“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.”