King's Confidante

5

THERE WERE SEVERAL CHILDREN IN THE HOUSE NOW. Margaret had a little girl, and Cecily and Elizabeth both had babies. If Elizabeth had not found complete happiness in her marriage, she had great hopes of finding it in her children.

In the streets the people were singing:

“Turkeys, carps, bops, pippins and beer

Came into England all in one year.”

And that year was the one of the great frost and the marriages of Elizabeth and Cecily.

Margaret thought of that year and the year that followed it as the happy years. So much seemed to happen in the family circle that they were all blinded to what was happening outside … all except Thomas.

There were times when, with his family about him, Margaret would notice that he stared beyond them with a strangely remote look on his face. It might be that they were in the orchards gathering the fruit, or sitting at table, talking, laughing together.

Once she slipped her arm through his and whispered: “Father, of what do you think?”

His answer was: “Of all this, Meg, of this family of mine … this perfect contentment. On the day I die—no matter how I die—I shall remember this moment and say that my life brought me much joy.”

Then their eyes had met, and for a moment there was understanding between them as there never was between him and any other.

“Father,” she had cried out in panic, “I like it not when you talk of death. You frighten me.”

“Fear not, Meg,” he had answered, “for who knows when death will come? Rejoice, Meg, in that uncertainty. You would be weeping if you knew I had a month to live. You were laughing a moment ago, though I might not have a day.”

“Father, I long for the time when you will leave the Court.”

Then he had smiled his sweet smile and had said: “Let us be happy in this moment, Meg. Is it not as happy a moment as any could ask?”

There was so much to think about, so much to talk about during those two years. One child was having difficulty with her teeth; another cried too much; another had too many colds. These were such important matters. How could they stop for a moment to consider what was happening in the Courts of Europe? The King of France had been taken prisoner at Pavia and carried to Madrid; Cardinal Wolsey's foreign policy was less successful than it had previously been. There was a certain subject about which there was much whispering in Court circles, and it was known as the King's Secret Matter.

But to the family living in the pleasant house on the bank of the Thames, life was good. The babies were a source of amusement and delight; the Latin verses composed by their mothers provided much entertainment when read aloud. It was enjoyable to stroll in the gardens on a summers night and watch the stars with Master Kratzer; it was so amusing to try to make Alice take an interest in astronomy and to listen to her scathing comments.

There was the fun of feeding the animals, watching them grow and teaching them tricks; there were the flower gardens to be tended; there was the pleasant rivalry between Elizabeth with her gilly-flowers and Cecily with her daffadowndillies; there was the fun of trying out new dishes. Ailie would come with the very latest recipes and show them how peacocks were served at a Court banquet, and how to make sugarbread and marchpane the royal way. There was the great tapestry to work on in hours of leisure; there were the herbs to be gathered in the surrounding fields, so that Mercy could make them into medicines and Alice use them for flavoring or garnishing a dish.

They were very happy during those two years.

Mercy was married to her Dr. Clement, but she lived with them still, dividing her time between the house and the hospital. Thomas had given them the old house in Bucklersbury as a wedding present, and the girls were busy making tapestry to hang in Mercy's new home; but she continued to live at Chelsea during those two happy years. When she went to live in Bucklersbury, Margaret would spend more time at the hospital, but that was not to be yet.

Every evening there were prayers in the private chapel with the family assembled; at mealtimes it was always Mercy who read from the scriptures. They would discuss together what she had read, and there would be interesting argument.

There were three new additions to die family during those years.

One was a poor man, Henry Patenson, who had need of succor. He had a certain sharpness of wit, and since it was not known what task could be given him in the household, he himself suggested that, as all great men whose work led them to the society of the wise needed a fool to amuse them in their leisure hours, Henry Patenson should become the fool of Sir Thomas More.

Thus Henry Patenson joined the household.

Then there was little Anne Cresacre, who came to Chelsea as the betrothed of Jack. Poor little girl, she was very frightened. She knew that she was going to live among the learned, and that terrified her; but she had been so delighted to find that her future husband was the dunce of the family that she saw him as a natural protector. As for Jack, he had himself often felt inadequate among the scholars, and understood her feelings and was able to reassure her. Consequently, Anne Cresacre found that, although her future husbands learned family might terrify her, he did not.

Moreover, Lady More took her to her heart—for she was a very rich little girl—but all the same, riches or no riches, she must learn how to manage a household and take over the arrangement of domestic matters in turn with the other girls.

The third visitor was a painter from Basle—a young man full of enthusiasm and ideals, who had come to England to seek his fortune.

Erasmus—whom Thomas had visited on his trips to Europe and between whom there had been continual correspondence— discovered this man, and he wrote to Thomas asking him to receive him in his house. “His name,” he wrote, “is Hans Holbein, and I believe him to be a clever man at his craft. He wishes to come to England in order to earn some money. I beg of you, do all you can to help him.” Such a plea to Thomas could not be made in vain.

He welcomed the young man to his house, and so there was yet another to join the happy family group. He would sit sketching whenever the light allowed, listening to their talk, learning to speak their language, delighted because he could capture their expressions and draw them all with loving care.

“This man hath genius,” said Thomas to Alice.

At which Alice laughed. “Genius! He was sitting out in the east wind yesterday, sketching away. He'll catch his death, I'll warrant. And I shall have to nurse him. I shall have to spend my time, which I can ill afford, making hot possets for him. And you call that genius!”

Thus during the happy years life went on.

AILIE CAME one day with news hot from Court.

“Such a pother! It is Mistress Anne Boleyn. What do you think? She hath betrothed herself to Henry, Lord Percy. The eldest son of the Earl of Northumberland, if you please! Trust Mistress Anne to pick one of the noblest peers in the land.”

“Then the girl hath good sense,” said Alice. “For why should she not reach for the best plum on the tree?”

“And he was ready to fall to her touch,” cried Alice, “like a very ripe plum. Humble Anne Boleyn to mate with a Percy! So to Town comes my Lord of Northumberland, and poor little Percy hath been soundly berated. My lord Cardinal, in whose service he is, himself administered the scolding. And such a scolding! 'Tis said that poor Percy has not stopped weeping yet. And Mistress Anne? That's a different matter. She has been going about the Court flashing her eyes, swearing she will not be told whom she is or is not to marry. But back she is gone to Hever Castle, and there she will stay for a while, so 'Tis said.”

“And what will you do for your fashions now?” asked Margaret wryly.

“She has left us a few. Methinks we must wait until she returns to Court, which, some say, will not be long.”

“Come and help me feed the peacocks,” said Elizabeth. “I never heard such fuss, and all over one stupid girl!”

EARLY IN the following year, the King sent for Sir Thomas More. He was in his new Palace of Hampton Court, and he suggested that Thomas should take a walk with him, for he had heard that Thomas had made some pretty gardens round his house in Chelsea; he would like to discuss his own plans for altering the gardens at Hampton Court.

So they walked side by side, the man in the somber garments, his left shoulder a little higher than the right, his gown unadorned by jewels of any sort, and the gigantic, sparkling figure in doublet of purple velvet lined with ermine, his person sparkling with rubies and emeralds worth a fortune.

Now the King talked of the pond garden he would make; he talked of the beds of roses—red and white roses growing together side by side—symbols of the rival houses of Lancaster and York; and these should be enclosed by a wall, the pillars of which were to be made of stone and should be engraved with Tudor roses. All those who looked should see how the roses of York and Lancaster bloomed and faded while the Tudor rose altered not, engraved as it was on pillars of stone. The King enjoyed exploiting his fondness for allegory.

“Now, friend Thomas, what do you think of my pond garden? Have you anything to compare with that at Chelsea?”

“Nay, Sire. Our gardens are simple ones, tended mostly by my family.”

“Ah, that happy family of yours!” The King's heavy hand was on his shoulder; the King's flushed face was near his own and the little mouth was close to Thomas's ear. “I'll tell you a secret, Thomas, that I believe I have told you before: I envy you, man. Your King envies you. A happy family! How many grandchildren are there now? Six. And grandsons…. And your son soon to wed and provide you with more, I doubt not. You are a good man, Thomas More; and God has showered his favors upon you. Yet, Thomas, would you say your King was an evildoer?”

Into Thomas's mind there flashed a procession of murdered men—Dudley, Empson and Buckingham at the head of them; he thought of Elizabeth Blount, flaunting the King's natural son among her friends; he thought of wanton Mary Boleyn, and the quiet, long-suffering Queen Katharine. Was this King an evildoer?

What great good fortune that the King did not expect an answer to that which he considered a question so absurd that none could take it seriously!

“Nay, Thomas,” he went on. “I hear Mass many times a day. I am a devout man. I have dedicated my life to my country. You, my statesman, my Councillor who has lived close to me, know that. Is it not therefore a marvelous thing that God should deny me that which I most crave! Not for myself do I crave it. Nay. It is for this realm. Thomas, I must have a son. I need a son. I need a son for England.”

“Your Grace is young yet.”

“I am young. I am in the full vigor of my youth and manhood. I could have sons. I have proved… I have no doubt of that. And when a man and woman fail to produce an heir, when they wish above all things for a son, there is one explanation only of that Master More. They have displeased Almighty God.”

“Your Grace, have patience for a while. The Queen has given you a healthy daughter.”

“A healthy daughter! Much good is she! I want sons … sons…. I am King of England, Thomas More; and it is necessary for a King to give his country an heir.”

Thomas was silent and the King frowned as he went on: “There is a matter which lies heavy on my conscience. The Queen, as you know, was my brother's wife ere she became mine. You are a learned man, Master More, a religious one. You read your Bible. God inflicts a penalty on those who commit the sin of incest. That is what I fear I have done in marrying my brothers wife. Every son has died… every son the Queen has borne has died. Is that not significant? Is that not a sign from Heaven that I am a victim of Divine judgement? The more I study this matter, the more certain I become that I have offended God's Holy Laws in my marriage.”

Thomas was deeply shocked. He had heard rumors of the King's Secret Matter, and he had dreaded being asked to give an opinion. He thought of the Queen, that grave and gracious lady, who had offended none but the King; and him she had offended merely because she was growing old and unattractive and had been unable to provide him with a male heir.

The King had stopped in his walk and turned to face Thomas. He rocked on his heels; his face was creased with emotions— sentiment, cruelty, cunning and simplicity, and chiefly with his determination to make Thomas see him as he saw himself.

“I was against this marriage ere I made it. You remember the protest! made?”

Thomas looked in surprise at the King. “I remember, Sire.”

“There you see, I did not wish to enter into the marriage, then. She was, after all, my brother's widow.”

Thomas dared not say: You protested on your father's orders. It was when you made the protest that you determined to marry Queen Katharine.

Thomas was aware of the selfish cruelty, the predominant desire in the King to see himself as a righteous man. It would not be worth risking his displeasure by making such a remark. It would be folly to anger him at this stage. At this moment Henry was so carefully nursing his conscience that any man who dared suggest that his conscience was really his own desire would surely forfeit his head.

“But… I married her,” went on the King. “I married her, for she was a stranger in a strange land and she had been brought to us for marriage with the heir of England. And, because she was my wife, I cherished her and I loved her, as I still do. To part with her … that would be a bitter blow to me. You, who have married two wives and lived with them in amity, know that. It is nearly twenty years since I married the Queen. A man cannot cast off, without a pang, a woman to whom he has been married twenty years. Yet, though I am a man—aye, and a loving husband—I remember first that I am a King. And, Master More, if it were demanded of me to cast off this wife of mine and take another… though this matter were hateful to me, I would do it.”

“Your Grace should not sacrifice his happiness so lightly,” said Thomas, seizing the opportunity the King had given. “If a King has his duty to his country, a husband has his duty to his wife. And if the crowning of a King is a holy sacrament in the eyes of God, so is the ceremony of marriage. You have a daughter, Sire, the Princess Mary….”

The King waved his hand impatiently.

“That gives us much anxious thought. This country has never been happily ruled by a woman. You know that, Master More. And you, who call yourself a religious man, should ponder this: Is an incestuous marriage a holy one? Can it find favor in the sight of God? And what of a man and woman who, disturbed by their conscience, continue to live in such a marriage? Nay, this state of affairs cannot go on.” The King smiled slyly. “Nor will my Ministers allow it. Warham, the Archbishop, and Wolsey, the Papal Legate, are bringing a secret suit against me.”

“A secret suit against Your Grace!”

The King nodded mournfully. “A pretty pass when a King's subjects act thus against him. Mark you, I have tried to be an honest man over this matter and, much as I deplore the action of Warham and Wolsey, I yet admit they act with reason and within their rights.”

So it has come to this! thought Thomas. The King is indeed determined to cast off his wife since he has made Warham and Wolsey accuse him of incest.

“You see,” said the King, “I am a King who is beset on all sides—by his love for his wife, by the demands of his ministers, by the reasoning of his own conscience. You are an important member of the Council, and there are many who set store by your opinions. You have many friends—Bishop Fisher among them. When this matter is discussed between you, I would have you obey your conscience as I am obeying mine. I would have you cast your vote not for Henry the man and Katharine the woman, but for the good of this land and its future heirs.”

“My Lord King, you honor me too much, I feel myself inadequate to meddle in such matters.”

“Nay, nay,” said the King. “You underestimate your powers.” His voice was kind still, but his eyes flashed a warning. This matter was very near his heart, and he would brook no interference. This was a matter of conscience—the King's conscience and no one else's, for the King's conscience was such a mighty monster that it would tolerate no interference from the consciences of others. “Come. You agree with these men who will bring a suit against me, do you not? You know, as they know, that your King and Queen are living together in sinful incest. Come! Come! Be not afraid. We ask for the truth.”

“Since your Grace asks for the truth, may I ask for time— time that I may consider this matter?”

The King's eyes were narrow, his mouth sullen.

“Very well, then. Very well. Take your time.”

He turned away abruptly, and several courtiers, who had been watching from a safe distance, asked themselves what Sir Thomas More had done to offend the King.

ONE OF the sights to be seen in the City, rivaled only by that of the marching watch on Midsummer's Eve and the Eve of St. Peter, was the ceremonious procession which attended the great Cardinal on all his journeyings. Before him, about him and behind him, went his retinue of servants, extravagantly clad in black velvet with golden chains about their necks; the lower servants were conspicuous in their tawny livery. And in the center of all this pomp, preceded by the bearers of his silver crosses, his two pillars of silver, the Great Seal of England and his Cardinal's hat, rode the Cardinal himself, in his hand an orange, the inside of which had been replaced by pieces of vinegar-soaked sponge and other substances to counteract the pestilential air; the trappings of his mule were crimson velvet and his stirrups of copper and gold.

He went with as much ceremony as if he were the King himself.

He passed over London Bridge, and the people watched him in sullen silence. They blamed Wolsey for all their ills. Who was Wolsey? they asked themselves. A low-born man who, by great good luck, lived in the state of a King. When taxes were too high—and they always were—they blamed Wolsey. And now that the King wanted to replace the Queen, they blamed Wolsey for that. The people wanted an heir to the throne, yes; but the more serious among them remembered that the Queen was the aunt of the Emperor Charles of Spain; they might not be troubled on account of the Emperors humiliation, which he would undoubtedly feel if his aunt were cast off, but they feared his armies. So … they blamed Wolsey.

He was on his way to France now, and in his retinue rode Sir Thomas More.

The great Cardinal was more deeply perturbed at this time than he had ever been before.

Fortune was turning against him. Had he looked too high when he had coveted the Papal Chair? Ah, if only he instead of Clement had been elected Pope, all his anxieties would be at an end. There he would have been content to rest, at the pinnacle of fame. There he would have had no need to fear any man. He had climbed to great heights, and now he was on a narrow ledge, his foothold precarious; he must retain a very careful balance if he were to continue to climb. About him snapped those angry, jealous wolves—Suffolk, Norfolk and their followers. There was only one man who could save him from those ravening beasts, and that was the most dangerous of them all—the King.

The secret court which he and Warham had called, that the King's marriage might be proved incestuous, had failed because of the obstinacy of the Queen, who insisted that her marriage with Arthur had never been consummated; therefore there were no grounds on which legality could be denied. Wolsey's foreign policy had resulted in his winning for England the enmity of both France and Spain; and now the Pope, on whose help he had relied in this matter of the royal divorce, had been captured during the sack of Rome and was a prisoner in the Emperors hands.

His mission to France was an uneasy one. He must talk with Francis; he must tell him of the King's doubts regarding the legality of his marriage; he must try to arrange a match between the Princess Mary and the son of Francis; he must cautiously hint that he was looking for a future Queen of England in France. Perhaps the Princess Renee, sister of the Queen of France? Perhaps Francis's own sister, the talented Marguerite de Valois?

Everything depended on the successful termination of the King's Secret Matter; and this was a most delicate matter even for a great statesman to handle. To juggle with the politics of Europe was one thing; to secure the gratification of the King's desires another.

Still he who had achieved so much would achieve this also. What perturbed him was the growing truculence of Norfolk, and particularly of Suffolk—for Suffolk, the King's brother-in-law and his greatest friend, had the King's ear; and there were times when Wolsey felt that Suffolk would not have dared to treat him so scurvily, had he not done so with the sanction of the King.

And at the root of this uneasiness was one factor; the King was no longer that careless boy who could be fed with the sugar plums of masques, jousts and fair women while the able hands of his shrewdest statesman steered the ship of state, which was England, along its perilous journey. This King had done with playing the careless boy; he had come to realize that the fascination of power politics was as great as a new feast or a new woman. He was breaking the bars of his cage; he was testing his strength; he was roaring with pride in his own glory. And he was saying: “I will have all… all… I will be King in very truth. I will have my rich entertainments, and I will stand on the bridge of my ship, and if any attempt to come between me and my desires they shall not live long to do so.”

On went the procession—all the pomp and glory—and in the midst of it rode an apprehensive man.

Thomas, riding along unnoticed in the glittering throng, was also pensive. All his sympathy was for the Queen. Poor lady, what had she done to deserve this humiliation? Had she wished for marriage with the King in the first place? He doubted it. He remembered her, serene and dignified, at the Coronation. Yet she had accepted her fate with meekness; she had tried to love the King, and she had been a faithful wife to him; the second was to be expected, for she was a virtuous woman; but her love for the King must have been sorely tried during these last years.

Now was his chance to leave his post, to tell the King the state of his mind, to say boldly: “Sire, I resign my post, for you will wish to have about Your Highness those ministers who can help you to obtain the divorce.”

It was a relief to rest at Rochester on the the journey to France, and there to stay in the company of his old friend, Bishop Fisher.

It was pleasanter still to have a private talk with Fisher after Wolsey had sounded him.

In the small paneled room, the two friends were serious together. They talked solemnly of the terrible calamity which had befallen the Pope; then their talk turned on the King's Secret Matter.

How could the divorce be concluded without the sanction of the Pope? And how could the Pope give his consent to the King's divorce from a lady who was a close relation of the man who held him prisoner, even if he was satisfied that he should grant a divorce?

“These are grave matters, my friend,” said Bishop Fisher.

“Grave indeed,” said Thomas, “for where they will end I do not know.”

And the next day, the Cardinal, with Sir Thomas More in his entourage, left for Canterbury, and so to France.

THE SWEATING sickness had again come to England; it roamed through the streets of the City like a hungry beast who was nourished on the filth which filled the malodorous gutters and the fetid air inside the houses. Men, women and children took the sweat; they lay down where they were, in a state of exhaustion, and died unless they could be roused from the coma into which they fell. This horrible pestilence was no respecter of persons; it struck at beggars and the highest in the land.

In the streets, the people were muttering together, telling each other that it was clear why God had sent this affliction. He was displeased. And why should He be displeased? The Secret Matter was no longer secret; they knew that the King wished to put the Queen from him; and there was no denying the rumor that the woman he wished to make his Queen was Nan Bullen—his mistress, so it was said. Who was this woman? The daughter of a knight. She was no royal Queen.

All the hatred the people felt for the upstart Wolsey they now allowed him to share with the upstart Anne Boleyn.

God was angry with England, and this was His way of showing it; there was the reason for a further visitation of this terrible pestilence.

The King was also angry. He had been deprived of the presence of his beloved mistress, who he desired to make his wife more than he desired anything on Earth. What had she said to him? “Your mistress I will not be; your wife I cannot be.” But he must be her lover even if, as she implied, the only way in which he could be was by making her his wife.

And now she had left the Court.

Wolsey had done this. What had happened to Wolsey? He had lost a little of his arrogance. He now knew that the King had not given him his confidence, and that when he, Wolsey, had been trying to negotiate a marriage with one of the princesses of France, the King had already firmly made up his mind that he would have none other than Anne Boleyn. Wolsey now knew that it was mainly Anne Boleyn who had set the King searching his conscience; but he had learned that important factor too late.

Now a sad and anxious Cardinal had advised his royal master that, since the people were angered against the Lady Anne, it would be wise at this stage to send her back to Hever.

So Henry was alone and wretched, longing for her, asking himself why it was that, surrounded as he was by the cleverest men in the world, there was not one of them who could settle this matter to his satisfaction.

There was a message from Hever.

The sweat cared nothing for the wrath and anguish of the King himself. Anne Boleyn—more precious to the King than his kingdom—had become a victim of the sweating sickness.

Now the King was in terror. He wept and stormed and he prayed. How could God put the King's beloved in danger! Had he not been a good King … a good man … always striving to do God's will! And was it not solely for the good of England that he would take Anne to wife?

He could for his physicians, and the only one who was at Court was his second, Dr. Butts. The King threatened this man while he beseeched him to save the Lady Anne, before he dispatched him in all haste to Hever.

Then he sat down and, weeping, wrote to her: “The most displeasing news that could occur to me came suddenly at night….” He wept as he wrote of his laments, of what it meant to him to hear that his mistress, whom he esteemed more than all the world, and whose health he desired as he did his own, should be ill. He told of how he longed to see her and that the sight of her would give him greater comfort than all the precious jewels in the world.

And when he had written and dispatched this letter, he paced up and down his apartment, weeping and praying; and all the time longing for Anne, cursing the fate which kept them apart, promising himself how he would reward those who helped him to marry Anne, promising revenge on all those who continued to keep them apart.

In the Court the news spread: The Lady hath the sweat. This will doubtless impair her beauty, even though she should recover. Could she do so and be so charming when and if she returned to the Court?

Important events were being decided in a lady's bedchamber at Hever Castle.

GREAT SORROW had touched the house in Chelsea.

Margaret had been to the village, taking some garments to one of the families, and she had seemed quite well when she had returned to the house. She had sat with them at the supper table and had joined in the talk. Then, as she had risen, she had tottered suddenly and had been obliged to catch at the table to support herself.

“Margaret!” cried Mercy in terrible alarm.

“What is it?” demanded Alice.

“Let us get Margaret to bed at once,” said Mercy. “She is sick, I am afraid.”

“Margaret sick!” cried Alice. “Why, she was eating a hearty meal a moment ago!”

“Yes, Mother, I know. But don't hinder me now. Will! Jack! Father … help me.”

It was Will who carried her to her room. Now her eyes were tightly shut and the beads of sweat were beginning to form on her face; she was shivering, yet burning hot.

Thomas followed. He caught his daughter's limp hand.

“O Lord God,” he prayed silently. “Not Margaret…. That I could not endure.”

Will was beside himself with anxiety. “What shall we do, Mercy? Mercy, in God's name, what can we do?”

“Cover her up. Keep her warm. No; don't attempt to undress her. I will try the philosopher's egg. I have it ready. God be thanked.”

She lay on the bed, no longer looking like Margaret; her face was yellow and the sweat ran down her cheeks.

“Please,” begged Mercy, “everybody go. There is nothing you can do. Leave her with me. No, Will; you can do no good. Make sure that the children do not come into this room. Father… please … there is nothing … nothing you can do.”

Mercy's thoat constricted as she looked into his face.

How will he bear it? she asked herself. He loves her best in the world. She is his darling, as he is hers. How could either endure life without the other?

“Father … dearest Father … please go away. There is nothing … nothing to be done.”

But he stood numbly outside the door as though he had not heard.

Margaret ill of the sweat! Margaret… dying!

Elizabeth and Cecily had shut themselves in their rooms. There was nothing to be done; that was the pity of it. They said to each other that if only there was something they could have done it would have been easier to bear. But to sit… waiting … in such maddening inactivity…. It was all but unendurable.

Alice took refuge in scolding anyone who came near her. “The foolish girl… to go to the cottages at such a time. She should have known. And they tell us she is so clever…! And what is Mercy doing? Is she not supposed to be a doctor? Why does she not cure our Margaret?”

Will paced up and down. He could find no words. Margaret, his beloved wife, so calm, so serene; what would he do if he lost her? What would his life be without Margaret?

Giles Heron was all for riding to the Court; he would bring Dr. Linacre himself, he declared. What did it matter if Dr. Linacre was the King's first physician? Margaret was a member of that family, which was now his, and she was in danger. He must get the best doctors for her. He could bring Dr. Butts … and Dr. Clement. He would bring all the greatest doctors in the country.

Dauncey said: “You would find yourself in trouble, brother. You … from an afflicted house … to ride to Court!”

Dauncey was astonished that he could be so affected. What was Margaret to him? What could Margaret do to advance his fortunes? Nothing. He trembled, it was true, that her father might catch the disease and die, and that Dauncey's biggest hope of achieving favor at Court would be lost. Yet he was moved, and faintly astonished to find himself sharing in the family's anguish. He had grown fond of them; he had enjoyed their merry games; and, strange as it was, he knew that if any calamity came to them it could not fail to touch him. So there was a streak of sentiment in this most ambitious young man after all.

Thomas shut himself up in the private chapel.

What could he do to save Margaret? What could he do but pray? Now he thought of her—Margaret, the baby, the child, the prodigy who had astonished all with her aptitude for learning. He could think of a hundred Margaret's whom he loved, but the one who meant most to him was the loving daughter, the Margaret who was his dearest friend and best companion, who was nearer to him than anyone in the world.

“O God,” he prayed, “do not take my daughter from me. Anything … anything but that.”

He did not leave the chapel. He stayed there on his knees. The hair shirt lacerated his skin, and he wished its pain were doubled.

Will came to him and they prayed together.

“Ah, son Roper,” said Thomas, “what religious differences are there between us now? We ask one thing, and that we wish for more than anything in the world. She must not die.”

“I cannot contemplate life without her, Father,” said Will.

“Nor I, my son.”

“They say that if she does not recover during the first day there is no hope.”

“The day is not yet over. How was she when you left her?”

“Unconscious. She lies there with her eyes fast shut, oblivious of the world. I spoke her name. ‘Margaret,’ I said. ‘Margaret, come back to me and our children.’”

“Will, I beg of you, say no more. You unnerve me.”

He thought: I have loved her too well; I have loved her more than all the world. When she was born she gave me contentment; she was the meaning of life to me. She is the meaning of life. Have I loved her too well? Oh, how easy it is to torture the body, to wear the hair shirt, to flagellate the flesh, to deprive the body of its cravings. Those pains are easy to suffer; but how bear the loss of a loved one … how endure life when the one you love more than your own life, more than the whole world is taken from you?

“If… if aught should happen to her …” he began.

Now it was Will's turn to implore him not to go on. Will could only shake his head while the tears ran down his cheeks.

But Thomas continued: “I would retire from the world. Nothing could keep me leading this life. Oh, my son, I could not go on. If Margaret were taken from me, I would never meddle with wordly affairs hereafter.”

“Father, I implore you … I beg of you not to speak of it. Do not think of it. She will get well. She must get well. Let us pray. Let us pray together….”

So they knelt and prayed, and if Will saw God as Martin Luther saw him, and if Thomas saw God as the Pope saw Him, they each knew that their prayers were being offered to the same God.

Thomas rose suddenly. His spirits were lifted.

He said: “Will, when Margaret was a little girl—scarcely two years old—and we were visiting her mother's old home, New Hall in Kent, Margaret, playing in a field, was lost and could not find the gate through which she had come into the field and which opened onto the path which led to the house. She was frightened, for dusk was settling on the land. Frantically she ran about the field, and still she could not find the gate. Then suddenly she remembered that I had told her that when she was in trouble she must ask the help of her Father upon Earth or her Father in Heaven. ‘And, Father,’ she said when she told me this some time later, ‘I had lost you, so I knelt down and asked God the way home. And when I arose from my knees I was no longer frightened. I walked calmly round the field until I came to the gate.’ I had missed her, as it happened, and had gone to look for her, and as she came through the gate and ran toward me, she said: ‘Father, God showed me the way home.’ What a beautiful thought it is, Will. What a comfort. I have been on my knees now… frightened … panic-stricken, as Margaret was. I was lost and I could not find the gate which led to the home I knew… to the happiness I knew. ‘God,’ I have prayed, ‘show me the way.’”

“Father, you look changed. You seem … serene … as though you know she will get well.”

“I seem calmer, my son, do I not? I am calmer. I feel as she felt when she rose from her knees. My panic has gone. I know this, son Roper, God will show me the way, as he showed Margaret. My mind is calm; thoughts cease to chase themselves in my head. I am going to the house to see how she is. Come with me, Will.”

Mercy met them at the door of the sick room.

“No change,” she said, “I have tried to wake her. If we cannot wake her, she will die.”

“Mercy, I want you to give her a clyster.”

“Father, she is too ill.”

“She is so ill, Mercy, that she cannot be much worse … short of death. Do this, I beg of you. Administer this clyster. We must wake her, must we not? Then we will wake her.”

“Father, I am afraid. It is too violent, and she is very ill indeed.”

“Mercy, you are imprisoned in fear. Yes, my love, you are afraid because you love her even as I do. She is not your patient; she is your sister. You wrap her up; you watch over her; but you will not take a risk because you are frightened. I have prayed. I feel I have been in close communion with God and, Mercy, I am not afraid. I want you to be calm … to forget that this is our beloved Margaret. If she does not wake she will die. We must wake her, Mercy. We must. You agree that is so. Give her the clyster.”

Mercy said quietly: “I will do as you wish, Father. Leave me with her.”

Half an hour later Mercy came out of the sick room.

Her eyes were shining.

“She is roused from her sleep,” she said. “Father … Will… she asked for both of you.”

They went to her and one knelt on either side of the bed.

Margaret, weak and only just able to recognize them, let her eyes wander from one to the other.

THREE MEN were very happy after the next few days. Each had feared to lose the one he loved best in the world, and each experienced the great joy of seeing the return of the loved one to health. These men were Will Roper, Sir Thomas More and the King of England.

MARGARET WAS about the house again, although thin and pale. Her father seemed unable to let her go out of his sight.

They would wander together through the orchards and the flower gardens, and sometimes he would remind her of the pleasures they had shared during her childhood; they would laugh and sometimes weep together, over their memories.

He spoke to her, more frankly than he did to the others, of Court matters; and sometimes they would read together from Erasmus's Testament.

Margaret's convalescence consisted of many happy hours.

He would care for her in a hundred ways; he would get her a shawl from the house, for fear the wind might be too strong; he would not let her walk on the grass after rain lest her feet should be made damp. He rejoiced to see her gradual return to health, and often she would weep, contemplating the sorrow her illness had brought to her family, and in particular she wept for Will and her father.

The bond between Sir Thomas and his daughter was stronger than it had ever been.

One hot day, when they were sitting in the gardens, being overcome by the warmth of the day he opened the neck of his gown, and little Anne Cresacre, who was sitting near him, caught a glimpse of the strange garment he was wearing next to his skin. Anne's big eyes were round with wonder; her lips began to twitch. Could it be a hair shirt! But only monks wore those … monks and hermits. Little Anne, who was often uncertain in this household of clever people, found that when she was at a loss, irrepressible laughter overcame her.

It was Margaret who followed her look and who rose from her seat and said: “Father, the air grows cold.” She buttoned up his gown and was angry with Anne for her youth and her stupidity, and because she had dared to giggle at a great and saintly man.

He, seeing what had happened and understanding it, smiled at Anne, who, aware of his kindness, was instantly ashamed. She rose and, murmuring that she was wanted in the kitchens, hurried away.

Thomas turned his smile on his daughter, and it grew very tender. He remembered that when Alice wished to know what happened to his shirts and why they were not given in with the ordinary linen to wash, it was Margaret who had answered her, to prevent his telling the truth; for Margaret could not bear to listen to the ridicule which she knew Alice would heap upon him. “I wash Fathers shirts, Mother, with things of my own. I have always done it, and I shall always do it.” “What nonsense!” Alice had said. “Why should you do such a thing when there are maids here to do it?” But Margaret had quietly said that it was her affair, and she said it with such determination that even Alice did not pursue the subject.

Thomas now suggested a walk by the river, and as they set forth he said: “You would protect me then from the scorn of the young and the gay?”

“The stupid child!” said Margaret. “I wanted to box her ears.”

“You are too hard on her, Meg. She is but a baby. You must not expect all to be as serious as you were at her age. Have patience with little Anne. She is a good child; and I believe she loves our Jack and that he loves her. Let us ask no more of her than that she shall love him and make him happy.”

“Oh, Father, what matters it after all? The important thing is: How go affairs at the Court?”

“Events move fast, Meg.”

“Is the King as determined as ever to cast off the Queen?”

“I fear so.”

“And if he succeeds in arranging the divorce, he will marry Anne Boleyn?”

“I believe that to be his intention. Meg, I think it will not be long before your father loses his honors and becomes a humble man again. You smile, Meg. One would think I had told you that my fortune was made.”

“So it will be if you are home with us all as you once were. If you take up your duties in the City as you once did….”

“I doubt that I could pick up the threads as easily as that, Meg.”

“Never mind. I should be happy to see you leave the Court forever.”

“We should be very poor.”

“We should be rich in happiness. You would not have to go away from England or be absent at Court. We should have you with us always.”

“What a happy day it will be when I come home and tell you I have given up my honors!”

“The happiest day we have ever known. And will it be soon?”

“As I said, events move fast. The King will let me go. He knows my views. He has not urged me to change them. He hints that he respects them. I think that must mean, Meg, that when I ask leave to retire from Court, he will readily grant it.”

“I long for that day.”

“It is a sad affair, Meg, to watch the rapid descent of those who have climbed to great heights. I think of the Cardinal.”

“How fares it with him, Father?”

“Badly. Meg, it is a sorry sight; it is a sorry thought.”

“The King has no more need of him?”

“The Cardinal has set up false idols, Margaret. He has worshipped pomp instead of honor; he has mistaken riches for the glory which comes with righteous work. Poor Wolsey! He has too many enemies; the King is his only friend… a fickle friend. The Cardinal has offended the Lady Anne. He broke the marriage she desired with Percy; he insulted a relative when he attempted to deprive Eleanor Carey of the post of Abbess of Wilton; but worst of all she knows that he has urged the King to marry one of the French Princesses. They are false steps in his slippery career. He felt so sure of his power. Who is this Anne Boleyn? he asked himself. She is another such as her sister Mary! There he finds his mistake, and the King's mistress is his enemy. He could not have a greater, for she it is who commands the King. Moreover, Norfolk and Suffolk wait for the King to turn his back on the man he once loved; then they will rush in to attack him. He is a sad, sick man, Meg. Poor Wolsey!”

“He has been no real friend to you, Father.”

“He is no true friend to anyone or anything but his own ambition; and now, poor soul, he sees the falseness of that friend. Fame! What is fame? Men congratulate themselves if they attain to fame, empty though it is; and because they are light-minded they are lifted to the stars by the fickleness of opinion. What does fame do to a man? Though he be praised by all the world, if he has an aching joint, what does fame do for him? And Wolsey has many an aching joint, Meg … and an aching heart. His policy abroad, so successful at one time, has turned sour. He has aroused the hatred of the Emperor without gaining the love of the King of France. Our King cares only for one thing, for he is a single-minded man, and he thinks of little else day and night but ridding himself of Queen Katharine and marrying Anne Boleyn. Wolsey has one hope now—the successful outcome of the case which he and Campeggio are about to try here in London. If Wolsey can arrange the divorce, I doubt not that he will ere long win back the King's favor. If he does not… then the King will turn his back on him; and if His Grace continues to look the other way, the wolves will descend on my lord Cardinal, and they will have no mercy, Meg. There are too many slights to be avenged, too many resentments festering.”

“And then, Father?”

“Then, Meg, that will be farewell to his glory, farewell to his pomp and his riches. We shall no longer see our Cardinal ride in state through our streets. Pray God we do not see him riding to the Tower.”

“And you?”

“Here is the way out, Meg. Depend upon it, the King has little use for me. He knows my mind. He will accept my resignation. It will save him the unpleasant task of dismissing me as, Meg, all will be dismissed who do not pander to his wishes.”

“Father, I long for the day of your resignation.”

“ 'Twill not be long now, Meg. I assure you of that.”

THE CARDINAL'S glory was dimmed. None knew it more than he himself. His fate was clear when Campeggio, whom all were expecting to give a verdict in favor of the divorce, with characteristic vacillation rose and adjourned the Court, suggesting that it should be recalled and continued in Rome.

Then the Duke of Suffolk, who, all knew, spoke with the authority of the King, rose in hot anger and, glaring not at Campeggio, but at Wolsey, cried: “It was never merry in England since we had Cardinals among us.” That was the signal, recognized by all; the King had thrown Wolsey to his enemies.

Events followed rapidly.

The Cardinal returned to his house in Westminster surrounded by his servants, who trembled with him, for he had been a kindly, gracious master. And there they waited for the coming of Norfolk and Suffolk.

They did not have to wait long.

They came in the name of the King and demanded that he deliver the Great Seal of England into their hands.

THE KING sent for Sir Thomas More.

Margaret went down to the barge with him.

“Depend upon it Meg: this will mean one thing. When your father returns he will be stripped of his honors. I shall receive my marching orders with the stricken Cardinal.”

“And, dearest Father, how different from Wolsey's will be your feelings. You will rejoice. You will come home to your family, a happier man.”

And she stood at the top of the privy stairs, waving to him and smiling.

She had never felt so happy to see him depart.

THE KING received Thomas gravely.

“We have a matter of great importance to discuss with you,” he said. “You have worked in close company with Thomas Wolsey, have you not?”

“I have, Your Grace.”

The King grunted. He glared at his minister. He could not, even at this moment, resist a little acting. He wished to alarm Thomas More; and then speak what was in his mind.

There was, it seemed, only one man worthy to succeed to the office just vacated by Wolsey. The office of Chancellor was the highest in the land, and could only be given to a man capable of filling it. His Councillors had discussed this with the King. A knowledge of the intricacies of the law was a necessity, Norfolk had said. The new Chancellor must be an honest, upright man to whom the country could look with confidence and trust. The Councillors agreed that there was only one man in the country who could satisfactorily fill the office. This decision of his Councillors had set the King pondering. The Church had been reasonable over this matter of unlawful marriage with Katharine—all except one Bishop, that fool Fisher. He had hummed and ha-ed and maddened the King. But why should a King upset himself over the intransigence of a Bishop? That man should be adequately dealt with when the time came.

Henry did not forget that Sir Thomas More was not in favor of the divorce, that he had supported the Queen; yet he knew, as well as did his Councillors, that Thomas More was the man most fitted to step into Wolsey's shoes. It must be so. Henry was sure of this; so were Norfolk, Suffolk and every member of the Council. Wolsey himself had said, when he knew he was to fall, that there was only one man capable of following him, and that that man was Sir Thomas More.

This man More had a strange effect on all men, it seemed. Even when his opinions differed from theirs, they respected him to such an extent that they must continue to love him.

The King ceased to frown. His smile was turned on Thomas.

“We have good news for you. We have always had a fondness for you. Did we not say so when you first came to us? You remember that affair of the Pope's ship?” The King's smile was now benign. “Now, we have a task for you. We said we would make your fortune, did we not? It is made, Thomas More. We like your goodness, your honesty, that respect the whole world has for you. We look for one on whom to bestow the Great Seal, and we say to ourselves: ‘Ah, Thomas More! He is the man for us. He shall be our Lord Chancellor.’”

“Lord Chancellor, Your Grace!”

“Now, Thomas, you are overwhelmed. I know. I know. “Tis a mighty honor. Yet we have given this matter much thought, and we are assured that there is no man in the kingdom who deserves the honor more than you do. Your country needs you, Thomas. Your King commands you to serve your country. Your work with Wolsey, your knowledge of affairs, your love of learning, your erudition, your knowledge of the law … You see, do you not? You see that if I did not love you as I do, did I not respect you as a learned and an honorable man, I still must make you my Chancellor.”

Thomas looked with concern at the dazzling figure before him. “Your Grace,” he said, “I must speak to you frankly. I am un-suited to the task.”

“Nonsense! There is not a man in this realm whom the task becomes more. We command you to it, Thomas. We will have no other. It is your bounden duty to your King and your country to accept. We will take no refusal.”

“My lord, Your Highness, your most gracious Majesty, I must speak as my conscience commands me. I cannot give my support to the divorce.”

The King's eyes seemed to disappear in his fleshy face. He flushed and drew back. He was silent for a few moments, as though he were considering which of his roles to play. He might roar: “Send this traitor to the Tower.” On the other hand, he might continue to play the part of benign monarch who respects an honest man.

He needed this man. He was the only man in the realm fitted for the task. All agreed on that. The learning and integrity of Sir Thomas More, the respect he had inspired on the continent of Europe, were necessary to England.

The King decided.

“Thomas,” he said, “you have your conscience, and I have mine. By God's Body, I have been worried enough in my thoughts by my most sinful and incestuous marriage. I know the pain of a nagging conscience. And on this matter, Thomas More, you and I are not of one mind. I regret it. Thomas, I regret it mightily. But as a man of conscience, I respect a man of conscience … mistaken though I know him to be. For, Thomas, you are a learned man. I doubt it not. You are a good man, and we are proud to have you as a subject. You have been favored by God. I know of that family at Chelsea, and one day, Thomas, I am going to visit Chelsea. I am going to see it for myself. I am going to give the kiss of friendship to those merry daughters of yours, to that jolly wife. Yea, that I will. You have been favored in your family….” His voice sank almost to a whisper. “You do not understand how lonely a man can be—even though he be a King—who lacks that which God has given you with lavish hands. Thomas More, there are a few matters which you do not understand as worldly men understand them. And this is one of them. But I am a man of wide views. I understand you… even though you understand me not. And, Thomas, I will have you for my Chancellor and no other. And this matter which plagues me day and night shall put no barriers between us two. Dismiss it, Thomas. It is no affair of yours. Come, Chancellor More. Take the Great Seal of England, and your King will put the seal of friendship on your brow.”

Henry leaned forward and kissed Thomas's forehead.

It was not for the Lord Chancellor to meddle in this matter of the divorce, thought the King. That was the task of the clergy. He had two new friends in mind from whom he hoped much: Thomas Cranmer and Thomas Cromwell.

It would seem that I have fancy for these Thomases, thought Henry; and he smiled pleasantly as he looked into the face of his new Lord Chancellor.