is what I most desire: A happy home. And cannot Jane give me that?
“Jane,” he said, “I want you to be my wife.”
She stared down at the flowers in her basket.
“What say you, Jane?” he asked tenderly.
“My father wishes it.”
“He does. And you?”
She smiled slowly. “I shall try to be a good wife to you.”
He kissed her tenderly; and she thought: There will be less to fear with him than with anyone else, for he is the kindest man in the world.
“Then come. Let us go into the house and tell your father that you have consented to become my wife.”
They went into the hall, where the servants were now carrying in the dishes. Thomas was amused by the ceremony which was paid to the food.
“I was about to
ask you to salute a new son,” he said to his host, “but I see that he must keep his place until His Majesty the Ox hath been received.”
And only when the great side of beef was set on the table was Master Colt ready to embrace Thomas. Then, taking him to the head of the table, he proclaimed to those assembled there that his daughter Jane was betrothed to Thomas More.
JANE WAS sitting at the window of her new home, which was called The Barge, looking out along Bucklersbury, thinking that she must be the most unhappy woman in the world. But then, Jane’s knowledge of the world was slight.
The Barge! She hated it. It was a foolish name to give a gloomy old house. “The Barge,” Thomas had explained, “will be our home. Why ‘The Barge’? you may ask. It is because in the days before the Walbrook was covered, the barges came right to this spot. Oh, Jane, we will wander through the City and we will picture it as it was in days gone by. Then you will see what a wonderful old City it is, and you will love it as I do—more than any other place in the world.”
But Jane could not love it. She could love no place but New Hall. She longed for her garden, for the quiet fields of buttercups and marguerites; she hated this great City with its shops and crowds of noisy people. All through the day she could hear the shouts of traders in the Poultry and the Chepe; she could smell the meats being roasted in the cook shops, and the scents from the apothecaries’ of which there were so many in Bucklersbury; the scent of musk mingled with that of spices from the pepperers’ and grocers’ shops; and she was homesick…homesick for New Hall and the single life.
She wept a good deal. Often Thomas would look in dismay at her reddened eyelids; but when he asked what ailed her, she would shrink from him. She had not imagined that married life was like this, and she could not understand why so many people longed for it. Why did they think a girl had failed if she did not achieve it?
She had married a man whose heart was in books. In London he seemed older than he had in the country. Men came to the house; they were older even than her husband; and she would sit listening to their talk without understanding anything they said.
She was foolish, she knew. Her family had always said so. How tragic it was that she, the simplest of them all, should be married to one of the most learned men in England!
There was so much to learn. She had always believed that a wife had but to watch the servants and see that there was no waste in the kitchen. That had been her stepmother’s duty. But here at The Barge, much was expected of her.
“Jane,” he had said, “I will lay the whole world at your feet.” She had thought that was one of the most beautiful things a husband could say to his wife; but she had discovered that his way of laying the whole world at her feet was to attempt to teach her Latin and to make her repeat, by way of re-creation, the sermons they heard in St. Stephen’s Church in Walbrook.
“Poor little Jane,” he said, “they have neglected your education, but we will remedy that, my love. I said I would lay the whole world at your feet, did I not? Yes, Jane, I will give you the key to all the treasures in the world. Great literature—that is the world’s greatest treasure; and the key is understanding the languages in which it is written.”
She was a most unhappy bride. She felt bewildered and lost and wished she were dead.
Surely everything a normal woman needed was denied her. In a book he had written, entitled The Life of John Picus, there was a dedication to a woman. She had felt a faint stirring of jealousy, but she had discovered that the woman to whom the book was dedicated was a nun—a sister who lived with the Order of the Poor Clares just beyond the Minories. How could she be jealous of a nun? Even that was denied her. She knew that she had married no ordinary man, and she fervently wished that she had a husband whom she could understand—someone like her father or her brothers, even if there were occasions when he was angry with her and beat her. This harping on the value of learning, in spite of his kindness and gentleness, was sometimes more than she could bear.
He was trying to mold her, to make her into a companion as well as a wife. It was like asking an infant to converse with sages.
Dr. Lily came to the house, as did Dr. Linacre and Dr. Colet; they conversed with her husband, and they laughed frequently, for Thomas laughed a good deal; but a woman could not continue to smile when she had no idea of the cause of laughter.
Sometimes her husband took her walking through the City, pointed out with pride what he considered places of interest.
They would walk through Walbrook and Candlewick Street, through Tower Street to the Great Tower. Then Thomas would tell her stories of what had happened within those gloomy walls, but she found she could not remember which of the kings and queens had taken part in them; and she would be worried because she knew she could not remember. Then he would take her to Goodman’s Fields and pick daisies with her; they would make a chain together to hang about her neck; he would laugh and tease her because she was a country girl; but even then she would be afraid that he was making jokes which she did not recognize as such.
Sometimes they would walk along by the river or row over to Southwark, where the people were so poor. Then he would talk of the sufferings of the poor and how he visualised an ideal state where there was no such suffering. He loved to talk of this state which he built up in his imagination. She was rather glad when he did so, for he would not seem to notice that she was not listening, and she could let her mind enjoy memories of New Hall.
At other times they would walk through the Poultry to the Chepe and to Paul’s Cross to listen to the preachers. He would glance at her anxiously, hoping that her delight in the sermons equaled his own. He would often talk of Oxford and Cambridge, where so many of his friends had studied. “One day, Jane, I shall take you there,” he promised her. She dreaded that; she felt that such places would be even more oppressive than this City with its noisy crowds.
Once she watched a royal procession in the streets. She saw the King himself—-a disappointing figure, unkingly, she thought, solemn and austere, looking as though he considered such displays a waste of money and time. But with him had been the young Prince of Wales, who must surely be the most handsome Prince in the world. She had cheered with the crowd when he had ridden by on his gray horse, so noble, so beautiful in his purple velvet cloak, his hair gleaming like gold, his sweet face, as someone in the crowd said, as lovely as a girl’s, yet masculine withal. It seemed to Jane that the Prince, who was smiling and bowing to all, let his eyes linger for a moment on her. She felt herself blushing; and surely all the homage and admiration she wished to convey must have been there for him to see. Then it had seemed that the Prince had a special smile for Jane; and as she stood there, she was happy—happy to have left New Hall, because there she could never have had a smile from the boy who would one day be the King.
The Prince passed on, but something had happened to Jane; she no longer felt quite so stupid; and when Thomas told her of the coming of King Henry to the throne, she listened eagerly and she found that what he had to tell was of interest to her. Thomas was delighted with that interest, and when they reached The Barge he read her some notes which he had compiled when, as a boy, he had been sent to the household of Cardinal Morton, there to learn what he could. The notes were written in Latin, but he translated them into English for her, and she enjoyed the story of the coming of the Tudor King; she wept over the two little Princes who, Thomas told her, had been murdered in the Tower by the order of their wicked, crook-backed uncle, Richard. She could not weep for the death of Arthur, for, had Arthur lived, that beautiful Prince who had smiled at her would never be a King. So the death of Arthur, she was sure, could not be a tragedy but a blessing in disguise.
Thomas, delighted with her interest, gave her a lesson in Latin; and although she was slow to understand, she began to feel that she might learn a little.
She thought a good deal about the handsome Prince, but a conversation she overheard one day sent her thoughts fearfully to the Prince’s fathe
r, the flinty-faced King.
John More came to see his son and daughter-in-law. Like Thomas, he was a lawyer, a kindly faced man with shrewd eyes.
He patted Jane’s head, wished her happiness and asked her if she were with child. She blushed and said she was not.
Marriage, she heard him tell Thomas, was like putting the hand into a blind bag which was full of eels and snakes. There were seven snakes to every eel.
She did not understand whether that meant he was pleased with his son’s marriage or not; and what eels and snakes had to do with her and Thomas she could not imagine.
But there was something which she did understand.
John More said to his son: “So, your piece of folly in the Parliament has cost me a hundred pounds.”
“My piece of folly?”
“Now listen, son Thomas. I have been wrongfully imprisoned on a false charge, and my release was only won in payment of a hundred pounds. All London knows that I paid the fine for you. You were the culprit. You spoke with such fire against the grant the King was asking that it was all but halved by the Parliament. The King wishes his subjects to know that he’ll not brook such conduct. You have done a foolish thing. A pair of greedy royal eyes are turned upon us, and methinks they will never lose sight of us.”
“Father, as a burgess of London, I deemed it meet to oppose the King’s spending of his subjects’ money.”
“As a subject of the King, you have acted like a fool, even though as a burgess you may have acted like an honest man. You are a meddler, my son. You will never rise to the top of our profession unless you give your mind to the study of law, and to nothing else. I kept you short of money at Oxford….”
