Then he put the Bible back on the table by the bed, Cecily’s laughter still in his thoughts, and went out to start the new day.
After supper William Brewster searched him out in the yard behind the house. He liked to sit out in the long warm twilight and watch the stars appear above the wide expanse of fields, marvelling at the beauty of God’s creation and his humbleness before it. Ben loved this land, the low-lying fields and the fish-rich river, the soft light that filled a vast and open sky, and the flatness of the landscape, the horizon so far away it was almost lost to view. There was a wildness here too, the untameability of a land of frequent floods. It was God’s good earth, and every day he prayed his thanks.
This evening a light sweep of cloud brushed in threads across the surface of the sky, but the stars still lit up bright and clear in the deepening darkness as the familiar constellations formed one by one. Above the stream that marked the border of the manor, a kestrel hovered, making the most of the last of the daylight. It was the sight of the sky he had missed the most in the Fleet, the disconnection from the turning day and the wheel of the seasons, each day the same confined in cold grey stone. The knowledge it might soon come again to that brought him outdoors as often as he could.
‘It is indeed a marvellous sight.’ Brewster lowered himself to sit on the wall beside him. ‘I brought you some ale.’
Ben took the proffered cup with a smile, and drank. One of the farm dogs slunk across the yard to lie at his master’s feet, and Brewster touched its head with his fingertips. Ben thought of the greyhound in her new home with Ellyn and wondered if she ever got to run any more.
‘You must not lose your courage, Ben,’ the older man said. ‘Christ was hated also.’
‘I know.’ He took another mouthful of ale. ‘But I have bitter memories.’ Instinctively he felt for the scars on his wrist, symbols of his faith and his sin, the lasting marks that tied him to Cecily’s death.
‘You have suffered much.’ Brewster’s gaze was fixed on the heavens but his nearness lent Ben a strength: at least he was not alone. ‘Grief, imprisonment, exile,’ Brewster said. ‘No man could do more.’
‘My wife gave her life. My child too.’
‘And they are with God, at peace. You must learn to forgive yourself and let Christ bear the burden of your sorrows.’
He nodded, and though he accepted the wisdom of the words with his head, his heart would always remain tight with the pain of it.
‘God will find a way for us,’ Brewster said. ‘He has brought us this far and He will not abandon us now. We must keep our faith and not be afraid.’
‘My faith is strong,’ Ben answered, and the older man turned from his contemplation of the stars to look at him. ‘But I can no longer see hope for us on these shores, only more suffering and death.’
His companion observed him carefully, weighing his thoughts before he spoke. Ben waited, used to Brewster’s painstaking consideration of his words.
‘I have been thinking so also,’ he said at last. ‘Perhaps the time has come when we must go into another place.’
‘When they persecute you in this city, flee into another,’ Ben said.
‘Exactly so. Perhaps the time has come at last. I will think on it,’ Brewster said, ‘and pray for guidance. But now …’ He heaved himself to his feet. ‘I will leave you to your thoughts out here beneath God’s stars.’
‘Thank you,’ Ben replied. Then he watched the older man trudge back to the house with the weight of the community on his shoulders. It was a heavy burden for one man to carry.
Worship lasted late into the evening, all of them hungry for God’s Word, all of them straining under the weight of their fear. The service had already begun when Ben arrived, and he slipped in silently to stand just inside the door, the preacher’s voice clear and soft across the hush in the crowded room.
The passage was from Ecclesiastes:
Two are better … for if they fall, the one will lift up his fellow: but woe unto him that is alone: for he falleth, and there is not a second to lift him up … And if one overcome him, two shall stand against him: and a threefold cord is not easily broken.
It was a call for fellowship, a standing together against the forces that assailed them, a buttress against the weariness that fear engendered. Their numbers had fallen in the months since the new Archbishop’s appointment, faith shrivelling in the face of harsher persecution. But those who remained were true, and the words of Scripture gave them hope. They listened as one, the Word of God being spoken through the gentle tones of the preacher, their faith being bound in brotherhood. By the end of the evening not one among them doubted the rightness of their path.
Ben was one of the last to go, reluctant to leave this place of peace and strength, wandering out into the last of the darkening twilight. The others had already dispersed, hurrying through the night to the safety of their homes. All of them would be watchful, all of them aware of their danger. He could see their torches bobbing along the road that led from the hall. Looking up, he surveyed the sky. A bright moon, three-quarters full, lit the night behind scudding clouds and he was glad of its light. It was a long ride home to Scrooby, and the way was dark.
Beyond the borders of the town he slowed the mare to a walk. The last remnants of the daylight had died away, the sky a velvet black above. But the intermittent moon gave him enough light to guide his way: it was a path he knew well and his thoughts remained on the evening’s worship, the words of the psalm running in rhythm in his mind.
When I was afraid, I trusted in Thee. I will rejoice in God, because of His word, I trust in God, and will not fear what flesh can do unto me ...
Thou hast counted my wanderings: put my tears into Thy bottle: are they not in Thy register? When I cry, then mine enemies shall turn back: this I know, for God is with me. I will rejoice in God because of His word: in the Lord will I rejoice because of His word.
In God do I trust.
He thought of Henry Barrow all those years ago at the Fleet when this life had just begun for him, remembering the fire of God’s love in Barrow, the Spirit strong within the frail and damaged body. The same teachings he had heard tonight, the same call to be true to God’s Word. It was the path Christ had commanded, a path the English Church had turned from long ago with its ritual and riches, its hierarchy under the king. So he would walk with Christ on that path with joy and with love for there could be no other way to walk. He smiled to himself, content with his choice, his fear at bay in the knowledge of his rightness and his oneness with God. Henry Barrow had died for that choice and if need be he would do the same. He would suffer all the griefs that God asked of him and his heart would be glad.
He paid scant attention to the road. It was dry and firm beneath the horse’s hooves and a pleasant night for riding. An owl hooted beyond the hedgerow and the mare skittered lightly sideways until he reassured her and she trotted on. Up ahead, the forms of two riders emerged from the darkness, one of them carrying a lantern that swung gently with the gait of the horse. Travellers, he assumed, on the way to spend a night in Gainsborough. But he was wary, senses prickling: the road at night was an unsafe place and it was rare to meet others on this stretch of track. Hedgerows bordered each side and the path was narrow. Ben tensed and kept the mare gathered ready beneath him.
The riders drew closer, faces hidden behind the brightness of the lantern. They were riding abreast, taking up the width of the lane, and he wondered if they had not yet seen him through the dark. He didn’t have to wait long to find out. They halted right in front of him, reining in their horses and blocking the way, so he had no choice but to stop. One of them held up the lantern and in the swaying light that it cast, Ben saw the crossed-keys symbol stitched onto their livery. His heartbeat quickened, sweat oozed down his spine, and the mare sidled underneath him, sensing her master’s unease. They were the Archbishop’s men, and the meeting was no accident.
‘Benjamin Kemp?’
It crossed his mi
nd to say no. ‘Who wants to know?’
‘Just answer the question.’
One of the men nudged his horse alongside Bessie, placed a hand on the rein near the bridle. The mare tossed her head and tried to dance sideways, but the man’s grip was firm and there was little room for manoeuvre.
‘You can tell us now. Or you can tell us at Lincoln gaol. It’s all one to us.’
The other man came closer, his horse’s flank touching Bessie’s shoulder. He reached the lantern forward and peered into his captive’s face, his own features shifting in the changing light so that it was hard to see what kind of man he was.
‘So, I’ll ask you again,’ he said. ‘Are you Kemp or not?’
‘I am Ben Kemp,’ he answered.
‘Then you are under arrest.’
‘For what crime?’ he demanded. The mare stood trembling, unnerved by the buffeting of the other two horses. He murmured to her and rubbed a hand along her neck. She settled slightly but he could feel her nervousness, her whole frame vibrating with energy. One touch of his heels and she would break free from these men. She could easily outrun them: the men’s horses were poor and ill-kept nags, no match for a fine horse like Bessie, a fit mount for a rich merchant’s son. It was tempting, fear in his blood and the instinct to run.
‘You know what crime,’ the man with the lantern sneered. ‘You and your troublemaking sort. We know all about you.’
‘I demand to know my crime.’ It took all his strength to hold the horse to her place.
‘Where you been tonight, eh? Praying? Giving yourself the Host, not going to church like you should? Do you think it doesn’t get noticed when you don’t go?’ The younger man’s horse swung round to bump against the mare. ‘I suppose you think God’s going to protect you. Well, I don’t think so. God doesn’t like men like you. Men who think you’re too good for the English Church.’
The other man laughed. ‘And more importantly,’ he sneered, ‘the king doesn’t like men like you either. He doesn’t like men who want to split his Church. So it doesn’t really matter one way or the other what God thinks about it, because the king is in charge in England. And what the king says goes. You’re coming with us.’
He lunged forward to grasp the other side of the bridle. Bessie snorted and jerked back from his reach, rearing her front legs from the ground. The younger man’s hand was thrown back and in that instant Ben decided. He touched his heels to the horse’s sides, loosened the reins and let her go. She was gone in one bound, flying along the lane, her mane in his face as he leaned forward over her neck.
He heard the Archbishop’s men shouting after him, but by the time they had stirred their own horses into motion he had rounded the bend in the lane and was out of their sight. He heard nothing else, not even sure if they had tried to follow, but he let the mare run on anyway, eager to open the distance between them.
When, finally, they slowed to a walk, both of them breathing hard, out of instinct he turned in the saddle to look back. But the men were many miles behind him, and he was on the long road to London.
What other choice did he have but to take it?
A late-summer haze lay over the river when Ben rode through the lanes of Westminster, and the heat hung wearily over the streets. He travelled slowly, both horse and rider spent from the hard days of travel. A carter looked up from his work as they approached and stopped his loading to let them pass, taking the pause to wipe the sweat from his face, his shirt clinging to him wetly. It was no day for hard labour. The air was rank and humid, and underneath the foetid stench there was the heavy sweetness of summer fruit, ripening now in the orchards. The mare’s hooves thudded on the hard-baked mud of the road as he turned into the lane that led to his sister’s house.
A servant took his horse and another led him inside, barely hiding his distaste for the road-soiled stranger as he showed him the way up a narrow staircase. It was cool in the gloom after the heat of the day outside, and a scent of oriental spice lingered in the warmth; the fragrance took him back to Aleppo and another dark staircase, to the room of a woman whose name he could no longer recall. But he remembered the scent of her and the touch of her hands, the sinful darkness of her arms that had helped teach him to live once again in the world of the living.
The servant rapped on a door and showed him into the narrow sitting room at the front of the house above the shop. His sister sat in the alcove of the window, looking out onto the street below. She turned without interest at the sound of the door, but leaped to her feet when she saw who it was and threw herself into his arms. Out of old habit he swung her round as he once used to do when she was a child.
‘I didn’t see you arrive!’ She laughed. ‘And I was watching the road. You have to watch the carters when they unload, or they steal things.’ She nodded towards the window. ‘But he doesn’t know I’m watching and so far he’s been honest.’
She stepped back from him, his hands still in hers, to look at him better. ‘What are you doing here?’ she said. ‘It’s been ages. You haven’t even seen the baby.’
‘How is she?’ It was hard to imagine his little sister as a mother now, older than Cecily had been when she died.
‘She is gorgeous!’ Ellyn said. ‘Another little Sarah and not just in name. She has the sweetest, most placid temper.’
‘She must take after her father.’
His sister laughed. ‘When she wakes I’ll bring her to you. I’ve told her all about her uncle Ben.’ She stopped, a moment of worry that he would prefer not to see the child, her baby too painful a reminder of his own. ‘If you like, that is. If you would like to see her.’
‘I would like to see her very much.’ He smiled, Ellyn’s happiness in her child hard to resist.
‘We thought about naming her Cecily,’ she said.
‘You can call the next one Cecily.’
‘The next one is going to be a boy.’
‘Then you may name him Ben.’
‘Perhaps we shall.’ She led him towards the window and they sat on the cushions on the window seat, looking down on the busy street below. The carter had finished unloading and gone on his way. Ellyn’s fingers still held his, small and light and delicate. ‘And when you finally take another wife, Ben,’ she said, ‘you may call your daughter Ellyn.’
He turned his eyes from the window and gave a wry shake of his head. ‘I shan’t be taking another wife.’
‘You should,’ she replied. ‘A man should have a wife, a family. It’s the way God meant things to be.’
He observed her for a moment, remembering her reluctance. There was a new roundness to her cheeks, a contentment he had never seen in her before, the sharp edges softened by it. ‘You’ve changed.’
She shrugged. ‘I’ve grown up, is all. But you …’ She squeezed his fingers. ‘You haven’t changed a bit. I doubt you ever will.’
‘Is that good or bad?’
She took her hand from his to smooth back a stray hair from her cheek, and regarded him thoughtfully, a glint of the old cynicism in her eyes.
‘It depends,’ she said, after a moment.
He turned his gaze back to the road and said nothing.
‘Why are you here?’ Ellyn asked then, the levity falling from her tone. She reached out to take his hand again. ‘Why have you come here like this, unannounced?’
He sighed and turned towards her but he kept his eyes lowered to where she held his fingers. His whole body ached from the ride and now that he was about to explain it, his flight seemed the action of a fool.
‘Can you keep a secret?’ he said.
‘Of course.’
He met her look, observed her, considering. Perhaps it would be safer for her not to know. Perhaps he should have taken his troubles elsewhere: he wanted no one else to suffer on his account.
‘Do we need to cut our thumbs and swear in blood?’ She was growing impatient. ‘I’m willing if you are.’
He smiled at the memory of their childhood pacts, and the
fact she had changed less than he thought. ‘No,’ he said. ‘We don’t need to swear in blood. Your word is good enough.’
‘Well?’
He swallowed and shifted on the seat to sit up straighter, facing her. He said, ‘Three days ago two men of the Archbishop of York tried to arrest me.’
She lifted her hands to her face. ‘Dear God, Ben, will it never end? What happened? What do you mean, tried?’
‘They were incompetent. I took the chance and ran.’ He shook his head. ‘I know it was foolish but it was the instinct of the moment. I know what prison is …’
‘Oh, Ben!’ She touched her fingers to his forearm and they were cool against the heat of his skin. He looked up at her, saw the sorrow and fear in her eyes. He should not have come here, he thought, bringing danger to her door.
‘I should go,’ he said.
‘Where will you go?’
He shrugged. There was nowhere that was safe for him. No one else in London he could trust, the community long since scattered and broken.
‘Then you must stay,’ she said. ‘At least for the night. You are exhausted. Please.’
He tilted his head in acquiescence, too weary to argue, and they sat for a moment, her fingers still resting lightly on his arm.
‘Did they tell you the charges?’ she asked.
‘I was on my way home from worship. The new Archbishop, he’s clamping down on …’ He stopped and made a vague circle in the air with one hand in place of the word he was reluctant to use in his sister’s house.
‘On people like you?’ she supplied, with a half-smile.
‘Yes.’ He nodded. ‘People like me. Separatists, nonconformists, Barrowists … whichever term they prefer to use of us.’
‘You have a congregation.’
‘There are two. Until recently it was safer there than here. Now nowhere is safe.’
She said, ‘Why don’t you go back to Aleppo? Or even to Amsterdam. Father would send you. He would love for you to work with him again in the Company. It gives him such pain that you don’t.’
The King James Men Page 23
