by Jean Plaidy
A YEAR passed.
They were very poor during that year; the house at Chelsea was indeed a large one and there were many living in it to be fed. Yet they were happy. The hospital continued to provide succor for the sick; there was little to spare in the house, but it was always shared with those who were in need. There was always a place at the table for a hungry traveler, and if the fare was simpler than before, it appeased the hunger. Alice took an even greater pride in her cookery; she discovered new ways of using the herbs which grew wild in the fields. They collected fern, bracken, sticks and logs, which they burned in the great fireplaces; and they would gather round one fire to warm themselves before retiring to their cold bedrooms.
Still, it was a happy year. They would not have complained if they could have gone on as they were.
Alice grew angry when the abbots and bishops collected a large sum of money which they wished to present to Thomas. He had written much, they said; the Church was grateful; and they deemed that the best way in which they could show their gratitude was by presenting him with the money. Thomas, however, would not accept it. “What I have done,” he said, “was not for gain.”
So Alice scolded him for what she called his misplaced pride, and they continued to live in simplicity.
Patenson the Fool had left them in tears to work with the Lord Mayor of London; and Thomas, knowing that poor Patenson was a very poor Fool indeed, whose idea of wit seemed to be to laugh at the physical appearances of others, arranged that he should be passed from one Lord Mayor to the next Lord Mayor so that he might not suffer through the decline in fortune of one of his masters.
There were some members of the household who were lulled into a feeling of peace, who believed that life would go on humbly and evenly in the years to come. They did not realize that Thomas More had played too big a part in the affairs of the country to be allowed to remain outside them.
So gradually had matters been changing at Court that they were almost unnoticed by those outside it. The King had declared himself to be the Supreme Head of the Church of England. His marriage with Queen Katharine was declared null and void. He had been forced to this procedure by the pregnancy of Anne Boleyn. He was determined that if she gave him a son it should not be born out of wedlock; and he would wait no longer.
Margaret knew that the shadows were moving nearer.
One day a barge pulled up at the stairs, and in it came a messenger.
Margaret saw him as she was playing with her babies, Will and Mary, on the lawns. Her heart leaped, and then she felt the blood thundering in her head. Her children were looking at her wonderingly; she took their hands and forced herself to walk calmly toward the approaching messenger.
To her great relief, she saw that he was not wearing the King’s livery.
He bowed low on seeing Margaret.
“Madame, this is the house of Sir Thomas More?”
“It is. What would you of him?”
“I have a letter here. I am instructed to hand it to no other.”
“Whence do you come?”
“From my lords the Bishops of Durham, Bath and Winchester.”
She was relieved.
“Please come this way,” she said, “and I will take you to Sir Thomas.”
He was in the library, where he now spent the greater part of his time. He could be happy, she thought, then; He could remain in perfect contentment as he is now. Our poverty matters not at all. He can write, pray and laugh with his family. He asks no more than that. “O God,” she prayed silently, as she led the messenger to her father, “let him stay as he is…. Let him always be as he is now.”
“Meg!” he cried when he saw her.
The little ones ran to him; they loved him; they would sit on his knee and ask him to read to them; he would read them Latin and Greek, and although they could not understand him, they took great pleasure in watching the movement of his lips and listening to the sound of his voice.
Now they caught his skirts and laughed up at him.
“Grandfather…here is a man for you.”
“Father,” said Margaret, “a message from the Bishops.”
“Ah,” said Thomas. “Welcome, my friend. You have a letter for me. Let little Will take our friend to the kitchens and ask that he may be given something of what they have there, that he may refresh himself. Could you do that, my little man?”
“Yes, Grandfather,” cried Will. “Indeed I can.”
“Then off with you.”
“Take Mary with you,” said Margaret.
The two children went off with the messenger, and as soon as they were alone Margaret turned to her father. “Father, what is it?”
“Meg, you tremble.”
“Tell me, Father. Open your letter. Let us know the worst.”
“Or the best. Meg, you are nervous nowadays. What is it, daughter? What should you have to fear?”
“Father, I am not as the others to be lightly teased out of my anxieties. I know…as you know…”
He put his arm about her. “We know, Meg, do we not? And because we know, we do not grieve. We are all death’s creatures. I…you…even little Will and Mary. Only this uncertain air, with a bit of breath, keeps us alive. Meg, be not afraid.”
“Father, I beg of you, open the letter.”
He opened it and read it. “It is a letter from the Bishops, Margaret; they wish me to keep them company from the Tower to the Coronation. They send me twenty pounds with which to buy myself a gown.”
“Father, this is the beginning.”
He sought to comfort her. “Who knows, Meg? How can any of us know? At this magnificent Coronation, who will notice the absence of one poor and humble man?”
Then she knew that he would refuse to go to the Coronation; and while she longed that he should accept the invitation of the Bishops and bow to the will of the King, she knew that he would never falter in his way along the path he had chosen.
THERE HAD never been such pageantry as that which was to celebrate the crowning of Queen Anne Boleyn.
In the gardens at Chelsea could be heard the sounds of distant triumphant music, for the river had been chosen as the setting for the great ceremony in which the King would honor the woman for whom he had so patiently waited, and for whose sake he had severed his Church from that of his father.
Many of the servants from Chelsea had gone forth to mingle with the crowds and enjoy the festivities of that day, to drink the wine that flowed from the conduits, to see the new Queen in all her beauty and magnificence.
Margaret had not wished to mingle with those crowds.
On that lovely May day she sat in the gardens at home. Her father, she knew, was in his private chapel, praying, she guessed, that when his testing time came he would have the strength to meet it nobly.
May was such a beautiful time of the year; and it seemed to Margaret that never had the gardens at Chelsea seemed to offer such peaceful charm. Those gardens were beginning to mature; the flower borders were full of color; there was blossom on the trees, and the river sparkled in the sunshine. From far away came the sounds of revelry. She would not listen to them. They were distant; she must not think of them as the rumbling of the coming storm. The buzzing of bees in the garden was near; the scent of the flowers, the smell of fresh earth—they were the home smells. Sitting there in the heat of the sun, she reminded herself that she was in her home, for from the tumult, at peace in her backwater.
Why should the King care what her father did? she soothed herself. He was of no importance now. Who would notice that Sir Thomas More was not present at the Coronation?
She recalled that meeting of his with the Bishops, whom he had seen after he had received their letter.
“My lords,” he had said in his merry way, “in the letters which you lately sent me you required two things of me.” He was referring to the money they had asked him to accept and the invitation which they had asked him to accept also. “The one,” he went on, “since I was so well
content to grant you, the other therefore I might be the bolder to deny you.”
They had protested that he was unwise to absent himself from the Coronation. What was done, was done, they pointed out. By staying away from the ceremony, they could not undo the marriage of the King with Anne Boleyn and set Queen Katharine on the throne.
Then he had spoken in a parable. He had told them the story of an Emperor who had ordained that death should be the punishment for a certain offense except in the case of virgins, for greatly did this Emperor reverence virginity. Now, it happened that the first to commit this offense was a virgin; and the Emperor was therefore perplexed as to how he could inflict this punishment, since he had sworn never to put a virgin to death. One of his counsellors rose and said: “Why make such an ado about such a small matter? Let the girl first be deflowered, and then she may be devoured.”
“And so,” added Thomas, “though your lordships have in the matter of the matrimony hitherto kept yourselves pure virgins, take good heed that you keep your virginity still. For some there may be that by procuring your lordships first at the Coronation to be present, and next to preach for the setting forth of it and finally to write books to all the world in its defence, therefore are desirous to deflower you; and when they have deflowered you they will not fail soon after to devour you. Now, my lords, it lieth not in my power that they may devour me, but God being my good Lord, I will so provide that they shall never deflower me.”
These words would be noted by many who had heard them. And what would the King say to their utterance? And what would he do?
These were the questions Margaret asked herself as she sat in the sunshine.
We can be so happy here, she thought. And he is no longer Lord Chancellor. He is of no great importance now.
But, of course, he would always be of importance while men listened to his words and he had the power to turn their opinions.
From the river came the sounds of rejoicing. In vain did Margaret try to shut out these sounds.
WAS SHE really surprised when the persecutions began?
The first came at the end of the year after the King’s Council had published the nine articles which justified all he had done in ridding himself of one Queen and providing himself with another.
Thomas was accused of having written an answer to the nine articles and sent it abroad to be published. Thomas had written no such answer. He was still a member of the King’s Council, and as such would consider that his membership debarred him from discussing the King’s affairs except in Council.
Nothing could be proved against him and the matter was dropped; but to his family it was an indication of how the winds were beginning to blow.
The King was angry with Thomas, as he was with all those who did not agree with him or who made him question the rightness of his actions.
A few peaceful months passed, but every time Margaret heard strange voices near the house she would feel beads of sweat on her brow, and she would place her hand over her heart in a vain attempt to quell its wild leaping.
Another charge was brought against him. This time he was accused of accepting bribes.
Here, thought those who had been set to bring about his downfall, was a safe charge to bring against him, for surely any man in his position must at some time have accepted a gift which could be called a bribe. It was possible to produce people who had presented him with gifts during his term of office, but it could not be proved that any of these had been bribes, or that the donors had gained aught from such gifts. Instead, it was shown how his son-in-law Heron had lost a case which he had brought, and that even the rather comic case, in which his wife had been involved, had gone against her. No, there was no way of convicting him on the score of bribery.
The King was irritated beyond measure by the folly of the man. He knew well that there were many in his kingdom who thought highly of Sir Thomas More and who might change their opinions regarding the King’s recent actions if only such a highly respected man as Sir Thomas More could be made to come to heel.
Friar Peto, of the Observants of Greenwich, had actually dared preach a sermon against the King, declaring from the pulpit that if he behaved as Ahab, the same fate would overtake him. This was prophecy, and Henry was afraid of prophets unless he could prove them false—and only the King’s death could prove Peto false.
The Carthusians, with whom More had a special connexion, were preaching against the marriage.
Fisher, Bishop of Rochester, was another who dared to take his stand against the King.
“By God’s Body,” said Henry, “I do verily believe that if this man More would state in his clever way that he is with me in all I do, he could have these others following him.”
But More would do no such thing; he was an obstinate fool.
If he could be proved false…ah, if only he could be proved false!
The King himself wanted to have nothing to do with Mores downfall. He wished to turn his back, as he had in the case of Wolsey; he wished to leave More to his enemies. This was not so easy as it had been in the case of Wolsey, for More had few enemies. He was no Cardinal Wolsey. Men loved More; they did not wish him harm. Audley, Cranmer—even Cromwell—became uneasy over the matter of More’s downfall.
That was why, when More was accused of taking bribes, with his clever lawyer’s words and his proof of this and that, with his knowledge of the law, he was able to rebut the charges.
It was even so with regard to the matter of the lewd nun of Canterbury.
Elizabeth Barton, a mere serving girl, who had been cured of a terrible sickness by, some said, a miracle, became a nun in the town of Canterbury. She had made certain prophecies during trances, and when Thomas was Chancellor, the King had sent him to examine the woman. Thomas had been impressed by her holiness and, with Fisher, inclined to believe that she was not without the gift of prophecy. Elizabeth Barton had declared that if the King married Anne Boleyn he would, within six months, cease to be King of England. Six months had passed since the marriage, and here was Henry still in firm possession of the throne.
Elizabeth Barton was a fraud; she was a traitor and she should suffer the death penalty.
The King was pleased, for those who had believed the nun’s evil utterances were guilty of misprision of treason.
What of my lord Bishop of Rochester? the King asked the devoted Cromwell. What of our clever Sir Thomas More?
Here again he was defeated, for Thomas the lawyer was not easily trapped. He could prove that, as a member of the King’s Council, he had always refused to listen to any prophecy concerning the King’s affairs.
That was an anxious time for Thomas’s family. Now they felt fresh relief. Nothing could be proved against him in this affair of the nun of Canterbury and once more, after an examination, Thomas returned to his family.
It was small wonder that they would sometimes catch a look of alarm in one another’s eyes, that sometimes one of them would appear to be alert, listening, then that fearful disquiet would settle on the house again.
THE KING was fretful.
His marriage was not all that he had believed it would be. He had a child—but a daughter. He was fond of young Elizabeth, but she was not a son; and it was sons he wished his Anne to give to him.
Moreover, Anne the wife was less attractive than Anne the mistress had been.
The King was beginning to feel great need to justify his behavior. He wanted all the world—and certainly all his own countrymen—to see him as the righteous man who had rid himself of an ageing wife and married an attractive one, not for his own carnal desires, but for the good of the country.
He was very angry with Thomas More, who, while he had done nothing against the King which the law could condemn, yet refused to express his approval of the King’s actions. When the list of those who had been guiltily involved in the case of the nun of Canterbury was brought before Henry, he refused to allow Thomas’s name to be removed.
But he could do no more
about that matter at the moment.
He would pace up and down his apartments with some of his intimates about him.
“It grieves me,” he cried. “It grieves me mightily. I have honored that man. What was he before I took him up? A miserable lawyer. I made him great. And what is his answer? What does he offer me? Base ingratitude! A word from him, and there could be peace among these monks. Even Fisher himself could doubtless be persuaded by his old friend. Yet…Thomas More will not accept me as Head of the Church! By God’s Body, this is treason! He holds that the Pope is still Head of the Church! That’s treason, is it not? Was there ever a servant to his sovereign more treacherous, more villainous, or subject to his prince so traitorous as he? What have I given him? Riches. Power. Favor. And what does he give me? Disobedience! I ask nothing but that he does what others of my servants have done. He has but to acknowledge my supremacy in the Church. Audley…Cromwell…Norfolk, my friends…was ever King so plagued?”
He was asking them to rid him of this man.
The little eyes were hot and angry, but the mouth was prim. All over the continent of Europe, Sir Thomas More was respected. The King’s conscience must not be offended.
“Bring this man to obedience.” That was what the little eyes pleaded with those about him. “No matter how…no matter how you do it.”
NORFOLK TOOK barge to Chelsea.
Margaret, on the alert as she ever was, saw the Duke coming, and ran down to meet him.
“My lord…fresh news?”
“Nay, nay. ’Tis naught. Where is your father? I would speak with him at once.”
“I’ll take you to him.”
Thomas had seen the Duke’s arrival and had come down to greet him.
“It is rarely that we have had this honor of late,” he said.
“I would speak with you alone,” said the Duke; and Margaret left them together.
