Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Eighteen
It was now November, and Thomas had returned from Canterbury late the previous evening. His clergy there had certainly improved as far as education was concerned, but some were anything but grateful for it. He always found it difficult to imagine how anyone could not thirst for knowledge. All of the Chantries were now closed, with the money from them having been put towards funding educational establishments. He now acted as Patron of Grammar Schools and Universities, and it gave him great pleasure to discover that these institutions were flourishing more than ever before. This was openly proclaimed to be due to the combined efforts of King Edward and the Archbishop of Canterbury, for although King Henry had encouraged and welcomed artists and musicians to his Court, he had never supported learning in any decisive way. His scholarly young son was remedying that.
A newly revised litany had finally been completed, and now lay in front of Thomas on his desk in his beloved Lambeth Palace library. As he picked it up to read through it yet again, there was a gentle knock on the door, and when he called out for whoever it was to enter, Ralph Morice opened the door and peered into the room, only to be rudely thrust aside without ceremony.
A tall, respectable looking man entered, his clothing suggesting he might be a clerk, and beside him, being forcibly dragged forwards, was an unwilling man, clad in clerical robes, whose hands were bound behind his back.
“I am Master Underhill,” the clerk introduced himself. “Apologies for my rude entrance, but I am here upon a grave matter. This man is the Vicar of Stepney.” His tone suggested that this, in itself, was sufficient explanation for his visit, and he regarded the archbishop with an air of expectation.
“Please, Master Morice, untie the vicar,” Thomas gently requested, laying aside the litany. “What reason do you have, Master Underhill, to bind him up like a criminal?”
As Morice fumbled inexpertly with the bindings, Underhill quivered with outrage. “This man has been preaching Popery! There are plenty of eyewitnesses to prove it, too. He is addicted to the old superstitions! When men of the true and Protestant faith speak of it aloud in his church, he causes bells to be rung so they cannot be heard. Sometimes, he even challenges the speaker in the pulpit! Knowing this to be vile practice, I apprehended him myself and brought him to you.” There was a note of virtue in his voice.
“Tell me, vicar, how long have you been at Stepney?” Thomas enquired of the prisoner.
The vicar looked indignant, as well he might. “I was formerly the Abbot of Tower Hill.” His voice was a low, sullen growl. “As recompense for the loss of my abbey, I was given this present position.”
He spent some time talking to the vicar, who was clearly orthodox. Unfortunately, like so many of the clergy, he was also badly educated. Yet again, he was faced with someone who did not understand Latin, yet preferred the services to be in Latin because it was familiar. The vicar frankly admitted that he ‘liked things the way they have always been’.
“Can you read and write?” Thomas asked.
“Yes.” This was said with pride. “That I can. In English.”
“Then I suggest you discover The New Learning and put aside the old. Read the Bible in English, good vicar. If you do not accept The New Learning, you must either publicly recant, or be punished,” he explained calmly. “Return now to your church. You shall be watched, and if you give no further cause for complaint, then nothing more will be said of this matter. Go now.”
The Vicar of Stepney shot a triumphant glance at Underhill, who was bridling with indignation.
“My lord Archbishop, you are too gentle with so stout a papist,” Underhill blurted, as the vicar scurried hastily from the library, clearly in a hurry lest the archbishop should change his mind.
Thomas gave a brief smile. What had this man expected him to do? Have the Vicar of Stepney burned to death on Lambeth Palace lawn? Clearly, he was ignorant of the fact that no heretics had been burned since Edward Seymour had become Protector. “We have no laws to punish him by,” he gently explained. “The heresy laws have long since been abolished.”
“Abolished!” Underhill was outraged; his cheeks flushed bright red, his eyes widened with horror. Already a tall man, he seemed to rise to an even greater height. “No laws, my lord? If I were in your position, I would make a law. I would…” He searched for the right words. “I would unvicar him, or else administer some sharp punishment upon him, and others like him. If ever it comes to your turn, they will show you no favour,” he predicted belligerently.
“Well, if God so provide, we must abide by it,” Thomas replied quietly
“Surely God will never give you thanks for this?” Underhill refused to be placated. “Rather, He will take the sword from those who will not use it upon His enemies.”
“I can only repeat: he shall be watched,” Thomas replied firmly. “Meanwhile, Master Underhill, I thank you for your diligence.” There was nothing more to be said. As he had already stated, there were no laws under which to convict the former abbot, and for that, he was truly grateful.
The visibly disgruntled Underhill departed, his spine rigid with indignation as he quit the library. During the coming weeks, the Vicar of Stepney was observed, but there was no more cause for complaint. Thankfully, it seemed he had heeded the archbishop’s advice.
*****
That same year, to the great joy and excitement of Protestant reformists, an Act of Uniformity was passed, meaning churches could only use the English litany. The Latin Mass was now illegal, but because the majority of people were inclined towards Catholicism, principally because they had known nothing else, the Act resulted in a certain degree of upheaval. Fortunately, thanks to the enthusiastic preaching of eminent Protestants – including Thomas Cramer, Hugh Latimer and Nicholas Ridley – more and more individuals were willingly converting to Protestantism.
At Court, the position of Edward Seymour, Duke of Somerset, was becoming increasingly precarious. He was not a strong leader, and the Privy Council was full of individuals who were far more assertive. The conservative, orthodox faction, hoping for a return to traditional Catholicism, was headed by Thomas Wriothesley – who was both Chancellor and newly created Earl of Southampton – and the Earl of Arundel, both of whom were feisty characters. The Protestant faction of the council was led by the Archbishop of Canterbury himself, along with Edward Seymour and John Dudley. The latter was rapidly gaining the upper hand, largely due to his involvement in suppressing a bloody rebellion on Mousehold Heath, in Norfolk, during the summer months.
Edward Seymour’s authority was further threatened by another rebellion, this time in Cornwall. It was initially believed this rebellion had been sparked by an ancient wish of the Cornish to be independent from England, but those in the know were aware that it was more complex than that. Discontent had been rumbling for years, as far back as the reign of King Henry VII; many of the Cornish people were desperately poor, and the new poll tax on sheep, combined with the price of wheat increasing fourfold, only added fuel to their resentment. The recent Act of Uniformity had made it illegal to use the old Latin prayer book, but many of the Cornish people spoke only the Cornish language. Despite understanding neither the English or the Latin litany, they were well used to the Latin, and to have it taken away was a terrible blow.
Outraged, the Cornish began to form an army, and gathered at Bodmin, under the leadership of the Mayor of Bodmin, Henry Bray. Many of the gentry hid themselves in their castles, as the mob fought and looted their way across the Tamar, intending to join forces with Devon rebels near Crediton. Finally, they laid siege to Exeter, demanding that the old Catholic Mass should be reinstated, and the Act of Six Articles restored. The city was under siege for a month, and eventually, John Russell, the Earl of Bedford, was sent with an army to put down the Cornish rebellion. In a series of brutal skirmishes, he did so, killing many Cornish men in the process.
Unfortunately, in order to maintain peace, English troops had to be taken from France, where there was constant bickering over England’s governance of Boulogne, a valuable trading post. Once enough English soldiers had been despatched to fight against the Cornish rebels, the French people raged war on the few remaining troops, ultimately regaining Boulogne. As the leader of the government, Edward Seymour was forced to take accountability for this disastrous series of events.
Seeing John Dudley riding high on public popularity for his success in Norfolk, Edward Seymour sensed that his role as Protector was under threat. It had been a difficult year; holding power might be something of a poisoned chalice, but nonetheless, it was a chalice he was determined to hold on to. Realising Dudley was poised to take over the government of the realm, Seymour took drastic action one night, seizing the king and taking him to Windsor Castle, hoping to strengthen his own position. It was an ill-advised move; in the absence of the Lord Protector, Dudley used this opportunity to unite the council and overthrow Seymour. The majority of the Privy Council were in favour of this, on the basis that Dudley was the stronger person to govern, and so he was swiftly proclaimed leader of the government. Meanwhile, in secret, Wriothesley and the Earl of Arundel had joined together to try and persuade Princess Mary to support them, promising her that if she did, they would make her Regent for her brother. Mary refused; having always accused Seymour of keeping power from her brother, she was not about to do so herself. Even those who disliked Princess Mary for her stubborn Catholicism, respected her unwavering loyalty to her brother.
Edward, when finally taken from Seymour’s clutches, was suffering from a heavy cold, as a result of being dragged away from his bed by his uncle and into the cold night air. Resentful of this treatment, he was not about to support his relative. Meanwhile, Wriothesley had somehow managed to regain favour with John Dudley, in spite of his recent display of Catholicism. How this had happened, Thomas could not understand, He would only wonder if their ruthless personalities enabled them to understand one another.
“I know Dudley declares himself to be Protestant, but I cannot judge how sincere his faith actually is,” Thomas confided to Nicholas Ridley, as they walked through the grounds of Lambeth Palace. They had both agreed that the English litany needed some adjustment and were intending to work together to produce a revised version.
“I have heard that Gardiner is hoping to regain his position in Winchester, should Dudley turn out to be only pretending to support reform,” Ridley remarked.
“I truly believe Dudley’s only interest is Dudley himself,” Thomas reflected.
“He is a courtier; most of them are like that.” Ridley shrugged.
“Yes, but… oh, you know what I mean. Some are worse than others.” Thomas scratched his beard thoughtfully. “I have to say, so far, it appears that he will support reform.”
Ridley cast a shrewd glance at his friend, detecting an air of tension clouding his countenance. “I perceive something else is troubling you.” He kept his voice low, despite the gardens of Lambeth being otherwise deserted. “Has the soon-to-be consecrated Bishop Hooper been demanding the casting aside of clerical vestments again?” It was possible. Hooper was very belligerent regarding vestments, stating that they were symbols of Catholicism. Personally, Ridley believed the clergy should be above fussing over what manner of garments they wore.
“No, Hooper is not the problem.”
“Dudley, then?” Ridley prompted.
“Yes, Dudley.” Thomas knew that he could discuss anything with this dear and respected friend. Like Latimer, Ridley had chosen to remain celibate, feeling that marriage would be a distraction from serving God, although both men were supportive of the clergy being able to marry. “I spoke with him this morning. Following the recent rebellions, any grievances the commoners have are to be shelved; he is not going to address them at present. He is also going to reintroduce the heresy laws, and legalise the enclosure of lands, which is what the peasants were fighting against.” Thomas was ticking items off finger by finger as he spoke. “It will be treasonable to even speak against a member of the Privy Council, and he is going to have all of the old service books burned, though at least this indicates commitment towards Protestantism. Finally, he is going to allow the Crown to appoint a commission, to reform canon law.”
“Reform canon law? He cannot!” Shocked, Ridley instantly focused on the last item on his friend’s list.
“He can,” came the grim reply. “I have argued with him and will oppose it. But I think it will be accepted by the council. I explained that this will undermine the clergy; furthermore, the Crown is not an authority on ecclesiastical affairs.” This was a raw point. The Crown should not be able to reform canon law without seeking advice and guidance from senior clergy.
For a while, the two men walked in contemplative silence, the only sound being the crunching of their feet upon the gravel path.
“Have you thought about accumulating a list of signatures from your most senior bishops, to present to the Privy Council?” Ridley suggested.
“I told Dudley I intend to do just that. He said I am free to do so, but that it shall not make any difference. In other words, he has made a decision, and if the clergy, or even the Council, oppose him, he will still proceed according to his own wishes.” He gave a deep, troubled sigh. “But I know the majority of the council will not oppose him. At the moment, he is so popular that he can do no wrong.”
There was another period of silence as they reflected on this. “What about the new, revised litany we are working on?” Ridley queried.
Thomas brightened. “That, at least, is to go ahead. I am bound for Cornwall in a few days’ time, but will think on it as I travel, and we shall finalise matters when I return.” Dudley desired that the Archbishop of Canterbury should spend some time speaking with the Cornish clergy, in an attempt to soothe ruffled feathers. Since he did not speak Cornish, and many of the Cornish people did not speak English, he would need to rely on an interpreter, though he was optimistic that perhaps a few of the clergy might speak some English, or Latin. “I hope I can convince these Cornish rebels that the litany is in accordance with Christ’s own instructions.”
“A Cornish litany is needed,” Ridley commented.
“Indeed, all men should be able to hear the blessed word of God in their mother tongue, but for the time being, it must remain in English,” Thomas replied. “We have no Cornish version to offer at present.”
“My bones do not travel the way they used to,” Ridley sadly remarked. “But my prayers shall go with you. Will you ride?”
“No, my bones are also unable to travel the way they used to. I cannot ride to Cornwall.” He managed to smile. “I shall travel mostly by carriage, so that I may sit and work… depending upon the state of the roads. I hear they are abominable in Cornwall. No doubt I shall need to use a horse once I am there. The journey will be long, but I am looking forward to sharing the Protestant faith with these people. By God’s grace, I shall deliver His word to them.”
*****
As he had predicted, the long journey to Cornwall was an uncomfortable experience. The roads – especially in Cornwall – were appalling, and the Cornish landscape was blighted by the sight of hundreds of gibbets, with the rotting remains of what had once been human beings dangling from them.
From the moment of his arrival, he was swept into a whirlwind of busyness. He spent a great deal of time talking with the clergy, and also tried to communicate with the laity, relying on his translator to keep up with his oratory. After a few weeks, he felt he had made a good impression, and had successfully started to soothe the bruised and battered emotions of the Cornish people. So many had lost friends, relatives, husbands, and sons, in the recent conflict; such tragic losses would take time to heal. Religious change was difficult for everyone, he accepted that. It had taken him some time to accept the Protestant faith. However, he left Cornwall feeling positive. The people were simply suspicious of change; given time, they too would acknowledge the truth of the Protestant faith.
Regarding the rest of England, it appeared the laity were cautiously adapting to the Reformation; some clergy, to the delight of Thomas, were even enthusiastic about it. Naturally, others were less so, but he would have been suspicious if it appeared otherwise; he did not expect people to impulsively cast aside their old beliefs. However, it now seemed that the Protestant faith was finally taking root in England.
On the day Thomas had set out for Cornwall, Bishop John Hooper, one of his most vocal critics, was imprisoned in the Fleet, for both criticising the new litany and for refusing to wear religious vestments, even at his own consecration. Unsurprisingly, by the time Thomas returned, Hooper was more reasonable about his protests, and was released from prison.
Shortly after his return to Lambeth Palace, the new English litany was completed, and a second Act of Unification was passed. This clarified that Dudley was genuinely committed to reform, much to Thomas’ relief, and revealed that Dudley was a far more radical reformer than the cautious Edward Seymour had been.
The new Act of Unification involved more than just a change of litany. The Mass was now the renamed, it was The Lord’s Supper; private confession was totally banned, and the officiating priest was no longer required to wear vestments, only a simple cassock. Thomas had also ensured that baptism was simplified: the infant was only to be dipped into the water once, not three times, and only a single sign of the cross was to be drawn upon the child’s forehead. As for offering the sacrament, the priest was only required to say ‘take and eat this’, followed by ‘drink this’. Finally, the Agnus Dei and the prayers for the departed were declared obsolete; the ancient canon of the Mass was changed beyond belief. The Protestant clergy, even those who were more radical than Thomas, were quick to praise the Archbishop of Canterbury for this move forward.
He was modest about his achievements, but he had fulfilled no small task, providing the Church with both a new prayer book and an English Bible, thereby giving the common people a simplified explanation of faith, so they might understand and approve the changes, and more importantly, come to know and love God. Without his hard work, the Reformation would never have succeeded.
*****
Since the young king had come to the throne, there had been no heretics burned, but Dudley was far less squeamish than Seymour when it came to burning people. He desired to make an example of one of them: a young Anabaptist named Joan Boacher, who had been imprisoned in Newgate for over a year now. Aware of this, Thomas visited Joan at Newgate Prison, as did Latimer, Ridley, and the eminent reformist, Peter Martyr, all of them bent on correcting her skewed religious beliefs.
“The virgin birth is stated in the Bible,” Ridley mused quietly, whilst seated in the gardens at Lambeth Palace with the archbishop and Ralph Morice. It was a lovely summer evening; the air was still and smelled sweetly of roses. Such an evening should not be wasted indoors. “Yet she persists in declaring that there was no virgin birth. Such a statement is heresy.” His mild countenance was troubled.
“It is a concern to me that she has been spreading this belief.” Morice shook his head sadly. “She can apparently be very persuasive in her teachings. I fear she will lead others into sin.”
“Dudley, wishes her to burn if she does not recant.” Thomas sighed. He was feeling unwell, and supposed it was probably due to overwork. Despite Margaret’s constant rebukes, he had failed to slow down his intense work schedule. “But she will not accept that Christ was born of the Virgin Mary, which the Bible clearly proclaims. To say otherwise is, as you rightly say, heretical.”
“If she should burn, I have heard there is another who is also likely to be burned, a man named George Van Paris, who is currently in the Fleet.” Morice looked anxious.
“His claims are similar to Mistress Joan’s. If one dies, the other must do likewise,” Thomas responded gloomily. Turning to Ridley, he suggested, “Do you think you and I should continue to visit her during the next couple of weeks, to see if we can guide her to the truth?” He looked hopefully at his friend.
Ridley’s kindly face beamed. “A good idea. We must at least try and save the maid.”
Over the next two weeks, the two men alternated their visits to Newgate Prison, but to their frustration, Joan refused to change her views. To make matters worse, it was a vile place to visit, even worse than the Fleet. Joan Boacher was held in a cell with eight other women; in order for them to speak with her, she had to be led out by two gaolers and taken to the prison chapel, as there was nowhere else where they could speak with her privately. She was clothed in rags, and judging by the way she energetically scratched her head, her hair was teeming with lice. She was also half-starved; her cheeks were sunken and her eyes huge, a certain sign of someone whose diet was lacking. Since those who governed the prisons were not held responsible for feeding the inmates, the latter were dependent upon the generosity of friends, relatives, or anyone else who would send food to them. Some of the food was appropriated by the gaolers, especially if it looked appetising. In cases like Joan’s, where a number of prisoners shared one cell, the food would be snatched by the strongest and fittest, and Joan Boacher was neither strong, nor fit.
“If she would recant of her heresy, she would be free.” Ridley looked at his friend with a concerned expression. Thomas was looking more and more unwell; there were dark circles beneath his eyes, and he had lost weight. He had always been slightly built, but at present, he looked positively frail. “As for you, my friend, are you not sleeping of a night, or taking time to eat?”
“I don’t feel well,” he admitted. “I sleep well… in fact, I find it hard to wake up.” He suppressed a yawn. “Margaret desires that I should see a physician, but I doubt if he would help, they seldom do. You know, my wife often jests that my beard has grown so long it has taken away my strength.” His beard was getting long and ragged, but he hated the thought of trimming it. It seemed disloyal to consider trimming it, even just to make it tidy. After all, it was a sign of affection for the late king.
Regarding physicians, Ridley had to agree. In his experience, they were of little help at all. “You need rest, my friend. You never stop working,” he rebuked gently.
So much had happened during the past few years, he had certainly been kept busy. But he was also getting older. How much longer would he be able to work at his current pace? “I will try to take things more slowly,” he assured his friend. “It is summer; the Court will probably leave London to avoid the plague, so that should at least give me a chance to rest, I hope. Meanwhile, Joan Boacher and this George Van Paris are now at the mercy of Dudley, Earl of Warwick. The outlook for both of them is not good. If she must die, I will request of Dudley that it should be done… well, you know… kindly. Perhaps a hanging?”
As Thomas had predicted, the two were sentenced to be burned at the stake together, at Smithfield, and his plea for something less painful was ignored. The king did not sign the death warrants, nor did Dudley; it was the Chancellor, Thomas Wriothesley, Earl of Southampton, who signed away the heretics’ lives. Rumours circulated that the Archbishop of Canterbury had signed the warrants, rumours which Ralph Morice suspected had been circulated by Wriothesley himself. People were hardened to the sight of executions; they would gather to observe a burning, but they were not a hugely popular spectacle, unlike a hanging or beheading. There had been none for a few years, and as far as these two burnings were concerned, the mood of the people was one of anger. Boacher and Van Paris had somehow gained public sympathy, therefore Wriothesley would rather people were annoyed at the archbishop than himself. After all, some people were still privately inclined towards the Church of Rome, which meant they disliked Thomas Cranmer anyway. As far as popularity was concerned, he felt the Archbishop of Canterbury had nothing to lose.
The weather soon turned hot, and Dudley decided to take the king to Eltham Palace, to escape the plague that would surely be sweeping through the streets of London in the near future. The journey to Eltham was by road from Greenwich, so the young king was able to show himself to the people, following the example of his magnificent father. As for Thomas, who felt even more exhausted than ever, he travelled with his wife and family to the relative peace of the Manor of Ford.
Barely had they arrived in Canterbury when he began to shiver, his limbs shook so violently that Margaret, frightened, immediately summoned a physician. The physician diagnosed an ague and declared that total rest was required. This Margaret agreed with, and she took it upon herself to remove her husband’s books from the bedroom where he was lying. Before departing, the physician announced that he would visit again in two days, whereupon he expected to see a significant improvement. He then left a prescription, informing her to make it up herself, if she had the ingredients, or to seek an apothecary to assist her. Once he had departed, she read the recipe aloud to Thomas’ friend, Dr Barbar, who had accompanied them to Canterbury, and also to Ralph Morice.
“The blood of a newly killed pigeon?” she gasped, waving the recipe before their eyes.
“Well, if he thinks it shall work, perhaps you should try it?” Barbar suggested carefully, frowning as he read the remainder of it. “The intestines of a rabbit?” His bushy eyebrows shot upwards. “Boiled in the urine of an infant?”
“Nein!” Margaret’s accent was much in evidence, as it always was when she was upset or angry. On this occasion, her English disappeared altogether. “Ich werde es nicht tun.”
“I beg your pardon?” Barbar’s eyebrows shot up again.
“I won’t do it.” Margaret threw the recipe into the fire. “Beef broth and wholesome soft food will rest his stomach, and sleep will rest his mind. He must stay in bed.”
Uneasy at this flagrant flouting of the orders of a physician, Barbar, nonetheless, bowed to the instincts of his friend’s suddenly fearsome wife. In his opinion, women were born with a mysterious, instinctive knowledge of these things, so, he reasoned, Mistress Cranmer should be permitted to do what she felt was best.
When the physician returned, he was delighted to see his patient very much improved, although still pale, weak, and prone to tremors of his limbs.
“My prescription seems to be having the desired effect, so continue with it for another week,” he instructed Margaret.
“What prescription?” Thomas murmured. He was lying comfortably on top of the bed, wearing only a long, linen shirt. The windows were open, and a cooling breeze drifted into the room.
“He doesn’t remember being given it,” Margaret explained, her expression angelic.
“Well, keep giving it to him. I also recommend you should close the window; a good fire will sweat the ague out of him.” The physician smiled at her benignly, then promptly departed.
“A fire?” Thomas was horrified. The breeze was so cooling and refreshing.
“You are not getting a fire, and the window stays open.” Margaret wondered why she had bothered summoning a physician in the first place. “He wanted me to give you pigeon blood and the entrails of a rabbit, boiled with the urine of an infant.”
“Why did you summon him?” It was totally against his nature to lie quietly and not actually do anything, but at this moment, he was content to do so.
“Panic,” she replied truthfully. “You are so rarely ill… I feared for your life.”
Once he began to feel stronger, Margaret, who was very much in charge, agreed for a small number of books and papers to be delivered to his bedchamber, on the condition that he only worked during daylight hours. He gladly conceded, using his recovery time to write a treatise against Stephen Gardiner. From his prison cell, Gardiner had been prolific in his written protests against the Archbishop of Canterbury over recent months, despite Thomas being responsible for granting him access to pen, ink, paper, and books.
“He did me a great disfavour,” he complained to Margaret. He was still very much confined to the bedroom, but he could now sit at the table and write for a few hours each day. In fact, he was surprised at how feeble he felt when walking around; his legs were apt to tremble in a most disconcerting way. “I thought my work on the sacraments was a very persuasive book, until he produced a pamphlet against it.”
“Whatever you write, he will find something to say against it,” his wife replied grimly.
Thomas smiled, for she spoke truly. Gardiner would always oppose him; he had to accept that. The man was an implacable enemy; it was always frightening whenever he contemplated it. After all, no one wanted to be deeply and irrevocably hated. Personally, he disliked Stephen Gardiner, and always had; they had little in common. Yet he had never actively hated him.
“The other bishops who were deprived of their dioceses – Bonner, Heath and Day – say little against you. But the former Bishop of Winchester cannot control his tongue… or his pen,” Margaret tutted, putting clean sheets onto the bed.
“Tunstall, Bishop of Durham, is to be deprived of his diocese.” Thomas frowned. In his hands, he held a letter from Ridley, updating him on current events. Tunstall was orthodox, but at least he outwardly complied with the Protestant changes. For this reason, Thomas had been satisfied with him retaining his position. John Dudley, however, believed that the bishop should be replaced by someone devoutly Protestant. “I have objected to his deprivation, as you know, but Dudley now has more say in the Church than the clergy. Tunstall is to be replaced, and I shall be blamed; most people do not realise that Dudley is in charge. However, I shall propose that, if he agrees, Ridley shall be created Bishop of Durham.” Edward Seymour would never have done such a thing without consulting the Archbishop of Canterbury. “And you have been shielding me from bad news, my love.”
Margaret was now standing beside him, looking over his shoulder at the letter he was holding.
Reaching for her hand, he kissed it. “According to Ridley, Paul Fagius and Martin Bucer are now dead, and have been for several weeks.”
Margaret nodded. She knew them both very well. They had taken refuge in England from the Emperor Charles’ persecutions in Germany, and upon their arrival in England, they had lived for some time at Lambeth Palace. Eventually, places had been found for them at Cambridge University. Bucer, especially, had been of great help during the writing of the latest Protestant litany. “I did not tell you, but I knew someone would write to you with the sorrowful tidings. I judge that you are now well enough to be given ill news. I cannot protect you from it forever.” She squeezed his hand. “I too was fond of them. They were people whom I shall always be proud to have known.”
Thomas kissed her hand again.
“What have you been writing?” She picked up a sheet of paper and scrutinised it. “Oh, is this the beginning of your work against Stephen Gardiner?” She read aloud, “‘the taking away of beads, pilgrimages, pardons, and suchlike popery, is but the lopping off of a few branches, which should soon spring up again, unless the roots of the tree, which are transubstantiation and the Mass, are pulled up. Therefore, out of a sincere zeal to the honour of God, I would labour in His vineyard to cut down that tree of error’.” Margaret paused. “You know, though I have never met him, I feel a deep hatred towards him. I often ask God to forgive me for that.” Margaret returned the sheet of paper to her husband.
“Well… God looks at the heart. He will perceive that your hatred is not for Gardiner, but for his behaviour towards me. If you met him, you would see a flawed man. In fact, it might be beneficial for you to visit him in the Fleet when we return to London,” he suggested, amused to observe the succession of emotions fighting for supremacy on his wife’s face.
“You would permit me to visit him… knowing I might…” She was lost for words. “Knowing I would find it hard to be polite to him?”
“There is nothing you can say which would offend him.” Thomas smiled. “I doubt if he would take notice, even if you were to grossly insult him. But, in seriousness, I would not permit that you should meet him, my dear.” He felt strangely saddened that they must return to the chaos of Court. He was enjoying this quiet time with his wife and two children, both of whom were clever and eager to learn. Clearly, he had needed physical and mental rest.
Nearly two months after he had first fallen ill, Thomas decided that he must soon return to Court, despite not being entirely recovered. Rumours had reached him that John Dudley was attempting to getting rid of Edward Seymour in a very permanent way. Although Seymour was currently imprisoned in the Tower, he remained a threat to Dudley, and Dudley was a man who would not tolerate threats. Thomas had also learned that the council were abusing their newly acquired clerical authority. Members of the council had been taking plate from churches – valuable pieces that had been Church property for centuries – and had either been selling it or else blatantly using it in their own homes. He had received numerous letters from his clergy, begging him to help stop this sacrilege, but there was nothing he could do. A year ago, he could have prevented it; but now, he was powerless to intervene. All he could do was try and persuade the council to cease this selfish, greedy behaviour.
In mid-November, Thomas set out for London, accompanied by Margaret, who had decided that the children should remain at the Manor of Ford until Christmas. They had been left in the capable hands of Edmund Cranmer, his wife Alice, and their children, so she was satisfied that they would be well cared for. Although he admitted he was not yet fully returned to heath, Thomas felt fitter and stronger than he had felt in a long time. He had needed the rest, though naturally he had done a lot of writing and studying during the latter part of his sojourn at Canterbury. Indeed, he had spent his final few weeks there teaching and lecturing to his clergy, and riding with his brother, Edmund. It had been a very long time since he had ridden for the sheer pleasure of it, and he was grateful to have had the opportunity to do so. It was satisfying to know that he was still a skilled rider.
Soon after arriving at Lambeth, he presented himself at Court, and went immediately to see the king. The sight that greeted him was not a cheerful one. Edward had been complaining of a cough ever since Edward Seymour had abducted him, but whatever ailed the lad, it was not the result of a mere chill. Thomas realised, with a sinking heart, that the fourteen-year-old king was gravely ill. Yet though the boy was clearly unwell, somehow or other, his mannerisms had become even more akin to those of his father: the way he spoke, the way he sat, the way he stood… all were reminiscent of the great King Henry.
Christmas was still some weeks away, but the Princesses Mary and Elizabeth were both at Court in readiness for the celebrations, and of the two young women, Elizabeth seemed the most strikingly changed. Fashions at court, for women at least, were outlandish, and Mary, a keen follower of anything fashionable, was obviously enjoying wearing elaborate gowns and having her hair intricately frizzed. Elizabeth, meanwhile, was continuing to heed the advice the archbishop had given her; attiring herself in plain, high-necked gowns, combing her auburn locks away from her face, tucking her hair beneath a modest cap, and wearing very little jewellery. There was a maturity about her now; she was a young woman and no longer a mere girl. Looking at her, it was impossible to imagine that she was the same giddy girl who had once flirted with Thomas Seymour. A number of courtiers believed Lady Jane Grey, the king’s devoutly Protestant cousin, was so keen to imitate Elizabeth, that she too was covering her hair and wearing plain, modest gowns. The fact was, Lady Jane had always dressed this way.
Prior to the commencement of any festive celebrations, John Dudley had Edward Seymour accused of treason. Twenty-three articles had been drawn up against him, but as he read through them, Thomas felt his anger mounting. The charges of greed and self-advancement were clearly applicable, but none of the others were viable; they were simply trumped-up charges, devised by a man who was determined to get rid of his rival. The most frustrating thing about the whole incident was that he could do nothing to save Seymour from execution. Dudley’s decision was final.
As soon as Christmas was over with, Seymour was tried and promptly condemned to death for treason. The trial was farcical in Thomas’ opinion. Unfortunately, since the day he had first come to Court, he had witnessed numerous farcical trials. On the eve of Seymour’s execution, he was permitted to visit him in his cell, and, as always, when faced with such circumstances, he wondered what he could possibly say that would be of any comfort. He found Seymour looking not only greyer of hair and beard, but also plumper of face and figure. Clearly, he was at least well looked after.
“I am here to pray with you, if you will permit it, and also to give you the sacrament.” Opening the bag he had brought with him, he seated himself and proceeded to unpack the vessels necessary for Holy Communion.
“I will take it gladly from you,” Seymour replied, implying that he would not have taken it from anyone else.
Opening his own prayer book, he showed his companion the words he had written only minutes previously: ‘fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom. Put thy trust in the Lord with all thine heart’.
“I intend to carry it with me to my execution tomorrow. These will be the last words I shall ever read,” he stated gravely.
“Would you prefer it if I were to accompany you?” Thomas asked, his voice hoarse. The profoundly touching words Seymour had written, had caused his throat to constrict.
“No, my lord Archbishop. I am glad of your presence now, but I am content to go to my death alone,” Seymour replied coolly. “I am ready to go.”
The former Lord Protector took Holy Communion graciously, then spent some time in prayer, speaking to the archbishop with the countenance of a man who was at peace with himself. Finally, he shook hands with his visitor, this simple gesture almost making Thomas forget that the man was to die the following day. It felt as though they were simply bidding each other good evening, and would meet again in the Council Chamber come morning.
Early the next day, Seymour, who only a short while ago had been regularly booed in the streets, died on Tower Hill, surrounded by a now silent, sympathetic crowd. The ordinary people of London always seemed able to differentiate between those who deserved the death penalty, and those who did not. Edward Seymour, they knew, had done nothing to deserve this.
Concerned that the death of his uncle might have upset the young king, Thomas made haste to visit him, and found him writing in his journal. Edward had kept a regular diary for some years, and he could not fail to glimpse the most recent entry:
‘The Duke of Somerset had his head cut off upon Tower Hill, between eight and nine o’clock in the morning.’
Shocked by the cool brevity of Edward’s words, he could only speculate that the boy was in shock. But then, he had shown no emotion at all when Thomas Seymour had died.
“We are planning to send ships to the New World,” Edward informed him, obviously not intending to touch upon the subject of his uncle’s death.
“Indeed, sire, I had heard.” Thomas gave a nod of affirmation. “An exciting project.” He noted the boy’s flushed cheeks; perhaps they were a sign that his health was improving. He could only pray to God that it was so. If anything happened to this youth, the next person on the throne would be Mary, and, as ever, it was apparent that she considered him to be her enemy. Her demeanour towards him was cold; if anything befell Edward, his own fate looked grim, as did the fate of the Reformation. Mary was as fervently Catholic as she had ever been, and she had no intention of changing her mind.