‘I will still be your wife,’ she said. ‘Even knowing what I know. And I will join your congregation because you will be my husband and I must follow you.’
‘I would release you from your contract if you wish it.’
‘Release me now?’ She shook her head. ‘It’s too late for that. We are already betrothed. The banns have begun. To back out now would damage my good name and I would not do that to my father.’
He nodded, relief surging through him that she would marry him after all. But he was aware of the anger behind the calmness of her words, and he understood she would have refused had she known beforehand, if he had given her the choice.
She stood up, wearily it seemed to him, and began to walk towards the city. He caught up with her in two quick strides and they walked in silence side by side all the way back to her father’s house near the Strand. At the gate she finally turned towards him, lifting her head to look into his face. Her eyes were stern and there was no smile of love in them any more.
‘I wish I knew what to say to you, Ben, but I can’t think of anything at all,’ she murmured. ‘And that makes me sad because until today we could talk with ease all day about any subject under the sun.’
‘We are still the same people that we were,’ he said. ‘Neither one of us has changed.’
‘But you have changed for me. You are a different man than I thought you.’
As he had been mistaken in her. ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘I will atone.’
She gave him a slight sad smile. ‘Perhaps.’
Then she had turned and walked away through the gate and she had not once looked back.
Chapter 10
January 1605
But they also haue erred through wine, and through strong drinke are out of the way: the priest and the prophet haue erred through strong drinke, they are swallowed vp of wine: they are out of the way through strong drinke, they erre in vision, they stumble in iudgment.
(Isaiah 28:7)
* * *
In the morning Richard woke late in a house that was quiet in the aftermath of the revels. Beyond the open curtain the day had turned vicious with sleet and rain, but within, a fire had been lit and the room was warm. He wondered how long since the servant had been in to light it, how he had managed to sleep through. Except for his illness he had always woken before the dawn.
Annoyed with himself for having wasted so much of the day, he swung himself out of bed and dressed quickly. He would work at the Abbey today, he decided, away from Ben, whose presence could only distract him. When he was ready he stood for a moment by the window, looking out at the rain-whipped fields and the river flowing dark and agitated: it was very tempting to remain in the warm and dry. But he wanted peace to work: the morning was already half-gone, and he would find no peace beneath the same roof as Ben. So he gathered up his papers with a sigh and wrapped them carefully in their leather satchel. Then, holding them close to his body beneath his cloak, he hurried down the stairs and outside into the rain.
The streets were quiet – people still sleeping off Twelfth Night, he supposed – and only those with no other choice were out and braving the weather. Twice he nearly slipped, the mud slimy and dangerous underfoot until he reached the cobbles of Broad Sanctuary. He clutched his precious work tighter to his body, fearing to drop it in the dirt.
Reaching the Abbey door with relief, he paused to tip back his hood and raked the water from his hair with his fingers. Inside, the bitter day was forgotten. Torches blazed in sconces on the marble columns, and trees of candles burned brightly, shadows flickering high up onto the vaulted roof. The peace of ages enveloped him despite the hubbub of commerce that echoed, Westminster’s populace carrying out its business within the hallowed walls. The Abbey was many things to many people, he reflected, but for him its magnificence was a magnet to draw his soul to Heaven. You could say what you like about the Papists, but they knew how to build a church that could bring a man to God. He smiled at the thought of it, and a sudden memory of the church of his childhood cut across his thoughts. The walls had already been plain when he was a boy, whitewashed in King Henry’s time on Thomas Cromwell’s orders. But his father had told him that under the white there were hidden the most ornate of paintings, Christ’s Passion lovingly depicted in a profusion of colours that plain folk seldom saw. As a child the thought had captivated him, and he had spent long sermons squinting as he tried to see beyond the whitewash to the pictures underneath. And sometimes, when chance had allowed, he had scraped at the walls with a fingernail, itching to find the hidden treasures he knew were waiting. It was a shame, he thought, to take the loveliness and beauty out of worship. For the soul is stirred by such things, and being stirred it opens up to receive the love of God. It was an argument he had fought many times with Ben.
Lowering his eyes, and turning his mind once more to the task in hand, he hurried towards the East Cloister, heading for the library. He saw the Dean as soon as he turned the corner, striding purposefully, apparently deep in thought. Richard slowed and Andrewes pulled up short just in front of him, a broad smile lighting his face at the sight of the other man. Richard looked down and saw his own cloak dripping onto the flagstones and realised the picture he presented.
‘It’s raining outside,’ he said. He gave the Dean a wry smile.
‘It is indeed,’ Andrewes agreed. ‘And what brings you out in such weather?’
‘A need for some peace to work. A little solemnity after the revels.’
‘Ah yes. The revels.’ The Dean nodded. ‘I was at Court last night. I understand completely.’
There was a pause.
‘How was Court?’ he asked.
‘The usual masque. Lavish. A little drunken. A little bawdy. It seems the king and his queen are still enjoying the luxuries of the English throne.’
‘It’s a richer throne than the Scots’.’
‘Although less rich than we would wish, so I’m told.’
‘It must be a great disappointment to His Majesty.’
‘It is. But he is shrewd. And more theologically inclined than our late queen.’
‘Then that is a blessing.’
‘Perhaps.’ The Dean’s eyes glittered with mischief. ‘But then again, perhaps not.’
‘I’m not sure I understand, Mister Dean.’ The rain had soaked through his cloak to his clothes and he was starting to feel the cold. He was in no mood for games.
‘I have every regard for the king’s intellect. He is learned and well read and he likes to debate …’
Richard sensed a but. He was not disappointed.
‘But often it is easier for people to agree when some of the details are left a little vague. Too many specifics will make it harder to conform for those who need to compromise.’
‘He would have more specifics?’
‘Elizabeth was very wise,’ Andrewes said by way of reply. ‘Perhaps wiser than we knew.’
Richard nodded his agreement. The old queen had steered a careful middle way, the political loyalty of her subjects more important than the finer details of their faith.
‘And on the subject of compromise,’ the Dean said, ‘how fares Master Kemp?’
He smiled at the aptness of the link. ‘He is well. He has been in London these past few days at his father’s house. His father is still hoping to send him to the East.’
‘Let us pray that he does.’
‘Last night,’ he said, ‘at the revels, Master Kemp was dancing.’
‘Dancing?’ Andrewes chuckled, eyes glinting with good humour. It was hard to imagine him as Ben had described, harsh and unforgiving and no pity in his heart for his prisoner.
The Dean was still chuckling. ‘That’s a fine piece of news for the Archbishop. It might even put him off his morning ale. A Puritan dancing, eh? What was it? Not a volta, I hope?’ He was genuinely amused.
‘A pavane.’
‘And the lady?’
‘His sister.’
‘Well,�
�� Andrewes said, mirth subsiding. ‘Perhaps he is coming round after all. Perhaps we might yet welcome Master Kemp back into our fold.’
‘I make no pretence to know his heart, Mister Dean, but his dancing is very impressive.’ He smiled. He had been enthralled as brother and sister moved together in stately unison, hands just touching, feet in perfect harmony, turning in time together as though they practised every day. It had been marvellous to see such grace and lightness, an effortless rapport, and he had been astonished. He had never known Ben to dance in all the years he had known him, but he should hardly be surprised – always his friend had moved with graceful agility.
‘I am glad to hear it.’ Andrewes smiled. ‘We must pray to God to deliver him back to us.’
‘Ben is always in my prayers.’
‘And mine also.’ Andrewes smiled again. ‘And now I must leave you to your work, Doctor Clarke. I must away back to Court. The king has called for me. Again.’ He lifted his eyebrows. ‘I will see you at our meeting on Thursday.’
Richard stood and watched the Dean stride away, long limbs loose in the flowing robe. He sighed. He had only told Andrewes the truth: Ben had indeed been dancing, for reasons known only to himself, but it still felt like a deception. Whatever the reasons for Ben’s Twelfth Night levity, it was unthinkable it might herald a change in his faith.
The Dean’s figure swept around the corner of the cloister, out of sight. Richard stared at the space he left behind for a moment before he turned away and walked towards the library.
The Book of Ruth had been Richard’s mother’s favourite: his eldest sister bore the name. He had learned it early, reading the verses to his mother over and over, sitting at the table with the Bible before him and speaking the words as his mother laboured at the endless tasks of a farmer’s wife. He had read other passages to her too, he was sure, but none he could remember. Ruth he had learned by heart long before he went away to school.
He had not thought of it in years, those evenings in the kitchen when the whole family gathered in the one room that was warm. His mother had always been toiling as he read to her – he had no memory of ever seeing his mother sit down except to eat or sew. Certainly, she never sat down merely to rest. No wonder then that this woman in the Bible appealed to her, a woman who was loyal and true and hardworking. A woman who followed a hard path that led her to God and redemption. Even now he heard the English in Coverdale’s words, the Bible translation he had learned first and best.
He knew of all the books he would find it the hardest to translate. Coverdale’s words held the truth for him, and he struggled to render the Hebrew differently. So he worked ahead, giving himself time to find the words he needed, the phrases running through his thoughts in idle moments. But however he rendered the Hebrew in English, none of his words seemed to carry the beauty of Coverdale’s, even when he knew they were closer to the truth of the original.
He read the passage again in Coverdale, though he knew it by heart:
And when Boaz had eat & drunk, his heart was merry, & he came and laid him down behind a heap of sheaves. And she came secretly, and took up the covering at his feet, and laid her down.
Now when it was midnight, the man was afraid, and groped about him, and behold, a woman lay at his fete.
And he said: Who art thou? She answered: I am Ruth thy handmaiden, spread your wings over thy handmaiden: for thou art the next kinsman.
Then in the Geneva:
And when Boaz had eaten, and drunken, and cheared his heart, he went to lie down at the end of the heap of corn, & she came softly, and uncovered the place of his feet, & lay down.
And at midnight the man was afraid and caught hold: and le, a woman lay at his feet.
Then he said, Who art thou? And she answered, I am Ruth thine handmaid: spread therefore the wing of thy garment ouer thine handmaid: for thou art the kinsman.
He drew his paper to him and began to write out the words he had been carrying for days in his head:
And when Boaz had eaten & drunk, his heart was merry, & he came and laid him down behind a heap of sheaves. And she came secretly, and took up the covering at his feet, and laid her down.
Now when it was midnight, the man was afraid, and groped about him, and behold, a woman lay at his feet.
And he said: Who art thou? She answered: I am Ruth thy handmaiden, spread thy wings over thy handmaid: for thou art a kinsman.
It would be many months until the Company met to translate Ruth. But he hoped they would keep Coverdale’s groped about him as a true translation of the Hebrew. It was such a vivid image of a man’s fear in the night; who among us has not experienced such panic in the dark? He feared, though, he would be overruled and that the Company would prefer the Geneva’s caught hold. In truth he knew it was a more likely rendering, but he could only hope. He hoped too that Boaz might still spread his wings over Ruth, with all the connotations of protection inherent in the word.
He thought of his mother again, her years of widowhood and the hardship of the farm. Did she still labour through each day, he wondered, or had age made her frail and infirm? She would be elderly now and approaching her final years, and he was not the good son he should have been – last he had heard she was under the protection of his sister Ruth and her husband, the farm in their hands now. He had no idea what sort of man Ruth had married, if his mother was well cared for, if she was loved and honoured. He rarely even thought of her, he realised with a ripple of shame, the life of his boyhood all but forgotten, her face a blur in his memory. But she would be proud of him now if she knew how far he had come, he consoled himself, a king’s translator, a preacher at Canterbury. He would write to his sister, he decided. She could read a little, the words he had taught her as a child, and pass on the news.
He was still pondering his decision when the peace in the library was shattered by the arrival of Thomson, who paused at the top of the stairs to steady himself, his complexion florid, his eyes still red from the excess of the revels. Gaining confidence on his feet on flat ground, the newcomer strode to the table. When he breathed out, Richard blinked and held his breath.
‘What news, Doctor Clarke?’ Thomson’s slur was loud in the hush. But they were alone and there was no one else to be disturbed. ‘I didn’t think to find anyone else here, though I might have thought you would be.’
‘I am keeping well, thank you,’ Richard replied. ‘Yourself?’
Thomson slumped into a chair across the table, and he had to fight down the urge to shift his own chair back, out of breath’s reach.
‘As you see me. As always.’ He laughed and let out a belch.
‘You came here to work?’
‘I did indeed.’ Thomson let his papers fall to the table. They scattered across the books that Richard had open before him. Richard breathed deeply to counter his growing irritation.
‘You would like this section of the table?’ he asked.
‘It’s as good as any other, I think.’
‘Then I will move along.’ He gathered his papers and books and slid sideways to the far end of the table, rearranging them with care to his liking. It took him a moment to find his place in the text and to train his mind on the phrase in front of him, but the concentration had gone and the words he had formed in his mind before Thomson’s arrival had vanished into the air. He laid down his quill.
Thomson leaned on an elbow in his direction. ‘Did I disturb you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Forgive me. I had rather too much Rhenish last night.’
Richard sighed, resigning himself to no more work for the moment. Perhaps at Thieving Lane he could do more, but Ben would be there and today he felt unequal to the argument.
‘You look like you could do with a drink yourself,’ Thomson said. ‘What in Heaven’s name is wrong with you?’
‘Nothing that a drink will do anything to help,’ he replied.
‘But at least you’ll forget for a while …’
‘I use the Translat
ion for that.’
Thomson blinked and pulled himself straighter. ‘Yes. It is absorbing. I agree. And I admire your industry. But regrettably work is no longer enough to make me forget. I find I need the drink as well.’
‘What do you need to forget?’
Thomson laughed. ‘Don’t make the mistake of thinking you’re the only one with secrets, Doctor Clarke. Or sorrows. We all of us have some shame somewhere deep inside of us, something that gives us pain, some hidden grief or regret. We are all of us unworthy of our Lord.’
He said nothing.
‘And the Lord knows our secrets, knows our griefs. He knows what lies in each man’s heart. All of it, he knows. Sometimes I find that less than comforting. Sometimes I think I’d like some things in me to stay hidden. Even from God.’ The older man lifted bleary eyes towards Richard. ‘I expect you find that shocking. Even heretical.’
‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘You have my sympathy.’
‘Between you and me, of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘You never did pay me that visit.’
‘I know.’
‘Well, who can blame you, eh? Look at me. I’m hardly good company, am I?’
‘That’s the Rhenish talking.’
‘Perhaps.’
The door opened and there were footsteps on the stairs. Richard turned towards them, attention drawn instinctively. A servant, come to tend the fire. By the time Richard returned his attention to his books, Thomson’s head was on the table and he was snoring. Resigned to no more work today, he packed up his things, bundled them carefully in their wrapping under his clothes, and headed back out into the rain.
Chapter 11
January 1605
The King James Men Page 13