“The sentences must be carried out, else no one will trust the law or believe Parliament can enforce what it passes,” Crum insisted.
“I pray that all may take it,” he added. “For their sakes, and ours.”
Was I duty-bound to try to warn those who might consider refusing? Those who might not realize that the time for temporizing had run out, that the law would show no mercy? It would be on my conscience if I did not.
Conscience? No, that was my excuse, a high-sounding one. The truth was that love—if I had love for these people—commanded me to do it.
Mary I had already gone to. Katherine I could not, as she was near Cambridgeshire, and travelling was impossible just now betwixt there and London. I could write her, advising her of the danger she was in.
More. Thomas More, in Chelsea, keeping to himself since he had resigned as Lord Chancellor. Writing his everlasting books, his letters, his devotions. The Bishops of Durham, Bath, and Winchester had sent him my twenty pounds to buy proper robes to come to London and attend Anne’s Coronation with them. He had declined the invitation, with an impertinent “parablesisteda little way into the water. Not only had it not been enlarged to accommodate larger vessels, but it had declined sadly from what it was. The planks were gamely mended, but still warped and sagging; the entire thing swayed under my weight.
Down at the watergate More was waiting, leaning against the wicket. He was as brown and plain as a wren, weathered like the planks of his decaying pier.
“Thomas!” I said, hoping not to betray my surprise at his appearance. “I have so looked forward to this time!” I motioned to my servitors, carrying the fitted box with its precious set of one-of-a-kind lenses, and the astrolabe swathed in velvet. “Now we shall catch her out—Dame Luna.”
He reached out his hand and grasped mine. “You are heartily welcome, Your Grace.” He opened the gate and bowed low. I strode in and encircled his shoulders with my arm, hugging him close to me. He did not resist. Together we walked toward the house.
In the fragile, cold twilight it was quiet. Unlike that happy, lazy summer afternoon (the only other time I had visited him), there were no servants scurrying, no children romping on the grass. The beehives were dormant, and even the goats were nowhere to be seen.
“My children are married,” he said, seeming to read my very thoughts. “Grown up, gone away. Elizabeth married William Dauncey, and Cecily, Giles Heron. My father died recently. Even my little ward, Margaret Gigs, has married my former page, John Clement. Dame Alice and I are left quite alone. It happens much sooner than you think.”
“And Margaret?” I remembered his bright, shining daughter.
“She married her Will Roper,” he said. “Another lawyer. Our family is beset with them. We need a farmer or a goldsmith to give us diversity.”
“You had a Lord Chancellor and a Parliamentarian.” I could not help saying it.
“Three generations of lawyers,” he said, ignoring my gibe. “But the house will not be entirely empty and sedate tonight. I have asked Margaret and Will to join us. Ah!” He gestured toward a glowering, dumpy figure standing in the doorway. “Here is Alice.”
If More looked like a wren, she looked like a buzzard. Thickened and soured since our last meeting, she was a pudding gone bad.
“Your Grace.” (Such venom in the words!)
I passed into the winter parlour, and was shocked. Much of the furniture was gone, the tapestries taken down, the fireplace cold.
We have you to thank for this, Lady Alice seemed to be saying, in everything but words. But which “you” did she mean? Me, for my Great Matter? Or her husband, for not bending himself to it, for absenting himself from power and court? They went hand in hand: my Great Matter was his as well.
More never sought to explain or to apologize for his reduced state. He seemed to accept it as natural, as he accepted the coming of spring. “We will kill the fatted logs,” he joked, “for we have a great and honoured guest.” In that way he ordered a fire to be kindled, lest I take cold.
It was not servants who brought the logs in, however, but ssed intian Order, although he had turned aside, saying, “It is better to be a chaste husband than a licentious priest.” Like many men who have served two masters, he had never completely forgotten the first one.
The fire was dying. More ordered tapers to be brought so that he might read the Office. Although he offered me place of honour, I declined. I desired to see him in his customary role.
I desired to know him. Truly to know him.
First came the admonition. “Brothers, be both sober and vigilant,” he read.
Then followed silent meditation. Then confession:
“I confess to Almighty God, to blessed Mary ever Virgin, to blessed Michael the Archangel, to blessed John the Baptist, to the holy Apostles Peter and Paul, and to all the saints, that I have sinned exceedingly in thought, word, and deed, through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault. Therefore, I beseech Mary ever Virgin, blessed Michael the Archangel, blessed John the Baptist, the holy Apostles Peter and Paul, and all the saints, to pray to the Lord our God for me.”
Then Psalm 133:
“Ecce nunc benedicite Dominum.
“Behold, how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity!
“It is like the precious ointment upon the head, that ran down upon the beard, even Aaron’s beard, that went down to the skirts of his garments.
“As the dew of Hermon, and as the dew that descended upon the mountains of Zion: for there the Lord commanded the blessing, even life forevermore”.
The fire died, as More’s words did. I felt embraced by God, by this blessed family, by the moment, by the words.
“And now to bed,” said Lady Alice, breaking the spell.
“Except for the moon-watchers.” Margaret smiled at me.
“Margaret once had a fancy for astronomy,” More said. “But when I continually had to point out the difference between the moon and the sun—”
“Nay, I never excelled at astronomy,” agreed Margaret. “It baffled me.” She looked at us all. “I must to bed. Father is right.”
Lady Alice likewise excused herself. Thomas More and I were left entirely alone. As I had wished, had dreamt of.
“Show me your secret,” he said. “I am anxious to see what you have brought.”
Carefully I opened the velvet-lined fitted wooden box. Inside was a set of lenses, and a board where they could be affixed into a series of holes.
“If these are paired and aligned in a certain way, they bring things closer, I know not how. My eyeglass maker showed me this trick. I can play with them and see objects on the far side of the room as if they were within arm’s length. I must confess I have not tried them on the stars. But perhaps tonight?”
“Yes! Yes!” He sounded genuinely interested, and extracted one and studied it intently.
“I had my eyeglass maker grind them,” I said. “I have had to resort to wearing reading glasses these days, aso made “fifty-year-glasses,” “sixty-year-glasses,” and so on.
“We have awhile yet before the eclipse begins. Let us adjust them when it is less chilly, and avoid the condensation on the lens.” He rose, gathering his drab grey wool about him.
He ushered me outside, through the rear door of the Great Hall—silent and dark now—and out onto the little meadow behind his manor house. The sharp, sweet smell of promised spring was in every breath.
The land rose slowly to a little knoll. More took a torch and led me toward it. Only as I came closer did my torch show something else to be there. As my eyes took in the structure, so my nose smelled new, oiled wood.
More indicated it. “A moon-watching platform,” he said. “The Chinese, I am told, call all balconies such, and so they should.”
He had built it for me. For my visit. In his reduced circumstances, still he had seen fit to honour me, and my wishes....
I mounted the steps of the small deck, e
ncircled with a railing.
“I built it on my highest land,” he said.
“You built this . . . for my visit? The wood, the workmen’s fees—”
“I built it myself,” he said. “That is why it tilts so.” He laughed. “I hope our calculation table can stand steady.”
My men were busy setting it up. They could manage.
“It is steady, Your Majesty,” they said. They had made all the necessary adjustments to the legs and the angle of the top.
“You may keep pastime in the winter parlor,” More told them. “Request more wood if you like.”
Now we were alone. No ceremonies, no mitigating forces, and there was still an hour before the eclipse. It was most inconvenient of the Almighty to schedule it so late.
More walked around the new-smelling platform, rubbing his hands in the cold. There were two chairs on the deck, obviously fetched up from the house, as they were indoor chairs.
“We could look at Venus first,” he suggested.
“But there is little to see,” I replied. “It is always of a uniform appearance, and so bright. I prefer Mars.”
“The God of War,” said More. “Spoken like a true prince. Of late it has seemed brighter, at least to my naked eye. May I?” He indicated the larger lens, the one to be held at arm’s length.
“If you insert the handle into the hole at the far edge of the board, then tilt it”—I showed him how—“that can serve well for stars near the horizon. It will free one hand.”
He was delighted with the innovation.
“I wonder what the red is?” he mused. “Does Mars have red seas, do you think?”
“Yes,” I said. “Most likely. Or perhaps it burns with a red flame? Or perhaps it is covered with blood?”
He sighed. “To think there are other’s theory that all the planets circle the sun—he has not published, of course—”
“It is not for us to ‘comprehend’ with our finite minds, but to seek to obey Him in whatever world He has placed us,” I said. “It is not, of course, always so plain.... God confounds us, tests us.”
I hesitated. But the moment was here, the moment when I must speak. “Thomas, I came to see you tonight not only to view the eclipse, but also to warn you. I do not know what you hear from London of worldly matters. Gossip and rumours distort and are no friend to truth. But I am speaking the truth, as your friend, when I tell you that Parliament will require an Oath to support their Act of Succession, which they are even now in the process of making law.”
“Of what will the Oath consist?”
That question again.
“That the swearer believes the Princess Elizabeth to be the only legitimate heir to the throne. That the swearer will support her claims against all others” —I paused—“should I suddenly die.” How remote that seemed, standing out on the brave little moon-platform.
“That is all?”
“Yes. I believe so. Perhaps a few words to the effect that my marriage to Anne is a true one, the one to Katherine null and void—”
“‘A few words’?” He dashed his hands against the railing of the platform. “Always ‘a few words’! Oh, would that they were many—then it would be so much easier. A few words. God, why are You so cruel?”
His voice was sharp in the still air, rising like a rapier, rattling itself against God.
“Yet it is all the same.” His voice quieted at once, before he turned back to me.
“I hope you will not refuse the Oath,” I said. “For it will be law that those who do not subscribe to it are guilty of treason.”
His expression—of course, I could not see it well in the starlight—seemed not to alter.
“I thought it best to warn you, so when you are called to swear, you will know,” I continued. “You will swear first, and then your household. It will only take a few moments. Commissioners will come to your household, at crown expense. You will not be disrupted.” I sounded apologetic, and that would never do. “See that you take it,” I said.
“And if, in my conscience, I cannot?”
“Then you must die a traitor’s death. For you will have acknowledged yourself a traitor, according to law.”
“Then surely the Princesses Katherine and Mary must die as well. For they, above all others, would damn themselves in so swearing.”
“You must not consider others when taking the Oath. That is no concern of yours. Consider only yourself, and your immortal soul.”
“I shall remember that, Your Grace.”
“You can hide no longer!” I said. “The Oath will hunt you out, even here. Know thathat is not good enough! There are all sorts of silences. Few of them are good. They range from the hateful, through the mocking, to the indifferent. St is nidth="1em">“I have none. I know the answers. Once one knows the answers, however much one dislikes them, then there are no more questions to ask.”
“But do you know the answers?”
“Yes, Your Grace. I knew them before you came here. But I thank you for coming.”
“As long as you understand.”
“I understand,” he insisted. “I understand.”
The eclipse having ended, we made our way slowly down the slope to his house, dark now. Off to the right I saw a small building, and I asked, out of a sort of politeness, what it was.
“I call it the New Building,” he said.
“But what is it used for?”
“All the things the Old Building had not room for,” he answered.
“Private things?” I understood—or thought I did.
“Yes.” He actually stopped, and framed his words carefully. “Private things.”
I was to sleep in the upper chamber in the rear of the house. The bed had been fitted out with a feather mattress, and laid over with furs. I must confess that by the time I reached the chamber I was groggy and ready for sleep. I would have slept on a stone altar.
“I thank you, Thomas,” I murmured. As soon as the door was shut, I staggered toward the bed, and fell upon it, neglecting to remove my clothes. I flung myself full length and passed into a deep sleep. I had meant to think upon Thomas and his obvious disregard of my warnings, but I thought of nothing at all.
Sometime in the middle of the night I awoke, as wide awake as if I had slept a fortnight. The little candle across the room jumped and danced. It had burned halfway down from where I had lighted it. Hours before? Moments? I had no sense of time.
I knew only that I could not sleep. A peculiar sort of energy flowed through me, and I knew I must be up. I swung my feet over the side of the bed, fished for my shoes. They were there, cold and hard, the left transposed with the right, so sleepy had I been upon retiring.
I padded across the room to take hold of the candle, use it to find a praying place. For I knew that was what I needed to do: to pray. I had not prayed in days. My soul was starved for it. I grasped the candle, held it aloft. Of course there was a devotional niche, complete with kneeler and pictures of the saints: the one essential in a Thomas More room.
But in passing over to it I saw a deep yellow light shining from outside the window. It came from somewhere on the grounds. Was it the cooks, lighting the day’s fires? Yet it seemed too early. Then I remembered that More had let most of the servants go.
It was in the New Building. Could there be thieves? More had refused to tell me what purpose the New Building served. Had he secreted his jewels there? Perhaps he had kept more than he admitted.
No matter; thieves were there. I would not wake More; I would rather confound them myself.
I attired myself fully, then drew on my cloak. I crept down the darkened stairs and made my way to the great up so much, and yet men sought to rob him. Anyone associated with court, no matter how remotely, was always assumed to have hidden riches.
The building was close now. I pressed at the door and was relieved to find that it swung open easily. I came inside and shut it.
Now. I was obviously within range of the robbers. The thought tha
t I could confront them, frighten them away, somehow relieved my conscience. I had brought More to lowered circumstances (or had he brought himself?), and yet I could personally prevent their being lowered further. One somehow ransomed and redeemed the other.
Inside the building, it was icy cold—colder, even, than outside. That startled me, and I had to draw my mantle closer about me as I felt my way about. I could not ascertain where the light had come from, for all seemed to be dark within. Perhaps the thieves had extinguished their light.
I pressed my way past one door, taking care not to make it squeak on its hinges. Now I could see light, faint light. It originated around a corner.
I flattened myself against the wall and peered around it.
I expected robbers, filling their bags with More’s reduced belongings. They would be laughing, flinging the things in, desecrating them, already spending the money in their heads.
But there was no intruder there. Only More himself, bare to the waist, kneeling on a pallet.
Over his shoulder was a whip. But no ordinary whip. I recognized it as the “discipline”: a small metal ring with five chains suspended from it, each chain ending in a hook. As I watched, he beat himself with it, slowly, rhythmically, reciting all the while, “It is for You, Lord, for You. Let my imagination and my memory be effaced. For You, Lord, for You.”
He rocked back and forth on his knees, thrashing himself and chanting.
His entire upper body was cut and bleeding. There were slashes all over his back. But they were superimposed on flesh that was already irritated and infected. Yellow pustules were scattered like the blooming of evil little flowerets all over his chest and back, and his whole skin was bright red. There was not an inch of unmarked skin on his upper trunk.
“Forgive me, Lord, that my sufferings do not approach Yours,” he intoned. “I will increase them, so as to please You.” Then he picked up the “discipline” again, and began to flog himself. He gasped with each fivefold lash, yet continued. Blood oozed from the new-created gashes down to his waist, where it dribbled to the floor.
The Autobiography of Henry VIII: With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers Page 31