“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.