The King James Men Read online

  The King James Men

  Samantha Grosser

  THE KING JAMES MEN

  Copyright © 2010 Samantha Grosser

  All rights reserved.

  First published in 2018, Sydney, Australia

  * * *

  Samantha Grosser asserts the right to be identified as the author of this Work. No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the author.

  * * *

  Cover design by Luke Harris at Working Type Studio

  Contents

  Note on Quotations from the Bible

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Bible Quotations

  Acknowledgments

  Read the True Story of The King James Men

  Further Reading

  About the Author

  Follow Me for News and Updates

  Also by Samantha Grosser

  Also by Samantha Grosser

  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

  Note on Quotations from the Bible

  The quotations in the chapter headings are taken from the

  1611 King James Version.

  * * *

  Unless otherwise stated, quotations within the text are from the Geneva Bible, which was the most-used translation of the time.

  * * *

  A list of quotations may be found at the back of the book.

  Chapter 1

  October 1604

  And then shall many be offended, and shall betray one another, and shall hate one another.

  (Matthew 24:10)

  * * *

  Bishop Bancroft said, ‘And so our great task is nearly at hand.’

  ‘Indeed, My Lord.’ The Reverend Richard Clarke was outwardly composed, sitting quietly and observing the Bishop as he stood behind the great oak desk in the presence chamber, legs planted solidly onto the oriental rug, shoulders back in the belligerent stance of the short-statured man. They had met once before, Richard recalled, many years ago, barely exchanging a word at a dinner at Cambridge. But he doubted Bancroft would remember: he had been beneath the great man’s notice then, a humble fellow with nothing to offer in the other man’s sure and zealous journey up the episcopal mountain path. Any day now, it was common knowledge, Bancroft would be formally elected Archbishop of Canterbury, head of the English Church, second only to the king.

  The Bishop leaned across and poured wine for his guest. Richard nodded his thanks. He was unused to rubbing shoulders with such power and Bancroft was a man who tended to inspire humility: there was a hardness in the lined sad face, a ruthlessness known well to Puritans and Papists alike. In Elizabeth’s reign there had been many who met their end because of Bancroft. Richard sipped his wine from the fine Italian glass. It was sweet and cool and he wished the Bishop would sit. Instead Bancroft smiled. ‘You have the living at Minster-in-Thanet, do you not?’

  ‘Yes, My Lord.’

  ‘It is a poor living, I believe?’

  ‘My needs are modest,’ he replied. ‘I want for nothing.’

  Bancroft nodded, apparently pleased with his answer. ‘But still, you must expect to be recompensed for your labours on the Bible Translation. You will find life in Westminster somewhat more expensive than you are used to in Kent.’

  Richard said nothing, uncertain what was coming. The Bishop settled himself finally behind the desk and made a steeple of his fingers, eyes narrowed above them, apparently considering. Richard gently twisted the stem of the glass between his fingers and waited.

  ‘There is a post at Canterbury, Doctor Clarke, that would do you very well. Nothing too onerous, it would take little of your time from the Translation.’ The Bishop paused, enjoying his guest’s unease. ‘One of the six preachers. We are currently five and in need of a sixth. The post is yours, Doctor Clarke, if you would care to accept it.’

  Richard was silent. He had almost given up hope of any preferment, accepting it as punishment for mistaken loyalties in the past. But now he had a place in the Westminster Company of the king’s translators and a post at Canterbury. He was drinking wine at the Archbishop’s palace at Lambeth, where Bancroft was already Primate in everything but name. Perhaps his years in the wilderness were over. Perhaps he had been forgiven at last. A small flame of hope lit inside him.

  ‘Doctor Clarke?’ Bancroft prompted.

  He brought his mind back to focus on the Bishop. ‘I am honoured, My Lord. Truly.’

  ‘Then the post is yours. It is small reward for the work you are about to undertake, but …’ He opened out his hands in a gesture of conciliation.

  ‘I am well pleased with it, My Lord. It is far more than I expected.’

  Bancroft nodded and there was a moment of silent goodwill. The unease had left him, replaced by a sense of hope of better things to come. He smiled at the Bishop but received no smile in return.

  ‘Where do you intend to lodge while you are here, Doctor Clarke?’ Bancroft asked. The Bishop’s native Lancashire accent was still pronounced, Richard noticed. His own northern accent he had discarded long ago.

  ‘I’ve taken a room in a house by the river,’ he replied. A draughty chamber, and damp, with mice that kept him awake at night.

  ‘I see.’ Bancroft sighed. ‘You used to have friends in Westminster, did you not? The Kemp family?’

  He looked up sharply. A wariness prickled over his skin, all pleasure in the meeting draining at the mention of a name he had kept at a distance these last seven years, a name that still roused a multitude of emotions.

  He said, ‘It has been many years since I last saw the Kemps, My Lord.’

  The Bishop observed him, feelings well hidden behind the weather-beaten face, and Richard could make no guess at the thoughts behind it.

  ‘The older Master Kemp still keeps a house here, I believe,’ Bancroft said.

  ‘I’m afraid I wouldn’t know,’ he replied. ‘As I said, it has been many years.’ In his mind he saw the image of it, well known and familiar. Time was when it had almost been a second home.

  ‘The house is still there. And the family.’

  Richard swallowed, aware of a threat in the sumptuous room. A weak morning light filtered through the stained-glass windows, the figures of St Jerome and St Gregory casting coloured shards across the floor. He set his expression with care to hide his disquiet, and his eyes came to rest on a mediaeval tapestry on the wall at Bancroft’s back. A forest scene, a huntress with a bow, a stag in flight. Exquisite, but pagan. It was a strange choice of hanging for an Archbishop’s chamber.

  ‘Are you aware,’ the Bishop
was saying, ‘of Ben Kemp’s whereabouts these days?’ There was an edge in the question that ushered in a coldness despite the heat from the fire. Richard suppressed a shiver and closed his thoughts against the memories that threatened.

  ‘Last I heard, My Lord,’ he said carefully, ‘Kemp was working for his father trading in the East, in Aleppo … silk mostly. I believe they are part of a company that has business in the Levant – a grant from the old queen or some such.’

  ‘Yes. The Levant Company. His father sent him away out of trouble for a while.’ The Bishop leaned forward in his chair, hands resting on the carved edges of the armrests as though he were readying himself to spring. ‘Tell me about your friendship with Kemp, Doctor Clarke. Tell me what you know of him.’

  Richard moistened his lip with the tip of his tongue and let his eyes drift towards the fire. It was burning low and smouldering and the room felt warm. He did not know how to answer.

  ‘We were friends at Cambridge,’ he offered. ‘We shared a room.’ It had been a cold room, he recalled, that never saw the sun nor a fire, and Ben’s young body had been hard and warm next to his in the narrow bed they had shared. He kept his eyes on the fire.

  ‘What of his beliefs?’

  He stared down into his wine. There was only a mouthful left and he wished there was more. He drank it, framing his answer in the pause.

  ‘His beliefs were … Puritan, My Lord.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  Tension spiralled into fear. What were the Bishop’s intentions? Why was he asking? Why now? He had had three years of Ben in irons at the Fleet to ask such things. Silently he prayed. The Lord is my strength and my shield. Mine heart trusted in Him and was helped. The familiar words soothed him. He remembered the new post at Canterbury, the Translation. He had nothing to fear, he told himself, but still his mouth was dry.

  ‘He believed that wearing a surplice has no basis in Scripture,’ he said, though that had been the least of Ben’s complaints against the Church. ‘He questioned whether we should kneel at prayer. There are many in the Church who believe such things.’

  ‘Yes,’ Bancroft hissed. ‘Puritans. I am aware of it. But that is not all he believed, is it?’

  ‘No,’ Richard agreed. ‘That is not all.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what he believed since you seem so reluctant to do so. He believed in a Church without bishops, without priests, without ritual. He believed in a Church with no king at its head.’

  Richard was silent, watching, still unsure where all of this was leading.

  ‘Did you share those beliefs, Doctor Clarke?’ the Bishop demanded. ‘You were his friend.’

  ‘No, My Lord. Never. I was his friend, but I never shared his beliefs.’ It was the truth. They had argued over it constantly, hours and hours quoting Scripture at each other, going in circles, never changing.

  ‘Yet you visited him in gaol. Why?’

  He thought, because someone had to tell him that his wife and child were dead. Because, for all my many weaknesses, I was his friend. He said, ‘I hoped to bring him back into the Church. I hoped to persuade him to recant.’

  ‘I visited him also you know, and with the same purpose. Many times. It appears that both of us failed.’

  ‘I don’t understand, My Lord.’

  ‘Kemp has been back in England for several weeks. It seems the change in monarch brought out both Papists and Puritans, hoping for change. You did not know?’ Bancroft seemed surprised.

  ‘I did not know,’ Richard confirmed, eyes still lowered to the empty glass he was twirling in his fingers. He was aware of Bancroft’s scrutiny, the sharp shrewd eyes appraising before finally the Bishop smiled and sat back in his chair. But his hands still gripped the ends of the armrests, knucklebones showing white through the reddened skin.

  ‘I am not convinced your friend’s views have changed in his years away. A man like that doesn’t alter his beliefs.’

  ‘I would not know, My Lord,’ he answered, though he guessed the Bishop was right. It was hard to imagine Ben might ever change.

  There was a pause and in the heartbeat before Bancroft spoke again, Richard finally understood what was coming. He held his breath.

  ‘I want you to lodge with the Kemps during your work here,’ the Bishop said. ‘I want you to keep an eye on Master Benjamin Kemp. And I want you to keep me well informed.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘His family will know what he is doing. His family will know where he is, who he consorts with, what views he holds. I am sure of it.’ The Bishop paused a moment to let his words have their effect. ‘I want to know where he is. I want to know what he is doing. And I want to know where he worships and who he worships with.’

  Dread seeped through his blood, weight in his gut. He had not thought to cross Ben Kemp’s path again, nor to rekindle the conflict that Ben trailed in his wake.

  ‘You are asking me to spy, My Lord?’ His voice was scarcely more than a whisper but it made no difference; the Bishop’s ears were keen.

  ‘The king is anxious for unity,’ Bancroft said. ‘Only the true Church can give us that. The Church to which you belong, Doctor Clarke. The Church in which you are ordained. And we will have one Church, one doctrine, one creed. These Separatists would rip the very fabric that binds Church and state together.’ He paused to draw breath. He was preaching now and all Richard could do was listen. ‘Shall every man worship according to his humour? Shall any man in the street be permitted to preach? That is what your friend Ben Kemp would have. And we cannot allow it. There must be order in the Church. These illegal congregations who refuse to kneel, who would deny the king his position under God, they are traitors. They would have a king with no power to rule and a Church that is divided, leaderless, a people with no guidance to bring them to God.’ He lowered his gaze to light on Richard. ‘Is that what you want, Doctor Clarke?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Then what is your hesitation?’

  He said nothing. There was no point. Bancroft would never understand the pain Ben Kemp had inflicted, the wounds he still carried. Fury threatened, prickling under his skin: fury with Ben for returning, fury at what he was being asked to do. He placed the wine glass on the desk.

  ‘You think such work is beneath you?’ The Bishop inclined his head, apparently re-evaluating the worth of the man before him.

  ‘No. Not at all. It is just …’

  ‘Yes?’

  He could not think how to begin to explain. He said, ‘I would be a guest in their home …’

  ‘And it offends your sense of honour?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘And your sense of honour is more important than your loyalty to the king? To the Church?’

  ‘No, My Lord.’ What else could he say?

  ‘Good. Then we are of one accord.’ The Bishop rose from the depths of his chair with a surprising lightness and Richard recalled the rumour that Bancroft still wrestled now and then. He suppressed a shudder at the thought of it: Bancroft’s grip would be like a fighting dog’s jaws. Standing up, he allowed himself to be shown to the door, which the Bishop held for him with a gracious smile. It seemed he was in favour again, an obedient servant.

  ‘Of course,’ Bancroft said in the doorway, ‘it goes without saying that this goes no further than this room.’

  ‘Of course, My Lord. It goes without saying.’ He bowed his goodbye and was gone, hurrying away before the older man could press him any further. He wanted to be away, feeling tainted by the atmosphere of a room where he imagined other more violent cruelties had been hatched and demanded, other men more brutally persuaded into acts against their conscience.

  In his distraction he mistook the way out, taking a wrong turn from the presence chamber that took him almost to the Lollards’ Tower. He paused before it, eyes drawn upward towards the prison at the top, looming five floors above him, and instinctively he shivered. Then, regaining his bearings, he found his way back to the courtyard, relieved to see
the long ivy-covered wall that bordered the Thames and the fig tree standing sentinel outside the great hall. The gate leading out stood open beneath the ancient stone archway, red brick towers rising up on either side, another prison contained within their walls. The porter in his lodge bid him a cheerful good day as he passed and he replied with a distracted nod of acknowledgement. Outside the palace, the autumn breeze was still gusting off the river, showering him with the last of the season’s leaves from the elms that lined the bank.

  At the landing stage, a party of lawyers in dark finery had just arrived, their boat shifting and tossing on the choppy water. As they clambered ashore, one of them slipped and dropped his papers. There was a shout as the wind caught the sheets, scattering them across the steps, and the lawyers raced after them, stooping to catch them as they fell. The boatman watched, laughing. Finally, when they had rescued what documents they could, they brushed themselves down with hurried movements, resumed their dignity, and strode towards the gate.

  Richard Clarke watched them go from the shelter of the trees and when they had moved away, he hurried down the steps and hailed the boatman who had brought them. The wherry rocked under his feet as he stepped into it and he sat down heavily – he had never felt safe on the river. Only once they were mid-stream on the way back to Westminster did it occur to him to think that it was not only for his skill in Hebrew that he was chosen for the task of the Translation.