King's Confidante Page 29

  “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 t
hat; 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 m
ade 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.