by Teresa Cole
Wycliffe had never intended to establish a rival church. He had no control, however, over how his words would be interpreted, and maybe had not anticipated the uses to which they would be put. If the State had a duty to put the Church in order, surely then, if the State failed, others had a right to put the State in order. This was dangerous, revolutionary stuff and Wycliffe soon saw his noble supporters drop away.
Despite being summoned before archbishop and synod in 1382 – a meeting punctuated by an earthquake – no real action was taken against Wycliffe himself. He and his supporters were expelled from Oxford and his books and papers were burnt, but he was allowed to retire to his living at Lutterworth in Leicestershire and continue with his greatest work, the translation of the Bible into English.
There were a number of trials for heresy – none of which ended in martyrdom – and further purges of those with unacceptable ideas from Oxford, but little effective action was taken during the reign of Richard II, though the new doctrines continued to spread, both during Wycliffe’s life and after his death in 1384. Indeed, so secure did his supporters seem that there was a group openly referred to as Lollard knights present in Parliament during the latter years of the reign.
A more robust opposition came in with the accession of Henry IV. In 1401 the infamous statute De Heretico Comburendo was passed, outlawing both the translation of the Bible into English and the possession of an English Bible. It also authorised for the first time the burning of heretics. Archbishop Arundel, Henry’s close ally, was a bitter opponent of all Lollards and it may have been partly for his sake, and to appease the Church in general, that the law was passed.
Before the ink was even dry, one William Sawtrey had been sacrificed in this way. He was a Catholic priest who had converted to Wycliffe doctrines and refused to recant. Accompanying him in prison, another priest, John Purvey, was less firm. Recanting his heresy, he was set free, and indeed so restored to favour as to be given a new living in Kent. This seems strange since he was the man who had, only a few years before, revised Wycliffe’s translation of the Bible into vernacular English. Soon after, though, he disappeared from his parish to continue preaching the new doctrines.
In 1407 Archbishop Arundel made a further attempt to control the hotbed of Lollardy that existed in Oxford University. His Constitutions of Oxford banned the writings of Wycliffe and his supporters, forbade any new translation of the Bible and banned any unauthorised preaching or teaching. The university should be purged of all unorthodox views, and strict censorship imposed. The result was a standoff that lasted three years, with the university claiming to defend its ancient liberties and Arundel equally intractable. Only a threatened intervention by king and pope and some diplomacy on the part of Prince Henry eventually smoothed over the situation.
The Lollard knights raised their heads again in the parliament of 1410, attempting to draw the teeth of De Heretico Comburendo and once again attacking the wealth of the Church. By this time, too, there was a Lollard sitting among the lords. Sir John Oldcastle, from an old Herefordshire family, had married the heiress of Lord Cobham, and on his death inherited his place in Parliament, along with rich estates in Kent, Norfolk, Wiltshire and the Midlands. Herefordshire was an area where Lollardy had become firmly established and it seems clear Sir John was already known for his beliefs. He was also, however, a close friend of the Prince of Wales, having fought under him against Glendower.
There are some who have called Henry a religious fanatic. They point to his scrupulous performance of religious duties, his interest in the liturgy and music of the Church, and in particular his insistence that all his victories were due to God and not to his own efforts. It seems more likely, though, that he was simply a typical product of his age. England had never been noted for religious sects and heresies; in fact Wycliffe is generally regarded as the first, a ‘proto-Protestant’. To most men, therefore, the Church was right because it had always been right. There had been a few standoffs in the past between king and pope, but the idea of denying basic tenets of faith was unthinkable. From one viewpoint, of course, this was because the Church exerted such tight control over both religion and society, but whatever the reason behind it, this is simply how it was. It is true that Henry took his religious duties seriously, but then he took all his duties seriously. He seems to have been, in general, a serious young man.
As far as persecution of the Lollards is concerned, it is notable that at no point was Henry the instigator of events, and he mostly appears to have done his best to avoid the consequences of conflict. In 1410, for example, although rebuking those presenting anti-clerical petitions to Parliament, he made no move against them, which, as head of the council, he might well have done.
So too, his name is linked at this time with one of the most famous Lollard martyrdoms, that of John Bradbury. Bradbury was a tailor from Evesham whose misfortune was to be selected as an example to all potential heretics. Brought before Arundel and a convocation of bishops, he refused to recant his views on a central tenet of faith, the real presence of Christ in the Eucharist, and was condemned to be burnt. That the Prince of Wales should be present at the execution was not that surprising. What was more unusual was that, when Bradbury was already tied to the stake, he should then attempt to reason with the man and persuade him to recant and save his life. Failing in this, the faggots were lit; then, with the victim crying out in anguish, Henry had the fire put out and attempted again to persuade the man to save himself. A free pardon and even a pension for life were offered, but Bradbury refused to be moved. In the end the prince gave up his efforts, the fire was relit and the man perished. Though some have suggested that this demonstrates Henry’s fanaticism, perversity and even cruelty, that does seem to take a rather uncharitable view of the affair.
It was Arundel again who sparked off the most decisive move against the Lollards soon after Henry’s accession to the throne. Having made little headway against the so-called ‘hedge priests’ and lower orders of these heretics, it seemed an ideal opportunity when clear evidence appeared against the highest in rank among them, Sir John Oldcastle. Again, some have laid his denunciation at Henry’s door, but this seems unlikely. Not only was Oldcastle a friend and former companion at arms, he was also at the time an intimate member of the king’s household, and we have evidence that Henry spent some time trying to talk him round before agreeing to his prosecution.
Oldcastle, though, was not apologetic about his faith. He knew what he believed and was recklessly unafraid to say so. His hearing before Arundel and a panel of clerics in September 1413 was short and to the point. The Pope, declared Oldcastle, was the head of Antichrist, the archbishops and bishops his limbs and the friars his tail. Not surprisingly he was condemned as a ‘most pernicious and detestable heretic’.
Henry decreed that he should have forty days’ grace to reconsider before suffering the penalty fixed by law. Well before this deadline, however, Oldcastle was gone, escaped from the Tower of London, allegedly with the assistance of William Fisher, a parchment maker from Smithfield. Immediately, so the chronicles tell us, he began calling on supporters to join him in an attempt to overthrow the king.
A plot was hatched to seize – or some say kill – the king under cover of a mumming play during the Christmas festivities at Eltham palace. Then an army would gather during the night at St Giles’s Fields north of Charing Cross to complete the takeover. What was intended after that remains rather vague – Oldcastle as regent for the king, or possibly a complete overthrow of the status quo to appeal to the more extreme supporters.
In the event neither happened. Somehow the plot was betrayed to the king, who must surely have cast his mind back to that other Christmas plot against his father. This time the end was rather less savage. Moving quietly to Westminster, Henry marshalled his own forces and arrived at St Giles’s Fields shortly after midnight. We are told that Oldcastle expected support to flood in from all quarters, particularly from the nearby London. The king, however
, had taken the precaution of locking and guarding the city gates, and we have no way of knowing whether or not Oldcastle was correct in his estimates.
Certainly the many thousands he might have hoped for did not arrive, and apparently some of those who did joined the king’s forces in error and were promptly arrested. One estimate puts Oldcastle’s supporters at no more than a few hundred, and when they found themselves facing determined opposition they fled. Some were killed, many captured and others, including Oldcastle himself, escaped.
For the next four years he evaded capture, probably hiding in his own familiar territory of Herefordshire, and some suggest that at first he was in touch with that other fugitive, Owen Glendower. For Lollardy in England, though, St Giles’s Fields marked the end of open defiance. Among those rounded up was John Purvey, who died of natural causes before he could be condemned. Others were not so lucky, and from now on, though it did not disappear entirely, Lollardy moved underground.
We have a number of contemporary accounts of Oldcastle’s rebellion, all of them totally hostile to Sir John. He was a ‘traitor to God and man’, a ‘follower of Satan’ and a ‘man of bloody and unheard-of treachery’. By contrast, the king was God’s chosen instrument to destroy the Lollards. To modern ears there seems more than a whiff of propaganda about these accounts, and one writer has gone so far as to suggest that the whole plot was made up simply to enhance Henry’s status as an orthodox Christian prince. This seems unlikely given all the circumstantial detail, but it certainly did the king’s image no harm at all to be seen as a strong leader favoured by God and a champion of the religion favoured by most of his subjects.
Orthodox Christianity needed all the champions it could get at the time, being challenged by more than just a few Lollards, for this was the time of the Western Schism. Wycliffe had found one corrupt pope unacceptable. By the time of his death, there were two.
In 1377 Pope Gregory XI, inspired by Catherine of Sienna, decided to end the papal exile in Avignon that had lasted more than half a century and return to Rome. He died in March of the following year, and at the conclave of cardinals meeting to choose his successor a mob burst in and forced the election of an Italian, Urban VI. This might not have been a problem except that the election seemed to go completely to his head. Criticised over his behaviour a little later, he is reported to have replied, ‘I am the Pope. I can do anything, absolutely anything I like.’ Within a year a large group of mostly French cardinals had returned to Avignon and elected a rival French pope, Clement VII.
Immediately both popes began seeking for support among the countries of Europe. In England it was felt an Italian would be more likely to favour English interests than a Frenchman, and the Roman pope was acknowledged. Other countries supporting Urban included Ireland, Denmark, Hungary, the Holy Roman Empire, the Nordic countries and Portugal. Clement could claim backing from France, Burgundy, the Spanish kingdoms, Scotland and later Owen Glendower’s Wales. Spilling over from religious considerations, it became natural that countries allied together in war would choose the same pope, and those in dispute would back different ones. It became more or less a bargaining chip.
There were opportunities for settlement in 1389 and 1394, when first Urban and then Clement died. They were, however, replaced by an Italian, Boniface IX in Rome, and a Spaniard, Benedict XIII in Avignon. Gradually, however, support for Benedict began slipping away, with, in particular, France withdrawing recognition in 1398.
When Boniface died in 1404 another chance was missed. The Roman cardinals hesitated to name a successor, and only did so, selecting another Italian, Innocent VII, when assured by delegates from Avignon that Benedict had no intention of resigning.
From all sides now pressure was being brought to bear to end this scandalous situation. Both Benedict and Innocent had their own troubled times, and each blamed the other for continuing the schism. Innocent died suddenly in November 1406, and in the conclave that followed, each of the cardinals swore that, if elected, they would resign as soon as Benedict did the same, or if he died.
The choice fell on the eighty-year-old who became Gregory XII. Immediately he proposed a joint resignation. A meeting was suggested, a time and place eventually agreed, and then each began making excuses. In the end no meeting took place, and, finally losing patience, cardinals from both Rome and Avignon met in Pisa in May 1408 and proposed a meeting of the ‘Christian world’ to resolve the issue once and for all. In the same month the French king announced that he had abandoned both popes and would fully support such a move, and while Henry IV did not withdraw his support from Gregory, he too approved the idea.
The Council of Pisa, as it became known, opened in March 1409 and was attended by patriarchs, archbishops, bishops, doctors of theology and ambassadors from all Christian kingdoms. First the theologians established that such a council would have supreme authority to settle the issue (a point on which the University of Paris contributed much learned argument) and then, led by the Patriarch of Alexandria, declared that both popes were heretical schismatics, not worthy of their offices. They were declared deposed and the Holy See vacant. In June another conclave was held and a new pope, a Greco-Italian, was elected by fourteen cardinals from Rome and ten from Avignon. He took the name Alexander V.
Both Gregory and Benedict had tried and failed to set up rival councils. Both had eventually sent delegates to speak on their behalf – and neither resigned nor accepted the decisions taken at Pisa. Instead of two popes, the Church now had three.
In May 1410 Alexander dined with Cardinal Cossa, a Neapolitan who had been a leading figure at the council. Shortly afterwards he died unexpectedly and, despite the cardinal’s somewhat murky backstory and a rumour that he had poisoned Alexander, Cossa was elected Pope John XXIII. This was the situation when Henry V came to the throne, but by then there was a new player in the game.
Sigismund was King of Hungary, King of the Germans, and would later be crowned Holy Roman Emperor. He had fought the Ottoman Turks on behalf of Christianity (and to protect his own kingdoms) at the fateful Battle of Nicopolis in 1396, and was anxious to reunite the divided Christian kingdoms so as to take further action against these encroachers on Christian lands.
Bowing to pressure from Sigismund and from a number of cardinals, in 1413 John XXIII called another council to achieve what the Council of Pisa had so obviously failed to do. To emphasise its neutrality it was to meet at Constance, a German imperial city, away from both Italy and France, and for the next year Sigismund was heavily involved in gathering support for it. With his influence in the eastern part of Europe, he felt it was important that France and England should also be involved, as ‘the three heads of Christendom’ who ‘should unite together for the general good’.
Henry, too, as a true son of the Church, felt it important to be part of this movement, the more so since, as well as the reunification of the papacy, other themes to be debated by the council were the Lollard heresy and Church reform. Nor was he losing sight of England’s other interests. There was long-standing distrust between Sigismund and the Duke of Burgundy, which led the former to favour the Armagnac cause in France, and to generally favour French interests above English ones. Partly this was due to the disastrous outcome of Nicopolis, brought about by the Duke of Burgundy’s refusal to listen to tactical advice from Sigismund. In part also it was due to the later attacks on Sigismund’s German lands by Burgundians ambitious for expansion. It would be of great benefit to Henry’s future plans, however, if the German king could be turned into an ally, and support for him in the council would be one way to achieve this.
The English delegation was therefore chosen with some care. Had it been a year or two earlier, Henry Chichele, then Bishop of St David’s, would have been an obvious choice. Though there are stories of his humble origins, that he had been ‘a poor plough boy, eating scanty meals off his mother’s lap’, this seems to have been an exaggeration since his father later became mayor of Higham Ferrers in Northamptonshi
re. Nevertheless he had been a scholar at Winchester School and New College, Oxford, an ecclesiastical lawyer, and for some time past a royal envoy, regularly engaged on diplomatic missions abroad. In 1411 he had accompanied the Earl of Arundel’s expedition to France, and earlier he had been an envoy to both Pope Boniface and Pope Gregory, so he was well versed in the state of the papacy. In February 1414, however, the mighty Archbishop Arundel had suffered a stroke and died, and Henry had immediately proposed Chichele as his successor, the appointment being duly made in April of that year. As archbishop he could not be spared, even for something as important as the council which was assembling in the autumn of 1414.
Instead the English delegation dispatched in October of that year was led by Robert Hallum, Bishop of Salisbury, an experienced cleric known to favour reform in the Church. Along with him went the Bishop of Bath and Wells and the newly appointed Bishop of St David’s, and, to show the particular interest of the king, his close friend Richard, Earl of Warwick.
The Council of Constance opened in November 1414, presided over by Sigismund and John XXIII. The early sessions were devoted to establishing its authority, but then, in February 1415 a procedural change was made that greatly enhanced the English influence. Some countries, particularly Italy and France, had sent large delegations, while others were of more modest proportions. In order to avoid being outvoted by the very people who were blocking progress already, it was decided that voting would be by ‘nation’. At this point the Spanish countries, still solidly backing the Spanish pope, Benedict XIII, had not sent any representatives, so the four ‘nations’ identified as having a vote were Germany (including some Scandinavian and Polish representatives), France, Italy and England. From being one of the smallest groups, the English now became one of the most powerful.
Although assembled under the auspices of John XXIII, the decision of the council was that all three popes should abdicate. John reluctantly agreed to this, but then, not trusting the ‘nations’, fled from Constance and in his absence was tried and found guilty of heresy, selling religious offices, schism, piracy and immorality. Soon after he was persuaded to give himself up and he was imprisoned for some time in Germany.
