Chapter One
Chapter One
It was late spring, in the year 1515. The sun was setting, sending golden rays over the sparkling water of the River Cam, and the air was rich with the heady scent of flowers and the evening chorus of birdsong. But this beauty went unnoticed by the lone figure on the grassy riverbank. He simply sat, staring at the ground, his knees pulled up beneath his chin, tears trickling slowly down his cheeks, his dark eyes red rimmed from weeping. Wispy strands of dark brown hair poked from beneath his scholar’s cap, and his young face was thin and clean shaven. Whilst it could not be described as handsome, nor was it unpleasant. It was a gentle, sensitive face. The visage of a compassionate person. His name was Thomas Cranmer and, half an hour ago, his wife, Joan, had passed away.
Dabbing his eyes with the hem of his shabby mantle, he took a long, deep breath. There was no grief in his heart, only deep regret, for he and Joan were ill-suited. Everyone had known. Indeed, when he had first expressed an interest in her, his closest friends had advised him to stay away - but he had not heeded their words. Joan had never been easy to ignore.
Thomas’ life had begun on the second of July 1489, in Aslockton, Nottinghamshire. His parents were well-to-do farming folk, but only his eldest brother could expect any inheritance, as the land owned by the Cranmer family was modest at best. Thomas and his younger brother were, therefore, expected to forge a career somehow, somewhere. A scholarly child, his early education had been blighted by a bullying and abusive schoolmaster, and despite his pleas, his father, who was also named Thomas Cranmer, had insisted upon his son remaining at the school, in the hope that the strict schoolmaster might knock some spirit into the lad. Unfortunately, the schoolmaster’s physical and verbal beatings had the opposite effect, though in retrospect, Thomas suspected he would have been timid no matter how gently he had been tutored as a child.
Following the death of his father, his mother, Agnes, had the foresight to suggest that the young Thomas, then fourteen years old, should be despatched to a university, for he was gifted academically and would surely prosper in such a climate. His oldest brother, now in charge of the farm, acted accordingly, and within weeks, young Thomas arrived at Jesus College, Cambridge. Immediately, he realised that this was where he belonged. Such a wealth of knowledge, all at his fingertips! Studying for a degree was the most joyful pleasure he could imagine, and he progressed effortlessly from Bachelor of Arts to Master of Arts, began teaching, and in due course, was elected to become a Fellow of Jesus College. Books became his most precious possessions, and he collected numerous tomes during his time at Cambridge, filling his room with piles upon piles of academic texts. Unfortunately, a couple of years later, he encountered a distraction… a distraction named Joan.
Her nickname was Black Joan, on account of her raven hair, foul moods, and unpredictable temper. Yet somehow, for some unbeknown reason, she mesmerised the quiet, scholarly teacher. She was a barmaid at the Dolphin Inn, and although he and his friends mostly frequented the White Horse Inn, sometimes, for variety, they would visit other hostelries. After months of barely acknowledging his existence, one day, whilst serving ale and food to him and his friends, she singled him out. Suddenly, he felt the full force of her personality – when she was in a good mood, Joan was irresistible – and she quickly became his mistress.
As yet he had not taken priestly vows, but it was anticipated he would one day do so. It was not unusual for a member of the clergy - or someone preparing to become a priest - to take a mistress. It was frowned upon, but rules were lax; as long as the relationship was discrete, it was acceptable. It was even deemed acceptable for those who had actually taken their vows. Even Thomas Wolsey, the king’s almoner, was known to have a mistress and, according to rumour, Wolsey was soon to become a cardinal no less.
Joan was a fine-looking woman, but as a serving girl, she was far beneath him socially; serving girls were regarded as little better than prostitutes. Yet he continued to visit her; indeed, he found her hard to resist. Their trysts were far from romantic, taking place in her cramped, grubby room above the Dolphin Inn. There was something almost sordid about those visits, for the duration of which her roommate was instructed to make herself scarce.
Perhaps it was the excitement that made him keep returning to her? Certainly, in his lifetime, he had never come across such a high-spirited person. Her wit was quick and, when in a good mood, she was entertaining beyond anything he had ever known; sometimes he ached with laugher at her novel comments and opinions. But love itself did not enter into their relationship, and he rarely mentioned her to his friends. For their part, they avoided the subject, believing – and hoping – that he would come to his senses and ultimately end his relationship with such an unsuitable, unstable woman. Then, one day, when he was visiting her room, she informed him she was pregnant.
Those words nearly knocked him to the floor; he collapsed heavily onto the only chair in the room, whilst Joan, her long black hair in disarray, informed him of her condition, sobbing all the while about her reputation being ruined. Stunned, he turned and walked from the room, seeking out his closest friend, Hugh Latimer, who was also a Fellow of Jesus College. Latimer, nearly as scholarly as Thomas, was far wiser, or at least, he was wise enough to avoid distractions of the Joan variety.
“I’m going to marry her,” he had informed his friend.
Latimer, a thin, forceful, energetic man, stared at him in horror. Later, when Thomas informed his other friends of his decision to marry, their reactions were much the same. Marriage would mean the loss of his fellowship; a fellowship, once removed, would never be restored. His career would be ruined. Joan was not a woman of good repute; the baby might not even be his! Of course, he could continue to teach, but Joan was hardly the most sensible choice of wife for an academic. But despite his friends providing him with copious reasons not to marry her, he could see no other option. After all, to desert the woman would be a heinous action; in the eyes of God, marriage was the only way forward. Eventually, albeit reluctantly, his closest circle of friends agreed, and a simple ceremony was arranged. He chose not to inform his mother of the news, deciding to await the birth of the child before he did so. After all, what mother would be anything but delighted by the arrival of a grandchild?
Once wed, he and Joan moved into a set of rooms not far from Buckingham Hall, where Thomas had acquired employment as a reader. He had reasoned that the rooms would delight his new wife, for though they were small, they were a vast improvement upon the room she had lived in above the inn. They had a bedchamber, just big enough to hold a bedstead with a straw mattress, plus a chest for their admittedly meagre belongings. In the main room, furnished by a simple table, a couple of chairs, and a settle, Joan had ample space to prepare and cook meals. Admittedly, it was a somewhat gloomy place, but he could afford little else, though it was entirely possible that Joan believed him to be more affluent than he actually was.
Prior to their marriage, he had been warned of Joan’s volatile temper; according to her fellow serving girls at the Dolphin Inn, the slightest incident could provoke her. But, thus far, he had managed to avoid being on the receiving end of one of her rages, and he had convinced himself that he would be spared. However, as her pregnancy progressed, and her body became cumbersome, Joan’s temper grew more unpredictable. He had requested that she stop working at the Dolphin Inn – it was, after all, not an appropriate profession for the wife of a scholar – but her work had provided an outlet for her dark outbursts. Once separated from it, her husband became her only distraction. As was expected of any wife, she kept their rooms clean and cooked his meals, but their relationship was far from affectionate. Instead of welcoming him home after a long day at work, she would scream at him, kicking and punching him, all without provocation. She even took to throwing objects at him, any objects, his precious books included. Simply saying ‘hello’ was enough to cause an outburst. He dreaded going home, and his friends, concerned at his evident distress, hardly knew what to say, or how to help him. But now, it was all ended.
The child was delivered, stillborn, after nearly two days of torturous labour. Joan, her voice hoarse from hours of screaming, her body broken from pain, had begun to bleed uncontrollably, soaking the bedding and straw mattress with sticky, red liquid. Thomas had immediately been summoned to her bedside, having already been informed that the child had perished. He had held Joan’s hand tenderly until her angry spirit was finally silenced. Feeling her hand grow limp as the priest delivered the Extreme Unction, he had been flooded with relief, followed instantly by shame. After all, relief was not an emotion one should feel after the death of one’s spouse. It was wrong. Undeniably wrong.
Stumbling from his home, he had ended up sitting on the riverbank, without knowing quite how he had come to be there. Just as his tears began to dry, he sensed the presence of someone behind him, and heard a gentle cough. Turning, he saw the ascetic face of Hugh Latimer, eyeing him with concern.
“Friend Cranmer.” There was kindness in Latimer’s voice.
Being greeted with such sympathy nearly triggered another uncontrollable bout of tears, but Thomas managed to calm himself, wiping at his eyes to stem the flow. He felt the brief pressure of Latimer’s hand upon his shoulder, as his friend settled onto the grass beside him. Both were silent for a while.
Once able to speak with some semblance of control, Thomas murmured, “She is at peace now.”
Latimer, forthright and honest, again laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “As are you. Perhaps the university will take you back? You could have your old room… be with us again…”
Thomas shook his head vehemently. “That would be more than I deserve.”
“Nonsense, my friend. You are a great asset to the university, and well-liked by all.” He was only telling the truth. Thomas Cranmer was a popular man; his marriage to Joan had not changed that. “Come.” Latimer stood, briskly brushing the grass from his clothes. He was never one to prevaricate; his life was one of perpetual bustle and motion. “Let us to the White Horse, where our friends await us. Let us eat, drink, and enjoy an energetic debate. Ridley has just recently read one of Erasmus’ latest essays; that should keep us entertained.”
Reluctantly, Thomas rose to his feet to stand beside his companion. Taller by two inches, Latimer was only considered of average height at best, meaning Thomas was undeniably short, though this fact did not particularly perturb him. He gave a nod of assent to Latimer’s proposal.
“To the White Horse,” he agreed. It was certainly better than returning to his home… if it could be called a home. A battleground was probably a better description, not to mention that when he did eventually return, he would be faced with the corpse of his late wife. No doubt by now the midwife would have prepared her for burial, with the infant enclosed in her arms, as was customary in such situation; but still… he had no desire to deal with Joan’s dead body just yet.
At a steady pace, the two men headed towards town, a journey which took them past a gibbet, from which dangled a cage holding the remains of what had once been a man. His carcass had been coated in pitch then left to rot, so that everyone could behold his fate: the fate of a lawbreaker. The bones, with strips of pitch-coated skin still clinging to them, were lying in a heap at the base of the cage: the ribs had collapsed into the pelvis, whilst the skull, minus the lower jaw, rested below the collar bone, grinning obscenely at passers-by, its white teeth gleaming. A few strands of blonde hair, which had missed being coated in pitch, fluttered in the light breeze. The lower jaw was lying somewhere beside the dead man’s feet. The teeth were white and in good condition, suggesting this had once been a young man.
Thomas and Latimer, familiar with such grizzly sights, were too preoccupied to take notice.
“Maybe it would be best if you returned to my rooms tonight,” Latimer suggested.
Thomas felt a surge of gratitude; it was as if his friend had read his mind.
“I have a spare mattress you can use,” Latimer offered. “It’s only a straw one, like mine, but it is clean, and comfortable enough.” Hugh Latimer was not one for reckless spending. Though he could have afforded a softer, more luxurious barley mattress, he chose not to spend money on unnecessary luxuries.
Thomas did not need persuading. He would take any opportunity not to return home. “I am sure the mattress will be perfect,” he smiled weakly.
*****
For him, it felt as though his life began afresh on the night of his wife’s death. Joan had been a wild, winter storm, and a welcome tranquillity followed her passing. To his infinite pleasure, his fellowship was restored to him, and he returned to his studies with gusto. He was already well-versed in both Latin and Greek, but continued to add to his extensive vocabulary, and picked up two additional languages – French and German – driven by his desire, his need, for knowledge. Next, he was ordained a priest and beneath his scholars cap he bore a priestly tonsure. Then, a year later, he achieved a doctorate, and his life became one of constant productivity, lived entirely within the realm of the academic world. Even when not teaching, he dined and drank with his fellow academics. As far as women were concerned, the memory of his nightmare marriage tormented him to such a degree that a liaison was totally out of the question. Besides, he was now too focused on his work to consider such a distraction.
A few years after Joan’s death, news filtered down the university grapevine of a German monk, called Martin Luther, who was said to be challenging accepted beliefs, and turning the established religion of Roman Catholicism upside down. His writings, though forbidden, had somehow been smuggled into the country, despite the threat of imprisonment should one be caught reading them. Indeed, books and pamphlets written by Luther, if discovered, were promptly burned by the authorities, in an attempt to destroy the evidence of his blasphemy.
Unsurprisingly, being a renowned scholar, Latimer possessed several pamphlets written by Luther, as did Nicholas Ridley and Thomas Bilney, who were part of Thomas Cranmer’s close inner circle of friends. Thomas himself was too nervous to actually own any, but he eagerly borrowed his friends’ copies, and had read most of Luther’s work. After a time, the people who followed Luther’s philosophy came to be known as Protestants, on account of their protests against Catholicism. As for the White Horse Inn, it became a hub of sorts, with individuals coming from far and wide to immerse themselves in Luther’s work and discuss his teachings, to the extent that the inn was nicknamed ‘Little Germany.’ A certain Robert Barnes was one such individual. After training to become a priest, he had come to Jesus College to study for his doctorate, and met Cranmer, Latimer, Ridley and Bilney in the White Horse Inn one evening. An avid reader of Luther’s work, Robert’s insight and way with words all but set their discussions alight, and they swiftly became friends.
Most evenings, the five of them would gather at the White Horse to eat, drink, and discuss the Protestant movement. For many years, even before Luther’s work had been published, Thomas and his friends had been secretly building an argument against the Church of Rome. They all felt that change was long overdue, as did many others, though they would never dare say so in public. Tales of corrupt monks and nuns were rife, and it was well accepted that the monasteries fleeced people out of their money.
“I have witnessed this thievery more times than I care to count,” Barnes informed his audience one evening. “Some poor soul will be shown an empty vial, supposedly containing the blood of a saint, which they have been told can only be seen by those absolved of sin. Miraculously, when they pay the requested sum of money to the monk, the blood becomes visible.” An excellent orator, Barnes enjoyed expounding his views to an enraptured audience. “You see, once the money has been paid, the monk will press on a tiny spring, allowing a small amount of real blood – usually that of a freshly killed cockerel, or some other such creature – to flow into the container.”
Barnes never shouted, for it was dangerous to speak too loudly, but his voice possessed a certain resonance that drew people in; that made them want to listen. Indeed, Thomas had noticed various customers at the inn visibly straining to hear what Barnes was saying.
The inn was filled with a variety of people, but scholars and other occupants of the college were inevitably in abundance. It was easy to spot those who were scholars, teachers, or lawyers, as they tended to wear long black gowns; clothing showed status, and a long gown could only be worn by a person who did not undertake manual work. Even if a manual labourer could have afforded such an item of clothing, the length of such gowns made them impractical. Instead, manual labourers opted for shorter, knee length versions. The younger gentry also tended to wear shorter gowns, as such attire was more suited to riding, though their gowns were of finer fabric than the manual labourers’ and were often wonderfully embellished. There was no way a person of status, in his expensive and colourful short gown, could be mistaken for a humble manual worker. Older, high-status individuals, whose athletic days were over, might also favour a long gown, but the rich tended to select finer, more luxurious fabrics, unlike Thomas and his companions, whose gowns were all made from simple, woollen cloth.
Not long after Barnes had finished his tale, a serving girl arrived, placing bowls of soup in front of them, along with a platter of bread and a jug of ale. None of them asked what kind of soup it was; there was wisdom in ignorance sometimes. At least it smelled appetising. With his customary grace, Nicholas Ridley thanked her for her kindness, prompting the girl to offer him a beaming smile in return. Ridley had that effect on people.
As was customary, the five men all produced spoons from their belt pouches, or pockets. Most eating houses did not provide spoons or knives; indeed, The White Horse was well regarded amongst most professional people, as it provided not only mugs for ale but also wooden bowls for soup. Ale houses were often simply a place where ale was brewed and served, with patrons providing their own drinking vessels. Ale houses that did serve food often used bread as a dish, pulling the middle out of a rounded loaf – leaving the base and sides intact – before pouring soup or stew inside. Patrons were expected to devour the stew, then the bread.
“I have heard tell of similar scandals,” Latimer mused, resting his chin on his thin hands. Everything about Latimer was thin; he rarely gave himself time to eat a decent meal. “Change is most certainly needed, but I suspect it cannot occur with someone so strict and orthodox as Cardinal Thomas Wolsey in charge. He is ambitious and powerful… and a servant of the Pope. For the structure of the Church to change, his authority must diminish, and I can say for certain that he has no intention of allowing that to happen.”
“I entered Holy Orders because I felt God called to me. Many priests enter orders for more selfish reasons, believing that wearing a priest’s robe will protect them from hellfire.” Barnes paused, taking a moment to swallow a couple of spoonfuls of soup before resuming. “Luther admits this was the reason he initially became a priest: to obtain protection from divine displeasure. So many priests, and nuns too, are immoral; they live loose lives, yet berate others for doing likewise.”
The five men huddled together around their table. Night had just fallen, and the candles had been lit inside the inn. Though they provided some illumination, the cheap tallow used to make them smoked heavily when lit, making it impossible for any light to travel more than a few inches. Meanwhile, the smell of burning fat drifted into the room from the kitchen, accompanied by wisps of smoke from the hearth every time the kitchen door was opened. No one paid any attention, being either accustomed to the thick atmosphere, or else so busy talking that their thoughts were otherwise engaged.
“Not only are they immoral, but half of them are illiterate too.” Ridley, a quiet but eloquent scholar, spoke with fierce passion. “I ask you, gentlemen, how can an illiterate priest give guidance to his flock? If the priest is ignorant, his flock shall be doubly so.” His amiable, round face was flushed, and his voice rose with indignation.
“I agree that Wolsey is orthodox,” Thomas ventured. “But if you recall, he did befriend and encourage Erasmus. There must be hope in that, surely? Erasmus spoke of corruption within the Church long before Luther.”
Latimer gave a snort of disgust. “Desiderius Erasmus is basically a Humanist. He wants reform without changing the rules.” He attacked his soup with venom, took a gulp, and nearly choked. After Barnes had delivered a hefty thump to his back, causing him to bounce forwards, Latimer took a deep draught of ale and continued as if nothing untoward had occurred. “In my opinion, Erasmus will always be Catholic. He wants the clergy and the Church to be improved, but not changed. For instance, my own vision is to see the Bible translated into English – I have heard talk that Will Tyndale is working on such a thing – but Erasmus would never agree to anything so progressive. Even if Erasmus does have influence over the king or the cardinal, we cannot expect him to instigate positive change.”
Bilney gave a beaming smile, his expression rapt. “I tell you, my friends, when I first read Erasmus’ translation of the Hebrew New Testament into Greek, I knew… I knew that the voice of God was speaking to me personally through the text. There was such a comfort and quietness within me that my very bones jumped with joy!” The gentle scholar’s face flushed with delight at the memory.
Bilney’s outward gentleness belied a fierce inner strength. He had already been imprisoned by Cardinal Wolsey for his Protestant inclinations, but had since been released, on the condition that he abjure his beliefs. Agreeing to the cardinal’s demands had left him deeply ashamed; after all, he had denied his God. But he had known that agreeing to such a request was his only means of escape, and took comfort in the knowledge that Peter, one of Jesus’ closest disciples, had once acted in a similar way. After his release, he had been more determined than ever to stand fast to his beliefs and was now the most boldly spoken of all his friends. Indeed, it was he who was responsible for the conversion of Hugh Latimer.
“By all the saints, Bilney, you can speak Greek!” Latimer argued. “Those who are not scholars… they haven’t got a clue what the Bible is telling them.”
Bilney maintained a serene expression, unruffled by Latimer’s outburst.
“At least, thanks to our friend Cranmer here, there are more educated clergymen than there used to be,” Barnes interjected, wafting a piece of bread towards Thomas, before dunking it into his soup. A stocky man, Barnes enjoyed both food and conversation, and was happiest when combining these two pleasures. “It did not take me long to discover that our Dr Cranmer has been teaching local friars, priests, and members of the clergy the Greek language, instructing them with the utmost thoroughness, and ensuring that they are well-versed in the various interpretations of the Bible.” He gave Thomas a grateful smile and nodded in approval.
Wishing he could accept compliments gracefully, Thomas shrugged and muttered, “I’m an examiner now… I cannot permit poorly informed priests to venture out into the neighbouring towns and villages, there to teach and preach their misinformation to the public. It just wouldn’t be right. Many of them dislike me for it, but I’m the one assessing them, so they have no choice but to comply.” He smiled wryly, shaking his head.
“Come now, Thomas. Your work is invaluable; it is a great shame that there are not more scholars who are willing to follow your lead.” Latimer had now forgotten his soup. It lay before him, stone cold. “If you recall, gentlemen, even the great Desiderius Erasmus himself was impressed with our Dr Cranmer’s excellent work.” He smiled mischievously as his friend’s sallow complexion, already flushed, became bright red with embarrassment.
Thomas shuffled in his seat, taking refuge behind his mug of ale. He always omitted to mention that although some of the candidates he taught did dislike his strict teaching and high standards, the majority thanked him for it, praising his tuition to such an extent that he had garnered a reputation for himself far beyond Cambridge. A few months back, Cardinal Wolsey himself had personally written to him, promising him a higher salary if he agreed to resign from his current position and move to Oxford to teach. Wolsey had also promised that, should Dr Thomas Cranmer give his services to Oxford, he would ensure that Thomas was considered for a position in the king’s Court. This he had politely declined. After all, Cambridge had supported him in his time of need; he owed them his allegiance. Besides, why should he move when he was content? Everything he desired and needed was here.
These were the reasons he had given the cardinal. In reality, his decision to reject Wolsey’s offer had also been influenced by his own reservations concerning the cardinal, which had nothing whatsoever to do with differences in religious doctrine. He had heard it said that Wolsey ruled the land, not King Henry VIII. The king allegedly spent all his time playing tennis, hunting, jousting, and generally making merry, whilst the cardinal attended to day-to-day royal business. Thomas, having been brought up to revere the monarch – both his parents had insisted that a king ruled by God’s own grace – felt this could only be a falsehood, in which case, Wolsey should ensure that such rumours were quashed. But though it would be easy for him to deny these rumours publicly, he had failed to do so, leaving Thomas with no choice but to mistrust him.
After enjoying another round of drinks, Ridley and Bilney both declared that they were ready to retire to their beds. Thomas and Barnes concurred, whilst Latimer, suddenly remembering his neglected bowl of soup, realised that the serving girl had long since removed it from the table.
Emerging from the inn onto the street, the friends were hit by a rush of clear air. Finally free from the smoky atmosphere of the inn, Thomas took a deep breath, enjoying the fresh, coolness of the night. Barnes laid a restraining hand upon his arm and shook his head.
“Don’t do that, my friend. I’ve heard that the plague is carried on the evening air. Whilst we are in the tavern, the smoke protects us, but once outside, we are all vulnerable.”
Summer would soon arrive, almost certainly bringing the dreaded plague with it, and everyone had their own theory as to what caused the deadly disease.
“My mother always told me the plague was carried in droplets of dew,” Thomas reminisced. “When I was a child, she used to boil vinegar on the stove, telling everyone that the fumes would counteract it.”
Nicholas Ridley was standing with his head bowed, his lips moving silently. Raising his head and realising that his friends were watching him, he explained. “I felt moved to pray to the Almighty, to beg him to spare us from the plague this year.” His kindly face was a mask of concern.
“Amen,” his companions chorused, bowing their heads in reverence.
*****
More than a decade after his wife’s death, on a cold, bright morning in the spring of 1526, Thomas woke with a start. Dreaming of Joan was such a rarity these days; the picture of her face in his mind had shocked him into consciousness. He seldom took time to ponder over what would have happened had Joan survived, or indeed the child, though the latter scenario was easier to predict. The infant would more than likely have been sent to one of his relatives, to be reared as one of their own. He would have paid a sum towards the child’s care, no doubt, but that would have been the extent of his involvement. Joan was another matter entirely, for he knew that he could not have endured living with her forever. Celibacy was not always easy, but it was preferable to the ghastly alternative of living with a harridan. Of course, he knew that very few women were as belligerent as Joan, but he saw no point in taking the risk. He was in his late thirties now – no longer young – and his life was one of contented fulfilment. He had no desire to change it for the sake of a woman.
King Henry, on the other hand, was far more interested in female company. Many rumours were now arriving from the Royal Court, one of which suggested that the king desired to divorce his wife, Queen Catherine of Aragon. No one could say for certain why this was, though most reckoned that a certain young woman the king had recently been seen with was to blame for the monarch’s change of heart. Thomas, however, disregarded this rumour. The king was said to have enjoyed several illicit relationships during his marriage, theefore he was convinced that this was simply another lapse in fidelity - it was likely that nothing would come of it.
More interesting to him than the rumours surrounding the king’s marriage, were those concerning the growth of Protestantism. More and more people were embracing the Protestant cause, or ‘The New Learning’ as it was sometimes called. His friends Latimer, Bilney, Ridley and Barnes were totally converted, and he himself was certainly interested. Martin Luther’s most recent text, The Babylonish Captivity of the Church, which could only be described as a direct attack upon the orthodox Catholic faith, had been a fascinating read. The king’s response, Assertio Septem Sacrmentorum Aversus Martinum Lutherum, a heated defence of the Church of Rome, had been equally eloquent, proving that the king was an excellent scholar and theologian. Indeed, the Pope had been so pleased with King Henry’s defence that he had given him a new title: Defender of the Faith. Neither Thomas nor his unworldly scholarly companions realised that this title, which very much delighted the king, was nothing more than a consolation prize. The Pope had recently made King Charles of Spain (nephew to the queen, Catherine of Aragon) the Holy Roman Emperor, a title Henry had dearly wanted for himself. Knowing this, the Pope had been astute enough to compensate Henry for his loss.
Thomas, having read and analysed the King’s work, found he could not agree with the king’s defence, eloquent though it was. This fact sat uneasily on his conscience; Henry was the king, and as one of his subjects, surely it was his personal duty to support and obey the king?
One hot summer evening, as he and Latimer strolled towards the White Horse Inn, Thomas chanced to praise the king’s education.
“I might not agree with his opinions, but he does possess a profound volume of knowledge.” Thomas turned to his friend, expecting a response, only to find Latimer frowning pensively. For a moment, the only audible sound was the slapping of their shoes on the cobbles.
In a low voice, Latimer finally remarked, “I have heard it said that Sir Thomas More wrote it, the king’s work, I mean.” His voice was almost a whisper. “Our friend, Nicholas Shaxton, agrees.”
Shaxton was another reformist, whom they frequently met with at the White Horse, and Thomas was not surprised to hear that he believed in this rumour. The Protestant community despised More, and for good reason: an ardent Catholic, More was rumoured to keep Protestants imprisoned in the gatehouse of his home in Chelsea. If Sir Thomas More had his way, the Roman Catholic Church would remain the same, with the Pope at the helm and his cardinals and priests below him. The Virgin Mary would retain her place of veneration; services would continue to be held in Latin, and confession would be made to the village priest. These were all things the Protestants wished to abolish, yet with More in the way, there was no chance of such change occurring. Thomas was on the side of the Protestants – he believed radical change was needed – but he refused to dismiss the king and his beliefs altogether.
“The king is learned, or so I have heard,” he defended the monarch.
“No one is going to say otherwise, are they? It’s funny how convincing the threat of death can be,” Latimer remarked dryly.
As they walked into the White Horse Inn, they found Ridley and Bilney already chatting eagerly, each with a mug of ale in hand.
“Mutton stew tonight, we have the luxury of meat!” Ridley beamed. “Why the serious faces?”
“We have just been discussing the news from Court.” Latimer seated himself, gladly accepting a mug of ale from Bilney. “I have a fearsome thirst; it’s warm tonight,” he gasped, taking a deep, satisfying draught of fluid.
Thomas followed suit.
“Where’s Barnes?” Bilney asked, looking around. “He had better not be up in his room, writing an essay and forgetting to come and eat again.”
At that very moment, Barnes appeared, looking distressed. “Bad news,” he whispered, sitting down heavily.
Bilney proffered yet another mug of ale. “Here, take a drink,” he instructed. “You look like you could do with some sustenance.”
Barnes took the mug in his trembling hand but did not drink from it. “Will Tyndale is dead. Burned at the stake, in Brussels.”
His four companions looked at him in horror as they considered the awfulness of such a wonderful man being burned alive.
“Apparently, they strangled him first, so at least he was spared the pain of the flames…” Plucking at the fabric of his long robe, Barnes dabbed at his eyes with it. “It was reported that his last words were, ‘I wish that the King of England’s eyes might finally be opened’.”
“How did you come to hear this?” Latimer demanded, shock and sadness adding additional brusqueness to his usually dry, crisp voice.
“A letter, from Luther himself.” Barnes knew Martin Luther personally and had often shown his friends letters from the man regarded as the leading reformist. In fact, he and Luther had belonged to the same order, Augustinian Canons.
Thomas remained silent, quelling a wave of nausea. Burned at the stake! Most people were not spared the pain of the flames. The prospect of such an untimely death acted as a strong deterrent to many would-be Protestants, including Thomas himself. Were he more open about his beliefs, he too might follow in Tyndale’s footsteps, whilst his four companions were certainly at risk of facing the same consequences. They were all convinced of Luther’s theories, including the abolition of using money to be absolved from sin by a priest. Paying money for such a sacred thing as absolution from sin did not sit right with him, and his companions were in total agreement. They recognised that absolution came from being sincerely penitent, and laying the burden of guilt before Jesus Christ Himself, who had died to absolve mankind from sin. To pay money for absolution was wrong, indeed, it endangered the souls of those who parted with their money. People truly believed that they had been pardoned, there was no need for penitence, and ascending to heaven was a surety for them. Whilst the reality was, their fate was far from certain.
“What are you thinking, Cranmer?” Latimer shot a keen glance in his friend’s direction.
“I think we should all quietly pray for safety. Safety from the plague, and safety from those who choose to harm others for the opinions they hold,” he replied softly.
“Amen to that,” Ridley agreed, as the five men solemnly bowed their heads. No one took much notice. In the White Horse Inn, prayer was a common enough sight.
“The death of Will Tyndale is a timely reminder that, sometimes, God demands the ultimate sacrifice,” Barnes said solemnly once they had finished. “It makes me uneasy.”
“Yes, just look at what happened to John the Baptist,” Latimer remarked, glancing with repulsion at the bowls of mutton stew that the serving girl had just placed on their table. His appetite, meagre at the best of times, had all but vanished upon hearing of Tyndale’s death. “He devoted his entire life to preparing the way for the coming of Our Lord, and then he was beheaded.”
“For us, the Lord made the ultimate sacrifice, so now we too must be prepared, no matter how uneasy the thought makes us.” Barnes took a large spoonful of mutton stew and gulped it down, his hunger only amplified by the anxiety they all felt.
‘We, who believe in God and his most blessed Son, know that we have the promise of eternal life,” the gentle Thomas Bilney’s face glowed with religious fervour.
The ultimate sacrifice. It was a lot to ask, Thomas silently reflected.
None of them knew it, but that was the last time they would all sit together in the White Horse Inn.