The Taming of the Queen

Hugh Latimer, ordered to appear as a suspect before the Privy Council where he had once spoken as an authority, admits that he preached a series of sermons before me – undeniable – since half the Privy Council’s wives, and some of the Privy Council themselves, attended. He does not agree that he said anything heretical, nor anything tending to reform. He says that he preached on the Word of God, and stayed inside the current teaching of the church. They release him; but the next day they arrest another preacher from my afternoon studies, Doctor Edward Crome, and they accuse him of denying the existence of purgatory.

This, he has to admit. Of course he denies the existence of purgatory. If they asked me, or indeed anyone with any sense, no-one could say that there is any evidence for such a place. Heaven, yes – Our Lord speaks of it Himself – hell, yes – He harrows it for sinners. But nowhere does the Bible suggest that there is some ridiculous place where souls must wait and can be bought out of their suffering by a donation to the church or the bawling of Masses in paid chantries. There is simply no reference for this, there is no scholarship to support it. So where has this story come from? The authorship is clear: it is an invention by the church as a way of getting a great income from the suffering of bereaved families, and the fears of dying sinners. The king himself has abolished chantries – how can purgatory exist?

But it is the king who authorises these arrests, the king who has authorised all of them since the spring herding of scholars and preachers and people related to me. The Privy Council will make inquiries, name names, demand explanations, but the king alone decides who shall be arrested. Either he signs his name, the signature scrawled carelessly, the warrant held on the sheets of his sickbed, or he tells the men he trusts in his chamber, Anthony Denny, and John Gates, to use the dry stamp of his signature, and ink it in later. But either way, the warrant is brought to him for his personal express approval. He may be groaning in pain, he may be half asleep, drugged with painkillers and strong wine, but he knows. This is not a plot by papists at his court moving against my beliefs and my friends without the king’s knowledge, taking advantage of his sickness and fatigue. It is a plot by the king himself, against my beliefs and against my friends – perhaps even against me. This is the king setting the dogs to fight, but this time favouring one side against the other, putting a fortune on the outcome. Favouring my enemies against me, putting me, his wife, into the dog-pit.

‘She’s here. Anne Askew is here, right here! Now!’ Joan Denny rushes in to my rooms and kneels before me, as if her legs cannot hold her up.

‘She has come to see me?’ I cannot believe that she would take such a risk, knowing that her teachers and mentors are in the Tower. ‘She cannot come in. Tell her I am sorry but—’

‘No! No! Arrested! Summoned to see the Privy Council. They are questioning her now.’

‘Who told you?’

‘My husband. He says he will do what he can for her.’

I take a breath. I want to tell her that Anthony Denny must make sure that my name is not mentioned, or at any rate, not repeated to the king. But I am so afraid, and so ashamed of my fear, that I cannot speak. I am so afraid of what Anne might say, what she might tell the Privy Council. What if she says that she preached heresy to us, and that we listened? What if she tells them that I am writing my own book, filled with forbidden knowledge? But I cannot tell Joan, who has listened with me, who studies with me, who prays beside me, that my first thought is to save my own fearful skin. I am afraid and ashamed of my fear.

‘God keep her safe,’ is all I say out loud.

‘Amen.’