The King's Confidante: The Story of the Daughter of Sir Thomas More (36 page)

“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.