For fifteen years, moreover, the country had been delivered over to the struggle carried on in the name of religion. In 1531 the King had responded to the refusal of the Pope to sanction his divorce from Katherine of Aragon by repudiating the authority of the Holy See and the assertion of his own supremacy in matters spiritual as well as temporal. Three years later Parliament, servile and subservient as Parliaments were wont to be under the Tudor Kings, had formally endorsed and confirmed the revolt.
“The third day of November,” recorded the chronicler, “the King’s Highness held the high Court of Parliament, in the which was concluded and made many and sundry good, wholesome, and godly statutes, but among all one special statute which authorised the King’s Highness to be supreme head of the Church of England, by which the Pope ... was utterly abolished out of this realm.”[1]
Since then another punishable crime was added to those, already none too few, for which a man was liable to lose his head, and the following year saw the death upon the scaffold of Fisher and of More. The execution of Anne Boleyn, by whom the match had, in some sort, been set to the mine, came next, but the step taken by the King was not to be retraced with the absence of the motive which had prompted it; and Catholics and Protestants alike had continued to suffer at the hands of an autocrat who chastised at will those who wandered from the path he pointed out, and refused to model their creed upon the prescribed pattern.
In 1546 the “Act to abolish Diversity of Opinion”—called more familiarly the Bloody Statute, and designed to conform the faith of the nation to that of the King—had been in force for seven years, a standing menace to those persons, in high or low place, who, encouraged by the King’s defiance of Rome, had been emboldened to adopt the tenets of the German Protestants. Henry had opened the floodgates; he desired to keep out the flood. The Six Articles of the Statute categorically reaffirmed the principal doctrines of the Catholic Church, and made their denial a legal offence. On the other hand the refusal to admit the royal supremacy in matters spiritual was no less penal. A reign of terror was the result.
“Is thy servant a dog?” The time-honoured question might have risen to the King’s lips in the days, not devoid of a brighter promise, of his youth, had the veil covering the future been withdrawn. “We mark curiously,” says a recent writer, “the regular deterioration of Henry’s character as the only checks upon his action were removed, and he progressively defied traditional authority and established standards of conduct without disaster to himself.” The Church had proved powerless to punish a defiance dictated by passion and perpetuated by vanity and cupidity; Parliaments had cringed to him in matters religious or political, courtiers and sycophants had flattered, until “there was no power on earth to hold in check the devil in the breast of Henry Tudor.”[2]
Such was the condition of England. Old barriers had been thrown down; new had not acquired strength; in the struggle for freedom men had cast aside moral restraint. Life was so lightly esteemed, and death invested with so little tragic importance, that a man of the position and standing of Latimer, Bishop of Worcester, when appointed to preach on the occasion of the burning of a priest, could treat the matter with a flippant levity scarcely credible at a later day.
“If it be your pleasure, as it is,” he wrote to Cromwell, “that I shall play the fool after my customary manner when Forest shall suffer, I would that my stage stood near unto Forest” (so that the victim might benefit by his arguments).... “If he would yet with heart return to his abjuration, I would wish his pardon, such is my foolishness.”[3]
Yet there was another side to the picture; here and there, amidst the din of battle and the confusion of tongues, the voice of genuine conviction was heard; and men and women were ready, at the bidding of conscience, to give up their lives in passionate loyalty to an ancient faith or to a new ideal. “And the thirtieth day of the same month,” June 1540, runs an entry in a contemporary chronicle, “was Dr. Barnes, Jerome, and Garrard, drawn from the Tower to Smithfield, and there burned for their heresies. And that same day also was drawn from the Tower with them Doctor Powell, with two other priests, and there was a gallows set up at St. Bartholomew’s Gate, and there were hanged, headed, and quartered that same day”—the offence of these last being the denial of the King’s supremacy, as that of the first had been adherence to Protestant doctrines.[4]
From a photo by W. Mansell & Co. after a painting by Holbein.