I knew that William went daily to the Tower, and there he saw my father and relayed messages from him, but to me it was as if he went merely to taunt my father with the notion of freedom. On the rare occasions when I saw William at home, I would ask if my father had sent any word to me, a smile would play on his lips, and then he would tell me that he had not.
As I awaited word from my father, I, too, inhabited a silent prison. In the looking-glass I no longer saw a scholar; I saw a woman who had been made whole by love, even as the grief of my father’s imprisonment stole the joy from my eyes and the hope from my heart. In those terrible months of silent waiting, I observed how the seasons began to unfold within me like so many petals, blooming one by one among the sweetness of the summertime gardens. I knew my own secret, Daniel’s secret; for the secret we had made together was growing within me.
When my father’s sentence of death was declared, when my father was found guilty of treason, when God turned his face from the man who had served him in love and faith for his whole life, and who had taught his children to faithfully keep the commandments, it was then, and only then, that William granted me one final audience with my father.
I dressed carefully that morning, seeing that the rich and heavy brocade gown I wore hid the burgeoning curves of my body. Finally, William came for me and I was permitted to go to the Tower to see my father. As we made our way through the London streets, to board the boat that would take us to the prison’s gate, William’s hand firmly clutched my elbow as if I were a sack of gold that he had stolen. My footsteps were heavy, laden with the weight of my silent secret, with the weight of the final goodbye yet to come.
We arrived at the gate beneath the dark portcullis, its spiked fence reaching into the air like the lances of so many soldiers. Guards surrounded us, searched us for illicit books and papers. By some good fortune, because of the Monarch’s fear of spies and of collusion, the guard bid me to enter the cell alone, and it was there that I observed the ruin that had been the father I had loved.
That my father had long lost the grace of the foul Monarch I am sadly sure; for no other crime, other than the loss of my father’s friendship owing to the Boleyn matter, merited my father’s imprisonment as a traitor to the crown. I was loath to discover the cruelty with which my father had been suffering in his last hours. He did not speak when he saw me. He only smiled slightly; yet holy grace was in his eyes. I could see from his wasted condition that he was denied every liberty; his books and papers had been taken from him by the henchmen of the evil Monarch.
In the grace of learning, in the light of wisdom did my father flourish; and when that sun was cast down from the sky by the King’s careless hand, so did my father cease to live; as the grass beneath the chill of the first frost is denied breath and light, so was my father without his texts and papers. There is no more cruel a fate than could have befallen him, and it is thus that I see the true death of my father; rather than at the hands of the executioner.
For all of the years I had waited to be alone with my father, so that I could tell him of my own unhappiness, of my own heartbreak - so that I could question his wisdom in choosing such an unsuitable husband for me - at that last, terrible moment, I could not speak. His own despair told me that there would be no answer. I could only sit quietly with him, his hand in mine, with the hope of life and liberty now fled as a bird from the nest.
A fist crashed upon the heavy wooden door, to tell me that my time was ended, that I must do as I was bid. I hastened to my knees to utter a brief prayer, when I felt my father’s hand upon my head and I heard his dry lips murmur a final blessing. I stood, and took his hands in mine, as the guard banged his fist on the door again. I watched my father’s eyes look into mine for a final time. And then, all at once the door opened and the guard entered, and roughly pushed me out of the cell.
I fled into the hall where William waited, my eyes blind with tears and anger. I told him that I must leave, I must get out, I could not breathe. He peered at me with suspicion in his eyes.
- I must leave this place, William. I beg thee, I said.
- Very well, Wife, he said. But I bid thee go directly home and wait there for me in thy chamber.
- Yes, husband, I said demurely.
I fled the stone-flagged floors and stairways of the tower and out into the courtyard. I had not been in London for so long that it was almost as if I did not know where I was. The streets, however, were suddenly familiar, and I ran through them, careless of the hem of my gown trailing through the muddy streets, and my hair underneath my hood and veil as it was loosed by the wind.
I prayed that my beloved, my friend was still there, safe in his shop. And as I reached the door my hand went forward to open it – then all at once another hand arrested mine. It was a very young manservant in green and white colours of the Monarch’s livery.
- How now, Mistress Roper? he said with a sly look. – You have come seeking forbidden texts for thy father?
- Take thy hands from me, I cried. I come seeking nothing but my own purposes.
- Thou art suspect, Madam, the young man said. – Thou hast been followed from the Tower. And having seen thy father, thou must realize that there is no hope for Thomas More; he is a traitor to the crown, the enemy of England.
- Why dost thou suspect me? I cried again. I only hath seen my father once since his imprisonment, this very morning. I have just come from the Tower where my father is a broken man. Even if I were to bring him a forbidden book, as thou hast called it, I said daringly, he wouldst not read it. The loss of his liberty has all but blinded and crippled him; he is none but a shell.
- Thou art suspect, Madam, he said again, because of the letters which he hath sent to thee. Did he think that his letters would not be read and intercepted? He laughed. A trusting man is thy father; he is betrayed by none but his own words.
- His letters? I asked, in a shocked voice. I know of none.
- Come now, Madam, he said teasingly. Do not play with me. He hath sent dozens of letters to thee. And every one of them hath been read by the King.
I stood, stunned. By now the commotion outside his door had alerted my beloved; I heard the tiny silver bell as the door opened, and he emerged from under the lintel.
- Unhand this woman, said Daniel to the King’s man.
- I shall not, he replied. I shall bring her home to her husband, where she belongs. She shall have no truck with thee, bookseller. Do not try to profess her innocence for the sake of the silver in her pocket.
I watched Daniel’s face flush with anger. – I told thee to unhand her, he said quietly, and I shall not tell thee again.
The King’s man said nothing, but instead twisted my arm behind my back. I cried out with pain. And all at once Daniel was upon him, pushing him aside and prying my wrist from his brutal grip.
Freed, I shouted – Daniel, no! as the two men struggled. Then with a decisive fist, Daniel hit the young man, who stumbled and fell to the ground with threads of blood trickling down his face.
I watched in silent horror. Daniel sank to the ground and examined the man, and helped him to his feet. – Young man, go now, return to the castle, he said quietly. I shall see that this woman makes no forbidden purchases. And then she shall go home to her husband.
The young man staggered to his feet and shamefully began his journey back to the palace. When he was out of earshot, Daniel drew me into the sheltered walls at the side of his bookseller’s shop, and spoke to me. - If thou art all right, dearest Margaret, then go, Daniel uttered quietly. I will take care of this. Only thou must reach thy home before this story does.
I nodded. – Yes, I said, thou art right. I must go, only –
- He looked at me with tenderness and sympathy. – I know all about thy father, dearest Margaret. I wish I could have made things go more safely for him. But thou must know that I did my very best.
I could not speak for fear that tears would choke the breath from my words.
-
Dost thou know of my matters at court? he asked quietly.
I shook my head. – Nay but one conversation I hath overheard, years ago.
- Then I shall tell thee quickly, he said.
– I was known to thy father, first as a bookseller, when I first arrived in England. And then, we grew to trust one another, as one scholar to another. I told him of my past. I was a scholar of Talmud in Spain, pursuing my studies and practicing the rituals of my people in secret, and when this was discovered, as I told you, I was forced to leave. That is when I first came here, to make my living as a seller of texts. Thy father was one of my first and most loyal visitors. Through our talks, I learned of thy father’s liberal nature, his fairness, his genuine love and respect for all faiths. Thus I revealed to him that I was versed in the ancient holy texts of the Jews. He was intrigued; he told me that I could be of some assistance to the King.
- I was admitted into the most secret chambers at court. I was known to the bishops and the Cardinal. They were wary of me; they suspected me of my people’s alleged cunning. But soon, no doubt because of your father’s influence, his knowledge of law and his devotion to your Church, they began to trust me. Soon they revealed their aims to me. It was well known that the King sought to annul his marriage to the Queen. As I have told thee, Katherine of Aragon was no friend to me or to mine; her parents, Ferdinand and Isabella, sent many of my kin – including my parents - to their deaths on the rack and in the heretics’ fire. And they are also responsible for the loss of my sister in the depths of the sea.
-And so the courtiers and advisors – thy father chief among them - asked for my help. They sought to build a case, upon the foundation of Talmudic law, stating that Henry’s marriage to Katherine was illegal. And because of this, they wanted to state that the Pope never had standing to grant the dispensation to make their marriage legal; because the law of the Jews had no valid standing or legality among the servants of the Church.
- I was to help them create the statement to the Pope, he said, based upon my knowledge of Talmud, of Torah, of Jewish law. I was to state for them that no law binding upon my People could be applied to a Christian prince.
- And now it has all backfired, he said. It has gone awry and thy father is the man who will pay the price. It was Henry who came to him when all other options were exhausted, Henry who begged him not to resign, not to come out against him. When thy father knew that our case before the Pope would only serve to divide the Church from England, he knew that he could not uphold it. And yet, he thought that by resigning, he would have a better chance of holding influence over the Pope, once it was seen by Rome that he was no longer under the rule of the English throne. But Henry would not understand this. Henry only thought of how it made him look – a weakened sovereign abandoned by his most trusted advisor.
- It was then that the King ordered his arrest; and ever since, thy father has been imprisoned in the Tower and meanwhile, he has tried from his cell to sway the Pope’s ruling, using the evidence that we have gathered for him. But the Pope will not be swayed, Daniel said. Thy father did not know it would inflame the Pope’s wrath to be told he had authorized – and solemnized – what Henry refers to as a Jewish marriage.
- I do not believe that there is Jewish marriage any more than there is Christian marriage, Daniel said. I only believe that there is love and there is hate. There was love, once, between Henry and his Katherine. And there is the hate that he now feels for her, the same hate that I feel for her mother and father, the same hate that drove me to serve the King.
- But now I know that there is love as well. I know that the King loved thy father, once. For I have loved thy father as well; he is an honorable man who shall die for a noble purpose. It is my only wish that he had been as nobly served by others as he himself served the Monarch. But there is a love beyond that, the love that will survive thy father’s death, the love that will survive though we may never see one another again. There is the love that I have for you, my dearest Margaret, and that is the only love I will ever know, ever feel, ever remember.
I felt the tears upon my face. – My beloved, I said, thou hast served my father well, I said, to console him, for I could not bear the misery and grief in his eyes.
- I wouldst hath done so for his own sake, Daniel told me. – But I hath done so for thy sake as well, for the sake of thy beauty, thy wit, thy soul – even for the sake of thy God.
I bent my head to hide my tears. I could not speak.
- And for the sake of thy God, dearest Margaret, and the God of thy father, I shall pray for him. It is all that we can do for him now.
- There is more, I said. For our love need not die with him. I can only pray that I will care for our child with the same love thou hast show to me and mine.
At once I saw the joy in his eyes. For a moment he could not speak. Our eyes met and held; we shared in the moment of our creation.
- Are you well cared for? he asked. – Doth William know?
I shook my head. – He cannot know, I said, for he would know at once that the child was not his.
Daniel nodded, understanding in his eyes. – I will do what I can to protect thee, he said. With what little influence I may have left, I will try to keep thee safe. And I will pray for thee, and for our child, my beloved.
- And I shall pray for thee as well, I said.
There was a clattering of steps near the door as the King’s soldiers made their way through the streets, and at once I turned my back and hurried back towards the dock where the boatmen waited to bring me back home. I heard the tiny echo of the bell as Daniel went back into the shop, and the terrible sound of the door as it closed behind him.
There was another handwritten note under Margaret’s words, in Spanish:
No me impulse dejarle, o dar vuelta detrás y no seguirle. Para dondequiera que usted vaya, iré; dondequiera que usted se aloje, me alojaré; su gente será mi gente, y su dios mi dios.
“We should just get a Spanish dictionary and be done with it,” Michael said, as he took off his gloves to rub his eyes.
“Wait a second, though – ‘y su dios mi dios’ –that’s easy – ‘and your God my God.’ That’s from the Book of Ruth.”
“I don’t know that one.” He put his gloves back on. “Is it in the bible?”
I nodded. “In the Hebrew bible, it’s part of the Ketuvim –the writings. There are three sections total – the five books of the Torah, the books of the Prophets, and the last section, which is what this is from. You’ve probably heard some of the Book of Ruth – in fact, I suspect this is it, here, in Spanish. ‘Entreat me not to leave you, or to not follow after you, for wherever you go, I will go, wherever you lodge, I will lodge; your people shall be my people, and your God my God.’”
“Oh, sure, I’ve heard that.”
“What’s interesting, though,” I said. “is that it’s very commonly read as a conversion text. Ruth was a Moabite woman married to the son of a Judean woman, Naomi.”
“Does ‘Judean’ mean that she was Jewish?” Michael asked.
“Well, insofar as they had Jews back then,” I chuckled. “At any rate, Naomi and her family certainly would have been considered Children of Israel.”
“Interfaith marriage, back then?” Michael grinned. “Ooh, scandalous. Better not tell your grandmother, she’d be so disappointed.”
“I’m ignoring that remark,” I said sarcastically. I really didn’t want to get into a discussion of our own problems.
“Anyway,” I continued, “Ruth and her sister-in-law Orpah were married to Naomi’s sons, after they had come to Moab to escape famine in Judea. After Naomi’s husband and her sons died, she decided to return home. Orpah stayed in Moab, and went home to her own people, but Ruth decided to go to Judea with Naomi, even though Naomi told her not to come. That’s where this quotation comes from – which is Ruth’s response to Naomi – that Ruth would remain loyal to her, because they were bonded by their grief. Ruth did not want her to be alone,
even if it meant giving up her own home and her own faith.”
“That’s very powerful,” Michael said, “especially when you think about it in this context. I wonder if it means that Daniel was willing to convert.”
“Or,” I ventured, “I wonder if it means that they were willing to see beyond one another’s beliefs, that in the end it didn’t matter how they interpreted God. They were also bonded by grief – the loss of Margaret’s father, the loss of his parents and sister. Maybe they felt they had already suffered enough.”
“They had to live with reality, though,” Michael pointed out. “No matter that she was pregnant, obviously, or why he was at the court – and it sounds as if we were on the right track – or what they felt about one another, the political climate was too much for them to set their faith aside and be together. And besides, she was married. And in spite of whatever innovations in marital law that Daniel – or Henry – or the Pope, for that matter, was responsible for bringing about, there was no possibility for Margaret to get out of her marriage.”
“You’re right,” I said quietly. I looked thoughtfully at the manuscript. “I guess I just wish it could have been different, that she could have walked away from her marriage and been happy, with her books and her writing and their child.” I took off my gloves. “She was independent enough to have managed on her own. She didn’t have to be ruled by some outmoded system of religious beliefs. She was too smart for this, too intelligent to be trapped into an eternity with someone who treated her so badly.”
“You’re thinking of Aviva,” Michael said gently.
“Yes,” I admitted. “I am. I can’t stop worrying about her. I worry that she’ll go back to Jacob, and that he and her family and her rabbi will somehow blame her for everything that’s going on with him.”
The Bookseller's Sonnets Page 23