The Autobiography of Henry VIII_ With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers - Margaret George [133]
In the fragile, cold twilight it was quiet. Unlike that happy, lazy summer afternoon (the only other time I had visited him), there were no servants scurrying, no children romping on the grass. The beehives were dormant, and even the goats were nowhere to be seen.
“My children are married,” he said, seeming to read my very thoughts. “Grown up, gone away. Elizabeth married William Dauncey, and Cecily, Giles Heron. My father died recently. Even my little ward, Margaret Gigs, has married my former page, John Clement. Dame Alice and I are left quite alone. It happens much sooner than you think.”
“And Margaret?” I remembered his bright, shining daughter.
“She married her Will Roper,” he said. “Another lawyer. Our family is beset with them. We need a farmer or a goldsmith to give us diversity.”
“You had a Lord Chancellor and a Parliamentarian.” I could not help saying it.
“Three generations of lawyers,” he said, ignoring my gibe. “But the house will not be entirely empty and sedate tonight. I have asked Margaret and Will to join us. Ah!” He gestured toward a glowering, dumpy figure standing in the doorway. “Here is Alice.”
If More looked like a wren, she looked like a buzzard. Thickened and soured since our last meeting, she was a pudding gone bad.
“Your Grace.” (Such venom in the words!)
I passed into the winter parlour, and was shocked. Much of the furniture was gone, the tapestries taken down, the fireplace cold.
We have you to thank for this, Lady Alice seemed to be saying, in everything but words. But which “you” did she mean? Me, for my Great Matter? Or her husband, for not bending himself to it, for absenting himself from power and court? They went hand in hand: my Great Matter was his as well.
More never sought to explain or to apologize for his reduced state. He seemed to accept it as natural, as he accepted the coming of spring. “We will kill the fatted logs,” he joked, “for we have a great and honoured guest.” In that way he ordered a fire to be kindled, lest I take cold.
It was not servants who brought the logs in, however, but ssed intian Order, although he had turned aside, saying, “It is better to be a chaste husband than a licentious priest.” Like many men who have served two masters, he had never completely forgotten the first one.
The fire was dying. More ordered tapers to be brought so that he might read the Office. Although he offered me place of honour, I declined. I desired to see him in his customary role.
I desired to know him. Truly to know him.
First came the admonition. “Brothers, be both sober and vigilant,” he read.
Then followed silent meditation. Then confession:
“I confess to Almighty God, to blessed Mary ever Virgin, to blessed Michael the Archangel, to blessed John the Baptist, to the holy Apostles Peter and Paul, and to all the saints, that I have sinned exceedingly in thought, word, and deed, through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault. Therefore, I beseech Mary ever Virgin, blessed Michael the Archangel, blessed John the Baptist, the holy Apostles Peter and Paul, and all the saints, to pray to the Lord our God for me.”
Then Psalm 133:
“Ecce nunc benedicite Dominum.
“Behold, how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity!
“It is like the precious ointment upon the head, that ran down upon the beard, even Aaron’s beard, that went down to the skirts of his garments.
“As the dew of Hermon, and as the dew that descended upon the mountains of Zion: for there the Lord commanded the blessing, even life forevermore”.
The fire died, as More’s words did. I felt embraced by God, by this blessed family, by the moment, by the words.
“And now to bed,” said Lady Alice, breaking the spell.
“Except for the moon-watchers.” Margaret smiled at me.
“Margaret once had a fancy for astronomy,” More said. “But when I continually had to point out the difference between the