CHAPTER 16

HE SOUGHT TO PREPARE his family for the future. While sitting at dinner with them he would have a bogus official appear and, after a great noise at the door, go through the motions of arresting him. By the enactment and repetition of this little comedy he tried to get them used to the day that was sure to come. But although he professed a lightheartedness at the time, he, as he afterwards confided to his daughter, was often vexed with distress and anxiety He told her of the many weary night hours that he had spent thinking "while my wife slept and thought I had slept too, what peril were possible to fall to me . . . And in devising, daughter, thereupon, I had a full, heavy heart."[1]

He had not long to wait. The day was rapidly approaching when Henry could fulfill his boast that he would be both King and Pope in England. In Rome on the twenty-third of March, 1534, it was announced that the marriage of Henry and Catherine was valid. A week later the English parliament passed an Act of Succession which made Anne Boleyn's issue the first in succession to the Crown and thus, by legislation, deliberately made a bastard of Catherine's daughter, the Princess Mary.

The dread charge of high treason would be the lot of anyone who would deny the new law, and a Commission was established to extract an oath of obedience from the Lords, both Spiritual and Temporal, and from anybody else who might be selected. The members of this Commission were the same men who had previously examined More, except for the Abbot of Westminster who took the place of the Duke of Norfolk. In administering the oath, they went beyond the bounds of legality; the statute which required all subjects to swear in the succession of Anne's children, now, thanks to a rider formulated by Cromwell and Audley, provided that those taking the oath should also acknowledge Henry as being the Head of the Church in England. And in doing so, they renounced all obedience to the Bishop of Rome, as having no more power than any other bishop.

The Lords and the Clergy were summoned to subscribe to the oath and, as the first layman of consequence, so was Sir Thomas More. It was on the Sunday following Easter, the twelfth of April, that he received the news. With Roper he had been to Mass at St. Paul's, and then the two had gone to visit his step-daughter and her husband, John Clement. It was on their premises that he was officially summoned to appear before the Royal Commission.

He went back to his own home and spent the evening hours with his family. It was ever his custom on what he thought to be important days to receive Holy Communion. The next morning he followed this procedure. Then came the sad and difficult moment of saying goodbye to his wife and children. He was journeying by water but he would not permit them to see him embark. He shut the garden gate himself. After boarding the boat he remained silent for a long time. The rasp and beat of oars provided a melancholy accompaniment to his thoughts. Presently his mood seemed to change for the better. Having met the issue squarely in his own mind, and made the fateful decision, he turned to the loyal Roper saying: "Son Roper, I thank our Lord the field is won." His son-in-law did not understand but, as he afterwards wrote: "Loth to seem ignorant I answered, 'Sir, I am thereof very glad.'"[2]

At Lambeth they said farewells and More was ushered in to face the Commissioners, Lord Audley, Archbishop Cranmer, the Abbot of Westnunster, and Thomas Cromwell. Gravely he was told that it was his duty to prove his loyalty by taking the oath. He made no quick gesture of defiance, nor did he indulge in grand heroics. He was a lawyer, and in such proceedings he was on his own ground. He asked that he be allowed to study the Act of Succession. Permission could not very well be refused, and he was given the document. He read it carefully and said he was ready to swear to the Succession, for it had been made a law of the land by Parliament. But as for the rest, the acceptance of the King's Supremacy over the Church, he could not subscribe.

"I shewed unto them," he said, "that my purpose was not to put any fault either into the Act or any man that made it, or in any oath or any man that swore it, nor to condemn the conscience of any other man. But as for myself, in good faith my conscience so moved me in the matter, that though I would not deny to swear to the Succession, yet unto that oath that there was offered me, I could not swear without the jeoparding of my soul to perpetual damnation."[3]

They told him the names of the Bishops and Peers and Members of the Commons who had already taken the oath, but he replied that it made no difference to his thinking. The Commissioners were baffled, but before accepting his decision as being the final word, they ordered him to go into the garden and reflect for a few hours while they put the oath to others.

It was a clement day of an English spring and m the greenness of the garden, and under the serenity of the wide sky, there must have been torment in his mind as he pondered over the two courses that were offered to him. If he persisted in obeying his conscience, suffering would not only be his lot, but would be wreaked on his beloved family. Death would be certain but not necessarily quick. To enforce submission the rack could easily precede the scaffold. Before the final shadows came it was quite conceivable that there would be the long ordeal of torture. As he paced to and fro, he could observe the traffic of clergy who had come to subscribe to the oath. No problem appeared to disturb their minds. Most of them seemed cheerful and lighthearted enough, save for one exception, Nicholas Wilson. Like the ex-Lord Chancellor, this priest had been a friend of the King, in fact, he had been Henry's confessor, but he had refused to swear to the oath, and he was now being led to the Tower.

When More was brought again before the Commission, he stated that his position was unchanged and his answer was the same. They sought, by threat and every trick of argument and cajolery, to sway him, but it was to no avail. He would swear to the Act of Succession, but he would not accept the King's authority in spiritual matters. The opinions of the Commissioners seemed to differ at this stage. Cranmer, for one, thought that a compromise might suffice.

After much discussion, he was remanded to the custody of the Abbot of Westminster. There he remained for four days, and it seemed for a while that there might be hope for him but "Queen Anne, by her importunate clamors, did exasperate the King."

On the seventeenth of April, a Friday, Sir Thomas More was ordered to the Tower. Richard Cromwell, a man who had married Thomas Cromwell's niece, and who in doing so had conveniently taken the name of her uncle, was charged with delivering the person of the ax-Chancellor. He noticed that More, out of respect for his former rank, was still wearing the gold chain of office around his neck. The younger Cromwell, like his uncle-in-law, was very much the realist when it came to things made of the precious metal, and realizing that the chain would be confiscated m the Tower, he advised More to send it to his home before they arrived at their destination.

"No, Sir," was the firm answer, "that I will not; for if I were taken in the field by my enemies, I would they should somewhat fare the better by me."[4]

They arrived at the Traitors' Gate, but the gloom of the dreaded entrance to the Tower did not prevent More from joking with the porter. In the same lighthearted vein, he told an official who apologized for the wretchedness of the cell he was to occupy: "Assure yourself, Master Lieutenant, I do not mislike my cheer; but whensoever I so do, then thrust me out of your doors."[5]

He who still wore a hair shirt and who once had thought of becoming a Carthusian monk was not going to complain of life in a cell. Nor was he to concern himself with worldly cares. In the beginning of his imprisonment he was allowed the amenities of pen and paper, and he wrote to his daughter: "Since I am come here without mine own desert, I trust that God, by his goodness, will discharge me of my care, and, with his gracious help, supply my lack among you . . ."[8]

In an effort to explain why he had chosen imprisonment rather than swear to the oath, he not only stressed the illegality of the latter, but gave voice to his opinion of those who professed to advise the King. "I may tell thee, Meg they that have committed me hither, for refusing of this Oath not agreeable with the Statute, are not by their own law able to justify my imprisonment. And surely, daughter, it is a great pity that any Christian Prince should by a flexible Council ready to follow his affections, and by a weak Clergy lacking grace constantly to stand to their learning, with flattery be so shamefully abused."[7]

It was difficult for his family to understand why he was so deliberately courting death. Even the one who was closest to his thinking, Margaret, tried to make him change his mind. He was forced to write her a letter in which once again he explained his position and then added, somewhat sadly, as her husband afterwards reported, that none of the terrible things that might happen to him touched him so near, or were so grievous to him "as to see you, my well beloved child, in such vehement piteous manner, labour to persuade unto me the thing wherein I have of pure necessity, for respect unto mine own soul, so often given you so precise answer before. Wherein as touching the points of your letter, I can make none answer. For I doubt not but you well remember, that the matters which move my conscience . . . I have sundry times showed you that I will disclose them to no man."[8]

If it was difficult for Margaret to understand, it was even more so for his wife, that good woman of direct speech and common sense. Having obtained permission to visit him, she came quickly to her opinion: "What, the good year, Master More, I marvel at you, that have been always hitherto taken for so wise a man, will now so play the fool to lie here in this close, filthy prison, and be content thus to be shut up thus among mice and rats, when you might be abroad at your liberty, and with the favour and good will both of the King and his Council, if you would but do as all the Bishops and best learned of this realm have done; and, seeing you have at Chelsea a right fair house, your library, your books, your gallery, your garden, your orchard, and all other necessaries so handsome about you, where you might, in the company of me, your wife, your children and household, be merry, I muse what a gods name you mean here still thus fondly to tarry."

More gave his answer with a smile: "I pray thee, good Mistress Alice, tell me one thing."

"What is it?"

"Is not this house as near Heaven as my own?"

"Tillie valle, Tillie valle!" was her impatient reply.[9]

But despite her exasperation, and the failure of her reasoning, she continued to be the good, hard-working wife that she was, never desisting in her attempts to have him released and never ceasing in her attempts to try to make his incarceration more comfortable. At one time, when all his properties had been confiscated, she, in pathetic appeal to Cromwell, wrote that she had been compelled of very necessity to sell her apparel to provide fifteen shillings for "the board wages" of her poor husband and his servant, and begged him for the love of God to show his "more favourable help for the comforting of my poor husband and me in this our great heaviness, extreme age, and necessity."[l0]

As the months passed the screws were tightened and his imprisonment was made more harsh. No longer was he allowed to take his afternoon walk outside his cell. The solace of a chaplain's visit was denied. Even pen and paper were taken from him, and for the remainder of his confinement he resorted to the scrawl of charcoal on whatever material he could find. Lack of writing materials forced him to cease work on his Treatise of the Passion. In this uncompleted work he dealt with the courage of martyrs and the inspiration they received from the saddest and most inspiring of dramas. "What though thou be fearful, sorry, and weary," he has the Christ say, "and standest in great dread of most painful torments . . . be of good comfort . . . for I myself have vanquished the whole world, and yet felt I far more fear, sorrow, weariness, and much more inward angmsh too, when I considered my most bitter, painful Passion to press so fast upon me. He that is strong hearted may find a thousand glorious valiant martyrs whose example he may right joyfully follow. But thou now, O timorous and weak, silly sheep, think it sufficient for thee, only to walk after me, which am thy Shepherd and Governor, and so mistrust thyself and put thy trust in me . . . Take hold on the hem of my garment, therefore: From thence shalt thou receive such strength and relief to proceed . . .[1l]

The process of intimidation weakened a fellow prisoner, the priest Wilson, who had been committed to the Tower on the same day as More. In desperation he wrote to More asking if there were not some manner in which they could accept a compromise. More's reply was to the effect that he could only be the master of his own destiny and that each man should form his own opinion and follow his own conscience. The unhappy Wilson wrote back that he had decided to take the oath. Without the slightest hint of criticism, More told him: "I beseech Our Lord give you there of good luck . . . leaving every other man to their own conscience, myself, with God's Grace will follow my own . . . whether I shall have finally the grace to do according to mine own conscience or not, hangeth in God's goodness, not in mine, to whom I beseech you heartily remember me in your devout prayers, and I shall and daily do, remember you in mine, such as they be.[12]

In spite of the stern conditions of his confinement, More managed to keep in commumication with his daughter, Margaret. After the winter of 1534 we find him painstakingly scratching a letter with a piece of coal: "Mine own good daughter, our Lord be thanked, I am in good health of body and in good quiet of mind: and of worldly things I no more desire than I have. I beseech him make you all merry in the hope of Heaven. And such things as I somewhat longed to talk with you all concerning the world to come, our Lord put them into your minds as I trust he cloth, and better too by his Holy Spirit: who bless you and preserve you all. Written with a coal, by your tender loving father, who in his poor prayers forgetteth none of you all . . . And thus fare ye heartily well for lack of paper. Thomas More, Knight.''[l3]

Throughout his imprisonment Margaret was allowed to see him occasionally. This concession was arranged by Cromwell, who thought, perhaps, that the presence and sorrow of the favourite member of his family would bring about a change in More's thinking. She was permitted to be with him on the terrible day that Abbot Reynolds of the Monastery of Sion, and three of More's Carthusian friends, Houghton, Webster, and Lawrence, together with John Hale, Vicar of Isleworth, were executed. The doomed men were led by the window of More's cell. Father and daughter watched the procession.

"Lo, dost thou not see, Meg," he said, "that these blessed Fathers be now as cheerfully going to their deaths as bridegrooms to their marriage? Wherefore thereby mayest thou see, mine own good daughter, what a great difference there is between such as have in effect spent all their days in a strait, hard, penitential, and painful life religiously, and such as have in this world, like worldly wretches, as thy poor father hath done, consumed all their time in pleasure and ease licentiously. For God, considering their long and continued life in most sore and grievous penance, will no longer suffer them to remain here in this vale of Misery and iniquity, but speedily hence taketh them to the fruition of his everlasting Deity; whereas thy silly father, Meg, that like a most wicked caitiff hath passed forth the whole course of his most miserable life most sinfully, God, thinking him not worthy so soon to come to that eternal felicity, leaveth him yet still in the world, further to be plunged and turmoiled with misery.''[14]

The monks were dragged to Tyburn, where a terrible death, in full and ferocious ceremony, was given them. Before a gaping mob which included the Duke of Norfolk, each man was hanged, then cut down before losing consciousness, his stomach ripped by the butcher's knife and his entrails exposed to his still seeing eyes. Houghton was the first to suffer the torture, and while being disemboweled he was heard to whisper: "Oh most merciful Jesus have mercy upon me in this hour." When he was dead, his head was hacked from his body, and the body itself, chopped into four pieces. His companions were forced to watch the frightful butchery, but they showed no fear, each in his turn marched to the gibbet, and each in his turn addressed the crowd as calmly as though he was delivering an ordinary sermon on an ordinary Sunday before an ordinary crowd.

Soon more monks were to die. No form of torture was spared to secure compliance with the implacable will of Henry. The Carthusians were particularly stubborn. Not long after the martyrdom of the first group, a second was examined before Cromwell. Upon their refusal to acknowledge the King s supremacy, they were imprisoned in the Tower of London; where they remained seventeen days, standing bolt upright, tied fast with iron collars to the posts of the prison, with great fetters bolted on their legs. They could neither lie nor sit, nor otherwise ease themselves, but stood upright, and in all that space they were not loosed for any natural necessity.

But it was Thomas More and John Fisher who were the principal targets of Henry's ire and Cromwell's wiles. A few days before the second group of Carthusians were thrown into the Tower, the new Pope, Paul the Third, raised Fisher to the Cardinalate, thinking that by this gesture he might lessen, at least in some measure, Henry's cruelty. But he did not know his man. In savage jest, Henry declared that while he would not permit a Cardinal's hat to be brought to England, he would arrange for Fisher's head to be sent to Rome instead. "I will so provide," he said, "that if he wear it he shall bear it on his shoulders, nor any head shall he have to put it on."[15] An almost continual examination and questioning was now the lot of the two men, and both acted warily. They had refused to take the oath that the King was the Supreme Head of the Church in England, and for that they had been attainted and were now in the Tower. But, so far, they had not openly made a denial that the King was the Supreme Head, and this technicality was an important factor in the legalistic processes with which Henry surrounded his every barbarity. Every attempt was made to make them fall into the trap. Parliament had obediently made a law which declared it high treason "to maliciously wish, will or desire by words or writing or by craft imagine, invent, practice or attempt any bodily harm to be done or committed to the King's most Royal person, the Queen's or their Heirs Apparent, or deprive them or any of them of their dignity, title, or name of their royal estates, or slanderously and maliciously publish and pronounce by expressed writing or words, that the King, Our Sovereign Lord, should be heretic, schismatic, tyrant, infidel, etc." Cromwell questioned More about the new law and demanded his opinion, but he refused to discuss it. Audley then pointed out that More's attitude was inciting others to follow his example. More disclaimed the charge. "As touching the whole oath, I never withdrew any man from it, nor never advised any to refuse it, nor never put nor wil1 put any scruple in any man's head, but leave every man to his own conscience, and me thinketh in good faith that so were it good reason that every man should leave me to mine."[l6]

Richard Rich, the Solicitor General, and one of the most odious and unscrupulous members of the unsavoury group that were now so active in Henry's service, took an active part in the examination. Professing sympathy, he came to Fisher, infirm because of his age, terribly weak because of his confinement. The Solicitor General spoke softly and in confidence. The King's conscience, he stated, was disturbed, and Henry privately wanted to know for once and for all his former tutor's true opinion. On the pledge of secrecy the aged bishop sealed his own death warrant by stating that he believed directly in his conscience, and knew by his learning precisely, that the King was not nor could be by the law of God Supreme Head of the Church of England.

On the seventeenth of June, Fisher was brought to trial in Westminster Hall. He was accused of high treason in that he had denied the King to be the Supreme Head of the Church. He made no attempt to deny what he had told Rich, but he pleaded that the fatal words had been extracted from him under a vow of secrecy from the King. In his defence he denied treason and stressed that his opinion had been given privately to ease the King's conscience. He appealed to "all equity, all justice, all worldly honesty, and all civil humanity." But his words were as nothing. He was pronounced guilty, and the usual and terrible sentence, that he should be condemned to be hanged, drawn, and quartered, was given.

As it was a sentence that because of his ill health and old age it was deemed impossible to execute, it was decided that a simple beheading would suffice. Five days later, the Lieutenant of the Tower came in the early morning to his cell and informed him that it was the King's pleasure that he should die some time before the forenoon.

"Well," said the bishop, "if this be your errand hither, it is no news unto me; I have looked daily for it, I pray you what is it o'clock?"

"It is," repined the lieutenant, "about five."

"What time," asked Fisher, "must be mine hour to go out hence?"

"About ten of the clock," said the Lieutenant

"Well then," said Fisher, "I pray you let me sleep an hour or twain. For I may say to you I slept not much this night, not for fear of death, I tell you, but by reason of my great sickness and weakness."

When the hour arrived he dressed carefully and went with composure to the scaffold where, in the words of one who was there, he was "a long lean, slender body, nothing in a manner but skin and bare bones, so that the most part that there saw him, marvelled to see any man, bearing life, to be so far consumed; for he seemed a lean carcass, the flesh wasted away, and a very image of death, and as one might say, Death in a man's shape, and using a man's voice."

As the executioner made ready, the old man was offered a pardon if he would accede to the King's supremacy. He shook his head and instead invited the prayers of those who were waiting to see him die. He spoke bravely: "Hitherto . . ." he said, "I have not feared death, wherefore I desire you help me from fear and assist me with your prayers, that at the very point and instant of my death stroke, and in the very moment of death I then faint not in any point of the Catholic faith for any fear."[17] The frail neck was bared. The axe went high and another step in a man's sanctity was made.

It was the King's order that the headless body be stripped naked and thrown into a shallow grave. The head was placed on London Bridge.
The Story of Thomas More, John Farrow

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