The King James Men

by Samantha Grosser

  Chapter 2

  October 1604

  For it was not an enemie that reproached me, then I could haue borne it, neither was it hee that hated me, that did magnifie himselfe against me, then I would haue hid my selfe from him.

  But it was thou, a man, mine equal, my guide, and mine acquaintance.

  Wee took sweet counsell together, and walked vnto the house of God in companie.

  (Psalms 55:12–14)

  * * *

  The ride south was hard in the autumn rain, the roads flooded and thick with mud, almost impassable in places. Twice the horse slipped under him, unable to keep her footing in the quagmire, and both times Ben Kemp found himself face down in the mud, blood running down his cheek unnoticed amid the rain and the dirt. His clothes clung to him wetly, the linen soft and cold against his back, wool breeches chafing on his thighs.

  He thought of the warm hearth back at the manor house in Scrooby and wondered what had possessed him to agree to go. The mare struggled to her feet, a reproachful look in her eyes, head low. She was enjoying the ride no more than he was. The thought made him smile. ‘Come on, Bessie girl,’ he soothed, rubbing her ears. She bumped her head against him. ‘Let’s get it over with.’

  His father’s summons had come just a few days since, unwelcome and unexpected: Ben had thought his father preferred to keep him at a distance, safely far away. He had been half tempted to ignore it, unwilling to leave Scrooby even for a short time, but he knew his father would only write again. And again. His father was nothing if not tenacious. So he had asked for advice from the others, the small community of righteous men whose life he had shared since his return from the East. It was a simple life, but godly, far removed from the iniquities of London, and he had found some contentment at last amongst them.

  Though there had been nothing explicit, nothing hostile in the neat and precisely chosen words, his father’s letter still threatened this peace. On the surface it seemed no more than an affectionate letter from father to son, requesting he return home for a visit for important matters to discuss. But Ben’s instinct was doubtful, the habit of a life often lived in danger, and he had been reluctant to accept. It was William Brewster who persuaded him, as they broke bread together in the hall after morning worship, souls cleansed and aching with the joy of God’s love. The new loaf had been warm and fragrant in his fingers, and Ben listened with attention to their leader’s counsel as other members of the household took their places at the table. Behind him the kettle hissed and sang in the hearth.

  ‘You are his son and heir,’ the older man said, ‘so perhaps it is a matter of inheritance, a settling of property. Or perhaps he wishes to consult you on matters that relate to your sister.’

  ‘My father has never consulted me on anything,’ Ben answered. Long-held resentments flickered, but he had learned through many years to keep a check on them, forcing them back to the corners of his heart where he kept them, out of sight and tightly fettered. ‘He has never considered my opinion worth a fig.’

  ‘Still,’ Brewster said, ‘he must have his reasons, and he is your father. In all good conscience I think you cannot refuse.’

  Ben nodded, and said nothing, resigning himself to the journey. Then he had scrawled a hasty note of acceptance to be sent when the next post rider came through, and made his preparations to leave.

  It was almost night when he reached London, dark falling early with the rain. Figures hurried through the downpour, cloaks drawn close about them, heads down and faces hidden. But there was no one loitering: traders had shut up shop, and the housewives were keeping dry in the warmth inside. Lanterns swung from their hooks beside each door, flames glittering uneasily against the storm, and the mare skidded and slipped on mud that was rutted and treacherous underfoot.

  He turned the corner into Thieving Lane. Three-storey merchants’ houses loomed up on either side of the narrow street, red brick and timber leaning out across the road. At his father’s house he stopped and cast a glance up across its front, blinking at the rain in his face. Cold water trickled from his hair down his spine and he shivered. The latticed windows winked blankly into the evening, curtains drawn tight behind them, and on the house next door the shop sign groaned as it swung on its rusting hooks. It was the house of his childhood, tall and solid, a fit house for a prosperous merchant, and it had not changed in the intervening years. He sighed, aware of the familiar weight of reluctance in his gut. A memory touched his thoughts, himself as a boy stealing fruit from the young trees in the orchard, and his father’s hand against his leg in punishment. The recollection lit no sense of nostalgia: he was still wayward in his parents’ eyes, though his father could no longer raise his hand to force obedience. He wished he had not come.

  Sliding from the saddle, he closed his eyes, a moment of silent prayer for courage. Blessed are ye if you suffer for righteousness’ sake. Then he lifted his fist to the door and hammered. Inside a dog barked, the familiar voice of the old greyhound that had once belonged to him. He heard her claws against the wood before a woman’s voice ordered the dog away and the door swung open.

  A girl he had never seen before stood in the doorway peering out into the rain. She was plain and mousy, and her hesitation annoyed him. He had ridden too far and too long to be kept waiting now on his father’s doorstep in the rain. After a moment, she sensed the impatience and stepped hurriedly back to let him in. A tree of candles on a hallstand at the base of the stairs flared and quivered with the draught from the door, throwing ghoulish shadows across the walls. He stepped inside, his cloak dripping onto the polished boards of the entranceway, and looked around him. The loose rushes that had covered the floor in his childhood had been replaced with woven mats, but the same faint fresh herb scent still hung in the air, doing battle with the smell of damp and wet wool and horse that clung to his clothes. All of it was so familiar but he did not feel at home.

  ‘My horse,’ he said, and at a word from the girl a boy he had not noticed slipped out past him and into the street. The greyhound nudged at his hand with her nose for his attention, and he rubbed her ears.

  The girl said, ‘You must be Ben.’

  ‘Yes. And you are?’

  ‘Your cousin Alice.’

  ‘Well, Cousin Alice, I need hot water and dry linen. And quickly.’

  She half curtsied and hurried away towards the kitchen, leaving him to drip in his cloak in the cold hallway. Ben watched her go, swung himself out of his cloak and let it fall across the banister, then strode towards the warmth of the main hall that was the heart of the house. It was here that the family gathered, the only room where a fire always burned. Low flames glimmered now in the hearth, and more candles flickered in their clusters on the cupboard, casting shifting shadows across the Turkey rugs that covered the floor. It was cheerful and welcoming, but he far preferred the simple austerity of the manor house in Scrooby.

  Richard remained by the fireside as the others got up to greet the traveller. He had no wish to intrude on a family reunion, he told himself, but in truth it was more that he was dreading the meeting, fearful his old friend would see straight through him and discern his purpose. His heartbeat quickened as the door swung back abruptly, juddering with the force, and Ben Kemp paced into the room with his eyes on the fire. Squatting at the hearth, his friend snatched up the poker, stirring life and more warmth back into the dwindling flames. Then he caught sight of Richard from the edge of his eye and hastened to his feet. The two men faced each other across the fireplace, and Richard saw the doubt in the other man’s face.

  ‘It’s good to see you again, Ben. You’ve barely changed,’ he said. It was the truth. The lean face with its angled cheekbones had weathered a little from the Eastern sun, and more flashes of grey flecked the dark mop of hair and short-cut beard, but the eyes held the same bright passion and he still moved with the quick, spare movements of a cat.

  There was a moment’s hesitation before Ben replied. ‘It’s good to be home,’ he said. Th
en he turned to his sister. ‘Do we have warmed wine?’

  His sister moved closer, an angry hand gripping her narrow waist. ‘Hello, Ellyn,’ she said. ‘It’s lovely to see you. How are you? I’m fine, thank you, Ben. How are you? Well, a bit wet obviously and in the foulest of tempers …’

  Ben laughed, his humour restored in an instant. ‘Forgive me, Nell. It was a hard road and I’ve forgotten my manners.’ He stepped towards her and bent to kiss her cheek.

  Richard observed them, brother and sister, more than ten years between them but as alike as two berries. Olive skin, near-black hair, dark eyes that so often glittered in temper, the same restlessness. Ben took his arm from her waist and she wiped the rain from her face with impatient fingers.

  ‘How are you, Nell?’

  ‘I am well. It is truly good to have you home.’

  He squeezed her hand and cast his eyes around the room, searching for an instant for the other sister, Sarah, the fair one, before he remembered she had gone, taken by the plague in his years away. He slid his eyes towards the fire.

  ‘I miss her too,’ Ellyn said.

  A servant at the door broke the silence. ‘There is hot water now, Master Kemp. It has been taken to your chamber.’

  ‘Good.’ He turned to his family. ‘Give me a few minutes.’ Then he strode out behind the servant, boots slopping on the floor and a trail of drops behind him.

  ‘As you see,’ Thomas Kemp said, turning to Richard when the door had closed, ‘my son is little changed.’

  ‘Barely at all.’ Richard smiled, though he had hoped to find him otherwise. He had prayed many times that time and age and exile would have mellowed him, but he had known Ben’s beliefs would never change: they were in the fibres of his soul, inextricable. The family resumed their places at the hearth while they waited for Ben to return, and the rain lashed at the windows in sudden squalls.

  ‘It’s a filthy evening,’ Richard said, and the others nodded their agreement. The easy conversation of before had been disturbed by Ben’s arrival, and they were silent now, waiting. Ellyn sat on the cushions before the hearth with the greyhound’s head across her lap, but the dog paid her no heed. Her eyes were on the door, ears lifted, waiting for her master’s step on the stair.

  ‘She’s a little large for a lapdog,’ Richard said, and Ellyn smiled.

  ‘She misses Ben. I’m not much of a substitute I’m afraid.’

  ‘She seems content enough.’

  ‘Perhaps. But one can seem content and still be missing someone absent, don’t you think?’

  ‘Of course.’ We do it all the time, he thought, putting on a mask to hide our sorrows and our fears, showing the world a brave face. Who can ever know what griefs a man is nursing underneath, what private pain? He thought of his father, dead these fourteen years, and not a day going by he had no thought of him.

  Ben rejoined them, dry and warm now as he took the vacant stool at the hearth. The fire had been tended and was burning higher, comforting against the wildness of the night. Ellyn rose and fetched spiced wine for her brother, and the greyhound shifted position to lay her head across her master’s knee. Ben smoothed the soft fur and the dog closed her eyes in pleasure.

  ‘What happened to your cheek?’ Emma Kemp noticed the cut across her son’s face and leaned forward, reaching out her hand to check. ‘It’s nasty.’

  Ben lifted his head away from her touch. ‘It’s nothing. Don’t fuss.’

  She lowered her arm. ‘You always were such a hard one,’ she said softly. ‘Even as a small boy, you would never allow anyone to comfort you.’ She turned her head to address their guest. ‘I used to watch him fighting back the tears even when I knew he must be hurting. But he never came to me for comfort, never let me hold him.’

  Ben gave her a smile. ‘Forgive me. I’m sure I was a most ungrateful child.’

  ‘A mother just wants to protect her children however old they get.’ Her eyes rested on the gash across Ben’s cheek but she kept her hands tightly clasped together in her lap. Richard saw the struggle and pitied her.

  ‘Did you used to let your mother comfort you, Richard?’ she asked, forcing her gaze away from the damaged face of her son.

  ‘I can’t recall,’ he said. ‘Perhaps. But it’s been many years since I saw my mother.’

  Too many, he thought, the farm a distant, indistinct memory, his family strangers to him now. He had never once regretted leaving.

  ‘Where is it you’re from?’ Ellyn asked.

  ‘You wouldn’t know of it.’ He smiled. ‘It’s a tiny village in the north.’

  ‘It’s almost in Scotland,’ Ben said. ‘Richard is actually half-Scottish.’

  Richard met his friend’s eye, a moment of the old understanding between them, and struggled not to laugh.

  ‘Are you really?’ Ellyn sat up with sudden animation.

  ‘I am not half-Scottish.’

  ‘He’s lying,’ Ben persisted. ‘He’s ashamed.’

  ‘Why would he be ashamed of being half-Scottish when our king is wholly so?’

  ‘I am not half-Scottish.’

  Ellyn lifted her chin, unsure who to believe until finally she caught her brother’s eye. Scowling, she shifted her body to turn her back on Ben and give her attention to Richard. Ben smiled and returned to fussing over the dog.

  ‘Have you been there, though, to Scotland?’

  ‘No. I left the north for Cambridge when I was still a boy.’

  Ellyn was disappointed.

  ‘You would like to go there?’

  ‘I would like to go somewhere,’ she answered. ‘Ben is lucky to have seen so many places.’

  Her brother said, ‘You live in the greatest city in the world, little sister, and I would as lief have never left these shores.’

  ‘Tell me again about Aleppo,’ she pleaded. ‘About the sunlight and the heat and the smells of the food …’

  ‘Another time, perhaps,’ he said, then lifted his eyes towards Richard. ‘So, how goes the great Translation?’

  ‘We’ve barely begun yet. We’re still gathering our sources, reading, thinking, debating. It’s no light task ahead of us.’

  ‘It is a mighty task indeed,’ Ben agreed. ‘But I can think of no one better suited for it. How many in your company?’

  ‘We are ten, and led by Lancelot Andrewes.’

  He saw his friend tense at the name. Ben had met Andrewes many years ago: they had argued Scripture in a cold cell at the Fleet.

  Ellyn said, ‘Why do we need another Bible translation? What’s wrong with the Geneva?’

  There was a pause, all of them looking to Ben for an answer, but he said nothing, his gaze steadfast on the eyes of the greyhound, his fingers working the soft fur of her neck. Richard stepped into the silence.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with the Geneva. For its time it was the best of the translations. But it pleases the king to have a new one made in his name, and scholarship improves all the time.’

  ‘And of course,’ Ben added, without lifting his gaze, ‘there’s the small matter of the marginal notes.’

  ‘Yes.’ Thomas Kemp joined the conversation for the first time. ‘Of course the marginal notes in the Geneva are not to the king’s liking. He finds them partial and untrue, traitorous even.’

  ‘So he will have a Bible written in a way that pleases him better.’ The bitterness in Ben’s voice was unmistakable.

  ‘The Translation will be true,’ Richard said quickly, ‘only there will be no notes.’

  ‘But we need notes,’ Ellyn said. ‘How else can we understand?’

  ‘Exactly,’ Ben agreed. ‘You will need to have the Scripture explained for you in church by some kind of cleric who will interpret it according to the king’s bidding.’ He lifted his eyes towards Richard with ill-disguised contempt. ‘Heaven help us, must we even have our Bible written by the king now? Is it not enough he places himself at the head of the Church?’

  ‘The new translation will be pure, I prom
ise you.’ Richard’s own temper was rising, his professional pride at stake. How dare Ben make such assumptions? He sat up straighter in his chair, muscles tensing.

  ‘Pure?’ Ben scoffed. ‘With Bancroft at the helm? I think not.’

  ‘That is enough!’ Ben’s mother stood up abruptly, skirts rustling, and placed herself between them. Ben kept his eyes averted, staring down at the dog.

  ‘Richard is our guest,’ she said, ‘and he has ever been a good friend to you, to us all. Now he works in good conscience to open more light upon the Scriptures. If it pleases the king to have no notes, then it is hardly Richard’s fault. I will not have you insult our guest. Now apologise.’

  Beyond her skirts Richard could see the working of Ben’s jaw, anger held in check by sheer force of will. He was sorry for the argument but unsurprised. They had only ever argued, their friendship forged through debate: only their love of God bound them together, brothers in the way of Christ.

  ‘I am not a child,’ Ben breathed.

  ‘Then do not behave like one,’ she retorted, still standing over them, her hands twisting together in anxious movements. Richard wondered when she had changed to become so nervous. It was not how he remembered her. Thomas Kemp sat back in his chair, hands folded across his stomach, watching.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mother,’ Ben said softly. Then he turned his head towards Richard. Emma Kemp stepped away. ‘Forgive me, Richard. My anger is not with you, as I hope you know.’

  ‘I know,’ Richard replied, accepting the apology, but in the warm room a chill settled over him. Any last hopes he had cherished for Ben had died with the argument. Seven years in the East had wrought no change in Ben’s beliefs. He would never now recant – Bancroft had been right.