“I?”
The Cardinal laid his hand on Thomas's shoulder. “You underestimate yourself. Go now to His Grace. He would have speech with you. Be not too modest. Luck favors you. Go in… and win your honors.”
It was with disturbed thoughts that Thomas made his way to the royal apartments.
WHEN THOMAS entered the King's audience chamber it was to find him with those three friends and statesmen, the Duke of Norfolk, the Duke's son the Earl of Surrey and Henry's brother-in-law the Duke of Suffolk.
This, Thomas realized, was honor indeed, to be received in such company. Here was the King, familiarly talking with his friends, and smiling to receive Thomas More among them; but as he knelt before the King, Thomas was aware of the speculating eyes of the three noblemen.
All were well known to him.
Suffolk was not only the King's brother-in-law, but his greatest friend; a clashing handsome fellow, he had accompanied Henrys sister Mary to France when she had married old Louis, and when, after a few months of life with the vital young Mary, the French King had died, Suffolk had, with great daring, married her before their return to England. But Henry had forgiven that rashness long ago.
The old Duke of Norfolk, Lord Treasurer and Knight of the Garter, was a sturdy old warrior, proud head of one of the noblest families in the country, and was still reaping the rewards of his victory at Flodden Field.
His son, Surrey, slightly older than Thomas, was a gallant soldier, shrewd and high in the favor of the King in spite of the fact that his wife was the daughter of the recently murdered Duke of Buckingham. The King was amused by Surrey at this time, and he liked those who amused him. Surrey—the grim, stern soldier— had become enamored of his wife's laundress, and there was much ribald comment throughout the Court concerning Surrey and Bess Holland.
“Ha,” cried the King. “Here comes Master More to join us. We were talking of this madman Luther, Master More. You have seen this new outrage of his, I doubt not?”
“I have, Your Grace.”
“By God, I have a mind to answer him with my own pen. Now, you are a master of words, and it is on this matter that I wished to speak to you.”
“Your Grace honors me.”
“We have read some of your writings and found merit in them. We are giving orders that this evil composition of the German monk's shall be publicly burned in St Paul's Churchyard. We are instructing Bishop Fisher to preach a sermon against him. Master More, this man is an agent of the devil. Now… my friends, leave us. I would speak alone with our friend here on literary matters.”
The three noblemen retired, and the King smiled at Thomas.
“Now, my friend, we can get down to work. Since I read this … this … what shall I call it?… this evil document… I have felt an anger burning within me. I hear the voice of God urging me to act. This cannot go unanswered, Master More; and it needs one to answer it whose writing will astonish the world. Who better than the King of England?”
“Your Grace has written this book?”
“Not yet… not yet. I have made my notes … notes of what I wish to say. They shall go ringing round Europe. If I had the fellow here in my kingdom he should suffer the traitor's death. But he is not here. I cannot chastise his body, so I will answer him with words. I will show you what I shall call my Assertion of the Seven Sacraments, and you will see that what I intend to do is to answer this monstrous piece of writing of this villainous monk. Now, come hither. This is what I have prepared.”
Thomas took the notes which were handed to him. “And my duty, Your Grace?”
Henry waved a hand “Well… you will arrange them … and set them into a form that… you know of. You are a man of letters. You will see what has to be done. I am a King. I have my affairs of state to attend to, but I have written the core of the thing. You will…” The King waved his hands in an expansive gesture. “But you know what is your task, Master More. To make this into a book. I have chosen you out of my regard for you.”
“Your Grace is determined to honor me”
“As I am always ready to honor those who please me … whose learning adds luster to this realm. Now, Master More, your duties from now on will be undertaken in my small antechamber, to which I shall now conduct you. You shall have everything you require, and I should like the task completed with all expediency. Spare not the evildoer. We will talk to the world … even as he has. And we will speak in literary language, Master More; for they tell me you are a master of such language. You are excused all other duties. My friend, do this task well and you will be rewarded. Ah, it pleases you?”
“Your Grace could not have given me a task which delights me so much. To have a pen in my hand once more and on such a composition! It is something I have wanted for a long time.”
The King's hand came down on his shoulder; it was a heavy blow, but its very heaviness expressed not only approval, but affection. The eyes were shining with pleasure; the cheeks were flushed.
“Come, Master More. This way.”
The King threw open the door of a small room, which was richly carpeted and hung with exquisitely worked tapestry.
When Thomas saw the young woman, she was on the window seat in an ungainly attitude, her legs tucked under her skirt. Her bodice was low-cut and her dark hair fell about her bare shoulders. What astonished him in that half-second was that she did not rise when the King entered, but threw him a saucy smile.
The King stopped and stared at her. Then she must have become aware of the fact that he was not alone. She jumped to her feet and fell on her knees.
“What do you here, girl?” demanded the King.
“I crave Your Grace's pardon. I… but… I thought… Your Grace desired my presence here.”
“Get up,” said the King.
She rose, and Thomas recognized her as Mary Boleyn, the King's mistress. Her gaze was almost defiant as she looked at Thomas. There was in that look a certainty that the King's displeasure could not last.
“You have our leave to retire,” said the King.
She curtsied and took two or three steps backward to the door.
Thomas noticed how the King watched her, his mouth slackening, his eyes a brighter blue.
“Come in, come in, man,” he said almost testily. “Ah, there is where you may sit. Now, look you, these notes are to be made into a great book. You understand me? A great book! You know how to write books. Well, that is what you must do for me.”
The King's attention was straying, Thomas knew; his thoughts had left the room with that dark-haired girl.
Henry said: “If there is anything you want, ask for it. Start now. See what you can do with these notes … and later … when you have something ready, you may bring it to me.”
The King was smiling. His mood had changed; he was already away with the girl who had just left.
“Do your work well, Master More. You will not regret it. I like to reward those who please me….”
The King went out, and Thomas sat down to look at the notes.
He found it difficult to concentrate. He thought of the King and the dark-eyed girl; he thought of Surrey and Bess Holland; he thought of the sharp eyes of Suffolk, the wily ones of old Norfolk, and of Thomas Wolsey, who was cleverer than any of them.
And he longed, as he had never longed before, for the peace of his home.
ADJUSTING THE King's notes was a pleasant task, except that it kept him more than ever away from his family. Many times he had been on the point of slipping home to Bucklersbury when a messenger had come to tell him that the King was asking why he was not in his presence.