by Jody Hedlund
She beat her fists into the dough, and tears began to slip down her cheeks. She hadn’t been able to see him or touch him. By the time she’d recovered enough to know what had happened, they’d already buried him.
The door to the bakehouse rattled.
Elizabeth brushed at her tears with her sleeve. She was sure it was her father returning from the quarter sessions at Chapel of Herne. Her heart lurched with the foolish expectation that by some miracle they’d let John go.
“That was no trial,” her father boomed as he swung open the door. The cold winter air swirled past him, rushed at Elizabeth, and extinguished the flicker of hope she’d harbored all afternoon.
Her father shed his heavy woolen overcoat and his hat. “It was more of a bear-baiting contest, if ye ask me. Nothing more than a pack of spiteful, ravenous dogs tearing to bits a shackled bear.”
Elizabeth’s hands came to a standstill in the dough. Even though she was trying to convince herself not to care, she couldn’t keep from inclining her ear every time John’s name was mentioned. As much as she despised herself for it, she longed for news about him.
“They’ve indicted him for not coming to the parish church to hear the Divine Service.” Her father limped with his cane to the oven that Henry had lit in preparation for the baking. “I say we’re all guilty of that charge. Since King Charles came back, none of us have gone to the Divine Service.”
She hadn’t wanted to think about John’s trial, but Catherine had made a point of telling her all of the rumors surrounding it, and none had been favorable. The judges were staunch Royalists who had suffered much during the Protectorate. They hated the Independents.
“And they’re accusing him of holding unlawful meetings, to the disturbance and distraction of the good subjects of the kingdom.” Her father gave a wry laugh. “Disturbance and distraction from their Book of Common Prayer is all.”
He added more gorse to the oven, needing to bring the masonry to the right temperature before they could bake the bread. Henry pricked the loaves across the top with the sharp bodkin and then stamped them with the Whitbread mark.
Her father had asked her to help at the bakehouse and in exchange was giving her bread for her family. It wasn’t enough to survive on, but it was something. Others in the congregation had been kind enough to bring her the things she could no longer buy at market: eggs, fish, fowl.
“Brother John did nothing to win their favor by telling the judges that he, for his part, could pray very well without the Prayer Book. They weren’t too pleased with his remark and accused him of being possessed with the spirit of delusion and of the devil.”
Elizabeth could picture John standing tall, his wide shoulders stiff with defiance and passion. He wouldn’t cower from the fight. He was too skilled with his tongue and would surely thrash them back no less than they deserved.
“What’s his judgment, then?” Henry asked quietly. He darted a glance toward Elizabeth before meeting Jane’s gaze in the corner, where she nursed the babe.
“He must endure three more months of prison.” Her father turned to look at Elizabeth, his eyebrows furrowed over sad eyes. “After that, if he doesn’t submit to go to the parish church and agree to leave off preaching, they’ll banish him.”
“Do you think he’ll agree to what they ask?”
“Ye know John.” He sighed. “He’s a stubborn man. He told them if he were let out of prison today, he would preach the Gospel again tomorrow.”
Elizabeth looked blindly on the dough in front of her. It was hopeless. John was as good as dead to her.
“He asked about ye, my daughter.” He paused, as if waiting for Elizabeth to say something. When she didn’t, he continued. “He asked if ye were well enough yet to visit him.”
She shook her head. Tears sprang to her eyes again. “No. I’m not well enough.”
“He sounded concerned about ye.”
She ducked her head and squeezed the dough, wishing she could hide. She’d never shared John’s rejection with them. It was too painful to think about, much less discuss.
Elizabeth gulped down the sobs that came all too easily these days. He’d wanted a strong woman. And that’s what he’d gotten. She didn’t want or need John’s concern.
* * *
The three months until John’s next trial dragged. Elizabeth tried not to think about it, but the question always lingered somewhere in the recesses of her mind: Would John submit and go to the parish church and leave off preaching, or would he choose to leave England forever?
When the time finally came, she learned the justices sent the clerk of the peace on their behalf in an attempt to try to reason with John, to extract a promise from him that his preaching would come to an end. ’Twas no surprise to hear he had refused again. But it was another blow, and it hit her harder than she wanted to admit. The justices gave him three more months in prison to reconsider, and by the midsummer assize expected him to yield to their authority or face worse consequences.
Part of her was glad for a little more time in which John might possibly be convinced to change his mind. The other part was weary of the waiting and the worrying about what would happen.
Most of the time, however, she was too busy to think. In addition to spring sowing and helping with the bread-making, Sister Norton had instructed her in bone lace-making. Elizabeth struggled with the intricate patterns that took hours of work for only four, maybe six pence a yard when it sold.
The demand for it had increased with the return of King Charles. England had gladly adopted the king’s lavish tastes and had readily thrown off the simple, plain clothing styles that Oliver Cromwell had enforced during the Protectorate.
On warm spring days she sat outside to do her lace-making. Sometimes Sister Norton joined her and brought Lucy’s children with her. The sister had grown to love the two she had taken in, and they adored her and called her Nana. If they did remember Lucy or Fulke, Elizabeth was sure it was only a distant nightmare.
“Your work is very beautiful, my dear.” Sister Norton leaned over and studied the pattern beginning to emerge on the pillow in Elizabeth’s lap.
Elizabeth sat forward on her stool and arched her back, ready for a break. Pulling the linen thread tight for too long cramped her fingers. And staying focused on the pins she had pricked into her pillow to make a pattern wearied her eyes.
She carefully laid the bobbins in a neat row. ’Twould waste precious time to have to detangle the thread wrapped around each small fish bone.
She looked in the direction of the heads bobbing among the tall grass, Johnny and Thomas and Lucy’s children. Elizabeth had sent Johnny to collect any edible greens he could find and hoped he would return with enough dandelion leaves for soup and possibly burdock taproots or watercress to add more substance. ’Twas the hungering season, when the food stores were low, and this year Elizabeth could not silence the rumbling in her stomach. She was having to feed a family with a pittance and was sending John food every day too.
“We have been blessed, haven’t we, my dear?” Sister Norton followed her gaze to the children.
“Blessed?” What could the old woman possibly mean?
“Blessed, indeed.” Sister Norton rolled her neck.
“I do not see the fruit of a blessed life.” ’Twas a barren, dry life of late. Anything that could go wrong had. Where was the blessing in that?
“Ah, ah, my dear. Maybe you’re not looking for fruit in the right places.”
“No, Sister Norton. Somehow I’ve failed to please the Lord. He’s withheld His blessings from my life and given me only hardships to endure.”
“My dear, do you think hardships are the sign of His displeasure?”
“Doesn’t He promise reward to those who faithfully serve Him? I’ve tried. I’ve done everything I could. But it hasn’t been enough.”
“Elizabeth.” Sister Norton’s eyes filled with compassion. “Do you think only the good things that happen are blessings?”
&nb
sp; Elizabeth’s throat tightened, and she couldn’t answer the widow. The pain in her heart threatened to overwhelm her, as it often did.
“Our troubles themselves are blessings.”
“No. They can’t be.” Elizabeth shook her head. “How can troubles ever be a blessing?”
“Hardships are the Lord’s greatest blessing to the believer. Without them we would love the Lord only for what He does for us. Our troubles teach us to love Him for who He is.”
Elizabeth bridled her response. Had she been serving the Lord for what He would do for her?
“We’re back!” Mary’s voice called to them.
“I think I shall try it on my own next time.” Mary rounded the cottage with Betsy skipping along beside her.
“You’ve memorized the route?” Elizabeth asked.
“I didn’t let Betsy help me at all today.”
Betsy dashed off to the field to join the others.
“Father told me to tell you he appreciates the soup.” Mary relayed the same message every day. “And he wants you to deliver it next time.”
“No, Mary.” Her answer was the same every time. She wanted to bury her feelings for John. Seeing him again would only dig up her longings and drag them back to the surface where they would taunt her.
No matter how adamant Mary was about John’s desire to see her, Elizabeth wasn’t willing to subject herself to the misery of being near him.
Mary was silent for a long moment.
Elizabeth could tell by the girl’s thoughtful expression she had more to say.
“I overheard the gaoler speaking about the king’s coronation,” she finally ventured.
“Yes. ’Twill be on the twenty-third of April.”
“They say it will be a big celebration,” Sister Norton added.
Mary nodded. “The gaoler said the king will set some prisoners free to show his kindness and goodwill.”
Elizabeth’s heart lurched.
The girl hurried to speak. “Maybe you could appeal to the king. If you went to the king and told him about Father’s arrest and how you’re working so hard to take care of four children . . .”
Elizabeth shook her head. “I could never do such a thing. Why would the king listen to me?”
“But that’s just the point. You’re the poor wife, left alone to struggle to survive. Surely he will hear your story and have pity.”
“It would be a good story,” Sister Norton said.
“No. I could never go to the king. That would mean traveling to London, and I’ve never ventured beyond the bounds of Bedfordshire. It would never work.”
With passion transfixing her dainty features, Mary reached for Elizabeth.
Elizabeth caught the girl’s hands.
“It would work. Truly it would. You know how to argue just as well as Father. If any woman could convince the king, you could.”
“Mary’s right about that, my dear.”
Elizabeth’s mind began to spin slowly, like a wheel stuck in mud. Could she, a mere peasant woman, go to the king to beg for John’s pardon? Did she have a chance to help win his freedom?
Mary squeezed her hands. “You could be just the one the king will listen to.”
A flicker of hope rekindled in Elizabeth’s breast.
“Besides,” Mary said, lowering her voice, “this might be just the way to make him finally love you.”
Elizabeth could only stare at the beautiful girl in front of her. Her blind blue eyes, with the color so like John’s, sometimes saw everything. Was now one of those times? Would an appeal to the king for royal clemency be the key to unlocking John’s love?
Perhaps it was worth a try.
* * *
When the elders came to her the next day with the same suggestion, Elizabeth knew she had no choice in the matter. They’d decided that Elizabeth, the helpless, lonely wife who’d lost a babe and had four remaining small children, one of which was blind, would be their greatest asset in the battle for winning John’s freedom.
The men made all the arrangements for her travel and lodging. They wrote out the petition for her and rehearsed what she needed to say.
She made herself do what she knew she must. She withheld her complaints during the uncomfortable three-day carriage ride to London and tried to stifle her surprise at the massiveness of the city itself, the crowds, the stench, the noise, the commotion.
When the time came for them to make their visit to the king, she lifted her chin and went forward, praying she could hide her trembling, reminding herself she was doing this for John. If she succeeded in securing his release, she might—just might—earn his favor again.
“I would like to help you,” Lord Barkwood said after he’d finished reading her petition. “But I’m afraid we must have a recommendation from the local authorities to consider your husband a candidate for the royal clemency.”
Elizabeth wanted to melt into the thick rug and disappear. Everything about Westminster Palace and the House of Lords made her feel small—the high ceilings, the grand staircases, the extravagant paintings. From where she stood at the foot of the long polished table, even the lords were unapproachable, too important for someone as insignificant as she.
One of the elders behind her poked her back. She straightened her shoulders and forced air into her lungs. “The local authorities are prejudiced against him, my lords. He has broken no law, yet they are determined to keep him in prison or banish him from the kingdom.”
Lord Barkwood perched his spectacles on the end of his nose and peered down at the paper in front of him.
Except for the thud of her heart, the room was silent.
Finally Lord Barkwood laid the paper onto the table and folded his hands over it. A lord next to him leaned to him and whispered words Elizabeth could not hear.
Lord Barkwood nodded and then tilted his head toward Elizabeth. “If the local authorities do not recommend him, then we cannot involve ourselves with your husband’s case.”
Elizabeth wanted to shrink under the gazes of the important men in their opulent clothes—if she but had the lace from one of their shirts, she could sell it and feed her children for months.
Instead, she lifted her chin. “If the king cannot grant him clemency, perhaps my lords would be so kind as to send me away with a petition of your good graces and will toward my husband.”
The lords whispered together again. “Very well,” Lord Barkwood said, taking off his spectacles. “We will give you a petition to present to the judges of Bedfordshire at the summer assize.”
She bowed her head in gratitude, as was expected of her, but labored to swallow the bitterness at the back of her tongue. When they had the power to give her a feast, they instead offered her crumbs?
Even as hopelessness swirled through her, she knew she dare not shun anything they were willing to give. No matter how slim, it was still one more chance to win John’s release.
And one final opportunity to secure his love.
Chapter
34
Elizabeth wrinkled her nose at the overpowering scent of tobacco smoke. It filled every corner of the Swan Chamber Inn and hung like a cloud over their heads. The practice of smoking had returned with the restoration of the king and now permeated every fashionable gathering of men.
Her gaze swept over the crowded room of wealthy gentlemen—gentry of the surrounding shire, along with the traveling justices of the midsummer assize. Panic shoved at her insides and threatened to dislodge the remnants of her last meal.
She took a step backward. Who was she to enter uninvited into the court meeting? How had she ever thought she could speak to these men, much less enter their presence?
A firm grip on her upper arm propelled her forward. “God be with you, Sister Costin. God be with you.” Elder Harrington and the others of the congregation stood outside the door of the upper chamber on the staircase. Their presence blocked her escape. She had nowhere to go but forward.
The Independents knew more was at
stake in this case than just John’s future. If the justices of the assize convicted him, they would soon face persecution themselves.
Elizabeth swallowed the rising bile and forced one trembling step in front of the other toward a table of gentlemen, who puffed on pipes and sipped mugs of ale. The light from the tall, oblong-paned windows that faced the River Ouse displayed the ermine and scarlet robes of the judges.
Silence descended with each step she took. She was certain the appearance of a woman, especially a mere peasant woman, in the hallowed sanctuary of these elite men was a sacrilege not soon to be forgiven.
With a deep breath she searched for the face of Sir Matthew Hale. The elders had instructed her of his appearance and the need to speak directly with him. He was perhaps their only hope, the last of the judges who had any history of kindness toward the Independents.
“My lord.” She tried to steady her voice. “I make bold to come to your lordship.”
The distinguished judge sat up. His startled but kind eyes came to rest upon her.
“I’ve come to your lordship to know what may be done with my husband, John Costin.” She spoke the words the elders had instructed her to say.
“You are not welcome here, woman,” snapped Judge Twisden, the other presiding judge of the assize. His pompous expression, framed by loose cheeks and bulbous nose, dismissed her.
Elizabeth focused on Sir Matthew Hale and rushed to say what she must before they thrust her out of the chamber. “I have been to London, sir. I delivered the petition to Lord Barkwood. He entrusted me to your care, and I come now with the warrant of the peers to make my appeal.”
“It is of no use for you to waste our time with your petition,” Judge Twisden said. “Your husband has been duly convicted.”
At the choruses of agreement from the other men sitting with the judges, Elizabeth wondered if she would have the chance to say anything at all. She had an odd sense of empathy for what John had gone through time after time with these proud nobles who scoffed at any who would challenge them.
Sir Matthew Hale puffed on his pipe. “So you are the wife of John Costin?”