King's Confidante

4

MARGARET WAS MARRIED IN THE JULY OF THAT YEAR. Will continued to live in the house, and none was more happy than Thomas in his daughter's marriage. He saw his new son-in-law as a serious young man—he did not know of his new religious opinions—who would rise in his profession; he would be a devoted husband, an affectionate father; he would not want to go to Court; he would be content to stay in the heart of the family. His beloved daughter was married, but not lost to him.

Ailie too was married, and she left the house to live in state in her husband's country mansions or his London house.

The family star was steadily rising.

Ailie visited the house often. When she was in London she was continually in and out. She had discovered that, much as she wished for gaiety and excitement, the family circle in Bucklersbury meant more to her than she had realized. She confessed to the girls: “I feel sentimental about home… and when I say home, I mean this house; for nowhere else can be home to me in quite the same way.”

She was not displeased with marriage. Her Giles adored her; he was ready to satisfy every whim, and there was nothing that pleased Ailie more than having her whims satisfied; nevertheless, sometimes she would talk of the old family gatherings round the fire in winter, and out of doors in summer, of the dreams they discussed, the tales they had invented, the songs they had sung; and there would be a wistfulness in her voice.

She delighted in her fine jewels; she was gratified to display them when she came home, and endeavored to arouse the envy of the girls; but when she went away it seemed that she was often the one who was a little envious.

She had tales to tell of the grandeur of Giles's fathers country estates. She had been to Court and had even spoken to the King.

She would gather the girls about her and talk of the King. “So gay… so eager for the balls and the masques.” And the Queen? Ailie would grimace lightly when she talked of the Queen. “She is old… and so serious. Older than His Grace; and methinks he is considering the fact with some displeasure. Of course, there is his boy, Henry Fitzroy, to prove that he has not been faithful to the Queen, and that he can get himself sons…. And now he is deeply enamored of Mary Boleyn.”

Cecily enjoyed listening to the stories.

She would urge Ailie to continue, while she plied her with eager questions. “And what is the girl like? Is she very beautiful?”

“I would not say that. But she has something… something that men like. She is plump and full of fun and laughter… and the King has loved her for a long time … a long time, that is, for him.” Then Ailie would stifle her laughter. “We must not let Margaret hear such talk. Dear Margaret. She likes to think everyone is as pure and noble as she is herself. And the King, my dear, has heaped titles on Mary's father. He is the Steward of Tonbridge, Keeper of the Manor of Penshurst… and I don't know what else. And George … the brother … is not forgotten. George is very attractive. Oh, very handsome! And such poetry he writes! And he has such a way of making the revels successful. The King likes him, as he likes all those who amuse him.”

“As much as he likes Father?” asked Cecily.

“Oh, quite different! With Father he is solemn. Father is a statesman-courtier. George Boleyn is a courtier-statesman.”

“Yet they are both poets.”

“I wish you could see him, Cecily. You would fall in love with him. George, I mean. Oh, assuredly you would.”

And the frivolous creature would go on to describe the balls and banquets, the dresses and jewels, so that it was clear that, although at times she missed her home, Ailie was enjoying life.

And Margaret? She also was happy, but her happiness was tinged with uneasiness. Always she was afraid that discord would flare up between Will and her father. She read with Will; she fortified herself with reasoning which, should the need arise, she could put before her father. She would also be ready with her father's reasoning to set before Will.

And who was right? She, who for Will's and her father's sake had studied both points of view, could not say.

There came a day when Will did not return to the house. She knew that he had set out that afternoon to visit some of his friends. These were mostly merchants in the City, some English, some German traders from the Hanseatic ports. It was Will's custom to visit one of die houses of these merchants where they would agree to congregate, and there to read and discuss the Lutheran doctrines.

Supper was eaten; yet Will had not come home.

To the inquiries of the family, Margaret said: “He has some business in the City, which I knew must keep him.”

But she was frightened; she was always frightened on such occasions, for she knew that since the King had become “Defender of the Faith,” heresy in England was looked upon as a crime.

She went to that bedroom she now shared with Will, and she sat at the window all through the night. But he did not come home.

THOMAS ENTERED the small private closet that adjoined the splendid Council Chamber of the Cardinal.

Wolsey was looking grave. “I am concerned about your son-in-law,” he said.

Thomas was astonished. How could the Cardinal be interested in insignificant Will Roper or Giles Allington?

“Your son-in-law Roper,” explained Wolsey. “He has been caught with some heretics in the house of a London merchant.”

“What! Will Roper … with heretics!”

“So it would seem. And bold withal. He declares that he holds the beliefs of these people and that, had he the chance, he would proclaim his beliefs from a pulpit.”

“But… I can scarcely believe this. You … you are sure?”

Wolsey nodded grimly. “It is a sad affair. A heretic—the son-in-law of a member of the King's Council! We cannot have that said, Master More.”

“My lord Cardinal, I do not understand. It seems impossible to believe this. Where is he now?”

“Doubtless he will be in your house, whither I sent him. His friends will be punished… severely. But as regards your son-in-law … I sent him home and bade him have a care in future.”

“You mean… that he is as guilty of heresy as these others?”

Wolsey nodded.

“Then, my lord, should he not be judged with them?”

The Chancellor-Cardinal, that master of nepotism whose illegitimate sons held offices which, at their tender age, they could not possibly administer, smiled tolerantly at his assistant.

“The son-in-law of the Under-Treasurer! Indeed not!”

“So, because he is my son-in-law, he will go unpunished while the others suffer?”

“Oh, come, come, Master More. We will hush up this matter. But, I beg of you, see that nothing of this nature occurs again.”

Thomas was pacing up and down the apartment. Will… a heretic! Margaret's husband! And he knew nothing of it. Did Margaret know?

A new emotion had come into his life since his wordy battle with Martin Luther; he had not known that he could feel such fierce hatred as he felt for that monk and the people who followed him. Margaret was as astonished as he was by the depth of his feelings. Why did he feel thus? She was right to remind him that he had said with Erasmus that there were anomalies in the Church, which must be stamped out; she had been right to remind him that, in a perfect state, he had visualized freedom of opinion. Why, then, had he changed so suddenly, lost that meekness, that understanding of others who did not share his views? Did he really believe that Martin Luther, the monk who had risked his life, who had given his burning energy to reforming the old religion into a new one, was a rogue?

When he had written Utopia he had imagined a state governed by wise men. But when he visualized the future, he was certain that drastic change, such as Luther advocated, could mean nothing but misery and bloodshed, the smashing of an institution which, while it was not ideal, had its roots in righteousness. The man Luther, it seemed, would smash the Catholic Church, and in so doing he would destroy all those who were as equally determined as he was; then would he set in its place another edifice, as yet untried, which would, Thomas did not doubt, grow up with all the frailty which now beset the Catholic Church.

How could such a disaster be prevented? Only by stamping out the heretic, by making sure that the change did not take place. For the sake of the many who would be bound to suffer cruelly in a mighty war of religion, the few upstarts must be made to suffer. They must be punished as a warning to the people. Those who considered following them must be made to fear the consequences.

Death—torture even—of the few, was a small price to pay for the death and torture of many, for the chaos which, as he saw it, must surely come to the world if the movement was tolerated and allowed to grow.

Thomas had believed when he wrote Utopia that in an ideal state freedom of religious thought was essential; but before such freedom could be given, there must be the ideal state.

He himself suffered physical torture daily. His body was tormented perpetually by his hair shirt, and at this time he had taken to whipping it with knotted cords; in the small chamber which he occupied as his sleeping apartment, he lay with a piece of wood for a pillow. The afflictions of the body, he believed, were as nothing to the triumph of the spirit. If he believed that heretics must be punished, he must punish himself. He believed that those who declared they gave their lives to a spiritual cause would care no more than he did for the torments of the body.

These ideas, he felt, came to him as a divine inspiration. He must do all in his power to preserve the Holy Catholic Faith, which had its roots in Rome; for this reason he had exercised all his talents in his writing against Luther. He saw himself as one of those who must lead the fight. He was no Erasmus, who, having thrown the stone that shattered the glass of orthodox thought, must run and hide himself lest he should be hurt by the splinters.

And now… one of those whom he must fight was his own son-in-law; moreover, he was the husband of her whom he loved more than anyone on Earth.

Wolsey watched the man with some amusement. They were growing further and further apart—he and the Under-Treasurer. More disapproved of the Cardinal's policy, and did not hesitate to say so. A brave man, this, thought Wolsey, but a misguided one; he is a man whose talents would take him far, but whose emotions will hold him back and doubtless ruin him, for in the political arena there is no time for a man to serve anything but his ambition. And of Wolsey, Thomas often thought: A clever man, a shrewd and wise and greatly talented man, but a man who puts his own glory before honor, who will serve his ambition rather than his God.

And now, mused the Cardinal, he is turning over in his mind whether or not this man Roper should be spared the consequences of his action merely because he has a father-in-law in a high place. To what depth of folly will this man's idealism carry him?

Wolsey shrugged his shoulders. He had done what he considered his duty toward a friend and fellow councillor by covering up the misdemeanors of a near relative. Now he washed his hands of the matter. His mind was occupied with affairs of greater moment that were pending in Europe. Pope Leo was sick. How long could he last? And when the new Pope was sought among the Cardinals, who would that man be?

What a splendid climb it would be from Ipswich to Rome, from a humble tutor to a mighty Pope. A Pope was a prince even as was a king, and the Pope stood equal to Charles of Spain, Francis of France and Henry of England.

Why should his new Holiness not be Cardinal Wolsey?

And since his mind was occupied with such great matters, how could he give more than the lightest attention to the consideration of the King's philandering or to this matter of the foolish son-in-law of Sir Thomas More?

THOMAS SHUT himself into that small private room in which he tortured his body. He leaned against the locked door.

What could he do? Love and duty stood before him. Which was he to obey? His duty, he knew, was to refuse the intervention of the Cardinal, to send Roper from his house, to say: “This man is a heretic. He is one of those who would undermine the Church and bring bloodshed to the land.”

But love involved his daughter Margaret, and only now did he know fully what she meant to him. She loved Roper, and he could not think of this matter without imagining Margaret tormented and tortured, turning from him to her husband or from her husband to him. But if he were strong enough to torture himself he could not bear to hurt Margaret.

Yet it was wrong, was it not, that some guilty ones suffered whilst others went free?

But… his own son-in-law … and Margaret's husband!

He must speak to Margaret first.

He called one of the servants and asked that Margaret should be told that he wished to speak with her. She would know, of course, what was wrong, because Will had been detained for a day and night, and he would have told her why he had been allowed to come home. Therefore she would know that the news of his arrest must have reached Thomas's ears.

Moreover, when Thomas had arrived at the house, Margaret had not been at hand to greet him; doubtless she was in the bedroom which she shared with Will, talking to him. Was she trying to make him accept her fathers views? Or was she … but this he shuddered to contemplate … was she too a heretic?

At length she came and stood before him; her face was pale and there were dark shadows under her eyes; and as she stood there with the marks of anxiety and suffering on her face, he knew that his love for his daughter was so strong that it would turn him from his duty.

“Well, Margaret,” he said, “so your husband is a heretic.”

“Yes, Father.”

“You knew of this?”

“I did.”

He ought to ask her that further question: And you, Margaret? But he could not ask it; he was afraid of the answer.

“Why did you not tell me? You and I have always shared everything, have we not?” Almost immediately he was contrite. “But he is your husband…. A husbands place is before a fathers…. You were right in what you did. Of course you were right.”

He saw the tears in her eyes now. She came to him and put her arms about him. He rested his cheek against her hair.

“Oh, Margaret… my dearest daughter.”

“Father,” she said, “how can anyone mean more to me than you do?”

“Hush, my daughter. You must not say that.” All his resolutions were crumbling. He saw himself as weak as other men. He understood the Cardinal's gross action in bestowing favors on his beloved sons. How could he, who so loved his daughter, blame the Cardinal for loving his sons?

“We must be truthful, Father. We always have been. I knew before I married Will that he was leaning toward the new faith. I must tell you everything that is in my mind. I knew your mind and I knew his … and, strangely, because they were different and because I feared a quarrel between you, it was then that I knew I loved him even as I love you, and that what I cared for more than anything in the world was to guard the peace between you. So I married Will, and I have known that he was meeting these merchants … and I knew what books he has been reading… and I know how his thoughts run.”

“He has made his thoughts … your thoughts?”

“Father, you have always said that I was your clever daughter. You have said that my mind equals that of any man you know.”

“I believe that to be true, Meg.”

“Yet in this matter my mind is so clouded that I fear you are mistaken in me. When I listen to Will I see there is reason in what he says; and I think that is perhaps because I love him. Then I know your mind, and I see reason in your beliefs; perhaps that is because I love you. Father, I do not believe it is important whether men follow Luther or the Pope… as long as they obey Christ's commandments. I have tabled the differences and pondered them. Are they real differences? Neither creed excludes love; and love is surely the whole meaning of good in life, is it not? Father, I know your thoughts. You think that these differences of opinion will eventually bring bloodshed, and you are doubtless right. In fact, is it not already happening in some degree? It would be a terrible tragedy. So in all you do and in all you say there is reason, there is love of your fellow men. Will believes that these questions raised by Martin Luther must be examined; and if Luther is right, his way must be followed… no matter what the cost. In a way he is right. You see, I am swayed… this way and that. And I know that the most important thing in the world is that men should live in amity together and love, not hate each other. I know that the two I love best must assuredly do that, and that I will do all in my power—for this seems the most important thing in the world to me—to make them.”

“That is women's reasoning, Meg,” he said.

“I know it. You have said that there should be no differences between the education of men and women. Might it not be that a woman's reasoning on certain matters could be more clear, more precise, more true than that of a man?”

“That could be so, Meg.”

“Oh, Father, you must try to understand Will.”

“Margaret, we must try to turn him from his folly. But for the fact that I have a high place at the Court, he would not be with us now.”

“I know. He would be in some prison awaiting his sentence.”

“He has broken the laws of the country as well—as I see it— as the law of God.”

“Will thinks that if he keeps the law of God as he understands it, it matters not if he breaks the law of the country.”

“We should refuse to accept this concession, Margaret. If he has stated such views, he should be ready to defend them.”

“He is ready, Father. He is not lacking in courage.”

“That is true. It is I who am the coward.”

“You?”

“Because, Meg, I love you so much that I could not bear to refuse to accept this favor. There are some things I have not learned to bear. Once I wished to be a monk, yet I could not resist my dreams of a family life. Now I wish to be an honest statesman, and I cannot be that if it will bring suffering to my beloved daughter.”

She smiled. “Oh, Father, do not be a saint. Do not torture your body with whips and this hair shirt. You are yourself. You are our beloved father. We do not want a saint. And if your love makes you weak… then that is yourself… far more lovable than any saint. Father, if you could only be less determined to do what you think is right! If only you could be more like other men! You have written your replies to Luther for the King. Any statesman might have done it, were he blessed with your gift for writing. Cannot it be left at that? What have heresies and religious opinions to do with our happy home?”

“They are part of the world about us, Meg. They are here with us, like the sun and the light. You may shut your doors, but the light will find some way of penetrating. Will you help me to recall your husband from his heresy?”

“As to that I cannot say,” she answered. “There is one thing I wish to do, and that is to foster love between you, to bring you back to that state which you once enjoyed. I cannot help it, Father. Perhaps it is because I am a woman. But I want you and Will to love each other. I want us all to be happy. I know that is right for us.”

He embraced her tenderly. He said: “I shall talk with your husband, and I shall pray for him. I trust ere long I shall call him home.”

“Father, I too shall pray for him and for you. I shall pray that all may be well between you, and that he who is right shall call the other home, so that you may be together—the two whom I love— in friendship, amity and devotion.”

And when Margaret left him, Thomas fell on his knees and prayed for the soul of William Roper, and that his daughters wishes should be granted.

FOLLOWING THAT, there were disputes and arguments between Thomas and Will. In these Will waxed hot, and Thomas was always calm, which meant that Will must come out the worse from the dispute.

With his wide knowledge of the world and men, with his skill with words, Thomas's arguments must seem the more sound. Thomas was a practiced lawyer; Will was a very young and inexperienced one. Will became, quite naturally, a little less sure of his ideas.

Margaret was glad of this, for she saw that the obstinacy of her father was slightly greater than that of her husband; and she continued to wish above all things for peace between these two.

Will no longer consorted with the merchants, no longer attended illegal meetings. He felt he owed it to his father-in-law to abstain; for if Thomas suffered because he had accepted a concession, which it was against his conscience to accept, Will suffered equally. He would not put his father-in-law in a false position again. For that reason he would no longer run risks; no longer did he speak openly of his beliefs; he studied in the privacy of his apartment, and he talked no more of his ideas except with Margaret and her father.

Margaret had one great matter with which to occupy her mind during that year. She was to have a child.

Now, more than ever, Thomas regretted that he could not spend much time at home. But events were moving fast. Wolsey had been deeply disappointed when, on the death of Leo, Adrian, Cardinal of Tortosa, became Pope instead of Wolsey, Cardinal of York. But Adrian was a sick man, with little hope of occupying for long the Papal chair, and Wolsey's eyes were still on Rome; his ambition had grown to such an extent that it seemed to blind him to all else.

Margaret's emotions were divided between her joy in the unborn baby and her anxieties for her father who was becoming even more important at the Court. She could never forget that day when she had learned that he had aroused the displeasure of Henry the Seventh; she remembered also the law-suit when there had been a dispute over the possession of the Pope's ship. That had been the beginning of advancement; but whither did advancement lead? So many men had found the axe waiting for them when they reached the top of the ladder which led to fame.

Now Thomas had been elected Speaker of the Parliament.

England was at war that year with France and Scotland, and Thomas had succeeded in delaying the collection of those taxes which Wolsey had imposed for the purpose of carrying on the war. Thomas was against war; he had always been against it. If he talked continually thus, what would become of him?

The Cardinal was now openly hostile toward Thomas. He was suffering acute disappointment over the election of the Pope. It seemed incredible to him that a man could be as foolish as Thomas More, so blind to his own chances of advancement.

As he left Parliament Wolsey forgot his usual calm so much as to mutter, so that several heard him: “Would to God, Master More, that you had been in Rome before I made you Speaker of this Parliament.”

Wolsey went straight to die King, and a few days later Thomas was told that he was to be sent on an embassy to Spain.

HOW COULD he leave London when Margaret was soon to have a child? He was beset by fears. How many women died in childbirth? It was the birth of Jack which had led to Jane's death. He must be beside Margaret when her child was born.

She had said: “Father, I hope you will be near me. Do you remember when I was a very little girl and the pain was better when you sat by my bed, holding my hand?”

He had answered: “Meg, thus shall it be now. I shall be with you.”

But Spain! The strain of working for the King was beginning to undermine his health; he was often painfully fatigued. He did not believe he could keep in good health if he undertook the long journey in a trying climate. He thought of the many weary months away from his family. Was it too late even now to break away from the life of the Court which he did not want?

Greatly daring, and saying nothing to his family, he craved audience with the King. It was immediately granted, for Henry liked him for himself, and there were times when he wished to desert his frivolous companions and be with this serious-minded man. It gave him pleasure to see himself as a serious King who, while often gay could also appreciate the company of a scholar.

Thomas had asked for a private interview, so the King sent all his courtiers from him, and when they were alone he turned to his protégé with a pleasant smile.

“Well, Thomas, what is this matter of which you would speak?”

“ 'Tis the embassy to Spain, Your Grace.”

“Ah, yes. You will be leaving us soon. We shall miss you. But Wolsey thinks you are the best man we could send.”

“I fear the Cardinal is mistaken, Your Grace.”

“Wolsey … mistaken! Never! Wolsey knows your talents, my friend, as well as I do.”

“Your Highness, I feel myself unfit for the task. The climate does not agree with my health, and if I am ill I cannot do justice to Your Grace's mission. I feel that if you send me thither you may send me to my grave. If Your Grace decides that I must go, then you may rest assured that I shall follow your instructions to the very best of my ability. But I fear the journey, Sire; I greatly fear the journey.”

The King looked gravely at the man before him. He had grown thin, Henry saw. That was too much poring over books. Not enough good food. From what the King had heard, the fellow did not pay enough attention to what he ate; he did not drink wine. Poor Thomas More! He did not know how to live. And he was married to a woman older than himself. The King frowned at the thought, for it reminded him that he was in a similar position; and it was a position which he was beginning to find irksome.

Poor Thomas! thought Henry. He has his misfortunes … even as I. And he lacks my good health.

“There is another matter, Sire,” went on Thomas. “My daughter, recently married, is expecting her first child; and I should die of anxiety if I were not at hand.”

The King slapped his knee. “Ah, so that's it, eh? That's it, friend Thomas.” Henrys eyes filled with tears. “I like well such fatherly devotion. So should we feel for our daughter, the Princess Mary, were she in similar plight. But you have a big family in Bucklersbury, eh, Thomas? You have a fine son, I hear.”

“Yes, Your Highness. Three daughters, a son, a foster daughter and a stepdaughter.”

“I like to hear that, Thomas. Would it surprise you if your King told you that—in some respects—he envies you?”

“Your Highness is gracious indeed. And I know that in some ways I have been a lucky man.”

“Lucky indeed! A fine son, eh? Would to God I could say the same. And this child of yours … this daughter … Let us hope she will be brought to bed of a fine boy.” The King brought his face closer to that of Thomas. “And we consider it meet that her father should be in London… be here when his grandson comes into the world. Rest happy, my friend. We shall find another to send on that embassy to Spain.”

That was the extent of Thomas's favor with the King.

Yet, delighted as she was to hear the news, Margaret was uneasy.

The King's favor was pleasant while it lasted, but now it seemed to her that her father had won it at the cost of the Cardinal's friendship.

MARGARET HAD quickly recovered from her confinement, and it was a very happy family that lived in Bucklersbury during those months.

Thomas was delighted with his grandson.

“But,” he said, “now that my secretary, John Harris, is living with us and I have a grandson, this house is not big enough; and in the years to come when I have many grandsons and granddaughters—for the other girls will marry one day and I trust that they, like Margaret, will not leave their father's roof—I must have a bigger house.”

So he bought Crosby Place in the City—a beautiful house, the tallest in London, built of stone and timber and situated close to Bishopsgate.

One day he took Margaret along to see it.

They went through the great rooms of this house, which was so much grander than the one they were now occupying. Margaret stood with her father in the great hall, looked up at the vaulted roof and tried to imagine the family in it.

“You like it not?” said Thomas.

“Well, Father, you have bought it, and doubtless we shall make it ours when we settle in, but…”

“But?” he insisted.

“I know not. Perhaps I am foolish. But it is not like our house.”

“Propria domus omnium optima!”

“But we should make this our house, Father. Yet… I cannot see it as ours. There is an air of gloom about it.”

“You are fanciful, daughter.”

“Indeed I am. Why, when we have the family here and we sit talking and singing together … then it will be our home … and quite a different place from the one it is now.”

“Richard Crookback lived here for a time,” said Thomas. “I wonder if that is why you feel this repulsion. I wonder if you think of him and all the miseries that must have been his. Is that it, Meg?”

“It might be.”

She sat on a window seat and looked thoughtfully at her father.

“Come, Margaret, what is on your mind?”

“That we shall make this place our home.”

“Come, be frank with me.”

“It is just a foolish thought of mine. We have often talked of the house we would have … when you have not been with us.”

“And it has not been like this?”

“How could you expect it to be? Where should we find all that we have planned? Moreover, if there could be such a house we should have to pull it down once a week and rebuild it, because we have added to it and altered it so persistently that it could not stay the same for more than a week. There is Mercy with her hospital; and there is the library that I have built for you; there is the chapel, which Mother thinks should be attached to all great houses…. And Jack, of course, has set all this in the midst of green fields.”

He was silent for a few seconds. Then he turned to her. “Why, Meg,” he said, “did I not think of this before? We will build our own house. And all of us shall have a hand in it. We shall build what we would have. There shall be Mercy's hospital, your mothers chapel, your library for me and Jack's green fields….”

“But, Father, you have bought this place.”

“We can sell the lease.”

“Father, it sounds wonderful, but could it really be done?”

“Why not? I am high in the King's favor, am I not? I have money I have not spent. That is the answer, Meg. We will not live in this gloomy house which is full of unhappy ghosts. We will seek our own land and we will build our own house … our ideal house.”

“As you would build an ideal state,” she reminded him.

“A house is easier to build than a state, Meg, and I doubt not that, with the help of my family, I can do it.” He was as excited as a boy. “There I shall pass my days with my children and my grandchildren about me. My father will have to be with us soon. He and his wife are getting too old to be alone. Elizabeth, Cecily and Mercy must marry and fill our new house with children. It must be outside the City… but not too far out. We shall have to be within reach of London, for I am still bound to the Court. And Meg … Meg, whenever I can, I shall slip away. I shall come home. Let us go. Let us decide where we shall live. I can scarcely wait to discuss this with the others. Meg, we will call a conference this night; and the land shall be bought without delay and the ideal house shall be built… and we shall live in it happily for many years.”

They walked home, talking of the house.

Thomas was as good as his word. In a short time he had sold his lease of Crosby Place to a rich Italian merchant friend who was looking for a house in London.

Antonio Bonvisi, the merchant from Lucca, settled in at Crosby Place and Thomas bought land in Chelsea.

BUILDING THEIR ideal house occupied the minds of the family so much that they gave little thought to what was happening about them.

The Cardinal had again been disappointed of his hopes of the Papacy. On the death of Adrian, Giulio de' Medici, called Clement the Seventh, was elected. The Emperor Charles came to London and was made a Knight of the Garter. This meant that Thomas was taken from his family to be in constant attendance at the Court, but it was regarded as an annoyance rather than a fact of political importance.

It seemed more interesting that that great friend of the family, Dr. Linacre, who was now the King's physician, brought the damask rose to England. It should be awarded a special place of honor in the Chelsea gardens. There was again war with France; but that seemed remote, for meanwhile the house at Chelsea was being built.

It stood back from the river, with about a hundred yards of garden between it and the water. There were four bay windows and eight casements, allowing a superb view of the river. The center block was occupied largely by the great hall, and there were numerous rooms in the east and west wings.

“Mercy,” Thomas had said, “once you said your dearest wish was to own a hospital of your own in which you could tend the sick. Now that we are building at Chelsea, that hospital shall be yours.”

And so it was built, separated from the house by pales; for Mercy had said: “What if I should have contagious diseases in my hospital? I could not have my patients passing them on to my family.”

They had never seen Mercy quite so happy as she was when she showed Dr. Clement over the hospital. It seemed that when she had the young doctor there, Mercy had all she desired in life— John Clement, her family, and her hospital on the other side of the pales.

There was Thomas's library and the chapel in a separate building—just as they had pictured it.

Elizabeth and Cecily planned the gardens; and Jack decided where they would grow their wheat, keep their cows and have their dairy. Alice designed her buttery and her kitchens; Thomas planned his library, gallery and chapel, with Margaret to help him.

It was to be a house in which one family, who had discovered the means of being happy, would live together, cherishing each other.

Will and his father-in-law were now the best of friends, although Will was not altogether weaned from the new ideas. Thomas prayed for him; Will prayed for Thomas; Will was wavering, for it seemed to him that a man such as his father-in-law, who seemed so right in all other matters, could not be entirely wrong on what seemed to Will the greatest matter of all.

By the end of the year they had moved into the house.

They were a bigger family now, for Thomas's father, the judge, Sir John More, and his wife came to live with them.

In spite of his cynical views on marriage, Sir John had taken a fourth wife and lived amicably with her. He had ceased to fret about his son, and he would often laugh when he remembered how he had worried in the old days because Thomas had paid more attention to Greek and Latin than to law. He admitted that he had been wrong. He had seen Thomas as an ordinary man; and, like the rest of the household, he now knew that to be an error.

He was content in his old age to rest in this great house at Chelsea, to wander in the gardens watching the gardeners at work, now and then discussing a point of law with Thomas, who never failed to give him that deference which he had given him as a young and obscure student. Occasionally he worked in the courts at Westminster; he was treated with greater respect as the father of Sir Thomas More than he was as a judge of these courts.

It was a very happy family that lived in the house at Chelsea.

SOON AFTER they were established there, Sir John Heron, the Treasurer of the King's Chamber, approached Sir Thomas concerning his son Giles. Sir John admired Sir Thomas More and, having heard of the large house, which had been built in the village of Chelsea, he would esteem it a favor if his son might live there with the Mores, after the fashion of the day.

Alice was atwitter with glee when she heard this.

“The Herons!” she cried. “Why, they are a most wealthy family. I shall look after that young man as though he were my own son.”

“And doubtless will endeavor to turn him into that,” said Thomas wryly.

“I have told you, Master More, that I shall cherish the young man…. He shall be my son in very truth.”

“Nay, by very law, Alice … the law of marriage. I'll warrant that before you have seen him you have decided that he will make a suitable husband for one of the girls.”

“They are becoming marriageable. Have you not noticed that?”

“I have indeed.”

“Well, then, it is time we had more such as Master Giles Heron in our household, for one day he will inherit his father's goodly estates.”

“And that is a good thing, for I doubt young Giles will ever win much for himself.”

“Tilly valley! Is it a clever thing, then, to be turned against a young man merely because one day he will inherit his father's fortune?” demanded Alice.

“It is wise, you would no doubt tell me, to be turned toward him because he will inherit one.”

“Now, Master More, will you endeavor to arrange a marriage between this young man and one of your daughters?”

“I would rather let one of my daughters and the young man arrange it themselves.”

Alice clicked her tongue and talked of some peoples folly being past all understanding. But she was pleased with life. She enjoyed living in the big house at Chelsea; she had more maids than she had ever had in her life. Her daughter had married well; she would do her duty by her stepdaughters and see that they followed in Ailie's footsteps; and she would never forget for one moment that she was Lady More.

She went down to the kitchen, her marmoset following her. She went everywhere with her. She scolded the little thing, but it was an affectionate scolding, the sort of scolding she was fond of bestowing on her husband.

Good marriages for them all, she reflected. Either Elizabeth or Cecily should have Giles Heron, who ere long would inherit his father's title and lands. Elizabeth it must be; she was more suitable for the position. Cecily was inclined to be slothful, to lie about in the sunshine, under the trees or in the orchard, or wander about gathering wild flowers, spending too much time with her pet animals. Yes, Elizabeth, with her sharp wits, would make the better Lady Heron. Moreover, Elizabeth was the elder and should therefore marry first, for it was a bad thing when a younger sister married before an elder. Not, thought Alice complacently, that there should be any difficulty in finding a good husband for Cecily, a girl whose father was in such high favor at Court.

Fortune had taken a very pleasant turn.

“Lady More!” She whispered that to herself as she went about the house.

GILES HERON protested when his father told him that he would live for some time in the household of Sir Thomas More.

As Giles took barge for Chelsea, he was thinking of his father's remarks:

“There are two daughters. A match between our house and theirs would bring great benefits, my son. Sir Thomas More is in as high favor at Court as any man—not excluding the Cardinal himself, some say. You will one day have land and property. I would like to see added to that the favor of the King's favorite minister.”

That was all very well, but Giles was not interested in ambition. This river trip would have been most enjoyable to him if he could have idly drifted downstream, stopping perhaps to lie on the bank, breaking into song, chatting with merry companions; and then, when he was tired, turning the barge homeward. Instead of that, he was on his way to a new home; and he was uneasy.

Who wanted favor at Court? Not he. What did it mean? Constant work, constant fear that you would displease some high official of the Court—mayhap the King himself. Then you began to realize how much happier you had been lying in the sun, idling the hours away.

Then there was this daughter of Sir Thomas More. It was said that his daughters were almost as learned as he was. The girls were prim creatures who spent their days in a schoolroom writing Latin verses. Latin verses! Scholars! Giles wanted to laugh hysterically at the thought. He frantically sought in his mind for one little phrase which his tutors had taught him and which he might manage to quote; but his mind was a blank.

He had seen Alice Allington, a real little beauty, and not seeming very learned except in matters of manners and general fascination. But she was only a stepdaughter—no blood relation to the learned Sir Thomas More. He doubted if he would find another such as Alice Allington in the Chelsea house.

And one of these girls—there was, fortunately, a choice between two—he must try to make his wife. For, his father had said, if you do not, depend upon it others will. These girls have more than fortune. You yourself have wealth, but the More family can give you what you lack: the interest of the King himself. Marry one of these girls and the King, I am sure, could be induced to smile on you. Thomas More is reputed to be an upright man, a man who seeks no gain for himself; but I'll warrant he'll not be averse to taking a little for his daughters, since by all accounts he has a very deep regard for them.

Giles pictured the girls. They would be small, for sitting at a table, poring over books, did not develop the body; they would be pale; they would doubtless stoop; they would be ugly; they would give no attention to personal adornments; they would have Latin instead of good looks; they would have Greek instead of charm.

“O God in Heaven,” prayed Giles Heron, “save me from a daughter of Sir Thomas More.”

He had reached the privy stairs, and, leaving his servants to tie up the boat and take his baggage into the house, he mounted the stairs and went through the wicket gate.

He stood looking over the pleasantly sloping lawns, at the gardens of flowers, at the young trees and the house itself.

Slowly he made his way toward that great building. Which of the rooms, he wondered, was the schoolroom? He had heard of that schoolroom in which the wisest men in Europe taught the son and daughters of Sir Thomas More. He pictured the gray-bearded, solemn-faced tutors; they would be scornful of him. And the girls? They too. Perhaps they would despise him so much that they would beg their father not to let him marry one of them. Giles was hopeful by nature.

How beautiful it was on that summer's day! He could smell the scent of newly cut grass; and in the distance he could hear the sound of voices. He heard laughter too; that was the last thing he had expected to hear in this domain, but doubtless it came from someone on land nearby, for voices carried far in the country. Mayhap it was some of the servants. Or were the servants as solemn as the family? Did they have to learn Latin and Greek along with their household tasks?

He stopped as a boy appeared from a clump of trees to the right. This boy's gown was open at the neck; his face was hot for he had been running. He stopped short when he saw the visitor. Giles judged him to be about fifteen years of age.

“Good day to you,” said Giles. “Am I right in thinking these are the gardens of Sir Thomas More?”

“Good day to you,” said the boy. “And you are right. You must be Giles Heron.”

“I am. Would you please tell me who you are?”

“John More. Always known as Jack. We are worried about the rabbits. They are behaving in such an odd way. They are huddled together and making the strangest noises. I came to look for Father. He would know what to do. Would you … come and look at them?”

He turned without more ceremony and began to run. Giles followed him through the trees to a stone wall, on which sat a peacock displaying his gorgeous tail.

The stone wall enclosed a small garden, and in this a girl was kneeling by several rabbit hutches.

“What ails you, Diogenes?” she was saying. “Tell me, my little one. And you, Pythagoras, you are frightened. What do you see?”

“Any sign of what troubles them?” asked Jack.

“No.”

“This is Giles Heron. I found him coming up from the river.”

“Good day to you,” said the girl. “Do you know anything about rabbits? We have not had them long. Only since we have been at Chelsea. Can you imagine what could make them as frightened as that?”

Giles looked at her; her face was flushed; her fair hair was escaping from her cap; and her blue eyes showed her anxiety. It was clear that she was thinking more of the rabbits than of the newcomer. He thought her rather quaint, comparing her with the young ladies whom he met at Court.

“It might be a stoat or a weasel,” said Giles. “It is terror which makes them behave thus.”

“But where? I can't see anything…. Can you?”

“A dog, mayhap?” suggested Giles.

“But Socrates and Plato love the rabbits.”

Diogenes, Pythagoras, Socrates and Plato! thought Giles. Was that not what he would have expected? Even their pets must be named in Greek. Yet both the girl and the boy disarmed him.

The girl went on: “All the pets love each other. Father says that is because they have been brought up together and know they have nothing to fear from one another. He says that there would be no fear in the world if only everybody understood everybody else. So … I don't think they are frightened by the dogs.”

Giles looked about the walled garden, and his quick eyes caught a pair of gleaming ones in the foliage a few yards from the hutch.

“There!” he cried. “Look.”

They followed his gaze.

“A weasel,” said Giles. “That explains much.”

“We must drive it off,” said the girl.

Giles caught her arm. “Nay. It may be dangerous. You stay here….”

Just at that moment a great dog came bounding into the garden, followed by a monkey. There was an immediate movement in the bushes; the dog paused for half a second; and then he was bounding over to the bushes, barking wildly and leaping with great excitement.

The monkey followed. Giles was still holding the girl's arm. He had forgotten Court manners and all ceremony in the excitement of the moment. They were all tense, waiting to see what the animals would do.

It was the monkey who went into the attack. Suddenly she leaped into the bushes. The girl caught her breath; Giles tightened his grip on her arm. They heard a squeaking and a scuffle in the bushes; and the monkey emerged, her bright eyes gleaming, a chatter of gibberish escaping from her little mouth.

“It's gone!” cried Giles in great excitement. “The monkey has driven it off.”

“Marmot!” cried the girl. “You brave creature!”

The monkey ran to her and climbed onto her shoulder. The dog leaped about her, barking wildly.

“All you did, Master Plato, was make a noise. You were the herald; but Marmot was the heroine. She is the victor. Do you like her, Master Heron? She is my mothers, and she was given to her by one of our friends from foreign parts. She is very happy here in the summer, but we have to take great care of her in the winter.”

“She is certainly a brave creature,” said Giles. “But… I have not heard your name yet.”

“Have you not? I'm Cecily More.”

“Oh!” cried Giles with a lifting of his spirits. “You, er … you are … in actual truth?”

She looked surpised. “I do not understand.”

He smiled. “I thought that mayhap you would be very small and pale and humped through bending over your desk.”

Cecily laughed at that.

“And,” went on Giles, laughing himself with the immensity of his relief, “firing questions at me in Latin.”

“Margaret is the clever one of the family. Mercy, too. You may have heard of them. Margaret is quite a scholar, but she is merry too. She takes much delight in writing in Latin and Greek; and with Mercy it is all mathematics and medicine. Elizabeth, who is my elder sister, is clever too. Poor Jack and I… we are not so clever. Are we, Jack?”

“I am the dunce of the family,” said Jack. “I can just manage to write a little Latin and follow their speech.”

“You will feel yourself to be a learned scholar when you compare yourself with me,” said Giles.

“Then welcome!” cried Jack. “I shall enjoy appearing to be learned for once.”

Cecily said: “It is pleasant, is it not, Jack, to welcome someone to this house who does not think that a knowledge of Greek is the most important thing in the world?”

“And what, Mistress Cecily, do you think is the most important thing in the world?”

“At the moment, to make sure that the rabbits are safe and that the weasel cannot come back and frighten them.”

“He will not,” said Giles. “The monkey gave him a great fright. He will remember. Animals have long memories sometimes.”

“Is that so?” said Cecily. “I am glad of it.”

“You love animals, do you not?” asked Giles.

“Yes. And you?”

“My dogs and horses.”

“I love dogs and horses and the little helpless ones besides … like rabbits and birds. We have fowls and dear little pigs.”

“You have a farm, then?”

“Well, we have some land and animals. We grow much for ourselves. That is what we always wanted when we lived in Bucklersbury. They are cutting the grass in the home field now. I should be helping. So should Jack. But I saw what was happening here….”

“I should not have thought you would have had time to keep so many animals.”

“But we are a big family. Each has his own. Father says that we may have what pets we like. The only rule is that we must care for them, see that they are fed and looked after in every way. The peacock there is Elizabeth's. He is beautiful, do you not think so? He is rather haughty too, for he'll not take food from anyone but Bess … unless he is very hungry. He is asking for you to admire him.”

“He is as vain as a Court gallant.”

“Are Court gallants as vain as that?” asked Cecily.

“Some are much more vain.”

“You are one of them, are you not?”

“Ah, but out of my setting. Here, among the learned, I feel humble. But you should see me at Court. There I display my fine feathers and invite admiration.”

“I should like to see you do that,” said Cecily.

“Who knows, you may one day. Yet if I stay here for a little while, as your father and my father have arranged that I shall, doubtless I shall see myself so clearly that I shall know there is nothing to be vain about.”

“I do not believe you are vain,” said Cecily, “because the very basis of vanity is that those who possess it are unaware that they do so. They think the puffed-up vision they see is the true one.”

“I see you are very wise,” said Giles.

“Nonsense. See how Marmot regards you, Master Heron. She likes you.”

“Does she? Her bright eyes look at me suspiciously, I fancy.”

“She is looking at you with interest. If she did not like you she would be making strange noises of irritation.”

“I am glad one member of the family has taken to me.”

“She is not the only one,” said Cecily with disarming frankness. “Here is another.”

She made a gay little curtsy—not at all what Giles would have expected from such a learned little scholar.

“And here is another,” said Jack. “Let us go to the hayfields. We should be helping there.”

It was all very different from what Giles had expected. In the hayfield Sir Thomas More himself was sitting against a hedge, drinking some beverage from a jug, and his daughters were about him.

Was this Sir Thomas More, the Under-Treasurer, the friend of the King and the Cardinal?

“Welcome! Welcome!” he cried. “I am glad you came when we are all at home. The hay must be cut at the right moment, and right glad I am to be at home at such a time. You are thirsty, doubtless. Come, join us. Have you a tankard for Master Heron, Meg? And give him a piece of that cob loaf.”

Giles was introduced to the family. The Mistress of the house made him very welcome; and even Mistress Roper, the eldest daughter, whose fame as a scholar had reached even him, alarmed him not at all.

Cecily and Jack sat beside him and told how the monkey had driven off the weasel.

It was quite pleasant there, lying in the shade of the hedge and taking refreshment, joining in the conversation and laughter.

Afterward Jack showed him the grounds and stables, the orchards, barns, outhouses and, finally, the dairy.

Supper proved to be a merry meal taken at the long table on the dais in the great hall. The food was simple; and there was a newcomer, whom no one seemed to know, who had called just as the meal was about to be served and was given a place at the table.

Conversation was perhaps a little clever, and there was Latin— classical allusions, which Giles did not understand, but when this was the case, he found he had no need to join in, and that Lady More was always ready to poke fun at her scholars, and to smile at him as though to say: “We are the clever ones.”

When the meal was over they sat on the lawn, for the day was still hot; and some of them brought out their lutes and there was singing.

Giles Heron was very happy that night. He felt that, instead of coming to a strange household and perhaps a hostile one, he had come home.

He sat next to Cecily and listened to her sweet singing voice. He had already decided that by falling in love with and marrying Cecily he might please not only his father, but himself.

WHEN SIR John Heron, Treasurer of the King's Chamber, told his friend Sir John Dauncey, Knight of the Body to the King, that his son Giles was to marry one of the daughters of Sir Thomas More, Sir John Dauncey was reflective.

His thoughts turned to his son William, and he lost no time in seeking him out.

It was possible to talk frankly to William, for William was a most ambitious young man, and would not have to be told twice to seize any advantages which came his way.

“I hear Giles Heron is to marry one of Mores daughters,” he said to his son. “Master Heron has been quick. But there is still one daughter left.”

William nodded. He did not need to have the implication of those words explained. There was no need to point out the advantages of a match between himself and one of the daughters of so favored a man.

“I must call at the house in Chelsea,” he said.

His father smiled his approval. There was no need to say: “Do not make the reason for your call too obvious. More is a strange man, and his daughters will doubtless be equally strange. The matter must be tackled with some delicacy.”

William would know. He was ambitious enough to approach every advantageous situation with the utmost tact and delicacy.

THE SUMMER was passing. Among the trees in the orchard, Dorothy Colly, Margaret's maid, was playing with Margaret's young son Will. An apple, part of which had been destroyed by the wasps, fell suddenly to the grass, and the baby began to crawl toward it.

“Come away, my little man, come away,” said Dorothy. “Don't touch it, darling. Ugh!… Nasty!”

The baby crowed and Dorothy picked him up and cuddled him. He was very like his mother, and Dorothy loved his mother, who had treated her more like a friend than a servant, teaching her to read and write, giving her respect and affection.

“You're a lucky boy,” she said. “We're all lucky here in Chelsea.”

She thought of coming to the house—her life before, her life after.

As soon as she entered the house or the grounds a feeling of peace would steal over her. She knew this was due to the influence of the master, for to be in his presence was to be filled with a determination to live up to his high standards.

At this moment she could hear Lady More at the virginals, practicing in her labored way. Yet even such sounds were harmonious coming from this house, for to hear them was to remember that her ladyship, who had no great love of music, practiced the lute and the virginals so that when her husband came home she might show him what progress she had made. Even Lady More had been mellowed by the sweetness of her husbands nature.

It was true that when she stopped playing she would declare that she had done with wasting time for that day; and to reassure herself she would doubtless scold some defaulter in the kitchens; but the next day she would be practicing on the lute or the virginals.

Dorothy's heart began to beat faster, for, coming toward her, was Sir Thomas's secretary, John Harris.

John was an earnest young man, fully aware of the importance of his work. He sought to emulate his master in all ways, even adopting that habit of walking with his gown not properly set on the shoulders, and the left shoulder lifted a little higher than the right. Dorothy noticed this, and it made her smile become a little tender.

He was deep in thought and did not immediately see Dorothy.

She spoke first. “Good day to you, Master Harris.”

He smiled, pleasure transforming his face. “And a very good day to you,” he said, sitting down beside her and smiling at the baby.

“How big he grows!” said John.

“His sister is nearly as big as he is. So you are not at the Court today, Master Harris?”

“No. There is work to do at home.”

“Tell me, do they really think so highly of the master at Court?”

“Very highly indeed.”

Dorothy pulled up a handful of grass and frowned at it.

“You are not pleased that it should be so?” he asked.

“I was thinking that I would like to see all the girls as happily married as is Mistress Roper. She was married before the master became so important. Master Roper was here … they grew to know each other … and they eventually married. I was thinking that that is the best way in which to make a marriage.”

“You are thinking of William Dauncey?”

She nodded. “Mistress Elizabeth does not seem to understand. Of course, he is very handsome … and very charming to her … but there is a light in his eyes which, it would seem to me, is put there by his love of the advancement Sir Thomas More can provide, rather than for Sir Thomas's daughter.”

“Dorothy, you are a discerning woman.”

“I love them so much. I have been with them so long. Mistress Elizabeth is very clever with her lessons, but that is not being clever in the ways of the world. I wish that some quiet young gentleman like Master Roper would come here to study, and Mistress Elizabeth gradually get to know him. And I would like to see her take him instead of Master Dauncey.”

“You have served Mistress Roper for a long time, Dorothy. She has educated you and molded your thoughts, and you think that everything she does is always right. The baby is the perfect baby. Master Roper is the perfect husband. There are some who would say that Master William Dauncey is not such a bad match. His father has a high post at Court. What more could you want?”

“Love,” she said. “Disinterested love. Ah, I have said too much.”

“You need have no fear, Dorothy. But let me say this: When Mistress Roper married, her husband was caught fast in heresy. Heresy, Dorothy! Is that then more desirable than ambition?”

She was thoughtful. “His heresy,” she said, “grew out of his searching for die right, his determination to do what he considered best. Ambition—such as Dauncey has—is for self-glorification. There lies the difference.”

“Mistress Dorothy, you are wondrous learned.”

“My mistress has taught me to read; she has given me books. She has taught me to form my own opinions—that is all.”

Dorothy picked up the baby and held him against her. “Sometimes I wish that the master were not so well received at Court,” she said. “I would rather see him more often at home … with good people about him … like you, John Harris … than with the most handsome gallants of the Court.”

Then Dorothy left him and walked to the house.

How peaceful was this scene! she thought.

Now came the sound of someone playing the lute. It was too well played to be Lady More. Now she heard Cecily's and Elizabeth's voices, singing a ballad.

“Please God keep them happy,” prayed Dorothy. “Let us go on just like this … forever and ever … until we are called to our rest.”

There came the sound of other voices, singing with the girls— Giles Herons and William Dauncey's.

Dorothy shivered. The voices of the young men reminded her that life was continually changing.

Too many honors were being thrust upon the master, and honors brought envy; they brought the sycophants, the false friends, who were like wasps that fed on the lovely fruit until it was ruined and dropped from the branches.

THAT YEAR came the winter of the great frost.

There was no keeping the house warm; the bleak winds penetrated into every room, and there was ice on the river. Blizzards swept across the country.

Mercy was hardly ever at home; she had so many sick people in the hospital. Margaret and Elizabeth were often there helping her.

Mercy was very happy. The hospital was her life. Although others might deplore Sir Thomas's rise in the world, Mercy could not. But for his making a fortune in the service of the King, he could not have supplied the money which she needed to keep her hospital in being. But she was careful in the extreme. There was nothing extravagant about Mercy; she worked hard and enjoyed working hard. She remembered Erasmus's criticism of English houses, and she had no rushes in her hospital; there were windows that could be opened wide; and her success with her patients was gratifying.

Mercy enjoyed those days when her foster father came to inspect her work. He would go among the patients, a joke on his lips. “Laughter is one of the best medicines,” he told her; and she was contented to have him with her whether he praised or questioned what she did.

She would not admit to herself that she was not completely happy; she, who was so frank on all other matters, knew herself to be evasive in this.

She would not admit to herself that she loved Dr. Clement. It is merely, she told herself, that there is so much talk of weddings and that makes me wonder if I shall ever be a bride. Ailie and Margaret are married; and now Cecily will have Giles Heron, and Elizabeth her William Dauncey; and because of all this I too look for love.

Had it not always been so? The little foster sister had always feared that she was not quite a member of the family, in spite of everyone's attempts to assure her that she was. Now from Court came two gallants eager to wed the daughters of Sir Thomas More; but none came to woo his foster daughter.

Not that Mercy expected it. She laughed at the idea of plain Mercy Gigs being wooed by such a dashing gentleman as William Dauncey.

Moreover, Mercy did not want a Court gallant; she wanted Dr. Clement.

And he? Why should he think of Mercy Gigs? But he did think of her—oh, as a friend, as a girl who was interested in medicine, as one who spent her time working in her hospital and who liked to ask his advice on certain matters.

She must not be deluded. She was a nobody. She was an orphan on whom the Mores had taken pity; however much they tried to make her forget that, she must not. And John Clement? A young man of good family, high in the service of the great Cardinal, looked on with favor by the King's physician, Dr. Linacre. As if he would think of Mercy Gigs as anything but a friend.

Ah yes, she reminded herself, all this talk of marriages makes me want what the others have. I want to be loved by a husband even as, when I was a child, I wished to be loved by their father.

Cecily and Elizabeth had come over to the hospital on this day, although it was as much as they could do to plod through the snow even that far.

They seemed quite pretty—both of them—with a certain glow upon them. That was being in love. Cecily was the happier perhaps; she was more sure of her Giles. But Elizabeth—more reserved than her younger sister—was she a little anxious about William Dauncey? Did she know—as others did—that he was an ambitious young man who believed her father could advance him? Poor Elizabeth! Like Mercy, she wished for marriage. Was she loving the ideal of marriage more than the man who would make it possible? Mercy uttered a silent prayer for Elizabeth. Cecily would be happy with her Giles. He was a lazy boy, good-natured, frank, not hiding the fact that his father had wished him to marry a Mistress More, and that he was delighted to find such a marriage to his liking. He had not William Dauncey's tight-lipped ambition. And was she right, Mercy wondered, when she thought that even Dauncey had changed since he had visited the house? Was his laughter, when he joined their family group and played their games and sang with them, was it a little less forced than it had been?

The two girls laughed as they shook the snow out of their clothes.

“Why, Mercy, what a day! If the blizzard starts again, we shall be snowed up and unable to get out at all… and no one will be able to get to us.” That was Elizabeth.

Cecily said: “And you must come over to dinner today. Someone is coming, and he'll be disappointed if you're not there.”

Mercy flushed; she knew, by Cecily's quick glance at Elizabeth, who was coming.

“If the weather is so bad, your guest may not arrive.”

“I doubt if he'll come by barge. The ice is quite thick on the river. Oh, Mercy, what a lovely fire!” Cecily held out her hands to the blaze.

“I was lucky, I gathered much furze and bracken during the autumn. I had those of my patients who were recovering go out and get it for me. We believe that exercise is good, and so is fresh air.”

“We?” said Cecily almost archly.

“You and Dr. Clement, I suppose,” said Elizabeth.

“He is learned in these matters.”

“Father says,” said Cecily, “that one day the King might take him into his personal service, and Dr. Linacre thinks that he is the best young doctor he has known. That will doubtless mean that the King will soon hear of it.”

Oh, yes, thought Mercy, he is all that. He is rising in the world, and when he has gone far enough some nobleman of high rank will decide that he is a good match for his daughter.

And John himself? He was as ambitious in his way as Dauncey was in his. He wished to discover new ways of defeating sickness. The favor of the King might help him to do that.

Cecily and Elizabeth did not know that when they talked of the cleverness of John Clement and his chances at Court, they were showing Mercy, more clearly than she had ever seen before, how foolish she had been to dream.

“So,” insisted Cecily, “you must come to dinner and be early. You will then be able to talk to him of the latest remedies for the pox. I am sure that will make entertaining dinner talk.”

“We just came to tell you this,” said Elizabeth. “Mother is in a fine mood this morning. It is Margaret's turn to keep house this week. Poor Margaret! Mother is puffing about the kitchen, warning them all that if the beef is not thoroughly basted, someone will suffer. There is much running to and fro … and all because Dr. John Clement has become such an important personage. It is hard to remember that he was scarcely more than a boy when he first came to us to attend Father on his way to Flanders. The humble secretary has become a great doctor.”

Ah, thought Mercy, too great for me.

Just as the girls were about to leave, a young boy arrived. He was white-faced, and the snow nestled in his hair, so that, on account of the gauntness of his features, he looked like a white-headed man.

“What is it, Ned?” asked Mercy, recognizing him as one of the boys from Blandels Bridge.

“It's my father, Mistress Mercy. He's lying on the straw like a dead man. But he's not dead. He just stares with his eyes wide open, and he can say naught. My mother says to come to you and ask you to see him.”

“You cannot go all the way to Blandels Bridge in this weather,” said Cecily.

“He may be very ill. I must go.”

“But the snow is deep. You could never reach there.”

“It is less than half a mile; and Ned came here.” She looked at his feet. He was wearing a pair of shoes which had belonged to Jack, for Margaret's task was to see to the needs of the poor, and this she did with the help of her family's clothes.

“You will not come back with us, then?”

Mercy shook her head. She must stifle weakness. She was a doctor first. This was her hospital; she believed it must be the love of her life, for Dr. Clement—her affectionate friend, though he might be—could not marry her.

“Then you will miss dinner.”

“I fear so. I do not know how long I must stay at the cottage.”

“Mercy,” said Cecily, “come and have dinner and go there afterward. Perhaps John Clement will escort you.”

There was temptation. She pictured dinner in the beloved home, herself saying grace as she used to in the old days; she imagined the interesting conversation, and then, afterward, riding pillion with John Clement to the cottage by Blandels Bridge, listening to his diagnosis of the patents's ailment, offering her own.

But sickness did not wait for such pretty, comforting scenes. Speed was everything in fighting sickness. A life could be lost by the delay of five minutes, let alone hours.

“Nay,” she said. “I must go at once. Ned, wait for me. I must bring a few simples with me.”

So Elizabeth and Cecily went back to the house on the other side of the pales, and Mercy trudged through the snow to Blandels Bridge.

The blizzard beat at her; the familiar landscape had become unfamiliar, a thick white cloth was laid over everything, disguising the shapes of hedges and cottages.

But Ned knew the way. She followed him blindly. Soon her fingers were numb, her feet icily cold. The journey—usually a walk of ten minutes—took the greater part of an hour.

She thought: I shall miss him then. It is so long since I have seen him. He is so busy that he comes to see us but rarely. And when he does … I cannot be there!

They had reached the cottage. The rushes stank. There seemed no air in the place, yet it was bitterly cold. The woman who had been sitting on a stool shivering as she watched the man on the floor, brightened when she heard Mercy's voice without.

“God bless you for coming!” she cried as Mercy entered the cottage.

And when Mercy looked into her eyes, she thought: That must be my reward.

She knelt by the man on the dirty straw, and laid a hand on his burning forehead. He began to cough.

“He has been coughing like that for hours,” said the woman. “It seems as though the cough will choke him.”

Mercy said: “When the weather improves, I want to take him to my hospital. It is not good for him to be here.”

The man's piteous eyes held Mercy's. He seemed to be begging her to make him well.

She took one of die phials from her bag which she had brought, and gave him its contents. The close, cold atmosphere of the room made her shiver, and the smell from the rushes sickened her.

She thought: If only I could get him away from here … into one of my warm rooms, with blankets and a comfortable pallet on which to lie. If I could give him hot soup, fresh air, who knows … I might cure him.

“How is he, Mistress Mercy?” asked the woman.

“He is very sick.”

“Is he going to die?”

Mercy looked into the panic-stricken eyes. How could she say: “I can do nothing for him here”? How could she say: “Clean out these foul rushes”? Why, to disturb them now would double the danger. He was not so far gone in disease she could not save him. If it were not for the weather, she would go to her foster fathers house; she would get strong men, and boards on which to place this man, and carry him away from this foul-smelling place which was his home. But how could she do this in a snowstorm?

Mercy closed her eyes and prayed for guidance and, as if by some miracle, the door opened and there, seeming strong and all-powerful, was Dr. John Clement.

“John!” she cried in delight. “You … here?”

“Indeed yes, Mercy. The girls told me where you were, and I came to see if I could help.”

“Thank God!” she said. “It is the answer to a prayer.”

“And the patient?”

He knelt in the rushes and looked into the sick man's face.

“This place …” said Mercy, and John nodded. “If I could get him to the hospital,” she went on, “care for him there … I believe I could nurse him back to health.”

John was silent for a while. Then he said: “I rode here. I tied my horse to a stake by the cottage. We could put him on the horse and get him to the hospital.”

“Through the snow?”

John's answer was to look round the room, at the foul rushes and the earthen walls, damp and noisome.

“He cannot live if he stays here.”

“Can he live if he is taken out into the cold?”

“In a case like this, we have to take a chance.”

“You would take this chance, then, John?”

“I would. Would you?”

“Yes,” she said. “I would do as you would.”

Happiness came in strange places at strange times. The snow was blowing in Mercy's face; she was wet and numb with cold, yet warm with pleasure.

She had rarely been so happy in her life as she was when she was walking through the snow with John Clement, the sick man, whom they held on John's horse, between them, while the pale-faced boy led the horse.

THERE WAS a double wedding that summer.

The marriages of Elizabeth with William Dauncey and Cecily with Giles Heron were to be celebrated in the private chapel attached to one of the mansions belonging to the Allington family.

Ailie—now Lady Allington—was delighted to have her family with her for this occasion.

Ailie was a happy person. Her husband adored her; she had a child now, but that fact had changed her little; she was still the gay and fascinating Ailie.

With great pleasure she showed her mother the kitchens of the house. They were older than those of Chelsea and far more grand.

Alice sniffed her disapproval of this and that, trying hard to find fault while she congratulated herself that it was her daughter who had made the best match of all.

“Look, Mother. Have you seen these ceilings? Giles is most proud of them. You see how cleverly they are painted. You'll find nothing like that in modern houses. Look at these painted cloths. They all represent scenes of some battles. Do not ask me which, I beg of you, for I do not know. In the great hall we have Flemish tapestry, which is every bit as fine as that which my Lord Cardinal has in Tittenhanger or Hampton Court.”

“Tilly valley!” said Alice. “What happens in the kitchen is of more importance than painted hangings or Flemish tapestry, I tell you. That has to be tested yet.”

Ailie kissed her mother; she loved to tease… to tease them all, her half-sisters, her stepfather, her mother and her husband. And it was very pleasant to have them all with her again.

Margaret spoke to her of William Dauncey. “Elizabeth loves him, but does he love Elizabeth? Or is he thinking solely of what Father can do for him?”

“Well,” said Ailie, confident in her own charms, “if he does not love her, then it is for her to make him do so. And if he will not…”

Ailie shrugged her shoulders, but, glancing at Margaret, decided not to finish what she had begun to say. Instead, she added: “Why, they'll be happy enough, I doubt not. Master Dauncey is a young man who will go far and, believe me, my dear Margaret, it is by no means unpleasant to be the wife of a rising star.”

“Is that so, then?” said Margaret. “I know what it is to be the daughter of one; and I would rather Father were less favorably looked upon at Court, so that his family might look upon him the more often.”

“Father! Oh, Father is no ordinary man. Father is a saint!”

Then Ailie left her sister; she was a busy hostess, and there was much to which she must attend, for her mansion at Willesden was filled with the most distinguished guests.

Her glance had gone to my Lord of Norfolk, recently the Earl of Surrey, who had succeeded to the title on the death of his father a year or so before.

Ailie curtsied before him and told him how honored she was to see him at her house. Strange man! He was scarcely conscious of Ailie's charm. He looked grim, as though he had never given a thought to anything but matters of state. It was difficult to believe that his wife was giving him a lively time on account of her laundress, Bess Holland, for whom this grim man had a passion which he could not resist.

Norfolk was aloof, believing that he greatly honored the Allington's by attending at their house, being conscious that he was a great nobleman, head of one of the highest families in the land, and—although he dared not say this to any—he could not help reminding himself that the Howards of Norfolk were as royal as the Tudors. The recent death of his father-in-law, Buckingham, was a terrible warning to him, a reminder that he must keep such thoughts to himself, but that did not prevent his private enjoyment of them.

No; he would not be here this day but for his friendship with Sir Thomas More. There had occurred in the July of this year an incident which had startled all men who stood near the throne, and had set them pondering.

The King had said to the Cardinal one day when they were in the grounds of that extravagant and most luxurious of country houses, Hampton Court: “Should a subject be so rich as to possess such a house?” And the Cardinal, that clever, most shrewd of statesmen, whose quick wits had lifted him from obscurity to a place in the sun, had thrown away the riches of Hampton Court in his answer: “A subject could only be justified in owning such a place, Sire, that he might give it to his King.”

No more could people sing “Which Court? The King's Court or Hampton Court?” For now Hampton Court was the King's Court in very truth.

Something was happening between the King and the Cardinal; it was something which put a belligerent light in the King's eyes, and a fearful one in those of the Cardinal.

Norfolk, that ambitious man, that cold, hard schemer—soft only to Bessie Holland—believed that the favor so long enjoyed by the Cardinal was less bright than of yore. This delighted Norfolk, for he hated Wolsey. His father had instilled in him that hatred; it was not only brought about by envy of the favor Wolsey enjoyed; it was not only the resentment a nobleman might feel for an upstart from a humble stratum of society; it was because of the part this Duke's father had been forced to play in the trial of his friend, Buckingham. Buckingham, that nobleman and kinsman of the Howards, had been condemned to death because he had not shown enough respect to one whom Norfolk's father had called “A butchers cur.” And one of Buckingham's judges had been the old Duke of Norfolk who, with tears in his eyes, had condemned him to death, because he had known that had he done otherwise he would have lost his own head. This would never be forgiven. However long the waiting must be, Wolsey must suffer, not only for the execution of Buckingham, but for the fact that he had forced Norfolk to condemn his friend and kinsman.

But, besides being a vengeful man, the Duke of Norfolk was an ambitious one. He did not lose sight of the fact that when Wolsey fell from grace there would be only one other clever enough to take his place. It would be well to be on terms of friendship with that man. Not that that in itself presented a hardship. If anyone, besides Bess Holland, could soften the heart of this hard man, it was Thomas More. I like him, thought Norfolk, puzzled by his own feelings. I really like him … for the man he is, not only for the greatness which may very well be his.

So it was that Norfolk wished to be Mores friend. It was a strange matter—as strange as such a proud man's love for a humble laundress.

Thus was the Duke of Norfolk attending the double wedding of the daughters of a mere knight and the sons of two more mere knights.

Thomas was now approaching him. None would think, to look at him, that he was a brilliant scholar of world fame, and on the way to becoming one of the most important statesmen in the kingdom. He was more simply dressed than any man present, and it was clear to see that he thought little about his clothes. He walked with one shoulder higher than the other—an absurd habit, thought Norfolk, for it gave him an appearance of deformity.

But now Thomas stood before him, and Norfolk felt that strange mixture of tenderness and exasperation.

“I have never seen you so gay, Sir Thomas.”

“I am a lucky man, my lord. My two daughters are marrying this day, and instead of losing them I am to gain two sons. They will live with me—these two new sons—when they are not at Court, in my house in Chelsea. All my own daughters are married now, and I have lost not one of them. Do you not think that is a matter for rejoicing, my lord?”

“Much depends on whether you can live in amity with this large family of yours.”

Norfolk's eyes were narrowed; he was remembering his own stormy family life with its recriminations and quarrels.

“We live in amity at Chelsea. You should come to see us one day my lord, when your barge takes you that way.”

“I will… I will. I have heard of your household. It is said: ‘Vis nunquam tristis esse? Recte vive!’ Is that how you achieve your happiness, Master More?”

“Perhaps we strive to live rightly in Chelsea. That may be why we are such a happy family.”

Norfolk's eyes were brooding. He changed the subject abruptly. “There is something brewing at the Court.”

“My lord?”

“The King has created his bastard Fitzroy, Duke of Richmond and Somerset.”

“He loves the boy.”

“But such great titles … for a bastard! Might it not be that His Grace feels he may never have a legitimate son?”

“The Queen has been many times disappointed; poor lady, she feels this sorely.”

Norfolk came close and whispered: “And will feel it more sorely still, I doubt not.”

They went together to the great table on which was laid out a feast so magnificent that it was said it might have graced the tables of the King or the Cardinal.

There was beef, mutton, pork; there was roasted boar and many kinds of fish, with venison and pies of all sorts. There was even turkey—that newest of delicacies imported into the country for the first time that year.

There was drink of all sorts—wine, red and white; malmsey, muscatel and romney; there was metheglin and mead.

And while the company feasted, minstrels played merry tunes in the gallery.

It was after the banquet and during the ball that followed it, that Mercy, standing aside to watch the dancers, found Dr. Clement beside her.

“Well, Mercy,” he said, “this is a merry day indeed. And right glad you must be that, although your sisters are marrying, like Margaret, they are not leaving the family roof.”

“That is indeed a blessing. I think it would have broken Father's heart if any of them had wanted to leave home. It was bad enough when Ailie went.”

“How would he feel if you went, Mercy?”

“D” She blushed. “Oh … as he did when Ailie went, I suppose.

She is a stepdaughter; I am a foster daughter. He is so good that he will have us believe that he loves us all as his own.”

“I think he would be unhappy if you left, Mercy. But… why should you leave? You could stay there … with your hospital, and I should be at Court…. Like your father, I should seize every opportunity to be with you.”

She dared not look at him. She did not believe that she had heard him correctly. There could not be all that happiness in the world. Surely she could not have her beloved father, her family, her hospital an I John Clement!

He was close to her, slipping his arm through hers.

“What say you, Mercy? What say you?”

“John…”

“You seem surprised. Did you not then know that I love you? Have I presumed too much in letting myself believe that you love me too?”

“Oh John,” she said, “do you mean… do you really mean … that you love me?”

“When you say you, you say it as though I were the King; and when you say me, you say it as though you were the humblest serving girl. Why, Mercy, you are clever; you are good, and I love you. I beg of you, cast aside your humility and tell me you will marry me.”

“I am so happy,” she said, “that I cannot find the words.”

“Then there must soon be another marriage in this family.”

What a happy day that was! Thomas smiled at each member of his family in turn. Would he rather have had the celebrations in his own home? Not when he looked at the proud smiles of Alice and her daughter. And as for Elizabeth and Cecily, they would have been equally happy wherever the ceremony had taken place.

It was not the banquet with its turkeys, the rich apartments with their painted hangings nor the distinguished guests that were important; it was the blissful happiness of each member of his family. And here was Mercy, as happy as any of them, and John Clement beside her, which could mean only one thing.

The merriment continued. There were morris dancers with bells on their legs; there were riders on hobby horses and there was the more stately dancing of the guests. Ailie was anxious to show that her attendance at Court had not been wasted, and the entertainment she could give her friends—if less luxurious than that given at the King's Court—was such to which the King himself could have come and found pleasure.

And later, Ailie, in her own chamber, surrounded by her sisters, who had gone thither to rest awhile, allowed them to examine her dress, which was of blue velvet and made in the very latest fashion. The velvet overdress was cut away to show a petticoat of pale pink satin; the lacing across the bodice was of gold-colored ribbons.

Before them all Ailie turned and twisted.

“You like it, then? It is the very latest fashion, I do assure you. It is cut in the French manner. Do you like my shoes?” She extended a dainty foot for them to see. “Look at the silver star on them. That is most fashionable. And you should all be wearing bands of velvet or gold about your necks. That is the very latest fashion. And see the sleeves! They fall over the hands. They are graceful, are they not?”

“Graceful?” said Elizabeth. “But are they comfortable? It would seem to me that they might get in the way.”

“Mistress Dauncey,” cried Ailie, looking severely at her half-sister, “do we wear our clothes to be comfortable? And what matters it if the sleeves, as you say, get in the way? They are graceful, and it is the only way a sleeve should hang.”

“I care not,” said Elizabeth, “whether it is the latest thing from France or not. I should find it most uncomfortable.”

Ailie was conspiratorial. “You know who started this fashion, do you not? But of course you do not. How could you? It was one of the maids of honor. It seems that she decides what we shall and what we shall not wear.”

“Then more fool you,” said Cecily, “to let one woman decide what you should and should not wear.”

“Let her decide! We can do no other. She wears this sleeve because of a deformity on one of her fingers. Then it must seem that all other sleeves are ugly. She has a wart on her neck … a birthmark, some say; so she wears a band about it; and all see that such bands are so becoming that any without are quite unfashionable. She is lately come from France, and she is Anne… the daughter of Sir Thomas Boleyn. She is Mary's sister; and all the men admire her, and all the women are envious, for when she is there, though she may have an ugly finger and a wen on her neck, it seems that everyone else appears plain and insignificant.”

Margaret interrupted with a laugh: “Oh, have done, Ailie! Have done with your frivolous maids of honor. Have done with your Frenchified Anne Boleyn, and let us talk of something that really matters.”