The King James Men

by Samantha Grosser

  The door opened on a pungent fragrance of spices: nutmeg, cinnamon and ginger, and the headier breath of frankincense, scents he had come to know well in his trading days in Aleppo. Stepping into the darkness of the entrance hall, he blinked as his eyes struggled to adjust to the gloom. Then he caught another scent beneath the spice, a familiar reek of mustiness and crumbling walls with mice that ran inside them.

  He followed the servant up narrow stairs and into a barely lit room overlooking the street. It was hard to picture his sister here in the half-light: her own fire would struggle to stay bright. While he waited he wandered the room, inspecting a Turkey rug that hung on the wall, examining the curiosities displayed on a table. There was a small silver statue of a kind he had seen in the bazaars in the East, some seashells and a brightly coloured feather, from a kingfisher perhaps. He ran his thumb along its edge and then replaced it before he crossed the floor to the window and looked out onto the street below. Footsteps clattered on the stairs from the floor above, running and immodest, and he heard the short halt outside the door as his sister composed herself before she entered.

  ‘Ben.’ She greeted him with a voice still breathy from running, and her hair was tied up and hidden under her cap, no longer worn loose as the badge of her maidenhood. He felt a pang of regret.

  ‘Nell.’ He went to her and kissed her cheek, taking her hands in his. Surprised by the affection, she stepped back abruptly. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said.

  ‘What for?’

  He tilted his head and gestured at the room with a motion of one hand. ‘For all of this. For taking my father’s part.’

  She inclined her head. There were questions in her eyes, puzzled at this change in him.

  ‘Forgive me.’

  She shrugged. ‘I had to marry someone sooner or later. You were right. It might as well have been Hugh.’ She gave him a small smile and took his hand in hers again, leading him back to the window that looked down on the road. Two men were arguing, carters trying to pass each other in the narrow street, both too stubborn to back up. They should have compromised earlier, he thought. They would have the devil’s own job to back up such laden carts now.

  ‘Idiots,’ Ellyn said.

  ‘How is it?’

  She shrugged again.

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘At the warehouse. Or at the docks. One of the two.’

  There was a silence. The carters had finished abusing each other and returned to their respective carts but neither was making any effort to move.

  Ben said, ‘Was he gentle?’

  She flicked him a sideways glance and nodded, tight-lipped. Ben placed a hand on her shoulder. It was delicate under his palm and he could feel her tension, the latent quivering beneath the skin.

  ‘You’ll come to enjoy it, if he’s gentle.’

  She slipped her shoulder free of his hand. ‘Is that all you came to say?’

  He smiled. Marriage had not dulled the sharpness of her tongue. ‘I came to say goodbye. I leave for the Midlands this morning.’

  In truth he had planned to tell her about their father’s will, how everything that should be his would go to her husband instead. But she had no need to know, he decided: it would only sow more seeds of resentment and kindle friction with their father. She would find out soon enough and by then who knew what might have happened?

  ‘I wish you’d stay in London longer,’ she said.

  ‘No, you don’t. You’ll be too busy now you’re a housewife to have time for your brother. You’ve a whole house to run, servants to manage, ale to brew, a kitchen to stock, a husband’s linen to sew …’ The life of a merchant’s wife left no time for idleness.

  She smacked his arm hard enough to sting but behind the scowl there was laughter. He drew her to him against her token protest and held her fast in his arms. When he kissed her head she tensed, resisting a moment before she folded into him and let him hold her as he used to when she was just a child. Simpler times, he thought, when problems could be solved with a hug and a cup of warm milk.

  She shifted back from him and he loosened his hold, sliding his hands along her arms to take her fingers lightly in his. He was reluctant to let her go, goodbye hard to say this time.

  ‘Go,’ she said. ‘You have a long ride ahead of you. I’ll be fine. You have no need to worry – we’re cut from the same cloth, you and I. Tough. And prickly.’ She smiled. ‘May God keep you.’

  He let go of her hands and backed away as far as the door. He still had trouble believing that she was a woman now, a wife with a husband to care for her.

  ‘Write to me,’ she said.

  ‘Maybe I will this time,’ he replied. ‘Maybe I’ll surprise you.’

  ‘That would be nice. But I won’t hold my breath. Now go. The morning grows old.’

  He bowed a final farewell in the doorway then turned and walked away.

  Chapter 14

  Summer 1605

  And the LORD said vnto him, Who hath made mans mouth? or who maketh the dumbe or deafe, or the seeing, or the blind? haue not I the LORD? Now therefore goe, and I will be with thy mouth, and teach thee what thou shalt say. And he said, O my Lord, send, I pray thee, by the hand of him whom thou wilt send.

  (Exodus 4:11–13)

  * * *

  They finished Genesis and moved on to Exodus as spring slowly brightened into summer, cool breezes and showers giving way to long warm days of humidity that hummed in the city streets with a pungency that floated off the river and hung above the open drains.

  Sweating in the heat, Richard thought often of the vicarage in Kent, where the apples and plums would be ripening in the orchard, the air lazy with the heavy scent of fruit. In the heat of the summer he was missing its peace and the wholesome air, though when he had gone there first he had hated it, his heart and mind still amongst the books at Cambridge, and filled with resentment.

  But Cambridge had given him no choice but to leave. Passed over twice for promotion because of his conformity to the Church in an academic world that espoused a more Puritan view, he had felt compelled to protest. It had ended badly, as protests often do, descending into personal conflict that almost came to blows. And so, in frustration and fury, he had resigned his fellowship and retreated to his living at Thanet. It had felt like the end of his world – a small rural parish, barely a soul who could even read, and far from everything he loved and valued. For the first few months he was miserable, finding no joy in anything: even his faith had burned less brightly. Slowly though, he had learned to hate it less, a growing awareness of the sin of his pride and his ambition, followed by reluctant acceptance of God’s plan for him. Humbled, he studied alone, his triumphs unnoticed by any save the vicarage cat, and finding reward instead in leading his parishioners and guiding them to love the Lord as he did. They accepted him easily, pleased to have a resident vicar at last, and he learned from them too, understanding there was joy to be found in the slowly turning seasons, the abundance of God’s earth.

  These days, his duties took him there seldom and the care of the parish was entrusted to the curate. But he was called to preach at Canterbury every few weeks, and though he welcomed the break from the London summer with its stink and the threat of the plague, he regretted every day he lost from the work of translation. To make up for it he translated in his head as he rode, the passages of Hebrew perfect in his memory, the English never quite good enough. Sometimes, though, he found great inspiration – lines he had struggled with in the Abbey library suddenly coming clear along the road to Kent. It was strange, he thought, how a man’s mind works. To spend all that time at his desk then find the answer he was seeking in a country lane.

  At the weekly meeting he sat by Andrewes, choosing a seat a safe distance from the sour breath of Thomson. Though it was cool in the Jerusalem Chamber, a relief from the heat of the day outside, he could feel the dampness on the back of his neck and the runnel of moisture down his spine. A taint o
f male sweat hung in the room and he sipped at his ale, but it did nothing to refresh him. Waiting for the meeting to begin, his gaze lighted on the vast tapestries of Abraham and Sarah that covered the walls, the same truth in the images of wool and silk that the translators sought to illuminate in words. He loved this room, the peace of ages contained within its mediaeval walls.

  The meeting began, talking of Moses’s reluctance to do God’s bidding: Moses in his humility, asking God to send someone else.

  ‘Ah, but who can blame him, eh?’ Thomson said. ‘Who could think themselves worthy to lead God’s chosen people?’

  Richard nodded his agreement but said nothing. Who among us ever thinks himself worthy of God’s trust? Or qualified to perform all He asks of us? He thought of his own reluctance in the face of the task the Church had given him and sympathised with Moses pleading to be spared. Though his own burden weighed little compared to Moses’s load, he could understand the sense of dismay, his unwillingness, and he took some small comfort from the knowledge that even Moses had suffered doubt. But God at least had spoken directly to Moses – there was no question the task was God’s will. He wished God would speak as plainly to him.

  ‘And who would want such a task?’ Thomson added.

  ‘God does not call the qualified,’ Andrewes replied. ‘He qualifies the called.’

  Richard turned towards him, struck by the words, listening as Andrewes went on.

  ‘We are none of us capable without God’s help,’ Andrewes said, ‘but when he calls us we must answer. He will give us all we need if we trust in Him, if we obey.’

  The men were silent for a moment, weighing the Dean’s meaning, and Richard thought, So it comes down to trust. In the end, faith must rest on the trust that all things come from God, and that He will provide. The Church was God’s house on earth, the pillar and ground of truth. He could think of nothing more sacred, nothing more divine. Why, then, did he still waver? Why did he fear to have trust? Was it some sin within him, this reluctance to act as the Church demanded? The error of his humanity, too small and frail to understand what God would have him do. He thought of Abraham, trusting enough to give his own beloved son. So why should he hesitate to give up Ben?

  The work began, drawing Richard’s thoughts back to the text, the problems of his earthly self effaced in the ecstasy of Scripture. They started as always, looking over past translations, comparing each man’s attempts against them, searching, sifting, seeking the perfect words to convey God’s truth.

  Coverdale’s version, short and simple, heartfelt:

  But Moses said: My LORDE, sende whom thou wilt sende.

  It was easy to hear Moses’s desperation in the phrase. Please God, send someone else. Richard thought of his own prayers to be spared the task God had set him. Faith was no easy thing.

  The Bishops’ Bible, closer to the Hebrew word for word:

  He said: oh my Lorde, sende I pray thee, by the hande of him whom thou wilt sende.

  There was little disagreement amongst the translators: the Bishops’ Bible was the most accurate, the truest translation. The Geneva translators had also rendered it the same. Only Coverdale differed.

  ‘So we are agreed? The line will read,

  And he said, O my Lord, send, I pray Thee, by the hand of him whom Thou wilt send.’

  Andrewes turned his eyes around the table, waiting for each of the translators to give his agreement. Richard nodded in his turn, though a part of him regretted losing Coverdale’s simplicity. But their task was to find the closest truth to the original, and so there was nothing for it but to agree.

  ‘Good.’ Andrewes bestowed on him the reward of a smile. ‘Then let us proceed.’

  The translators turned their eyes back to the next verse and the process was begun again.

  They had supper in the oak-panelled dining room at the deanery. By the time Richard arrived the only place left at the long table was the one between Bancroft and Thomson. He paused for an instant, scanning for a way to escape, but there was none so he had no choice but to take the seat. A multitude of candles along the table glimmered, and behind the latticed windows which stood open to the evening air the summer twilight shed its dying light across the city. The conversation did not falter as Richard slid into his place. They were discussing the Translation, giving the Archbishop news to take back to the king.

  Richard beckoned to a servant for wine but he ignored the food: the company of Bancroft had dulled his appetite. The servant poured the wine. It was a claret, far too heavy for such a hot day and on an empty stomach. He sipped carefully and wished he had dined at the Kemps’.

  ‘The king grows impatient,’ Bancroft was saying. ‘He wants to see progress.’

  ‘You may tell him we are progressing,’ Andrewes replied. ‘Day by day, week by week, little by little, the task is being accomplished.’

  ‘But too slowly.’

  ‘Such work takes time. You must understand, My Lord, and the king must understand, it is a mighty labour that we perform. Surely he would not have us make errors for the sake of saving a little time?’

  The Archbishop looked as though he understood nothing of the kind. Mistrustful eyes peered out from deep in the lined face.

  ‘We are all playing our parts, My Lord,’ Andrewes continued. ‘Each company has made a good beginning and it is still less than a year since we began. The king cannot expect miracles – we are but humble translators of God’s Word.’

  Bancroft sighed.

  Perhaps the Archbishop was feeling the pressure, Richard thought. Maybe it was harder than he had thought at the top, the weight of the realm too heavy a burden. To Richard’s mind, Andrewes would have been a better choice, just and clever and humble before God, but perhaps kings look for other qualities in the head of their church. Perhaps Bancroft got the job for his knotted wrestler’s muscles and the thick red hands he was not afraid to bloody.

  ‘I shall speak to His Majesty myself,’ the Dean said. ‘Perhaps I can reassure him.’

  Bancroft barely hid a scowl. Despite his closeness to the king, their shared pursuit of nonconformists, it was Andrewes’s company the king enjoyed, granting the Dean an easy confidence at Court that was denied to Bancroft.

  ‘The king has asked me to be at Court tomorrow,’ Andrewes said. If he was aware of the effect of his words, it was not apparent. ‘I can speak to him then. So there is no need for you to fret, My Lord. All will be well. Now, have some more of the excellent claret, and eat. You have barely tasted a mouthful.’ His gaze travelled along the table. ‘You too, Doctor Clarke. You must eat also. The veal is especially good. And the capons. I refuse to take no for an answer.’ The pale grave face smiled in encouragement.

  Richard returned the smile, the Dean’s charming persuasion hard to resist. He took a small helping of the veal. It was dressed in some kind of egg sauce with nutmeg, perhaps, and wine. The Dean was right – it was especially good, despite its richness. Next to him and still not eating, the Archbishop took another mouthful of wine before he spoke into the pause.

  ‘We have deprived another Puritan these last few days.’ He looked around the table for nods of approval, which he got, with varying degrees of enthusiasm. His gaze ended on Richard sitting beside him. It was like being skewered.

  ‘Who, My Lord?’ Richard enquired.

  ‘The rector at Babworth. One Richard Clyfton.’

  Thomson leaned forward to look past Richard at Bancroft. ‘And where on God’s good earth is Babworth?’

  ‘In the Midlands, I believe,’ Andrewes supplied. ‘Am I right?’ He turned to the Archbishop, handing the conversation back to him.

  ‘Yes,’ Bancroft confirmed. ‘Not far from Nottingham.’

  Richard’s skin prickled with interest.

  ‘He refused the prayer book and the surplice, wouldn’t kneel for the Host. He was given several chances but he refused to submit. They always do.’

  ‘And the living at Babworth?’ Andrewes asked.

 
; ‘It will stay empty until another man can be found, one who will better conform to the teachings of the Church.’ Bancroft swung his head towards Richard again. ‘You have contacts in that part of the world, I believe, Doctor Clarke. Do you know of this Clyfton?’

  ‘I’ve not heard of him,’ Richard answered. His eye caught the Dean’s, unwavering and serious, and the others regarded him with interest, wondering if their long-held suspicions were about to be borne out.

  ‘I would lay odds he is known to Ben Kemp though,’ Bancroft said. ‘These Puritans mass together like flies on a turd.’

  Doctor Overall sniggered. Richard shot him a look of distaste.

  ‘And of course you would not deny that Ben Kemp is known to you?’ Bancroft’s gaze had not shifted, like a hunter with a quarry in his sight.

  ‘My connection to Kemp is well known. I have never sought to deny it.’ What else could he say when it was the Archbishop that had sent him back to the Kemps? He flushed, aware Bancroft was playing with him but unsure of the rules of the game.

  ‘You have news of him?’

  ‘Only that which you already know, My Lord,’ he replied. The evening had cooled but he was sweating nonetheless. He took a mouthful of wine. ‘And he may well know Clyfton – I believe he lives thereabouts.’

  ‘He is not planning to go back to the East?’

  ‘He prefers to remain in a Christian country.’

  Bancroft let out a snort of derision and released Richard from his scrutiny, turning his gaze back to the rest of the Company. ‘If he’s connected to Clyfton we’ll have him soon enough. A whole congregation can’t hide for long. Then we’ll get the lot of them and stamp out this dissent once and for all.’

  Richard said nothing, wondering if Ben was connected to Clyfton, and if Babworth had been the draw that took him to the Midlands. The community there would be frightened now, he guessed, the net closing in on them without the shield of Babworth Church to protect them, forced back into their own congregations, their own meetings their only place of worship. Their names would be noted now as absent come Sunday services and they would be called upon to explain themselves. As Bancroft said, it could only be a matter of time.