“Oh, Father!”

“Have no fear, Meg. I have confounded them. For did I not warn the King of the risk of incurring the penalties of praemunire? I reminded them of this, and that the book was the King's book; that he himself had said I had but arranged it to his wishes. They could scarcely bring such a matter against me when the King has so clearly said that the book was his own—aye, and has received the title of Defender of the Faith for having written it.”

“If he is repudiating authorship of the book, then he should abandon the title it brought him,” said Mercy.

“You are right, daughter. I said: ‘My lords, these terrors be arguments for children and not for me.’”

Will's brow was furrowed. He said: “But, Father, what of the Parliament's list? Have they struck your name from it?”

“By my troth, son Roper, I forgot that matter in this new one.”

Will spoke tartly in his anxiety. “You did not remember it? A case that touches you so near, and us all for your sake!”

Margaret looked anxiously from her husband to her father. Thomas was smiling; Will was angry.

“I understand not, sir,” said Will, “why you should be so merry.”

“Then, Will, let me tell you. And I will tell my dear daughters also. This day I have gone so far, I have spoken my mind so clearly to these lords who cross-examined me, that, without great shame, I could not now turn back.”

He lifted his eyes and looked beyond them. He was smiling, but those about him were conscious of a deepening of their fear.


* * *

IT SEEMED wrong that the weather should be so beautiful. Surely there had never been a more lovely April. Margaret could not bear the brightness of the spring sunshine. They went about their work silently, forcing their smiles. Everyone in the household knew that it could not be long before he was called before the Commissioners to sign the newly coined Oath of Supremacy. How would he be able to extricate himself from this trouble? Now he would be presented with the necessity to sign or not to sign. The first would mean a return to the King's pleasure; the other …? They did not know; they dared not think.

Easter Day came, and he, determined not to brood as they did, trying to laugh at their fears, being more gay than even was his wont, had arranged to go with Will to St Paul's to hear the sermon.

On that lovely spring day they set out by barge.

He would not be back until late in the day.

“I shall be within a few minutes of Bucklersbury,” he said “and I cannot pass so close without calling on my son and daughter Clement.”

Mercy was waiting for him with a heavy heart. Each time she saw him she wondered whether it would be the last.

“John,” she cried to her husband, “how can I greet him merrily? How can I?”

“You must,” John answered. “Who knows, this storm may pass.”

Dinner was on the table waiting for him, and she went out along the Poultry to meet him.

She saw him coming, his arm through that of Will Roper; they were deep in discussion, doubtless talking of the sermon they had just heard.

He embraced her warmly when they met; but his searching eyes saw what she could not hide, and that which he must be seeing in the faces of every member of his family now.

“Why, daughter, it is good indeed to see you. And how do I find you? Merry and well?”

“Merry and well,” she repeated. “Merry and well, Father.”

He put his arm through hers and they walked thus to Bucklersbury; he smiling, a son and daughter on either side of him happy to be with them, for although they had neither of them been born son and daughter of his, he would have them know that he considered them as such.

Friends and acquaintances greeted him as they passed along. There was warmth in the smiles of these people. They bered him when he had been Under-Sheriff of the City; they remembered him as the incorruptible Lord Chancellor. But Mercy interpreted the looks in their eyes—fear, pity, warning.

The blow could not be far off.

Margaret, who loved him perhaps more poignantly than any of them, would have him sign the Oath; Margaret would have him do anything so that she might keep him with her. Mercy knew that. And if she, Mercy, could have pleaded with him, would she have urged him to sign the Oath?

She differed from Margaret. Margaret's love was all-important to her. He was, after all, Margaret's father, and if Margaret could keep him with her she would not care what it cost. But Mercy would never ask him to do what was against his conscience. Mercy would have him do what was right… whatever the consequences to himself and his family.

But that did not mean her suffering was any less acute.

Here was Bucklersbury with its pleasant apothecaries' smells. Here was the old home.

“I never enter it without a thousand memories assailing me,” he said.

And Mercy knew that he was glad to be here again, to recall those happy memories, to treasure them for that time when he would be unable to visit the house in Bucklersbury.

“Come, Father, you will be hungry. Let us eat at once.”

They were at table when the messenger arrived.

Mercy rose. She was not unduly disturbed. She did not expect them to come for him here. This must be a friend calling. No? Then a messenger from the Court. It must be someone for John, for he was now one of the King's physicians.

The man came forward. He carried a scroll in his hands.

“A message for me?” asked John.

“Nay, sir. I was instructed to deliver this to Sir Thomas More at Chelsea, but, hearing that he was at your house, I have saved myself the journey.”

Thomas rose to receive the scroll. “Thank you. You were wise to save yourself the journey.”

He did not look at the scroll, but chatted awhile with the messenger in his friendly way; and when the man had left, he still held it unopened in his hands.

“Father …” began Mercy fearfully.

“Let us eat this excellent meal you have prepared for us, my daughter.”

“But…”

“After,” he said. “There is time for that.”

Then he began to talk of the sermon he and Will had heard at St. Paul's; but none of them was attending; their eyes kept going to the scroll which lay on the table.

“Father,” said Will angrily, “keep us no longer in suspense. What is this?”

“Have you not guessed, my son? I'll warrant it is an instruction for me to appear before the Commissioners to take the Oath of Supremacy.”

“Then, Father, look at it. Make sure.”

“Why, Will, you fret too much. We knew this must come.”

“Father,” said Will in exasperation, “your calm maddens me. Read it… for pity's sake.”

Thomas read. “Yes, Will,” he said. “I am to appear before the Commissioners at Lambeth to take the Oath.”

“It is more than I can bear,” said Will. “It is more than Margaret can bear.”

“Take hope, my son. Let no trouble drive you to misery. If the trouble is lasting, it is easy to bear. If it is hard to bear, it does not last long.”

“Father, when do you go to Lambeth?” asked Mercy.

“Tomorrow. You see, today I need not fret. Today I may do what I will.”

“We must go back to Chelsea,” said Will.

“Why?”

“They will wish to have you with them as long as possible. Margaret…”

“Let her be. Let her have this day in peace. The sooner she knows this notice has been served upon me, the sooner will she fret even as you do, Will.”

“Is the knowledge that this has come any worse than the fear that it will, the knowledge that it must?”

“Yes, Will. For in uncertainty there is hope. Leave Margaret for a while. Come, let us eat, or Mercy will be offended. She and her servants have taken great pains to please us with these foods.”

Eat! Take pleasure in food? How could they?

They sat there at the table, and the pain in their hearts was almost unbearable.

And the only merry one at that table was Sir Thomas More.


* * *

THEY WENT along the river, back to Chelsea, in the early evening.

“Not a word yet, Will,” said Thomas. “Leave them in peace…. Let them have this day.”

“But, Father,” said Will in distress, “I doubt that I can keep my fears from them.”

“You have been displaying fears for many a day, Will. Smile, my son. They'll not know. They'll not think this could be served on me anywhere but in my own home. Let us have one more merry night at home. Let us sing and tell tales and laugh and be happy together, Will… just for one more night.”

Will did manage to curb his misery. He sang as loudly as the rest; and he was aware of his father-in-law's gratitude.

And that night, when he lay beside Margaret, he was sleepless, and so was she.

She whispered: “Will, it cannot be long now, can it? There cannot be many more such days left to us.”

And Will said: “It cannot be long.” He remembered his father's plea and he did not say: “There can be no more such days. Today is the last, for tomorrow he goes to Lambeth.”


* * *

THE NEXT morning the family rose as usual. Thomas had an air of resignation which Margaret noticed: it was almost as though he found pleasure in this day. Alice noticed it too; she thought, I do believe he is going to do as the King wishes. I do believe he has come to his senses at last.

But after they had breakfasted he said: “Come … let us go to church.”

They walked across the fields to Chelsea Church as they had done on many other mornings. And after the service, when the sun was high in the sky, he laid his hand on Will's arm and said: “Will, 'Tis time we were away.”