The Complete Tudors: Nine Historical Novels

by Jean Plaidy

  Fortune had taken a very pleasant turn.

  “Lady More!” She whispered that to herself as she went about the house.

  GILES HERON protested when his father told him that he would live for some time in the household of Sir Thomas More.

  As Giles took barge for Chelsea, he was thinking of his father’s remarks:

  “There are two daughters. A match between our house and theirs would bring great benefits, my son. Sir Thomas More is in as high favor at Court as any man—not excluding the Cardinal himself, some say. You will one day have land and property. I would like to see added to that the favor of the King’s favorite minister.”

  That was all very well, but Giles was not interested in ambition. This river trip would have been most enjoyable to him if he could have idly drifted downstream, stopping perhaps to lie on the bank, breaking into song, chatting with merry companions; and then, when he was tired, turning the barge homeward. Instead of that, he was on his way to a new home; and he was uneasy.

  Who wanted favor at Court? Not he. What did it mean? Constant work, constant fear that you would displease some high official of the Court—mayhap the King himself. Then you began to realize how much happier you had been lying in the sun, idling the hours away.

  Then there was this daughter of Sir Thomas More. It was said that his daughters were almost as learned as he was. The girls were prim creatures who spent their days in a schoolroom writing Latin verses. Latin verses! Scholars! Giles wanted to laugh hysterically at the thought. He frantically sought in his mind for one little phrase which his tutors had taught him and which he might manage to quote; but his mind was a blank.

  He had seen Alice Allington, a real little beauty, and not seeming very learned except in matters of manners and general fascination. But she was only a stepdaughter—no blood relation to the learned Sir Thomas More. He doubted if he would find another such as Alice Allington in the Chelsea house.

  And one of these girls—there was, fortunately, a choice between two—he must try to make his wife. For, his father had said, if you do not, depend upon it others will. These girls have more than fortune. You yourself have wealth, but the More family can give you what you lack: the interest of the King himself. Marry one of these girls and the King, I am sure, could be induced to smile on you. Thomas More is reputed to be an upright man, a man who seeks no gain for himself; but I’ll warrant he’ll not be averse to taking a little for his daughters, since by all accounts he has a very deep regard for them.

  Giles pictured the girls. They would be small, for sitting at a table, poring over books, did not develop the body; they would be pale; they would doubtless stoop; they would be ugly; they would give no attention to personal adornments; they would have Latin instead of good looks; they would have Greek instead of charm.

  “O God in Heaven,” prayed Giles Heron, “save me from a daughter of Sir Thomas More.”

  He had reached the privy stairs, and, leaving his servants to tie up the boat and take his baggage into the house, he mounted the stairs and went through the wicket gate.

  He stood looking over the pleasantly sloping lawns, at the gardens of flowers, at the young trees and the house itself.

  Slowly he made his way toward that great building. Which of the rooms, he wondered, was the schoolroom? He had heard of that schoolroom in which the wisest men in Europe taught the son and daughters of Sir Thomas More. He pictured the gray-bearded, solemn-faced tutors; they would be scornful of him. And the girls? They too. Perhaps they would despise him so much that they would beg their father not to let him marry one of them. Giles was hopeful by nature.

  How beautiful it was on that summer’s day! He could smell the scent of newly cut grass; and in the distance he could hear the sound of voices. He heard laughter too; that was the last thing he had expected to hear in this domain, but doubtless it came from someone on land nearby, for voices carried far in the country. Mayhap it was some of the servants. Or were the servants as solemn as the family? Did they have to learn Latin and Greek along with their household tasks?

  He stopped as a boy appeared from a clump of trees to the right. This boy’s gown was open at the neck; his face was hot for he had been running. He stopped short when he saw the visitor. Giles judged him to be about fifteen years of age.

  “Good day to you,” said Giles. “Am I right in thinking these are the gardens of Sir Thomas More?”

  “Good day to you,” said the boy. “And you are right. You must be Giles Heron.”

  “I am. Would you please tell me who you are?”

  “John More. Always known as Jack. We are worried about the rabbits. They are behaving in such an odd way. They are huddled together and making the strangest noises. I came to look for Father. He would know what to do. Would you…come and look at them?”

  He turned without more ceremony and began to run. Giles followed him through the trees to a stone wall, on which sat a peacock displaying his gorgeous tail.

  The stone wall enclosed a small garden, and in this a girl was kneeling by several rabbit hutches.

  “What ails you, Diogenes?” she was saying. “Tell me, my little one. And you, Pythagoras, you are frightened. What do you see?”

  “Any sign of what troubles them?” asked Jack.

  “No.”

  “This is Giles Heron. I found him coming up from the river.”

  “Good day to you,” said the girl. “Do you know anything about rabbits? We have not had them long. Only since we have been at Chelsea. Can you imagine what could make them as frightened as that?”

  Giles looked at her; her face was flushed; her fair hair was escaping from her cap; and her blue eyes showed her anxiety. It was clear that she was thinking more of the rabbits than of the newcomer. He thought her rather quaint, comparing her with the young ladies whom he met at Court.

  “It might be a stoat or a weasel,” said Giles. “It is terror which makes them behave thus.”

  “But where? I can’t see anything…. Can you?”

  “A dog, mayhap?” suggested Giles.

  “But Socrates and Plato love the rabbits.”

  Diogenes, Pythagoras, Socrates and Plato! thought Giles. Was that not what he would have expected? Even their pets must be named in Greek. Yet both the girl and the boy disarmed him.

  The girl went on: “All the pets love each other. Father says that is because they have been brought up together and know they have nothing to fear from one another. He says that there would be no fear in the world if only everybody understood everybody else. So…I don’t think they are frightened by the dogs.”

  Giles looked about the walled garden, and his quick eyes caught a pair of gleaming ones in the foliage a few yards from the hutch.

  “There!” he cried. “Look.”

  They followed his gaze.

  “A weasel,” said Giles. “That explains much.”

  “We must drive it off,” said the girl.

  Giles caught her arm. “Nay. It may be dangerous. You stay here….”

  Just at that moment a great dog came bounding into the garden, followed by a monkey. There was an immediate movement in the bushes; the dog paused for half a second; and then he was bounding over to the bushes, barking wildly and leaping with great excitement.

  The monkey followed. Giles was still holding the girl’s arm. He had forgotten Court manners and all ceremony in the excitement of the moment. They were all tense, waiting to see what the animals would do.

  It was the monkey who went into the attack. Suddenly she leaped into the bushes. The girl caught her breath; Giles tightened his grip on her arm. They heard a squeaking and a scuffle in the bushes; and the monkey emerged, her bright eyes gleaming, a chatter of gibberish escaping from her little mouth.

  “It’s gone!” cried Giles in great excitement. “The monkey has driven it off.”

  “Marmot!” cried the girl. “You brave creature!”

  The monkey ran to her and climbed onto her shoulder. The dog leaped about her,
barking wildly.

  “All you did, Master Plato, was make a noise. You were the herald; but Marmot was the heroine. She is the victor. Do you like her, Master Heron? She is my mother’s, and she was given to her by one of our friends from foreign parts. She is very happy here in the summer, but we have to take great care of her in the winter.”

  “She is certainly a brave creature,” said Giles. “But…I have not heard your name yet.”

  “Have you not? I’m Cecily More.”

  “Oh!” cried Giles with a lifting of his spirits. “You, er…you are…in actual truth?”

  She looked surpised. “I do not understand.”

  He smiled. “I thought that mayhap you would be very small and pale and humped through bending over your desk.”

  Cecily laughed at that.

  “And,” went on Giles, laughing himself with the immensity of his relief, “firing questions at me in Latin.”

  “Margaret is the clever one of the family. Mercy, too. You may have heard of them. Margaret is quite a scholar, but she is merry too. She takes much delight in writing in Latin and Greek; and with Mercy it is all mathematics and medicine. Elizabeth, who is my elder sister, is clever too. Poor Jack and I…we are not so clever. Are we, Jack?”

  “I am the dunce of the family,” said Jack. “I can just manage to write a little Latin and follow their speech.”

  “You will feel yourself to be a learned scholar when you compare yourself with me,” said Giles.

  “Then welcome!” cried Jack. “I shall enjoy appearing to be learned for once.”

  Cecily said: “It is pleasant, is it not, Jack, to welcome someone to this house who does not think that a knowledge of Greek is the most important thing in the world?”

  “And what, Mistress Cecily, do you think is the most important thing in the world?”

  “At the moment, to make sure that the rabbits are safe and that the weasel cannot come back and frighten them.”

  “He will not,” said Giles. “The monkey gave him a great fright. He will remember. Animals have long memories sometimes.”

  “Is that so?” said Cecily. “I am glad of it.”

  “You love animals, do you not?” asked Giles.

  “Yes. And you?”

  “My dogs and horses.”

  “I love dogs and horses and the little helpless ones besides…like rabbits and birds. We have fowls and dear little pigs.”

  “You have a farm, then?”

  “Well, we have some land and animals. We grow much for ourselves. That is what we always wanted when we lived in Bucklersbury. They are cutting the grass in the home field now. I should be helping. So should Jack. But I saw what was happening here….”

  “I should not have thought you would have had time to keep so many animals.”

  “But we are a big family. Each has his own. Father says that we may have what pets we like. The only rule is that we must care for them, see that they are fed and looked after in every way. The peacock there is Elizabeth’s. He is beautiful, do you not think so? He is rather haughty too, for he’ll not take food from anyone but Bess…unless he is very hungry. He is asking for you to admire him.”

  “He is as vain as a Court gallant.”

  “Are Court gallants as vain as that?” asked Cecily.

  “Some are much more vain.”

  “You are one of them, are you not?”

  “Ah, but out of my setting. Here, among the learned, I feel humble. But you should see me at Court. There I display my fine feathers and invite admiration.”

  “I should like to see you do that,” said Cecily.

  “Who knows, you may one day. Yet if I stay here for a little while, as your father and my father have arranged that I shall, doubtless I shall see myself so clearly that I shall know there is nothing to be vain about.”

  “I do not believe you are vain,” said Cecily, “because the very basis of vanity is that those who possess it are unaware that they do so. They think the puffed-up vision they see is the true one.”

  “I see you are very wise,” said Giles.

  “Nonsense. See how Marmot regards you, Master Heron. She likes you.”

  “Does she? Her bright eyes look at me suspiciously, I fancy.”

  “She is looking at you with interest. If she did not like you she would be making strange noises of irritation.”

  “I am glad one member of the family has taken to me.”

  “She is not the only one,” said Cecily with disarming frankness. “Here is another.”

  She made a gay little curtsy—not at all what Giles would have expected from such a learned little scholar.

  “And here is another,” said Jack. “Let us go to the hayfields. We should be helping there.”

  It was all very different from what Giles had expected. In the hayfield Sir Thomas More himself was sitting against a hedge, drinking some beverage from a jug, and his daughters were about him.

  Was this Sir Thomas More, the Under-Treasurer, the friend of the King and the Cardinal?

  “Welcome! Welcome!” he cried. “I am glad you came when we are all at home. The hay must be cut at the right moment, and right glad I am to be at home at such a time. You are thirsty, doubtless. Come, join us. Have you a tankard for Master Heron, Meg? And give him a piece of that cob loaf.”

  Giles was introduced to the family. The Mistress of the house made him very welcome; and even Mistress Roper, the eldest daughter, whose fame as a scholar had reached even him, alarmed him not at all.

  Cecily and Jack sat beside him and told how the monkey had driven off the weasel.

  It was quite pleasant there, lying in the shade of the hedge and taking refreshment, joining in the conversation and laughter.

  Afterward Jack showed him the grounds and stables, the orchards, barns, outhouses and, finally, the dairy.

  Supper proved to be a merry meal taken at the long table on the dais in the great hall. The food was simple; and there was a newcomer, whom no one seemed to know, who had called just as the meal was about to be served and was given a place at the table.

  Conversation was perhaps a little clever, and there was Latin—classical allusions, which Giles did not understand, but when this was the case, he found he had no need to join in, and that Lady More was always ready to poke fun at her scholars, and to smile at him as though to say: “We are the clever ones.”

  When the meal was over they sat on the lawn, for the day was still hot; and some of them brought out their lutes and there was singing.

  Giles Heron was very happy that night. He felt that, instead of coming to a strange household and perhaps a hostile one, he had come home.

  He sat next to Cecily and listened to her sweet singing voice. He had already decided that by falling in love with and marrying Cecily he might please not only his father, but himself.

  WHEN SIR John Heron, Treasurer of the King’s Chamber, told his friend Sir John Dauncey, Knight of the Body to the King, that his son Giles was to marry one of the daughters of Sir Thomas More, Sir John Dauncey was reflective.

  His thoughts turned to his son William, and he lost no time in seeking him out.

  It was possible to talk frankly to William, for William was a most ambitious young man, and would not have to be told twice to seize any advantages which came his way.

  “I hear Giles Heron is to marry one of Mores daughters,” he said to his son. “Master Heron has been quick. But there is still one daughter left.”

  William nodded. He did not need to have the implication of those words explained. There was no need to point out the advantages of a match between himself and one of the daughters of so favored a man.

  “I must call at the house in Chelsea,” he said.

  His father smiled his approval. There was no need to say: “Do not make the reason for your call too obvious. More is a strange man, and his daughters will doubtless be equally strange. The matter must be tackled with some delicacy.”

  William would know. He was ambitious e
nough to approach every advantageous situation with the utmost tact and delicacy.

  THE SUMMER was passing. Among the trees in the orchard, Dorothy Colly, Margaret’s maid, was playing with Margaret’s young son Will. An apple, part of which had been destroyed by the wasps, fell suddenly to the grass, and the baby began to crawl toward it.

  “Come away, my little man, come away,” said Dorothy. “Don’t touch it, darling. Ugh!…Nasty!”

  The baby crowed and Dorothy picked him up and cuddled him. He was very like his mother, and Dorothy loved his mother, who had treated her more like a friend than a servant, teaching her to read and write, giving her respect and affection.

  “You’re a lucky boy,” she said. “We’re all lucky here in Chelsea.”

  She thought of coming to the house—her life before, her life after.

  As soon as she entered the house or the grounds a feeling of peace would steal over her. She knew this was due to the influence of the master, for to be in his presence was to be filled with a determination to live up to his high standards.

  At this moment she could hear Lady More at the virginals, practicing in her labored way. Yet even such sounds were harmonious coming from this house, for to hear them was to remember that her ladyship, who had no great love of music, practiced the lute and the virginals so that when her husband came home she might show him what progress she had made. Even Lady More had been mellowed by the sweetness of her husband’s nature.

  It was true that when she stopped playing she would declare that she had done with wasting time for that day; and to reassure herself she would doubtless scold some defaulter in the kitchens; but the next day she would be practicing on the lute or the virginals.