As the sun drifted lower in the afternoon sky, the messenger made his way to the docks, and then on to the town of Chelsea, where the recipient’s manor house lay. The deep colors cast the wildlife and scenery into sharp relief, leaving long shadows behind the trees as they lazily bobbed their heads together in the wind. Geese were about everywhere, some searching for food, some floating about in the reeds carelessly. The water was all still, unbroken except by the wake of the boat as it traced its way through the glassy river.
At the dock near the manor home, the messenger quickly dashed across the pier and up the stone stairways to the yard. The house loomed over him, obviously of a wealthy family but not flamboyant in its extravagancy. Trees and gardens dotted the terrace it lay on, elegantly beautiful in the late summer. White lilac flowers bloomed everywhere, entirely pure and bright as the sun shone on them. A great wooden door adorned the front of the manor, and after a minute of periodic knocking, it opened to reveal a slightly taller man in plain clothes. He was allowed just inside the door and was told to wait.

Matthew took the letter and held it before him, staring at it as if it was holy. It’s the divorce, he thought. Carefully he held it up to a window, trying to see the writing through it. The parchment was too thick. He tried folding the paper back until the seal to catch some of the words. It didn’t fold back far enough. Finally he tried ever so carefully to pull up both folded ends of the paper without damaging the seal. The paper tore.
He cursed silently and held the document close to his chest as if that would repair it. Glaring upward toward the ceiling with his eyes wide. Now I’ll catch it, he thought. Well…senseless to delay the inevitable.
He opened the door to the dining hall and was greeted with a sudden rise of noise and chatter. All around, standing or seated, were dukes, earls, friends and family—all those who were dear to his master. Save for the King, thought Matthew, for he knew that the king was indeed a friend of Thomas. In the discussions, he could only catch a few, and ignored most of them.
“Seems every second bastard born was fathered by a priest!”
After a rise in laughter, another duke commented, “Ah but in Utopia that couldn’t be. For there priests are very holy.”
“Therefore very few.”
Another roar of laughter and applause filled the room. As it died down, Matthew motioned to his master.
Sir Thomas More turned round, a smile still present on his middle-aged face. Matthew motioned for him, and the man rose to meet him. “Message for you sir,” said Matthew bleakly, feigning disinterest.
Thomas examined the paper, taking note of the rip. “Is it anything interesting, Matthew?”
“Oh bless you sir, I don’t know.”
Thomas smiled warmly and patted his shoulder. “Bless you too, Matthew.”
Relieved, the servant left the dining hall.
Thomas read the letter carefully, and as he turned around back toward the fireplace, the discussion continued. His wife Alice, a somewhat portly woman in a chair said, “I suppose we have holy priests in England too.”
“Name some,” replied another voice.
Thomas’s daughter, Margaret, sat forward in her chair. “Brother James”.
“Hah!” cried Alice. “The man’s a simpleton!”
More laugher followed, but it died down when Thomas approached, eyes still scanning the letter over a second time. “It’s from Cardinal Wolsey,” said Thomas softly.
The Duke of Norfolk stood. “What’s he want?”
“Me. Now.”
Alice paused in her knitting. “In Hampton Court? You wont be there by midnight.”
Thomas carefully held the letter in the flames of the fireplace. As the document was engulfed, he dropped it in and responded “The King’s business.”
Margaret’s face was abounding with curiosity. “Queen’s business,” she said thoughtfully.
“Mistress Anne Boleyn’s business,” scowled Alice.
“Well,” said Thomas, “It’s all the Cardinal’s business.”
Norfolk laughed. “Mmm, yes. And when the Cardinal calls, you all come running, day or night. What is the man? A butcher’s son!”
“Chancellor of England too.”
“No, that’s his office,” said Margaret. “What’s the man?”
Suddenly, a small voice interrupted them from the other side of the room. The equally small man to whom it belonged stood up, contributing his first to the conversation that had been heard that eve. “Surely, your grace, when a man rises high so swiftly, we must think that he was misplaced in his origins.”
The whole group stared at him in complete silence.
He looked to the floor and began fidgeting and muttering. “That, at least, was the opinion of Aristotle.”
The silence continued for a moment, most of them wondering who this young man was.
“A butcher’s son and looks it,” said Norfolk.
“Yes, his looks,” replied Thomas. “I give you his looks.” Everyone else laughed. Then he looked over to the young man. “What was that you said, Richard Rich?”
Richard sat down and paused for a moment. “Nothing, Sir Thomas, it was out of place.” He chuckled anxiously.
Alice frowned. “And Wolsey is still a butcher. You’re a member of the King’s High Council, not an errand boy.”
“That is why I must go. The Duke would go if the Cardinal called.” Thomas motioned toward Norfolk.
“Yes, I…might,” said the Duke with a smile.
“I’ll be back for breakfast,” said Thomas to his wife and daughter. “Now, to bed.”
The three of them bowed their heads in the midst of the now silent guests and softly spoke, “Lord, grant us rest tonight. And if we must be wakeful, cheerful. Care only for our soul’s salvation, for Christ’s sake. Amen.”
Then Thomas instructed them to repeat. “And bless our lord the King.”
Duke Norfolk, behind them, lifted his head up noticeably.
“And bless our lord the King.”
“Amen,” finished the Duke loudly.