Now came the rest of the procession, and so close did the prancing horses come that the mass of people surged back to avoid being trodden on. Jane grasped her children and pulled them toward her, but the pressure increased. The faces of the people seemed to merge into the blue sky and the fanfares and the trumpeting seemed to come from a long way off. Jane fainted.
“Mother … Mother!” cried Margaret in alarm.
But Jane was slipping down and was in danger of being trampled underfoot.
“Stop … Stop…. I beg of you stop!” cried Margaret.
Cecily began to scream, Elizabeth to cry forlornly, while Mercy tried in vain to hold back the people with her little hands.
Then suddenly a strong voice cried: “Stand back! Stand back! Can you not see! A woman has fainted.”
It was a loud, authoritative feminine voice; and Margaret lifted fearful eyes to a plump woman who was holding a little girl by the hand. Her fat cheeks quivered, her mouth was tight with indignation, and her eyes snapped contempt at the crowd.
Miraculously she had cleared a space about Jane. She put an arm about the fainting woman and forced her head downward. After a few seconds, to Margaret's delight, the color began to return to her mothers face.
“The heat, that's what it is,” said the woman. “I could have fainted myself. And would have done … if I had not had the will to stop myself.”
Margaret, grateful as she was, could not help sensing the reproof to her mother in those words. She said: “My mother is not strong yet. We have just had a baby brother.”
“Then more fool she to come out on such a day!” was the answer to that. “Where do you live?”
“At The Barge in Bucklers bury.”
“That's not more than a stone's throw from here. I'll take you back. The crowds will be rougher ere long.”
“You are very good,” said Margaret.
“Tilly valley! What could I do? Leave a baby like you to look after a fainting woman in a crowd like this? Ah, mistress, I see you are looking about you. You fainted and I am looking after your children here. Can you stand? Here, lean on me. You two big girls take the little ones and keep a firm hold of their hands. Now, Ailie, you cling to my gown. I am going to force my way through the crowd. Come, mistress. Take my arm. Your children are here, and we'll push them ahead so that they cannot stray from our sight. We'll be in Bucklersbury in next to no time, and that's where you should be before the mob starts roystering.”
“You are very good,” said Jane. “I…”
“Now keep your breath for walking. Come along now. Come along.”
Forcefully she pushed a way for them, calling sharply to any that stood in their path. “Can you not see? I have a sick woman here. Stand aside, you oafs. Make way there.”
And the odd thing was that none cared to disobey her, and under such strong guidance the family soon reached Bucklersbury.
The woman sniffed and looked with scorn about her. “What odors! What odors!” she declared. “I'm glad my late husband was not one of these apothecaries with their smells. There are no smells in a mercers shop but goodly smells. But this … poof! I like it not!”
“My husband,” said Jane, “is a lawyer.”
“A lawyer, eh! What the good year! Well, here you are, and if you will take my advice you'll not go into crowds again in a hurry.”
“You will come in and take a little refreshment?”
The widow said she would, and followed them into the big hall, where she sat down.
Margaret saw that the little girl named Ailie was very pretty and more or less of an age with herself and Mercy. Her golden hair escaped from her cap, and her gown was of richer material than that worn by the little More girls.
“Tell me the names of your girls,” said the widow. “Nay … let them speak for themselves. I'll warrant they have tongues in their heads.”
“We have,” said Margaret with dignity, for although she was grateful for the widow's help in bringing them home, she did not like her overbearing manner. “I am Margaret. This is my foster sister called Mercy because her name is also Margaret, and … my sisters Elizabeth and Cecily.”
“And I am Mistress Alice Middleton, widow of Master John Middleton, mercer of the City and merchant of the Staple of Calais. Here is my daughter. Alice like myself, so like Mercy there, she is called by a name other than her own. Why, you and she are of an age. That should make you friends.”
The children continued to study each other, and Mistress Middleton turned to her hostess, complimented her on the mead she was offered and told her how she could improve it by using more honey in its making. Still, it was a goodly brew.
She went on: “Now rest yourself. Keep to the house, for there'll be roystering this night… and so there should be, for it is a good day for the land, I'll swear, with such a bonny King come to the throne.”
When she had drunk her mead and had a look at the house, commenting—not always favorably—on its furnishings, she left with her daughter.
“A talkative woman,” said Jane, “but capable, I'll swear … and very kind.”
THIS WAS a happy day for Thomas More. The tyrant was dead and in his place was a monarch who promised great things for England.
When Thomas was happy, he liked to take up his pen, and it was natural that his writings should now be concerned with the new reign.
“If ever there was a day, England,” he wrote, “if ever there was a time for you to give thanks to Those above, this is that happy day, one to be marked with a pure white stone and put in your calendar. This day is the limit of our slavery, the beginning of freedom, the end of sadness, the source of joy….”
He went on to enumerate the virtues of the young King: “Among a thousand noble companions, does he not stand out taller than any? If only nature could permit that, like his body, the outstanding excellence of his mind could be visible! This Prince has inherited his father's wisdom, his mother's kindly strength, the scrupulous intelligence of his father's mother, the noble heart of his mother's father. What wonder if England rejoices in such a King as she has never had before!”
Thomas went on to sing the praises of the Queen; he wrote of her dignity and her devotion to religion, of her beauty and her loyalty. There was surely no woman more worthy to be the wife of such a King, and none but the King was worthy to be the husband of such a Queen. Heaven bless such a union; and surely when the crowns had long been worn by Katharine and Henry, their grandson and great-grandson would wear the crown of England in the years to come.
When Thomas recited this composition to John Colet, the Dean of St Paul's remarked in his dry way that the qualities of Henrys ancestors might have been construed differently. For instance, the wisdom of Henry the Seventh might have been called avarice; the kindly strength of Elizabeth of York, meekness dictated by expediency; the scrupulous intelligence of Margaret of Richmond, ambition; the noble heart of Edward the Fourth as lechery and determination to rule at all cost.
“Still,” said the dean, “this should be shown to the King. It will surely please His Grace. Much flattery has been poured into the royal ears, but I doubt that any has ever been so elegantly phrased.”
“Flattery?” said Thomas. “That may be. But, John, it sometimes happens that if a man is shown a flattering picture of himself, he will try to be worthy of that picture. For such reasons it is expedient to flatter kings.”