King's Confidante

2

MARGARET WAS FOUR YEARS OLD WHEN SHE FIRST KNEW the meaning of fear. Until then her world had been a merry place, ruled by the person she loved best: her father.

The only times when she was unhappy were when he was not at home. Then the old house with its dark staircases, its odd nooks and alcoves, seemed a different place. Margaret would sit in the window seat watching for his return, looking out on the shops of the apothecaries and grocers, thinking that they were not quite the same shops which she had passed, her hand in her fathers, while he explained to her the uses of spices and drugs, the scent of which filled the air. Nothing could be quite right in Margaret's eyes unless her father was with her.

When she heard his laughter—and she almost always heard his laughter before she heard him speak—she would feel as though she had found the right answer to a problem which had bothered her in her lessons. She would run to him and stand before him, waiting for him to lift her up.

He would say: “And what has my Meg learned today?”

Eagerly she would tell him, and draw back to see the effect of her answer. Pleasing him was the most important thing in the world to her. She longed to be able to speak to him in Latin; that, she believed, would please him more than anything she could do.

“Meg,” he once said to her when an answer she had given him had especially pleased him, “to think that when you were born we hoped for a boy!”

“And you would rather have me than any boy, would you not, Father?”

“Rather my girls than any boys in the world.”

She believed that he meant: rather his Meg than any boys; but he would think of the others—Elizabeth who was three and Cecily who was two—and he would tell himself that it was not right for a father to love one child more than the others. And he was a man who must always do right; she knew that. She was a child and not good like he was; and she could love one member of her family so much that if all the affection she had for the others were rolled into one heap it would be as the moon to the great sun of her affection for him. But she would not ask him if he loved her best; she knew he did; and he knew of her love for him. That was their secret.

Sometimes she would go into that room in which he sat with his friends, and he would take her on his knee or sit her on the table. Then the old, solemn-faced men would look at her, and her father would say: “Margaret will prove to you that I am right. She is young yet, but you will see … you will see.”

Then he would ask her questions and she would answer him. They would say: “Can this be a maid so young?”

“A maid who will show you, my friend, that a woman's brain is equal to a man's.” Then he would bring his smiling face close to hers. “Meg, they do not believe that you can learn your lessons. They say that because you are a girl this headpiece of yours will not be equal to the task. Meg, you must prove them wrong. If you do not, they will say that I am right named. For Mows… that is Greek for fool, Meg; and it will seem that I shall be worthy of the name if I am wrong. Meg, thou wilt not let them laugh at thy father?”

“Nay, Father,” she said scowling at the men. “They shall not laugh at thee. We will show them who are the fools.”

They laughed and talked to her, and she answered as best she could, with her heart beating fast for fear she should behave like a very little girl instead of a learned young woman of nearly five years old. She was determined to save her father from the mockery of his friends.

So her lessons were more than a task to her; they were a dedication. She must master them.

“It is not natural to sit so long with your books,” said her mother. “Come … play with Bessy.”

But if she played with Bessy it was but to teach her; for, she thought, Father will like all his daughters to be clever. It will not do for one of us to be wise and the rest ignorant.

Yet she hoped that Elizabeth and Cecily would not be able to learn as easily as she could, for she wished to remain the cleverest of her father's daughters.

Thus Margaret, even at the age of four, had become an unusually learned little girl.

One day her father brought home a girl of her own age—a shy sad little girl.

Margaret heard his voice and rushed down to meet him; she flung her arms about his knees; then she stood solemnly regarding the little girl who stood beside him, her hand in his.

Her father crouched down so that the three of them were all of a size. He put an arm about each of them.

“Margaret,” he said, “I have brought a playmate for you.”

Margaret wanted to say that she had no wish for a playmate. Her lessons absorbed her; and she had two sisters with whom she could play. If she wanted a new addition to their household it would have been a boy, so that she could have proved to those friends of her fathers how right he was when he said girls could learn as much as boys.

But she knew that she must not make the little girl feel unwanted, for that would surely displease her father.

“This,” he went on, “is another Margaret. Margaret is my favorite name.”

That made Margaret smile and look with new interest at the little girl who had the same name as herself.

“This Margaret is coming to live with us, Meg.”

“We cannot have two Margaret's in one house,” Margaret pointed out. “If you called me she would think you called her.”

“My wise little daughter!” His laughter was merry but she knew that he had sensed her resentment, and she blushed because she knew it must displease him.

“One of us would have to be given a new name,” she said quickly.

“What other names are there for Margaret?” he asked. “There is Peg. There is Daisy. There is Meg and Marget. Ah, but we already have a Meg and Marget in our own Margaret. There is Mercy. One of you will have to change her name, will she not?”

“Yes,” said Margaret, her lips trembling slightly. She knew what he expected of her, and she knew that she could not bear to hear him call another Margaret. He knew it too; that was why he expected her to give her name to this girl.

“It is more blessed to give than to receive.” Often he had told them that. He often said: “Ah, my Meg, if only men and women would realize that it is the unselfish acts that bring most pleasure, then the world would become full of unselfish people; and perhaps the very act of unselfishness would become a selfish one.”

She knew, with his eyes upon her, that she must make the sacrifice now.

“I… I will be Daisy or Mercy,” she said.

He kissed her then. “My Meg … my dearest Meg,” he said; and she thought that if that was the last time he called her by her name she would always remember his voice at that moment.

“Mercy is a beautiful name,” he said, “for mercy is one of the most beautiful of all qualities.”

“Do you like Mercy?” asked Margaret of the newcomer.

“Yes,” she answered. “I will be Mercy, because this is your house first, and you were the first Margaret in it.”

Then her father kissed them both and said: “So my Meg stays with me; and in addition I have brought Mercy into the house.”

Her name was Mercy Gigs and she had been left an orphan. She had no fortune, he explained to Margaret, but her own sweet nature. “So, Meg, we must take her into our house. I will be Father to her; your mother will be Mother; and you will be sister to her as you are to Elizabeth and Cecily.”

And so it was that she acquired a new sister, to learn with her and talk with her. She had the advantage of having started her lessons earlier, but she soon realized that Mercy Gigs was a rival, for she had given her devotion to the man who had taken her into his house and become her foster father, and, like Margaret, her one thought was to win his respect and approval.

She too worked hard at her lessons and tried to startle him with her ability to learn. Now when the friends came and asked how Margaret was progressing with her lessons, there would be two little girls to confront them; and Mercy Gigs, the orphan, could confound them even more than Margaret who was, after all, the daughter of a learned man.

“So Mercy will prove my point completely,” Thomas would say with glee. “Mercy is going to be as clever as my own children. Mercy shall be given the best tuition with my own children, and she will show you that most feminine minds are as capable of absorbing knowledge as a sponge absorbs water.”

Then Mercy would blush and smile and be very happy.

Later there came a period of anxiety. It began when, one day, her father took Margaret on his knee and told her that he was going away for a little while.

She put her arms about him and bit her lips to hold back her tears.

“But it will not be for long, Meg,” he said. “I am going into foreign lands. I am going to the universities of Paris and Louvain to see my friends who come to see me when they are here; and perhaps one day, Meg, I shall take you and your mother and your sisters there. How will you like that?”

“I would rather stay here and that you should stay too.”

“Well, Meg, that which we would rather have does not always come about. You will have to look after everybody in the house, will you not? And you will work hard at your lessons whilst I am gone?”

She nodded. “But why must you go? Why must you go?”

“I am going because quite soon I may want to take my family to France. But first I wish to go there alone, to make sure that it is the place my family would like to live in.”

“Of course we should like to live there if you were there. There is no need for you to go first without us.”

He kissed her and put her down.

Her fears had started then. Not only was this due to the fact that he left for France shortly afterward, but she knew from the looks of the servants, from the voices of the people who spoke with her mother, and from her mothers worried looks, that something frightening had happened.

He had not told her what it was; and she knew that could only be because she was too young to understand.

She talked of this matter with Mercy. Mercy was wise and quiet; she too had noticed that something was wrong; she too was afraid.

Once when her mother was baking bread in the kitchen, Margaret said: “Mother, when will my father come back?”

“Soon, my child. Soon.”

“Soon,” said Margaret, “can be a long time for something you greatly wish for. It can be quick for something you hate.”

Jane touched the small head and marveled at this daughter of hers. Margaret was far more like Thomas than like herself; she was more like Thomas than any of the others. Whenever she looked at the child she remembered those days soon after Margaret's birth, when Thomas had walked up and down the room with her to soothe her cries; she remembered that Thomas could soothe her as no one else could. She remembered also how Thomas had talked of what he would do for this child, how she was to be a great and noble woman, how delighted he was with his daughter, how she had charmed him as no son ever could have done.

And it seemed that Thomas must have had preknowledge for Margaret was all that he had wished. Her cleverness astonished her mother; she had already, though not yet five, started on Latin and Greek, and seemed to find the same pleasure in it that most children would in a game of shuttlecock. Jane could feel satisfied when she surveyed her eldest daughter. Surely she had made his marriage a success when she had given him this quaint and solemn daughter.

“Well, my dearest,” said Jane, “your father will be away for a few weeks, and I'll swear that that will seem long to all of us. But when he returns you will be all the more pleased to see him because you have missed him so much.”

“Nothing could please me more,” said Margaret, “than to see him every day.”

Then she went away and gravely did her lessons. Her one aspiration now was to astonish him when he came back.

And eventually he did come back. Margaret must be the first to greet him; and when she heard his voice calling to his family, she sped into the great hall; but Mercy was there beside her.

They stood side by side looking up at him.

He smiled at their grave little faces and lifted them in his arms. He kissed Mercy first; but Margaret knew, and Mercy knew, that that was because he was longing to kiss Margaret more than anyone, for Margaret was his own child and he could never love any as he loved her.

They sat at the big table—the whole household—and everyone was happy because he was home. All the servants, who sat at the table with the family, were happy; and so were those poor travelers who had called in, weary and footsore, because they knew that they could always be sure of a meal in the house of Thomas More.

After the meal, Thomas went first to the schoolroom, and there he marveled and delighted in the progress his daughters had made. Even two-year-old Cecily had started to learn; and he was, he said, mightily pleased. “Why,” he declared, “ 'twas worth being away, for the pleasure it gives me to come back to you.”

But a few days later he took Margaret walking in Goodman's Fields, and made her sit beside him on the grass there; and as they sat, he told her that he had made plans to leave The Barge in Bucklersbury, to leave this City, and to take his family away with him to France.

Margaret cried: “But… Father, you say you love London, and that no other city could ever be home to you.”

“I know, my child. And you?”

“Yes, Father. I love it too.”

“And which would you have—a strange land with your father, or England … London … and no father?”

“I would rather be anywhere with you, Father, than anywhere without you.”

“Then, Margaret, it will be no hardship for you. ‘Better is a dinner of herbs where love is …’, eh? And it will be a dinner of herbs, my dearest, for we shall not be rich.”

“We shall be happy,” said Margaret. “But why must we go?”

“Sometimes I wonder, my Margaret, whether I have made you grow up too quickly. I so long to see you bloom. I want you to be my little companion. I want to discuss all things with you. And I forget what a child you are. Well, I shall tell you this; but it is our secret. You will remember that?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Then listen. A long time ago, before you were born, before I married your mother, our King asked his Parliament for a sum of money. I was a Member—a very junior Member—of that Parliament, and I argued against the King's wishes. Partly because of the words I spoke, Margaret, the King did not get all the money for which he was asking.”

Margaret nodded.

“When the King is given money by the Parliament, it is the peoples money raised by taxes. You do not know what these are, and one day I will explain. But, you see, money has to be taken from the people to give to the King… a little here … a little there … to make a large sum. The cost of food is increased so that some of the money which is paid for it may go to the King. The people had already paid too many of these taxes and the King wanted them to pay more and more. I thought it wrong that he should have the money for which he asked. I thought it wrong that the people should be made even poorer. And I said so.”

“It was wrong, Father.”

“Ah, little Meg, do you say that because you see why it was wrong, or because I say so?”

“Because you say so, Father.”

He kissed her. “Do not trust me too blindly, Meg. I am a mortal man you know. I will say this: I thought what I did was right. The King thought I was wrong. And kings, like little girls … little boys … and even babies, do not like people who prevent their doing those things which they wish to do. So … the King does not like me.”

“Everybody likes you, Father,” she said in disbelief.

“You do,” he said with a laugh. “But everyone—alas!—has not your kind discernment. No, the King does not like me, Meg, and when a king does not like a man, he seeks to harm him in some way.”

She stood up in alarm. She took his hand and tugged at it.

“Whither would you take me, Meg?”

“Let us run away now.”

“Whither shall we run?”

“To some foreign land where we can have a new king.”

“That is just what I propose to do, Meg. But there is no need for you to be frightened, and there is no need for such haste. We have to take the others wth us. That is why I went abroad … to spy out the land. Very soon you, I, your mother, the girls and some of our servants are going away. I have many kind friends, as you know. One of these is a gentleman you have seen because he has visited us. He is a very important gentleman—Bishop Foxe of Winchester. He has warned me of the King's feelings against me, and he has told me that he can make the King my friend if I will admit my fault to the Parliament.”

“Then he will make the King your friend, Father?”

“Nay, Meg, for how can I say that I was wrong when I believe myself to have been right, when, should I be confronted with the same problem, I should do the same again?”

“If Bishop Foxe made the King your friend, you could stay at home.”

“That is true, Meg. I love this City. Look at it now. Let me lift you. There is no city in the world which would seem so beautiful to me as this one. When I am far from it, I shall think of it often. I shall mourn it as I should mourn the best loved of my friends. Look, Meg. Look at the great bastions of our Tower. What a mighty fortress! What miseries … what joys … have been experienced within those walls? You can see our river. How quietly, how peacefully it flows! But what did Satan say to Jesus when he showed Him the beauties of the world, Meg? That is what a small voice within me says, ‘All this can be yours,’ it says. ‘Just for a few little words.’ All I need say is that I was wrong and the King was right. All I need say is that it is right for the King to take his subjects' money, to make them poor that he may be rich. Nay, Meg, it would be wrong to say those words. And there would be no peace in saying them. This City of mine would scorn me if I said them; so I cannot, Meg; I cannot.” Then he kissed her and went on: “I burden this little head with so much talk. Come, Meg, smile for me. You and I know how to be happy wherever we are. We know the secret, do we not? What is it?”

“Being together,” said Margaret.

He smiled and nodded, and hand in hand they walked home by the long route. Through Milk Street they went, that he might show her the house in which he was born, for he knew she never tired of looking at it and picturing him as a child no bigger than herself; they went past the poulterers' shops in the Poultry, through Scalding Alley where the poulterers' boys were running with the birds sold by their masters, that there in the Alley they might be plucked and scorched; the air was filled with the smell of burning feathers. And they went on into the Stocks Market with its shops filled with fish and flesh and its stalls of fruit and flowers, herbs and roots; and so home to Bucklersbury with its pleasant aromas of spices and unguents, which seemed to Margaret to have as inevitable a place in her life as the house itself.

It was as though he looked at all these places with loving concentration, so that he might remember every detail and be able to recall them when he became an exile from the City which he loved.

As they approached the house he said: “Meg, not a word to anyone. It would frighten the children. It would frighten your mother.”

She pressed his hand, proud to share their secret.

But she greatly feared that the mighty King would hurt her father before they could escape him.

THERE WAS great excitement in the streets; and there was relief mingling with that excitement, which was felt in the house in Bucklersbury.

The King was dead. And fear had died with him.

A new King had come to the throne—a boy not yet eighteen. He was quite different from his father; there was nothing parsimonious about him, and the people looked forward to a great and glorious reign. The household of Thomas More need not now consider uprooting itself.

All over the City the church bells were ringing. In the streets the people were dancing and singing. How could they regret the passing of a mean old King, when a young and handsome one was waiting to take the crown?

Men talked of the terrible taxation demanded by the late King through his agents, Empson and Dudley. Rumors ran through the town. The new King loved his people; he loved to jest and be merry. He was not like his father, who rode in a closed carriage whenever he could, because he did not wish the people to see his ugly face. No, this King loved to ride abroad, clad in cloth of gold and velvet, sparking with jewels; he liked to show his handsome face to his subjects and receive their homage.

“Father,” said Margaret, “what will happen now that we have a new King?”

“We shall pass into a new age,” he said. “The old King's meanness curbed everything but the amassing of money by a few people. England will now be thrown open to scholars. Our friend Erasmus will be given a place here, and enough to keep him in comfort while he continues his studies. Avarice will be stamped out. The new King begins a new and glorious reign.”

“Will he give back the money his father took from the people?” asked Margaret.

Her father laid a hand on her head. “Ah, that I cannot tell you.”

“But how can he begin to please the people unless he begins by doing that?”

“Margaret, there are times when the working of your mind seems almost too great a strain for your years.”

But he kissed her to show that he was pleased with her; and she said: “Even if he does not, there is nothing to fear, is there, Father. Satan does not whisper to you anymore: 'The cities of the world are yours.…”

“You are right, Meg,” he told her joyfully.

Dr Colet came to the house, and even he, for a time, ceased to talk of literature and theology while he discussed the new King.

“There will be a marriage of the King and the Spanish Infanta, his brothers widow,” he said. “I like that not. Nor, I gather, does my lord of Canterbury.”

Margaret listened to them; she was eager to learn everything, that she might afford her father great pleasure by her understanding when these matters were referred to.

“There will have to be dispensation from the Pope,” said Thomas. “But I doubt not that will be an easy matter.”

“Should it be granted?” asked Colet. “His brothers widow! Moreover, did he not some years ago make a solemn protest against the betrothal?”

“He did—under duress. He protested on the grounds that she was five years his senior, and he quoted the Bible, I believe. No good could come of such a marriage, he said. But it was his father who forced the protest from him. Young Henry, it seems, always had a mild fancy for the Spanish lady; and his father was pleased that this should be so, for you'll remember, only half of her magnificent dowry had fallen into his hands and he greatly longed to possess himself of the other half.”

“I know. I know. And when the old King decided he would marry Katharine's sister Juana, he felt that, if father and son married sisters, the relationship would be a complicated and unpleasant one. I doubt not that he thought it better to secure Juana's great riches than the remaining half of Katharine's dowry.”

“That was so. Therefore young Henry, whatever his private desires, must protest against his betrothal to his brothers widow.”

“Still, he made the protest,” said Colet.

“A boy of fifteen!”

“It was after the protest, so I hear, that he began to fall in love in earnest with his brother's widow. The toy had been offered him; he thought little of it; it was only when there was an attempt to snatch it from him that he determined to hold it. And now he declares nothing will turn him from the match, for she is the woman of his fancy.”

“Well, she is a good Princess,” said Thomas, “and a comely one. She will provide England with a good Queen. That will suffice.”

“It will, my friend. It must. Do not forget it is the King's wish. There is no law in this land but the King's pleasure. And it will be well for us to remember that this King—be he ever so young and handsome—like his father, is a Tudor King.”

And Margaret, listening, wondered whether fear had entirely left her. This King—young and handsome though he was—might not give back to the people the money his father had taken from them; he wished to marry his brother's widow mainly because his father had said he should not. Would he prove to be such a good King after all? Could she be happy? Could she be reassured that her father was safe?

ONE EVENT took place which seemed to the family as important as the accession of the new King to the throne.

Little Jack was born.

Jane was happy. A boy at last! She had always wanted a boy; and right from the first she saw that the boy was going to resemble the Colts.

He had her father's nose already; he had Jane's eyes; and she loved him dearly. But his birth had taken its toll of her health. She was ill for many weeks after Jack was born; and when she got up from her bed she felt far weaker than she had been after her previous confinements.

Still, she was happy. She would not have believed five years ago that she could have been so happy in this old City. London now meant home to her; she even enjoyed walking through the crowds to the Chepe, her maid following her, ordering from the tradespeople. She was not afraid of crowds now; nor was she afraid of Thomas. She had even learned a little Latin, and she could join in the children's conversations with their father.

Sometimes she regretted the fact that not one of her children was a simple little soul such as she herself had been; for even baby Cecily was showing that she would be a little scholar. Yet, thought Jane, I am glad that they are clever. They will not suffer as I suffered; and how sad it would be for one of them to be a dullard in the midst of so many that are brilliant—like a sad piglet in a litter. I should not like that at all. No, let them all be clever; even though they do surpass their mother, even though they must, as they grow up, look upon her as a simpleton.

There was great excitement because the King and the Queen, whom he had married a few days before, were going to be crowned; and London was in Coronation mood. There was no talk but of the accession, the royal marriage, and the Coronation, and all the streets were now being decorated for the last ceremony. Cornhill, the richest street in London, was hung with cloth of gold, and was a sight to gladden any eye, so Jane was told; she had felt too weak to go and see it for herself, but she had promised the children that she would take them to watch the progress of die King and Queen, and nothing would induce her to disappoint them.

Thomas could not accompany them; he had his duties allotted to him as a burgess of the Parliament; and so, on that sunny June day, leaving the newly born baby in the care of a nurse, with Cecily clinging to one hand, Elizabeth to the other, and Margaret and Mercy hand in hand, the little party set out to watch the King with the Queen ride through the streets from the Tower to Westminster for the crowning.

Jane had decided that Cornhill would be the best place in which to see the procession, for accounts of the beauties of Corn-hill had been spread through the City. Moreover, they had but to go through Walbrook, cross the Stocks Market to the corner where Lombard Street and Cornhill met.

But Jane had reckoned without the crowds. Everyone, it seemed, had decided that this would be the best place from which to see the procession.

Jane felt weak and tired and the heat was making her dizzy. There was nothing she would have liked better than to take her party home; but when she looked at the excited faces of the children, she found it impossible to disappoint them.

“Keep close to me,” she warned. “Margaret, you keep your eyes on Cecily. And Mercy … take Bess's hand. Now … keep very close. How hot it is! And so many people!”

“Mother,” cried Elizabeth, “look at the beautiful cloth. Is it real gold? They art goldsmiths' shops, are they not? So perhaps it is real gold.”

“Yes, yes; they are beautiful,” said Jane.

Cecily wanted one of the hot pies which were being sold nearby. Elizabeth said she would prefer gingerbread.

“Now, now,” said Jane. “You will miss the King if you do not watch.”

That made the children forget their hunger.

But there was a long time to wait for the procession. The sun seemed to grow hotter; Jane felt faint as the crowds pressed about her. She became very frightened, asking herself what would happen to the children in this press of people if she were to faint. Her very panic seemed to revive her.

She lost her purse before they had stood there for ten minutes. The thief must have been the young boy who had pressed against her and given her such an angelic smile of apology that she had thought how charming he was.

She should not have come. She should have told Thomas of her intention. Why had she not? Because, she supposed, there were times when she wished to assert her authority over her little family, to say to them: “I know I am not wise, but I am the mother, and there are times when I wish to make my own decisions. I wish to say that something shall be done and to see that you do it.”

How glad she was when the sound of trumpets and the tramp of horses' hoofs heralded the approach of the procession. The people shouted; the children stood spellbound. And as die excitement grew Jane felt a little better. There had not been much in her purse, and this would be a lesson to her. She would quote Thomas and say: “Experience is generally worth the price, however dearly bought.”

Now came the knights and squires and the lords of the land—so handsome, some magnificent in their velvet and cloth of gold. But more handsome than any was the King himself. There he rode, so young, so eager for the approbation of his subjects, smiling, inclining his head, aglitter with jewels. It was worth a little discomfort, even the loss of her purse, to witness such glory.

And there was the Queen—a bride of a few days although she was a widow of some years' standing. She was in her twenties—too old, some said, for such a hearty youth; but she was beautiful—there was no denying that Her dark hair, which it was said, hung to her feet when she stood, now hung about her shoulders, a black, gleaming cloak; she was dressed in white satin, beautifully embroidered, and her headdress was glittering with multicolored jewels. Two white horses bore her litter, which was decorated; and cries of “God Save Queen Katharine” mingled with those of “God Bless die King.”

Now came the rest of the procession, and so close did the prancing horses come that the mass of people surged back to avoid being trodden on. Jane grasped her children and pulled them toward her, but the pressure increased. The faces of the people seemed to merge into the blue sky and the fanfares and the trumpeting seemed to come from a long way off. Jane fainted.

“Mother … Mother!” cried Margaret in alarm.

But Jane was slipping down and was in danger of being trampled underfoot.

“Stop … Stop…. I beg of you stop!” cried Margaret.

Cecily began to scream, Elizabeth to cry forlornly, while Mercy tried in vain to hold back the people with her little hands.

Then suddenly a strong voice cried: “Stand back! Stand back! Can you not see! A woman has fainted.”

It was a loud, authoritative feminine voice; and Margaret lifted fearful eyes to a plump woman who was holding a little girl by the hand. Her fat cheeks quivered, her mouth was tight with indignation, and her eyes snapped contempt at the crowd.

Miraculously she had cleared a space about Jane. She put an arm about the fainting woman and forced her head downward. After a few seconds, to Margaret's delight, the color began to return to her mothers face.

“The heat, that's what it is,” said the woman. “I could have fainted myself. And would have done … if I had not had the will to stop myself.”

Margaret, grateful as she was, could not help sensing the reproof to her mother in those words. She said: “My mother is not strong yet. We have just had a baby brother.”

“Then more fool she to come out on such a day!” was the answer to that. “Where do you live?”

“At The Barge in Bucklers bury.”

“That's not more than a stone's throw from here. I'll take you back. The crowds will be rougher ere long.”

“You are very good,” said Margaret.

“Tilly valley! What could I do? Leave a baby like you to look after a fainting woman in a crowd like this? Ah, mistress, I see you are looking about you. You fainted and I am looking after your children here. Can you stand? Here, lean on me. You two big girls take the little ones and keep a firm hold of their hands. Now, Ailie, you cling to my gown. I am going to force my way through the crowd. Come, mistress. Take my arm. Your children are here, and we'll push them ahead so that they cannot stray from our sight. We'll be in Bucklersbury in next to no time, and that's where you should be before the mob starts roystering.”

“You are very good,” said Jane. “I…”

“Now keep your breath for walking. Come along now. Come along.”

Forcefully she pushed a way for them, calling sharply to any that stood in their path. “Can you not see? I have a sick woman here. Stand aside, you oafs. Make way there.”

And the odd thing was that none cared to disobey her, and under such strong guidance the family soon reached Bucklersbury.

The woman sniffed and looked with scorn about her. “What odors! What odors!” she declared. “I'm glad my late husband was not one of these apothecaries with their smells. There are no smells in a mercers shop but goodly smells. But this … poof! I like it not!”

“My husband,” said Jane, “is a lawyer.”

“A lawyer, eh! What the good year! Well, here you are, and if you will take my advice you'll not go into crowds again in a hurry.”

“You will come in and take a little refreshment?”

The widow said she would, and followed them into the big hall, where she sat down.

Margaret saw that the little girl named Ailie was very pretty and more or less of an age with herself and Mercy. Her golden hair escaped from her cap, and her gown was of richer material than that worn by the little More girls.

“Tell me the names of your girls,” said the widow. “Nay … let them speak for themselves. I'll warrant they have tongues in their heads.”

“We have,” said Margaret with dignity, for although she was grateful for the widow's help in bringing them home, she did not like her overbearing manner. “I am Margaret. This is my foster sister called Mercy because her name is also Margaret, and … my sisters Elizabeth and Cecily.”

“And I am Mistress Alice Middleton, widow of Master John Middleton, mercer of the City and merchant of the Staple of Calais. Here is my daughter. Alice like myself, so like Mercy there, she is called by a name other than her own. Why, you and she are of an age. That should make you friends.”

The children continued to study each other, and Mistress Middleton turned to her hostess, complimented her on the mead she was offered and told her how she could improve it by using more honey in its making. Still, it was a goodly brew.

She went on: “Now rest yourself. Keep to the house, for there'll be roystering this night… and so there should be, for it is a good day for the land, I'll swear, with such a bonny King come to the throne.”

When she had drunk her mead and had a look at the house, commenting—not always favorably—on its furnishings, she left with her daughter.

“A talkative woman,” said Jane, “but capable, I'll swear … and very kind.”

THIS WAS a happy day for Thomas More. The tyrant was dead and in his place was a monarch who promised great things for England.

When Thomas was happy, he liked to take up his pen, and it was natural that his writings should now be concerned with the new reign.

“If ever there was a day, England,” he wrote, “if ever there was a time for you to give thanks to Those above, this is that happy day, one to be marked with a pure white stone and put in your calendar. This day is the limit of our slavery, the beginning of freedom, the end of sadness, the source of joy….”

He went on to enumerate the virtues of the young King: “Among a thousand noble companions, does he not stand out taller than any? If only nature could permit that, like his body, the outstanding excellence of his mind could be visible! This Prince has inherited his father's wisdom, his mother's kindly strength, the scrupulous intelligence of his father's mother, the noble heart of his mother's father. What wonder if England rejoices in such a King as she has never had before!”

Thomas went on to sing the praises of the Queen; he wrote of her dignity and her devotion to religion, of her beauty and her loyalty. There was surely no woman more worthy to be the wife of such a King, and none but the King was worthy to be the husband of such a Queen. Heaven bless such a union; and surely when the crowns had long been worn by Katharine and Henry, their grandson and great-grandson would wear the crown of England in the years to come.

When Thomas recited this composition to John Colet, the Dean of St Paul's remarked in his dry way that the qualities of Henrys ancestors might have been construed differently. For instance, the wisdom of Henry the Seventh might have been called avarice; the kindly strength of Elizabeth of York, meekness dictated by expediency; the scrupulous intelligence of Margaret of Richmond, ambition; the noble heart of Edward the Fourth as lechery and determination to rule at all cost.

“Still,” said the dean, “this should be shown to the King. It will surely please His Grace. Much flattery has been poured into the royal ears, but I doubt that any has ever been so elegantly phrased.”

“Flattery?” said Thomas. “That may be. But, John, it sometimes happens that if a man is shown a flattering picture of himself, he will try to be worthy of that picture. For such reasons it is expedient to flatter kings.”

“Yet when men offer flattery with one hand, they are apt to hold out the other to receive the rewards such flattery may earn. What rewards seek you, friend Thomas?”

Thomas considered this. “Might it not be,” he said at length, “that this writing of mine is in payment for his coming to the throne at an opportune time for me? I could sing paeans, my friend, if I had the voice for them, because this King now reigns and there is no need for me to leave the country. Rewards? Perhaps I wish for them. It may be that I long to go on as I have … here in London … with my family about me. Oh, and perhaps if the King is pleased with my offering, I might ask concessions for Erasmus. It would be good to have him with us again, would it not?”

“It would. Take the verses. Crave audience. I doubt not you will obtain it.”

And so Thomas took his writing to the King.

THE HAPPIEST person in the palace of Westminster should have been its King. None knew this more than the King himself, and he was sullen on finding that it was not so.

It was a glorious thing to be a King. Wherever he went the people hailed him, for he was not only a King; he was a beloved King. Were he not taller than all those about him, he would have been distinguished as their King by the glittering jewels he wore. He was the richest King in Europe; he was only now realizing how rich, for he had only guessed at the amount of wealth and treasure his father had amassed.

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?”

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.”

“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.

For a lawyer and a scholar she had little to spare; for a man who had spoken with the King she had much.

THE NEXT two years were eventful ones for Margaret. For one thing, two people became very important to her. Both of these were visitors to the house; although one of these was a neighbor and a constant caller, the other lived with them as one of the family.

The first was Alice Middleton who made regular calls. Margaret did not love Mistress Middleton, although she recognized that lady's wish to be kind. Mistress Middleton believed that everyone who did not do as she did must surely be wrong. If any household task was not done according to Mistress Middleton's rule, it was not done in the right way. She would teach them how to bake bread in the only way to bake the best bread, and that was the way she always did it; she would show them how to salt meat in order to make the best of it. She would show how children should be brought up. They should be obedient to their elders; they should be whipped when stubborn; they should be seen and not heard, and not talk in heathen tongues which their elders could not understand.

What disturbed Margaret more than anything was the fact that her father did not feel as she did toward Mistress Middleton. She had watched his face as he listened to her tirades, and had seen the amused twitch of his lips; sometimes he would talk with her, as though he were luring her on to taunt him. She was a rude and stupid woman; yet he seemed to like her rudeness and her stupidity. And Margaret, who followed her father in most things, could not do so in this.

The other person was the exalted Erasmus.

Him, Margaret regarded with awe. He was now more famous than he had been in the days when he had first come to England. He was known all over the world as the greatest Greek scholar, and he was preparing to write a critical edition of the Greek text of the New Testament.

Margaret could understand her fathers affection for this great man, for Erasmus was worthy of his regard and friendship as Madam Alice could never be.

This Erasmus was a sick man. There were days when he could do nothing but lie abed. On such days Margaret would wait upon him, bringing to him the books he asked for. He had a great affection for Margaret and she was pleased that this should be so, largely because of the delight it gave her father. Thomas would openly sue for praise for his daughter as he never would for himself and Margaret felt very tender toward him as she watched his delight in the compliments Erasmus paid her.

Once Erasmus said: “I do not believe there is another girl—or boy—of this child's age who can write and speak the Latin tongue as she does.” And afterward her father said to her: “Meg, this is one of the happiest days of my life. It is a day I shall remember on the day I die. I shall say to myself when I find death near me: ‘The great Erasmus said that of my daughter, my Meg.’”

She thought a good deal about Erasmus. He might be a greater scholar than her father—though she doubted this—but she did not believe he was such a brave man. There was a certain timidity in his manner; this had been apparent once when Alice Middleton was present and had spoken quite sharply to him—for Alice was no respecter of scholars, and the fame of Erasmus had not reached her ears. She obviously did not believe that a poor wisp of a man who, as she said, looked as though a puff from the west wind could blow him flat, was as important as they seemed to think. “Scholar! Foreigner!” she snorted. The sort of men she respected were those like the King: more than six feet tall and broad with it; a man who would know what to do with a baron of beef and a fat roast peacock… aye, and anything a good cook could put before him. She liked not this sly-looking man with his aches and pains. Greatest scholar in the world! That might be. But the world could keep its scholars, declared Mistress Alice.

Margaret said to Mercy: “No; he has not Father's bravery. He would not have stood before Parliament and spoken against the King.”

“He has not Father's kindness,” answered Mercy. “He would mock where Father pitied.”

“But how could we expect him to be like Father!” cried Meg; and they laughed.

Erasmus spent his days writing what he called an airy trifle, a joke to please his host who loved a joke, he knew, better than anything. He was too tired, he told Margaret, to work on his Testament. He must perfect his Greek before he attempted such a great task. He must feel sure of his strength. In the meantime he would write In Praise of Folly.

He read aloud to Thomas when he came home; and sometimes Thomas would sit by his friends bed with Margaret on one side of him, Mercy on the other; he would put an arm about them both, and when he laughed and complimented Erasmus so that Erasmus's pale face was flushed with pleasure, then Margaret believed that there was all the happiness in the world in that room.

Erasmus poked fun at everybody… even at the scholar with his sickly face and lantern jaws; he laughed at the sportsman for his love of slaughter, and the pilgrims for going on pilgrimages when they ought to have been at home; he laughed at the superstitious who paid large sums for the sweat of saints; he laughed at schoolmasters who, he said, were kings in the little kingdoms of the young. No one was spared—not even lawyers and writers, although he was, Margaret noted, less severe with the latter than with the rest of the world.

And this was written with the utmost lightness, so that it delighted not only Thomas, but others of their friends, to picture Folly, in cap and bells, on a rostrum addressing mankind.

He stayed over a year in the house, and while he was there Thomas was made Under-Sheriff of the City of London, which was an honor he greatly appreciated. Alice Middleton, still a constant visitor, was delighted with this elevation.

“Ah,” Margaret heard Thomas say to her, “how pleasant it is to enjoy the reflected honors! We have neither to deserve them nor to uphold them. We bask in the soft light, whilst the other toils in the heat. The temperate rather than the torrid zone. So much more comfortable, eh, Mistress Middleton?”

“Tilly valley! I know not what you mean,” she told him sharply. “So you but waste your breath to say it.”

He explained to Margaret as he always explained everything: “The Mayor of London and the Sheriffs are not lawyers; therefore they need a barrister to advise them on various matters of law. That my Margaret, is the task of the Under-Sheriff who is now your father.”

And when he dealt with these cases he refrained, if the litigants were unable to pay them, from accepting the fees which had always previously been paid. This became known throughout the City. It was about this time that the people of London began to love him.

Margaret was very happy during those two years; she had learned the meaning of fear, and that lesson had made her happier, for with it had come the joy of being without fear. But there was another lesson to learn: It was that nothing in life was static.

First, Erasmus left for Paris, where he hoped to publish In Praise of Folly; and that was the end of the pleasant reading and discourse. Then Margaret's mother took to her bed with a return of that weakness which had rarely left her since the birth of little Jack.

What they would have done during this time but for Alice Middleton, no one could say. Alice swept through the house like a fresh east wind, admonishing lazy servants, administering possets and clysters to Jane, boxing the ears of maids and menservants and the children when it seemed to her that they needed such treatment.

Gone was their gentle mother, and in her place was bustling and efficient, though sharp-tongued and heavy-handed, Dame Alice.

The children looked at each other with solemn eyes.

“Will our Mother get well?” asked four-year-old Cecily.

Jack cried at night: “Where is our Mother? I want our Mother.”

“Hush,” said Margaret, trying to comfort him. “Mistress Middleton will hear your crying, and box your ears.”

When he fell and cut his knees, or whenever any of the children hurt themselves, it was Mercy who could bind up the wound or stop the bleeding. Mercy had the gentlest of hands, and the very caress of them could soothe a throbbing head.

“I should like to study medicine,” she confided to Margaret. “I believe it is the one thing I could learn more easily than you could. In everything else I believe you would do better than I. But not in that, Margaret.”

And Mercy began growing herbs at the back of the house; and she became very skilful in these matters. Thomas called her: “Our young doctor”!

But nothing Mercy grew in her border, and nothing she could do, made Jane well.

ONE DAY Jane called her eldest daughter to her.

Jane seemed to have grown smaller during the last few days; she looked tiny in the four-poster bed; and her skin was the same color as the yellow thread in the tapestry of the tester.

Margaret suddenly knew that her mother would not live long to occupy that bed.

“Margaret,” said Jane, “come close to me.”

Margaret came to the bed.

“Sit near me,” said Jane, “where I can see you.”

Margaret climbed on to die bed and sat looking at her mother.

“Margaret, you are only six years old, but you are a wise little girl. You seem all of eleven. I feel I can talk to you.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“I am going to die.”

“No … you must not. What can we do without you?”

Jane smiled. “Dear little Meg, those are sweet words. It is of when I am gone that I wish to speak to you. How I wish I could have waited awhile! Another seven years and I could have safely left my household in your hands.”

“Mother … Mother … do not say these things. They make me so sad.”

“You do not wish for change. None of us does. You will take care of your father, Margaret. Oh, he is a man and you are but a child … but you will know what I mean. Margaret, I can die happy because I have left you to your father.”

The tears began to fall down Margaret's cheeks. She wished that she had given her mother more affection. She had loved her father so much that she had thought little of the quiet woman who, she now saw, had taken such an important place in their happy household.

“Mother … please …,” she began.

Jane seemed to understand.

“Why, bless you, Meg, it has been my greatest delight to see that love between you and your father. When we married I was afraid I was quite unworthy of him. I was so … unlearned; and at first I was unhappy. I would sit at the table trying so hard to study the Latin he had set me… yet knowing I would never learn it to his satisfaction. And then when you were born all my unhappiness vanished, because I knew that, although I could not make him an ideal wife, I had given him someone whom he could love better than anyone in the world. That was worthwhile, Margaret. I was happy then. And when I saw you grow up and become everything that he had desired, I was even happier. Then there was Elizabeth … then Cecily … and now Jack. You see, he has, as he would say, his quiver full. And but for me he could not have had you all. That is what I have told myself, and because of it I can die in peace. So do not reproach yourself, my little one, that you love him more than you do me. Love is not weighed. It flows. And how can we stem the flow or increase it? Margaret, always remember, my child, that if you have given him great happiness, you have given me the same. Come, kiss me.”

Margaret kissed her mothers cheeks, and the clammy touch of her skin frightened her.

“Mother,” she said, “I will call Mercy. Mayhap she will know what would ease you.”

“One moment, dearest Meg. Meg … look after them all. My little Jackie … he is such a baby. And he is like me. I am afraid he will not be as good with his lessons as you girls are. Take care of him … and of little Bess and Cecily. And, Meg, I need not tell you to comfort your father, for I know that your very presence will do that. Oh, how I wish that this could have been delayed … a year or two … so that my Margaret was not such a child. You are a dear child, a clever child—never was one so clever—but… if only you had been a few years older I could be content.”

“Mother … please do not fret. I will be as though I have lived twelve years. I will. I swear it. But you will get well. You must. For what shall we do without you?”

Jane smiled and closed her eyes; and, watching, Margaret was filled with terror.

She ran from the room, calling Mercy; but it was Alice Middleton who came into the chamber of death.

A WEEK later Jane was dead; and only a month or so after she was buried, Thomas called his children to him and told them that they should not be long motherless.

He was going to marry a lady capable of looking after them, a lady of great virtue. She was without much education and several years older than himself, but he was convinced that she would be the best possible stepmother for them.

Her name was Alice Middleton.