Dauncey and Alice were the most disappointed members of the household; yet, like Alices, Dauncey's disappointment was overshadowed by fear.

Thomas went on: “My dear ones, we are no longer rich. Indeed, we are very poor.”

Margaret said quickly: “Well, Father, we shall have the comfort of your presence, which will mean more to us than those other comforts to which you refer.”

Ailie said: “Father, Giles and I will look after you.”

“Bless you, my dear daughter. But could you ask your husband to take my big household under his wing? Nay, there will be change here.”

“We have always heard that you are such a clever man,” Alice pointed out. “Are you not a lawyer, and have not lawyers that which is called a practice?”

“Yes, Alice, they have. But a lawyer who has abandoned his practice for eleven years cannot take it up where he left it. And if he is eleven years older and no longer a promising young man, but an old one who has found it necessary to resign his office, he is not so liable to find clients.”

“What nonsense!” said Alice. “You have a great reputation, so I have always heard. You … Sir Thomas More … but yesterday Lord Chancellor!”

“Have no fear, Alice. I doubt not that we shall come through these troubles. I have been brought up at Oxford, at an Inn of Chancery, at Lincoln's Inn, also in the King's Court; and so from the lowest degree I came to the highest; yet have I in yearly revenues at this present time little above one hundred pounds. So we must hereafter, if we wish to live together, be contented to become contributaries together. But, by my counsel, it shall not be best for us to fall to the lowest fare first. We will not therefore descend to Oxford fare, nor to the fare of New Inn, but we will begin with Lincoln's Inn diet, which we can maintain during the first year. We will the next year go one step down to New Inn fare, wherewith many an honest man is contented. If that exceed our ability too, then we will the next year after descend to Oxford fare; and if we cannot maintain that, we may yet with bags and wallets go abegging together, hoping that for pity some good folks will give us their charity.”

“Enough of your jokes!” cried Alice. “You have thrown away your high post, and we are not as rich as we were. That is what you mean, is it not, Master More?”

“Yes, Alice. That is what I mean.”

“Then mores the pity of it. No; don't go making one of your foolish jokes about Mores pity … or such kind. I have no pity for you. You're a fool, Master More, and it was by great good luck, and nothing more than that, that you took the King's fancy.”

“Or great mischance, Alice.”

“Great good luck,” she repeated firmly. “And His Grace is a kindly man. Did I not see him with mine own eyes? It may be that he will not accept your resignation. I am sure he likes you. Did he not walk in the garden with his arm about your neck? Ah… he will be here to sup with us again, I doubt not.”

They let her dream. What harm was there in dreaming? But the others knew that the King had no further use for him; and those who knew the King's methods best prayed that the King might feel nothing but indifference toward his ex-minister.

They brought out their lutes, and Cecily played on the virginals. They were the happy family circle. There was not one of them during that evening—not even Alice nor Dauncey—who did not feel that he or she would be content if they could all remain as they were this night until the end of their days.

But they knew that this was not possible.

Even the servants knew it, for the news had reached them.

How could the household go on in the same comfortable way? Some of them would have to go; and although they knew that Sir Thomas More would never turn them away, that he would find new places for them—perhaps in the rich households of those whom he had known in his affluent days—that brought little comfort. There was no one who, having lived in the Chelsea household, would ever be completely happy outside it.


* * *

A YEAR passed.

They were very poor during that year; the house at Chelsea was indeed a large one and there were many living in it to be fed. Yet they were happy. The hospital continued to provide succor for the sick; there was little to spare in the house, but it was always shared with those who were in need. There was always a place at the table for a hungry traveler, and if the fare was simpler than before, it appeased the hunger. Alice took an even greater pride in her cookery; she discovered new ways of using the herbs which grew wild in the fields. They collected fern, bracken, sticks and logs, which they burned in the great fireplaces; and they would gather round one fire to warm themselves before retiring to their cold bedrooms.

Still, it was a happy year. They would not have complained if they could have gone on as they were.

Alice grew angry when the abbots and bishops collected a large sum of money which they wished to present to Thomas. He had written much, they said; the Church was grateful; and they deemed that the best way in which they could show their gratitude was by presenting him with the money. Thomas, however, would not accept it. “What I have done,” he said, “was not for gain.”

So Alice scolded him for what she called his misplaced pride, and they continued to live in simplicity.

Patenson the Fool had left them in tears to work with the Lord Mayor of London; and Thomas, knowing that poor Patenson was a very poor Fool indeed, whose idea of wit seemed to be to laugh at the physical appearances of others, arranged that he should be passed from one Lord Mayor to the next Lord Mayor so that he might not suffer through the decline in fortune of one of his masters.

There were some members of the household who were lulled into a feeling of peace, who believed that life would go on humbly and evenly in the years to come. They did not realize that Thomas More had played too big a part in the affairs of the country to be allowed to remain outside them.

So gradually had matters been changing at Court that they were almost unnoticed by those outside it. The King had declared himself to be the Supreme Head of the Church of England. His marriage with Queen Katharine was declared null and void. He had been forced to this procedure by the pregnancy of Anne Boleyn. He was determined that if she gave him a son it should not be born out of wedlock; and he would wait no longer.

Margaret knew that the shadows were moving nearer.

One day a barge pulled up at the stairs, and in it came a messenger.

Margaret saw him as she was playing with her babies, Will and Mary, on the lawns. Her heart leaped, and then she felt the blood thundering in her head. Her children were looking at her wonderingly; she took their hands and forced herself to walk calmly toward the approaching messenger.

To her great relief, she saw that he was not wearing the King's livery.

He bowed low on seeing Margaret.

“Madame, this is the house of Sir Thomas More?”

“It is. What would you of him?”

“I have a letter here. I am instructed to hand it to no other.”

“Whence do you come?”

“From my lords the Bishops of Durham, Bath and Winchester.”

She was relieved.

“Please come this way,” she said, “and I will take you to Sir Thomas.”

He was in the library, where he now spent the greater part of his time. He could be happy, she thought, then; He could remain in perfect contentment as he is now. Our poverty matters not at all. He can write, pray and laugh with his family. He asks no more than that. “O God,” she prayed silently, as she led the messenger to her father, “let him stay as he is…. Let him always be as he is now.”

“Meg!” he cried when he saw her.

The little ones ran to him; they loved him; they would sit on his knee and ask him to read to them; he would read them Latin and Greek, and although they could not understand him, they took great pleasure in watching the movement of his lips and listening to the sound of his voice.

Now they caught his skirts and laughed up at him.

“Grandfather … here is a man for you.”

“Father,” said Margaret, “a message from the Bishops.”

“Ah,” said Thomas. “Welcome, my friend. You have a letter for me. Let little Will take our friend to the kitchens and ask that he may be given something of what they have there, that he may refresh himself. Could you do that, my little man?”

“Yes, Grandfather,” cried Will. “Indeed I can.”

“Then off with you.”

“Take Mary with you,” said Margaret.

The two children went off with the messenger, and as soon as they were alone Margaret turned to her father. “Father, what is it?”

“Meg, you tremble.”

“Tell me, Father. Open your letter. Let us know the worst.”

“Or the best. Meg, you are nervous nowadays. What is it, daughter? What should you have to fear?”

“Father, I am not as the others to be lightly teased out of my anxieties. I know … as you know …”

He put his arm about her. “We know, Meg, do we not? And because we know, we do not grieve. We are all deaths creatures. I… you … even little Will and Mary. Only this uncertain air, with a bit of breath, keeps us alive. Meg, be not afraid.”

“Father, I beg of you, open the letter.”

He opened it and read it. “It is a letter from the Bishops, Margaret; they wish me to keep them company from the Tower to the Coronation. They send me twenty pounds with which to buy myself a gown.”

“Father, this is the beginning.”

He sought to comfort her. “Who knows, Meg? How can any of us know? At this magnificent Coronation, who will notice the absence of one poor and humble man?”