But his little eyes were fearful. In the streets the people were murmuring. It was all they dared to do against the King. They had seen the terrible deaths of the Carthusians; and now the head of Sir Thomas More was on a pole on London Bridge beside that of the saintly Fisher, Bishop of Rochester.

“Come, Norfolk, what are you thinking … skulking there?”

Norfolk was a bold man. He said: “That it was a pity, Your Grace. Such a man of talents to be so obstinate … so wrong-minded.”

“You seem sad that it should be so.”

“Your Grace, he was a lovable man … for all his faults. Sire, many loved him.”

Many loved him!

The King's eyes narrowed. The people would remember that the man had been put to death because he had obeyed his conscience rather than his King. The King's good servant, but God's first.

The King cursed all martyrs.

This man must not live in the memory of the people. He must be seen as a traitor, a man deserving death, a traitor whose head was in its rightful place, looking down from London's bridge on London's river.

But Henry knew that, as the people passed by the bridge, as they looked at the head of the man, they would mutter prayers and ask his blessing. Too many of them remembered his kindness, his piety and virtue.

Living, he had been Thomas More, the kind, good man; dead, he would be Thomas More, the saint.

That should not be; it must not be.

Had not More stated that he believed the sowing of seditious heresies should be prevented at all costs? During his reign as Chancellor one or two people had been burned as heretics. The King would have it bruited abroad that this great good man had not been averse to inflicting suffering on those who did not share his views. Could he then complain at the King's treatment of himself?

There would be some who would say: “It is not the duty of a Chancellor to pass sentence on heretics. That lies in the hands of the clergy.” But who would examine that too closely? The Tudors and their friends, who had found it necessary to suppress many historical facts, would have no difficulty in supressing or garnishing wherever it was expedient to do so.

The King remembered the case of a heretic who had been ordered by Sir Thomas More to be flogged. The King had been amused at the time of the offense, for the man concerned had crept behind women kneeling in the church and, lifting their clothes, had cast them over their heads. The just sentence for such an act was flogging; but this man, as well as being a lewd person, was also a heretic. A little adjustment of the reports of such cases, and there was More, a flogger of heretics.

The King doubted not that his good friends would have no difficulty in providing the necessary evidence.

For, thought the King, we cannot have martyrs in our kingdom. Martyrs are uncomfortable men, and I like them not.

The King must always be right; and the King was uneasy, for he also found it hard to forget the man. Norfolk was right: More had been a lovable fellow.

I liked him, mused Henry. It gave me pleasure to honor him.

He remembered their pleasant talks together over the writing of the book; he thought of evenings on the balcony with his first Queen beside him, and Thomas More pointing out the stars in the heavens; he thought of the pleasant family at Chelsea and walking through those fragrant gardens with his arm about his Chancellor's neck.

“I loved the man,” murmured Henry. “I… as well as the others. It was not my wish that he should die. God bear me witness. I loved him.”

His Queen came in.

He was not pleased with her. She had not brought him all that he had desired. She had filled his heart with jealousy and his mind with misgiving.

He had noticed a quiet, pale girl among her maids of honor. Jane Seymour was her name; and although this young woman was modest, she had shown that she was not unconscious of the King's regard.

The King lost control of his temper suddenly as he looked at his Queen; and he was filled with fear because the murder of a great and good man lay heavily upon his conscience.

“You have done this!” he shouted at his Queen. “You have done this. You have demanded of me the death of a good man and, God forgive you, I have granted your request.”

8

THERE WAS NO SOUND ON THE RIVER BUT THAT OF THE oars as they dipped in the water.

The stars in the July sky scintillated like jewels in the doublet of a king, and the outline of hedges was clear along the banks.

The bridge and its ghastly relics came into view.

The boat stopped and, when Margaret alighted, Will was beside her. He put his arm about her.

“Meg … Meg … you still insist?”

She nodded.

“ 'Tis a dangerous thing to do, my darling. I know not what the penalty would be if…”

“I know not either,” she said, “and I care not.”

They walked away from the rivers edge up and on to the bridge.

“Meg … go back to the boat. I will do it.”

“Nay. 'Tis my task and mine alone.”

The air of the hot summer's night caressed her face as she stood on the bridge and firmly grasped the pole in her hand.

“Meg, you torture yourself.”

“Nay,” she answered. “Let be, Will. Let be.”

And together they pulled down the pole, and they took that which was set upon it.

Margaret wrapped it tenderly in the shawl she had brought, and, putting his arm about her, Will led her back to the boat.

Tenderly Will Roper watched his wife and swore to cherish her until the end of their days. He and their children between them would give her such love that Thomas himself, looking down from Heaven, would smile upon them and bless them.

Now Margaret stared before her, her arms about the shawl which held that terrible and precious relic.

London Bridge was behind them, and they went swiftly up the river to Chelsea.