Margaret had stopped reading and a silence fell upon them.
EARLY ON the morning of St. Thomas's Eve, Master Pope, a young official of the Court, came to tell him that he was to die that day.
The young man came with tears in his eyes, and could scarcely speak for weeping, so that it was Thomas More who must comfort Thomas Pope.
“Do not grieve, Master Pope,” he said, “for I thank you heartily for these good tidings.”
“It is the King's pleasure that you should not use many words at the execution.”
“You do well to give me warning, for I had planned to speak at length. I beg of you, Master Pope, plead with the King that when I am buried, my daughter Margaret may be there to see it done.”
“The King will consent to that if you do not speak overmuch before your death. Your wife and all your children shall then have liberty to be present.”
“I am beholden to His Grace that my poor burial shall have so much consideration.”
Then Pope, taking his leave, could say nothing because his tears were choking him.
“Quiet yourself, good Master Pope,” said Thomas, “and be not discomfited, for I trust that we shall, once in Heaven, see each other merrily where we shall be sure to live and love together in joyful bliss eternally.”
Shortly before nine o'clock, wearing a garment of frieze that hung loosely on his thin body, and carrying in his hands a red cross, Thomas More left his prison for Tower Hill.
There was only one member of the family there to see him die. Mercy was that one. She stood among the crowds about the scaffold, watching him, taking her last look at him. Later she would be joined by Margaret and Dorothy Colly for the burial of his body in the Church of St Peter ad Vincula.
Mercy did not stand near, for she did not want her father to witness her grief. She told herself that she should be glad, for he was not subjected to that ignoble death which those poor monks had suffered at Tyburn, while others of their brethren were rotting in their chains at Newgate. The jailer there, fearing discovery, would no longer allow her to visit those monks, and although she had made efforts to reach them she had not been able to do so, and they were slowly perishing where they were chained.
Oh, cruel world, she thought, that surrounds that island of peace and happiness in Chelsea like a turbulent sea. They had thought themselves safe on their island, but now the malignant waters had washed over it, destroying peace and beauty, leaving only memories for those who had lived there and loved it.
Thomas was mounting the steps which led to the scaffold. They had been hastily constructed and shook a little.
He smiled and said to one of the Sheriffs officers: “I pray you, Master Lieutenant, that you will see me safe up. As to my coming down, you may leave me to shift for myself.”
The executioner was waiting for him. This hardened man looked into Thomas's face and, seeing there that sweetness of expression, which had won the affection of so many, he turned quickly away murmuring: “My lord, forgive me….”
Thomas laid a hand on his arm. “Pluck up your spirits, my friend. Be not afraid of your office… for such is all it is. Take heed that you strike not awry for the sake of thine own honesty.”
Then he knelt and prayed. “Have mercy upon me, O God, in Thy great goodness….”
He rose and the executioner came forward to bind his eyes.
“I will do it for myself,” said Thomas.
But first he spoke to the people who were waiting on his last words; very briefly he spoke, remembering the King's displeasure that could fall on those who were left behind him.
“My friends, pray for me in this world and I will pray for you elsewhere. Pray also for the King that it may please God to give him good counsel. I die the King's servant… but God's first.”
Then he bound his eyes and laid his head on the block, pushing his beard to one side, saying: “That has no treason. Let it therefore be saved from the executioner's axe.”
There was a great silence on Tower Hill as the axe fell.
Thomas's lips moved slightly.
“The King's good servant… but God's first.”
NEWS OF the death of Sir Thomas More was brought to the King.
“So perish all traitors!” he cried.
But his little eyes were fearful. In the streets the people were murmuring. It was all they dared to do against the King. They had seen the terrible deaths of the Carthusians; and now the head of Sir Thomas More was on a pole on London Bridge beside that of the saintly Fisher, Bishop of Rochester.
“Come, Norfolk, what are you thinking … skulking there?”
Norfolk was a bold man. He said: “That it was a pity, Your Grace. Such a man of talents to be so obstinate … so wrong-minded.”
“You seem sad that it should be so.”
“Your Grace, he was a lovable man … for all his faults. Sire, many loved him.”
Many loved him!
The King's eyes narrowed. The people would remember that the man had been put to death because he had obeyed his conscience rather than his King. The King's good servant, but God's first.
The King cursed all martyrs.
This man must not live in the memory of the people. He must be seen as a traitor, a man deserving death, a traitor whose head was in its rightful place, looking down from London's bridge on London's river.
But Henry knew that, as the people passed by the bridge, as they looked at the head of the man, they would mutter prayers and ask his blessing. Too many of them remembered his kindness, his piety and virtue.
Living, he had been Thomas More, the kind, good man; dead, he would be Thomas More, the saint.
That should not be; it must not be.
Had not More stated that he believed the sowing of seditious heresies should be prevented at all costs? During his reign as Chancellor one or two people had been burned as heretics. The King would have it bruited abroad that this great good man had not been averse to inflicting suffering on those who did not share his views. Could he then complain at the King's treatment of himself?
There would be some who would say: “It is not the duty of a Chancellor to pass sentence on heretics. That lies in the hands of the clergy.” But who would examine that too closely? The Tudors and their friends, who had found it necessary to suppress many historical facts, would have no difficulty in supressing or garnishing wherever it was expedient to do so.
The King remembered the case of a heretic who had been ordered by Sir Thomas More to be flogged. The King had been amused at the time of the offense, for the man concerned had crept behind women kneeling in the church and, lifting their clothes, had cast them over their heads. The just sentence for such an act was flogging; but this man, as well as being a lewd person, was also a heretic. A little adjustment of the reports of such cases, and there was More, a flogger of heretics.
The King doubted not that his good friends would have no difficulty in providing the necessary evidence.
For, thought the King, we cannot have martyrs in our kingdom. Martyrs are uncomfortable men, and I like them not.
The King must always be right; and the King was uneasy, for he also found it hard to forget the man. Norfolk was right: More had been a lovable fellow.
I liked him, mused Henry. It gave me pleasure to honor him.
He remembered their pleasant talks together over the writing of the book; he thought of evenings on the balcony with his first Queen beside him, and Thomas More pointing out the stars in the heavens; he thought of the pleasant family at Chelsea and walking through those fragrant gardens with his arm about his Chancellor's neck.