Just then Wolsey appeared from a small side door, as if I had called him up. He stood inconspicuously in the corner, observing his arrangements. Another man saw him and went over to him, and they conferred for a lengthy space.
Curious as to who it was, I made my way to them. Wolsey was listening raptly to the other man, but sensed my approach and broke off.
“Your Grace,” he said, bowing.
“Did you hear Memmo’s performance, Thomas?” I asked. “He was superb! I hope you did not merely arrange the chairs and supervise the food—which was beautifully done, by the way—without remaining to hear the music.”
“I heard,” replied Wolsey.
“Thomas hears everything,” said his companion. I looked at him: a plain-featured man, yet with an open countenance. Well dressed, but in such good taste that one remembered nothing in particular about it.
“As does this Thomas,” said Wolsey. “Your Grace, may I present Thomas More? A London lawyer I consult occasionally in regard to setting up this new court that the Privy Council wants held in the Palace.” He paused. “You remember. To avoid the harassment and delays in local courts of common law.”
“Ah, yes.” I had assigned an old room for the purpose, one with a fading celestial scene on its ceiling. They had nicknamed it the Court of Star Chamber.
More smiled. “I fear the artist who painted the ceiling there had never seen the actual sky. The stars are all wrong. He has Castor in Leo. And Rigel is missing entirely in Orion. Still, it makes a pretty picture.”
“Do you know astronomy?” Obviously he did.
“My knowledge is poor, Your Grace—”
“Nonsense!” I grew more and more excited. “You must come with me up to the palace roof. Tonight!”
Yes, tonight. Katherine was tired and wished to retire straightway; she had told me so.
“Your Grace, it is late—”
“Just in time for Vega to appear! This is the last week before winter that it will rise at all. And I cannot find it. I tried last night, but it was useless. I have a new astrolabe—”
“His Grace is an enthusiastic star-watcher,” said Wolsey. “He sent to Padua and Rome for new star maps and tables, but they are slow in arriving.”
“Perhaps I will send you in person to bring them back, Wolsey! Did you know”—I suddenly felt a great desire to confide in More, to joke with him—“Wolsey once carried a message from my father to the Emperor Maximilian in Flanders and back in only four days? ’Tis true. When my father saw him, he chided him for delaying in his leaving, and Wolsey was able to say, ‘Your Grace, I have yet gone and returned.’ ”
“Yes, I heard that,” said More quietly. “Wolsey can do the seemingly impossible.”
“But come to my roof tonight!” I insisted. I glanced over at the crowd, still milling about the table. “In an hour’s time, when all these people are gone to bed.”
Now I waited impatiently for More upon the flat roof directly over the royal apartments, which I had fitted up for my observatory. I had an astrolabe, a torquetum, and a solar quadrant mounted there, and a table for my charts and books. This roof afforded an exceptionally unobstructed view of the sky, as the Palace was on high ground far above all the surrounding trees, and the diffuse, distracting lights of London were five miles upstream.
I breathed deeply. It was cold and clear, a pristine autumn night. An ideal time for star-viewing; perhaps the best in the year.
Shortly before one, More appeared. He looked around, surprised at the extent to which my roof had been transformed into a facility for the study of astronomy.
“Thank you for coming, Thomas,” I said. I gestured proudly at my equipment. “It does not rival Bologna or Padua, I know, but in time—”
“Your Grace has done marvellously well in assembling this.” He strode over to my table with the charts and astrolabe and quickly examined them. “Excellent,” he pronounced.
“I have been trying to measure Auriga,” I said.
“You must sight Capella first. Then five degrees off that—”
The time passed quickly as More showed me things in the sky I had not seen before, revealed mathematical formulae for deducing the exact time from the height of a star. We talked excitedly and never noticed how light it was growing in the eastern part of the sky. He spent a great length of time figuring precisely where Aldebaran should be, then adjusting the torquetum accordingly to find it. When indeed it was there, we both laughed and cried out in joy.
“A superlative set of brass servants,” More pronounced.
“You handle them well,” I said. “What sort do you have yourself?”
He smiled and raised his finger slowly to his eyes.
“You shall have one of these! I shall order one to be made straightway, and by spring—”
“No, Your Grace.”
That brought me up sharp. “Why not?”
“I prefer to take no gifts.”
“But this would help—”
“I prefer not.” His voice was quiet, and something in the tone reminded me . . . called forth a painful remembrance. . . . “My good Lord Henry—”
Adieu, Lord Henry . . . yes, that was it. “You recited the elegy to my mother,” I said slowly, interrupting him.
“Yes, Your Grace.” The voice was the same. Why had I not recognized it earlier? Yet it was a span of nearly seven years since I had heard it. . . .
“And wrote it as well.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“It was—moving.” I waited for him to reply, but he merely nodded solemnly. The growing light showed his features now, but I could read nothing on them. “It meant a great deal to me.” Again he inclined his head. “Thomas—come to court! Serve me! I have need of men such as you. I wish my court to be filled with Thomas Mores.”
“Then the presence of one more or less can hardly matter.”
I had said it wrong in my excitement. “I did not mean—I meant that your presence would be precious to me.”
“I cannot, Your Grace.”
“Why not?” I burst out. All the others had come, even from the Continent, and More was an Englishman whose family had been near the court since Father’s time. “Why not?” It was an anguished cry.
“I prefer not, Your Grace. Forgive me.” His face was sad, and he said the words slowly.
“I would give you—”
“Do not tell me what you would give me,” he said. “Then I should have to say, ‘Get thee behind me, Satan.’ No fit words to address to one’s King!” He smiled, then saw my bewildered expression. “Surely you are familiar with the story of the Temptation of Christ?”
“Yes, but—”
“Read it in Greek,” he said. “It is so much clearer in Greek than in Latin.” Bowing, he left me standing on the roof alone in the grey light of early dawn. Only later did I remember that I had not given him leave to go.
The next day at noon a beautiful volume of the New Testament in Greek was delivered to me, with a note from More, saying, “I have been both comforted and discomfited by these Scriptures, yet I trust they be true.”
Impatiently I thumbed through them until I found the correct passage in Saint Mark. I struggled for two hours to translate it precisely, as my knowledge of Greek was barely up to the task. It read: “Again, the devil taketh him up to an exceeding high mountain, and sheweth him all the kingdoms of the world, and the glory of them; And saith unto him, All these things will I give thee, if thou wilt fall down and worship me. Then said Jesus unto him, Get thee hence, Satan.”
As I translated word by word, I became incensed. So More saw me as the Devil, requiring that all worship me? All I had done was ask him to come to court as a lawyer and my sometime companion. What was evil about that? A gift of an astrolabe—a simple thing, something to help him in his pursuit and love of astronomy. Hardly the equivalent of a soul. And, by implication (from the passage he had selected), he saw himself as Christ. I the Devil, he Christ?
Shaking, I
put the Greek text aside. More had profoundly disturbed me, as evidently he had intended. But less for myself than for him: I feared he must be unbalanced, demented.
XVI
I resolved to forget More. What matter if he chose not to come to court, but preferred to meet with his scholar-friends in his own house in Chelsea? The only men whose deliberate refusal to come to court would matter were the great nobles like the Duke of Buckingham or the Earl of Northumberland or the Earl of Surrey. But they came, all of them, and pledged their loyalty. (I was “domesticating” them, in Wolsey’s word. He always had the appropriate word.)
But even had I wished to (which I assuredly did not!), I could not dwell on More for long, as things of much greater importance were taking place. The French continued their belligerent actions, straining the forbearance of both Maximilian and Ferdinand, who were still honourably bound by the treaty of Cambrai. The Pope had denounced Louis and appealed to me, to Maximilian, and to Ferdinand in turn. He had excommunicated Louis and laid all France under an Interdict: there could be no Masses, no baptisms, no marriages, no burials. A dreadful thing, yet the so-called Most Christian King did not seem unduly concerned, clearly revealing himself as apostate. For who could live without the Sacraments?
Must I declare war on France? Did I truly have any choice? I would be bound by honour to do so. But the army . . .
Unlike other countries, England had no standing army, and each time a war was fought a new one must be raised. An ancient ordinance commanded each able-bodied man to have war weapons at the ready and be prepared to fall into ranks upon the call—in short, a national militia. In fact, very few households kept the required weapons at hand, and of those weapons that were so kept, many were obsolete or in poor repair.
I therefore issued a proclamation (one of my first to touch upon the population at large) ordering everyone to comply with the law and stock the appropriate weapons. There was much grumbling at the expense involved.
WILL:
One curious fact about England, often remarked upon by foreigners: whereas the Kings of other realms sought to limit weapons and keep them out of the hands of common citizens, the English insisted that they keep them. Partly it was frugality: standing armies are alarmingly expensive. But mainly it was trust. Harry had no army and only a handful of armed personal guards against a fully armed citizenry. Yet his decrees were obeyed without question and he never feared to go about unarmed among the people, even at the height of his unpopularity.
HENRY VIII:
We talked peace, but readied ourselves for war. This, I soon learned, was customary. Yet the holy season of Christmas interrupted these sordid things, as all the world paused to observe the Saviour’s birth.
WILL:
I am sure he would not have put it thus at the time. His title of “Supreme Head of the Church in England” quite went to his head in later years, and caused him to try to emulate Papal pronouncements in retrospect. At the time (he was a mere eighteen, remember!) he undoubtedly said, “It is Christmas and time for the festivities.”
HENRY VIII:
I determined that the celebrations in my court would be splendid, for Christmas festivities were important for several reasons. They knitted the court together as a family and dispelled factions, if only for an interval. Those who saw them as mere pomp and display missed their true purpose—for we must have rest and respite from work. And all the world was at rest. The roads were well nigh impassable, and even the Thames froze as far upstream as London, making normal commerce impossible. The fields lay open and frozen, and the common people waited and played. Should not we do likewise?
The weather obliged, and there was a warm spell in December, facilitating the cutting of the Yule log, the seasoning of firewood, the travel of families from far away to court for the festivities. The revels-master was able to assemble his spectacular pageant-machine (all papier-mâché and paint and illusion, to be borne upon a great cart) outdoors.
Then, in mid-December, as if on royal command, the weather changed, turned wintry. Snow blew from the north, driving us indoors, making us glad of the fires and torches.
True, it was not by royal command, yet everything seemed arranged as I would have it, from small things like the weather to more important things, such as finding a servant like Wolsey ready at hand, and finally to my wife, Katherine, who was pleasing to me in every way and now pleasingly great with child. I remember leaning against the window in my work closet (through which I could feel the north wind; the sash was poorly fitted) and thanking God for all my blessings.
Warham celebrated High Mass in the Chapel Royal on Christmas Day, and the entire court attended: the Royal Family and the attendants on the upper level, the rest of the household on the lower level.
Then the secular festivities began. There were masques and miming, and three fools scampered about. A great banquet with some eighty dishes (one of them being baked lampreys, my favourite). Still later, a dance in the Great Hall.
Disguised, as custom decreed, I danced with many ladies to the lively string-melodies of the rebec and the thump of the wooden xylophone. Only one woman made bold to guess my identity: Lady Boleyn, wife of Thomas Boleyn, one of my Esquires of the Body. She was a vain, tiresome woman, much given to flirtation and, as she thought, charm. She began by announcing straightway that she danced with the King; she recognized him by his strength, his manliness, his renowned dancing skill. (A clever move. Should I not be King—as her chances were only so-so that I was—then the hearer would be flattered, as she imagined; and if she were, by accident, correct, then the King himself would marvel at her astuteness.) I did not enlighten her, but let her go on about her stepchildren, who were all deserving of accolades and (now it came) positions at court. Mary, George, and Anne. (Cursed names, all! Would that I had never heard them!) I extricated myself as soon as possible.
WILL:
I am sure he did not mean to include Mary in this wish; and certainly he would not undo the children that resulted from his inability to extricate himself truly from the Boleyns. If only the daughters had been as unappealing as the mother! Incidentally, this should lay to rest the old rumour that he dallied with Lady Boleyn as well. Where this got started I cannot imagine; ill-wishers are determined to give the King as large and indiscriminate a lust as Jupiter himself.
HENRY VIII:
It was time for the musical interlude. To everyone’s surprise, I myself took my lute and went to the middle of the floor.
“I have composed a song for the season,” I announced. It was not strictly true; I had composed it merely for myself, when trying to settle in my own mind exactly what I wished from life. Everyone stared back at me, yet I struck the chord and was not in the least afraid. I sang, boldly:
Pastime with good company
I love and shall until I die
Grudge who will, but none deny,
So God be pleased this life will I
For my pastance,
Hunt, sing, and dance,
My heart is set,
All goodly sport
To my comfort
Who shall me let?
Youth will needs have dalliance,
Of good or ill some pastance;
Company me thinketh best
All thought and fancies to digest,
For idleness
Is chief mistress
Of vices all;
Then who can say
But pass the day
Is best of all?
Company with honesty
Is virtue—and vice to flee;
Company is good or ill
But every man hath his free will.
The best I sue,
The worst eschew;
My mind shall be
Virtue to use;
Vice to refuse
I shall use me.
It was my own statement, yet as I finished, wild applause greeted me. Evidently it touched the secret feelings of others as well—as any artist must. I was
deeply moved.
WILL:
Unfortunately I suspect you were the only one who was, although your captive audience listened attentively. You must have been so brave and pretty and unexpected, standing out there all alone. It was likely that which touched them, not your banal song.
Incidentally, Catherine, I feel I must apologize for Henry’s nasty comments about your entire family. You know he did not always feel that way, and certainly his animosity never carried over to his children.
HENRY VIII:
On New Year’s Day, 1510, everyone—from the Duke of Buckingham, the foremost noble in the land, to the lowliest kitchen scullion—assembled in the Great Hall for the formal presentation of gifts. Heretofore this had not been customary, but I meant it to become the highlight of court Christmas festivities. Thanks to Wolsey and his tireless work, the King had a personal gift for everyone: an embroidered handkerchief for the vain assistant to the Clerk of the Wardrobe; a small bottle of Spanish oporto for the cook, who loved it; a blessed rosary for the newest priest appointed to the Chapel Royal. For others closer to me, I had selected the gifts myself. To Wolsey, a lush wool carpet from the Turks, procured at great expense and effort (as I already knew how discriminating he was); to Katherine, a jewelled book of Scriptures (as I also knew how devout she was, yet it seemed, still, peripheral to me); to Warham and Fox and Ruthal, sumptuously adorned mass-missals. And then a little personal trick: to More, an astrolabe. He came forward to receive it, ceremoniously, then returned to his place. Etiquette forbade his opening it there. I triumphed at my imaginary picture of his unwrapping it at Chelsea.