“It is not possible, Mercy.”
“It is possible, John. I have planned what I shall do. I shall dress as a milkmaid and carry a pail on my head. It shall be full of food and the means of cleaning them of their natural filth. And this milkmaid shall be allowed into the prison on the recommendation of the King's physician. You can do it, John. And you must… you must… for I shall die if I stay here thinking … thinking … Don't you see it is the only way for me to live? I shall feel I am helping him. I must, John; and you must help me.”
He kissed her and gave his promise.
The next day Mercy, dressed as a milkmaid, with a pail on her head, walked into Newgate Jail and was taken to the monks by a jailer who had been paid to do this.
She fed the monks with the food that she had brought; and she cleaned them.
She was happier than she had been since her father had been taken to the Tower.
THE KING was growing angrier. He was also growing accustomed to the shedding of blood. He was being unfaithful to his Queen, and he was in urgent need of reassurance, for that old monster, his conscience, was worrying him again.
The Pope, hoping to save Fisher, had talked of giving him a Cardinal's hat.
The King laughed aloud when he heard this. “Then he shall wear it on his shoulders,” he said, “for he'll have no head to put it on.”
And on a day in June Bishop Fisher, after his examination in the Tower, during which the secret confession he had made to Rich was revealed by the treacherous Solicitor-General, was condemned to death.
But the King was generous. In view of the Bishop's age and position, though he was a traitor indeed, it was not the royal wish that he should suffer the traitor's death. He should die by the executioner's axe.
Now it was Thomas's turn, and on the 1st of July he was taken to Westminster Hall for his trial.
There Norfolk, his kindness forgotten—for he had become exasperated by what he called the obstinacy of the man for whom he had once had a liking—told him that if he would repent of his opinions he might still win the King's pardon.
“My lord,” was Thomas's answer, “I thank you for your goodwill. Howbeit, I make my petition unto God Almighty that it may please Him to maintain me in this my honest mind to the last hour that I shall live.”
Then he defended himself so ably that those who had been set to try him were afraid that yet again he would elude them. That could not be allowed to happen. There was not one of them who would dare face the King unless Thomas More came out of Westminster Hall convicted of treason. Then the resourceful Rich stepped forth and announced that he had had a secret conversation with More, even as he had had with Fisher.
“Ah,” cried Thomas, “I am sorrier for your perjury, Master Rich, than for my own peril.”
But the jury was glad of a chance to find him guilty, as each member knew he must or earn the King's displeasure.
They brought him out of Westminster Hall, and Margaret, who was waiting with Jack and Mercy, felt numbed by her pain when she saw him between the halberdiers, and the blade of the executioners axe turned toward him.
Jack ran forward and knelt at his fathers feet. Margaret threw herself into his arms; only Mercy stood back, remembering even in that moment that she was only the foster daughter.
Margaret would not release her father; and Sir William Kingston, the Constable of die Tower, stood by unable to speak because of his emotion.
“Have patience, Margaret. My Meg, have patience. Trouble thyself not…” whispered Thomas.
And when he released himself, she stepped back a pace or two and stood looking at him, before she ran forward to fling her arms once more about his neck.
Now Sir William Kingston laid gentle hands upon her, and Jack had his arm about her as she fell fainting to the ground and lay there while the tragic procession moved on.
THE KING had been gracious. He would save the man who had been his friend from that terrible death which the monks had suffered.
“The King in his mercy,” said Cromwell, “has commuted the sentence to death by the axe.”
“God forbid,” said Thomas with a touch of grim humor, “that the King should use any more such mercy to my friends.”
There were certain conditions, Cromwell explained. There must be no long speeches at the execution. And if Thomas obeyed the King's wishes, the King would graciously allow his family to have his body to bury. The King was indeed a merciful king.
DEATH BY the axe!
Now it was dark indeed in the house at Chelsea. They sat in a mournful circle, and none spoke of him, for they had no words to say.
That which they had feared had come to pass. He who had made this house what it was, who had made their lives so good and joyous, was lost to them.
They would never see him again.
Dauncey was weeping silently—not for frustrated ambition; that seemed to matter little now. He did not know what had happened to him when he had come to this house. He had dreamed of greatness; he had made an advantageous marriage that would lead to the King's favor; and whither had it led him? Being Dauncey, he knew more than the others. He knew that the King's hatred of Sir Thomas More would extend to his family; he knew that goods and lands would be taken from them; that it might be that their very lives were in danger. But he cared not. He, Dauncey, cared not. He would have given all the lands and goods he possessed, he would have thrown away his ambitions for the future, if the door could have opened and the laughing voice of Sir Thomas More be heard again.
His wife Elizabeth smiled at him. She understood and was grateful to him, for it seemed to her that in the midst of her black sorrow there was a touch of brightness.
Cecily and Giles Heron were holding hands, staring before them, thinking … thinking back over the past.
Alice was remembering all the scoldings she had given him, and wishing, more than she had ever wished for anything before, that she could have him with her to scold now.
Dorothy Colly slipped her hand into that of John Harris; and they were all very still until they heard the sound of horses' hoofs approaching.
It was a messenger who had brought a letter for Margaret.
She trembled as she took it, for he was to die tomorrow, and she knew that this was the last she would ever receive from him.
It was written with a piece of coal—all that was left to him to write with; for they had taken his writing materials when, some time before, they had taken his books.
She forced herself to read aloud.
“Our Lord bless you, good daughter, and your good husband, and your little boy, and all yours … and all my children and all my god children and all our friends….”
He then mentioned them all by name, and as Margaret spoke their names they hung their heads, for the tears streamed from their eyes.
But Margaret went on steadily reading.
He begged them not to mourn for him. He was to die tomorrow, and he would be sorry to live longer.
“For tomorrow is St. Thomas's Eve, and therefore tomorrow I long to go to God. St. Thomas's Eve! It is a day very meet and convenient for me. Dear Meg, I never liked your manner toward me better than when you kissed me last, for I love when daughterly love and dear charity hath no leisure to look to worldly courtesy. Farewell, my child, and pray for me, and I shall for you and all my friends; and may we all meet merrily in Heaven.”