by Jean Plaidy
He kissed her. “Do not ask too much of life, my wise daughter; ask for little, and then, if it comes, you will be happy.”
IT SEEMED to Margaret that the one who was least changed by his elevation was her father.
He was delighted with his importance only when he could use it to do good for others. He had shown to the King the drawings Hans Holbein had made of his family, and the King had been impressed with them; so Master Holbein had, regretfully, left the house at Chelsea to take up his quarters at Court as painter to the King at a salary of thirty pounds a year.
“It is a large sum,” said Hans, “and I am a poor man. I shall mayhap find fame in Hampton Court and Westminster, but will it give me as much joy as the happiness I have enjoyed in Chelsea?”
“With a brush such as yours, my friend,” said Thomas, “you have no choice. Go. Serve the King, and I doubt not that your future is secure.”
“I would as lief stay. I wish to do more pictures of your family…and your servants.”
“Go and make pictures of the King and his servants. Go, Hans; make the best of two worlds. Take up your quarters at the Court, and come to Chelsea for a humble meal with us when you feel the need for it.”
Then Hans Holbein embraced his friend and benefactor, and said with tears in his eyes: “To think that I should wish to refuse an offer such as this. You have put a magic in your house, dear friend; and I am caught in its spell.”
Yes, those were the things which Thomas greatly enjoyed doing. At such times it was worthwhile holding a great office.
But he was uneasy—far more uneasy than he would have his family realize.
The King was spending more and more time with Cromwell and Cranmer; they were the two to whom he looked for help in this matter of the divorce, and no other matter seemed of any great importance to him. The Cardinal had slipped down to disgrace and death, and the descent had been more rapid than his spectacular climb to grace and favor. He had first been indicted upon the Statute of Praemunire; but Thomas Cromwell had cleared him of the charge of high treason, so that Wolsey had been ordered to retire to York; but before he had long rested there he was charged once more with high treason and had died of a broken heart at Leicester on his way to London.
Thomas Wolsey had come to the Chancellorship with everything in his favor; Thomas More had come to it with everything against him. Wolsey had not realized his peril until within a year or so of his decline and death; More was aware of his from the moment he received the Great Seal.
WILLIAM DAUNCEY came to his father-in-law on one of those rare occasions when Thomas found time to be with his family.
There was a determined light in Dauncey’s eyes.
“Well, son Dauncey, you would have speech with me?”
“I have thought much of late, Father,” said Dauncey, “that things have changed since you became the Chancellor of this realm in place of the Cardinal.”
“In what way?”
“When my lord Cardinal was Chancellor, those about him grew rich, for he shut himself away and it was a matter of some cost for any to put their desires before him. Yet, since you have become Chancellor, any man may come to you. He may state his case and receive judgement.”
“Well, my son, is that not a good thing? Why, when my lord Cardinal held the Great Seal there were many cases which must go unheard because there was no time to put them before him. ’Tis easier for me. My interests are not so many, and I am a lawyer to boot. Do you know that when I took office there were cases which men were waiting to present for ten or twelve years! And now, my son—I grow boastful, but this matter gives me great pleasure, so forgive my pride—I called yesternoon for the next case, and I was told that there were no more cases to be heard. So proud was I that I invented a little rhyme as I sat there. This is it:
“When More some time had Chancellor been,
No more suits did remain.
The like will never more be seen
Till More be there again.”
“Yes, Father,” said Dauncey impatiently, after he had given his polite laugh. “That is good for those who would wish their cases to be heard; but it is not so good for the friends of the Chancellor.”
“How so, my son?”
“When Thomas Wolsey was Chancellor, not only the members of his privy chamber but even the keepers of his doors took great gain to themselves.”
“Ah,” said Thomas. “Now I understand. You feel that a daughter of this Chancellor should be at least as profitable as a door in the house of the last.”
“Profit?” said Dauncey. “But there is no profit. How could I take gifts from those whom I brought to your presence when in bringing them to you I could do no more for them than they could do for themselves?”
“You think I am at fault in making myself accessible to all who desire to see me?”
“It may be a commendable thing,” said Dauncey stubbornly, “but it is not a profitable thing for a son-in-law. How could I take reward from a man for something he could get without my help?”
“I admire your scrupulous conscience, my son.” He smiled at Dauncey. Dauncey yearned for advancement. He was not a bad boy; he but obeyed his father, Sir John Dauncey, in his determination to rise. Now Dauncey looked downcast; he did not always understand his father-in-law. Thomas laid a hand on his shoulder. “If, my son, you have some matter which you wish to place before me, if you have a friend whom you wish to help, well then, you could always put this matter before me. I might hear the cause of a friend of yours before that of another if it could be done. But remember this, son Dauncey—and I assure you this on my faith—that if my father himself stood on one side of me and the Devil on the other, and in this instance the Devil’s case was the right one, then must I decide in favor of the Devil. Come, walk with me in the gardens. You too, son Roper. I like to have you with me.”
And he put his arm through Dauncey’s, for Dauncey was looking ashamed; and he spoke to him with the utmost kindliness.
It was not Dauncey’s fault that he had been brought up on ambition. Moreover, he had softened somewhat since he had come to Chelsea.
ALICE WAS in a flurry of excitement, making preparations for the wedding of Jack to Anne Cresacre. This was to be the peak of her achievements so far; there had been other marriages in the family; ah, yes, but those had been the marriages of Thomas More, later Sir Thomas; now the son of the Lord Chancellor was to be married.
Alice was a little disappointed that the King would not be among the guests. She listened to the talk when they did not always think she listened; she heard some of the remarks which had passed between Margaret and her father, and also some of the hints of the Duke of Norfolk—who called at the house quite frequently, to Alice’s delight—and she gathered that Thomas, as was to be expected, was not making the most of his opportunities. He was deliberately opposing the King, and all because the King wanted a divorce and Thomas did not think he should have it.
“What the good year!” said Alice to herself. “This man of mine is a most foolhardy person. He is so careless of his position that he treats it with indifference; and yet, as regards this matter of the King’s he is most firm and resolute. ’Tis nothing but stubborn folly, and I am glad that my lord of Norfolk agrees with me.”
Well, the King would not be at the wedding; nevertheless, it was to be a grand affair. She had bought the young couple one of the new portable clocks which were such a novelty, as they were unknown in England this time last year. It was pleasant to be in a position to buy such things.
Such a feast she would prepare! All should marvel at the good table she kept in Chelsea. She had planned this feast again and again, altering an item here and there, until Margaret cried out in dismay that if she were not careful she would find her feast falling short of perfection because she would forget what she had decided for and what against.
She puffed about the kitchen, taking a look at the boar which was being soaked in vinegar and juniper; she went out to the sties to stu
dy the fatness of the pigs which would be killed; she went to the cellars to see how the mead and metheglin were maturing. She inspected her pickles, which must be the best she had ever produced.
Hourly she admonished her servants. “Do not forget. This is no marriage of a mean person. This is the marriage of the son of the Lord Chancellor of England.”
“Yes, my lady. Yes, my lady.”
My lady! she thought blissfully. My lady!
Ah, this was the good and pleasant life. Her only fear was that Thomas would do something to spoil it, for indeed Thomas seemed to have no understanding of the great dignity which should be his. It was all very well for him to poke fun at her, to laugh at her dignity. She must have her dignity. She did not forget she was the wife of the Lord Chancellor, if he was so foolish as to forget the dignity he owed to his office.
She would have ceremony in her household. He was wrong to welcome into the house every humble traveler who, hearing there was a chance of a good meal at the table of Sir Thomas More, arrived at mealtimes. He was wrong always to wear the same somber dress. Not a jewel on his person! And when it was remembered how glorious had been the Cardinal, and how the crowds had gathered in the streets of London to see him pass…well, puffed Alice, it is enough to make a woman wonder what manner of man she has married. He had no sense of his power, of his dignity.
Recently Giles Heron had occasion to bring a case to the courts against a certain Nicholas Millisante. But would Master More favor his own son-in-law? Indeed, he would not. Master Giles had gone confidently to court. Naturally, the somewhat easygoing Giles had expected his father-in-law to decide in his favor and…Thomas had decided against him!
“A fine thing!” Alice had chided. “So the affairs of your family mean nothing to you? People will say that the Lord Chancellor has no power, since he is afraid to give a verdict in favor of his own son-in-law.”
“What matters that, Alice, if they know that the laws of England are just?”
“Tut, tut,” said Alice to herself. “Tut, tut” was my lord of Norfolk’s favorite expression, and Alice was ready to ape the manners of the great, even if Thomas was not.
Thomas scorned all pomp and show. A week ago, when Norfolk had called unexpectedly on matters of business, Thomas had actually been singing in the choir of Chelsea Church. There he had been, wearing a surplice like an ordinary man; and Alice was not surprised that the sight of him, so undignified, had shocked the Duke.
“God’s Body! God’s Body!” Norfolk had cried. “My Lord Chancellor playing parish clerk! Tut-tut, you dishonor the King and his office, Master More.”
Had Thomas been contrite? Not in the least. He had merely smiled that slow maddening smile of his and answered: “Nay, your Grace, I cannot think that the King would deem the service of God a dishonor to his office.”
And there had been His Grace of Norfolk lost for words, while Thomas smiled and was so sure of himself. Yet the Duke had not been angered by that sharp answer; he had seemed most friendly with Thomas, both during the meal and afterward in the gardens.
But Alice herself would remember the dignity due to his office, if others did not. And she would have her servants remember also. In Chelsea Church each morning after prayers she had insisted that one of his gentlemen should come to her pew and tell her of the departure of her husband, although she knew the moment when he must leave the church. This gentleman of her husband’s must bow before Alice and say: “Madame, my lord is gone.”
Then she would bow her head and solemnly thank him. It was a ritual which made the others smile. But let them smile, said Alice. Someone must remember the dignity of the house.
Now one of her serving maids came to her to tell her that there was a poor woman at the door who would have speech with her.
“There are always poor women at the door!” she cried. “They come here begging from this house, because they know the master’s orders that none should be turned away without a hearing. It seems to me that beggars are given more honors here than are noble dukes.”
But this poor woman had not come to beg, she assured Lady More. She had a pretty dog, and as she had heard of Lady More’s fondness for these animals she had brought it along in the hope of selling it to her ladyship.
Alice was immediately attracted by the engaging little creature. She gave the woman a coin and welcomed yet another pet into the house.
IT WAS only a week or so after the wedding when the absurd controversy about the dog arose.
Alice was annoyed. A beggar woman, roaming near the house, saw the dog being carried by one of the servants and immediately declared that it had been stolen from her.
The servant retorted that this was nonsense. My lady had bought the dog. If the old beggar woman did not go away at once she would be tied to a tree and whipped.
Alice was indignant. To dare to say I stole the dog! I! Does she not know who I am? The wife of none other than the Lord Chancellor!
But the beggar woman would not go away. She loitered on the river bank, and one day when she saw the Lord Chancellor himself alight from his barge she accosted him.
“My lord! Justice!” she cried. “Justice for a poor woman who is the victim of a thief.”
Thomas paused.
“Mistress,” he said with that grave courtesy which altered not whether he addressed a duchess or a beggar, “what theft is this you wish to report?”
“The theft of a little dog, your honor. I wish to regain what I have lost.”
“If you are speaking the truth, and the animal has been stolen from you, then must it be restored to you. Who now has possession of your property?”
“Lady More, your honor.”
“And is that so? Well then, come to my hall tomorrow morning when I try the cases, and we shall hear yours against Lady More.”
He went smiling to the house and there spoke to Alice.
“Alice, you are summoned to the courts tomorrow morning.”
“What foolish joke is this?”
“No joke. ’Tis true. You are accused of theft, wife and must needs come to answer the charge.”
“I…accused of theft!”
“Of a dog.”
“So it is that beggar!”
“She says you have her dog.”
“And I say I have my dog.”
“In a court of law, Alice, it is not enough to say an article is yours if another claims it. It must be proved.”
“You cannot mean that you would ask me to go to the courts, on a matter like this!”
“I do, Alice.”
She laughed in his face; but he meant it, she realized to her astonishment. She thought it was a most unseemly thing that the Lord Chancellor should summon his own wife to appear before him, and on the word of a beggar too! They would be the laughingstock of all, she doubted not.
She dressed herself with great care and set out with the dog as Thomas had bidden her. She would show dignity if he did not. She would show the world that if Thomas was unfit for the office of Chancellor, she was not unfit for the position of Chancellor’s wife.
And in the hall, there was my Lord Chancellor with his officers about him.
“The next case we must try this day,” he said, “concerns the possession of a small animal. Let us have a fair hearing of this matter. This lady declares the dog was stolen from her and therefore belongs to her; this lady declares she bought him and therefore he belongs to her. Now let us place the little dog on the table here. Lady More, stand you back at that end of the hall; and, mistress, you stand at the other. You will both call the dog, and we will see whom he considers to be mistress; for, I verily believe this is a matter which the dog must decide.”
Imperiously Alice called the dog to her, and lovingly the beggar woman called him; and he, the little rogue, did not hesitate; he did what he had been wanting to do ever since he had seen her; he ran, barking excitedly, to the beggar woman.
“There can be no doubt,” said Thomas, “that the dog has once been the p
roperty of this lady, and her story that he was stolen from her is doubtless a true one.”
The beggar woman held the dog tightly against her, and Alice, seeing this, knew herself defeated. She knew too that Thomas had been right in this matter, although she deplored his undignified manners.
The beggar woman said to her: “Lady, he has fattened since he was in your care. You can offer him a better home than I can. Take him…care for him as you have done. I see it would be for the best that he should be yours.”
Alice was touched, as she always was by animals and those who loved them.
She saw that the old woman really loved her dog and that it was no small sacrifice to give him up.
Alice hesitated. She said: “The judgement of this court went against me. The dog is yours. But if you would like to sell him, I am ready to buy him of you.”
And so the matter was settled amicably and to the satisfaction of all; but Alice could not help pondering on the strange ways of her husband.
THE GREAT day came, as Alice had known it would.
The King was to dine at Chelsea.
All that activity which she had set in train for the entertainment of a noble duke was intensified.
Alice could scarcely sleep at night; and when she did she dreamed of serving at her table beef that was almost burned to a cinder. She dreamed of seeing black piecrust on her table. She called out in the agony of her nightmare.
She could not stop talking of the great event. “Do you wenches realize that it is tomorrow that the King comes! Hurry, hurry, I say. We shall never be done in time.” Then she would smile and think of His Grace sitting at her table, smiling at her. “His Grace the King, so I have heard, likes to see the blood flow rich and red from his beef. We must make sure that there is not one turn too many of the spit. I hear he has a fancy for his pastry to be well baked…”
Never had the servants lived through such days. Preparations were started four days ahead, and Alice could speak of nothing else during that time. All the girls were pressed into service. Ailie must come and stay, and tell all she knew of Court manners and Court etiquette. “For,” said Alice, “your father is a dullard in such things. It is beyond my understanding why they have called him a wise man.”
