The King James Men

by Samantha Grosser

  ‘Child! Woman! You’re all the same. Godless traitors, a threat to the king.’

  The child ran to his mother, who held him in her arms, sobbing.

  Ben stood over the Bishop’s man, fists clenched, forcing down the urge to hurt. ‘Where is your pity?’ he demanded.

  The man sneered, and got to his feet. ‘You people deserve no pity.’

  A woman’s shriek nearby turned them both to look. Some of the Bishop’s men had begun to rifle the bags, tipping out the few precious belongings across the beach. A petticoat caught in the breeze and blew along the shore to the sound of laughter.

  Ben launched into a run towards them, fury pounding in his blood, stumbling on the pebbles, the Bishop’s man close behind him. Then another man came at him unseen from the side, bringing him down with force. Pain seared through his arm, and a fist smashed into his face over and over, grinding his head against the stones. He struggled for a moment, tried to protect his face with his hands, but the other man was stronger.

  Before he passed out Ben tasted the blood in his mouth and felt it run warm across his face, and the last thought that coloured his mind before it turned dark was of Cecily, peaceful and waiting, a child in her arms and a smile of welcome.

  He woke on the floor of a prison cell, surrounded by the close warmth of others – men, women and children all packed together in a low airless room that already stank with fear and mess. He opened his eyes slowly, painfully, blinking them into focus in the gloom. Mistress Brewster was kneeling beside him.

  ‘God be praised, you’re alive.’

  He nodded carefully, pain shifting in his head with the movement before he turned to spit the blood from his mouth into the straw behind him. Lifting tentative fingers to his face, he found clotting blood, a swollen nose and a right eye that was too tender to touch. Wincing, he lowered his hand and tried to sit up, but the pain in his head was too great to lift it from the balled-up cloak someone had placed as a pillow, and he sank back, exhausted by the effort.

  ‘Rest now, Ben,’ Mistress Brewster murmured. ‘There is nothing else you can do. And we will need all our strength for whatever trials God has placed before us.’

  ‘Where are we?’ he managed to whisper.

  ‘Don’t speak now. You need to rest.’

  He took a deep breath through his mouth, his nose broken and still clogged with blood. ‘Where are we?’ he said again. ‘What prison is this?’

  ‘Boston. We are still at Boston.’

  ‘I’m thirsty.’ His throat was parched and sore and the taste of dried blood was sickening. He needed to drink and he could think of nothing beyond that need. ‘Thirsty,’ he whispered.

  William Brewster floated into view above him. ‘He says he’s thirsty,’ his wife relayed.

  ‘There is nothing to drink,’ Brewster told him, squatting down and laying a strong hand on his shoulder. ‘And we are all of us thirsty. But we have been praying and God in His mercy will deliver us. Rest now. You will need your strength.’

  Ben closed his eyes and let himself drift back into the darkness.

  Chapter 30

  Summer 1607

  Goe yee, enquire of the Lord for me, and for the people, and for all Iudah, concerning the wordes of this booke that is found: for great is the wrath of the Lord that is kindled against vs, because our fathers have not hearkened vnto the woordes of this booke, to doe according vnto all that which is written concerning vs.

  (2 Kings 22:13)

  * * *

  Richard worked alone in the library on the last few chapters of the Second Book of Kings. Two or three more meetings to go and then his part in the Translation would be finished. He would return to Kent with his wife, a humble vicar once again, and his brief flirtation with politics and power would be over. Though he was grateful and honoured by his role – the words of Scripture in his hands for future generations – he regretted the price he had paid. And still, he was unsure if he had walked the righteous path. He would be glad to go and put this all behind him. Flexing his fingers in readiness, he picked up the quill and turned his eyes to the pages before him.

  King Josiah, finder of the forgotten book of the Law, reforming all things according to the Word and returning his lost people to their Father. Richard’s fingers found the words in the Geneva translation that lay open on the desk.

  For great is the wrath of the Lord that is kindled against us, because our fathers have not obeyed the words of this book, to do according unto all that which is written therein for us.

  He read the words aloud, testing them for truth and rightness. Then again, silently. But it was not his own voice he heard in his head this time but Ben’s, in a sudden memory of an argument from years before. He searched his mind to place it, sifting the memories until he found himself in the filthy straw on the floor of a cold cell at the Fleet, debating Scripture. The memory was vivid: the chill in the cell and their breath in puffs of vapour before them as they argued, the stench of fear that pervaded the prison, and the grimy blackness of Ben’s skin and clothes. But all of it was forgotten in the fervour of their argument – the rightness of their faith at stake, the safety of their souls.

  Ben had turned to this passage again and again, a proof of the primacy of the Word, the need for Scripture to be the centre of all worship, of all faith. Without the Word, he had said, there is nothing. All the rest is idolatry and God will take His punishment. Josiah was loved by God. The Scripture tells us so. His people were lost, they had forgotten the Word, and Josiah tried to save them by bringing them back to the Book. He tried to reform things, Ben had said, as the Puritans try to reform things now. The English Church is not ruled by the Word, he had said over and over, nor governed by Scripture: like the Judah of Josiah, it is ruled by the laws of men. And that is an abomination to God.

  Richard sat back from the page, remembering. Ben’s zeal was clear in his mind, every word he had said perfectly recalled. He remembered too the heat in his own denial of what Ben claimed, his spirited defence of the Church. They had argued this passage many times, but for the life of him he could not recollect what he had said, what words he had used in response. He scoured the memory, baffled and searching, but his recollection gave him no answers, and the spirit of Ben’s words rang in his head. His hand rested on the page, middle finger marking the verse while his mind lingered on the memory.

  One of the candles flickered and went out, and he started, thoughts shifting back reluctantly to the library and the present world around him. But he could still hear Ben’s voice in his head, and the words of Josiah.

  For great is the wrath of the Lord that is kindled against us, because our fathers have not obeyed the words of this book.

  A dull sense of dread trickled from his gut, a shadow of foreboding. He thought of Ben as he was now, an outlaw, a wanted man because of his faithfulness to the Word, his belief in the primacy of Scripture. And he thought of the English Church – the king, the bishops, Andrewes, Bancroft, all of them beholden to the laws of men. King Josiah had been a reformer and iconoclast, sweeping away superstition and impurity, restoring God’s Law to his people. All these things Ben also sought to do. A pure Church, bereft of the man-made trappings of Rome, a true Church of the faithful. It was all here in the Scripture as Ben had said, clear as winter sunlight, and he was baffled why it had taken so long for him to understand.

  He swallowed, sliding his hand away from the page and onto his lap.

  ‘Dear God, what have I done?’

  He was trembling, fear and regret sliding through him. The image of Ben from his dreams, manacled and naked, shuttered out all other thoughts. May God forgive you, the image spat, because I never will.

  Richard shoved back the chair with a clatter and fell to his knees on the cold stone floor, hands clasped in supplication, whether to God or to Ben he could not have said. The prayers tumbled from his lips in rapid whispered murmurings.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he wept over and over. ‘It was a test, O Lord, and
I failed. Forgive me. I did not hear Your voice, crying out to me. Forgive me, wretched sinner that I am. Forgive me, Lord, Forgive me.’

  He was still on his knees when the door scraped open with a jolt, startling him from his prayers. Scrambling to his feet, he had time just to stand up and turn his face away as the servant’s head appeared at the top of the stairs. Relieved it was only a servant after all, he kept his head averted, wiping the tears from his cheeks with his fingertips as the man worked silently around him to replace the candles that were spent. But his breath still came in sobs and so he moved away towards the bookshelf against the wall, fighting to calm himself and slow his breathing.

  By the time the man had finished and gone, Richard had mastered his outward emotions, but inside him was desolation. He needed peace to pray. Slowly, with limbs that seemed to have lost their strength, he gathered up the papers and books and made his way down the steps, through the low wooden door and out into the cloister.

  ‘Doctor Clarke!’

  He had not gone far when he heard his name being called. Inwardly he cursed: he was in no mood to talk to anyone, his emotions raw and painful. He wanted to be alone to pray, awareness of his wretchedness and sin burning through him. But he stopped nonetheless and turned towards the voice that had hailed him. As he had thought, it was Lancelot Andrewes, striding towards him, smiling. Taking a deep breath and consciously composing his features, he braced himself for the meeting.

  ‘A word, Doctor Clarke?’ Andrewes said, gesturing towards the library. ‘Somewhere less busy perhaps?’ The cloister was indeed crowded, he noticed abruptly. Men and women and children from all walks of life, all chattering, or hurrying past. Briefly, he wondered where they had come from, where they were going.

  ‘Of course.’

  He let the Bishop lead the way back up the stairs. The room had grown cool with the late afternoon despite the warmth of the summer outside. The Bishop sat down and took a moment to make himself comfortable, arranging his robes, straightening his sleeves, before he clasped his white fingers neatly in front of him and observed the other man with searching eyes. Richard remained standing and waited, suspecting what was to come; he could feel the thrill of his heartbeat quickening with anticipation.

  ‘I have news of Ben Kemp,’ the Bishop began.

  ‘Yes, My Lord?’ He swallowed, wishing Andrewes would just come out with it, resentful at being made to wait.

  ‘He has been arrested.’

  He said nothing. The same image of Ben flickered at the corners of his thoughts and he fought to close his mind against it.

  ‘The whole congregation was taken,’ Andrewes said. ‘Men, women, children. They were on the beach preparing to board a ship for Holland.’

  He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Andrewes was waiting, expecting him to ask for more of the details, but he didn’t want to know: he could imagine it well enough, the early hope of freedom, then the fear and pain of disappointment, the rough treatment at the hands of the Bishop’s men. It grieved him to know he had sentenced women and children to prison – he had thought of only Ben till now. He had been hoping all along, he realised, to hear that all of them had got away. The silence grew awkward. The Bishop was still observing him, assessing, waiting.

  ‘What happened?’ Richard forced himself to say.

  ‘Once we knew they were planning to leave we tracked down their choice of captain. And in the end he proved to be a loyal subject.’

  For the right price, Richard assumed. ‘What will happen to them now?’

  Andrewes inclined his head. ‘They will be fined and released in dribs and drabs, the women and the children first. No doubt some of them will decide the risks are too great to continue such a life and we will welcome them back to the Church. The others …’ He lifted his palms in a gesture of exasperation. ‘The others will return to their old way of life until the same thing happens again. Others of their stripe have already fled: a number of their sister congregation at Gainsborough took flight a few weeks ago. I assume they would be in Holland by now.’

  They should have just let all of them go, he thought. They would get there in the end, regardless, and all this would have been for nothing. So much hardship, so much suffering: what purpose did it serve? He should have just let them go.

  There was a silence. The Bishop waited for him to speak, observing him, but he could find no words to say. The image of his dream still hung across his thoughts, and the same sense of remorse that had filled him then swelled inside him.

  ‘May God forgive me,’ he murmured.

  ‘For what?’ Andrewes asked.

  ‘Ben was … is … my friend,’ he replied. As Judas had been the friend of Jesus.

  The Bishop said nothing, his long fingers straightening the silk cuffs of his sleeves, waiting. Richard swallowed down the rising tide of his emotions, and set the mask back in place. ‘Which prison was he taken to?’ he asked mechanically. ‘So I might inform his family.’

  Andrewes finished arranging his sleeves and looked up. ‘He is in Lincoln gaol, awaiting trial with the others.’

  ‘Thank you, My Lord.’ He got up quickly and gathered his belongings. He had no inclination to stay longer. ‘Thank you for letting me know.’

  ‘You are very welcome. Good day, Doctor Clarke.’

  Richard bowed. Then he turned and hurried from the library into the warm and busy cloister beyond the door.

  He prayed. In the tiny chapel of St Faith’s he poured out his heart to God, oblivious of all around him. He had betrayed his friend and now that it was done, at last he understood. At last God spoke to him. ‘Too late, O Lord,’ he wept. ‘Too late.’

  In his error he had condemned Ben once more to punishment and prison. For what? Ben was no sinner. Misguided perhaps, the path of Separation unwise, but his faith was strong and his love for Christ was the light that gave him life. Why should he be condemned? For the first time he truly understood the darkness that could take a man’s soul. He remembered Ben at the Fleet losing faith, the despair that the knowledge of his sin had begot. Ben would willingly have died to take back his actions, the desire and lust that had driven his pursuit of Cecily, anything to rid himself of the corruption in his soul.

  And now Richard understood: his soul was just as tainted. He had wandered from the path, led by pride and his ambition. He had denied his love for his friend and the betrayal was a blackness inside of him, not the work of God after all but the work of Bancroft and Andrewes and the king. Worldly authorities with great power to wield and protect, the Devil working through them to shore up their earthly gains. It was not the Word of God they sought to defend against the Separatists, he realised, but the strength of the English Church. He had been deceived, his belief in the Church’s goodness mistaken, his faith in its authority misplaced. He had betrayed the love of his friend for the promise of the Translation, his thirty pieces of silver.

  He wept as he knelt, begging God’s forgiveness, his heart filled with repentance.

  I only sought to serve Thee, Lord, but I lost my way. I could not hear Thy voice, I could not find Thy path. I was blinded by the work of the Translation, seeking worldly recognition for my skill, approval of my loyalty. I believed in the Church, O Lord, and I did not see the truth. I did not love as Thou commanded. Take pity on a wretched sinner, Lord. Forgive me, Lord, forgive me …

  He could not have said how long he stayed on his knees, but his tears had dried out and his voice was hoarse with prayer by the time he heaved himself back onto his feet and stumbled out of the chapel.

  He was dreading telling Ellyn but what choice did he have? It would be some kind of atonement, the beginnings of his redemption. A flush of nerves burned through him at the thought of it and he walked with dragging feet. Outside, the afternoon had begun to cool, soft clouds drifting in across the face of the sun as he wound his way from the busy precincts of the Abbey towards the quieter lanes near the Merton house.

  At the door of the house he stopped,
running his eyes across the face of it, tall brick and timber looming over him. It was tempting to walk away. He took a deep breath and lifted his fist to the door then lowered it again. Turning to look along the street, he saw two drunken workers staggering home. Then, finding his resolution, he lifted his hand again and banged hard on the door. Ellyn opened the door herself, clearly expecting someone different to be there. For a moment she stared, shocked, before her features slipped into hard hostility.

  ‘You?’ she demanded. ‘What are you doing here?’

  He dropped his gaze, avoiding the fury in hers. ‘Forgive me, Ellyn,’ he said. ‘But I bring news of your brother.’

  She drew in a deep breath, her hand still on the door, apparently in half a mind to slam it in his face. He tensed in preparation. Then she said, ‘You had better come in.’

  Turning, she led him up the narrow stairs to the same parlour he had been to before, the window overlooking the long-shadowed street. The early evening sun struggled in flashes through the cloud, lighting the windows of the house across the road in bursts of blinding brilliance. She stood at the window and did not offer him a seat. He had expected nothing else.

  ‘What news?’ she said.

  He drew in a deep breath and slid a hand across his hair. ‘Ben is in prison again.’

  She said nothing, turning her head away, eyes flitting unseeing across the floor that lay between them. She seemed unsurprised to hear it.

  ‘It isn’t just Ben this time. The whole congregation was taken. They are awaiting trial in Lincoln.’

  She lifted her face. ‘They failed then.’

  He nodded. ‘They were arrested on the beach.’

  ‘Bancroft told you this?’