“When I told you … when I confessed)”

“It was seeing you, Will, so sure that you were right….”

“Then you, too, feel as I do.”

“D I feel nothing but love. Sometimes I think I never have. I loved Father and I wanted to be clever to please him. You see, that was love of Father, not love of learning. Now I know that I love you too. So I have two people to love, and I love you both so much that there seems hardly room for anything else in my life.”

“Margaret! Is this Margaret?”

“Yes, it is the same Margaret. She was there all the time, I suppose, but she was hidden by the solemn scholar. She did not know herself. She saw herself as others saw her. Now she has seen herself as she is.”

They talked of marriage and he said: “What will your father say? Will he consent now?”

She was silent, amazed at herself, amazed that she who had never thought to deceive her father, could think of deceiving him now.

But she had become a woman who thought in terms of love. It only mattered that there should be amity in her house; that she, the woman, should hold her home together; and so make peace and love between those whom she loved more than her own life.

Therefore she was ready to temporize.

She said to herself: There is no need to tell Father. He has much to occupy his mind. He should not be worried with Will's affairs. Moreover, Will may discover that he has not yet found the truth. Who knows, in a short time he may come to the conclusion that there is no truth in the teaching of this man Luther. Then shall we have had our storms for nothing. I can neither lose Will nor Father; therefore the two I love must love each other. Today let us think of love; and let us hope that tomorrow there will be no need to think of anything but love.

So now she said to Will: “Father is so rarely at home. It is a pity to worry him with your doubts and your leanings. Moreover, men's minds change. Perhaps he will change; or you will change. For the time, let us keep this secret. You and I will discuss these matters when we are alone … and only then….”

And she smiled at him, wondering whether she would be able to mold his thoughts to her fathers way of thinking, or her father's to his.

She thought tenderly: They are obstinate, both of them. They are brave, and they will never accept other than what they believe to be the truth.

But she would wait.

Meanwhile she had discovered love, and for the time being she had determined that nothing should disturb it.

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?