by Jean Plaidy
“These are grave matters, my friend,” said Bishop Fisher.
“Grave indeed,” said Thomas, “for where they will end I do not know.”
And the next day, the Cardinal, with Sir Thomas More in his entourage, left for Canterbury, and so to France.
THE SWEATING sickness had again come to England; it roamed through the streets of the City like a hungry beast who was nourished on the filth which filled the malodorous gutters and the fetid air inside the houses. Men, women and children took the sweat; they lay down where they were, in a state of exhaustion, and died unless they could be roused from the coma into which they fell. This horrible pestilence was no respecter of persons; it struck at beggars and the highest in the land.
In the streets, the people were muttering together, telling each other that it was clear why God had sent this affliction. He was displeased. And why should He be displeased? The Secret Matter was no longer secret; they knew that the King wished to put the Queen from him; and there was no denying the rumor that the woman he wished to make his Queen was Nan Bullen—his mistress, so it was said. Who was this woman? The daughter of a knight. She was no royal Queen.
All the hatred the people felt for the upstart Wolsey they now allowed him to share with the upstart Anne Boleyn.
God was angry with England, and this was His way of showing it; there was the reason for a further visitation of this terrible pestilence.
The King was also angry. He had been deprived of the presence of his beloved mistress, who he desired to make his wife more than he desired anything on Earth. What had she said to him? “Your mistress I will not be; your wife I cannot be.” But he must be her lover even if, as she implied, the only way in which he could be was by making her his wife.
And now she had left the Court.
Wolsey had done this. What had happened to Wolsey? He had lost a little of his arrogance. He now knew that the King had not given him his confidence, and that when he, Wolsey, had been trying to negotiate a marriage with one of the princesses of France, the King had already firmly made up his mind that he would have none other than Anne Boleyn. Wolsey now knew that it was mainly Anne Boleyn who had set the King searching his conscience; but he had learned that important factor too late.
Now a sad and anxious Cardinal had advised his royal master that, since the people were angered against the Lady Anne, it would be wise at this stage to send her back to Hever.
So Henry was alone and wretched, longing for her, asking himself why it was that, surrounded as he was by the cleverest men in the world, there was not one of them who could settle this matter to his satisfaction.
There was a message from Hever.
The sweat cared nothing for the wrath and anguish of the King himself. Anne Boleyn—more precious to the King than his kingdom—had become a victim of the sweating sickness.
Now the King was in terror. He wept and stormed and he prayed. How could God put the King’s beloved in danger! Had he not been a good King…a good man…always striving to do God’s will! And was it not solely for the good of England that he would take Anne to wife?
He called for his physicians, and the only one who was at Court was his second, Dr. Butts. The King threatened this man while he beseeched him to save the Lady Anne, before he dispatched him in all haste to Hever.
Then he sat down and, weeping, wrote to her: “The most displeasing news that could occur to me came suddenly at night….” He wept as he wrote of his laments, of what it meant to him to hear that his mistress, whom he esteemed more than all the world, and whose health he desired as he did his own, should be ill. He told of how he longed to see her and that the sight of her would give him greater comfort than all the precious jewels in the world.
And when he had written and dispatched this letter, he paced up and down his apartment, weeping and praying; and all the time longing for Anne, cursing the fate which kept them apart, promising himself how he would reward those who helped him to marry Anne, promising revenge on all those who continued to keep them apart.
In the Court the news spread: The Lady hath the sweat. This will doubtless impair her beauty, even though she should recover. Could she do so and be so charming when and if she returned to the Court?
Important events were being decided in a lady’s bedchamber at Hever Castle.
GREAT SORROW had touched the house in Chelsea.
Margaret had been to the village, taking some garments to one of the families, and she had seemed quite well when she had returned to the house. She had sat with them at the supper table and had joined in the talk. Then, as she had risen, she had tottered suddenly and had been obliged to catch at the table to support herself.
“Margaret!” cried Mercy in terrible alarm.
“What is it?” demanded Alice.
“Let us get Margaret to bed at once,” said Mercy. “She is sick, I am afraid.”
“Margaret sick!” cried Alice. “Why, she was eating a hearty meal a moment ago!”
“Yes, Mother, I know. But don’t hinder me now. Will! Jack! Father…help me.”
It was Will who carried her to her room. Now her eyes were tightly shut and the beads of sweat were beginning to form on her face; she was shivering, yet burning hot.
Thomas followed. He caught his daughter’s limp hand.
“O Lord God,” he prayed silently. “Not Margaret…. That I could not endure.”
Will was beside himself with anxiety. “What shall we do, Mercy? Mercy, in God’s name, what can we do?”
“Cover her up. Keep her warm. No; don’t attempt to undress her. I will try the philosopher’s egg. I have it ready. God be thanked.”
She lay on the bed, no longer looking like Margaret; her face was yellow and the sweat ran down her cheeks.
“Please,” begged Mercy, “everybody go. There is nothing you can do. Leave her with me. No, Will; you can do no good. Make sure that the children do not come into this room. Father…please…there is nothing…nothing you can do.”
Mercy’s thoat constricted as she looked into his face.
How will he bear it? she asked herself. He loves her best in the world. She is his darling, as he is hers. How could either endure life without the other?
“Father…dearest Father…please go away. There is nothing…nothing to be done.”
But he stood numbly outside the door as though he had not heard.
Margaret ill of the sweat! Margaret…dying!
Elizabeth and Cecily had shut themselves in their rooms. There was nothing to be done; that was the pity of it. They said to each other that if only there was something they could have done it would have been easier to bear. But to sit…waiting…in such maddening inactivity…. It was all but unendurable.
Alice took refuge in scolding anyone who came near her. “The foolish girl…to go to the cottages at such a time. She should have known. And they tell us she is so clever…! And what is Mercy doing? Is she not supposed to be a doctor? Why does she not cure our Margaret?”
Will paced up and down. He could find no words. Margaret, his beloved wife, so calm, so serene; what would he do if he lost her? What would his life be without Margaret?
Giles Heron was all for riding to the Court; he would bring Dr. Linacre himself, he declared. What did it matter if Dr. Linacre was the King’s first physician? Margaret was a member of that family, which was now his, and she was in danger. He must get the best doctors for her. He could bring Dr. Butts…and Dr. Clement. He would bring all the greatest doctors in the country.
Dauncey said: “You would find yourself in trouble, brother. You…from an afflicted house…to ride to Court!”
Dauncey was astonished that he could be so affected. What was Margaret to him? What could Margaret do to advance his fortunes? Nothing. He trembled, it was true, that her father might catch the disease and die, and that Dauncey’s biggest hope of achieving favor at Court would be lost. Yet he was moved, and faintly astonished to find himself sharing in the family’s anguish. He had g
rown fond of them; he had enjoyed their merry games; and, strange as it was, he knew that if any calamity came to them it could not fail to touch him. So there was a streak of sentiment in this most ambitious young man after all.
Thomas shut himself up in the private chapel.
What could he do to save Margaret? What could he do but pray? Now he thought of her—Margaret, the baby, the child, the prodigy who had astonished all with her aptitude for learning. He could think of a hundred Margarets whom he loved, but the one who meant most to him was the loving daughter, the Margaret who was his dearest friend and best companion, who was nearer to him than anyone in the world.
“O God,” he prayed, “do not take my daughter from me. Anything…anything but that.”
He did not leave the chapel. He stayed there on his knees. The hair shirt lacerated his skin, and he wished its pain were doubled.
Will came to him and they prayed together.
“Ah, son Roper,” said Thomas, “what religious differences are there between us now? We ask one thing, and that we wish for more than anything in the world. She must not die.”
“I cannot contemplate life without her, Father,” said Will.
“Nor I, my son.”
“They say that if she does not recover during the first day there is no hope.”
“The day is not yet over. How was she when you left her?”
“Unconscious. She lies there with her eyes fast shut, oblivious of the world. I spoke her name. ‘Margaret,’ I said. ‘Margaret, come back to me and our children.’”
“Will, I beg of you, say no more. You unnerve me.”
He thought: I have loved her too well; I have loved her more than all the world. When she was born she gave me contentment; she was the meaning of life to me. She is the meaning of life. Have I loved her too well? Oh, how easy it is to torture the body, to wear the hair shirt, to flagellate the flesh, to deprive the body of its cravings. Those pains are easy to suffer; but how bear the loss of a loved one…how endure life when the one you love more than your own life, more than the whole world is taken from you?
“If…if aught should happen to her…” he began.
Now it was Will’s turn to implore him not to go on. Will could only shake his head while the tears ran down his cheeks.
But Thomas continued: “I would retire from the world. Nothing could keep me leading this life. Oh, my son, I could not go on. If Margaret were taken from me, I would never meddle with wordly affairs hereafter.”
“Father, I implore you…I beg of you not to speak of it. Do not think of it. She will get well. She must get well. Let us pray. Let us pray together….”
So they knelt and prayed, and if Will saw God as Martin Luther saw him, and if Thomas saw God as the Pope saw Him, they each knew that their prayers were being offered to the same God.
Thomas rose suddenly. His spirits were lifted.
He said: “Will, when Margaret was a little girl—scarcely two years old—and we were visiting her mother’s old home, New Hall in Kent, Margaret, playing in a field, was lost and could not find the gate through which she had come into the field and which opened onto the path which led to the house. She was frightened, for dusk was settling on the land. Frantically she ran about the field, and still she could not find the gate. Then suddenly she remembered that I had told her that when she was in trouble she must ask the help of her Father upon Earth or her Father in Heaven. ‘And, Father,’ she said when she told me this some time later, ‘I had lost you, so I knelt down and asked God the way home. And when I arose from my knees I was no longer frightened. I walked calmly round the field until I came to the gate.’ I had missed her, as it happened, and had gone to look for her, and as she came through the gate and ran toward me, she said: ‘Father, God showed me the way home.’ What a beautiful thought it is, Will. What a comfort. I have been on my knees now…frightened…panic-stricken, as Margaret was. I was lost and I could not find the gate which led to the home I knew…to the happiness I knew. ‘God,’ I have prayed, ‘show me the way.’”
“Father, you look changed. You seem…serene…as though you know she will get well.”
“I seem calmer, my son, do I not? I am calmer. I feel as she felt when she rose from her knees. My panic has gone. I know this, son Roper, God will show me the way, as he showed Margaret. My mind is calm; thoughts cease to chase themselves in my head. I am going to the house to see how she is. Come with me, Will.”
Mercy met them at the door of the sick room.
“No change,” she said, “I have tried to wake her. If we cannot wake her, she will die.”
“Mercy, I want you to give her a clyster.”
“Father, she is too ill.”
“She is so ill, Mercy, that she cannot be much worse…short of death. Do this, I beg of you. Administer this clyster. We must wake her, must we not? Then we will wake her.”
“Father, I am afraid. It is too violent, and she is very ill indeed.”
“Mercy, you are imprisoned in fear. Yes, my love, you are afraid because you love her even as I do. She is not your patient; she is your sister. You wrap her up; you watch over her; but you will not take a risk because you are frightened. I have prayed. I feel I have been in close communion with God and, Mercy, I am not afraid. I want you to be calm…to forget that this is our beloved Margaret. If she does not wake she will die. We must wake her, Mercy. We must. You agree that is so. Give her the clyster.”
Mercy said quietly: “I will do as you wish, Father. Leave me with her.”
Half an hour later Mercy came out of the sick room.
Her eyes were shining.
“She is roused from her sleep,” she said. “Father…Will…she asked for both of you.”
They went to her and one knelt on either side of the bed.
Margaret, weak and only just able to recognize them, let her eyes wander from one to the other.
THREE MEN were very happy after the next few days. Each had feared to lose the one he loved best in the world, and each experienced the great joy of seeing the return of the loved one to health. These men were Will Roper, Sir Thomas More and the King of England.
MARGARET WAS about the house again, although thin and pale. Her father seemed unable to let her go out of his sight.
They would wander together through the orchards and the flower gardens, and sometimes he would remind her of the pleasures they had shared during her childhood; they would laugh and sometimes weep together, over their memories.
He spoke to her, more frankly than he did to the others, of Court matters; and sometimes they would read together from Erasmus’s Testament.
Margaret’s convalescence consisted of many happy hours.
He would care for her in a hundred ways; he would get her a shawl from the house, for fear the wind might be too strong; he would not let her walk on the grass after rain lest her feet should be made damp. He rejoiced to see her gradual return to health, and often she would weep, contemplating the sorrow her illness had brought to her family, and in particular she wept for Will and her father.
The bond between Sir Thomas and his daughter was stronger than it had ever been.
One hot day, when they were sitting in the gardens, being overcome by the warmth of the day he opened the neck of his gown, and little Anne Cresacre, who was sitting near him, caught a glimpse of the strange garment he was wearing next to his skin. Anne’s big eyes were round with wonder; her lips began to twitch. Could it be a hair shirt! But only monks wore those…monks and hermits. Little Anne, who was often uncertain in this household of clever people, found that when she was at a loss, irrepressible laughter overcame her.
It was Margaret who followed her look and who rose from her seat and said: “Father, the air grows cold.” She buttoned up his gown and was angry with Anne for her youth and her stupidity, and because she had dared to giggle at a great and saintly man.
He, seeing what had happened and understanding it, smiled at Anne, who, aware of his kindness, was
instantly ashamed. She rose and, murmuring that she was wanted in the kitchens, hurried away.
Thomas turned his smile on his daughter, and it grew very tender. He remembered that when Alice wished to know what happened to his shirts and why they were not given in with the ordinary linen to wash, it was Margaret who had answered her, to prevent his telling the truth; for Margaret could not bear to listen to the ridicule which she knew Alice would heap upon him. “I wash Father’s shirts, Mother, with things of my own. I have always done it, and I shall always do it.” “What nonsense!” Alice had said. “Why should you do such a thing when there are maids here to do it?” But Margaret had quietly said that it was her affair, and she said it with such determination that even Alice did not pursue the subject.
Thomas now suggested a walk by the river, and as they set forth he said: “You would protect me then from the scorn of the young and the gay?”
“The stupid child!” said Margaret. “I wanted to box her ears.”
“You are too hard on her, Meg. She is but a baby. You must not expect all to be as serious as you were at her age. Have patience with little Anne. She is a good child; and I believe she loves our Jack and that he loves her. Let us ask no more of her than that she shall love him and make him happy.”
“Oh, Father, what matters it after all? The important thing is: How go affairs at the Court?”
“Events move fast, Meg.”
“Is the King as determined as ever to cast off the Queen?”
“I fear so.”
“And if he succeeds in arranging the divorce, he will marry Anne Boleyn?”
“I believe that to be his intention. Meg, I think it will not be long before your father loses his honors and becomes a humble man again. You smile, Meg. One would think I had told you that my fortune was made.”
“So it will be if you are home with us all as you once were. If you take up your duties in the City as you once did….”
“I doubt that I could pick up the threads as easily as that, Meg.”
“Never mind. I should be happy to see you leave the Court forever.”
