CHAPTER 8

THE HERETICS

 

 

 

Facta non verba

 

Deeds, not words

 

 

 

His parting words to William Rugge after morning Mass, regarding their conversation, is that he be given some time to consider the matter in his cell. Rugge agrees. In the meantime Pacificus has suggested one or two gentlemen of his former acquaintance and profession who might serve well in the household. He will make inquiries.

 

Grey skies and drizzle; not the best day for a burning, but the officiating clerics – Doctors Reading, Hearne and Spragwell – have promised bread for any who bring faggots. Rather like the caesars would offer bread and games, he thinks. Pacificus passes what they call the Lollards’ Pit on his way back to the castle to check his animal. He remembers well the day his own father brought him here as a lad to watch the heretic Peke burn – part of his education. In those days indulgences were offered for children bringing faggots, to start them young. “Recant, Peke, and believe the sacrament,” they’d said. He remembers it like it was yesterday. “I despise thee and it also,” Peke had replied, already as black as pitch, when the flames blistered his skin like the crackling on pork. They kept prodding him with a white wand and offering forty days’ indulgence to recant, but he only spat blood in their faces. He went slowly, too slowly for the crowd. Eventually even Baron Curzon and John Audley used their swords to cut ash branches. But even so he was an interminable time dying.

Pacificus wears his hood up against the drizzle when he leaves the cathedral close. He passes under the gate built by his great-great-great-grandfather. He glances back for a moment after passing through, for there is a statue of the old man kneeling, set above the arch. Him, Sir Thomas Erpingham, the hand that helped Bolingbroke crusade with the Teutonic knights across Europe to Jerusalem and thence back to England to grasp the very stars. Him, defender of Norfolk’s peace, patron of the arts, warrior, statesman, hero of Agincourt. His grandfather said it was a poor likeness, but there he is, the old rascal, gazing piously across Norwich. Wonder what he would make of today’s execution, him being a one-time supporter of Wycliffe – seems I have both reformer and usurper in my blood, Pacificus thinks. Heaven knows how much of each – no doubt we will see soon enough.

He passes the Lollards’ Pit on his way to the castle. A new oak stake is being fixed, ragged children with pitiful bundles of kindling have arrived already, but there is no sign of the bread. Pacificus does not tarry and he has no interest in seeing the event either. God delighteth not in the death of the wicked, though many others, who shouldn’t, do. Either way, no one is sentimental, and they prefer a burning to a hanging; more spectacle. Fenton has done well to escape a traitor’s death, and that only because Hamberly wanted his possessions – a traitor would forfeit them to the crown, by the new Acts of Attainder. If he had to choose between the two himself, he’d rather be burnt than hung, drawn and quartered.

On entering the castle yard he sees the smith’s lad go to fetch the faggots out of the drizzle. Seeing the boy, he thinks mainly of the young children for whom this will be the first burning they’ll see. He asks the lad his name – Jack, he’s told. The boy confides, excited, that he will be allowed to the front, so his dad says, if he keeps the faggots dry. What a world. It would be better that Fenton go quickly, for these children’s sake as well as his own.

He asks to be shown to the cellarer, for the abbot has no need now of the provisions he brought. Pacificus suggests they might be shared at the prison. Rugge is not a mean man, and can even exhibit a tender conscience – on occasions. The cellarer agrees readily.

At Saint Benet’s they gave more than the usual five per cent to the poor, but now as bishop, his alms-giving is best done in public, that all men might see and glorify his Father in heaven. He has a position to maintain for one thing, and for another, he would always want to be known as a friend to the widow and orphan, for he will need their prayers – that he will.

The cellarer is happy to oblige if he can have “what is his” – his cut. Going back though the vaulted underworld, Pacificus does not realise that he is passing by the cells until the head jailer, Andrew Bates, a man of round countenance and humour, hails him.

“I thought you’d never come, Father – and he is to be called any minute!”

Pacificus begins to explain that he is no priest confessor but Bates, notoriously deaf, swings wide the cell door all in a hurry and hustles him across the flags.

“Here, Fenton, your confessor has come. Be quick now.” Bates magnanimously fends off Pacificus’s objections, mistaking the muffled sounds for an apology really not needed. Why should he care, after all?

In a second, the door shuts behind him and Pacificus finds himself alone with Fenton in a generous cell with enough room for a straw bed, bucket, stool, and a small table, which he had lined up under the little window looking north towards Ranworth.

Fenton, standing with his back to the window, is the living image of his son Richard. For a moment Pacificus is taken aback.

“Show me your hands,” comes a weary voice from the prisoner.

“My hands?”

“Show me.” Fenton, stepping forward, takes them in his own and turns them over. “No, monk, you are not my priest. Mine has nail scars.”

Pacificus pulls his hands back and massages them nervously. “There was a misunderstanding. I came to deliver provisions for the prisoners. I think the jailer doesn’t hear too well.”

“Oh. Forgive me.” Silence falls between them, awkward, frozen.

“Your children – ”

“Do not tempt me with them, monk! I will not change my confession!”

Then his vehemence melts in an instant as thoughts of them, his wife and what lies ahead of him this day all crowd upon him. “I pray thee, be merciful; do not tempt me also.”

“They are safe with the eel-catcher. It was I, there at Saint Helen’s, when they took your wife. All is well with them. I saw them only last week.”

“You are Pacificus?” He exhales, more gasp than sigh, and drops to his stool. “Oh, praise God, praise God! It is well with them, you say? And – and thank you, also. Do I owe you anything for your trouble?”

Pacificus shakes his head, marvelling at how mighty and yet how frail is this thing called man. Such a small wind that shakes the barley.

He shakes his head and there is another silence, in which Fenton breathes deeply then asks him, and he cannot keep the tremor from his voice, “Is it true you feel no pain after the fire has your legs?”

“No.” He cannot lie to him.

The man shuts his eyes, constantly biting his top lip, every now and again letting out anguished breaths. Eventually he stands, and removing his doublet and jerkin, says, “Richard, the oldest, will be a fine boy, though heaven knows he has no head for Latin, or the New Learning.”

“It may be no sin to him,” Pacificus answers, short. There is much in current scholarship even he cannot abide.

“No. I know.” Fenton smiles for the first time. “We put a lot on the boy – wanted too much for him perhaps. He’ll no doubt be just as happy with what Pieter can get for him – even happier perhaps, though how he shall look after the others…” He breaks off, shuts tight his lips, his eyes, holding back the flow.

Pacificus thinks to say something consoling about “the God of widows and orphans”, but in the end he does not; it wouldn’t sound right from the enemy. Anyway, Fenton knows that much himself.

“No matter, God will judge aright. Perhaps, of your charity, you could pass these on to him? I dare say he’ll fit them soon, and I shall not need them after today.” His face is set firm now, but his hands tremble as they hold out the clothes.

Pacificus takes them, and probably a few fleas in the bargain; the price you pay for charity.

Fenton pats the clothing now in Pacificus’s hand, imagining his sons as young men, wearing them in turn. “They are fine boys,” he whispers distractedly.

“And a fine daughter too, I warrant.”

“Oh, yes, to be sure! Though little Beth came from another union, e’er her mother met me.”

“I see. Well, these will be safe with me. I shall pass them on, when I can.” They both stare at the leather jerkin, but still he does not leave. There is something strange in this unmeant meeting, he thinks. And then it comes upon him to ask, “You have peace? About today, I mean?” It is a strange question and he doesn’t even feel it was he who asked it.

Fenton’s brown eyes look him full in the face. “Aye, but not in myself, nor even in my doctrine, but in Christ. I know whom I have believed. There is peace in that, monk, and I do feel that, even today.” He turns away to the window, gazing the way Ranworth lies. “But, of course, there is so much still to be done – my wife, my children… it is planting season now… but, howbeit, I trust God knows when to harvest each soul. I have wronged no man, nor the king, and my conscience is clear. If he pleases, let it be now.”

It is one up on Thomas More, Pacificus thinks. Surely all men say their conscience is clear, but to have no blood on your hands at a time like this must be more assurance than all the indulgences in Christendom. God knows, he envies Fenton that much, and all this assurance without any penance. “I wish I had what you have,” he says. And where did that come from?

“But you can!” Fenton is urgent. “Though you must trust Christ, and abandon all else!”

Ah yes, faith and faith alone; make it easy why don’t you – credo quia absurdum?¹³

Fenton is about to press him, but a key rattles in the lock, heralding the gaunt form of Doctor Spragwell, come to confess the heretic.

Fenton takes Pacificus’s arm. “Remember what I have said,” he pleads. “Also – please take word to my wife that all is well with me.”

“He shall not!” Spragwell exclaims, ruffling out his black robes like a crow. “You are here to confess, not send men at your behest hither and thither! Good morrow, Brother… er…?”

“Pacificus, from Saint Benet’s. He is all yours.” He bows and retreats before any further questions can be asked, though he does give the condemned man a small nod to reassure him.

He finds Mistress Fenton’s door ajar, with none other than Master Cromwell himself inside, his ox-like features softened and speaking kindly to her. Cromwell’s own wife had been called Elizabeth too, she and their two daughters both carried off in one summer by the sweating sickness. Pacificus has a moment to observe them both, unremarked by Cromwell as he stands there in the doorway.

The weeks in jail have taken their toll, he sees. She wears the same pale blue bodice and skirt she had worn that day at Saint Helen’s, but the bodice is stained and creased now, the lower parts of skirt and chemise dark with filth from the floor. She is thin too, and greyer in the face than the woman he has been idealising without admitting it until now. She stands next to a stool amidst the squalor and stench, in a room half the size of her husband’s. It is three steps lower too and the mildew and green mould creep on every wall. Her eyes widen as she catches sight of the doublet and jerkin. Cromwell, seeing her look beyond him as though beholding an apparition, swings round.

“Why, Brother Pacificus, what brings you here?” Cromwell demands.

“I…” He tries not to look discomfited, which is hard, even when His Majesty’s Secretary is being gentle. “I bring word from her husband – that all is well with him.”

Cromwell’s face falls. Bad timing, monk.

“There, my lord! What did I say?” She straightens up, heartened. “He will not recant – and nor will I.”

“I see your mind is made up,” Cromwell sighs, then carefully positions his hands, joining his fat fingers, as a butcher might lay out his prime pork sausages. “Well, then. Is there anything we might do for you here?” He likes her, this strong woman; that much is plain.

“I am often hungry and I have nothing to read,” she ventures. Perhaps she does not think martyrs would complain to their tormentors of anything else.

Pacificus says, “The abbot has sent his own gifts from the abbey here for the prisoners.”

“Has he? Has he? How generous of him,” Cromwell says. Rummaging in his deep pockets, setting the keys a-clanking, he fetches out a small red leather book. “Do you speak Latin? I thought so. Well, here is a New Testament for you.” He passes the compact Vulgate, adding, “If Spragwell thinks it injurious for you, tell him I will it. And,” – he moves to go – “if you hold out here ’til doomsday, I might even send my friend the archbishop with his English version!” She thanks him, finding the spirit for a gracious smile, and what a face, even here and now – what a face!

“And perhaps,” Pacificus makes bold to say, “she might be given a room with less damp. I know of one becoming available this morning.” He gives a small cough.

“Ah. Yes, I see. Very well. I will mention it on my way out, and these clothes are the condemned man’s I suppose?”

“Yes.” Pacificus hesitates, seeing Cromwell’s lawyer’s mind at work. “For… for the poor.”

Cromwell’s features crease in a small, tight smile, not especially warm. He is going for the door but then pulls back momentarily, raising a stout index finger to indicate the intervention of a sudden recollection. “Last night, a mutual friend of ours took delight – after only one glass of wine – in front of uncle Norfolk, in telling me His Majesty’s plans to build coastal forts are – what were the words he used? Ah, yes – ‘intemperate nonsense’. Said he had it on the authority of probably the most experienced naval cavaliere in England. Of course who he would not say, after he had scored and sent Norfolk into a fit, only I wondered what you were doing dining with us last night. And now, this morning, I notice you have the skin of a sailor. Yes. Your scarred wrists I noted at table last night, but I had you for the criminal type so prevalent in the great houses of late – anything for sanctuary. Today, I wonder – ” he moves closer at this point until Pacificus can feel the warmth of his breath and smell the milk he drank for breakfast – “Perhaps not a criminal, for there is no branding on hands for theft or murder. No. I fancy these are the manacles of… hmmm… a galley slave?”

Pacificus stands unflinching under his immense gaze. It feels like coming nose to nose with a bull. He wonders how on earth he would handle him in unarmed combat. All the while he is cursing Rugge too; what a mocker is wine, to loose such pride and vanity from discreet lips. A gift of strong wine is an old trick; clever of you, Cromwell.

Now Cromwell in turn is weighing the matter, weighing him, waiting for his eyes to water over, see the pupils dilate, waiting for the signs of fear, of weakness. Master Secretary is at work now, and amidst the immense cogs of all his machinations, these are the thoughts that now form. Should I press this matter now, ask more questions? Cromwell thinks it through. No, let him simmer awhile. Suppose he is one of those errant Hospitallers? Yes, just suppose he is. Better keep him where you can see him, and Rugge too. Either way, he will wait. We know where he is – always half the problem. “Take my advice, brother, tread carefully, and take to your cell to pray. It might seem to you that your friend Rugge has risen very high – nay, but it only seems thus, and that only by my leave. How does Bonaventure render it? Ah, yes – like an ape that higher climbs, plus apparent posteriora eius¹⁴ – yes, exactly. And the more we may yet see his backside, too.” This he almost whispers, but finishing with one glance backward to say, “Mistress Fenton, I bid you a very good day.” He bows genteelly and squeezes through the door, his furs sending loose mortar to the floor as he goes.

When his steps are away from the door, she whispers, “My children?”

“Safe.” He peers out, to check they are as private as it seems. “Do not fret yourself.”

“Oh, thank God! And bless you, bless you!” Her hair falls over her face and she brushes it away quickly. “But you must be careful with those!” She lays one slender, white hand and then the other on the clothes. She pauses to steady herself. “You… you must not risk the children’s safety. He will have you followed, I think.” So pragmatic, women are.

“I will see to it.” Best not to promise more.

“Thank you. God bless you, sir.” Her hand is touching his. She is not aware of it, he thinks. The jailer is approaching. She looks to the clothes and lets the fabric linger on her fingers, smoothing it as if she had found a crease. “My husband is a good man. Do not let them use him ill, if it is in your power.”

 

It is not. An hour later, even though he had wanted to be on the road, Pacificus is standing at the Lollards’ Pit, surrounded by urchins gnawing at old bread and jeering.

Cromwell, seated in state on a platform, flanked by Norfolk, Cranmer and Rugge, has not allowed her to be present: “I don’t want her fair form to garner public sympathy.”

As he is taken from the cart, Fenton sees Pacificus. They exchange a glance, the slightest nod in acknowledgment. Surely here is a righteous man, he thinks; led astray by others though.

Cromwell observes all, a finger drawing back and forth across his lips and chin. Fenton is led to the stake, while the churchmen prepare to summarise the charges for the benefit of example and suspense. He does not resist the high manacles and, as they are fixed, Pacificus feels a spasm in his own scarred wrists too. He massages them under his sleeves, and remembers. Fenton is gagged with a wooden bit, necessary since so many on the continent have been led astray by the fiery sermons of burning Anabaptists – one way for sure of winning an audience. It will not happen here.

Children are allowed forward to spit, but he reaches out and stops the lads in front of him from going. “Where are your parents?” They do not answer, glowering resentfully, defiantly – monks! They wouldn’t have done that a few years ago.

The city clerks call for peace, then Doctor Hearne in his black cap and with a still blacker look on his face, brings his list, and it is long.

“The charges read as follows. That first, he has acted contrary to the mandate of the king. Secondly, he has taught, held and believed that the body and blood of Christ are not present in the sacrament. Thirdly, he has taught and believed that infant baptism does not conduce to salvation. Fourthly, he has rejected the sacrament of extreme unction.”

There are pauses throughout to allow for people to tush, tut and cross themselves.

“Fifthly, he has despised and condemned the mother of God and the saints. Sixthly, he has declared that men are not to swear before the authorities. Seventhly, he has admitted taking both the bread and wine for the holy Eucharist; eating and drinking the same. Eighthly, he is found with illegal and heretical books banned under the laws of this realm, namely one by the heretic Tyndale. Ninthly, unlawfully and unlicensed he has preached that our gracious sovereign king may no more be head of a church than a Pope or a magistrate.”

This last charge sends Doctor Spragwell quite purple. Whether it is genuinely felt, or whether just for a show of piety before the illustrious guests, he springs to his aged feet and cries out so that all can hear, “You desperate villain and arch-heretic! I tell you if there were no faggots here, I would hang you myself, and think that I had done God service!”

But there are faggots, and they are quickly lit. There will be no last words from the condemned today, no chance for recantation. Even the smallest watch intently, without too much ado, their faces flickering orange as his blackens and blisters. He screams hideously all the time, braying like a donkey, his head back and forth on the post. There is no divine deliverance for him. In between times, his desperate gaze fixes straight ahead to one spot. It is old Pieter, standing midpoint in the crowd, staring steadily back at him, nodding occasionally and, no doubt, praying too. Pacificus is moved in a way he has not felt since boyhood. Is it something from then, how he saw Peke die? No, not exactly. Since that time he has stood on many a field of battle, drenched to the skin in the blood of his enemies, and not felt a thing. And yet here, this man and his heretic religion, his eyes, this peace he claims to have; oh, this peace! Would I be a heretic too, for one good night’s sleep?