He prayed for hours, weeping, baring his soul before Christ, begging for some understanding, for a sign to guide him. Finally, when the bright coloured glass of the windows began to darken with the failing day and lose its lustre, he climbed once again to his feet, stumbling, his knees grown stiff from kneeling. He felt old and weary, and the prayer had brought him no joy. Candles had been lighted along the nave and on the altar, flames bobbing lightly in the draught as though they were dancing in rhythm. He shivered, noticing the cold with surprise. Then, with a last glance towards the darkening image of Christ in his Passion with the spear tip close to his side, the colours of the glass dull and greying, he turned from his prayers and went out into the bustle of the Westminster evening.
Chapter 27
Summer 1607
And the Lord spake vnto Moses, Goe vnto Pharaoh, and say vnto him; Thus sayeth the Lord, Let my people goe, that they may serue me.
(Exodus 8:1)
* * *
‘We have found a ship that will take us,’ Brewster said. At Scrooby Manor they were sitting at the table in the hall, the women clearing up the supper around them. With Brewster’s words they stopped their work and turned their attention towards him. The silence weighed heavy: this was news they had waited a long time to hear. Mistress Clyfton twisted the cloth between her hands but she was not the only one who was afraid. It was a terrible risk for all of them, the greatest test of their faith they had faced.
‘God be praised,’ Mistress Brewster breathed, reaching a hand to steady Mistress Clyfton’s writhing fingers. The other woman jumped, startled by the touch, and Ben heard her sharp intake of breath behind him.
‘What ship?’ His voice sounded loud in the hush.
‘It belongs to a cousin to one of the brethren at Gainsborough. He is captain of his own ship. I am told he plies the route to Holland often and knows the waters well.’
‘You’ve met him?’ Mistress Brewster still held Mistress Clyfton’s hand, keeping her steady.
‘Aye. Briefly.’
‘Can we trust him?’ Ben asked.
Brewster was a shrewd judge of character: years spent in the turbulent world of politics in London and his post as a bailiff had sharpened his judgement and made it keen. He tilted his head, considering before he spoke. ‘He seemed to me like a man who might be trusted for the right price.’
‘Then we must pray that no one offers him a better one,’ Ben replied. He kept his tone light but the fear behind it was real enough. The next few weeks would be dangerous, their every movement risky. It would take only one man to suspect them and they would be lost.
Brewster gave a wry smile. ‘Indeed we must.’
Silence fell, all thoughts on the dangers that lay ahead of them. He thought of Ellyn and his mother, tempted to ride south to say farewell. But he dare not take the risk. He would send a message.
‘Where will we go?’ he asked.
They had talked of it often, Ben and Brewster, and the younger William and Richard Clyfton, running through the possibilities, counting the Englishmen already there, the Dutchmen who might give them aid, trying to decide who best to turn to first. It was no small thing to shift a whole community to a foreign land, to house and feed and provide for so many, and they would need help to begin.
The women resumed their toil in silence, the hush interrupted only by the clatter of pots and water splashing. Love and Mary were summoned to help. Jonathan remained at the table with the men. He was the same age Ben’s son would have been had he lived: he was almost a man. Ben turned the cup of ale between his fingers on the table and tried not to think of it.
‘To Amsterdam,’ Brewster answered. ‘We can join with Johnson’s Ancient Church. They will give us succour and help us find our way.’ He turned to Ben. ‘You have friends there too. Will they help us?’
He nodded, and left off his turning of the cup. ‘It was many years ago. But they were godly people and I have no doubt they would aid us.’ Greta, he thought, and wondered if he would see her again.
‘How will we go?’ Jonathan asked. ‘How will so many travel to a harbour unnoticed?’
‘We will travel to the coast in several groups and meet at the place during darkness. The where and the when have yet to be decided and we will have to trust to our captain for that. But with God’s grace we will be gone by summer’s end.’
‘So soon?’ Mistress Clyfton had returned to the table, the same cloth still wringing in her hands.
‘We will leave in fair weather,’ her husband replied. ‘And the crossing will be smoother for it.’
Ben looked up. He had made the crossing more than once and knew the season was no guarantee against rough seas, but he kept his silence.
‘There is much to do before then,’ Brewster continued, ‘and we must begin to make ourselves ready.’
‘Then the others must be told.’
‘At the meeting tomorrow I will give out the news.’
One of the candles on the table guttered and died with a flicker. Ben turned his eyes towards it and watched the thin twist of smoke as it rose from the stub and disappeared into the air above them.
At the meeting there were many who were absent. In the light summer evenings the way was more dangerous, and for the farmers among them there was work to be done while the light lasted. But enough had come that the word could be passed to the others, and at the appointed time Brewster began the worship with a prayer.
Ben lowered his head to listen, his soul growing light with God’s tenderness. The room seemed filled with His presence, a warmth and joy that suffused him, a growing completeness within him as the words touched him with their call to God.
Brewster finished the prayer and moved on to a passage from the Holy Scripture.
‘Therefore I say unto you,’ Brewster read, ‘be not careful for your life, what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink: nor yet for your body, what ye shall put on. Is not the life more worth than meat? and the body than raiment?’
Ben raised his head and cast his eyes across the hall, saw the worshippers all about him standing rapt, held in the palm of God’s hand. He knew each of them, their struggles and fears, the hardships of their daily lives and all of it forgotten in their devotion to God. They came from all walks of life – servants and artisans, tenant farmers and labourers, merchants, drapers, blacksmiths. They were his family now, a community of brothers and sisters in God; he trusted each and every one of them.
One of the girls caught his glance and smiled shyly: the blacksmith’s daughter, lately become a woman. He half smiled in return then slid his eyes away – she was young enough to be his daughter. But she would grow to womanhood in safety now, and her life would not be blighted by fear and danger.
‘Behold the fowls of the heaven: for they sow not, neither reap, nor carry into the barns, yet your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are ye not much better then they?
‘Learn how the lilies of the field do grow: they are not wearied, neither spin:
‘Yet I say unto you, that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.
‘Wherefore if God so clothe the grass of the field which is today, and tomorrow is cast into the oven, shall he not do much more unto you, O ye of little faith?
‘Therefore take no thought, saying, What shall we eat? or what shall we drink? or wherewith shall we be clothed?
‘For your heavenly Father knoweth that ye have need of all these things.
‘But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness, and all these things shall be ministered unto you.’
In Holland they would be free. God would care for them on the journey as he had cared for the Israelites on their search for the Promised Land. They would face adversity and danger, but they had one another and their faith was strong, their lives dedicated to Christ. They would trust themselves to God and He would be their strength and shield.
After worship was finished Brewster addressed them again. ‘We have found a ship,’ he sai
d.
The effect was immediate. Everyone began to talk at once, expressions ranging from delighted to eager to scared. Ben stood on the outside and watched, guessing that some there that night would prove too fearful to leave, the terror of uncertainty greater than their faith. In his prayers he would ask God to lend them strength in their weakness. The blacksmith’s daughter sought him out again with her eyes – he could see the excitement and the fear, cheeks flushed at the prospect of a new life, a new beginning in a promised land where they would be free. The voices died away as Brewster lifted a hand to call for quiet.
‘We have found a ship that will take us to Amsterdam before the summer’s end,’ he said. ‘Do nothing yet, but pass the word to the others to prepare themselves. I will speak with each of you in the coming days to make our plans.’
‘What is the ship?’ someone asked.
‘An experienced man,’ Brewster answered. ‘A cousin to one of the brethren at Gainsborough.’
‘Can we trust him?’ another man asked. The same question Ben had asked, the question all of them feared most.
‘We are in God’s hands.’
The hubbub began again, doubts voiced amid the excitement. A woman big with her first child began to wail. ‘How will I go? I cannot, I cannot, not now, not till after, the danger is too great …’
Brewster threw a glance to his wife, who went to the woman with a reassuring hand on her arm, a soothing voice. The wailing quieted to sobs but her cries had kindled the fears in the others.
‘It is too soon,’ another man said, one of the tenant farmers in their midst. ‘How can we sell off our livestock in time without notice? How will we live unless we do?’
Brewster raised his hands again, appealing once more for calm.
‘Have faith,’ he said softly. ‘Take heed of the Scripture and God will provide for us. God will provide and protect us.’ He took a deep breath, but his words had served to reassure and quiet them. ‘But for now,’ he went on, ‘the hour is late and it is time we sought our beds. Go with God, all of you, and we will talk again soon. Pass the word to our brothers.’
In small groups the worshippers drifted out of the hall and into the dying moments of the twilight. Ben followed them into the yard and stood beyond the reach of the torches to watch the stars slowly light up the heavens. One by one they glimmered through the fabric of the darkening sky: the same stars that Christ had looked upon, unchanging, constant.
It was a wondrous sight. Joy in God’s creation filled him, the blessed ecstasy of the love of Christ, a oneness with God he would willingly die for.
The soft voices of the others drifted back to him in snatches as they turned along the lane towards the village. He waited till the last voice faded into silence before he turned back inside the welcoming light of the hall.
Soon they would be free.
Chapter 28
Summer 1607
Yea mine owne familiar friend, in whom I trusted, which did eate of my bread, hath lifted vp his heele against me.
(Psalms 41:9)
* * *
Late in the afternoon when the promise of summer had reverted once more to spring and a cold wind whistled across Broad Sanctuary, Richard made his way to find Lancelot Andrewes at the palace at Whitehall. He walked slowly, with trepidation, and his knees were sore from the hours he had spent on them. But no sign had come to him, no word from God to help him, and he had stumbled to his feet in the end just as torn inside.
At the palace his clerical garb gained him admittance. He barely knew the way to Andrewes’s rooms: he had been there only once, and he had to ask a passing liveried servant for directions. The young man looked him up and down and sighed, but then led him back along the way he had just come. Richard looked about him as they walked, no longer fretting about finding his way.
Whitehall had been the residence of kings for centuries; fine artworks covered the walls, and cabinets held treasures from all parts of the globe. Everything here was fine, grand, kingly, and for the first time he truly understood the smallness of his role in England’s life. He felt unworthy in his vicar’s robes and he was acutely aware of the ink on his hands, like a schoolboy who had made a mess of his work.
Following his guide up a staircase, he came to a gallery that looked out over the tilt yard. Though it was empty now, it was easy to imagine the knights on fine horses, and ladies bejewelled and dazzling handing out their favours. The ceiling was of gold, and a huge portrait of Moses gazed down on them as they hurried along on their earthly business. This was the home of God’s anointed king. No wonder Andrewes felt himself as humble, sinful, unworthy, when he moved among such reminders of God’s magnificence every day.
Richard rotated his head, his neck stiff from looking up at all the wonders. Long ago he had aspired to reach these heights, to advance in the church like Andrewes, to be a bishop one day and welcome in these walls, loved here and respected. As a young man at Cambridge it had all seemed possible – he had possessed the skills and the ambition, his tutors had seen his promise. But his choice of friends had let him down. It was not only Ben’s wife and child that had paid for Ben’s faith.
They turned along another corridor. Two women in bright silks cut low across their bosoms hurried past them, giggling. He turned to watch them disappear and almost bumped into the servant, who had stopped before a door to knock. He stood back to let Richard approach. ‘In there,’ he said. ‘That is where you’ll find him.’
He took a deep breath, recalled his scattered thoughts to focus and stepped through the door. Inside was a north-facing chamber, small and ill-lit: no sun ever penetrated here. But a good fire blazed in the hearth and the room was pleasant. Fine tapestries hung on the walls, Turkey rugs covered the floor and Andrewes sat at a massive oak desk that was neatly strewn with books and papers. There was no ink on the Bishop’s fingers and Richard felt slightly ashamed.
‘Doctor Clarke.’ The Bishop motioned to a chair by the desk, but the nerves of his errand made Richard too restless to sit so he stood beside it, one hand working round the warm timber of its back.
‘I received your message,’ Andrewes said, pouring Rhenish for them both. ‘You said it was a matter of some importance?’
‘Yes,’ Richard agreed. He stepped forward to take the glass then stepped back to his place by the chair.
Andrewes’s shrewd eyes levelled for a moment, considering. Then he said, ‘What can I help you with?’
‘I have spent many hours in prayer today, My Lord, asking for God’s help,’ he said. ‘But He has chosen not to answer me, and so I have come to you.’
The Bishop gave a rueful smile. ‘Over the years,’ he said, ‘I have found that when God seems not to answer my prayers that He usually has a good reason. Most often, I have realised, it is because I already know the answer, but it is an answer I do not want. So I keep praying in the hope that God will allow me to take an easier path.’
Richard nodded, recognising the truth of the words. It was exactly as Andrewes said.
‘It is no easy thing to be a Christian, Doctor Clarke. The way is narrow and few there are that find it.’ He put down his glass on the desk and made a steeple of his fingers before his lips, regarding his visitor with wise, clear eyes. ‘May I venture to ask what is troubling you?’
He sighed. He had known the conversation could only go one way but still he was reluctant. The narrow gate, he reminded himself, is not easy to find. He lowered himself into the chair, watching the wine swish in the fragile glass in his hand, searching his heart one last time before it was too late.
‘Doctor Clarke?’
‘Ben Kemp, My Lord.’ Lifting his eyes to meet the Bishop’s, he met pity, and he looked away, embarrassed.
‘You have information?’ Andrewes asked.
He tilted his head in assent but said nothing.
The Bishop said, ‘Come, Doctor Clarke, you have made your decision or you would not be here. So now you must tell me what it is you know.’
And so he came to it at last, the moment of betrayal – giving up Ben to prove his faith. He hoped he was passing the test, that serving God’s Church in England demanded nothing less, and he could do no other. He swallowed, his mouth dry, heart racing.
‘He is planning to leave England, My Lord,’ he said, softly. ‘The whole congregation at Scrooby is planning to leave for Holland by summer’s end. They are searching for a ship that will take them.’
It was done. At last it was done, but he felt no relief, only a sadness unlike any he had ever known, a loss that felt like a part of him. He would have given anything but his soul to spare his friend. Weary with masked emotion, he sat back in the chair and drank off the sweet, strong wine. He had eaten nothing since morning and he felt his head go light. ‘Would it not be a mercy just to let them go, My Lord,’ he asked, ‘and be free of them?’
Andrewes raised his eyebrows and gave an equivocal tilt of his head. ‘That is not for us to decide. The law is the law.’
‘Of course, My Lord,’ he replied. ‘I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise.’
‘I understand. And …’ The Bishop opened his hands, making circular gestures with his long white fingers. ‘I can see the merit in what you say, but we are commanded to be obedient to our masters. The king is after all ordained by God. It is a teaching our dissident friends would do well to heed. For all their insistence on sola Scriptura they do seem to pick and choose which teachings to obey.’
‘I have thought the same thing, My Lord.’
‘And you have spent more time arguing the point than most I would guess.’
‘Indeed.’
‘So I can understand you would like to see him gone across the narrow sea. He has brought no little trouble to your door.’
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