‘Will you dance with me, Nell?’ He needed to move, lust in his body as restlessness: if he could not pray, he would dance, and find his innocence again in his sister’s presence. She laughed, their hostilities forgotten. Accepting his outstretched hand, she let him lead her into the dance. Within moments he was rapt in the movement, the steps easily recalled from years before when he had partnered Sarah as she practised, Ellyn still a child and watching. Now she was flushed with delight, brother and sister moving as one with the stately beat of the tambour. For the length of the dance his sin was forgotten, joy rising from an earthly pleasure. When the music ended the dancers bowed and left the floor. Ben and Ellyn returned to Richard at the hearth, olive cheeks flushed, lips wide in breathless smiles.
‘That wasn’t bad dancing for a Bible man,’ Richard risked.
Ben made no answer for a heartbeat. He thought of Christ at the wedding at Cana – perhaps there had been dancing at the feast as well as wine. He allowed himself to smile and return the spirit of the joke. ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘We Bible men in the Midlands are famous for our dancing. Did you not know?’
‘I hadn’t heard.’
‘Richard is just a poor vicar from Kent. He leads a sheltered life.’ Ellyn smiled and flashed her dark eyes at him.
‘Not any more he doesn’t,’ Ben countered, the joke turning dark. He couldn’t help himself. ‘These days the Reverend Doctor Clarke rubs shoulders with archbishops and deans – he is a man of the world. Before we know it he’ll be at court and chaplain to the king.’
Richard said nothing but inclined his head to acknowledge the insult, smile frozen. Ben laughed, then turned away to watch the dancers.
‘Ignore him,’ Ellyn said loudly. ‘He’s just a grumpy old Puritan who doesn’t like parties.’
Ben did not hear Richard’s answer, choosing instead to watch the dancing, eyes following the movements of a quick-paced galliard. The elation of the dance had left him, replaced by awareness of his weakness, his flesh succumbing to desire. All he wanted now was solitude to pray, but he was trapped: his father’s quick merchant’s gaze would notice his absence in moments. He should have stayed in the Midlands.
To one side of the dancers, Hugh Merton disengaged himself from the knot of merchants and wove through the revellers around the dance floor towards them.
‘Mistress Kemp.’ Merton bowed. ‘You’re looking lovely tonight. Very festive.’
Ellyn gave him the most cursory of nods. Merton absorbed the slight but held his ground. Ben stepped in and made the introductions.
‘My friend from Cambridge, Doctor Clarke. He is staying in my father’s house during his work on the king’s Translation of the Bible.’
‘Doctor Clarke.’ The two men bowed to each other. ‘Of course I’ve heard of your work. It is a great task that you do.’
‘It’s a wonderful task, and I’m humbled by the honour of it.’
Beside him Ellyn was fidgeting, restless before this man who would soon be her husband.
‘How is business?’ Richard said, apparently to break a silence growing awkward. ‘I understand you’re in the spice trade.’
‘You’re interested in the spice trade?’ Merton seemed pleased.
‘A little. I like to hear stories of far-off places.’
The merchant laughed. ‘Then you’ll have to speak with Master Kemp. My place is here, overseeing the imports, the quality, making sure everything is as it should be.’
‘How do you tell good from bad?’
Merton straightened up, keen to show his knowledge in front of Ellyn. ‘Take the nutmeg for example. It’s simple. A sound nutmeg sinks in water, the unsound ones float and are used for oil.’ He smiled at Ellyn, looking for approval. She gazed at him blankly.
‘You’ve no desire to see where it all comes from?’
‘Not me,’ Merton answered. ‘I am sick on a wherry on the Thames. The prospect of months aboard ship is not something that holds much appeal.’ He smiled and Ben found he liked the man for his honesty, the confession of a weakness. Ellyn looked bored.
Merton turned to Ben. ‘I heard you are planning to go East again yourself, Master Kemp.’
Ben tensed. ‘It is yet to be decided.’
‘Rather you than me,’ the merchant said.
‘I have no fear of ships.’
Ellyn laid a hand on her brother’s arm. ‘Go, and take me with you,’ she entreated. ‘I would love to go to sea.’
‘It’s less exciting than you think, little sister.’
‘That’s easy for you to say, who’s done it a hundred times. Perhaps I shall stow away. Or dress up as a cabin boy …’
‘No.’ Ben placed his hand over hers and lifted her fingers away from his arm. ‘God has other plans for you.’ He nodded towards Merton, who smiled, encouraging, hopeful.
She averted her eyes. Then she dropped a small curtsey to no one in particular and strode away towards the door. The three men watched the narrow back as she disappeared through the throng. When they could no longer see her Ben said, ‘May God grant you patience, Master Merton. I think you’re going to need it.’
The merchant nodded, thoughtful, before taking his leave and threading his way back to the safety of his father and his friends. Ben took another mouthful of wine and the memory of his own courtship trod again across his thoughts. He still writhed inside at the thought of it: the sin of his desire for her that had led him to deceive her. He would carry the stain of that betrayal until the end of his days.
On the day of their betrothal they had walked in the fields outside the city, strolling through orchards of peaches just coming into fruit. The scent had been sweet and heavy in the warm afternoon and they found a spot to sit in the shade of the trees. It was a perfect day, Cecily in rich green velvet that showed off the pallor of her shoulders, her red hair gleaming in the sun as strands lifted and blew in the breeze. His fingers had twitched to reach out and smooth it back in place, his skin burning just to be able to touch her. The memory still stirred his desire and the pain of her loss.
She had kept her eyes lowered away from his, observing her hands and rubbing at the finger that bore no ring, though they had exchanged their vows of betrothal that morning. In three weeks’ time when the banns had been called they would be married, and the finger would still be bare. Gently Ben placed a hand over hers, stilling the movement.
‘It doesn’t mean I love you any less,’ he said.
‘I know,’ she replied, without looking up. ‘But still …’
‘You are disappointed.’
She nodded, eyes still cast down. ‘A little.’
‘But you knew this about me,’ he said, softly, to mask the hurt and the fear she might still reject him, and the sorrow that he had hurt her. To see her sad gave him physical pain, an ache inside that even prayer could not ease. ‘You knew I don’t believe in wedding rings.’
She raised her face to him then, with a small sad smile that almost broke his heart. ‘Yes. I knew,’ she said. ‘Same as I know you would never kneel for the Host or use the prayer book for worship. But a ring is such a small thing, just a token that tells the world I’m yours. Surely God would not object if you gave me a ring to wear?’
He bit his lip, torn as he had never been between the conviction of his faith and his love for this woman. She watched him, waiting, hopeful. He shook his head and stayed silent.
‘Surely even a Puritan may give his wife a ring?’ she said. He could hear the puzzlement in her voice, the thought that if he loved her truly, surely he could grant her this one small thing. A part of him was tempted: anything to please her and make her happy, anything to prove his love. But the better part of him refused to compromise, buoyed by his faith.
Swallowing hard, he was aware of the quickness of his heartbeat and the risk in the words he would say to her next: it was time to speak plain truth.
‘Cecily,’ he said gently. ‘You must know that I am more than a Puritan.’
He had ma
de no secret of his beliefs, his desire for reform, his impatience with the Church; he was hoping she already knew enough of him to understand.
She said nothing, waiting for him to go on, her eyes now fixed on his. There was no smile in her eyes to soften the sternness, and he could feel the sweat on his palms.
‘What do you mean you are more than a Puritan?’ she asked. He could hear the trepidation in her voice and his heart tightened. She did not know.
‘I …’ He stopped and looked away along the row of trees. The words were hard to form.
‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘We are betrothed and I have a right to know.’
He hesitated again, afraid that his next words would be the last he ever spoke to her. But she needed to know and understand the kind of life that would be theirs. A life lived for God, the life a true love of Christ demanded, but a life of hiding and danger. Doubt assailed him. Did he have the right to ask so much of her? Finally, he took a deep breath and spoke. ‘This is hard for me to say and it will be hard for you to hear.’
She observed him with mistrustful eyes, her chin tilted in challenge.
He went on. ‘I believe in all those things that Puritans believe, same as you. We both of us want the same for our church – no bishops, no prayer book, no popish superstition. But I have come to believe the English Church will never be as we wish it, and … I am a friend to Henry Barrow.’
Instinctively he checked around them to make sure no ears but hers had heard his words. They were alone. In one swift movement she dragged her hand from his and got up, skirts swept aside in a swish of velvet, petals and blades of grass clinging to the hem. She brushed at them with impatient hands and stood over him looking down. He looked up at her with the sun behind her, and her face was a silhouette against the brilliance, her red hair blazing. He shielded his eyes with a hand as he got up to face her, but he was still dazzled by the brightness. He breathed deeply and waited until he could see her face again clearly.
‘Henry … Barrow?’ she managed to whisper, her eyes searching the ground for understanding. ‘Henry Barrow in the Fleet, Henry Barrow?’
She stepped back from him a pace then turned away, struggling to take in his words. Whatever she had been expecting him to say, this news had come as a shock. He wondered how she had not suspected it – without actually saying the words, he thought he had made it plain.
‘The same.’ He waited, blood running nervous through his veins, watching her every move.
‘Henry Barrow is a Separatist. He’s been in prison for how many years?’
‘Five.’
Barrow had been foremost among the Separatists. Like Ben he had studied at Cambridge, but his conversion came later in regret for a dissipated youth. Even from his prison cell he still wrote and taught, and still inspired a congregation of the faithful.
Cecily’s face remained averted, her expression unknown to him as he waited for her reaction. He struggled to interpret the angle of her head, the movements of her arm, but after a moment or two she turned her back and walked away a few more paces. He watched her, transfixed with fear and indecision. He did not know what to do – he had thought she understood, that she would follow him. Perhaps he shouldn’t have told her. But how could he hide such a truth from her when it was the spirit that gave him life?
She swung back to face him. ‘You tell me this now?’ she breathed. ‘After our betrothal? Now we are already contracted? Did you not think I had the right to know beforehand?’ She stopped, breathing hard with fury, and her breasts lifted against the square-cut bodice with each breath that she took. Ben’s concentration threatened to stray to sinful thoughts, the weakness of his flesh. He dropped his eyes down to the grass at her feet and prayed for forgiveness for his wickedness. Cecily interpreted it as guilt for something else.
‘Well might you feel guilty telling me this now. What right have you to do this to me? Why did you not tell me before?’
He lifted his hands in a gesture of helplessness. ‘I didn’t want to lose you,’ he said simply. All the sleepless nights of prayer had made no difference: he had been too afraid to tell the whole truth, the passion of his lust harder than his faith. He had persuaded himself she understood and now he turned his head away, conscious of his sin and ashamed.
‘What if I don’t agree?’ she demanded. ‘What if I don’t want to live like that? The Church is flawed and imperfect, yes, but it is the Church and I had not thought to leave it.’
‘Because you did not think it possible.’
‘It is against the law to worship as you do.’
‘We ought rather to obey God than men.’
She was silent and he glimpsed a moment of hope.
‘You believe the same as me,’ he urged. ‘You would see a true Church comprised of the faithful, like the early Church of the Apostles. A glorious Church, not having spot or wrinkle, or any such thing: but that it should be holy and without blame … We can have that Church …’
She cut him off. ‘Holland,’ she said. ‘You went to Holland to a printer. You went to publish writings.’ She was striding now, pacing between the trees, her world of happiness cut away from underneath her. ‘Barrow’s writings.’
‘Yes.’
‘Barrow is in prison for sedition. God in Heaven, Ben! Do you want to join him there? Father says he’ll hang in the end, that there is no way back for him if he doesn’t recant. And if you are found with his writings …’ She trailed off, the conclusion too awful to voice.
He said nothing. He had not thought to meet such resistance. He had thought she would come willingly.
‘You went to see him at the Fleet?’
‘Yes.’
‘So they know about you now. They must know. They would be watching to see who came and went. They would have spies. Of course they would.’ She lifted her hands from her sides in a gesture of despair and when she spoke again all the anger was gone, her tone low and indifferent. He had never seen her so cold.
‘Then it’s just a matter of time,’ she said. ‘It can only be a matter of time.’
He watched her, feeling helpless. The world had never seemed so bleak before. His faith in the truth of his belief and his love for her had blinded him to the reality. How could he marry her if she would not share his faith, and subject her to the hardships that lay in his future?
She said, ‘I’ll be one of those hopeless wives you see at the gates of the prisons trying to bribe their way in, desperate to see their menfolk, even just a glimpse. I’ve heard the wardens accept no money from such women, preferring other favours. Is that what you want for me, Ben? To whore myself to some gaoler just for the chance to see you? Or so that we can say farewell before you hang?’
She wiped savagely at her tears with the heel of her hand, and her eyes looked everywhere but at him.
He should have stayed in Holland where he was safe, he thought, and kept himself and his troubles away from this woman he loved. He should have married Greta. Dear God, what had he done?
‘Of course that isn’t what I want for you,’ he said. ‘For us. But I thought we were of one mind. I believed you understood, I thought you would be willing …’
‘You have nothing else to say?’ The strong voice cracked. She sniffed, swallowing down all the tears that were yet to come, mastering her distress. ‘That is all you have to offer in your defence?’
He shook his head, but what other defence could he make? What could he possibly say to make it better? ‘I’m a fool,’ he whispered. ‘A sinful fool. I should have stayed away from you. Forgive me, Cecily. Please say that you forgive me.’
She said nothing, but slumped down to sit on the grass with her skirts around her as though she were sitting in a pool of more luxuriant green. Staring at the ground, she snatched absently at tufts of grass with determined fingers, then scattered them as fast. Ben let himself down gently to sit beside her.
‘I love you, Cecily,’ he said softly. ‘You are my weakness and my strength.’
; Some of the tension left her and she gave up her destruction of the grass. But she gave him no answer, her gaze still fixed away from him. For a while they sat in silence and he could think of nothing he might say to win her back to him. Finally she turned her body towards him and laid her hand over his where it lay in the space of grass between them.
‘You could come back to the Church,’ she said. ‘There are many in the Church who think as you do, as I do. There are many who want reform.’ She lowered her voice. ‘And Queen Elizabeth grows old. It will be a new beginning when she’s gone.’
He shook his head. ‘The Church will never change. It will never be a true Church. The superstition, the ritual, the hierarchy … they are too entrenched, and too many men with power have too much to lose. It will never change.’
‘How can you know that? Who would have thought that Geneva could be Calvinist, that Holland would be reformed? It is still such a short time since England stepped out from under the papal boot. These changes take time, Ben. We must be patient, we must endure.’
His fingers tightened into fists and automatically he drew away from her. She was asking the impossible. ‘I cannot go back to the Church,’ he whispered. ‘I cannot.’
Neither of them spoke, neither knowing how to step across the breach that had opened up between them. Absently, Cecily rubbed at the place on her finger that bore no ring. A group of children, ragged boys up to mischief in the orchard, chased one another through the trees, shouting and laughing. Their voices rang loud in the quiet afternoon. Ben watched them until they had moved out of sight amongst the trees, their childish calls drifting back in snatches. When he turned towards Cecily again she was watching him as though she were trying to read his soul.
She said, ‘So what happens now, Ben Kemp? What do we do now?’
Ben shrugged. ‘It’s your decision. Do you still want to be my wife knowing what you know?’
She looked away with a sigh, gazing out beyond the trees as though following the group of boys in her mind, and he could not even guess at her thoughts. He tensed, preparing himself to lose her. Slowly, agonisingly, she turned again towards him.
The King James Men Page 12