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?”