The King's Confidante: The Story of the Daughter of Sir Thomas More

by Jean Plaidy

  The reason for his discontent was his Queen. He liked his Queen. She was older than he was by five years—but as he did not care to be considered a mere boy, he liked this, for it seemed that she helped to add years to his age.

  But they were rich; they were young; and they should be gay. There must be lavish entertainment; masques, jousts and pageants could go on for as long as he wished; and at all these ceremonies he should be the very center of attention as was meet, considering who he was. All festivities should have one purpose: to honor the King, to display the King in all his glory, to show that the King was more skilled, more daring, than any King who had ever lived before him or would come after him.

  But his Queen had disappointed him. Alas! she had not his love of gaiety, his passion for enjoyment; they had made her too solemn in that Spanish court of her childhood. She was comely enough to please him: and he was glad to reflect that she was the daughter of two of the greatest monarchs in the world; it pleased him too that he had married her, for marrying her was like snapping his fingers at his fathers ghost. He did not care to disparage the dead, but it had rankled to be forced to relinquish his betrothed. It was only at that time that he had discovered how fair she was and how much he desired her—her above all women. It hurt his pride to be forced into that protest. And now, every time he looked at her, he could say: “There is none now to force me to that which I desire not; nor shall there ever be again.” Such thought stimulated his desire, made him more ardent that he would otherwise have been; which, he reminded himself, not without a touch of primness, was all for the good of England, since an ardent man will get himself children more speedily than a cold one.

  Yet she disappointed him.

  It had happened on the day after the Coronation, when the ceremonies were at their height. He and Katharine had sat on a platform covered with velvet and cloth of gold set up within the grounds of Westminster Palace. What a wonderful sight had met their gaze, with the fountains emitting the best of wine, and more wine flowing from the mouths of stone animals! Many pageants had been prepared for the enjoyment of the royal couple. A fair young lady dressed as Minerva had presented six champions to the Queen, and that was a tribute to her solemnity, for these champions, dressed in cloth of gold and green velvet, were meant to represent scholars. That should have pleased her; and it did. Then drums and pipes heralded more knights who bowed before the Queen and asked leave to joust with the champions of Minerva.

  Oh, what a spectacle! And the jousting lasted all day and night!

  Then the King disappeared from the Queens side, and shortly afterward there came to her a lowly knight who craved leave to joust with the champion. The Queen gave that permission while everyone laughed the lowly knight to scorn until he threw off his shabby cloak and there, in glittering armor, towering above them all, was Henry himself. And Henry must be the victor.

  That was all well and good.

  But Henry had planned more joys for his Queen. An artificial park had been set up in the grounds of the Palace, with imitation trees and ferns shut in by pales; this contained several fallow deer and was designed to make a seemly setting for the servants of Diana. Suddenly the gates of this park were thrown open and greyhounds were sent therein. Through the imitation foliage they ran, leaping and barking; and out came the frightened deer, to the amusement of all except the Queen—rushing over the grounds and entering the Palace itself. And when all the deer were caught, they were laid, stained with blood, some still palpitating, at the feet of the Queen.

  And how did she receive such homage? Shuddering, she turned her eyes away: “Such beautiful creatures,” she said, “to suffer so!”

  He remonstrated: “It was a goodly chase. Mercy on us, it was fine, good sport!”

  Before the courtiers he had laughed at her squeamish ways. But his voice had been a little threatening when he said: “You must learn to love our English ways, sweetheart.”

  Now, alone with her, as he recalled this incident, his sullen eyes rested upon her. She had not been taught to ride in the chase; she liked better to spend her time with the priests; and it spoiled his pleasure that she should not appreciate the amusements which, he told himself, he had prepared for her. If he did not love her, he might have been very angry with her.

  Well, it was a small matter and he would teach her. But perhaps he was not so displeased after all, for it must be admitted that she was a most virtuous woman; her virtue was a light that shone on him; and in the midst of pleasure he liked to be sensible of his own virtue.

  Every moment he was feeling less displeased with her; and to soothe himself he planned more revels.

  He said to her: “I shall ride into the tiltyard. I'll tilt against Brandon. He'll be a match for me.” He laughed. “There are few skilled enough for the task. And after that, we'll have a ball… a masque … such as was never seen.”

  “You are spending much of your father's treasure on these ceremonies,” said the Queen. “They are costly, and even great wealth will not last forever.”

  “Is it not better to delight the people with pageants and joyful feasts than to store up treasure in great coffers? I would rather be the best-loved King than the richest King.”

  “The people murmured against your father's taxes. Would it not be well to alleviate them in some way? Could we not devise some means of letting the people know that you will make amends for your fathers extortions? I am sure that my Lord Norfolk and that very clever Master Wolsey would know what should be done.”

  The King narrowed his eyes. “Mayhap. Mayhap,” he said testily. “But know this: I too know… even more than such as Norfolk and Wolsey, what my people want—and that is to see their King, to know that he will make this land a merry one for the people of England.”

  Katharine lowered her eyes. This boy whom she had married was a headstrong boy; he must, she was beginning to understand, be continually humored. She had been wrong to show her disgust when the warm bodies of the deer were laid before her; she must appear to enjoy the extravagant pageants which so delighted him; she must always feign astonishment when he presented himself before her faintly disguised as Robin Hood or some lowly knight. She must remember that he was young; he would grow up quickly, she was sure; as yet he was but a boy who loved a boy's games. And she must never forget that, although he was a boy, he was the most powerful person in the kingdom. There were times when she thought that to put the scepter in the youthful hands was like giving a wilful, hot-tempered child a sword to play with.

  He was smiling now, and his smile could startle her, for there was a malignant cruelty in it which sat oddly on his fair young face. Although she was growing accustomed to it, it made her uneasy.

  “I have prepared a treat for the people which will repay them for all they have suffered,” he said.

  “Yes, Henry?”

  “You remember when I gave orders that those agents of Empson and Dudley should be placed in the pillory?”

  “I do.”

  “And what happened to them?”

  “The mob set upon them, I believe, and stoned them to death.”

  The King's smile deepened. “Now I shall give them a bigger treat. Oh yes. I will repay the people for their sufferings, never fear.”

  “Then will you give back what your father took from them?”

  “Better than that!” he said. “Far better. I will give them Empson and Dudley. They were the extortioners. They shall be executed on Tower Hill, and I'll warrant you, Kate, the people will come from far and wide to see their blood flow … and they will thank their King for avenging their wrongs.”

  Words were on her lips, but each day she learned wisdom. So, she thought, you will offer them the blood of your fathers unpopular servants, but their money—the money which was wrung from them in cruel taxes so that they were left with little to show for their labor—you will spend on your jewels, your fine clothes and your rejoicing.

  “You do not speak,” he said, frowning. “Like you not my plan?”<
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  There is nothing I can do, she decided.

  Ah yes, she was beginning to understand the man whom she had married.

  She said quietly: “The people will rejoice, I doubt not.”

  Now he was laughing, embracing her warmly. He loved and needed approval as much as he loved and needed feasting and revelry.

  MY LORD Mountjoy was one of those who were with the King when Thomas brought the verses he had written on vellum decorated with the white and red roses of York and Lancaster.

  Mountjoy was hopeful; the King had confided to him that he looked to the scholars to make his court bright with learning.

  Mountjoy was considering writing to Erasmus.

  There were also present the King and his chaplain, a man for whom Henry had a deep liking and respect. It was true that he was not a handsome man; his face was slightly marked with the pox, and the lid dragged a little over the left eye, which was not becoming; being in his mid-thirties, he seemed elderly to the King; but although he was, as yet, merely the King's chaplain, Henry was so struck with his discourse that he determined to keep Thomas Wolsey at his side and to heap preferment on him at an early date.

  And now came Thomas More, scholar and writer, to offer verses of laudation.

  The King held out his hand for the man to kiss. He liked that face; and the royal smile was benign as Henry bade Thomas More rise.

  “I remember you,” he said, “in company with the scholar Erasmus. Was it not at Eltham that we met?”

  “It was, Your Grace, and Your Grace's memory of that fact covers me with honor.”

  “We like our poets. There is too little learning at our court We feel ourselves but ignorant when compared with such learned men.”

  “Your Grace astonishes the world with his learning.”

  The King smiled, meaning to charm; and instinct told him that modesty would appeal to this man with the kind mouth and the shrewd eyes. “If not with my own,” said Henry, “with that of my subjects. This is a pretty thing you bring me. Read the verses … that all may hear what you have to say to your King.”

  Thomas read them, and as he listened the King's heart warmed toward this man. Such elegance of phrase, such finely worded sentiments. He liked what this man had to say of him and his Queen.

  “We thank you, Thomas More,” he said when the reading was over. “We shall treasure the verses. And Mountjoy here has been telling us of that friend of yours … Erasmus. We must have him here. I want all to know that I wish to see this court adorned by learned men. I would that I had paid more attention to my tutors. I fear the chase and all manner of sports have pleased me overmuch.”

  “Your Grace,” said Thomas, “your humble subjects ask not that you should become a scholar, for you have a realm to govern. We would beg that you extend your gracious encouragement to scholars in this land of ours.”

  “We give our word to do it. We need these scholars. They are the brightest jewels in our crown.”

  And he kept Thomas More beside him, conversing lightly of theology and the science of astronomy. The Queen joined in and the King was pleased that this should be so.

  There were some men whom he liked, whether they were old or young, gay or serious. He had two of those men close to him now … his two Thomases, he called them. One was Thomas Wolsey and the other was Thomas More.

  TWO DAYS after the Coronation, Alice Middleton called at The Barge with a posset for Jane.

  As soon as she entered the house it seemed to Margaret that she dominated it; but both Margaret and Mercy were pleased that she had brought her daughter with her.

  The three children went to one of die window seats and talked together. Little Alice Middleton, to the astonishment of Margaret and Mercy, had learned no Latin.

  “But what will you do when you grow up?” asked Margaret in a shocked voice. “Do you not wish to please …”

  Margaret was stopped by a look from Mercy, which reminded her that as this little girl had no father they must not talk of fathers.

  Margaret blushed, and her eyes filled with compassion. Both she and Mercy wished to be very kind to the little girl who had no father. But young Alice was not disturbed.

  “When I grow up I shall take a husband,” she said. “A rich husband.” And she twirled a golden curl, which had escaped from her cap, and, fatherless as she was, she seemed very pleased with herself.

  Meanwhile her mother was talking in a loud voice:

  “This place is not healthful. I'll swear it's damp. No wonder you are not feeling well, Mistress More. But you take a little of this posset, and you'll feel the better for it.”

  Jane said it was good of her to call; she repeated her thanks, for, as she said again and again, she did not know how she would have reached home without the help of Mistress Middleton.

  “You would have reached home, I doubt not. That which we must do, we find means of doing…. So I always say.” And Mistress Middleton smiled as though to imply: And what I say—by the very fact that I say it—it is bound to be right.

  Jane was glad that Thomas should come in so that he could thank the widow personally for her kindness.

  “Thomas,” she said, “this is Mistress Middleton, the kind lady who brought me home.”

  “Right glad I am to meet you, Mistress Middleton. My wife has told me many good things of you.”

  Mistress Middleton eyed him shrewdly. A lawyer! A scholar! she believed. She had not much respect for scholars; she doubted they did as well as mercers of London and merchants of the Staple of Calais.

  “A pity, sir, that you had not the time to take your wife and children into the streets to see the sights.”

  “A great pity, madam.”

  “Thomas,” cried Jane. “The King … he received you?”

  Thomas nodded.

  “My husband,” Jane explained, “is a writer.”

  A smile curved Alice Middleton's lips. A writer? A writer of words? What was the use of words? Give her good bales of cloth. That was what people wanted to buy. Who wanted to buy words?

  Thomas, grateful to the widow, could not help but be amused by her obvious contempt and her refusal to pretend anything else.

  “I perceive,” he said, “that you do not worship at the shrine of Literature.”

  “I worship in church like all good people, and in no other place. And Literature? Tilly valley! What is that? Will it build a house? Will it weave a cloth? Will it look after your wife when she falls fainting in the streets?”

  “It might inspire a man or a woman to build a house, madam. And before a man builds a house he must have the will to do so. So might it make a man—or should I say a woman?—so long to possess a new gown that she will weave the cloth. As for its looking after a fainting wife: Well, suppose a lady could read of a great pageant, her imagination, enhanced by literature, might be such that she would feel it unnecessary to stand in a press of people in order to see with her eyes that which she could conjure up by a mental effort.”

  “Here's clever talk!” said Alice. “And my eyes are good enough for me. I can weave with the best, and I don't need words to help me. If I can't build a house I can keep one clean. And as for this Latin the scholars talk one with another, I manage quite well, sir, with my native tongue.”

  “May I say, madam, that I am convinced you manage … you manage admirably.”

  “But my husband is a poet,” said Jane in mild reproof.

  “Poetry won't bake bread. Nor make a man wealthy, so I've heard.”

  “Who speaks of wealth, madam?”

  “I do, sir. For in this world it is a useful thing to have. And no matter what you tell me, riches come through work and thrifty living … not through writing poetry.”

  “True riches belong to the spirit, madam, which uses its own resources to improve itself. We can only call a man rich if he understands die uses of wealth. Any man who piles up endless wealth, merely to count it, is like the bee who labors in the hive. He toils; others eat up the honey.”
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  “I speak of money not of honey, Master More. It seems you are a man who cannot keep to the point. You may smile. Methinks I should be the one to smile.”

  A faint color showed in the cheeks of Alice Middleton. She liked the man; that was why she was giving him what she would call the edge of her tongue; she would not bother to waste that on those she considered unworthy of it.

  His face was pleasant and kindly, she concluded. A clever man, this; yet in some ways, helpless. She would like to feed him some of her possets, put a layer of fat on his bones with her butter. She'd warrant he gave too much thought to what went into his head and not enough to what went into his stomach.

  “His verses were dedicated to the King,” said Jane. “And did the King accept them, Thomas?”

  “He did. He took them in his own hands and complimented me upon them.”

  His lips were smiling. Margaret left the little girls to come and stand close to him. She was so happy because this King loved him. They had nothing to fear from this King. She took his hand and pressed it.

  “So the King likes verses!” said Mistress Middleton, her voice softening a little.

  “Ah, madam,” said Thomas. “What the King likes today, may we hope Mistress Middleton will like tomorrow?”

  “And he accepted them … from your hands?” demanded Mistress Middleton.

  “He did indeed.” Thomas was remembering it all. It was only about his writing that he was a little vain; he made excuses for his vanity. Artistic talent, he was wont to say, is a gift from God. But he was conscious of his vanity, and he mocked himself while he treasured words of praise. And now at this moment he could not help recalling with pleasure the King's delight in his verses.

  As for Alice Middleton, she was looking at him with new respect.