The Last Plantagenets (5 page)

The final bulls from St. Peter’s, boiling with exasperation, went on to
make specific demands. The archbishop and Courtenay of London were to proceed, first, to inform themselves of the truth, then they were to arrest Wycliffe in the Pope’s name, to extract confessions from him, and finally to send on a report to Rome. The situation was one which could no longer be winked at.

This was a difficult problem to face, with an eleven-year-old boy on the throne, and not only the most powerful man in the country but the queen mother herself more or less openly in support of the Oxford reformer. The two bishops brought divided views to the task which had been set them. The archbishop was a man of liberal tendencies, as he had demonstrated in his protest against the Canterbury pilgrimages and he was, moreover, an adherent in some degree of Duke John. On the other hand, Courtenay (who would succeed Simon as archbishop within a few years) was a son of the Earl of Devonshire and of royal descent, in direct line from Edward I. He was an aristocrat, arrogant, pugnacious, and set in his views. Not being either learned or studious, he was never a seeker after theological truths but was essentially a man of action. In his opinion there should be no room in a world where privilege was so comfortably ensconced for a man like Wycliffe, a commoner, to assert such dangerous thoughts. Courtenay hated the Duke of Lancaster and had nothing but contempt for the kindly and complaisant Simon.

Nevertheless, this ill-assorted pair, with the problem tossed into their laps, proceeded to take action. Wycliffe was cited to appear in the archbishop’s palace at Lambeth. Despite the opposition of the queen mother, who sent a message demanding that no action be taken against him, and the action of irate citizens of London in attacking the palace and shouting maledictions against the accusers, there was a long examination of the fifty articles of accusation sent from Rome. Despite the Pope’s edict that Wycliffe must be arrested, he did not appear as a prisoner. He was questioned exhaustively but was permitted to state his position and his beliefs without peremptory interruptions.

John Wycliffe was not a fiery reformer, not one to hurl his accusations in the teeth of established authority. He was an orderly thinker who had seen clearly what Christendom was coming to and knew what the inevitable result would be. He made no effort to turn the chapel at Lambeth into a sounding board for daring attacks on Rome. Instead he sat down and reasoned out the meaning of the words he had written or said, being willing even to have an orthodox explanation read into some of them. He was dismissed with an admonition. Never again was he to utter such dangerous and controversial views, neither from the pulpit nor in the schools where he taught, “on account of the scandal which they excited among the laity.”

This, in lieu of the vigorous action the Pope had demanded, was a
tame conclusion, for which the complaisant Simon had to bear much of the blame. Wycliffe retired to his living at Lutterworth in Lincolnshire where he spent the few years remaining to him in the translation of the Vulgate, the Latin Bible, into the English tongue and in the promulgation of still more radical views rising out of the storm following the death of Gregory.

It is difficult today to appreciate how close the relationship had become between the Popes of medieval days and the countries acknowledging their sway. The pontiffs exercised a degree of temporal power which became greater or less, according to circumstances, but was always considerable. They not only had much to do with the filling of thrones and the external problems of kings but they were consulted on appointments and they injected themselves into the private lives of the monarchs. John of unfragrant memory counted the day fortunate when no chiding epistle reached him from Innocent III, dealing often with his conduct as a man. Popes were consulted about marriages and separations. Their hand was felt in matters pertaining to wills and property.

What was happening at Rome was, on that account, of very great interest to Englishmen. The course that events took at this particular moment was watched with the deepest concern.

The Babylonish Captivity had continued for seventy years, during which time the halls at Avignon had become palaces of luxury and magnificence. The Popes had all been Frenchmen and it followed that French appointees packed the ranks of the cardinalate. In the meantime the empty church buildings in Rome had fallen into disrepair and even ruin. England had come to expect an adverse bias in all papal action.

Gregory XI, although a Frenchman by birth, had been converted to the wisdom of returning to Rome, largely by the eloquence of St. Catherine of Sienna. He died, however, within a year of the change, after issuing a bull conferring on the cardinals the power to choose the time and place for the election of his successor. This could be construed as a measure to make possible the choice of Avignon and, inevitably, the selection of a French Pope and a return of administration to the French city. At the time of his death there were sixteen cardinals in Rome, and eleven of them were French. The chamberlain, who held authority during vacancies between Popes, was a Frenchman, the Archbishop of Arles. The people of Rome, and of Italy for the most part, wanted the glory and prosperity of the Vatican restored. They saw no hope of action favorable to their cause if the Conclave were held elsewhere.

The nine days of mourning which must be allowed after the death of a Pope were days of deep suspense. St. Peter’s found itself in a state of siege. The people of Rome, armed and belligerent, surrounded the Hall of Conclave, where the cardinals had gathered, and loudly demanded that none leave until an election had been held. Even nature took a hand. Black clouds filled the sky and the roll of thunder was heard from the north and west. A bolt of lightning struck the hall where the cardinals were gathered. Not daring to venture out, the occupants of the room huddled together in a body while a fire destroyed the furnishings of the chamber. In spite of the heavy downpour, in fact encouraged by it as a sign of divine will, the mobs continued to fill the streets, chanting interminably, “A Roman Pope! A Roman Pope!”

As soon as the fire subsided, the people rushed into the building to satisfy themselves that the spiritual heads of the church were still there. They examined every foot of space with an insolent disregard for officials, tapping the walls and floors, searching behind hangings, exploring the kitchens, to make sure that there were no secret means of escape.

Finally an ultimatum was delivered to the cardinals. The Conclave must be held in Rome, and without delay. A Roman Pope must be elected. If this were not done, it would be impossible to restrain the rage of the people. A massacre might be the result.

The answer given to the emissaries of the people, who had conveyed the demands, was courageous and dignified. “Tomorrow,” said the cardinals, “we celebrate the Mass of the Descent of the Holy Ghost. As the Holy Ghost directs, so shall we do.”

There was no secret means of exit from the Hall of Conclave and so the cardinals had only two courses of action from which to choose. They could risk sitting out the storm or they could proceed at once with the election of a new Pope.

The choice of a new pontiff was not as simple as it seemed in the face of the French majority. Most of the cardinals came from the diocese of Limoges and there had been for a long time a rancor over this injudicious preference. Three of the Frenchmen were as determined as the four Italians and the one Spaniard, who completed the body, that the voice of the Limousin should not dictate another selection.

The first votes showed the Conclave to be deadlocked. Out of this situation came the inevitable solution, a compromise election. One of the four Italians was Bartolomeo Prignani, Archbishop of Bari. He was a subject of Queen Joanna of Naples, who also held the title of Countess of Provence. To that extent he had French affiliations to offset his Italian birth. When his name was proposed, the Conclave voted for him unanimously, glad of any solution.

But the tumultuous mobs, who in the meantime had broken into the
Pope’s cellars and had fortified themselves with his rich malvoisie wine, were suspicious and dissatisfied. When five of the cardinals who had wanted a French Pope tried to get away, they were quickly detected and forced to scramble back to shelter.

It became apparent at once that the new pontiff, who had assumed the name of Urban VI, was going to be a sore trial to his one-time fellows. He was of common birth and had reached high rank by reason of his piety and austerity. He wore a hair shirt next his skin and did not believe the princes of the church should live in luxury. He was against any display of wealth and was determined to put an end to the packing of offices with the greedy relatives of the church leaders. He announced immediately that no more than one dish should be served at any meal.

Views of this kind generally went with genuine piety and understanding. Urban VI was harsh and domineering. He scowled blackly as he laid down the law. “I am the Good Shepherd!” he cried. He announced at once his intention to remain in Rome and to direct the church from St. Peter’s. He would be impartial in all disputes between England and France. The Babylonish Captivity was ended. “Hold your tongues!” he cried, when any voices were raised in protest. The good cardinals, to employ a modern phrase, had indeed caught a tartar.

As soon as they were allowed to leave, the French members assembled in the small city of Anagni, which stands on a hill in the valley of Tresis. It had sometimes been used as a summer home by the Popes and it was here that England’s one pontiff, Adrian IV, had died. The bitterly dissatisfied cardinals gave it out that the election of Urban had been forced on them by threats of death. The new incumbent was declared to be a tyrant and unfit to rule, and it was demanded of him that he step down at once and permit a new election, free of undue pressure.

Urban struck back fiercely and a state of war followed. The Archbishop of Arles, the chamberlain of the late Pope, stole out of Rome at night and carried to Anagni the crown and all the jewels of the papacy. Even the Queen of Naples, who had been delighted at first by the selection of Urban, turned against him. Her husband, Otto of Brunswick, had visited the new Pope to discuss the rights of succession and had been treated with indifference and even scorn. On the other hand there was a sentiment throughout Christendom against the men who had permitted fear of bodily harm to influence their votes.

The dissenting cardinals moved to Fondi and here they selected a new Pope in the person of Cardinal Robert of Geneva. He took the title of Clement VII and returned at once to Avignon, thus beginning a division of the church which was to continue for thirty-eight years. He was recognized by France, Scotland, and Savoy and finally by Spain and Portugal. Italy remained loyal to Urban, as did also the Holy Roman
Emperor Charles IV, England, Hungary, Poland, and the Scandinavian countries. Political considerations played a part in this division of the nations. England must stand against France, Scotland against England.

The events which followed this schism in the church were of such a violent nature that they are hard to believe. Urban appointed twenty-six new cardinals, which threw Avignon into a decided minority. He is said to have had Joanna of Naples smothered to death under a mattress and to have thrown six of his cardinals (who were charged with a conspiracy to depose him) into a damp cistern at the castle of Nocera which they shared with snakes. One of them was the sole Englishman wearing the red hat, Adam of Easton. Later the Pope took them with him to Genoa, had them sewn up in sacks and cast into the sea. The English cardinal was spared through the intervention of the young king.

In the meantime, Clement VII, the first of the anti-Popes, as the French pontiffs were to be designated, found himself with no revenue to maintain the magnificence of Avignon. He outdid his opponent by appointing thirty-six cardinals and proceeded to drain the French church by every form of exaction.

Partisan malice, no doubt, has lent exaggeration to this account of what followed the split in the church; but certainly they were black and bitter days for all concerned.

With the rival pontiffs waging as harsh a warfare as was possible with a spur of the Alps and the Ligurian Sea between them, it is not surprising that little attention was paid to echoes from England of the complaisance of the church heads to a growing acceptance of the teachings of a gentle scholar named Wycliffe.

There were other reasons why the thinking of Wycliffe was allowed to sway the minds of many Englishmen and spread to the continent, there to produce a Jan Huss and to lay the first stones in the foundation of the Reformation. Wycliffe’s attacks, in the beginning, were directed at financial aspects. The church, he pointed out, was growing too rich. It was acquiring too much of the land. It was despotic in the assertion of its rights and privileges. In England this was a very sore point, for even in the highest clerical ranks there was rancor over the granting of English benefices to Italians who continued to reside in Rome and were recompensed in this way for their services to the papacy. The principle was bitter in the mouth and it was considered, moreover, that the hand of the Vatican was particularly heavy on England.

For this reason Wycliffe had a ready and favorable audience. The
Lollards, who preached his doctrines, were not for the most part the aggressive type of reformers who raised passions to a fiery pitch. There was a gentle rationality back of what they said to the people. It was not until the leader began to delve more deeply and to attack the church on points of creed that the heads of the church leveled against him the charge of heresy.

There were other reasons to account for the lack of inquisitorial action. As has already been explained, Rome was too busy. The death grapple which followed the open breach between Rome and Avignon left little time for anything else. Wycliffe died before the attack reached anything like the grim and bloodthirsty fanaticism which had wiped out the Albigenses in southern France. It was forty-four years after his death before his grave was opened and his remains burned.