The letter from Ralph Morice was longer and slightly rambling, which was strange, coming from someone who had an orderly mind.
His grace thanks you for your endeavours and regrets that they have yet to bear fruit …
No mention of Holbein’s name. Perhaps Morice feared his letter might be intercepted.
… The information is more important than ever … His grace’s enemies among the cathedral clergy and shire gentry have met in secret, as they suppose, to plan their campaign. Their immediate target is Richard Turner, vicar at Chartham, a true Bible man and a zealous preacher. They have arrested him and purpose to bring him before the sessions. The reason is, not so much his godly teaching – though that they abhor – but that he stands high in his grace’s favour. If they can once indict Turner for preaching against official doctrine and have him brought to trial, they hope to tear from him recantation of the truth and words they can twist and use against his grace and sundry of our friends who stand by the king’s supremacy and the reformed religion. His grace dares do nothing for the poor man’s delivery save that he sanctions me to approach our friends at court to inform his majesty of the wicked deviousness of these papists … His grace is in his manor at Croydon and waits to receive any new information you have …
New information? Heartily did I wish that I had any information – anything that made sense to me, any facts that were firm beneath my feet, instead of the shifting sands of feuding factions, clashing religious convictions, personal rivalries and violence which knew no limit. It was now the end of September and I was no closer to finding Holbein, saving Bart from the gallows or obtaining justice for a poor young man butchered in Aldgate than I had been the first day of the month, when my involvement in this wretched business started. Nor, I realised, would I find my way to solid ground while I was embroiled in the rivalries and hatreds of Kent’s political life. Ned was right; I would achieve nothing as long as I continued to let events propel me along a twisting lane leading I knew not where. It was time to do some of the pushing myself. But not yet. For now I was caught up in the cumbersome machinery of the English legal system.
These thoughts occupied my mind for much of the next day’s journey to Canterbury. James and I travelled together with our own escort and spoke little.
‘Do you know anything about this Turner troublemaker we have to deal with at the sessions?’ I asked the question as we sat in the inn at Lenham, where we had stopped for dinner.
James carved himself another slice of cheese. ‘This is very good,’ he said. ‘Turner? I only know what Thwaites and others say. They’ve been trying to silence him for a couple of years. Every time they send him up to the archbishop’s court he comes back with his grace’s blessing.’ He grinned. ‘Frustrating for them. Personally, anything that upsets Thwaites is sweet music to me.’
‘Has the archbishop appointed Turner to. speed up the pace of reform?’
‘Not so much Cranmer; more his secretary, Ralph Morice. It was Morice who instituted Turner to the living at Chartham. I don’t think even Morice can save him this time.’
‘Because he’s being brought to the secular court?’
James nodded. ‘Violation of Statute of Six Articles, 31 Henry VIII number 14.’
I laughed. ‘I didn’t know you were a lawyer. Do you have all the laws of the realm at your finger ends?’
‘Not many,’ he replied with his mouth full, ‘but this one’s particularly useful.’ He swallowed, cleared his throat and recited: “‘In the most blessed sacrament of the altar, by the strength and efficacy of Christ’s mighty word, it being spoken by the priest, is present really under the form of bread and wine, the natural body and blood of our Saviour Jesu Christ, conceived of the Virgin Mary, and that after the consecration there remains no substance of bread or wine.’”
‘So, you are a theologian as well as a lawyer.’
‘No, I don’t understand all the stuff about “substance” and “real presence”. The beauty of this statute is that I don’t have to. All we magistrates are called on to do is recite the words and ask the prisoner, “Do you believe it?” If he says no, he burns. Of course, very few do say no. I’ve only ever sent one man up to a higher court for the death sentence.’
‘I think that would worry me.’
‘What?’
‘Sending someone to the stake for what he believes.’
He shrugged. ‘Life was easier for magistrates when we didn’t have‘’ to get involved in such cases but since his majesty has extended the scope of common law we have no choice. You’ve no idea how much the burden of our work has increased in the last few years. Anyway, most of these heretics recant under pressure and then lose credibility among their own followers.’
‘So when I cast my vote in the jury hearing Turner’s case I will be expected to find him guilty so that he’ll be persuaded to recant?’
James frowned at me over the rim of his tankard. ‘You know your duty, Thomas.’
‘I know nothing. I just need to understand what will be expected of me as a juryman.’
‘Turner will be indicted for preaching against the Six Articles. You have to decide if he’s guilty.’ James pushed his trencher to one Side. ‘Now we should be getting back on the road.’
I did not move. ‘And if he’s pronounced guilty the archbishop’s enemies will accuse him of supporting heretics.’
He stood and set his cap on his head. ‘I really don’t know …’
‘James, we’ve been friends for too long. I can tell when you’re trying to hide something from me.’
‘There are things it would be better if you did not know.’
‘Then let me guess. Magistrates are under pressure to uncover any information that can be used against Cranmer.’
James hesitated for several moments, then said, ‘All I can tell you is that certain men – powerful men – feel the archbishop is trying to force change too quickly and that it encourages rebellious spirits.’
‘By “certain men” you mean Sir Thomas Moyle and his friends.’
But James was already walking to the door.
As we rode our horses out of the inn yard and turned along the short village street, James pointed to a group of men and women emerging from one of the larger houses. ‘In my opinion, the law would be better occupied keeping an eye on them.’
‘Why? Who are they? They look peaceable enough.’
‘Cloth workers. There’s a tribe of them in this area. Aliens mostly. They work for lower wages than their neighbours. You can imagine what feelings that stirs. More importantly, they bring their own religious ideas with them.’
‘Lutherans?’
‘Aye, and others. There’s all sorts of foreigners who’ve left the pope’s church to follow I don’t know what weird opinions. The trouble is, they spread their ideas to others.’
‘What sort of ideas?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I’ve got tired of arguing with the simpletons. You and I know, don’t we, that religion is priests’ business. So if the Church says, “This bread and wine is now flesh and blood because the priest has said some words over it”, we believe it. Not these people. “It still looks like bread and wine, so it is bread and wine,” they say. Well, what’s the point of trying to reason with that sort of simple-minded nonsense?’
I thought, but did not say, ’Tis not clear to me exactly who is being simple-minded.
The Shire Hall was a scene of constant movement. People were coming and going all the time. Witnesses and other interested parties arrived early, not knowing when their cases would be called. Thus, while some of the throng in the body of the hall were involved in the proceedings and pressed forward to the bar to follow what the lawyers and court officials were saying, others were waiting and talking among themselves. Frequently the Clerk of the Peace had to call for silence. Magistrates, who took turns to preside over the quarter sessions, hurried the day’s business forward as quickly as they could. More than once an impatient chairman glowered at the jury and demanded to know why we were taking so long to reach our verdict.