King's Confidante

1

AND WHO IS THIS MAN WHO DARES OPPOSE US?” DEMANDED the King. “Who is this Thomas More? Eh? Answer me that.”

The King was angry. He sat very straight in the royal chair, one slender hand lying on the purple velvet which covered the table, the other stroking the ermine which covered his mantle. He was battling to subdue his rage, to preserve his habitual calm; for he was a shrewd man and his life had taught him that unheated words were more effective than the sword.

He looked from one to the other of the two men who sat with him at the velvet-covered table where lay the documents which had absorbed their attention until the entrance of the man Tyler.

“You, Empson! You, Dudley! Tell me this: Who is this man More?”

“Methinks I have heard his name, Your Grace,” said Sir Edmund Dudley. “But I know him not.”

“We should be more careful whom we allow to be elected as our London burgesses.”

“Indeed yes, Your Grace,” agreed Sir Richard Empson.

The King's fury was getting the better of him. He was glaring distastefully at Master Tyler, that gentleman of the Privy Chamber who had brought the news; and it was not this king's habit to blame men for the news they brought. Tyler trembled; he was fervently wishing that he had allowed someone else to acquaint the King with the news that his Parliament—owing to the pithily-worded arguments of one of the youngest burgesses—had refused to grant him the sum of money for which he had asked.

There was one other in the room of the palace of Richmond, and he—a boy of thirteen—was staring idly out of the window watching a barge on the river, wishing he were the gallant who accompanied the fair young lady as they went gaily on to Hampton; he could see them well, for his eyesight was keen. The sun was shining on the water, which was almost the same color as the dress of the young lady. This Prince was already fond of ladies, and they were fond of him. Although young as yet, he was already as tall as many men and showed promise of shooting up to great stature. His skin was fair and his hair had a tinge of red in it so that it shone like the gold ornaments on his clothes.

Now he had forgotten the young lady; he wished to be playing tennis, beating any who challenged him, listening to the compliments they paid, pretending not to hear, while they pretended not to know he listened. For two years he had been aware of such adulation; and how could he, who so loved adulation, feel really sorry that his brother had died? He had loved Arthur; he had admired him as his elder brother; but it was as though he had lost a coarse frieze garment and, because of his loss, found himself the possessor of a doublet of velvet and cloth of gold.

He was conscious that he was a prince who would one day be a king.

And when I am, he told himself, I shall not sit in council with such mumping oafs as Master Dudley and Master Empson. I shall not worry my head with the hoarding of money, but the spending of it. I shall have merry men about me—fat spenders, not lean misers.

“And you, my son,” he heard his father say, “what of you? Have you heard aught of this fellow More?”

The boy rose and came to the table to stand in homage before the King.

My son! pondered the King. What a king he will make! What resemblance he bears to the hated House of York! I see his grandfather, Edward of York, in that proud carriage.

And the boy's father was faintly worried, for he remembered Edward die Fourth in his latter years when the tertian fever had laid hold of him and, like a mischievous scribe, had added a smudge here, a line there, until an ugly mask had made a palimpsest of his once beautiful face. But not only the fever had done this; it had been aided by the life he led: too much good food, too much good wine; too many women—anyhow, anywhere, from serving wenches to duchesses. Such debauchery took toll of a man.

I must speak with this son of mine, thought the King. I must set his feet on the rightful path. I must teach him how to save money and keep it. Money is Power, and Power is a king's heritage; and if that king be a Tudor king—a young tree, the prey of sly and subtle pests, in danger of being overcome by older shrubs who claimed that young tree's territory—then that Tudor king must have wealth, for wealth buys soldiers and arms to support him; wealth buys security.

He was not displeased with his own acquisitions; but when he had filled one coffer, he was eager to fill another. Everything he touched did not turn to gold as easily as he would wish. The touch of Midas was in his shrewd brain, not in his fingers. Ah well, he would then thank God for that shrewd brain. War drained the coffers of other kings; it filled those of Henry Tudor. He used war; he did not allow war to use him. He could draw money from the people by telling them that they must do battle with their enemies the French and the Scots; and the people were ready to pay, for they believed that the bread of righteous anger thrown upon the waters of conquest would yield rich booty. But Henry the Seventh knew that war took all the treasure that was offered, demanded more, and in exchange for so much riches gave pestilence, hunger and poverty. So the King, having collected his money, would make a speedy peace; and that which was intended to bring war to the enemies of England, brought wealth to England's king.

He was a king who had suffered from many insurrections; insecure, since he was a bastard branch of the royal tree, grafted on by an indiscreet widowed queen, there had been many to oppose him. Yet each year saw him more firmly seated on the throne. He did not demand the blood of those who planned to destroy him: he only asked for their lands and goods. Thus he grew richer every year.

He now looked at the boy who stood before him, not as a father might look at his son, but as a king regarding his successor.

Last year, the Queen had died in childbed, and the King was eager to get himself a new wife. This was the only son left to him; and the death of Arthur, so recently a bridegroom, had been a bitter blow. The loss of the Queen was not so important; there were many women in the world—royal women—who would not hesitate to become the wife of the King of England; and it was pleasurable to contemplate that wives brought dowries.

Secretly he was not sorry to see the end of Queen Elizabeth. She had been a good, meek wife; she had given him several children; but she was of the House of York, and reasonable as he was, he had found that hard to forget.

“Well, my son?”

“I have met the man More, Your Grace.”

“Then tell me what you know of him.”

“He is a lawyer, Sire, and it was when I was at Eltham with my sisters that I saw him. He came with Mountjoy and the scholar, Erasmus; for Erasmus was visiting Mountjoy whom he had once tutored.”

“Yes,” said the King, “and what manner of man was this More?”

“Of medium height, I should say, Sire. Of bright complexion. And he had merry eyes and a way of speech that provoked much laughter.”

“Methinks his way of speech provoked much parsimony in our Parliament. And that we will not have. Is that all you can tell us?”

“That is all, Sire.”

The King waved his hand, and the Prince, bowing, went back to his stool.

“He should be heavily fined,” declared the King.

“He is not a rich man, Your Grace,” murmured Empson. “A scholar, a writer, a lawyer … little could be extorted from him.”

The King could trust his henchmen, Empson and Dudley. They were of his own kind. They had their private greed; they enriched themselves while they enriched the King.

“He has a father, Sire,” said Dudley.

“Who,” added Empson, “might be good for a hundred pounds.”

“Put him in the Tower.”

“On the charge of possessing a disloyal son, Your Grace?”

“Nay. Nay. You know better than that. Look into his affairs, then bring some charge against him. See what goods he hath; then we will decide on the fine. And do so with all speed.”

The King wished to be alone with his son.

The boy, when he had stood before him, had aroused anxieties within him and temporarily they had swamped his anger at the failure to obtain as much money as he wished. This was because of the boy's appearance; the proud set of the head on the shoulders, the dazzlingly fair skin, the vital hair that was almost the color of gold, the small sensual mouth, the bright blue eyes had reminded the King so vividly of the boy's maternal grandfather; and he remembered the profligacy of that man.

He felt the need, therefore, to talk with his son immediately.

When they were alone he addressed him. “Henry.”

The boy rose at once, but his father went on, “Nay; stay where you are. No ceremony whilst we are alone. Now I would speak to you as father to son.”

“Yes, Father.”

“One day, my boy, you will be king of this realm.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Three years ago, we did not know that you were destined for such greatness. Then you were merely the King's second son, who, your father had decided, should become Archbishop of Canterbury. Now your steps are turned from Church to Throne. My son, do you know that the cares of kingship outweigh the glory and the honor?”

The boy answered, “Yes, Father.”

But he did not believe this. So it might be with lean, pale men such as his father, whose thoughts were all of filling their coffers; but if a king were young and handsome and the eyes of ladies lightened as they rested upon him, and those of the young men were warm with envy and admiration, that was a different matter. The glory and the honor could outweigh the care; and if they did not do so in the case of Henry the Seventh, Henry the Eighth would see to it that they did so for him.

“Many temptations come to kings, my son. You would do well to study the history of those who have gone before.”

“That I do, Father. My Lord Mountjoy insisted that I did so when he tutored me.”

“There are times when a king is beset on all sides, when traitors rise and threaten him. Then he must act with speed and wisdom.”

“I know it, Sire.”

“You know then why I wish you to be present at our councils. I hope you do not spend your time staring idly through the windows, dreaming of sport and pleasure. I would have you learn from what you hear at these our meetings.”

“I do, Father.”

“There are some who would have sent that fellow More to the Tower and would have had his head on London Bridge for what he has done. But such acts are folly. Remember this: Let the people think that the Parliament guides the King; but let the members of the Parliament know that the King has a hundred ways of striking at them if they obey him not.”

“The people are not pleased,” said the boy boldly. “They like not taxes, and they say that there have been too many taxes. They murmur against Dudley and Empson.” He dared not say they murmured against the King, but he knew the people would never love his father as he believed they would love his fathers son. When he went into the streets they called his name. “God bless the Prince! God bless Prince Hal!” The sound of their cheers was sweeter than the music of his lute, and he loved his lute dearly. His father could not tell him how a king should behave.

“There must be those to do a king's work,” said King Henry, “and if it be ugly work, then it is the duty of those to bear the reproaches of the people. My son, you will one day be not only a king, but a rich king. When I slew the traitor Crookback at Bosworth Field and took the crown, I found I had inherited a bankrupt kingdom.”

“A right noble act it was to slay the traitor!” said the boy.

“Yet coming to the throne as we have done is a dangerous way. Never forget it. Be watchful. Above all, learn from those who have gone before. Use the lessons of the past to overcome the dangers of the future. You remind me of your grandfather, great King Edward, for you have something of his lineaments and his stature. Ah, there was a man!”

Father and son smiled as they thought of the boy's grandfather.

With his beauty and charm, thought the King, he lured taxes from his peoples pockets and he called them “Benevolences.” Oh, for such power!

He roamed the countryside as an ordinary gentleman, thought the Prince; and such was his charm and beauty that no woman could resist him. Oh, for such power!

The sun's rays slanted through the windows of Richmond Palace and as the father began to talk to the son of the delights and dangers of kingship, they ceased to think of Thomas More.

MEANWHILE IN the grounds of a pleasant old mansion in the little village of Stepney, the object of the King's wrath was walking arm in arm with one of his greatest friends, his confessor, Dr. John Colet, a man whose wit and learning delighted him almost as much as the affection they bore each other.

Colet, some ten years older than Thomas More, was listening gravely to his friend's account of what had happened in the Parliament.

He shook his head. “'Twas a brave act, I'll grant you; but there is a point in human nature where bravery may be called folly, and folly, bravery.”

“Is it better to be a brave fool or a wise coward? Tell me that, John. I love the wise; I love the brave; and I love not cowards nor fools. What a perverse thing is life when the wrong partners walk together!”

John Colet was in no mood for laughter. He was alarmed.

“Had it been anything but money, the King would have been the more ready to forgive you.”

“Had it been anything but money, would the King have been begging it from his Parliament? Nay, the King loves money. He loves the color of gold. He loves the sight of gold in his coffers … gold plate … gold coins. He rejoices in the knowledge that he is not only a king, but a rich king.”

“Friend Thomas, there is one thing you should take to heart. Now, I am an older man than you are….”

“I know it, thou graybeard.”

“Then know this also: If you wish to make an enemy of the King, get between him and the money he hopes to win. Thus— and more quickly than in any other way—can you rouse his wrath. And, Thomas, remember this now and for ever: It is a perilous thing to set yourself against a king.”

“It is an even more perilous thing to set oneself against one's conscience, John. Tell me this: Should the King be allowed to impose such taxes on his people? You yourself have often said it should not be so. Come, admit it.”

“What we have said, we have said in the circle of our friends. It is another matter to say such things in Parliament.”

“I call to mind that there are those of my friends who have lectured in such manner as to attract multitudes. And this they have done in public places.” Thomas put his head on one side and lifted his shoulder in a manner which was characteristic of him. “I think of one friend, not so far from me at this moment, who has placed himself in high danger by too boldly expressing what are called ‘dangerous thoughts.’”

Colet said impatiently: “I talked of theology. You have talked of money. There was never a more avaricious king than ours. There was never one more vindictive when his darling money is kept from him. However, there is one thing that pleases me. You are a poor man, my friend. To rob you of your wordly goods would hardly be worth the time of the King's henchmen.”

“Now there we see one of the great compensations in life. Poverty is my shield; it protects me from the onslaughts of mine enemies. But have done with this matter. It was of others that I came hither to talk to you.”

They walked through the orchards, where the fruit was beginning to ripen. “Ah, John,” said Thomas, “there'll be a good harvest this year if the wasps and the birds allow it. Hast heard aught of our friend Erasmus of late? Now, John, do not scowl. I know it was a grave blow to you when he would not stay in Oxford and lecture there with you. But it was compulsion that moved him to return to Rotterdam and poverty.”

“He disappoints me,” said Colet. “He could have stayed in this country. There was work for him to do. Could he not have studied here as much as he wished?”

“Remember what he said to you, John. He said it was you who disappointed yourself. You made a picture of him—far too learned, he says, far too saintly. He has not disappointed you, for he has always been himself; it is you who have disappointed yourself by making a false image of him. He is right, John. And I too have disappointed him. I rejoice that he does not love gold as the King does. For you know I told him it was safe for him to bring his money into England, and that he could safely take it out when he wished. My knowledge of the law was at fault—and I call myself a lawyer! Because of it my friend was deceived, and so … he was not allowed to take his money home. If he loved his few pieces of gold as the King loves his full coffers, Erasmus would hate me even as does the King. Hath it occurred to you that money bringeth much trouble to me? Now, that is an odd thing, for it is the love of money that is the root of evil; yet I pay so little court to it that I win the King's anger and, I fear, the scorn of my learned friend Erasmus, through my contempt of it.”

“It would seem,” said John Colet, “that my wise friends are fools. There is Erasmus who must return to poverty in order to perfect his Greek. There is you who must take great pains to provoke the King … like a boy with a stick bent on teasing a bull.”

“But such an insignificant boy… a boy who is not worth the tossing.”

“Believe it or not, even those whose passion is the accumulation of money can have other passions. Revenge, for one.”

“Enough, John. Let us speak of my affairs. I have made a decision which will alter the course of my life.”

John Colet turned to look at his friend. The blue eyes were twinkling, the usually pink cheeks were flushed a rosy red. May God preserve him, thought Dr. Colet, for his nature is the sweetest I ever knew, and there are times when I fear it will lead him to trouble.

“Come, let us sit on the seat here and watch the barges sail up the river to London. Then tell me of this decision.” They sat down and John went on: “You have decided to take your vows?”

Thomas was silent; he laid his hands on his knees and looked across the river to where the willows hung low in the water and the rose-tinted umbels of the flowering rush bloomed among the purple stars of loosestrife, the figwort, with its brown helmets standing guard over them.

Thomas was twenty-six years of age—an age, he had decided, when a man must make decisions. He was fair-haired, blue-eyed, of fresh complexion; and it was the sweetness of expression which people remembered.

Looking at him now, John Colet thought of the friends he loved; there was the great and learned Erasmus, the intellectual Grocyn, the reliable William Lily, and the keen-witted, kindly Linacre; all these men were the great scholars of the day; yet none of them could charm and attract as did Thomas More. Thomas was younger than either Colet or Erasmus, yet both these men counted him as their intellectual equal. He had a first-class brain; he could assimilate knowledge with astonishing speed; he could converse learnedly with humor and a sense of fun, and in the sharpness of his wit he never stooped to wound. Yet it was not only for these qualities that he was loved; it was the sweet kindliness of the man, his courteous manner even toward the humblest; it was the frankness mingling with the courtesy; it was the never-absent sympathy, the understanding of the problems of others and the ever-present desire to help any in distress.

“Nay,” said Thomas. “ 'Tis not to take the vows.”

John turned to him and grasped his hands. “Then I am glad that you have at last come to this decision.”

“I am a greedy man” said Thomas. “Ah yes, I am, John. I have discovered that one life is not enough for me. I want to live two lives … side by side. I would take my vows and be with my dear brothers of the Charterhouse. How that beckons me! The solitude of the cloisters, the sweetness of bells at vespers, the sonorous Latin chants … the gradual defeat of all fleshly desires. What victory, eh, John? When the hair shirt ceases to torment; when a wooden pillow has more comfort to offer than a downy feather bed. I can see great joy in such a life…. But, then, I would be a family man. To tell the truth, John, I find that beside this monk within me, there is another—a man who looks longingly at the fair faces of young maidens, who thinks of kissing and caressing them; this is a man who yearns for the married state, for the love of a woman and the laughter of children. I have had to make a choice.”

“I'm glad you have chosen, Thomas; and I am sure that you have chosen well.”

“Then I have not disappointed your hopes of me? I see you did not set me such a high standard as you did our friend from Rotterdam.”

“Nay; I think not of standards. I think how pleasant it will be when you are a family man and I visit you, and your good wife will greet me at your table….”

“And you will listen to my children, repeating their lessons, and you will tell them that you have never known children so skilled in the arts of learning. Ah, John, would it not be an excellent thing if we could live two lives and, when we have reached an age of wisdom, lightly step out of that which pleases us no longer into that one that gives us great pleasure.”

“You are a dreamer, my friend. Indeed, it would bring no satisfaction, for you would be as undecided at fifty as you are at thirty. Each road would have joy and sorrow to offer a man; of that I am sure.”

“There you are right, John.”

“But I'll swear the life you have chosen will be a good one.”

“But is it the right one, John? Is it the right one for me, do you think?”

“It is only at the completion of a man's life that such can be decided.”

“Then tomorrow I ride into Essex,” said Thomas, “to the house of Master Colt at New Hall. And I shall ask Master Colt for the hand of his eldest daughter in marriage.”

“The eldest! But methought it was one of the younger ones who had taken your fancy.”

Thomas frowned a little; then he smiled, and his smile was one of infinite charm.

“I changed my mind.”

“Oh… so you liked the looks of one of the younger girls first, and then … you fell in love with her sister. Methinks you are a fickle man.”

“It seems so, John, for first I fell in love with the Charterhouse and a life of retirement; and you see I could not be faithful to that love for long.”

“Ah, but that was not a true love. For all those years you lived with the monks; you fasted and did your penances; but did you take your vows? No. Always you postponed that ceremony. And in the meantime, to please your father, you continued with your law studies. The Charterhouse was never your true love. Then you saw young Mistress Colt, and you thought how fair she was; but you did not ask her father for her. It was only when you saw the eldest girl that you were successfully weaned from your desire to retire from the world. A long and fruitful married life to you, Thomas! May you have many sons and a few daughters … for daughters are useful in the house.”

“My daughters will be as important in my eyes as my sons. They shall be educated exactly as my sons will be.”

“Women educated as men! Nonsense!”

“John, what is the greatest gift the world has to offer? You will answer that as I would: Learning. Is it not what you plan to give to the world? How many times have you talked of what you will do with your fortune when it is yours? You worship in the temple of Learning with me. Now would you deny it to one child because its sex is not the same as another?”

“I can see that you wax argumentative. Well, that is what I expect of you. It grows a little chilly here by the river. Let us walk back to the house whilst we talk of this thing. There is not much time, since you say you must ride on toward Essex tomorrow.”

“Yes, I must set out at sunrise.”

“On a mission of love! I will pray for you this night. I will remember the younger daughter on whom your fancy dwelt, and I shall pray that the husband will be less fickle than the lover.”

They walked slowly toward the house, and by the time they reached it they were deep in further discussion.

JOHN COLT welcomed his guest. He considered the lawyer of London a worthy suitor for his eldest girl. As he said to his wife, to tell the truth he had almost despaired of the girl's getting a husband.

Jane lacked something which her sisters possessed. It was not only that she was a little plain; she lacked also their vitality. She seemed to want nothing but to stay in the country, tending the gardens or working in the house; and she seemed to find the company of the servants preferable to that of her own family or their neighbors. It would be good to see her a wife before her sisters married.

“Welcome to New Hall, friend Thomas!” cried Master Colt, embracing the man he hoped would soon be his son-in-law. “There, groom! Take his honor's horse. Now, come you into the house. You'll be tired after your journey. We've put supper forward an hour, for we thought you'd be hungry. 'Twill be five of the clock this day. And Jane's in the kitchen. Ah! Knowing you were coming, she must be there to see that the meat is done to a turn, and the pastry of such lightness as was never known. You know what girls are!”

He nudged Thomas and broke into hearty laughter. Thomas laughed with him.

“But,” said Thomas, “it was to do homage neither to the beef nor to the pastry that I came, Master Colt.”

Master Colt broke into more laughter. He was a man of bucolic manners. He could never look at Thomas More without a chuckle. All this learning! It amused him. What was it for? “God's Body,” he often said to his wife, “I'd rather one of our boys was hanged than become a bookworm. Books! Learning! What does it do for a man? Ah, if our Jane were like her sisters, I'd not have her throw herself away on a lawyer from London, whose nose, I'll swear, likes better the smell of parchment than good roast beef.”

Now he said: “Come, Master More, we'll put some flesh on those bones before you leave us. We'll show you that a veal pie has more nourishment to offer you than Latin verse. Don't you agree? Don't you agree?”

“Take the roast beef of old England to nourish the muscles of the body,” said Thomas. “And then digest the wisdom of Plato to develop the mind.”

“Your mind won't build you a fine house to live in, Master More; it won't raise a fine family. A man must live by the strength of his body.”

“Or by the agility of his wits as do the King's ministers.”

“Bah! Who'd be one of them? Here today and gone tomorrow. My Lord this and that today, and tomorrow it's ‘Off with his head!’ Nay, fight your own battles, not the King's.”

“I see that you have gleaned much wisdom from your red roast beef.”

Master Colt slipped his arm through that of his visitor. Queer, he thought, he might be a bookworm, but he was a merry man, and in spite of his oddity, Master Colt could not help being fond of him.

He felt proud of his possessions as he took Thomas through the forecourt and into the house. In the hall which occupied the ground floor of the central block, the great table was already set for the meal. Master Colt had little time for new-fangled town manners, and all his household ate at the same table—those servants who were not waiting, below the salt. Thomas looked at the sunlight slanting through the horn windows, at the vaulted roof, at the two staircases and the gallery from which the doors led to the other wings; but he was not thinking of the house. He was wondering what he would say to Jane.

“Come to my winter parlor and drink a mug of wine with me. Can you smell the juniper and rosemary? That's our Jane. She knows much of the herbs that grow in the fields, and she is forever burning them in pomanders to make the air sweet.”

Master Colt still thought he had to impress on Jane's suitor the wifely qualities of the girl, as though Thomas needed to be impressed, as though he had not already made up his mind.

His host led the way to the winter parlor and called for wine to be brought.

The winter parlor was a cozy place; it contained hangings embroidered in rich colors by die girls, and there was a table about which were placed several stools; Master Colt was very proud of the polished metal mirror and the new clock.

They sat at the table and wine was brought, but Master Colt noticed that his guest merely touched his with his lips for the sake of politeness.

He sighed. Here was a man he did not understand, who did not care what he ate, and loved books better than wine. Yet any husband for Jane was better than no husband at all.

Then through the window he caught sight of Jane with her flower basket.

“Why,” said Jane's father, “there is Jane. You have seen her. You're thinking you'd rather have a word with her than drink wine with her father. Well then, slip out into the garden now. You can speak with her before supper is served.”

So Thomas went out of the house to Jane.

JANE KNEW he was coming. She was afraid. Her sisters laughed at her for her timidity. She should be grateful, they told her. At last she had a suitor. At last a man was thinking of marrying her. She had better be careful how she acted, for he was not caught yet.

I wish, thought Jane, that I could stay at home with my heartsease and snapdragons, my sweet williams and gilly-flowers. I want to stay and help salt the meat after the killing, and make the butter and cheese, and to see that the servants watch well the roasting meat, to make the bread and pies. I could stay at home and do these things.

But Jane knew that was not what was expected of a girl. She must marry. If she did not, she was scorned; her sisters would marry and shut her out of their confidences; they would laugh at her; they would pity her; even now they called her Poor Jane.

She was Poor Jane because, while she was afraid of marriage, she was even more afraid of not being married at all.

He was very old, this man who had selected her; he was twenty-six, and she was just turned sixteen. Still, it was better to have an old husband than no husband at all. He was very clever, so they said; and he knew much of what had been written in books. But her father did not think very highly of that sort of cleverness. As for June, it alarmed her greatly, for she could not understand half of what Thomas More said to her; and when he began to speak she would think, since he was fond of jesting, that she must surely smile; but she was never certain when die smile should come. Perhaps she would learn. She was sure there were many things which she would have to learn, and that was doubtless one of them.

Still, she continually repeated to herself, and she was sure of the wisdom of this: it was better to marry any man than not to marry at all.

When, in the kitchen, she had heard his horse, she had taken her flower basket and run into the gardens to hide herself. Today he had come to ask her to marry him. Her father had told her this would happen and that she must accept him and tell him that she would be very happy to become his wife.

Happy to become his wife …

Would her young sister have been happy to be his wife, and would he have been happy to wed her?

She wondered why he had suddenly turned from her sister to herself; her father had sent her sister away at that time, and again she wondered why.

Life was difficult to understand. If it were only as simple as tending the garden, how contented she would be!

Now she started, and her heart began to beat in real fear, for Thomas was coming toward her.

HE SAW her bending over the flowers, rosy color flooding her neck, for her head was bent so that he could not see her face.

I will make her happy, he swore. Poor, fragile little Jane.

“Why, Mistress Colt,” he said. “Why, Jane, I trust I find you well.”

She curtsied awkwardly, and the flowers fell from her basket.

“You tremble,” he said. “Jane, you must not be afraid of me.”

“I… I am not afraid.” She lifted her eyes to his face. They reminded him of her sisters and he felt a pang of regret. His feelings for the two girls were so different. The younger girl, whom her father had sent away, was a creature of charm and beauty; he had been fascinated by the smooth, clear skin, the childish line of the cheeks, a certain boldness in her eyes that proclaimed her aware of the fact that she was admired. There had been, in her face and form, a certain promise of carnal delight. It was she who had decided him, who had shown him clearly that he must not take his vows, that he must leave the Charterhouse and make a home with a wife.

Was that love? He thought of others who had attracted him. He was no monk; he was no priest. He was a sensual man, it seemed. God had made him thus; and he believed he would have to control such feelings during the course of his life. All his friends had taken orders: Colet, Linacre, Lily. And what were women to Erasmus? He could see that he himself was fashioned of different clay. He wanted to be a saint; but since women moved him, charmed him, he was right not to turn from them; for it was better to be a layman who knew his weakness and tried to make an ideal family life, than a priest who took his vows and afterward broke them.

He had loved young Mistress Colt until he had caught a look in Jane's eyes which had moved him—in another manner, it was true—as deeply as his desire for her sister.

He remembered the day well. They had been at dinner; and dinner was a merry meal at New Hall. Master Colt paid the deepest respect to his food. Why, he had his servants doff their hats with respect when the meat was brought in; his table was covered with so many dishes that it was almost impossible to make room for the wooden platters the family used. They had been at dinner, and Thomas had looked at his loved one, merrily chatting, delighting him with the quickness of her retorts. She had not been an educated girl. What girls were? Ah, that was a great mistake, as he had argued many times both with Colet and Erasmus. If women had souls, they also had brains, and it was as wrong to neglect the latter as the former. No, she was not educated, but he had appreciated her quick mind, that little display of wit. He had pictured his married life. They would sit after supper and he would teach her Latin; he would read her some of his epigrams and later perhaps those he was translating with Lily from the Greek anthology into Latin—but that was looking ahead. Then, when he had educated her, he would astonish his friends; and she would talk with them and be one of them. Yes, she should not only make a home for him, and give him children, she should join him and his friends in discussing theology, the need for reforming some of the old tenets of the Church; they would analyse the works of Plato, Socrates and Euripides; they themselves would write verses and essays, which they would read to one another. He had looked forward to those days. He saw himself not only caressing her beautiful body, but feeding her mind. It had been an enchanting picture.

And then, as his glance strayed from her, he had been aware of Jane. Jane, the quiet one whom they all twitted because she was not so ready with her tongue, because she was the eldest and because no man had sought her in marriage.

Jane had been looking at her sister with admiration and envy. Not malicious envy. Jane was of too gentle a nature to experience unadulterated envy. It was merely that she became more insignificant than usual when her sister chattered; and as he watched her, Thomas More found his love for the younger girl infringed by his pity for the elder one.

He had tried to draw her into conversation, but she would keep aloof like a frightened doe. He found her alone in the gardens and he said to her: “You must not be afraid to speak, little Jane. Tell me, why are you afraid to speak?”

She had said: “I have nothing to say.”

“But,” he had protested, “there must be something behind those eyes … some thought. Tell me what it is.”

“It would sound silly if I said it. Everyone would laugh.”

“I should not laugh.”

Then she told him how she thought the scent of gilly-flowers was the best in the world, and when she smelt it, she would always— no matter where she was—imagine that she was in the walled garden at New Hall. And she told him she feared she was a coward, for when they killed the animals in November, she shut herself in her room, stopped up her ears and wept. And sometimes she wept during the salting.

“Those are kindly thoughts, Jane,” he had said. “And thoughts that should be told.”

“But they would laugh if I told them. They would say that I am even sillier than they believed me to be.”

“I should not laugh, Jane,” he had told her. “I should never laugh.”

Then she had answered: “But you would laugh more than anyone because you are cleverer than any.”

“Nay. Because I know more of what is in books than do your brothers and sisters, the more I understand. For is not understanding knowledge? When people laugh at others it is often because those others differ from themselves. Therefore the ignorant think them strange. But if you study the ways of men, you learn much; and as your knowledge grows there is little to surprise you. The man who travels the world, in time becomes no longer astonished by the looks and customs of men of other lands. Yet the man who lives in his village all his life, is amazed by the habits of the man dwelling but ten miles away.”

“I do not entirely understand your words,” Jane had told him. “But I understand your kindness.”

“Then, Jane, you are clever, for if more understood the intentions behind men's words, the world would be a happier place, and it is those who achieve happiness and lead others to it who are the clever ones of this world.”

Then she had told him how astonished she was that he, who was so much cleverer than others, should not frighten her so much; and that he, who had friends among the most learned of men, should know more than others how to be kind to a simple maid.

After that she would give him her quiet smile, and he would see the pleasure in her face when he spoke to her.

Others had noticed his friendship with Jane; and one day, when he had arrived at New Hall, it was to find that young Mistress Colt had gone away, and, with a sudden shock, he realized that he was expected to marry Jane.

To marry Jane! But it was merely a tender pity that he felt for her. It was her gay, tantalizing sister who had shown him that a monk's life was not for him.

His first impulse had been to ride away or explain his feelings to Master Colt.

Her father might have guessed his reluctance. He said: “Jane is a good girl. The best in the world. The man who married her would get a good wife.”

Master Colt was not a subtle man; but if Thomas More was not moved by the desire of a country gentleman to get his daughter off his hands, he was deeply touched by the mute appeal of Jane.

He saw at once what he had done. With his kindness he had sown seeds of hope. Jane had a new gown; Jane had won the respect of her family, for which she had always longed, because they believed that a man wished to make Jane his wife.

What could he do? Could he ride away and never return to New Hall? Could he still ask for the hand of the girl with whom he had fallen in love?

And what of Jane? Meek and mild she was; but it was those of her temperament who suffered most cruelly. And her sister—what of her? But she was a gay spirit and there would be so many to admire her. She was very young, and he doubted whether she had ever thought very seriously about one who would seem elderly to her.

If he hurt Jane, if he wounded her pride, if he was responsible for bringing upon her her family's scorn, how could he forgive himself? He had meant to make her life easier. Could it be that in his blind folly, he had made it harder for her to bear?

Being the man he was, he saw only one course open to him. He must turn tenderness into love; he must marry Jane. He must turn her into a woman such as he wished to have for his wife. Why should it not be so? She had been a docile daughter; she would be a docile wife. So he removed the girl he loved from the picture of domestic bliss and set Jane there in her place. He saw pleasant evenings when they would sit over their books while he talked to her in the Latin tongue. And after Latin … Greek.

And so, as Thomas More came into the garden to speak to Jane, he was picturing the future … their happy home, their children and his learned friends … all merry together.

“Why, Jane,” he said, “we saw you through the window and your father bade me join you.”

“You are welcome,” she answered with her quiet smile.

And in the garden, with the hot sun upon him and the girl beside him, her eyes downcast, there came to him a reminder that he had not yet spoken those words which would make it impossible for him to turn back. Suddenly he thought of the quiet of the Charterhouse, of those years when he had lived with the Carthusian monks, and he longed to be back with them. He wanted another chance to think, to brood on this matter, to talk it over with his friends.

But because he was silent so long, she had lifted her eyes to his face; she had been looking at him for some seconds in anxious bewilderment before he realized this.

How young she was! How pathetic! How could he leave her to the mercy of her family? Dear Jane! He guessed what her life would be if he rode away now. Her sisters would taunt her; the whole family would let her see that she had failed; she would become Jane-of-no-account, in very truth.

Life was unfair to such women.

Pity colored all his thoughts. It was ever so. When he saw the poor in the streets he could never resist giving alms. His friends said: “The word goes round among the beggars: ‘Thomas More comes this way!’ And they uncover their sores, and some feign blindness. Make sure that in enriching the beggars you do not beggar yourself” And he had answered: “There may be some who are not so poor as they would seem to be; there may be some who feign distress to win my pity and with it money from my pocket. But, my friends, I would rather be the victim of a rogue than that any man should be the victim of my indifference to his suffering.”

Pity. Sweet Pity. A nobler emotion that passion or desire. Here then, he thought, is what I most desire: A happy home. And cannot Jane give me that?

“Jane,” he said, “I want you to be my wife.”

She stared down at the flowers in her basket.

“What say you, Jane?” he asked tenderly.

“My father wishes it.”

“He does. And you?”

She smiled slowly. “I shall try to be a good wife to you.”

He kissed her tenderly; and she thought: There will be less to fear with him than with anyone else, for he is the kindest man in the world.

“Then come. Let us go into the house and tell your father that you have consented to become my wife.”

They went into the hall, where the servants were now carrying in the dishes. Thomas was amused by the ceremony which was paid to the food.

“I was about to ask you to salute a new son,” he said to his host, “but I see that he must keep his place until His Majesty the Ox hath been received.”

And only when the great side of beef was set on the table was Master Colt ready to embrace Thomas. Then, taking him to the head of the table, he proclaimed to those assembled there that his daughter Jane was betrothed to Thomas More.

JANE WAS sitting at the window of her new home, which was called The Barge, looking out along Bucklersbury, thinking that she must be the most unhappy woman in the world. But then, Jane's knowledge of the world was slight.

The Barge! She hated it. It was a foolish name to give a gloomy old house. “The Barge,” Thomas had explained, “will be our home. Why ‘The Barge’? you may ask. It is because in the days before the Walbrook was covered, the barges came right to this spot. Oh, Jane, we will wander through the City and we will picture it as it was in days gone by. Then you will see what a wonderful old City it is, and you will love it as I do—more than any other place in the world.”

But Jane could not love it. She could love no place but New Hall. She longed for her garden, for the quiet fields of buttercups and marguerites; she hated this great City with its shops and crowds of noisy people. All through the day she could hear the shouts of traders in the Poultry and the Chepe; she could smell the meats being roasted in the cook shops, and the scents from the apothecaries' of which there were so many in Bucklersbury; the scent of musk mingled with that of spices from the pepperers' and grocers' shops; and she was homesick … homesick for New Hall and the single life.

She wept a good deal. Often Thomas would look in dismay at her reddened eyelids; but when he asked what ailed her, she would shrink from him. She had not imagined that married life was like this, and she could not understand why so many people longed for it. Why did they think a girl had failed if she did not achieve it?

She had married a man whose heart was in books. In London he seemed older than he had in the country. Men came to the house; they were older even than her husband; and she would sit listening to their talk without understanding anything they said.

She was foolish, she knew. Her family had always said so. How tragic it was that she, the simplest of them all, should be married to one of the most learned men in England!

There was so much to learn. She had always believed that a wife had but to watch the servants and see that there was no waste in the kitchen. That had been her stepmother's duty. But here at The Barge, much was expected of her.

“Jane,” he had said, “I will lay the whole world at your feet.” She had thought that was one of the most beautiful things a husband could say to his wife; but she had discovered that his way of laying the whole world at her feet was to attempt to teach her Latin and to make her repeat, by way of re-creation, the sermons they heard in St. Stephen's Church in Walbrook.

“Poor little Jane,” he said, “they have neglected your education, but we will remedy that, my love. I said I would lay the whole world at your feet, did I not? Yes, Jane, I will give you the key to all the treasures in the world. Great literature—that is the world's greatest treasure; and the key is understanding the languages in which it is written.”

She was a most unhappy bride. She felt bewildered and lost and wished she were dead.

Surely everything a normal woman needed was denied her. In a book he had written, entitled The Life of John Picus, there was a dedication to a woman. She had felt a faint stirring of jealousy, but she had discovered that the woman to whom the book was dedicated was a nun—a sister who lived with the Order of the Poor Clares just beyond the Minories. How could she be jealous of a nun? Even that was denied her. She knew that she had married no ordinary man, and she fervently wished that she had a husband whom she could understand—someone like her father or her brothers, even if there were occasions when he was angry with her and beat her. This harping on the value of learning, in spite of his kindness and gentleness, was sometimes more than she could bear.

He was trying to mold her, to make her into a companion as well as a wife. It was like asking an infant to converse with sages.

Dr. Lily came to the house, as did Dr. Linacre and Dr. Colet; they conversed with her husband, and they laughed frequently, for Thomas laughed a good deal; but a woman could not continue to smile when she had no idea of the cause of laughter.

Sometimes her husband took her walking through the City, pointed out with pride what he considered places of interest.

They would walk through Walbrook and Candlewick Street, through Tower Street to the Great Tower. Then Thomas would tell her stories of what had happened within those gloomy walls, but she found she could not remember which of the kings and queens had taken part in them; and she would be worried because she knew she could not remember. Then he would take her to Goodman's Fields and pick daisies with her; they would make a chain together to hang about her neck; he would laugh and tease her because she was a country girl; but even then she would be afraid that he was making jokes which she did not recognize as such.

Sometimes they would walk along by the river or row over to Southwark, where the people were so poor. Then he would talk of the sufferings of the poor and how he visualised an ideal state where there was no such suffering. He loved to talk of this state which he built up in his imagination. She was rather glad when he did so, for he would not seem to notice that she was not listening, and she could let her mind enjoy memories of New Hall.

At other times they would walk through the Poultry to the Chepe and to Paul's Cross to listen to the preachers. He would glance at her anxiously, hoping that her delight in the sermons equaled his own. He would often talk of Oxford and Cambridge, where so many of his friends had studied. “One day, Jane, I shall take you there,” he promised her. She dreaded that; she felt that such places would be even more oppressive than this City with its noisy crowds.

Once she watched a royal procession in the streets. She saw the King himself—-a disappointing figure, unkingly, she thought, solemn and austere, looking as though he considered such displays a waste of money and time. But with him had been the young Prince of Wales, who must surely be the most handsome Prince in the world. She had cheered with the crowd when he had ridden by on his gray horse, so noble, so beautiful in his purple velvet cloak, his hair gleaming like gold, his sweet face, as someone in the crowd said, as lovely as a girl's, yet masculine withal. It seemed to Jane that the Prince, who was smiling and bowing to all, let his eyes linger for a moment on her. She felt herself blushing; and surely all the homage and admiration she wished to convey must have been there for him to see. Then it had seemed that the Prince had a special smile for Jane; and as she stood there, she was happy—happy to have left New Hall, because there she could never have had a smile from the boy who would one day be the King.

The Prince passed on, but something had happened to Jane; she no longer felt quite so stupid; and when Thomas told her of the coming of King Henry to the throne, she listened eagerly and she found that what he had to tell was of interest to her. Thomas was delighted with that interest, and when they reached The Barge he read her some notes which he had compiled when, as a boy, he had been sent to the household of Cardinal Morton, there to learn what he could. The notes were written in Latin, but he translated them into English for her, and she enjoyed the story of the coming of the Tudor King; she wept over the two little Princes who, Thomas told her, had been murdered in the Tower by the order of their wicked, crook-backed uncle, Richard. She could not weep for the death of Arthur, for, had Arthur lived, that beautiful Prince who had smiled at her would never be a King. So the death of Arthur, she was sure, could not be a tragedy but a blessing in disguise.

Thomas, delighted with her interest, gave her a lesson in Latin; and although she was slow to understand, she began to feel that she might learn a little.

She thought a good deal about the handsome Prince, but a conversation she overheard one day sent her thoughts fearfully to the Prince's father, the flinty-faced King.

John More came to see his son and daughter-in-law. Like Thomas, he was a lawyer, a kindly faced man with shrewd eyes.

He patted Jane's head, wished her happiness and asked her if she were with child. She blushed and said she was not.

Marriage, she heard him tell Thomas, was like putting the hand into a blind bag which was full of eels and snakes. There were seven snakes to every eel.

She did not understand whether that meant he was pleased with his son's marriage or not; and what eels and snakes had to do with her and Thomas she could not imagine.

But there was something which she did understand.

John More said to his son: “So, your piece of folly in the Parliament has cost me a hundred pounds.”

“My piece of folly?”

“Now listen, son Thomas. I have been wrongfully imprisoned on a false charge, and my release was only won in payment of a hundred pounds. All London knows that I paid the fine for you. You were the culprit. You spoke with such fire against the grant the King was asking that it was all but halved by the Parliament. The King wishes his subjects to know that he'll not brook such conduct. You have done a foolish thing. A pair of greedy royal eyes are turned upon us, and methinks they will never lose sight of us.”

“Father, as a burgess of London, I deemed it meet to oppose the King's spending of his subjects' money.”

“As a subject of the King, you have acted like a fool, even though as a burgess you may have acted like an honest man. You are a meddler, my son. You will never rise to the top of our profession unless you give your mind to the study of law, and to nothing else. I kept you short of money at Oxford….”

“Aye, that you did—so that I often went hungry and was unable to pay for the repair of my boots. I had to sing at the doors of rich men for alms, and to run up and down the quadrangles for half an hour before bedtime, or the coldness of my body would have kept me from sleep altogether.”

“And you bear me a grudge for that, eh, my son?”

“Nay, Father. For, having no money to spend on folly, I must give all my energies to learning; and knowledge is a greater prize than meat for supper—even if it is not always of the law!”

“Thomas, I understand you not. You are a good son, and yet you are a fool. Instead of giving yourself entirely to the study of the law, what do you do? When that fellow Erasmus came to England you spent much time … discoursing, I hear, prattling the hours away, studying Greek and Latin together … when I wished you to work at the law. And now that you are accounted a worthy and utter barrister, and you are made a burgess, what do you do? You… a humble subject of the King, must arouse the King's wrath.”

“Father, one day, if I am a rich man, I will repay the hundred pounds.”

“Pah!” said John More. “If you are a rich man you will hear from the King, and I doubt you would remain a rich man long enough to pay your father that hundred pounds. For, my son… and let us speak low, for I would not have this go beyond us … the King will not forget you. You have escaped, you think. You have done your noble act and your father has paid his fine. Do not think that is an end of this matter.” He lowered his voice still more. “This King of ours is a cold-hearted man. Money is the love of his life; but one of his light o' loves is revenge. You have thwarted his love; you have wounded her deeply. You … a young man, who have, with your writings, already attracted attention to yourself so that your name is known in Europe, and when scholars visit this country you are one of those with whom they seek to converse. You have set yourself up to enlighten the people, and you have done this in Parliament. What you have said is this: ‘The King's coffers are full to bursting, good people, and you are poor. Therefore, as a burgess of your Parliament, I will work to remedy these matters.’ The King will not forget that. Depend upon it, he will seek an opportunity of letting you know that no subject of his—be he ever so learned, and whatever admiration scholars lay at his feet—shall insult the King and his beloved spouse, riches.”

“Then, Father, I am fortunate to be a poor man; and how many men can truly rejoice in their poverty?”

“You take these matters lightly, my son. But have a care. The King watches you. If you prosper he will have your treasure.”

“Then I pray, Father, that my treasures will be those which the King does not envy—my friends, my writing, my honor.”

“Tut!” said the shrewd lawyer. “This is fools' talk. Learn wisdom with your Greek and Latin. It'll stand you in better stead than either.”

Jane was frightened. That man with the cruel face hated her husband. She took her father-in-law's warning to heart if Thomas did not.

Often she dreamed of the hard-faced King, and in her dreams his great coffers burst open while Thomas took out the gold and gave it to the beggars in Candlewick Street.

She knew she had a very strange and alarming husband; and often, when she wept a little during the silence of the night, she wondered whether it would have been much worse to have remained unmarried all her life than to have become the wife of Thomas More.

HER POSITION was not relieved by the coming of the man from Rotterdam.

Jane had heard much of him; and of all the learned friends who struck terror into her heart, this man frightened her more than any.

He settled in at The Barge and changed the way of life there.

Sometimes he looked at Jane with a mildly sarcastic smile, and there would be a faint twinkle in his half-closed blue eyes as though he were wondering how such a man as his friend Thomas More could have married the insignificant little wench.

She learned a good deal about him, but the things which interested her were, Thomas said, unimportant. He was the illegitimate son of a priest, and this seemed to Jane a shameful thing; nor could she understand why he was not ashamed of it. He had become an orphan when he was very young, and when those about him had realized his unusual powers he had been sent into a convent of canons regular, but, like Thomas, he could not bring himself to take the vows. He had studied in Paris, where he had given his life to literature; and although he had suffered greatly from abject poverty and had been forced to earn his bread by becoming tutor to gentlemen, so dazzling was his scholarship that he had drawn the attention of other scholars to himself and was recognized as the greatest of them all.

Jane, in her kitchen, giving orders to her maids, could hardly believe that she had this great man in her house and that it was her husband with whom he went walking through the streets of London.

To some extent she was glad of this man's visit; it turned Thomas's attention from herself. They were translating something—to which they referred as Lucian—from Latin into Greek, she believed; they would spend hours together doing this work, disagreeing on many points. It seemed to Jane that learned conversation involved a good deal of disagreement. And so it happened that as Thomas must engage himself in continual conversation with Erasmus, with his work as a lawyer and with his attendances at the Parliament, he had less time to give to the tutoring of his wife.

But she, since the smile she was sure she had received from the Prince of Wales, began to feel that perhaps she was not so foolish as she had believed herself to be. On looking back, it seemed that that smile of the Princes had held a certain appreciation. She was not so foolish that she did not realize that the Prince would look for other qualities in a woman than did Thomas; yet the approbation of such a Prince gave her new courage and confidence in herself.

She listened more carefully to the discourses that went on about her; and when they were in English she found that they were not so dreary as she had believed they must be.

Erasmus disliked the monks; Thomas defended them.

Erasmus declared his intention of one day laying bare to the world the iniquitous happenings which occurred in some of the monasteries of Europe.

He had stories to tell of the evil practices which went on in monasteries. Listening, Jane realized that there was much sin in the world.

In some religious houses, declared Erasmus, lewdness rather than religion was the order of the day. Abortion and child murder prevailed; for how, demanded Erasmus, can these holy nuns account for the children they bring into the world? They cannot. So they strangle them as soon as they are born and bury them in the grounds of the nunneries. There are lusts of an unnatural nature between the sexes….

Here the men became aware of Jane's attention, and they lapsed into Latin.

Jane thought: The Prince thought me worth a glance. Perhaps I could learn a little Latin. Though I should never be a scholar I might learn a little, for if I can understand English, why not Latin?

Erasmus spoke in English of one monastery in which there was a statue of a boy saint, hollow and so light that it could be lifted by a child of five. Yet it was said that only those without sin could lift it. Many came to see the holy statue, and rich men found that they could only lift it when they had paid heavily for the monk's intercession with the saints on their behalf Only when they had given to the monastery as much money as they could be induced to part with were they able to lift the statue. A miracle? In a way. Worked by one of the monks who, remaining out of sight, removed at the right moment that peg which held the statue on the floor. Then there was the case of the phial of blood, reputed to be that of Christ. Only those who were holy enough could see the blood; and it was deemed a sign from Heaven that a man would only be received there if the blood appeared to him. And the blood? The blood of a duck, renewed at regular intervals. And the phial? It was opaque one side. It cost much money to have the phial turned so that the blood was visible to the devout dupe.

“These practices are wicked,” said Erasmus. “They bring much gain to the monasteries now, but they will eventually bring much loss. I am sure of it.”

“Is it fair,” asked Thomas, “to condemn all monasteries because of the evildoing of some?”

“It is well,” said Erasmus, “to put all under suspicion and let them clear themselves.”

“But should one be assumed guilty until he fails to prove his innocence?”

“You are too lenient, friend More. The greed of these monks will prove their undoing. One day I shall show their criminal follies to the world; I shall set it out that all may read. Then, my friend, they will wish that they had led the lives of holy men, which are more comfortable than the lives of the wandering beggars they will become. What say you, Mistress More? What say you?”

The mildly mocking eyes were turned upon her. Thomas came to her rescue. “Jane will doubtless agree with you.”

“Then I am glad of that,” said Erasmus. “And I hope one day to convince you also. For it is the duty of us men of letters to show the worlds wrongs to the world.”

“But we must be sure we have something good to offer in its place, before we destroy that which mayhap could be set to rights.”

“Ah, you and your ideal state! That is still on your mind, is it? You set too high a standard. You think the world is made up of potential saints and martyrs. Does your husband talk to you, Mistress More, day in, day out, of this wonder world of his?”

“He talks … a little,” stammered Jane. “But I am not clever. I am far from learned and there is much I do not know.”

Thomas smiled at her, his eyes telling her not to be nervous. He rose and put an arm about her shoulders.

“Jane is learning,” he said. “One day she will understand Latin even as you or I.”

“I fear not,” said Jane. “I am far too foolish.”

“Why,” said Erasmus, “so he would bother you with lessons, would he? You see, it is what I expect of him. The world is not to his liking, so he would build an ideal world. A woman is … a woman, and he would make a scholar of her!”

“There is no reason, my dear Erasmus, why women, if taught, should not became every bit as learned as men.”

“There is every reason.”

“And what are these?”

“Women are the weaker sex. Do you not know that? They are not meant to cudgel their brains. They are meant to look to the comfort of men.”

“Nay. I do not agree. I believe that we are mistaken in not giving our girls an education equal to that which we give our boys. If we did, we should find our women able to converse with us in Latin while they cooked the dinner.”

“And Mistress More … she is proving as apt a pupil as you once were … as I was?”

Thomas answered in Latin, because he was aware of Jane's embarrassment. He was always acutely aware of the feelings of others, and suffered their hurt more deeply than he would his own.

And the two men, having found a subject for discussion, would go on happily until the one led to another.

It will not always be thus, thought Jane. One day Erasmus will go away; one day we shall visit New Hall; and one day, who knows, I may learn to converse in Latin!

But that day must be a long way ahead, and meanwhile she must go on trying not to hate her life at The Barge.

HAD HE been wrong to marry?

Thomas was unsure. Sometimes he walked alone through the streets of London and his steps invariably took him northward across the City; he would find himself walking up Charter Lane until he came to the great buildings in which he had spent those four years of indecision.

He would enter the quadrangle, then go to the chapel or the chapter house; and he would think, not without longing, of the life of solitude and meditation, life that was given up to study and contemplation, life that was unharassed by bodily needs, by the great events which were going on in the outside world.

He thought of the rigorous way of life of the Carthusians, each with his separate house of two rooms, closet, refectory and garden, living his solitary life, speaking to his fellow monks only on feast days, fasting at least once a week, never eating flesh of any sort and thus subduing the appetites of the body; he thought of wearing the hair shirt by night so that sleep did not come easily, until eventually it was possible to indulge in sleep for only an hour each night; using the wooden pillow, dressing in the coarsest clothes to detract from any good looks a man might possess and so subdue his vanity; he thought of shutting himself away from the world, and perhaps by his example helping to lead others to a holier way of life.

The life of retirement seemed very dear to him when he thought of his home in The Barge of Bucklersbury.

Was Erasmus right? Was it as difficult to create an ideal woman as an ideal world? Was he a fool to try to educate Jane to his intellectual standard? Was he making an unhappy woman of her as well as a fool of himself?

This was the state of the marriage of Jane and Thomas More when Jane found that she was going to have a child.

A CHILD! thought Jane. This would be wonderful. A boy whom his father would make a scholar? That would delight him; that would turn his attention from his poor, simple wife. If he had a boy to whom he could teach the Latin tongue, why should he bother to teach it to Jane? And must he not be grateful to the simple woman who could give him such a blessing in life?

But, thought Jane, if it is a girl, how happy I shall be, for then he will see that girls should not be made learned. She will teach him what I could not; and she and I will be together; she will love flowers and we will grow them together, and I shall take her to New Hall; and when I show my child to my family, then I shall know that the world was right when it said that the married state is the best state of all.

So the child could make Jane happy as Thomas never could.

THOMAS WAS gay.

A child! That was the meaning of married life. That was what he wanted. What was the life to be lived in Carthusian solitude when compared with the bringing up of a child? The best tutors in England should be procured for young Master More. They would be glad to come. Dr. Lily perhaps? There was the greatest teacher in England. Then there would be Thomas More himself to guide his son.

Those were happy days—awaiting the birth of the child. A son, of course. The firstborn should be a son. And after that, more sons and some daughters. And the daughters should be treated in the same way as the sons; no matter what Erasmus, Colet, Lily and the rest said, Thomas was convinced that women should not be denied education. His daughters should prove him to have been right.

But for the present he could dream of his son.

There was laughter in The Barge; and if Jane did not understand all the jokes, she laughed as though she did. She was happy and Thomas was happy to see her happy.

Married life was the best state of all.

HIS FRIENDS were often at the house. Jane did not care. She sat, her needle busy, making clothes for the child. Her body widened and her prestige grew. Who were these scholars? Who was Dr. Colet, with his talk of founding schools for children? It was true that he was no longer a mere vicar of Stepney but had been appointed Dean of St. Paul's itself. But what did she care for him. Who was Dr. William Lily, who had learned Latin in Italy, had traveled widely, had opened a school in London and had, like Thomas, almost become a monk? Who was this Dr. Linacre who had taught Thomas Greek? Who was the great Erasmus himself? Clever they might be, but none of them could bear a child!

New dignity and confidence had come to Jane. She sang snatches of songs as she went about the house.

Married life was indeed good and Jane was very happy.

AND ONE summers day in the year 1505 Margaret came into the world.