The Burning Time

by Virginia Rounding

  Such arguments seem very far removed from sixteenth-century, let alone twenty-first-century, English concerns, but what is of interest is that, whether burning was considered in the Jewish law to be the most severe or only the second-most severe form of execution, it was still designed to be less painful, protracted and shameful than the burning at the stake devised by the Christian persecutors of heretics and specified as the due punishment for heresy in 1231 by Pope Gregory IX in his papal bull Excommunicamus. The procedure as described in the Mishnah nevertheless sounds quite horrific enough: ‘The defendant is put in manure up to his knees. A coarse scarf is wrapped in a soft scarf, and the witnesses wind them around the defendant’s neck, pulling in opposite directions until he opens his mouth. One witness then throws a “lighted wick” [actually a long thin trickle of molten lead] into the defendant’s mouth, and it goes down into his stomach and burns his intestines.’ The additional discomfort of being made to stand in manure (or mud or dirt, according to some interpretations) has been variously explained as designed to prevent the defendant jumping about and causing the molten lead to spill on to the body or to hide the bodily excretions which occur at death and so aimed at preserving the victim’s dignity. Rosenberg and Rosenberg emphasize the differences between this form of execution and that of being burnt alive at the stake. The molten-lead method is ‘speedier … less painful, and, because the external body is left intact … less degrading’.

  Incidentally, the Gemara as examined by Rosenberg and Rosenberg also contains a possible explanation as to why a place like Smithfield – outside the walls of the City – should have historically been chosen as a place of execution:

  As the convicted person is being led to the execution site, he is given frankincense and wine ‘to dull his senses’. The execution site must be situated ‘outside the courthouse’ and outside the city. Why? The Gemara gives two answers: that in the absence of sufficient geographic distance from the place of execution, the court itself, having ordered an execution, might be viewed as being comprised of murderers; or, alternatively, that the remoteness of the execution locale gives the condemned person the possibility of rescue.

  The type of rescue envisaged here is not an unlawful ambush by supporters, but refers to the possibility of witnesses coming forward, even at this late hour when the accused was on his way to the place of execution, with fresh evidence which could avert the punishment. Those who consigned heretics to burn in Smithfield rarely hoped the condemned might be ‘rescued’ – at least not in a physical sense – but they were certainly desirous of not being regarded as murderers.

  In addition to the biblical and other precedents (or apparent encouragements), for those determined to root out and obliterate not only the heretics but the heresy with which they were infected – and could therefore go on to infect others – the appropriateness of burning was that it removed the problem completely. There was nothing left, only a pile of ashes, some teeth and a few fragments of bone. Such remains may have been almost inseparable from the surrounding material of the burnt wood. The infection was cauterized and could not spread any further. That, at least, was the argument. This desire completely to remove all traces of the heretic is evident in the fate of one of the most renowned religious figures of the fifteenth century, the Dominican friar and preacher, Girolamo Savonarola. On 23 May 1498 Savonarola, in the company of two other friars, was hanged and his body then burnt in Florence’s Piazza della Signoria. Officially his crime was heresy; unofficially, in his dominance over the Florentine citizens, he had set himself up in opposition to both secular and ecclesiastical authority and, crucially, he had in recent weeks lost the support of popular opinion. Prior to his execution he had been repeatedly tortured by the strappado method – hoisted above the ground by means of a pulley-operated rope tied around his wrists. This torture pulled the arms backwards and upwards, almost inevitably dislocating them. The pain was such that the forty-five-year-old friar, already weakened by his life of austerity, confessed to everything asked of him under torture, retracting what he had said once he regained his composure – and then the process would start again. Death must have come as something of a relief. To ensure that no trace was left of him, the ashes of all three friars were scattered in the Arno.

  And what of the process itself? What happened once the victim (usually a living person, rather than one already dead like Savonarola) was securely fastened to the stake, the flaming torch thrust into the wood stacked around his or her legs, the fire crackling and starting to take hold? The first organ of the body to burn is obviously the skin, the layers of the epidermis (the thin waterproof outer layer) and the dermis (the thicker inner layer which contains blood vessels, hair follicles, sweat and oil glands) blistering, tightening and changing colour through red, yellow and brown to black. As the skin continues to tighten, shrink and pull apart, criss-cross and star-shaped patterns form on the surface, where the epidermis and then the dermis are splitting. The thin outer layers are frying at this point and beginning to peel off. After about five minutes the dermis shrinks and begins to split, the yellow fat underneath starting to leak out. Below the dermis is the hypodermis, composed of connective and adipose (fatty) tissues covering muscle and bone. As the fat of the dermis is consumed by the fire, the gaps in the skin widen and the layers beneath – of tendons, ligaments and thick muscle – begin to burn. The depth of the layers of muscular tissue beneath the hypodermis differs over various parts of the body. As these layers of muscular tissue burn away, the underlying bone of areas protected by thinner layers of muscle, such as the ankle joints, is exposed more quickly than, for instance, the bones of the thicker, heavily muscled, thigh. The bone itself will blacken as all soft tissue is consumed, and then it will turn into brittle greyish-white splinters, and feet, hands and limbs may drop off.

  As the muscles char and burn away, they also shrink and contract, physically moving joints, and this gives rise to an interesting phenomenon, particularly in relation to the death of martyrs as described by Foxe and others. The muscle shrinkage can lead to the bodies of the victims of burning assuming certain characteristic poses. Dr Elayne Pope, who works with scene-of-crime investigators and specializes in bodies killed by fire, comments: ‘If the arms were free to move, you would see flexion of the elbows, fingers, and wrist’, and ‘For extremities of the arms and legs, rapid dehydration from heat shortens tendons, muscle fibers of the more robust flexors, and produces the universally described and predictable “pugilistic posture”.’ That is, the arms flex and become raised and drawn away from the body, with the fingers tucked into the palm.

  It is easy to imagine that to the onlookers of burnings at the stake, unaware of the shrinking effect on muscles from burning, these involuntary changes in posture – the arms flexing and rising, the fingers curling inwards – could look like the voluntary act of raising the hands in prayer. Likewise with other muscles: ‘Smaller muscles of the head, neck, and back also shorten from heat to create a limited range of exaggerated arching of the spine.’ The victim would become rigid, back arched, head thrown backwards. When these muscle contractures occurred, it could appear that the sufferer was raising his or her head towards heaven, in supplication or praise. The onlookers would not have realized that, by this time, the sufferer was almost certainly dead.*

  When Christopher Wade, a linen weaver from Kent, was seen to be ‘still holding his hands up over his head together toward heaven, even when he was dead and altogether roasted’, it was interpreted by spectators as a sign from God. It must be God, they concluded, who ‘no less wonderfully sustained those hands which he lifted up to him for comfort in his torment’. Another particularly vivid description of this type of phenomenon – a post-mortem reaction interpreted by onlookers as a final act of Protestant defiance – is that given by Foxe in the appendix of the 1563 edition of his Acts and Monuments, and believed to have come from an eyewitness, of the burning of one Robert Smith, a priest, at Uxbridge, on 8 August 1555:

  At
length he being well nigh half burnt, and all black with fire, clustered together as in a lump like a black coal, all men thinking him for dead, suddenly rose up right before the people, lifting up the stumps of his arms, and clapping the same together, declaring a rejoicing heart unto them, and so bending down again, and hanging over the fire, slept in the Lord, and ended this mortal life.

  *’This treatise, posted in 2004 and widely cited by jihadists, is both a rationale for violence and a blueprint for the Caliphate. It draws heavily on the writings of Taqi al-Din ibn Taymiyyah (1263–1328), the medieval theologian who inspired the Arabian Wahhabi movement, and is highly regarded by Islamists for holding rulers to account in the practice of true religion.’ Malise Ruthven, ‘Inside the Islamic State’, the New York Review, 9 July 2015.

  *It is interesting to note that the modern jihadist attitude towards the fate of heretics – or ‘apostates’ – also has this two-tier approach, the most reprehensible apostate being the sort who has previously had an opportunity to recant and has not availed himself of it: ‘Note … that there is no forgiveness for an apostate unless he converts to Islam. When he converts, we have the option of either forgiving him or killing him because he has repented after he had the capacity to do so earlier.’ Naji, The Management of Savagery, p. 113.

  *’Muscle contractures are common where substantial heat has reached the body. This is almost always a post-mortem occurrence, as deep-heating effects sufficient to cook muscle are incompatible with life.’ Saukko and Knight, Knight’s Forensic Pathology, p. 316.

  Chapter Four

  RECANTATIONS AND REVERSALS

  One of the most perplexing traits in Henry’s complex character is the readiness with which he allowed those whom he trusted for the moment – his grandmother and his wife early in the reign, and Wolsey and Cromwell in later years – not only to execute but also to originate and plan high policy … It was as if, once convinced of the absolute fidelity and ability of a servant, he allowed him to set the course and hold the wheel through dangerous waters until, without a warning, the captain came on deck to throw the helmsman into the surf.

  David Knowles, The Religious Orders in England

  JOHN LAMBERT, a priest who had been charged with heresy on forty-five counts in 1532, but freed when Thomas Cranmer became Archbishop of Canterbury, met his end ‘for great heresy’ in Smithfield on 22 November 1538. Lambert, whose family name was Nicholson but who had changed his surname (it is not known why) by the time he received his BA degree in 1519 or 1520, came from Norfolk and was educated at Cambridge. For a brief period, between Michaelmas 1521 and Easter 1522, he was a fellow at Queens’ College whose patron was Katherine of Aragon. Around this time he attended the religious discussions held in the White Horse tavern in Cambridge, where he encountered the evangelical teaching of Thomas Bilney.

  After leaving Cambridge, Lambert was ordained priest within the diocese of Norwich (according to his own account when later questioned by Archbishop Warham). Soon becoming connected with the reformist cause, he was among those who took refuge in Antwerp, where he became preacher and chaplain to the English House (that is, to the Merchant Adventurers or English merchants in that major trading city); during this period of his life, he became acquainted with other reformers who had (at least temporarily) taken refuge abroad, including John Frith and William Tyndale.

  Much is unknown, or uncertain, about Lambert’s life at this time, but it is likely that it was as a result of Thomas More’s heresy-hunting that he was brought back from Antwerp to London to answer charges relating to the translation of heretical texts. Tom Betteridge in the Oxford DNB writes that Lambert was ‘probably’ examined on a charge of heresy before convocation on 27 March 1531 and was ‘certainly’ imprisoned during the period 1531 to 1532 and questioned by Archbishop Warham, first at Lambeth and subsequently at Warham’s manor house at Otford. Here he was given forty-five ‘articles’ to answer, to which he wrote the replies without having access to any books.

  In his Acts and Monuments Foxe reproduces these forty-five articles, along with the responses of the accused, in which Lambert is careful not to give direct answers to questions relating to the central issue of the sacrament of the altar. He, like the vast majority of people interrogated for heresy, had no desire to incriminate himself if he could avoid doing so. By bringing some of his words up to date, using modern language to convey his responses, one can get a real sense of his feistiness and wit.

  To begin with, Lambert was asked whether he was suspected of heresy. ‘How should I know?’ he replied. ‘I’m not sure what anyone might have suspected of me, or when. Some may have thought badly of me, some well, for, after all, people had different opinions of all the famous prophets, and of the apostles, and even of Christ himself. And seeing that not everyone thought well of Christ, who is the very author of truth, why should I care if some random person, at some time or other, suspected bad things about me and spoke ill of me? If they did, I took so little notice that I’ve forgotten all about it, and I’m glad I have. And if I did remember, I’d be a complete idiot if I told you about it, for your own law states that no man is bound to give himself away. But I have certainly never been charged with this crime or asked about it by a judge before now. And considering you haven’t managed to prove me guilty, I don’t know why you haven’t declared me innocent, as I have asked you to. But now you’ve thought of new things to charge me with, and you’ve forced me to tell you what I think by keeping me locked up for so long.’

  Lambert was then asked whether he owned any books by Martin Luther and, in particular, whether he had kept any since they had been condemned, how long he had had them, and whether he had studied them. ‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘I have had them, both before they were condemned and subsequently, but I neither can nor will tell you how long I had them; but I have certainly studied them, and I thank God for that. For through them God has shown me, and many others, a light that cannot be borne by the deceitful darkness of those who – wrongly – call themselves the holy Church.’ He went on to attack the ‘over-rich’ leaders of that Church who were, he said, ‘so drowned in voluptuous living’ that they had no time to devote to the study or the preaching of scripture. In Germany, he declared, it was much easier to identify the abuses of the clergy because it was possible to read all sorts of books in the vernacular and, as a result, people could easily follow ‘the true light of God’s word, refusing the horror of darkness and false doctrine’. Lambert further argued that, as a priest, he must have been considered by the Bishop of Norwich, who ordained him, able to discern good from ill, light from darkness, and therefore his opinion was worth listening to. (This seems a somewhat self-defeating argument, as the clergy he was attacking could reasonably have said the same thing of themselves.)

  He was also asked whether he believed in free will – that is, whether ‘whatever is done by a man, whether good or ill, is done by necessity’. Lambert treated this as a ‘riddle’ which he declared himself of insufficient wit or learning to solve (despite all his answers showing he had plenty of both). Behind this question lurked that of ‘justification by works’ – that is, whether by exercising his will to do good, a person could be deserving of joy. Lambert’s reply is that, as servants of God, it is our duty to do his will, and not to expect thanks or reward for doing so. This is something of a prevarication, with which his hearers could not really disagree, but his answer nevertheless contains a clue as to his true position – that he does indeed support the Lutheran view of ‘justification by faith alone’. In other words, it is the grace of God that brings about salvation, not anything that humankind can do through good works – which, being subject to sin, we are unable to fulfil anyway.

  The key question, sixth in the list of forty-five, concerned the sacrament of the altar: was it, he was asked, ‘a sacrament necessary for salvation’ and did the bread and wine become ‘the very body and blood of Christ’ after they had been consecrated by the priest? To this question Lambert refused t
o give an answer, while implying that he had answered in the past and adding that he would never have answered at all, had he known as much then as he knew now. Clearly what he knew now was that his fate hinged on his answer to this question.

  He was then asked his opinion of baptism, whether he believed it to be a sacrament of the Church and necessary for salvation. Again, Lambert refused to give a complete answer – ‘I will say nothing until some men appear to accuse me in the same, unless I know a more reasonable cause than I have yet heard, why I ought to do so’ – but he did nevertheless express the opinion that the rite of baptism would be more ‘edifying’ to the people if it was conducted in English rather than in Latin.

  The remaining articles covered just about every other doctrinal and ceremonial issue that could be thought of. Was matrimony a sacrament and carried out correctly by the Church? (Yes, said Lambert, except that some priests charged a fee for it, and there were restrictions on which days it could be performed and when banns could be read.) Did he believe that ordination to the clerical orders of priest, deacon and subdeacon constituted a sacrament, and that priests had a duty to say Mass? (Lambert held, basing his argument on the example of the early Church, that only the orders of priests – which included bishops – and deacons were ordained by God, while ‘subdeacons and conjurors otherwise called exorcists and acolytes’ were invented by men.) Was the practice of going to confession a sacrament and necessary for salvation, did the confession have to be made to a priest, and could the priest absolve sins? (Such a practice was not biblical, said Lambert, and only Christ can absolve sins.) What about the sacraments of confirmation and extreme unction (that is, deathbed anointing), and do all the sacraments bestow grace on those who receive them? (Lambert’s position was that grace was bestowed by God, with or without the sacraments.)