Brewster said, ‘I think we can no longer go on as we are.’
Ben shifted forward in his chair. He was warmed now from the fire and the wine, his shirt steaming slightly in the heat. He had been tired before but Brewster’s words sparked a new liveliness.
‘Have you made plans?’
Brewster nodded. ‘We have begun, but it’s no small undertaking to find safe passage for so many.’
‘God will find us a way,’ he said, and smiled. His heart lightened, joy rippling through it – he could honour his promise to his father in good faith. ‘Surely God will find us a way.’
Brewster answered the smile.
It was good to be home.
Chapter 26
Spring 1607
Behold, I stand at the doore, and knocke: if any man heare my voyce, and open the doore, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me. To him that ouercommeth, will I graunt to sit with mee in my throne, euen as I also ouercame, and am set downe with my Father in his throne. Hee that hath an eare, let him heare what the Spirit saith vnto the Churches.
(Revelation 3:20–22)
* * *
Thomson waylaid him as Richard strolled across Broad Sanctuary on his way towards the Abbey. It was a glorious day, early spring teasing with a promise of the warmth to come, the last dregs of winter losing their hold on the season. Windblown wisps of cloud brushed across a turquoise sky, and the mid-morning sun blazed in all her glory, striking the puddles with a blinding light. Absorbed in the beauty of God’s day, Richard failed to see Thomson approaching until it was too late.
‘Doctor Clarke.’ Thomson’s greeting was effusive as he waddled his bulk across Richard’s path, forcing him to stop. The pleasure of the morning slipped away and a hard-edged coldness took its place; the pretence at civility sickened him.
‘Doctor Thomson.’
‘You are on your way to the library?’
He nodded. There was no point in lying: he was carrying his books and papers.
‘As am I.’ Thomson smiled.
He stifled a sigh, all his will to work lost in an instant.
‘We shall walk together.’ Thomson stepped to one side then fell in beside him, and they made their way to the Abbey. Two harlots passed them arm in arm, giggling, and one of them blew a kiss their way.
‘Friends of yours?’ Richard couldn’t help asking.
The older man laughed, apparently untroubled by the slur. ‘Well, I doubt very much it was you they recognised.’
‘I should think not.’ He lifted his gaze to follow them as they passed, the painted faces, their breasts pushed up, ankles on display beneath the gaudy skirts. It should not have surprised him that they were familiar with Thomson – he had no illusions about the other man’s character. But his brazenness never failed to appal him, that a man of the Church and a king’s translator could have sunk so far into sin and be so unrepentant.
Thomson acknowledged the women with a wave of his hand and they moved on, satisfied.
‘Not your type?’ Thomson turned to Richard, still smiling. ‘Ah yes, that’s right. I remember. You are spoken for now, are you not? A prior claim on your virginity. You are to be congratulated. I didn’t think you had it in you, to be honest.’
Richard stopped in his tracks, breathing hard. His fingers tightened their hold on the books he carried, and he was uncomfortably aware of the quickness of his heartbeat. The casual disparagement of his virtue by a man so wicked enraged him. ‘You disgust me,’ he spat, with all the venom he could muster, and all the force of the months of resentment. ‘You are unfit for the task we do. Unfit to belong to the Church. God’s Word is defiled in your mouth.’
Thomson stared, shocked, and for once at a loss for words.
‘When I look at you,’ Richard went on, the tide of his anger still flowing, ‘I see all the corruptions of the Church that men like Ben Kemp despise, and yet you would sit in judgement on others for their way of faith. The wages of sin is death and I have yet to meet anyone more sinful than you.’
Thomson was still silent, tilting his head to one side and considering, as though pondering the truth of the other man’s words.
‘I have lost my appetite to work in the library,’ Richard said. ‘The company has spoilt it.’ Then he turned on his heel and strode swiftly away, leaving Thomson to stare after him in surprise. Only when Westminster was far behind him did he slow his pace, anger waning finally and leaving in its place a tired and disappointed lethargy. He sat down on the grassy bank and watched the river flowing past him out to sea, bearing away the detritus of London. On the south bank and a little way upstream he could see the palace at Lambeth, home to the head of the Church for more than five hundred years. With a sigh he turned his face away from it, staring instead downriver, towards the freedom of the sea.
His outburst had probably been foolish and he suspected he would pay for it later, his loyalties in doubt once more, murmurs circulating. But Thomson’s wickedness sickened him – it was not enough that a man should be loyal to the Church when his soul was so steeped in sin. And part of him was proud of himself for speaking up; Thomson’s depravity had gone unchallenged for far too long.
He sat for a long while in the morning sun, still too riled and too tired to think about work. It was pleasant on the grass, the spring breeze still warm and the trees coming into leaf all around him, new and vivid green. The river flowed by unchanging, oblivious to the vicissitudes of men, and boats of all sizes and shapes rowed past carrying their cargos to the ships docked at Tilbury that would bear them east or south, to Europe or the Middle East, the Holy Land. Places Ben had been to. Richard followed the voyage in his mind, trying to imagine the weeks and months at sea, the bright and sacred land at the journey’s end.
A bank of dark clouds edged towards him from across the river, chasing the sun, and he shivered in the sudden chill. Reluctantly, and scanning the sky for signs of coming rain, he gathered up his books and papers and got to his feet. Perhaps Thomson would have left the library by now, he thought. Perhaps he could do some work after all. With that thought in mind and his books tucked under one arm, he set off along the riverbank and retraced his steps towards the Abbey.
At the meeting Richard sat as far away from Thomson as he could, but he was on the outside of all of the Company. In spite of his skill with Hebrew he knew his presence was barely tolerated, and without Andrewes he doubted the others would have admitted him at all. Not one man among them spoke to him; not one would meet his eye. He was silent, watching as the others settled themselves in readiness, chatting amongst themselves, and he remembered his delight when Bancroft had offered him the post at Canterbury, the short flicker of hope that his days on the outside were over. He should have stayed in Kent, he reflected, away from the corridors of power, away from Ben Kemp, and kept on with his simple life. But his pride in his Hebrew, his ambition, had led him from the narrow path; his own sin had brought him here, and all he prayed for now was forgiveness.
Then the day’s work began and such regrets were forgotten, his passion for the words effacing all the hardship: all that mattered was the sacred Word of Scripture. He hoped he was still worthy for such work, that his sinful soul would not defile it.
Bishop Andrewes read out the line from the Bishops’ Bible.
‘And after the earthquake came fire, but the Lorde was not in the fire:
And after the fire, came a small still voice.’
No one spoke for a moment, each man considering the words. Then Thomson broke the silence. ‘It is a good translation, but yet …’
The others waited. In spite of Thomson’s drunkenness, the others had respect for his skill with Hebrew. Thomson’s weaknesses were borne with a good grace that still infuriated Richard, as though a man’s intelligence could compensate for a sinful life. He recalled again what he had said to Thomson outside the Abbey a few days since; though anger bubbled at the recollection, he still felt a slight sense of pride in his response. Fo
r once, he had told the truth as he saw it and Thomson had had no answer to his words.
‘Qol does not have to mean “voice,”’ Thomson was saying now. ‘It can also mean “sound,” and if I recall correctly, we have also translated it as “thunder.”’
‘Where did we do so?’ Overall asked.
‘Exodus 19:16.’
There was a silence. Then Richard said, ‘But d’mamah means “still” and daqqah means “gentle,” so how can we then translate qol as “thunder”?’
Thomson opened his hands in a conciliatory gesture. ‘I’m not saying that voice is wrong. I’m just pointing out that there are other readings that are possible.’
‘It is true,’ Andrewes said, ‘that qol has many readings. But I think Doctor Clarke has the right of it. The context surely indicates it is a quiet sound. God speaks through the gentleness of His son, not through the terrors of earthquake and fire. It is the quiet call of the Gospel that calls men to do His will, against the thunder of the law.’
Richard was silent: the still, small voice was hard to hear sometimes – too still, too small, the call to his soul unclear. He had prayed and listened over and over in the past few months, begging for answers, but still no voice had come. Glancing round, he wondered if the other translators ever doubted as he did, if God’s voice sometimes eluded them too. Then he thought of Ben, always so sure of God’s wishes, and envied him his certainty.
The other men were nodding, satisfied with the Bishop’s explanation. Andrewes’s glance circled the table, inviting comment, and Richard signalled his agreement.
‘So are we agreed, gentlemen, that we shall translate qol as “voice”?’ When no one answered, the Bishop asked each man to read out in turn his own interpretation. Apart from Thomson’s, all of them were similar, and barely different from the best of the Bibles that had gone before. Finally they married the best of all their contributions, and Doctor Layfield, who was scribe for the day, wrote down the line:
And after the earthquake, a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire: and after the fire, a still small voice.
They waited as he wrote, the quill scratching in the silent room, and when he was finished they went on again to the next line.
Afterwards he left quickly, so the others would have no opportunity to shun him further. Wistfully, he recalled the sumptuous suppers in the deanery before Andrewes’s elevation to Bishop, when he, Richard, was still hopeful for his future.
In a dream, he walked blindly and his feet automatically traced the path towards Thieving Lane, instinct choosing the well-known road. He was almost at the Kemps’ before he realised where he was and he pulled up short, wheeling on the spot to walk back the way he had come. He had only gone a little way back up the lane when Alice appeared at his side, breathless from her haste to catch up with him. He slowed his steps, anger bending into pleasure at her presence. Thomson and his insults were almost forgotten.
‘Doctor Clarke,’ Alice breathed, her cheeks flushed from running. ‘What brings you here?’
He stopped and turned to face her, drawing back into the lea of the house behind him, out of the road. A loaded cart trundled past, a sway-backed horse sweating with the weight of it. Alice moved with him, their bodies almost touching.
‘I’ve told you before, Alice.’ He smiled. ‘You must call me Richard.’
She laughed and dropped her eyes. ‘Forgive me. Richard. But you have been Doctor Clarke for such a long time …’
‘And old habits die hard?’
‘They do indeed.’
He smiled and offered her his arm, and they strolled back along the lane towards the Abbey, their bodies close and touching with each step.
‘So what brought you to Thieving Lane?’ she asked again.
‘I …’ He stopped, sensing the truth would sound idiotic but unable to think of a lie that sounded better. He said, ‘I was in a dream. I had no thought for where I was going.’
‘And yet you came to me,’ she replied. ‘I am flattered.’
He was silent but he was touched by her delight.
‘And I’m very glad you did. I hoped to find you later at the Abbey – there is something I have to tell you.’
‘What news?’ They had reached Broad Sanctuary. Small groups of people stood in knots before the Abbey, talking, trading, arguing. They stopped close by the Abbey door and stood with the sun on their faces. After the long winter chill the heat felt like a luxury. The harlots were nowhere to be seen. ‘What news do you have for me?’
He touched the tips of his fingers to hers and felt the frisson of her shiver. She was looking up at him, her brow furrowed with concentration, and if they had been somewhere less public he might have kissed her. Thomson’s insult rankled again at the back of his thoughts. He should marry her here and now, he thought, and take her to their marriage bed right away. But the Translation was not yet done and married life was sadly many weeks away.
‘I have news of Ben,’ she said.
He let go of her hand, stepped back, all desire for her consumed in a mix of dread and irritation. Damn Ben Kemp, he thought. Must he always ruin everything?
‘What now?’ he asked. ‘What is it now?’
‘He is leaving for Holland,’ she murmured.
‘God be praised.’ Finally it was over. He was free at last and Ben would no more be in danger. He could have wept with relief. He lifted his eyes towards Heaven and the beginnings of a prayer of thanks touched his lips.
But Alice had not finished speaking. ‘Not as a merchant with papers,’ she whispered, looking around, making sure no one but Richard could hear her words. ‘Not as his father wished it.’ She squeezed his fingers, brought his gaze back to her face. ‘The whole congregation is fleeing, Richard. The whole congregation.’
Relief slid into dismay. Why had Alice brought him this news? Why? ‘How do you know this?’ he asked, hoping that maybe she was mistaken, that perhaps it was not true.
She dropped her gaze away. ‘I heard Ellyn and her husband talking. A message came.’
An unwelcome image of Alice at a doorway, eavesdropping, spilled across his thoughts. He suppressed a shudder.
‘I didn’t mean to listen in … I just happened to be there, to overhear.’
‘It was a letter from Ben?’
She nodded.
‘And you’re sure of it?’
‘Yes. I’m sure. They plan to be gone by summer’s end.’
He looked down at the small woman at his side, her face gazing up at him, serious and questioning, and wished she had not told him.
‘I thought you would want to know,’ she said.
He nodded. ‘Yes. Thank you.’ It was all he had ever wanted, for Ben to be far away. Seven years in Aleppo had seemed like a gift. But not like this. Not like this, illegally, as a criminal. Why did he not go when his father bid him, as a merchant with papers? Why must he choose to go now when it was forbidden?
‘But they are not allowed to go,’ Alice said. He saw the confusion in her eyes, and bewilderment.
He was silent, gaze resting in the distance beyond her shoulder, seeing nothing but the visions of his nightmare – Ben naked and in chains, his own begging for forgiveness and Hell at his back.
‘He is your kinsman, Alice.’ He forced the images to the corner of his mind, brought his attention back to her. ‘And you have never been inside a gaol.’ Perhaps she would be less eager if she knew the horrors of a prison cell, if she truly knew what she was asking. But she was right, of course. They were not allowed to go. Ben’s congregation had no case in law for fleeing England’s shores. It was an act against their king, against the realm, against the Church. The Church that Richard served. He could not just turn away.
‘I did not mean that you should …’ She trailed off, uncertain. ‘I only meant … can you not stop him from going? Make him see sense?’
He almost smiled at her innocence. ‘Oh, Alice. Alice, my dear. You have no idea what you are asking, what ill news you have b
rought me.’
He swallowed down a rising sense of dread, the decision to be made. It was a test, he knew. A test of his faith. The love that Christ commanded for a brother, or obedience to God’s Church. Indecision crippled him. He did not know which way to fall, which path would lead to his salvation, which path would lead to Hell. Panic thrilled inside him, his eternal soul at stake.
‘I will pray for guidance,’ he said. ‘Then I will do as I must.’
She smiled, still uncertain, and a single cloud passed across the sun, slipping them into shadow. Without its heat the day turned cold. He shivered.
‘We will speak again,’ he said. ‘Soon.’
She stepped away from him with another smile and a nod of farewell, and he watched her quick, short stride back the way they had come until her narrow form disappeared out of sight. Then he turned and made his way towards St Margaret’s, where he hoped to find peace to pray. There, on his knees, and the world around him forgotten, he pleaded with God for an answer.
I worship Thee and humble myself under Thy mighty hand. Have mercy upon me, O Lord, and bring me out of my trouble. Lighten my eyes that I walk not in darkness, wretched sinner that I am.
I have lost my way, O Lord, and I know not which way to turn. All my certainties I have come to doubt.
I only want to serve you, Lord. Show me the way, and teach me the path. Lead me forth in Thy truth and teach me, for Thou art the God of my salvation.
Thou knowest my foolishness and my weakness. Thou knowest too my love for Thee, my love for Ben. But what must I do to serve Thee? I am so afraid to fail Thee, Lord, afraid that in my foolishness I will mistake the path, and fall from Thee. I am just a poor sinner, and I cannot find the way. Thy Church demands a betrayal but my heart rebels against it.
Why have You given me this burden? Why have You given me this choice? Help me, Lord, I beg of You. Grant me strength and wisdom to take the path of righteousness …
The King James Men Page 30