The Burning Time

by Virginia Rounding

  A large crowd attended the burnings of Cardmaker and Warne, many of them evangelicals who were nervous lest Cardmaker disgrace himself, and them, by recanting for real when faced with the stake. This nervousness was felt right up until the last moment as, on arrival at the scene of execution, Cardmaker appeared to be delaying, having been called aside by the sheriffs for a long private conversation: could he, wondered the onlookers, be about to recant? – a possibility that had the evangelicals present ‘in a marvellous dump and sadness’. Eventually Cardmaker ended his conversation with the sheriffs and approached the stake, to which the young clothworker, Warne, was already chained. He knelt down and began to pray in silence; the tension mounted – could he still be about to recant? But then:

  His prayers being ended, he rose up, put off his clothes as far as his shirt, went with bold courage to the stake, and kissed it sweetly: he took Warne by the hand, and comforted him heartily, and so gave himself to be also bound to the stake most gladly. The people seeing this so suddenly done, contrary to their fearful expectation, as men delivered out of a great doubt, cried out for joy (with so great a shout as had not likely been heard a greater) saying: God be praised, the Lord strengthen thee, Cardmaker, the Lord Jesus receive thy spirit.

  The crowd continued to shout and cheer as the executioner set the wood and reeds alight, and the victims were encircled in flame.

  John Warne’s widow, Elizabeth, followed her husband to the stake, being burnt on 23 August at one of the other major burning sites, Stratford-atte-Bow, to the east of the City of London.

  The next of those to suffer in Smithfield was the forty-five-year-old John Bradford who, like Cardmaker, was a very well-known figure in Protestant circles, which adds credence to the idea that the authorities’ intention was to come down hard on the leading exponents of the religion of Edward’s reign, with the aim of crushing out opposition to the reintroduction of Catholicism. Striking at the heart of the Protestant movement would, the authorities (including Bonner, Gardiner, Pole and the Queen) believed, kill it off quickly, these few high-profile victims being deemed expendable for the sake of the many who would thereby be saved from both their influence and their fate.

  We last encountered Bradford assisting John Rogers to quell the disturbances at Paul’s Cross on the occasion of Gilbert Bourne’s sermon on 13 August 1553, when ‘Mr Bradford at the request of the preacher’s brother, and others then being in the pulpit, stood forth and spoke so mildly, Christianly, and effectively, that with few words he appeased all, and afterward he and Mr Rogers conducted the preacher between them from the pulpit to the grammar school door, where they left him safe’. Bradford had already issued his own warning about what might ensue under Mary, having published a call to national repentance in July which lambasted the people’s ingratitude and lack of real zeal for the Gospel which had resulted, he opined, in the Lord having taken away the good King Edward, and now ‘a grievous and bitter cup of God’s vengeance is ready to be poured out for us Englishmen to drink of’. A few days after the Paul’s Cross disturbance, Bradford, like Rogers, was summoned to the Tower to appear before the Privy Council where he was charged with preaching seditious sermons. The enthusiasm with which the people had greeted Bradford’s intervention on 13 August is what had unnerved the authorities – it was not the result he had achieved that troubled them, but the fact that he had been able to achieve it:

  as soon as the people saw him begin to speak to them, so glad were they to hear him, that they cried with a great shout: Bradford, Bradford, God save your life, Bradford: well declaring not only what affection they bore for him, but also what regard they gave to his words. For after he had entered a little to preach to them, and to exhort them to quiet and patience, soon all the raging ceased, and they in the end quietly departed, each man to his house.

  Here was a powerful man whom it was important either to enlist on the side of accepted authority or – if, as seemed more likely, he would not consent to be so enlisted – to silence.

  Unlike Rogers, Bradford was not given the comparatively lenient treatment of house arrest, but was immediately incarcerated in the Tower, initially on his own but subsequently sharing what was known as the ‘Nun’s bower’ with Edwin Sandys (formerly vice chancellor of Cambridge University and involved with the supporters of Lady Jane Grey’s claim to the throne). On 6 February 1554 Bradford was moved to another room in the Tower, which he shared with Cranmer, Latimer and Ridley, until these three were taken to Oxford in early March. During the month or so they were together, the four men spent their time reading the Bible, praying and discussing theology together, and were each bolstered by this mutual support and encouragement. The authorities had not yet learnt the value to the ‘heretics’ of such fellowship, and seemed to have no clear strategy of how to deal with their prisoners; the arrangements appear haphazard, it being a matter of accident who ended up sharing a cell with whom.

  On Easter Eve, 24 March, Bradford was transferred to the King’s Bench prison in Southwark. Here his companions included Robert Ferrar (the former Bishop of St David’s), Dr Rowland Taylor (Rector of Hadleigh in Suffolk) and John Philpot. In prison Bradford continued his ministry of preaching (twice a day) and administering communion (according to the second Book of Common Prayer, now outlawed), the keepers (who liked him) admitting many visitors so that they could listen to him and take part in the services he conducted. Like that favourite saint of the Protestant preachers, the Apostle Paul, he also wrote many letters from prison, both to individuals and to congregations throughout the country. He was abstemious in his habits, sleeping for no more than four hours a night, eating only one meal a day, and spending much time in reading and contemplation. Lean-faced, with a neatly trimmed beard, he seems to have been a natural ascetic, unconcerned with such mundane matters as food and drink. But he also showed signs of inner distress: ‘In the middle of dinner he used often to muse with himself, having his hat over his eyes, from whence came commonly plenty of tears dropping on his trencher.’ He was known for his generosity and his gentleness (even the Jesuit Robert Parsons, no sympathizer with Protestants, admitted that Bradford was ‘of a more soft and mild nature than many of his fellows’), and was often in demand for visiting the sick and dying, even being allowed out of the prison by its governor, the knight marshal Sir William Fitzwilliam, a Protestant sympathizer, to make such visits. He never attempted to escape, or even to delay his return. And once a week he would visit the common criminals being kept in the same prison as himself, distributing not only advice but also funds that had been received as donations. He did the same among the prisoners of religion, having been elected by the majority of them as their pastor. These distributions led to some argument, in particular with a splinter group of Protestants called the ‘free willers’, a large number of whom were imprisoned in the King’s Bench, and who accused Bradford of discriminating against them in his sharing-out of alms, a charge which Bradford strenuously denied. The ‘free willers’ were fiercely opposed to the idea of predestination, espoused by Calvin in Geneva, and a version of which was beginning to be adopted by mainstream Protestantism in England, of which Bradford was a leading exponent. Much of his prison correspondence had to do with this issue, as he was frequently called upon to reassure believers who were fearful that they were not among the ‘elect’. The prisons themselves became hothouses of debate over these differing interpretations of their faith, to the distress of many evangelicals and the satisfaction of their opponents. Certainly the fact that even in prison, and faced with the possibility of death, rival groups of Protestants vigorously kept up their doctrinal and other differences can have done little to recommend them to the authorities, despite the acknowledged holiness and sympathetic character of a man like Bradford.

  Bradford was examined three times in Southwark, on 22, 29 and 30 January 1555. When he was brought in on the first day to face Lord Chancellor Gardiner, Bishop Bonner and members of the Privy Council, who were sitting behind a table, he fell t
o his knees but was immediately asked to get to his feet, which he did. Gardiner then attempted to outstare him, but Bradford merely stared back, apart from once raising his eyes in prayer. Next, Gardiner offered him what was becoming the standard line – that the Queen was minded to be merciful, provided Bradford recant and ‘return’, along with them, to the true Church. Bradford, respectfully but determinedly, insisted there was nothing for which he needed mercy, as he had not, as Gardiner alleged, preached ‘seditiously, falsely, or arrogantly’ but rather the reverse, in quelling the Paul’s Cross disturbance and enjoining ‘quietness’ on the people. But before he could even finish, Gardiner ‘something snuffed’, declared this was a lie and brought in Bonner to back him up. Bonner agreed that Bradford had taken it upon himself to ‘rule and lead the people malapertly [presumptuously]’, and the interpretation he put upon this was that Bradford had incited the very disturbance he then proceeded to quell. Bradford’s response was to say that one day God would reveal ‘to all the world’ that he had spoken the truth; in the meantime, as his judges refused to believe him, he was ready to suffer whatever penalty they imposed. The argument was batted back and forth, Bradford proving at least as eloquent as Bonner and Gardiner, the latter crossly declaring: ‘Well, if you make this babbling, rolling in your eloquent tongue, and yet being altogether ignorant and vainglorious, and will not receive mercy offered to you, know for truth that the Queen is minded to make a purgation of all such as you are.’ But Bradford was not to be scared into submission, affirming that his only concern was to please God – for ‘life in his displeasure is worse than death, and death in his true favour is true life’.

  More than merely agreeing to submit to his judges, Bradford wanted them to admit the inconsistency of their own position. Were they questioning him on the authority of the Pope? he wanted to know – and, if so, how could they square this with the fact that he had himself (and, he implied, so had they) ‘been six times sworn that I shall in no case consent to the practising of any jurisdiction, or any authority on the Bishop of Rome’s behalf within this realm of England’? He could not, he declared, possibly go back on this oath, and could not therefore answer their questions. The secretary of the Council demanded clarification: how had Bradford managed to be sworn six times? ‘Forsooth,’ replied Bradford, ‘I was thrice sworn in Cambridge, when I was admitted Master of Arts, when I was admitted fellow of Pembroke Hall, and when I was there, the Visitors came thither, and swore the University. Again, I was sworn when I entered the ministry, when I had a prebend given me, and when I was sworn to serve the King a little before his death.’

  ‘Tush,’ responded Gardiner, and he declared that these were ‘Herod’s oaths’, meaning they were forced or invalid because they demanded the swearer commit some evil act, and as such need not be considered binding. But Bradford disagreed and pointed out that Gardiner had himself affirmed the validity of these oaths in his treatise De vera obedientia (‘Of true obedience’), which he had written in support of Henry VIII’s claim to be supreme head of the Church of England. Backed into a corner by this logic, his interrogators went on the attack, one of them remarking that this just showed what a dangerous man Bradford was and no wonder he had been imprisoned. Another added that he was continuing to do great harm by his letters. To this accusation Bradford responded with the words uttered by Pilate at the crucifixion: ‘What I have written, I have written.’ This only served to provoke his hearers more, Sir Richard Southwell exclaiming of the forty-five-year-old Bradford: ‘Lord God, what an arrogant and stubborn boy is this!’ As Bradford continued to defend himself, Gardiner became impatient. ‘I see we shall never be done with you,’ he complained. ‘Be short, be short!’

  Showing no inclination to be ‘short’ himself, Gardiner now embarked on a lengthy discourse about the ‘false doctrine’ that had been taught under King Edward, and then demanded to know Bradford’s response. His view was completely the opposite of Gardiner’s, and he was not afraid to say so: ‘My Lord, the doctrine taught in King Edward’s days was God’s pure religion, the which as I then believed, so do I now more believe it than ever I did, and therein I am more confirmed and ready to declare it, by God’s grace, to the world than I was when I first came into prison.’ And so the first day’s questioning ended, as expected, with no concession on either side.

  On the following day, 29 January, after John Rogers had been convicted, Bradford was back before the Lord Chancellor and a number of other bishops. Gardiner again opened the proceedings with a declaration of the Queen’s mercifulness, encouraging Bradford to recant in order to avail himself of that mercy, and holding up the examples of Barlow and Cardmaker as men who had agreed to recant. But Bradford was not to be moved, much of his strength deriving from a willingness to die. ‘I am not afraid of death,’ he declared, ‘and have looked for nothing else at your hands for a long time.’ His fear was not of death itself but of having a troubled conscience at the moment of departing this life; and it was to avoid that possibility that he answered as he did. ‘These be gay glorious words,’ expostulated Gardiner, ‘full of hypocrisy and vainglory!’

  As with Rogers, the reason for having held Bradford for so long without trial was that, until early 1555, the laws did not exist to deal with heretics in the way the Queen and her advisers desired, and Bradford was well aware of this. He took his interlocutors to task accordingly. ‘I have been now a year and almost three quarters in prison,’ he protested, ‘and in all this time you never questioned me, when I might have spoken my conscience frankly without peril: but now you have a law to hang up and put to death, if a man answer freely, and not to your appetite … Ah, my Lord [addressing Gardiner], Christ used not this way to bring men to faith. No more did the prophets or apostles.’ The Lord Chancellor pretended to be appalled at the suggestion that he might be using force, or the threat of force, as a means of persuasion. ‘It was not my doing,’ he said, ‘although some there be that think this to be the best way. I, for my part, have been often challenged for being too gentle.’ Bishop Bonner and most of the others present supported Gardiner in his protestations, agreeing that he had been ‘ever too mild and too gentle’. To this Bradford retorted: ‘My Lord, I pray you stretch out your gentleness, that I may feel it, for hitherto I never have.’ And then servants arrived to tell the Lord Chancellor it was time for dinner, so he rose, leaving Bradford mid-sentence, saying the interrogation would continue later in the afternoon. But in fact Bradford had to spend the rest of the day waiting in the vestry; nothing further happened, and at night he was conveyed back to prison.

  The final day’s examination took place on 30 January. Gardiner began by again exhorting Bradford to abandon his scruples. ‘Did I not yesterday tell you plainly,’ he said, ‘that you made a conscience where none should be? Did I not make it plain that the oath against the Bishop of Rome was an unlawful oath?’

  ‘No indeed, my Lord,’ riposted Bradford, ‘you said so, but you have not yet proved it, nor can you ever do so.’

  Gardiner had had enough of this man holding out against everyone else, including himself, thereby implying that they had all committed perjury by going back on their oaths made to Henry VIII. ‘Oh, Lord God, what a fellow are you!’ he exclaimed, and went on: ‘You would go about to bring into the people’s heads that we, all of the Lords of the Parliament house, the knights and burgesses, and all the whole realm be perjured. Oh, what a heresy is this! Here, good people’ – turning to his audience – ‘you may see what a senseless heretic this fellow is.’ And he tried to defend his position that oaths could, and sometimes should, be reneged upon by saying that, if a neighbour were to ask him for help, it would not be an acceptable response to say that he had previously sworn not to help or lend money to anybody, so could not help him now. Bradford was ready to deal with this spurious defence: ‘Oh my Lord, discern between oaths that are against charity and faith, and oaths that are according to faith and charity, as this is against the Bishop of Rome.’ And again Bradford referred t
o Gardiner’s own treatise, De vera obedientia, in support of his argument.

  The reference to De vera obedientia was repeatedly made by Protestants and it was a severe embarrassment to Gardiner. He had indeed written this attack on papal authority and defence of the royal supremacy in 1535 and, to make matters worse, Edmund Bonner had contributed a preface to it, further lambasting the Bishop of Rome. The work had been written primarily in order for its author to be reinstated in the King’s favour, after Gardiner had initially been hesitant about the break with Rome and as a result had fallen out of royal favour. The treatise, written in Latin and intended for international consumption, had had the desired effect, Henry appointing Gardiner as a special ambassador to France in the following year. And now, just at the point when the English Church had resubmitted to papal authority, and Gardiner, as Lord Chancellor, was in charge of prosecuting those who refused to submit to it, an English version of De vera obedientia, complete with Bonner’s preface, was being eagerly read in Protestant circles, having emerged from a press in Rouen run by a man called Michael Wood, and probably with the involvement of John Bale. It was a public-relations disaster, and all Gardiner could do was bluster and counter-attack.

  Still hoping to discredit Bradford in the eyes of his followers, on this last day of questioning Lord Chancellor Gardiner called as a witness a Mr Chamberlayne of Woodstock, who alluded to the time when Bradford had worked for Sir John Harrington and to the suspicions of financial irregularity on his part. Whatever had gone on in the past and had troubled Bradford’s conscience for years, Bradford now hotly denied the accusations, demanding justice against those who slandered him with no proof. His anger seemed to take Gardiner aback, and this line of questioning was not pursued. And so the conversation returned to the substantive issues of doctrine and, in particular, the nature of the sacrament of the altar.