by Jean Plaidy
“Father,” said Margaret, “what will happen now that we have a new King?”
“We shall pass into a new age,” he said. “The old King’s meanness curbed everything but the amassing of money by a few people. England will now be thrown open to scholars. Our friend Erasmus will be given a place here, and enough to keep him in comfort while he continues his studies. Avarice will be stamped out. The new King begins a new and glorious reign.”
“Will he give back the money his father took from the people?” asked Margaret.
Her father laid a hand on her head. “Ah, that I cannot tell you.”
“But how can he begin to please the people unless he begins by doing that?”
“Margaret, there are times when the working of your mind seems almost too great a strain for your years.”
But he kissed her to show that he was pleased with her; and she said: “Even if he does not, there is nothing to fear, is there, Father. Satan does not whisper to you anymore: ‘The cities of the world are yours.…’”
“You are right, Meg,” he told her joyfully.
Dr Colet came to the house, and even he, for a time, ceased to talk of literature and theology while he discussed the new King.
“There will be a marriage of the King and the Spanish Infanta, his brother’s widow,” he said. “I like that not. Nor, I gather, does my lord of Canterbury.”
Margaret listened to them; she was eager to learn everything, that she might afford her father great pleasure by her understanding when these matters were referred to.
“There will have to be dispensation from the Pope,” said Thomas. “But I doubt not that will be an easy matter.”
“Should it be granted?” asked Colet. “His brother’s widow! Moreover, did he not some years ago make a solemn protest against the betrothal?”
“He did—under duress. He protested on the grounds that she was five years his senior, and he quoted the Bible, I believe. No good could come of such a marriage, he said. But it was his father who forced the protest from him. Young Henry, it seems, always had a mild fancy for the Spanish lady; and his father was pleased that this should be so, for you’ll remember, only half of her magnificent dowry had fallen into his hands and he greatly longed to possess himself of the other half.”
“I know. I know. And when the old King decided he would marry Katharine’s sister Juana, he felt that, if father and son married sisters, the relationship would be a complicated and unpleasant one. I doubt not that he thought it better to secure Juana’s great riches than the remaining half of Katharine’s dowry.”
“That was so. Therefore young Henry, whatever his private desires, must protest against his betrothal to his brother’s widow.”
“Still, he made the protest,” said Colet.
“A boy of fifteen!”
“It was after the protest, so I hear, that he began to fall in love in earnest with his brother’s widow. The toy had been offered him; he thought little of it; it was only when there was an attempt to snatch it from him that he determined to hold it. And now he declares nothing will turn him from the match, for she is the woman of his fancy.”
“Well, she is a good Princess,” said Thomas, “and a comely one. She will provide England with a good Queen. That will suffice.”
“It will, my friend. It must. Do not forget it is the King’s wish. There is no law in this land but the King’s pleasure. And it will be well for us to remember that this King—be he ever so young and handsome—like his father, is a Tudor King.”
And Margaret, listening, wondered whether fear had entirely left her. This King—young and handsome though he was—might not give back to the people the money his father had taken from them; he wished to marry his brother’s widow mainly because his father had said he should not. Would he prove to be such a good King after all? Could she be happy? Could she be reassured that her father was safe?
ONE EVENT took place which seemed to the family as important as the accession of the new King to the throne.
Little Jack was born.
Jane was happy. A boy at last! She had always wanted a boy; and right from the first she saw that the boy was going to resemble the Colts.
He had her father’s nose already; he had Jane’s eyes; and she loved him dearly. But his birth had taken its toll of her health. She was ill for many weeks after Jack was born; and when she got up from her bed she felt far weaker than she had been after her previous confinements.
Still, she was happy. She would not have believed five years ago that she could have been so happy in this old City. London now meant home to her; she even enjoyed walking through the crowds to the Chepe, her maid following her, ordering from the tradespeople. She was not afraid of crowds now; nor was she afraid of Thomas. She had even learned a little Latin, and she could join in the children’s conversations with their father.
Sometimes she regretted the fact that not one of her children was a simple little soul such as she herself had been; for even baby Cecily was showing that she would be a little scholar. Yet, thought Jane, I am glad that they are clever. They will not suffer as I suffered; and how sad it would be for one of them to be a dullard in the midst of so many that are brilliant—like a sad piglet in a litter. I should not like that at all. No, let them all be clever; even though they do surpass their mother, even though they must, as they grow up, look upon her as a simpleton.
There was great excitement because the King and the Queen, whom he had married a few days before, were going to be crowned; and London was in Coronation mood. There was no talk but of the accession, the royal marriage, and the Coronation, and all the streets were now being decorated for the last ceremony. Cornhill, the richest street in London, was hung with cloth of gold, and was a sight to gladden any eye, so Jane was told; she had felt too weak to go and see it for herself, but she had promised the children that she would take them to watch the progress of the King and Queen, and nothing would induce her to disappoint them.
Thomas could not accompany them; he had his duties allotted to him as a burgess of the Parliament; and so, on that sunny June day, leaving the newly born baby in the care of a nurse, with Cecily clinging to one hand, Elizabeth to the other, and Margaret and Mercy hand in hand, the little party set out to watch the King with the Queen ride through the streets from the Tower to Westminster for the crowning.
Jane had decided that Cornhill would be the best place in which to see the procession, for accounts of the beauties of Cornhill had been spread through the City. Moreover, they had but to go through Walbrook, cross the Stocks Market to the corner where Lombard Street and Cornhill met.
But Jane had reckoned without the crowds. Everyone, it seemed, had decided that this would be the best place from which to see the procession.
Jane felt weak and tired and the heat was making her dizzy. There was nothing she would have liked better than to take her party home; but when she looked at the excited faces of the children, she found it impossible to disappoint them.
“Keep close to me,” she warned. “Margaret, you keep your eyes on Cecily. And Mercy…take Bess’s hand. Now…keep very close. How hot it is! And so many people!”
“Mother,” cried Elizabeth, “look at the beautiful cloth. Is it real gold? They are goldsmiths’ shops, are they not? So perhaps it is real gold.”
“Yes, yes; they are beautiful,” said Jane.
Cecily wanted one of the hot pies which were being sold nearby. Elizabeth said she would prefer gingerbread.
“Now, now,” said Jane. “You will miss the King if you do not watch.”
That made the children forget their hunger.
But there was a long time to wait for the procession. The sun seemed to grow hotter; Jane felt faint as the crowds pressed about her. She became very frightened, asking herself what would happen to the children in this press of people if she were to faint. Her very panic seemed to revive her.
She lost her purse before they had stood there for ten minutes. The thief must hav
e been the young boy who had pressed against her and given her such an angelic smile of apology that she had thought how charming he was.
She should not have come. She should have told Thomas of her intention. Why had she not? Because, she supposed, there were times when she wished to assert her authority over her little family, to say to them: “I know I am not wise, but I am the mother, and there are times when I wish to make my own decisions. I wish to say that something shall be done and to see that you do it.”
How glad she was when the sound of trumpets and the tramp of horses’ hoofs heralded the approach of the procession. The people shouted; the children stood spellbound. And as the excitement grew Jane felt a little better. There had not been much in her purse, and this would be a lesson to her. She would quote Thomas and say: “Experience is generally worth the price, however dearly bought.”
Now came the knights and squires and the lords of the land—so handsome, some magnificent in their velvet and cloth of gold. But more handsome than any was the King himself. There he rode, so young, so eager for the approbation of his subjects, smiling, inclining his head, aglitter with jewels. It was worth a little discomfort, even the loss of her purse, to witness such glory.
And there was the Queen—a bride of a few days although she was a widow of some years’ standing. She was in her twenties—too old, some said, for such a hearty youth; but she was beautiful—there was no denying that. Her dark hair, which it was said, hung to her feet when she stood, now hung about her shoulders, a black, gleaming cloak; she was dressed in white satin, beautifully embroidered, and her headdress was glittering with multicolored jewels. Two white horses bore her litter, which was decorated; and cries of “God Save Queen Katharine” mingled with those of “God Bless the King.”
Now came the rest of the procession, and so close did the prancing horses come that the mass of people surged back to avoid being trodden on. Jane grasped her children and pulled them toward her, but the pressure increased. The faces of the people seemed to merge into the blue sky and the fanfares and the trumpeting seemed to come from a long way off. Jane fainted.
“Mother…Mother!” cried Margaret in alarm.
But Jane was slipping down and was in danger of being trampled underfoot.
“Stop…Stop…. I beg of you stop!” cried Margaret.
Cecily began to scream, Elizabeth to cry forlornly, while Mercy tried in vain to hold back the people with her little hands.
Then suddenly a strong voice cried: “Stand back! Stand back! Can you not see! A woman has fainted.”
It was a loud, authoritative feminine voice; and Margaret lifted fearful eyes to a plump woman who was holding a little girl by the hand. Her fat cheeks quivered, her mouth was tight with indignation, and her eyes snapped contempt at the crowd.
Miraculously she had cleared a space about Jane. She put an arm about the fainting woman and forced her head downward. After a few seconds, to Margaret’s delight, the color began to return to her mother’s face.
“The heat, that’s what it is,” said the woman. “I could have fainted myself. And would have done…if I had not had the will to stop myself.”
Margaret, grateful as she was, could not help sensing the reproof to her mother in those words. She said: “My mother is not strong yet. We have just had a baby brother.”
“Then more fool she to come out on such a day!” was the answer to that. “Where do you live?”
“At The Barge in Bucklersbury.”
“That’s not more than a stone’s throw from here. I’ll take you back. The crowds will be rougher ere long.”
“You are very good,” said Margaret.
“Tilly valley! What could I do? Leave a baby like you to look after a fainting woman in a crowd like this? Ah, mistress, I see you are looking about you. You fainted and I am looking after your children here. Can you stand? Here, lean on me. You two big girls take the little ones and keep a firm hold of their hands. Now, Ailie, you cling to my gown. I am going to force my way through the crowd. Come, mistress. Take my arm. Your children are here, and we’ll push them ahead so that they cannot stray from our sight. We’ll be in Bucklersbury in next to no time, and that’s where you should be before the mob starts roystering.”
“You are very good,” said Jane. “I…”
“Now keep your breath for walking. Come along now. Come along.”
Forcefully she pushed a way for them, calling sharply to any that stood in their path. “Can you not see? I have a sick woman here. Stand aside, you oafs. Make way there.”
And the odd thing was that none cared to disobey her, and under such strong guidance the family soon reached Bucklersbury.
The woman sniffed and looked with scorn about her. “What odors! What odors!” she declared. “I’m glad my late husband was not one of these apothecaries with their smells. There are no smells in a mercer’s shop but goodly smells. But this…poof! I like it not!”
“My husband,” said Jane, “is a lawyer.”
“A lawyer, eh! What the good year! Well, here you are, and if you will take my advice you’ll not go into crowds again in a hurry.”
“You will come in and take a little refreshment?”
The widow said she would, and followed them into the big hall, where she sat down.
Margaret saw that the little girl named Ailie was very pretty and more or less of an age with herself and Mercy. Her golden hair escaped from her cap, and her gown was of richer material than that worn by the little More girls.
“Tell me the names of your girls,” said the widow. “Nay…let them speak for themselves. I’ll warrant they have tongues in their heads.”
“We have,” said Margaret with dignity, for although she was grateful for the widow’s help in bringing them home, she did not like her overbearing manner. “I am Margaret. This is my foster sister called Mercy because her name is also Margaret, and…my sisters Elizabeth and Cecily.”
“And I am Mistress Alice Middleton, widow of Master John Middleton, mercer of the City and merchant of the Staple of Calais. Here is my daughter. Alice like myself, so like Mercy there, she is called by a name other than her own. Why, you and she are of an age. That should make you friends.”
The children continued to study each other, and Mistress Middleton turned to her hostess, complimented her on the mead she was offered and told her how she could improve it by using more honey in its making. Still, it was a goodly brew.
She went on: “Now rest yourself. Keep to the house, for there’ll be roystering this night…and so there should be, for it is a good day for the land, I’ll swear, with such a bonny King come to the throne.”
When she had drunk her mead and had a look at the house, commenting—not always favorably—on its furnishings, she left with her daughter.
“A talkative woman,” said Jane, “but capable, I’ll swear…and very kind.”
THIS WAS a happy day for Thomas More. The tyrant was dead and in his place was a monarch who promised great things for England.
When Thomas was happy, he liked to take up his pen, and it was natural that his writings should now be concerned with the new reign.
“If ever there was a day, England,” he wrote, “if ever there was a time for you to give thanks to Those above, this is that happy day, one to be marked with a pure white stone and put in your calendar. This day is the limit of our slavery, the beginning of freedom, the end of sadness, the source of joy….”
He went on to enumerate the virtues of the young King: “Among a thousand noble companions, does he not stand out taller than any? If only nature could permit that, like his body, the outstanding excellence of his mind could be visible! This Prince has inherited his father’s wisdom, his mother’s kindly strength, the scrupulous intelligence of his father’s mother, the noble heart of his mother’s father. What wonder if England rejoices in such a King as she has never had before!”
Thomas went on to sing the praises of the Queen; he wrote of her dignity and her devotion t
o religion, of her beauty and her loyalty. There was surely no woman more worthy to be the wife of such a King, and none but the King was worthy to be the husband of such a Queen. Heaven bless such a union; and surely when the crowns had long been worn by Katharine and Henry, their grandson and great-grandson would wear the crown of England in the years to come.
When Thomas recited this composition to John Colet, the Dean of St Paul’s remarked in his dry way that the qualities of Henry’s ancestors might have been construed differently. For instance, the wisdom of Henry the Seventh might have been called avarice; the kindly strength of Elizabeth of York, meekness dictated by expediency; the scrupulous intelligence of Margaret of Richmond, ambition; the noble heart of Edward the Fourth as lechery and determination to rule at all cost.
“Still,” said the dean, “this should be shown to the King. It will surely please His Grace. Much flattery has been poured into the royal ears, but I doubt that any has ever been so elegantly phrased.”
“Flattery?” said Thomas. “That may be. But, John, it sometimes happens that if a man is shown a flattering picture of himself, he will try to be worthy of that picture. For such reasons it is expedient to flatter kings.”
“Yet when men offer flattery with one hand, they are apt to hold out the other to receive the rewards such flattery may earn. What rewards seek you, friend Thomas?”
Thomas considered this. “Might it not be,” he said at length, “that this writing of mine is in payment for his coming to the throne at an opportune time for me? I could sing paeans, my friend, if I had the voice for them, because this King now reigns and there is no need for me to leave the country. Rewards? Perhaps I wish for them. It may be that I long to go on as I have…here in London…with my family about me. Oh, and perhaps if the King is pleased with my offering, I might ask concessions for Erasmus. It would be good to have him with us again, would it not?”
