Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty
It was a time of unease and apprehension. Two weeks had passed, and Queen Mary had now victoriously seized the throne of England. From Lambeth Palace, he had heard the joyful clamour of the people as she had been ceremoniously escorted into the city. Riding in procession through the city gates, and progressing through the streets, she had cut a regal figure as crowds of ecstatic Londoners sang her praises and cheered, overjoyed to see the rightful queen taking the throne. The cheers of the people had been accompanied by the ringing of church bells, and whilst men had doffed their caps, women had hurled flowers at the radiant queen.
To his relief, he was informed that Mary had at least been merciful to Lady Jane. The girl, along with her husband, were placed in separate cells in the Tower of London. Her life, according to the information he had received, looked likely to be spared. Jane had ruled for a mere nine days.
John Dudley, on the other hand, having surrendered to Queen Mary, had been promptly accused of treason. In a vain effort to appease the new Catholic queen, he had declared himself to be Roman Catholic again. This achieved nothing, indeed, it only served to earn him contempt from both the Catholic and Protestant factions. Immediately after entering the city, Mary ordered Stephen Gardiner to be released from the Fleet Prison, and Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, to be released from the Tower, thus making it abundantly clear she intended to reinstate the Catholic Church in England.
Despite the disruption, as Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas was still expected to officiate at the king’s funeral in Westminster Abbey. Edward had stated his desire for a Protestant ceremony, whilst his sister desired a Catholic Requiem Mass, so there was a significant delay while it was decided how best to proceed. Having died on the sixth of July, it was not until the eighth of August that the young king was finally laid to rest; the first monarch to be buried using the English Prayer Book. As Thomas travelled to the ancient Abbey to conduct the service, he fervently prayed that King Edward VI would not be the last, and that future monarchs would also abide by the true Protestant faith.
It was the most poignant funeral service he had ever conducted, not only because of the tender age of the deceased, but also because he feared for the future of the Protestant Church which Edward had so loved. He, along with many others, had worked hard to bring the Protestant faith to England. What was going to happen under Queen Mary? He was aware that, whilst he was conducting the Protestant service at Westminster, Stephen Gardiner was holding a Catholic service for the late king at the Tower of London, in the Chapel of St. John, at the queen’s behest.
After the king’s burial, he returned to Lambeth and anxiously awaited the new queen’s next move. Margaret had now left for Zurich with the children; their parting this time had been particularly painful, as they had no idea when, or if, they would see each other again. His dearest wish was that Queen Mary would, at some point, exile him to Switzerland; this he could accept, as it would not compromise his beliefs. Realistically, he doubted that wish would ever be granted. That wish was but a dream. John Dudley was massively despised for reverting to Catholicism; even Catholics regarded him with a mixture of contempt and suspicion. As far as Thomas was concerned, any public figure who spontaneously changed faith damaged the Protestant cause, instilling doubt amongst its followers, especially new converts. As Archbishop of Canterbury, he had to stand firm, a stance which both Hugh Latimer and Nicholas Ridley agreed with. Like him, both Latimer and Ridley were simply waiting to see what would happen next. They did not have to wait long.
Shortly after King Edward’s funeral, a rumour was circulated that Edward’s burial had been conducted according to Catholic rites. No one knew where it originated from, although Stephen Gardiner was an obvious culprit. Whilst it was a fact that Gardiner had conducted a private Mass in the Tower of London for the queen’s benefit, this Mass had not been the king’s actual funeral service. It had been a Service of Remembrance, which was a totally different event. Thomas felt duty-bound to respond, producing a counterstatement refuting the rumour, which he intended to personally read aloud at St. Paul’s Cross. King Edward had been devoutly Protestant; such a Protestant figurehead could not be alleged to have been interred with anything other than Protestant funeral rites.
“This is stern stuff, my friend. It will provoke a reaction,” Latimer remarked, as he sat with this Thomas in the library at Lambeth, reading over his friend’s statement. Thomas Cranmer might come across as a timid man, but Latimer knew he could stoutly defend his opinions when it was necessary to do so.
“I tried to caution him against it, but he wouldn’t listen,” Ralph Morice admitted, looking pointedly at the archbishop. Like his companions, Morice was finding this waiting period intensely stressful.
“I know,” Thomas muttered. He looked strained and anxious, which was hardly surprising given the rapid changes during the past few weeks. “But what else can I do? I must defend the beliefs I hold dear.”
“Quite,” Latimer agreed. “I too must defend my beliefs.” There had been many times during his life when he had felt himself to be in danger, mostly during the reign of King Henry. But at least he, and other Protestants, had been aware of what Henry did and did not approve of, and what the punishment was likely to be. Now, everything was uncertain. They knew Queen Mary was devoutly Catholic, but they did not know what she was capable of doing, or how far she was willing to go to ensure Catholic domination. Undeterred, Latimer continued to do what he had always done, and his public preaching continued to draw large crowds.
On the fifth of September, the Archbishop of Canterbury spoke at St. Paul’s Cross, and the queen reacted with more speed than he had anticipated. Within a few hours, a servant rushed into the library at Lambeth to inform him that a barge was docking at the landing step, and men at arms, wearing the royal livery, were disembarking. Thomas had just enough time to bid an emotional farewell to his faithful secretary, before he was immediately escorted to the royal barge.
As he was removed from his London home, he knew Morice was in the library, gathering together some of his master’s writings, and as many books as he could, for safe keeping. This was something they had already discussed; Morice had been adamant that, should the worst happen, he would preserve as many books and writings as he possibly could. Soon, Thomas Cranmer would no longer be Archbishop of Canterbury, that was a certainty. His successor would be Stephen Gardiner, and Gardiner would joyously burn anything he considered heretical… which encompassed most of the contents of the Lambeth Palace library. It was some comfort to know that Morice would try to preserve some of his most well-used and valuable tomes.
The journey to the Tower was eerily silent; broken only by the familiar sound of oars dipping in and out of the water. The oarsmen were solemn and uncharacteristically mute. Eventually, the barge docked with a dull thud at the water steps, known to the Londoners as ‘The Traitors Gate’. He was following in the footsteps of Thomas More, Catherine Howard, the Earl of Surrey, Bishop Fisher, Edward Seymour, and, of course, his friend Cromwell. None of them had lived. Anne Boleyn had been accorded the dignity of making her final entry via the Court Gate, in the Byward Tower.
Once in his cell, he immediately made a requested for writing materials, which was granted. Wasting no time, he promptly began to write a defence for himself, to be addressed to the Privy Council, in anticipation that it would be read at the next council meeting. By late evening, he had completed it.
‘I have been well exercised these past twenty years to suffer and bear evil reports quietly,’ he wrote. ‘But when untrue reports and lies cause God’s truth to be hindered, they cannot be tolerated or suffered. If Her Grace, the queen, will give me leave, I shall be ready to prove against all who say to the contrary, that the book of Holy Communion, set up by the Godly King Edward, is conformable to the order which our Saviour Christ commanded us to observe. The Mass, in many things, not only has no foundation in Christ, His Apostles, or the primitive Church, but also is manifest contrary to the same, and contains many blasphemies in it.’
He closed the letter by apologising for signing King Edward’s Will, stating, ‘my heart was penitent and sorrowful for this’.
His room in the Tower was not a cell as such, and though it lacked luxury, he could endure it. He had other things to consider other than personal comfort. The current whereabouts of his wife was unknown to him. Was she safe? Were the children safe? As for being released from imprisonment, he doubted it would happen in the near future. His assumption was, he would be accused of heresy.
In addition to his statement of defence, he also wrote a personal letter to the queen, again apologising for signing Edward’s Will, and offering to instruct her in the way of the Protestant faith. He received no response to either of his letters, languishing in the Tower for some days, awaiting news of when he would be brought to trial. So far, no one had uttered the word ‘heretic’ to him. However, he soon realised the Tower was steadily being filled with Protestants, so it came as no surprise when he was informed that he would have to share his cell with two other people. To his joy, which wasalmost immediately replaced by sorrow, his two fellow prisoners were none other than his dear friends, Nicholas Ridley and Hugh Latimer.
“My mind cannot decide whether I should laugh or cry at the sight of you,” he greeted them. “I dearly wish you were both safe elsewhere.”
“We could say the same of you,” Latimer retorted, fixing him with a piercing but compassionate stare. “You could have escaped with your wife.”
“I could not. It would have indicated that I did not accept responsibility for my own beliefs,” he responded quietly.
Ridley chimed in. “It is the same for me. I refused to travel to Geneva; I followed the example of my archbishop. What of you, friend Latimer?”
“I was doing what I do best,” Latimer replied, looking aggrieved. “Standing at St. Paul’s Cross, explaining that Catholicism is utter heresy and imperils the immortal soul, until I was dragged away by the queen’s soldiers.”
The three friends looked at one another gravely.
“Do you think we shall survive?” Ridley asked solemnly.
There was a long moment of silence.
Eventually, Thomas shook his head. “I wish I could say otherwise. I have, during my days here alone, tried to be optimistic. But I fear the worst.”
“Likewise.” Hugh Latimer shrugged his thin, bony shoulders apologetically. “I truly believe I have preached my last sermon at St. Paul’s Cross.”
Ridley nodded, his gentle face calm and thoughtful. “Well, my friends, I think the wisest course of action is to pray.”
*****
Intellectual as they were, the three men set about examining their beliefs, but after hours of talking and questioning, they found no reason to reject anything they believed in. They drew strength from one another, their confinement together tightening the bonds of friendship that already existed between them. They knew time was running out, but Latimer, in his typical fashion, robustly tried to rally their spirits, regularly reminding them that, as brothers in Christ, they would one day be reunited, not only in a better place, but in the arms of the mighty risen Lord. Ridley and Latimer had been summoned before a committee of senior Catholic clergy and declared to be heretics, but so far, they had not been condemned. As for Thomas, he remained in their shared cell. Waiting.
By this time, the country had reverted to Catholic orthodoxy, meaning the Pope was no longer referred to as the Bishop of Rome, and was once again considered Head of the Church. As a result, the city of London was in turmoil; the Tower, the Fleet, Newgate, and the Marshalsea Prisons, were almost full to overflowing with Protestant supporters. Some of the married clergy had resigned and were living on the streets, homeless, whilst others callously cast their wives aside. The most powerful man in the clergy was Stephen Gardiner, now Chancellor of England, much to the chagrin of Sir Thomas Wriothesley, whom the queen deemed unsuitable for the position. Gardiner was so close to the queen that rumours were circulating about the possibility of them having an affair. Such salacious behaviour might be believable of Gardiner, but not the queen, whose prudery was well known.
In truth, the queen had her eyes set upon a bridegroom, and he was most certainly not Stephen Gardiner. Her choice was one Prince Philip of Spain, her cousin; since she was required to provide an heir to the throne, she reasoned that she might as well marry someone who would provide her with political stability. In her uniquely blunt manner, she explained her reasoning in a letter to the Privy Council:
‘It is not for my own pleasure to choose where I lust, nor am I desirously in need of a husband. For God, I thank Him, I have hitherto lived a virgin, but if it may please God that I might leave some fruit of my body behind me to be your governor, I trust you would not only rejoice, but that it would be to your comfort’.
The Catholic members of the council agreed with this. If Mary died, the Protestant Elizabeth would take the throne. Mary had to marry; she had to provide a Catholic son and heir. Her choice of Prince Philip of Spain, son of the Holy Roman Emperor, Charles V, was a grand alliance, but it was unpopular. Mary knew her mother had been a popular queen, so she could not envisage that the great nephew of Catherine of Aragon would be anything less than popular too. However, what she failed to appreciate, was the glaring difference between the two. As a woman, and wife to King Henry VIII, her mother had worn the crown matrimonial, and had not been expected to take any part in the actual ruling of the realm. A Prince of Spain, being male, would, everyone assumed, take over the leadership of England, and the people of England did not wish to be ruled by a Spaniard.
Mary’s popularity, riding high during the first weeks of her accession to the throne, suddenly began to plummet. Even Stephen Gardiner, sensing the mood of the people, took it upon himself to advise her against the Spanish marriage. Instead, he recommended she should wed the aristocratic Cardinal Reginald Pole instead, providing, of course, that he was willing to resign his clerical office. Mary was dismayed, for unbeknownst to Gardiner, she was intending to overlook him and place Reginald Pole in the office of Archbishop of Canterbury. She did not wish to marry the man she had in mind for the archbishopric.
Regarding her sister, Elizabeth, Mary knew that they could not both be legitimate, therefore she promptly wrote to her, explaining that, regretfully, Elizabeth was now a bastard again. Unfortunately for Mary, this only increased her sister’s popularity; she had always been loved by the people, who now perceived her as having been unfairly snubbed and rejected by her sister, the queen. They did not care about the reason why only one sister could be legitimate, but they did care about Elizabeth being side-lined. Mary’s popularity took another dip.
As the weeks and months passed, autumn turned to winter, and the Tower became so full of prisoners that it was impossible to adequately heat all the cells.
Knowing he was likely to be burnt at the stake, Latimer, who at the best of times had little padding on his bones, complained to a gaoler with his usual dry humour. “Sir, if you do not provide fuel for a fire, I am likely to defeat your expectations and freeze to death.”
Their cell, however, remained cold, and although his companions tried to heap cloaks and blankets upon him, Latimer stubbornly refused to accept their largesse, lest they too should freeze.
It was during this glacial time that their gaolers informed them that the Act of Six Articles had been reinstated, which was sobering news for the three prisoners. The reintroduction of the Act meant anyone convicted of heresy would be executed. As for the queen’s negotiations regarding her Spanish marriage, everything appeared to be progressing smoothly, especially since the Emperor Charles approved of the Act of Six Articles being passed. Then, to their interest, the prisoners were informed that a rebellion was brewing.
The group was headed by Thomas Wyatt, the son of the poet who had once been in love with Anne Boleyn. The rebels were not only upholding Protestantism; they were firmly against the Act of Six Articles, and the forthcoming Spanish marriage. According to the news Thomas and his friends heard from their gaolers, these people were marching through the streets of London, waving banners and shouting that they did not want to be ‘under the rule of proud Spaniards or strangers!’ On the contrary, what they wanted, was for Lady Jane to become Queen.
Eager for more information, the three friends begged each gaoler who entered their cell for news of what was happening.
“Six hundred rebels have died,” one amenable gaoler informed them, lingering for a cosy chat. “Including Master Wyatt. Unfortunately, I have also heard that Prince Philip of Spain… at least, I think he is a prince?” He regarded his audience questioningly.
In unison, the three prisoners nodded eagerly, desiring to hear what he was going to say next.
“Well, apparently, this prince person has told the queen that he will not marry her; not until she makes the throne secure by getting rid of Lady Jane. But I can tell you truly, that young girl had nothing to do with the rebellion. I’ve seen her; I’ve talked with her. I know she will not side with anyone, nor does she want to be queen.”
“What will befall her?” Thomas wondered aloud. “It seems likely that the poor young maid will remain in the Tower for the rest of her life.”
“Poor young thing. I doubt she likes her husband; he has written to her, asking to see her. It was I what gave her the letter.” The gaoler was sitting contentedly on one of the few chairs, clearly happy to divulge information. “She wrote back to him, telling him she would rather wait until she sees him in heaven. It is believed he will be executed soon, on Tower Hill rather than Tower Green, because he isn’t royal. The Dudleys aren’t real aristocrats; his father, John Dudley, died on Tower Hill, and in my opinion, he were lucky. He ought to have been taken to Tyburn like any other commoner!’
The execution of John Dudley had come as a surprise to no one, other than Dudley himself. Thomas and his friends had learned that he had recanted of his Protestant faith, then proceeded to take the Catholic sacrament in the Chapel of Saint Peter ad Vincula, hoping to be spared. He had been executed the following day.
“They have no reason to execute Guildford Dudley though,” Thomas objected. “The boy has done nothing wrong.” He had simply obeyed his parents and married Lady Jane Grey… plus, if he was executed, what fate would befall his wife?
Ridley was clearly thinking the same thing. “But Lady Jane Grey… do you think she shall be spared?”
“That is a good question…” The gaoler prepared to leave. “I’ll tell you good gentleman when I hears anything.”
A week later, true to his word, the gaoler imparted grave news. “Sir John Bridges, the new Lieutenant of the Tower, has orders to be ready to erect a scaffold on Tower Green. There can only be one use for this: the poor little maid is to be executed.” The gaoler shook his head sadly. “It’s a real shame. I’ve seen a lot of executions in my time, but it’s always sad to see a maiden perish. I hope they find a decent executioner to take her head off clean. I saw Catherine Howard die you know. She died bravely.”
“She cannot die, it is not her fault that she was made queen. She had nothing to do with the rebellion,” Ridley protested.
“But she is a focus for other rebels.” Thomas’ voice was husky with emotion. His hope that she would simply remain a prisoner in the Tower had been horrendously sanguine.
“It’s tragic,” Latimer murmured, having remained uncharacteristically silent. Using the sleeve of his gown, he unashamedly wiped his eyes.
“Well, I can’t linger. I’d best be about my business. We have to prepare to receive even more prisoners.” The gaoler opened the cell door with a sigh. “This place is overcrowded as it is.”
In the end, there was no need for him to deliver news of Lady Jane Grey’s execution. A few days later, the three friends heard the unmistakable noise of sawing and hammering; as the gaoler had stated, a scaffold was being constructed on Tower Green, and there was no doubt who it was for. The day after, in the early morning, they heard the equally tell-tale sound of mournful drums, signalling Lady Jane was being taken to the block. Silently, the three men stood, heads bowed in prayer, with tears unashamedly trickling down their cheeks.
“She died well,” announced the gaoler, visiting their cell shortly after the execution. He was eager to describe the event. “Before her own execution, she watched out of her window as her husband was taken up to Tower Hill, then brought down again, a bloodied headless corpse. When she was taken out, she told the Lieutenant that her life had not been all that happy, so she was glad to go… well, it was something like that. She was a brave girl.”
“She’s at peace now.” Latimer had compressed his lips together to prevent them from quivering. “What a vile act to do to such a good maiden.”
“Indeed,” agreed the gaoler. “She now lies between the Queens Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard, and not far from the Dukes of Northumberland and Somerset… seems queer that those two men should lie almost together, given how much they hated each other.”
*****
Apart from the lack of warmth, the three men had been treated well in the Tower, which they appreciated. Each day they anxiously awaited their fate. Would they be taken to trial? Would someone examine them for their beliefs? Nothing significant had happened so far, not since the day Latimer and Ridley had been informed that they were heretics. Then, shortly after Lady Jane Grey’s execution, they were peremptorily informed that they were to be taken to the Bocardo Prison, Oxford. The implication of being taken to Oxford was not lost on any of them. Oxford was a Catholic stronghold. There would be little Protestant sympathy for them amongst their examiners and judges.
“I hope your memory is still sharp,” Latimer warned Thomas, as they gathered together their meagre possessions. “We cannot guarantee that we shall be permitted books at Oxford.”
“Certainly not Protestant books,” Ridley concurred. “They probably won’t have anything to do with Protestant books at Oxford.”
“I suspect we shall not be allowed to speak up for The New Learning, but they will require us to be convinced of the old,” Thomas surmised. That morning, he had finally been informed of the charges against him, namely treason and heresy. Ridley and Latimer had been charged solely with heresy. This information failed to surprise any of them.
“We have God Himself to support us.” Ridley gave a gentle smile. “My friends, we shall never be alone. I implore both of you to remember this.”
“I know.” Thomas tried to return the smile, hoping his lips did not quiver as he did so.
“I understand you will be the first to be examined.” Latimer squeezed his friend’s arm. His hands were now gnarled and arthritic; his weeks in the Tower had aged him considerably. Every movement was painful, yet his spirit was undaunted. The fire that had burned within him throughout his life, remained undimmed and bright. “Speak the truth according to the word of God, friend Cranmer.”
He nodded slowly. “It is the only truth; I can speak no other.”
*****
The journey to Oxford was slow, for the roads were thick with mud, constantly trapping the wheels of the wagon in a murky, sticky embrace.
“We might as well walk to Oxford,” Latimer stated dryly. “It would be quicker for us, and easier for the horses.”
Despite the rigours of the journey, the three of them relished the opportunity to be out in the open air. They had spent so much time in one room, the simple things they had previously taken for granted – the sky, hedgerows, sheep… even the smells of cow byres and manure heaps – brought smiles of pleasure to their faces.
In due course, they arrived at the Bocardo Prison, and after spending months waiting in the Tower, it was immediately obvious that matters were about to move at a brisk pace. No sooner had the doors closed behind them, than they were informed they would all be examined very soon. Immediately, they requested books to assist them in their discussions, but their request was refused.
“As we suspected, it would seem we are not supposed to defend our Protestant faith, but rather we are to be convinced of Catholic ideology,” Latimer murmured, as they were taken to their cell. At least, for now, they were still together.
The day following their arrival, the three were informed that they were to be examined; Thomas was to be taken first. Having waited so long for this moment, after spending weeks preparing his case, he now felt totally ill-equipped to tackle the task at hand. “I pray I shall find the words to say.” His voice was a whisper. “Pray for me.”
“We will,” Latimer reassured him. “Remember, you have your vast knowledge to assist you. I was never interested in doctrines, so I must rely on my wits, but you have a wealth of information stored in your mind. I suggest you use it.”
“My friend, you are as well informed as Ridley and I. Cast your modesty aside, and when your turn comes, you shall dazzle them with the truth of the gospel.” After shaking hands with his two dear companions, he was escorted from their cell.
He held onto Latimer’s assurances as he walked towards the interview chamber, and finally came face to face with his accusers. He had expected to be instructed to stand in the centre of the room, but he was instead offered a seat, and a cup of ale or wine, should he require it. Taken aback by their gentleness and respect, he thanked his accusers graciously and sat down.
The prolocutor was a certain Dr Weston, well known for his orthodox convictions; he opened the debate by stating clearly, the intention of the Court was to convince Thomas of Catholic truth and unity, ‘of which you were once in that same unity’.
Weston fixed Thomas with a forthright stare. “But you are now separated from that unity, by teaching and setting forth erroneous doctrines. It has pleased the queen to send you, and your two companions, here, to recover your Catholic faith once more. These are the articles to be disputed.” He handed some papers to a clerk, who passed them to Thomas.
“Will you sign these articles?” demanded Weston, after giving the prisoner time to read them.
“No,” Thomas replied gently, laying the papers on a nearby table. They were strongly anti-Protestant, but he had expected nothing less.
There was silence in the room; his examiners regarded him expectantly, waiting for him to speak.
Finally, gathering his thoughts together, he spoke again. “As for unity, I am glad of it. It is a preserver of all commonwealths, heathen as well as Christian. I would be very glad to come to a unity if it were in the faith of Christ, and according to the Church of God.” He sighed, spreading his hands apologetically. “The Protestant faith is often called The New Learning. But it is not new. It is ancient. It is the truth according to the word of God. It is the truth practiced according to the disciples of Christ Jesus Himself.”
The examination continued in this manner for a couple of hours, with the clergy trying to convince him that the Catholic faith was the one true faith, whilst he tried to convince them otherwise. Unsurprisingly, his arguments were so sincere, and so grounded in biblical texts, that Weston was unable to confute anything the prisoner said. As the session ended, Thomas agreed to take the articles to his cell.
“If you give me leave, I shall study them, although I do believe my reply will not differ,” he stated frankly.
To his satisfaction, Weston permitted him to have any books he required to assist him with his studies, and for that, he was immensely grateful. He would need the books, not only for academic purposes, but also for company; after weeks of talking, debating and sharing knowledge together, he and his friends were to be separated. It would be a sad moment, saying goodbye. Their lives had been intertwined for such a long time; they had shared so much with one another, not just during their imprisonment, but over the course of many years.
When the time came, they stood helplessly, looking at each other, realising it was unlikely they would meet again.
“May we have some time to pray together?” Ridley asked of the guards.
His request was granted, and the guards courteously withdrew.
Inevitably, it was Latimer whose spirit upheld them. “We may not meet again in this life, but we shall meet in the next. My brothers, I rejoice in that glorious expectation. God bless both of you.”
A couple of days later, Thomas was called upon to dispute with a man called John Harpsfield, who was not yet a Doctor of Divinity, but was recognised with respect by his colleagues. Unfortunately for Harpsfield, the prisoner’s academic prowess far exceeded his own.
Taking pity on him, Thomas treated Harpsfield with his habitual kindness, prompting Dr Weston to remark, “Your gentle behaviour and modesty is worth much commendation. I give you hearty thanks in my own name, and in the name of my colleagues.”
His eyes misted as everyone present stood up and doffed their caps in respect. During the journey to Oxford, as a prisoner, he had expected harsh words, even violence, perhaps. This courtesy was overwhelming.
The following day, Thomas, Ridley and Latimer were declared to be heretics, and would be condemned to burn as soon as the heresy laws were reinstated – which would be in the very near future. When informed of this by Dr Weston, Thomas momentarily felt numb, it was too much to take in. This was what he had dreaded ever since becoming a Protestant; throughout the reign of King Henry, he had feared it, and now, it had finally come to pass. He would feel the unbearable heat of those flames. The burn of a candle or taper was painful, how would he endure the scorching heat of the fire? The thought of it made his knees tremble. The same fate would no doubt befall all the other Protestants who were crammed into the London Prisons – unless they recanted. It was a distressing thought.
His fate decided, he promptly wrote a letter to Margaret, though he did not know when, or if, she would receive it. He had written to her numerous times since being imprisoned in the Tower but had not received a single letter in return; he suspected her letters had been destroyed before reaching him. She had, at least, succeeded in sending a verbal message to Peter Martyr, who had visited him in the Tower, days before he was removed to Oxford. At least he knew that she and the children were well, and had reached Switzerland safely. Martyr had also revealed that his brother Edmund was also alive and well, and was currently living in Rotterdam. It had been a relief to know his family were safe, even if he was not.
Whilst in the Bocardo Prison, he heard from his gaolers that Protestant priests were recanting in large numbers, and more and more leading reformists were fleeing, including John Knox, who had bolted back to Scotland, declaring that, ‘the nation has returned to idolatry’. After spending much of his adult life trying to achieve this one goal, it broke his heart to admit that his precious reformation of the Church now lay in ruins.
As for Queen Mary, now newly married to Prince Philip of Spain, she could not fail to recognise that her early popularity was evaporating rapidly. When she rode through the streets, the cheers were half-hearted, and men did not take the trouble to doff their caps. This was principally on account of her marriage; everyone knew that Philip of Spain would end up ruling their country, instead of their queen. After all, a woman, once wed, must submit to the will of her husband. Furthermore, it was also known that Philip planned to bring the fearful Spanish Inquisition to England. Queen Mary was becoming more than seriously unpopular. She was close to being hated.
Unfortunately for Thomas and his friends, the heresy laws were swiftly repealed, having been forced through Parliament by Reginald Pole, who was due to become Archbishop of Canterbury, much to the resentment of Stephen Gardiner. On the first of October, in the Church of St. Mary the Virgin in Oxford, the three friends were tried separately: So far, although they had been told they were heretics and would burn, there had been no formal trial. Nicholas Ridley and Hugh Latimer were to be tried for heresy, Thomas Cranmer for heresy and treason. Naturally, all three of them refused to recant; all three of them were condemned to die. Thomas assumed they would all die together.
Two weeks later, John Harpsfield visited Thomas in his cell, as he had been doing since their debate.
“I hear Cardinal Reginald Pole has refused to accept the position of Archbishop of Canterbury, since the position is already filled by your good self. He says he cannot not take it until the present incumbent, yourself, is dead,” he explained apologetically.
Thomas merely shrugged. Harpsfield’s regular visits were a courtesy he appreciated; the man was compassionate and intelligent, and being in his company was a pleasure, even under the current circumstances. “That does not surprise me.” He picked absently at the sleeve of his gown. “We three are all condemned now. It won’t be long before we face the flames.”
Harpsfield looked uncomfortable. “My lord Archbishop, if the three of you recant, you will be spared. I derive so much pleasure from your learned company, I would hate to lose you.” His tone was deeply sincere.
“I thank you for that. I have likewise enjoyed your discourse,” Thomas replied honestly.
Harpsfield looked at Thomas solemnly. “There is something else you must know, regarding your current position.” He paused. “It is not the same as that of your colleagues. The three of you may have been tried and condemned just over two weeks ago, however, being Archbishop of Canterbury, you have been referred to the Pope in Rome for a second trial.”
He regarded Harpsfield with an expression of surprise. This had not occurred to him, though it did make sense. Mary had delivered England once more into the arms of Rome, so it was only to be expected that the fate of the Archbishop of Canterbury would rest in the hands of the Pope himself. “It won’t make any difference. I shall still be condemned to die either way,” he replied.
Harpsfield shifted uncomfortably in his chair, looking like a man who had bad news to reveal, but did not know how to deliver it.
“Is something wrong?” Thomas asked.
“Your friends…” Harpsfield leaned forward earnestly. “I wish I could tell you otherwise, but they are to die tomorrow.”
Thomas felt his mouth go dry, as though all the moisture had been sucked out of it. Searching for something to say, all he could manage was to inadequately murmur, “I pray their suffering will be quick.”
“I too pray for that… or else that they may recant,” Harpsfield replied quietly.
“I acknowledge your sincerity. You believe their souls shall be saved by recanting. I believe they will be saved by not recanting. I know neither will recant.” Feeling his hands beginning to shake, he clasped them behind his back.
His voice was so low that his companion had to lean further forward to hear what he was saying.
He walked over to the small window of his cell, which looked out over the prison courtyard. For some time, he stood and stared, his mind elsewhere. Eventually, he asked, “at what time do they die?”
“Morning.” Harpsfield’s voice was husky; he dearly wished he could find something comforting to say to this kindly, elderly prisoner. “In the morning,” he repeated, his voice a fraction stronger.
After a sleepless night spent in prayer, he heard a commotion in the corridor – the sound of a great many footsteps – and knew it was the guards coming to take his friends away to die. He had no means of looking into the corridor to witness their final departure. Some minutes later, as he was on his knees, earnestly praying, he heard keys rattling, and his cell door opened. A couple of gaolers stood there, with four men at arms. For a moment, he felt faint with shock. They had come for him; he too was to die.
“We are here to take you to the rooftop of this prison, Master Cranmer,” the gaoler announced.
His heart was beating rapidly with shock, and the skin on his palms felt damp. “But why?”
“You are to witness the executions of your friends,” came the gaoler’s brief reply. “It will be taking place in the square near to this building.”
Knees trembling, he stood upright. “But I don’t want to..”
“You have no choice, Doctor Cranmer. Bishop Gardiner himself has decreed it.’ The gaoler extended his arm towards the door, indicating that he was to leave the cell.
Stunned, he obeyed, following them along a bewildering maze of corridors and up several flights of stairs. He knew full well the reason why Gardiner had wanted him to witness the deaths of Latimer and Ridley. It was a terrible way to die; Gardiner would enjoy the idea of him witnessing their suffering, and the council would be hopeful that he would recant immediately upon viewing their grizzly deaths. At last, a door was opened, and he was led onto the roof of the prison. From this vantage point, he could clearly see the figures of his friends being led to the stake, situated near to the north gate of the city. Clutching the stone balustrade, his knuckles white with strain, he watched as they were bound. He could hear the low rumble of the crowd, dogs barking, and children shouting. From such a distance, he could not determine if bags of gunpowder had been fastened around their necks or not. Automatically, he closed his eyes in prayer.
“Master.”
He felt an elbow gently nudging his ribs.
“Master, you are to observe. We must ensure that you see it all.” The gaoler, not an educated man, but sympathetic nonetheless, looked apologetic.
He heard Latimer’s voice, raised in prayer, then the voice of Ridley, also raised in prayer. The morning was damp and cool; not a trace of wind wafted through the still air. With rising nausea, he realised this was not a good day for anyone to burn at the stake. The faggots were likely to be damp, and the lack of wind meant the flames would be slow to rise.
As they began to light the faggots, his gloomy prognostication proved correct; the fire smouldered rather than burned. He flinched as he the screams of agony from his friends, especially Ridley, as the fire began to lick at their ankles. Someone – Ridley’s brother-in-law, he later learned – began throwing extra kindling onto the fire, but this turned out to be an unwise decision, for the fire simply began to burn more ferociously around Ridley’s legs. . His long-distance vision was poor, but he wished it were worse still; for even from his lofty position, he could just about make out Ridley’s face, contorted in pain. Latimer was facing in the opposite direction, but though Thomas could not see his face, he could hear him calling out words of encouragement to Ridley. How typical of Latimer to try and raise his friend’s spirits, even in such a situation as this.
It was then that Thomas noticed the behaviour of the watching crowd. They were silent, their heads either bowed in prayer, or facing the front of the courtyard, bravely watching the scene before them, with tears in their eyes and respect on their faces. Men had removed their caps in veneration, women were dabbing at their eyes with their aprons. When Ridley let out a blood-curdling scream of despair, the watching men and women gasped in horror, their faces full of compassion. It was of great comfort to him to know that the crowd were with him; that they could see the injustice of his friends’ suffering.
He had no way of knowing how long it took for his friends to die; he only knew that personally he had never experienced such torment. At one point, it seemed Ridley had lapsed into welcome unconsciousness, but he soon revived, and began screaming again. Finally, Thomas could see Latimer sagging, his scorched body only held upright by the chains that bound him. A short while later, Ridley too fell silent, his suffering over. Even from the roof of the prison, he could smell the unmistakable stench of scorched flesh.
Shaken and sweating, he was glad to be returned to his cell, and immediately collapsed onto his bed, the trauma of the morning’s events playing over and over in his mind. Half an hour later, John Harpsfield arrived, looking pale and sickly.
“I had to attend the burnings,” he whispered. “I have seen executions before, but I have never observed a burning… I trust I shall never have to observe one again.” His tone was fervent.
“I too beheld them, from the prison roof.” Thomas also spoke in a whisper. After a lengthy silence, he finally asked, “Did they say anything?”
“Yes.” Harpsfield licked his dry lips nervously. “Master Latimer died relatively painlessly; he was quickly overcome by the smoke. But before he died, he heard his friend’s cries and shouted: ‘Be of good comfort and play the man, Master Ridley! We shall this day light such a candle, by God’s grace in England, as I trust shall never be put out.’. He was a truly exceptional man. They both were.”
“I was privileged to know them for a very long time,” Thomas choked. It was difficult to believe he would never speak with them or debate with them again.
“Master Latimer gave a devastating attack against the Catholic Church at his trial, you know,” Harpsfield informed him, his tone confidential.
“That sounds like Latimer.” He managed a brief, sad smile. “When he had an audience, he never wasted the opportunity to proclaim God’s word to them. It was ever so. I never knew a man so pure and so fearless.”
“Master Ridley walked to the stake wearing a decent black woollen gown.” Harpsfield was silent for a moment, then, with a note of awe creeping into his voice, he informed his companion, “Master Latimer, he wore some shabby old thing. Before he was attached to the stake, he took it off, revealing that he was wearing a shroud beneath it.”
“That certainly sounds like Latimer. He had a sense of humour unlike any I have ever known. He never mocked; never aimed to hurt or wound; but he could be so very, very funny.” Thomas could barely get his words out.
Tears were streaming down Harpsfield’s cheeks. “I am sent to ask of you, will you recant?”
He sat in silence for a while, automatically beginning to pick at the sleeve of his gown. The gown itself had once been black, but during his months of imprisonment, the colour had faded, and the wool was now unevenly mottled with brown. In fact, it was more brown than black. A trivial thought passed through his mind: Margaret would have been so irritated by the state of his attire.
The sight and sound of his friends suffering had been more than enough to make him want to avoid the stake. However, the only way he could honour their memory was to stand firm, and proclaim the faith they so strongly believed in. He shook his head. “I cannot. I have witnessed something this day that will torment my waking and sleeping hours. I pray God will keep me strong and enable me to follow their example, if He wills it.”