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Messire

Sample of the first 7 pages (Thomas More) from the Dutch novel Messire by Els Launspach

Translated by Laura Vroomen

‘The roofs have just emerged out of the November night. The white frames are visible first, then the roof tiles, the walls and the gaping holes of the windows. A cluster of ravens descends on the other side of the tower. Three birds change their mind and fly from the eaves to the oak tree. They all await the new day, as I do. The last remaining leaves on the trees – at night the blurred contours can fool you into thinking it is summer – are shrivelled up and yellow. The same hue as the torches now appearing behind some castle windows. The haze presses against the walls of the watch house. Slowly, the dark-grey light turns a cooler shade.’

Charcoal does not lend itself to conveying experiences. He threw the lump on the table. His fingers turned black and the letters, conceived with such confidence, were crude, with smudges everywhere. Yet he picked up his makeshift writing tool again, this time for two facts.

‘I have lost my books. Cromwell had them taken away by Rich.’

His books in Rich’s hands. His solace had disappeared from view behind that pleated cloak. Naturally, their contents were all in his head. But his books were his friends. Fellow travellers, silent witnesses, comrades. All gone, even God’s word. Only a single sheet of paper remained, but what he wanted to tell his daughter Margaret, how the day began, refused to take shape.

‘It is funny,’ he had wanted to write. ‘Remember how I used to say that I wanted to be a monk? Now I have got what I wanted. Peace and quiet. Save for the croaking of the ravens and the odd cooing dove, few sounds penetrate my tower. I can meditate and pray and think to my heart’s content. The cries of the rowers and the sailors seem very distant, somewhere down below. No interruptions. At times the wind rattles the window just as it howls through the slit in the wall. I hear John-a-Wood moving his stool or dropping a cup on the floor – wood and tin on stone. I have arrived at my destination, Margaret. I have become pure spirit, just what I wanted. Still, I am plagued by doubt and unpleasant dreams.’ No, there was no need for them to know this. The family was worried enough as it was. The more steadfast he became, the more they worried. Humour no longer helped either. The letters from his eldest child struck right at the core.

Thus everything was stripped bare. No more digression or embellishment; charcoal did not allow it. He had been reduced to straight talking, to facts. His days had become pure structure. Rise at six and pray. At times it felt as if he was at home, in his own chapel, but then he heard the rattling of John’s keys. The door opened and his barley gruel was brought in, along with a jug of fresh water. The first and only smile of the day, unless he had another visitor. Then he was alone again to study and think.

Now that his books were gone, he had plenty of time to think. He had had visitors only last week, so he could not expect any for a while yet. At the time he had been incapable of listening and responding; his neck was full of resistance, turning his head was painful. Howard had been there as well. All he did was ask questions in an attempt to discover a way out. He himself was interested only in enjoying the fire that had been lit. Firewood and visitors went hand in hand, unbeknownst to Norfolk, but true. The prisoner wanted to be alone and enjoy the fire. He wanted to close his eyes and not turn his head. Merely lose himself in the heat.

So today he did not study after breakfast, but wrote a letter instead. Writing, debating and analysing justified his existence in this world, which is why he felt compelled to do so, even here, even with something as useless as charcoal. But praying was better. He prayed before and after breakfast. He prayed until he heard the bells ringing for lauds, when he began to walk. He might use his steps, four up and four down, to rehearse the contents of his beloved books. De Civitate Dei by Augustine. Annales by Tacitus and De Oratore by Cicero. Moriae Encomion by his friend Erasmus. Oh, Erasmus. He was in Freiburg and unable to help.

He reached for his prayer book, but it was gone. For this to have hit a man who loved order! With the prayer book in his hands, he never looked out to see the colour of the sky or the grass. He would withdraw into himself, repeat the prayer and ponder its meaning. At all times, even now, he was aware of trying to contain the devil. The devil had him in his sights, like a cat twitching its tail. Doubt – that was his devil. He knew perfectly well that he was causing his family great distress and that his eldest daughter suffered most. He knew and yet he persevered. In search of the right place in Europe. Oh yes, he was vain: in the whole of Europe. Here he had finally understood that his obstinacy and doubt went hand in hand. Like a pair of horses galloping as one.

Fortunately, Margaret was not aware of the latter. To unmask the tyranny – that had been his aim. Yet now he was a tyrant to his loved ones. They never complained, his wife and son, his sons-in-law and daughters. Their letters were full of funny anecdotes, but he had been the one who had forced them to adopt this contrived, light-hearted tone. They could no longer be open with him, nor he with them.

The apricot-coloured velvet of that pleated cloak. Two stacks of six books each, and one on top. Rich struggled, bent double with the effort. The velvet vanished and the door was closed. The footsteps carried his books away.

Thomas rubbed his face. This was worse than not knowing whether he would ever walk outside again or whether his family could cope without him, worse than fear of torture, worse than nocturnal doubts. Now he stood truly bareheaded before God. He had nothing but his soul and his frail body, his unkempt beard and the pain in his neck. The chill in his legs and the weariness of his eyes. This was Thomas More without books or theories, a naked soul, not yet finished. Not yet done. There, that devil again, stirring a cauldron full of doubt.

This piece of paper with charcoal smudges would serve as fuel, so he might as well write it down. He had been part of a bigger plan. No, not God’s plan, but that of Thomas Cromwell and Thomas Cranmer, because of all the arrogant men by the name of Thomas, Cromwell and Cranmer had proved to be the smartest. He himself, More, had merely wanted to be a versatile Englishman who knew how to put his knowledge of the classics to use and invent a new world, together with other arrogant minds. Politics, however, had led him astray. How he longed for the innocence of the Carthusian monastery in the heart of the city, for the high-pitched sound of the boys’ voices that seemed to fill the corridors. All of a sudden, his broken voice sang a few bars. He took the jug and poured some water, but when he swallowed, the melody was gone.

~

The moment he held the piece of charcoal in his hand again, the bells chimed twelve o’clock, the most beautiful sound of the day. Not the kind of sound that scales cathedral arches but simple chimes, urging stillness and meditation. Noontide, the middle of the day. Thomas flung the charcoal back into the cold hearth and stood in front of the window. With his hands behind his back, he counted the little window panes swaying in the wind. Doing this, he noticed the tip of a feather, which had fallen through the slit. The feather of a dove. A mystery where it came from! The wind tugged at it, as he carefully pulled the hollow tube towards him. A small, meaningful gift. He would consider how to use it. Write down why he so stubbornly insisted on staying in his Bell Tower? He could leave if he wanted to, if only he would sign. His daughter knew it too. ‘Margaret, it has taken me a long time to realise ….’ He chuckled in the hollow, silent chamber. If he had wanted to, he would have realised years ago. Be honest. The moment the king raised the prospect of divorcing Catherine of Aragón, he knew he might get into trouble. Of course his family had realised it too. Later that thorny issue regarding Anne Boleyn and her protestant coterie only added to his problems. Now it was 1534. It had taken him five years to fall into a trap.

Thomas rested both arms against the upper window frame. With his books gone, he struggled to muster the discipline; he had been aware of this during the night, which is why he had woken with a heavy heart. A momentary lapse and he would drown in self-pity. Discipline had always given him strength. This he had learnt in the Carthusian monastery where he had lived during his studies. And if he was ever tempted to forget his duty, the hair shirt underneath his clothes reminded him. He need not even wear it. This invisible shirt spurred him on, prodded him throughout his life. He had walked and explored many a path, but his doubts had never been quelled. A thousand issues had pulled him, leading to even greater haste, and many had been temptations. Vanity, digressions. He stood in a cornfield, no higher than the stalks beside him. He had to abandon the delusion that he could see over and beyond them. He would be cut down to size.

There had been times when he seemed destined for greatness. When the king scrutinised him, oh, how hard he tried. When Wolsey cut corners, oh yes, he did things differently. When Erasmus came to stay, bringing news from Europe: the hours they spent talking, fantasising. Always the same topic, considered from the perspective of philosophy, political science, textual analysis. The direction of mankind. Direction! The cornfield knew no direction, only the wind caressing the stalks.

Here in the Bell Tower, barely recovered from the umpteenth hearing where he had had to watch his every word, he could reflect on his vanity. Fair’s fair, whichever approach he took, the questions always served one and the same purpose, the greater glory of Master More. That is why he had written the Epigrammata. That is why he had written Utopia. That is why he had vehemently opposed heresy.

Thomas stared at the floor tiles. He had wanted two mutually exclusive things: to remain a loyal servant of the Church and to be important, to be heard, to be remembered by others. He served two masters.

The moment he had entered Lambeth Palace – his voice had been clear as a bell – his future had begun to take shape. In John Morton’s official residence he drank it all in, the familiar faces, the social etiquette, ideas and rumours. The Lord Chancellor was as patronising and powerful as the pope’s left hand. Thomas, eleven years of age, would do absolutely anything to win his approval. This even included practising a disparaging look or vocal inflection – in fact, it was expected of him. In the evening, when Morton told stories about the change of power he had witnessed, the boy glowed with pride. He was quiet and fiery like the flames in the hearth. How exciting these stories were. They all heralded the new era that he was a part of. He would put his back into it. No more Plantagenet, but Tudor instead. The new England, as well-ordered as the diamond-shaped leaded panes. During the day, light filtered through the large windows of Lambeth Palace. A new world, ruled by a righteous monarch! A new dynasty that banished hypocrisy and manipulation and that did right by every single subject, every single window pane. What’s more, it held people accountable for their own actions.

The grimace flitted across Thomas’s face and was halfway before he knew it. He had hated his predecessor Wolsey for this grimace and now he understood why. With that subtle twitching of the corners of the mouth you distinguished superior from inferior people, insiders from outsiders. It happened so often, it became an involuntary part of your system. And then, very gradually, this reflex developed into a sign of impotence. It appeared every time you wanted to achieve, or foil, something. Pushing people to the edge – that too began with a grimace; it had always been thus, in all ages. Yet he only just realised! You were complicit but unaware of it until later. He had helped to sideline and eliminate people, and now his turn had come. The poison was ubiquitous: above all at court and in political circles, but equally in his own work. Last night he kept waking with a start. The panic reminded him of a passage he had once written about Richard III.

Where he went abroad, his eyes whirled about, his body privily fenced, his hand ever on his dagger, his countenance and manner like one always ready to strike again; he took ill rest at nights, lay long waking and musing, sore wearied with care and watch, rather slumbered then slept, troubled with fearful dreams, suddenly sometime start up, leap out of his bed and run about the chamber; so was his restless heart continually tossed and tumbled with the tedious impression and stormy remembrance of his abominable deed.

But he, Thomas, was no murderer. He was no Richard III. On the contrary, he had always endeavoured to be righteous. If a man, nearing the end of his life, had to be tormented thus, he could just as easily think of the much-admired Morton, not as the dignified patriarch with the twinkle in his eye, the éminence grise he had known, but as a pitiful figure, who wandered around, groaning with pain and howling at the moon. Thank God the elder statesman had found peace. One of the many victims of the sweating sickness, he had died a respected man of eighty. Why would he fear death? No, it was the devil’s work, these wakeful nights. Your own fears and doubts could spell your downfall! They created the dream only to puncture it again, clearing the way for other chimeras, faces and grimaces. When you woke with a start, this vortex refused to die down.

He had put his heart and soul into these passages about Richard III. It had been a wonderful time, an unambiguous time. A time of black and white, of good and evil, clear and murky, pure and corrupted. Such vivid scenes he had created, humorous and nuanced and philosophical in tone. Besides, his historic portrait of Richard iii served a purpose. ‘Green’ is how he had characterised the period in which the tyrant assumed power, referring to the jostling for position of ambitious climbers. But now, with eternity in sight, he had to be honest with himself. He too had tried to mould society, through his pen and through whispering behind people’s backs. This was no state of uncertainty in which you had to find the path of righteousness, as in the tragedies of Aeschylus and Sophocles. No, the moulding and the ambitions went hand in hand, he had learnt in Morton’s household, where his father had placed him to grow up. Living in Lambeth Place was an honour. He had been a page, cupbearer, clerk, nothing important, but the mood of superiority in the house had left a lasting legacy. He was determined to be a man of consequence. Among the lowly masses he would lose himself, disappear, fall to pieces.

He had indeed become a member of the Privy Council. ‘The King’s good servant, but God’s first’, it had been whispered in his ear to win him over, and that was the crux of the matter. Analysing other people’s motives had left him vain, self-important and arrogant. He had always found reason to partake in the gossip and the laughter, and to be pleased with himself when, improvising, it transpired that he possessed the right arguments with which to support his vision. They came quick and fast, these arguments. No sooner had he allowed the lawyer’s frown to flit across his face than he had assumed control of the situation, certain of his own judgement. Eminent and righteous, determined to create a better world, and to support and inspire the King, counsellors, clergy and civil servants. He moved in exalted circles, Master More. With his witticisms and erudition he defined a community of true Christians in which good and evil could be picked up, weighed and judged.

His views had changed. There was no way out now, only charcoal. And today was All Souls’ Day, time to commemorate the dead. His first wife and his father were dead, John Morton had died a long time ago and the subsequent Lord Chancellor, Wolsey, who had become a cardinal like Morton, had also met with a lonely end. Before long Thomas himself, a more secular Lord Keeper of the Great Seal, would die. These days and nights laid the groundwork. That grimace again. At long last he understood the origins of this routine twitch of his mouth: a profound sense of opportunities missed.

Now he was the one driven by fear of purgatory. Even if his family, his friends, all of his readers and the whole of Europe devoted their most fervent prayers to him, still the angel weighing his soul would point at the flames and the purification would be horrific. He had been found not to be a saint. He could cite the common good he had worked for his whole life, on a large and on a small scale. I see! But then where is the progress, God would ask. And Thomas More, the brown bear from the royal menagerie, would shrug helplessly. It was not his fault. Or was it?

At night he saw things more clearly. The machinery was more complex than he had thought. Everything was interconnected, true, but you should always distinguish your own motives, just like the bats in his cell separated themselves from their shadows. He was ashamed, that is what it boiled down to. Never before had autumn, early November, brought so many doubts and so many dreams. It was as if All Souls’ Day poured out into him, pulling him towards the ocean. The dead had their own ways of cleaving to you.

Uitgeverij Atlas, Amsterdam, 2008, pp. 352, ISBN 9789045006208