‘He was my friend.’
‘And your diligence in serving him is to be commended. But sometimes we best serve our friends in ways that seem harsh. Like the discipline of a child to make a better man of him. Saint Augustine warns us that desire to please a friend can lead us into sin. After all, it was Adam’s wish to make Eve happy that made him take the apple.’ The long face crinkled into a smile. ‘But I understand it is not easy to do.’
Richard’s fingers worked around the stem of the wine glass gently. He still felt no sense of relief, still the same dread he had erred. Even here in the company of Andrewes, whose piety he had never doubted. He waited for the Bishop to continue.
‘You had no choice but to tell me,’ Andrewes said. ‘The Separatists have set themselves apart from everything the king holds dear, and everything the English Church believes. They question the king’s authority, the authority of the Church, and they encourage others to step outside the fold with their writings and their preaching. So how can we allow them to flaunt the law and get away with it? How can we let such things go unpunished?’
Andrewes paused and leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, clasping his hands. The amethyst in his bishop’s ring caught the light of the candle and glinted.
‘The congregations must be broken up. It must be known that England will not tolerate nonconformity.’ He sighed. ‘Holland is not so very far away after all. We know from experience that exiled dissenters have a way of returning to our shores to preach their falsehoods, to spread their malcontent. And we also know that they use Dutch freedoms to publish their heresies and spread them to the people here in England. We cannot risk such things.’
Richard nodded again. His duty done, he wanted to be gone. The justifications he had heard before. He knew them to be true – they were the reasons that had brought him here – but he was too sad and tired to discuss them now.
‘Master Kemp has chosen his own path, Doctor Clarke, and he knows the risks as well as any. You must not hold yourself responsible for his fate. You have done more for him than any man has a right to expect.’
He said nothing. The praise seemed hollow to him now and his skin felt tainted. Draining the last drops of his wine, he stood up to go. In the distance he heard the Abbey bell strike the hour, the chimes drifting on the wind in their direction.
‘Supper time,’ Andrewes said, rising from his chair with an alacrity that was always startling in a man of his age, moving briskly around the edge of the desk. ‘Come, dine with me. I would welcome the company.’
Richard started to shake his head to demur but the Bishop refused to take no for an answer, laying a pale hand on Richard’s arm. ‘You may tell me your thoughts on the Second Book of Kings over another glass or two of Rhenish,’ he insisted. ‘And I believe there is trout.’
‘As you wish, My Lord,’ Richard acquiesced. Then, with an aching heart that craved the solitude of prayer, doubt still circling that he had made the right decision, he allowed the Bishop to steer him through a door by the fireplace that led to a dining chamber beyond.
Chapter 29
Summer 1607
And Iacob vowed a vow, saying, If God will be with me, and will keepe me in this way that I goe, and will giue me bread to eate, and raiment to put on, so that I come againe to my fathers house in peace: then shall the LORD be my God.
(Genesis 28:20–21)
* * *
The days passed quickly, the cycle of life unchanged as the congregation prepared in secret for their journey. But it was harder to set to the usual tasks of summer. Though they brought in the hay as always, the vegetable garden was barely tended: there was no pickling and preserving, no cheese- nor butter-making, no planning for the months beyond summer’s end. Each day took them closer to their promised land, every moment loaded with God’s promise of deliverance. They had waited many years in the wilderness, praying for the new Jerusalem in England, but God had set their path a different way.
July turned to August and the children helped with the winter oats, excused from their lessons, every hand needed for the harvest. Ben relished the work, using to the full the body God gave him, muscles aching at the end of each day, a good sleep each night earned by his labour. But a part of him grieved, as he guessed all of them grieved, to leave their homes and all that was loved and familiar. Many had never even left the Midlands before, their lives bound by the village of their birth, and they were fearful of a strange land, strange customs, an unknown tongue. He had no fear of what was to come, Holland a familiar world to him, but he knew the pain of exile and the longing for England’s shores that would never leave them.
‘We will find our peace in God,’ he told them. ‘In the company of a true and faithful people, gathered in His name. We are coming home at last to be with God, free and safe, our exile almost done. Trust in the Lord, and He will be our strength and shield. Do not fear, but have faith and believe.’
All of them knew the truth of it but it was hard to keep faith, so much uncertainty ahead of them, so much unknown, and they asked him many questions about his time in Amsterdam: what sort of city was it? What sort of people? He reassured them as best as he could.
‘The people are not so different from us, the same fears, the same dreams. And Holland is a godly place.’ His memories of Amsterdam were mostly happy, Greta treading through his thoughts, and pleasure mingled with repentance for youthful sins. He had been so full of hope, his faith still new and untested, and Holland was a haven of freedom. He had never been inside a prison cell, never known the fear of torture. With the prideful self-belief of youth, it had seemed that everything was possible then, and though he had struggled often with the weakness of his lust he had known true joy also, God’s love vibrating through him, the joy of longing and desire that was the ecstasy of faith.
Greta. He wondered if he would see her again, and if she would still rouse the same sinful desires. She would be married now with children of her own, he guessed, and they would be similar in years to the age his son would have been, had he lived. He shook his head against the thought of it: such musings did no good.
As the summer drew on and the day drew nearer, details were arranged, dates and times and places. Some of their number backed away, the leap of faith too great to make, their trust in God too unsure. The blacksmith was one of them, and Ben saw the disappointment in his daughter’s face as he, Ben, tried in vain to talk her father round.
‘We have a good life here,’ the blacksmith argued. ‘God provides for us well.’
‘You must have faith.’
‘I can have faith here. In safety. Not for myself but for them …’ He lifted his chin towards the house, his wife and daughters.
‘I will pray for you,’ Ben told the girl as he left the forge for the final time. ‘Have faith and do not give up hope.’
She gave him no answer, but only turned her eyes away.
The Brewster family group was among the last to set out on a warm August morning. To all of them it seemed a good sign, God blessing their flight with the sun and an easy road. But it was still a hard way to leave, with most of their goods abandoned. Though some had managed to sell their chattels, doing so carried the risk of drawing attention, and Brewster had sold off little more than the livestock. They would face new hardships at their journey’s end, reliant on others for aid.
Love cried as they left the manor house behind, aware of the gravity of the journey and all that she was leaving, but riding in front of Ben on the great black mare, safe between his arms, was a rare treat and a distraction from her tears. He made the journey an adventure, telling her for the first time about his voyage to the East, about the life in Amsterdam they would have. Then together they recalled the journey of the Hebrews out of Egypt and the hardships they endured before they reached the Promised Land.
‘We are God’s chosen people too, aren’t we?’ She turned her head to look up at him with serious eyes. ‘On the way to a promised land.’
; He smiled down at her. ‘That’s right,’ he replied. ‘Holland is our promised land. And in Holland we will be free.’
Mistress Brewster, riding alongside, caught the words and smiled.
It was a long journey, and their hope and trust in the Lord was tempered by fear of what was to come. They travelled slowly, making the best of the long summer days as their road snaked across the flat green pastures of the Midlands, ancient hedgerows of hawthorn and holly alongside the lanes, and wild blackberries ripe and tempting. Love was enthralled as Ben rode Bessie close to the hedge so she could reach out from her place in front of him and pick the berries as they passed, plucking the best ones that had always been out of reach before.
‘Like manna from Heaven,’ she told him. ‘God providing for us on our journey.’
But mostly they rode in silence, thoughts turning on their danger, and their loss. For all of them grieved to go, to leave everything they had ever known and loved. Holland was a foreign place, with a different language, different customs, and they, arriving there with nothing but their faith to sustain them. Truly, being Christian was no easy thing. But they had done as Christ commanded: they had forsaken themselves and taken up their crosses to follow Him. They were in His hands and, if they trusted, He would provide.
As they rode, Ben thought often of his sister and her child, the children yet to come that he would never see. He thanked God she had found some happiness – a good husband, a comfortable life. She was well provided for and he had no need for worry on her account. He was glad he had helped her to marry even though he lost his inheritance because of it. Resentment had been pointless, he knew now, merely sinful yearning after earthly wealth that meant nothing beside the riches of God.
Love spotted more berries and he drew the mare close to the hedgerow. He held the girl’s waist as she leaned across to pick out the best and the juiciest, offering some to him with a smile. He took a couple, and blinked at the tartness as they burst in his mouth. They would have been better, he thought, in a pie with some sugar.
‘Do they have blackberries in Holland?’ the girl asked.
‘Yes, they do. And mulberries too.’
‘I’m glad,’ she murmured, her mouth still full, her fingers stained purple by the juice. ‘They’re very good. I’d be sad if we couldn’t have them any more.’
He smiled and they rode on, catching up easily to the others.
They sold their horses in Lincoln. Ben got a good price for Bessie but he was sad to see her go. She had served him well and faithfully, and he hoped she would be well cared for. The rest of the way they made on foot, slower and more wearisome, their meagre baggage weighing heavy on their shoulders. On the second day of walking they spotted the great church tower at Boston beckoning them in across the flat country of the Fens. It would still be many hours before they reached it but they took it as a sign, a symbol of the new church they would build in Amsterdam, the new Jerusalem.
They arrived in the late afternoon, weary and footsore. The children were silent and unsmiling; the adventure had become an ordeal. The adults were in a sombre mood too – the moment of reckoning was almost upon them, the most dangerous hours of their journey just ahead. They took supper in a roadside inn a little way outside the town, a simple meal of bread and cheese, cold pork and ale, but Ben had no appetite, his belly tight with nerves, and he picked at the food without interest. It was the last time he would break bread on England’s shores, and the knowledge saddened him. They would never now forge a true Church in England; the realm was lost.
His thoughts turned to Richard, serving masters such as Bancroft and Andrewes, his love of God subsumed by worldly ends, the truth eclipsed by his ambition, his desire for earthly gains. Their argument was over now and their friendship all but dead, but it gladdened him to know that Richard had not betrayed him after all.
After supper they rested, waiting for the beginnings of the twilight that would cloak the last miles of their journey. The time passed cruelly slowly, and though Ben tried to pray, his mind wandered often. His heart was heavy with nerves, and the enforced inactivity was difficult to bear.
Finally, slowly, outside the tiny latticed window the light began to fade. Brewster settled the bill with the landlord and the little party made its way out to the street, bending their footsteps towards the shore for the last stage of their overland journey. Ben held Love’s hand as they walked, shortening his stride to keep pace with her quick, determined steps.
Others had reached the beach before them, sitting silently on the windblown grass at its border, the water lapping gently further out, grey and foreboding, a metallic sheen across its surface that reflected the dying sun. Few words were spoken. Even Love’s surprise at the sight of the sea was silently expressed: a delighted smile as she turned to Ben, her little hand quivering in his. They walked down to the water together to see the waves’ ebb and flow, and they watched in silence for a long while, marvelling together at the wonder of God’s creation. Then as the twilight dwindled, stars lighting up overhead in a darkening sky, they left the water’s edge and went to sit and wait with the others higher up on the beach. Love curled her small body up against his, fighting the desire for sleep.
Through the passing hours of the night they waited, and at their backs the flat marshlands of the Wash stretched towards the town. Bit by bit the last small groups of the faithful picked their careful way along the narrow path that cut across the marshes to the shore.
A new moon, a slivered crescent, hung behind the travelling clouds and reflected now and then on the water before them, shimmering silver. The women and children huddled on the shingle with their bags by their feet, all their worldly belongings in bundles they could shoulder. The breeze was cold enough to chill despite the season, and some of the children, growing weary, were beginning to cry. Their mothers tried to comfort them with prayers and murmured songs, hiding their own fear and weariness.
There was no sign yet of the ship, nor the small boats that would ferry them to its safety, and Ben could sense the growing impatience, the fear the waiting engendered. He lifted his eyes to watch the moon, the telltale sign of the passing hours. The night was growing old; the boats should have come by now. Standing up, he lifted the sleepy child back to her mother. The heavy sense of apprehension that had been chafing hardened into something more urgent. If they did not go soon it would be too late. He went to stand with Brewster at the water’s edge, torch held aloft signalling fruitlessly out to sea. Along the horizon, a narrow band of sky seemed to pale and the stars above began to lose their vivid lustre. It was almost dawn and they needed to be gone.
‘Perhaps they have been delayed,’ a voice said in the darkness. ‘Perhaps a storm turned them from their course.’
‘It is possible,’ someone else replied.
Ben’s eyes flicked to Brewster’s face, gaunt above the beard, shadowed and grim in the flames of the torch. Whatever the cause, they would be not be leaving tonight. ‘We cannot risk staying any longer,’ he said. ‘We must get everyone off the beach before daylight.’
The older man nodded his agreement. Ben turned and scanned the groups of silent shadows that were huddled, waiting.
‘And we must be quick.’
He set off across the shingle, head down, urgency driving his movements. It would take time for so many to wend their way back from the shore, to find the narrow path, and by then the town would be awake. He dared not let himself think beyond the need to clear the beach.
A sudden cry from one of the women, a shriek of panic, startled him from his thoughts, and he lifted his head to look. A row of torches bobbed in floating columns above the flatlands, moving towards them across the marsh, and the raised voices of men called to one another over the rush of surf against the shingle.
‘We are betrayed!’ someone shouted.
Richard, he thought, instinctively. But how? Then there was no time to think anything more. The women turned en masse and backed down the beach towards the wate
r, clasping their children to them, crying out in fear. A few of the younger men darted away into the darkness, hoping to find a hidden way across the wetlands towards the relative safety of the town. But the most part remained, trapped between the Bishop’s men and the sea. Ben watched them advance, torches flaring brighter as the men closed in, no way to get past them. But he would not have run even if he could in spite of his fear: they were God’s people, all of them, and they would stand together.
The torches reached the beach, too many to count, flames dancing wildly in the wind that had begun to blow from the sea. The men that bore them remained in flickering shadow as the congregation waited. Behind him Ben heard a child start to cry.
A single commanding voice boomed along the shore. ‘There will be no ship for you tonight, you godless bunch of traitors. You are under arrest on the Bishop of Lincoln’s orders.’
One of the women wailed.
‘And you had better come quietly or so much the worse for you!’
The men began to advance towards them. There was nowhere for them to run. A scuffle broke out as one of the men fought back against the rough hand that tried to waylay him. His wife ran to help, struggling to drag the Bishop’s man from her husband, pulling at his arm, begging. ‘For the love of God!’
A backhand across her face sent her spinning to the beach. A scream was raised, her child crouching over her. ‘Mama! Mama!’ Screaming louder as a brutal hand yanked the boy from his mother and thrust him away across the pebbles.
Heat flaring through him at such violence, Ben sprinted across the shingle.
‘He is just a child!’
The man was bent over the woman now, rough hands searching through her clothes for hidden money. She was crying out and struggling to break free, a hand stretched out towards her boy, who stood watching his mother’s violation in helpless fear. Ben shoved the man away with all the strength of his rage. The man sprawled across the pebbles on his back, still spitting hatred.
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