NEITHER ROYAL SERVICE nor the traffic of many guests prevented More from supervising in detail the training of his children. The household was a testing ground for his theories of education. Here was taught and lived the Christian belief that in a perfect society there would be two authorities, the natural and the supernatural, and that the latter, being God's will, should govern the first. This is what he taught in his home, it was the rule by which he lived; it was the principle for which he died.

He did not send his children to school, for he had his own ideas as to their training. The best of tutors were brought in, and they lived as members of the family. The excellent school, St. Paul's, which had been founded by his friend Colet, was not far away, yet his son John was kept and educated at home. In an age when the education of females was mostly confined to domestic virtues, his daughters, Margaret, Elizabeth, Cecily, and his adopted daughter, Margaret Giggs, were given a thorough grounding, along with their brother, in Latin, Greek, Logic, Philosophy, Theology, Mathematics, and even Astronomy. To teach the latter subject came Master Nicholas Kratzer, German-born and formerly a fellow of Corpus, Oxford. Serving with him were also Master Drew, Richard Hyrde, and William Gunnell. When More was forced by his official duties to journey abroad or attend the Court, he kept supervision over his family's training by letters both to the tutors and to the children.

To Gunnell came an admonition on the necessity of humility and the danger of pride: ". . . the more I see the difficulty of getting rid of this pest of pride, the more do I see the necessity of setting to work at it from childhood. For I find no other reason why this evil clings so to our hearts, than because almost as soon as we are born, it is sown in the tender minds of children by their nurses, it is cultivated by their teachers, and brought to its full growth by their parents; no one teaching even what is good without, at the same time, awakening the expectation of praise, as of the proper reward of virtue. Thus we grow accustomed to make so much of praise, that while we study how to please the greater number (who will always be the worst), we grow ashamed of being good (with the few). That this plague of vainglory may be banished far from my children, I do desire that you, my dear Gunnell, and their mother and all their friends, would sing this song to them, and repeat it, and beat it into their heads, that vainglory is a thing despicable, and to be spit upon; and that there is nothing more sublime than that humble modesty so often praised by Christ; and this your prudent charity will so enforce as to teach virtue rather than reprove vice, and make them love good advice instead of hating it. . . If you will teach something of this sort . . . you will bind me and them still more to you. And thus you will bring about that my children, who are dear to me by nature, and still more dear by learning and virtue, will become most dear by that advance in knowledge and good conduct."]

More's daughters and son were not the only ones to be educated in his house. There was his step-daughter and his wards, there was his daughters' maid, Dorothy Colley, there were other servants, and his official duties grew along with a resultant enlargement of staff. Various secretaries and pages imbibed the training and spirit of this unique school. His eldest daughter seems to have been the prize pupil, and More justifiably took great pride m her very considerable scholarship. She became fluent in Greek and Latin and earned the respect of More's friends. Erasmus wrote to her as an equal and referred to her as "Britannica's Jewel." Cardinal Pole professed his astonishment at her learning. The Bishop of Exeter saluted her with a gold coin.

In the summer of 1521 Margaret married William Roper Her husband was a young lawyer who already had been given the hospitality of More's roof. More, as the old saying goes, "did not lose a daughter but gained a son." Margaret and her husband continued to live with him, and in doing so set a pattern that was followed by his other children and wards in their turn.

His good wife, Dame Alice, "of good years, and of no favour or complexion," tried valiantly to follow the conversation of her husband's guests and the equally high talk of the children's reaming. Although it was mostly over her head, she understood the aims of More's programme. Not meant to be a student herself, she adopted the role of a stern headmistress and supplied her own lack by keeping a watchful eye on the children. Hours of study were rigidly enforced and there was little malingering or evasion under the rule of Dame Alice.

The pursuit of secular learning, arduous though it might seem, was not made at the expense of religion. Worship of God was the predominant thought and practice of the little community; piety was the order of every day and family prayers were recited morning and evening. Mass was attended daily and excerpts from the Scriptures were read at mealtime. The great feasts of the Church were carefully explained and solemnly observed. With the discipline he had acquired from the Carthusians, More usually left his bed before two in the morning and from then until seven spent the hours in prayer or religious reading. He taught the family the necessity and nobility of charity by practical examples. He welcomed poor and rich alike to his house. He built an alms-house which was cared for by the entire family. With so many things to do, More would yet find time to pay calls on less fortunate neighbours, "helping them not with small gifts but with two, three, or four pieces of gold, as their need required."[2] He saved no money: all went to his house and his charities.

Despite the stress on religion and learning, More's house was not a gloomy one. There was much fun and play. Dice and gambling were forbidden but there were other games and play-acting to lighten the hours. Everyone, including the servants, was encouraged to play a musical instrument of some kind. Even Dame Alice, severe and stiff on occasion, yielded to the lure of music and, practicing daily, achieved some success with the lute, the viol, the monochord and the flute. More enjoyed a good joke and, as his station advanced and as was the custom then, he kept a jester, one Patenson, in residence. More had a pet monkey, the source of much mischief and amusement, and being fond of animals he made a collection of sizeable proportions which inhabited his gardens. Said Erasmus: "One of his amusements is in observing the forms, characters and instincts of different animals. Accordingly there is scarcely any kind of bird that he does not keep about his residence, and the same of other animals not quite so common, as monkeys, foxes, ferrets, weasels, and the like. Besides these, if he meets with any strange object, imported from abroad . . . he is most eager to buy it . . . and his own pleasure is renewed every time that he sees others interested."[3]

His domestic life with all its numerous interests and enjoyments was punctuated by absences when he was obliged to wait upon the King and attend the Court. Henry took great pride in his acquisition of More and insisted that his new servant be in constant and close personal attendance. This caused considerable hardship to More, who, in addition to missing his family, had all the philosopher's distaste for the life of a courtier. To make everything all the more difficult there was a series of new and violent outbreaks of the Sweating Sickness. To avoid the dread disease Henry constantly moved his residence. In 1518, More's first year of complete royal service, the King shifted his Court no fewer than six times.

When pressure had first been applied upon More to enter the King's service he had realized that to do so would mean that he would no longer be able to serve the City as Under Sheriff. Nevertheless, he did not resign this office that he liked so much until some time after he had been officially appointed as a King's Councillor and made Master of Requests.

In spite of his many activities he yet found time to make a spirited defence of the teaching of Greek at Oxford. And this was no ordinary court of an ordinary prince that he had come to attend. This was the court of the brilliant and enlightened young Henry, still the hope of scholars and reformers. "I should deplore the fortune of More in being enticed into a Court," wrote Erasmus to Tunstall, "if it were not that under such a King, and with so many learned men for companions and colleagues, it may seem not a Court, but a temple of the Muses."[4] More expressed the same optimism when he wrote to his friend John Fisher, still at Cambridge: "It was with the greatest unwillingness that I came to Court, as everyone knows, and as the King himself in joke often throws up in my face. I am as uncomfortable there as a bad rider is in the saddle. I am far from enjoying the special favour of the King, but he is so courteous and kindly to all that everyone who is in any way hopeful finds a ground for imagining that he is in the King's good graces . . But I am not so happy as to perceive signs of favour or so hopeful as to imagine them. But the King has virtue and reaming, and makes great progress in both, with daily renewed zeal, so that the more I see His Majesty advance in all the qualities that befit a good monarch, the less burdensome do I feel this life of the Court."[5]

The tragic hour was to come when More was to utter the historic words that he died, "the King's good servant, but God's first." Surely then his memory reached back to this first year of his royal service, when Henry had greeted him with a pious warning, "that in all his doings and affairs touching the King, he should first respect and regard God, and afterward the King his master."[6]

High ideals and great deeds of goodness had not yet left Henry's horizon. He was greatly pleased that he could now, n his own household and at any time, command More's conversation. It was noted that the king's custom was, "upon holidays, when he had done his own devotions, to send for him into his travers, and there, sometime in matters of Astronomy, Geometry, Divinity, and such other Faculties, and sometimes of his worldly affairs, to sit and confer with him. And other whiles would he, in the night, have him up into his leads, there for to consider with him the diversities, courses, motions and operations of the stars and planets. And, because he was of a pleasant disposition, it pleased the King and Queen, after the Council had supped . . . commonly to call for him to be merry with them."[7]

This popularity with the King was all very well, but for a man so devoted to his own hearth, it was also irksome. There were times when his liberty from the Court did not exceed two days a month. Realizing the error of being too entertaining a courtier, he sought to employ a different tactic. ". . . much misliking this restraint of his liberty, began thereupon somewhat to dissemble his nature, and so by little and little from his former accustomed mirth to disuse himself, that he was of them from thenceforth at such seasons no more so ordinarily sent for."[8] In other words, he pretended to be dull, but the ruse never fully succeeded.

If it were certain that More should eventually run afoul of his patron, Henry, it was equally sure that, sooner or later, his course would run counter to that of Wolsey, no less his sponsor. The prelate was now nearing the height of his power, living with a magnificence that even surpassed the splendour of the King's court. He received homage and bribes at home and from abroad. Noblemen and prelates of all ranks attended his person. He was only in his middle forties and he had been humbly born, yet when the King's Arms were put up, his appeared alongside of them. Money was minted, bearing his Cardinal's Hat. Oxford addressed him as "Your Majesty." Each year he accumulated more and richer benefices. A great army of retainers, knights, squires, chamberlains, priests, yeomen, grooms, pages, crowded his vast household. His master cook paraded in damask and velvet with a chain of gold about his neck. When Wolsey travelled it was always in state. Swelling the procession were his private heralds and physicians and apothecaries and minstrels. He was Lord Chancellor of England, Cardinal of the Holy Roman Church, and now, at this time, Legate a latere, possessing the plenary power of the Pope in England, the right to exercise supreme ecclesiastical authority, a distinction which he valued more than the Great Seal itself. There had never been anyone like him in England before (nor, for that matter, has there been since). There seemed to be no end to his avarice or demands for more authority. His belief in his own greatness was equally boundless. He possessed a mistress, and her brother was his confessor. His predecessor in the Chancellorship, Archbishop Warham cried: "Know ye not that this man is drunk with too much prosperity?" The voice of the aged prelate was unheeded, for Wolsey's greatness and genius could not be over-ridden. England's star was in the ascendant, and it was he who directed the power of the Crown. His hand was felt in all activities, good or bad. Irregular though his own conduct might be, he sought to correct many a clerical abuse, and in his grand manner was a patron of the universities.

As Lord Chancellor, the Cardinal proceeded from York House to Westminster Hall with pomp and pageantry. And there, forced to participate in the glitter by his duties, was Thomas More. One wonders what his thoughts were when he heard the heralds blare, followed by the loud cry: "On, my Lords and Masters, on before; make way for my Lord's Grace." Wolsey in his sumptuous robes of scarlet brocade, gold-slippered, sat on a golden cushion, a long procession preceding his person, bearing the symbols of his authority, the Great Seal of England, the Cardinal's Hat, the two great silver crosses which testified to his possession of York and the Legatine power, two tall pillars of silver, and finally his pursuivant at arms, in elaborate livery, carrying the great mace of silver gilt. It was a common joke that "the two crosses showed that the Cardinal had twice as many sins to repent of as any other prelate."

The contrast was great indeed between the Lord Chancellor and the man who was to succeed him in that office--Thomas More in as simple a garb as could be allowed and hidden beneath the plain coat always the penance of the hair shirt. For Wolsey saw to it that the new councillor played an important part in his ceremonies. When the famed canonist, Cardinal Campeggio, visited England that summer a dazzling welcome of gigantic proportions was staged. The Italian had been sent by Leo X to seek English support for his dream of a great and united crusade. But he had not been allowed to land in England until the Pope had first met Wolsey's terms. Campeggio cooled his heels at Calais while Wolsey demanded, and received, the Bull that made him Legate a latere and thus assured him precedence. Along with the Bull he also demanded the revenues of the rich bishopric of Bath and Wells. The Pope yielded, Campeggio crossed the Channel, whereupon Wolsey sought to impress him with English hospitality. He was met by the Bishop of Chichester and the Lords of Kent. A large troop of knights brought him to Sandwich, where he stayed the night. Next morning a greater cavalcade took him to Canterbury, where he was received by the Archbishop, the Bishop of Rochester, the Abbots of St. Augustine and Faversham, the Priors of Christ Church and St. Gregory. A mighty choir of monks chanted while he knelt before St. Thomas' shrine. The way to London was studded with ceremonies, banquets and speeches. At Blackheath the Duke of Norfolk met him with two thousand horse.

Before he entered London proper he was taken to a tent of gold where he was changed to richer robes. The long procession formed, the silver cross went forward. The clergy of the city met him vested in copes of gold and swinging their censers, and around them the crowds alternately gaped and cheered at the spectacle. At London bridge the procession halted for the official greeting by the Guilds, the Mayor, the Aldermen in their best liveries, the canons of St. Paul's, and the Bishop of London. Thomas More had been chosen to speak for the city. He spoke in Latin, but realizing the length of the ceremonies that had gone before and with the knowledge that there was still much more to come, he considerately made his oration brief, thereby undoubtedly pleasing the highly impressed but weary Italians.

Campeggio's proposal for a united Christendom met with no opposition from Wolsey. A united Christendom offered play for his imagination. There was, as the Pope desperately cried, a dire need for unity. The new Sultan of the Turks, Selim the Grim, had conquered Syria and Egypt and had extended his boundaries in the East. Having mustered his fierce armies with determination and skill, he threatened Belgrade, the key to Hungary, and at the same time his corsairs made forays into Rhodes, bastion of the Mediterranean. Once these two outposts of Christendom were taken it would not be difficult for the warriors of Islam to wreak all the terrors of a Holy War upon a disunited Italy and a supine Germany.

The Pope's Legates appealed to the Christian nations to unite against the invaders. In England, although far from the menace of the Scimitar, both Wolsey and Henry listened with sympathy, and with excitement. A united Christendom required a leader. There was the Pope, of course, but the temporal power of the Papal States was as nothing. A pope who would be grateful to a protector, a pope intimidated, a pope who took advice from Machiavelli, a pope who was one of the Medici clan could be controlled. And he was but mortal, a fact which surely whirled in Wolsey's fertile brain. The conclave who chose the next pope would be dominated by that strong Prince who was the champion of all Christians, who would bring substance to the idea that was the Holy Roman Empire. The present wearer of the shadowy crown was Maximilian, whose heir was Charles of Castile, the same who had gone to Spain with Henry's assistance. The unreal office of the Emperor, so sought by all the princes, was not hereditary but elective. If France and Spain could be kept in balance, if the Seven Electors could be managed, it was an intoxicating prospect for such as Wolsey, confident in his own genius, unbridled in his lust for power, sure that the direction and favour of his royal master would ever be his.

A pact was quickly drafted and given shape. France and England agreed to a permanent peace and promised mutual aid in the event of attack from the east. All the greater sovereign powers and princes were invited to join and share the responsibilities of the alliance. War within Christendom was at last to be outlawed, and all problems and grievances were to be settled by arbitration instead of bloodshed. It was a mirage, but it was a glorious mirage. There was a great scurry of ambassadors and agents, but the indomitable Wolsey held the reins, and the whip too, and apparently overcame all obstacles. The needed seals and signatures were obtained, and at St. Paul's the Treaty of London was ratified with every solemnity. It had been the Pope's idea, but Wolsey had seized the initiative. His King's name graced the head and foot of the document. His own signature was at the bottom, along with those of Norfolk and Suffolk. In this exalted company was Thomas More. It was on the second day of October in 1518 that the large hope was pledged. The universal peace that was to last forever did in fact exist for thirty agitated months and was then followed by thirty years of a vicious and terrible conflict which tore all Europe asunder.

The Venetian Ambassador to Henry at that time was Sebastian Giustimian. He was a shrewd man and a keen observer, and from his report we learn of the growing importance of More at Court, also something of his discretion and close-lipped common sense. While the negotiations were proceeding between England and France, Giustinian, conscientious diplomat that he was, sought to know everything there was to be known concerning the projected alliance. After an unsatisfactory conversation with Henry he made it his business to engage with More. "I adroitly turned the conversation on these negotiations concerning peace; but he did not open and pretended not to know in what the difficulties consisted, declaring that the Cardinal of York 'most solely' . . . transacted the matter with French ambassadors, and, when he was concluded, he then calls the councillors, so that the King himself scarcely knows m what state matters are."[9] More added that the Spanish ambassador had likewise received no information respecting these matters, except the assurance that nothing would be introduced in the negotiations at variance with the amity existing between England and his sovereign.

More's signature was affixed to another important document at this time, the betrothal of little Princess Mary and the son of the French King. For Wolsey, in his high game, thus sought by blood ties to secure the new friendship between France and England. It was a move that could bring no pleasure in Spain, nor to Mary's mother, but in the interests of the promised peace Catherine quelled her Spanish sympathies and submissively presented her daughter to the French envoys.

As a Humanist More could dream of peace, but as a realist he could only despair as he witnessed the Cardinal's trafficking. His opportunities for observation became the greater as he was called upon to play an increasingly important role in England's affairs. Very little time elapsed before the Treaty of London met its first test.

The Emperor Maximilian suddenly died and the coveted title became vacant. The three important candidates were Francis, King of France and Duke of Milan, Charles, King of Spain, possessor of South Italy, of the Netherlands, and now the Hapsburg lands, and Henry, King of England. On the Continent, as the agents sped amongst the Electors bargaining and bribing, there was little serious consideration given to Henry's cause. The votes were cast and soon at Frankfort the heralds proclaimed that Charles of Spain was to be Holy Roman Emperor. Wolsey had lost his gamble, yet England's power became all the more important in the struggle that was looming between France and Spain, and both Francis and Charles were quick to bid for Henry's favour.

It was arranged that the English King should visit France, but before this could happen Charles announced that he would come to England. All this business required complicated negotiation, and to More were entrusted many of the details. It required constant association with Henry, who was ever delighted with the wit and wisdom of his unassuming courtier. The liking became a friendship and, while More became the more intimate with his sovereign, Wolsey was becoming more isolated in his own grandeur. The Cardinal had not won the Imperial Crown for Henry, but with the Kings of Spain and France courting his influence, he had not abandoned yet his own hopes for the tiara. He worked for England, but in the press of his activities, both at home and abroad, he was underestimating the capacities of Henry. Neglected even were the forms of protocol when dealing with the foreign princes, and often and publicly in matters of important decision he dispensed with the formal phraseology of speaking as the King's representative.

Charles landed in England a bare five days before Henry departed for France. He received a suitably warm welcome, particularly from the Queen, his aunt. She naturally had a poor opinion of the alliance with France, and, for that matter, so did most of Henry's subjects, for France was the traditional enemy. Henry took Charles to Canterbury. They prayed and talked together; the pale young Hapsburg and the jovial, full-blooded Henry, now twenty-nine years old. It is sure that, under the direction of the Cardinal, no commitments were made, but there were many assurances, and Charles had to be content with these. Thomas More was in the fringe of all this, being both councillor and royal secretary. And with distaste he learned that it was expected he should accompany the court to France. Emperor and King went to their ships on the same morning. The banner of St. George unfurled to the same breeze that fluttered the black double-eagle on its golden ground. The cannons boomed their salutes. Henry's captains set course for Calais. The Spanish fleet made for the Netherlands.

The meeting between Henry and Francis provided Wolsey with the opportunity of creating one of his most costly pageants. An army of craftsmen preceded the royal party across the Channel and erected a camp that in verity was a small town; the Cardinal was determined that the spectacle should be of a magnitude and sumptuousness that would never be forgotten. The rendezvous on the field of the Cloth of Gold would display England's splendour and power to all Europe. Three thousand tents and pavilions housed Henry's entourage. Twelve golden apostles graced the royal chapel and thirty-five chaplains kept it served. A staff of two hundred cooks, scullions and attendants thronged the King's kitchen, and wine splashed and flowed continuously in his courtyard fountain. The Cardinal ceremoniously opened the twenty-five day festival by riding to the French camp in a gorgeous procession. Fifty of his gentlemen attendants rode first, wearing scarlet velvet and golden chains, then fifty of his gentlemen ushers, bareheaded, preceded the rich symbols of all his ranks, temporal and spiritual. The gold maces were as "large as a man's head at one end." There were noblemen superbly mounted and suitably escorted with horses richly caparisoned. A hundred archers marched shoulder-to-shoulder. The Cardinal wore his Red Hat with its long silken tassels, and a fine linen rochet offset the scarlet of his velvet gown. The same bright velvet provided the wrappings for his mule, and the stirrups and buckles and harness which further ornamented that animal were made of fine gold.

Great guns of bronze thundered a welcome to the French king. Francis was escorted by the Grand Constable of France. Henry, a shining figure in silver damask, was flanked by his Grand Constable, the Duke of Buckingham, already disliked by Wolsey and soon to lose his head.

Each hour of each day was part of an elaborate schedule designed by the Cardinal to stress the friendship that had been pledged between the two nations. Solemn High Masses were offered. There were innumerable feasts and jousting and games of all kinds. The Kings tried to outdo each other in manifestations of cordiality and hospitality. The Spanish-born Catherine gave the kiss of peace to the French Queen. But throughout the riot of splendour and ceremony there was the strain of falsehood. The stress was shown once when, in an exuberant mood at the games, Henry made a hold on Francis and shouted a challenge to wrestle. There was a grapple and a throw, and it was Henry who was tossed to the ground. He took it ill, England's honour had been impugned. Rising slowly to his feet, he muttered fiercely that he would on with the fight. Anxious courtiers were quick to their duty, and led away the truculent prince.

The festivities went on, but the waste of money and effort achieved little and deceived nobody. Francis, no matter what the English might do, had made up his mind to attack the Emperor before the latter could forge his disorganized inheritance into a dangerous unity. And Henry, to the delight of his Spanish-born Queen, already had arranged another meeting with the Emperor. Wolsey might wish to deal with the French King, but most Englishmen felt relief when the tents were struck and the exit made. "When I meet these Frenchmen again," shouted one English gentleman, "I hope it may be with my sword point!"

The Emperor waited patiently at Gravelines and the double game went on. The assurances that had been given him at Canterbury were endorsed, and at the same time messengers sped back to Francis, also bearing promises. It was delicate play and the stakes were high. Trade with Spain must not be jeopardized, but there was commerce with France too. Wolsey pondered, accepting gold from both sides, not forgetting either that the Pope was ailing, and at the next conclave both Charles and Francis would each control a sizable number of votes.

In the Emperor's party was Erasmus, and at Calais he met with More, bringing with him a friend who was a noted Greek scholar and an official at the Spanish court. The Humanists were ever a tonic to each other, and after the colossal hypocrisies, vanities and useless extravagances of the Field of the Cloth of Gold, the conversation of intellectual peers was a joy to More.

A rush of talk followed the first salute. Each had much to tell and report, much to deplore, some things to hope for, and, to leaven the more serious themes, there was that exercise of agile wit which leaped into being whenever the two men were brought together.

The Story of Thomas More, John Farrow

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