The King's Confidante: The Story of the Daughter of Sir Thomas More (24 page)

She looked surpised. “I do not understand.”

He smiled. “I thought that mayhap you would be very small and pale and humped through bending over your desk.”

Cecily laughed at that.

“And,” went on Giles, laughing himself with the immensity of his relief, “firing questions at me in Latin.”

“Margaret is the clever one of the family. Mercy, too. You may have heard of them. Margaret is quite a scholar, but she is merry too. She takes much delight in writing in Latin and Greek; and with Mercy it is all mathematics and medicine. Elizabeth, who is my elder sister, is clever too. Poor Jack and I… we are not so clever. Are we, Jack?”

“I am the dunce of the family,” said Jack. “I can just manage to write a little Latin and follow their speech.”

“You will feel yourself to be a learned scholar when you compare yourself with me,” said Giles.

“Then welcome!” cried Jack. “I shall enjoy appearing to be learned for once.”

Cecily said: “It is pleasant, is it not, Jack, to welcome someone to this house who does not think that a knowledge of Greek is the most important thing in the world?”

“And what, Mistress Cecily, do you think is the most important thing in the world?”

“At the moment, to make sure that the rabbits are safe and that the weasel cannot come back and frighten them.”

“He will not,” said Giles. “The monkey gave him a great fright. He will remember. Animals have long memories sometimes.”

“Is that so?” said Cecily. “I am glad of it.”

“You love animals, do you not?” asked Giles.

“Yes. And you?”

“My dogs and horses.”

“I love dogs and horses and the little helpless ones besides … like rabbits and birds. We have fowls and dear little pigs.”

“You have a farm, then?”

“Well, we have some land and animals. We grow much for ourselves. That is what we always wanted when we lived in Bucklersbury. They are cutting the grass in the home field now. I should be helping. So should Jack. But I saw what was happening here….”

“I should not have thought you would have had time to keep so many animals.”

“But we are a big family. Each has his own. Father says that we may have what pets we like. The only rule is that we must care for them, see that they are fed and looked after in every way. The peacock there is Elizabeth's. He is beautiful, do you not think so? He is rather haughty too, for he'll not take food from anyone but Bess … unless he is very hungry. He is asking for you to admire him.”

“He is as vain as a Court gallant.”

“Are Court gallants as vain as that?” asked Cecily.

“Some are much more vain.”

“
You
are one of them, are you not?”

“Ah, but out of my setting. Here, among the learned, I feel humble. But you should see me at Court. There I display my fine feathers and invite admiration.”

“I should like to see you do that,” said Cecily.

“Who knows, you may one day. Yet if I stay here for a little while, as your father and my father have arranged that I shall,
doubtless I shall see myself so clearly that I shall know there is nothing to be vain about.”

“I do not believe you are vain,” said Cecily, “because the very basis of vanity is that those who possess it are unaware that they do so. They think the puffed-up vision
they
see is the true one.”

“I see you are very wise,” said Giles.

“Nonsense. See how Marmot regards you, Master Heron. She likes you.”

“Does she? Her bright eyes look at me suspiciously, I fancy.”

“She is looking at you with interest. If she did not like you she would be making strange noises of irritation.”

“I am glad one member of the family has taken to me.”

“She is not the only one,” said Cecily with disarming frankness. “Here is another.”

She made a gay little curtsy—not at all what Giles would have expected from such a learned little scholar.

“And here is another,” said Jack. “Let us go to the hayfields. We should be helping there.”

It was all very different from what Giles had expected. In the hayfield Sir Thomas More himself was sitting against a hedge, drinking some beverage from a jug, and his daughters were about him.

Was this Sir Thomas More, the Under-Treasurer, the friend of the King and the Cardinal?

“Welcome! Welcome!” he cried. “I am glad you came when we are all at home. The hay must be cut at the right moment, and right glad I am to be at home at such a time. You are thirsty, doubtless. Come, join us. Have you a tankard for Master Heron, Meg? And give him a piece of that cob loaf.”

Giles was introduced to the family. The Mistress of the house made him very welcome; and even Mistress Roper, the eldest daughter, whose fame as a scholar had reached even him, alarmed him not at all.

Cecily and Jack sat beside him and told how the monkey had driven off the weasel.

It was quite pleasant there, lying in the shade of the hedge and taking refreshment, joining in the conversation and laughter.

Afterward Jack showed him the grounds and stables, the orchards, barns, outhouses and, finally, the dairy.

Supper proved to be a merry meal taken at the long table on the dais in the great hall. The food was simple; and there was a newcomer, whom no one seemed to know, who had called just as the meal was about to be served and was given a place at the table.

Conversation was perhaps a little clever, and there was Latin— classical allusions, which Giles did not understand, but when this was the case, he found he had no need to join in, and that Lady More was always ready to poke fun at her scholars, and to smile at him as though to say: “We are the clever ones.”

When the meal was over they sat on the lawn, for the day was still hot; and some of them brought out their lutes and there was singing.

Giles Heron was very happy that night. He felt that, instead of coming to a strange household and perhaps a hostile one, he had come home.

He sat next to Cecily and listened to her sweet singing voice. He had already decided that by falling in love with and marrying Cecily he might please not only his father, but himself.

WHEN SIR
John Heron, Treasurer of the King's Chamber, told his friend Sir John Dauncey, Knight of the Body to the King, that his son Giles was to marry one of the daughters of Sir Thomas More, Sir John Dauncey was reflective.

His thoughts turned to his son William, and he lost no time in seeking him out.

It was possible to talk frankly to William, for William was a most ambitious young man, and would not have to be told twice to seize any advantages which came his way.

“I hear Giles Heron is to marry one of Mores daughters,” he said to his son. “Master Heron has been quick. But there is still one daughter left.”

William nodded. He did not need to have the implication of those words explained. There was no need to point out the advantages of a match between himself and one of the daughters of so favored a man.

“I must call at the house in Chelsea,” he said.

His father smiled his approval. There was no need to say: “Do not make the reason for your call too obvious. More is a strange man, and his daughters will doubtless be equally strange. The matter must be tackled with some delicacy.”

William would know. He was ambitious enough to approach every advantageous situation with the utmost tact and delicacy.

THE SUMMER
was passing. Among the trees in the orchard, Dorothy Colly, Margaret's maid, was playing with Margaret's young son Will. An apple, part of which had been destroyed by the wasps, fell suddenly to the grass, and the baby began to crawl toward it.

“Come away, my little man, come away,” said Dorothy. “Don't touch it, darling. Ugh!… Nasty!”

The baby crowed and Dorothy picked him up and cuddled him. He was very like his mother, and Dorothy loved his mother, who had treated her more like a friend than a servant, teaching her to read and write, giving her respect and affection.

“You're a lucky boy,” she said. “We're all lucky here in Chelsea.”

She thought of coming to the house—her life before, her life after.

As soon as she entered the house or the grounds a feeling of peace would steal over her. She knew this was due to the influence of the master, for to be in his presence was to be filled with a determination to live up to his high standards.

At this moment she could hear Lady More at the virginals, practicing in her labored way. Yet even such sounds were harmonious coming from this house, for to hear them was to remember that her ladyship, who had no great love of music, practiced the lute and the virginals so that when her husband came home she
might show him what progress she had made. Even Lady More had been mellowed by the sweetness of her husbands nature.

It was true that when she stopped playing she would declare that she had done with wasting time for that day; and to reassure herself she would doubtless scold some defaulter in the kitchens; but the next day she would be practicing on the lute or the virginals.

Dorothy's heart began to beat faster, for, coming toward her, was Sir Thomas's secretary, John Harris.

John was an earnest young man, fully aware of the importance of his work. He sought to emulate his master in all ways, even adopting that habit of walking with his gown not properly set on the shoulders, and the left shoulder lifted a little higher than the right. Dorothy noticed this, and it made her smile become a little tender.

He was deep in thought and did not immediately see Dorothy.

She spoke first. “Good day to you, Master Harris.”

He smiled, pleasure transforming his face. “And a very good day to you,” he said, sitting down beside her and smiling at the baby.

“How big he grows!” said John.

“His sister is nearly as big as he is. So you are not at the Court today, Master Harris?”

“No. There is work to do at home.”

“Tell me, do they really think so highly of the master at Court?”

“Very highly indeed.”

Dorothy pulled up a handful of grass and frowned at it.

“You are not pleased that it should be so?” he asked.

“I was thinking that I would like to see all the girls as happily married as is Mistress Roper. She was married before the master became so important. Master Roper was here … they grew to know each other … and they eventually married. I was thinking that that is the best way in which to make a marriage.”

“You are thinking of William Dauncey?”

She nodded. “Mistress Elizabeth does not seem to understand. Of course, he is very handsome … and very charming to her … but there is a light in his eyes which, it would seem to me, is put there by his love of the advancement Sir Thomas More can provide, rather than for Sir Thomas's daughter.”

“Dorothy, you are a discerning woman.”

“I love them so much. I have been with them so long. Mistress Elizabeth is very clever with her lessons, but that is not being clever in the ways of the world. I wish that some quiet young gentleman like Master Roper would come here to study, and Mistress Elizabeth gradually get to know him. And I would like to see her take him instead of Master Dauncey.”

“You have served Mistress Roper for a long time, Dorothy. She has educated you and molded your thoughts, and you think that everything she does is always right. The baby is the perfect baby. Master Roper is the perfect husband. There are some who would say that Master William Dauncey is not such a bad match. His father has a high post at Court. What more could you want?”

“Love,” she said. “Disinterested love. Ah, I have said too much.”

“You need have no fear, Dorothy. But let me say this: When Mistress Roper married, her husband was caught fast in heresy. Heresy, Dorothy! Is that then more desirable than ambition?”

She was thoughtful. “His heresy,” she said, “grew out of his searching for die right, his determination to do what he considered best. Ambition—such as Dauncey has—is for self-glorification. There lies the difference.”

“Mistress Dorothy, you are wondrous learned.”

“My mistress has taught me to read; she has given me books. She has taught me to form my own opinions—that is all.”

Dorothy picked up the baby and held him against her. “Sometimes I wish that the master were not so well received at Court,” she said. “I would rather see him more often at home … with good people about him … like you, John Harris … than with the most handsome gallants of the Court.”

Then Dorothy left him and walked to the house.

How peaceful was this scene! she thought.

Now came the sound of someone playing the lute. It was too well played to be Lady More. Now she heard Cecily's and Elizabeth's voices, singing a ballad.

“Please God keep them happy,” prayed Dorothy. “Let us go on just like this … forever and ever … until we are called to our rest.”

There came the sound of other voices, singing with the girls— Giles Herons and William Dauncey's.

Dorothy shivered. The voices of the young men reminded her that life was continually changing.

Too many honors were being thrust upon the master, and honors brought envy; they brought the sycophants, the false friends, who were like wasps that fed on the lovely fruit until it was ruined and dropped from the branches.

THAT YEAR
came the winter of the great frost.

There was no keeping the house warm; the bleak winds penetrated into every room, and there was
ice
on the river. Blizzards swept across the country.

Mercy was hardly ever at home; she had so many sick people in the hospital. Margaret and Elizabeth were often there helping her.

Mercy was very happy. The hospital was her life. Although others might deplore Sir Thomas's rise in the world, Mercy could not. But for his making a fortune in the service of the King, he could not have supplied the money which she needed to keep her hospital in being. But she was careful in the extreme. There was nothing extravagant about Mercy; she worked hard and enjoyed working hard. She remembered Erasmus's criticism of English houses, and she had no rushes in her hospital; there were windows that could be opened wide; and her success with her patients was gratifying.