by Jean Plaidy
“Tilly valley!” said Alice. “And who would want to when they could make themselves understood in good plain English?”
The poor scholar, to the amusement of Margaret and Mercy, was quite at a loss to answer Alice; for, somehow, her method of delivering what she thought to be wise was so authoritative that temporarily it seemed to be so. Therefore, Master Kratzer returned to his study of the stars feeling a little cowed, and as for Margaret and Mercy, they had their ears boxed for laughing—as Alice said, when Kratzer had left them—at a great and learned man.
Richard Hyrde, the great Greek scholar, also lived in the house. Mercy was his favorite pupil, for he was also a student of medicine, and this science appealed to Mercy more than any other. Master Drew and Master Gunnel, considerable scholars, also lived in the growing household in order that they might tutor the children.
Dr. Colet and Dr. Lily came to the house now and then, but not so frequently as they had at one time, for all Dr. Colet’s thoughts and energies were now concentrated on the school he had built in St. Paul’s Churchyard, at which he planned to educate children of all ages, of all classes and all races. This school was his delight; it was a dream become a reality. He had always said that when he was a rich man—and he knew he would be on the death of his father—he would build such a school. Now he watched over it as a mother watches over her child, brooding over it, worrying over it, talking of it continually. Dr. Lily shared all his enthusiasm and fears for Dr. Lily had consented to become Headmaster of the school.
Thomas had said: “There is no man in England who could carry out this task with greater skill. But I wanted Lily for my children.”
Colet laughed gleefully. “I got there first, Thomas,” he cried. “I have secured him for my children.”
Now that Margaret was aware of the clouds coming nearer to her home she thought often of Dr. Colet’s escape from the King’s wrath. This had happened a few years before, and they had trembled for the fate which might overtake this beloved friend. The same cloud must have darkened Colet’s house then as it now did that of the Mores.
Why must these great men always express their views with such careless unconcern for the consequences? Why could they not be content to talk in private with their friends, and enjoy the happy lives they had built up for themselves out of their goodness? Dr. Colet had his school—the great wish of a lifetime fulfilled—yet when the King planned war with France, he must get into his pulpit and preach a sermon on the folly and wickedness of war.
It was inevitable that he should be called before an angry King; it was by a miracle that he had escaped with his life. But was it a miracle? What a plausible tongue had this great man, what a way with words!
He came to the house afterward to tell them about it; and he and her father had laughed together until Margaret had feared they would make themselves ill with such immoderate laughter which in her wisdom, she understood was partly the laughter of relief.
“But, Your Grace,” Colet had said to the King, “it is true that I preached against war. Aye, and would do so again. I said: ‘Few die well who die in battle, for how can they charitably dispose of anything when blood is the argument? Men must follow Christ, the King of Peace…not the kings of war.’ Those were my words, Sire.”
“I know your words, sirrah!” the King cried angrily. “And I like them not.”
“But, Your Grace,” was the reply, “I but preached against dishonorable war…unjust war…and Your Grace must agree with me that there can be no good in unjust war.”
It was at this point, when telling the story, that Colet was overcome with helpless mirth. “And Thomas, the King looked at me, his little eyes suspicious. Then, suddenly, that tight mouth slackened. He laughed; he slapped my shoulder. ‘I see, friend Colet,’ he said. ‘You spoke not of this just war I would wage against the enemies of England. You spoke of the unjust wars that my enemies would wage on me?’ I bowed my head. I feared he might see the laughter in my eyes. For, this King of ours, Thomas, is a King who believes he is God Himself. He believes in all simplicity, in all sincerity, that he himself could not be unjust, could not be dishonorable. The very fact that he acts in a certain way makes that action honorable. What a man! What a King!”
“How easy life must be for him!” mused Thomas. “He has but to adjust his conscience to his desires.”
“Exactly. And this is what he did. He told himself that his Dr. Colet had not spoken against his war; he had spoken against unjust war, as he himself would speak, for is he not a just King? He led me out of his privy chamber, his arm about me. You would have been amused to see the faces of his courtiers. They had expected me to appear between two halberdiers, and here I was—His Grace’s arm through mine. He embraced me before them all, and he cried: ‘Let every man favor his own doctor. This Dr. Colet is the doctor for me.…’”
They might laugh; but such encounters terrified Margaret. But for a turn of phrase John Colet might not be with them at this time.
Erasmus had stayed in the house during those years, and of all the scholars who came to the house, Alice liked him least.
A “finicky” man, she declared he was—picking at his food, talking Latin to her husband, laughing with him. Alice was not at all sure that they were not laughing at her. “And here’s a pretty state of affairs when a woman does not know what is being said before her face.”
The climax came when he dropped a ring in the rushes and on recovering it looked at it with such distaste, and wiped it so carefully on a kerchief before restoring it to his finger, that Alice’s indignation could not be suppressed.
“So, Master Desiderius Erasmus, you find my house not clean enough for you? You sniff at my rushes, do you, sir? There is one answer to that, and I will give it. If you like not my house, why stay in it? Why not go back to your hovel…your native country where houses are so clean that they make you turn up your foreign nose at ours!”
He had tried to placate her, as all tried to placate Alice; but his arguments did not move her. She disliked him, and that was the blunt fact. All the learned tutors—the absent-minded Master Gunnel and the guttural-voiced Master Kratzer, she would endure; but not the sickly, watery-eyed, sarcastically smiling Erasmus. And indeed Erasmus had left England soon after that. He had told Margaret, of whom he was very fond: “I am a little tired of England, my child; and your stepmother is very tired of me.”
Soon after the great scholar had left them there had occurred the terrible rising of apprentices in the City, and, as Under-Sheriff, her father had played a great part in quelling the rebellion. The rising had come about on account of the citizens’ dissatisfaction with the foreigners who lived therein and who, said the citizens, took their livings from Englishmen in their native land. These foreigners brought silks, cloth of gold and merchandise into London and sold them cheaply. Dutchmen brought over timber and leather, baskets and stools, tables and saddles, already wrought; and these they sold in such numbers that there was little work for those who had previously made such goods for their own countrymen.
So it was that during the month of April people gathered in the streets to discuss this matter, and they asked themselves how they could best rid themselves of the foreigners. Thomas Wolsey, now Cardinal, Pope’s Legate, Archbishop of York, Chancellor of England and Prime Minister of State, sent for the chief aldermen of the City and told them that it was the King’s wish that the foreigners should not be molested, as they brought much trade to the country; but the aldermen, after listening respectfully to Thomas Wolsey, went away and assured each other that their first allegiance was to the City of London, and if the citizens had decided to rid themselves of the foreigners there was nothing they could do about it.
Then came that “Evil May Day” when the apprentices, with the people behind them, rose and rioted through the streets, sacking and burning the houses of foreigners.
Thomas, as Under-Sheriff, had been able to restore order to some parts of the City. The Cardinal, foreseeing how matters
would go, ordered troops to close in on London, and several of the rioters were taken prisoner.
These men and boys were condemned as traitors, but only one of them was executed in the terrible manner—hanging, drawing and quartering—which was the lot of traitors. This one was to prove an example to the people; as for the rest, they provided the King with an opportunity to stage one of those little plays he so loved, the ending of which was supposed to be a surprise, but which all except the most simple of men knew to be inevitable.
Henry, gloriously clad, a mighty man in sparkling jewels, sat on a lofty dais in Westminster Hall, while before him were brought the condemned men, with ropes about their necks. The Queen must kneel before him—a foreigner herself—and beg the King for leniency since some of the offenders were so young; she asked this as a favor to herself.
The sullen little mouth became less sullen. The King raised the Queen and said that for her sake he would consider pardoning these wretches.
Then it was the turn of the great Cardinal—magnificent in his scarlet robes—to kneel and crave the King’s clemency.
All must watch this spectacle, all must know that a beloved Queen, the mother of the King’s own daughter, the Princess Mary, must humble herself before the all-powerful monarch, as must the mighty Cardinal who went about the City in such state that men gathered to see him pass as though he were a King himself; this mighty Chancellor, this great Prime Minister of the realm, also must bow the knee to beg a favor from the King.
And eventually the King allowed himself to smile, to temper justice with mercy, to receive the humble thanks of those miserable men and the gratitude of their wives and mothers who called blessings on him—their most clement King, their most handsome King, who in anger was terrible, but who knew how to relent.
It was a touching scene, begun so solemnly, ending so joyously. The memory of it would put the King in a good humor for days.
And it was not forgotten what an excellent part in quelling the rebellion had been played by Thomas More. The King noted it and discussed it with his right-hand man. They would keep their eyes on Master More. They liked the fellow, both of them.
But life was made up of success and failure, of joy and fear; it was like a game of see-saw.
Just as the King’s benevolence was shining upon Thomas More during that month of May, something happened to turn the King’s smiles to frowns.
One of the Pope’s ships had been forced to call at the port of Southampton, and the King had ordered it to be seized.
A week ago a man had called at the house in Bucklersbury to see Thomas and, when he had gone, Thomas told his family that he had agreed to act as interpreter and counsel in a case which the Pope was bringing against the authorities in England.
Alice said: “This is a good thing. You will win the case for the King, and the King’s favor never hurt anyone.”
“Nay,” Thomas answered her. “You mistake me. It is not for the King I am briefed, but for the Pope.”
Margaret said nothing; she could only look mutely at her father. He saw the way in which she looked at him, and his eyes conveyed reassurance to her.
But Alice cried: “’Tis a marvel to me, Master More, that some men deem you wise. A bigger fool it has not been my misfortune to meet. Here is a lawyer who advises those who would go to law not to waste their money! Here is a lawyer who spends much of his time saving his clients’ money that he may keep himself poor. He has won the King’s favor, this Master More, on Evil May Day. That will not do. Therefore he must throw away his advantages by working against the King and serving the Pope.”
“I seek no favors of the King,” said Thomas. “I seek to defend what is right. The ship does not become the property of the King because it calls at an English port.”
“Anything in this land belongs to the King.”
“Madam, you should enter the law. The King would doubtless favor your advancement. I doubt not that you would reap great honors.”
“I beg of you not to mock me, sir,” said Alice. “And I beg of you not to be such a fool as to take this case.”
“My folly has already run ahead of your wisdom, madam. I have accepted the brief.”
“More fool you!” cried Alice. But she, like Margaret, was afraid. Like the rest of the family, she did not want change to overtake them. If her tongue was sharp, if she must be subject to fools, in her private opinion they were beloved fools.
The weeks seemed like a year; and the cloud about the house grew darker.
Margaret said to her father: “I remember, a long time ago when I was a little girl, you told me that the King was angry with you. That was another King, but it seems to me that this King can be as angry—perhaps more angry—than his father.”
“That may be so, Meg.”
“Must you do this thing?”
“How could I refuse? The case was brought to me. I know the Pope’s cause to be the right one. Would you have me refuse it because I know that, in defending the right, I might offend the King?”
“Let some other do it.”
“Turn away from danger that some other might face it! Or leave it to those who would defy justice for the sake of the King’s favor! Nay, Meg! That is not the way to live. You…you of all people to ask it!”
“But, Father, I…”
“I know, Meg. You love me. But should I be worthy of your love if I turned away from danger? Remember this, Meg. When good fortune is greatest, then is trouble close at hand. For fortune delights to strike down those who are too high and to raise those who are low; and if we do not anticipate trouble, should it come, we shall face it with greater fortitude.”
So she trembled, and during that day when he went into the courts she found that she could not keep her mind on her lessons. Nor could Elizabeth and Cecily; and when Alice looked in and found Jack astride a stool, dreaming that he was on horseback, and Ailie pulling at the curls which escaped from her cap, and Cecily and Elizabeth whispering together, and neither Mercy nor Margaret attending to their lessons, she merely shook her head at them and said nothing, which was strange for her. There was about her an alertness, as though she were listening for the sound of horses’ hoofs, which would herald the return of Thomas.
And at length he came home.
“Wife!” he cried. “Children! Where are you?”
They rushed to greet him, to look into his face; and there they saw a shining triumph.
“Well, Master More?” demanded Alice.
“The case is won.”
“Won?” cried Margaret.
“There could only be one verdict, and I got it.”
He had won the case, even though it had been tried before the great Wolsey himself. He had won the Pope’s case, and in doing so he had defeated the King!
Margaret had felt then that that other occasion had been but a rehearsal for this. Henry the Seventh had gone timely to his grave; but the new King was young and healthy.
What will become of us? wondered Margaret.
Mercy was beside her. “Come, Margaret. Sit down here.”
Mercy forced her onto a stool and placed a cool hand on her forehead.
“Thank you, Mercy.”
“Do not frighten the little ones,” whispered Mercy.
“You are right,” said Margaret. “We must not frighten the little ones. But Mercy…Mercy…”
Mercy pressed her hands. Mercy, even though she loved him as Margaret did, even though she saw his danger, could remain serene.
They were at supper when the messenger came. He was the King’s messenger; they knew that by his livery.
The King, declared the messenger, desired the presence of Thomas More at his Palace of Westminster. It would be well for Thomas More to take barge at once.
Margaret felt the piece of cob bread sticking in her throat. Her eyes met those of Mercy. Mercy’s eyes, beneath her level brows, were full of fear.
WHEN THOMAS was shown into the royal apartments of the Palace of Westminster, the K
ing was alone with his Chancellor.
Thomas went forward, knelt, and a large hand, aglitter with emeralds, diamonds and sapphires, was extended to him.
Almost immediately it was snatched away and waved impatiently.
“Rise…rise…” said the King.
Thomas did so and stood before the royal chair. The sparkling hands were laid on the velvet-covered chair arms; the big face was flushed, the eyes narrowed.
“We have had news, Master More,” said the King, “of your conduct in this affair of the Pope’s ship.” He glared at Thomas. “That is why we have sent for you.”
Thomas’s eyes strayed for a second to those of the Chancellor, who stood by the King’s chair. It was impossible to read the thoughts behind those eyes, but Thomas sensed a certain sympathy, a certain encouragement. During this day in the court he had been aware of Wolsey’s approval of his conduct of the case. But what the Chancellor would feel in the absence of the King might be something different from that which he might show in his presence.
“Master More,” went on the King slowly and deliberately, “you have a fine conceit of yourself.”
Thomas was silent.
“Have you not?” roared the King. “We hear that this day, when you defended the Pope, you were full of fine phrases. Now, when you should defend yourself, you appear to have lost your voice. What is the meaning of this? What is the meaning of it, eh?”
“Before I begin the case for my defense, Sire, I must know what is the accusation.”
“You dare to stand before us…your King…and to ask what is the accusation! Master More, did you, or did you, not, deliberately act against your King this day?”
“Nay, Sire. I acted against injustice.”
The King’s hands on the arms of his chair were clenched suddenly; they appeared to tremble.
“Did you hear that, Wolsey, did you hear that?”
“I did, Your Grace.”
