The Preacher's Bride

by Jody Hedlund

  “Yes, my lord. I have four small children that cannot help themselves, of which one is blind, and we have nothing to live upon but the charity of good people.”

  Her statement did as intended. Sir Matthew put down his pipe, and his eyes filled with sympathy. “Four children? You are too young a woman to have four children.”

  “My lord. I am only stepmother to them. I have been married to my husband less than two years. Indeed I was with child when my husband was first apprehended.” She pushed aside the pain the remembering brought and made herself continue. “Since I was young and unaccustomed to such things, I, being dismayed at the news of the arrest, fell into labor. I continued for a week and then was delivered. But my child died.”

  “Alas, poor woman!” Sir Matthew sat forward.

  “Don’t listen to her,” came a voice Elizabeth recognized at once, one that sent fear racing through her. She looked upon the thin face of William Foster, who was seated next to Judge Twisden. He regarded her with contempt, one that said he would finally destroy her.

  “This woman is not one of repute, your lordships,” Mr. Foster continued. “The rumors surrounding her have always been less than favorable. She was Costin’s housekeeper and bed warmer before she became his wife.”

  His words elicited muffled coughs and a few guffaws.

  Heat made its way into her cheeks and burned them with embarrassment.

  “Costin is a pestilent fellow as well,” Mr. Foster said. “There is none like him in the county. His reputation, like this woman’s, leaves much to be desired.”

  The rumors had spread wide. Mr. Foster had made sure of that. “And yet time has indeed proven many of those rumors false,” she said, looking directly at Mr. Foster. “ ’Tis because we are poor laborers that we must endure the lies and attacks without the true culprit being brought to justice.”

  Mr. Foster smiled.

  “ ’Tis widely known that this man—Mr. Foster—set fire to my husband’s cottage with the intent to burn me within.” She turned again to Sir Matthew Hale. “But he will not be brought to justice for the wrong he’s done, while my husband languishes in gaol, though he is innocent.”

  “This woman makes poverty her cloak,” Mr. Foster declared, raising his voice. “As I understand, her husband finds it much better to run up and down preaching than to follow his calling.”

  “What is Costin’s calling?” Sir Matthew asked.

  A chorus of voices replied, “A tinker, my lord.”

  “Yes,” she said loudly, to be heard over the commotion. “He is a tinker and a poor man, therefore he is despised and cannot have justice.”

  “He does not abide by his tinkering,” said Mr. Foster. “He preaches and does whatever he sees fit, regardless of the Book of Common Prayer.”

  “He preaches nothing but the Word of God,” said Elizabeth to Sir Matthew, refusing to look at Mr. Foster.

  “He preaches the Word of God?” Mr. Foster rose to his feet, his face puffed with growing rage. “He runs up and down and does harm. That is what he does!”

  “No, my lord.” Elizabeth tried to keep her voice calm, even though her body was tense and ready for a battle of words. “God has owned him and has done much good by him.”

  “God?” Mr. Foster’s voice was laced with contempt. “His doctrine is the doctrine of the devil.”

  “My lord, when the righteous Judge shall appear, all will know John Costin’s doctrine is not the doctrine of the devil.” Her words rang through the room, reverberated off the walls, and penetrated deep into her heart.

  God did own John. And John’s true calling was not his tinkering. They were wrong. She had been wrong. His true calling was his preaching—just as the disciples had been fishermen by trade, but their true calling had been teaching.

  “Send her away,” Mr. Foster demanded.

  “Sit down, Mr. Foster.” Sir Matthew Hale’s command echoed through the chamber. “I think we’ve heard enough of your blustering.”

  Mr. Foster slid back into his chair, but his glare slashed into her.

  With a shiver she turned once again to Sir Matthew. “My lord, I only ask that you consider my husband’s case according to the law and not by prejudice. He has not been lawfully convicted. The king and Parliament have no law against meeting to exhort one another for Christ’s sake.”

  “He is convicted. It is recorded,” came the quick reply of one of the justices.

  “How can there be a conviction when there has been no law for him to break? Surely you cannot hold a man accountable for an outdated law of which he had no foreknowledge.” While she didn’t understand the full ramifications of the law, she had heard enough of the talk about the statute of Queen Elizabeth to know the Royalists had twisted even the old laws to suit their purposes.

  “What does a wench like you know of such things?” Mr. Foster said. “It’s not your place to speak to this group of distinguished men in this manner. Leave the thinking and deciding to those of us who have been given the right by God—”

  “Mr. Foster,” Sir Matthew Hale’s voice rose. “You will either hold your tongue or leave this gathering.”

  The words upon Mr. Foster’s lips died away. He nodded at the judge and then clamped his lips together with a brittle smile—a smile that said he would murder her if he could.

  Elizabeth pushed aside her fear and slid Lord Barkwood’s letter across the table in front of Sir Matthew Hale. “My Lord, if you would but consider this petition . . .”

  The judge glanced at it, then reached for his pipe. He took a deep puff and regarded her for a long moment. “Certainly John Costin is well aware of the law now—a law that has always been in effect—only it has been ignored these many years. Would your husband leave off his preaching now that he knows its illegality?”

  The men fell silent.

  Elizabeth lifted her head high and straightened her shoulders. The answer was clearer to her than it ever had been before. “My lord, he dares not leave preaching as long as he can speak.”

  As she said the words, the room erupted into chaos. Inside her heart, however, in the deepest part, she was filled with peace. He would preach until the day he died, or he would no longer be John Costin, the man she loved.

  * * *

  Elizabeth’s hands shook so that the soup inside the crock sloshed dangerously close to spilling. “I will go today, Mary,” she told the young girl.

  It had been one week since the assizes, since her complete failure to secure John’s release. All that week she’d struggled, reviewed each word she’d spoken, wondered if she could have done or said anything different that might have secured his freedom. She was sure the only way she could have gained his release was to extract a promise from him that he would stop preaching. And she knew now she could never do that.

  Preaching was his calling. And John must face his hardships and go through them in much the same way she needed to face hers.

  It was past time to apologize to John for what she had said about his preaching, for discouraging him in it, for asking him to stop. She couldn’t rest until she did. And as much as she dreaded visiting him and facing his displeasure over her failure, she also realized she must see him one last time.

  “Do you want me to go with you?” Mary steadied the crock.

  “I must do this, Mary.” Elizabeth willed her hand to stop shaking. “I regret that I have not done it sooner.”

  “He will be glad to see you.”

  “ ’Tis no matter,” she said, trying to convince herself. She’d let him down. Why would he want to see her now?

  “He has never stopped asking about you.” The girl’s voice was soft.

  Elizabeth tucked a stray piece of hair back under her coif and took a deep breath.

  “Don’t worry.” Mary’s hands patted the air until she made contact with Elizabeth’s cheeks. Then her fingers gently glided over Elizabeth’s face, her nose, mouth, and eyes. “You are beautiful, the most beautiful woman I know.”

&nb
sp; “Mary’s right.”

  Elizabeth gasped, and her heart slammed to a halt.

  Mary jumped back and screamed. In an instant she streaked across the room to the sound of his voice. She threw herself with abandon into the arms she knew would be outstretched for her.

  For a moment Elizabeth could only watch in speechless shock, not daring to move lest she lose sight of the apparition of John that stood within the doorway.

  Mary’s arms wound around her father, and she burst into heavy heartrending sobs.

  The wails brought the other children pattering barefoot into the room.

  Betsy squealed and ran to her father. Johnny approached more slowly, but John knelt and swept all three against his chest in a crushing embrace. Tears dripped from his cheeks onto the tops of their heads, followed by his kisses.

  Elizabeth absently picked up Thomas, who clung to her, his eyes wide with fear for the man who had become a stranger to him. She didn’t realize her cheeks were wet until Thomas wiped them with his fingers.

  “Momma cry?”

  Elizabeth smiled through her tears. “Momma is happy.” This moment in time, watching John love his children—it was enough to feed her hungry soul for many days to come.

  But then John’s gaze lifted from the children and found her. The longing and love in his eyes swept the breath from her body.

  She clutched a hand to her throat. Was he really there? Or had she finally grown so desperate that she was now dreaming during her waking hours too?

  “Elizabeth,” he said softly. He stood then and let go of the children. His gaze refused to release hers as he started across the room toward her.

  When he finally stood in front of her, her breath came in shallow, erratic bursts.

  Somehow Mary managed to extract Thomas from her arms and usher the children outside.

  John didn’t say anything, but he scrutinized her face, devouring her as if he needed to get as much of her into his soul as he could before they were ripped apart.

  “Are you real?” she whispered, lifting her hand—wanting, needing to touch him and reassure herself that he truly stood before her. Hesitantly she grazed her fingers across his cheek.

  He leaned into her hand. “I’m home,” he whispered. “Now I’m most definitely home.”

  A choked sob escaped unbidden. She stepped away from him and pressed her fist against her mouth, holding back the flood that suddenly swelled for release. Home? For how long?

  He thrust out a hand toward her. Purple hyacinths and yellow daffodils danced in a wild array of color. “For you,” he said softly.

  Her heart lurched with the memory of another bouquet and the same words on their betrothal morning.

  “Can we start over? At the beginning?” His eyes probed hers.

  She swiped at the tears slipping down her cheeks but couldn’t keep them at bay.

  “If you’ll give me another chance, I’d like to be the kind of husband you deserve.” He reached out and touched her tears.

  At the gentleness of his fingers, another sob slipped out.

  “I will take you as my wife.”

  His earnest pledge tore at her heart and stripped away the little resistance left.

  “I truly take you as my wife, Elizabeth.”

  “Yes, but for how long?”

  His fingers followed the path her tears had left. “A very wise young woman once told me ’tis better to love and be loved, if only for a day, than to have not loved at all.”

  She smiled through her tears.

  “I love you, Elizabeth.”

  His soft words wrapped around her. She read his eyes and saw the truth in their depths.

  “I promise to love you for as long as God shall give you to me—even if it is only for a day.”

  She took the flowers from him and buried her face in them, washing the petals with her tears.

  “But it’s my hope I have longer than a day to love you,” he said, reaching for her and drawing her to him.

  “What is the verdict?”

  He shook his head and a shadow crossed his eyes, and she could see then the lines that the months in prison had added to his face.

  “Sir Matthew Hale gave me no guarantees.”

  “You are here now.” She brushed a hand across the crevices near his temple. “And that’s all that matters.”

  A sudden grin played at his lips. “They told me you argued with those judges better than I could have.”

  She couldn’t keep back a smile of her own. “I doubt anyone could argue more convincingly than the preacher John Costin.”

  His grin broke free. “Anyone except the preacher’s bride.”

  Author’s Note

  The Preacher’s Bride is inspired by the real-life story of one of history’s greatest heroes of the faith, John Bunyan, writer of the classic Pilgrim’s Progress. While history gives due laud to John, it fails to recognize the woman who stood by his side and helped shape him into the hero we all know and love. It is my sincerest hope that in telling this story, I have brought to life Elizabeth Bunyan and have given her the recognition she deserves.

  While I have attempted to remain true to the recorded facts, I have taken liberty with a few dates, as well as John’s final release from prison. As with most historical fiction, an author must use his or her imagination to fill in the framework of what was left untold by history, to patch up the gaps and add details to the real story. Thus, most of The Preacher’s Bride is true fiction, the runaway creativity of a writer’s mind.

  However, you may be wondering which things within the story actually happened.

  We do know John lost his first wife and was left with four young children, the oldest of which, a daughter, was blind. He received help from the women of his congregation in caring for his motherless children so he could continue preaching and teaching. John’s enemies spread many vicious rumors about him, and I have tried to accurately portray the nature of what was being spread. William Foster was one of the staunchest persecutors of the Puritans in Bedfordshire. John was arrested by Francis Wingate, and the dialogue during his time at Harlington House is based on John’s writings. Elizabeth fell into labor for an unbelievable seven days, and the baby she birthed died. She traveled to London as well as petitioned the judges at the assizes for John’s release. The words during that trial are taken from transcripts. Characters like Gibbs, Sir Matthew Hale, Sister Norton, Mrs. Grew, Vicar Burton, and other members of the congregation were real people, as recorded in documents of their church. I have also attempted to use many of John’s famous quotes throughout the book.

  While I have taken liberty to have John released from prison at the end of The Preacher’s Bride, in reality, John and Elizabeth faced twelve long years apart while John languished in the Bedford prison—twelve years of incredible hardship and the struggle to survive. They were indeed pilgrims on a difficult path. John steadfastly refused to give in to the Anglican Church’s demands to stop preaching. Although they did not banish him from the country as they’d threatened, they did confine him in prison indefinitely.

  During his twelve years of imprisonment, John was allowed occasional and brief periods of freedom. In 1665 the deadly bubonic plague swept through England, and John was allowed to go home. Then in 1666 after the Great Fire of London he was given another respite from prison. Neither of his breaks was long, and he ended up back in the same jail for six more years.

  In 1672 King Charles II, in an effort to reduce tensions, issued an indulgence that permitted Puritans and other Independents to obtain licenses to worship freely. John was finally freed from prison and received a royal license to preach. He was named minister of the Bedford congregation, winning the right to share the good news of the Gospel anywhere and to everyone. The tinker had truly become preacher.

  John and Elizabeth were finally reunited. They had two more children together, as well as a long and satisfying marriage. God used their hardships to strengthen their love for Him and their love for each other.
If John had given in to the demands to stop preaching, then quite possibly the world would not have known one of the greatest pieces of literature ever written. For it was during John’s dreary days in jail that he wrote Pilgrim’s Progress, a testament to the persevering of faith in the midst of hardships.

  * * *

  So who was Elizabeth Bunyan? Near the end of his life John wrote these words in a deed of gift, and it describes Elizabeth better than I ever could: “. . . the natural affection and love which I have and bear into my well-beloved wife, Elizabeth Bunyan.”

  She was the well-beloved wife of one of the greatest heroes of the faith. May her story encourage and strengthen you in your pilgrimage.

  Acknowledgments

  As a mother of five young children, I often struggle to find writing time. I try to schedule it in six days a week, usually in the early mornings and also in the afternoons after I’m done teaching my children. But each day is full of challenges, distractions, and activities that often cut into that writing time. Some days it’s a wonder I write at all!

  But thankfully, God provided some incredible support during the writing of The Preacher’s Bride, and I’d like to take the opportunity to thank all those who helped me.

  I need to first and foremost thank the Lord for giving me the type of personality that can work through interruptions and chaos day after day! Secondly, I want to thank my husband for his support of my writing passion and for his willingness to help me find that illusive uninterrupted time.

  I’m grateful to my older children for taking turns babysitting and playing with their younger siblings in the afternoons so that I could write. Without their help, I would have had innumerably more distractions. They sacrificed for me and cheered me on day after day.

  I also want to acknowledge the fantastic organization ACFW (American Christian Fiction Writers). Every year ACFW sponsors the Genesis Contest, a national fiction-writing contest for unpublished writers. My double final in the 2009 contest helped me gain recognition and helped propel my writing career forward.