“A healthy daughter! Much good is she! I want sons … sons…. I am King of England, Thomas More; and it is necessary for a King to give his country an heir.”
Thomas was silent and the King frowned as he went on: “There is a matter which lies heavy on my conscience. The Queen, as you know, was my brother's wife ere she became mine. You are a learned man, Master More, a religious one. You read your Bible. God inflicts a penalty on those who commit the sin of incest. That is what I fear I have done in marrying my brothers wife. Every son has died… every son the Queen has borne has died. Is that not significant? Is that not a sign from Heaven that I am a victim of Divine judgement? The more I study this matter, the more certain I become that I have offended God's Holy Laws in my marriage.”
Thomas was deeply shocked. He had heard rumors of the King's Secret Matter, and he had dreaded being asked to give an opinion. He thought of the Queen, that grave and gracious lady, who had offended none but the King; and him she had offended merely because she was growing old and unattractive and had been unable to provide him with a male heir.
The King had stopped in his walk and turned to face Thomas. He rocked on his heels; his face was creased with emotions— sentiment, cruelty, cunning and simplicity, and chiefly with his determination to make Thomas see him as he saw himself.
“I was against this marriage ere I made it. You remember the protest! made?”
Thomas looked in surprise at the King. “I remember, Sire.”
“There you see, I did not wish to enter into the marriage, then. She was, after all, my brother's widow.”
Thomas dared not say: You protested on your father's orders. It was when you made the protest that you determined to marry Queen Katharine.
Thomas was aware of the selfish cruelty, the predominant desire in the King to see himself as a righteous man. It would not be worth risking his displeasure by making such a remark. It would be folly to anger him at this stage. At this moment Henry was so carefully nursing his conscience that any man who dared suggest that his conscience was really his own desire would surely forfeit his head.
“But… I married her,” went on the King. “I married her, for she was a stranger in a strange land and she had been brought to us for marriage with the heir of England. And, because she was my wife, I cherished her and I loved her, as I still do. To part with her … that would be a bitter blow to me. You, who have married two wives and lived with them in amity, know that. It is nearly twenty years since I married the Queen. A man cannot cast off, without a pang, a woman to whom he has been married twenty years. Yet, though I am a man—aye, and a loving husband—I remember first that I am a King. And, Master More, if it were demanded of me to cast off this wife of mine and take another… though this matter were hateful to me, I would do it.”
“Your Grace should not sacrifice his happiness so lightly,” said Thomas, seizing the opportunity the King had given. “If a King has his duty to his country, a husband has his duty to his wife. And if the crowning of a King is a holy sacrament in the eyes of God, so is the ceremony of marriage. You have a daughter, Sire, the Princess Mary….”
The King waved his hand impatiently.
“That gives us much anxious thought. This country has never been happily ruled by a woman. You know that, Master More. And you, who call yourself a religious man, should ponder this: Is an incestuous marriage a holy one? Can it find favor in the sight of God? And what of a man and woman who, disturbed by their conscience, continue to live in such a marriage? Nay, this state of affairs cannot go on.” The King smiled slyly. “Nor will my Ministers allow it. Warham, the Archbishop, and Wolsey, the Papal Legate, are bringing a secret suit against me.”
“A secret suit against Your Grace!”
The King nodded mournfully. “A pretty pass when a King's subjects act thus against him. Mark you, I have tried to be an honest man over this matter and, much as I deplore the action of Warham and Wolsey, I yet admit they act with reason and within their rights.”
So it has come to this! thought Thomas. The King is indeed determined to cast off his wife since he has made Warham and Wolsey accuse him of incest.
“You see,” said the King, “I am a King who is beset on all sides—by his love for his wife, by the demands of his ministers, by the reasoning of his own conscience. You are an important member of the Council, and there are many who set store by your opinions. You have many friends—Bishop Fisher among them. When this matter is discussed between you, I would have you obey your conscience as I am obeying mine. I would have you cast your vote not for Henry the man and Katharine the woman, but for the good of this land and its future heirs.”
“My Lord King, you honor me too much, I feel myself inadequate to meddle in such matters.”
“Nay, nay,” said the King. “You underestimate your powers.” His voice was kind still, but his eyes flashed a warning. This matter was very near his heart, and he would brook no interference. This was a matter of conscience—the King's conscience and no one else's, for the King's conscience was such a mighty monster that it would tolerate no interference from the consciences of others. “Come. You agree with these men who will bring a suit against me, do you not? You know, as they know, that your King and Queen are living together in sinful incest. Come! Come! Be not afraid. We ask for the truth.”
“Since your Grace asks for the truth, may I ask for time— time that I may consider this matter?”
The King's eyes were narrow, his mouth sullen.
“Very well, then. Very well. Take your time.”
He turned away abruptly, and several courtiers, who had been watching from a safe distance, asked themselves what Sir Thomas More had done to offend the King.
ONE OF the sights to be seen in the City, rivaled only by that of the marching watch on Midsummer's Eve and the Eve of St. Peter, was the ceremonious procession which attended the great Cardinal on all his journeyings. Before him, about him and behind him, went his retinue of servants, extravagantly clad in black velvet with golden chains about their necks; the lower servants were conspicuous in their tawny livery. And in the center of all this pomp, preceded by the bearers of his silver crosses, his two pillars of silver, the Great Seal of England and his Cardinal's hat, rode the Cardinal himself, in his hand an orange, the inside of which had been replaced by pieces of vinegar-soaked sponge and other substances to counteract the pestilential air; the trappings of his mule were crimson velvet and his stirrups of copper and gold.
He went with as much ceremony as if he were the King himself.
He passed over London Bridge, and the people watched him in sullen silence. They blamed Wolsey for all their ills. Who was Wolsey? they asked themselves. A low-born man who, by great good luck, lived in the state of a King. When taxes were too high—and they always were—they blamed Wolsey. And now that the King wanted to replace the Queen, they blamed Wolsey for that. The people wanted an heir to the throne, yes; but the more serious among them remembered that the Queen was the aunt of the Emperor Charles of Spain; they might not be troubled on account of the Emperors humiliation, which he would undoubtedly feel if his aunt were cast off, but they feared his armies. So … they blamed Wolsey.
He was on his way to France now, and in his retinue rode Sir Thomas More.
The great Cardinal was more deeply perturbed at this time than he had ever been before.
Fortune was turning against him. Had he looked too high when he had coveted the Papal Chair? Ah, if only he instead of Clement had been elected Pope, all his anxieties would be at an end. There he would have been content to rest, at the pinnacle of fame. There he would have had no need to fear any man. He had climbed to great heights, and now he was on a narrow ledge, his foothold precarious; he must retain a very careful balance if he were to continue to climb. About him snapped those angry, jealous wolves—Suffolk, Norfolk and their followers. There was only one man who could save him from those ravening beasts, and that was the most dangerous of them all—the King.