It will be a treasonable offence to denyHenry’s titles or jurisdiction, to speak or write maliciouslyagainst him, to call him a heretic or a schismatic. This law willcatch the friars who spread panic and say the Spanish are landingwith the next tide to seize the throne for the Lady Mary. It willcatch the priests who in their sermons rant against the king’sauthority and say he is dragging his subjects after him to Hell. Isit much for a monarch to ask, that a subject keep a civil tongue inhis head?This is new, people say to him, this treason by words, and hesays, no, be assured, it is old. It casts into statute law what thejudges in their wisdom have already defined as common law. It isa measure for clarification. I am all for clarity.Upon More’s refusal of this second oath, a bill is brought inagainst him, forfeiting his goods to the Crown. He now has nohope of release; or rather, the hope lies in himself. It is his duty tovisit him, tell him he will no longer be allowed visitors, or strollsin the gardens.‘Nothing to see, this time of year.’ More casts a glance at thesky, a narrow strip of grey through the high window. ‘I can stillhave my books? Write letters?’‘For now.’‘And John Wood, he stays with me?’His servant. ‘Yes, of course.’‘He brings me a little news from time to time. They say thesweating sickness has broken out among the king’s troops inIreland. So late in the year, too.’Plague has also broken out; he’s not going to tell More that, orthat the whole Irish campaign is a debacle and a money sink andthat he wishes he had done as Richard said and gone out therehimself.‘The sweat takes off so many,’ More says, ‘and so swiftly, andin their prime too. And if you survive it, you are in no condition to fight the wild Irish, that’s for sure. I remember when Meg tookit, she nearly died. Have you had it? No, you’re never ill, areyou?’ He is chattering pointlessly, then he looks up. ‘Tell me,what do you hear from Antwerp? They say Tyndale is there.They say he lives straitly. He dare not stray beyond the Englishmerchants’ house. They say he is in prison, almost as I am.’It is true, or partly true. Tyndale has laboured in poverty andobscurity, and now his world has shrunk to a little room; whileoutside in the city, under the Emperor’s laws, printers arebranded and have their eyes put out, and brothers and sisters arekilled for their faith, the men beheaded, the women buried alive.More has a sticky web in Europe still, a web made of money; it ishis belief that his men have followed Tyndale these manymonths, but all his ingenuity, and Stephen Vaughan’s on the spot,have not been able to find out which of the Englishmen who passthrough that busy town are More’s agents. ‘Tyndale would besafer in London,’ More says. ‘Under yourself, the protector oferror. Now, look at Germany today. You see, Thomas, whereheresy leads us. It leads us to Münster, does it not?’Sectaries, anabaptists, have taken over the city of Münster.Your worst nightmares – when you wake, paralysed, and thinkyou have died – are bliss compared with this. The burgomastershave been ejected from the council, and thieves and lunatics havetaken their places, proclaiming that the end times have come andall must be rebaptised. Citizens who dissent have been drivenbeyond the walls, naked, to perish in the snow. Now the city isunder siege from its own prince-bishop, who intends to starve itout. The defenders, they say, are for the most part the womenand children left behind; they are held in dread by a tailor calledBockelson, who has crowned himself King of Jerusalem. It isrumoured that Bockelson’s friends have instituted polygamy, asrecommended in the Old Testament, and that some of thewomen have been hanged or drowned rather than submit to rapeunder cover of Abraham’s law. These prophets engage in daylight robbery, in the name of holding goods in common. It issaid they have seized the houses of the rich, burned their letters,slashed their pictures, mopped the floors with fine embroidery,and shredded the records of who owns what, so former times cannever come back.‘Utopia,’ he says. ‘Is it not?’‘I hear they are burning the books from the city libraries.Erasmus has gone into the flames. What kind of devils wouldburn the gentle Erasmus? But no doubt, no doubt,’ More nods,‘Münster will be restored to order. Philip the prince of Hesse,Luther’s friend, I have no doubt he will lend the good bishop hiscannon and his cannoneers, and one heretic will put downanother. The brethren fall to scrapping, do you see? Like rabiddogs drooling in the streets, who tear out each other’s entrailswhen they meet.’‘I tell you how Münster will end. Someone inside the city willsurrender it.’‘You think so? You look as if you would offer me odds. Butthere, I was never much of a gambler. And now the king has allmy money.’‘A man like that, a tailor, jumps up for a month or two –’‘A wool merchant, a blacksmith’s son, he jumps up for a yearor two …’He stands, picks up his cape: black wool, lambskin lining.More’s eyes gleam, ah, look, I have you on the run. Now hemurmurs, as if it were a supper party, must you go? Stay a little,can’t you? He lifts his chin. ‘So I shall not see Meg again?’The man’s tone, the emptiness, the loss: it goes straight to hisheart. He turns away, to keep his reply calm and trite. ‘You haveto say some words. That’s all.’‘Ahh. Just words.’‘And if you don’t want to say them I can put them to you inwriting. Sign your name and the king will be happy. I will sendmy barge to row you back to Chelsea, and tie up at the wharf at the end of your own garden – not much to see, as you say, at thistime of year, but think of the warm welcome within. Dame Aliceis waiting – Alice’s cooking, well, that alone would restore you;she is standing by your side watching you chew and the minuteyou wipe your mouth she picks you up in her arms and kissesaway the mutton fat, why husband I have missed you! She bearsyou off to her bedchamber, locks the door and drops the key inher pocket and pulls off your clothes till there you are in yourshirt and nothing but your little white legs sticking out – well,admit it, the woman is within her rights. Then next day – think ofit – you rise before dawn, shuffle to your familiar cell and flogyourself, call for your bread and water, and by eight o’clock backin your hair shirt, and over it your old woollen gown, thatblood-coloured one with the rent in … feet up on a stool, andyour only son bringing in your letters … snapping the seal onyour darling Erasmus … Then when you have read your letters,you can hobble out – let’s say it’s a sunny day – and look at yourcaged birds, and your little fox in its pen, and you can say, I wasa prisoner too, but no more, because Cromwell showed me Icould be free … Don’t you want it? Don’t you want to come outof this place?’‘You should write a play,’ More says wonderingly.He laughs. ‘Perhaps I shall.’‘It’s better than Chaucer. Words. Words. Just words.’He turns. He stares at More. It’s as if the light has changed. Awindow has opened on a strange country, where a cold windfrom childhood blows. ‘That book … Was it a dictionary?’More frowns. ‘I’m sorry?’‘I came up the stairs at Lambeth – give me a moment … I camerunning up the stairs, carrying your measure of small beer andyour wheaten loaf, to keep you from being hungry if you wokein the night. It was seven in the evening. You were reading, andwhen you looked up you held your hands over the book,’ hemakes the shape of wings, ‘as if you were protecting it. I asked you, Master More, what is in that great book? You said, words,words, just words.’More tilts his head. ‘This was when?’‘I believe I was seven.’‘Oh, nonsense,’ More says genially. ‘I didn’t know you whenyou were seven. Why, you were …’ he frowns, ‘you must havebeen … and I was …’‘About to go to Oxford. You don’t remember. But why wouldyou?’ He shrugs. ‘I thought you were laughing at me.’‘Oh, very probably I was,’ More says. ‘If indeed such a meetingtook place. Now witness these present days, when you come hereand laugh at me. Talking about Alice. And my little white legs.’‘I think it must have been a dictionary. You are sure you don’tremember? Well … my barge is waiting, and I don’t want to keepthe oars out in the cold.’‘The days are very long in here,’ More says. ‘The nights arelonger. My chest is bad. My breathing is tight.’‘Back to Chelsea then, Dr Butts will visit, tut-tut ThomasMore, what have you been doing to yourself? Hold your noseand drink off this foul mixture …’‘Sometimes I think I shall not see morning.’He opens the door. ‘Martin?’Martin is thirty, wiry, his fair hair under his cap already sparse:pleasant face with a crinkly smile. His native town is Colchester,his father a tailor, and he learned to read on Wycliffe’s gospel,which his father hid in their roof under the thatch. This is a newEngland; an England where Martin can dust the old text down,and show it to his neighbours. He has brothers, all of them Biblemen. His wife is just now confined with her third child, ‘crawledinto the straw,’ as he puts it. ‘Any news?’‘Not yet. But will you stand godfather? Thomas if it’s a boy, orif it’s a girl you name her, sir.’A touch of palms and a smile. ‘Grace,’ he says. A money gift isunderstood; the child’s start in life. He turns back to the sick man, who now slumps over his table. ‘Sir Thomas says at nighthis breath comes short. Bring him some bolsters, cushions, whatever you can find, prop him up to ease him. I want him to haveevery opportunity to live to rethink his position, show loyalty toour king, and go home. And now, bid you both good afternoon.’More looks up. ‘I want to write a letter.’‘Of course. You shall have ink and paper.’‘I want to write to Meg.’‘Then send her a human word.’More’s letters are beyond the human. They may be addressedto his daughter, but they are written for his friends in Europe toread.‘Cromwell …?’ More’s voice calls him back. ‘How is thequeen?’More is always correct, not like those who slip up and say‘Queen Katherine’. How is Anne? he means. But what could hetell him? He is on his way. He is out of the door. In the narrowwindow a blue dusk has replaced the grey.He had heard her voice, from the next room: low, relentless.Henry yelping in indignation. ‘Not me! Not me.’In the antechamber, Thomas Boleyn, Monseigneur, his narrowface rigid. Some Boleyn hangers-on, exchanging glances: FrancisWeston, Francis Bryan. In a corner, trying to make himselfinconspicuous, the lutenist Mark Smeaton; what’s he doing here?Not quite a family conclave: George Boleyn is in Paris, holdingtalks. An idea has been floated that the infant Elizabeth shouldmarry a son of France; the Boleyns really think this is going tohappen.‘Whatever can have occurred,’ he says, ‘to upset the queen?’His tone is astonished: as if she were the most placid of women.Weston says, ‘It’s Lady Carey, she is – that is to say she findsherself –’Bryan snorts. ‘With a bellyful of bastard.’