The Captive Bride

by Gilbert, Morris

  Lydia hesitated, then asked quietly, “Matthew, why are you doing this?”

  He paused, arrested by the question, “Why—for honor, I suppose. Someone must stand against the tyranny of the King!”

  “And for God?”

  “Yes, I suppose; for God as well!” Catching her in his strong arms, he whirled her like a child. “Come on, you King’s men! Try and catch us!”

  She had sensed this reckless spirit in him from the first, and it had been part of his charm. There was something of the wild hawk in this spirit, something daring, and she loved that part of him.

  But a cloud fell over her face, and she said as he lowered her to the floor, “But, it’s very dangerous! Sooner or later ...?”

  He caught her hand up and kissed the palm. He looked so young as he stood there smiling down into her face. There was no cloud in his bright blue eyes. He was excited with the sheer adventure—much like at a game of chance or a closely fought contest with swords.

  Suddenly a fear shot through her, and she caught at him blindly, throwing her arms around his waist and holding on so tightly that he stopped short in surprise.

  “Why—what’s this?” he asked. “You’re not afraid, are you, Princess?”

  “For you I am,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

  “Why, you mustn’t be afraid,” he soothed, holding her close. “I can take care of myself.”

  He sounded so sure, so happy, and she drew back, dashing the tears away that had risen to her eyes. “God will have to do that,” she said with a serious look. She knew that his commitment to God was not as strong as her own, and this troubled her. Always when she had thought about marriage she had thought of a man stronger than she, and in some ways he was. But his experience with God was superficial; despite the capacity she sensed in him for a devout life of service, he had never been tested, never given himself to the arduous struggle of finding God in anything other than the ordinary ways.

  But she had. Bunyan’s analysis had been accurate, for despite her appearance (her beauty caused some to think she was not at all spiritual!) and her rather flighty behavior at times, she had gone through a time that had brought her close to God. When her parents had died, she had been distraught, almost slipping off into derangement. No one knew how close she had come to losing her mind, but in that time of crisis, she had learned to pray—and to be obedient to the still small voice of the Holy Spirit.

  The strange people called the “Quakers” had risen about this time, led by George Fox, and all over England they had suffered persecution for their outlandish behavior. John Bunyan felt called to speak out against them, and was writing a book exposing what he perceived as doctrinal errors—one of them being a doctrine of “The Inner Light.”

  Although Lydia had no deep theological views, she had experienced something of the “inner light.” It had come suddenly, but only after long periods of desperate prayer. She had eaten little and would not have consciously called it “fasting,” but the experience came after several days of eating nothing.

  She had been alone in her room, lying across her bed, exhausted by weeping and fear, and she cried out aloud, “Oh, God, I’m so afraid! Help me, please help me!”

  And then she experienced something so different from anything she had ever known. She never forgot it, and it controlled much of her life from that moment on.

  Her poor, exhausted body suddenly seemed to be filled with light, accompanied by a sense of warmth that ran along her entire frame! The fatigue and the stomachache that had plagued her immediately faded, and she felt warm and safe. Mostly safe, for that was her need. She had felt so alone!

  For a long time—she never knew how long—she lay there resting in the warmth and sense of security. Then there came something into her mind that she could not understand. It was not a voice, and she heard nothing with her ears, but the words were there—deep inside, as if carved into her mind.

  Child, do you love me? Would you let me into your heart? Would you let me be in you forever?

  With all her heart, Lydia yearned for love, for comfort and safety. She stretched her hands up as if reaching for her lost father’s comforting arms and cried out, “Yes! Oh, yes, come into my heart!”

  And at that moment someone came in. She could never explain it, nor did she ever try to. But it was like a door opened and someone came into the room, bringing health, joy, and peace inside!

  She began to thank this Guest whose name she didn’t know, lifting her small voice in praise. As she prayed, the presence of a mighty power filled her spirit, and she whispered, “Jesus, is it you?”

  And in her heart there came an answer that swelled and grew until she could hardly bear it.

  Yes! I am now in you, child!

  She had lain there for a long time, knowing she was now different. Though she didn’t immediately share this experience with anyone, one thing she quickly discovered: when she had troubles or fears, she could pray, and almost at once she was conscious of the presence of the Lord Jesus!

  She longed to tell Matthew of this experience, but had not been able to do it. Now, looking into his bright-blue eyes, loving him with all her heart, she knew that he knew nothing of this kind of walk with God—and that frightened her.

  “Let’s pray, Matthew,” she said quietly.

  He looked at her in surprise. “You do the praying, Princess,” he laughed, “and I’ll do the rest.” Then he began talking excitedly of the coming trip to Samsell, but failed to see the disappointment on her face.

  He left the next night at dusk, and as he grabbed her in his arms and kissed her, his eyes gleamed with excitement. “Wait up for me, Princess!” he whispered, kissing her fervently. “I’ll play the hare to these hounds of Twisten, and when I return, we’ll celebrate!”

  “I’ll pray for you,” she said, fighting the fear that threatened to fill her.

  “Yes, you pray=-,=-” he said with a broad grin. Then he was gone.

  She went back and sat down, her heart heavy. She knew it would be hours before he came back, perhaps near dawn, but she was so burdened she fell on her knees and began praying with all her heart for him.

  She prayed until she was worn out, then fell asleep on the hard floor, one arm under her in a cramped position. When the loud knock came at daybreak, she aroused slowly, confused and heavy-eyed from sleep.

  “Lydia! Lydia, wake up!”

  She struggled to her feet, almost falling because of her numbed legs, and threw open the door. There stood Pastor Gifford—alone. She took one look at his face, then said quickly, “They’ve been taken, haven’t they?”

  “Yes, both of them.”

  “I’ll get my cloak.”

  As she went slowly toward the small jail that sat perched on a bridge over the small stream, she listened quietly as Gifford told her how Bunyan and Matthew had been arrested and charged with breaking the law.

  She heard little of what he said, but she knew that never again would life be as simple as it had been when the sun had touched her face through the window that morning. The jail, which she had seen so often, suddenly seemed ominous, and a quick fear shot through her as they approached. But she called out, “God, be my helper!” And as always, the peace came.

  Matthew will have to learn to pray! she thought as she followed Pastor Gifford inside.

  CHAPTER SIX

  BEDFORD JAIL

  “Elizabeth?” Lydia knocked at the door of the Bunyan cottage and stood there shivering in the cutting November wind. She held a steaming iron pot by the handles, her hands almost numb from the icy cold that had fallen like a physical blow on the countryside.

  The door swung open and she stumbled stiff-legged into the room toward the small fire that flickered in the fireplace. “Mary, is your mother here?”

  The blind eyes of the child swung toward her unerringly, and she said, “Yes, but she’s in bed, Mrs. Winslow. She’s sick again.”

  A look of alarm crossed Lydia’s face, and she said, “W
ell, I’ve brought a pot of good strong beef broth. Why don’t you set the table while I go talk to her.”

  “Oh, that smells good!” Mary shoved by the other children who had swarmed in close, looking like a miniature adult as she began setting the bowls on the table. As Lydia moved to the door that led to the sleeping room, she thought, Mary’s too young for such things. She’s never had a childhood. It disturbed her that the Separatists treated their children like adults. Her French father had been openly affectionate, and her mother had bent to his ways. The result had been a happy life while they lived, and a cruel shock when she had been taken into the strict world of her aunt.

  She moved in the dark sleeping chamber to the high bed and found Elizabeth on her back holding her stomach, her back arched rigidly. Leaning over she put her hand on the suffering woman’s forehead, whispering gently, “Elizabeth?”

  The sick woman’s eyes opened slowly, and she moved to get up, saying feebly, “Oh, I—must have dozed off, Lydia.” Her face contorted suddenly with pain. “I must take John something to eat.”

  “No, you rest,” Lydia said, pressing her firmly back into the bed. “I’ve made enough broth for all of us. I’ll take a big pot of it to John and Matthew. And I want you to eat all you can when you get up.”

  Elizabeth caught Lydia’s hand and held it to her face, saying softly, “I don’t know what I would have done without you, Lydia!” She shook her head slowly, then said, “I want so much to have this baby—but it seems that everything’s gone wrong!”

  “I know—but we must trust God.” Lydia pulled up the covers and tucked Elizabeth in carefully. She turned to leave, then paused and bit her lip. “I want to ask you something— don’t answer if you think it’s silly.”

  “It won’t be silly, dear!”

  “Well, I’ve thought so much about my marriage,” she said slowly. “We were too hasty, Matthew and I. We should have waited at least until we could have seen his parents! I wanted to, but Matthew was so insistent!” She traced the design of the quilt that covered Elizabeth, then asked with some hesitation. “I—I’ve been wondering, Elizabeth, about you and John, I mean—?”

  “Why did I marry a man older than I with four children?”

  “Yes!”

  The lines of pain that etched Elizabeth’s face seemed to grow faint as she smiled, making her look younger. “You wouldn’t believe how I fought against it, Lydia! All my life I’d had this dream of marrying some young man with a future; we’d have our own little house, and he’d be successful; then we’d have a baby—and then perhaps one or two more in time.” She laughed then, and brushed her hair from her forehead. “Then came John Bunyan, with all his awkward ways and his four squalling children—one of them blind! What a time I had when I knew God wanted me to marry him and be the mother of his children!”

  “How did you know that, Elizabeth?” Lydia interrupted quickly.

  “How? Why, I can’t say, Lydia. I didn’t hear a voice or anything like that—but I knew!” She smiled and asked, “Do you think I’d have married him in his condition if God hadn’t told me to? No, somehow God let me know that my service for Him was to be tied up with John Bunyan, and that’s been my life.” She looked up at Lydia and asked, “You’ve been having doubts, haven’t you, dear?”

  Lydia nodded slowly. “We married so quickly, and I thought that we had the same thoughts—but the last three months that Matthew’s been in jail have been—hard!”

  “It would be hard for any man to endure that prison.”

  “Of course, but it’s doing something to Matthew!” she said sadly. “Your husband is different. He’s been a soldier, and he’s had a hard life in many ways. But Matthew—why, he’s never had a trial in his whole life, Elizabeth!”

  “But he’s so young!”

  “Yes, that’s just it!” Lydia shook her head in agitation and the problems she had struggled with overflowed as she said, “Maybe he’s too young for all this—and maybe we married too fast. I don’t know, but I can see him getting—he’s becoming bitter, Elizabeth! You must have seen it!”

  “Yes, I have. And so has John. We’ve talked about it many times.”

  “Last week he got so upset he—he blamed God for all the trouble!” Lydia’s voice trembled and Elizabeth reached up and took her hand again. “He cursed and said that God was either asleep or didn’t care what happened to men! Oh, he caught himself, apologized to me. But it was his heart speaking—and I’m afraid! What’s going to happen to him, Elizabeth? To us?”

  Elizabeth asked quietly, “What was it you said to me a few moments ago, Lydia? We must trust God. You will have to believe for Matthew until he can believe for himself. He must make it through this trial, for if he falls away now, he may never be God’s man!”

  Elizabeth’s voice had grown strong and her grip bit into Lydia’s arm. “We must pray that at the trial, they’ll be set free.”

  “Yes, that’s been my prayer,” Lydia murmured. Then she said, “You must rest, Elizabeth—I’ll take the food to the prison.”

  “Come back and tell me how they are—and don’t tell John I’m ill. Tell him I’ll be in tomorrow.”

  “All right.”

  Lydia returned to the large room, filled a smaller pewter pot with broth, wrapped a fresh loaf of brown bread in a cloth, and set out for the prison. It was not a great distance, but the sharp winds stung her unprotected face and hands like needles. There was a bite of sleet or snow in the air, and she shivered violently as she hurried along the frozen ground.

  Bedford was not noted for much, but its jail was the equal of any in England for a town that size. It sat beside the small river that touched the edge of town, a large two-story structure—three, counting the lower floor. The third floor held the rooms for Paul Cobb, the jailer, and his family. The first floor had one small compartment immediately inside the door, and was separated from the rest of the space by solid iron bars. The lower floor, or basement, was used for prisoners as well, but it was so damp, being on practically the same level as the river, that only when the first floor was filled was it used.

  Fortunately, the number of prisoners had been low since the beginning of winter, so the twenty or so prisoners were kept in the more comfortable section of the prison. “Comfortable” was a relative term, since there was no fire of any sort to take the chill off the prisoners. They wore all the clothing they could get, and moved around like huge, fat bears in the confined space of their common cell.

  Two single windows set high in the wall let in light and air as well as snow and rain, and one set of double windows— heavily barred, of course—was set low enough in the wall so that by standing on tiptoe or on one of the few rough benches a prisoner could get a view of town—or from the other side, a view of the river.

  In early fall, this was pleasant enough, and there was keen competition for the space. But during the winter the freezing winds piled sleet and snow several inches deep inside the cell. Everyone slept in every thread they could put on, and under all the bedclothes they could lay hands on. The bare stone floor, covered by a few wisps of straw, grew more evil-smelling day by day.

  Paul Cobb, a thick-set, balding man, came down the stairs at Lydia’s call, and as he opened the door, he growled, “Ye’d best be sayin’ a word to thot hoosband ‘o yours, Lydia Winslow.” He pulled the massive door open and added as Lydia stepped through, “He had quite a row with old Jamison last night! I had to step in and keep him from wipin’ up the floor wif the old man! Ye’d best have a word with him, I thinks.” He shut the door and called out, “Winslow, here’s yer wife— maybe she can talk some sense into yer head!”

  Lydia caught sight of Matthew at once, but he made no move to come to her. He was standing at one of the windows, staring moodily out at the brown river that purled around the town, and after one glance at her, he turned his back.

  John Bunyan caught Matthew’s action with one quick glance and tried to cover it by approaching her quickly, saying, “Well, well,
what have we here? Do I smell beef soup?” He began busily helping her set the small table, keeping up a steady line of small talk. “Elizabeth didn’t come? Oh, well, tomorrow, then—my, look at this fresh bread, Matthew!” He broke the loaf open and smelled it eagerly. “Ah! Now that’s the way bread should be baked, I tell you! And look at this cheese? Where have you been hiding that, I ask you?”

  Lydia let him busy himself with the food, and she stepped over to where Matthew was staring stolidly out the window. She took his arm and stood there, saying nothing until he finally turned and said, “Bloody cold today!”

  “Yes. I’ll bring another blanket tomorrow—or maybe I can bring it later today.”

  “No matter,” he shrugged. “We’ll be out of this hole the day after the trial.”

  Bunyan looked up sharply at that, then shrugged and went back to slicing the bread and cheese. “Come and have a bite of this, Matthew,” he said cheerily.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Oh, you have to eat!” Lydia urged, and she pulled at his arm, forcing him to approach the table. “I put some thyme in this broth—just the way you like it.” She ladeled out some of the hot stew into his bowl and set it in front of him. He shrugged, took up a spoon and began to eat indifferently.

  Bunyan ignored that, and bowed his head. “Thank you, gracious God, for this good food, in the name of our precious Savior. Amen.”

  Matthew had the grace to look embarrassed, then grinned and said, “I’m losing all my manners in this place. Pardon me, John.”

  Bunyan smiled and gave him a clap on the shoulder. Then he looked across the room and said quietly, “Maybe you ought to ask Mr. Jamison to have a bit of this fine stew, eh, my boy?”

  Matthew gave him a sharp look, anger suddenly scoring his face. “That old buzzard? He’s lucky I didn’t pound him into the floor last night!”