Her glance had gone to my Lord of Norfolk, recently the Earl of Surrey, who had succeeded to the title on the death of his father a year or so before.
Ailie curtsied before him and told him how honored she was to see him at her house. Strange man! He was scarcely conscious of Ailie's charm. He looked grim, as though he had never given a thought to anything but matters of state. It was difficult to believe that his wife was giving him a lively time on account of her laundress, Bess Holland, for whom this grim man had a passion which he could not resist.
Norfolk was aloof, believing that he greatly honored the Allington's by attending at their house, being conscious that he was a great nobleman, head of one of the highest families in the land, and—although he dared not say this to any—he could not help reminding himself that the Howards of Norfolk were as royal as the Tudors. The recent death of his father-in-law, Buckingham, was a terrible warning to him, a reminder that he must keep such thoughts to himself, but that did not prevent his private enjoyment of them.
No; he would not be here this day but for his friendship with Sir Thomas More. There had occurred in the July of this year an incident which had startled all men who stood near the throne, and had set them pondering.
The King had said to the Cardinal one day when they were in the grounds of that extravagant and most luxurious of country houses, Hampton Court: “Should a subject be so rich as to possess such a house?” And the Cardinal, that clever, most shrewd of statesmen, whose quick wits had lifted him from obscurity to a place in the sun, had thrown away the riches of Hampton Court in his answer: “A subject could only be justified in owning such a place, Sire, that he might give it to his King.”
No more could people sing “Which Court? The King's Court or Hampton Court?” For now Hampton Court was the King's Court in very truth.
Something was happening between the King and the Cardinal; it was something which put a belligerent light in the King's eyes, and a fearful one in those of the Cardinal.
Norfolk, that ambitious man, that cold, hard schemer—soft only to Bessie Holland—believed that the favor so long enjoyed by the Cardinal was less bright than of yore. This delighted Norfolk, for he hated Wolsey. His father had instilled in him that hatred; it was not only brought about by envy of the favor Wolsey enjoyed; it was not only the resentment a nobleman might feel for an upstart from a humble stratum of society; it was because of the part this Duke's father had been forced to play in the trial of his friend, Buckingham. Buckingham, that nobleman and kinsman of the Howards, had been condemned to death because he had not shown enough respect to one whom Norfolk's father had called “A butchers cur.” And one of Buckingham's judges had been the old Duke of Norfolk who, with tears in his eyes, had condemned him to death, because he had known that had he done otherwise he would have lost his own head. This would never be forgiven. However long the waiting must be, Wolsey must suffer, not only for the execution of Buckingham, but for the fact that he had forced Norfolk to condemn his friend and kinsman.
But, besides being a vengeful man, the Duke of Norfolk was an ambitious one. He did not lose sight of the fact that when Wolsey fell from grace there would be only one other clever enough to take his place. It would be well to be on terms of friendship with that man. Not that that in itself presented a hardship. If anyone, besides Bess Holland, could soften the heart of this hard man, it was Thomas More. I like him, thought Norfolk, puzzled by his own feelings. I really like him … for the man he is, not only for the greatness which may very well be his.
So it was that Norfolk wished to be Mores friend. It was a strange matter—as strange as such a proud man's love for a humble laundress.
Thus was the Duke of Norfolk attending the double wedding of the daughters of a mere knight and the sons of two more mere knights.
Thomas was now approaching him. None would think, to look at him, that he was a brilliant scholar of world fame, and on the way to becoming one of the most important statesmen in the kingdom. He was more simply dressed than any man present, and it was clear to see that he thought little about his clothes. He walked with one shoulder higher than the other—an absurd habit, thought Norfolk, for it gave him an appearance of deformity.
But now Thomas stood before him, and Norfolk felt that strange mixture of tenderness and exasperation.
“I have never seen you so gay, Sir Thomas.”
“I am a lucky man, my lord. My two daughters are marrying this day, and instead of losing them I am to gain two sons. They will live with me—these two new sons—when they are not at Court, in my house in Chelsea. All my own daughters are married now, and I have lost not one of them. Do you not think that is a matter for rejoicing, my lord?”
“Much depends on whether you can live in amity with this large family of yours.”
Norfolk's eyes were narrowed; he was remembering his own stormy family life with its recriminations and quarrels.
“We live in amity at Chelsea. You should come to see us one day my lord, when your barge takes you that way.”
“I will… I will. I have heard of your household. It is said: ‘Vis nunquam tristis esse? Recte vive!’ Is that how you achieve your happiness, Master More?”
“Perhaps we strive to live rightly in Chelsea. That may be why we are such a happy family.”
Norfolk's eyes were brooding. He changed the subject abruptly. “There is something brewing at the Court.”
“My lord?”
“The King has created his bastard Fitzroy, Duke of Richmond and Somerset.”
“He loves the boy.”
“But such great titles … for a bastard! Might it not be that His Grace feels he may never have a legitimate son?”
“The Queen has been many times disappointed; poor lady, she feels this sorely.”
Norfolk came close and whispered: “And will feel it more sorely still, I doubt not.”
They went together to the great table on which was laid out a feast so magnificent that it was said it might have graced the tables of the King or the Cardinal.
There was beef, mutton, pork; there was roasted boar and many kinds of fish, with venison and pies of all sorts. There was even turkey—that newest of delicacies imported into the country for the first time that year.
There was drink of all sorts—wine, red and white; malmsey, muscatel and romney; there was metheglin and mead.
And while the company feasted, minstrels played merry tunes in the gallery.
It was after the banquet and during the ball that followed it, that Mercy, standing aside to watch the dancers, found Dr. Clement beside her.
“Well, Mercy,” he said, “this is a merry day indeed. And right glad you must be that, although your sisters are marrying, like Margaret, they are not leaving the family roof.”
“That is indeed a blessing. I think it would have broken Father's heart if any of them had wanted to leave home. It was bad enough when Ailie went.”
“How would he feel if you went, Mercy?”
“D” She blushed. “Oh … as he did when Ailie went, I suppose.
She is a stepdaughter; I am a foster daughter. He is so good that he will have us believe that he loves us all as his own.”
“I think he would be unhappy if you left, Mercy. But… why should you leave? You could stay there … with your hospital, and I should be at Court…. Like your father, I should seize every opportunity to be with you.”
She dared not look at him. She did not believe that she had heard him correctly. There could not be all that happiness in the world. Surely she could not have her beloved father, her family, her hospital an I John Clement!
He was close to her, slipping his arm through hers.