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More had lately been lured from his private life as a London lawyer. In Court of Star Chamber he had defended a Papal ship seized as forfeit under maritime law. His defence was so brilliant that Wolsey, who had represented the Crown in the matter, immediately set about to harness More’s talents for himself. He induced More to begin serving as Master of Requests—which meant that he must receive petitions presented to me, both at court and on progresses. From there I had named him to the Privy Council and had made it clear that he was to be part of the English party at the Field of Cloth of Gold. Little by little he had been sucked into court life.

More requested to speak with me upon returning the manuscript. I could have received him in the audience chamber, seated upon my throne. But I preferred to speak with him man to man, not King to subject. He should come to my “counting room” and I would have warm, friendly firelight there, not the torches of ceremony.

He was older now. But of course it should be so. A number of years had passed since I had, boyishly, given him the astrolabe to prove a point. He had been a grown man when my mother died. Now we were both men, and things were ordered differently. I did not have to send presents to prove that I was King and master.

He bore the manuscript in a box.

“I hope there are no changes,” I said, “as the presentation copies for His Holiness are already being prepared—by monks, of course. They have expertise at these things, at calligraphy.”

“Not so much, anymore,” he murmured. He handed me the box. “I find only one fault in it. You stress the Pope’s authority too strongly. Perhaps it should be more slenderly stated.”

Was that all? Relief came in waves.

“Luther attacked it so viciously, I felt bound to shore it up again.”

“You overstate the gravity of the office,” he said. “Pope Leo will buckle under the weight of it when he reads it. He is not meet to carry it. Nor, I think, is any other man on earth, the way you have presented it.”

“But what did you think of the thing as a whole?” The question burst out.

“I thought”—he paused—“it was an admirable work of scholarship. You have clearly shown much diligence in pursuing the references—”

“The thinking! I mean the thinking, the analysis, the deductions! What of them?”

More drew back, as if from a physical assault. “They were certainly ... persuasive. And thorough.”

But of course they should be persuasive, convincing.

Suddenly I did not care to pursue it further. He had said “admirable,” “diligence,” “persuasive,” and “thorough.” Grudging compliments. Not the highest accolades. What he meant was competent, not stirring.

He had seen no genius there.

Well, what of it? Was he competent (that word again) to judge?

“I thank you for your time in reading it,” I said. “I will take your suggestions into account.”

In my head, not in the manuscript, which was even now being copied out on the finest vellum by the obedient monks.

“We were glad of your company in France this summer past,” I said. “And of your willingness to undertake the diplomatic mission to Calais, regarding the return of Tournai.”

He smiled. Or did he? His face seemed to have no provision for smiling. All its lines were sombre and downward.

“You find yourself in our midst at last,” I said.

“Yes. A surprise to myself,” he said.

“You will learn to feel at home here,” I said. “For it is truly where you belong. The most brilliant minds in the realm should serve their sovereign, as thinking is a higher tribute than rubies. And one that a loyal subject should gladly present his King.”

More bowed silently.

I had not meant it to be presented thus. I had meant us to sit before the fire, exchange confidences, gain confidences, foster camaraderie. But he was not warm, despite his amiable manner. Amiability can function as an effective disguise for absolute coldness. I felt his coldness, stronger than I felt the heat of the fire.

“My mind is yours to command,” he said.

That was not what I meant, not what