The Rise and Fall of Thomas Cromwell

by John Schofield

  On 4 July, Edward Foxe finally arrived back in London from Germany. Seven days later he presented the Ten Articles to Convocation, which were accepted surprisingly quickly in view of the agitated discussions on religion that had taken place there. The articles were substantially the work of Cromwell, whose authority and prestige had never been higher. The king rewarded him with lands, including the manors of Wimbledon and Mortlake in Surrey, and two manors in Norfolk that once belonged to the bishop of Norwich. He was made Baron Cromwell of Oakham on 8 July, though the official ceremony did not take place until the last day of the summer parliamentary session on the 18th. That day also saw Cromwell confirmed as Vicegerent in spiritual and ecclesiastical affairs for the entire church and kingdom, not just for the visitation of the monasteries. Wriothesley records that Henry and all the lords assembled together, and Cromwell, ‘otherwise called Lord Cromwell, Lord Privy Seal, and Secretary to the King, was made knight there in the parliament chamber … and high vicar over the spirituality under the king, and sat diverse times in the Convocation house among the bishops as head over them’.13

  So despite having incurred Henry’s anger for being too sympathetic to Mary, when Exeter and Fitzwilliam fell from grace for the same offence, Cromwell had not only continued in office, but had also accumulated titles and honours. In less than three weeks in July he became Lord Privy Seal, Baron Cromwell and full Vicegerent. Frustratingly, the surviving records of this period provide little insight into events taking place behind the scenes, and nothing is available to suggest a power struggle at court. If Chapuys is to be believed, it was Henry, not Cromwell, who bundled Exeter and Fitzwilliam off the council. Skilful opportunism and the king’s good will are the best explanations that can be offered for Cromwell’s hugely successful summer. Significantly for the evangelical cause, he was now drawing up articles of faith on behalf of Henry.

  The Ten Articles were a skilful fusion of Melanchthon’s Loci Communes, recently dedicated to Henry, and St Augustine, with a few morsels of medieval religion left in them to conciliate the still powerful Catholic party. They were either composed or edited by Cromwell, and subdivided into two main parts. The first five were described as ‘principal articles’ of the faith, and the remainder, by implication secondary, covered ‘laudable ceremonies used in the church’. The ‘principal’ articles began by upholding the authority of the Bible and the ancient Christian Creeds before going on to deal with baptism, penance, the Eucharist and justification. Justification was attained by ‘contrition and faith joined with charity’, which sounds like a defeat for Luther’s justification by faith alone – until, that is, we read a little further on and find this:

  Not as though our contrition, or faith, or any works proceeding thereof, can worthily merit or deserve to attain the said justification; for only the mercy and grace of the Father, promised freely unto us for Christ’s sake, and the merits of His blood and passion, be the only sufficient and worthy causes thereof.

  This extract proves that Henry may have superintended nearly everything himself, to adapt the Milanese ambassador, but not quite everything. He certainly did not superintend this article particularly carefully, because this was far from the king’s own belief on the more intricate aspects of the salvation of mankind, as will be clear soon. In substance this statement is pure Lutheran, though couched in language that could easily be defended by reference to patristic writings, especially Augustine. By adroit phraseology, Cromwell had managed to persuade Henry to authorise a document containing a statement that Henry did not agree with. So Henry could be manipulated, though not very often. What wiles or charms Cromwell used, we do not know; his papers do not disclose such secrets. He must have caught the king at an agreeable, unguarded moment sometime during his honeymoon with Jane.14

  The articles on ‘laudable ceremonies’ dealt with religious images, the saints, church rites and purgatory. Images should be retained in churches, but not abused in any ‘superstitious’ manner. It was not until Edward’s reign that the destruction of images in churches became government policy – no such move was instigated by Henry or Cromwell. Saints may be honoured, and praying to them was not abolished; but in another Lutheran touch it was stressed that Christ was the only Mediator between God and mankind. Ceremonies like candles at Candlemas and ashes on Ash Wednesday were retained, though with the Lutheran sounding reminder that none of these rites had the power to remit sin or make the soul righteous before God. Finally, whilst Rome’s pardons and indulgences were forbidden, it was accepted that prayers may be made for souls departed to commend them to the mercy of God.

  Despite the Catholicity of some of these points, like the last one, the overall flavour of the Ten Articles is distinctly Lutheran. Apart from the quote above on justification, the prohibition of ‘superstitious’ use of images could easily be used to undermine much devotional medieval piety. The role of the saints in the life of the church, especially their mediatorial role, was now being emphatically watered down. Then, even though purgatory had not yet been abolished, like praying to saints it was now semi-officially relegated to a non-essential article of faith. Taken as a whole, therefore, the articles represent a noticeable departure from the medieval religion in the direction of Luther. They might be described as an induction course in the new learning, carefully designed for the re-education of a nation still largely attached to the old ways. It was a stage by stage, step by step Reformation. Cromwell’s tactic was to introduce the Gospel progressively, as much at one time as he safely could, while waiting patiently until, as he hoped, Henry would be ready to accept the Augsburg Confession in its entirety.

  These articles were reinforced by a set of injunctions, issued by Cromwell acting on his authority as Vicegerent. The preamble begins grandly: ‘I, Thomas Cromwell, knight, Lord Cromwell, Keeper of the Privy Seal of our said sovereign lord the king, and Vicegerent unto the same, for and concerning all his jurisdiction ecclesiastical within this realm … ’. The Injunctions were essentially a set of directives to the clergy, much of it still medieval in faith. But medieval or not, all clergy were now directed to read the Ten Articles in their sermons, as well as uphold the Royal Supremacy. They also had to ‘plainly show’ the distinction between articles necessary for salvation (the first five) and those primarily useful for good order in church services – this way Cromwell had removed saints, images and purgatory from the vocabulary of salvation. Further, the clergy had to confirm the ‘abrogation of certain superfluous holy-days’ and drive away ‘superstition and hypocrisy’; they should not set forth images, relics or encourage them ‘other wise than is permitted in the articles’; in other words, they should hardly set them forth at all. Effectively this directive does away with pilgrimages. The clergy were to impress on their parishioners that loving the Lord thy God and loving thy neighbour, and giving to the poor, was far more blessed in the sight of God than going on a pilgrimage, or doting on a relic or an image. The clergy had to urge parents, governors and others in authority to teach their children and servants at home the Lord’s Prayer, the Ten Commandments and ‘Articles of Faith’ as part of their upbringing; that would include the Ten Articles. Clergy were not to spend leisure hours in taverns, but should devote themselves to reading and studying Scripture; they should also provide for the poor in their parishes from the wealth of the church, and make a contribution to education.15

  A consummate evangelical strategy was now underway. The temperate Lutheranism of the Ten Articles was to be taught in every church, every parish, every home and every school in England, Wales and subsequently Ireland. Every priest, parent and schoolmaster was now under royal command to teach that salvation was promised through divine grace and mercy alone, even though that was not the king’s own view. Charity and good works were not excluded from the new teaching, but their character was subtly changing. No longer could preachers instruct their flock, or parents their children, of the merits of monasticism, pilgrimages and relics. They even had to play down the efficacy of i
mages and the saints. The medieval world’s catalogue of good works was dwindling fast. Preachers had to concentrate instead on charity, love to neighbour, virtues like patience, honesty, humility, and not least, obedience to princes. No good priest could object to this so far as it went, but many among them must have realized that if these articles and injunctions were followed thoroughly, several layers of medieval religion would quickly be stripped away, and its hold on the people fundamentally weakened.

  This brings us back to the first article, on the authority of the Bible and the ancient Creeds. For why should this point be made at all when it was not disputed among Catholics and Lutherans? Maybe the government wanted to counter religious radicals like the Anabaptists, but even these people did not deny the truth of the Bible; they merely interpreted much of it differently. Article One, I would suggest, is another facet of Cromwell’s evangelical strategy. It gave the discreet Lutheranism of the remaining articles the most authoritative seal of Christian orthodoxy. Justification by faith, solely through grace and for Christ’s sake; the watering down of the mediatorial role of saints; the effective abolition of pilgrimages – all this was implicitly declared to be entirely consistent with Holy Scripture and the apostolic church. In other words, this new learning was not really new at all; it was a recovery, or rediscovery, of the pure, ancient teaching of Christ and the apostles that the medieval Roman church had distorted and corrupted. This was the message that Cromwell wanted to get out into the parishes of England. It was the same point that Luther and Melanchthon had been making for the last fifteen years.

  This was also the message that all the clergy were required by royal directive to read out, whether they liked it or not – and many did not like it one whit. Strategy was at work again, because one of Cromwell’s problems was that, unlike Elector John Frederick in Saxony, he did not have, nor could he get, a steady supply of good Lutheran preachers trained at Wittenberg University under the guidance of Luther and Melanchthon. So Cromwell made the Catholic clergy preach the Lutheran Gospel, only slightly diluted. This creative method of evangelising – a well-known and familiar figure proclaiming moderately Lutheran articles issued in the king’s name – would have helped to commend the Gospel to its audience. Cromwell doubtless had in mind the hundreds of as yet uncommitted Tudor folk, men and women who might be amenable to the new faith if it was introduced considerately, but who might be repelled by anything too radical. He also had the intelligence to see that the people needed not only to be instructed, but, more importantly if his evangelical aims were ever to succeed, to be persuaded.

  As he probably expected, not all priests proclaimed his articles and injunctions with relish. Some might do so through gritted teeth, others might drop hints that these novelties in religion would soon pass away and be forgotten. Such attitudes could be dangerous, however, because Cromwell had also directed sheriffs and local justices to make sure that his injunctions were being followed. A justice sympathetic to the old faith might wish he could ignore this unwelcome duty, but if he was unwise enough to do so, he would run the risk of being reported by one of Cromwell’s agents or some watchful evangelical parishioner.16

  The word ‘strategy’ has been used, perhaps rather freely, in this narrative, but it is not intended to mean that Cromwell had formulated a master plan sometime in the mid-1530s that he pursued doggedly throughout his vicegerency. His church policy was essentially that of the skilled opportunist; he would do his best for the Gospel wherever he could whenever he got the chance, and in summer of 1536 he grasped a golden opportunity. Elton once described the Act of Appeals of 1533 as Cromwell’s ‘masterpiece in statute-making’.17 So it was, in the constitutional arena. However, the Ten Articles and their accompanying injunctions were no less a masterpiece in the spiritual realm. They show Cromwell, hamstrung though he was by a king who did not share his Lutheran faith, was nevertheless at his most imaginative in getting a broadly evangelical message across to the widest possible audience. He probably did not expect immediate success, a point not always allowed for by our ‘revisionist historians’, who delight in claiming that the Reformation was not received with open arms by the English people. Cromwell and his allies were not mere crowd pleasers jumping on some fashionable ideological bandwagon. These early Reformers were men of principle prepared to stake their own necks, literally in Cromwell’s case, for the Gospel. Nor was the king’s Vicegerent ever so stupid as to expect that fresh ideas on grace and salvation could, at a single stroke, replace centuries of medieval tradition. With Henry still attached to so much of the old faith, Cromwell had to sow the evangelical seed discreetly, and let it bear fruit in its own time. He would not live to see that day. Edward and Elizabeth would reap the harvest. But the main reason they were able to do so was the resourcefulness of Cromwell in the 1530s, which ensured that enough English people heard enough of the Gospel for it to take root in the spiritual heart of the nation, and make a real if not an instant impact.

  However, although Cromwell was able to make spiritual progress on the home front, he could do little for English evangelicals who had fallen into enemy hands abroad. William Tyndale had now endured more than a year in a jail near Brussels after being betrayed by one Henry Phillips with, it was alleged, the connivance of certain English bishops. In May Cromwell had received an anxious letter from Stephen Vaughan beseeching him: ‘If you could now send me but your letter to the Privy Council, I could deliver Tyndale from the fire, so it come by time, for else it would be too late’. Freeing Tyndale, unfortunately, was a far more complex task than just getting the paperwork right. Extraditing him to England could have created more problems than it solved, because he might have been in danger of charges of heresy, or even, because of his opposition to Henry’s first divorce, treason. Cromwell’s reply to Vaughan is lost, but Hall records that Tyndale ‘was laboured for by letters written by the Lord Cromwell’. These labours proved unhappily fruitless. After a long drawn out trial, and several wearisome disputations with ‘diverse lawyers and doctors in divinity’, Tyndale was condemned as a heretic in August. During his imprisonment it was said that ‘he converted his keeper, the keeper’s daughter, and others of his household’; while many others who came into contact with him ‘reported of him that if he were not a good Christian man, they could not tell whom to trust’. Hall noted that even the procurator-general commended Tyndale’s piety and learning.18

  But no eloquent testimony availed to save him now. On 12 August John Hutton wrote to Cromwell to tell him that Tyndale was condemned to die within a week. By the time Cromwell received this dread news, Tyndale should have been beyond hope. Cromwell did not know it, but Tyndale’s execution was delayed, probably in order to obtain final confirmation from Charles V. Sentence was not carried out until 6 October. Then, tied to the stake, Tyndale cried, ‘Lord, open the king of England’s eyes’. As custom in Flanders and the Low Countries allowed, he was strangled before the fire was lit. Cromwell later heard from Hutton how many witnesses ‘speak much of the patient sufferance of Master Tyndale’ in the hour of death.19

  The loss of the great Bible translator, bitter blow though it was, may have renewed the resolve of Cromwell and others to try and persuade Henry to authorise an English Bible for use in churches. It might also have prompted Cromwell to re-consider his traditional preference for Charles in the European power struggle between the emperor and King Francis. Henry had once again officially proclaimed his neutrality in the war between the two monarchs, but in October Chapuys was troubled to hear that Francis had offered Cromwell a pension of 2,000 ducats per annum. Charles was also concerned by reports that Francis was sending Cromwell gifts as well as offering him a pension, and that Cromwell was now inclining to the French. To counterbalance the French initiatives, Charles authorised his ambassadors to send Imperial gifts to Henry’s councillors, especially Cromwell, in the hope of retaining their support.20

  However, plans for the English Bible and foreign policy matters were overshadowed when, at the
end of 1536, the English government was confronted by insurrection at home. Large areas of the north erupted into revolt in the Lincolnshire rising and the subsequent, larger northern rising commonly known as the Pilgrimage of Grace. Cromwell might have been expecting trouble in northern parts. The previous year Richard Layton had warned him that he would have to ‘beat the King’s authority into the heads of the rude people of the north’ because they were ‘more superstitious than virtuous, long accustomed to frantic fantasies and ceremonies, which they regard more than either God or their prince, right far alienate from true religion’. Even before that (in September 1534) Lord Darcy had told Chapuys that he could endure no longer the lurch into schism and heresy. Darcy was ready to stir the people to resist, and he appealed for Charles’s support. Up to 1,600 of the northern nobility agreed with him, he claimed, though his boast was rendered somewhat less threatening by his admission that he had only sounded out one or two of them.21