by Jean Plaidy
Fisher answered: “By the law of God, the King is not, nor could be Supreme Head on Earth of the Church of England.” Rich nodded and smiled: he was well pleased with himself Fisher had answered exactly as he had hoped he would.
THERE WERE others in the Tower for the same reason as were those two brave men.
The Carthusians had been asked to sign the Oath of Supremacy. This they had found they could not do in good conscience, and the Prior of the London Charterhouse, with those of Lincoln and Nottinghamshire, was very soon lodged in the Tower. Others quickly followed them there.
The King was growing more and more angry, and when he was angry he turned his wrath on Cromwell.
“By God’s Body,” roared the King. “It is this man More who stiffens their resistance. We must make him understand what happens to those who disobey the King.”
“Sire, we have done all we can to bring a charge against him, but he is as wily as a fox in this matter of the law.”
“I know, I know,” said the King testily, “that he is a clever man in some ways and that I am surrounded by fools. I know that you have tried in many ways to bring charges against him, but every time he has foiled you. He is a traitor. Remember that. But I have no wish to see him suffer. My wish is that he shall end his folly, give us his signature and stop working malice among those who so admire him. These monks would relent if he did. But, no…no. These fools about me can in no way foil him. It is Master More who turns their arguments against them and snaps his fingers at us all. Let him be reminded of the death a traitor suffers. Ask him whether or not that is the law of the land. Ask him what clever lawyer can save a man from a traitors death if he is guilty of treason.”
Cromwell visited Thomas in his cell.
“Ah, Sir Thomas,” he said, “the King grieves for you. He wishes you well in spite of all the trouble you are causing him. He would be merciful. He would take you to a more comfortable place; he would see you abroad in the world again.”
“I have no wish, Master Cromwell, to meddle in the affairs of the world.”
“The King would feel more inclined toward you if you did not help others to resist him. There are these monks, now lodged in this Tower. The King feels that if you would but be his good friend you could persuade these monks to cease their folly.”
“I am the King’s true and faithful subject and I do nobody harm. I say none harm; I think none harm; and I wish everybody good. And if this be not enough to keep a man alive and in good faith I long not to live. Therefore is my poor body at the King’s pleasure.”
“I repeat that the King wishes you well. He would do a favor unto you. Yet you would not accept this favor.”
“There is one I would accept. If I could see my daughter, Margaret Roper, there is little else I would ask of the King.”
Cromwell smiled. “I will do what can be done. I doubt not that the request will soon be granted.”
And it was.
She came on that May day, a year after his imprisonment, when the four monks were to pay the terrible penalty, which had been deemed their due.
This was as the King and Cromwell would have it; for, said Cromwell, the bravest of men would flinch when they considered the death accorded to these monks. It was the traitor’s death; and there was no reason why a Bishop and an ex-Chancellor should not die the same horrible death as did these monks. Only the King in his clemency could change that dread sentence to death by the axe.
Let Master More reflect on that; and let him reflect upon it in the company of his daughter, for she might aid the King’s ministers with her pleas.
So she was with him while preparations were being made immediately outside his prison. He and Margaret heard these and knew what they meant. The hurdles were brought into the courtyard below the window; and they knew that those four brave men were being tied to them and that they would be dragged to Tyburn on those hurdles, and there hanged, cut down and disemboweled while still alive.
To face such death required more than an ordinary man’s courage, though that man be a brave one.
Margaret stood before him tight-lipped.
“I cannot bear it, Father. Do you not hear? Do you not know what they are doing to those brave monks?”
And he answered: “Lo, Meg, dost thou not see that these blessed fathers be now as cheerfully going to their deaths as bridegrooms to their marriage?”
But she turned from him weeping, swooning to the floor; and it was he who must comfort her.
MERCY SAID to her husband: “I must do something. Inactivity is killing me. I have a tight pain in my throat, so that I feel it will close up altogether. Think, John. For a year we have suffered this agony. Oh, was there ever such exquisite torture as slow torture? Does the King know this? Is that why he raises our hopes and all but kills them before he seems to bid us hope again?”
“Mercy, it is not like you to give way, you…who are always so calm.”
“I cannot go on being calm. I dream of him as he was years ago when he first brought me to the house…when I would stand before him while he explained some small fault to me. I think of him when he told me that I was truly his daughter. I am his daughter. That is why I must do something. And you must help me, John.”
“I would do anything in the world for you, Mercy. You know that well.”
“Four of the monks have now suffered most barbarously at Tyburn, John. And there are others who are suffering, less violently, but in a horribly slow, lingering way. They are in Newgate and I am going to help them.”
“You, Mercy? But…how?”
“I am going to Newgate to take succor to them.”
“They would never let you in.”
“I think the King’s physician could help me.”
“Mercy! If you were discovered…have you thought what it would mean?”
“He said I was truly his daughter. I would like to prove that to myself.”
“What would you do?”
“You know their sentence. Those learned monks are tied to posts in confined spaces. They cannot move; there are iron collars about their necks and fetters about their ankles. They are to be left thus to die. That is their punishment for disobedience to the King. They are given no food; they cannot move from that spot. They have been there a day and a night. I am going into Newgate with food and the means to cleanse them…so that they do not die of their plight.”
“It is not possible, Mercy.”
“It is possible, John. I have planned what I shall do. I shall dress as a milkmaid and carry a pail on my head. It shall be full of food and the means of cleaning them of their natural filth. And this milkmaid shall be allowed into the prison on the recommendation of the King’s physician. You can do it, John. And you must…you must…for I shall die if I stay here thinking…thinking…Don’t you see it is the only way for me to live? I shall feel I am helping him. I must, John; and you must help me.”
He kissed her and gave his promise.
The next day Mercy, dressed as a milkmaid, with a pail on her head, walked into Newgate Jail and was taken to the monks by a jailer who had been paid to do this.
She fed the monks with the food that she had brought; and she cleaned them.
She was happier than she had been since her father had been taken to the Tower.
THE KING was growing angrier. He was also growing accustomed to the shedding of blood. He was being unfaithful to his Queen, and he was in urgent need of reassurance, for that old monster, his conscience, was worrying him again.
The Pope, hoping to save Fisher, had talked of giving him a Cardinal’s hat.
The King laughed aloud when he heard this. “Then he shall wear it on his shoulders,” he said, “for he’ll have no head to put it on.”
And on a day in June Bishop Fisher, after his examination in the Tower, during which the secret confession he had made to Rich was revealed by the treacherous Solicitor-General, was condemned to death.
But the King was generous. In view of the Bishop�
�s age and position, though he was a traitor indeed, it was not the royal wish that he should suffer the traitor’s death. He should die by the executioner’s axe.
Now it was Thomas’s turn, and on the 1st of July he was taken to Westminster Hall for his trial.
There Norfolk, his kindness forgotten—for he had become exasperated by what he called the obstinacy of the man for whom he had once had a liking—told him that if he would repent of his opinions he might still win the King’s pardon.
“My lord,” was Thomas’s answer, “I thank you for your goodwill. Howbeit, I make my petition unto God Almighty that it may please Him to maintain me in this my honest mind to the last hour that I shall live.”
Then he defended himself so ably that those who had been set to try him were afraid that yet again he would elude them. That could not be allowed to happen. There was not one of them who would dare face the King unless Thomas More came out of Westminster Hall convicted of treason. Then the resourceful Rich stepped forth and announced that he had had a secret conversation with More, even as he had had with Fisher.
“Ah,” cried Thomas, “I am sorrier for your perjury, Master Rich, than for my own peril.”
But the jury was glad of a chance to find him guilty, as each member knew he must or earn the King’s displeasure.
They brought him out of Westminster Hall, and Margaret, who was waiting with Jack and Mercy, felt numbed by her pain when she saw him between the halberdiers, and the blade of the executioner’s axe turned toward him.
Jack ran forward and knelt at his father’s feet. Margaret threw herself into his arms; only Mercy stood back, remembering even in that moment that she was only the foster daughter.
Margaret would not release her father; and Sir William Kingston, the Constable of the Tower, stood by unable to speak because of his emotion.
“Have patience, Margaret. My Meg, have patience. Trouble thyself not…” whispered Thomas.
And when he released himself, she stepped back a pace or two and stood looking at him, before she ran forward to fling her arms once more about his neck.
Now Sir William Kingston laid gentle hands upon her, and Jack had his arm about her as she fell fainting to the ground and lay there while the tragic procession moved on.
THE KING had been gracious. He would save the man who had been his friend from that terrible death which the monks had suffered.
“The King in his mercy,” said Cromwell, “has commuted the sentence to death by the axe.”
“God forbid,” said Thomas with a touch of grim humor, “that the King should use any more such mercy to my friends.”
There were certain conditions, Cromwell explained. There must be no long speeches at the execution. And if Thomas obeyed the King’s wishes, the King would graciously allow his family to have his body to bury. The King was indeed a merciful king.
DEATH BY the axe!
Now it was dark indeed in the house at Chelsea. They sat in a mournful circle, and none spoke of him, for they had no words to say.
That which they had feared had come to pass. He who had made this house what it was, who had made their lives so good and joyous, was lost to them.
They would never see him again.
Dauncey was weeping silently—not for frustrated ambition; that seemed to matter little now. He did not know what had happened to him when he had come to this house. He had dreamed of greatness; he had made an advantageous marriage that would lead to the King’s favor; and whither had it led him? Being Dauncey, he knew more than the others. He knew that the King’s hatred of Sir Thomas More would extend to his family; he knew that goods and lands would be taken from them; that it might be that their very lives were in danger. But he cared not. He, Dauncey, cared not. He would have given all the lands and goods he possessed, he would have thrown away his ambitions for the future, if the door could have opened and the laughing voice of Sir Thomas More be heard again.
His wife Elizabeth smiled at him. She understood and was grateful to him, for it seemed to her that in the midst of her black sorrow there was a touch of brightness.
Cecily and Giles Heron were holding hands, staring before them, thinking…thinking back over the past.
Alice was remembering all the scoldings she had given him, and wishing, more than she had ever wished for anything before, that she could have him with her to scold now.
Dorothy Colly slipped her hand into that of John Harris; and they were all very still until they heard the sound of horses’ hoofs approaching.
It was a messenger who had brought a letter for Margaret.
She trembled as she took it, for he was to die tomorrow, and she knew that this was the last she would ever receive from him.
It was written with a piece of coal—all that was left to him to write with; for they had taken his writing materials when, some time before, they had taken his books.
She forced herself to read aloud.
“Our Lord bless you, good daughter, and your good husband, and your little boy, and all yours…and all my children and all my god children and all our friends….”
He then mentioned them all by name, and as Margaret spoke their names they hung their heads, for the tears streamed from their eyes.
But Margaret went on steadily reading.
He begged them not to mourn for him. He was to die tomorrow, and he would be sorry to live longer.
“For tomorrow is St. Thomas’s Eve, and therefore tomorrow I long to go to God. St. Thomas’s Eve! It is a day very meet and convenient for me. Dear Meg, I never liked your manner toward me better than when you kissed me last, for I love when daughterly love and dear charity hath no leisure to look to worldly courtesy. Farewell, my child, and pray for me, and I shall for you and all my friends; and may we all meet merrily in Heaven.”
Margaret had stopped reading and a silence fell upon them.
EARLY ON the morning of St. Thomas’s Eve, Master Pope, a young official of the Court, came to tell him that he was to die that day.
The young man came with tears in his eyes, and could scarcely speak for weeping, so that it was Thomas More who must comfort Thomas Pope.
“Do not grieve, Master Pope,” he said, “for I thank you heartily for these good tidings.”
“It is the King’s pleasure that you should not use many words at the execution.”
“You do well to give me warning, for I had planned to speak at length. I beg of you, Master Pope, plead with the King that when I am buried, my daughter Margaret may be there to see it done.”
“The King will consent to that if you do not speak overmuch before your death. Your wife and all your children shall then have liberty to be present.”
“I am beholden to His Grace that my poor burial shall have so much consideration.”
Then Pope, taking his leave, could say nothing because his tears were choking him.
“Quiet yourself, good Master Pope,” said Thomas, “and be not discomfited, for I trust that we shall, once in Heaven, see each other merrily where we shall be sure to live and love together in joyful bliss eternally.”
Shortly before nine o’clock, wearing a garment of frieze that hung loosely on his thin body, and carrying in his hands a red cross, Thomas More left his prison for Tower Hill.
There was only one member of the family there to see him die. Mercy was that one. She stood among the crowds about the scaffold, watching him, taking her last look at him. Later she would be joined by Margaret and Dorothy Colly for the burial of his body in the Church of St Peter ad Vincula.
Mercy did not stand near, for she did not want her father to witness her grief. She told herself that she should be glad, for he was not subjected to that ignoble death which those poor monks had suffered at Tyburn, while others of their brethren were rotting in their chains at Newgate. The jailer there, fearing discovery, would no longer allow her to visit those monks, and although she had made efforts to reach them she had not been able to do so, and they were slowly perishing where they w
ere chained.
Oh, cruel world, she thought, that surrounds that island of peace and happiness in Chelsea like a turbulent sea. They had thought themselves safe on their island, but now the malignant waters had washed over it, destroying peace and beauty, leaving only memories for those who had lived there and loved it.
Thomas was mounting the steps which led to the scaffold. They had been hastily constructed and shook a little.
He smiled and said to one of the Sheriff’s officers: “I pray you, Master Lieutenant, that you will see me safe up. As to my coming down, you may leave me to shift for myself.”
The executioner was waiting for him. This hardened man looked into Thomas’s face and, seeing there that sweetness of expression, which had won the affection of so many, he turned quickly away murmuring: “My lord, forgive me….”
Thomas laid a hand on his arm. “Pluck up your spirits, my friend. Be not afraid of your office…for such is all it is. Take heed that you strike not awry for the sake of thine own honesty.”
Then he knelt and prayed. “Have mercy upon me, O God, in Thy great goodness….”
He rose and the executioner came forward to bind his eyes.
“I will do it for myself,” said Thomas.
But first he spoke to the people who were waiting on his last words; very briefly he spoke, remembering the King’s displeasure that could fall on those who were left behind him.
“My friends, pray for me in this world and I will pray for you elsewhere. Pray also for the King that it may please God to give him good counsel. I die the King’s servant…but God’s first.”
Then he bound his eyes and laid his head on the block, pushing his beard to one side, saying: “That has no treason. Let it therefore be saved from the executioner’s axe.”
