The Preacher's Bride

by Jody Hedlund

  “I think it would be wise to postpone our meeting to another day,” Brother Burgess suggested.

  Throughout the summer and fall, John’s enemies, along with most of England, had been too busy celebrating the king’s return to take any measures against the Independents. But in recent weeks Parliament had restored the Anglican Church and the Book of Common Prayer. The exiled leaders had moved back into their parishes and forced the Puritans out.

  Parliament assumed that everyone would return to attending the Divine Service, but none of the Puritans had made any effort to participate in Anglican services. Rather, the Bedford Independent Congregation had resorted to gathering in farm fields and barns.

  No one had prevented them from meeting yet. And so far John’s enemies hadn’t had any basis for keeping him from preaching and teaching.

  He had no reason to think Foster would succeed this time. Even with the help of Mr. Wingate, what reason did they have for his arrest? Parliament had not yet enacted any new laws that would prevent him from preaching.

  “No,” he said, “by no means. I won’t stir, neither will I have the meeting dismissed for this.”

  The men began to murmur.

  “Come, be of good cheer. Let us not be daunted.” John reached again for the mug of cider and took a long drink. “Our cause is good, and we need not be ashamed of it. To preach God’s Word is so good a work that we shall be well rewarded even if we suffer for it.”

  “Yes,” Mr. Burgess said in a hushed tone, “but Mr. Wingate has already called upon the constable.” He glanced at the door.

  “We think you should flee while you still have the chance,” another said.

  The odd feeling churned in John’s gut again. Foster was a snake—sly and unpredictable. What if this time he was able to finally sink in his fangs?

  “Very well,” he said after a moment. “Since we still have time before the others arrive, I will pray about the matter.”

  The men nodded their assent.

  John retreated to the field behind the farmhouse, away from the fearful gazes, away from the anxious pressure.

  He paced under bare elm branches. The dry leaves crunched under his feet, and the coolness of the day permeated his woolen cloak. He shivered and took a breath of the woodsy damp air.

  He’d always known his unlicensed preaching carried the possibility of arrest. Even under the protection of Cromwell’s rule, there were too many, even among the Independents, who believed only the properly trained and educated should preach.

  Yet, in all the many months of his ministry, he had never let their threats sway him. God had given him skill with words and had called him to preach. Therefore, he’d obeyed God’s call, not man’s prejudiced dictates.

  Why would he do any differently now?

  Elizabeth. He could picture the way she’d looked when he’d left the cottage that morning. In the dim light of the hearth, he’d glimpsed the swell of her stomach and the soft lines of her full figure—and his entire body had ached with the longing to hold her again. When she’d turned her sad gray eyes upon him, he’d wanted to rush to her and wipe away the dark shadows from her tired face.

  He’d tried to convince himself over the past weeks that he’d done the right thing by shutting her out of his life. He’d tried to remind himself of her demands and of how she’d asked him to abandon his preaching. But lately, whenever he was near her, he couldn’t quite remember why those things mattered so much.

  His gaze turned toward the road, the narrow path that would lead him back to Bedford. It would be so easy to slip away now. No one in the farmhouse would fault him. Instead, they no doubt would be pleased if he did. Then he could be with Elizabeth, really be with her, and stop fighting the longings for her that overwhelmed him at times. He could be with her when their baby was born. Maybe they could be the real family she wanted.

  With a long sigh that blew a cloud of white moisture into the air, he hung his head. If he turned and ran now, what message would that send to the new converts—that he was not as strong in action as he was in word? If he, their mentor and teacher, fled from persecution, wouldn’t they follow his example when threatened?

  “Lord, I covet your wisdom. What would you have me do?” He paced quicker, as if in so doing he could think faster. “Surely you don’t give a calling only to take it away at the threat of hardship.”

  The clamor of voices signaled the arrival of more people from the surrounding countryside, from Pulloxhill, Westoning, and Flitwick—earnest, hardworking tradesmen and laborers who had languished in the dead ritualistic religion that had ruled in England for so long.

  Now that they had heard the truth of the Gospel, that God could save them and would invite them to an active and personal relationship with Him, they couldn’t go back to their empty way of living. They were starved for someone to give them the solid food of the Word of God.

  How could he give up the fight now? If he and other unlicensed preachers gave in to the pressures, they would concede defeat, not just to Foster and Wingate and others like them, but ultimately to the devil.

  The old enemy of man’s salvation was working hard to keep the purity of the Gospel message from spreading, just as he had worked in the days of the early apostles and saints. But they had persevered through persecution, even if it meant death. Was he willing to do the same?

  Slowly John walked back to the farmhouse. Expectant gazes riveted to him when he stepped inside. “I won’t run from danger.” He shed his cloak.

  The voices of the men rose in argument. Some of the new arrivals wanted to resist Wingate and had complaints of their own against him. Others wanted peace at all costs.

  John pulled his Bible from his bag and took his spot at the head of the gathering. “I don’t know what the outcome of this day may bring. But nothing will happen that our Lord doesn’t ordain. If He’s chosen me to suffer arrest for Him, then He has a purpose in it. And if my time for it has not yet come, He will make that clear too.”

  He flipped open the pages of his Bible.

  Suddenly a thundering knock on the door broke the quiet.

  His body tensed and his thoughts flashed to Elizabeth. He envisioned her face the day he’d discovered she was with child, when she’d stood under the apple tree, flushed and beautiful, arguing with him more convincingly than any man. What would she feel when she learned he’d been arrested?

  “John Costin, I’ve got a warrant for yer arrest.” The constable banged the door open and stepped inside. Two brawny men accompanied him.

  “What’s he done?” A big farmer jumped to his feet and put a hand to the hunting dagger sheathed at his belt. “The king hasn’t made any law against meeting together for prayer and Bible study—at least not yet.”

  The constable spread his feet apart, and his cloak fell away to reveal a long rapier. The two men with him did likewise, their hands already thrust through the hilts. The room grew quiet enough to hear hens cackling in the yard behind the house.

  “All we want to know is what Brother Costin’s done wrong,” another man said.

  “Why would I have a warrant if he weren’t guilty of something? Now, let’s get on with it. I’ve been waiting outside long enough for your foolhardy meeting to start.”

  “Well, this ’ere foolhardy meeting isn’t open to you or Wingate’s men.” The big farmer took a step forward. His fingers worked at unsheathing his dagger. “You’re gonna have to wait outside until we’re finished.”

  “You’re finished now.” The constable stepped toward the farmer and pulled out his rapier. “I’ll make sure of it.”

  The farmer jerked his dagger out.

  “Brother Lyte,” Burgess cautioned. “This is a peaceable gathering.”

  “It’ll be peaceable soon enough, when I usher our unwanted guests back outside.”

  John closed his Bible. “There will be no fighting here. I’ll go with them.” He nodded at Brother Lyte to put away his dagger. Brother Lyte, along with several others, w
as still new enough to the ways of the Lord that he could easily be tempted into bloodshed, especially against Wingate’s men.

  The stocky farmer didn’t move except to puff out his shoulders and arms into the kind of stance that shouted defiance.

  “I don’t want to be apprehended for being a thief or a murderer.” With a calmness that belied the tension squeezing his muscles, John picked up his tool sack and stuffed his Bible inside. “No. If I must go to prison, it will be because I am innocent.”

  With even steps he walked toward Brother Lyte. “It’s better in God’s sight for us to be the persecuted than to be the persecutors.” He reached for the farmer’s dagger and pried it from the man’s grip. Then he flipped it upside down and motioned it toward the sheath. “You must fight with your prayers, Brother Lyte. They are your strongest weapon now.”

  The farmer hesitated and then replaced his dagger into his belt.

  Brother Burgess released a heavy breath.

  “Let’s go, Costin.” The constable backed toward the door without taking his focus from the gathering.

  John slung his pack over his back and nodded assent. But he turned to Brother Burgess. “Get word to my brother Willie in Elstow. He’ll know where to find the Bedford elders.”

  “Let’s go. Now.” The constable opened the door and motioned for John with his head.

  “And get word to Elizabeth and the children. Tell her not to worry.” But even as he said the words, he had a feeling deep inside that this time she had every reason to worry.

  * * *

  When they arrived at the large double gates of Harlington House, the constable told him Francis Wingate was otherwise engaged. John was sure the delay was intended to put him off guard, to instill fear of the unknown, to make certain he knew who was in control.

  After a sleepless night, John was finally ushered into the parlor. Even though he had spent much of the night praying, the moment he stepped into the dark room, the paneled walls and low ceiling closed in upon him and stole his last shreds of peace.

  Gloomy fog enveloped him and shrouded his soul. He hesitated and blinked his eyes to adjust to the dismal lighting. One of Wingate’s men gave him a shove that sent him stumbling into the room.

  In the shadows, lit by a single candle, Mr. Wingate reclined in an upholstered chair, his legs crossed at the knees. One finely leathered boot tapped at the air, and long smooth fingers drummed on the carved armrest. The darkness of the room shadowed his face, but John could feel the man’s eyes coldly regarding him.

  “Do come in, Costin.”

  John straightened his shoulders and bristled under the man’s haughtiness. “With the hospitality that’s been extended to me, how can I resist?”

  A sharp blow to his lower back caught him off guard, nearly knocking him to his knees with the pain. John gritted his teeth and struggled to hold himself upright.

  “Costin, do you know why you are here?”

  “Methinks I can guess—”

  “You are here because you are guilty of plotting revolution against His Majesty King Charles II.”

  “Then you’ve got the wrong man, Mr. Wingate. I assure you I was leading a peaceable Bible study with not a thought toward rebellion.”

  “A likely excuse, I’m sure. Gathering your kind under the guise of Bible study but then using it as an opportunity to speak politically, arguing for yet another revolution.”

  John’s temper fired to a hot flame and spread through his body like a spark upon thatch. “You can ask any man in that gathering yesterday or anywhere else, and they’ll all attest to the same—I’ve never spoken against the king.”

  Wingate waved his hand. “I’ve read your works, Costin. Your writing is full of sedition.”

  “Then it’s not my writing you’ve read—”

  “I’ve read it. And if I so desired, I could prove sedition.”

  If. The word hung in the air, and suddenly John knew the charge of plotting revolt was not the real issue. Rather, it was the threat, the sword to prod him into submission.

  John caught a movement in the corner behind Wingate. He could distinguish the outline of a thin man with a narrow face. Was it Foster?

  John squared his shoulders. The battle was about to get rough. “So what is it that you really want from me?”

  Wingate sat forward in his chair and stomped both feet against the floor. His face, now visible in the light of the candle, revealed features as hard as chiseled marble. “You are a tinker. Follow your own trade. Stop troubling everyone by usurping your place.”

  “I instruct people on forsaking their sins and closing in with Christ.” John worked hard to keep his words even and calm. “I can do such exhorting without confusion or compromise to my tinkering trade.”

  “It’s time you learned your place, Costin.” Wingate stood and reached for the slender walking stick that rested against his chair. “God Almighty ordains some men to be leaders. The rest are followers. You are poor and ignorant. Your place belongs among the dumb sheep.”

  Heat pumped through John’s veins. Wingate was just like the others—threatened by a laborer like himself who had dared to upset the balance of power. The hierarchy of rich and poor had been the same since the days of William the Conqueror—the few nobility and gentry held all the power and wealth, while the rest of them struggled to survive with the little they could scavenge. Men like Wingate didn’t want the system to change.

  “Doesn’t Scripture say we are all like sheep gone astray?” John couldn’t keep the sarcasm from his voice. “If the Shepherd and Overseer of my soul considers me a dumb sheep, then that must make you one too, Mr. Wingate.”

  The man raised his walking stick and swung at John’s gut. The force of the hit knocked the wind from John and doubled him over with pain. Immediately Wingate’s men were at his side. Each jerked one of John’s arms behind his back in an upward movement that ripped his joints into a blinding anguish. The hold exposed his stomach and stretched it taut.

  Wingate swung his stick again. The blow connected with his ribs with a crack. He grunted, dizzy with the searing heat that burned through his skin.

  “You need to learn your place, Costin.” Wingate tapped the walking stick on the wooden floor. “And you need to stay in it.”

  John struggled to breathe. “What do you want me to confess?” His voice was ragged. “You’re privileged and I’m not?”

  John knew what was coming even before the words were out. “I want you to confess that you’ll stop all preaching.” Wingate lifted the stick and pushed the end of it into John’s neck at his windpipe.

  The pressure cut off the flow of air, and he choked like a drowning man.

  The room swirled before him. This was it—his time to die. He’d prepared himself for the possibility of martyrdom. He’d just not expected it so swiftly.

  If only he’d had one last chance to see Elizabeth, to kiss her good-bye.

  What would she say when she heard of his murder?

  John shook his head and wrenched away from the men, away from Wingate’s deathly grip.

  The men grabbed him from behind and tried to wrestle his arms behind his back again.

  John knocked them away.

  The cold point of a rapier sliced into his jerkin and skimmed the skin of his back. The burning trail brought him to a standstill.

  “Tie him up,” Wingate said in disgust.

  The man pierced his skin deeper with the rapier before pulling it away. Then they jerked his arms behind him again. They wrapped the rope tight, chafing the skin of his wrists.

  “You must agree to leave off preaching.” Wingate stalked back to his chair and sat down. “Or I will break the neck of these unlawful meetings.”

  John’s breath came in deep raspy gulps. “If you want me to admit I am of the lowest rank of men, of the most despised of all families in the land, I will do so. I have naught to boast of noble blood or of a highborn state.” Blood made a slow trickle down his back. He pushed down the pr
ide that threatened to rear itself. “I can admit you are better than I. But I cannot, I will not, abstain from preaching. This I cannot do.”

  Wingate stared at John through narrowed eyes. “I was told you were stubborn. And I believe a lesson in humility is in order.” He nodded to his men.

  He quickly realized the nod was the signal to begin their work of beating him into submission. With his hands tied he had no way to defend himself as they took turns at him, slamming their fists into him, until finally he sank to his knees in agony.

  He hung his head. The room flickered. Blood dripped from his nose onto the floor.

  “Enough,” Wingate finally said. “He’ll ruin my rug.”

  Blessedly, the beating ceased. But the roaring in his head grew louder, and blackness wavered before his eyes. He didn’t want to die yet. Not before he could tell Elizabeth he was sorry.

  Chapter

  32

  The thump, thump of a fist against the cottage door brought Elizabeth to the edge of her chair. Her heartbeat echoed the urgent pounding.

  She’d waited hours for news, yet now that it had come, she wished it would go away.

  She heaved her aching body out of her chair. With one fist pressed into her back, she lumbered to the door and opened it far enough to peek outside. The face peering at her was surrounded by a shock of red hair. She couldn’t remember the boy’s name but recognized him as one of Willie’s children.

  “Got news about Uncle John,” he said breathlessly, clutching his side. He had likely run the whole distance from Elstow to Bedford to bring her the tidings.

  With trembling hands she swung the door open. The cold darkness of the November dawn stepped inside with the boy. It took a grip on her belly and squeezed. She gasped with the intensity of it.

  The boy greeted Mary, seated near the warmth of the hearth. Of the children, only Mary was awake at the early hour, or perhaps she’d never gone to sleep. She was sure Mary sensed something had happened, although neither of them had talked about it.