The Bishop was a very sick man and his imprisonment had greatly affected his health.
One day Richard Rich came to the Bishop and, smiling in a friendly fashion, assured him that this was not an official visit; he came, not as the King's Solicitor-General, but as a friend.
The Bishop, worn out with sickness, suffering acutely from the closeness of his confinement, from heat and from cold, bade the Solicitor-General welcome. The latter talked about the pity of this affair, the sorrow it was causing many people because such men, so admired and respected as were Bishop Fisher and Sir Thomas More, must lie in prison on account of a matter such as this.
“I talked to the King of you but yesterday,” said Rich, “and he said that it grieved him to think of you in prison. He said that he respected you greatly, and that his conscience worried him concerning you. He fears that he may not have been right in what he has done. And indeed, where is the son that God would have given him had He approved the new marriage? He has but a daughter— a healthy child, it is true, but a daughter! The King's conscience disturbs him, and you could lighten it, my lord Bishop. The King has promised absolute secrecy, but he wishes to know your mind. He says that what you say—as a holy man of the Church—will be carefully considered by him. Now, my lord Fisher, if I swear to you that what you say is between you, myself and the King, will you open your mind to me?”
Fisher answered: “By the law of God, the King is not, nor could be Supreme Head on Earth of the Church of England.” Rich nodded and smiled: he was well pleased with himself Fisher had answered exactly as he had hoped he would.
THERE WERE others in the Tower for the same reason as were those two brave men.
The Carthusians had been asked to sign the Oath of Supremacy. This they had found they could not do in good conscience, and the Prior of the London Charterhouse, with those of Lincoln and Nottinghamshire, was very soon lodged in the Tower. Others quickly followed them there.
The King was growing more and more angry, and when he was angry he turned his wrath on Cromwell.
“By God's Body,” roared the King. “It is this man More who stiffens their resistance. We must make him understand what happens to those who disobey the King.”
“Sire, we have done all we can to bring a charge against him, but he is as wily as a fox in this matter of the law.”
“I know, I know,” said the King testily, “that he is a clever man in some ways and that I am surrounded by fools. I know that you have tried in many ways to bring charges against him, but every time he has foiled you. He is a traitor. Remember that. But I have no wish to see him suffer. My wish is that he shall end his folly, give us his signature and stop working malice among those who so admire him. These monks would relent if he did. But, no … no. These fools about me can in no way foil him. It is Master More who turns their arguments against them and snaps his fingers at us all. Let him be reminded of the death a traitor suffers. Ask him whether or not that is the law of the land. Ask him what clever lawyer can save a man from a traitors death if he is guilty of treason.”
Cromwell visited Thomas in his cell.
“Ah, Sir Thomas,” he said, “the King grieves for you. He wishes you well in spite of all the trouble you are causing him. He would be merciful. He would take you to a more comfortable place; he would see you abroad in the world again.”
“I have no wish, Master Cromwell, to meddle in the affairs of the world.”
“The King would feel more inclined toward you if you did not help others to resist him. There are these monks, now lodged in this Tower. The King feels that if you would but be his good friend you could persuade these monks to cease their folly.”
“I am the King's true and faithful subject and I do nobody harm. I say none harm; I think none harm; and I wish everybody good. And if this be not enough to keep a man alive and in good faith I long not to live. Therefore is my poor body at the King's pleasure.”
“I repeat that the King wishes you well. He would do a favor unto you. Yet you would not accept this favor.”
“There is one I would accept. If I could see my daughter, Margaret Roper, there is little else I would ask of the King.”
Cromwell smiled. “I will do what can be done. I doubt not that the request will soon be granted.”
And it was.
She came on that May day, a year after his imprisonment, when the four monks were to pay the terrible penalty, which had been deemed their due.
This was as the King and Cromwell would have it; for, said Cromwell, the bravest of men would flinch when they considered the death accorded to these monks. It was the traitor's death; and there was no reason why a Bishop and an ex-Chancellor should not die the same horrible death as did these monks. Only the King in his clemency could change that dread sentence to death by the axe.
Let Master More reflect on that; and let him reflect upon it in the company of his daughter, for she might aid the King's ministers with her pleas.
So she was with him while preparations were being made immediately outside his prison. He and Margaret heard these and knew what they meant. The hurdles were brought into the courtyard below the window; and they knew that those four brave men were being tied to them and that they would be dragged to Tyburn on those hurdles, and there hanged, cut down and disemboweled while still alive.
To face such death required more than an ordinary man's courage, though that man be a brave one.
Margaret stood before him tight-lipped.
“I cannot bear it, Father. Do you not hear? Do you not know what they are doing to those brave monks?”
And he answered: “Lo, Meg, dost thou not see that these blessed fathers be now as cheerfully going to their deaths as bridegrooms to their marriage?”
But she turned from him weeping, swooning to the floor; and it was he who must comfort her.
MERCY SAID to her husband: “I must do something. Inactivity is killing me. I have a tight pain in my throat, so that I feel it will close up altogether. Think, John. For a year we have suffered this agony. Oh, was there ever such exquisite torture as slow torture? Does the King know this? Is that why he raises our hopes and all but kills them before he seems to bid us hope again?”
“Mercy, it is not like you to give way, you… who are always so calm.”
“I cannot go on being calm. I dream of him as he was years ago when he first brought me to the house … when I would stand before him while he explained some small fault to me. I think of him when he told me that I was truly his daughter. I am his daughter. That is why I must do something. And you must help me, John.”
“I would do anything in the world for you, Mercy. You know that well.”
“Four of the monks have now suffered most barbarously at Tyburn, John. And there are others who are suffering, less violently , but in a horribly slow, lingering way. They are in Newgate and I am going to help them.”
“You, Mercy? But… how?”
“I am going to Newgate to take succor to them.”
“They would never let you in.”
“I think the King's physician could help me.”
“Mercy! If you were discovered… have you thought what it would mean?”
“He said I was truly his daughter. I would like to prove that to myself.”
“What would you do?”
“You know their sentence. Those learned monks are tied to posts in confined spaces. They cannot move; there are iron collars about their necks and fetters about their ankles. They are to be left thus to die. That is their punishment for disobedience to the King. They are given no food; they cannot move from that spot. They have been there a day and a night. I am going into Newgate with food and the means to cleanse them … so that they do not die of their plight.”