FISHER HAD BEEN tricked into denying the royal supremacy, but it was not so easy with lawyer More. Different tactics, employed by different men, all acting under the command of Henry, were tried. To his cell, at various times, came the great men of the realm, each with his own way of argument or persuasion; the present Lord Chancellor, Cromwell, the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk, various members of the Privy Council. But always the response was the same. He had nothing to say save: "that the statute was like a two-edged sword: if he should speak against it, he should procure the death of his body; and if he should consent unto it, he should procure the death of his soul.[1]

Failure of others acted as a spur to the contemptible mind of the odious Rich. As an added harassment and humiliation it had been decided that More should not be allowed his pleasure of reading. Sir Richard Southwell and a Master Palmer were ordered to remove all books from his cell. Rich accompanied them, and while they were about their work he, adopting the sympathetic manner he had so successfully employed with Fisher, made conversation with More. He asked him: "Admit that there were, Sir, an Act of Parliament that all the realm should take me for King. Would not you Master More, take me for King?"

"Yes, Sir," said Sir Thomas, "that would I."

"I put the case further," said Rich, happy in the belief that More was falling into his trap, "that there were an Act of Parliament that all the realm should take me for Pope, would not you then take me for Pope?"

"For answer," said Sir Thomas, "to your first case, the Parliament may meddle with the state of temporal princes, but to make answer to your other case . . . suppose the Parliament would make a law that God should not be God. Would you then, Mr. Rich, say that God were not God?"

"No," replied Rich, "that I would not; since no Parliament may make any such law."[2]

More would not carry the argument any further. The books were packed, and the men, having performed their duty, departed. The cell door was shut and the incident seemed ended. But it was not so, for in the evil brain of Master Rich the words of More were tumbling and revolving and becoming material for one of the grossest perjuries ever to stain the annals of English justice.

It was on the first day of July that the ex-Chancellor was taken to trial. He was made to walk on foot the distance from the Tower to Westminster Hall.[3] Nor was his route direct. It was decided that he should be displayed as an example of one who had fought the King's wishes. So, dressed in a rough gown, he was taken through the most populous streets. The results were different than intended, for his appearance served only to excite the pity of the people. The effects of his imprisonment and long ordeal were very evident. His shoulders were bowed, he was terribly thin, and his uncertain and faltering gait showed that he was not used to exercise. But although his body was near broken, his spirit was not, and so it was he arrived in the Great Hall where he had so often worn the golden chain of high office and wielded the highest authority in the land.

The indictment which was read to him was a voluminous document, but from the morass of words emerged four main charges: that he had given a malicious opinion on the King's marriage; that, while in the Tower, he had written to Fisher and had encouraged him to resist the supremacy; that he, himself, had refused to acknowledge the King's supremacy; that, in fact, he had denied the supremacy, and in doing so had also denied Henry his royal authority.

Sir Christopher Hale, the Attorney General, read the long indictment. When he concluded, the Lord Chancellor, Sir Thomas Audley, spoke: "You see now how grievously you have offended his majesty," he admonished the prisoner, yet he is so very merciful, that if you will lay aside your obstinacy, and change your opinion, we hope you may obtain pardon and favour in his sight."

"Most noble lords," was More's reply, "I have great reason to return thanks to your honours for this your great civility but I beseech Almighty God, that I may continue in the mind I am in, through his grace, unto death."[4]

The forms of a trial were to be followed, but there was not a man present--juryman, prosecutor, judge, the prisoner himself-who was in doubt of what the verdict and sentence would be.

More well knew his fate, but he was resolved to conduct his defence with every resource and knowledge of the law that was at his disposal. He voiced a fear that his memory and understanding, "which are both impaired, together with my bodily health, through a long indisposition contracted by my imprisonment, should now fail me so far as to make me incapable of making such ready answers in my defense, as otherwise I might have done."

These words and the very visible fact that he could not stand without leaning on a stick, induced the judges to allow him to sit while he spoke.

He began to discuss the indictment, and very soon his audience grew uneasy, for it was strikingly evident that here was a case of the mouse playing with the cats.

"As . . . to the King's second marriage," he said, "I confess, I always told his majesty my opinion, according to the dictates of my conscience, which I neither ever would, nor ought to have concealed: for which I am so far from thinking myself guilty of High Treason, that on the contrary, being required to give my opinion by so great a prince in an affair of so much importance, upon which the peace of the kingdom depended; I should have basely flattered him, and my own conscience, had not I spoke the truth as I thought: then indeed I might justly have been esteemed a most wicked subject, and a perfidious Traitor to God. If I have offended the king herein, if it can be an offence to tell one's mind freely when his sovereign puts the question to him; I suppose I have been sufficiently punished already . . ."[6]

The accusation that More had incited Fisher in various letters could not be substantiated by the Crown because the correspondence could not be produced. Fisher had destroyed his papers, but More told the court that he had remembered what he had written: "In one of them there was nothing in the world contained but certain familiar talk and recommendations, such as was seemly and agreeable to our long and old acquaintance. In the other was contained my answer that I made to the said bishop, demanding of me what thing I answered at my first examination in the Tower upon the said statute. Whereunto I answered nothing else but that I had informed and settled my conscience, and that he should inform and settle his. And other answer, upon the charge of my soul, made I none."

It was pointed out to him chat Fisher, when being examined, had in one instance used phraseology similar to More's. If this were true, explained More, "that . . . happened by reason of the conformity of our wits, learning and study . . ."[8]

He readily admitted that he had declined to give his opinion concerning the supremacy, but he explained that he could not transgress any law or incur any crime or treason by holding his speech, God only being Judge of our secret thoughts.

This statement brought an interruption from Sir Christopher Hale, who said: "Though we have not one word or deed of yours to object against you, yet we have your silence, which is an evident sign of the malice of your heart."[7]

More was quick with a learned answer, quoting a maxim that was familiar in the practice of law: "Qui facet consentire videtur," he that holds his peace, seems to give his consent.

The great hall, packed with men of uneasy conscience,
listened with attention as, in measured tones, More spoke of conscience and of the necessity for the liberty of silence:

"In things touching conscience, every true and good subject is more bound to have respect to his said conscience and to his soul than to any other thing in all the world beside; namely when his conscience is in such sort as mine is, that is to say, where the person giveth no occasion of slander, of tumult and sedition against his Prince, as it is with me; for I assure you that I have not hitherto to this hour disclosed and opened my conscience and mind to any person living in all the world."[8]

The trial was not at all proceeding according to plan, and sympathy for the prisoner was so manifest that Rich dropped his official role of Solicitor General and suddenly admitted himself as a witness for the Crown. He was sworn and he repeated the conversation that he had held with More in the Tower on the day when More's books were removed.

He told how, in answer to More's question, he had agreed that no Parliament could make a law that God should not be God. Then came his terrible perjury. More, he said, had deliberately answered that Parliament could not make the King the Supreme Head of the Church.

The lie was spoken. The perjurer abandoned his role of witness and resumed his part as Counsel for the Crown.

More addressed the Court. "If I were a man, my lords, that did not regard an oath, I needed not, as it is well known at this time, and in this place, to stand here as an accused person." He paused for a moment, then turned and spoke directly to Rich.

"And if this oath of yours, Master Rich, be true, then I pray that I never see God in the face; which I would not say were it otherwise, to win the whole world."[9]

He gave his account of the conversation that had taken place in his cell, then once again he directly addressed the Solicitor General whom, as he pointed out, he had known and watched since adolescence: "In good faith, Master Rich, I am sorrier for your perjury than for my own peril. And you
shall understand that neither I, nor any man else to my knowledge, ever took you to be a man of such credit as in any matter of importance I, or any other, would at any time vouchsafe to communicate with you. And I, as you know, of no small while have been acquainted with you and your manner of conversation, who have known you from your youth hitherto: for we long dwelt in one parish together; where as yourself can well tell (I am sorry you compel me so to say) you were esteemed very light of your tongue, a common liar, a great dicer, and of no commendable fame. And so in your house at the Temple where hath been your chief bringing up, were you likewise accounted. Can it therefore seem likely to your Honourable Lordships, that I would, in so weighty a case, so unadvisedly overshoot myself as to trust Master Rich (a man of me always reputed for one of so little trust, as your Lordships have heard) so far above my Sovereign Lord the King, or any of his noble counsellors, that I would unto him utter the secrets of my conscience touching the King's supremacy, the special point and only mark at my hands so long sought for; a thing which I never did, nor never would, after the statute thereof made, reveal either to the Kings Highness himself, or to any of his honourable Counsellors, as it is not unknown to your Honours, at sundry several times sent from his grace's own person unto the Tower to me for none other purpose? Can this in your judgments, my Lords, seem likely to be true?''[10]

It could not have been credible to any one there, and the feeling for the prisoner was so evident that the alarmed Rich, no doubt still smarting from the description of his character, took the rash step of calling Sir Richard Southwell and Master Palmer to the stand, hoping that they would be intimidated enough to become partners in his perjury. Both men disappointed him. They were, they stoutly swore, too busy packing books on that fateful day, and had not heard the conversation.

Rich could not produce any other witness or further proof. His statement was obvious and flagrant perjury, and the case against More had collapsed. No one could harbour the slightest doubt but that More was innocent of any of the charges that had been preferred against him. But the implacable will of one man was stronger than any and all who sat in Westminster Hall that day. Fear of Henry had dominated the entire proceedings, and the same apprehension drove the jury, after deliberation of only fifteen minutes, to deliver a verdict of guilty.

In unseemly haste to complete the sordid plan, Audley began to pronounce the solemn words of judgment. But he was interrupted by More who calmly corrected him on a point of procedure.

"My Lord," he said coolly, "when I was toward the law, the manner in such a case was to ask the prisoner, before judgment, why judgment should not be given against him."

The embarrassed Lord Chancellor admitted the correction and More was allowed to speak. And speak he did with clarity and eloquence. The time had passed when he had need be silent.

"Seeing that I see," he answered, "ye are determined to condemn me (God knoweth how) I will now in discharge of my conscience speak my mind plainly and freely touching my indictment and your statute withal. And forasmuch as this indictment is grounded upon an Act of Parliament directly repugnant to the laws of God and his Holy Church, the supreme government of which, or of any part whereof, may no temporal prince presume by any law to take upon him, as rightly belonging to the See of Rome, a spiritual pre-eminence by the mouth of our Saviour himself, personally present upon earth, only to St. Peter and his Successors, bishops of the same See, by special prerogative granted; it is therefore in law, amongst Christian men, insufficient to charge any Christian man.''[ll]

The Lord Chancellor asked him if he deemed his opinion to stand better than the bishops, universities, and the best learned of the realm. He received the reply that, on the contrary, the majority of Christendom was of More's thinking.

"For I nothing doubt but that," he told Audley, "though not in this realm, yet in Christendom about, of these well
learned bishops and virtuous men that are yet alive, they be not the fewer part that are of my mind therein. But if I should speak of those that are already dead, of whom many be now holy saints in heaven, I am very sure it is the far greater part of them that, all the while they lived, thought in this case that way I think now; and therefore I am not bounder, my Lord, to conform my conscience to the Council of one realm against the general Council of Christendom. For of the aforesaid holy bishops I have, for every bishop of yours, above one hundred; and for one Council or Parliament of yours (God knoweth what manner of one) I have all the Councils made these thousand years. And for this one Kingdom, I have all other Christian realms."

He pointed out that the Act of Supremacy was not only
contrary to the laws of Christendom but that it was also
counter to those of England. He spoke of Magna Charta
and he reminded the Court that the Act violated "the sacred
oath which the King's Highness himself and every Christian
Prince always with great solemnity received at their Corona
lions."

The Duke of Norfolk spoke up, "We now plainly can see that ye are maliciously bent."

. "Nay, nay," replied More, "very and pure necessity for the discharge of my conscience, enforceth me to speak so
much. Wherein I call an appeal to God whose only sight
pierceth into the very depths of a man's heart, to be my
witness. How be it, it is not for this Supremacy so much
that ye seek my blood, as for that I would not condescend
to the marriage."

At this point there must have been much discomfort in the minds of the judges, for included in their number were both Anne Boleyn's father and brother. The Lord Chancellor
was disturbed enough to try and shift some of the responsibility of the condemnation. He fumed to the Lord Chief Justice of England, Sir John FitzJames, and asked him whether the indictment was sufficient, or not.

The expected answer and support was given and now the
terrible sentence was spoken. After being hanged and cut down, disemboweled and quartered, butchered pieces of his body were to be put on the four gates of the city, his head upon London Bridge.

Had he anything else to say?

"More have I not to say, my Lords," he told them, "but that like as the Blessed Apostle St. Paul, as we read in the Acts of the Apostles, was present and consented to the death of St. Stephen, and kept their clothes that stoned him to death, and yet be they now both twain holy saints in heaven and shall continue there friends together forever, so I verily trust, and shall therefore heartily pray, that, though your Lordships have been on earth my Judges to my condemnation, we may hereafter in heaven merrily all meet together to our everlasting salvation. And thus I desire Almighty God preserve and defend the King's Majesty and to send him good Counsel."[l2]

It was all over. The solemn procession formed to take Thomas More back to the Tower. The executioner's axe, with edge turned toward him, was carried before him. Sir William Kingston, who had witnessed the end of Wolsey was in charge of the escort. Young John More managed to push himself past the guards, and kneeling at his father's feet, asked and received his blessing. Kingston, who had seen many severities, was so moved that he wept.

"Good Master Kingston," the prisoner gently told him, "trouble not yourself, but be of good cheer, for I will pray for you and my good lady, your wife, that we shall meet in heaven together, where we shall be merry forever and ever."

Not long after, Kingston confided to More's son-in-law that "I was ashamed of myself, that, at my departing from your father, I found my heart so feeble, and his so strong that he was fain to comfort me, which should rather have comforted him.''[13]

At the Tower wharf members of his family and friends waited. Margaret, his favourite daughter, "without consideration or care of herself, passing through the midst of the throng and guard of men, who with bills and halberds compassed him around, there openly, in the sight of them all, embraced him, took him about the neck and kissed him, not able to say any word but, 'Oh my Father! Oh my Father!'"

He gave her his fatherly blessing, telling her that whatsoever he should suffer, though he were innocent, it was not without the will of God, and that therefore she must be patient for her loss. After separation she, "all ravaged with entire love of her dear father, suddenly turned back again, ran to him as before, took him about the neck, and divers times together most lovingly kissed him,''[l4] a sight which made even the guards to weep and mourn.

Within his cell, More prepared for death with his usual philosophy. Was his end, in reality, to be more cruel than dying by sickness in bed? "Some we hear in their deathbed complain, that they feel sharp knives cut in two their heart strings. Some cry out and think they feel within the brain pan their head pricked even full of pins, and they that lie in a pleurisy think that every time they cough they feel a sharp sword swat them to the heart."

And supposing he did lose his head? To the greater glory of his soul's journey no man could come headless for "our head is Christ, and therefore to him must we be joined..."

Even in these last hours attempts were made to have him change his mind. But to no avail. He was told that because he had been Lord Chancellor, the more terrible part of his sentence was to be remitted. He was not to be hanged nor drawn nor quartered, merely beheaded. When given this information he wryly gave voice to the hope "that none of his friends might experience the like mercy from the King."

On the day before he was to die he took up his piece of coal and laboriously scratched his last letter to his daughter, telling her to convey his farewells and blessings to the various members of his family and a few friends. He gave instructions as to the disposal of a few belongings. "I cumber you, good Margaret, much, but I would be sorry if it should be any longer than tomorrow. For it is St. Thomas even [The eve of the feast of the Translation (of the relics) of St. Thomas of Canterbury, which was kept on July 7 in England, and observed throughout Christendom, though on another day. The feast is still kept in some English dioceses.] and the Utas of St. Peter [Octave-day of the feast of Sts. Peter and Paul, June 29]; and therefore tomorrow long I to go to God; it were a day very meet and convenient for me. I never liked your manner toward me better than when you kissed me last; for I love when daughterly love and dear charity hath no leisure to look to worldly courtesy. Farewell, my dear child, and pray for me, and I shall for you and all your friends, that we may merrily meet in heaven."[l5]

With the letter, his final writing, he sent the instrument of penance, the hair shirt that she had so often washed, the secret that she had shared with him.

The next day was Tuesday, the sixth of July, 1535. In the early morning one of More's closest friends, Sir Thomas Pope, came to his cell. He had been commissioned by the King and the Council to inform More that he should die before nine o'clock.

Even at this moment More retained his composure. "For your good tiding I most heartily thank you," he said courteously. "I have been always much bounder to the King's Highness for the benefits and honours that he had still from time to time most bountifully heaped upon me; and yet more bound am I to his Grace for putting me into this place, where I have had convenient time and space to have had remembrance of my end. And, so help me God, most of all, Master Pope, am I bound to his Highness that it pleaseth him so shortly to rid me out of the miseries of this wretched world. And therefore will I not fail earnestly to pray for his Grace, both here and also in another world."

"The King's pleasure is further," he was informed, "that at your execution you shall not use many words."

"Master Pope," was the reply, "you do well to give me warning of his Grace's pleasure, for otherwise I had purposed at that time somewhat to have spoken, that of no matter wherewith his Grace, nor any other, should have
had cause to be offended. Nevertheless, whatsoever I had
intended, I am ready obediently to conform myself to his
Grace's commandments. And I beseech you, Good Master
Pope, to be a meen unto his Highness that my daughter
Margaret may be at my burial."

"The King is content already that your wife, children, and others of your friends shall have liberty to be present thereat."

More gave voice to his gratitude that such a consideration should be shown him, whereupon his friend broke down and, as the Lieutenant of the Tower had done the day before, he wept.

More tried to comfort him. "Quiet yourself, Master Pope, and be not discouraged, for I trust we shall yet see each other full merrily where we shall be sure to live and love together in joyful bliss eternally."

When this gentle admonition failed to stay his friend's tears, More utilized the wit that was so seldom from him. Then, as now, it was the fashion of men of medicine to hold in great importance and value the colour and content of a man's water. More picked up his urinal and gravely gazing into it, and employing the professional manner of doctor to patient said, "I see no danger but that this man may live longer if it please the King."[16]

The moment came when the cell door was swung open and Sir William escorted him from the Tower. He was dressed in a rough robe and he carried a red cross in his hand. His steps were uncertain but his spirit was strong. A woman pushed through the soldiery and offered him some wine. Legend has it that it was his step-daughter, Margaret Clement. He refused the wine saying that Christ at his passing drank no wine, but gall and vinegar.

There are always those who revel in the fall of the great. A woman shouted to him, "You remember Master More, that when you were Chancellor you were my hard friend and did me great injury in giving wrong judgment against me?"

"Woman," was the answer, "I am now going to my death.
I remember well the whole matter; if now I were to give sentence again, I assure thee I would not alter it. Thou hast no injury, so content thee, and trouble me not."

Another of the crowd, a man whom More had once saved from suicide, spoke through the halberds, "Master More, do you know me? I pray you for our Lord's sake help me. I am as ill-troubled as ever I was."

"Go thy way in peace and pray for me and I will not fail to pray for thee."

His weakened condition and the rude carpentry of the scaffold made his mounting difficult. He turned to Kingston and with a smile requested him to "see me safe up, and as for my coming down let me shift for myself."[17]

A vast mob had assembled to watch him die. They eagerly waited for his last speech for it was the custom to permit a man to speak freely before his last moments on earth. But it was not to be this time. The Sheriff intervened quickly, reminding him of the King's wish that his words were to be brief.

His words were brief but they were to be immortal. He asked the crowd to pray for him and to bear witness that he was dying "in and for the faith of the Holy Catholic Church." Then came the ever-to-be-remembered and glorious affirmation that he "died the King's good servant but God's first.''[l8]

He knelt and recited the noble words of the ancient psalm, the Miserere, the Prayer of Repentance. Miserere mei Deus, secundum magnam misericordiam tuam. "Have mercy on me, O God, according to thy great mercy . . ."

Neither his humour nor his attention to the feelings of others deserted him during his last seconds. Noticing that the executioner seemed to be in distress he gave him the coin of gold saying, "Pluck up thy spirits man, and be not afraid to do thy office; my neck is very short; take heed, therefore, that thou strike not awry, for saving of thy honesty."[19]

They wished to cover his eyes with a piece of cloth but he insisted on performing the act himself. He put his head
on the block and made his last pleasantry, telling the executioner not to strike till he had shifted his beard for that it "had never offended his Highness."

The executioner measured his distance. He did his work with precision. One clean blow and Thomas More's head was severed from his body. The King's will had triumphed.

The news of the execution was taken to him. He was playing at cards with Anne Boleyn. They looked at each other.

"You are the cause of this man's death," he said. Then leaving her abruptly he shut himself up in a closed room and was alone.