King's Confidante

3

THEN MARGARET WAS TWELVE YEARS OLD FEAR AGAIN appeared in her life. It seemed like a great cloud which came nearer and nearer to the house until that day when it enveloped it. The cloud formed itself into the shape of a man, of great height, of great girth, on whose head there was a crown. At the age of four, Margaret had learned to fear kings. And now would the cloud pass over the house? Would it pass on as, once before, had a similar cloud?

Much had happened since the death of her mother. The family still lived in Bucklersbury, but it had become a different household under the domination of Mistress Alice.

It must have been the cleanest house in London; the rushes were changed once a week, and very little odor came from them. When they were removed from the house it was only necessary to go upstairs, not to leave the house for a day until the servants had cleared it of its filth. Alice was the most practical of women. She knew exactly how many pieces could be cut from a side of beef, and she saw that they were so cut; her servants must account for every portion of fish, every loaf of bread. She kept strict count of the visitors who called for a meal. She reckoned—and this matter she took up fiercely with her husband—that visitors were costing the household purse the whole of twopence a day, what with food, beds and firing. The family was allowed only sixty candles a year, and if any burned out his share before the year was over, then, said Alice grimly, must that one sit in the dark. She herself kept the keys of the buttery; she saw that none had more than his portion of ale or mead. She was the martinet of the household.

All Thomas's attempts to teach her Latin failed.

“What the good year!” she cried in scorn. “Would you have me one of these pale-faced, lantern-jawed scholars? I'll warrant you, Master More, that I do you more good watching the affairs of your household than I ever should tampering with foreign speech. The English tongue, sir, is good enough for me.”

But nevertheless she kept a strict eye on the children.

Thomas had instituted what he called his “School” in the house, and here all the children spent many hours at their lessons. Alice had a habit of peeping at them at odd moments, and if she found them not at their desks she would take them, throw them across a chair and administer a good beating with her slipper.

“Your father has set you these tasks,” she would say, “and your father is head of this house.” (Not that she would admit such a fact to his face.) “He'd not whip you himself, being too soft a man, so there's some that has to do his duty for him. Now … get to that Latin … or Greek … or that mathematics … or whatever nonsense it is, and if you have not learned it by sundown you'll feel more of my slipper where you won't like it.”

Jack was the chief offender, because he could not love learning as his sisters did. Jack would look longingly out of the window, particularly when horsemen rode by. He would like to be out of London, in the green country, climbing trees and riding horses. Jack sometimes felt it was a sad thing to be a boy possessed of such clever sisters.

Ailie was not overfond of lessons, but she did not care to be too far outstripped by her stepsisters. She applied herself and as she had a cleverness of her own, a natural wit, she could usually appear to know more than she actually did. Her mother had a habit of looking the other way when Ailie misbehaved, so, although she might have been in trouble as much as Jack was, somehow she managed to escape it. She was very pretty, and Alice believed that one day she would make a very good match.

Alice insisted that each of the girls should study housekeeping under her guidance; for what, she had demanded, would be the use of all that learning if when they married—and if only Master More would make the most of his chances they might marry very well—they had no knowledge of how to run a house and keep the servants in order? So each of the girls must, in addition to her lessons, give orders to the servants, decide on the composition of meals and superintend the cooking for a whole week before the task fell to her sister or stepsister. And if anything went wrong, if the bread was burned or the meat had been subjected to too many turns of the spit, or not enough, then it was not only the servant who felt the mistress's slipper.

Alice was not above giving any member of this large household the measure of her tongue. Even the tutors came in for their share, learned men though they might be. Master Nicholas Kratzer, fellow of Corpus Oxford, who had come to live in the house to teach the children astronomy, particularly irritated Alice.

She laughed him to scorn. “You, a scholar… and cannot speak the King's English! Here's a pretty state of affairs. And supposed to be a learned man!”

“Madam,” he told her with the humility all these great men seemed to display before Alice, for it was a fact that every one of them wilted under her scornful gaze, “I was born in Munich; and although I cannot speak your tongue well, I doubt you can speak mine at all.”

“Tilly valley!” said Alice. “And who would want to when they could make themselves understood in good plain English?”

The poor scholar, to the amusement of Margaret and Mercy, was quite at a loss to answer Alice; for, somehow, her method of delivering what she thought to be wise was so authoritative that temporarily it seemed to be so. Therefore, Master Kratzer returned to his study of the stars feeling a little cowed, and as for Margaret and Mercy, they had their ears boxed for laughing—as Alice said, when Kratzer had left them—at a great and learned man.

Richard Hyrde, the great Greek scholar, also lived in the house. Mercy was his favorite pupil, for he was also a student of medicine, and this science appealed to Mercy more than any other. Master Drew and Master Gunnel, considerable scholars, also lived in the growing household in order that they might tutor the children.

Dr. Colet and Dr. Lily came to the house now and then, but not so frequently as they had at one time, for all Dr. Colet's thoughts and energies were now concentrated on the school he had built in St. Paul's Churchyard, at which he planned to educate children of all ages, of all classes and all races. This school was his delight; it was a dream become a reality. He had always said that when he was a rich man—and he knew he would be on the death of his father—he would build such a school. Now he watched over it as a mother watches over her child, brooding over it, worrying over it, talking of it continually. Dr. Lily shared all his enthusiasm and fears for Dr. Lily had consented to become Headmaster of the school.

Thomas had said: “There is no man in England who could carry out this task with greater skill. But I wanted Lily for my children.”

Colet laughed gleefully. “I got there first, Thomas,” he cried. “I have secured him for my children.”

Now that Margaret was aware of the clouds coming nearer to her home she thought often of Dr. Colet's escape from the King's wrath. This had happened a few years before, and they had trembled for the fate which might overtake this beloved friend. The same cloud must have darkened Colet's house then as it now did that of the Mores.

Why must these great men always express their views with such careless unconcern for the consequences? Why could they not be content to talk in private with their friends, and enjoy the happy lives they had built up for themselves out of their goodness? Dr. Colet had his school—the great wish of a lifetime fulfilled— yet when the King planned war with France, he must get into his pulpit and preach a sermon on the folly and wickedness of war.

It was inevitable that he should be called before an angry King; it was by a miracle that he had escaped with his life. But was it a miracle? What a plausible tongue had this great man, what a way with words!

He came to the house afterward to tell them about it; and he and her father had laughed together until Margaret had feared they would make themselves ill with such immoderate laughter which in her wisdom, she understood was partly the laughter of relief.

“But, Your Grace,” Colet had said to the King, “it is true that I preached against war. Aye, and would do so again. I said: ‘Few die well who die in battle, for how can they charitably dispose of anything when blood is the argument? Men must follow Christ, the King of Peace … not the kings of war.’ Those were my words, Sire.”

“I know your words, sirrah!” the King cried angrily. “And I like them not.”

“But, Your Grace,” was the reply, “I but preached against dishonorable war … unjust war … and Your Grace must agree with me that there can be no good in unjust war.”

It was at this point, when telling the story, that Colet was overcome with helpless mirth. “And Thomas, the King looked at me, his little eyes suspicious. Then, suddenly, that tight mouth slackened. He laughed; he slapped my shoulder. ‘I see, friend Colet,’ he said. ‘You spoke not of this just war I would wage against the enemies of England. You spoke of the unjust wars that my enemies would wage on me?’ I bowed my head. I feared he might see the laughter in my eyes. For, this King of ours, Thomas, is a King who believes he is God Himself. He believes in all simplicity, in all sincerity, that he himself could not be unjust, could not be dishonorable. The very fact that he acts in a certain way makes that action honorable. What a man! What a King!”

“How easy life must be for him!” mused Thomas. “He has but to adjust his conscience to his desires.”

“Exactly. And this is what he did. He told himself that his Dr. Colet had not spoken against his war; he had spoken against unjust war, as he himself would speak, for is he not a just King? He led me out of his privy chamber, his arm about me. You would have been amused to see the faces of his courtiers. They had expected me to appear between two halberdiers, and here I was—His Grace's arm through mine. He embraced me before them all, and he cried: ‘Let every man favor his own doctor. This Dr. Colet is the doctor for me.…’”

They might laugh; but such encounters terrified Margaret. But for a turn of phrase John Colet might not be with them at this time.

Erasmus had stayed in the house during those years, and of all the scholars who came to the house, Alice liked him least.

A “finicky” man, she declared he was—picking at his food, talking Latin to her husband, laughing with him. Alice was not at all sure that they were not laughing at her. “And here's a pretty state of affairs when a woman does not know what is being said before her face.”

The climax came when he dropped a ring in the rushes and on recovering it looked at it with such distaste, and wiped it so carefully on a kerchief before restoring it to his finger, that Alice's indignation could not be suppressed.

“So, Master Desiderius Erasmus, you find my house not clean enough for you? You sniff at my rushes, do you, sir? There is one answer to that, and I will give it. If you like not my house, why stay in it? Why not go back to your hovel… your native country where houses are so clean that they make you turn up your foreign nose at ours!”

He had tried to placate her, as all tried to placate Alice; but his arguments did not move her. She disliked him, and that was the blunt fact. All the learned tutors—the absent-minded Master Gunnel and the guttural-voiced Master Kratzer, she would endure; but not the sickly, watery-eyed, sarcastically smiling Erasmus. And indeed Erasmus had left England soon after that. He had told Margaret, of whom he was very fond: “I am a little tired of England, my child; and your stepmother is very tired of me.”

Soon after the great scholar had left them there had occurred the terrible rising of apprentices in the City, and, as Under-Sheriff, her father had played a great part in quelling the rebellion. The rising had come about on account of the citizens' dissatisfaction with the foreigners who lived therein and who, said the citizens, took their livings from Englishmen in their native land. These foreigners brought silks, cloth of gold and merchandise into London and sold them cheaply. Dutchmen brought over timber and leather, baskets and stools, tables and saddles, already wrought; and these they sold in such numbers that there was little work for those who had previously made such goods for their own countrymen.

So it was that during the month of April people gathered in the streets to discuss this matter, and they asked themselves how they could best rid themselves of the foreigners. Thomas Wolsey, now Cardinal, Pope's Legate, Archbishop of York, Chancellor of England and Prime Minister of State, sent for the chief aldermen of the City and told diem that it was the King's wish that the foreigners should not be molested, as they brought much trade to die country; but the aldermen, after listening respectfully to Thomas Wolsey, went away and assured each other that their first allegiance was to the City of London, and if the citizens had decided to rid themselves of die foreigners there was nothing they could do about it.

Then came that “Evil May Day” when the apprentices, with the people behind them, rose and rioted through the streets, sacking and burning the houses of foreigners.

Thomas, as Under-Sheriff, had been able to restore order to some parts of the City. The Cardinal, foreseeing how matters would go, ordered troops to close in on London, and several of the rioters were taken prisoner.

These men and boys were condemned as traitors, but only one of them was executed in the terrible manner—hanging, drawing and quartering—which was the lot of traitors. This one was to prove an example to the people; as for the rest, they provided die King with an opportunity to stage one of those little plays he so loved, die ending of which was supposed to be a surprise, but which all except the most simple of men knew to be inevitable.

Henry, gloriously clad, a mighty man in sparkling jewels, sat on a lofty dais in Westminster Hall, while before him were brought the condemned men, with ropes about their necks. The Queen must kneel before him—a foreigner herself—-and beg the King for leniency since some of the offenders were so young; she asked this as a favor to herself.

The sullen little mouth became less sullen. The King raised the Queen and said that for her sake he would consider pardoning these wretches.

Then it was the turn of the great Cardinal—magnificent in his scarlet robes—to kneel and crave the King's clemency.

All must watch this spectacle, all must know that a beloved Queen, the mother of the King's own daughter, the Princess Mary, must humble herself before the all-powerful monarch, as must the mighty Cardinal who went about the City in such state that men gathered to see him pass as though he were a King himself; this mighty Chancellor, this great Prime Minister of the realm, also must bow the knee to beg a favor from the King.

And eventually the King allowed himself to smile, to temper justice with mercy, to receive the humble thanks of those miserable men and the gratitude of their wives and mothers who called blessings on him—their most clement King, their most handsome King, who in anger was terrible, but who knew how to relent.

It was a touching scene, begun so solemnly, ending so joyously. The memory of it would put the King in a good humor for days.

And it was not forgotten what an excellent part in quelling the rebellion had been played by Thomas More. The King noted it and discussed it with his right-hand man. They would keep their eyes on Master More. They liked the fellow, both of them.

But life was made up of success and failure, of joy and fear; it was like a game of see-saw.

Just as die King's benevolence was shining upon Thomas More during that month of May, something happened to turn die King's smiles to frowns.

One of the Pope's ships had been forced to call at the port of Southampton, and the King had ordered it to be seized.

A week ago a man had called at the house in Bucklersbury to see Thomas and, when he had gone, Thomas told his family that he had agreed to act as interpreter and counsel in a case which the Pope was bringing against the authorities in England.

Alice said: “This is a good thing. You will win the case for the King, and the King's favor never hurt anyone.”

“Nay,” Thomas answered her. “You mistake me. It is not for the King I am briefed, but for the Pope.”

Margaret said nothing; she could only look mutely at her father. He saw the way in which she looked at him, and his eyes conveyed reassurance to her.

But Alice cried: “ 'Tis a marvel to me, Master More, that some men deem you wise. A bigger fool it has not been my misfortune to meet. Here is a lawyer who advises those who would go to law not to waste their money! Here is a lawyer who spends much of his time saving his clients' money that he may keep himself poor. He has won the King's favor, this Master More, on Evil May Day. That will not do. Therefore he must throw away his advantages by working against the King and serving the Pope.”

“I seek no favors of the King,” said Thomas. “I seek to defend what is right. The ship does not become the property of the King because it calls at an English port.”

“Anything in this land belongs to the King.”

“Madam, you should enter the law. The King would doubtless favor your advancement. I doubt not that you would reap great honors.”

“I beg of you not to mock me, sir,” said Alice. “And I beg of you not to be such a fool as to take this case.”

“My folly has already run ahead of your wisdom, madam. I have accepted the brief.”

“More fool you!” cried Alice. But she, like Margaret, was afraid. Like the rest of the family, she did not want change to overtake them. If her tongue was sharp, if she must be subject to fools, in her private opinion they were beloved fools.

The weeks seemed like a year; and the cloud about the house grew darker.

Margaret said to her father: “I remember, a long time ago when I was a little girl, you told me that the King was angry with you. That was another King, but it seems to me that this King can be as angry—perhaps more angry—than his father.”

“That may be so, Meg.”

“Must you do this thing?”

“How could I refuse? The case was brought to me. I know the Pope's cause to be the right one. Would you have me refuse it because I know that, in defending the right, I might offend the King?”

“Let some other do it.”

“Turn away from danger that some other might face it! Or leave it to those who would defy justice for the sake of the King's favor! Nay, Meg! That is not the way to live. You… you of all people to ask it!”

“But, Father, I…”

“I know, Meg. You love me. But should I be worthy of your love if I turned away from danger? Remember this, Meg. When good fortune is greatest, then is trouble close at hand. For fortune delights to strike down those who are too high and to raise those who are low; and if we do not anticipate trouble, should it come, we shall face it with greater fortitude.”

So she trembled, and during that day when he went into the courts she found that she could not keep her mind on her lessons. Nor could Elizabeth and Cecily; and when Alice looked in and found Jack astride a stool, dreaming that he was on horseback, and Ailie pulling at the curls which escaped from her cap, and Cecily and Elizabeth whispering together, and neither Mercy nor Margaret attending to their lessons, she merely shook her head at them and said nothing, which was strange for her. There was about her an alertness, as though she were listening for the sound of horses' hoofs, which would herald the return of Thomas.

And at length he came home.

“Wife!” he cried. “Children! Where are you?”

They rushed to greet him, to look into his face; and there they saw a shining triumph.

“Well, Master More?” demanded Alice.

“The case is won.”

“Won?” cried Margaret.

“There could only be one verdict, and I got it.”

He had won the case, even though it had been tried before the great Wolsey himself. He had won the Pope's case, and in doing so he had defeated the King!

Margaret had felt then that that other occasion had been but a rehearsal for this. Henry the Seventh had gone timely to his grave; but the new King was young and healthy.

What will become of us? wondered Margaret.

Mercy was beside her. “Come, Margaret. Sit down here.”

Mercy forced her onto a stool and placed a cool hand on her forehead.

“Thank you, Mercy.”

“Do not frighten the little ones,” whispered Mercy.

“You are right,” said Margaret. “We must not frighten the little ones. But Mercy … Mercy …”

Mercy pressed her hands. Mercy, even though she loved him as Margaret did, even though she saw his danger, could remain serene.

They were at supper when the messenger came. He was the King's messenger; they knew that by his livery.

The King, declared the messenger, desired the presence of Thomas More at his Palace of Westminster. It would be well for Thomas More to take barge at once.

Margaret felt the piece of cob bread sticking in her throat. Her eyes met those of Mercy. Mercy's eyes, beneath her level brows, were full of fear.

WHEN THOMAS was shown into the royal apartments of the Palace of Westminster, the King was alone with his Chancellor.

Thomas went forward, knelt, and a large hand, aglitter with emeralds, diamonds and sapphires, was extended to him.

Almost immediately it was snatched away and waved impatiently.

“Rise … rise …” said the King.

Thomas did so and stood before the royal chair. The sparkling hands were laid on the velvet-covered chair arms; the big face was flushed, the eyes narrowed.

“We have had news, Master More,” said the King, “of your conduct in this affair of the Pope's ship.” He glared at Thomas. “That is why we have sent for you.”

Thomas's eyes strayed for a second to those of the Chancellor, who stood by the King's chair. It was impossible to read the thoughts behind those eyes, but Thomas sensed a certain sympathy, a certain encouragement. During this day in the court he had been aware of Wolsey's approval of his conduct of the case. But what the Chancellor would feel in the absence of the King might be something different from that which he might show in his presence.

“Master More,” went on the King slowly and deliberately, “you have a fine conceit of yourself.”

Thomas was silent.

“Have you not?” roared the King. “We hear that this day, when you defended the Pope, you were full of fine phrases. Now, when you should defend yourself, you appear to have lost your voice. What is the meaning of this? What is the meaning of it, eh?”

“Before I begin the case for my defense, Sire, I must know what is the accusation.”

“You dare to stand before us … your King … and to ask what is the accusation! Master More, did you, or did you, not, deliberately act against your King this day?”

“Nay, Sire. I acted against injustice.”

The King's hands on the arms of his chair were clenched suddenly; they appeared to tremble.

“Did you hear that, Wolsey, did you hear that?”

“I did, Your Grace.”

“He acted against me… and he calls that acting against injustice! By God's body, what should I do with such a man, eh? Tell me that. You are the Chancellor of this realm. What should I do with him? Clap him into the Tower? Know this, my friend … know this: Those who act against the King are traitors. Master More, do you know the death that awaits a traitor?”

“I do, Your Grace.”

“You should … as a lawyer. Well… well… what have you to say? You stand there … Come, come, repeat to me what you said in the courts this day. You … you traitor … you … you who would work for a foreign power against your own country….”

“Your Grace, I was asked by the representative of His Holiness the Pope to argue his case for him. The Chancellor here will tell you that I only did what any lawyer would do.”

“And are you in the habit, Master More, of employing your talents to uphold injustice?”

“Nay, Sire.”

“And if you did not think a case was a just one, you would refuse it. I dare swear?”

“I should, Your Grace.”

The King rose. He put his hands on his hips and rocked on his heels. The little eyes opened very wide and he began to laugh.

“Here, Wolsey!” he cried. “Here is our man!”

Thomas looked in astonishment from King to Chancellor. Henry walked toward Thomas and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“It grieves us,” he said, “it grieves us mightily that when we find honest men in our kingdom … honest men and brave … they are not with us, but against us.” He lifted his hand suddenly and brought it down in an affectionate pat on Thomas's shoulder. “And when we grieve, Master More, we seek to right the grievance. That is so, is it not, Master Wolsey?”

The Chancellor came forward. “ 'Tis even so, my gracious lord.”

“Speak to him then, Wolsey. Tell this fellow what I have said of him.”

Then Wolsey spoke: “Our most gracious King, in his clemency, in his great love of truth and justice, is not displeased, as you might well believe, at the way in which the case went this afternoon. When I told His Grace what had happened, how you, with your learned discourse, with your determination to uphold what you believed right in this matter, had so swayed the court that the verdict went against the holding of the Pope's ship, his most gracious Majesty was thoughtful.”

“'Tis so!” interrupted the King. “ 'Tis so. And I said to Wolsey: ‘Thomas Wolsey,’ I said. ‘Thomas, I like it not when the best men in my kingdom … out of their honesty and bravery … are not with me, but against me.’ That is what I said to him. ‘By God,’ I said, ‘we should send for this fellow. He shall work for me in future, for he is a man that I like … and he is a man I will have beside me.…’”

“I understand not, Your Grace,” said Thomas.

“He understands not my grace!” said the King with a laugh. His eyes were sparkling with benevolence; the little mouth was slack with sentiment. “Aye, but you shall. You shall see, Thomas More, that I am a King who would surround himself with the best in the kingdom. I like you, Master More. You were against me… but I like you. That's the man I am. You dared to speak against your King, but such is your King that he likes you for it.”

Now he stood back like a boy who has all the toys that others envy; and who, because he is wise and kindly, will share those toys with the less fortunate.

“Come here, my friend.” He took Thomas's arm in a gesture of such friendliness that it startled Thomas. “Don't be afraid of us, Master More. Don't be overcome, my dear fellow. Yesterday you were a poor lawyer. Today the King is your friend. And you, my dear Wolsey, my other Thomas….” He put his arm through that of the Chancellor, and with them walked the length of the apartment. “We have work for a man like you here at court, Master More. We can lift you up. We can honor you with favors … and we will. You shall work with our Chancellor here, for he has taken a fancy to you. He likes you. Do you not, eh, Wolsey?”

“I do, my gracious master.”

“Indeed, you do.” The King stopped and looked with the utmost affection at the Cardinal. “There's not much missed by those shrewd eyes. Now there shall be two Thomases to serve their master … two good and honest men. What have you to say, Master More?”

“Your Grace overwhelms me. I know not what to say.”

The King began to laugh. “ 'Twas as good as a play, eh, Wolsey? As good as a masque! Master More, present yourself to the King! By God, Master More, when you entered this room you thought you'd march out of it to a dungeon, I doubt not. You did not know that you would find in it the King's warm regard… the King's favor.”

“Your Grace,” said Thomas, “I know you to be a just King. I did not believe that you would condemn a subject because that subject acted in accordance with what he believed to be right.”

“Well spoken,” said the King soberly. “Your advancement is certain. You will do well in the service of the Chancellor.”

“Your Grace, I… I have my duties as a lawyer….”

Both the King and Wolsey had raised their eyebrows, but Thomas went on boldly: “I have also my duties as Under-Sheriff of the City of London….”

“Enough! Enough!” said the King. “We shall take care of that. Man, I offer you great rewards. Look at this man here. He was but my chaplain, and I have made him the greatest man in this land … under myself. My father raised him up … and what was he before that? I'll tell you…. No, no. I will not tell you! Suffice it that it was humble … most humble, eh, Master Wolsey? But I like this man. I like this Wolsey. He is my counselor and my friend. And so … from little I lifted him to greatness. So will I do for you. Now … you are overwhelmed. It was a little joke of mine to tease you first, to fill you with fear, then to fill you with joy. You shall be a rich man, Master More. Fortune is favoring you, for the King is giving you his hand in friendship. Go away now… and think of the greatness which lies before you. I will let all men see this day how I honor those who are brave and honest men … even though they do not always share my views.”

“Your Grace …”

“You are dismissed, Master More,” said the King with a smile. “You shall speak of your gratitude some other time. You need now to be alone… to think of this sudden change in your fortunes.”

The King had turned away, calling for a page; and Thomas found himself walking backward out of the apartment.

SLOWLY HE made his way down to the river, where his barge was waiting for him.

Never had he been at such a loss for words; never in the whole of his life had he received such a surprise. He had gone to the Palace prepared to defend himself and, instead of having to justify his action in the court of law, had found a more difficult task presented to him. He had tried to refuse an appointment at Court which the King himself had offered, when to refuse it would certainly be looked upon as an affront to His Grace.

Yet refuse it he must. He did not want to go to Court. He was no courtier. He did not want his quiet life to be disturbed. He had his work, his writing, his study, his family. They were enough for him; they gave him all that he desired in life. It was ironical; so many yearned for a place at Court; so many were ambitious; and he who did not seek it, who must refuse it, was having it thrust upon him.

As he was about to step into his barge, one of the Cardinal's servants came running to the rivers edge.

Wolsey's retinue were as magnificently attired as though they served the King; they wore a livery of crimson velvet trimmed with gold chains; and even his menials wore scarlet trimmed with black velvet.

“His Excellency the Cardinal begs you to wait awhile,” said the man. “He would have speech with you. He says the matter is of importance. Will you wait for him in his apartments, sir?”

“Assuredly I will,” said Thomas; and he was conducted back to the Palace.

There he was shown into the apartments of the Cardinal, the furnishings of which were as rich as those of the King. Thomas was taken through many rooms to a small chamber, and when he had waited in this chamber for five minutes, the Cardinal came in.

In his scarlet satin dress and tippet of sable, he dominated the room; and he wore his garments as though they delighted him. There were many stories current regarding the magnificence of the Cardinal. He kept several princely households, in which he stored many treasures. York House and Hampton Court were said to vie with the King s own palaces. He lived in great pomp, surrounded by a large retinue of servants; he had his cofferer, three marshals, an almoner, two yeomen ushers and two grooms; he had clerks of the kitchens, a clerk controller, even a clerk of the spicery; his pages, grooms of the scullery and scalding houses, grooms of the pantry, porters and yeomen were so numerous that even he did not know their number; and his cook was seen to strut in the grounds of his houses like a minor potentate in damask and with a chain of gold about his neck, carrying a nosegay or a pomander in imitation of his master, his own servants of the kitchen about him.

The grandeur of Wolsey exceeded, some said, that of the King himself; and because the Cardinal had risen to great heights from a lowly beginning, he was resented by those of high birth, who felt he should not be among them, and envied by those of low birth who felt he should be on their level. Yet he cared not for these criticisms. He cared not that the mischievous Skelton had written verses concerning the state he kept, and that the people were singing them in the streets, asking each other:

“Why come ye not to Court?

To which Court?

To the King's Court

Or to Hampton Court?

“The King's Court

Should have the excellence.

But Hampton Court

Hath the pre-eminence!”

Perhaps those who sung the verses believed they might rouse the King's resentment; but the King was not resentful toward his favorite, for Henry believed that all the magnificence with which the Cardinal surrounded himself came from his own kingly munificence. Henry had set the fountains playing; if he wished, he had but to give the order and their flow would cease. Hampton Court was in reality the King's Court, and the King's Court was Hampton Court. The Cardinal regarded the King as his puppet; but that was exactly how the King saw the Cardinal; each was unaware of the other's myopia, and while this was so they could feel safe and contented.

The Cardinal, though essentially ambitious, was not an unkindly man. There was no room in his life for malice for its own sake. There was one ruling passion in the Cardinal's life, and that was ambition. To the humble, he was generous; and his servants were fond of him. He had used religion as a ladder to fame and fortune; he used people, and if he found it necessary to destroy them, it was not out of malice or sudden anger; it was merely because they impeded his ambition.

He, like the King, had taken a fancy to Thomas More; he had seen that this man could be useful.

He had also seen what the King had not seen: that Thomas More was not overcome with joy at the prospect of the King's favor. It was not that Thomas More had been at a loss for words to express his gratitude; he had hesitated because he was wondering how to refuse the honors the King was ready to bestow. It was concerning this matter that the Cardinal wished to see Thomas More.

“I am glad that you returned to the Palace,” said the Cardinal.

“I would converse with you. You may speak frankly with me, as I will with you. And you need have no fear that what you say will go beyond these four walls, for my servant, Cavendish, whom I would trust with my life, will see that none overhears us. So … speak your mind freely to me, Master More, as I will speak mine to you.”

“What is it that Your Excellency has to say to me?”

“Merely this: You are considering how to refuse the King's offer, I believe?”

“You are right. I shall refuse it.”

“Such procedure would be misguided.”

“I will try to explain to you.”

The Cardinal lifted his well-cared-for hand. “Save your breath. I understand. You are not an ambitious man. You are a scholar who wishes to be left alone with the work he has chosen. I understand that point of view, although it is a most unusual one. I have read your literary works—and may I compliment you on their excellence? You prefer the secluded life. But if you rebuff the King's friendly gesture, you will be a foolish man. Nay … nay … mistake me not. I know that if a man does not seek fame, then he sets no store by it. But I do not talk of fame… of the advancement which I know could come to a man of your talents. I speak, Master More, of your life.”

“My life?”

“It could easily be at stake.”

“I do not understand you.”

“That is because you do not understand the man whom we have just left. You see him as a mighty King. Pray do not be alarmed. As I said, I shall speak frankly to you, even of the King. You may think I am incautious. But, my friend, if you carried tales of what I say to you now, I should deny them. Moreover, I should find some means of silencing you. But I speak to you thus because I know you are a man who would respect a confidence. I trust you as you trust me. You have just witnessed a little playacting in the royal apartments. Was it not charming? A humble official believes he has displeased the King; and then he finds that he has pleased him. The King is a boy at heart, Master More. He loves to play, and you have helped him to play a very pretty scene. Now, the King is not always a merry-tempered boy. Sometimes the young cub roars and sometimes he springs; and although I am his very watchful keeper, I cannot always save his victims from those mighty claws; even if I have a will to do so. You marvel? But, listen. I have a fancy for you … just as the King has. There are few men in this kingdom with brains and honesty… oh, very few. Having found one, I do not intend to let him slip through my fingers. I want you, Master More, to work with me. I can offer you a great career … fame … advancement…”

“Your Excellency …”

“You do not want them, I know. But you want to live. You want to go home to your clever children and your wife, do you not? You want to go on conversing with your learned friends. Oh, life is sweet, Master More, when it brings as much to a man as it has brought to you. But think of this: A child plays his games and he loves his toys; but if a toy displeases him, what does he do? He smashes it. Master More, when you played the honorable lawyer this day, you took a great risk. But the boy liked his playlet; he liked his new role. Perhaps he has heard his praises sung too consistently of late. Who shall say? But you pleased him. You played your part so well that the principal actor was able to outshine us all. Now, the King will not be pleased if you do not continue to make him feel pleased with himself, if you do not allow him to show the world what a beneficent monarch he is.”

“You are very bold, Cardinal.”

“You were bold this afternoon, Master More. But you cannot afford to risk offending the King twice in one day. Great good luck has attended you; you could not expect that to be repeated. This King of ours is a mighty lion who does not yet know his strength. He is caged… but he does not see the bars. I am his keeper. If he felt his strength, if he knew his power, then we might begin to tremble. I believe he would risk his kingdom to satisfy his appetites. That is why he must be fed carefully. It is the duty of men like yourself… like myself… who wish to serve our country—some because of honor, some because of ambition; what matters it if we serve our country well?—it is the duty of such men to suppress their personal desires. And if we do not, we may find that the King's frown, instead of his smile, is turned upon us.”

“Are you sure that if I refused to come to Court I should find myself persecuted?”

“I believe this would certainly come to pass. Remember, my friend—and I mean ‘my friend’, for I will be yours if you will be mine—I know him. I served his father as I now serve him; and I have watched him grow up.”

“But I have no wish to come to Court.”

“Master More, you have no choice. I remember, when I served his father, that you were in disfavor. You are a man who cannot fail to attract attention. You would not be here in England at this moment had his father lived, unless you now lay under the earth. The young King is not the old King; but, Master More, he is none the less dangerous for that.”

“I wish to live in peace and quietude with my family.”

“If you wish to live at all, Master More, you will not reject the King's honors.” The Cardinal was smiling quizzically. “Go now, my friend. There is nothing more to say at this stage. I will tell the King I have talked with you, and that the honor he is about to heap on you has overwhelmed you, robbed you of your native wit. I will tell him that I believe our country is fortunate in the learned honesty of Thomas More … and the clemency and astonishing wisdom of its King.”

MARGARET FLUNG herself into his arms when he came home.

“Father!”

He kissed her warmly.

“Why these sad looks? This is a time for rejoicing. The King honors me. He sent for me to congratulate me … to tell me of his regard.”

Margaret, her arms about his neck, leaned backward to look searchingly into his face.

“But you are disturbed.”

“Disturbed! My dearest, you will see your father a courtier yet. I met the great Cardinal, and he also honors me with his friendship. Meg, I am weighed down with honors.”

But she continued to look at him uneasily. The others were surrounding him now.

“What is this nonsense?” demanded Alice.

“The King sent for me to tell me he is pleased with me.”

“Pleased with you for losing him his ship?”

“The Pope's ship, madam!”

“Pleased with you. Pleased! Is this another of your jokes?”

“ 'Tis no joke,” said Thomas slowly. “The King liked what I did this day, and he honors me. I am to go to Court. I am to work with Cardinal Wolsey. When I left this house, Alice, I was a humble lawyer; now I am … I know not what.”

Alice cried: “ 'Tis a marvelous thing and great good luck, though you have done little to deserve it. Come to the table. Tell us more of this. A place at Court! Tilly valley! I was never so excited in my life.”

How strange, thought Margaret, that the same piece of news could be so differently received by members of the same family. Here was her stepmother already looking ahead to a rosy future, to rich marriages for the young members of the family; and here was her father looking ahead—smiling for their sakes, trying to be pleased with advancement, yet unable to hide from his beloved daughter the foreboding which showed in his eyes.

THAT SUMMER was hot and dry, and the sweating sickness appeared in the City.

Thomas was to begin his service to the King by going on an embassy to Flanders. His life had changed; he must be often at the Palace and he spent much time with the Cardinal. The first trouble which his elevation brought were his absences from home.

“I wish we were a humble family,” said Margaret passionately to Mercy. “Then we might stay together and attract no attention to ourselves.”

“We should have no education,” Mercy reminded her. “And can you imagine Father as a man of no education? No, as he says, there is good and bad in life; and there is bad in the good and good in the bad; and the only way to live is to accept the one with the other. Enjoy one; endure the other.”

“How wise you are, Mercy!”

“It is borrowed wisdom … borrowed from Father.”

Mercy was happy that year in spite of the pending departure of Thomas, and the reason was that there was a new member of this ever-growing household. This was John Clement, a protégé of the Cardinal's, a young man in his late teens who was to accompany Thomas as his secretary and attendant on the mission to Flanders.

John Clement was a serious and very learned person—a young man after Thomas's own heart—and a warm welcome was given him in the house of his new master. Young Clement quickly became a member of that happy family group, but he found that she who interested him most was not one of the Mores, but Mercy Gigs.

He sought every opportunity of talking with her. He was several years older than she was, but it seemed to him that he had never met a girl of her age so solemnly self-contained; and if she was not quite so learned as Margaret, her scholarship lay in that subject which most interested him.

He never forgot the rapt expression in her eyes when he told her that he had studied medicine at Oxford.

“You are interested in medicine, Mistress Mercy?” he asked.

“In nothing so much.”

Now they had a subject which they could discuss together; Thomas watched them with pleasure. My little Mercy is growing up, he thought. They are all growing up. In two or three years it will be necessary to find husbands for Mercy and Margaret—and Ailie too, though she will doubtless find one for herself.

It was a dream materializing, an ideal becoming palpable. When he had decided on giving up the monk's life for that of a family man, he had visualized a household very like the one which was now his. Had he ever imagined such love as he had for Margaret? Nay, the reality was greater than he had foreseen. And when she marries she must never leave me, he thought, for without Margaret I would not wish to live. And Mercy here is as dear to me as are my own children. Did ever a man possess such a learned and aflectionate daughter as Margaret, such charming children as those who made up his household? And Alice herself, she was neither a pearl nor a girl, but he was fond of her; and he knew that her sharp words often hid kindly motives. Where could he find a better housekeeper? And surely she was the best of mothers to his children, for it was well to have a touch of spice in the sweetest dish. There might be times when his beloved children were in need of chastisement, and how could he administer a whipping? He was a coward where such matters were concerned. What could he whip his children with but a peacocks feather? Yet Mistress Alice shirked not the task.

He was a lucky man. He must not complain that his life away from his family was not all that he could wish. So many men craved the King's favor; so many would have been honored to call the Cardinal their friend. He wanted too much of life. He must make the best of his new honors; he must steal away from them as often as he could, to be with his books and his family; and he must be grateful to God for the good life which was his.

Was ever man so loved? Very few, he believed. Only yesterday, when the children were talking together of what they wished for most, he had wandered by and heard their talk. Mercy had said: “If I could wish for something, I would wish I were Fathers true daughter.”

And when he had found her alone, he had said to her: “Mercy, you have no need to wish for what is already yours. To me you are exactly as though you are my true daughter.”

She had blushed and faltered and said: “Father, I meant that I wished I were your daughter as Margaret, Elizabeth and Cecily are.”

“That matters not at all, Mercy, my child. I see you as my daughter—my true daughter—as much as any of the others. You are as dear to me.”

“I know it, Father,” she said. “But…”

“But, Mercy, if that love which is between us two is as strong as the love which is between me and the daughters of my own body, what difference can there be! You delight me, Mercy. You are all that I could wish for in a daughter. You must not wish for something which is already yours … in all that matters. I remember when you were a little girl and I took you to task for some small fault, your distress hurt me as much as the distress of any of the others would have done.”

She caught his hand and kissed it. “In those days,” she said, “I sometimes committed those faults that you might talk to me alone … even though it was to reprimand me.”

“Poor little Mercy! You felt you were left out then? You were the foster child? You wished to have attention … even if, to gain it, you must seem at fault?”

“It was that,” she answered. “But it was also that I might have the pleasure of standing before you and that you should be thinking of me … me … alone. Me … by myself, without Margaret.”

“Oh, Mercy … Mercy … you must not have such a high opinion of me. We must not set up gods on Earth, you know.”

She said: “I have set up nothing. I have lifted up my eyes and seen.”

He laughed. “Now to talk sense. Your wish was that you could be my true daughter. Now that you know there was no need for such a wish, what other wish have you, my child? Suppose I were a king with all the wealth in the world at my disposal, and I said I would grant you a favor, what would you say?”

She did not hesitate. “I would ask for a big house to which I could bring the sick and care for them, and gradually learn more and more, that I should know not only how to cure but prevent disease.”

“That's a noble wish, Mercy. Would I were a king… solely that I might grant it.”

So he watched her with John Clement, and his heart warmed toward them both; for he wished his girls to marry and have families. That was the happiest life, he was sure; he had proved it. And while Thomas was preparing to depart on his embassy, Mercy and John Clement were often together, and they talked of the terrible sickness which had taken a hold of the City.

“ 'Tis a marvelous thing,” said Mercy, “that there is not a single case of sickness here in Bucklersbury.”

“I have a theory on that matter,” said John Clement eagerly. “This street lacks the maleficent odors of other streets. Here we do not smell unpleasantness, but sweetness … the smell of musk, the smell of spices and perfumes and unguents.”

“Do you think, then, that the sickness comes from evil smells?”

“I believe this may be so; and if this street, as I believe has been the case in past epidemics, has not a single sufferer of the sweat while scarce a house in the rest of the City escapes, then might there not be something in the theory?”

Mercy was excited.

“Why,” she cried, “when Erasmus was here he condemned our houses. He did not like them at all. He said the rooms were built in such a way as to allow no ventilation. Our casements let in light, but not air; and the houses are so drafty. He said our custom of covering our floors with clay on which we laid rushes was a harmful one—particularly as in the poor cottages those rushes are not changed for twenty years. I know how angry Mother used to be when he complained about our rushes, although they were changed once a week. He said we should have windows that opened wide. He said that we ate too much—too many salted meats. He said our streets were filthy and a disgrace to a country that called itself civilized.”

“He sounds a very fierce gentleman.”

“He was … in some ways. In others he was mild. But I think there may be something in what he said about our houses, do you not, Master Clement?”

“I do indeed.”

“I am terrified that the sickness will come to this house. But I am glad that Father is leaving the country just now. He at least will get away from these pestiferous streets. You also, Master Clement…. But… it would be terrible if anything happened here … while he is gone. What should I do if any take die sickness?”

“You can do nothing about the drafts and the lack of good air in the house, of course. But I believe more frequent sweetening would prevent the disease coming here. Here is a good mixture for any afflicted: marigold, endive, sowthistle and nightshade—three handfuls of all; seethe them in conduit water—a quart of this; strain into a vessel with a little sugar. This will remove the sourness. Let the patient drink it. The patient should keep warm and lie in his bed when first the sweat takes him. If he is dressed, keep him dressed; and if he is undressed let him stay undressed, but cover up the bed… cover it well. I have known men and women recover when so treated.”

“Marigold, endive, nightshade and sowthistle. I will remember that.”

“I will tell you how to make the philosophers egg. Now, that is an excellent remedy for the sweat. It can be prepared in advance and you can keep it for years. In fact, it improves with keeping.”

“That would delight me greatly. Do tell me.”

“You take an egg and break a hole in it and take the yolk from the white as cleanly as you can. Fill the shell with the yolk and some saffron; then close the ends with eggshell. Put it in the embers and leave it until it be hard and can be made into a fine powder.”

Ailie came over to where they sat; she eyed them mischievously.

“What is it that interests you so much that you forget aught else?” she wanted to know.

“Master Clement is telling me how to make the philosopher's egg.”

“The philosophers egg! You mean that which changes base metals into gold or silver? Oh, Master Clement, I beg of you to tell me your secret.”

“You misunderstand,” said John Clement soberly.

“The philosophers egg” explained Mercy. “You think of the philosophers stone”

“And what magic powers hath this egg?”

“It cures the sick,” said Mercy.

“I would rather the stone,” said Ailie.

“Heed her not,” said Mercy with some impatience. “She loves to jest.”

Ailie stood by smiling at them, and John Clement went on: “You will need white mustard, dittony and termontell with a dram of crownuts; you must also add angelica and pimpernel, four grains of unicorns horn if you can get it. All these must be mixed with treacle until they hang to the pestle. I will write this out for you to keep. When this substance is made it can be put into glass boxes, and kept for years. Its great virtue is that the longer you keep it the better.”

“Oh thank you. I shall never forget your kindness.”

Ailie went to Cecily and whispered: “See how friendly they are becoming.”

“What is it he gives her?” asked Cecily.

“It is a love letter,” said Ailie. “To think that Mercy should have a lover before me.”

“Love letter! You are wrong, Ailie. It is a recipe for some medicine, I'll swear.”

“Ah, my dear little Cecily, that may be. But there are many kinds of love letters.”

And Ailie pouted, for she said she liked it not that any of the girls should have a lover before she did.

Alice laughed at the two young people. “Master More, what strange daughters you have! They love Latin verse better than fine clothes, and exchange recipes when other youths and maidens exchange love tokens.”

“That may be,” said Thomas, “but with my family—and this fits every member of it—with my family, I am well pleased.”

“Tilly valley!” said Alice; but she herself was no less pleased.

THOMAS WROTE home regularly while he was away from them.

They must write to him for, he said, he missed them sorely, and it was only when he received their letters that he could be happy. He wanted to hear everything, no matter how trivial it seemed to them; if it concerned his home, that was enough to delight him. “There is no excuse for you girls,” he wrote. “Cannot girls always find something to chatter about? That is what I want you to do, my darlings. Take up your pens and chatter to your father.”

There was always a special compliment if Jack wrote anything. Poor Jack, now that he was growing up he was beginning to realize how difficult it was for a normal, healthy boy to compete with such brilliant sisters. Alice said it was God's rebuke on his father for having prated so much and so consistently about the equality of men's and women's brains when all the rest of the world opined that men were meant to be the scholars. Here are your brilliant daughters, perhaps God had said. And your son shall be a dullard.

Not that Jack was a dullard by any means; he was merely normal. He could not love lessons as he loved the outdoor life. Therefore his father wrote to his son very tenderly and cherished his efforts with the pen, encouraging him, understanding that all cannot love learning as some do.

He wrote enthusiastically to Margaret. He could not help it if writing to Margaret gave him pleasure which was greater than anything else he could enjoy during his sojourn abroad.

He was writing a book, which had long been in his mind, he told her. It consisted of imaginary conversations between himself and a man who had come from a strange land, which was called Utopia. They discussed the manners and customs of this land. The writing of this book was giving him great pleasure, and when he came home he would enjoy reading it to her.

“I showed one of your Latin essays to a very great man, Margaret. He is a great scholar, and you will be gratified when I tell you who he is. Reginald Pole. My dearest, he was astonished. He said that but for the fact that I assured him this was so, he would not have believed a girl—or anyone your age, boy or girl—could have done such work unaided. My dearest child, how can I explain to you my pride?”

He was a very proud man. He kept his children's writings with him, that he might read them through when he felt dejected and homesick; nor could he refrain from showing them to his friends and boasting a little. His pride and joy in his family was profound. He wrote to them:

My dearest children,

I hope that a letter to you all may find you in good health and that your father's good wishes may keep you so. In the meantime, while I make a long journey, drenched by soaking rain, and while my mount too frequently is bogged down in the mud, I compose this for you to give you pleasure. You will then gather an indication of your father's feelings for you—how much more than his own eyes he loves you; for the mud, the miserable weather and the necessity for driving a small horse through deep waters have not been able to distract my thoughts from you.…

Then he went on to tell them how he had always loved them and how he longed to be with them:

At the moment my love has increased so much that it seems to me that I used not to love you at all. Your characteristics tug at my heart, so bind me to you, that my being your father (the only reason for many a father's love) is hardly a reason at all for my love for you. Therefore, most dearly beloved children, continue to endear yourselves to your father, and by those same accomplishments, which make me think that I had not loved you before, make me think hereafter (for you can do it) that I do not love you now….

And so they waited, while the sweating sickness passed over Bucklersbury, for the return of the father whom they loved.

ONE DAY after his return when the family were gathered at the table, Thomas said to them: “I have a surprise for you all. There is to be a new addition to our family. I hope you will all make him welcome. I find him an interesting and charming person. I am sure you will too.”

“Is it a man?” asked Ailie, her eyes sparkling.

“It is, daughter.”

“Not a gray-bearded scholar this time, Father!”

“Half right and half wrong. A scholar but not a gray-bearded one. He is, I gather, some twenty years of age.”

“It is to be hoped he has not the finical manners of that Erasmus,” said Alice. “I want no more such foreigners in the house.”

“Nay, Alice, he is not a foreigner. He is an Englishman; and I doubt you will find him overfinical. He is of a very good family, I must tell you, and he comes to study the law with me.”

“Father,” cried Margaret, “how will you have time to help a young man with his studies, do your law work and serve the King and the Cardinal? You do too much. We shall never have you with us.”

“Do not scold me, Meg. I'll warrant you'll like Friend Roper. He is a serious young man, a little quiet, so he'll not disturb you overmuch. I think he will be ready to join our family circle.”

So William Roper came to the house—a young man of quiet manners and seeming meekness, but, Margaret noticed, with an obstinate line to his mouth. There was one thing about him that Margaret liked, and that was his devotion to her father. It was quite clear that the young man had decided to follow in Thomas's footsteps whenever possible.

John Clement, who had returned to the household of the Cardinal, came to the house whenever he could; and in a few months it became clear that Will Roper and John Clement looked upon The Barge in Bucklersbury as their home.

Margaret was thirteen when Will Roper came; he was twenty; yet in spite of the difference in their ages, Margaret felt as old as he was. As John Clement sought Mercy's company, Will Roper sought Margaret's; and this fact made Ailie pout a little. There was she, by far the prettiest of the three of them, and yet the two eligible young men at the house seemed to seek the friendship of Margaret and Mercy.

“Not,” she said to Cecily who was herself a little frivolous, “that we could call such as John Clement and Will Roper men; one is always sniffing herbs and cures, and the other always has his nose in his law books. Now that Father is at Court, perhaps he will bring home some real men … for you, Cecily, and for me. I doubt whether Margaret or Mercy would be interested.”

Alice worried Thomas when they were alone: “Now that you have such opportunities, you must see to husbands for the girls.”

“Why, Alice, there are some years to go yet.”

“Not so many. Mercy, Margaret and my girl are thirteen. In a year or two it will be time to settle them.”

“Then we may wait a year or two yet.”

“I know. I know. And by that time who knows what honors will be heaped upon you! It is all very well to be wise and noble and to prattle in Greek, but it seems to me you would be wiser and more noble if you thought a little about your children's future.”

He was thoughtful, and suddenly he laid his hand on her shoulder.

“In good time,” he said, “I promise you I will do all that a father should.”

Those were the happy days, with few cares to disturb the household. They had grown accustomed to Thomas's working with Wolsey now. He came home at every opportunity, and they would laugh at his tales of how he had managed to slip away from the Court unseen.

At that time the only troubles were petty annoyances. There was an occasion when Thomas went to Exeter to see Vesey, the Bishop, and he came home quite put out; and while they sat at the table he told them why this was so.

“I had some of your work in my pocket… a little piece from each of you … and the best you have ever done. Well, I could not resist the chance of showing them to the Bishop, and, to tell the truth, it was that which I was longing to do all the time I was with him. So, at the first opportunity I brought out this piece of Margaret's. He read it, and he stared at me. ‘A girl wrote this!’ he said with astonishment. ‘My daughter Margaret,’ I answered lightly. ‘And her age?’ ‘She is just thirteen.’ And, my dear one, like Reginald Pole, he would not have believed me had I not given him my word. He would not hand the piece back to me. He read it through and through again. He walked about his room in some excitement and then unlocked a box and produced this.”

They crowded round to see what he held up.

“What is it, Father?” asked Jack.

“A gold coin, my son, from Portugal”

“Is it valuable?”

“It is indeed. The Bishop said: ‘Give this to your daughter Margaret with my compliments and good wishes, for I never saw such work from one so young. Let her keep it and look at it now and then and be encouraged to grow into that great scholar, which I know she will become.’ I begged him to take back the coin. I refused to accept the coin. But the more I refused, the more earnest he became that I should accept it.”

Ailie said: “But why, Father, did you not wish to take it?”

“Because, my daughter, I wished to show him the work of the others which I had in my pocket. But how could I show it? He would think I was asking for more gold coins. I have rarely been so disappointed. I felt cheated. I wanted to say: ‘But I have five clever daughters and one clever son, and I wish you to know how clever they all are.’ But how could I?”

They all laughed, for now he looked like a child—a little boy who has been denied a treat, Margaret told him.

“Well, here is your coin. Meg, do you not like it?”

“No, Father. Every time I look at it I shall remember it brought disappointment to you.” Then she put her arms about his neck and kissed him. “Father, you must not be so proud of your children. Pride is a sin, you know—one of the deadly sins. I am going to write some verses for you … about a father who fell into the sin of pride.”

“Ah, Meg, I shall look forward to hearing them. They will make up for the disappointment the Bishop gave me.”

In the evenings they would gather together and talk and read; sometimes they would sing. Thomas had taught Alice to sing a little. She had begun under protest. She was too old, she declared, to join his school. And did the man never think of anything but learning and teaching? Latin she would not touch. As for Greek, that was more heathen than anything.

He would put his arms about her and wheedle her gently: “Come, Alice, try these notes. You've a wonderful voice. You'll be our singing bird yet.”

“I never heard such nonsense!” she declared. But they heard her singing to herself when she sat stitching, trying out her voice; and they knew that one day she would join in; and she did.

Margaret felt that with the passing of that year she had grown to love her father even more—so much more, as he had said, that it seemed that previously she could hardly have loved him at all.

His book Utopia taught her more about him. She understood from it his longing for perfection. She enjoyed discussing it with him. “My pride in you, Father, is as great as yours in your children. Methinks we are a very proud pair. And, Father, there is one thing that pleases me more then any other: That is your tolerance in this matter of religion.” She quoted: “‘King Utopus made a decree that it should be lawful for every man to favor and follow what religion he would, and that he might do the best he could to bring others to his opinion, if he did it peaceably, gently, quietly and soberly, without hasty and contentious rebuking and inveighing against others….’ I like the views of King Utopus on religion. I feel them to be right.”

“Ah, Meg, what a wonderful world we could have if men could be induced to make it so.”

On one occason he said to her: “My dearest daughter, there is one matter which I wish to discuss with you. It is something between us two, and I want no other to know of it.”

“Yes, Father?”

“You know that at one time I considered taking my vows. Meg, it is a strange thing but the monastic life still calls to me.”

“What! You would leave us and go into solitude?”

“Nay, never! For you are dearer to me than all the world… you … you alone—and that is not counting the rest of the family. I once said to Colet, when he was my confessor, that I was a greedy man. I wanted two lives; and it seems I am a determined man, for I want to live those two lives side by side, Meg. While I live here in the midst of you all, while I am happy among you, still I crave to be a monk. While I live with you, I am happy with you, and I believe we are meant to be happy for a saintly life need not be a gloomy one, I still continue those practices which I followed when I was in the Charterhouse.” He undid the ruff about his neck and opened his doublet.

“Father!” she whispered. “A hair shirt!”

“Yes, Meg. A hair shirt. It subdues the flesh. It teaches a man to suffer and endure. Meg, it is our secret.”

“I will keep it, Father.”

He laughed suddenly. “Will you do more than that? Will you wash it for me … and in secret?”

“Assuredly I will.”

“Bless you, Meg. There is none other to whom I could confide this thing and be certain of understanding.”

“There is nothing you could not confide in me … nor I in you.”

“Your mother, God bless her, would not understand. She would ridicule the practice. So … I thank you, daughter.”

When she took the shirt and washed it in secret, she wept over it, seeing his blood upon it. Sometimes she marveled to see him so merry and to know he was wearing that painful thing. But he never gave a sign to the others of the pain he was inflicting on himself. If he was a monk at heart, he was a very merry monk.

There was great excitement when the Greek Testament, which Erasmus had edited and reconstructed, was received into the Mores' home. Thomas read it aloud to the family. Alice sat listening, although she could not understand it, her fingers busy with her needle.

Those were happy days. Looking back, a long time afterward, Margaret realized that the change came from an unexpected quarter, as such changes usually do. A German monk named Martin Luther had during that eventful year denounced the practices of the monks and the Catholic Church, as Erasmus had denounced them before him; but whereas Erasmus mildly disapproved, this man was bold and passionate in his denunciation; and whereas Erasmus had taken refuge behind his scholarship and attacked with an almost lighthearted cynicism, the German monk did so with passionate indignation; whereas Erasmus had written for the initiated, Luther was fulminating for the multitude.

The climax came when this man Luther nailed to the door of a Wittenberg church his ninety-five theses against Indulgences. And when he did this he had fired the first shot in the battle of the Reformation which was to shake Europe, divide the Church, and plunge the world which called itself Christian into bloodshed and terror.

Men and women began to take sides; they were for the Pope or for Martin Luther. Erasmus crept back to his desk; he was no fighter. It was said that he had laid the egg which Martin Luther hatched; but he wished to be remote from conflict; he wished to live peaceably with his books.

But as Margaret saw it, her father was of a different nature; he was a man with firm opinions. He could agree with much that Erasmus had written, but if it was a matter of taking sides he would be on the side of the old religion.

But that had not yet come to pass.

The happy evenings continued, broken only by the shock produced by the death of Dean Colet, who was struck down by the plague. They wept sincerely for the loss of this old friend.

But, as Thomas said, he had had a good life. He had seen his dearest wish realized—and what more could a man ask? His school was flourishing under the headmastership of William Lily; and his life had not been an idle nor a short one.

Margaret marveled afterward that she had not paid more heed to the rumblings of that storm, which was breaking over Europe. It was due, of course, to Willam Roper, who was now seeking her company on every occasion, asking her to walk with him alone, for, he declared, conversation between two people could be so much more interesting in private than in a crowd.

There was a further excitement. One day a very handsome young man came to the house to see Thomas. He was a rich young courtier named Giles Allington, and Ailie, who had received him with her mother, seemed much amused by him, although she did not allow him to know that.

Ailie, when she wished, could be quite charming. She was the prettiest of all the girls, golden-haired, blue-eyed, tall and graceful. She took great pains to preserve her beauty and was for ever looking into her mirror. In vain had Thomas teased her. Often he repeated to her those epigrams which he had translated with William Lily. The one which concerned Lais, who dedicated her mirror to Venus, was a gentle warning. “For,” said Lais, “the woman I am, I do not wish to see; the woman I was, I cannot.”

“And that, my dear daughter, is what happens to women who attach great importance to beauty, for beauty is like an unfaithful lover; once gone, it cannot be recalled.”

But Ailie merely laughed and kissed him in her attractive way. “Ah, dearest Father, but no woman believes her lover is going to be unfaithful while he is faithful; and as you yourself have said, why should we worry about tomorrows evils? Does not the Bible say, ‘Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof?’”

Thomas could not resist her charms, and for all that she set such store by those pleasures which he deemed to hold no real value, for once he found she could score over him with her feminine logic.

So Ailie continued to make lotions for the freshening of her skin, and kept her hands soft and supple, avoiding any household tasks which made them otherwise. As for Alice, she looked the other way when Ailie refused to do such tasks. If Alice wished to see all the girls married well—which she certainly did—she wished Ailie to make the most brilliant marriage of all.

So came Giles Allington, heir to a rich estate and title, with the manners of the Court, and jewels in his doublet; and for all that he was a court gallant, he could not hide his admiration for Ailie as she concealed her interest in him.

“Where she learned such tricks I do not know,” said Cecily wistfully.

“ 'Twas not in this house,” said Elizabeth.

“There are some who are born with such knowledge, I believe,” said Mercy. “And Ailie is one of them.”

So it seemed, for Ailie grew very gay after the visit of Giles Allington, and although she was interested in Master Allington's lands and titles rather than in himself, she grew prettier every day.

“She blooms,” said Cecily, “as they say girls bloom when they are in love.”

“She is in love,” said Margaret. “For a girl can be in love with good fortune as well as with a man.”

Giles Allington came often to the house in Bucklersbury; and Alice and her daughter talked continually of the young man. Alice declared herself pleased that Thomas had won the King's favor and that he was now a man of no small importance. Will Roper was of good family, and he was as a son of the house; John Clement was slowly rising in the service of the Cardinal, and he looked upon this family as his own; and now the handsome and wealthy Giles Allington came to visit them. They were rising in the world.

Life went on pleasantly in this way for many months.

When the King and his lords went to France to entertain and be entertained by the French and their King with such magnificence and such great cost that this venture was afterward called “The Field of the Cloth of Gold,” Thomas went with the party on the business of the King and the Cardinal.

And it was at this time that William Roper declared his feelings for Margaret.

Margaret was now fifteen—small and quiet. She knew that— apart from her father—she was the most learned member of the family; but she had always seen herself as the least attractive, except in the eyes of her father.

Ailie was a beauty; Mercy had a quiet charm which was the essence of her gravity, a gentleness, the soothing quality of a doctor—and that was attractive, Margaret knew; Elizabeth, now that she was growing up, showed herself possessed of a merry, sparkling wit which, like her fathers, never wounded; Cecily was pretty and gay; Jack was jolly and full of fun. And I, pondered Margaret, I have none of their charms, for although when I have a pen in my hands, words come quickly, they do not always do so in conversation, except perhaps with Father. I most certainly lack Ailie's beauty; I am solemn rather than gay like Jack, who says things which, by their very simplicity, make us laugh.

It had always seemed to Margaret, on those rare occasions when her thoughts unwittingly strayed to the subject, that she would never marry. This did not perturb her for she had had no wish to do so.

And now … William Roper.

He asked her to talk with him, and they went into Goodman's Fields, where she had so often walked with her father. “It is not easy,” said Will, as they walked through the grass, “to talk in the house.”

“We are such a big family.”

“The happiest in London, I trow, Margaret. It was a good day for me when I joined it.”

“Father would be pleased to hear you say that.”

“I should not need to say it. I'll swear he knows it.”

“ 'Tis pleasant for me to hear you say it, Will.”

“Margaret… tell me this … how do you feel about me?”

“Feel about you? Oh … I am glad that you are with us, if that is what you mean.”

“I do, Margaret. Those words make me very happy … happier than if anyone else in the world had said them.”

She was astonished, and he went on quickly: “You are a strange girl, Margaret. I confess you alarm me a little. You know more Greek and Latin than any other girl in England.”

She was silent, thinking of Ailie, in a new blue gown, exclaiming at her as she sat over her books: “Latin … Greek … astronomy … mathematics…. There is more to be learned from life, Mistress Margaret, than you can find in those books!”

Ailie was right. Ailie had been born with that special knowledge.

“Margaret,” went on Will, “I… I am not so alarmed by you as I once was, for there are times when you seem to me like a very young girl.” He turned to her smiling. “You know what my feelings are for you, Margaret?”

“Why yes, Will. You like me … you like Father … you like us all.”

“But I like you better than any of them.”

“Not better than Father!”

“Oh sweet Meg, one of the things I love so much in you is your love for your father. I admire him more than any man I know; but Margaret—do not be shocked—I admire his daughter more.”

She laughed to hide her embarrassment. “That sounds like one of Fathers puns.”

“I must tell it to him.”

“Nay, if you do … he will know …”

“Oh Meg, dost think he does not know already?”

“But… why should he?”

“I think I must have made my feelings clear to all except you, so it is high time that you began to understand me. Margaret, I want you to marry me.”

“But… I am not going to marry.”

“You are young yet. I doubt your father would think it seemly for us to marry for a while. But you are fourteen…. Perhaps in a year or so …”

“But, Will, I had decided I should never marry. And you have disturbed me. It seems now that I shall not be able to think of you as I do of the others, like John Clement and Giles Allington.”

“But I do not wish you to think of me as you think of them. Oh, Margaret, you have not grown up yet. You have been so busy being a scholar that you have not yet become a woman. You could be both. That is what I wish, Meg: for you to be both. Say no more now. Think of this matter—but not too much so that it oppresses you. Become accustomed to the idea of marriage. Think of it, Meg. It is not that I wish to take you from your father. I do not. I would never take you from him, because I have seen that love which is between you, and it is a rare love. I know that. Nay. I am sure he would wish us to live under this roof… here as we do now You would be my wife. That would be the only difference. I beg of you, think of this matter. Promise me you will think of it, Margaret.”

“I… I will…. But I do not think I shall want to marry.”

They walked back to the house slowly and thoughtfully.

THE YEAR 1521 provided a turning point in the lives of Margaret and her father.

Thomas was drawn more and more into Court business. To Margaret, from whom he hid nothing, he said: “I feel like a fly in a web. Mayhap at one time I might have made a mighty effort… I might have escaped… but now the sticky threads hold me fast.”

“But the King is fond of you. He and the Cardinal find you useful.”

“You are right, Margaret, and I will say to you what I would say to no other: Both the King and the Cardinal are only fond of those who can be useful to them, and only so long as they are useful. A man can grow out of his usefulness.”

There was one matter which shocked Thomas deeply. It concerned both King and Cardinal, and taught him much concerning these men; yet when he looked back he realized that it had taught him little that he had not known before—rather it had confirmed his opinion.

The Cardinal had drawn closer to Thomas in those years during which they worked together. To Thomas he was sometimes frank, and when he was sure they were quite alone he would discuss the King in such a manner that, if it were known, might have cost him his head. Such was the measure of his trust in Thomas.

There was in the Cardinal an overweening pride. He believed himself indispensable to the King; and indeed it seemed that this might be so. The King made few decisions without his chief minister beside him. The King was content to amuse himself, knowing that matters of state rested in the capable hands of Thomas Wolsey.

There was no one—apart from the King and Lady Tailbois— who, in the first place, had been more delighted than the Cardinal when the King's natural son had been born to that lady. This had happened some four years ago, a year after the birth of the Princess Mary.

Now, in the year 1521, when the Queen had failed to give the King a son to follow Mary, the Cardinal was faintly disturbed by the affair and he opened his heart to Thomas.

“Why, Master More, when the boy was born, His Grace was like a child with the finest toy that has ever been given to him. He had a son—and for years he had been longing for a son. The Queens abortive attempts at child bearing have worried him considerably, for, as you know, he sets great store upon his manhood; and although it is His Graces custom to blame his partner in an adventure if blame should be necessary, there has been in him a slight fear that he may not be able to get him a son. Elizabeth Blount—or Lady Tailbois, if you wish—has proved him capable of getting a son; and little Henry Fitzroy is the apple of his eye. I was delighted in His Grace's delight. But the years have passed and there is still no male heir to the throne—nor even another girl. Master More, the King is restive, and the Queen does not grow younger: If she were not such a great Princess, and if I did not fear to offend the Spaniards I would suggest the marriage should be dissolved and another Princess found for him—one who could give him sons as Elizabeth Blount has shown that she can do.”

“But there could be no honorable reason for dissolving the marriage,” argued Thomas. “The Queen is the most virtuous of ladies and … she is not past bearing children.”

“You have a fondness for Her Grace, I know; and she favors you. I, myself, have the utmost respect for the lady. But a Queens piety is one thing, her usefulness to her King and country is another. The main object of a royal marriage is to get heirs, and that she has not done with any marked success.”

“These matters are surely in the hands of God.”

The Cardinal smiled his slow, cynical smile. “My friend, if God is slow to act, then it is sometimes necessary for a King's ministers to act without Him. Ah, would the lady had not such powerful relatives! Imagine … a new Queen. A French princess or a protégée of the Emperor Charles of Spain? Think what I could do … keeping them in suspense … having them both in fear that I should ally England with the other. A French princess, I think, would at this time hold the balance of power to greater advantage.”

“My lord Cardinal,” said Thomas, “the gown you wear proclaims you to be a man of God, but the words you speak …”

But Wolsey interrupted: “The words I speak betray me as the Lord Chancellor, the Prime Minister of England. I serve England, which I believe it is my duty to do.”

Nay, thought Thomas, you serve neither God nor England; you serve Thomas Wolsey.

Yet Thomas More understood Thomas Wolsey; he understood that the humble scholar, the tradesman's son, finding himself possessed of a quick brain and great wisdom, together with a quality which could charm a King, could not but rejoice in these possessions. Wolsey was not, by nature, a bad man, but a man made bad by an overwhelming ambition; he was a man who enjoyed his wealth and delighted in it more because he had earned it.

It was all very well for such as Norfolk, Suffolk or Buckingham lightly to assume the honors which they had inherited by their birth; but the man who had inherited no such glory, who by his quick and clever cunning had created honors for himself, naturally prized them the more highly. And how great Wolsey's pride must have been when he considered those noblemen, and could reasonably believe that had they been born the sons of Ipswich merchants, they would doubtless have remained Ipswich merchants for the whole of their lives.

Nay, Wolsey was not entirely bad, for he was kind to his servants and they loved him. All he asked of them was that they should pay homage to his greatness; then he would be the benevolent father to them, caring for them, feeding them and, in his way, loving them.

He had illegitimate children. Not that he was a sensual man. His union with the woman of his choice would seem to lack nothing but regularity. He did not consort with women promiscuously; there was only one woman. As he had decided to use the Church as his ladder to fame, he was denied marriage; therefore he dispensed with the marriage ceremony; but, being a normal man, he did not intend to dispense with all that marriage would have brought him. So he had settled into a quiet and steady relationship which, but for the facts that there had been no ceremony and he was a priest, would not have seemed different from the marriage of Thomas More himself.

He loved his children, but his love took a different form from that of Thomas; and yet Thomas saw that in some ways it was similar. Thomas wished to give his children that which he most treasured; Wolsey wished to shower on his children what he most treasured in the world—power and riches. His son, who was still a boy, was already Dean of Wells and Archbishop of York and Richmond, and thus the possessor of much wealth and power in his own right.

Not a bad man, but a man who worshipped, according to Thomas, false gods. But as Thomas told himself this he knew that Wolsey would say of him: A clever fellow, but a fool in some ways, for he seems to have no idea how to advance his fortune.

Now Wolsey talked of state affairs and how it would be a simple matter to get the King's approbation of his plans. The King was immersed in a new love affair—a saucy girl had taken his attention and made big demands upon it.

“The daughter of Thomas Boleyn. Doubtless you know him. Well, Master Boleyn will enjoy some favor, I doubt not, when his pretty daughter Mary whispers her requests into the King's ear. He found the girl when we went to France last year. She has pleased him ever since. We shall see the brother's advancement too. George Boleyn is a bright boy. It must be his Norfolk blood—at least, I doubt not Norfolk would tell us so. I believe there is a younger girl… in France just now. We much watch this family, for a man like Thomas Boleyn will give himself airs if favored too highly. If little Mary becomes too demanding we shall have to find another lady for His Grace. Ah, Master More, you like not this talk. You would have the King's household like your own in Bucklersbury. But there are few families like yours in the kingdom. That is why I must take such pains to enlighten you.”

This sign of the Cardinal's favor would have delighted most men; it made Thomas uneasy; it meant that he was in danger of being more closely entangled in that from which he longed to escape.

He was disappointed in the young King. Henry seemed bent on pleasure, and much of that treasure which had been left by his father had already been squandered—not only on war, but on futile displays like this last one of the Field of the Cloth of Gold.

What useful purpose had been served? It was known now that England could squander wealth to glorify the King and his Court; and that France could do the same for its gay young King. But what of that? Both these monarchs were developing into lechers whose minds could be continuously occupied with devising new sensations in amorous adventurings, rather than in studying a wise state policy.

England had Wolsey; and all Englishmen should be glad of that, because with all his pride, with all his ambition and his love of pomp, Wolsey was a great statesman.

Yet how he was hated by some! It was largely due to Wolsey's carelessly expressed hatred of the Duke of Buckingham that Thomas became aware of new and terrible elements about him.

It was Buckingham's duty at this time to hold the gold bowl in which the King washed his hands; and on one occasion— doubtless to avenge a slight which either Buckingham had given Wolsey, or Wolsey imagined he had, and to show his intimacy with the King—when Henry had washed his hands, Wolsey dipped his own into the bowl and proceeded to wash them.

This was more than the noble Duke could endure, for he could never forget that royal blood ran in his veins and that he was related to Edward the Fourth. That he should be expected to hold the bowl while the son of an Ipswich merchant washed his hands was intolerable. He immediately threw the water over Wolsey's feet.

The King might be amused at this incident and Wolsey might appear to take it lightly, but Buckingham had offended that great pride of the Cardinal's, and no man could do that with impunity.

Now Thomas witnessed the beginning of that terrible feud which could only end in tragedy.

Buckingham had forgotten two things when he made an enemy of the Cardinal. He was in a dangerous position, for his royal blood was something Henry had never liked; he also possessed great wealth, which Henry liked very much. He was one of the richest peers in England.

It was therefore a simple matter for the Cardinal to murmur a few well-chosen words into the royal ear. The King could be reminded that were Buckingham executed on a capital charge, his wealth would become the property of the King; moreover, Buckingham had boasted of his royal blood, and it was not difficult to find someone who had heard the haughty Duke's statement that if the King died without heirs he, Buckingham, would be very near the throne.

The Duke was summoned by the King, and came to Court thinking that he was to be asked to take part in some jousting or jollity. He found himself in the Tower, tried by his peers—none of whom dared find him anything but guilty, since this was the will of the King. Old Norfolk, his friend, must find him guilty, though he shed tears as he did so.

The murder of the Duke shocked England and the Continent as well as Thomas More. It showed what manner of King was this fair-faced boy on whom the marks of lechery and good living had not yet appeared. The handsome boy was exposed as a cruel boy; bluff King Hal had set out on his career of royal murder, to which the deaths of Empson and Dudley were but a prelude.

Thomas now longed more than ever for the solitude of his home, for converse with his friends. Erasmus had written to him: “So you have deserted the scholars for the sake of the Court. Our learned philosopher has become a courtier.”

“Yes,” muttered Thomas; “but most reluctantly.”

There had been a time when it had been said among scholars that the three most learned men in the world were Erasmus of the Netherlands, More of England and Budé of France; but now Mores name was no longer mentioned in this connection. A young Spaniard, Vives, had taken his place.

Yet those in the King's Court knew nothing of that lost eminence which had meant so much to Thomas. They saw him about the Court, and they knew him as a man destined for greatness.

“Thomas More is rising in the world,” they said.

He could not tell them that he did not wish to rise in the world, but to continue to shine in his own.

Meanwhile Martin Luther had published his book, which he called Babylonish Captivity of the Church. The Pope was up in arms and Europe was divided. The Cardinal had another secret conversation with Thomas More.

“His Grace has been expressing much interest in you of late, Master More.”

“Indeed? And for what reason?”

“There are two people in the world whom he hates, fears and envies, while he most jealously observes them. Doubtless you know to whom I refer?”

“The rulers across the water?”

“You are right. The mighty Emperor Charles, who rules other lands besides his native Spain, is one. And perhaps, more than the King hates Charles, he hates the King of France. They know each other well; they are of an age; they are both seekers after pleasure and sensation. Charles and Francis are servants of the Pope. Charles is the Most Catholic King; and Francis is the Most Christian King. Our King has no title to set beside those two, and that grieves him. He feels that this is a matter on which you, more than any other man, can help him.”

“I?”

The Cardinal laid his hand on Thomas's shoulder. “You underestimate yourself. Go now to His Grace. He would have speech with you. Be not too modest. Luck favors you. Go in… and win your honors.”

It was with disturbed thoughts that Thomas made his way to the royal apartments.

WHEN THOMAS entered the King's audience chamber it was to find him with those three friends and statesmen, the Duke of Norfolk, the Duke's son the Earl of Surrey and Henry's brother-in-law the Duke of Suffolk.

This, Thomas realized, was honor indeed, to be received in such company. Here was the King, familiarly talking with his friends, and smiling to receive Thomas More among them; but as he knelt before the King, Thomas was aware of the speculating eyes of the three noblemen.

All were well known to him.

Suffolk was not only the King's brother-in-law, but his greatest friend; a clashing handsome fellow, he had accompanied Henrys sister Mary to France when she had married old Louis, and when, after a few months of life with the vital young Mary, the French King had died, Suffolk had, with great daring, married her before their return to England. But Henry had forgiven that rashness long ago.

The old Duke of Norfolk, Lord Treasurer and Knight of the Garter, was a sturdy old warrior, proud head of one of the noblest families in the country, and was still reaping the rewards of his victory at Flodden Field.

His son, Surrey, slightly older than Thomas, was a gallant soldier, shrewd and high in the favor of the King in spite of the fact that his wife was the daughter of the recently murdered Duke of Buckingham. The King was amused by Surrey at this time, and he liked those who amused him. Surrey—the grim, stern soldier— had become enamored of his wife's laundress, and there was much ribald comment throughout the Court concerning Surrey and Bess Holland.

“Ha,” cried the King. “Here comes Master More to join us. We were talking of this madman Luther, Master More. You have seen this new outrage of his, I doubt not?”

“I have, Your Grace.”

“By God, I have a mind to answer him with my own pen. Now, you are a master of words, and it is on this matter that I wished to speak to you.”

“Your Grace honors me.”

“We have read some of your writings and found merit in them. We are giving orders that this evil composition of the German monk's shall be publicly burned in St Paul's Churchyard. We are instructing Bishop Fisher to preach a sermon against him. Master More, this man is an agent of the devil. Now… my friends, leave us. I would speak alone with our friend here on literary matters.”

The three noblemen retired, and the King smiled at Thomas.

“Now, my friend, we can get down to work. Since I read this … this … what shall I call it?… this evil document… I have felt an anger burning within me. I hear the voice of God urging me to act. This cannot go unanswered, Master More; and it needs one to answer it whose writing will astonish the world. Who better than the King of England?”

“Your Grace has written this book?”

“Not yet… not yet. I have made my notes … notes of what I wish to say. They shall go ringing round Europe. If I had the fellow here in my kingdom he should suffer the traitor's death. But he is not here. I cannot chastise his body, so I will answer him with words. I will show you what I shall call my Assertion of the Seven Sacraments, and you will see that what I intend to do is to answer this monstrous piece of writing of this villainous monk. Now, come hither. This is what I have prepared.”

Thomas took the notes which were handed to him. “And my duty, Your Grace?”

Henry waved a hand “Well… you will arrange them … and set them into a form that… you know of. You are a man of letters. You will see what has to be done. I am a King. I have my affairs of state to attend to, but I have written the core of the thing. You will…” The King waved his hands in an expansive gesture. “But you know what is your task, Master More. To make this into a book. I have chosen you out of my regard for you.”

“Your Grace is determined to honor me”

“As I am always ready to honor those who please me … whose learning adds luster to this realm. Now, Master More, your duties from now on will be undertaken in my small antechamber, to which I shall now conduct you. You shall have everything you require, and I should like the task completed with all expediency. Spare not the evildoer. We will talk to the world … even as he has. And we will speak in literary language, Master More; for they tell me you are a master of such language. You are excused all other duties. My friend, do this task well and you will be rewarded. Ah, it pleases you?”

“Your Grace could not have given me a task which delights me so much. To have a pen in my hand once more and on such a composition! It is something I have wanted for a long time.”

The King's hand came down on his shoulder; it was a heavy blow, but its very heaviness expressed not only approval, but affection. The eyes were shining with pleasure; the cheeks were flushed.

“Come, Master More. This way.”

The King threw open the door of a small room, which was richly carpeted and hung with exquisitely worked tapestry.

When Thomas saw the young woman, she was on the window seat in an ungainly attitude, her legs tucked under her skirt. Her bodice was low-cut and her dark hair fell about her bare shoulders. What astonished him in that half-second was that she did not rise when the King entered, but threw him a saucy smile.

The King stopped and stared at her. Then she must have become aware of the fact that he was not alone. She jumped to her feet and fell on her knees.

“What do you here, girl?” demanded the King.

“I crave Your Grace's pardon. I… but… I thought… Your Grace desired my presence here.”

“Get up,” said the King.

She rose, and Thomas recognized her as Mary Boleyn, the King's mistress. Her gaze was almost defiant as she looked at Thomas. There was in that look a certainty that the King's displeasure could not last.

“You have our leave to retire,” said the King.

She curtsied and took two or three steps backward to the door.

Thomas noticed how the King watched her, his mouth slackening, his eyes a brighter blue.

“Come in, come in, man,” he said almost testily. “Ah, there is where you may sit. Now, look you, these notes are to be made into a great book. You understand me? A great book! You know how to write books. Well, that is what you must do for me.”

The King's attention was straying, Thomas knew; his thoughts had left the room with that dark-haired girl.

Henry said: “If there is anything you want, ask for it. Start now. See what you can do with these notes … and later … when you have something ready, you may bring it to me.”

The King was smiling. His mood had changed; he was already away with the girl who had just left.

“Do your work well, Master More. You will not regret it. I like to reward those who please me….”

The King went out, and Thomas sat down to look at the notes.

He found it difficult to concentrate. He thought of the King and the dark-eyed girl; he thought of Surrey and Bess Holland; he thought of the sharp eyes of Suffolk, the wily ones of old Norfolk, and of Thomas Wolsey, who was cleverer than any of them.

And he longed, as he had never longed before, for the peace of his home.

ADJUSTING THE King's notes was a pleasant task, except that it kept him more than ever away from his family. Many times he had been on the point of slipping home to Bucklersbury when a messenger had come to tell him that the King was asking why he was not in his presence.

Henry liked him. He liked the way in which the work was shaping. He read it and reread it; and he glowed with pride.

“Ah,” he would cry, “here's the answer to Master Luther. Read it, Kate.”

The Queen would read, and she also was delighted, for she hated the German monk even more than Henry did.

“Would I had him here … that German monk!” the King would cry. “He should die … die for the insults he has heaped upon my mother. For my mother is the Church. Ha, Kate, you will see what we shall do with this trumpeter of prides, calumnies and schisms. He is a member of the Devil. He is a low-liver. Mark my words on that. Only the immoral could lose the faith of their fathers in such a way. We are bound to the See of Rome. We could not honor it too much. Anything we could do would not be too great. I swear it.”

“Your Grace will forgive me,” interjected Thomas, “but those words you have uttered would, in a court of law, be called maintaining papal jurisdiction in England.”

“What's that? What's that?” cried Henry.

“I was thinking, my lord King, of the Statute of Praemunire.”

“Ha!” laughed the King. “Here's a lawyer for us, Kate. A writ issued against a King in his own realm, eh? Ha, Thomas More, they are right to call you an honest man. You do well to speak thus before your King. He likes you for it. But I say this: So do I love the Papacy that I would hold nothing back to defend it. Remember, Master More, from that See we receive our Crown Imperial.”

“I must put Your Highness in remembrance of one thing,” said Thomas. “The Pope, as Your Grace knows, is a Prince, as you are yourself, and is in league with other princes. It could fall out that Your Grace and His Holiness may at some time vary in your opinions. I think therefore that his authority might be more lightly touched upon in the book.”

“But I tell you, Master More, so are we bound to the See of Rome that we could not do too much to honor it.”

“Then it is my bounden duty to remind Your Grace again of the Statute of Praemunire.”

“Have no fear, Master More. Have no fear. We know well how to look to these matters. And continue with us as you always have been. We like your honesty.”

And as the book progressed, so did the friendship between Thomas and the King and Queen. He must sup at the King's table; he must walk with the King on the terraces; and he must linger at the Palace until darkness fell, for the Queen had heard that he knew as much of the spheres that moved in the heavens as any man at Court; and the Queen wished him to instruct her.

“The King himself would like to be there at the instruction,” said Henry. “For while governing this kingdom here on Earth, he would like to learn something of the kingdom of the skies.”

So in the evenings Thomas would be on the balconies of the Palace, the Queen on his left hand, the King on his right, the courtiers ranged about them while he pointed out the constellations to the watching group.

“How the King favors this man!” said the courtiers. “He is next to the Cardinal himself in the King's favor.”

They would note the Queens smile as she pointed out how brilliant Orion was that night, and humbly asked if she was right in assuming that the two brilliant points of light in the western sky were the twins, Castor and Pollux, and was that Procyon down in the west-south-west?

They would hear the loud, booming laughter of the King as he declared that the constellation called Cassiopeia did not to him look in the least like a lady in a chair; they would notice how many times the glittering hand would come down upon the somberly clad shoulder of Thomas More.

“The King seems more interested in the Pleiades than in Mary Boleyn!” it was whispered among the ladies who watched such matters, for many of them hoped that one day the royal eyes would be turned from Mary Boleyn toward them.

When the book was finished, and such learned men as Fisher, Stephen Gardiner and Wolsey himself had studied it and declared it to be of sound good sense in perfect literary style, the King was so pleased that he said he would have no more of Master More in attendance; in future it should be Sir Thomas More.

HENRY THE King was deeply gratified. The book was acclaimed throughout Europe by all those who stood against Martin Luther. It was hailed now as a work of genius. The Pope was delighted with his English champion, but he demurred a little at bestowing the title asked for; he had to consider the wrath and jealousy of Francis and Charles, of whom he lived in perpetual fear. But eventually Henrys bribes and offers of friendship prevailed, and the King of England was known throughout the Catholic world as “Defender of the Faith.”

But Martin Luther was not the man to ignore the publication of the book; he poured scorn on it and the King of England at the same time. Henry nominated Sir Thomas More to answer Luther in the name of the King of England.

Thomas had not only his title; he was now made Under-Treasurer of the Exchequer—Norfolk himself was the Treasurer— and so had become an important member of the King's Council. Thus did the man in the hair shirt become one of those ministers in constant attendance upon the King.

Luther wrote scurrilous attacks on Henry; Thomas replied with equally scurrilous attacks on the German monk. And Margaret, reading those replies her father was writing in the name of the King, would often feel depressed and uneasy. It seemed to her that she had lost the father she had once known. The gentle, courteous man had become a master of invective. It made Margaret shudder to read: “Reverend brother, father, tippler, Luther, runagate of the order of St Augustine, misshapen bacchanal of either faculty, unlearned doctor of theology …” How could her gentle father have written such words? How could he have gone on to say that Luther had called his companions together and desired them to go each his own way and pick up all sorts of abuse and scurrility—one to gambling houses, another to the taverns and barbers' shops, another to the brothels?

What is the Court doing to my father? she asked herself.

When he came home she saw the change in him. There was a fierceness of manner about him. She knew that the hair shirt, which she still washed for him, was worn more frequently; she knew that he used a piece of wood for his pillow, so that he might not find easy sleep. There was a new emotion in his life, which had never been there before; it was hatred for the heretics.

She had to talk to him.

“Father,” she said, “you have changed.”

“Nay, daughter, I am the same as ever.”

“I do not altogether understand,” she said, “for you and Erasmus at one time would talk of the wickedness in the monasteries. You planned to set certain matters right in the Church. This Martin Luther … does he not think as once you and Erasmus did?”

She thought of Erasmus, essentially a scholar. Now that the work he had started had been taken up by another, he wanted none of it; he would retire to his scholars desk, to the life of reflection, not of action. Margaret felt that that was the life her father should have chosen. But the King had forced him to the forefront of the fight, and it was the King's battle; he was using words the King would have used. If he had been any other man she would have believed he did so in order to curry favor.

“A change has been wrought in these affairs, Meg,” he said. “Erasmus and I once sought to set right what was wrong. This monk seeks to destroy the Church and to set up in its place another which is founded on heresy.”

“But those words you have written of him … I… I could not believe that you had written them.”

“I have written them, Meg. Doubt not that. As I see it, we have to fight a greater evil, in those who would destroy the Church, than we had when we fought those who only abused it. Meg, the Church still stands … the Holy Catholic Church. To destroy it would bring horror to the world. Evil would break its bounds. At all costs the Church must be upheld. Oh yes, let us have evil driven from the monasteries, let us have a stricter rule for our priests if we must… but those who seek to destroy the Church must be themselves destroyed, for if we allow them to destroy the Church, then evil will prevail.”

“But this monk, Father … can you really call him a heathen?”

“I can, Meg, and I do.”

“Yet he claims to be a man of God. It is not God whom he reviles; it is the Church of Rome.”

“But the Church of Rome is the Church of our fathers. You know that, Meg.”

She looked at him and thought: For the first time in my life I doubt his wisdom. I have never known this ferocity in him before. I have never before known him show such anger as he does toward these heretics.

“Father,” she said uneasily, “the King has said that if this heathen—meaning the monk Luther—does not recant, he should be burned alive. Burned alive, Father! You cannot believe that that should be done! You used to say that we should be kind to others, treat them as we ourselves would be treated.”

“Meg, if your right hand was evil, if it was touched with a poison that would infect the rest of your body, would you not cut it off?”

She was silent, but he insisted on an answer. “Yes, Father.”

“Well, then. The suffering of the body is as naught to the eternal damnation of the soul. If, by setting the flames at the feet of this monk Luther, we could restore his soul to God, then would it not be well to burn him alive?”

“I do not know.”

“Meg, it is a glorious thing to subdue the flesh, to become indifferent to pain. What happens to these bodies cannot be of importance. And if those who deny God are to suffer eternal damnation, what can a few minutes in the fire mean to them?”

Margaret covered her face with her hands. I have lost a part of him, she thought.

He drew her hands from her face and smiled at her; all the gentleness was back in his eyes.

She saw that he was tired, that he longed to escape from the life at Court, to retire to the quietness and peace of family life.

It was a strange revelation to find that she did not entirely agree with him. Yet how she loved him! Even more, now that she believed she had detected a certain weakness in him, than she had when she had loved him for all his strength.

She almost wished that he had not educated her so thoroughly, that he had not trained her mind to be so logical. She wished that she could have gone on seeing him as perfect.

He was begging her to return to the old relationship. He wanted to laugh and be gay.

“Now you have talked to me, Margaret,” he said. “You have examined me with many questions, and you look at me quizzically, and you are turning over in your mind what I have said, and you doubt the wisdom of my words. Very well, my Meg. We will talk of this later. Now I have something to say to you. Can you guess what it is?”

“No, Father.”

“Well then, it is about Will.”

“Will Roper?”

“Who else? Do you not like him a little, Meg?”

She blushed, and he smiled to see her blush. “I like him, Father.”

“He loves you dearly. He has told me so.”

“I would rather he did not burden you with his foolish feelings.”

“Is it foolish to love you? Then, Meg, I must be the most foolish man on Earth.”

“ 'Tis different with us. You are my father, and it is natural that you and I should love.”

“ 'Tis natural that Will should also. He is good. I like him. I like him very much. There is no one I would rather see as your husband, Meg. For although he may not be as rich or handsome as our gay young Allington, although he may not make a lady or a duchess of you one day… he is none the worse for that.”

“Do you think I should care to be a lady or a duchess, Father? I am not like your wife, who has been so proud since she has become Lady More.”

He laughed. “Leave her her pleasures, Meg. They are small ones, and we understand her delight in them, do we not? But to return to Will. You are fond of him, I know.”

“As I am of the others. To me he is no more than… any of them.”

“But, Meg, he is personable and clever… a pleasant boy. What do you look for in a man?”

“He seems to me to be overyoung.”

“He is seven years your senior.”

“Still, he seems young. He lacks seriousness. He is no great scholar. If he had written something like Utopia … something that showed his ideals and … Oh, you have set us a high standard, Father. Your daughter measures all men against you, which means that she finds them sadly lacking.”

He laughed those words to scorn, but he could not help showing his pleasure.

Now he was himself again, full of laughter, enjoying every moment. This evening they would be together … all of them; they would converse in Latin as they were wont to do; and Alice would chide them, but only mildly. Her title, to her, was a bright bauble. They all smiled to see her face when the servants addressed her as “My Lady.”

It was good to have him back, to forget his fierceness against heretics, to sing and be gay as in the old days.

PERHAPS THERE is always something good in what seems to be evil, thought Margaret. She longed for the days when her father had been a humble lawyer and Under-Sheriff of the City; she remembered with a tender pain the walks through the City; but this was not the case with all the members of the family.

Ailie was bright-eyed with happiness as she came into the schoolroom where Margaret sat with her books.

How lovely she is! thought Margaret. And more beautiful now that she is a member of this distinguished family than she was in the days of our humility.

Ailie pulled off the net which held back her golden hair from her face. That beautiful hair now fell about her shoulders and down to her waist.

“Such news, Meg! I am to be married. My Lady Allington! What do you think of that?”

“So Giles is to be your husband?”

“I shall be the first in the family to find one.”

“That does not really surprise us.”

“To tell the truth, Meg, it does not surprise me. Giles says what a good thing it is that Father has written this book with the King and become such an important person at Court. His father could not withhold his consent to a union with the stepdaughter of Sir Thomas More. Oh Meg, is it not a marvelous thing … what great happenings are set in motion by such little things? A mere book is written and I become Lady Allington!”

Margaret laughed. There was that in Ailie which amused her as it did her father. Perhaps Ailie was selfish because she saw herself as the center of the world, but it was a charming little world, and Ailie herself was so pretty and pleasant in her ways that it was impossible not to love her.

“Ailie, you will go away from us, for Giles will not live here.”

“He will certainly have his estates to attend to. But, depend upon it, I shall insist on many visits to my darling family.”

“Then I doubt not that there will be many visits, for I believe you will have your way as Lady Allington just as you have as Alice Middleton.”

“So do not fret, dearest Meg. We shall be together often. I shall bring you tales of the great world. I shall tell you what the ladies are wearing and what new dances are being danced… and all Court matters which Father never notices. Meg, it will be your turn next… yours or Mercy's. I wonder who will first find a husband.”

Margaret turned away, but Ailie was looking at her slyly.

“There is Master Clement who comes here so often. Have you noticed how he looks first for Mercy? It would not greatly surprise me if our solemn Mercy told us she was to be Mistress Clement one day.”

“Mercy is too interested in her studies to think of aught else.”

Ailie laughed. “John Clement an I her studies both interest Mercy very much. There they sit, heads close together, talking of drugs and disease. Sometimes when I see them I think I shall die of laughter. I do indeed, Meg. I say to Giles: ‘You talk of my beauty … of my charming ways … and that is by far the best way of courtship. But there are other ways, I have discovered, for I live in a strange household. Some lovers exchange recipes and talk of the internal organs of the sick instead of the eyelashes of the loved one.’”

“Ailie, have done with such frivolous gossip.”

“I will not. For 'Tis a strange thing, Meg that, when a girl has found a husband, she is anxious for all her friends to do the same. However solemn, however learned they may be, I want them to be married as I shall be.” Ailie began to dance a stately measure with an imaginary partner, tossing back her hair, smiling coquettishly into the face she saw in her imagination. “This is the newest Court dance, Meg. Giles taught it to me. Oh, how I long to be at Court, to dance in the great halls while the King's minstrels play in the gallery. I shall have rich gowns, Meg, and jewels…. I shall be the happiest girl in the whole world… and all because Father has won the King's regard; for Meg, had he not done so, I do not think Giles's father would have readily given his consent to our marriage.”

“You think of nothing but yourself, Ailie. Might not Father rather be at home as he used to be?”

“How could he prefer that! Giles says that the King is as fond of his as he is of Master Wolsey … and mayhap more … for while the Cardinal makes great efforts to please the King, Father does it without effort; while the Cardinal has to be a worshipper of the King, Father has but to be himself. Nay, we are going up, Meg. Up and up. Father will win more honors yet, and there are many who will be ready—nay, eager—to wed his daughters. But some of these, I vow, look not farther than their own home.”

Ailie was looking at Margaret slyly, and Margaret said: “Enough of this. Is it not your turn to be housekeeper this week, and have you not your duties to perform?”

“Lady More will not be hard on the future Lady Allington. So rest in peace, dear Meg. I'll swear Will Roper is a pleasant fellow, but now that our fortunes are rising, do not be rash, Meg.”

“I do not understand you.”

“What? Have you then become a fool? You … the cleverest of your fathers daughters! Listen to me, Margaret: if you do not look to Will Roper, then he looks to you.”

Margaret packed up her books and set them on a shelf; her cheeks were burning.

“You are making a mistake, Ailie,” she said, “when you think that everyone shares your desires for the married state.”

That made Ailie laugh, and she went on laughing as Margaret, in a most dignified manner, walked out of the room.

NOW SHE must continually think of Will Roper. When, during mealtimes, she lifted her eyes, she would invariably find Will's upon her. While she studied she would find thoughts of Will coming between her and her work.

It was disturbing.

Then she noticed a change in Will. Often when she looked up she would find him staring into space, and if she caught his eye suddenly, he would start and smile at her; and she would know that his thoughts had been occupied with matters which did not concern her.

He would spend a long time alone and seemed to find great pleasure in his own company.

He has changed his mind, thought Margaret. He does not wish to marry me after all. Can it be that his fancy has turned to someone else?

She was astonished by her feelings. Could it be that, not desiring marriage with Will, she desired him to marry no other? She began to think of what the house would be like if he left it. Her father was away so much; how would it be if Will were not there at all?

Her father … and Will! She had come to think of them together. She realized how pleased she had always been when her father spoke well of Will.

One day, when she was alone in the schoolroom, Will came in. He carried a book under his arm. She thought it was a law book until she saw that it was the Greek Testament of Erasmus.

“Oh, Margaret, I am glad to find you alone,” he said. “I want to talk to you. No, don't be alarmed…. It is not about marriage. It is another matter which gives me much concern.”

“Please tell me, if it is on your mind, Will. I have seen that something has bothered you of late.”

“I do not know how you will receive this news, Margaret. I have been reading this Testament, and I have pondered on what I have read. I have also read Babylonish Captivity of the Church, and I have come to this conclusion, Meg. There is no truth other than this which comes out of Germany.”

“Will!”

“I know. You are alarmed. You will hate me now. Your father has expressed his views strongly … and your views, of a surety, are his views on this matter. I had to tell you. I do not believe that Martin Luther is a bad man. I believe he is honest and Godfearing. I believe he seeks a better way of life for the world, and, Margaret, I believe that he, and he alone, has fallen upon the truth.”

Margaret stared at him; his eyes were bright and his cheeks flushed; he looked quite unlike the mild law student whom she had known for the last three years. He looked resolute and noble.

She thought: He knows that this confession of his may mean that he will be banished from the house, and yet he makes it. He knows that it will turn Father from him, and yet he makes it. He knows that Father is one of the brightest stars at the Court, and he knows that heretics are punished in this land. Yet he comes to me and says he will become a Lutheran.

Oh, Will, she thought, you fool… you fool!

But she was moved by his courage, even though it was inspired by what her loyalty to her father insisted must be his wrong thinking.

She began to repeat her fathers arguments, to prevent her thoughts running she knew not whither.

“The man is trying to tear the Church asunder.”

“What of Erasmus? What of your father in the days when they were writing In Praise of Folly and Utopia?”

She said: “They exposed certain evils in the Church. They wished these matters to be righted. This man Luther defies the Holy Pope and the whole Church. He would set up a new Church in its place.”

“But, Meg, if that were the true Church… is it not a good thing to set it up in place of the false one?”

“You would then deny the faith of your fathers?”

“I want a simpler way of worshipping God. I want to examine the Scriptures more carefully. I do not want to say, ‘My fathers thought this, therefore must I think it.’ I have thought much of Martin Luther, Meg. Can you deny that he is a great man? Think of him—the son of poor parents, thrown upon the world at an early age, begging his bread and studying … always studying. Meg, he reminds me of your father, for like him he studied the law, and like him he went into a monastery. And while he was there, he found much that was evil, and he determined to fight it with all his might. Margaret, think. These Indulgences against which he rails— are they good? I ask you: Can people buy, with money, forgiveness in Heaven? Picture him on that October day in Wittenberg … so boldly marching up to the church door and there nailing upon it his theses. He knew of the danger he was in. He knew that the whole Catholic world was against him. But he cared not, Meg, because he knew that what he did was right. He is a great man; he is a man of genius; he is a goal man whose teaching I would follow.”

Margaret was deeply moved. There was so much truth in what Will said. She had rarely in her life been so grieved as when across Europe abuse had been flung by this monk of Germany, and by her father in the name of the King. What a terrible thing it was when two good men, because they could not agree on certain points, must forget courtesy and good manners, and fling insults at one another!

She said sternly: “I do not know what Father will do when he hears of this.”

“Nor I, Meg.”

“He would not wish to harbor a heretic under his roof.”

“That is so. Margaret, I love you. It is for that reason that I could be silent no longer. I could not continue with you under false pretences. Nor can I govern my thoughts. I trust you will understand me. Speak to me, Margaret. Tell me that you will try to understand how I have fought these thoughts.”

“You … you should not fight them. All thoughts should be examined.”

“Margaret… you … you will tell your father now, I know. Then I shall go away from here. That is something I cannot endure….”

He had turned to her, but she ran from him, out of the schoolroom.

HOW THANKFUL she was that it was daytime and there was no one else in the bedroom. She lay on the bed which she shared with Cecily, and drew the curtains … shutting out the house … shutting out everything but her thoughts.

Will… a heretic! And her father hated heretics! They had inspired him with a fierceness, a hatred of which she had not believed him capable.

This was terrible—nothing more terrible could have happened. Those two were against each other.

She remembered the change in her father, his fierceness against the heretic, his absolute belief in the Church of Rome.

He is wrong to be so certain, she thought. And Will is wrong to be certain that Luther is right. Why must there be this hatred between men? Why cannot they love God simply, without dogmas that must be disputed?

Jesus had told men to love one another. Yet how could they obey that command when they disputed together with such ferocity, and instead of love fostered hatred?

Love must become the ruling passion of the world. If her father was to follow the teaching of Jesus Christ, he must not hate Martin Luther because his views differed from his own; nor must Luther hate her father and the King for similar reasons.

Why could they not say: “You believe this and I believe that. But let us go our ways in peace. Let us brood on these matters which delight us, and in so doing, if perchance we find the truth, then that is a great and glorious thing which we can show to the world; and let us light it with love, not hatred, so that all may see it.”

She sat up in bed and touched her burning cheeks. She, being Margaret, must see herself as clearly as she saw others. Margaret's brain must examine her heart. She stood between two men—Will Roper and her father—and now she would admit that they were the two whom she loved best in the world. She loved them both so much that she could not bear to be without either of them. A cause for dispute had raised itself between them; it was like an ugly dragon whose nostrils gave out the fire of hatred.

She must turn that hatred into love. She knew suddenly that she was ready to practice deceit if necessary to achieve that end.

Margaret More looked into her mind and discovered that the most important things in the world to her were that her father and Will Roper should continue to be friends, and that she should keep them near her that they might all be happy together. Who was right—the Pope or Martin Luther? She did not know; and she realized with a mighty shock that she believed neither of them was wholly right nor wholly wrong. In any case she wondered whether she would be prepared to take sides if she could believe that one was right and one was wrong.

She wanted to live in harmony with the men she loved.

NOW THAT she knew herself, she was too honest to feign ignorance.

She rose from the bed and went in search of Will.

He was still in the schoolroom where she had left him. He was standing by the window staring out disconsolately. If he was a man who had found the truth, he looked as if he had lost all else he cared for in doing so.

He turned as she entered. “Margaret!”

She went to him and smiled up at him. Then he put his arms about her.

“Margaret… dearest Meg…. Then you did love me?”

“I know not whether I did or did not,” she said. “I only know I do.”

“Margaret… now?”

“Yes, now!” she said emphatically. “For when our thoughts come, as you say, they must be examined. Will, some time ago you asked me to marry you. I answer you now: I will.”

“But, Margaret… your father … ?”

“He has said he is pleased.”

He kissed her, and she thought: How strange it is! I am no longer Margaret More, the solemn little scholar. I do not care for the arguments in books. I care nothing but that Will loves me and that I can live the rest of my life with him and with Father.

“You are laughing, Meg. Why, you are different.”

“I am happy,” she said. “I see that it is because I am in love. Do you not like me thus?” Now she seemed coquettish, even as Ailie.

“Meg, I love you now and forever. But I feel this cannot really be happening, and that I shall wake up in a moment.”

“It is real… real as our life shall be.”

He took her to the window seat and kept his arm about her.

We shall be here together, she was telling herself. Life is good. It must be so. I will make it so.

“Meg … how happy I am! I never thought… You seemed remote … far too clever for me … and now… when I had given up hope …”

“You should never give up hope, Will. Never … never….”

“How you laugh, Meg. I have never heard you laugh like this.”

“It is the laughter of happiness, Will. That is the best sort of laughter. Not to laugh in derision at the misfortunes of others … not to laugh with relief because you feel remote from those misfortunes; but to laugh because you are happy … happy … because you have found that life is good.”

“When did you decide that you would marry me?”

“I think it must have been a long time ago, but I knew it only when you spoke to me just now. I knew then that I loved you.”

“When I told you … when I confessed)”

“It was seeing you, Will, so sure that you were right….”

“Then you, too, feel as I do.”

“D I feel nothing but love. Sometimes I think I never have. I loved Father and I wanted to be clever to please him. You see, that was love of Father, not love of learning. Now I know that I love you too. So I have two people to love, and I love you both so much that there seems hardly room for anything else in my life.”

“Margaret! Is this Margaret?”

“Yes, it is the same Margaret. She was there all the time, I suppose, but she was hidden by the solemn scholar. She did not know herself. She saw herself as others saw her. Now she has seen herself as she is.”

They talked of marriage and he said: “What will your father say? Will he consent now?”

She was silent, amazed at herself, amazed that she who had never thought to deceive her father, could think of deceiving him now.

But she had become a woman who thought in terms of love. It only mattered that there should be amity in her house; that she, the woman, should hold her home together; and so make peace and love between those whom she loved more than her own life.

Therefore she was ready to temporize.

She said to herself: There is no need to tell Father. He has much to occupy his mind. He should not be worried with Will's affairs. Moreover, Will may discover that he has not yet found the truth. Who knows, in a short time he may come to the conclusion that there is no truth in the teaching of this man Luther. Then shall we have had our storms for nothing. I can neither lose Will nor Father; therefore the two I love must love each other. Today let us think of love; and let us hope that tomorrow there will be no need to think of anything but love.

So now she said to Will: “Father is so rarely at home. It is a pity to worry him with your doubts and your leanings. Moreover, men's minds change. Perhaps he will change; or you will change. For the time, let us keep this secret. You and I will discuss these matters when we are alone … and only then….”

And she smiled at him, wondering whether she would be able to mold his thoughts to her fathers way of thinking, or her father's to his.

She thought tenderly: They are obstinate, both of them. They are brave, and they will never accept other than what they believe to be the truth.

But she would wait.

Meanwhile she had discovered love, and for the time being she had determined that nothing should disturb it.