King's Confidante

7

THEY GATHERED ABOUT HIM THAT NIGHT—ALL THOSE whom he called his dear children. Mercy and John Clement came from Bucklersbury, for the news had reached them. Ailie had heard, and she also came to the house in Chelsea that she might be with him at the time of his resignation. “My children,” he said when they were all gathered together, “there is a matter which I must bring to your notice. We have built for ourselves a fine house here in Chelsea; we have many servants to wait upon us; we have never been rich, as are some noble dukes of our acquaintance….” He smiled at Alice. “But… we have lived comfortably. Now I have lost my office and all that went with it; and you know that, even in office, I was never so rich as my predecessor.”

He smiled now at Dauncey—Dauncey who had hinted that he did not take all the advantages that might have been his. But Dauncey was looking downcast; his father-in-law was no longer Chancellor, and Dauncey's hopes of advancement had not carried him very far. He had a seat in Parliament, representing, with Giles Heron, Thetford in Norfolk; Giles Allington sat for the County of Cambridge, and William Roper for Bramber in Sussex. This they had achieved through their relationship with the Chancellor; but all that seemed very little when compared with the favors which had been showered on Wolsey's relations. Moreover, wondered Dauncey, did these people realize that a man could not merely step from high favor to obscurity, that very likely he would pass from favor into disfavor?

Dauncey and Alice were the most disappointed members of the household; yet, like Alices, Dauncey's disappointment was overshadowed by fear.

Thomas went on: “My dear ones, we are no longer rich. Indeed, we are very poor.”

Margaret said quickly: “Well, Father, we shall have the comfort of your presence, which will mean more to us than those other comforts to which you refer.”

Ailie said: “Father, Giles and I will look after you.”

“Bless you, my dear daughter. But could you ask your husband to take my big household under his wing? Nay, there will be change here.”

“We have always heard that you are such a clever man,” Alice pointed out. “Are you not a lawyer, and have not lawyers that which is called a practice?”

“Yes, Alice, they have. But a lawyer who has abandoned his practice for eleven years cannot take it up where he left it. And if he is eleven years older and no longer a promising young man, but an old one who has found it necessary to resign his office, he is not so liable to find clients.”

“What nonsense!” said Alice. “You have a great reputation, so I have always heard. You … Sir Thomas More … but yesterday Lord Chancellor!”

“Have no fear, Alice. I doubt not that we shall come through these troubles. I have been brought up at Oxford, at an Inn of Chancery, at Lincoln's Inn, also in the King's Court; and so from the lowest degree I came to the highest; yet have I in yearly revenues at this present time little above one hundred pounds. So we must hereafter, if we wish to live together, be contented to become contributaries together. But, by my counsel, it shall not be best for us to fall to the lowest fare first. We will not therefore descend to Oxford fare, nor to the fare of New Inn, but we will begin with Lincoln's Inn diet, which we can maintain during the first year. We will the next year go one step down to New Inn fare, wherewith many an honest man is contented. If that exceed our ability too, then we will the next year after descend to Oxford fare; and if we cannot maintain that, we may yet with bags and wallets go abegging together, hoping that for pity some good folks will give us their charity.”

“Enough of your jokes!” cried Alice. “You have thrown away your high post, and we are not as rich as we were. That is what you mean, is it not, Master More?”

“Yes, Alice. That is what I mean.”

“Then mores the pity of it. No; don't go making one of your foolish jokes about Mores pity … or such kind. I have no pity for you. You're a fool, Master More, and it was by great good luck, and nothing more than that, that you took the King's fancy.”

“Or great mischance, Alice.”

“Great good luck,” she repeated firmly. “And His Grace is a kindly man. Did I not see him with mine own eyes? It may be that he will not accept your resignation. I am sure he likes you. Did he not walk in the garden with his arm about your neck? Ah… he will be here to sup with us again, I doubt not.”

They let her dream. What harm was there in dreaming? But the others knew that the King had no further use for him; and those who knew the King's methods best prayed that the King might feel nothing but indifference toward his ex-minister.

They brought out their lutes, and Cecily played on the virginals. They were the happy family circle. There was not one of them during that evening—not even Alice nor Dauncey—who did not feel that he or she would be content if they could all remain as they were this night until the end of their days.

But they knew that this was not possible.

Even the servants knew it, for the news had reached them.

How could the household go on in the same comfortable way? Some of them would have to go; and although they knew that Sir Thomas More would never turn them away, that he would find new places for them—perhaps in the rich households of those whom he had known in his affluent days—that brought little comfort. There was no one who, having lived in the Chelsea household, would ever be completely happy outside it.

A YEAR passed.

They were very poor during that year; the house at Chelsea was indeed a large one and there were many living in it to be fed. Yet they were happy. The hospital continued to provide succor for the sick; there was little to spare in the house, but it was always shared with those who were in need. There was always a place at the table for a hungry traveler, and if the fare was simpler than before, it appeased the hunger. Alice took an even greater pride in her cookery; she discovered new ways of using the herbs which grew wild in the fields. They collected fern, bracken, sticks and logs, which they burned in the great fireplaces; and they would gather round one fire to warm themselves before retiring to their cold bedrooms.

Still, it was a happy year. They would not have complained if they could have gone on as they were.

Alice grew angry when the abbots and bishops collected a large sum of money which they wished to present to Thomas. He had written much, they said; the Church was grateful; and they deemed that the best way in which they could show their gratitude was by presenting him with the money. Thomas, however, would not accept it. “What I have done,” he said, “was not for gain.”

So Alice scolded him for what she called his misplaced pride, and they continued to live in simplicity.

Patenson the Fool had left them in tears to work with the Lord Mayor of London; and Thomas, knowing that poor Patenson was a very poor Fool indeed, whose idea of wit seemed to be to laugh at the physical appearances of others, arranged that he should be passed from one Lord Mayor to the next Lord Mayor so that he might not suffer through the decline in fortune of one of his masters.

There were some members of the household who were lulled into a feeling of peace, who believed that life would go on humbly and evenly in the years to come. They did not realize that Thomas More had played too big a part in the affairs of the country to be allowed to remain outside them.

So gradually had matters been changing at Court that they were almost unnoticed by those outside it. The King had declared himself to be the Supreme Head of the Church of England. His marriage with Queen Katharine was declared null and void. He had been forced to this procedure by the pregnancy of Anne Boleyn. He was determined that if she gave him a son it should not be born out of wedlock; and he would wait no longer.

Margaret knew that the shadows were moving nearer.

One day a barge pulled up at the stairs, and in it came a messenger.

Margaret saw him as she was playing with her babies, Will and Mary, on the lawns. Her heart leaped, and then she felt the blood thundering in her head. Her children were looking at her wonderingly; she took their hands and forced herself to walk calmly toward the approaching messenger.

To her great relief, she saw that he was not wearing the King's livery.

He bowed low on seeing Margaret.

“Madame, this is the house of Sir Thomas More?”

“It is. What would you of him?”

“I have a letter here. I am instructed to hand it to no other.”

“Whence do you come?”

“From my lords the Bishops of Durham, Bath and Winchester.”

She was relieved.

“Please come this way,” she said, “and I will take you to Sir Thomas.”

He was in the library, where he now spent the greater part of his time. He could be happy, she thought, then; He could remain in perfect contentment as he is now. Our poverty matters not at all. He can write, pray and laugh with his family. He asks no more than that. “O God,” she prayed silently, as she led the messenger to her father, “let him stay as he is…. Let him always be as he is now.”

“Meg!” he cried when he saw her.

The little ones ran to him; they loved him; they would sit on his knee and ask him to read to them; he would read them Latin and Greek, and although they could not understand him, they took great pleasure in watching the movement of his lips and listening to the sound of his voice.

Now they caught his skirts and laughed up at him.

“Grandfather … here is a man for you.”

“Father,” said Margaret, “a message from the Bishops.”

“Ah,” said Thomas. “Welcome, my friend. You have a letter for me. Let little Will take our friend to the kitchens and ask that he may be given something of what they have there, that he may refresh himself. Could you do that, my little man?”

“Yes, Grandfather,” cried Will. “Indeed I can.”

“Then off with you.”

“Take Mary with you,” said Margaret.

The two children went off with the messenger, and as soon as they were alone Margaret turned to her father. “Father, what is it?”

“Meg, you tremble.”

“Tell me, Father. Open your letter. Let us know the worst.”

“Or the best. Meg, you are nervous nowadays. What is it, daughter? What should you have to fear?”

“Father, I am not as the others to be lightly teased out of my anxieties. I know … as you know …”

He put his arm about her. “We know, Meg, do we not? And because we know, we do not grieve. We are all deaths creatures. I… you … even little Will and Mary. Only this uncertain air, with a bit of breath, keeps us alive. Meg, be not afraid.”

“Father, I beg of you, open the letter.”

He opened it and read it. “It is a letter from the Bishops, Margaret; they wish me to keep them company from the Tower to the Coronation. They send me twenty pounds with which to buy myself a gown.”

“Father, this is the beginning.”

He sought to comfort her. “Who knows, Meg? How can any of us know? At this magnificent Coronation, who will notice the absence of one poor and humble man?”

Then she knew that he would refuse to go to the Coronation; and while she longed that he should accept the invitation of the Bishops and bow to the will of the King, she knew that he would never falter in his way along the path he had chosen.

THERE HAD never been such pageantry as that which was to celebrate the crowning of Queen Anne Boleyn.

In the gardens at Chelsea could be heard the sounds of distant triumphant music, for the river had been chosen as the setting for the great ceremony in which the King would honor the woman for whom he had so patiently waited, and for whose sake he had severed his Church from that of his father.

Many of the servants from Chelsea had gone forth to mingle with the crowds and enjoy the festivities of that day, to drink the wine that flowed from the conduits, to see the new Queen in all her beauty and magnificence.

Margaret had not wished to mingle with those crowds.

On that lovely May day she sat in the gardens at home. Her father, she knew, was in his private chapel, praying, she guessed, that when his testing time came he would have the strength to meet it nobly.

May was such a beautiful time of the year; and it seemed to Margaret that never had the gardens at Chelsea seemed to offer such peaceful charm. Those gardens were beginning to mature; the flower borders were full of color; there was blossom on the trees, and the river sparkled in the sunshine. From far away came the sounds of revelry. She would not listen to them. They were distant; she must not think of them as the rumbling of the coming storm. The buzzing of bees in the garden was near; the scent of the flowers, the smell of fresh earth—they were the home smells. Sitting there in the heat of the sun, she reminded herself that she was in her home, for from the tumult, at peace in her backwater.

Why should the King care what her father did? she soothed herself. He was of no importance now. Who would notice that Sir Thomas More was not present at the Coronation?

She recalled that meeting of his with the Bishops, whom he had seen after he had received their letter.

“My lords,” he had said in his merry way, “in the letters which you lately sent me you required two things of me.” He was referring to the money they had asked him to accept and the invitation which they had asked him to accept also. “The one,” he went on, “since I was so well content to grant you, the other therefore I might be the bolder to deny you.”

They had protested that he was unwise to absent himself from the Coronation. What was done, was done, they pointed out. By staying away from the ceremony, they could not undo the marriage of the King with Anne Boleyn and set Queen Katharine on the throne.

Then he had spoken in a parable. He had told them the story of an Emperor who had ordained that death should be the punishment for a certain offense except in the case of virgins, for greatly did this Emperor reverence virginity. Now, it happened that the first to commit this offense was a virgin; and the Emperor was therefore perplexed as to how he could inflict this punishment, since he had sworn never to put a virgin to death. One of his counsellors rose and said: “Why make such an ado about such a small matter? Let the girl first be deflowered, and then she may be devoured.”

“And so,” added Thomas, “though your lordships have in the matter of the matrimony hitherto kept yourselves pure virgins, take good heed that you keep your virginity still. For some there may be that by procuring your lordships first at the Coronation to be present, and next to preach for the setting forth of it and finally to write books to all the world in its defence, therefore are desirous to deflower you; and when they have deflowered you they will not fail soon after to devour you. Now, my lords, it lieth not in my power that they may devour me, but God being my good Lord, I will so provide that they shall never deflower me.”

These words would be noted by many who had heard them. And what would the King say to their utterance? And what would he do?

These were the questions Margaret asked herself as she sat in the sunshine.

We can be so happy here, she thought. And he is no longer Lord Chancellor. He is of no great importance now.

But, of course, he would always be of importance while men listened to his words and he had the power to turn their opinions.

From the river came the sounds of rejoicing. In vain did Margaret try to shut out these sounds.

WAS SHE really surprised when the persecutions began?

The first came at the end of the year after the King's Council had published the nine articles which justified all he had done in ridding himself of one Queen and providing himself with another.

Thomas was accused of having written an answer to the nine articles and sent it abroad to be published. Thomas had written no such answer. He was still a member of the King's Council, and as such would consider that his membership debarred him from discussing the King's affairs except in Council.

Nothing could be proved against him and the matter was dropped; but to his family it was an indication of how the winds were beginning to blow.

The King was angry with Thomas, as he was with all those who did not agree with him or who made him question the Tightness of his actions.

A few peaceful months passed, but every time Margaret heard strange voices near the house she would feel beads of sweat on her brow, and she would place her hand over her heart in a vain attempt to quell its wild leaping.

Another charge was brought against him. This time he was accused of accepting bribes.

Here, thought those who had been set to bring about his downfall, was a safe charge to bring against him, for surely any man in his position must at some time have accepted a gift which could be called a bribe. It was possible to produce people who had presented him with gifts during his term of office, but it could not be proved that any of these had been bribes, or that the donors had gained aught from such gifts. Instead, it was shown how his son-in-law Heron had lost a case which he had brought, and that even the rather comic case, in which his wife had been involved, had gone against her. No, there was no way of convicting him on the score of bribery.

The King was irritated beyond measure by the folly of the man. He knew well that there were many in his kingdom who thought highly of Sir Thomas More and who might change their opinions regarding the King's recent actions if only such a highly respected man as Sir Thomas More could be made to come to heel.

Friar Peto, of the Observants of Greenwich, had actually dared preach a sermon against the King, declaring from the pulpit that if he behaved as Ahab, the same fate would overtake him. This was prophecy, and Henry was afraid of prophets unless he could prove them false—and only the King's death could prove Peto false.

The Carthusians, with whom More had a special connexion, were preaching against the marriage.

Fisher, Bishop of Rochester, was another who dared to take his stand against the King.

“By God's Body,” said Henry, “I do verily believe that if this man More would state in his clever way that he is with me in all I do, he could have these others following him.”

But More would do no such thing; he was an obstinate fool.

If he could be proved false… ah, if only he could be proved false!

The King himself wanted to have nothing to do with Mores downfall. He wished to turn his back, as he had in the case of Wolsey; he wished to leave More to his enemies. This was not so easy as it had been in the case of Wolsey, for More had few enemies. He was no Cardinal Wolsey. Men loved More; they did not wish him harm. Audley, Cranmer—even Cromwell—became uneasy over the matter of Mores downfall.

That was why, when More was accused of taking bribes, with his clever lawyers words and his proof of this and that, with his knowledge of the law, he was able to rebut the charges.

It was even so with regard to the matter of the lewd nun of Canterbury.

Elizabeth Barton, a mere serving girl, who had been cured of a terrible sickness by, some said, a miracle, became a nun in the town of Canterbury. She had made certain prophecies during trances, and when Thomas was Chancellor, the King had sent him to examine the woman. Thomas had been impressed by her holiness and, with Fisher, inclined to believe that she was not without the gift of prophecy. Elizabeth Barton had declared that if the King married Anne Boleyn he would, within six months, cease to be King of England. Six months had passed since the marriage, and here was Henry still in firm possession of the throne.

Elizabeth Barton was a fraud; she was a traitor and she should suffer the death penalty.

The King was pleased, for those who had believed the nun's evil utterances were guilty of misprision of treason.

What of my lord Bishop of Rochester? the King asked the devoted Cromwell. What of our clever Sir Thomas More?

Here again he was defeated, for Thomas the lawyer was not easily trapped. He could prove that, as a member of the King's Council, he had always refused to listen to any prophecy concerning the King's affairs.

That was an anxious time for Thomas's family. Now they felt fresh relief. Nothing could be proved against him in this affair of the nun of Canterbury and once more, after an examination, Thomas returned to his family.

It was small wonder that they would sometimes catch a look of alarm in one another's eyes, that sometimes one of them would appear to be alert, listening, then that fearful disquiet would settle on the house again.

THE KING was fretful.

His marriage was not all that he had believed it would be. He had a child—but a daughter. He was fond of young Elizabeth, but she was not a son; and it was sons he wished his Anne to give to him.

Moreover, Anne the wife was less attractive than Anne the mistress had been.

The King was beginning to feel great need to justify his behavior. He wanted all the world—and certainly all his own countrymen—to see him as the righteous man who had rid himself of an ageing wife and married an attractive one, not for his own carnal desires, but for the good of the country.

He was very angry with Thomas More, who, while he had done nothing against the King which the law could condemn, yet refused to express his approval of the King's actions. When the list of those who had been guiltily involved in the case of the nun of Canterbury was brought before Henry, he refused to allow Thomas's name to be removed.

But he could do no more about that matter at the moment.

He would pace up and down his apartments with some of his intimates about him.

“It grieves me,” he cried. “It grieves me mightily. I have honored that man. What was he before I took him up? A miserable lawyer. I made him great. And what is his answer? What does he offer me? Base ingratitude! A word from him, and there could be peace among these monks. Even Fisher himself could doubtless be persuaded by his old friend. Yet… Thomas More will not accept me as Head of the Church! By God's Body, this is treason! He holds that the Pope is still Head of the Church! That's treason, is it not? Was there ever a servant to his sovereign more treacherous, more villainous, or subject to his prince so traitorous as he? What have I given him? Riches. Power. Favor. And what does he give me? Disobedience! I ask nothing but that he does what others of my servants have done. He has but to acknowledge my supremacy in the Church. Audley … Cromwell… Norfolk, my friends … was ever King so plagued?”

He was asking them to rid him of this man.

The little eyes were hot and angry, but the mouth was prim. All over the continent of Europe, Sir Thomas More was respected. The King's conscience must not be offended.

“Bring this man to obedience.” That was what the little eyes pleaded with those about him. “No matter how … no matter how you do it.”

NORFOLK TOOK barge to Chelsea.

Margaret, on the alert as she ever was, saw the Duke coming, and ran down to meet him.

“My lord … fresh news?”

“Nay, nay. 'Tis naught. Where is your father? I would speak with him at once.”

“I'll take you to him.”

Thomas had seen the Duke's arrival and had come down to greet him.

“It is rarely that we have had this honor of late,” he said.

“I would speak with you alone,” said the Duke; and Margaret left them together.

“Well, my lord?” asked Thomas.

“Master More, you are a foolish man.”

“Have you come from the Court to tell me that?”

“I have. I have come straight from the King.”

“And how did you leave him?”

“Angry against you.”

“I regret that. I regret it deeply.”

“Tut, tut, what is the use of such words? You could turn his anger into friendship if you wished it.”

“How so?”

“Tut, I say again; and tut, tut, tut. You know full well. You have but to agree to the succession of the heirs of Anne Boleyn and the Act of Supremacy. And, Master More, when you should be called upon to sign these Acts, you must cast aside your folly and do so.”

“I would accept the former, because it is the law of this land that the King and the Council may fix the succession. Even though that would mean setting aside a lawful heir for the sake of a bastard, the King and Council can, in law, do it. But I would never take the Oath of Supremacy.”

Norfolk tut-tutted impatiently. “I come as a friend, Master More. I come from the Court to warn you. The King will not brook your disobedience. He seeks to entrap you.”

“Several charges have been brought against me, but I have answered them all.”

“By the Mass, Master More, it is perilous striving with princes. Therefore I would wish you somewhat to incline to the King's pleasure, for, by God's Body, Master More, Indignatio principis mors est”

“Indeed, indeed,” said Thomas with a smile. “The indignation of this Prince is turned against Thomas More.”

“I intend no pun,” said Norfolk impatiently. “I ask you to remember it, that is all.”

“Is that all, my lord?” said Thomas. “Then I thank you for coming here this day, and I must say this: In good faith, the difference between your Grace and me is but this: that I shall die today and you tomorrow.”

The Duke was so exasperated that he took his leave at once and strode angrily down to the barge without coming into the house.

This annoyed Alice, for she had seen his arrival and hastened to change her dress and put on her most becoming coif; and lo and behold, when she went down to receive her noble guest, it was but to see his abrupt departure.

GLOOM HUNG over the house.

Mercy had called, anxious and pale.

“How go matters, Meg?” she asked.

“Mercy, come out to the gardens where we can be alone. I cannot talk to you here, lest Mother overhears.”

In the quiet of the gardens, Margaret said: “He has gone before another committee.”

“Oh, God in Heaven, what is it this time?”

“I know not.”

“His name is still on the Parliaments list of those guilty with Elizabeth Barton.”

“Oh, Mercy, that's the pity of it. He has confuted them with his arguments, but it matters not. They still accuse him. Why do they do this, Mercy? I know … and so do you. They are determined to accuse him. He is innocent… innocent… but they will not have it so.”

“They cannot prove him guilty, Margaret. He will always triumph.”

“You seek to comfort us, Mercy. Often I think of the happy times … when we were cutting the hay, or walking in the gardens, sitting together… singing, sewing … reading what we had written. Oh, Mercy, how far away those days seem now, for we can never sit in ease or comfort. Always we must listen… always be on the alert. A barge comes. Will it stop at our stairs? we ask ourselves. There is a sound of a horse on the road. Is it a messenger from the King … from the new Councillor, Cromwell?”

“Meg, you distress yourself.”

But Margaret went on: “He used to say when he was particularly happy: ‘I shall remember this moment when I die. I shall remember it and say that my life was worthwhile…’” Margaret broke down and covered her face with her hands.

Mercy said nothing; she clasped her hands together and felt she would die of the deep distress within her.

She thought: We are realists, I and Margaret. We cannot shut our eyes to the facts as the others can. Bess, Cecily, Jack, they love him … but differently. They love him as a father, and I believe that to Meg and me he is a saint as well as a beloved father.

“I remember,” said Margaret suddenly, “how Ailie came to us and showed us the fashions. Do you remember? The long sleeves? It was that woman … the Queen. That woman …! And but for her, Mercy, he would be with us now… perhaps he would be reading to us … perhaps he would be laughing … chiding us for some folly in his merry way. And now, Mercy, he is standing before a Commission, and we do not know of what he is accused; and we do not know when he will come home… if he will come home.”

“Margaret, this is not like you. You… so reasonable, so rational. Margaret, you the cleverest of us all… to give way to grief, to mourn for what has not yet come to pass!”

“Oh, Mercy, do not stand there and pretend to be so calm! There are tears in your eyes. You have the same fears. Your heart is breaking too.”

Mercy looked at her, and the tears began to flow silently down her cheeks.

“And all for a woman,” cried Margaret in sudden anger, “a woman with a deformed hand and a mole on her throat that must be covered with a jewel…. For beautiful sleeves … for Frenchified manners … our father must…”

“Don't say it, Meg. It has not happened yet.”

They looked at each other and then began to walk silently back to the house.

HE DID come home from the Commissioners; he came merrily. Will was with him in the barge when Mercy and Margaret ran down to meet him.

He embraced the girls warmly. He saw the tears on their cheeks, but he did not comment on them.

“Father … so you have come back!” said Margaret.

“Yes, daughter, your husband and I came back together.”

“And, Father, all is well?”

“All is well, my daughter.”

“You are no longer on the Parliaments list? You are no longer accused with the nun of Canterbury?”

“It was not of that that they wished to talk.”

“Then what?”

“I was accused of urging the King to write his Assertion of the Seven Sacraments.”

“But, Father, he had started to write that when he called you in.”

“Ah, my dear daughter, it was as good a charge as the others, so, I beg of you, do not complain of it.”

“Father, they are seeking to entrap you.”

“They cannot trap an innocent man.”

“How could they have accused you of this matter?”

“His Majesty was determined to honor the Pope in his book, and he did so. And now it appears he would like to accuse me of writing this book, but for the fact that it is so well done, and he likes better the praise he has received for writing it. But it is said that I have caused him, to his dishonor, to put a sword in the Pope's hand to fight the King.”

“Oh, Father!”

“Have no fear, Meg. I have confounded them. For did I not warn the King of the risk of incurring the penalties of praemunire? I reminded them of this, and that the book was the King's book; that he himself had said I had but arranged it to his wishes. They could scarcely bring such a matter against me when the King has so clearly said that the book was his own—aye, and has received the title of Defender of the Faith for having written it.”

“If he is repudiating authorship of the book, then he should abandon the title it brought him,” said Mercy.

“You are right, daughter. I said: ‘My lords, these terrors be arguments for children and not for me.’”

Will's brow was furrowed. He said: “But, Father, what of the Parliament's list? Have they struck your name from it?”

“By my troth, son Roper, I forgot that matter in this new one.”

Will spoke tartly in his anxiety. “You did not remember it? A case that touches you so near, and us all for your sake!”

Margaret looked anxiously from her husband to her father. Thomas was smiling; Will was angry.

“I understand not, sir,” said Will, “why you should be so merry.”

“Then, Will, let me tell you. And I will tell my dear daughters also. This day I have gone so far, I have spoken my mind so clearly to these lords who cross-examined me, that, without great shame, I could not now turn back.”

He lifted his eyes and looked beyond them. He was smiling, but those about him were conscious of a deepening of their fear.

IT SEEMED wrong that the weather should be so beautiful. Surely there had never been a more lovely April. Margaret could not bear the brightness of the spring sunshine. They went about their work silently, forcing their smiles. Everyone in the household knew that it could not be long before he was called before the Commissioners to sign the newly coined Oath of Supremacy. How would he be able to extricate himself from this trouble? Now he would be presented with the necessity to sign or not to sign. The first would mean a return to the King's pleasure; the other …? They did not know; they dared not think.

Easter Day came, and he, determined not to brood as they did, trying to laugh at their fears, being more gay than even was his wont, had arranged to go with Will to St Paul's to hear the sermon.

On that lovely spring day they set out by barge.

He would not be back until late in the day.

“I shall be within a few minutes of Bucklersbury,” he said “and I cannot pass so close without calling on my son and daughter Clement.”

Mercy was waiting for him with a heavy heart. Each time she saw him she wondered whether it would be the last.

“John,” she cried to her husband, “how can I greet him merrily? How can I?”

“You must,” John answered. “Who knows, this storm may pass.”

Dinner was on the table waiting for him, and she went out along the Poultry to meet him.

She saw him coming, his arm through that of Will Roper; they were deep in discussion, doubtless talking of the sermon they had just heard.

He embraced her warmly when they met; but his searching eyes saw what she could not hide, and that which he must be seeing in the faces of every member of his family now.

“Why, daughter, it is good indeed to see you. And how do I find you? Merry and well?”

“Merry and well,” she repeated. “Merry and well, Father.”

He put his arm through hers and they walked thus to Bucklersbury; he smiling, a son and daughter on either side of him happy to be with them, for although they had neither of them been born son and daughter of his, he would have them know that he considered them as such.

Friends and acquaintances greeted him as they passed along. There was warmth in the smiles of these people. They bered him when he had been Under-Sheriff of the City; they remembered him as the incorruptible Lord Chancellor. But Mercy interpreted the looks in their eyes—fear, pity, warning.

The blow could not be far off.

Margaret, who loved him perhaps more poignantly than any of them, would have him sign the Oath; Margaret would have him do anything so that she might keep him with her. Mercy knew that. And if she, Mercy, could have pleaded with him, would she have urged him to sign the Oath?

She differed from Margaret. Margaret's love was all-important to her. He was, after all, Margaret's father, and if Margaret could keep him with her she would not care what it cost. But Mercy would never ask him to do what was against his conscience. Mercy would have him do what was right… whatever the consequences to himself and his family.

But that did not mean her suffering was any less acute.

Here was Bucklersbury with its pleasant apothecaries' smells. Here was the old home.

“I never enter it without a thousand memories assailing me,” he said.

And Mercy knew that he was glad to be here again, to recall those happy memories, to treasure them for that time when he would be unable to visit the house in Bucklersbury.

“Come, Father, you will be hungry. Let us eat at once.”

They were at table when the messenger arrived.

Mercy rose. She was not unduly disturbed. She did not expect them to come for him here. This must be a friend calling. No? Then a messenger from the Court. It must be someone for John, for he was now one of the King's physicians.

The man came forward. He carried a scroll in his hands.

“A message for me?” asked John.

“Nay, sir. I was instructed to deliver this to Sir Thomas More at Chelsea, but, hearing that he was at your house, I have saved myself the journey.”

Thomas rose to receive the scroll. “Thank you. You were wise to save yourself the journey.”

He did not look at the scroll, but chatted awhile with the messenger in his friendly way; and when the man had left, he still held it unopened in his hands.

“Father …” began Mercy fearfully.

“Let us eat this excellent meal you have prepared for us, my daughter.”

“But…”

“After,” he said. “There is time for that.”

Then he began to talk of the sermon he and Will had heard at St. Paul's; but none of them was attending; their eyes kept going to the scroll which lay on the table.

“Father,” said Will angrily, “keep us no longer in suspense. What is this?”

“Have you not guessed, my son? I'll warrant it is an instruction for me to appear before the Commissioners to take the Oath of Supremacy.”

“Then, Father, look at it. Make sure.”

“Why, Will, you fret too much. We knew this must come.”

“Father,” said Will in exasperation, “your calm maddens me. Read it… for pity's sake.”

Thomas read. “Yes, Will,” he said. “I am to appear before the Commissioners at Lambeth to take the Oath.”

“It is more than I can bear,” said Will. “It is more than Margaret can bear.”

“Take hope, my son. Let no trouble drive you to misery. If the trouble is lasting, it is easy to bear. If it is hard to bear, it does not last long.”

“Father, when do you go to Lambeth?” asked Mercy.

“Tomorrow. You see, today I need not fret. Today I may do what I will.”

“We must go back to Chelsea,” said Will.

“Why?”

“They will wish to have you with them as long as possible. Margaret…”

“Let her be. Let her have this day in peace. The sooner she knows this notice has been served upon me, the sooner will she fret even as you do, Will.”

“Is the knowledge that this has come any worse than the fear that it will, the knowledge that it must?”

“Yes, Will. For in uncertainty there is hope. Leave Margaret for a while. Come, let us eat, or Mercy will be offended. She and her servants have taken great pains to please us with these foods.”

Eat! Take pleasure in food? How could they?

They sat there at the table, and the pain in their hearts was almost unbearable.

And the only merry one at that table was Sir Thomas More.

THEY WENT along the river, back to Chelsea, in the early evening.

“Not a word yet, Will,” said Thomas. “Leave them in peace…. Let them have this day.”

“But, Father,” said Will in distress, “I doubt that I can keep my fears from them.”

“You have been displaying fears for many a day, Will. Smile, my son. They'll not know. They'll not think this could be served on me anywhere but in my own home. Let us have one more merry night at home. Let us sing and tell tales and laugh and be happy together, Will… just for one more night.”

Will did manage to curb his misery. He sang as loudly as the rest; and he was aware of his father-in-law's gratitude.

And that night, when he lay beside Margaret, he was sleepless, and so was she.

She whispered: “Will, it cannot be long now, can it? There cannot be many more such days left to us.”

And Will said: “It cannot be long.” He remembered his father's plea and he did not say: “There can be no more such days. Today is the last, for tomorrow he goes to Lambeth.”

THE NEXT morning the family rose as usual. Thomas had an air of resignation which Margaret noticed: it was almost as though he found pleasure in this day. Alice noticed it too; she thought, I do believe he is going to do as the King wishes. I do believe he has come to his senses at last.

But after they had breakfasted he said: “Come … let us go to church.”

They walked across the fields to Chelsea Church as they had done on many other mornings. And after the service, when the sun was high in the sky, he laid his hand on Will's arm and said: “Will, 'Tis time we were away.”

He called to two of the servants and said: “Have the barge ready. This day I have to go to Lambeth.”

So they knew. The day had come.

Margaret took a step toward him, but his eyes held her off. Not here, Meg, they said. Not here … before the others.

“I have to go to Lambeth.” Those words might not sound ominous to the others as they did to Margaret and Will.

He is going to Lambeth on some business of the Parliament, they would think. He will be home ere evening.

But Margaret knew why he must go to Lambeth; and she knew what he would do when he was there. In her eyes was a mute appeal; Father, Father, do as they wish. What does it matter who is Head of the Church, if you are head of your family and continue to live with them to their delight and your own?

He was looking at Margaret now. He said: “Do not come beyond the wicket gate. I must go in haste. Good-bye to you all.”

He kissed them all, and when her turn came, Margaret clung to him.

“Father…”

“Good-bye, my daughter, my beloved daughter. I shall be with you … ere long….”

And he went over the lawns, opening the wicket gate, shutting it fast when Will had passed through, down the steps to the barge.

He took one look at the house which he had built, the house in which he was to have known perfect happiness with his family. He looked at the casements glittering in the sunshine, the peacocks on the wall, the blossoming fruit trees in the orchards. Who would gather the fruit this year? he wondered.

One last look at all that contained his happiness on Earth. Then he turned to Will, and as the barge slipped slowly away from the stairs he said: “I thank the Lord, son Roper, that the field is won.”

HE WAS sent to the Tower, and all the brightness had fled from the house in Chelsea.

There was no more pleasure in that house. There was nothing to do but wait in fear for what would happen next.

Margaret had begged to see her father, and because of the influence Dr. Clement and Giles Allington were able to exert, she was at last allowed the privilege.

She had not slept at all the night before; indeed, for many nights she had had little sleep. She would lightly doze and wake with thoughts of her father in his comfortless cell. During the days she would walk along the river until she could more clearly see that grim fortress, which had become his prison.

And now that she was to see him, now that she might take boat and go down the river to the Tower, she must be ready to offer him words of comfort. She must try not to beg him to do that which was against his conscience.

She reached the stairs; she alighted from the barge. Will helped her out, for he had insisted on coming as far as the Tower with her. Will would wait for her. Dear, good Will, the best of comforters, the dearest of husbands! She would bless the day her father had brought him to the house; for she must think of her blessings, not her miseries.

How she hated the place—the place that impressed her with its might and its horror! She looked up at the round towers, at the narrow slits which served as windows, at the dungeons with the bars across the slits. And here, in this place, was her father, her beloved father.

A jailer took her up a winding staircase and unlocked a heavy door. She was in a cell, a cell with stone walls and a stone floor; and then she saw no more of it, for there he was, smiling at her, hurrying to greet her.

She looked into his face and noticed how pale he was, how hollow were his eyes. He had changed. Yet… he could still smile, he could still feign a gaiety which he could not possibly feel.

“Meg … my own Meg!”

“My Father!” She was kissing him, clinging to him. “Oh, Father, how are you? What have they done to you? You have grown thin and your beard is unkempt, and your clothes … Oh, Father … Father … what can I do? What can I say?”

“Come,” he said. “Sit down, Meg. My jailer is a kind man. I have these stools…. Many people have been kind to me, Meg. My good friend, Bonvisi… he sends meat and wine … and I am allowed to have my good John a Wood here with me to look after me. You see, I am not treated badly. I am well looked after here.”

She tried to smile.

“Why, Meg, how are you? You are looking well. The sun has touched you. How are my dear sons and daughters? Bid them be of good cheer, Meg. You can do it.”

“To be of good cheer!” she cried. “Father, let there be no pretence between us. Do not let us deceive ourselves and say, ‘This will pass,’ when we know there is only one way in which it could pass, and that you have determined against it.”

“Let us talk of other things, dear daughter.”

“How can I? What can I tell the children?”

“It may be, Meg, that you will have to speak to them of death. And if that be so, let them see it as a beautiful thing. Let them see it as release to beauty, to joy, to happiness such as this Earth cannot offer. Tell them that the man is dreaming who thinks in this life he is rich, for when death wakes him he will see how poor he is. Tell them that those who suffer at the hands of unjust men should take hope. Let kindly hopes console your suffering, Meg. He who is carried away by great wealth and empty pride, he who stands so bold among his courtiers, will not always be so bold. One day he will be equal with the beggars. Ah, what gift has life given that compares with death? You will find that he who can in life inspire fear, in death inspires nothing but laughter. Oh, Meg, Meg, lift up thy spirits. Do not grieve because I must come to that which awaits us all. My spirit is ready to break its shell. What matters it who cracks that shell. It may be the King. It may be the King's ministers. It may be the King's mistress.”

“Do not speak of her, Father. When you do, my heart is filled with hatred. I think of her as when we first heard of her and she seemed naught but a frivolous girl. I did not know then that she was a wicked wanton … a would-be murderess of saintly men.”

“Hush, Meg! Do not speak ill of her. Pity her rather than condemn. For how do we know, poor soul, to what misery she may come?”

“I will not pity her, Father. I will not. But for her, you would be with us at home in Chelsea … all together … as we used to be. How can I pity her? How can I do aught but curse her?”

“Meg, you must have pity. She dances gaily at the Court, I hear; and these dances of hers will prove such dances that she will spurn our heads off like footballs; but, Meg, it may not be long before her own poor head will dance the like dance.”

“Father, what does it matter … what does anything matter if you but come home to us? Could you not… ?”

“Nay, Meg, I know what I must do.”

“But what will happen?”

“We shall see.”

“My lord Bishop of Rochester is also in the Tower.”

“My jailer told me. I knew my dear friend Fisher must do this … even as I must.”

“The monks of the Charterhouse refuse to acknowledge the King's Supremacy, Father.”

“My good friends? It is what I would expect of them.”

“But, Father, is it right… is it lawful that they should imprison you for this? What have you done? You have merely refused to take an Oath. Is it then the law that a man may be imprisoned for this?”

“Ah, Meg, the King's pleasure is the law. It is a great pity that any Christian prince should, by a flexible Council ready to follow his affections, and by a weak clergy lacking grace constantly to stand to their learning, be so shamefully abused with flattery.”

“But, Father, is it worth it, think you? Could you not… take the Oath … and retire from Court life altogether? Live with us … your family … as you long to live. You have your library … your home … all that you love. Father, you are no longer young. You should be at home with your sons and daughters, with your wife….”

“Why, have you come here to play the temptress, then? Nay, Mistress Eve, we have talked of this thing more than once or twice. I have told you that if it were possible to do this thing that would content the King, and God therewith would not be offended, then no man would have taken the Oath more gladly than I.”

“Oh, God in heaven,” she cried, “they are coming to tell me I must go. Father … when shall I see your face again?”

“Be of good cheer, Meg. Ere long, I doubt not.”

She embraced him, and she saw the tears on his cheeks.

She thought: My coming has not cheered him; it has distressed him.

ALICE HAD permission to visit him.

She was truculent, more full of scolding than usual; that was because she was so unhappy.

She stood in the doorway, her sharp eyes taking in the cell in all its comfortless gloom.

“What the good year, Master More!” she cried. “It is a marvelous thing to me that you have always been taken for such a wise man. Here you are, playing the fool, as is your wont. You lie here in this close, filthy prison, and you are content to be shut up with mice and rats, when you might be abroad and at your liberty, enjoying the favor of the King and his Council. And all you must do is as the Bishops and learned men of this realm have done. And seeing you have at Chelsea a right fair house, your library, your gallery, your garden, your orchards and all other necessaries so handsome about you, where you might be in the company of your wife and children and with your household be merry, I muse what in God's name you mean, here so fondly to tarry.”

“Alice … Alice, it is good to see you. It is good to hear you scold me. Come, wife. Sit down. Sit on this stool which my good jailer has provided for me. We do well, here, John a Wood and I. My good friend Bonvisi sends more meat and drink than we need. Have no fear.”

“So you like this place better than your home. Is that it? Is that what you would tell me?”

“Is this house not as nigh Heaven as my own?” he asked.

“Tilly valley! Tilly valley! What nonsense you talk! All the prisons in the world could not alter that, I see.”

“But answer me, Alice. Is it not so?”

“By the good God, will this gear never be left?”

“Well, Mistress Alice, if it be so, and I believe you know it to be so and that is why you will answer with nothing but ‘Tilly valley!’ that is well. I see no great cause why I should have much joy in my handsome house or in anything belonging to it, when if I should be but seven years buried under the ground and then arise and come thither, I should not fail to find someone therein who would bid me get out of doors and tell me it was none of mine. What cause have I then to like such a house as would so soon forget its master?”

“Tut and tut! Have done with this talk. What of your clothes? Have you anything for me to wash? And what a filthy place is this! And what does Master a Wood think he is doing not to look to your comforts more? It seems to me Master More, that you are a fool… surrounded by fools….”

And he saw the bright tears brimming over onto her cheeks; he pretended not to see them. She scolded on, while in her way she was begging him to come home, even as Margaret had done.

FROM THE windows of her husbands mansion, Ailie looked out over the park. She was tense and waiting. Soon, she believed, Lord Audley would come riding to the house in the company of her husband, and she had told Giles that when they returned he must leave her that she might have a word with the Chancellor.

“Oh, God help me,” prayed Ailie, more fervently than she had ever prayed before. “Help me to do this.”

Lord Audley could help her, she believed. But had he the power? He was the Lord Chancellor, and when her father had been Chancellor many had brought their petitions to him.

Ailie could not bear to think of the house in Chelsea now. Margaret wrote to her often; so did Mercy. But the feigned cheerfulness of their letters only served to tell her how changed everything was. Would this dreary summer never pass?

She heard the huntsmen's horns and looked in the polished Venetian mirror her husband had given her and of which she had once been so proud. Her eyes were hard and bright; her cheeks were flushed; she looked at her trembling, twitching mouth.

Then, composing herself, she ran down to greet the returning huntsmen.

Audley was talking excitedly about the deer he had killed in the park. What could it matter? There was only one thing that mattered now.

Giles was smiling at her tenderly, full of understanding. He led the way to the stables, where the grooms rushed forth to take the horses. Ailie was walking with Lord Audley, and Giles saw that they were left alone.

“ 'Twas a good day's sport, I trust, Lord Audley?”

“It was, Lady Allington. Your husband is fortunate to have such happy hunting grounds at his disposal.”

“You must come often to hunt with us.”

“That I will.”

Ailie laid a hand on the arm of the Lord Chancellor and smiled up at him.

“My lord, you are a man of great influence at Court.”

Lord Audley smiled his pleasure.

“You could do something for me as you wished.”

“Lady Allington, I would willingly do anything in my power to please you.”

“You are gracious, my lord. It is of my father, I would speak.”

Lord Audley gave a quick, rather harsh laugh. “Why, Lady Allington, he has all the means at his disposal to help himself.”

“That is not so.”

“I beg of you, forgive the contradiction, but it is so. He has but to sign the Oath of Supremacy, and he would be a free man tomorrow.”

“But that he cannot do.”

“Cannot! Cannot sign his name!” Lord Audley laughed. (He was proud of saying, “I am no scholar!” which meant he had a certain contempt for those who were.) “But we have always heard that he is such a learned man!” he went on.

“My lord, he feels this to be a matter of conscience.”

“Then he should reason with his conscience. My dear lady, I would do as much for your father as I would for my own… for your sake; but what can I do? The remedy lies with him. I marvel that he should be so obstinate in his conceit.”

“Could you not persuade the King that, in my fathers case, this matter of the Oath could be waived?”

“My dear lady, you know the ways of Parliament.”

Then the Chancellor began to tell Ailie one of Æsop's fables.

“This,” he said, “you, being the daughter of such a learned man, have doubtless heard before.” It was the fable of the few wise men who tried to rule the multitude of fools. The few were flogged by the many. “Were they such wise men after all, Lady Allington? Were they, I wonder.”

Ailie looked into the cold, proud face beside her, and her heart felt leaden.

They had reached the house, and she stepped on ahead of him. Giles came forth and, seeing her state, engaged their guest in conversation so that she was free to run upstairs to her bedroom.

This she did, with the tears flowing down her cheeks, and her face set in a mask of utter hopelessness.

THERE WERE no more visits to the Tower, and the months were dragging on. Christmas came; and it was last spring when he had been taken from home.

What a different Christmas was this from that which they usually spent! They were all together, but how could they be happy without him?

They lived for the letters they received from him. They were allowed to send a servant to the Tower to take letters to him and receive his. The faithful Dorothy Colly made the journey, for she was almost one of the family, and Thomas was fond of her. She would come back and tell them everything he had said.

“He wishes to know what you are doing, how you spend your days. No little detail is too small. It pleases him much to hear these things. He must have news of the latest sayings of the children.”

To Margaret, when they were alone, she said: “He kissed me when I left. And I was to tell you, he said, that he loves me as one of the family. He said: ‘Have you married John Harris yet, Dorothy? You should. Tell Margaret. She will help you to arrange it, for marriage is a good thing; and if two people grow together in love and comradeship, there is no happier state in the world.’”

Margaret kissed her maid. She knew that John Harris loved her; and she knew that her father meant: “Be happy. Do not continue to grieve. Go about your ordinary business. If there is a wedding among you, rejoice and celebrate. Your father is with you in all you do.”

“I must see him soon, Dorothy,” she said. “We cannot go on like this.”

HE HAD changed very much since his imprisonment; he was thin and ill. He had his books with him, and they brought him much comfort. He was writing what he called A Dialogue of Comfort. This was a conversation between two Hungarians, an aged man Antonio and his nephew Vincent. These two discussed the coming invasion of the Turks. The allegory was easily understood by Margaret— for he sent his writings to her.

“I cannot read this to you,” he wrote, “but I need your opinions as I ever did.”

Margaret guessed who the Great Turk was meant to be, for Thomas wrote: “There is no born Turk so cruel to Christian folk as is the false Christian that falleth from his faith. Oh, Margaret, my beloved daughter, I am a prisoner in a foul place, yet I am happy when I take up my pen to write to you, and I would rather be Margaret's father than the ruler of an Empire.”

Rich, the Solicitor-General, paid him many visits. Thomas understood the purpose of these visits; they were to entrap him. Now they were trying to make him deny the King's supremacy; but Thomas was too learned in the ways of the law to do this. He was fully aware that he could not be condemned merely for refusing to sign the Oath. If he preserved silence on his views, he must be guiltless. There was no law under which it was possible to punish a man because he refused to sign an oath.

In vain did Rich seek to entrap him; Cromwell, Norfolk, Audley, the whole Council did their best to please the King by making a case against him; but Thomas was the greatest lawyer of them all. Not one of them—even Cranmer—could lure him to say that which would condemn him.

He knew that his friend Bishop Fisher was in the Tower. Fisher was a brave man, but he was no lawyer. Thomas wrote notes to him, and Fisher answered him; their servants found means of exchanging these notes, for the jailers were willing to make the incarceration of two such saintly men as Fisher and More as comfortable as was possible.

“Have great care, my friend,” Thomas begged the Bishop. “Be on your guard against the questions which are put to you. Take great care that you do not fall into the dangers of the Statutes. You will not sign the Oath. That is not a crime in itself. But guard your tongue well. If any ask you, be sure that you say not a word of the King's affairs.”

The Bishop was a very sick man and his imprisonment had greatly affected his health.

One day Richard Rich came to the Bishop and, smiling in a friendly fashion, assured him that this was not an official visit; he came, not as the King's Solicitor-General, but as a friend.

The Bishop, worn out with sickness, suffering acutely from the closeness of his confinement, from heat and from cold, bade the Solicitor-General welcome. The latter talked about the pity of this affair, the sorrow it was causing many people because such men, so admired and respected as were Bishop Fisher and Sir Thomas More, must lie in prison on account of a matter such as this.

“I talked to the King of you but yesterday,” said Rich, “and he said that it grieved him to think of you in prison. He said that he respected you greatly, and that his conscience worried him concerning you. He fears that he may not have been right in what he has done. And indeed, where is the son that God would have given him had He approved the new marriage? He has but a daughter— a healthy child, it is true, but a daughter! The King's conscience disturbs him, and you could lighten it, my lord Bishop. The King has promised absolute secrecy, but he wishes to know your mind. He says that what you say—as a holy man of the Church—will be carefully considered by him. Now, my lord Fisher, if I swear to you that what you say is between you, myself and the King, will you open your mind to me?”

Fisher answered: “By the law of God, the King is not, nor could be Supreme Head on Earth of the Church of England.” Rich nodded and smiled: he was well pleased with himself Fisher had answered exactly as he had hoped he would.

THERE WERE others in the Tower for the same reason as were those two brave men.

The Carthusians had been asked to sign the Oath of Supremacy. This they had found they could not do in good conscience, and the Prior of the London Charterhouse, with those of Lincoln and Nottinghamshire, was very soon lodged in the Tower. Others quickly followed them there.

The King was growing more and more angry, and when he was angry he turned his wrath on Cromwell.

“By God's Body,” roared the King. “It is this man More who stiffens their resistance. We must make him understand what happens to those who disobey the King.”

“Sire, we have done all we can to bring a charge against him, but he is as wily as a fox in this matter of the law.”

“I know, I know,” said the King testily, “that he is a clever man in some ways and that I am surrounded by fools. I know that you have tried in many ways to bring charges against him, but every time he has foiled you. He is a traitor. Remember that. But I have no wish to see him suffer. My wish is that he shall end his folly, give us his signature and stop working malice among those who so admire him. These monks would relent if he did. But, no … no. These fools about me can in no way foil him. It is Master More who turns their arguments against them and snaps his fingers at us all. Let him be reminded of the death a traitor suffers. Ask him whether or not that is the law of the land. Ask him what clever lawyer can save a man from a traitors death if he is guilty of treason.”

Cromwell visited Thomas in his cell.

“Ah, Sir Thomas,” he said, “the King grieves for you. He wishes you well in spite of all the trouble you are causing him. He would be merciful. He would take you to a more comfortable place; he would see you abroad in the world again.”

“I have no wish, Master Cromwell, to meddle in the affairs of the world.”

“The King would feel more inclined toward you if you did not help others to resist him. There are these monks, now lodged in this Tower. The King feels that if you would but be his good friend you could persuade these monks to cease their folly.”

“I am the King's true and faithful subject and I do nobody harm. I say none harm; I think none harm; and I wish everybody good. And if this be not enough to keep a man alive and in good faith I long not to live. Therefore is my poor body at the King's pleasure.”

“I repeat that the King wishes you well. He would do a favor unto you. Yet you would not accept this favor.”

“There is one I would accept. If I could see my daughter, Margaret Roper, there is little else I would ask of the King.”

Cromwell smiled. “I will do what can be done. I doubt not that the request will soon be granted.”

And it was.

She came on that May day, a year after his imprisonment, when the four monks were to pay the terrible penalty, which had been deemed their due.

This was as the King and Cromwell would have it; for, said Cromwell, the bravest of men would flinch when they considered the death accorded to these monks. It was the traitor's death; and there was no reason why a Bishop and an ex-Chancellor should not die the same horrible death as did these monks. Only the King in his clemency could change that dread sentence to death by the axe.

Let Master More reflect on that; and let him reflect upon it in the company of his daughter, for she might aid the King's ministers with her pleas.

So she was with him while preparations were being made immediately outside his prison. He and Margaret heard these and knew what they meant. The hurdles were brought into the courtyard below the window; and they knew that those four brave men were being tied to them and that they would be dragged to Tyburn on those hurdles, and there hanged, cut down and disemboweled while still alive.

To face such death required more than an ordinary man's courage, though that man be a brave one.

Margaret stood before him tight-lipped.

“I cannot bear it, Father. Do you not hear? Do you not know what they are doing to those brave monks?”

And he answered: “Lo, Meg, dost thou not see that these blessed fathers be now as cheerfully going to their deaths as bridegrooms to their marriage?”

But she turned from him weeping, swooning to the floor; and it was he who must comfort her.

MERCY SAID to her husband: “I must do something. Inactivity is killing me. I have a tight pain in my throat, so that I feel it will close up altogether. Think, John. For a year we have suffered this agony. Oh, was there ever such exquisite torture as slow torture? Does the King know this? Is that why he raises our hopes and all but kills them before he seems to bid us hope again?”

“Mercy, it is not like you to give way, you… who are always so calm.”

“I cannot go on being calm. I dream of him as he was years ago when he first brought me to the house … when I would stand before him while he explained some small fault to me. I think of him when he told me that I was truly his daughter. I am his daughter. That is why I must do something. And you must help me, John.”

“I would do anything in the world for you, Mercy. You know that well.”

“Four of the monks have now suffered most barbarously at Tyburn, John. And there are others who are suffering, less violently , but in a horribly slow, lingering way. They are in Newgate and I am going to help them.”

“You, Mercy? But… how?”

“I am going to Newgate to take succor to them.”

“They would never let you in.”

“I think the King's physician could help me.”

“Mercy! If you were discovered… have you thought what it would mean?”

“He said I was truly his daughter. I would like to prove that to myself.”

“What would you do?”

“You know their sentence. Those learned monks are tied to posts in confined spaces. They cannot move; there are iron collars about their necks and fetters about their ankles. They are to be left thus to die. That is their punishment for disobedience to the King. They are given no food; they cannot move from that spot. They have been there a day and a night. I am going into Newgate with food and the means to cleanse them … so that they do not die of their plight.”

“It is not possible, Mercy.”

“It is possible, John. I have planned what I shall do. I shall dress as a milkmaid and carry a pail on my head. It shall be full of food and the means of cleaning them of their natural filth. And this milkmaid shall be allowed into the prison on the recommendation of the King's physician. You can do it, John. And you must… you must… for I shall die if I stay here thinking … thinking … Don't you see it is the only way for me to live? I shall feel I am helping him. I must, John; and you must help me.”

He kissed her and gave his promise.

The next day Mercy, dressed as a milkmaid, with a pail on her head, walked into Newgate Jail and was taken to the monks by a jailer who had been paid to do this.

She fed the monks with the food that she had brought; and she cleaned them.

She was happier than she had been since her father had been taken to the Tower.

THE KING was growing angrier. He was also growing accustomed to the shedding of blood. He was being unfaithful to his Queen, and he was in urgent need of reassurance, for that old monster, his conscience, was worrying him again.

The Pope, hoping to save Fisher, had talked of giving him a Cardinal's hat.

The King laughed aloud when he heard this. “Then he shall wear it on his shoulders,” he said, “for he'll have no head to put it on.”

And on a day in June Bishop Fisher, after his examination in the Tower, during which the secret confession he had made to Rich was revealed by the treacherous Solicitor-General, was condemned to death.

But the King was generous. In view of the Bishop's age and position, though he was a traitor indeed, it was not the royal wish that he should suffer the traitor's death. He should die by the executioner's axe.

Now it was Thomas's turn, and on the 1st of July he was taken to Westminster Hall for his trial.

There Norfolk, his kindness forgotten—for he had become exasperated by what he called the obstinacy of the man for whom he had once had a liking—told him that if he would repent of his opinions he might still win the King's pardon.

“My lord,” was Thomas's answer, “I thank you for your goodwill. Howbeit, I make my petition unto God Almighty that it may please Him to maintain me in this my honest mind to the last hour that I shall live.”

Then he defended himself so ably that those who had been set to try him were afraid that yet again he would elude them. That could not be allowed to happen. There was not one of them who would dare face the King unless Thomas More came out of Westminster Hall convicted of treason. Then the resourceful Rich stepped forth and announced that he had had a secret conversation with More, even as he had had with Fisher.

“Ah,” cried Thomas, “I am sorrier for your perjury, Master Rich, than for my own peril.”

But the jury was glad of a chance to find him guilty, as each member knew he must or earn the King's displeasure.

They brought him out of Westminster Hall, and Margaret, who was waiting with Jack and Mercy, felt numbed by her pain when she saw him between the halberdiers, and the blade of the executioners axe turned toward him.

Jack ran forward and knelt at his fathers feet. Margaret threw herself into his arms; only Mercy stood back, remembering even in that moment that she was only the foster daughter.

Margaret would not release her father; and Sir William Kingston, the Constable of die Tower, stood by unable to speak because of his emotion.

“Have patience, Margaret. My Meg, have patience. Trouble thyself not…” whispered Thomas.

And when he released himself, she stepped back a pace or two and stood looking at him, before she ran forward to fling her arms once more about his neck.

Now Sir William Kingston laid gentle hands upon her, and Jack had his arm about her as she fell fainting to the ground and lay there while the tragic procession moved on.

THE KING had been gracious. He would save the man who had been his friend from that terrible death which the monks had suffered.

“The King in his mercy,” said Cromwell, “has commuted the sentence to death by the axe.”

“God forbid,” said Thomas with a touch of grim humor, “that the King should use any more such mercy to my friends.”

There were certain conditions, Cromwell explained. There must be no long speeches at the execution. And if Thomas obeyed the King's wishes, the King would graciously allow his family to have his body to bury. The King was indeed a merciful king.

DEATH BY the axe!

Now it was dark indeed in the house at Chelsea. They sat in a mournful circle, and none spoke of him, for they had no words to say.

That which they had feared had come to pass. He who had made this house what it was, who had made their lives so good and joyous, was lost to them.

They would never see him again.

Dauncey was weeping silently—not for frustrated ambition; that seemed to matter little now. He did not know what had happened to him when he had come to this house. He had dreamed of greatness; he had made an advantageous marriage that would lead to the King's favor; and whither had it led him? Being Dauncey, he knew more than the others. He knew that the King's hatred of Sir Thomas More would extend to his family; he knew that goods and lands would be taken from them; that it might be that their very lives were in danger. But he cared not. He, Dauncey, cared not. He would have given all the lands and goods he possessed, he would have thrown away his ambitions for the future, if the door could have opened and the laughing voice of Sir Thomas More be heard again.

His wife Elizabeth smiled at him. She understood and was grateful to him, for it seemed to her that in the midst of her black sorrow there was a touch of brightness.

Cecily and Giles Heron were holding hands, staring before them, thinking … thinking back over the past.

Alice was remembering all the scoldings she had given him, and wishing, more than she had ever wished for anything before, that she could have him with her to scold now.

Dorothy Colly slipped her hand into that of John Harris; and they were all very still until they heard the sound of horses' hoofs approaching.

It was a messenger who had brought a letter for Margaret.

She trembled as she took it, for he was to die tomorrow, and she knew that this was the last she would ever receive from him.

It was written with a piece of coal—all that was left to him to write with; for they had taken his writing materials when, some time before, they had taken his books.

She forced herself to read aloud.

“Our Lord bless you, good daughter, and your good husband, and your little boy, and all yours … and all my children and all my god children and all our friends….”

He then mentioned them all by name, and as Margaret spoke their names they hung their heads, for the tears streamed from their eyes.

But Margaret went on steadily reading.

He begged them not to mourn for him. He was to die tomorrow, and he would be sorry to live longer.

“For tomorrow is St. Thomas's Eve, and therefore tomorrow I long to go to God. St. Thomas's Eve! It is a day very meet and convenient for me. Dear Meg, I never liked your manner toward me better than when you kissed me last, for I love when daughterly love and dear charity hath no leisure to look to worldly courtesy. Farewell, my child, and pray for me, and I shall for you and all my friends; and may we all meet merrily in Heaven.”

Margaret had stopped reading and a silence fell upon them.

EARLY ON the morning of St. Thomas's Eve, Master Pope, a young official of the Court, came to tell him that he was to die that day.

The young man came with tears in his eyes, and could scarcely speak for weeping, so that it was Thomas More who must comfort Thomas Pope.

“Do not grieve, Master Pope,” he said, “for I thank you heartily for these good tidings.”

“It is the King's pleasure that you should not use many words at the execution.”

“You do well to give me warning, for I had planned to speak at length. I beg of you, Master Pope, plead with the King that when I am buried, my daughter Margaret may be there to see it done.”

“The King will consent to that if you do not speak overmuch before your death. Your wife and all your children shall then have liberty to be present.”

“I am beholden to His Grace that my poor burial shall have so much consideration.”

Then Pope, taking his leave, could say nothing because his tears were choking him.

“Quiet yourself, good Master Pope,” said Thomas, “and be not discomfited, for I trust that we shall, once in Heaven, see each other merrily where we shall be sure to live and love together in joyful bliss eternally.”

Shortly before nine o'clock, wearing a garment of frieze that hung loosely on his thin body, and carrying in his hands a red cross, Thomas More left his prison for Tower Hill.

There was only one member of the family there to see him die. Mercy was that one. She stood among the crowds about the scaffold, watching him, taking her last look at him. Later she would be joined by Margaret and Dorothy Colly for the burial of his body in the Church of St Peter ad Vincula.

Mercy did not stand near, for she did not want her father to witness her grief. She told herself that she should be glad, for he was not subjected to that ignoble death which those poor monks had suffered at Tyburn, while others of their brethren were rotting in their chains at Newgate. The jailer there, fearing discovery, would no longer allow her to visit those monks, and although she had made efforts to reach them she had not been able to do so, and they were slowly perishing where they were chained.

Oh, cruel world, she thought, that surrounds that island of peace and happiness in Chelsea like a turbulent sea. They had thought themselves safe on their island, but now the malignant waters had washed over it, destroying peace and beauty, leaving only memories for those who had lived there and loved it.

Thomas was mounting the steps which led to the scaffold. They had been hastily constructed and shook a little.

He smiled and said to one of the Sheriffs officers: “I pray you, Master Lieutenant, that you will see me safe up. As to my coming down, you may leave me to shift for myself.”

The executioner was waiting for him. This hardened man looked into Thomas's face and, seeing there that sweetness of expression, which had won the affection of so many, he turned quickly away murmuring: “My lord, forgive me….”

Thomas laid a hand on his arm. “Pluck up your spirits, my friend. Be not afraid of your office… for such is all it is. Take heed that you strike not awry for the sake of thine own honesty.”

Then he knelt and prayed. “Have mercy upon me, O God, in Thy great goodness….”

He rose and the executioner came forward to bind his eyes.

“I will do it for myself,” said Thomas.

But first he spoke to the people who were waiting on his last words; very briefly he spoke, remembering the King's displeasure that could fall on those who were left behind him.

“My friends, pray for me in this world and I will pray for you elsewhere. Pray also for the King that it may please God to give him good counsel. I die the King's servant… but God's first.”

Then he bound his eyes and laid his head on the block, pushing his beard to one side, saying: “That has no treason. Let it therefore be saved from the executioner's axe.”

There was a great silence on Tower Hill as the axe fell.

Thomas's lips moved slightly.

“The King's good servant… but God's first.”

NEWS OF the death of Sir Thomas More was brought to the King.

“So perish all traitors!” he cried.

But his little eyes were fearful. In the streets the people were murmuring. It was all they dared to do against the King. They had seen the terrible deaths of the Carthusians; and now the head of Sir Thomas More was on a pole on London Bridge beside that of the saintly Fisher, Bishop of Rochester.

“Come, Norfolk, what are you thinking … skulking there?”

Norfolk was a bold man. He said: “That it was a pity, Your Grace. Such a man of talents to be so obstinate … so wrong-minded.”

“You seem sad that it should be so.”

“Your Grace, he was a lovable man … for all his faults. Sire, many loved him.”

Many loved him!

The King's eyes narrowed. The people would remember that the man had been put to death because he had obeyed his conscience rather than his King. The King's good servant, but God's first.

The King cursed all martyrs.

This man must not live in the memory of the people. He must be seen as a traitor, a man deserving death, a traitor whose head was in its rightful place, looking down from London's bridge on London's river.

But Henry knew that, as the people passed by the bridge, as they looked at the head of the man, they would mutter prayers and ask his blessing. Too many of them remembered his kindness, his piety and virtue.

Living, he had been Thomas More, the kind, good man; dead, he would be Thomas More, the saint.

That should not be; it must not be.

Had not More stated that he believed the sowing of seditious heresies should be prevented at all costs? During his reign as Chancellor one or two people had been burned as heretics. The King would have it bruited abroad that this great good man had not been averse to inflicting suffering on those who did not share his views. Could he then complain at the King's treatment of himself?

There would be some who would say: “It is not the duty of a Chancellor to pass sentence on heretics. That lies in the hands of the clergy.” But who would examine that too closely? The Tudors and their friends, who had found it necessary to suppress many historical facts, would have no difficulty in supressing or garnishing wherever it was expedient to do so.

The King remembered the case of a heretic who had been ordered by Sir Thomas More to be flogged. The King had been amused at the time of the offense, for the man concerned had crept behind women kneeling in the church and, lifting their clothes, had cast them over their heads. The just sentence for such an act was flogging; but this man, as well as being a lewd person, was also a heretic. A little adjustment of the reports of such cases, and there was More, a flogger of heretics.

The King doubted not that his good friends would have no difficulty in providing the necessary evidence.

For, thought the King, we cannot have martyrs in our kingdom. Martyrs are uncomfortable men, and I like them not.

The King must always be right; and the King was uneasy, for he also found it hard to forget the man. Norfolk was right: More had been a lovable fellow.

I liked him, mused Henry. It gave me pleasure to honor him.

He remembered their pleasant talks together over the writing of the book; he thought of evenings on the balcony with his first Queen beside him, and Thomas More pointing out the stars in the heavens; he thought of the pleasant family at Chelsea and walking through those fragrant gardens with his arm about his Chancellor's neck.

“I loved the man,” murmured Henry. “I… as well as the others. It was not my wish that he should die. God bear me witness. I loved him.”

His Queen came in.

He was not pleased with her. She had not brought him all that he had desired. She had filled his heart with jealousy and his mind with misgiving.

He had noticed a quiet, pale girl among her maids of honor. Jane Seymour was her name; and although this young woman was modest, she had shown that she was not unconscious of the King's regard.

The King lost control of his temper suddenly as he looked at his Queen; and he was filled with fear because the murder of a great and good man lay heavily upon his conscience.

“You have done this!” he shouted at his Queen. “You have done this. You have demanded of me the death of a good man and, God forgive you, I have granted your request.”