by Jean Plaidy
And when Margaret left him, Thomas fell on his knees and prayed for the soul of William Roper, and that his daughters wishes should be granted.
FOLLOWING THAT, there were disputes and arguments between Thomas and Will. In these Will waxed hot, and Thomas was always calm, which meant that Will must come out the worse from the dispute.
With his wide knowledge of the world and men, with his skill with words, Thomas’s arguments must seem the more sound. Thomas was a practiced lawyer; Will was a very young and inexperienced one. Will became, quite naturally, a little less sure of his ideas.
Margaret was glad of this, for she saw that the obstinacy of her father was slightly greater than that of her husband; and she continued to wish above all things for peace between these two.
Will no longer consorted with the merchants, no longer attended illegal meetings. He felt he owed it to his father-in-law to abstain; for if Thomas suffered because he had accepted a concession, which it was against his conscience to accept, Will suffered equally. He would not put his father-in-law in a false position again. For that reason he would no longer run risks; no longer did he speak openly of his beliefs; he studied in the privacy of his apartment, and he talked no more of his ideas except with Margaret and her father.
Margaret had one great matter with which to occupy her mind during that year. She was to have a child.
Now, more than ever, Thomas regretted that he could not spend much time at home. But events were moving fast. Wolsey had been deeply disappointed when, on the death of Leo, Adrian, Cardinal of Tortosa, became Pope instead of Wolsey, Cardinal of York. But Adrian was a sick man, with little hope of occupying for long the Papal chair, and Wolsey’s eyes were still on Rome; his ambition had grown to such an extent that it seemed to blind him to all else.
Margaret’s emotions were divided between her joy in the unborn baby and her anxieties for her father who was becoming even more important at the Court. She could never forget that day when she had learned that he had aroused the displeasure of Henry the Seventh; she remembered also the law-suit when there had been a dispute over the possession of the Pope’s ship. That had been the beginning of advancement; but whither did advancement lead? So many men had found the axe waiting for them when they reached the top of the ladder which led to fame.
Now Thomas had been elected Speaker of the Parliament.
England was at war that year with France and Scotland, and Thomas had succeeded in delaying the collection of those taxes which Wolsey had imposed for the purpose of carrying on the war. Thomas was against war; he had always been against it. If he talked continually thus, what would become of him?
The Cardinal was now openly hostile toward Thomas. He was suffering acute disappointment over the election of the Pope. It seemed incredible to him that a man could be as foolish as Thomas More, so blind to his own chances of advancement.
As he left Parliament Wolsey forgot his usual calm so much as to mutter, so that several heard him: “Would to God, Master More, that you had been in Rome before I made you Speaker of this Parliament.”
Wolsey went straight to the King, and a few days later Thomas was told that he was to be sent on an embassy to Spain.
HOW COULD he leave London when Margaret was soon to have a child? He was beset by fears. How many women died in childbirth? It was the birth of Jack which had led to Jane’s death. He must be beside Margaret when her child was born.
She had said: “Father, I hope you will be near me. Do you remember when I was a very little girl and the pain was better when you sat by my bed, holding my hand?”
He had answered: “Meg, thus shall it be now. I shall be with you.”
But Spain! The strain of working for the King was beginning to undermine his health; he was often painfully fatigued. He did not believe he could keep in good health if he undertook the long journey in a trying climate. He thought of the many weary months away from his family. Was it too late even now to break away from the life of the Court which he did not want?
Greatly daring, and saying nothing to his family, he craved audience with the King. It was immediately granted, for Henry liked him for himself, and there were times when he wished to desert his frivolous companions and be with this serious-minded man. It gave him pleasure to see himself as a serious King who, while often gay could also appreciate the company of a scholar.
Thomas had asked for a private interview, so the King sent all his courtiers from him, and when they were alone he turned to his protégé with a pleasant smile.
“Well, Thomas, what is this matter of which you would speak?”
“’Tis the embassy to Spain, Your Grace.”
“Ah, yes. You will be leaving us soon. We shall miss you. But Wolsey thinks you are the best man we could send.”
“I fear the Cardinal is mistaken, Your Grace.”
“Wolsey…mistaken! Never! Wolsey knows your talents, my friend, as well as I do.”
“Your Highness, I feel myself unfit for the task. The climate does not agree with my health, and if I am ill I cannot do justice to Your Grace’s mission. I feel that if you send me thither you may send me to my grave. If Your Grace decides that I must go, then you may rest assured that I shall follow your instructions to the very best of my ability. But I fear the journey, Sire; I greatly fear the journey.”
The King looked gravely at the man before him. He had grown thin, Henry saw. That was too much poring over books. Not enough good food. From what the King had heard, the fellow did not pay enough attention to what he ate; he did not drink wine. Poor Thomas More! He did not know how to live. And he was married to a woman older than himself. The King frowned at the thought, for it reminded him that he was in a similar position; and it was a position which he was beginning to find irksome.
Poor Thomas! thought Henry. He has his misfortunes…even as I. And he lacks my good health.
“There is another matter, Sire,” went on Thomas. “My daughter, recently married, is expecting her first child; and I should die of anxiety if I were not at hand.”
The King slapped his knee. “Ah, so that’s it, eh? That’s it, friend Thomas.” Henrys eyes filled with tears. “I like well such fatherly devotion. So should we feel for our daughter, the Princess Mary, were she in similar plight. But you have a big family in Bucklersbury, eh, Thomas? You have a fine son, I hear.”
“Yes, Your Highness. Three daughters, a son, a foster daughter and a stepdaughter.”
“I like to hear that, Thomas. Would it surprise you if your King told you that—in some respects—he envies you?”
“Your Highness is gracious indeed. And I know that in some ways I have been a lucky man.”
“Lucky indeed! A fine son, eh? Would to God I could say the same. And this child of yours…this daughter…Let us hope she will be brought to bed of a fine boy.” The King brought his face closer to that of Thomas. “And we consider it meet that her father should be in London…be here when his grandson comes into the world. Rest happy, my friend. We shall find another to send on that embassy to Spain.”
That was the extent of Thomas’s favor with the King.
Yet, delighted as she was to hear the news, Margaret was uneasy.
The King’s favor was pleasant while it lasted, but now it seemed to her that her father had won it at the cost of the Cardinal’s friendship.
MARGARET HAD quickly recovered from her confinement, and it was a very happy family that lived in Bucklersbury during those months.
Thomas was delighted with his grandson.
“But,” he said, “now that my secretary, John Harris, is living with us and I have a grandson, this house is not big enough; and in the years to come when I have many grandsons and granddaughters—for the other girls will marry one day and I trust that they, like Margaret, will not leave their father’s roof—I must have a bigger house.”
So he bought Crosby Place in the City—a beautiful house, the tallest in London, built of stone and timber and situated close to Bishopsgate.<
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One day he took Margaret along to see it.
They went through the great rooms of this house, which was so much grander than the one they were now occupying. Margaret stood with her father in the great hall, looked up at the vaulted roof and tried to imagine the family in it.
“You like it not?” said Thomas.
“Well, Father, you have bought it, and doubtless we shall make it ours when we settle in, but…”
“But?” he insisted.
“I know not. Perhaps I am foolish. But it is not like our house.”
“Propria domus omnium optima!”
“But we should make this our house, Father. Yet…I cannot see it as ours. There is an air of gloom about it.”
“You are fanciful, daughter.”
“Indeed I am. Why, when we have the family here and we sit talking and singing together…then it will be our home…and quite a different place from the one it is now.”
“Richard Crookback lived here for a time,” said Thomas. “I wonder if that is why you feel this repulsion. I wonder if you think of him and all the miseries that must have been his. Is that it, Meg?”
“It might be.”
She sat on a window seat and looked thoughtfully at her father.
“Come, Margaret, what is on your mind?”
“That we shall make this place our home.”
“Come, be frank with me.”
“It is just a foolish thought of mine. We have often talked of the house we would have…when you have not been with us.”
“And it has not been like this?”
“How could you expect it to be? Where should we find all that we have planned? Moreover, if there could be such a house we should have to pull it down once a week and rebuild it, because we have added to it and altered it so persistently that it could not stay the same for more than a week. There is Mercy with her hospital; and there is the library that I have built for you; there is the chapel, which Mother thinks should be attached to all great houses…. And Jack, of course, has set all this in the midst of green fields.”
He was silent for a few seconds. Then he turned to her. “Why, Meg,” he said, “did I not think of this before? We will build our own house. And all of us shall have a hand in it. We shall build what we would have. There shall be Mercy’s hospital, your mother’s chapel, your library for me and Jack’s green fields….”
“But, Father, you have bought this place.”
“We can sell the lease.”
“Father, it sounds wonderful, but could it really be done?”
“Why not? I am high in the King’s favor, am I not? I have money I have not spent. That is the answer, Meg. We will not live in this gloomy house which is full of unhappy ghosts. We will seek our own land and we will build our own house…our ideal house.”
“As you would build an ideal state,” she reminded him.
“A house is easier to build than a state, Meg, and I doubt not that, with the help of my family, I can do it.” He was as excited as a boy. “There I shall pass my days with my children and my grandchildren about me. My father will have to be with us soon. He and his wife are getting too old to be alone. Elizabeth, Cecily and Mercy must marry and fill our new house with children. It must be outside the City…but not too far out. We shall have to be within reach of London, for I am still bound to the Court. And Meg…Meg, whenever I can, I shall slip away. I shall come home. Let us go. Let us decide where we shall live. I can scarcely wait to discuss this with the others. Meg, we will call a conference this night; and the land shall be bought without delay and the ideal house shall be built…and we shall live in it happily for many years.”
They walked home, talking of the house.
Thomas was as good as his word. In a short time he had sold his lease of Crosby Place to a rich Italian merchant friend who was looking for a house in London.
Antonio Bonvisi, the merchant from Lucca, settled in at Crosby Place and Thomas bought land in Chelsea.
BUILDING THEIR ideal house occupied the minds of the family so much that they gave little thought to what was happening about them.
The Cardinal had again been disappointed of his hopes of the Papacy. On the death of Adrian, Giulio de’ Medici, called Clement the Seventh, was elected. The Emperor Charles came to London and was made a Knight of the Garter. This meant that Thomas was taken from his family to be in constant attendance at the Court, but it was regarded as an annoyance rather than a fact of political importance.
It seemed more interesting that that great friend of the family, Dr. Linacre, who was now the King’s physician, brought the damask rose to England. It should be awarded a special place of honor in the Chelsea gardens. There was again war with France; but that seemed remote, for meanwhile the house at Chelsea was being built.
It stood back from the river, with about a hundred yards of garden between it and the water. There were four bay windows and eight casements, allowing a superb view of the river. The center block was occupied largely by the great hall, and there were numerous rooms in the east and west wings.
“Mercy,” Thomas had said, “once you said your dearest wish was to own a hospital of your own in which you could tend the sick. Now that we are building at Chelsea, that hospital shall be yours.”
And so it was built, separated from the house by pales; for Mercy had said: “What if I should have contagious diseases in my hospital? I could not have my patients passing them on to my family.”
They had never seen Mercy quite so happy as she was when she showed Dr. Clement over the hospital. It seemed that when she had the young doctor there, Mercy had all she desired in life— John Clement, her family, and her hospital on the other side of the pales.
There was Thomas’s library and the chapel in a separate building—just as they had pictured it.
Elizabeth and Cecily planned the gardens; and Jack decided where they would grow their wheat, keep their cows and have their dairy. Alice designed her buttery and her kitchens; Thomas planned his library, gallery and chapel, with Margaret to help him.
It was to be a house in which one family, who had discovered the means of being happy, would live together, cherishing each other.
Will and his father-in-law were now the best of friends, although Will was not altogether weaned from the new ideas. Thomas prayed for him; Will prayed for Thomas; Will was wavering, for it seemed to him that a man such as his father-in-law, who seemed so right in all other matters, could not be entirely wrong on what seemed to Will the greatest matter of all.
By the end of the year they had moved into the house.
They were a bigger family now, for Thomas’s father, the judge, Sir John More, and his wife came to live with them.
In spite of his cynical views on marriage, Sir John had taken a fourth wife and lived amicably with her. He had ceased to fret about his son, and he would often laugh when he remembered how he had worried in the old days because Thomas had paid more attention to Greek and Latin than to law. He admitted that he had been wrong. He had seen Thomas as an ordinary man; and, like the rest of the household, he now knew that to be an error.
He was content in his old age to rest in this great house at Chelsea, to wander in the gardens watching the gardeners at work, now and then discussing a point of law with Thomas, who never failed to give him that deference which he had given him as a young and obscure student. Occasionally he worked in the courts at Westminster; he was treated with greater respect as the father of Sir Thomas More than he was as a judge of these courts.
It was a very happy family that lived in the house at Chelsea.
SOON AFTER they were established there, Sir John Heron, the Treasurer of the King’s Chamber, approached Sir Thomas concerning his son Giles. Sir John admired Sir Thomas More and, having heard of the large house, which had been built in the village of Chelsea, he would esteem it a favor if his son might live there with the Mores, after the fashion of the day.
Alice was atwitter with glee when she heard
this.
“The Herons!” she cried. “Why, they are a most wealthy family. I shall look after that young man as though he were my own son.”
“And doubtless will endeavor to turn him into that,” said Thomas wryly.
“I have told you, Master More, that I shall cherish the young man…. He shall be my son in very truth.”
“Nay, by very law, Alice…the law of marriage. I’ll warrant that before you have seen him you have decided that he will make a suitable husband for one of the girls.”
“They are becoming marriageable. Have you not noticed that?”
“I have indeed.”
“Well, then, it is time we had more such as Master Giles Heron in our household, for one day he will inherit his father’s goodly estates.”
“And that is a good thing, for I doubt young Giles will ever win much for himself.”
“Tilly valley! Is it a clever thing, then, to be turned against a young man merely because one day he will inherit his father’s fortune?” demanded Alice.
“It is wise, you would no doubt tell me, to be turned toward him because he will inherit one.”
“Now, Master More, will you endeavor to arrange a marriage between this young man and one of your daughters?”
“I would rather let one of my daughters and the young man arrange it themselves.”
Alice clicked her tongue and talked of some people’s folly being past all understanding. But she was pleased with life. She enjoyed living in the big house at Chelsea; she had more maids than she had ever had in her life. Her daughter had married well; she would do her duty by her stepdaughters and see that they followed in Ailie’s footsteps; and she would never forget for one moment that she was Lady More.
She went down to the kitchen, her marmoset following her. She went everywhere with her. She scolded the little thing, but it was an affectionate scolding, the sort of scolding she was fond of bestowing on her husband.
Good marriages for them all, she reflected. Either Elizabeth or Cecily should have Giles Heron, who ere long would inherit his father’s title and lands. Elizabeth it must be; she was more suitable for the position. Cecily was inclined to be slothful, to lie about in the sunshine, under the trees or in the orchard, or wander about gathering wild flowers, spending too much time with her pet animals. Yes, Elizabeth, with her sharp wits, would make the better Lady Heron. Moreover, Elizabeth was the elder and should therefore marry first, for it was a bad thing when a younger sister married before an elder. Not, thought Alice complacently, that there should be any difficulty in finding a good husband for Cecily, a girl whose father was in such high favor at Court.