‘You’re wasted in the Church,’ Richard said. ‘You should be on the London stage.’
Thomson laughed, amused by the insult. ‘I know,’ he agreed, wiping sticky fingers across his chest, a theatrical gesture. ‘It would undoubtedly be a more exciting life. But I fear I’ve left it too late in life to change now.’ He laughed again. ‘I must introduce you to some friends of mine …’
Richard shook his head, appalled.
‘Tush, Doctor Clarke. There’s no need to be so tedious. There is more to life than biblical scholarship, you know.’
‘I am content.’ He knew how Thomson saw him – stuffy, priggish, dull – but he did not care.
‘Dear God!’ Thomson was saying. ‘You must be the most boring man alive. I could think of nothing worse than the life you lead.’
Because, Richard thought, you would rather soak that brilliant mind in drink and spend your energy on whores. It was a sinful waste of such God-given talent. But he said nothing. There was no point in making the man an enemy.
‘But each to his own,’ the older man went on. ‘Each to his own. It would be a dull world if God had made us all the same.’
He nodded his agreement and thought of the waiting hearth at Thieving Lane. Thomson offered him a segment of the orange, and for something to do to fill the silence he took it. It was cold and sweet and surprising in his mouth, and he wished he had accepted the whole orange when it was offered. Thomson bounced the second one deftly off his wrist and rolled it neatly into the pocket of his gown.
‘For later,’ Thomson smiled. ‘Or perhaps I shall offer it to the Dean.’
Richard found himself returning the smile. There was a strange charm to the roguishness that was hard to resist.
Thomson said, ‘By the way, Doctor Clarke, is it true your old friend Ben Kemp has returned to our shores?’
The question took him by surprise and a flush prickled over his skin. He wondered what Thomson had heard, why he was asking.
‘It is true,’ he replied.
‘And you are lodging at his father’s house?’
‘It is convenient.’ He felt the sting of the insinuation, still fresh: he would never learn to wear the slights lightly.
‘The connection does you no favours,’ Thomson said. ‘Accept some advice from a more … experienced man. Find yourself somewhere different to stay. Sever the tie. People talk, you know. People gossip. And Ben Kemp is trouble – he will come to a bad end eventually. You would be wiser to keep your distance.’
Inside his cloak Richard balled his hands, fingernails biting deep into his palms, containing his anger, his resentment. It was hard to decide whom he hated most at that moment, Thomson, Ben or Bancroft, for putting him back on the outside when he had spent so many years finding his way in. He should have walked away from Ben at the beginning, he thought, when they first began to argue all those years ago, their paths diverging even then. He should have seen where it would lead them, his own devotion to the Church sullied by his friend’s recalcitrance. He had been ambitious once, he recalled, aspiring to the Church’s heights, hoping his skills as a linguist would ease the way. But his sympathies had let him down. No one would reward a clergyman with a Separatist friend, whatever his talent.
‘Thank you for your advice,’ he said, voice cold with the effort of self-control. ‘I shall consider it carefully.’
‘I mean not to offend, but only to offer my counsel. Times have changed and your … sympathies, your … charity towards him may not be seen so charitably any more.’
‘I must go,’ he said. He had stood in the cold long enough and the conversation had taken an unpleasant turn. He had suffered too much already on Ben’s account. ‘I will see you on Thursday.’
‘Thursday?’ Thomson looked puzzled.
‘The weekly meeting. The Translation.’
‘Ah yes!’ The older man laughed. ‘Of course. The Translation. Thursday.’ He turned and walked away towards the Abbey, trading another word with the orange sellers, a laugh with a passer-by. Richard watched him as he wove across Broad Sanctuary, the solid bulk striding with the attentive deliberation of the inveterate drunk.
Let Andrewes deal with him, he thought. It was none of his concern.
Each man brought something unique to the Translator’s Company, a different knowledge, a different skill. Doctor Layfield possessed a rare expertise: he had voyaged to the New World as chaplain to the Earl of Cumberland, so he had seen first-hand a lush and distant paradise still barely touched by human hands, unspoiled as the Garden of Eden before the Fall. He knew also of ships and sailing, and the others turned to him for his help with the building of the ark. For a moment Richard thought of Ben – he too knew of ships and sailing, foreign places and voyages to safety. He had sometimes wondered what kind of life Ben had lived in the East, what sights and sounds and thoughts had filled his days. It was impossible for him to imagine a world so different from his own, an unchristian realm, and a part of him envied such knowledge – his own life seemed narrow and dull in comparison. But only a part. He would not want to trade his own life for the vicissitudes of Ben’s, no matter how much adventure he enjoyed. The price Ben had paid was too high. He shook his head to clear his mind of any more thoughts of Ben Kemp, and turned his attention back to the Company.
‘The Bishops’ Bible has the Hebrew gopher translated as “pine,”’ Andrewes said.
‘The Geneva also,’ Richard added.
‘But we cannot assume such a thing,’ Layfield replied. ‘Why should we think it is pine more than any other kind of wood?’
‘It isn’t usual to build ships from pine, is it?’ Thomson asked. ‘Aren’t they usually made from oak?’
Layfield nodded. ‘Quite so. And we must remember too that the word gopher may not even refer to the type of wood to be used,’ he mused. ‘It may be a reference to how the wood has been treated. Perhaps it means planed, or covered with pitch. We can only guess at such meanings.’
‘Does the word appear elsewhere in the Scriptures?’
‘Nowhere,’ Andrewes replied with authority. ‘I have looked.’
They fell silent, pondering the possibilities, until the Dean spoke again. ‘We simply cannot know the right meaning.’
‘Then we must leave it untranslated,’ Layfield said. ‘To change the Word of God on a guess is surely contrary to the truth of our task.’
‘But the Bishops’ Bible has it so,’ Doctor Overall said. ‘And we are to follow that translation as close as the truth of the original will permit.’
‘And the truth of the original is something different,’ Richard said. ‘It doesn’t permit such a reading. To translate it as “pine” is guesswork merely.’
‘I agree with Doctor Clarke,’ Layfield said. ‘We cannot allow ourselves such laxity. And I think it unlikely that “pine” is correct.’
There was a general murmur of agreement with Doctor Layfield. Doctor Overall glanced around the table in hope, but meeting no answering support in the faces of the others, he dropped his eyes to the papers in front of him and said nothing.
‘Then we are agreed to leave it as it stands? As gopher-wood?’ The Dean’s gaze travelled round the table and each man nodded his acceptance. Doctor Overall’s assent was given with reluctance.
‘Good.’ Andrewes smiled. ‘So the line will read, Make thee an Arke of Gopher-wood.’ He took up his quill and wrote the words on the paper before him. The others waited, watching. Then they turned again to Doctor Layfield for his thoughts on the rest of the description of the construction of the ark.
Bancroft searched out Richard at the Abbey after the meeting. The two men walked in the gardens, the grass strewn with sodden russet leaves, the trees mostly bare above them. Richard would have preferred to talk somewhere warmer but guessed the discomfort was deliberate: no doubt the Archbishop believed a little hardship worked in favour of his questioning, a habit gleaned from all the hours he spent in prison cells grilling reformers and Papists alike. He s
uppressed a shudder at the thought of it, grateful for his freedom. There would be no kindness in Bancroft’s questioning – Ben still bore the scars.
They strolled side by side through the winter afternoon as the daylight began to fail. An automatic sense of guilt for some unknown wrong churned his guts.
‘I hear the Translation is beginning very well,’ Bancroft said.
‘Yes, My Lord. Today’s meeting was most successful,’ Richard replied. For once, they had been moved by a spirit of concord, a mutual admiration for one another’s skill, and agreement over their choice of phrase. Even the ever-fretful Doctor Overall had felt God’s hand guiding them, the sacred words safe in their humble hands. The joy had ended abruptly with the sight of the Archbishop but some of the peace remained.
Richard glanced to the man at his side, the grey head level with his shoulder. The king should have given Canterbury to someone else, he thought. Bancroft was not an easy man to like even for the men who shared his views.
‘Hebrew is not my forte regrettably,’ Bancroft said, ‘though my Greek is good. I have much admiration for you Hebraists.’
He smiled an acknowledgement of the flattery and waited for the business that lay behind it.
‘Dean Andrewes tells me your mastery of Hebrew is equal to his own.’
‘The Dean is very kind.’
‘Yes,’ the Archbishop agreed. ‘He is that.’
They meandered on between flower beds that were bare now, rose bushes boasting only their thorns as adornment, the earth below them dark and moist. Bancroft stopped and turned to Richard.
‘You have seen Kemp.’
‘Yes, My Lord,’ he answered, though it had not been a question. ‘He was in London for a few days.’
‘On what business?’
‘His father asked him to come. He wants Ben to work for the Company again.’
‘Doing what?’
‘He’s asked him to go back to Aleppo. Much of the silk trade comes through there and it is where Ben—’
Bancroft cut him off, impatience in the set of his mouth. ‘It is where Kemp went when he was released from prison. I know that much already. What more can you tell me? What answer did he give his father?’
He hesitated, the habit of loyalty hard to break, the love still refusing to die. And Bancroft hardly invited confidence. Perhaps if Andrewes were to ask him he would be more willing: he had always responded more readily to gentleness.
‘Well?’
‘He refused to go, My Lord,’ he said.
‘What else?’ Bancroft persisted. ‘What else do you know of him?’
‘He has a position as a tutor to a family in the Midlands, not far from Nottingham.’
‘What family?’
‘I don’t yet know,’ he admitted, and as he spoke he realised he was glad, relieved to have nothing useful he could pass on to Bancroft. ‘He is … aware of my position in the Church, My Lord, and of my loyalties.’
‘Of course he is,’ Bancroft snapped. ‘He’s no fool. But you were a good friend to him once.’
‘Many years ago.’
‘You must convince him you are still his friend. Surely you can manage that?’
‘As you said, My Lord, he is no fool.’
‘Then you will have to try harder. I need to know what he is doing. If he is part of a Separatist conventicle I will know about it. We will root out this canker in the Church.’
He said nothing, thinking only that there would never be peace in the world while men such as Bancroft and Ben existed.
‘And if you cannot press him, then press his family. That is why you are lodging there. He has a mother, does he not? A sister? If you can’t find out a few facts from a woman, you’re of no use to me.’
Rising resentment covered his body with heat, redness touching the pale skin across his neck, inflaming his cheeks. He was glad of the dying light. He said, ‘You have no need to doubt me: I will discover what I can.’
‘Good,’ the Archbishop replied. ‘Then we shall talk again.’ He bowed a curt farewell before he turned to stride back between the empty flower beds, robes flapping against the short and powerful legs in the breeze that blew off the river.
Richard stood and watched him go, waiting for his pounding heart to quieten. All the peace of the meeting had left him, all the certainties of his faith fading under Bancroft’s zeal. The glory of the Church he loved and served seemed tarnished and its beauty dimmed as he gazed across the darkening garden towards the space that the Bishop’s retreating back had left. Christ’s greatest commandment was to love, and he saw little love in Bancroft. Whom then should he follow? The Archbishop was spokesman for the Church’s faith, the guardian of its unity. Who was he, Richard, to question such authority, authority that came from king and God?
Wearied by the conflict, he followed Bancroft’s path back towards the Abbey, and made his way to the peace of the chapel of St Faith’s. There he knelt, and pleaded with God for an answer.
Dear Lord, guide me. Show me the path I must take. Bancroft frightens me, Lord, so full of hatred, so full of zeal. I do not want to be like him, O Lord. I see hatred in betrayal, a wish to hurt and punish, to avenge imagined wrongs, real wrongs. Does it matter? Such things are not for us to choose, Lord. We need only have faith, You told us. We need only accept Your son as our saviour and He will carry our burdens. But my burden is heavy, O Lord, too heavy. You commanded us to love, to honour friendship. I have only ever loved Ben Kemp, only ever been a friend to him. Why must I deny him now? Why must I betray him? Is that truly Your will? How can you ask such a thing of me who has only ever sought to serve you?
I want no part of this, O Lord. But pride has made me Bancroft’s creature. I spent many years outside the Church, O Lord, on the edges looking in, ignored, laughed at, looked down upon for the love I bore Ben Kemp. Bancroft offered me a way back inside the fold. He held out the lure of the Translation and invited me in from the wilderness. Am I right to trust in him, Lord? Is his offer true? I believe in the English Church, have always believed in its goodness, but can its goodness be bought at such a cost?
Ben Kemp is not an evil man, O Lord – he is faithful and true and loves Thee above all other things. And he has suffered for Your sake, suffered more than I have words to say. So how can his betrayal truly serve you? Guide me, Lord. I have lost my way and know not where to turn to find it. Take pity, Lord, as You love me. And as You love Ben Kemp. Take pity on my worthless soul, my prideful, sinful self. Show me what to do …
‘The Archbishop found you?’ Lancelot Andrewes stopped him in the cloister as he was leaving the chapel. ‘He was most anxious to speak with you.’
‘He found me,’ Richard answered, hoping the Dean would then just step aside and let him go. His fingers twitched with impatience to be gone and his gaze flicked along the cloister past Andrewes’s shoulder towards escape.
‘Good, good.’ Andrewes smiled, crow’s feet crinkling at the edges of his eyes. ‘We must keep our Archbishop happy. Now, have you any plans for dinner?’
Richard answered too slowly.
‘No? Come dine with me. I believe there is venison.’ He placed a bony guiding hand against Richard’s elbow and turned him towards the deanery. Richard found he had little will to protest – he was tired suddenly, a weariness that went deeper than his flesh and bones.
‘Do you like venison?’ Andrewes asked as they walked together. ‘It came from the king’s own kitchen, killed by the king himself. Or so he said.’ He chuckled. The joke was well known, the king an avid hunter who had never yet managed to finish his prey.
Richard smiled politely. The king should take Bancroft along next time, he thought, to let him finish things off: he suspected the Archbishop could slaughter a deer barehanded.
‘You can tell me your thoughts over supper,’ Andrewes said. ‘You seem somewhat troubled.’
‘No.’ Richard tensed, searching for the strength to resist the tiredness. ‘Not troubled,’ he said. ‘Tired, m
erely.’
In the deanery they sat at a well-spread table and venison was only one of the meats on offer. He barely ate, no appetite, and he kept his eyes averted from the scrutiny of Andrewes’s gaze. He sipped carefully at the cool and fragrant Rhenish, mindful of its strength. It would be very easy to drink it too quickly, and he had never had a head for wine.
‘I hear Master Kemp has lately been in London.’ The Dean broke the silence.
Richard nodded. So that was the reason he was at the Dean’s table: he should have known.
‘I told the Archbishop all I know,’ he said, and hoped the Dean would read between the lines: he didn’t want to talk of it again.
‘Which is?’ the Dean asked.
He looked up at the gentleness in the older man’s tone. It was hard to resist the coaxing voice, the encouraging smile. He admired Andrewes, respected and trusted him, but he knew from Ben that the velvet gloves concealed a hardness and a steel to his belief.
He sighed, silently, and retold what he knew of Ben’s whereabouts. ‘It has been many years since we were friends,’ he finished, ‘and it’s going to take time to regain his trust.’
‘But you are committed to doing so?’
The same mistrust as Bancroft, he thought, only couched in more sympathetic terms.
‘I believe in the Church, Mister Dean,’ he replied. ‘It is a net that gathers the bad fish along with the good. How else should it be? Only God can know the true hearts of His flock.’
‘Yet Kemp and his ilk would tear it down, and then where would we be?’ Andrewes did not pause for an answer. ‘We would be adrift, without order, without authority. And how would men be brought to God amongst so much discord?’
He said nothing, and Andrewes watched him. A servant entered and the draught from the door struck the candle flames and sent them flickering. One of them guttered and went out, and a narrow trail of smoke threaded upwards to disappear in the gloom beyond the candles’ reach.
‘So you know what must be done,’ Andrewes said softly. It was not a question.
The King James Men Page 9