But in all things we approve our selves as the ministers of God, in much patience, in afflictions, in necessities, in distresses. In stripes, in prisons, in tumults, in labours, By watchings, by fastings, by purity, by knowledge, by long suffering, by kindness, by the holy Ghost, by love unfained …
The words were his rock and his comfort, the surety of the rightness of his path as they had been for Barrow and countless others before him. He tipped back his head against the wall, feeling the wetness through his hair. His beard had begun to itch, dirty, and his limbs ached from stillness; he tensed the muscles of his outstretched legs just to feel them move and remind himself that he still existed as a body.
With the movement he remembered he was hungry: it was many years since he had known the gnawing pain of hunger, his belly starting to contract in upon itself. Starvation would be an agonising death, he thought, and he had eaten only mouldy bread the last few days. He was beginning to lose count, the cycles of the sun blurred in the dull monotony of the gloom. There had been one sunny morning, he remembered, a day or two after he arrived when for an hour there had been a bright patch of sunlight on the straw, a beam across the room where the dust motes floated, and he had lain in its path warming himself, following its rapid journey towards the wall until it was gone. It had been cloudy since and there had been no more brightness in the cell. In the stone-cold chill it was hard to recall that outside it was summer.
But he was in God’s hands. The fear of prison that had made him run had slipped away as soon as the door was bolted fast behind him. A cell was a familiar world to him – he had lived through its deprivation for three long years and survived. And it was still less than the price Cecily had paid. So he had stood in the centre of the foetid room, eyes closed, reaching inside to inure himself to the cold and the stench and the solitude, calling on the Spirit that governed him.
The Lord is my strength, and praise, and He is become my salvation. He is my God, and I will prepare him a tabernacle: He is my father’s God, and I will exalt him.
Then he had chosen for himself a spot against the wall where he could see both door and window, settled himself in the flea-ridden straw, and busied his mind in prayer.
Chapter 21
Autumn 1606
And it came to passe when hee made an ende of speaking vnto Saul, that the soule of Ionathan was knit with the soule of Dauid, and Ionathan loued him as his owne soule.
(1 Samuel 18:1)
* * *
The late-summer heat broke with storms that wracked the realm for days on end, roads flooded and impassable, trees uprooted and causing chaos. The sky hung low, slate grey above rooftops that were barely visible through the rain, and the surface of the river was whipped into points. It was a lean time for the boatmen on the Thames.
Richard made the short walk to the Abbey to work, papers clutched to his chest, leaning into the storm, his cloak billowing out behind him. Broad Sanctuary was busy in spite of the rain: workers still hurried back and forth on their way: the city’s trade didn’t stop for the weather. Around his feet a flock of geese had scattered, their owners scuttling to and fro trying to shepherd them back together, and two merchants dressed in black velvet stood in the lea of the Abbey wall to watch, laughing.
He paid them no heed, his thoughts already turning on the words of Scripture. Treading quickly through the marketplace that occupied the Abbey nave, he headed for the sanctuary of the library, seeking its peace, eager to begin. Though he often worked in his room at Thieving Lane, he liked the atmosphere of the library and the large desk to spread out his books. The shelves around him held a treasury of knowledge, and many of the translations that had gone before. He was humbled and inspired by so many words, each volume shedding more light on the Scriptures, each of them building on the stones painstakingly laid by others.
When the books were arranged to his liking and he was settled, he ran a finger across the words in the Bishops’ Bible until he found the verse he wanted.
And when he had made an end of speaking unto Saul, the soul of Jonathan was knit with the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as his owne soule.
He read the verse out loud, his voice disturbing the hush of the library. Then he turned to the Hebrew, whispering the words, aware of his inability to render them truly aloud. He let the phrase hang in the air, testing the meaning as he heard it in his mind. Next, he read the English again. It was a good translation: the Geneva had it exactly the same. There was no truer phrasing he could find, no improvement he could make: it seemed the bishops’ choice of words was perfect. His fingertips rested on the page, tarrying, as his mind turned over the verse one final time. He had to be sure the words were right and true, a perfect expression of the love that bound the two men together. A friendship given by God.
When he was satisfied, he sat back with a sigh, and Ben stepped unbidden across his thoughts. Not for the first time he wondered why God had given such a friend to him. Time was when he had thanked God every day for the love between them, his own soul blessed by their fellowship. Ben had found his faith through the love they shared as brothers, and Richard never doubted it came from God, a gracious gift, as Jonathan had been to David, their souls knit in the sacred bond of friendship. For many years Richard believed it was given to him to save Ben, to bring him back within the Church’s fold and keep him from a path of sin and error, to see him safe.
But now? Now he no longer knew how to honour that gift. Ben would never return to the Church, of that he was certain, no matter the love that existed between them. So what would God have him do now? He had prayed constantly for an answer but understanding still eluded him. All the teachings of the Church he loved and served would have him dishonour the bond, for the Separatists sought to break the Church, denying its truth and authority under God. So why did he, Richard, still waver? Why the reluctance to denounce his friend to protect the Church he loved?
Because they had walked together as fellows in their love for Christ, their souls knit as one, as the souls of David and Jonathan had been bound in their love for God.
Because love was Christ’s first and highest commandment.
How then should he betray such a love?
The conflict wearied him, and he lifted a hand to rub at his temples, seeking to ease the tightness. But it made no difference and the threat of a headache lingered, dull pain tracing a path around his skull as he recalled the contempt in Ben’s eyes the last time they met at Merton’s house, when he had tried one last time to make Ben go. He had seen no trace then of love in Ben’s heart for him any more, the bond of friendship spurned, and the knowledge twisted painfully inside. For all that had happened between them, for all the anger and heartbreak and frustration, his own heart had stayed true: whatever the course he took, the love would always remain. Their bond was a gift from God, immutable, only now it felt like a burden and he no longer thanked God for it in his prayers.
On his way home the storm had begun to clear, rays of sunlight stabbing through gaps in the stream of clouds and lighting the puddles in the mud. Richard trod carefully, the way slick and treacherous. But he was in no hurry to reach Thieving Lane. His feet felt heavy, and there was no joy in his heart. He had seen Andrewes at the Abbey: Ben had been taken by the Archbishop’s men.
When he got to the Kemps’ the house was in turmoil. He stood just inside the door for a moment, bewildered. The servants ignored him, striding with purpose from room to room carrying bundles of linen or basins of water. Alice trotted down the stairs, watching her feet, and stopped short when finally she lifted her eyes from the ground and saw him. She was flushed and harried and wisps of hair had escaped the white linen cap. ‘You startled me!’ she said, an automatic hand clutching at her breast.
‘What in Heaven’s name is going on?’ he asked.
She glanced around her, as if only now noticing all the activity. ‘My uncle has taken ill,’ she said. ‘There is a physician with him now.’
‘Is it serious?’
She nodded. Then, with a sigh, she said, ‘He keeps asking for Ben.’
He said nothing, thinking Thomas Kemp would have been better to fall ill a week ago, when his son was free and at his sister’s.
‘We have sent a letter to Scrooby,’ Alice said.
‘It will take more than a letter,’ he murmured, so that the servant passing behind them with more candles for the sickroom would not hear. ‘I have just been at the Abbey. Ben is in prison.’
Alice was silent, slanting her eyes away from him. He could only guess at her thoughts.
‘Is Ellyn here?’
‘Upstairs, with her father. But perhaps you should speak with my aunt,’ she suggested. ‘Shall I fetch her?’
He nodded with a sigh, dreading the telling, more strain on Mistress Kemp’s already fragile nerves. Alice turned and hurried up the stairs and he wandered into the hall to wait. It was deserted now, the household’s attention taken by their master’s illness: the sick-chamber had become the new centre of the house. He hovered near the hearth, idly pacing, rehearsing the news in his mind. It seemed a long time before Mistress Kemp’s footsteps sounded on the stairs, light and rapid, and she appeared at the door with Alice at her shoulder. He was glad of Alice’s presence, a woman for support.
‘Richard.’ Emma Kemp greeted him with a fleeting absent smile, her thoughts still upstairs. ‘Alice says you have news I must hear?’ She flicked a glance across him but her focus was distracted, anxious only to get back to her husband.
Richard looked to Alice for aid, a way to break the news less painfully. The younger woman understood and ushered her aunt towards the chairs by the unlit fire, settling her carefully with cushions around her. Emma Kemp allowed herself to be arranged, then looked up at Richard expectantly. He drew a stool close, and Alice remained beside her.
‘I am sorry to bring you this news at such a time,’ he began. ‘I know your husband is gravely ill, but I’m afraid this cannot wait.’
She gasped with sudden understanding. ‘My son?’ she whispered.
He nodded. ‘Ben has been arrested. He was taken a few days ago. He is at Gainsborough Prison now.’
‘You are sure of this?’
‘I just came from the Abbey. The Dean told me himself.’ Andrewes had come across him by chance in the cloister, and had given him the news almost as an afterthought.
She slid her eyes away from him, searching the empty hearth, her hands twisting helplessly in her lap. ‘How long?’ she breathed. ‘For how long?’ She turned her head to see him again, but there was no hope in her eyes for an answer.
‘I don’t know,’ he replied, though he guessed Ben would not be released any time soon. ‘It’s for the Archbishop of York to decide.’
‘You must go to him,’ she said.
‘I cannot. Forgive me, but I cannot.’
She reached for his hand, grasped it in her own cold fingers. ‘But you must,’ she pleaded. ‘You must take him food and his Bible. You must counsel him and bring him home. Why can you not?’
‘It is impossible, madam. I cannot.’ What could he say? He flicked a desperate glance to Alice.
‘But why?’ she persisted. ‘You are his friend. His oldest friend. You cannot turn your back. He needs you …’
Alice laid a gentle hand on her aunt’s shoulder and Emma Kemp’s head swung round to her, surprised by her presence. ‘Come, Aunt,’ Alice said. ‘You are distraught. Perhaps you should rest now. It’s been a difficult day.’
Emma Kemp nodded, overcome by the griefs of her family, and biddable. Kindly, Alice helped her to her feet and guided her away towards the door. Richard watched them go with relief and only half returned the smile that Alice gave him before the door closed behind her and she disappeared from view.
He gave them a moment, waiting till he could no longer hear them on the stairs, Alice’s reassuring tones fading into silence. Then he followed them out, climbing to his own room quickly, wanting to be alone to pray.
He had barely begun when the door slammed open behind him. He spun round, startled by the crash. Ellyn was in the doorway, closing the door behind her. She was with child, he realised, her belly growing large. He wondered he had not noticed it before.
She was breathing hard, and not only from the effort of the stairs: her face was hard with anger, the same set he had seen so many times on Ben, mouth clamped shut, eyes both black and bright. Obviously Alice had told her the news. He got up from his knees and turned himself to face her.
‘You Judas!’ she spat. ‘What are you doing here? How dare you show your face after what you’ve done.’
‘I have done nothing,’ he breathed. Her fury quickened his heartbeat, and the injustice of the insult caused the blood to pound in his head. He reached a hand to the desk to steady himself.
‘You lie.’ She took two strides forward and when she spoke her voice was low. ‘How can you live with yourself?’ she breathed. ‘For two years you’ve taken my family’s hospitality, pretended to be a friend. I am almost glad my father is too ill to know the truth. He would be heartbroken. He thought of you like a son.’
‘I know what you think, Ellyn. You think I betrayed him. But I didn’t. As God is my witness, I love him still and it tears me in two. But I did not betray him.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ she said. ‘And neither would Ben.’
‘It grieves me to know that.’ He bit back the tears – it seemed a cruel irony. And still he did not know if he had done right, the conflict still raging in his thoughts and heart, absorbing all his prayers. Either way, he thought bitterly, it seemed he was to be punished.
She folded her arms and tilted her chin, the same contempt in her face he had seen in Ben. ‘I think you should leave this house,’ she said. ‘You are not welcome here any more, and my mother cannot bear any more heartbreak.’
He swallowed. He could think of no more words to defend himself. They faced each other across the small room and she waited, no softening of her stance, no glimmer of understanding.
‘I will go,’ he murmured finally, with a shrug. What other choice did he have? He let his gaze travel the room with regret – he had never lived anywhere so comfortable, and he had no idea where else he would go. ‘If that is your wish, I will go.’
‘It is my wish,’ she replied. ‘And the sooner the better.’
‘I am sorry you think so ill of me.’
‘Why did you come here in the first place, if not for this?’ She lifted her chin as though to look down on him. ‘Why did you not just stay away from him? Why come here at all if you did not mean to betray him?’
For a moment he thought about telling her the truth and trying to explain himself, to make her understand, but the scorn in her eyes was set and unchangeable: no words of his would ever alter her belief that he had only ever planned to betray her brother. Then he said, ‘It is a comfortable house. And very convenient for the Abbey.’
She let out a half breath of derision and set her lips in a line that was ugly with contempt. She said, ‘I will leave you to your packing, Doctor Clarke. Don’t bother to say goodbye.’
He watched her as she turned away to snatch open the door and heard the rapid footsteps in the passage, down the stairs as she returned to her father’s bedside. The house subsided once more into quiet anxiety with the servants’ voices hushed and the usual clatter muted. He had better stay at an inn tonight, he decided, and search for new lodgings on the morrow.
With a deep breath he shook off the weariness and forced himself to think about packing his few belongings.
Chapter 22
Winter 1606
For which cause we faint not, but though our outward man perish, yet the inward man is renewed day by day.
For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, worketh for vs a farre more exceeding and eternall waight of glory,
While we looke not at the things which are seene, but at the things which are not seene: for the things which are seene, are tempor
all, but the things which are not seene, are eternall.
(2 Corinthians 4:16–18)
* * *
Ben was released as the country blazed with bonfires to celebrate a year since the gunpowder treason. William Brewster came to get him and they rode away from the prison in silence under the watchful eyes of the guards. Outside the town and across the river, Ben drew rein and turned to his companion.
‘Did you bring food?’
Brewster smiled. ‘Of course.’ He reached behind him for a bundle and passed it across to Ben, who took it with trembling hands. His time in gaol had weakened him and the winter cold bit into his bones. He had not felt warmth in many weeks. But it was good to see the sky above him, however grey and menacing, to feel the damp air fresh against his skin, clean in his nostrils. He fumbled with the knot on the bundle, untying it with difficulty, and his hands were black against the whiteness of the linen cloth. In prison he had become immune to his own filth and the stench of his body, but outside he was suddenly aware of it, and filled with shame. He could hardly bear to hold the food in his fingers.
‘Eat a little bread and cheese,’ Brewster said. ‘It will give you strength for the journey. Then let’s get you home to a warm hearth, hot water, and some soup.’
Ben stuffed bread and cheese into his mouth, the first fresh food to pass his lips in weeks. He knew he must seem like an animal to Brewster but hunger drove him, and desperation for the strength the food would give him. His shrunken stomach churned but held the meal down, and slowly the trembling in his limbs began to ebb, energy returning to his muscles. When he had eaten all he could, his belly filling fast, he tied up what was left and gave the bundle back to Brewster, who fastened it behind his saddle. Then, as the first drops of rain began to fall, he drew his cloak tighter round him, and they set their horses along the road to Scrooby.
The King James Men Page 26