‘Tell us more about Clyfton,’ Overall said eagerly, second only to Bancroft in his hatred of Puritans. He was almost rubbing his hands with excitement. ‘What manner of man is he?’ Attention shifted back to the Archbishop. Richard drank more wine.
‘From a prominent local family, I’m told. A wife and children.’
And now the man has no living, Richard thought, he and his family exiled to the edges of society, forced to live on others’ charity. Frustration simmered. Why could these people not just conform? At least on the outside. Then they would be left alone to worship as they pleased in private, to honour God as they saw most fit. What did it matter if they had to wear a surplice in public? Or kneel for the Host? It was a man’s faith that mattered in the end, his love for God.
And yet a part of him could understand the drive for truth, the impulse that propels a man to stand up and say what he believes, to defend his faith against all others. A part of him admired the courage not to compromise, the depth of faith, a sureness of belief that knew no doubt. Men with conviction such as Ben – impossible and maddening, but fired by love of God nonetheless.
Bancroft reached out for more meat and his elbow bumped Richard’s arm. Involuntarily he flinched, repelled by the Archbishop’s touch. Discreetly he shifted his chair away from Bancroft, closer to Thomson, who was sitting to his right. The older man turned his head and observed him with interest.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Thomson said.
‘Oh, really?’
‘But just because not all of us have the stomach for it doesn’t mean it isn’t necessary.’
‘What’s that you say?’ Bancroft had caught the tail end of Thomson’s words.
Thomson said, ‘We were just discussing the need to deprive men such as Clyfton.’
Bancroft’s eyes glittered. ‘Does Doctor Clarke not approve?’
All eyes turned once again towards him in the hush that fell, but he met the Archbishop’s gaze without flinching. He would not allow himself to be humiliated by Thomson: he was playing his part and the Archbishop knew it.
‘Doctor Thomson,’ he said, ‘with his customary wine-led wisdom, claims he can read my mind.’
Thomson laughed. Others at the table began nervous smiles that quickly faded with the Archbishop’s stoniness.
‘And still you protest,’ Thomson said, ‘when it is as plain as day that you have a rather large conflict of interest. We are all of us aware of your friendship with Kemp. We all of us know what Ben Kemp believes. Yet even now, after all these years, you insist on lodging with his family.’
No one was smiling now. Behind him one of the servants clattered a large tray of dishes onto the sideboard and the racket reverberated through the silent room. A trickle of sweat tickled against his spine and he was acutely aware of the effects of the claret. He swivelled to face his neighbour.
‘Of what exactly are you accusing me?’
Thomson made an expansive gesture with one hand. ‘I am accusing you of nothing. I am merely observing that keeping such friends must at times put you in a difficult position.’
‘And what of it?’
Thomson briefly slid his gaze past Richard towards the Archbishop. Then he said, ‘Am I the only man who thinks it strange that you keep company with a Separatist? Or to question your loyalty because of it? It is not enough to profess no love for Puritans when you choose as friends those men who wish to destroy the Church. Surely I am not the only one to think so?’ He flicked a glance around the table and found tacit support in the silence and half nods of the others. There was no one who spoke up in Richard’s defence, not even Andrewes.
‘My dislike of Puritans is not a matter for debate – it has long been known. Ask any man here. I was passed over twice for promotion at Christ’s College for not being Puritan enough and I resigned my fellowship in protest. You were there, as I recall. Perhaps you would remember it if you could stay sober long enough.’
Thomson’s eyes drifted away from him, hostility receding, as though he were indeed trying to recall through the fog of his memory. Richard watched him, flushed with awareness of his audience, and remembered anger at the injustice flickered inside him. He had only ever sought to belong, to be accepted for his faith and his intellect, but always he had remained on the outside: in the hotbed of reform that Cambridge had been in those years, his beliefs had been deemed archaic, the last vestiges of the Roman faith that would soon be expunged from the English Church. Then, as now, he had searched his heart to find the truth – hours on his knees in tearful supplication to God, long nights spent arguing with Ben – but his faith had remained unchanged, immutable as eternity. And now, here, amongst these men whose beliefs he shared, he found himself once more excluded from their fellowship – his crime a Christian love for another, a man he only hoped to save. He took another mouthful of claret despite the unclearness already in his head.
‘So tell me,’ Thomson said, eyes brightening as he turned again towards Richard. ‘Why do you continue your friendship with Kemp when it does you such harm? Why do you keep on risking yourself for such a man?’
‘Because,’ he said, ‘friendship is a gift from God and I have not yet given up hope he will recant.’ It was only half a lie and he wished to God it was the truth.
‘Doctor Thomson.’ The Dean’s deep voice drew the drunkard’s eyes reluctantly towards him. ‘Let us talk of other things now. Doctor Clarke’s loyalty is not, and never has been, a matter for doubt.’
Richard looked away. The Dean’s words were fine but too late. Thomson had voiced the thoughts of every man at the table.
‘If you say so, Mister Dean,’ Thomson murmured. But his gaze flicked to the man beside him without much conviction.
‘I do say so,’ the Dean confirmed, ‘and it would become you better to show a little more respect for the others engaged in our task.’
Thomson said nothing, resenting the rebuke, and settled his bulk in his chair. An air of ill will hung across the room.
‘Well, gentlemen.’ Andrewes interrupted the silence. ‘The hour grows late.’
A general murmur of agreement circled the table, the men rising from their places, taking their leave of one another. As they made their way to the door of the chamber not one of them but Andrewes bid goodnight to Richard and he walked out into the yard alone.
Only Alice was in the hall when Richard returned to Thieving Lane from the meeting, though the Abbey bell had not yet struck the hour of ten and the last dregs of day still touched the western sky. But inside the house it was dark and candles burned brightly near the unlit hearth. Alice sat in the light, peering at her sewing. He wondered she could see enough to sew.
‘Where is everyone?’ he said, crossing to the cupboard and pouring both of them wine from the jug. It was a Canary, light and sweet and cool. She laid her sewing aside and took the cup with a smile of thanks.
‘My uncle is not yet returned from Tilbury and Aunt Emma had a headache. She has gone to bed.’
He sat across the hearth and watched as she resumed her sewing, the needle flickering in the candlelight. ‘You weren’t lonely?’
‘I like the quiet,’ she replied. ‘And I wanted to finish the shirt.’
‘Is it for Ben?’
She shook her head. ‘I would hardly dare to sew for him unless he asked me to.’
Her answer took him by surprise. ‘What makes you say so? Has he been unkind to you?’
‘No. Never,’ she answered quickly. ‘It is just …’ She stopped, her needle hovering a moment before she placed the linen down across her lap. ‘It’s just there is something wild about him, something reckless that makes me fear him.’
‘You have no need to fear him,’ Richard reassured her. ‘He has a fiery temper the same as his sister but his heart is kind. He would not hurt you.’
She tidied the sewing away and placed it on top of the basket beside her. Then she said, ‘They say in the kitchen that a long time ago Ben went to prison for his f
aith, that his wife and child died because of it. And they say the grief almost drove him to despair.’
‘They speak the truth,’ he admitted, though he wondered how the servants knew so much about their master’s agony. He had thought that only he had known the truth of it.
‘He lost everything, then?’
‘Everything he cared about.’
‘Except his faith.’
‘He lost that too for a little while.’ He had remembered it walking home from the Abbey, the memory stirred by Bancroft’s baiting. He had recalled every word and shivered in spite of the heat.
She took a sip of wine and thought for a moment. ‘Then I am right to fear him,’ she said. ‘Because a man who has lost everything might indeed be dangerous. He has no reason to be cautious because he has nothing left to lose. A man like that can afford to risk all.’
Richard looked away, unnerved by her perception. He said, ‘It was many years ago.’
‘Has he changed?’
He hesitated. ‘I’m not sure. Perhaps not.’
‘Why does he hate the Church so much?’
Richard smiled. ‘Now there’s a question.’
Alice tensed and turned her head away from the mockery she sensed in the tone. ‘You’re making fun of me.’
‘No,’ he said quickly. He hadn’t meant it that way. ‘No, not at all. But it’s a question he and I have fought over for many hours, many years.’
‘Then …?’ She lifted her chin, the question still in her eyes.
He smiled again, wondering where he might begin. But he was happy to talk to her, their conversation easy: she had never once made him feel awkward or shy as other women did. He said, ‘Ben believes the Church is not reformed enough. He thinks like a Puritan but more so.’
‘What more reform would he have?’
‘No bishops,’ he said, ‘no canons, no deans, no king at the head of it all. Each congregation its own community, its officers elected from amongst themselves. And he would have no liturgy, no prayer book, no kneeling for the Host …’
‘But these things have come to us from the Ancient Fathers.’
‘He would say they have become corrupted, that they are remnants of popish invention. He would say it is not the Church that our Lord commanded.’
She nodded her understanding but her brow was still creased into a frown. ‘But without the Church we are all of us lost,’ she said. ‘So why would they break it?’
Richard considered for a moment, unsure how to explain any further, how much she would understand. Then, ‘Ben believes God is revealed only through the words of the Scripture, that we cannot use our God-given reason, our rational capacities, to keep us safe from sin. So he rejects the validity of tradition, saying it is man-made, and sinful.’ He looked across to her to see if she was following.
Alice nodded, an encouragement for him to continue.
‘He believes the Church should comprise only the faithful, a gathering of true believers – he sees the English Church as full of sinners and therefore not a true Church as Christ commanded.’
‘But then how can people receive God’s grace, if they are barred from the Church? It must be all-inclusive, from the lowest beggar to the highest king, or we are no longer a Christian realm.’
‘We believe so because for us, the sacraments confer God’s grace. For Ben, the sacraments merely confirm God’s grace, already given. Do you see?’
She was silent, considering, one hand fingering the sewing on the table beside her. He watched her, wondering what was in her mind, comfortable in her company.
He said, ‘They seem to be small things, I know, but they are the foundation stones on which the Church is built.’
She lifted her eyes to him with a smile that chased away the habitual frown. She was pretty when she smiled, he realised. She should smile more often. ‘I understand,’ she said. ‘But I wish he were different. He doesn’t know the pain he gives his parents.’
Then, placing the empty wine cup on the floor at her feet, she reached once again for her sewing. He drained his own wine, got up and went to the cupboard for more. She shook her head when he offered it to her. When he had returned to his chair he said, ‘So who is the shirt for?’
‘For my father,’ she said. ‘His new wife is no seamstress so I sew his shirts for him now. I know how he likes them.’
‘I see.’ In two sentences she had told him more about herself than he had learned in all the months he had known her. ‘He is lucky to have such a devoted daughter.’
She finished off the seam with a final stitch. ‘A more devoted daughter would have learned to like her new mother better I think and would have been permitted to stay.’
‘Perhaps,’ he replied, though it was hard to imagine how anyone could object to Alice in their household, quiet, willing, kind. But perhaps it was the kindness that rankled, a contest for the master’s affection the new wife could not win. Then again, he thought, it might have been her powers of observation that got her sent away. Poor girl, he thought, unwanted by those who should have loved her. No wonder she was so eager to please, so shy. She rarely ventured an opinion on anything much, even to him, who held no power over her. She asked many questions, he realised, but offered little of herself in return. He guessed it was a form of self-defence, so that those on whom she depended would see only her usefulness and find no fault in her otherwise. He felt for her predicament, his heart moved with pity.
‘You have brothers?’ he asked. ‘Sisters?’
‘Older brothers. One is a clergyman like you. He was recently made prebendary at Bristol.’
He heard the pride in her voice. ‘And of course my father’s new family, twin boys and another on the way.’
‘Your father writes to you?’
‘Yes.’ She smiled again. ‘And it seems from his letters that his new wife brings him less happiness than he hoped. He says nothing directly of course, but I can tell.’ Then, as an afterthought, ‘He was devoted to my mother.’
‘And you are like her?’
‘Very.’ The smile flickered again, the knowledge pleasing, and the silence that fell was comfortable. She turned her attention back to her sewing and as the Abbey bell tolled the hour he watched the needle catch the candlelight, flickering in and out of the fabric, nimble and precise.
The memory of Ben in his darkness remained in Richard’s thoughts as he lay down to sleep. For a while he fought it against it, face screwed tight with the pain it evoked, but the images persisted, and in the end he gave up the struggle and let them come.
The second time he had seen Ben at the Fleet he had thought he was better prepared, the memory of the place still sharp in his thoughts. But even so, the stench took his breath away as he stepped inside the gate, and he felt the same sense of hopelessness that oozed from the walls. Inside the cell Ben was still in chains, the place no different from before despite his father’s payments to the warden. Richard was appalled at the sight of him: he had aged years in weeks – grey streaks flecked through the matted dark curls, and the gaunt cheeks were sunken. He fought to hide his dismay and the sudden overwhelming conviction that his friend would never leave the cell alive. Ben unfolded from where he sat in the straw with uncharacteristic slowness, standing up stiffly to greet his visitor. The two men embraced.
‘I’ve brought food, clothes, ale, pen and ink.’ Automatically he searched for a table before he let the bundle gently down onto the straw at his feet.
‘Thank you,’ Ben said. ‘You are kind to do so.
‘It is your father you should thank. Is there anything else you need?’
Ben shook his head. It was awkward standing together with nowhere but the straw to sit. ‘I would offer you a seat but …’ Ben shrugged and moved to the window, leaned his shoulder against the wall beside it, eyes drawn to the narrow view beyond the prison wall. Richard followed but stood a few inches from the stone, reluctant to touch its filthy dampness.
‘I spend a lot of time standing here
,’ Ben said. ‘It reminds me that a world exists outside this cell. Though it’s a world that holds little light for me now.’
‘Time heals, Ben. Time and prayer.’
Ben swung round to face him. ‘You have had no wife, no child. What can you know of grief?’
Richard took a breath. ‘I make no claim to know,’ he said. ‘But I know Cecily wouldn’t want you to despair.’
His friend’s chin lifted to a scornful tilt. ‘You would claim to know her mind?’
He looked away. He had not expected to meet such anger, such despondency. ‘She would not have wanted you to give up hope,’ he said.
Ben turned away and rested a hand on the bars, staring out.
‘There is always hope, Ben. All things are possible to him that believeth.’
‘Have you never doubted?’ Ben asked, without turning his gaze from the window. ‘Have you never wondered if it is all just a lie we believe in to ease the suffering of life? To give it meaning?’
‘No,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘Never. I have doubted the Church many times, and questioned the teachings. Arguing with you, how could I not? But we have always agreed on the fundamentals. God’s existence is as real as you or I, His presence plain in everything you are, everything you see. I could never doubt the truth of that.’
‘Then you are a better man than I am.’ Ben’s tone was bitter.
Richard could barely believe what he was hearing: he had thought, hoped, that time and prayer would have begun to heal the grief a little, that Ben would have found succour in his faith. But the depth of his friend’s despair shocked him, and it seemed his faith had not returned. He said, ‘You cannot lose faith now when you have given so much. When Cecily has given so much.’
The other man said nothing, eyes still trained on the putrid river.
The King James Men Page 19