HENRY VIII.
No one was safe. The year 1540 had seen the fall of Cromwell, the Minister of State. “Cranmer and Cromwell,” wrote the French ambassador, “do not know where they are.”[5] Cromwell at least was not to wait long for the certainty. For years all-powerful in the Council, he was now to fall a victim to jealous hate and the credulity of the master he had served. At his imprisonment “many lamented, but more rejoiced, ... for they banquetted and triumphed together that night, many wishing that day had been seven years before; and some, fearing that he should escape although he were imprisoned, could not be merry.”[6] They need not have feared the King’s clemency. The minister had been arrested on June 10. On July 28 he was executed on Tower Hill.
If Cromwell, in spite of his services to the Crown, in spite of the need Henry had of men of his ability, was not secure, who could call themselves safe? Even Cranmer, the King’s special friend though he was, must have felt misgivings. A married man, with children, he was implicitly condemned by one of the Six Articles of the Bloody Statute, enjoining celibacy on the clergy, and was besides well known to hold Protestant views. His embittered enemy, Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester, vehement in his Catholicism though pandering to the King on the subject of the royal supremacy, was minister; and his fickle master might throw the Archbishop at any moment to the wolves.
One narrow escape he had already had, when in 1544 a determined attempt had been hazarded to oust him from his position of trust and to convict him of his errors, and the party adverse to him in the Council had accused the Primate “most grievously” to the King of heresy. It was a bold stroke, for it was known that Henry loved him, and the triumph of his foes was the greater when they received the royal permission to commit the Lord Archbishop to the Tower on the following day, and to cause him to undergo an examination on matters of doctrine and faith. So far all had gone according to their hopes, and his enemies augured well of the result. But that night, at eleven o’clock, when Cranmer, in ignorance of the plot against him, was in bed, he received a summons to attend the King, whom he found in the gallery at Whitehall, and who made him acquainted with the action of the Council, together with his own consent that an examination should take place.
“Whether I have done well or no, what say you, my lord?” asked Henry in conclusion.
Cranmer answered warily. Knowing his master, and his jealousy of being supposed to connive at heresy, save on the one question of the Pope’s authority, he cannot have failed to recognise the gravity of the situation. He put, however, a good face upon it. The King, he said, would see that he had a fair trial—“was indifferently heard.” His bearing was that of a man secure that justice would be done him. Both he, in his heart, and the King, knew better.
“Oh, Lord God,” sighed Henry, “what fond simplicity have you, so to permit yourself to be imprisoned!” False witnesses would be produced, and he would be condemned.
Taking his precautions, therefore, Henry gave the Archbishop his ring—the recognised sign that the matter at issue was taken out of the hands of the Council and reserved for his personal investigation. After which sovereign and prelate parted.
When, at eight o’clock the next morning, Cranmer, in obedience to the summons he had received, arrived at the Council Chamber, his foes, insolent in their premature triumph, kept him at the door, awaiting their convenience, close upon an hour. My lord of Canterbury was become a lacquey, some one reported to the King, since he was standing among the footmen and servants. The King, comprehending what was implied, was wroth.
“Have they served my lord so?” he asked. “It is well enough; I shall talk with them by and by.”