his footing and skidded, then thudded onto his rear end. Following, Honor sailed past him, even more awkward in her long skirts. She windmilled down the hill out of control and crashed into the arms of the would-be assassin who dropped his knife under the force of the impact. The two stumbled back together as if locked in some heathen dance step. They finally came to a halt at the lip of the riverbank.
There was a moment of stunned silence. The maid wobbled to her feet and shyly looked at More still sitting at the base of the hillside. “Pardon, Your Worship,” she stuttered, her hands patting at the cap that covered her ears. “A knot in my cap string. This gentleman offered to cut it for me.”
More stared, uncomprehending. The girl cupped her hand beside her mouth and whispered loudly, “A foreigner, Your Worship. He speaks no English.”
The man stepped around Honor and came shakily toward More, his hands uplifted like an apprehended criminal. He was young and of a stocky peasant build, with a moon face and wide, slate blue eyes. In serviceable Latin he made a nervous explanation. “I am an artist, sir. I was moved to sketch this young woman. I suggested she remove her cap. It was only the strings I wanted to cut.”
“An artist?” More asked feebly.
“Hans Holbein is my name. A citizen of Basle. I come to you on the recommendation of our mutual friend, Erasmus.”
A smile cracked across More’s face. He slapped his green-stained hands together and bits of grass flew from his fingertips. “Master Holbein, on my backside I welcome you to England. Care for some burned roast beef?”
In the great hall, More leaned back pensively in his chair at the head of the main table. What he was hearing amused him, yet troubled him at the same time: his twenty-year-old daughter, Cecily, was reading aloud a letter Erasmus had sent with the young artist. It was clear to More that his extended family felt none of his own ambiguity. He could see they were all entertained by Erasmus’s news. They sat beside him and at two long lower tables: his wife, his father, his son with his fiancée, his three daughters and their husbands, a clutch of grandchildren, assorted music masters, tutors and clerks. The kitchen maids had cleared away the first courses—the capon with apricots, the salvaged roast beef, the braised leeks—and everyone was listening to Erasmus’s letter, their spoons clacking over bowls of excellent strawberry pudding from Lady Alice’s kitchen. The renowned Dutch scholar had written to More:
“The arts are freezing here, so I have encouraged Holbein to come to you in England to pick up a few coins.”
There was a murmur of approval and all heads turned to the red-faced artist. All except Alice, as usual, More noted; everyone except her and the very young children understood the Latin letter. His wife had rejected his every attempt to teach her to read, even in English. Cecily continued reading:
“As the firestorm rages here over Luther, I am condemned by both sides for my refusal to join either. I am told that a follower of Luther in Constance, a fellow who was once my student, has hung my portrait near the door merely to spit at it as often as he passes. My lot has become like St. Cassianus who was stabbed to death by his pupils with pencils.”
Many at the table laughed. Sir Thomas More did not. How, he wondered, could Erasmus make jests about a man as dangerous as Luther? Disturbed, he fingered the rim of his goblet of watered wine as Cecily read on. The letter ranged over several more items of news in Basle. Then:
“Please convey my thanks to young Mistress Larke for the enjoyment her thoughtful essay on St. Augustine’s City of God has given me. Or better yet, tell her that I will write my appreciation to her personally as soon as time permits.”
More glanced at Honor with a proud smile, as did the rest of the family. Following the young artist, it was Honor’s turn to blush.
Servants
There was a moment of stunned silence. The maid wobbled to her feet and shyly looked at More still sitting at the base of the hillside. “Pardon, Your Worship,” she stuttered, her hands patting at the cap that covered her ears. “A knot in my cap string. This gentleman offered to cut it for me.”
More stared, uncomprehending. The girl cupped her hand beside her mouth and whispered loudly, “A foreigner, Your Worship. He speaks no English.”
The man stepped around Honor and came shakily toward More, his hands uplifted like an apprehended criminal. He was young and of a stocky peasant build, with a moon face and wide, slate blue eyes. In serviceable Latin he made a nervous explanation. “I am an artist, sir. I was moved to sketch this young woman. I suggested she remove her cap. It was only the strings I wanted to cut.”
“An artist?” More asked feebly.
“Hans Holbein is my name. A citizen of Basle. I come to you on the recommendation of our mutual friend, Erasmus.”
A smile cracked across More’s face. He slapped his green-stained hands together and bits of grass flew from his fingertips. “Master Holbein, on my backside I welcome you to England. Care for some burned roast beef?”
In the great hall, More leaned back pensively in his chair at the head of the main table. What he was hearing amused him, yet troubled him at the same time: his twenty-year-old daughter, Cecily, was reading aloud a letter Erasmus had sent with the young artist. It was clear to More that his extended family felt none of his own ambiguity. He could see they were all entertained by Erasmus’s news. They sat beside him and at two long lower tables: his wife, his father, his son with his fiancée, his three daughters and their husbands, a clutch of grandchildren, assorted music masters, tutors and clerks. The kitchen maids had cleared away the first courses—the capon with apricots, the salvaged roast beef, the braised leeks—and everyone was listening to Erasmus’s letter, their spoons clacking over bowls of excellent strawberry pudding from Lady Alice’s kitchen. The renowned Dutch scholar had written to More:
“The arts are freezing here, so I have encouraged Holbein to come to you in England to pick up a few coins.”
There was a murmur of approval and all heads turned to the red-faced artist. All except Alice, as usual, More noted; everyone except her and the very young children understood the Latin letter. His wife had rejected his every attempt to teach her to read, even in English. Cecily continued reading:
“As the firestorm rages here over Luther, I am condemned by both sides for my refusal to join either. I am told that a follower of Luther in Constance, a fellow who was once my student, has hung my portrait near the door merely to spit at it as often as he passes. My lot has become like St. Cassianus who was stabbed to death by his pupils with pencils.”
Many at the table laughed. Sir Thomas More did not. How, he wondered, could Erasmus make jests about a man as dangerous as Luther? Disturbed, he fingered the rim of his goblet of watered wine as Cecily read on. The letter ranged over several more items of news in Basle. Then:
“Please convey my thanks to young Mistress Larke for the enjoyment her thoughtful essay on St. Augustine’s City of God has given me. Or better yet, tell her that I will write my appreciation to her personally as soon as time permits.”
More glanced at Honor with a proud smile, as did the rest of the family. Following the young artist, it was Honor’s turn to blush.
Servants
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