In 1535 he was called to trial at Westminster, and crowds collected to see him pass from the Tower; even his children found it difficult to catch a glimpse of him. Margaret, we hear, climbed on a bench, and gazed her “very heart away,” as he went by, so thin and worn, wrapt in a coarse woollen gown, and leaning on a staff, for he was weak from long confinement; his face was calm and grave.
The trial lasted many hours, and Margaret waited on through that long day by the Tower wharf till he passed back. The moment she saw him, she knew the terrible sentence was “Guilty!” She pressed her way through the dense crowd, and, regardless of the men who surrounded him with axes and halberds, she flung her arms round his neck, crying, “My father! Oh, my father!”
“My Meg!” sobbed More.
He could bear the outward disgrace of the king and nation, he could stand without shrinking to hear the sentence of death passed upon him, but this passionate, tender love utterly broke his brave spirit and shook his firm courage.
“Enough, enough, my child! what, mean ye to weep, and break my heart?”
Even the guards were touched by this overwhelming scene, and many turned away to hide a falling tear. She tore herself away, but only to go a few steps; she could not lose sight of that dear face for ever; she must hear him speak once more to her. Again, with choking sobs and blinding tears, she laid her head on his shoulder. This time tears were standing in her father’s eyes as he whispered:—“Meg, for Christ’s sake! don’t unman me.” Then he kissed her, and with a last bitter cry of “Oh, father! father!” she parted from him for ever, and the crowd moved on.
With a piece of coal Sir Thomas More wrote a few loving words to his daughter, and on July 5 he was executed, and his head put upon a pole on London Bridge as an example to others who disobeyed the king’s orders. Then Margaret’s love showed itself in all its most courageous strength.
Soon after midnight she arose, dressed herself, and walked quickly down to the river, where she found boatmen to row her to London Bridge.
“The faithful daughter cannot brook the summer sun should rise
Upon the poor defenceless head, grey hair, and lifeless eyes.
A boat shoots up beneath the bridge at dead of night, and there,
When all the world arose next day, the useless pole was bare.”
The head of Sir Thomas More was gone, no longer open to the ridicule of crowds, to the triumph of the king’s party, to bear witness to his friends a monarch’s infidelity—but safe in the keeping of Margaret Roper.