Now Thomas had been elected Speaker of the Parliament.
England was at war that year with France and Scotland, and Thomas had succeeded in delaying the collection of those taxes which Wolsey had imposed for the purpose of carrying on the war. Thomas was against war; he had always been against it. If he talked continually thus, what would become of him?
The Cardinal was now openly hostile toward Thomas. He was suffering acute disappointment over the election of the Pope. It seemed incredible to him that a man could be as foolish as Thomas More, so blind to his own chances of advancement.
As he left Parliament Wolsey forgot his usual calm so much as to mutter, so that several heard him: “Would to God, Master More, that you had been in Rome before I made you Speaker of this Parliament.”
Wolsey went straight to die King, and a few days later Thomas was told that he was to be sent on an embassy to Spain.
HOW COULD he leave London when Margaret was soon to have a child? He was beset by fears. How many women died in childbirth? It was the birth of Jack which had led to Jane's death. He must be beside Margaret when her child was born.
She had said: “Father, I hope you will be near me. Do you remember when I was a very little girl and the pain was better when you sat by my bed, holding my hand?”
He had answered: “Meg, thus shall it be now. I shall be with you.”
But Spain! The strain of working for the King was beginning to undermine his health; he was often painfully fatigued. He did not believe he could keep in good health if he undertook the long journey in a trying climate. He thought of the many weary months away from his family. Was it too late even now to break away from the life of the Court which he did not want?
Greatly daring, and saying nothing to his family, he craved audience with the King. It was immediately granted, for Henry liked him for himself, and there were times when he wished to desert his frivolous companions and be with this serious-minded man. It gave him pleasure to see himself as a serious King who, while often gay could also appreciate the company of a scholar.
Thomas had asked for a private interview, so the King sent all his courtiers from him, and when they were alone he turned to his protégé with a pleasant smile.
“Well, Thomas, what is this matter of which you would speak?”
“ 'Tis the embassy to Spain, Your Grace.”
“Ah, yes. You will be leaving us soon. We shall miss you. But Wolsey thinks you are the best man we could send.”
“I fear the Cardinal is mistaken, Your Grace.”
“Wolsey … mistaken! Never! Wolsey knows your talents, my friend, as well as I do.”
“Your Highness, I feel myself unfit for the task. The climate does not agree with my health, and if I am ill I cannot do justice to Your Grace's mission. I feel that if you send me thither you may send me to my grave. If Your Grace decides that I must go, then you may rest assured that I shall follow your instructions to the very best of my ability. But I fear the journey, Sire; I greatly fear the journey.”
The King looked gravely at the man before him. He had grown thin, Henry saw. That was too much poring over books. Not enough good food. From what the King had heard, the fellow did not pay enough attention to what he ate; he did not drink wine. Poor Thomas More! He did not know how to live. And he was married to a woman older than himself. The King frowned at the thought, for it reminded him that he was in a similar position; and it was a position which he was beginning to find irksome.
Poor Thomas! thought Henry. He has his misfortunes … even as I. And he lacks my good health.
“There is another matter, Sire,” went on Thomas. “My daughter, recently married, is expecting her first child; and I should die of anxiety if I were not at hand.”
The King slapped his knee. “Ah, so that's it, eh? That's it, friend Thomas.” Henrys eyes filled with tears. “I like well such fatherly devotion. So should we feel for our daughter, the Princess Mary, were she in similar plight. But you have a big family in Bucklersbury, eh, Thomas? You have a fine son, I hear.”
“Yes, Your Highness. Three daughters, a son, a foster daughter and a stepdaughter.”
“I like to hear that, Thomas. Would it surprise you if your King told you that—in some respects—he envies you?”
“Your Highness is gracious indeed. And I know that in some ways I have been a lucky man.”
“Lucky indeed! A fine son, eh? Would to God I could say the same. And this child of yours … this daughter … Let us hope she will be brought to bed of a fine boy.” The King brought his face closer to that of Thomas. “And we consider it meet that her father should be in London… be here when his grandson comes into the world. Rest happy, my friend. We shall find another to send on that embassy to Spain.”
That was the extent of Thomas's favor with the King.
Yet, delighted as she was to hear the news, Margaret was uneasy.
The King's favor was pleasant while it lasted, but now it seemed to her that her father had won it at the cost of the Cardinal's friendship.
MARGARET HAD quickly recovered from her confinement, and it was a very happy family that lived in Bucklersbury during those months.
Thomas was delighted with his grandson.
“But,” he said, “now that my secretary, John Harris, is living with us and I have a grandson, this house is not big enough; and in the years to come when I have many grandsons and granddaughters—for the other girls will marry one day and I trust that they, like Margaret, will not leave their father's roof—I must have a bigger house.”
So he bought Crosby Place in the City—a beautiful house, the tallest in London, built of stone and timber and situated close to Bishopsgate.
One day he took Margaret along to see it.
They went through the great rooms of this house, which was so much grander than the one they were now occupying. Margaret stood with her father in the great hall, looked up at the vaulted roof and tried to imagine the family in it.
“You like it not?” said Thomas.
“Well, Father, you have bought it, and doubtless we shall make it ours when we settle in, but…”
“But?” he insisted.
“I know not. Perhaps I am foolish. But it is not like our house.”
“Propria domus omnium optima!”
“But we should make this our house, Father. Yet… I cannot see it as ours. There is an air of gloom about it.”
“You are fanciful, daughter.”
“Indeed I am. Why, when we have the family here and we sit talking and singing together … then it will be our home … and quite a different place from the one it is now.”
“Richard Crookback lived here for a time,” said Thomas. “I wonder if that is why you feel this repulsion. I wonder if you think of him and all the miseries that must have been his. Is that it, Meg?”
“It might be.”
She sat on a window seat and looked thoughtfully at her father.
“Come, Margaret, what is on your mind?”
“That we shall make this place our home.”
“Come, be frank with me.”
“It is just a foolish thought of mine. We have often talked of the house we would have … when you have not been with us.”
“And it has not been like this?”
“How could you expect it to be? Where should we find all that we have planned? Moreover, if there could be such a house we should have to pull it down once a week and rebuild it, because we have added to it and altered it so persistently that it could not stay the same for more than a week. There is Mercy with her hospital; and there is the library that I have built for you; there is the chapel, which Mother thinks should be attached to all great houses…. And Jack, of course, has set all this in the midst of green fields.”