It was a lively house filled with children and noise, and the printing press merely added one more facet to the general disorder. There was always a welcome for visitors from England and they sat at the table drinking wine, giving Miller the news from London before they got down to business.
‘You have a conventicle now in London?’
‘There are fifty of us or more – Francis Johnson was recently made pastor.’
‘And you keep safe?’
‘We meet before dawn. We move from house to house. There is little else we can do.’
‘May God keep you. It is an evil thing when good Christians must skulk about like criminals.’ He drained his cup of wine. ‘So,’ he said, ‘show me the tract.’
Ben took the package from his shirt and the printer opened it out, cleared a space on the table and laid out the sheets of writing. The paper was worn and thin from the constant use and need for concealment – it had been folded many times, and in places the edges were ragged.
* * *
A TRUE DESCRIPTION OUT OF THE WORD OF GOD, OF THE VISIBLE CHURCH
* * *
As there is but one God and father of all, one Lord over all, and one Spirit: so is there but one truth, one faith, one salvation, one Church, called in one hope, joined in one profession, guided by one rule, even the word of the most high.
This Church as it is universally understood, containeth in it all the elect of God that have been, are, or shall be. But being considered more particularly, as it is seen in this present world, it consisteth of a company and fellowship of faithful and holy people gathered together in the name of Christ Jesus, their only king, priest, and prophet, worshipping Him aright, being peaceably and quietly governed by His officers and laws, keep the unity of faith in the bond of peace and love …
Ben’s eyes flicked over the words, drinking them in, familiar and precious because they were forbidden. To be found with these words in his hands would put him in prison; if it were known he planned to print them, his fate would undoubtedly be worse. Miller ran his gaze across the pages too, seeing them with a professional eye though the message spoke to him also: he nodded his agreement as he read.
‘He’s still in prison, eh?’ the printer said. ‘I don’t reckon they’ll let him go now. He’s been there too long and the moment has passed. Whitgift will want to make an example so fools like you can take warning.’ He nodded at Ben, who smiled and shook his head. He was used to the printer’s teasing. ‘Take more than a hanging to make you recant though, eh?’
He smiled but in truth the inside of the Fleet had frightened him, the broken man that Barrow had become. He was unsure he would stay faithful in such conditions, or if fear might make him fall. But there seemed to him to be no choice – he couldn’t change what he believed.
‘Are you taking them back yourself?’ The printer’s question cut across his thoughts.
He shook his head, clearing his mind of the doubts. ‘Studley’s man. The draper. We’ll conceal them in the bolts of cloth.’
‘That’s good.’ Miller looked up from the pages. ‘If you’ve seen Barrow they’ll be watching you.’
‘I know it.’
‘You need to be careful, Ben.’
‘Yes. I shall be.’
‘You need to watch your back.’
Ben caught Pieter’s eye and the Dutchman looked away.
‘Greta is pleased to see you again,’ Pieter said, walking back in the cool afternoon. ‘She’s hoping you will stay.’
Ben had forgotten about Greta, his mind distracted by the printer’s words. He had spent the afternoon only half-present, on the outskirts of the conversation, his danger bearing in on him. Though he had always known it, the prospect seemed more real now and more likely.
‘Benjamin?’ Pieter gave him a quizzical smile. ‘You were miles away.’
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Just tired I think. From the trip. It was a rough crossing.’
‘Of course.’ Then, ‘She has never stopped talking of you. She still thinks you will marry her.’
‘I was never going to marry her, Pieter. When her husband died I was there, that is all.’
‘Her husband was not as good to her as you were. You were gentle and kind and she took it for love.’
Ben shook his head. Though he had made her no promises, he still prayed for her each day, confessing his sin, aware of his weakness as a man. ‘It was never love – I should have let her be.’
‘Why don’t you marry her? You can stay here, safe, and pray unhindered. No one cares here how you worship. We are a civilised country. No more hiding and risk. No more danger. So much fear is no good for a man’s constitution; it wears him down in the end and makes him old before his time.’
He thought of Henry Barrow, grey-haired, black-toothed.
‘She would make a good wife for you, a good mother for your children. You should have a wife, Ben, and a family. Every man should have a wife and family and the freedom to worship as he will.’
‘I know.’ An image of Cecily stole across his thoughts, the sunlight from the window lighting up her auburn hair.
‘Then why not?
‘Because …’ Why not? What reason did he have not to marry Greta as Pieter said, not to live in Holland? It would be the wisest course: he could work here, enough of his father’s trade in the city to keep him busy, to make a home with Greta. He could live, as the Dutchman said, in safety and in peace. No more worshipping in secret, illegally. No more having to watch his back. It could be a good life, honest, simple, godly. But in London there was Cecily …
‘Because,’ he said, ‘I am needed in England. Because I have work to do there, to make it like here so that men like me and you and Miller can worship in safety in England. Because God needs men who refuse to hide from the dangers of following the truth. I cannot walk away from Barrow, from the others. It is in the Scripture: And ye shall be hated of all men for my Name: but he that endureth to the end, he shall be saved.’
His friend smiled. ‘And when they persecute you in this city, flee into another.’
Ben returned the smile. ‘Ah, Pieter, perhaps I should stay here, but my heart calls me always to England.’
Pieter stopped, and two paces on Ben stopped too and turned back to hear him. ‘You have the spirit of a martyr, Ben. Time was when you would have burned.’
Ben bit his lip, considering Pieter’s words. He had no wish to be a martyr: the thought of such a fate filled him with fear. ‘I am what I am,’ he said at last. ‘And I cannot change.’
‘You are a good man,’ Pieter said. ‘Greta could do worse than marry you.’
He shook his head. ‘There is a part of me that wishes I could, that I were a different man who could settle here and be happy as a husband to Greta and live a quiet life. But God has other plans for me and I am blessed to His bidding.’
They slowed their walk. Above them, over to the west beyond the high roofs of the houses, the clouds parted slightly and a sliver of palest blue sky peeped through.
‘God has found a true servant in you, Ben,’ Pieter said. ‘But He would wish for your happiness also.’
‘I will find my happiness doing God’s work. You cannot know the corruption of the English Church: a false and anti-Christian ministry, profane and wicked congregations, the bishops using the Church for their own advancement. They care nothing for the souls of the people they are called to serve, blinding them with ritual and living handsomely on the proceeds. They are no better than the Papists. No better at all.
‘We must found a true Church in England, a fellowship of the faithful separate from the unbelievers, a Church that gathers in the name of Christ, their only king, priest and prophet.’ He stopped, breathing hard on the tide of his emotion. Swallowing, he stemmed the flow, then turned again towards his friend. When he spoke again his voice was once more soft and calm, his passions once more under his control.
‘Forgive me, Pieter. I meant not to preach.’
The older man smiled and drop
ped a friendly hand onto Ben’s shoulder. ‘You must do as God wills you and we will find another husband for Greta. Do not fret over her.’
‘I am sorry for what happened, for giving her false hope. I am unworthy of such kindness.’
‘Your path lies another way, my friend. God has willed it so and He will forgive you. Now come, the afternoon draws on and I am growing hungry for my daughter’s fish soup.’
Ben had smiled as the men walked on, grateful for his friend’s understanding, his belief in God’s forgiveness for his sins. But it was not so easy to forgive himself, and the knowledge of the weakness of his flesh had never left him.
Now, outside in the yard, a door slammed, caught in a gust of wind, and the noise drew his gaze to the window and the present world around him. He could hear the children’s shouts in snatches on the wind as they played.
He should have stayed as Pieter had wanted, he thought for the thousandth time. He should have married Greta and turned away from Cecily, done God’s work in Holland. But instead he had followed his lust and his desire, though he had called it love. The memory still shamed him, shadowing his every prayer. He sighed and shook his head to clear it of the memory. Then, turning from the window, he followed the children out of the door and along the passage to the bakehouse at the back of the building.
‘Stopped for dinner already?’ Mistress Clyfton looked up from the dough she was kneading.
‘Not yet. They’ve got the wind up them so I sent them outside to play for a while. We were getting nowhere.’
‘Children and cats,’ she said. ‘They both go scatty in the wind. We used to have a cat at Babworth …’ She trailed off and he saw the mental effort she made to ignore the pain of the memory, to finish the thought. ‘… and he used to go quite mad when it was like this. Up and down the apple trees, round and round the garden. Like the Devil himself was riding him.’ She smiled, remembering. Then, ‘I wonder what happened to him. He was nowhere to be found when we had to leave.’
When Bancroft forced her husband from his living and they found themselves homeless, she meant, for preaching God’s true word. Absently he rubbed at the scar on his wrist, aware of Bancroft’s malice edging closer. Mistress Clyfton caught the movement and slid her eyes away.
‘Horses play up in the wind as well,’ he said, shifting the topic away from her memories. ‘Bessie’s spirited at best of times but with the wind behind her even I can hardly hold her.’
She dabbed at her forehead with the back of a doughy hand and made no sign she had heard him.
‘Do you need anything doing?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘No. You just sit. I’ll leave this to prove and then I’ll fetch some dinner for us all.’
He sat and watched her working as she covered the bowl with a towel and placed it just so in a spot close to the hearth. She had made herself a role in the household, an able brewer and baker, so that Mistress Brewster had more time to spend in her beloved garden tending her vegetables and preserving its fruits. But there was a fretfulness about her, an agitation that always put him on edge. He could think of nothing more to say and so they kept company in silence until the awkwardness was broken by the two Williams trudging in from outside. Their faces were whipped red by the wind and they stood at the fire, warming their hands.
‘Any news in town?’ Ben asked.
‘Aye,’ Brewster answered. ‘And not good for us either.’
‘What news?’ He sat up and turned on the bench to face them, giving them his full attention.
‘The new Archbishop of York …’ He trailed off, shaking his head. The younger William finished for him.
‘He has Bancroft’s zeal.’
‘Have they taken anyone yet?’
‘Some have been fined at Lincoln for non-attendance at church. But it’s only the beginning.’
Ben was silent. He had hoped they were safer in the Midlands, so far from Bancroft’s reach, but with the new appointment it seemed the Archbishop had cast his shadow wider: there was nowhere that was safe for them now.
The younger William said, ‘He is already preaching against us to stir up hatred and mistrust. It is that more than anything that will betray us, if the people turn against us.’
Ben looked up at Brewster. ‘What can we do?’
‘There is nothing we can do but put our trust in God.’
The memory of a cold cell and manacles prickled across his skin.
Mistress Clyfton said nothing, standing motionless at the table, staring down where she had kneaded the bread. Her hands gripped the edge of the board, bone showing white at the knuckles. Brewster caught Ben’s glance towards her.
‘God will protect us,’ he said. ‘We are safe enough here for the while.’
Ben nodded his agreement but Mistress Clyfton did not lift her eyes from the floured board. As William had said, it was only the beginning.
Chapter 18
Summer 1606
Not forsaking the assembling of our selues together, as the manner of some is: but exhorting one another, and so much the more, as ye see the day approching.
(Hebrews 10:25)
* * *
The days lengthened and spring’s fresh coolness gave way to the warmer breezes of summer. Around Scrooby the hay had been harvested, and the cattle grew fat on lush grass. But every week brought fresh news to the manor house of others of their number taken before the Archbishop to be questioned and fined. More Puritan ministers lost their livings and were forced on the charity of like-minded others who risked much in helping them.
Bancroft was a fool, Ben thought. What were such men to do when they were deprived of their ministry within the Church but take up a new one outside it? With each new case he felt the net shrinking round them and the time growing short. The fear of prison began to taint every waking thought, and in the solitude of the predawn grey he spent hours alone in prayer, begging forgiveness for his weakness, for his sins, and courage for the trials and suffering yet to come.
Beyond the window the sky began to lighten, bands of paler grey chasing off the darkness. Ben reached out for the Bible he kept by his bed, the same Bible that Richard had given him their first year at Cambridge, when God had begun to call to him and he was thirsty for His Word, a gift given in love. The leather of the cover was worn and smooth in his hand, comforting, and he wondered if Richard remembered it too, the love that had bound them once, the bond his friend now thought to dishonour.
Ben flicked through the pages, and Cecily’s letter fell from its place between them to the floor, her last words to him before she died. He kept it there always, a constant reminder of his sin and his weakness, but he hadn’t reread it in many years, the memory too painful. Reaching down, he took the precious page between his fingers, turning it over and remembering when it came to him, hidden in the Bible Richard brought to him in prison, when he had been in darkness. He could still bring to mind the sense of hopelessness, nowhere to turn for help. Without his faith he had been adrift, and for the first time in his life he had truly felt afraid. Not for his body as he feared now, the stings and whips of prison and death, but for his soul – the terrifying emptiness that had taken the place of his faith.
For the first time in years he unfolded the page, fingers trembling, remembering the first time he had held it, his skin grimy black against its purity and the sense that his filth was a desecration. He had been expecting her judgement, he recalled, for what he had brought them to, and it had taken all his courage to read what she had written. Now he scanned his eyes once more across the lines, though he knew every word by heart, and his fingers brushed the words on the page, the strokes that she had made, the last physical connection. The letters were tall and strong, as she had been, no sign of the fear that had shadowed their life together.
My love,
I do not know what I should write to you. I have no words that can cross the distance that now lies between us. But one day soon Richard will be allowed to visit and I must write
something for him to take so that you know I am still your Cecily and that I love you.
I make no pretence to know the horrors you face in prison: I cannot bear even to think of it. But I know that you must stay true to yourself, Ben, and to your faith. I would not have you otherwise – it is the Spirit in you that I love.
You are strong, my love, and I am weak, and it was only ever my fear that made me want to change you. You have faith that can move the mountain and nothing shall be impossible for you.
Your heart is firm, my beloved husband, and you have no need to be afraid,
Your loving wife,
Cecily x
The tears fell as he read and he let them come, but his jaw was set tight against the pain. Then, folding it quickly, he slipped the letter back into its place beside the first psalm, where Cecily had hidden it first. She had chosen well as a hiding place: it was a page he turned to often and the words he had found there had helped him begin the slow journey back towards his faith.
An image of her smile cut across his thoughts, a rare and precious image he seldom recalled: mostly when he thought of her, her look was coloured by his pain and his sadness, but he remembered now that she had smiled often, the stern face softening, the love they shared a joy to both of them. Youthful love, youthful passion, the excitement of a life beginning together. Lying in the big feather bed at the end of the day, sharing thoughts and hopes and laughter. He had almost forgotten how she could make him laugh, teasing him out of his seriousness, mocking him gently, unsettling him with that look of challenge in her eyes he had loved so well. No other woman had ever stirred him as she had, her self-possession enchanting and infuriating, unknowable. And he had loved her for it, her company all he had ever desired.
These days, he realised, he laughed very rarely. It would have made her sad to know that, he thought, and allowed himself a rueful smile that was intended for her.
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