The King's Confidante: The Story of the Daughter of Sir Thomas More (35 page)

“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?”