The Abbey bell tolled the hour of ten, the chimes rolling in on the breeze. Lifting his gaze from the desk, he let his eyes wander across the fields that stretched away beyond his window. He was glad his room looked out of the back of the house. Sheep dotted the greenery across the river; it was a peaceful scene.
A gentle scent of lavender touched the air, giving away Alice’s presence behind him, and he wondered how long she had been there, looking down over his shoulder at the texts she could not understand. But he lowered his eyes once again to his work, pretending not to have noticed so as to draw out the moment longer. He enjoyed her company, an uncomplicated pleasure he knew with no one else. Only when she moved round from behind him and into the corner of his vision did he finally have to admit she was there.
He laid down his quill and turned toward her. ‘Alice.’
‘I brought you some wine, Doctor Clarke.’ She set down a tray on the corner of the desk and he leaned forward to shift his papers, making space.
‘Thank you.’
‘It’s cold in here,’ she said. ‘And the fire is almost out.’
‘Is it?’ he replied, turning to look. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’ It was true. Absorbed in the Translation as he was, the world around him receded to the edges of his thoughts: he was in the world of the Israelites, in the heat and sun of the Holy Land, the harsh arid world of Abraham and Sarah, who were real to him, their voices clear and strong, their struggles his own. He inhabited this world more often than the physical world around him. Even walking through the London streets his mind was often there, the rhythms of the Hebrew in time with his footsteps, the images they conjured vivid in his head. He pitied those who knew no Hebrew, who could only ever hear the sacred words in English. For English carried no echoes of the past: it failed to take him there as the Hebrew did, words of holiness that bore him closer to God.
Alice smiled. ‘That’s no surprise. You get this faraway look in your eyes when you’re working as though your soul is in the Bible instead of here. I’ve been watching you for ages.’
She poured him some of the warm spiced wine and with the heat of it against his fingers he suddenly noticed the chill. He shivered. ‘You’re right. It is cold in here.’
She moved to the fire and squatted to poke it into new life, throwing on another log. After a minute or two the flames leaped and crackled and in their light her mousy hair glowed golden. He took another mouthful of the wine as she stood up.
‘What does it sound like in Hebrew?’ she asked, moving closer to the desk, her eyes grazing the pages of script, intrigued. ‘Is it like the Latin?’
‘No,’ he said quickly. ‘Not at all. It’s nothing like the Latin. It’s more …’ He stopped. How could he describe it to her? How could he explain the mystery it held for him? ‘It’s more beautiful,’ he said. ‘More ancient. More sacred.’
‘Read me some,’ she suggested.
He shook his head. ‘My spoken Hebrew is poor. How I say it is not how I hear it in my head. It’s like hearing a song you like …’
‘… but when you sing it yourself it sounds completely different?’ She smiled. ‘I know that feeling. My mother had the most beautiful singing voice and as a young girl I would carry her songs around in my head. Then when she died I tried singing them to myself, but I sounded like the woman who hawks fish in the street. It was very disappointing.’
He laughed gently, delighted by her understanding but recognising the sorrow beneath the humour. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘Exactly like that.’
‘But could you try?’ she persisted. ‘Just a little?’
He swallowed, torn between the wish for her to know and the fear that he would spoil it and make the words ugly to her ears.
‘Please?’
He took a deep breath and made a decision. ‘There’s prayer called the Sh’ma, which the Hebrews sing.’
‘Like a psalm?’
‘Yes. A bit like a psalm. It’s from Deuteronomy and you would know the English.’
She was watching him, waiting, and he paused, self-conscious. He began, too softly in an undertone so that his voice cracked and he had to stop. He cleared his throat and began again, a little louder this time.
‘Sh’ma Yisrael Adonai Eloheinu Adonai echad …’ He stopped.
She was smiling, looking at him in a way he didn’t understand, and the room seemed very warm.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she said. ‘What does it mean?’
‘Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God is Lord only.’
She nodded. ‘Yes. I know that passage. Sing some more.’
He shook his head, colour heating his neck and face.
‘Please? It was beautiful.’
Touched and wanting to please her more, he began again. ‘V’ahav’ta eit Adonai Eloheka b’khol l’vav Kha uv’khol naf’shkha uv’khol m’odekka …’
When he finished there was a moment of silence while she thought about what he had sung. Then she sang the lines softly, perfectly in tune, murmuring the English words, ‘And thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thine heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy might.’
‘It is as beautiful in Hebrew as it is in English,’ she said. ‘But how do you translate it? How can you tell its meaning?’
‘By long hours of study.’ He smiled, fingers touching the papers spread out across the desk, eyes sliding over the open pages of his books.
‘But how?’ she asked. ‘How can you know the right meaning?’
He was silent, considering how best to explain. He had never needed to talk of it before; it was so much a part of him, the process instinctive and familiar. It was the greatest of pleasures, serving God in such a way, opening the window on the Scriptures so that all may know their light. He was blessed and humbled to have been given such a gift. After a while he said, ‘There are many steps. First I look at the translations that have gone before, into English, into Latin – Tyndale, Coverdale, the Vulgate. I see what other men have made of it, what meanings they have understood. Then I return to the Hebrew and try my own hand at it. See here.’ He drew a book towards her that held columns of writing in Hebrew and English. ‘This is a lexicon, from the Hebrew to the English. It’s a list of translated words. But not everything is there and sometimes the meanings that are there make no sense in the context. So then I have to find other instances of the word in other places in the Scriptures, to see if I can make sense of it that way. Finally, when I have ascribed each word a meaning, I have to try and make it into a sentence in English, and therein lies the skill. Trying to marry the truth of the meaning, the sacred Word of God, into English that reflects the same perfection. Understanding the meaning of the Hebrew is only half of it.’
Nodding to show she had understood, Alice let the tips of her fingers run lightly across the lines of Hebrew in the lexicon, fascinated. ‘I can understand that a man might learn Latin,’ she said. ‘But Hebrew seems to be from a different world. I don’t know how you even begin to understand it.’
‘It’s not so hard once you’ve studied it awhile,’ he said gently. He was touched by her admiration and pleased. ‘And it is so very beautiful.’
‘You wish you had lived back then, don’t you?’ she said.
He laughed, surprised. ‘Of course not.’
‘I can see you there. You would be happy in your ancient world of Hebrew, that prayer on your lips in the desert, a simple love for God, waiting for Christ to come.’
‘Well, perhaps,’ he admitted. He had never thought of it in such a way, content to inhabit it in his mind. He was silent, observing her, and she dropped her gaze to the floor.
‘Forgive me,’ she said. ‘I meant no offence.’
‘I’m not offended,’ he answered quietly. ‘Just surprised.’
She flicked him a glance and her lips twitched into the beginnings of a smile. Then she moved towards the door and he watched her, wishing she would stay.
‘Thank you for bringing the wine,’ he said.
Her s
mile widened. ‘It was my pleasure.’ Then she squeezed out through the gap without opening the door any wider and disappeared into the passage.
Chapter 9
January 1605
And when they were come into the house, they saw the yong child with Mary his mother, and fell downe, and worshipped him: and when they had opened their treasures, they presented vnto him gifts, gold, and frankincense, and myrrhe.
(Matthew 2:11)
* * *
At the Twelfth Night revels at Thieving Lane Ben stood with his back to the hearth in the main hall, watching the party unfold. It was still early, the festivities not yet in full swing, and the guests stood in small bands, the women’s dresses bright and colourful amongst the merchants’ sombre blacks. Drink was flowing freely, spiced wine and Rhenish, claret and ale; extra servants had been brought in to keep the guests’ cups full, and others moved carefully through the crowd, holding aloft plates of fashionable delicacies – Greek olives, Italian grapes, plump dates and figs from the East, as well as traditional English pasties and pies. Above the music the hubbub was rising, the wine beginning to have its effect. Women’s laughter drifted shrilly across the hall.
Ben sipped at his drink and wished himself in the Midlands. There would be no such revels at Scrooby, no profane celebrations. He stepped forward from the fire a pace, the backs of his legs starting to scald, but he stayed on the outside of the party, a reluctant guest at an ungodly gathering. He was ashamed he had allowed himself to be persuaded.
He scanned the hall. The furniture had been moved against the panelled walls, and the rugs taken up and packed away. Wintergreen ivy and holly hung from every hook, dappled with blood-red berries; mistletoe hung from the ceiling beams, great bunches close above the revellers’ heads. As a boy he had gone with his sisters each year to collect the Christmas sprays, climbing to the highest branches to gather the best of the sprigs, throwing them down to Ellyn and Sarah, who had watched him with upturned faces full of pride and concern. He had never fallen, agile as a monkey, though once, larking about and pretending, he had almost tipped and overbalanced. He smiled at the memory, the childish innocence. But he had put away childish things now and the festivities no longer excited him.
A clutch of young women sat at one of the windows, giggling. He recognised Alice among them in a peach silk dress he had once seen on Ellyn. She was laughing and animated, and seemed very different from the timid creature he had talked to in the garden, so that he wondered if it was only in his presence that she became so meek. Beyond the girls, in a corner, a trio of musicians were labouring unappreciated, apparently unnoticed. No one had started dancing yet and in the centre of the floor was a gathering of merchants, their prosperity evident in the rich dark velvets and the cocksure way they held themselves. They were at their ease, cheeks already florid with wine, their laughter loud and confident. He could have been one of them, he reflected, if he’d taken the path his father wanted: comfortable and affluent, his prayers concerned with figures and trade instead of confessions of his sins and hopes for safety to worship. It was hard to imagine such complacency: he had been outside the law for so long, battling against the desires of his flesh and the human instinct for pleasure and security.
A woman he had never seen before approached the group that was giggling at the window. Her hair was red, as Cecily’s had been, her shoulders bare and pale against a dress of deep blue silk. For a moment his gaze lingered on the softness of her skin, imagining the texture underneath his fingers, against his lips, lust rising. It was a long time since he had known a woman’s touch. Across the room she caught his look and smiled, eyes lowered coyly. He shook his head and turned away, aware of himself once more as a sinner, his weakness as a man before God. Without Christ’s love he was nothing. He wished he had stayed at Scrooby, away from such temptations.
A servant passed with a jug of spiced wine and Ben stopped him to refill his cup. Then Richard approached the hearth, just returned to London from his preaching duties at Canterbury. He was rubbing his hands together lightly, gazing at the crowd in slight bewilderment. He looked frozen to the marrow and, reaching the fire, he held out his hands eagerly to the warmth. Though they had not spoken since the bonfire on All Hallows’ Eve, they exchanged no word of greeting.
‘It’s no weather for a journey,’ Ben said. He was grateful for the distraction.
‘Neither from Kent nor from the Midlands,’ Richard answered. ‘What brings you south at this time of year?’
‘My father requested I come. He still hopes to make of me a merchant.’
Richard smiled, then turned and cast his eyes across the room. ‘Who are all these people?’
‘Associates of my father, merchants to a man.’ He gestured to the group that held the centre of the hall. ‘You see the sandy-haired man with no chin and thinning hair?’
The other man nodded.
‘That’s Hugh Merton, my sister’s intended.’
Richard looked more closely, curious. ‘He seems …’
‘Dull,’ Ben supplied. ‘But he’s amiable enough, an honest sort of man. I imagine he will make a good husband.’
‘She could do worse,’ Richard agreed.
In the pause that followed, Ellyn came through the door and all eyes were drawn to her, vivid in silks of holly green with scarlet slashes in the sleeves and the skirt. She crossed the floor towards the women at the window, and if she noticed the attention that followed her she showed no sign. She launched into a story straight away, the other girls rapt, her quick hands describing details in the air.
The two men watched from their distance.
‘Look at them,’ Ben said. ‘Hanging on her every word.’ There was a mix of pride and amusement in his tone.
‘She looks very pretty,’ his friend offered.
Ben’s eyes flicked towards him. ‘You find her attractive?’
Richard had no answer and a telltale flush reddened his skin. He looked away.
‘I’m surprised,’ Ben said. ‘I would not have thought you’d be drawn to a woman like Ellyn. I’d have thought you’d choose someone more gentle, more studious. Someone more like … Alice.’
Richard hesitated, the blush still colouring his cheeks. Then he turned his head to face his friend. ‘She’s very like you,’ he said.
Ben was silent, the response unexpected, and he slid his eyes away. He had no idea what he should answer. But perhaps he had misjudged his friend after all, he thought, and the love had not yet died. Perhaps it was just as Richard claimed: a comfortable bed close to the Abbey and a slight hope he might yet win his friend back to the Church. A servant moved close and Richard stopped him.
‘Bring me wine,’ he said. The servant bowed and moved away to return in moments with a cup.
‘To Ellyn’s betrothal.’ Richard raised his drink.
Ben lifted his cup in silent salute and they drank.
At the window Ellyn reached the end of her story and the girls fell to giggling. Looking out beyond them, she spotted her brother and came towards them, still smiling.
‘This looks like a serious conversation,’ she mocked. ‘Can anyone join in?’
‘We were discussing your betrothal,’ Ben answered. ‘I was just telling Richard what a pleasant young man Hugh Merton is.’
‘You’re a pig,’ she hissed, the merry sparkle turning to fury in an instant. ‘How dare you?’
‘Calm down, Nell,’ he chided. It had always been too easy to bait her. ‘I’m only teasing.’
‘Well,’ she huffed. ‘For your information, I have no intention of marrying Merton.’
‘Really? So who will you marry instead? How about Richard here?’
She swung to face Richard, cheeks flushed, and looked him up and down in open appraisal. Evidently the thought had not occurred to her before. ‘Perhaps I will at that,’ she said. ‘At least it wouldn’t land me in the Fleet.’
Ben’s own temper flared, fury she would use such a thing against him, but as he ope
ned his mouth to reply Richard intervened. ‘Be at peace,’ he warned. ‘Your father approaches.’
Brother and sister turned as one, masks in places and smiles for their father, enmity put away. Ben had no wish to antagonise his father any further.
‘It is good to have you back, Richard.’ Thomas Kemp’s pleasure seemed genuine as the two men embraced. ‘Have you eaten?’
‘I ate a little on the road.’
‘Then drink. It’s Twelfth Night and we must be merry.’
The men lifted their cups in salutation and drank one another’s health before the older man moved away to greet more of his guests. They watched him circulate, cheerful and confident, wearing the fruits of his success with ease. It was not a role Ben could ever picture himself inhabiting, too aware of his own frailties and his unworthiness before God.
The musicians began to play a volta; one of the guests must have asked for it. People drew back and cleared the centre of the floor as a young couple in expensive silks took their places to begin this dance that had once been banned by the Pope. He saw Richard slide a furtive glance his way, and though he tensed against the music’s sensuality, the desire embodied in the dance to come, he could not tear his eyes away.
The couple began to circle each other, seductive and enticing, the tambour beating rhythm until the music from the viol brought them close together. The man swung the girl high up in the air in movements that were intimate and graceful, her skirts swirling up and out around her. Ben found himself entranced, heat spilling in his groin. Desire filled him, a memory not of Cecily but of Greta – secret love, forbidden, the sinful pleasures of his flesh. Passion had almost ruined him, lust had led him away from God, and it was Cecily who had paid the price.
The dancers slid their bodies close together in the final steps of the dance as the music came to an end. Applause broke out and the couple laughed, still holding hands, eyes bright with desire for each other. It was hard to look away. The musicians struck up the less seductive notes of a pavane. Other couples moved onto the floor and Ben stepped forward to stand in front of his sister. He bowed.
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