The Burning Time

by Virginia Rounding

  And it was names the authorities wanted, and the hope of getting them the main reason for the delay between Cuthbert Simpson’s arrest and his execution. On the day following the arrest, Cuthbert was tortured in the Tower of London, being ‘set on a rack of iron’ for the space of about three hours. His questioners wanted to know who he had summoned to attend ‘the English service’ that was to have been held the day before, but he would not tell them. A week later, after he had been given time to recover from his first ordeal, he was brought back to the torture chamber. This time his tormentors began by tying his two index fingers together and then forcing a small arrow between them, ripping his flesh. They racked him again – twice – but still he did not talk. This was no secret, illegal torture, as had happened to Anne Askew in the days of Henry VIII, but officially sanctioned, for Bonner referred to it in the Consistory Court, commending Cuthbert’s ‘patience’ and wishing he were not a heretic – for he was a very ‘personable man’. Cuthbert was another of those to enjoy the hospitality of the bishop’s coalhouse, from where he wrote to his wife, in words that do indeed demonstrate his patient and accepting spirit: ‘For there is nothing that comes to us by fortune or chance, but by our heavenly Father’s providence. And therefore pray to our heavenly Father that he will ever give us his grace for to consider it. Let us give him most hearty thanks, for these his fatherly corrections: for as many as he loves, he corrects.’ He concluded his letter with sentiments reminiscent of the final words of St John Chrysostom: ‘In all things give thanks. At the name of Jesus every knee shall bow. Cuthbert Simpson.’

  Another secret congregation or ‘conventicle’ – this time one that met outside, rather than in houses and taverns – featured in the final mass burning to take place in Smithfield. Again the district concerned was that of Islington, just bordering the City. And again a woman is central to the story – or at least to the history of one of the victims, Roger Holland – in a tale with all the hallmarks of an early romantic novel, in which the feckless hero is redeemed by the virtuous heroine.

  Holland was a member of the Merchant Taylors’ Company, and had influential friends and relatives. As a young man, apprenticed to a Master Kempton in Watling Street, he had lived a somewhat riotous life, enjoying everything London had to offer the young and irresponsible – ‘dancing, fencing, gaming, banquetting, and wanton company’. He was also a committed Catholic – not least because he benefited from having a priest absolve him in between his bouts of sinfulness.

  Despite his poor behaviour, his master trusted him with keeping the accounts of the business. One day, Roger received a payment of £30 on his master’s behalf – a not inconsiderable sum, the equivalent of about £6,000 in the twenty-first century – and, predictably enough, he fell into bad company and gambled it all away. Overcome with remorse – for our hero came from a good family and had a sense of honour beneath his youthful fecklessness – he resolved to run away, either to France or Flanders, but first he wanted to promise to put things right in the future. And so early in the morning, prior to departing, he spoke to someone he trusted – his master’s servant, an unmarried woman called Elizabeth. Foxe describes her as ‘an ancient and discreet maid’ but she cannot have been as ancient as all that, as the sequel to this story shows. The important thing about Elizabeth, however, is that she was of an evangelical persuasion, and had been trying for some time to turn Roger from his ‘licentious living’ as well as from his Catholicism. She was also very prudent with money. Roger now confessed to her what had happened, and asked her to give his master – via his master’s wife – a note of the debt, with the promise that he would pay it back to him one day. He included the desperate request that his master should tell no one else about it – for the news of his dishonour would, he declared, be the death of his father.

  Elizabeth, realizing this was a crisis point for Roger and seeing a way of saving him (in every sense of the word), now made the astonishing assertion that she had enough money put by to meet the debt (she had, it seems, been left a bequest by a relative), and that she would do so – provided Roger amend his way of life and henceforth ‘refuse all lewd and wild company, all swearing and ribald talk’. And if ever he spent so much as a shilling again at dice or cards, she would go straight to their master with the note of the debt, and tell him what had happened. Furthermore, Roger was to undergo a crash course in Protestantism (all this took place during Edward’s reign), attending a daily lecture at the church of All Hallows and the sermon at Paul’s Cross every week, reading the Bible and the English prayer book, and casting away all his ‘books of papistry and vain ballads’. He was also to pray for forgiveness, and forget the sins of his youth. The grateful Roger had little choice but to obey.

  Whether as a result of the shock of near-ruin, the vigilance of Elizabeth in monitoring his activity, or a genuine interest in and receptiveness to what he heard, in the space of six months Roger Holland had become a convinced Protestant – so much so that when he went home to Lancashire, he took a pile of evangelical literature to distribute among his friends and family. His father, though remaining Catholic, was sufficiently impressed by his son’s maturity to give him a substantial amount of money – somewhat in excess of what he had originally lost at gambling – to enable him to make his way in the world.

  He returned to London and, like every good fairy-tale prince, to the woman who had rescued him. ‘Elizabeth,’ he announced, ‘here is your money I borrowed from you, and for the friendship, good will, and the good counsel I have received at your hands, to recompense you I am not able, otherwise than to make you my wife.’ Perhaps she had been hoping for this outcome all along, for she did not hesitate in accepting. They were married and soon had a child.

  The structure of this story rather demands a ‘happy-ever-after’ ending, but of course that was not to be (unless one counts the happy-ever-after of heaven). For by the time Roger and Elizabeth were man and wife, Mary I had come to the throne, and people with their convictions found themselves in danger. Roger, with all the zeal of a recent convert, could not or would not dissemble or compromise, and he almost immediately did something indiscreet – that is, he arranged for their new baby to be baptized according to the English rite and in his own house. Someone found out, and reported what had taken place to the authorities. Determined to keep the baby safe from the ‘anointing hands’ of the official clergy, Roger took the child away into the country, presumably to leave it with friends or relatives. But in the meantime his goods were seized and Elizabeth harassed.

  They survived this episode, however, and continued to live in the City, while participating in secret congregations and conventicles, including those that met in the open air. About forty people, both men and women, had congregated in a field on the edge of Islington on the morning of 1 May 1558, when they were discovered. The man who first came across them appeared friendly, and told them they could stay there as they looked like ‘such persons as intend no harm’. But having reassured them that they were safe, he turned up again fifteen minutes later with the constable of Islington and half a dozen armed men in tow. The constable confiscated their books, and the congregation was escorted, in groups of eight or ten, to the nearest person in authority, who turned out to be Sir Roger Cholmley. Some of the group, particularly the women among them, had the presence of mind to escape, as their guards were not numerous and several of them were armed only with farming implements. But twenty-seven of the original group obediently went along to be questioned, twenty-two of them subsequently being detained and delivered to Newgate, including Roger Holland.

  And now Roger’s family and City connections mobilized themselves, and exerted all their energy towards saving him from the fires of Smithfield, petitioning Bonner to be merciful. The bishop showed himself prepared to listen to them – as with other young and promising men who had come before him, he would much prefer to receive their submission than have to hand them over to be burnt. ‘Since you are now in danger of the law,’ he be
gan, when Roger appeared before him, ‘I would wish you to play a wise man’s part.’ Also present at this first encounter were Dr Chedsey, both the Harpsfield brothers (John, the Archdeacon of London and Bonner’s chaplain, and his younger brother Nicholas, Archdeacon of Canterbury and Vicar-General of London) and various others. Bonner was explicit about his desire to help Roger. ‘So shall you not want any favour I can do or procure for you,’ he went on, ‘both for your own sake, and also for your friends, who are men of worship and credit, and wish you well, and by my troth, Roger, so do I.’ But both the bishop and Roger’s well-wishers had reckoned without the determination of the young man himself. His conversion experience had been so profound that he could not conceivably now turn back to the faith of his teenage years, when he used to pay a priest to absolve him for his riotous lifestyle and even perform his penance for him. Rather than accept Bonner’s mercy, he lectured him, being particularly critical of the use of Latin in church. ‘What are we of the laity the better for it?’ he asked, rhetorically. ‘I think he that should hear your priests mumble up their service, although he did well understand Latin, yet should he understand few words thereof: the priests do so champ them and chaw them, and post so fast, that neither they understand what they say, nor they that hear them.’ He had also done enough reading of history to know the weak points in the Church’s armour. ‘As for the unity which is in your church,’ he expostulated, ‘what is it else but treason, murder, poisoning one another, idolatry, superstition, wickedness? What unity was in your church, when there were three Popes at once? Where was your head of unity when you had a woman Pope?’ He would have gone on, but the bishop had had enough of this diatribe and interrupted him, telling him his words were ‘very blasphemy’ and that he was ‘over malapert’ to try to teach the assembled church dignitaries. And he instructed the keeper of Newgate to ‘take him away’.

  Roger’s next examination proceeded in much the same spirit, his relatives once again there to try to persuade Bonner and his team to be merciful and Roger to be sensible. Dr Chedsey began: ‘Roger, I trust you have now better considered of the Church than you did before.’

  ‘I consider this much,’ replied Roger – ‘that out of the Church there is no salvation, as various ancient Doctors say.’

  ‘That is well said,’ commented Bonner. ‘But, Roger,’ he went on, ‘you mean, I trust, the Church of Rome’ – while knowing perfectly well that he did not. Nevertheless, by the end of the discussion, and on account of the pressure being exerted by Roger’s connections, Bonner still seemed hopeful that Roger might come round – at least sufficiently for a form of words to be agreed that would get him off the hook of being a convicted heretic – and he told the keeper to ensure that the prisoner had anything he needed.

  Roger Holland’s fellow accused were noticeably reliant in their replies on what they had been taught by their Protestant teachers and pastors. These are the voices of men and women who were not from the privileged classes, who had listened hard to what they had been told, were appreciative of the fact that they were being addressed in English rather than Latin and so could feel properly included, and had read at least parts of their Bibles (again in English). One of them, Henry Pond, when accused of not attending church, replied that ‘if he had licence then to go to church, he would’, suggesting that he was following the instructions of his leaders, who were unequivocal about attendance at Mass or other Catholic services being forbidden to the faithful. When asked for his views on the sacrament of the altar, Henry could again only fall back on what he had been taught, saying that he did not know about any sacrament by that name, but that he did know about the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper which he believed to be ‘approved’. Robert Southam declared it was pointless to ask ‘a simple man’ whether the Latin service was good and lawful – how was he supposed to know, if he couldn’t understand it? Reginald Eastland said that he had heard it was not lawful to take an oath at the beginning of a dispute and so, on being asked to swear at the start of his interrogation that he would tell the truth, he refused and would not answer any of the questions. And for this refusal, he declared himself ‘content to stand to the order of the law for his punishment, whatever it should be’. When each came to be condemned, a common theme emerging from their response to the bishop before he uttered each sentence was that the heresy was all on the other side. ‘We may not know much,’ they may be summarized as saying, ‘but we do know we aren’t heretics – and that you are.’

  On the day of judgement, after all Roger’s fellow prisoners had been excommunicated, his case was still outstanding, his powerful kinsmen and friends – who included the Earl of Derby, Henry Stanley (known as Lord Strange) and ‘various others of worship, both of Cheshire and Lancashire’ – still present. The fact that such people could be corralled into offering support and that Bonner was prepared to listen to them suggests that, for those with the right connections, there were ways of escaping death for heresy, provided the accused could be made to see sense. For the majority, whose relatives did not have access to the right strings to pull, this was not an option. Bonner was again in conciliatory mood, telling Roger that his main fault seemed to be that he was somewhat ‘overhasty’, but admitting that he himself suffered from the same fault – ‘For I myself shall now and then be hasty, but my anger is soon past.’ And he used the parable of the prodigal son as an enticement to Roger to repent: ‘As I mean you so well, Roger, play the wise man’s part,’ he pleaded, ‘and come home with the lost son and say: I have run into the church of schismatics and heretics, from the Catholic Church of Rome, and you shall, I warrant you, not only find favour at God’s hands, but the Church that has authority shall absolve you and put new garments upon you, and kill the fatling to make you good cheer withal.’ Roger’s supporters thanked the bishop for his words, but to Roger himself this must have sounded like an invitation to go backwards, to return to his misspent youth with its cycle of sin and absolution, wasting all the efforts he had made at self-improvement over the last few years, letting down himself, his wife and his fellow believers (including those with whom he was standing trial). He did not find the prospect tempting, not even as a way of avoiding death.

  And so the bishop came to the crunch question, the test that would show whether Roger was prepared to take the way out being offered him. ‘Well, Roger, how say you now?’ he asked. ‘Do you not believe that after the priest has spoken the words of consecration, there remains the body of Christ really and corporally under the forms of bread and wine?’

  All Roger had to say was: ‘I do so believe’ and his ordeal would be over. But he had never had any intention of giving in. ‘No,’ he replied, ‘Christ has ascended into heaven, and so is not contained under the forms of bread and wine.’

  Bonner had gone as far as he could. There may have been influential people in the room wanting Roger’s reprieve, but there were more powerful people outside it – including the Queen – wanting an end to the matter. And there had never been any real doubt that Roger was a committed Protestant and as deserving of condemnation as his fellow defendants. ‘Roger, I perceive my pains and good will will not prevail,’ he said, ‘and if I should argue with you, you are so wilful (as all your fellows are, standing in your own singularity and foolish conceit) that you would still talk to no purpose this seven years, if you might be allowed to.’ Where Roger had no argument with the bishop was in his agreement to submit to his authority as an officer of the law. He did not object to being condemned by him, but he would not accept the doctrine propounded by him. Neither would he stop talking, causing Bonner to remark: ‘If I were to allow him, he would fall from reasoning to railing, as a frantic heretic.’ And finally, having given up the attempt to save the young man from himself, he read out the sentence of condemnation and left the room. The irrepressible Roger immediately began preaching to his friends and acquaintances, who must by now have been both irritated and upset by his intransigence and its inevitable outcome, but he exhorted them
to repent and to think well of all those who had been condemned. Realizing what was going on, the bishop angrily returned and instructed the keeper that no one was to speak with the prisoners, on pain of imprisonment themselves.

  Of the twenty-two who had been imprisoned after the arrests in the field, thirteen were subsequently burnt: these seven in Smithfield, and a further six at Brentford in Middlesex. The failure of the burning policy – that it had not eradicated heresy or support for heretics – was clearly shown in the atmosphere engendered by these mass burnings. On the day of the Smithfield executions – 27 June 1558 – a proclamation was issued that no one was to speak to any of the victims, or take anything from them (it having become part of the ritual of the burnings for the sufferers to hand out keepsakes on their way to the stake) or touch them, on pain of imprisonment. But the authorities’ intentions were subverted by a demonstration of support organized by Thomas Bentham of the London congregation, hundreds of people lining the route and shouting out encouragement in the form of prayers, even if they obeyed the letter of the proclamation by not addressing the prisoners directly. And many of them, despite the prohibition, nevertheless took the victims by the hands as they passed, and comforted them. Such a display of support led Bonner to recommend that burnings should in future be conducted more discreetly and away from what had become a notorious stage-set; it was for this reason that the remaining six victims from the conventicle were taken to Brentford, and despatched there on 14 July.