Виктория Холт - The Lady in the Tower

“A Cardinal!” spluttered Henry. “Tell the Pope I'll send his head to Rome to receive his Cardinal's Hat.”

Such outbursts were of little use.

He was most disturbed by Thomas More. The strong sentimental streak in Henry was uppermost in his feelings for More, and he was at times capable of affection. He admired More almost as much as he had Wolsey. The lively brain, the witty conversation, the clear view of life which comes to most of us too late and to some not at all, that innate knowledge of what is of true importance in life, often seeming to the worldly simple—that was More. A man greatly beloved by his family and his friends, one of whom had been the King. Henry used to visit the house at Chelsea now and then. He knew the family well, and he had at times been a little envious that so much felicity should come to a man who lacked what he, Henry, had—royalty, power, good looks.

And now More was in the Tower. He was going to refuse to sign the Oath of Supremacy because he was a man of strong will and high principles. This refusal would brand him a traitor, and the punishment for traitors was death.

Henry had to face that. How could he sign a death warrant? This was a man he loved—in spite of his obstinacy. He raged. Why was More such a fool? Why was he ready to give up everything he had—and by God, that man had a great deal!— just for the sake of signing his name!

Fisher was such another. “Obstinate old fool,” grumbled Henry.

June had come—hot and sultry.

Henry was stubborn. He had to go ahead. Several Carthusian monks and twenty-four other people were cruelly executed for denying the King was Supreme Head of the Church—carried on hurdles to the place of execution, then hanged and cut open while they were alive and their intestines were burned.

Fisher's execution followed.

The King sent a command that no one was to preach about Fisher's treason. And they were not to mention Sir Thomas More.

I know that Henry suffered over More. He tried to put off the trial. He was sullen. I found him glaring at me as though I were to blame, for after all, if I had given way in the beginning, there might not have been this break with Rome, and More might, at this time, be living happily with his family at Chelsea.

But he could delay no longer. On the first day of July, More faced his judges in Westminster Hall.

My father was among those judges; so were Norfolk, Suffolk and Cromwell. More was charged with infringing the Act of Supremacy and maliciously opposing the King's second marriage. He answered that he had not advised Fisher to disobey the Oath; he had not described it as a two-edged sword, approval of which would ruin the soul. All the same, a verdict of guilty was pronounced and he was sentenced to be hanged atTyburn.

Henry was most distressed. He could not allow his old friend to be hanged like a common felon; he immediately changed the sentence to a more dignified form of execution: More was to be beheaded.

Everyone was talking of More. He was a man much loved by the people. Henry should never have agreed to his execution. But he could not turn back now. He had gone too far.

More had faced his accusers with courage and almost indifference, which was expected of such a man. He had few enemies, which was rare for a man in his position. He loved his daughter, Margaret, especially. People talked of her terrible grief and how she had run to him when he left Westminster Hall with the ax turned toward him and thrown her arms about his neck. Only then did he show signs of breaking his control. He had begged her not to unman him; and the poor girl had fallen fainting to the ground while he was forced to go on…a prisoner.

There was one thing he had said, and this had made a great impression on me. It was reported to me by those who pretended to be my friends and kept me informed of what was going on. Usually it brought disquiet, but I had to know. More's daughter Margaret had raged against the dancing and feasting which was going on at Court while her father suffered imprisonment; and of course she talked of me with hatred, for like everyone else, she blamed me for all the ills which had befallen us.

“Poor Anne Boleyn,” Sir Thomas More was reported to have said. “It pitieth me to consider what misery, poor soul, she will shortly come to. These dances of hers will prove such dances that she will spurn our heads off like footballs, but it will not be long ere her head will dance the same dance.”

I shivered when I heard that. It was not completely implausible. Oh, if only I could get a son…

On that sad July day Sir Thomas More was taken out to Tower Hill. There was a silence throughout the Court. It seemed that everyone was there in spirit to witness that grisly scene.

He was jesting when he died, having approached the scaffold with the utmost composure. He said to the executioner: “I pray you see me safely up, and for my coming down let me shift for myself.” He told the watching crowd that he died in the faith of the Catholic Church, and he prayed God to send the King good counsel.

Then the ax fell.

The King was playing cards with me when the news was brought that Sir Thomas was dead. He turned pale; his lips tightened. For a moment he looked a frightened man. I knew he was thinking that he had ordered the death of a saint. I saw a quiver run through his plump cheeks; then his eyes fell on me.

He was afraid of what he had done. He feared Heaven's wrath; and in case God had forgotten he had to remind Him of the real culprit.

There was cold hatred in his eyes as they surveyed me. “You are the cause of this man's death,” he said, and left the table.

I felt death very close then. I saw him more clearly than I ever had… this man who could be so ruthless and had the power to work his will on us all.

Thomas More's body was buried in the church of St. Peter in the Tower, but his head, as was the custom with traitors’ heads, was placed on a pole and set up on London Bridge, that all who passed beneath it could reflect on the fate of traitors.

A shiver ran through the Court when news came that the head had disappeared. It seemed like Divine interference. Henry was in a state of great nervousness. He had always thought of himself as being on good terms with Heaven; and now this looked like a sign of disapproval.

It was not his fault that More had been executed, he reiterated. He had been forced to sign the death warrant. Others were to blame. The Parliament had conferred the title of Supreme Head on him and ordered that those who did not accept this were traitors and should be dealt with accordingly. He had loved More; he had suffered when the sentence had been passed on him. He had merely taken the advice of his ministers.

There was great relief when it was discovered that More's daughter Margaret had taken down her father's head. The King declared that she must be allowed to do what she would with it. He would hear no more. The whole affair had been a great sorrow to him.

Strangely enough, he turned to me for comfort and, stranger still, I was able to subdue my feelings of contempt and give him what he sought.

“He was a traitor, Anne.”

I took his hand and said: “As all who disobey you must be.”

“He was a good man…”

“It seems good men can sometimes act traitorously.”

“He was not against me … only the Act. At the end he thought of me.”

“You had been good to him, Henry.”

His expression lightened. That was the right note. He said: “Yes, I would go to Chelsea… would sit at his humble table. I asked for no ceremony. I walked in his gardens with him and watched his children feed the peacocks.”

“You did him great honor.”

I soothed him; and we were together again.

WE HAD TO BE MERRY… outwardly. There was a great outcry on the Continent about the death of Sir Thomas More. Rome was shocked by the death of Fisher. He had recently been made a Cardinal, and no Cardinal had ever been executed in England before. This was further defiance of Rome. Henry was called the Monster of England. The Emperor Charles said that the execution of Sir Thomas More was an act of folly. “Had we been master of such a servant,” he was reputed to have commented, “we would rather have lost the fairest city in our domain than such a counselor.”

Henry's anger was intense. There should be no weakness. Those who opposed the King should face the penalty.

There were more deaths. Monks must acknowledge the King as Supreme Head of the Church, and for those who would not there was death. There were some who preferred it.

Death was not easy for them. There was no quick stroke of the ax. They died as had the Carthusian monks, dragged through the city on hurdles, hanged, taken down alive and cut open, that their entrails might be burned. People congregated to watch these grisly spectacles in fascinated horror.

They said it was all due to the goggle-eyed whore.

The most disturbing news was that Pope Paul—no vacillating Clement—was so outraged by the deaths of Fisher and More and the monks that he was contemplating waging a holy war against England. The Emperor would lead the army of invasion with the help and blessing of the Pope. They were seeking an alliance with France.

Oddly enough, I had ceased to be as worried as I had been. This was a threat against Henry. Before, I alone had been in danger. It is easier to accept a universal danger than a personal one.

I tried to shut myself away from events by taking an even greater interest in the new religion. There were several Protestant bishops in the Church now—chief of them Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury, and Hugh Latimer, Bishop of Worcester. They were strong men and my friends, because I was known to support the new ideas.