The Mirror and the Light

‘Oh well,’ Gardiner says, ‘one sees their point, if Christ’s coming is imminent. Which I do not believe. But I thought you might.’

‘You know I have nothing to do with this sect.’

‘Perhaps not.’ Stephen smiles. ‘After all, you take conspicuous thought for the morrow. You lay up treasure on earth, don’t you? Indeed you do little else.’

‘Now you are back in the jurisdiction,’ he says, ‘you will see what I do.’

At midday the king comes in, announced by trumpets. The day is dark but Henry is wearing white from head to foot. He looks like a mountain that one hears of in fables, made of solid ice.

The king takes his place on the dais beneath his canopy of estate. The tiered benches are packed. The clergy sit at the king’s right hand, his noblemen on his left. The hall is hung in splendour, a blur of pennants and flags, and tapestry has been brought from the Wardrobe, so that giant Bible figures preside over the scene: Daniel, Job, Solomon without Sheba.

He, the Vicegerent, takes his seat. Bishop Tunstall gives him a courteous nod. Bishop Stokesley glares. Dr Barnes appears like a graven image. Cranmer seems to have shrunk. Hugh Latimer keeps leaping up and down, running to this one and that, tapping shoulders, whispering, passing notes. He says to Cranmer, ‘Has Hugh briefed the king?’

‘We have all briefed him.’ Cranmer seems surprised. ‘Have not you?’

‘I would not presume. He is closer to God than I am.’

When they bring John Lambert in, his step is firm, his face resolute. But as he looks around him, takes in the grandeur of the hall, you can see he is overwhelmed. He stares at the king, at his shining slopes, and then begins an obeisance – he does not know whether to bow or kneel.

He, Thomas Cromwell, sees Dr Barnes smile. He hears Stokesley shift on his bench, a smug rustle. He swings around and glares: ‘A little charity?’

‘Hush,’ Cranmer says.

They have built a platform so Lambert can be seen from all parts of the hall. He stops before it, like a horse that has seen a shadow in the trees. Urged to mount the steps, he creeps up as if it were a scaffold. He faces the king. His head turns, seeking faces he knows, but when he finds them, in the dim light of noon, he finds them stony.

Henry leans forward. This hearing has no precedent, therefore no rules, but the king has decided to run it like a courtroom. ‘Your name?’

John Lambert is used to defending himself in small rooms. He is courageous, but he is not a man who has ever had to rise to an occasion: and here is his king, the maker of occasions.

His voice seems faint, as if it is coming from another era. ‘I was born John Nicholson. But I am known as John Lambert.’

‘What?’ The king is shocked. ‘You have two names?’

Lambert recoils. He sinks onto one knee.

Gardiner murmurs, ‘Wise move, fellow.’

The king says, ‘I would not trust a man with two names, even if he were my own brother.’

Lambert is taken aback by the king’s plain speaking. Did he expect a learned oration? That is to come: but Henry moves, unerringly, to the ground of their quarrel. ‘The body of Christ. Is it present in the sacrament?’

When the king says corpus Christi, he puts his hand to his hat, in reverence.

Lambert observes the gesture. His shoulders hunch. ‘Your Majesty being so well-learned, a prince of rare sagacity –’

‘Lambert, Nicholson,’ the king says, ‘I did not come here to be flattered. Just answer.’

‘St Augustine says …’

‘I know about Augustine. I want to hear from you.’

Lambert flinches. He is kneeling now and he does not know at what point he can stand up. It is a form of torture he has devised for himself. The king glares at him. ‘Well? What do you say? Is it Christ’s flesh, His blood?’

‘No,’ Lambert says.

Stephen Gardiner slaps his knee, lightly. Bishop Stokesley says, ‘May as well set fire to him now. Why drag it out?’

The king’s face flushes. ‘What about women, Lambert – is it lawful for a woman to teach?’

‘In case of necessity,’ Lambert says. The bishops groan.

And the word ‘minister’, the king demands, what does he take to be its meaning? The word ‘church’? The word ‘penance’? Should the faithful make private confession? Does he think priests may marry?

‘Yes,’ Lambert says. ‘Any man should, if he has not the gift of chastity. St Paul is clear in the matter.’

Robert Barnes says, excuse me. He gets up, blundering over the feet of the learned divines.

‘My lord archbishop,’ the king says, ‘will you stand up now, and show Lambert or Nicholson why he is wrong?’

Cranmer rises. Cuthbert Tunstall leans forward: ‘My lord Cromwell, why does Lambert have two names? It seems to trouble the king as much as his heresies.’

‘I believe he changed it to evade persecution.’

‘Hmm.’ Tunstall sits back. ‘He had better have changed his views.’

Cranmer is on his feet. His manner is tentative: ‘Brother Lambert …’

The people at the back shout they cannot hear.