Читать книгу God’s Secret Agents: Queen Elizabeth's Forbidden Priests and the Hatching of the Gunpowder Plot - Alice Hogge - Страница 9

‘And better it were that they should suffer, than that her highness

or commonwealth should shake or be in danger.’

(Device for the Alteration of Religion, 1558)

TO THE NORTH OF the city of London, beyond the walls and the great gates, Moorgate and Aldersgate (Aldgate), lay the lordship of Finsbury and Finsbury Fields. Once used as a site for archery tournaments and wrestling matches, by 1588 the fields had fallen victim to urban sprawl. Contemporary commentator John Stow complained ‘there is now made a continual building throughout of garden houses and small cottages’.¹

A description of one of these cottages remains. The ground floor contained a kitchen and a dining room. The first floor was given over to a chapel that doubled at night as a sleeping loft. The cellar beneath held sufficient storage space for logs, coal and beer barrels. And behind the carefully piled provisions was a hiding place with room for six or seven men. In the autumn of 1588 this small, three-roomed cottage served as the London headquarters of the Jesuit mission to England.²

It was here that John Gerard made his way towards the end of November, as the first snows of an unseasonably bitter winter blanketed the country. Gerard recorded his journey south in perfunctory style—‘there was no incident on the way’—and for the length of time it took him to appear in London he gave no explanation. But there was one man to whom an explanation was owing: the man who had sent for him.³

Father Henry Garnet was thirty-three, cheerful, scholarly, the son of a Nottingham grammar school master. Unlike Gerard, Garnet’s family had conformed to Elizabeth’s nationalized Church after 1559. In Nottingham and those parts of Derbyshire bordering the city there had been little opposition to the change in religion. Then in 1567 Garnet won a scholarship to Winchester School and there he came under a more Catholic influence. Winchester was among the last of the schools to accept the new faith. In 1561 the then headmaster had been arrested for his refusal to conform to Protestantism. In protest the boys had boycotted the school chapel, locking themselves in their dormitories and accusing the replacement headmaster of destroying ‘the souls of the innocents’. The military commander of Portsmouth Harbour was called to break up the strike and a dozen boys were expelled soon afterwards. It was into this world of Catholic defiance and classical scholarship that the twelve-year-old Henry Garnet was soon immersed.⁴

Avoiding the usual passage from Winchester to New College, Oxford (by now he was no longer prepared to pretend to be a Protestant) Garnet headed for London to become ‘corrector for the press’ at Richard Tottel’s printworks in Temple Bar. He was in London in June 1573 for the execution of Thomas Wodehouse at Smithfield. Wodehouse had the unhappy distinction of being the first Catholic priest to be executed in London under Elizabeth; more than that, he was rumoured to have joined the Society of Jesus while a prisoner.* In the summer of 1575 Henry Garnet left London for Rome to join the Jesuits himself.⁵

Garnet’s return to England in July 1586 was followed with uncomfortable swiftness by his promotion to Superior of the English Jesuits just a couple of weeks later, after the arrest of the man under whom he had come to serve. The death of Campion still hung albatross-like around the neck of the Jesuit mission; moreover, it seemed those destined to pay the price for that death were not Campion’s killers, but the men struggling to follow in his footsteps. In the six years between Campion and Persons’ first landing and Garnet’s arrival the Jesuits had failed to establish a permanent bridgehead in England. Aborted attempt had followed aborted attempt. And now with the threat of the Spanish Armada drawing nearer, Garnet’s own efforts to revive the mission seemed destined to flounder in the wave of anti-Catholic feeling sweeping over the country.

Garnet’s first action as Jesuit Superior had been to write to Rome for more men to be hurried over to help him. In the spring of Armada year he was informed that reinforcements—in the shape of John Gerard and Edward Oldcorne—would soon be on their way. So as the events of 1588 unfolded about him Garnet prepared for their coming, choosing the cottage in Finsbury as a base for the mission, for ‘since it was believed that no one was actually residing there, it was never molested by the officers whose duty it is to make the rounds of every house to enquire whether the inmates are in the habit of attending the [Protestant] church’. He was in London to witness the spate of executions that took place that autumn, as post-Armada relief gave way to bloodlust and revenge. In all, seventeen priests, nine Catholic laymen and one woman were executed over a three-month period. The one woman to be killed, Margaret Ward, was charged with supplying the priest William Watson with a rope to escape from the Bridewell prison—sympathetic onlookers claimed that as she climbed to her death they could see she was ‘crippled and half-paralysed’ by torture. Elizabeth, herself, was said to have been appalled by Ward’s death and ‘it was for that reason that recently she pardoned two other women who had borne themselves before the tribunal with singular courage’, wrote Garnet in October. Two months later Garnet was in the crowds to watch Elizabeth’s triumphal procession to St Paul’s Cathedral to give thanks for England’s victory. And throughout this time still he waited for news of Gerard and Oldcorne’s safe arrival.⁶

There are few details of Gerard’s meeting with Garnet in Finsbury that winter—Gerard himself is significantly quiet on the subject—but the following March Garnet wrote to Claudio Aquaviva, Jesuit General since the death of Everard Mercurian in 1581. His letter is characteristically cryptic, but in it he mentions ‘that without consulting me at all [Gerard] did things which [he] had no authority to do and which manifestly [he] should never have done’. During his brief stay in Norfolk it seemed not only had Gerard freely dispensed spiritual guidance and religious pardons, but he had also passed information—probably details of the privileges granted by the Pope to the English Jesuits—to ‘certain priests who, during their time in Rome, were not considered well disposed to us’. With memories of priests-turned-informers like Charles Sledd and Gilbert Gifford still fresh in mind, such an action was risky at best. At worst it threatened to destroy the mission. And although Garnet concluded his letter ‘It is not a serious matter but it might have been’, it must have seemed to him now that his new recruit was uncommonly confident in his own abilities and apparently lacking in discipline. It was not an auspicious start.⁷

Before Christmas the fourth and final Jesuit priest on the mission arrived back in Finsbury from a tour of the country.* Robert Southwell was twenty-seven years old, the son of an old East Anglian family. His grandfather had been one of the commissioners for the dissolution of the monasteries, his mother had been a childhood companion of the then Princess Elizabeth and his father was a prominent courtier. Among his more important relations were Lord Burghley, Sir Francis Bacon and the Attorney General, Sir Edward Coke. Southwell’s family serves as a particularly colourful reminder of just how few assumptions can be made about the religious complexion of England at this period.⁸

Southwell left home for the English College at Douai in the summer of 1576, aged fourteen. In November that year he moved to the Jesuit College of Cleremont near Paris and in the spring of 1578 he applied to join the Society of Jesus. Political upheavals in the Spanish Netherlands and an initial rejection by the Society on the grounds of his youth meant it was not until October, and then only in Rome, that Southwell was admitted to the Jesuit noviceship, around the time of his seventeenth birthday. There, he quickly won praise for his skills as a writer and respect for his vivid intelligence. When, in 1586, Henry Garnet was chosen to leave for England to join the mission it was the poet Southwell who was picked to accompany him on the journey.⁹

Since that time, like Persons and Campion before them, Garnet and Southwell had travelled England in secret, labouring to rebuild the network of Catholic families willing to maintain a priest; labouring, too, to enlarge that network in the face of increased government persecution.* They had become a formidable team. With the arrival of John Gerard and Edward Oldcorne that team had doubled. What remained unclear, though, was how many of their countrymen would still be prepared to welcome them in, now that Catholicism had been linked so strongly with un-Englishness in the public consciousness. For if to be Catholic was to be an unnatural Englishman, then to draw attention to that unnaturalness in the weeks and months following the Spanish Armada was tantamount to signing your own death warrant. This being the case the new and expanded Jesuit mission seemed destined to have only limited appeal.¹⁰

And for the English Government and the Catholic Church both, religion had become a numbers game. To play for were the souls of all those who still stood wavering in the middle of the great religious divide. For the Government 1588 had proved a windfall year, drawing to the Church of England all those obedient to the pull of patriotic fervour, like the Earl of Shrewsbury (viewed by most as ‘half a catholic’), who now redoubled his efforts to rout out seminary priests on his estates.* The challenge for the Jesuits was to reverse this process.¹¹

‘Christmas was drawing near’, wrote Gerard, ‘and we had to scatter. The danger of capture was greater at festal times and, besides, the faithful needed our services. I was sent back, therefore, to the county where I had first stepped ashore.’ As December 1588 drew to a close and England wearily prepared to celebrate the Nativity, Gerard retraced his steps to Norfolk.¹²

Norfolk seems to have turned its back on English affairs throughout much of history. While other shires engaged in the civil disturbances that marred the reigns of weaker monarchs, in the county-league rivalry of the Wars of the Roses, Norfolk scanned the horizon for the distant sails of potential invaders, for the safe return of its merchant ships and indulged in a style of law-lessness all its own. The county records bristle with stories of Norfolk nobles and squires holding their neighbours to ransom, of houses defended ‘in a manner of a forcelet’ and of bands of armed retainers roaming the district in search of someone to terrorize.¹³

Hanseatic merchants brought the writings of Martin Luther to Norfolk early in the sixteenth century. Luther’s ideas were greeted with enthusiasm by the academics of nearby Cambridge; soon a band of them, including a number of Norfolk men, were meeting regularly in the town’s White Horse Tavern (behind King’s Parade), which quickly became known as Little Germany. It was a Norfolk man, Thomas Hilton, who helped smuggle home William Tyndale’s forbidden English Bibles; he was burnt for heresy in 1530. And it was a Norfolk woman whose charms led to schism with Rome in the first place: Anne Boleyn was the daughter of the Norfolk squire Sir Thomas Boleyn and a niece of Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk. Later, when Anne’s daughter Elizabeth laid claim to being England’s most English of monarchs, the countrymen of Norfolk could nod their heads in agreement; after all, she was one of their own.¹⁴

Yet when the Duke of Northumberland seized the English crown on behalf of his daughter-in-law Lady Jane Grey, it was to Norfolk that Mary Tudor fled to rally her supporters. Mary came to Kenninghall, west of Thetford, from where she wrote to the House of Lords on 9 July 1553 asserting her claim to the English throne. She was joined there by the loyal Norfolk gentry, all of them Catholic to a man. It was into the care of the Norfolk Catholic Sir Henry Bedingfeld that Mary entrusted her recalcitrant younger sister; Bedingfeld escorted Elizabeth from the Tower of London to house arrest at Woodstock in May 1554.* And it was of Norfolk that a Spanish agent wrote in 1586, as Philip II scouted for suitable landing sites for his Armada fleet, ‘the majority of the people are attached to the Catholic religion’. If England was a country still divided by religion then the county of Norfolk was England in microcosm. And few families illustrated this divided country and county better than the Yelvertons, to whom John Gerard now returned.¹⁵

Edward Yelverton, Gerard’s Catholic contact from Norwich Cathedral, was the eldest son from the second marriage of William Yelverton of Rougham, Norfolk. On his father’s death Edward inherited the family’s estate at Grimston, extending well over two thousand acres. There he lived with his family, his younger brother Charles, a committed Protestant, and his newly widowed half-sister Jane Lumner, viewed by Gerard as ‘a rabid Calvinist’. (Gerard also mentions a half-brother, Sir Christopher Yelverton, who was ‘one of the leaders of the Calvinist party in England’.) It was a dangerous place for Gerard to begin his mission, despite Edward Yelverton’s keenness for Grimston to become a Jesuit base. Such religious differences as divided the Yelvertons could stretch family loyalty to breaking point, as a contemporary poem revealed:

…your husbands do procure your care [imprisonment],

And parents do renounce you to be theirs;

…your wives do bring your life in snare,

And brethren false affright you full of fears;

And…your children seek to have your end,

In hope your goods with thriftless mates to spend.¹⁶

In years to come many Catholics would learn that their nearest was all too often their dearest enemy, particularly when an inheritance was at stake. Gerard, himself, had already experienced the Yelverton family’s mistrust. ‘On my first arrival [at Grimston]’, he wrote, ‘the Protestant brother was indeed suspicious—for I was a stranger, I had come here in company with his Catholic brother, and he could think of no reason why his brother treated me so kindly.’ The priest’s easy familiarity with the occupations of an Elizabethan country gentleman had soon allayed Charles Yelverton’s fears: ‘When I got the opportunity I spoke about hunting and falconry, a thing no one could do in correct language unless he was familiar with the sports.’ Freshly equipped as ‘a gentleman of moderate means’—in clothes provided by Henry Garnet, who ‘was anxious that I should not be a burden to my host at the start’—Gerard now took up his role of sporting squire once more.¹⁷

The methodology of the Catholic mission to England had changed little since William Allen’s seminary priests first began arriving home in 1574. The protomartyr Cuthbert Mayne had clothed himself as the Tregian family’s steward; Robert Persons as a returning soldier of fortune—the key to a missionary’s success or failure lay in his ability to inhabit his new identity fully. This was best evinced by Father Richard Blount, who returned to England in the spring of 1591 disguised as a homecoming prisoner-of-war. Blount was interviewed by Admiral Lord Howard of Effingham and provided him with enough information—all fabricated—about the deployment of the Spanish fleet to earn himself a naval pension in recompense, or so Blount’s friends reported afterwards.¹⁸

In his play The Taming of the Shrew, written c.1592, Shakespeare introduced ‘a young scholar that hath been long studying at Rheims…cunning in Greek, Latin and other languages’. The role was cover for the amorous suitor Lucentio, enabling him to woo the ‘fair Bianca’. But among the audience watching the new comedy, there would have been those who recognized in Shakespeare’s words an allusion to an altogether different form of deception. The young Reims scholars they knew, seminary students fresh from their lessons in Greek, Latin, Hebrew and English, were even now being deployed across the country disguised as tutors, stewards and visiting poor relations.* John Gerard was now Mr Robert Thompson, ‘attired [according to a later spy’s report] costly and defensibly in buff leather, garnished with gold or silver lace, satin doublets, and velvet hose of all colours with cloaks correspondent, and rapiers and daggers gilt or silvered’. ‘It was thus’, wrote Gerard, ‘that I used to go about before I was a Jesuit and I was therefore more at ease in these clothes than I would have been if I had assumed a role that was strange and unfamiliar to me…[Now] I could stay longer and more securely in any house or noble home where my host might bring me as his friend or acquaintance.’ More importantly, now he could ‘meet many Protestant gentlemen’ and bring ‘them slowly back to a love of the [Catholic] faith’.¹⁹

There exists a memorandum dated 1583, written by George Gilbert, leader of the band of young Catholics who had assisted Campion and Persons during the first Jesuit mission to England. It is called A way to deal with persons of all sorts as to convert them and bring them back to a better way of life—based on the system and methods used by Fr. Robert Persons and Fr. Edmund Campion and, as its title suggests, it is a proselytizer’s handbook. Gilbert was ideally placed to advise the new missionaries. It had been his money and his connection with most of the major Catholic families in England that had enabled Campion and Persons to travel the country in relative safety, setting up their network. And until his escape to France in 1581 (at Persons’ entreaty), Gilbert had been adept at cheating capture. Arrested and brought before the Bishop of London in midsummer 1580, he was quickly released when Norris, the bishop’s pursuivant, attested to his honesty; Norris was said to be in Gilbert’s pay. This memorandum was Gilbert’s last contribution to the English Catholic cause—he died in Rome on 6 October 1583 aged just thirty-one, having been admitted into the Society of Jesus on his deathbed. But it was Gilbert’s instructions that John Gerard now followed as he began his Norfolk apostolate.²⁰

‘As soon as any father or learned priest has entered an heretical country’, wrote Gilbert,

‘he should seek out some gentleman to be his companion. This man should be zealous, loyal, discreet and determined to help him in this service of God, and should be able to undertake honourably the expenses of both of them. He should have a first-rate reputation as a good comrade and as being knowledgeable about the country, the roads and paths, the habits and disposition of the gentry and people of the place, and should be a man who has many relations and friends and much local information.’

In Edward Yelverton, Gerard had found just such a companion. This primary contact made, the newly arrived priest could then ‘mix freely everywhere, both in public and in private, dressed as a gentleman and with various kinds of get-up and disguises so as to be better able to have intercourse with people without arousing suspicion’. And so it proved for Gerard: ‘I stayed openly six or eight months in the house of that gentleman who was my first host. During that time he introduced me to the house and circle of nearly every gentleman in Norfolk, and before the end of the eight months I had received many people into the Church.’²¹

Among his first converts were three members of Yelverton’s own family, including the Protestant Charles Yelverton and the Calvinist Jane Lumner. Before Gerard’s arrival at Grimston Jane had reportedly expressed certain anxieties about the state of her soul. A consultation with the ill-famed Dr Perne of Peterhouse had left her more confused than ever. Hearing Gerard say ‘time and again that the Catholic faith was the only true and good one, she began to have doubts, and in this state of mind, she brought [him] one day an heretical book which more than anything had confirmed her in her heresy’. Here was a chance for the priest to vindicate William Allen’s training methods. Allen had prepared his students for a war of words, schooling them in reasoning and rhetoric. Now Gerard proceeded to demonstrate ‘all the dishonest quotations from Scripture and the Fathers, the countless quibbles and mis-statements of fact’. Few English theologians were equipped to engage in dialectical combat of this sort single-handedly. Certainly no layperson was. Jane Lumner would prove an easy and a lasting convert. From then on her name was always among the annual lists of ‘obstinate’ Catholics returned to the Bishop of Norwich for the purpose of fining; the last entry dates from 1615, probably the year of her death.²²

Catholicism bound the Norfolk gentry together; marriage bound them tighter still. Yelvertons wed Bedingfelds, Bedingfelds wed Southwells—theirs was a network of such interconnectedness as the Jesuits could only dream of, criss-crossing the county, extending deep into Suffolk and Essex too. Many had benefited from the wholesale disposal of church lands at the Dissolution, seizing the chance to extend their estates and entrench their position as the traditional power brokers of old England. Robert Southwell grew up at Horsham St Faith near Norwich, within sight of the Benedictine priory acquired by his grandfather Sir Richard. It was one of four such properties bought by the family as some of the best real estate in England changed hands.* ²³

So at Elizabeth’s accession, with their new lands and old influence, the Yelvertons, the Bedingfelds, the Southwells seemed set to enjoy the peace and prosperity the new Queen was intent on pursuing. By the time of Gerard’s arrival at Grimston it was clear that for them, such peace and prosperity would never again be possible. The leniency of the 1559 settlement might not have given way to martyr-making in the style of Mary Tudor but it had, by 1588, crystallized into something altogether harder and more finely focused. There were no public tribunals or baying mobs, no calls to recant and save your soul, no crisis of survival in fact—rather, the slow, sapping efficiency of English law.

From the very first, the peace of the Catholic Norfolk gentry had been threatened. In 1561 it had come to the Council’s attention that Sir Edward Waldegrave’s estate at Borley in Essex was serving as a mass centre for a number of visiting Norfolk gentry. Waldegrave was arrested and dispatched to the Tower where he later died; the others were imprisoned in Colchester gaol. To the Government its policy was clear: such high profile arrests served as an example to the rest of the county, obviating the need for further action. Seventeen years on it seemed Norfolk’s landowners were due another lesson.²⁴

In the summer of 1578 Elizabeth embarked upon her annual royal progress, this time through Suffolk and Norfolk. ‘The truth is’, wrote Thomas Churchyard, who observed the proceedings, ‘they had but small warning…of the coming of the Queen’s Majesty into both those shires.’ Once word of Elizabeth’s impending arrival leaked out, though, the preparations took on a frantic air: ‘all the velvets and silks were taken up that might be laid hand on, and bought for any money, and soon converted to…garments and…robes’. On Sunday, 10 August Edward Rookwood, now suitably attired, welcomed Elizabeth and her entourage to Euston Hall near Thetford. On the morning of Monday, 11 August, as Elizabeth took her leave, Rookwood was arrested. Royal hanger-on Richard Topcliffe described the scene to the Earl of Shrewsbury. The Lord Chamberlain ‘demanded of [Rookwood] how he durst presume to attempt [Elizabeth’s] real presence, he, unfit to accompany any Christian person; forthwith said he was fitter for a pair of stocks; commanded him out of the Court, and yet to attend her Council’s pleasure; and at Norwich he was committed’. Rookwood was charged with refusing to attend his parish church, ‘contrary to all good laws and orders and against the duty of good subjects’. Joining him in the dock were nine other Norfolk gentlemen, all guests at a dinner in honour of the Queen hosted by Lady Style of Braconash near Norwich; among them were Sir Henry Bedingfeld, Humphrey Bedingfeld and Robert Downes, John Gerard’s contact from the Norwich inn. Rookwood and Downes, already excommunicate for non-attendance, were imprisoned until such time as they should conform. The others were placed under house arrest in Norwich, fined 200 pounds and instructed to conform or face a lengthy gaol sentence. So much for their hopes of peace.²⁵

Soon their prosperity would be forfeit too. For although there was no way of measuring whether the actual number of Catholics was increasing under the influence of William Allen’s missionaries, there was a sure way of determining the effect the priests were having on existing Catholics. From 1574 onwards the number of people fined for refusing to attend their parish church grew steadily. Before long these dissenters had earned a name for themselves: recusants, from the Latin recusare, to refuse. Before long, too, a simple truth had dawned on many in the Government: recusants meant revenue.

In 1577 the Bishop of London wrote to Sir Francis Walsingham with a proposal. In view of this spread of recusancy, he and his colleagues were devising a scheme to ‘procure the Queen a thousand pounds by year to her Coffers’. Since the scheme involved bypassing existing law and imposing ‘round fines’ on all those refusing to receive Communion (not in itself a criminal offence), the bishop suggested Walsingham keep from Elizabeth the precise details of his proposal, ‘or else’, he added feelingly, ‘you can guess what will follow’. This small difficulty aside, the bishop reckoned his scheme would ‘weaken the enemy and touch him much nearer than any pain heretofore inflicted’. The proposal was never implemented. Evidently, though, it set Walsingham thinking. When the Privy Council carried out its nationwide census of recusants that year, included among the list of returns were precise details of how much every recusant was worth.²⁶

It took until 1581 for the Government to decide fully to profit from papistry. The arrival of the Jesuits the year before had removed even Elizabeth’s objections to sterner anti-Catholic measures. If her new Church of England was not to become a mockery, then no more English Catholics could be permitted to break the law and absent themselves from it. Up to now she had prevented Parliament from raising recusancy fines—no longer. Included in that year’s Treason Act was a clause designed to hit recusants hard. Overnight, the fines for non-attendance jumped from twelve pence up to twenty pounds per month. And for the purposes of calculation, the year was deemed to contain thirteen lunar months, rather than the customary twelve. William Cecil explained the new policy with unusual political candour: ‘The causes that moved the renewing of this law was for that it was seen that the pain being no greater than xii pence, no officer did seek to charge any offender therewith, so that numbers of evil disposed persons increased herein to offend with impunity.’²⁷

Now the full moneymaking potential of Catholic recusancy could be realized—and legally too. Soon a Hampshire clerk of the peace was writing to the Council complaining that ‘The number of recusants which at every session are to be indicted is so great that [I am] driven to spend…a great deal of time before and after every session…in drawing and engrossing the indictment[s].’ In 1587 new legislation was introduced to make the collection of recusancy fines more efficient. To ease the pressure on the courts recusants could now be convicted in their absence, on the evidence of informers, disgruntled relatives or jealous neighbours. Henry Garnet wrote to the Jesuit General in fury that ‘any utterly base creature can cast it in our teeth that we are unfitted to have our share of life in common with them’. Another clause allowed the Exchequer to seize two-thirds of the recusant’s estate in default of payment. They ‘build their houses with the ruins of ours’, wrote Robert Southwell angrily, and ‘by displanting of our offspring adopt themselves to be heirs of our lands’.²⁸

It was not just fines from which the Government was determined to benefit. In 1585 recusants were assessed for contributions ‘towards the providing of horses and furniture for her Majesty’s present services in the Low Countries’. As the Council explained, given the religious nature of the up-coming conflict ‘her Majesty seeth so much the less cause to spare them in this’. In Norfolk, County Sheriff Sir Henry Woodhouse began the unpleasant process of extracting forced donations from his recusant neighbours. Evidently he was sympathetic to their plight. In December that year he wrote to Walsingham apologizing for his delay and naming only the unfortunate Robert Downes as capable of furnishing a light horse for the cavalry.* Other Catholics in other counties were not so lucky. Londoner Mary Scott wrote to the Council begging to be excused payment. Her husband—on account of whose recusancy the family was being assessed—had died just four days earlier, she explained, and now she was ‘plunged in many cares’. Mrs Margaret Blackwell of Sussex wrote with an even more heartfelt plea. She had never been absent from church, she protested, and she enclosed a certificate signed by Arthur Williams, parson, and all the churchwardens of the parish of St Andrew’s to prove her statement. And in March 1585 John Gerard’s father would write to the government, apologizing for his failure to pay the military levies (on account of his debts) and, instead, ‘offering his person to serve Her Highness in any place in the world’.²⁹

These new anti-Catholic measures were entirely in tune with a financial policy grown increasingly desperate as the looming war with Spain began to drain the Exchequer dry.* Moreover, they upheld Elizabeth’s determination that the extirpation of Catholicism from England should never be seen as religious persecution. Yes, she explained, there were ‘a Number of Men of Wealth in our Realm, professing contrary Religion’, but none was ‘impeached for the same…but only by Payment of a peculiar Sum, as a Penalty for the Time that they do refuse to come to Church’. English Catholics were still only being punished for breaking the law; that the law forbade the profession of their faith was really neither here nor there. However, behind closed doors at Westminster something else was happening that was altogether more invidious. It revealed itself in a bid to make Catholics turn in their weapons, in a motion that they be expected to pay double rates as foreigners did, in MP Dr Peter Turner’s demand that they be forced to wear an identifying badge so ‘that by some token a Papist may be known’. Catholics were different; Catholics were dangerous; Catholics were other. Not content that Catholicism had become un-English by imputation, Parliament was attempting to make it un-English by force of law.³⁰

For Norfolk’s gentry, for the Yelvertons, Bedingfelds and Southwells, the effects of such a policy were devastating. In 1574 Edward Rishton had written: ‘the greater part of the country gentlemen was unmistakably Catholic; so also were the farmers throughout the kingdom…Not a single county except those near London and the Court…willingly accepted the heresy’. If the city and the Court, both frantic and fast-moving, spoke for the new religion, then the Norfolk gentry and their ilk, farmers, countrymen and landowners, all rooted in the slower rhythms of the soil, spoke for the old—and they saw no reason to change. For them Catholicism was the traditional religion of Englishmen and women since Christianity was first introduced to the isle almost a thousand years before; it was the stripling Germano-Swiss construct Protestantism that was the foreign interloper. For the new merchant-class Members of Parliament to tell them they were un-English impugned their rank, for their fellow Englishmen to tell them they were traitors impugned their patriotism, but for them to change their beliefs impugned their very identity. Moreover it imperilled their mortal souls.³¹