Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-One
As darkness fell on the day of Latimer and Ridley’s executions, he looked towards the lighted candle in his cell. Baring his wrist, he cautiously extended it towards the flame, quickly drawing it back as the searing heat burned his skin. Hastily glancing around for something cool, he held his sore wrist against the cell wall. For a short while, its coolness soothed the inflamed skin. How was he to endure the heat of the faggots if he could not bear the pain of a candle flame? In this brief moment, he had endured only a fraction of the pain his friends had suffered. Especially Nicholas Ridley.
Trying to focus his mind elsewhere, he attempted to pray, but was haunted by Ridley’s cries and screams. He did not doubt that such cries and screams would become increasingly familiar to the people of England in the near future, as more and more Protestants burned. It was believed by the Catholics, and various other religious denominations, that burning the body could save the soul. During their imprisonment, this topic had been discussed in depth by himself, Latimer, and Ridley, and they had unanimously rejected these theories. If a soul is impure before God, how does burning the body save it? But their accusers clearly thought otherwise.
Two weeks after the deaths of Latimer and Ridley, the Papal delegates arrived from Rome, and Thomas had to once again discuss the accusations made against him. Despite having slept very little since his friends’ executions, once he faced the delegates, he managed rally himself to inform them, politely, that he would not recognise their authority.
“I will make my replies to the queen’s proctors only,” he informed them gently, adding almost apologetically, “I mean no offence towards you, the Papal representatives. However, the fact is, I do not recognise the Pope as Head of the Church, therefore I cannot submit to you, gentlemen.”
The Papal delegates, equally politely, explained that their authority came from His Holiness, the Pope himself; but Thomas proceeded to persistently refuse to accept the Pope’s authority. Consequently, that first meeting was swiftly concluded, and ended up being an utter waste of everyone’s time.
Before he parted company with the delegates, they presented him with a pile of papers, advising him to study them closely once he returned to his cell. The papers turned out to be a list of sixteen charges against him. Once he had read them, then reread them, he put them aside and began to write his defence, working late into the night. He was, he realised, fighting to survive.
First on the list was the charge of treason. This he had expected; he had signed King Edward’s Will, paving the way for Lady Jane Grey to become queen. This charge was followed by perjury and heresy, both of which he refuted. ‘Recognition of Papal authority is not a natural situation for any queen or king, in any country’, he wrote. ‘This recognition makes the king or queen the same as their subjects within their own realm, and subject to justice at the hands of a stranger. Therefore, I present my case to the monarch of this realm. Under King Henry VIII, I took an oath to submit to the supremacy of the monarch. I have not perjured that oath. Your Majesty took two oaths at your coronation, one pertaining to the supremacy of Rome, and the other being to uphold the laws and liberties of your realm. It is impossible for any monarch to keep both oaths, for surely there comes a time when one shall contradict the other’.
Adultery was also high on the list, but refuting this was considerably more challenging. He had taken Holy Orders during his early days at Cambridge, which included a vow of celibacy. Although most priests had tended to ignore their vows of celibacy – Cardinal Wolsey was a prominent example –they were considered to be married to the Catholic Church. Upon embracing Protestantism and meeting Margaret, he had deemed those vows of celibacy void. They were part of the Catholic orthodoxy, and no longer relevant to him.
Upon his marriage, he had fully intended to resign his fellowship at Cambridge, but King Henry VIII had changed the direction of his life by making him Archbishop of Canterbury, which had placed him in a unique position. At that time, as a married Archbishop of Canterbury, he could have been executed. Also, if he had refused the position, he could still have been imprisoned, or even executed, should his marriage have been discovered. Instead, he had accepted the position, and used it to guide the Church to the Protestant truth. He explained this ae carefully and coherently as he could.
Finally, he declared himself to be no heretic. ‘Truly, I do deny transubstantiation, and would inform Your Majesty that the Lord’s Supper in the Eucharistic Service is no new innovation but is ordered by our lord Jesus Christ Himself. I am willing to travel to Rome to defend my cause, although I do not acknowledge Papal authority. I am confident in my ability to argue at length with any theologians in the Papal Courts, for I believe strongly in my own convictions and can plead a suitable case for myself’.
His letter, which was sent to the queen, received no reply. He was not surprised; so far, none of his letters to her had evoked any personal response or acknowledgement. During his years at Court, he had always regarded the then ,Princess Mary, as utterly her mother’s daughter, possessing the same single-minded tenacity as Catherine of Aragon. Catherine had refused to look outside of the Catholic faith; she had never permitted herself to even consider the fact that there might be errors in her theology, and Queen Mary followed her mother in this. However, what he had not realised was that there was also a similarity between Mary and her father, the late King Henry.
On various occasions, King Henry had been given the opportunity to spare a life, but had not, because he considered the person in question to be a potential threat to his future as king. Anne Boleyn’s revelation that she had been pre-contracted to Harry Percy should have saved her; but had she lived, her very presence might have cast doubts upon the validity of the king’s next marriage. Therefore, she had to die. A few years later, Thomas Cromwell, whose life also could have been saved, was publicly executed, to restore the king’s popularity. Cromwell had been a hated man; by killing an unpopular minister, the king, whose popularity was waning, regained the love of his people. Once Henry had decided that someone must die, there was nothing that could alter his decision. No signed documents or pleading letters swayed him. Queen Mary was not only the daughter of Catherine of Aragon, she was also the daughter of King Henry VIII. No letters would save Thomas from her now. She wanted him to die; his fate had been decided.
His final condemnation was delivered to him not only in front of the Papal delegates, but also in front of a panel of English bishops and theologians, headed by Bishop Brooks. It was Brooks who opened the trial by informing him that the Papal Courts declared him contumacious for failing to acknowledge them, and for being wilfully disobedient to Papal authority.
The atmosphere during this final examination was completely different to all the others he had endured. From the beginning, there was a chill in the air that had nothing to do with damp, cold weather outside; and every time he tried to speak, to explain himself or defend his position, Bishop Brooks would raise his hand, indicating that this was no time for interruptions.
“You are also to be stripped of your title of Archbishop of Canterbury,” Bishop Brooks intoned. “Your final punishment, death by burning, shall be ordered by the English Courts,” he concluded gravely.
There was a low murmur amongst the assembled dignitaries.
Bishop Brooks, sensing some people might be sympathetic to the prisoner, solemnly continued. “I will read out your sentence from the Pope.” He coughed, clearing his throat. It was November, and his nose was streaming in a most undignified manner. “I, Pope Paul himself…” He bowed his head respectfully. “Sitting in the throne of justice and having before my eyes God alone, who is the righteous Lord, and who judges the world in righteousness, do make this definitive sentence. I pronounce that Thomas Cranmer is found guilty of the crimes of heresy and other excesses, and is found to be wholly unmindful of the health of his soul, having gone against the rules and ecclesiastical doctrines of the Holy Father, the apostolic traditions of the Roman Church and sacred councils, and the rites of the Christian religion hitherto used in the Church. By thinking and teaching otherwise than the Holy Mother Church preaches—”
At this point, Thomas, who had been seated, leapt to his feet and interrupted. “My lords, I have taught only the truth of the most holy gospels!”
His protests made no difference; he was condemned to be burned.
Unbeknownst to him, Queen Mary, Reginald Pole, and Stephen Gardiner, had all decided that it would be excellent Catholic propaganda if the first Protestant Archbishop of Canterbury recanted, and they were determined to go through with this endeavour. He was not be executed just yet. As a result, two Spanish friars, Father’s De Soto and John de Villa Garcia, were entrusted with the task of persuading him to recant of his Protestant heresy. It was hoped they would succeed before the ceremony of degradation took place, which would happen in just over two weeks’ time. During this ceremony, Thomas Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury and Primate of all England, would be officially removed from office.
Every morning, these two friars visited him for several hours, and had those sessions taken place under more convivial circumstances, he would have enjoyed himself immensely. They were learned men, equally as learned as himself, and their meetings together were stimulating and challenging, not only for him, but for the friars also. All three men began to look forward to these sessions, which regularly continued for hours longer than their allotted time. However, they failed to alter his opinions, and he failed to alter theirs.
As far as the degradation ceremony was concerned, his feelings were in turmoil. He was not angry, nor was he fearful. He had not asked to be Archbishop of Canterbury, but he had fulfilled his duties to the best of his ability, encouraged learning, and setting a good example to other members of the clergy. He regarded himself as a man who would have been content to fill a teaching post in a university; that sort of life would have been one he would have been content to live. Margaret too would certainly have loved that sort of life.
Now, as his position was to be given to another, he could only submit to God’s will. If His will was that he should endure what was a ceremony of mockery and degradation, then so be it. Had not Christ Himself undergone terrible mockery and torture? He was enduring nothing more than Christ, his master, had already suffered.
The ceremony required that he should be taken into an anteroom and robed in layer upon layer of clerical vestments, beginning with sub-deacon, then the deacon, priest, bishop, and archbishop, in that order. Each garment was made out of stiff canvas. The result was a multi-layered outfit that was so rigid he could barely move. His mitre was placed upon his head; the pallium over his shoulder, then his crosier was placed in his hand. Clad thus, he was led to Christ’s Church for the ceremony to take place. It was a slow journey; his every movement was restricted, and each step was awkward.
Once inside the church itself, a list of the charges made against him was read out by Bishop Thirlby of Ely, with whom he had always enjoyed a cordial friendship. He remained silent during this, whilst Thirlby was moved to tears, his voice at times almost inaudible. Unfortunately, it was Thirlby’s task, along with a couple of helpers, to remove the stiff layers of clothing. Thirlby performed the task with some difficulty, his hands shaking visibly, and Thomas’ dignity only increased Thirlby’s agitation. Ironically, it was he who had to comfort Thirlby. As this was happening, Bishop Bonner preached a sermon against the now former Archbishop of Canterbury. Bonner, he knew, was enjoying this entire proceeding.
The only time he broke his pensive silence was when his pallium was removed by one of Thirlby’s helpers. Suddenly indignant, he demanded, “who has the authority to remove my pall?”
There was no one there who was senior enough to perform that duty. Only Reginald Pole, the next Archbishop of Canterbury and Primate of all England, could possibly remove the pallium, the symbol of office. In fact, it was debatable whether even Pole could lawfully undertake this, as he was not yet consecrated. Therefore, under canon law, this ridiculous ceremony could be judged invalid.
“We are the Pope’s delegates, so our authority comes from him,” Thirlby whispered.
“But I do not acknowledge the Pope,” he replied, also in a whisper.
When Bonner began to endorse the validity of the Mass, again he voiced his opinion, refusing to pay heed when told to be silent.
When he had eventually been stripped of all his vestments and symbols of office, his former attire was replaced by the gown and cap of a yeoman bedell, a humble position for someone as educated as he. A yeoman bedell was required to perform minor duties at universities, such as collecting fines occasionally acting as town crier. He might even be required to empty the privies. In short, it was an insult to be thus attired.
Now that his part of the ceremony was dealt with, Bonner was unable to disguise his jubilation. “Now you are a lord no longer,” he crowed.
“Those robes I never needed. I had done with them long ago,” he responded quietly.
The ceremony continued, with Thomas being pushed into a chair so that a barber could shave his head. The purpose of this practice was to remove his priestly tonsure, but since he had grown this out long ago, it was simply a symbolic act. The tips of his fingers and his fingernails were also scraped, to symbolically erase any traces of holy oil that had been placed there during his consecration. Finally, it was over, and from the sleeve of the coarse shirt he had been wearing beneath the canvas robes, he pulled out a sheet of paper and turned to the officials and bystanders, who had observed the ceremony.
“I appeal to the next General Council,” he announced clearly, waving the paper aloft. “Here I have comprehensively stated my cause which I desire may be admitted.”
“My lord,” Thirlby was visibly agitated. “Our commission is to proceed against you; we cannot admit it.”
“It would seem that the cause is between myself and the Pope, since he has condemned me, or at least he has given the authorities permission to do so. It is unjust that I may not appeal,” Thomas protested indignantly.
“Well, if it may be admitted, it shall,” the sympathetic Thirlby whispered, extending his hand to take the paper. Eyes brimming with tears, he added, “should you wish for a suitor to present a case for your pardon, then I should be honoured to do so.” Having taken the sheet of paper, written by the condemned man, he grasped Thomas’ hand surreptitiously and gave it an encouraging squeeze.
*****
Thomas’ first concern was natural enough. He wished to prolong his life. Not long after the degradation ceremony, he was shocked to be informed that his long-time rival, Stephen Gardiner, had died. The concept of his rival not being alive to rejoice in his own degradation and death, felt strange and surreal.
In a last attempt to save himself, he continued working, desperately trying to complete another treatise against Stephen Gardiner’s writings, even though the man himself was dead. At the same time, he also worked on a defence against the Articles of Accusation levelled against himself. He still met with the two Spanish friars on a daily basis, who continued to try all manner of beguiling arguments to convince him of their orthodox beliefs. For his part, he continued to attempt to convince them of The New Learning. So far, it was a stalemate.
“All noblemen bear you good will,” De Soto informed him during one of their meetings. “Your release from prison would be highly acceptable to the queen. You could enjoy some dignity within the Church, or else enjoy the quiet life. All you have to do is sign this statement and agree to recant.” He indicated towards a nearby sheet of paper.
The quiet life. It was a persuasive statement. Seductive even. He longed to see Margaret again; it pained him deeply to be apart from her and the children. In fact, he had never known a pain like it. But his heart was Protestant; it was a sincere commitment. Whatever he signed, his heart and soul would always be Protestant. He was also aware the queen had no good opinion of him, and very likely she had no intention of releasing him from his prison cell, even if he did recant.
“The queen is determined to have a Catholic Thomas Cranmer, or no Thomas Cranmer at all,” De Villa Garcia warned.
He was silent, knowing that he could never be Catholic. If he said he belonged to Rome, it would be a falsehood.
Over the coming weeks he was regularly taken from the Bocardo Prison to Christ’s Church, to debate with doctors and priests, and the promise of a pardon was always dangled before him. Several times he felt his resolve weakening, and subsequently buried himself in prayer and study, desperately trying to rebuild his mental resolve. The sight and the sounds of Ridley and Latimer burning – especially the cries of Ridley – haunted him. They could never be erased. He feared burning, yet they had submitted to it and triumphed. Surely, he could do likewise? Why was he so fearful? The pain would not last forever…
After several weeks of work, his appeal was complete, containing the complaint that he had neither been permitted a lawyer during his trial, nor had he been allowed to travel to Rome to launch his defence personally. He denied being a heretic, declaring, ‘my only heresy, if it can be deemed such, is to refuse to accept words not accustomed in scripture, and unknown to ancient fathers, but newly invented and brought in by men’.
He was constantly harangued by the two friars, as well as by doctors and priests, who regularly pointed out that his wife and children were in Zurich, and that he might meet with them again, if only he would recant. This was the huge difference between himself and Latimer and Ridley. He had others to think of; it was ordained by God that a husband should take care of his wife and family. It was part of the Christian faith; marriage was a sacred thing and should not be taken lightly. Latimer and Ridley had been single men. Was Margaret managing to care for the children on her own? Did she have enough money to provide for them? Did they have a roof over their heads? He was the person responsible for their very comfort and wellbeing.
Such was the friars’ persuasion, and his concern for his family’s welfare, that eventually, after being worn down for weeks on end, he agreed to sign two documents of submission. Seeing these documents placed in front of him, he hesitated. The first was to the Crown, and the second to the Church and Rome. With a feeling of self-loathing, especially where the document of submission to the Church of Rome was concerned, he signed them, hoping this would be enough for the queen. This was regarded by his accusers as a huge triumph, but shortly afterwards, Thomas was informed that the queen was dissatisfied. The only document she wished to see his signature upon, was the document of recantation.
“I have heard that she is an unhappy woman,” De Soto, the most garrulous of the friars, informed him. “She believed herself to be pregnant, you know. She longs for a child, I have heard. But it transpires that she was not pregnant, and meanwhile her husband has returned to Spain. He has no plans to return to England in the near future. Poor dear lady.”
“I have heard she loves him deeply.” Thomas shook his head. “She is not likely to bear a child if he lives in Spain. Does she plan to join him there?”
“Oh no,” De Soto assured him. “She has much to do here. Her sister, Elizabeth… well, the queen is under pressure to have the young princess imprisoned in the Tower. She too is suspected to be Protestant, you know. Also, she is popular.”
The unuttered phrase ‘Mary is not popular. Not anymore,’ hung in the air. The people were looking towards Elizabeth, which was a dangerous situation for the young princess to find herself in. Elizabeth was clever. She was more than clever, she was cunning. He knew that. He deeply hoped this would save her life. He had heard a rumour – which he hoped was untrue – that Catholic Philip desired the death of the Protestant Elizabeth, who, if Queen Mary died without issue, would become queen. Elizabeth had always been popular; even the unfortunate incident with Thomas Seymour had failed to diminish that. As for Mary, he knew from the gaolers that she was hated by the common folk, who called her, ‘Bloody Mary’, and other such unsavoury names, on account of her willingness to execute her people.
De Villa Garcia wished to steer the conversation back towards persuading the former archbishop to convert to what, he considered, to be the true and rightful faith. “You are still lusty and strong. You might have five… ten… fifteen years left if you recant.”
“I doubt it,” Thomas objected. “I am nearing seventy now; an old man.”
“An old man who does not need to burn. It is a terrible death. The queen has signed your warrant, but she shall gladly tear it up if you recant.”
He Thomas eyed De Villa Garcia with suspicion. He was certain the queen wanted him to die. She and Reginald Pole just wanted him to sign that document so they could use him for Catholic propaganda… as an example to the masses.
“You owe your queen your obedience,” De Soto added. “And you have told me you believe a monarch rules by God’s Will, therefore a monarch must be obeyed. You are disobedient to your own belief.”
This was a masterstroke. It had made Thomas uneasy that he was disobeying his monarch. After all, he had been obedient to King Henry, and also to King Edward. Yet he was now flouting an anointed queen. “But my heart tells me that the Catholic faith, which she so adheres to, is not according to the word of God. I will obey her in every other respect. But I cannot deny what God tells me to do. I must obey God first.”
The two friars were regarding him sorrowfully.
“I have come to regard you both as friends,” Thomas informed them sincerely. “I long for you to become Protestant, so I may save your souls.” Seeing them shaking their heads in protest, he half smiled. “I wish you would reject transubstantiation and purgatory.”
The headshaking became vigorous. “No, no. That we cannot do,” De Soto exclaimed. “And if you persist in your heresy, you shall burn.”
“But if you recant, you shall be reunited with your wife and children,” De Villa Garcia added.
“But I would be recanting without deeply, sincerely, accepting Catholic doctrine. It would be a false recantation,” Thomas objected.
“Well, yes…” De Soto hesitated for a moment. “But you can sign the document, go away with your wife and family, then try your best to accept Catholic dogma. One day, realisation will come to you, and you will understand that you do actually believe it.” De Soto leaned back in his chair, looking well-pleased with this statement.
“It would be a pity for your intellect to be wasted,” De Villa Garcia added.
“And for your vow of obedience to your monarch to be perjured.”
“As we have said, if you recant, you shall have much time to study the true, Catholic doctrines, then accept them.”
“If you study our doctrines, your recantation shall not be farcical. For you would at least be trying to accept them.”
Thomas’ lips were moving as if in prayer. “But I don’t believe in purgatory,” he protested.
Again, the friars regarded him sorrowfully.
There was silence in the room. His lips were still moving, but no sound came from them, until he whispered, almost inaudibly, “may God forgive me, but I will recant.” As soon as he had spoken the words, he wept bitterly. The recantation was truly false. He did not believe or accept any of it. He was betraying not only himself; ultimately, he was he was betraying God! But he could not face those flames.
*****
Word was immediately sent to the queen that the former Archbishop of Canterbury had agreed to recant. A document had already been drawn up, and it was agreed Doctor Thomas Cranmer would sign it on the eighteenth of March. The Spanish friars informed him that there was great rejoicing for the salvation of his soul. When he died, he would now go to heaven.
Heaven. In order to spare himself from those flames, he had imperilled his soul. He could only pray that God would have mercy on his weakness. Alone, in his cell, he wondered if he would immediately be set free. He had an urge to flee with Margaret to somewhere very quiet, then change his name so no one would know it was he who had done such a great disservice to the Protestant faith. Although, of course, this was exactly the reason the Catholics had so eagerly urged him to recant. Glancing at the table in his cell, which also served as a desk, he saw the articles he had written against Stephen Gardiner. They were Protestant, totally Protestant. If anyone read those, they would certainly realise his signature on the recantation document was a means of saving his own life, and not a true recantation of faith.
On the eighteenth of March, at Christ’s Church, several documents of recantation were placed in front of him. The intention was that a copy should be placed on the doors of a number of prominent places, including Christ’s Church, Oxford; St. Paul’s, London; and Canterbury Cathedral. As he signed them, a priest called Dr Cole, whom he vaguely knew as being Provost of Eton and a staunch Catholic, preached a sermon, the content of which he was too distressed to take notice of. The signing of the documents was witnessed by a joyful De Soto and De Villa Garcia. The whole ceremony was over in less than an hour, and without preamble he was returned to his cell.
Later, the two friars visited him. In tones of disgust, they informed him that people were already reading the copy of the recantation that had been placed on the door of Christ’s Church, Oxford. They were claiming it was a forgery because his signature had been witnessed by Catholic friars. The supposition of the friars was, that wherever copies were placed, people would believe they were false. Learning of his, Thomas felt a certain sense of satisfaction, and prayed to God that the people would continue to believe that he had never signed those documents.
Unsurprisingly, he did not sleep well that night. He prayed; he wept; he tried to write a letter to Margaret, but his words were tear stained and illegible. He felt so ashamed and confused, the letter hardly made sense anyway. After ripping it up, he took to pacing backwards and forwards. By daybreak, he was exhausted. When the Spanish friars arrived, around mid-morning, his head ached.
The friars, at least, cheerfully rejoiced, and congratulated him that his soul was safe. When he died, it would rest with God.
“There is certainly a great deal of jubilation in Heaven at this moment,” De Soto sincerely declared, his eyes misting with tears of joy.
“My signature is false,” he admitted. “I do not, in my heart, accept Catholic doctrines. Take purgatory for example. Do I believe in it? No, absolutely not.”
“Oh, you will in time.” De Soto smiled happily. “It will come to you.”
De Villa Garcia was less optimistic. “You can deceive us, but not God. He knows your heart. He knows your soul. Take care, study, and accept the truth. I will keep praying to the Blessed Virgin and the saints in Heaven. May the doors of your heart be opened.” Bowing his head, he genuflected.
“I am praying for forgiveness for my weakness,” he rubbed his brow wearily. Changing the subject, he enquired, “When shall I be freed?”
The friars exchanged glances. “I have heard nothing,” De Villa Garcia stated, whilst his companion nodded agreement. “But I see no reason why it should not be very soon. After all, there is no reason why you should stay here.”
“God willing, it shall be soon,” Thomas sighed.
That day, he received no other visitors, and he began writing what he hoped was a coherent letter to Margaret. Once again, he tore it up. He felt ashamed to tell her he had recanted. Yet she, he knew, would understand; she had always understood and supported him. The following day, the friars did not visit, but he was surprised to receive Dr Cole, the Provost of Eton, who had preached as he signed his recantation.
“I am here to ask if you intend to remain firm in the faith of Rome?” Cole, a gentle, refined man, looked strained and anxious.
Thomas wondered if the friars had been passing information to Cole, telling him that he was still Protestant at heart. “I will do so,” he replied, feeling sheepish for the statement was utterly untrue.
“And what of money?” Cole looked more than anxious now. He looked downright uncomfortable. “Have you any left that can be dispersed?”
He felt the blood rush from his face. This was a question usually asked of a prisoner who was condemned. It was customary to give coinage to the executioner. Or, in the case of burning, to the persons who would light the fire. Also, it was anticipated that well to do persons would distribute alms to the poor too, as a final act of kindness. “I have no personal money,” he whispered through lips that were stiff and all but paralysed. He had been promised a pardon, why was he being asked this?
Cole, looking nearly as shocked as his companion, began, “I will give you some crowns to disperse amongst the poor before you die. You see…” He stopped and tugged at his collar, as if it were strangling him. “You see… you are… you are to die tomorrow. At the same place as the heretics, Latimer and Ridley. You must prepare a final statement of contrition to be read before you go to the stake. As for myself, I must preach a sermon.” He looked utterly miserable.
Thomas digested this information, sitting stock still on his prison bed, his face pallid, his mind numb. What a fool he had been. The promise of life was false; it had always been false. What wonderful propaganda it was, to burn a former Protestant Archbishop of Canterbury, who had recanted of his faith. The two Spanish friars… perhaps they had known all along that he was to die… perhaps they had not. But they had certainly been persuasive, and he had optimistically allowed himself to be persuaded. He had wanted to be persuaded. He had wanted to live. How could he have been so foolish to believe that they would allow him to do so?
Cole did not linger for very much longer; he hardly knew what to say. After waiting in silence for a few more moments, he quietly departed, leaving the shocked prisoner to prepare his final declaration.
Left alone, once he was able to move, he paced his cell, his mind still numb. He had hoped to live, yet a logical part of his mind – which he had optimistically ignored – had always whispered that Queen Mary could not, would not, permit this to happen. She was King Henry VIII’s daughter; she would not pardon him. All he had done was lengthen his life by a few months, damaging the Protestant Church in the process. Slowly, as his mind cleared, it began to dawn on him that he could at least do something to strengthen the cause. It was still possible that he could die a Protestant; he could let people know he despised himself for his weakness. He could, and would, die true to his faith.
As was his way in times of crisis, he resolutely began writing. Whenever anyone knocked upon the door, he would hastily hide his speech in his sleeve, lest it should be confiscated, but the only other visitors he received that day were his gaolers. He also wrote to Margaret; his last letter to her. He wondered if she would receive it? It was a difficult letter to write, even more difficult than his final declaration. He settled for something short. A genuine proclamation of his love for her and the children, and his thanks for the happiness their union had brought to him. Finally, he commended them to the love and care of Almighty God. It was enough; it was too painful to write any further sentiments to her. She and the children were in God’s hands now.
His last night on Earth seemed to pass more swiftly than any other. Early in the morning, the friars appeared with yet another recantation for him to sign. He was about to refuse, then suddenly realised if he did not sign it, he might be taken directly to the stake and given no opportunity to address the crowd, for there would surely be a crowd. An execution brought people from their homes in droves. Almost cheerfully, he gave what he knew would be his last ever signature on a document, then, shortly afterwards, he was escorted to St. Mary’s Church.
As he departed from prison, his heart sank. It was raining steadily, meaning the faggots would be damp and would take time to ignite. Crowds had gathered in spite of the inclement weather, as he had known they would. The church was so full of people that they were spilling out onto the steps outside. The crowd was sympathetic; even those who were inclined towards Catholicism were compassionate. It was a dreadful way to die; they had witnessed the deaths of Latimer and Ridley, and most people were aware that the number of Protestant martyrs was growing by the day. They could lose friends and relatives who were sympathetic to The New Learning. Watching a martyr burn was totally different to watching a felon perish. Most people did not regard Martyrs as criminals. Criminals were a totally different spectacle to watch; their deaths were as entertaining as bear baiting and cock fights.
The smell of damp garments greeted him as he was escorted to the front of the church, where a platform had been made for him to stand upon. Suddenly, he realised that he no longer feared the flames; such was his determination to refute that obscene document of recantation, his dread had totally vanished. Praise be to God.
Dr Cole stood up to preach his sermon, the substance of which was not dissimilar to that which had been preached by Bishop Bonner at the degradation ceremony. It was a declaration of the Church of Rome, the authority of the Pope, and the necessity of every person to submit to this. He heard a rumble of muted, discontented voices, as Cole preached. In a moment of triumph, he realised that some members of the congregation were Protestant. Then, at last, it was his turn to speak. Having knelt and prayed before Cole’s sermon, he briefly knelt again, then stepped onto the platform.
For a brief moment, he was silent, taking in the atmosphere, the tension of the crowd. Then, taking a deep breath, he began to speak, reciting the Lord’s Prayer in a voice that was melodious, calm, and steady. It was as if he were back in Cambridge, or Canterbury, addressing his clergy and students.
“Every man desires, good people, to give some good speech at the time of his death that others will remember after he has passed, and be better for hearing it.”
The church was silent, apart from the occasional smothered cough or clearing of the throat. A sea of faces was turned towards him, their eyes steadily fixed upon him, waiting to hear his words.
“So, I beseech God to grant me grace, that I may speak something at this, my departing, whereby God might be glorified, and you edified.” He began to warn the congregation against loving false things of the world, instructing them to love each other – even their enemies – as brothers and sisters. He also advocated that they love and serve their monarch and learn and profit from scripture.
Turning his head slightly, he noticed De Soto and De Villa Garcia exchanging glances with Dr Cole. This was not the script they had expected. However, so far, he had said nothing controversial; they anticipated he would shortly proceed to proclaim his recantation.
“I have come to the end of my life, and upon this hangs all of my past life, and my life to come, either to live with my Saviour Christ in Heaven in joy, or else to live in pain forever with the wicked devils of Hell. Now I see before my eyes either Heaven, ready to receive me, or Hell, ready to swallow me up.” He paused briefly, glancing at congregation in front of him; the fact of each individual was turned towards him. “I shall therefore declare to you my very faith, without colour or dissimulation, for now is no time to deny anything I have written in the past.”
Again, he caught a glimpse of the Spanish friars and Dr Cole. They were gaping at him with consternation.
“I believe in God the Father Almighty, maker of Heaven and Earth, and every word and sentence taught by our Saviour Christ, His Apostles, and the prophets in the Old and New Testaments.”
The features of Cole and the friars were now a strangely frozen. However, as he continued speaking, their expressions became masks of outrage.
“The great thing that troubles my conscience more than any other thing I have said or done in my life…” He leaned forwards, his words tumbling forth. “Is the setting about of writing contrary to the truth. Here and now, I renounce and refuse those things written by my hand contrary to the truth which I thought in my heart, for those things I wrote for fear of death and to save my life, if that was possible. I also renounce all such notes that I have written with my own hand since my degradation, wherein I have written many things that are untrue.” There, it was said, and his spirit was at peace for uttering this confession.
He continued, raising his voice several decibels. “My hand offended in writing contrary to my heart, therefore my hand…” he raised his right hand. “shall be first punished. For when I come to the fire, it shall be first burned. As for the Pope, I refuse him as Christ’s enemy and Antichrist, with all his false doctrine.”
“Be silent!” The shout reverberated throughout the church. Cole had risen from his seat and moved to face Thomas, who regarded him with an air disconcerting tranquillity.
He had said all he needed to say; he was ready to face his maker. It was time to end this proceeding, and make the ultimate sacrifice, like his friends, Latimer, Ridley and others who had gone before him. Ignoring protests from the crowd, who wished for him to continue speaking, he descended from the platform and strode from the church, followed by the friars, their robes fluttering as they scurried after him. The friars, in turn, were followed by guards and warders. Despite his humble attire, his was the only dignified figure.
The stake was prepared, piled high with faggots. He stepped onto it, his feet slipping upon the unstable kindling. Somehow, he managed to stand with his back to the stake, permitting himself to be chained to it.
De Soto was standing directly in front of him, looking agitated. “Think of your soul, I implore you, think of your soul!”
“You recanted; you are a fool to revoke it!” shouted De Villa Garcia.
“I am Protestant. I will die in that, the true faith,” he calmly assured them, his voice clearly audible to the watching crowd.
As the faggots were lit and the smell of smoke assaulted his nostrils, he recited aloud a brief prayer, then inwardly asked for God’s blessing upon his wife and children. In spite of the rain, the faggots did burn quickly, and the flames rose, sweeping towards him.
Feeling the heat upon his face, instinctively he closed his eyes tightly as he extended his right hand into the flames and cried aloud, “this hand has offended! Into your hands, oh God, I commit my spirit!”
Watched by a large crowd, the former archbishop’s agony was soon over. He did not cry out or scream, but kept his arm extended until he lost consciousness. Then, in peace, he went to meet his God.
*****
Thomas Cranmer, former Archbishop of Canterbury and Primate of all England, died on the twenty-first of March 1556, knowing that the Protestant faith, which he had worked long and hard to introduce into England, had been brutally suppressed by England’s deeply unpopular Roman Catholic monarch, Queen Mary the first. It is estimated that, between 1555 and 1558, two hundred and seventy-five Protestants were burned at the stake, and the prisons were full to capacity with others who were awaiting the same fate. Queen Mary died on the seventeenth of November 1558, at the age of forty-two. Though she for a child, she never managed to conceive. Mary was succeeded by her half-sister, Elizabeth, who herself had been imprisoned, suspected of being a heretic. One of Queen Elizabeth’s first acts was to reinstate Protestantism in England, and since then, every reigning monarch has been tied to the Protestant faith. Thomas Cranmer and his fellow Protestants did not perish in vain.