Princes of Ireland - Edward Rutherfurd [360]
“Dear God,” murmured Cecily, “are we all to be made Protestants?”
The views of Archbishop Browne of Dublin had not always been easy to follow. Appointed by King Henry, during his first year in Dublin he had done nothing. His main contribution in the last eighteen months had been to insist that his clergy should lead prayers for King Henry as Supreme Head of the Church. Browne was, after all, the king’s appointed man, and the Irish Parliament had passed the necessary legislation.
“Yet the fact that legislation has been passed,” Alderman Doyle gently informed the English bishop one day, “does not necessarily mean that anything is going to happen.”
“I assure you, Sir, that when the king’s will is known and his Parliament has proclaimed it, there can be no resistance of any kind,” Browne had retorted. “Orders must be obeyed.”
“That may be so in England,” the alderman had answered courteously, “but in Ireland you will find that matters are arranged differently. Above all,” he cautioned, “do not forget that the English gentry of the Pale are very devoted to the ancient forms and customs of their faith.”
And so the new archbishop had discovered. The gentry might, under the threat of fines, have passed the legislation; the clergy might even have taken a cursory oath to the king. But in practice, most of the time, nobody bothered with the royal prayer. When he protested, “My orders are not obeyed,” even a fellow bishop, who knew the territory better, counselled him wisely: “I wouldn’t worry about that too much, Archbishop, if I were you.” But Archbishop Browne did worry. He preached the supremacy in every church he visited. And merchants like Alderman Doyle, or gentlemen like William Walsh, listened but were not impressed. He thought them sluggish or disreputable. It did not as yet occur to him that they, who were neither, thought he was rather stupid. And perhaps it was because of his growing frustration that the reforming archbishop had turned his attention that winter to a new campaign.
If there was one aspect of the Catholic faith which angered Protestants, it was the practice, as they saw it, of paganism in the ancient Church. Saints days were celebrated, they said, like pagan festivals; relics of the saints, genuine or fake, were treated like magic charms; and the statues of saints were prayed to like heathen idols. These criticisms were not new: they had been made within the body of the Catholic Church before; but the weight of tradition was heavy, and even thoughtful, reforming Catholics might conclude that by such celebrations and venerations, properly guided, the faith could be made strong.
That King Henry VIII of England was a perfect Catholic could not be in doubt: for he said so himself. But since his Church had broken away from the Holy Father’s, then it must show itself to be better in some way. The English Church, it was claimed, was Catholicism purified and reformed. And what was the nature of this reform? The truth was that nobody, least of all Henry himself, had much idea. The ordinary laity were told to be more devout, and Bibles for them to read were placed in churches. Few good Catholics found this objectionable. The practice of indulgences—time off purgatory for a payment to the Church—was clearly an abuse and was to be stopped. And then there was the question of pagan rites, idols, and relics. Were they acceptable or not? Churchmen whose reformist views had a Protestant flavour were sure these were abuses. The king, whose mind seemed to change like the wind, hadn’t told them they were wrong; and so Archbishop Browne could believe that he was doing not only God’s but, more importantly,