CHAPTER 15

EVEN AT THIS critical time, More employed his wit in giving the news to his family. They were at Mass. In his capacity as the King's first minister, More had conformed with practice and sat with his gentlemen in a special pew. At the conclusion of the devotions, one of these gentlemen would come to Lady More and inform her "Madame, my Lord is gone." On this day, unaccompanied by any attendants, it was Sir Thomas himself who came to his wife's pew, and, making a low bow, told her with unmistakable meaning, "Madame, my Lord is gone.''[1] She was not pleased.

He left office a poor man, with but a remnant of his former wealth and no pension. There still lived about him the little commonwealth of his children and grandchildren that was his joy. These he now called together, and discussing with them the change of his fortunes explained that in all probability their mode and style of living would be altered. He sought to give them comfort and quite cheerfully told them: "I have been brought up at Oxford, at an Inn of Chancery, at Loncoln's Inn, and also in the King's Court, from the lowest degree to the highest; and yet have I, in yearly revenues at this present, left me little above an hundred pounds by the year; so that now must we hereafter if we like to live together, be contented to become contributaries together. But, by my counsel, it shall not be best for us to fall to the lowest fare first, we will not, therefore, descend to Oxford fare, nor to the fare of New Inn, but we will begin with the Lincoln's Inn diet, where many right worshipful and of good years, do live full well; which, if we find not ourselves the first year able to maintain, then will we the next year go one step down to New Inn fare, wherewith many an honest man is well contented. If that exceed our ability too, then will we next year after descend to Oxford fare, where many grave, learned, and ancient fathers be continually conversant; which, if our power stretch not to maintain neither, then may we yet, with bags and wallets go a begging together, and hoping that for pity some good folks will give us their charity, at every man's door to sing a Salve Regina, and so still keep company and be merry together."[2]

He could no longer afford the staff of officers and servants who had attended him as Lord Chancellor, but they were not abruptly discharged. One of his first concerns was to find employment for all. Various noblemen and bishops were prevailed upon to take into their service the higher ranking members of his entourage. His state barge, along with its crew of eight, went to his successor, Lord Audley. That necessary appendage to the train of any great man of that day, his Jester, he recommended and gave to the Lord Mayor of London. The light-hearted clown had quipped, "Chancellor More is Chancellor no more." But he also had wept, and it was by force that he was conveyed to his new master.

More could not have had any illusions concerning the dark way that was ahead, but the resignation of the Chancellorship brought to him a temporary peace and happiness. In a letter to Erasmus he wrote that being free from public business he might have some time "to devote to God and myself, that, by the grace of a great and good God, and by the favour of an indulgent prince, I have at last obtained."[3]

Years before, when Warham had resigned the Chancellorship, More had congratulated him on retiring "from the affairs of the world and the bustle of courts . . . you will pass your time gently and peacefully in literature and philosophy.[4]

His health was not good, and apparently having no desire--or perhaps thinking it unseemly for an ex-Lord Chancellor--to resume practice of the law, he fumed to his pen with an increasing industry. At last he could devote all his hours to that which was so close to his heart, a campaign to combat the spread of Lutheranism. As Lord Chancellor, he could have employed force, but he always preferred to use the weapons of logic and argument. Now there was the opportunity. To Erasmus he wrote: "Here are you in a condition which would break the spirit of a vigourous youth, still bringing out book after book, for the instruction and admiration of the world. What matter the attacks upon you? No great writer ever escaped malignity . . . You allow frankly that if you could have forseen these pestilent heresies you would have been less outspoken on certain points. Doubtless the Fathers, had they expected such times as ours, would have been more cautious in their utterances. They had their own disorders to attend to, and did not think of the future . . . The Bishops and the King tried to check these new documents, but they spread wonderfully. The teachers of them retreat into the Low Countries, as into a safe harbour, and send over their works written in English. Our people read them, partly in thoughtlessness, partly from a malicious disposition. They enjoy them, not because they think them true, but because they wish them to be true . . .[6]

The speed with which he moved his pen was amazing. Unhampered by public duties, he completed his Confutation of Tyndale's Answer, a letter against Frith, the Apology, a work in defence of the clergy, The Debellation of Salem and Bizance, and his Answer to the book which a nameless heretic hath named The Supper of the Lord.

These works, nearly a half million words, constituted a bulwark of orthodoxy, and the clergy, recognizing More as their champion, thought to reward him. They collected a great sum of money, which he refused, giving as his reason that if he were in their pay, he would no longer be a disinterested and unbiased defender. Some of his friends pointed out that he was now a poor man and that it would be well for him to accept so that his wife and children would profit. But he was obdurate. When they offered him the purse he said: "I had liefer see it all cast into the Thames, than I, or any of mine, should have thereof the worth of one penny. For though your offer, my Lords, be indeed very friendly and honourable, yet set I so much by my pleasure and so little by my profit, that I would not, in good faith, for so much, and much more too, have lost the rest of so many nights sleep that was spent upon the same. And yet wish would I, for all that, upon condition that all heresies were suppressed, that all my books were burned and my labour utterly lost."[6]

Death was in his mind and he made ready for it. He selected a marble slab and had a tomb prepared at the Church in Chelsea. He wrote his epitaph, stressing those things of which he was proud, and saying that, save for thieves, murderers and heretics, he had given no trouble to any man. He asked for the kind thoughts of those who would read the epitaph. "And that this tomb, made for him in his life time be not in vain, nor that he fear death coming upon him, but that he may willingly for the desire of Christ, die, and find death not utterly death to him, but the gate of a wealthier life, help him, (I beseech you good reader,) now with your prayers while he liveth, and when he is dead also."[7]

He had never forgotten his first wife, and to the tomb he had her remains brought. She who had given birth to his children was always "Dear Jane," nor did he ever cease to appreciate the virtues of the good lady who had brought these children up. "Oh how well could we three have lived," he wrote, "joined together in matrimony if fortune and religion would have suffered it. But I beseech our lord that this tomb and heaven may join us together. So death shall give us, that thing that life could not."[8]

Resigned to the future and confident that his course was right, he sought to convey his strength to his family. "In the time somewhat before his trouble," recorded his son-in-law, "he would talk with his wife and children of the joys of heaven and the pains of hell, of the lives of holy martyrs, of their grievous martyrdoms, of their marvelous patience, and of their passions and deaths that they suffered rather than they would offend God; and what an happy and blessed thing it was, for the love of God to suffer loss of goods, imprisonment, loss of lands and life also. He would further say unto them that, upon his faith, if he might perceive his wife and children would encourage him to die in a good cause, it should so comfort him that, for very joy thereof, it would make him merrily run to death. He showed unto them afore what trouble might after fall unto him; wherewith and the like virtuous talk he had so long before his trouble encouraged them, that when he after fell into the trouble indeed, his trouble to them was a great deal the less. . ."[9]

In August of 1532 old William Warham, the Archbishop of Canterbury, died. Whom was Henry to nominate as his successor? With Anne Boleyn now openly living with him, and with the devious Cromwell in constant attendance, a choice was not long in forthcoming. It was Cranmer, he who had collected and arranged the opinions of the universities. But Cranmer was now in Germany observing Lutheran practices. And in the pursuit of his studies he had rejected his vows of celibacy and contracted a marriage with a niece of his host, a German clergyman. Nevertheless he was sent for, and leaving his bride, he returned to England. The formalities of sending his name to Rome were observed. The Papal Bull duly arrived, and Cranmer was made Archbishop and successor of Saint Augustine, openly following the ancient forms of consecration, privately wallowing in duplicity. Before the ceremony, he swore before witnesses, that no matter what he might say in public, his duty and his allegiance were pledged only to the King.

The plan was now advanced to its next stage. Parliament passed an act, giving Cranmer authority to settle the divorce. The clergy in Convocation agreed. The new Archbishop opened his Court at Dunstable. He first censured Catherme for her obstinacy in not appearing before him, and then, after a fortnight of mummery, he announced that the marriage of Henry and Catherine was no marriage at all.

While these events were happening, and supremely confident that they would happen, Henry had made Anne Marquess of Pembroke and, soon after, also had made her pregnant. On the twenty-fifth of January, 1535, he married her in secret. Not until the following Easter did he openly declare her Queen.

Preparations were made for Anne's Coronation. From her place of what was virtually imprisonment, Catherine sent an anguished appeal to the Spanish Ambassador: "I am separated from my Lord, and he has married another woman without obtaining a divorce: and this last act has been done while the suit is still pending, and in defiance of him who has the power of God upon earth. I cover these lines with my tears as I write. I confide in you as my friend. Help me to bear the cross of my tribulation. Write to the Emperor, bid him insist that judgment be pronounced. The next Parliament, I am told will decide if I and my daughter are to suffer martyrdom. I hope God will accept it as an act of merit by us, as we shall suffer for the sake of the truth."[l0]

The Ambassador wrote to his master urging that the Emperor should send an army to invade England: "You cannot imagine the grief of all the people at this abominable government. They are so transported with indignation at what passes that they complain that your Majesty takes no steps in it; and I am told by many respectable people that they would be glad to see a fleet come hither in your name to raise the people . . . It is not to be thought that the King will be brought to the point by mild treatment, for his sin carries him away, and he is bewitched by this cursed woman in such a manner that he dares neither say nor do except as she commands him.''[1l]

But Charles had no stomach for war with England at this time. He was fighting the Turk both in Hungary and in the Mediterranean. He had his troubles with the Protestant Princes of Germany. There was unrest in Italy, and he was only too sure that if he made war with England, France would not be on his side.

The Coronation of Anne Boleyn was arranged with a lavish splendour that would have been worthy of Wolsey. There were great processions and tournaments and parades both in the streets and on the river. Flowers and banners and hanging embroideries, the clank of knights in shining armour, their gaily caparisoned steeds, guildsmen in full livery, apprentices on holiday, all combined to give the City a festive look. Bells were tolled, cannon were fired in long salute. Practically the entire peerage of the kingdom came to play their parts in the ceremony. But pomp and spectacle did not make the event popular. Noblemen and court officials might bend the knee to the new Queen, but as she, a shimmering vision of jewels and satin and velvet, passed through the streets, there were many heads left covered and there were cries of "Whore!"

Now that the divorce was an accomplished fact, it was thought that perhaps Thomas More, as a sensible man, would give up his passive resistance and attend the Coronation ceremony.

Two Bishops acted as the King's agents, but More declined the invitation, pleading poverty. Promptly they offered to pay for a velvet costume suitable to the ceremony. Again the ex-Lord Chancellor refused. In doing so, he recited a little tale. Once upon a time, it seemed, there was an Emperor who had condemned a maiden to die for some infringement of the law. But the death penalty could not be enforced because she was a virgin and he had previously decreed that no virgin should ever be put to death. His problem was solved by one of his council who said: "Why make you so much ado, my Lords, about so small a matter? Let her first be deflowered, and then after may she be devoured."

"Now, my Lords," said Thomas More to the King's messengers, "it lieth not in my power that they may devour me but God being my good lord, I will provide that they shall never deflower me."[l2]

He knew his Tacitus and was comparing the regime of the Emperor Tiberius with that of Henry. The Bishops were dismissed with a smile, but it is certain that the news they carried back to court was not received in a like manner. Anne Boleyn, at this supreme moment of her triumph, about to be formally made Queen of the realm, and with the heir of the realm, she believed, stirring in her belly, was affronted and angry. It was inevitable that Sir Thomas More would soon feel the weight of the King's displeasure.

The campaign to discredit and ruin him began with charges that he had accepted bribes when he was Lord Chancellor. More, brought before the Privy Council, to the surprise of everybody, readily admitted to having received a gilt cup as a New Year's present from the wife of an interested party. His admission brought great joy to Anne Boleyn's father, the Earl of Wiltshire. "Lo! did I not tell you, my Lords," he cried, "that you would find this matter true?"

More calmly begged the Lords to hear his part of the tale. After having drunk to her of wine with which his butler had filled the cup, and when she too had pledged, he restored it to her to give to her husband as a New Year's gift.

The next accusation again concerned a gilt cup. This time it was proved that More had accepted a cup from one by the name of Gresham, but it was also proved that he had given the donor a cup of far greater value in exchange. The next charge alleged that he had favoured a Mrs. Croker in his Court and that she had rewarded him with a pair of gloves in which were packed gold pieces. Quite readily More admitted that he had taken the gloves, but it was quickly shown that he had given the gold back to the woman with the words: "Mistress, since it were against good manners to forsake a gentlewoman's New Year's gift, I am content to take your gloves, but as for your money, I utterly refuse."[l3]

More had taken his position and was resolved to maintain it, but he was also determined that he would not be foolhardy. Possessed of one of the best legal minds of England, he set about to employ his talents as though engaged in some ordinary business of litigation. The King's Council published a book of nine articles upholding the marriage. It was said that More had written an attack on this book and had plans to have it printed. Promptly he wrote to Cromwell: "I will, by the grace of Almighty God, as long as it shall please him to lend me life in this world . . . truly say my mind and discharge my conscience, as becometh a poor honest true man, wheresoever I shall be by his grace commanded. Yet, surely, if it should happen any book to come abroad in the name of his grace or his honourable council, if that book to me seemed such as myself would not have given mine own advice to the making, yet I know my bounder duty, to bear more honour to my prince, and more reverence to his honourable council, than that it could become me for many causes, to make an answer unto such a book, or to council and advise any man else to do it.''[l4]

Well aware of More's ability and eloquence, and also deeply conscious of his popularity, Cromwell, who was planning the attack, had no wish to put the former Lord Chancellor before an ordinary Court of Law. But there came, so he thought, an opportunity to trap More. The activities of a certain Benedictine nun were, at this time, attracting considerable attention. Her name was Elizabeth Barton, and she claimed she had seen visions and had been given revelations. The stories were credible enough to win for her a pious reputation, and to be called the Holy Maid of Kent. Many distinguished divines, including the Archbishop Warham and Fisher, were impressed by her and had gone to listen to her testimony. With his keen interest in all things pertaining to religion, More also visited and talked with her, thus giving Cranmer his chance. For the Holy Maid, in her supernatural venturings, claiming that she was speaking with the authority of the voice of heaven, had censured the King and declared that Catherine was his legal wife. She prophesied that Henry would lose his throne if he persisted in his alliance with Anne Boleyn.

Her statements could not go unnoticed. She had many followers including two priests, the Fathers Risby and Rich. Along with these two and some others, she was arrested, charged with high treason and finally executed. The names of Fisher and More were brought into the proceedings, and they were accused of being sympathetic to the woman and of neglecting their duty in not reporting her treasonable statement. Fisher had been indiscreet enough to listen to the nun's criticism of Henry's conduct, but with More it was different. He asked that he be given a public hearing, but his request was denied. Instead he was brought before a committee which consisted of his successor in office, Lord Audley, the new Archbishop of Canterbury, Cranmer, the Duke of Norfolk, and Cromwell himself.

In preparation for the tactics and strategies that he knew would be employed to ensnare him, More already had written a full account for both Cromwell and the King of his dealings with the nun. He admitted to having visited her. But when Father Risby had sought to tell him of her thoughts on the divorce, More had refused to listen, and when her other priestly supporter endeavoured to engage in a similar conversation, he had received like treatment. In fact, More stated, he had warned the lady in a letter. "It sufficeth me, Good Madam," he had written, "to put you in remembrance of such things as I nothing doubt your wisdom and the Spirit of God shall keep you from talking with any persons, specially with lay persons, of any such manner things as pertain to Prince's affairs, or the state of the realm, but only to commune and talk with any person, high and low, of such manner things as may to the soul be profitable for you to show and for them to know."[15]

His statement had been received by the King and by Cromwell. Nevertheless he was brought before the special committee. At first, they treated him with elaborate kindness. Instead of dwelling on his alleged offense, they reminded him of the favours that the King had shown him in the past, and hinted that further rewards would proceed from the same source, if he were but amenable. Why, they asked, should he persist in obstinacy and go against that which had received the approval and sanction of both

Houses of Parliament and the principal universities of Christendom? If he would but join in this approval, there was neither worldly honour nor profit that His Majesty would deny him. More admitted the kindnesses that had been shown him by the King, but replied that: "I verily hoped that I should never have heard of this matter more, considering that I have from time to time, always from the beginning, so plainly and truly declared my mind unto his grace, which his highness to me ever seemed, like a most gracious prince, very well to accept, never minding, as he said to molest me more therewith . . .''[16]

The Council now changed its tactics. The mock solicitude was replaced by severity. If he did not fall in with their thinking, the King would believe "that never was there servant to his sovereign so villainous nor subject to his prince so traitorous as he." He was told that the King now regretted having written the Assertion of the Seven Sacraments and that as he looked back he believed it was More who had induced him to take up the literary cudgels on behalf of Papal authority.

This revelation of the King's thinking, and the promise of his anger, did not intimidate More. "My lords," he answered them, "these terrors be arguments for children and not for me. But to answer that wherewith you chiefly burden me, I believe the king's highness, of his honor, will never lay that to my charge . . ." He recalled the conversation in which he had advised the King to touch more slenderly on the Pope's authority, and Henry's acknowledgement that he was so bound to the See of Rome that he could not do it too much honour. "So that I trust," concluded More, "when his grace shall be once truly informed of this, and call to his gracious remembrance my doing in that behalf, his highness will never speak of it more, but clear me thoroughly therein himself."

After the delivery of this response, he was dismissed with a coldness that boded ill. He knew the King would soon learn of his stand, and he knew too that there could be no uncertainty as to his fate. But he had served his duty and his conscience, and the knowledge of this gave him such inner content that his son-in-iaw, who was anxiously waiting for him. misunderstood his calmness.

"I trust, Sir, that all is well," he greeted More, "because that you be so merry."

"It is so, indeed, son Roper," answered More.

"Are you then put out of the parliament bill?"

"By my troth, son Roper," said More with a smile, "I never remembered it."

"Never remembered it, Sir," said the startled young man. "A case that toucheth yourself so near, and us all for your sake. I am sorry to hear it; for I verily trusted, when I saw you so merry, that all had been well."

"Wilt thou know, son Roper, why I was so merry?"

"That would I gladly, Sir," was the answer.

"In good faith I rejoiced, Son, that I had given the devil a foul fall that with those Lords I had gone so far as without great shame I could never go back again."

And Roper records that upon hearing these words he waxed "very sad for though himself liked it well yet liked it me but a little."

More conducted his case so correctly that for the moment Henry's purpose was delayed. The Council, in fear of public opinion, told the King, "for in this case of the nun he was accounted . . . so innocent and clear, that for his dealing therein men reckoned him far worthier of praise than reproof."[l7]

When he heard this report, Henry exhibited a tremendous anger, and swore that he would appear before the Lords in person and by his presence insure that More's name would be included in the Bill of Attainder. His advisers dissuaded him from this violent action and convinced him that a better and more fit occasion would soon be found to punish More.

It was his daughter, Margaret, who told More that his name was not included in the Bill of Attainder which had been passed against the Holy Maid and her associates. She was happy in her information, but her father was wiser, telling her: "In faith, Meg, qued dilfertur non aufertur." What is postponed is not abandoned.

The Duke of Norfolk was of this opinion also, and because of past associations, or perhaps conscious and apprehensive that any injustice or hurt rendered to a man so widely respected would result in a wave of protest and horror, solemnly warned him that the indignation of a Prince is death.

"By the Mass, Master More," he said, "it is perilous striving with Princes. And therefore, I would wish you somewhat to incline to the King's pleasure; for by God body, Master More, Indignatio principis mors est."

"Is that all, my Lord," was the calm response, "then in good faith is there no more difference between your grace and me, but that I shall die today and you tomorrow.''[l8]

He made another prophecy, this time to his daughter. She was telling him of the gaieties of the new Queen: "There is nothing else in the Court but dancing and sporting."

"Alas Meg, alas it pitieth me," he told her, "to remember unto what misery, poor soul, she will shortly come. 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 like dance."[19]

The Story of Thomas More, John Farrow

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