The King James Men

by Samantha Grosser

‘Bishop Andrewes.’

  She turned away towards the window, watching the people in the street below. He waited, uncertain. He had not expected her to be silent: he had been braced for her fury, a barrage of accusation. Now she stood with her back turned towards him and he could think of nothing more to say. A jug of wine stood on a tray on the sideboard and he wished she would offer it. Once he would have felt comfortable enough in her company to ask. It seemed a long time before she finally swung back to face him.

  ‘Was it your doing? Did you betray him again?’

  He swallowed, tears rising. ‘Forgive me,’ he whispered. ‘I …’ For once his words failed him, the weight of his act too heavy to carry. He reached for a chair back to steady himself, and Ellyn stared.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he breathed again. ‘Forgive me.’

  ‘Sit,’ she said, and fetched him some wine. He slid gratefully into the chair and held the cup between trembling hands. He could barely hold it still enough to drink and a few drops spilled on his chest. Absently, he wiped them away. Slowly he managed to steady himself, the wine warm inside him, his hands becoming still.

  ‘I will go to him,’ he said, searching to find her eyes. She was still staring, not understanding what she saw.

  ‘Why? Why would you go to him now? To gloat?’

  He let his eyes slide away unseeing to the floor. ‘To atone,’ he murmured. ‘To beg for his forgiveness.’

  She took a step away from him, turned, then turned back again to face him, hands clasped in agitation. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I was wrong, Ellyn,’ he said simply, looking up. ‘Forgive me.’

  She took a deep breath, still watching him. He could see the uncertainty in her eyes, the desire to believe him against the knowledge of all he had believed. He couldn’t blame her for hating him.

  ‘But all this time …’

  ‘I did not know the truth.’

  ‘All this time you have been Bancroft’s creature – why now? What has made you change now?’

  He hesitated, unsure how to explain himself. ‘I never stopped loving him, Ellyn. Even as I gave him up to Andrewes, I loved him. But I believed in the Church, in its goodness, its rightness …’

  She nodded then tilted her chin, still challenging. ‘So what changed?’

  He shook his head – he was still unsure of his own transformation, the light the Scripture had lit for him. He gave her a small smile of apology. ‘I cannot rightly say. Josiah, in the Book of Kings … I was translating … I heard it in Ben’s voice …’ He trailed off, aware he was barely making sense. But it made no difference: God had shown him the way at last.

  She observed him a while, still unsure, and he sipped at the wine, the cup still trembling gently in his fingers. Then she said, ‘How will you go to Lincoln?’ she asked. ‘It is a long ride.’

  He shrugged. He had not yet considered the practicalities – horses, provisions, money.

  ‘But you are decided?’

  ‘I must.’

  She turned her face away, considering. Outside in the street a dog started barking and a man’s voice was raised in anger. A string of curses drifted in the open window. She swung back to face him, her decision made.

  ‘You can hire horses,’ she told him. ‘We will give you what you need: food for him, ale, clean linen. And money. If all of them are taken there is no one left on the outside to pay the fines.’

  There was a moment’s pause.

  ‘Thank you,’ he replied. ‘At first light tomorrow I will go. Thank you.’

  She gave him a half-smile that didn’t reach her eyes, mistrust still behind them. He lowered his gaze away, ashamed. Then he bowed a quick farewell and hurried out into the street, back to St Margaret’s to pray.

  With Merton’s money he hired a fresh horse each day and rode hard, sliding from the saddle every evening with sore legs and an aching back. He was getting too old for such a journey, his soft scholar’s muscles unused to such rigours: Kent seemed an easy two-day jaunt in comparison. Now he was almost at his journey’s end, a warm morning sun on his back and the massive towers of the cathedral guiding him into Lincoln. But it was early afternoon by the time he was allowed to see the Dean, and weariness and hunger had made him irritable.

  The Dean was an elderly man with a harassed air who bid him sit in a room warmed by great shafts of sunlight that fell in blocks across the floor. In spite of his irritation, the beauty of it made Richard smile and the Dean responded in kind.

  ‘It is lovely, isn’t it?’ the old man said. ‘God’s work in all its glory. Now what may I do for you, Doctor …?’

  ‘Clarke. Richard Clarke. At your service, sir.’

  ‘What brings you to Lincoln, Doctor Clarke?’

  ‘A sensitive errand, Mister Dean,’ he replied, then hesitated, still uncertain how best to broach it, aware he needed to tread carefully. It was by no means certain the Dean would grant him access. He went on. ‘I was informed by the Bishop of Chichester that you have in your gaol a number of Separatists. I understand they were brought here from Boston a few days since.’

  The Dean’s countenance hardened. ‘The Bishop told you this himself?’

  ‘Yes. I am a member of the First Westminster Company for the Translation of the Bible. I meet with the Bishop on a regular basis.’

  ‘Indeed?’ From the change in the old man’s expression he was suitably impressed. ‘One of the Bible translators, eh? And what is your interest in our Separatists?’

  ‘Well,’ he began. This was the most delicate part of the negotiation and he had rehearsed it carefully during the many hours of his journey. ‘I have a particular interest in one man, a Master Benjamin Kemp. His family are well known to me: they are respectable people, merchants, and they have asked me to do what I can to secure his release, or at least to make his time in prison more comfortable.’

  ‘The Bishop is aware of this?’

  ‘The Bishop is well aware of my connection to this man, Dean. I believe that is why he told me of Kemp’s imprisonment.’ It was only half a lie and the Dean seemed to believe it.

  ‘I see,’ the old man said, leaning back against the high wooden back of the ornate chair, fingers smoothing the carved ends of the armrests. ‘Well. I’m afraid there is no question of him being released at present. He must stand trial with the others. The Archbishop has, in his mercy, just this morning allowed some of the women and children to return to their homes. But the others …’ He lifted his hands, palms facing Richard. There was no need for him to finish the sentence.

  ‘I understand. I thought as much. But may I be permitted to see him?’

  The Dean observed his visitor carefully. ‘Have you been inside a prison before, Doctor Clarke?’

  ‘Many times. Too many times.’ He smiled. ‘I am well aware of what to expect.’

  The Dean returned the smile. ‘They pay a high price for their dissent.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Puritans and Papists alike.’

  ‘May God forgive them,’ Richard said.

  The Dean nodded his agreement, then reached for a sheet of paper. ‘Bear with me a moment, Doctor Clarke, and I will prepare the necessary papers.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He sat back and waited. A cloud shifted across the window, dimming the shafts of sun, and the room fell at once into gloom. It took a moment for Richard’s eyes to adjust, everything dark for a time, but the Dean made no pause in his writing. When he had finished he very neatly rolled the paper and pressed his seal to the join. Then he held it out for Richard to take.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Tell me, Doctor Clarke,’ the Dean said as Richard rose to leave. ‘How did you come to be so close to the family of such a man?’

  Richard took a step towards the door before he turned back to answer. ‘We were at Cambridge together, he and I,’ he said, ‘and for many years we disagreed on almost everything. But it is not given to us to decide who we love …’

  The Dean smiled, eyes crinkli
ng. ‘Friendship is a precious gift from God. Use it wisely, Doctor Clarke.’

  ‘I shall,’ Richard promised him. Then he bowed and left the room.

  He went to the market for provisions. Ellyn had given him clean linen and a Bible, but it was fresh food and drink that Ben would need most. He bought bread and cheese, cheaper here than in London, and summer fruit – blackberries and apricots. He also bought ale and, thus loaded, he made his way up the hill towards the great Norman castle that stood over the town.

  He was sweating by the time he arrived though the afternoon had cooled, and his heart hammered as he stood before the high stone archway of the east gate. The prison itself held no fear for him. He had spent too many hours in the deprivations of the Fleet, and the horrors of its walls were well known. He doubted Lincoln gaol would be much different. But he was afraid of seeing Ben, the sin of his betrayal beyond him to atone for. Now at last he understood Ben’s despair at Cecily’s death, and the enormity of error that had caused it. For while God might forgive his penitent heart, it was harder to forgive himself. The image of Ben from his dream had haunted him on his journey, his own begging for forgiveness and the refusal on Ben’s lips.

  The papers from the Dean secured his entry, and he followed a guard through the gate. Walking in the shadow of the high walls, Richard shivered, his guts tightening with nerves. Then they were heading down a stairwell that never felt the warmth of day. Torches flickered now and then in sconces on the wall, and he walked carefully, afraid to miss his step on the steeply cut stone. A chill seeped up to meet them as they descended, and a familiar stench warned him when they had almost arrived. But still, when the door to the cell was thrust open the odour that billowed out almost brought him to his knees. It was worse than anything he had known at the Fleet and he had to fight to catch his breath. With an effort of will, he stepped inside, an instinctive hand to his face, but as he stood in the doorway and felt all eyes turn to observe him he was ashamed and lowered his hand.

  It was a narrow cell, strewn with filthy straw, and there was no light save for one flickering torch in the passage outside the door. Even after the gloom of the stairs it took his eyes a moment to adjust, and then he realised that the cell was warm with a press of bodies. He sensed the tension ripple through them with his appearance, a deeper silence as they waited.

  ‘My name is Richard Clarke,’ he said. ‘Is Ben Kemp here?’

  ‘What do you want with him?’ a young voice demanded.

  ‘Hush, Jonathan,’ an older man counselled. ‘Keep your peace.’ Rising from his place against the far wall, he approached the visitor. His hair was white, his beard neat, even here. ‘Master Kemp is over here,’ he said, gesturing back towards where he had been sitting. ‘But he is poorly.’

  ‘Poorly?’ He had never thought to find Ben ill. Unease pulsed through him as he stepped across the cell towards a form lying close beside the wall.

  ‘Ben?’ He knelt down in the dirty straw and Ben turned his face towards him, slowly, painfully. He was barely recognisable, a broken nose, a split lip, a swollen eye that was starting to fester, blood still matted in his hair. One arm was bandaged in a piece of blood-soiled linen that had been torn from a shirt or a petticoat. ‘Dear God. What happened to you?’

  ‘Richard?’ Ben murmured. The good eye struggled to focus and even in the gloom it held the unnatural brightness of fever. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here. Have you come to gloat?’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head, blinking back tears. ‘I’ve brought food, ale, linen, a Bible … as I used to do …’ He turned his head to look up at the older man, still hovering at his shoulder. Reassured that Richard meant no harm to Ben, he took the bundle with a nod of thanks and retreated to leave them in peace.

  ‘What happened?’ Richard asked again. He was becoming accustomed to the stench: his heartbeat was beginning to slow and his breathing was less ragged. But fear and pity flooded through him, and the weight of his betrayal almost broke him.

  ‘I didn’t come quietly,’ Ben said.

  ‘As ever.’ Richard forced a smile. But the horror of what he saw appalled him and the image from his dreams hovered in his mind once again, almost now in truth before him. He had brought his friend to this.

  ‘Like old times,’ Ben said.

  ‘Almost.’

  ‘Shall we argue Scripture?’

  ‘Maybe next time.’

  Ben’s mouth twisted in an effort to smile. ‘How is Ellyn? Sarah?’

  ‘They are all well, Ben. Your mother too.’

  ‘We were leaving. There was a ship …’ Ben said. ‘We were betrayed …’ He tried to lift his head to see Richard better, grimacing with the effort, and Richard slid his eyes away from the scrutiny.

  ‘I know,’ he replied, bracing ready for the accusation. It was what he wanted, to be accused, to admit his guilt, to beg forgiveness. But Ben said nothing about it.

  Instead he asked, ‘How goes the great Translation?’

  ‘It is almost done.’

  ‘God’s Word in your hands for generations to come. You are truly blessed.’

  ‘I am humbled by it. And unworthy.’

  Ben nodded, carefully, painfully, every movement measured and hard. He lifted his hand to search for Richard’s and when he found it he grasped it, strength still in the bony fingers. Through the dim light, his gaze locked on to his friend’s.

  ‘Bury me with Cecily,’ he breathed.

  ‘What talk is this?’

  ‘And no liturgy. No stinted prayers. A prayer that comes from the heart. Please?’

  ‘You’re not going to die. Not here. Not yet. I’ll get you out and take you somewhere you can be cared for properly.’ It was a miserable place to die, foetid and reeking, black with filth.

  Ben shook his head and gasped with the pain. When he could speak again he said, ‘It is too late for that. Too late. And this is where I belong. Among these godly people. I will die here among these good folk, in peace.’

  ‘Ben …’ He blinked but could not stop the tears from coming.

  ‘My burial … promise me …’

  ‘I promise,’ he said. ‘I promise.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Ben’s grasp on Richard’s hand loosened. His gaze drifted away. ‘It was good of you to come.’

  ‘No … I …’ The confession was almost on his lips, the need for Ben’s forgiveness, but it was hard to find the words to tell his friend the truth. He groped in his mind, searching for some way to give voice to all he needed to say. ‘Forgive me, Ben,’ he murmured finally. ‘I have done a terrible thing and I’ve not been a true friend to you. Forgive me. Forgive me for the wrongs I have done you. I love thee still, Ben, but I was led astray … My pride, my ambition, made me blind to God’s truth. I did not see. I did not understand and I took the wrong path. Forgive me. Forgive me.’

  ‘We are all of us sinners,’ Ben whispered. ‘And only God may judge.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he breathed. ‘Thank you.’ But Ben’s words did nothing to ease the pain in his soul. Then, swallowing his tears, ‘You are confessed?’

  ‘I am ready. I am afraid, but I am ready.’

  ‘You have no cause to be afraid. If you are not saved then what hope is there for the rest of us?’ He had never once doubted that Ben was one of the saved: the depth of his faith and his love for Christ was boundless.

  Ben was murmuring. ‘But in my pride and my anger, my desire … it was my desire that killed her … my lust …’

  ‘Hush, Ben.’ Richard squeezed his hand. ‘God’s mercy is great to those that fear Him.’

  But Ben’s eyes had flickered shut as he slid back into the relief of semi-consciousness. Richard turned his face away, his fingers still in Ben’s. He let the tears fall and remembered the boys they had been at Cambridge when all had been before them: the love, the hope, the passion for life.

  ‘Forgive me, Ben,’ he breathed again, over and over. ‘Forgive me.’

  He could not have said how long he wept
there at his friend’s side, their fingers still entwined, but Brewster’s gentle hand on his shoulder startled him from his grief and he jumped, shocked to find there was someone other than the two of them.

  ‘Do not mourn, son,’ the older man said. ‘He will soon be at peace.’

  Richard nodded but he could not bring himself to move away until finally the rattle of keys at the door and the squeal of the door scraping open on the flagstones drew him back to himself at last. The visit was over. The final visit. There would be no more. He sniffed and dragged the back of a hand across his eyes to clear them. Then, leaning over his friend one final time, he kissed the bloodstained forehead.

  ‘Forgive me, Ben,’ he whispered again. ‘And may God speed you to your rest.’

  Then, with creaking knees, he got to his feet and followed the guard out of the cell, up the steps, and into the bright summer’s day outside.

  Bible Quotations

  Translation it is that openeth the window, to let in the light; that breaketh the shell, that we may eat the kernel; that putteth aside the curtain, that we may look into the most Holy place; that removeth the cover of the well, that we may come by the water.

  From the Translators’ Preface to the Reader

  King James Bible, 1611.

  * * *

  Chapter One

  And then shall many be offended, and shall betray one another, and shall hate one another. (Matthew 24:10) KJV

  The Lord is my strength and my shield. Mine heart trusted in Him, and I was helped. (Psalms 28:6-8) Geneva Bible

  * * *

  Chapter Two

  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 tooke sweet counsell together, and walked vnto the house of God in companie. (Psalms 55:12-14) KJV

  * * *