“These practices are wicked,” said Erasmus. “They bring much gain to the monasteries now, but they will eventually bring much loss. I am sure of it.”

“Is it fair,” asked Thomas, “to condemn all monasteries because of the evildoing of some?”

“It is well,” said Erasmus, “to put all under suspicion and let them clear themselves.”

“But should one be assumed guilty until he fails to prove his innocence?”

“You are too lenient, friend More. The greed of these monks will prove their undoing. One day I shall show their criminal follies to the world; I shall set it out that all may read. Then, my friend, they will wish that they had led the lives of holy men, which are more comfortable than the lives of the wandering beggars they will become. What say you, Mistress More? What say you?”

The mildly mocking eyes were turned upon her. Thomas came to her rescue. “Jane will doubtless agree with you.”

“Then I am glad of that,” said Erasmus. “And I hope one day to convince you also. For it is the duty of us men of letters to show the worlds wrongs to the world.”

“But we must be sure we have something good to offer in its place, before we destroy that which mayhap could be set to rights.”

“Ah, you and your ideal state! That is still on your mind, is it? You set too high a standard. You think the world is made up of potential saints and martyrs. Does your husband talk to you, Mistress More, day in, day out, of this wonder world of his?”

“He talks … a little,” stammered Jane. “But I am not clever. I am far from learned and there is much I do not know.”

Thomas smiled at her, his eyes telling her not to be nervous. He rose and put an arm about her shoulders.

“Jane is learning,” he said. “One day she will understand Latin even as you or I.”

“I fear not,” said Jane. “I am far too foolish.”

“Why,” said Erasmus, “so he would bother you with lessons, would he? You see, it is what I expect of him. The world is not to his liking, so he would build an ideal world. A woman is … a woman, and he would make a scholar of her!”

“There is no reason, my dear Erasmus, why women, if taught, should not became every bit as learned as men.”

“There is every reason.”

“And what are these?”

“Women are the weaker sex. Do you not know that? They are not meant to cudgel their brains. They are meant to look to the comfort of men.”

“Nay. I do not agree. I believe that we are mistaken in not giving our girls an education equal to that which we give our boys. If we did, we should find our women able to converse with us in Latin while they cooked the dinner.”

“And Mistress More … she is proving as apt a pupil as you once were … as I was?”

Thomas answered in Latin, because he was aware of Jane's embarrassment. He was always acutely aware of the feelings of others, and suffered their hurt more deeply than he would his own.

And the two men, having found a subject for discussion, would go on happily until the one led to another.

It will not always be thus, thought Jane. One day Erasmus will go away; one day we shall visit New Hall; and one day, who knows, I may learn to converse in Latin!

But that day must be a long way ahead, and meanwhile she must go on trying not to hate her life at The Barge.


* * *

HAD HE been wrong to marry?

Thomas was unsure. Sometimes he walked alone through the streets of London and his steps invariably took him northward across the City; he would find himself walking up Charter Lane until he came to the great buildings in which he had spent those four years of indecision.

He would enter the quadrangle, then go to the chapel or the chapter house; and he would think, not without longing, of the life of solitude and meditation, life that was given up to study and contemplation, life that was unharassed by bodily needs, by the great events which were going on in the outside world.

He thought of the rigorous way of life of the Carthusians, each with his separate house of two rooms, closet, refectory and garden, living his solitary life, speaking to his fellow monks only on feast days, fasting at least once a week, never eating flesh of any sort and thus subduing the appetites of the body; he thought of wearing the hair shirt by night so that sleep did not come easily, until eventually it was possible to indulge in sleep for only an hour each night; using the wooden pillow, dressing in the coarsest clothes to detract from any good looks a man might possess and so subdue his vanity; he thought of shutting himself away from the world, and perhaps by his example helping to lead others to a holier way of life.

The life of retirement seemed very dear to him when he thought of his home in The Barge of Bucklersbury.

Was Erasmus right? Was it as difficult to create an ideal woman as an ideal world? Was he a fool to try to educate Jane to his intellectual standard? Was he making an unhappy woman of her as well as a fool of himself?

This was the state of the marriage of Jane and Thomas More when Jane found that she was going to have a child.


* * *

A CHILD! thought Jane. This would be wonderful. A boy whom his father would make a scholar? That would delight him; that would turn his attention from his poor, simple wife. If he had a boy to whom he could teach the Latin tongue, why should he bother to teach it to Jane? And must he not be grateful to the simple woman who could give him such a blessing in life?

But, thought Jane, if it is a girl, how happy I shall be, for then he will see that girls should not be made learned. She will teach him what I could not; and she and I will be together; she will love flowers and we will grow them together, and I shall take her to New Hall; and when I show my child to my family, then I shall know that the world was right when it said that the married state is the best state of all.

So the child could make Jane happy as Thomas never could.


* * *

THOMAS WAS gay.

A child! That was the meaning of married life. That was what he wanted. What was the life to be lived in Carthusian solitude when compared with the bringing up of a child? The best tutors in England should be procured for young Master More. They would be glad to come. Dr. Lily perhaps? There was the greatest teacher in England. Then there would be Thomas More himself to guide his son.

Those were happy days—awaiting the birth of the child. A son, of course. The firstborn should be a son. And after that, more sons and some daughters. And the daughters should be treated in the same way as the sons; no matter what Erasmus, Colet, Lily and the rest said, Thomas was convinced that women should not be denied education. His daughters should prove him to have been right.

But for the present he could dream of his son.

There was laughter in The Barge; and if Jane did not understand all the jokes, she laughed as though she did. She was happy and Thomas was happy to see her happy.

Married life was the best state of all.


* * *

HIS FRIENDS were often at the house. Jane did not care. She sat, her needle busy, making clothes for the child. Her body widened and her prestige grew. Who were these scholars? Who was Dr. Colet, with his talk of founding schools for children? It was true that he was no longer a mere vicar of Stepney but had been appointed Dean of St. Paul's itself. But what did she care for him. Who was Dr. William Lily, who had learned Latin in Italy, had traveled widely, had opened a school in London and had, like Thomas, almost become a monk? Who was this Dr. Linacre who had taught Thomas Greek? Who was the great Erasmus himself? Clever they might be, but none of them could bear a child!

New dignity and confidence had come to Jane. She sang snatches of songs as she went about the house.

Married life was indeed good and Jane was very happy.


* * *

AND ONE summers day in the year 1505 Margaret came into the world.

2

MARGARET WAS FOUR YEARS OLD WHEN SHE FIRST KNEW the meaning of fear. Until then her world had been a merry place, ruled by the person she loved best: her father.

The only times when she was unhappy were when he was not at home. Then the old house with its dark staircases, its odd nooks and alcoves, seemed a different place. Margaret would sit in the window seat watching for his return, looking out on the shops of the apothecaries and grocers, thinking that they were not quite the same shops which she had passed, her hand in her fathers, while he explained to her the uses of spices and drugs, the scent of which filled the air. Nothing could be quite right in Margaret's eyes unless her father was with her.

When she heard his laughter—and she almost always heard his laughter before she heard him speak—she would feel as though she had found the right answer to a problem which had bothered her in her lessons. She would run to him and stand before him, waiting for him to lift her up.

He would say: “And what has my Meg learned today?”

Eagerly she would tell him, and draw back to see the effect of her answer. Pleasing him was the most important thing in the world to her. She longed to be able to speak to him in Latin; that, she believed, would please him more than anything she could do.

“Meg,” he once said to her when an answer she had given him had especially pleased him, “to think that when you were born we hoped for a boy!”

“And you would rather have me than any boy, would you not, Father?”

“Rather my girls than any boys in the world.”

She believed that he meant: rather his Meg than any boys; but he would think of the others—Elizabeth who was three and Cecily who was two—and he would tell himself that it was not right for a father to love one child more than the others. And he was a man who must always do right; she knew that. She was a child and not good like he was; and she could love one member of her family so much that if all the affection she had for the others were rolled into one heap it would be as the moon to the great sun of her affection for him. But she would not ask him if he loved her best; she knew he did; and he knew of her love for him. That was their secret.

Sometimes she would go into that room in which he sat with his friends, and he would take her on his knee or sit her on the table. Then the old, solemn-faced men would look at her, and her father would say: “Margaret will prove to you that I am right. She is young yet, but you will see … you will see.”

Then he would ask her questions and she would answer him. They would say: “Can this be a maid so young?”

“A maid who will show you, my friend, that a woman's brain is equal to a man's.” Then he would bring his smiling face close to hers. “Meg, they do not believe that you can learn your lessons. They say that because you are a girl this headpiece of yours will not be equal to the task. Meg, you must prove them wrong. If you do not, they will say that I am right named. For Mows… that is Greek for fool, Meg; and it will seem that I shall be worthy of the name if I am wrong. Meg, thou wilt not let them laugh at thy father?”

“Nay, Father,” she said scowling at the men. “They shall not laugh at thee. We will show them who are the fools.”

They laughed and talked to her, and she answered as best she could, with her heart beating fast for fear she should behave like a very little girl instead of a learned young woman of nearly five years old. She was determined to save her father from the mockery of his friends.

So her lessons were more than a task to her; they were a dedication. She must master them.

“It is not natural to sit so long with your books,” said her mother. “Come … play with Bessy.”

But if she played with Bessy it was but to teach her; for, she thought, Father will like all his daughters to be clever. It will not do for one of us to be wise and the rest ignorant.

Yet she hoped that Elizabeth and Cecily would not be able to learn as easily as she could, for she wished to remain the cleverest of her father's daughters.

Thus Margaret, even at the age of four, had become an unusually learned little girl.

One day her father brought home a girl of her own age—a shy sad little girl.

Margaret heard his voice and rushed down to meet him; she flung her arms about his knees; then she stood solemnly regarding the little girl who stood beside him, her hand in his.