The Preacher's Bride (28 page)

One of the elders behind her poked her back. She straightened her shoulders and forced air into her lungs. “The local authorities are prejudiced against him, my lords. He has broken no law, yet they are determined to keep him in prison or banish him from the kingdom.”

Lord Barkwood perched his spectacles on the end of his nose and peered down at the paper in front of him.

Except for the thud of her heart, the room was silent.

Finally Lord Barkwood laid the paper onto the table and folded his hands over it. A lord next to him leaned to him and whispered words Elizabeth could not hear.

Lord Barkwood nodded and then tilted his head toward Elizabeth. “If the local authorities do not recommend him, then we cannot involve ourselves with your husband’s case.”

Elizabeth wanted to shrink under the gazes of the important men in their opulent clothes—if she but had the lace from one of their shirts, she could sell it and feed her children for months.

Instead, she lifted her chin. “If the king cannot grant him clemency, perhaps my lords would be so kind as to send me away with a petition of your good graces and will toward my husband.”

The lords whispered together again. “Very well,” Lord Barkwood said, taking off his spectacles. “We will give you a petition to present to the judges of Bedfordshire at the summer assize.”

She bowed her head in gratitude, as was expected of her, but labored to swallow the bitterness at the back of her tongue. When they had the power to give her a feast, they instead offered her crumbs?

Even as hopelessness swirled through her, she knew she dare not shun anything they were willing to give. No matter how slim, it was still one more chance to win John’s release.

And one final opportunity to secure his love.

Chapter
34

Elizabeth wrinkled her nose at the overpowering scent of tobacco smoke. It filled every corner of the Swan Chamber Inn and hung like a cloud over their heads. The practice of smoking had returned with the restoration of the king and now permeated every fashionable gathering of men.

Her gaze swept over the crowded room of wealthy gentlemen—gentry of the surrounding shire, along with the traveling justices of the midsummer assize. Panic shoved at her insides and threatened to dislodge the remnants of her last meal.

She took a step backward. Who was she to enter uninvited into the court meeting? How had she ever thought she could speak to these men, much less enter their presence?

A firm grip on her upper arm propelled her forward. “God be with you, Sister Costin. God be with you.” Elder Harrington and the others of the congregation stood outside the door of the upper chamber on the staircase. Their presence blocked her escape. She had nowhere to go but forward.

The Independents knew more was at stake in this case than just John’s future. If the justices of the assize convicted him, they would soon face persecution themselves.

Elizabeth swallowed the rising bile and forced one trembling step in front of the other toward a table of gentlemen, who puffed on pipes and sipped mugs of ale. The light from the tall, oblong-paned windows that faced the River Ouse displayed the ermine and scarlet robes of the judges.

Silence descended with each step she took. She was certain the appearance of a woman, especially a mere peasant woman, in the hallowed sanctuary of these elite men was a sacrilege not soon to be forgiven.

With a deep breath she searched for the face of Sir Matthew Hale. The elders had instructed her of his appearance and the need to speak directly with him. He was perhaps their only hope, the last of the judges who had any history of kindness toward the Independents.

“My lord.” She tried to steady her voice. “I make bold to come to your lordship.”

The distinguished judge sat up. His startled but kind eyes came to rest upon her.

“I’ve come to your lordship to know what may be done with my husband, John Costin.” She spoke the words the elders had instructed her to say.

“You are not welcome here, woman,” snapped Judge Twisden, the other presiding judge of the assize. His pompous expression, framed by loose cheeks and bulbous nose, dismissed her.

Elizabeth focused on Sir Matthew Hale and rushed to say what she must before they thrust her out of the chamber. “I have been to London, sir. I delivered the petition to Lord Barkwood. He entrusted me to your care, and I come now with the warrant of the peers to make my appeal.”

“It is of no use for you to waste our time with your petition,” Judge Twisden said. “Your husband has been duly convicted.”

At the choruses of agreement from the other men sitting with the judges, Elizabeth wondered if she would have the chance to say anything at all. She had an odd sense of empathy for what John had gone through time after time with these proud nobles who scoffed at any who would challenge them.

Sir Matthew Hale puffed on his pipe. “So you are the wife of John Costin?”

“Yes, my lord. I have four small children that cannot help themselves, of which one is blind, and we have nothing to live upon but the charity of good people.”

Her statement did as intended. Sir Matthew put down his pipe, and his eyes filled with sympathy. “Four children? You are too young a woman to have four children.”

“My lord. I am only stepmother to them. I have been married to my husband less than two years. Indeed I was with child when my husband was first apprehended.” She pushed aside the pain the remembering brought and made herself continue. “Since I was young and unaccustomed to such things, I, being dismayed at the news of the arrest, fell into labor. I continued for a week and then was delivered. But my child died.”

“Alas, poor woman!” Sir Matthew sat forward.

“Don’t listen to her,” came a voice Elizabeth recognized at once, one that sent fear racing through her. She looked upon the thin face of William Foster, who was seated next to Judge Twisden. He regarded her with contempt, one that said he would finally destroy her.

“This woman is not one of repute, your lordships,” Mr. Foster continued. “The rumors surrounding her have always been less than favorable. She was Costin’s housekeeper and bed warmer before she became his wife.”

His words elicited muffled coughs and a few guffaws.

Heat made its way into her cheeks and burned them with embarrassment.

“Costin is a pestilent fellow as well,” Mr. Foster said. “There is none like him in the county. His reputation, like this woman’s, leaves much to be desired.”

The rumors had spread wide. Mr. Foster had made sure of that. “And yet time has indeed proven many of those rumors false,” she said, looking directly at Mr. Foster. “ ’Tis because we are poor laborers that we must endure the lies and attacks without the true culprit being brought to justice.”

Mr. Foster smiled.

“ ’Tis widely known that this man—Mr. Foster—set fire to my husband’s cottage with the intent to burn me within.” She turned again to Sir Matthew Hale. “But he will not be brought to justice for the wrong he’s done, while my husband languishes in gaol, though he is innocent.”

“This woman makes poverty her cloak,” Mr. Foster declared, raising his voice. “As I understand, her husband finds it much better to run up and down preaching than to follow his calling.”

“What is Costin’s calling?” Sir Matthew asked.

A chorus of voices replied, “A tinker, my lord.”

“Yes,” she said loudly, to be heard over the commotion. “He is a tinker and a poor man, therefore he is despised and cannot have justice.”

“He does not abide by his tinkering,” said Mr. Foster. “He preaches and does whatever he sees fit, regardless of the Book of Common Prayer.”

“He preaches nothing but the Word of God,” said Elizabeth to Sir Matthew, refusing to look at Mr. Foster.

“
He
preaches the Word of God?” Mr. Foster rose to his feet, his face puffed with growing rage. “He runs up and down and does harm. That is what he does!”

“No, my lord.” Elizabeth tried to keep her voice calm, even though her body was tense and ready for a battle of words. “God has owned him and has done much good by him.”

“God?” Mr. Foster’s voice was laced with contempt. “His doctrine is the doctrine of the devil.”

“My lord, when the righteous Judge shall appear, all will know John Costin’s doctrine is not the doctrine of the devil.” Her words rang through the room, reverberated off the walls, and penetrated deep into her heart.

God
did
own John. And John’s true calling was not his tinkering. They were wrong.
She
had been wrong. His true calling was his preaching—just as the disciples had been fishermen by trade, but their true calling had been teaching.

“Send her away,” Mr. Foster demanded.

“Sit down, Mr. Foster.” Sir Matthew Hale’s command echoed through the chamber. “I think we’ve heard enough of your blustering.”

Mr. Foster slid back into his chair, but his glare slashed into her.

With a shiver she turned once again to Sir Matthew. “My lord, I only ask that you consider my husband’s case according to the law and not by prejudice. He has not been lawfully convicted. The king and Parliament have no law against meeting to exhort one another for Christ’s sake.”

“He is convicted. It is recorded,” came the quick reply of one of the justices.

“How can there be a conviction when there has been no law for him to break? Surely you cannot hold a man accountable for an outdated law of which he had no foreknowledge.” While she didn’t understand the full ramifications of the law, she had heard enough of the talk about the statute of Queen Elizabeth to know the Royalists had twisted even the old laws to suit their purposes.

“What does a wench like you know of such things?” Mr. Foster said. “It’s not your place to speak to this group of distinguished men in this manner. Leave the thinking and deciding to those of us who have been given the right by God—”

“Mr. Foster,” Sir Matthew Hale’s voice rose. “You will either hold your tongue or leave this gathering.”

The words upon Mr. Foster’s lips died away. He nodded at the judge and then clamped his lips together with a brittle smile—a smile that said he would murder her if he could.

Elizabeth pushed aside her fear and slid Lord Barkwood’s letter across the table in front of Sir Matthew Hale. “My Lord, if you would but consider this petition . . .”

The judge glanced at it, then reached for his pipe. He took a deep puff and regarded her for a long moment. “Certainly John Costin is well aware of the law now—a law that has always been in effect—only it has been ignored these many years. Would your husband leave off his preaching now that he knows its illegality?”

The men fell silent.

Elizabeth lifted her head high and straightened her shoulders. The answer was clearer to her than it ever had been before. “My lord, he dares not leave preaching as long as he can speak.”

As she said the words, the room erupted into chaos. Inside her heart, however, in the deepest part, she was filled with peace. He would preach until the day he died, or he would no longer be John Costin, the man she loved.

* * *

Elizabeth’s hands shook so that the soup inside the crock sloshed dangerously close to spilling. “I will go today, Mary,” she told the young girl.

It had been one week since the assizes, since her complete failure to secure John’s release. All that week she’d struggled, reviewed each word she’d spoken, wondered if she could have done or said anything different that might have secured his freedom. She was sure the only way she could have gained his release was to extract a promise from him that he would stop preaching. And she knew now she could never do that.

Preaching was his calling. And John must face his hardships and go through them in much the same way she needed to face hers.

It was past time to apologize to John for what she had said about his preaching, for discouraging him in it, for asking him to stop. She couldn’t rest until she did. And as much as she dreaded visiting him and facing his displeasure over her failure, she also realized she must see him one last time.

“Do you want me to go with you?” Mary steadied the crock.

“I must do this, Mary.” Elizabeth willed her hand to stop shaking. “I regret that I have not done it sooner.”

“He will be glad to see you.”

“ ’Tis no matter,” she said, trying to convince herself. She’d let him down. Why would he want to see her now?

“He has never stopped asking about you.” The girl’s voice was soft.

Elizabeth tucked a stray piece of hair back under her coif and took a deep breath.

“Don’t worry.” Mary’s hands patted the air until she made contact with Elizabeth’s cheeks. Then her fingers gently glided over Elizabeth’s face, her nose, mouth, and eyes. “You are beautiful, the most beautiful woman I know.”

“Mary’s right.”

Elizabeth gasped, and her heart slammed to a halt.

Mary jumped back and screamed. In an instant she streaked across the room to the sound of his voice. She threw herself with abandon into the arms she knew would be outstretched for her.

For a moment Elizabeth could only watch in speechless shock, not daring to move lest she lose sight of the apparition of John that stood within the doorway.

Mary’s arms wound around her father, and she burst into heavy heartrending sobs.

The wails brought the other children pattering barefoot into the room.

Betsy squealed and ran to her father. Johnny approached more slowly, but John knelt and swept all three against his chest in a crushing embrace. Tears dripped from his cheeks onto the tops of their heads, followed by his kisses.

Elizabeth absently picked up Thomas, who clung to her, his eyes wide with fear for the man who had become a stranger to him. She didn’t realize her cheeks were wet until Thomas wiped them with his fingers.

“Momma cry?”

Elizabeth smiled through her tears. “Momma is happy.” This moment in time, watching John love his children—it was enough to feed her hungry soul for many days to come.

But then John’s gaze lifted from the children and found her. The longing and love in his eyes swept the breath from her body.

She clutched a hand to her throat. Was he really there? Or had she finally grown so desperate that she was now dreaming during her waking hours too?

“Elizabeth,” he said softly. He stood then and let go of the children. His gaze refused to release hers as he started across the room toward her.

When he finally stood in front of her, her breath came in shallow, erratic bursts.

Somehow Mary managed to extract Thomas from her arms and usher the children outside.

John didn’t say anything, but he scrutinized her face, devouring her as if he needed to get as much of her into his soul as he could before they were ripped apart.

“Are you real?” she whispered, lifting her hand—wanting, needing to touch him and reassure herself that he truly stood before her. Hesitantly she grazed her fingers across his cheek.

He leaned into her hand. “I’m home,” he whispered. “Now I’m most definitely home.”

A choked sob escaped unbidden. She stepped away from him and pressed her fist against her mouth, holding back the flood that suddenly swelled for release. Home? For how long?

He thrust out a hand toward her. Purple hyacinths and yellow daffodils danced in a wild array of color. “For you,” he said softly.

Her heart lurched with the memory of another bouquet and the same words on their betrothal morning.

“Can we start over? At the beginning?” His eyes probed hers.

She swiped at the tears slipping down her cheeks but couldn’t keep them at bay.

“If you’ll give me another chance, I’d like to be the kind of husband you deserve.” He reached out and touched her tears.

At the gentleness of his fingers, another sob slipped out.

“I will take you as my wife.”

His earnest pledge tore at her heart and stripped away the little resistance left.