Imagine never knowing where you stand on religious grounds? Am I Catholic or Protestant today? Or, more to the point: am I allowed to be Catholic today or is the national religion Protestantism? Or maybe things changed overnight? Is the Mass legal or not? Can priests walk openly in their cassocks on the streets? Will my government job still be mine now that Queen Elizabeth I is on the throne or do I have to step down because I refuse to repeal my religion? Do I have anyone to appeal to when royal authorities confiscate my home because of my faith?

It sounds ludicrous, but this was the state of things in England during the reigns of Henry VIII and Elizabeth I. It didn’t get any better as the 16th century rolled into the 17th. When James VI (of Scotland) and I (of England) ascended the the English throne in 1603, he continued the penal laws against Catholics which had been established by his cousin, Elizabeth. James, himself, had been baptized Catholic, but had grown up Presbyterian and leaned towards Anglicanism during his reign. As with the monarch, so with his subjects. Most people waffled back and forth, choosing their allegiances based on conscience, opportunities or threats, as the case may be.

In her book, Supremacy and Survival: How Catholics Endured the English Reformation, Stephanie A. Mann does a wonderful job of summarizing the religious atmosphere under the Tudors. She has us imagine two characters,

“a boy named John and a girl named Mary born in 1509, at the beginning of Henry VIII’s reign. They would have lived in a traditional Catholic culture until they were 26. They would have received the sacraments, gone to confession, attended Mass, learned their prayers and the Ten Commandments, celebrated the seasons of the liturgical year, and participated in parish festivities, just as their parents and grandparents had done. Then came the religious changes of the next 12 years of John’s and Mary’s lives, from 1535 to 1547. The monasteries were dissolved and the word purgatory was banished, yet a celibate clergy and prayer for the dead remained. Some parish priests introduced Protestant practices and teaching. Others adamantly defended traditional Catholic worship and doctrine” (29).

As you can see, life was messy and confusing. The Common Man found himself at the mercy of the vicissitudes of the court. This pattern would continue to repeat itself for years to come. The First Interregnum or Commonwealth (1649-1660) brought some negative stability to British life. At least now everyone knew where they stood. There was only one acceptable religion: Puritanism. Any one failing to adjust his/her life to the views of Oliver Cromwell was fined, put in the stocks, banished or executed, depending on the severity of the “crime” or dissension. Everything hinting at frivolity, feasting, and fun was removed: colourful clothes, sports and other unnecessary activities on Sundays, make-up, alcohol, dancing, hunting, Christmas decorations and Christmas itself. Feast days were replaced with fasting days—one each month by order of the Protectorate.

At the time of the Restoration—the period in which my novel, The Company of the White Stag, is set—the religious waffling continued for some. But it appears that most people had chosen their camps and were happy to be entrenched in them. Partisan feelings were strong. Perhaps this had been solidified by the martyrdoms (on both sides) and the civil unrest which had so marked British life for over 100 years. This fact is probably what made it possible for something as heinous as the Titus Oates plot to be born and mature: the foment of the times was most welcoming to anti-Catholicism.

But religious indecision was also a fact and this is clear even by perusing the life of the reigning monarch, Charles II. Charles remains an enigmatic figure: head of the Church of England, he remained sympathetic to the Catholic cause. Indeed, his mother (Henrietta Maria of France) had been a devout Catholic, as was his wife (Catharine of Braganza). His brother, (James II) who would later succeed him, was also a Catholic. And yet, Charles was never able to make that final leap to Catholicism.

Over the next few weeks, we will explore the fascinating character of King Charles II; we will meet “Odious Oates” as one of my characters refers to him—the mastermind behind the Titus Oates plot; we will look at London—that fascinating, burgeoning city which was being rebuilt after the devastating fires of 1666 into a most wondrous metropolis; we will peek into the lives of the elite and visit Bradford-on-Avon, a pretty little town which is one of the principle settings in my story.

As promised last week, I wish to leave you with an excerpt from my novel. Here we meet one of the main characters, Lord William Viscount Denning, a young man who has been raised Catholic but, unlike his recently deceased stalwart father, has chosen to become Anglican in order to rise in government. As we meet him, he has come down to London from the North Country. This decision continues to weigh rather heavily on him. Adding to his anxiety is an unsettling meeting he has just had with a Catholic peer, Lord Desmond Penderell. Viscount Denning has come to London to speak to his old school friend, Catholic lawyer Peter Benetar. Here he comes, riding through the dark streets of London one auspicious night:

London, December 20th, 1677

A black carriage like a black beetle meandered through the streets of London one frosty December night. The sole occupant—Lord William Denning—a young man with troubled eyes, shifted the curtain and looked out. The lemony glow of torch lights glistened on the murky Thames and the smell of fish and offal hung in the close London air. William held his cuff against his nose. As the carriage wound away from the river, the stench became more bearable. Through the semi-darkness, he saw the outlines of shops, stalls, walls, and gardens. Shouting voices, raucous laughter, and barking dogs assailed his ears. They were passing near Covent Garden now and William noticed some of his old haunts. Frowning, he sat back against the velvet seat and let the curtain drop.

Unlike William—who had always preferred the craggy landscape of Newcastle with its salty-smelling sea air—Sir Edward Denning, his father, had loved London. After the death of his wife, he’d brought his children down from the North Country annually to enjoy what London had to offer: the theatres, the markets, the ports, the gardens and the parades. For William and Ruth, London had been part of their education. Even after the passing of the edict forcing Catholics to move outside the city limits, Sir Edward’s loyalty to his king had never wavered; he had simply taken another house in a nearby borough which still allowed him to be at the king’s disposal if he ever needed him. When the laws slackened, Sir Edward moved back into London proper, reclaimed the townhouse in Covent Garden, and life had continued much the same as it had before.

Sir Edward had been lively and entertaining, but also wise and grave when necessary. Most of all, he had been discreet. In the last ten years of his life, he had become a fixture at court by the king’s own invitation. Indeed, Sir Edward had gained the king’s ear.
The handsome, taciturn young man with the coal-black hair who now stepped out of the carriage where it stopped on Abchurch Lane was Sir Edward’s heir in appearance and in discretion; as far as wisdom goes, he had much to learn—for he was only twenty-seven years old.

On two particular points, he did not resemble his father: he did not have the jovial air of his sire and—what was worse—he did not have his ability to ignore the barbed looks and sharp tongues of his enemies at court. There were those amongst his colleagues who refused to believe that William’s conversion to the Church of England was genuine, especially considering the staunch views his father had held, going so far as to refuse to take the Test Act of 1672 which would have secured his position.

Three years after the old man’s tragic death under the careening wheels of a runaway wagon on a busy London street, his peers still referred to him as “a radical” and that word, in these turbulent days, even if applied by mere association, was as flagrant as it had ever been.

Impatient with rumours, and unable to stand the busyness and crush of London, William had chosen to conduct the king’s business almost entirely from the haven of Braithwaite, his family’s residence in Newcastle, close to the Scottish border.

As William headed up the steps to the front door of a townhouse on this narrow, crowded street, he thought of how much had changed since his father’s death. Catholic peers were slowly regaining their status at court and openly reentering the king’s confidence. Some who had left in 1672 because of the Test Act had even returned to sit in the House of Lords again and many had regained their confiscated properties. William wished his father had lived to see this day. Coming to London was always a fresh reminder for him that his father, who had worked so tirelessly to help the king reestablish his Catholic subjects, had died before he had a chance to enjoy the benefits of his efforts.

It was no wonder, then, that London held few attractions now and William rarely made the long trip south, especially as it usually meant leaving his sister, Ruth, alone at Braithwaite. William had hated to leave her behind, especially as he’d promised to help with the Christmas festivities this year. Their father had always enjoyed giving his tenants a Christmas festival, but the tradition had petered out with his death and neither sibling had had the heart to revive it. But this year, Ruth had expressed a wish to do so and William had enjoyed watching her throw her heart and soul into it. She’d borne his sudden departure in her usual, gentle, resigned manner, but the final sad smile she gave him as the carriage pulled away had haunted him all the way to London.