The King's Confidante: The Story of the Daughter of Sir Thomas More (31 page)

Alice gave one of the girls a slap with a wooden ladle. It was more an affectionate pat than a blow.

Alice allowed herself one minute to dream that at her table sat a great, glittering man who shouted to her that he had never tasted a better meal than that eaten at the table of his Lord Chancellor.

“Tilly valley!” she cried. “This is not the way to prepare supper for His Grace of Norfolk!”

THE OLD
Judge stood before his son; his hands were trembling and there were tears in his eyes.

“Thomas, my son … my dearest son…. Thomas, Lord Chancellor of England. So you have the Great Seal, my son.
You
… my son, Thomas.”

Thomas embraced his father. “Your son first, Father; Chancellor second.”

“And to think that I scolded you for not working at the law!”

“Ah, Father, there are many routes to fame.”

“And you found a quick one, my son.”

“I took a byway. I confess I am a little startled still to find where it has led me.”

“Oh, Thomas, would that your mother could have lived to see this day. And my father … and my grandfather. They would have been proud… proud indeed. Why, your grandfather was only a butler of the inn; he was, it was true, at the head of the servants and kept the accounts. Would that he could have lived to this day to see his grandson Lord Chancellor of England. Oh, Thomas, my son! Oh, proud and happy day!”

Later Thomas said to Margaret: “You see, daughter, how there is much good in all things. I am glad to have pleased your grandfather, for he is feeble, and I fear he may not be long for this life. I believe his delight in me is almost as great at this moment as mine has always been in you. And, Margaret, it is a happy child who make a fond father a proud one, think you not?”

“If I were less fond,” she said, “I think I should find greater enjoyment in my pride.”

He kissed her. “Do not ask too much of life, my wise daughter; ask for little, and then, if it comes, you will be happy.”

IT SEEMED
to Margaret that the one who was least changed by his elevation was her father.

He was delighted with his importance only when he could use it to do good for others. He had shown to the King the drawings Hans Holbein had made of his family, and the King had been impressed with them; so Master Holbein had, regretfully, left the house at Chelsea to take up his quarters at Court as painter to the King at a salary of thirty pounds a year.

“It is a large sum,” said Hans, “and I am a poor man. I shall mayhap find fame in Hampton Court and Westminster, but will it give me as much joy as the happiness I have enjoyed in Chelsea?”

“With a brush such as yours, my friend,” said Thomas, “you have no choice. Go. Serve the King, and I doubt not that your future is secure.”

“I would as lief stay. I wish to do more pictures of your family… and your servants.”

“Go and make pictures of the King and
his
servants. Go,
Hans; make the best of two worlds. Take up your quarters at the Court, and come to Chelsea for a humble meal with us when you feel the need for it.”

Then Hans Holbein embraced his friend and benefactor, and said with tears in his eyes: “To think that I should wish to refuse an offer such as this. You have put a magic in your house, dear friend; and I am caught in its spell.”

Yes, those were the things which Thomas greatly enjoyed doing. At such times it was worthwhile holding a great office.

But he was uneasy—far more uneasy than he would have his family realize.

The King was spending more and more time with Cromwell and Cranmer; they were the two to whom he looked for help in this matter of the divorce, and no other matter seemed of any great importance to him. The Cardinal had slipped down to disgrace and death, and the descent had been more rapid than his spectacular climb to grace and favor. He had first been indicted upon the Statute of
Praemunire;
but Thomas Cromwell had cleared him of the charge of high treason, so that Wolsey had been ordered to retire to York; but before he had long rested there he was charged once more with high treason and had died of a broken heart at Leicester on his way to London.

Thomas Wolsey had come to the Chancellorship with everything in his favor; Thomas More had come to it with everything against him. Wolsey had not realized his peril until within a year or so of his decline and death; More was aware of his from the moment he received the Great Seal.

WILLIAM DAUNCEY
came to his father-in-law on one of those rare occasions when Thomas found time to be with his family.

There was a determined light in Dauncey's eyes.

“Well, son Dauncey, you would have speech with me?”

“I have thought much of late, Father,” said Dauncey, “that things have changed since you became the Chancellor of this realm in place of the Cardinal.”

“In what way?”

“When my lord Cardinal was Chancellor, those about him grew rich, for he shut himself away and it was a matter of some cost for any to put their desires before him. Yet, since you have become Chancellor, any man may come to you. He may state his case and receive judgement.”

“Well, my son, is that not a good thing? Why, when my lord Cardinal held the Great Seal there were many cases which must go unheard because there was no time to put them before him. 'Tis easier for me. My interests are not so many, and I am a lawyer to boot. Do you know that when I took office there were cases which men were waiting to present for ten or twelve years! And now, my son—I grow boastful, but this matter gives me great pleasure, so forgive my pride—I called yesternoon for the next case, and I was told that there were no more cases to be heard. So proud was I that I invented a little rhyme as I sat there. This is it:

“Yes, Father,” said Dauncey impatiently, after he had given his polite laugh. “That is good for those who would wish their cases to be heard; but it is not so good for the friends of the Chancellor.”

“How so, my son?”

“When Thomas Wolsey was Chancellor, not only the members of his privy chamber but even the keepers of his doors took great gain to themselves.”

“Ah,” said Thomas. “Now I understand. You feel that a daughter of this Chancellor should be at least as profitable as a door in the house of the last.”

“Profit?” said Dauncey. “But there is no profit. How could I take gifts from those whom I brought to your presence when in
bringing them to you I could do no more for them than they could do for themselves?”

“You think I am at fault in making myself accessible to all who desire to see me?”

“It may be a commendable thing,” said Dauncey stubbornly, “but it is not a profitable thing for a son-in-law. How could I take reward from a man for something he could get without my help?”

“I admire your scrupulous conscience, my son.” He smiled at Dauncey. Dauncey yearned for advancement. He was not a bad boy; he but obeyed his father, Sir John Dauncey, in his determination to rise. Now Dauncey looked downcast; he did not always understand his father-in-law. Thomas laid a hand on his shoulder. “If, my son, you have some matter which you wish to place before me, if you have a friend whom you wish to help, well then, you could always put this matter before me. I might hear the cause of a friend of yours before that of another if it could be done. But remember this, son Dauncey—and I assure you this on my faith— that if my father himself stood on one side of me and the Devil on the other, and in this instance the Devil's case was the right one, then must I decide in favor of the Devil. Come, walk with me in the gardens. You too, son Roper. I like to have you with me.”

And he put his arm through Dauncey's, for Dauncey was looking ashamed; and he spoke to him with the utmost kindliness.

It was not Dauncey's fault that he had been brought up on ambition. Moreover, he had softened somewhat since he had come to Chelsea.

ALICE WAS
in a flurry of excitement, making preparations for the wedding of Jack to Anne Cresacre. This was to be the peak of her achievements so far; there had been other marriages in the family; ah, yes, but those had been the marriages of Thomas More, later
Sir
Thomas; now the son of the Lord Chancellor was to be married.

Alice was a little disappointed that the King would not be
among the guests. She listened to the talk when they did not always think she listened; she heard some of the remarks which had passed between Margaret and her father, and also some of the hints of the Duke of Norfolk—who called at the house quite frequently, to Alice's delight—and she gathered that Thomas, as was to be expected, was not making the most of his opportunities. He was deliberately opposing the King, and all because the King wanted a divorce and Thomas did not think he should have it.

“What the good year!” said Alice to herself. “This man of mine is a most foolhardy person. He is so careless of his position that he treats it with indifference; and yet, as regards this matter of the King's he is most firm and resolute. 'Tis nothing but stubborn folly, and I am glad that my lord of Norfolk agrees with me.”

Well, the King would not be at the wedding; nevertheless, it was to be a grand affair. She had bought the young couple one of the new portable clocks which were such a novelty, as they were unknown in England this time last year. It was pleasant to be in a position to buy such things.

Such a feast she would prepare! All should marvel at the good table she kept in Chelsea. She had planned this feast again and again, altering an item here and there, until Margaret cried out in dismay that if she were not careful she would find her feast falling short of perfection because she would forget what she had decided for and what against.

She puffed about the kitchen, taking a look at the boar which was being soaked in vinegar and juniper; she went out to the sties to study the fatness of the pigs which would be killed; she went to the cellars to see how the mead and metheglin were maturing. She inspected her pickles, which must be the best she had ever produced.

Hourly she admonished her servants. “Do not forget. This is no marriage of a mean person. This is the marriage of the son of the Lord Chancellor of England.”

“Yes, my lady. Yes, my lady.”

My lady! she thought blissfully. My
lady!

Ah, this was the good and pleasant life. Her only fear was that Thomas would do something to spoil it, for indeed Thomas seemed to have no understanding of the great dignity which should be his. It was all very well for him to poke fun at her, to laugh at
her
dignity. She must have her dignity. She did not forget she was the wife of the Lord Chancellor, if he was so foolish as to forget the dignity he owed to his office.

She would have ceremony in her household. He was wrong to welcome into the house every humble traveler who, hearing there was a chance of a good meal at the table of Sir Thomas More, arrived at mealtimes. He was wrong always to wear the same somber dress. Not a jewel on his person! And when it was remembered how glorious had been the Cardinal, and how the crowds had gathered in the streets of London to see him pass … well, puffed Alice, it is enough to make a woman wonder what manner of man she has married. He had no sense of his power, of his dignity.

Recently Giles Heron had occasion to bring a case to the courts against a certain Nicholas Millisante. But would Master More favor his own son-in-law? Indeed, he would not. Master Giles had gone confidently to court. Naturally, the somewhat easygoing Giles had expected his father-in-law to decide in his favor and … Thomas had decided against him!

“A fine thing!” Alice had chided. “So the affairs of your family mean nothing to you? People will say that the Lord Chancellor has no power, since he is afraid to give a verdict in favor of his own son-in-law.”

“What matters that, Alice, if they know that the laws of England are just?”

“Tut, tut,” said Alice to herself. “Tut, tut” was my lord of Norfolk's favorite expression, and Alice was ready to ape the manners of the great, even if Thomas was not.

Thomas scorned all pomp and show. A week ago, when Norfolk had called unexpectedly on matters of business, Thomas had actually been singing in the choir of Chelsea Church. There he had been, wearing a surplice like an ordinary man; and Alice was
not surprised that the sight of him, so undignified, had shocked the Duke.

“God's Body! God's Body!” Norfolk had cried. “My Lord Chancellor playing parish clerk! Tut-tut, you dishonor the King and his office, Master More.”

Had Thomas been contrite? Not in the least. He had merely smiled that slow maddening smile of his and answered: “Nay, your Grace, I cannot think that the King would deem the service of God a dishonor to his office.”

And there had been His Grace of Norfolk lost for words, while Thomas smiled and was so sure of himself. Yet the Duke had not been angered by that sharp answer; he had seemed most friendly with Thomas, both during the meal and afterward in the gardens.

But Alice herself would remember the dignity due to his office, if others did not. And she would have her servants remember also. In Chelsea Church each morning after prayers she had insisted that one of his gentlemen should come to her pew and tell her of the departure of her husband, although she knew the moment when he must leave the church. This gentleman of her husband's must bow before Alice and say: “Madame, my lord is gone.”

Then she would bow her head and solemnly thank him. It was a ritual which made the others smile. But let them smile, said Alice. Someone must remember the dignity of the house.

Now one of her serving maids came to her to tell her that there was a poor woman at the door who would have speech with her.

“There are always poor women at the door!” she cried. “They come here begging from this house, because they know the master's orders that none should be turned away without a hearing. It seems to me that beggars are given more honors here than are noble dukes.”