by G Lawrence
My brother was looking at me with amused admiration. “What?” I asked, batting him playfully with the pamphlet.
“Perhaps when you are Queen, my dear sister,” he said ruefully, “you could instruct all your ladies on how to manage their husbands, for I think it would make England a land of happier men, if they all had wives like you who understood them and took care of them so well.”
I laughed and took his arm. We went straight to Henry, and I showed him the pamphlet.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Greenwich Palace
Spring 1530
Henry was struck by Fish’s work, and after reading it, called me to dine with him so that we could speak on it. I was nervous that he might have responded to some of it, as my brother had said, with resentment, but this did not seem to be the case. Henry took Fish’s warnings of rebellion as the logical end result of the clergy’s repression of his people, and he agreed with much that Fish had to say.
“So captive are your laws unto them that no man that they list to excommunicate maybe admitted to sue any action of your courts,” he read aloud as we sat, side by side, dining privately. “If any man in your sessions dare to be so hardy to indict a priest of any such crime, he hath, ere the year go out, such a yoke of heresy laid upon his neck that it maketh him wish he had not done it.” Henry shook his head, taking from the bowl of purple grapes on the table and then wiping his hands on the linen napkin that was draped over his shoulder. “The man speaks of such vice…” he said, “and such power of the Church over my own people!”
“And he cries out to you, my lord, to make things right, as his good and honourable master.”
Henry nodded, his eyes still moving over the text. “He speaks of the Hunne case…” he muttered broodingly. “Wolsey asked me to pardon the Bishop of London, and I granted it, hardly thinking more about it…” He trailed off uneasily and I put a hand on his arm.
“Here is another occasion when you were deceived by Wolsey, my lord,” I consoled. “It was not your fault, Henry. You trusted his judgement. It was his error, not yours.”
He nodded, but I could see he was still uneasy. Hunne had been a rich tailor of London. His son had died, at the age of five months, and the local priest wanted to charge Hunne for the burial of his child. This was known as a mortuary; a payment demanded for performing the service of burial. This was another ill-practise of the Church that I found abhorrent. Some money is needed to inter the dead for the cost of breaking the ground or for a plaque to mark the site, but many priests chose to milk exorbitant sums directly from the sorrow of their people. The priest who was to serve Hunne had demanded the embroidered bearing sheet in which Hunne’s son had been wrapped for his christening as payment. This was too much for Hunne, and he had refused to give up the precious cloth.
The priest had brought suit against Hunne in an ecclesiastical court. Hunne counter-sued, insisting that the case was one of common, rather than ecclesiastical law. The Church had taken this as a direct challenge to their authority. If Hunne kept his son’s christening blanket, then common law would have vanquished ecclesiastical law. The case was heard and the judge ruled in favour of the Church, but Hunne had still refused to give up the christening blanket.
As a result, Hunne had been arrested on charges of heresy, for daring to challenge the Church, and sent to the Bishop of London’s prison. He had been excommunicated. In response, Hunne had accused the priesthood of praemunire, recognising the authority of a foreign power over that of the King of England, and of acting against common English law. Thomas More had been convinced that Hunne was a Lollard sympathiser. More despised Lollards, along with anyone else he considered heretical. He had accused Hunne of seeking fame, and the case had been widely talked of about London.
Two days later Hunne had been found dead in his cell, hanging from the ceiling by his own belt. The clergy insisted that Hunne had taken his own life, but his widow had objected violently, saying that he had ever been a man of God, and knew full well that to do so would be to condemn his everlasting soul to the fires of eternal torment. The coroner investigated, and foul play had been suspected. It was found that Hunne’s wrists had been bound, and it was suspected he could not have inserted his neck into the noose, for the only stool in the cell was found too far from the body to have been used by Hunne. Finger marks had also been discovered on his neck, suggesting he had been strangled before being put into the noose. It was thought that the Bishop of London’s doctor, a Master Horsey, was responsible. But despite this evidence, the Church had continued to act against Hunne for the charge of heresy. It was claimed that an English translation of the Bible had been found amongst his papers. Thomas More declared he had seen it, and vouched that Hunne had written notes about the “heresies” contained therein. What heresies could the Bible contain? The Church had charged Hunne’s corpse with calling the Pope “Satan” and with condemning papal indulgences. More was one of those who had stood for the Church during the trial. Hunne had been condemned, and his property declared forfeit to the crown. His wife and remaining children had been left with nothing. Some days later, Hunne’s corpse had been burned at Smithfield.
But the coroners who had attended to Hunne were not frightened of the Church. They found the jailor who had attended him that night, and the man confessed that he and another had strangled Hunne in his bed. No matter Hunne’s crimes against the Church, murder is murder. A jury had brought three of the Bishop of London’s men to answer the charge. But through Wolsey’s good graces, Henry had pardoned the Bishop and his men… No man ever stood trial for the suspected murder. Hunne’s remains were not allowed to be buried on consecrated ground. Not only had his life been taken, but his soul was lost, bereft of Heaven and the saving light of God. Thomas More insisted, despite all the evidence to the contrary, that Hunne had committed suicide, and continued to believe the punishment, which had been carried out upon not only Hunne, but on his wife and children, had been justified in the war against heresy.
Fish used this shocking tale to illustrate the clergy’s abuse of the charge of heresy. They would levy such charges against any who opposed them and were not above murder to remove those who stood against them.
“It was not your fault if you were taken in by Wolsey, my lord,” I said, and then added, “and perhaps Wolsey himself was taken in as well… The Bishop of London may only have told him the barest facts of the case in order to gain his pardon. He could have deceived Wolsey and you.”
Henry squeezed my hand gratefully. He liked more the idea that both he and Wolsey had been deceived. I put my knife to the imported figs in syrup and speared them to my pewter plate, carving them into delicate sections. I then took from the plate of rich venison which had been ably carved by Norris, and ate, using my clean fingers to lift the delicate morsels to my mouth as Henry read on.
“He says here…” Henry pointed at the page. “… That Hunne was murdered because he recognised the authority of my courts above those of the clergy.” He pressed a grape into some new, white cheese with his fingers and chewed contemplatively as he thought. He swallowed and wiped his mouth. “I have often thought that the ecclesiastical courts interfere much in affairs which should be for the state alone to decide.”
“The clergy have placed themselves above the law of the realm, my love,” I said, slicing through another plump, sticky fig. “They should not be allowed to interfere so. The Church should be for the faith and spiritual guidance of the people, and it should be the state alone that upholds common law and seeks your justice. It does not hold that the two should overlap, or that the clergy should interfere in matters of state. Do they not have enough work to do in tending to the spiritual welfare of the people?”
“It seems to me that the Church in England requires much work to make it as it should be,” I continued. “And if the willingness to root out corruption comes not from within the Church, then surely, it should come from the King… You are, after all, the Defender of the Faith, my lord.�
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“He speaks much of the corruptions of the flesh amongst the clergy, also,” pondered Henry. “For a long time I have had my own men, such as Cromwell and Wolsey, seeking out those institutions in which avarice, lust and greed have overtaken the men of the Church… but I believe that more might be done.”
“When I was in France, my lord,” I continued. “King François’ sister, Princess Marguerite, was an outspoken reformer of Church institutions that had fallen into sin. I have always believed it is the duty of the royal line of any country to ensure that the spiritual welfare of their people is taken care of properly.”
He nodded. “I will speak to my men,” he said. “Master Cromwell was ever his master’s good servant in such affairs, I will ask his opinion, and see what is to be done.”
“I think that is well, my lord, for I come to trust the word of Cromwell more and more as I meet with him.” Henry smiled at me, well pleased to know that I, too, held the man in high esteem. “And what of Fish, my lord?” I asked carefully, laying my jewelled knife at the side of my plate and washing my hands. The water had petals of roses floating in it, along with tiny purple fronds of lavender. They bobbed and swam out of the way of my fingers, like boats on a tiny sea. “The poor man but seeks your love, and assurance for your people. I believe he speaks not heresy here, but only good sense. The Church would move against him, but does he not speak the truth? Some of his beliefs are more outlandish, I admit… but, with the right prince guiding him, such a man might see where his errors lie. And even if he requires guidance in some areas of theology, this does not detract from the truths held in his works.”
Henry inclined his head. “I will issue a pardon for the man,” he said, and then scowled. “Chancellor More will like it not at all… But I would like to meet with this Master Fish, and hear his views in person.”
“You are the greatest of Kings, my lord,” I said warmly. I meant it truly. “To listen to the pleas of your people, even those exiled and banished, and take their words into your heart. You are a generous prince, Henry; the wisest I have ever met.”
Henry’s cheeks coloured a touch as he pushed his great hands into the fingerbowl and cleaned them carefully, then dried them on a linen with golden embroidery, handed to him by Norris. Henry looked up at his friend with affection. Since Henry loved Norris so well, he was often called to serve at dinner. Henry believed that Norris carved meat, a refined skill of gentlemen and nobles, better than any other.
Henry put his hand over mine and patted it. “How, now,” he blushed, although looking pleased by my compliment. “Leave this paper with me, Anne, for I wish to study it more.”
“And I would love to talk of it with you more, too, my love. I do so enjoy hearing your thoughts. In listening to you, I understand my own thoughts only the clearer.” This was also true. Although my thoughts were often clear enough, discussing them with Henry helped me to fine-tune them, to express them with clarity. Sometimes I struggled, when I was passionate, to make myself rightly understood. Henry made me slow down my thought process and approach each argument logically. In return, I opened his mind to new ideas. We matched well.
“I feel the same, my love.” He reached across the table and traced a finger down the side of my jaw. I kissed it as it reached my mouth. “What a Queen you will make, my Anne,” he said tenderly. ”As wise as you are beautiful.”
Henry’s support of Fish did not go down at all well with More, as Henry had predicted. More was presently engaged with Archbishop Warham in condemning Tyndale as a heretic, for his Obedience, for his translation of the New Testament and for his new translation of the Old Testament. He hardly wanted the King to become enamoured with other men he considered heretics.
Despite Henry’s acceptance of many points in the Obedience, he was pressured by More to condemn both translations of the Bible as heretical. Henry had also decided that Tyndale needed to be arrested. Although he agreed with much of his arguments, Tyndale’s stance against the annulment had angered Henry. He believed Tyndale was dangerous, and needed to be stopped. What was I to say? To outwardly defend someone Henry hated was perilous. I hoped to persuade him in time that Tyndale was not a threat, to England, to him, or to the faith.
More had already started up the fires of Smithfield in his zeal to rid the world of heretics, making it clear he thought his predecessor, Wolsey, had been too lenient. The fires started that spring, and over the summer a pall of smoke made from the body and blood of reformers and free thinkers would come to float over London.
More was also suppressing the legal rights that suspected heretics had when arrested. They were not supposed to be held for longer than three months without trial. They could not be accused of the same crime if acquitted and could not be held if their trials were postponed. More ignored all these rights. He was relentless, and his interrogations did not only go on in the Lollard’s Tower of Lambeth Palace, nor in the ecclesiastical prisons… No… there were reports that More liked to take such men to his own house in Chelsea, and torture them there. There was a tree in his garden which he called “The Tree of Truth” where he whipped and flogged men he had arrested. His gatehouse was fitted out with stocks and chains so he could hold men fast as he interrogated them. More was breaking the law. As Chancellor, he was duty-bound to uphold it. He was obsessed with heresy, and determined to use his new-found power to destroy it.
That May, a conclave of bishops and clergy met at Westminster. More went along as the only layman. The conclave discussed the translation of the Bible into English, and although one or two spoke out in favour, the Church re-issued its ban on such works, and issued a Public Instrument for “The abolishing of the Scripture and other books to be read in English.” The Church did not want to loosen its grip on the people of God.
More was a keen advocate for keeping the ban in place, and even keener to press for severe measures for those found defying the Church. Under More’s influence, Henry was persuaded that heresy and treason were almost the same creature; that those who disobeyed the Church were likely to rebel against him. Whilst Henry understood the sense in Tyndale’s works, and others I had brought to him, he did not believe that all people should read them. Much like the Church, in this way, he believed that some books, some knowledge, was dangerous and could not be understood by all.
I was bitterly disappointed in Henry. Although he said he would allow a translation of the Bible to be made by a learned scholar, at some stage, which went against the conclave, he also ordered that all translated works of Scripture be handed in, so they could be destroyed by More and his minions.
He did not, of course, include my books or his in this purge. Henry kept hold of his own copies of the Tyndale works, just as many other rebellious Londoners and people of England did. That is the nice thing about books. They are easy to hide, if one has the will, and if only shared with those who are seekers of knowledge, have the power to seed fresh ideas, and new ways of thinking.
But this proclamation, linking heresy to treason, gave More new powers. He could call suspects now to the Star Court at Westminster, and try them without having to go through the Bishop’s courts. He arrested a great many booksellers, increased his spies about London, and created a fog of fear about the city and beyond that was hideous to behold.
More was dangerous. Not only to all those who wished to explore their religion, not only to reformers, evangelicals and actual heretics, but to the very ideas I was trying to get Henry to accept. My love was still wavering in his beliefs. I had to find a way to convince him of the truth.
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Richmond Palace
Late Spring 1530
Despite all that I was bringing to him on the matter of reform and new thoughts, Henry still wished to pursue the Pope for an annulment. He still believed it to be the quickest and easiest path. I did not agree, but Henry was King, and therefore he usually had his way. I was pleased, however, that he was also pursuing other methods, such as using Cranmer’s work
to gather theological opinion on the Great Matter. Henry believed that once presented with the findings of the universities, the Pope would have to capitulate. Henry was, at this time, teetering between his old beliefs and new ones. It would not do to pressure him too much, for then he would resist. I had to lace his dinner with a tiny bit of new sauce each time he dined, in order for him to develop a taste for it. In doing so, I assured myself I was working for his good and the good of England. The voice inside my head, which whispered such excuses to me, sounded remarkably like my father’s.
Since Henry was still in favour of prevailing upon the Pope, my father revisited a plan that had been brought up two years ago; a petition, signed by all the nobles in England, asking the Pope to rid Henry of his unlawful Queen, and to allow him to take me as his wife instead. A draft was made, but upon its first reading at the Council, Henry declared it “too anti-papal” to believe that it would hold much weight with Clement. It was taken back, modified and agreed by the King and Council, but the final draft remained heavy with threat towards Clement.
