К Сэнсом - Revelation

‘You are a stonemason?’

‘Master stonemason, sir.’ Despite his distress, there was a note of pride in his voice. I looked at his hands: big, callused, a mass of little scars. ‘I hoped Adam might follow me into the business. He was a hard worker; and a faithful attender at our church.’

‘That he was.’ Reverend Meaphon nodded emphatically.

‘We are true Bible folk, sir.’ A slight note of challenge crept into Kite’s voice.

‘However the sinful world may look on us,’ Meaphon added, looking at me with fierce eyes under those bushy brows.

‘Whatever you tell me of your beliefs will be held in confidence,’ I said.

‘You do not believe as we do, I see.’ There was sorrow rather than anger in Daniel Kite’s voice.

‘It is not my beliefs that are at issue,’ I replied with what I knew was a strained smile.

Meaphon’s eyes swept over me. ‘I see that God has seen fit to afflict you, sir. But he has done so only that you may turn to Him for succour.’

I felt myself flush with anger that this stranger should take it on himself to refer thus to my hunched back. Minnie Kite interrupted hastily. ‘We only want you to help our poor boy, sir, to tell us if the law may help us.’

‘Then tell me what happened, from the beginning, straight and simple.’

Minnie quailed at the sharp note in my voice. Her husband hesitated, then continued his story.

‘I told you Adam was a fine boy. But about six months ago he started to become very quiet, withdrawn into himself, sad-seeming. It worried us both. Then one day I had to leave him in the shop; I came back and found him crouched on his knees in a corner. He was praying, begging the Lord to forgive him for his sins. I said, “How now, Adam. God has ordained a time for prayer and a time for work.” He obeyed me then, though I remember he rose to his feet with a great sigh like I’d never heard.’

‘We’ve heard it often enough since,’ Minnie added.

‘That was the start of it. We’ve always encouraged Adam to pray, but from then on he – he wouldn’t stop.’ Kite’s voice broke, and I sensed the fear in him. ‘Any time of day, in the workshop or even in company, he’d just drop to his knees and start praying, frantically, for God to forgive his sins and let him know he was saved. It got so he wouldn’t eat, he’d lie crouched in the corner and we’d have to pull him to his feet while he resisted, made himself a dead weight. And when we made him stand, always that terrible sigh.’

‘The despair in it,’ Minnie added quietly. She lowered her head, but not before I saw tears in her eyes. Kite looked at me. ‘He is certain that he is damned, sir.’

I looked at the three of them. I knew that the religious radicals believed with Luther that God had divided humanity into the saved and the damned, that only those who came to Him through the Bible would be saved at the Day of Judgement. The rest of humanity were condemned to burn in Hell, for ever. And they believed that the Day of Judgement, the end of the world foretold in the Book of Revelation, would soon be upon us all. I did not know how to reply. I was almost grateful to Meaphon for ending the silence.

‘These good people brought their son to me,’ he said. ‘I spoke with Adam, tried to reassure him, told him God sometimes sends doubt to those he loves most, to try their spirits. I stayed for two whole days with him, fasting and praying, but I could not break through to him.’ He shook his head. ‘He resisted me sorely.’

Minnie looked up at me. Her face was bleak, bereft. ‘By then, Adam was naught but skin and bone. I had to feed him with a spoon while my husband held on to him to prevent him sinking to the floor. “I must pray,” he kept on. “I am not saved!” To think I should dread to hear prayer or salvation mentioned.’

‘What sins does Adam believe he has committed?’ I asked quietly.

‘He does not say. He seems to think he has committed every sin there is. Before this he was just an ordinary cheerful boy, sometimes noisy and thoughtless, but no more than that. He has never done anything wicked.’

‘Then he started leaving the house,’ Daniel Kite said. ‘Running away to alleyways and corners where he could pray unhindered. We had to go chasing after him.’

‘We feared he would die in the cold,’ Minnie added. ‘He would slip away without putting on his coat and we would follow his footprints in the snow.’ She banged a little fist into her lap with sudden anger. ‘Oh, that he should treat his parents so. That is a sin.’

Her husband laid a work-roughened hand on hers. ‘Now, Minnie, have faith. God will send an answer.’ He turned back to me. ‘Ten days ago, in that snowy weather when no one was going abroad unless they had to, Adam disappeared. I had him in my workshop where I could keep an eye on him, but he’s become crafty as a monkey and when my back was turned he sneaked off, unlocked the door and disappeared. We went searching up and down but could not find him. Then that afternoon an official from Bishop Bonner came to see us. He said Adam had been found on his knees in the snow before the Preaching Cross in St Paul’s churchyard, begging God for a sign he was saved, that he would be allowed into heaven as one of the elect. He screamed that the end of the world was coming, begged God and Jesus not to take him down to Hell at the Last Judgement.’

Minnie began to cry, and her husband stopped and bowed his head, overcome with emotion as well. The depth of the simple couple’s suffering was terrible to contemplate. And what their son had done was deeply dangerous. Only licensed preachers were allowed at St Paul’s, and the King’s doctrine was firm that faith alone, sola fide , did not suffice to bring a man to heaven. Even less orthodox was the doctrine of mankind divided between God’s elect and the damned. I looked at Meaphon. He was frowning, running his hand over the top of his thick hair.

‘So then Adam was brought before the Council,’ I prompted Daniel gently.

‘Yes. From the bishop’s jail where they put him. I was summoned to appear. I went to Whitehall Palace, to a room where four men all dressed in rich robes sat at a table in a great room.’ His voice shook and a sheen of sweat appeared on his forehead at the memory. ‘Adam was there, chained and with a gaoler.’ He glanced at his vicar. ‘Reverend Meaphon came too but they wouldn’t let him speak.’

‘No, they would not hear me,’ Meaphon said. ‘I did not expect them to,’ he added with scorn.

That was probably just as well, I thought. ‘Who were the men?’

‘One in white robes was Archbishop Cranmer; I’ve seen him preach at St Paul’s. There was another cleric, a big angry-looking man with brown hair. I think the two others wore robes with fur and jewels. One was a little pale man, he had a sharp voice. The other had a long brown beard and a thin face.’

I nodded slowly. The little pale man would be Sir Richard Rich, Thomas Cromwell’s former protégé who had joined the conservatives when Cromwell fell; a ruthless, vicious opportunist. The other man resembled descriptions I had heard of Lord Hertford, brother of the late Queen Jane and a reformer. And the angry-looking cleric was almost certainly Bishop Bonner of London.

‘What did they say to you?’

‘They asked me how Adam had got into the state he was and I answered them honestly. The pale man said it sounded like heresy and the boy should be burned. But just then Adam slipped off his chair and before his guard could grab him he was down on the floor frantically asking God to save him. The councillors ordered him to rise but he took no more notice of them than if they were flies. Then the Archbishop said Adam was clearly out of his wits and he should be sent to the Bedlam to see if they could find a cure. The pale man still wanted him accused as a heretic but the other two wouldn’t agree.’