From “A Collection of the Sufferings of the People Called Quakers for the Testimony of a Good Conscience, Vol. I” by Joseph Besse:
Cambridge, 1653
Mary Fisher, not yet thirty years old, and Elizabeth Williams who was about fifty, feeling compelled by the Lord, travelled down from the north to bear witness of their faith. They came upon a group of university scholars and entered into religious discourse.
The young men, seeking to taunt these brazen uneducated women, asked them how many Gods there were, to which they replied but one, adding that the scholars had many Gods and were ignorant of the true God. At this there was much derision, so that the women told them they were antichrists and that their college was a cage of unclean birds, a synagogue of Satan.
A complaint was made to William Pickering, Mayor of Cambridge, about two women preaching. He sent a constable to investigate. On asking them whence they came and where they had stayed the night, they answered that they were strangers and knew not the name of the place they had stayed. He asked their names. They replied, their names were written in the Book of Life. He demanded their husbands’ names. They told him, they had no husband but Jesus Christ.
Upon this revelation the Mayor was incited to fury. He called them Whores and sent them to the Market-Cross to be whipped “till the blood ran down their bodies.” At this the women knelt and asked the Lord to forgive him for he knew not what he did.
And so the executioner fulfilled the mayor’s warrant, and did so far more cruelly than is usually done to the worst of malefactors, so that their flesh was cut and torn. The beholders of this brutality were astonished to see the women enduring the torture patiently, even singing, “The Lord be blessed, the Lord be praised, who hath thus honored us and strengthened us thus to suffer for his Name’s sake.”
Afterward they prayed God again to forgive their persecutors. Then as they were led back into the town, they exhorted the people to fear God, not man, telling them, this was but the beginning of the sufferings of the people of God.
The Journey Begins
Cambridge, 1654
This day—this soaking-wet, miserable excuse for a fireside rest—was a perfect opportunity for self-denial. George Fox and a handful of his loyal disciples had taken refuge in a modest country house whose walls showed the battle scars of long years—smoke-stained plaster cracked in places, with the lath and rough beams peeking through like ribs. The air carried a faint tang of damp wool and hearth ash, while the rain rattled hard against the windowpanes as if demanding to be let in.
A battered kitchen table, heavy as an oxcart and marked by generations of knives, bore the remains of a plain, meatless breakfast according to the Friends’ leanings: bits of coarse bread, crumbly cheese, and pease puddings. There also remained a half-empty dish of stewed beans grown from the garden. A chipped jug half-full of hearty cider rested on the sideboard.
The hearth smoked as seventeen-year-old George Whitehead worked it expertly with the iron, coaxing a reluctant flame from damp wood. Yet his movements were restless, as if no fire could ease his spirit, trapped as he was indoors by the weather, of all things. Across the room was James Parnell, who being but a year younger than George had the small bearing of one who suffered rickets as a child. Yet his mind was keen. He sat by the window at a writing desk, quill dancing over cheap paper, so absorbed he scarcely noticed the chill seeping through the stone walls.
George Fox, ten years their senior, finished his repast calmly even as a strong wind rattled the shutters. He wiped his mouth and pushed himself back from the table with a grateful sigh. “My gratitude, Friend Blakeling, for thine board and bread.” A half dozen others nodded their agreement and thanked the host.
That worthy man smiled benevolently and exchanged a smile with his wife Eleanor, across the table from him. “It is our pleasure, Friends, and all gratitude be to God who provided it for this very moment.” She nodded an amen.
With an agreeable look around him Fox turned his gaze to Parnell. “What dost thou write, lad? More about Pickering and his lot?”
James blinked, startled from his thoughts. “Words for a pamphlet,” he answered, “that men might know the true Word of God. Not dead ink, but the Living Christ.”
Young Whitehead stood and chuckled, though he kept his gaze to the fire.
“They will call thee a blasphemer for that,” said Anne Downing from her place next to Eleanor. A spinster some five years older than Fox, she was a celebrity of sorts—certainly knowledgeable about the “dead ink” to which the boy referred. Her grandfather had been the president of St. John’s College at Oxford and assigned by King James himself to translate the epistles for his new Bible.
Furthermore, as the daughter of a vicar, Anne was steeped in Biblical and spiritual knowledge, and was known also as a woman of great piety and virtue. Some like Eleanor thought she should be allowed to preach one day alongside the men.
The writer shrugged almost casually. “Have I not been seen the prison cell already for my letters to the mayor and magistrates? Yet I am none the worse for wear. They must know, the world clings to the printed word as if it might save, yet Christ alone can do that.”
Whitehead turned, his back to the blaze as he surveyed the room. James was yet recovering from his long walk northward and now back again to London. George had often lent an arm or shoulder for support on their return, and would again as long as the Spirit called James forward. At the same time, something in him rankled. Anne’s discourse was like sunlight through a canopy—each thought revealing another—and she should not be so readily dismissed.
He wondered why she had found no man to suit her, though they said she’d been spoiled for choice when she was young. His mentor, for example, could do no better. Yet this thought, too, unsettled him. He left his place and took a turn about the room with furrowed brow, his boots passing over centuries of grit embedded deep within the floor. Fox gestured to Parnell and urged him on, “Read what thou hast so far.”
James began with a squeak that belied his nonchalance, “Friends!” He stopped and cleared his throat, to begin again in deeper voice, “Friends, be not deceived by priests who bind you to letters without life. The true Word is living, active, and speaks in every heart. It is Christ, not the book, that redeems.”
“Aye,” Whitehead mused, “and if thou stand in that, no man can truly silence thee.” He stopped at the window, looking out over Parnell’s head with quiet discontent as the rain swept down Bishopsgate Street, glimmering on the cobbles as if urging every traveler eastward toward the open road. “We must be clear—the Bible shows the path, but Christ is the Light upon it.”
All were nodding, considering the sensible nature of the point, but the speaker himself could not share their stillness. Anne, watching him as a school mistress watches a favored pupil, noted how ill-inclined he was to wait through the long silences that had become the heart of their meetings. There was something more he wanted to say; she saw it flicker in his eye like a spark just before kindling. When he turned suddenly from the window, the company expected a fresh pronouncement on Spirit versus the written word. Instead, he changed course entirely.
“I am still pressed in spirit for Norwich. I must go. Immediately.”
The faces around the table showed both surprise and resignation. Some turned to the window, judging the downpour and timing of a sixty-mile journey. Others merely nodded—they knew his leadings seldom changed.
From the larder came a clatter of pots and the voice of the charwoman, rough as a coarse woolen shawl, “Norridge! What?”
The ensuing silence held for a heartbeat before Fox broke into a grin. “Then into the rain with you, Friend! A divine appointment is worth more than any dry cloak. We’ll send thee with provisions if Mistress Blakeling agrees.” He gestured to her, but she glanced at her husband with concern.
The master of the house nodded agreeably. “Aye, Eleanor does and I do as well.” He nudged her reassuringly, “Not like he’s walking an hundred-mile like our friend Parnell.”
James laughed, shaking his head. “Except that we’ve just come with Fox from York, haven’t we, which will beat my journey half again. Best pack him a good meal.” He winked at Whitehead and the two exchanged grins. “We go where the Lord wills, eh?” George patted his back affectionately.
“I’ll have thee with me if ye want to go, Friend.”
“Nay, me boots’re still at the menders, George. Or I would. ‘Course I would.” All chuckled at this—except the charwoman, who had emerged to scowl at the group and seek her mistress’ will on whether to make such a parcel. To her James said, “Better wrap it up well, dear Bess.”
“Oh I am, Marster James,” she huffed, opening a sausage-shaped leather knap-sack to accept the fortifications, “but I carn’t say as I agree with such nonsense. The morrow will surely be fine, and just as good a time to go.”
Her remonstrations met with no argument, and so she grumbled to herself and agreed with herself, to the great amusement of the room, finally lifting the packet and moving to present it to her mistress. Just then a small figure stepped out of the shadows and into the firelight. With a fright Bess threw the pouch into the air, and Fox was obliged to reach up and catch it.
“Oh, where’d ye come from?” she gasped, and fell back to the larder as if exhausted by the ordeal.
They all turned to see young Thomas Lightfoot, a ragged orphan. He was well known among the Friends for finding his way into their meetings, often sleeping by their scullery fires. He’d run from the parish poorhouse so often they wearied of beating him; cursing him up the street instead. Nor would any tradesman take him on for apprentice. You never knew where he slept or when he might appear.
“I’ll join thee,” said the boy, voice thin but determined.
Fox laughed outright. “Take him. He could use a wash!” With a chuckle, he tossed the packet to Tom instead of George. “Guard that well, boy, and don’t eat it until needs must.”
Tom swallowed, as yet unsure of his boldness, but something in him burned to take his place among these warriors of Truth.
“Norwich waits,” Fox declared. “And the hearts there are ready. James, thee will tend the Friends here. Young Thomas, welcome. Learn what thee can, for thy day will come.”
Outside, the wind caught the shutters again, as if echoing that promise.
Whitehead grinned. “I welcome the company!” To Tom he offered a hand, “Come, Friend. Let us be about the Lord’s work.”
On this warm offer, the boy solemnly stepped forward and shook hands. He had a sense that in this moment, his life had just begun.
But in the background, Bess gurgled as if she would choke. To her mistress she pleaded, “Ma’rm. He’s but a waif, aint he.”
“I’m nearly as old as him!” declared Tom, pointing at James and giving the young man cause to laugh.
“You’re ten if a day.”
“Twelve I should think. Twelve at least,” Tom argued.
Mistress Blakeling appealed to her husband. “John, the punishments have no respect for age.”
Whitehead laughed at the womanish concern. “I will keep him safe beside me. You need not fear.”
“But such a distance. Surely…!”
“I was but fourteen when I stepped away from my own hearth to minister, and trust that I was much softer in body than this hardy soul.”
“Hardy!” Bess fumed.
But all was said that would be said, and then the room was atwitter as Bess fussed about the place making the boy ready, cramming a goodly hunk of bread in his mouth before kitting him up with the knapsack. As he ate with an obvious appetite, she tightened the strap across his back to secure the parcel safely against his chest.
Meanwhile George lost no time in packing away a worn little Bible. He gathered it together, gently replacing a few loose pages, then wrapped it in a tatted piece of linen before carefully folding it into a leather pouch made just for the purpose.
He then stood at the door, clad in plain though sturdy raiment common to a young man whose mother thinks affectionately of him—even when she questions his choices. And there he must wait, for Eleanor being inspired by his own preparations, produced from an old chest a patched woolen scholar’s cloak.
As both women attended to Tom’s person, the lady of the house advised the novice missionary, “In thy pocket is a New Testament; a bit old and wormy but I give it thee for greater comfort than even this garment can provide.”
“Keeping in mind,” said Fox, “without the guidance of the Holy Spirit, the Bible is like a sealed book, Friend Tom.”
Eleanor looked the boy in the eye. “The Spirit will help thee, and Friend Whitehead can teach thee to read with it, that I do not doubt.”
Tom looked up to George, who nodded his acquiescence with a pang of pity for the boy, unused as he was to such manhandling. Even Blakeling contributed his favorite old felted cap; an orange bowl-shaped equipage which looked a fright, though all agreed it was “quite handsome” on the lad.
Bess could hardly keep herself from caressing his cheeks, but that tenderness being rebuffed and the bread being eaten, she pressed a bit of cheese upon him even as George tugged his arm with a melodious, “Come on then, young Tom!” And young Tom was quite happy to follow.
Thus they set out, two boys against a kingdom. As they crossed the threshold, the rain abated for a moment. Tom nearly exclaimed over this miraculous accommodation, but great hard drops pelted down again just as the ancient door closed firmly behind them. It was as if Heaven were saying, “This way lies a path of pain and suffering. Take it if ye will.”
For Norwich
George didn’t seem to notice the damp conditions. He patted his chest pocket, reassuring himself that his Bible was safely there. Likewise Tom downed the bit of cheese and felt for the knap-sack, regarding it as a bag of great riches for which he was solely responsible. His thin-soled shoes were no match for the cold mud sucking at his toes, but he gave it no heed. George had called him Friend, he who had spoken of a world where no priest stole men’s souls for coin. That was worth a discomfort such as this.
They made quick work of the slick stench of the town roads. The lad even took the lead at times to demonstrate a crafty detour, which might or might not save a little mileage. The older boy appreciated them all, for they were designed to avoid confrontation and he was keen to get on without challenge.
They were soon on a cross-country march. A lifetime seemed to pass, in which there was nothing but the march: here a stream to ford, there a log to clamber over, and the constant change of storms blowing in and out across the sky overhead. It was all novelty to the younger, who had thought himself well-travelled, knowing all Cambridge and its outskirts. Yet within a few miles they were beyond the limits of his acquaintance. He knew of these distant places only from tales told over cups at evening. George, meanwhile, had made these hills his mission field, and was quite at home.
When the rain slackened, they spoke. For the first time, Tom could ask his own questions instead of overhearing George speak to others. One of them made the evangelist laugh outright.
“George…don’t thy feet hurt?”
“Aye, they are yet well-galled and blistered from the trip to Yorkshire, although it seems within me that my health is good.” He grinned with honest joy. “This I thankfully esteem as a great mercy from God. For if my feet be not hardened, yet my resolve is enough.”
“My feet are hard,” Tom said with pride. “I don’t often have shoes. I did when I was small, but now I don’t need ‘em to keep the cold out.”
“Then I pray they are armor enough, Friend Tom, that thou art spared the pain of a blister.”
“My feet are too stubborn for blisters!”
“Do others think thee stubborn?” George asked, for he wondered how the boy had no orphan companions.
Tom frowned, balancing along a fallen tree they met in the path. George followed, the two of them for a moment like any boys in the wilderness. When they had crossed, the answer came. “My father said afore he died, keep well away from the orphan gangs. I run from the poorhouse of five different parishes because there’s always a gang and a leader who wants me to get in with ’em. Father said to stay near folks who are kind and religious, like the Blakelings. We brought them their coal, see.”
“Oh, your father was a coleman?”
“Aye!” Tom’s face lit. “Every morning I held up the bags—hundred-weight, they was—and he filled ’em and loaded ’em in the cart, George, so strong was he. At every house he’d take an hundred-weight on each shoulder and carry ’em down to ’cellar. Oh—look there, a big toad!”
He only paused a moment to observe the largish toad before continuing. “And on Saturdays we’d go to the country and hunt rabbits with his ferrets, and sometimes pick berries. And we had chickens in the back garden. D’ye see that old nag there? Poor thing…” He paused momentarily to watch a farmer lead a dray horse into its stall. “So while he put the coal in the cellar, I’d hand over the rabbits and eggs and other things.”
George could barely keep pace with the tale, but the lad’s joy in his father’s strength was pleasing. He thought of the Proverb: the glory of children are their fathers.
After the farmer passed, Tom yet stood, now staring up into a giant oak tree that towered over them. “George! D’you suppose it’s the one that hid the King?”
George stepped beside him and set a hand upon the rough bark, glancing over his shoulder before he spoke. One did not lightly mention kings in these days. “Nay, lad, that tree is in Shropshire to the west. But let not thine thoughts run on princes and their peril. A man may hide for a night in the branches, aye—but only the Lord is a sure hiding-place. Oak or crown, both shall wither. Therefore Friends wish not for kings, nor make much talk of them.”
Tom gazed up into the branches, his face caught between wonder and confusion. “So—this tree is like God’s hand?”
“Even so,” George said softly. “A mighty hand, and everlasting.”
They walked on. When he could, George spoke to Tom of the Spirit. Both had known want, and neither thought to stop for the meal the boy carried. As the miles passed, their words fell away, until Tom lagged behind in weariness.
As day descended into dusk, George paused at the crest of a low rise. Six steady hours had carried them some thirty miles. At first, he had expected the boy to beg for rests—and would not have begrudged him if he had slipped away entirely with the victuals—but now it seemed natural that Tom should, in time, draw up beside him. Together they scanned the road ahead, where a flicker of lamplight marked a village, smoke curling through the mist.
“Are we at Thetford?” Tom asked with a voice that belied exhaustion. He pushed up Blakeling’s old cap to view the horizon.
“Not yet,” came the calm reply. “We’ve another three miles for Thetford, but I know this place.”
“They might shelter us here,” Tom ventured.
George’s gaze stayed steady, reflecting the distant fire of hope. “They might. But we go as Friends, Thomas. We bow to no man but Christ.”
Thunder rolled all around them, echoing across the sodden fields. Tom swallowed against the crawling fear that twisted in his belly—not just the chill, but the danger. His exhaustion had sapped his bravery and left in its place visions of the king’s soldiers roaming the roads, and angry church wardens vying for their capture, ready to drag them to prison.
“Aye, George,” he managed. “We are Friends.”
Making their way along the cobbled village streets on legs half-dead from cold, George was vaguely aware the rain had turned to a stinging sleet which clung to the skin like hungry fingers. He worried again for the boy. Would that he were Wenceslas who granted warmth with each step for the lad in his wake. He could only pray for guidance and mercy to find shelter.
The lamps were few, the light they cast not much more than wavering puddles of flame behind their warped panes. Doors that had been cracked open slammed shut as they drew near, with the clang of a bolt and nervous shuffle of boots moving toward a window as their owners peered out at the two interlopers. George felt the weight of a dozen suspicious eyes, measuring him, discounting him as a spy, a thief, or worse—a godless heretic.
At last, they found a low, crooked house that showed a painted sign of a stag, hung so askew it looked ready to drop off its iron bracket. A dim glow leaked out between planks where an ancient door hung warped on its hinges. Tom pushed closer to his guardian, hopeful but wary.
George knocked, once, then again louder, his knuckles nearly numb. His insistence was rewarded by a thin glow of light and a pinched woman’s face, framed by a wimple yellowed with age. She scanned them, the street boy with his ragged cloak; the young man in plain dress, eyes sharp and blazing.
“What do ye want?” she barked, voice small but flinty.
“Shelter,” George answered, steady as ever. “For the night. We have coin.”
She glanced past him at the white flakes that were starting to fall, the wind now turning bitter. But she hesitated and held her ground, lips pressed together even tighter. A Quaker, maybe. She’d heard talk of such boys. Wild ones, dangerous if they spoke the wrong sorts of things.
“G’on with ye, we have no need of missionaries. See yon house up the way. They won’t mind your lot, I should think.” George knew the home she meant; Calvinists. He’d had words with the owner on a previous journey.
“They won’t have us. And you are an inn. I see such men as travelers, inside with their tankards. Look at the boy and take us as your customers.”
Here they both considered Tom, whose lips even in the light of the doorway were visibly blue. He’d set up a shiver as well.
“Would you have him die here on thine doorstep, goodwife?”
No the goodwife would not, was the message clearly written across her face. Nobody wanted a dead boy and no way to get rid of him, or worse yet his ghost. “There’s a loft,” she said at last. “Cold. And no proper glass in the window. Sixpence.” This last she was clearly determined about, for she held out a claw in demanding fashion.
“Six—??” George stopped himself. As if in obedience to a higher voice he frowned and nodded, drawing out a tarnished coin. She hesitated, then snatched it, and stepped back to let them in.
The warm smell of sour beer and new bread washed over Thomas like heaven itself, even if these simple pleasures were beyond their means. His stomach pinched, and he let his mind drift to the crusts in his packet, a welcome repast for dinner or breakfast, either one.
The common room was dark, men hunched over mugs, barely raising a glance. Their voices fell, though, when George removed his cloak, confirming his garb as that of a Quaker. As he turned to follow the old woman the voices rose again in suspicious murmurs. He heard one of them utter the word, “Trouble.”
Pulling Tom after him, the two caught up with her as she climbed a flight of stairs, then passed two empty chambers, each with its great padded bed and unlit hearth. Then up another set of stairs, steep as a ladder. She pushed open a small door that led into an unlit garret. The hard wind cut through the shattered casement, rattling loose slats of wood nailed across the gaps. They could make out the snow that had already skittered in, dusting a broken pallet.
Tom stared, disheartened, used as he was to a warm kitchen hearth. But George let his bundle slip to the floor. Though the space was miserable, he set his jaw and forced a tight smile.
“It will do.”
If the old woman felt a pang of guilt she disguised it well, casting a disparaging look at them both as they stood in widening puddles on the warped floorboards. “Drying cloth and blanket for an extra penny.”
“Penny!” Tom scowled.
George declined with a brief shake of the head. She huffed, then retreated, leaving them with a last suspicious glance. He didn’t bother to watch her go; rather, his interest was in Tom, who seemed a bit shaky after the climb.
“Wh-what shall we do now, Friend?”
George had a thought to kneel together and pray, but the lad’s eyes appeared heavy. He instead uttered an urgent prayer like one seeking advice from his Master as he scanned the tiny space for some form of protection. He circled once and stopped, still praying but less with hope than a frown, pleading in his spirit on behalf of his young charge.
Then as if a light shone in the midst of the dullness, he impulsively moved forward, shoving a broken crate to the side. Behind it, deep under the eaves, was a great lump of hemp canvas. The sound prompted a half-interested look from Tom, but again he was dozy and seemed to fall asleep. George pulled the bundle free and was rewarded with a giant workman’s cloth, stained and a bit musty. He nearly laughed as he dragged it to the center of the little room and rolled it out.
Making a nest from the massive sailcloth, he half-carried the boy to the center of it and wrapped him inside like a babe in swaddling. Then he made a nest for himself and gathered Tom close, sharing what little warmth their bodies could muster.
And so they slept in that tiny attic, sheltered against the elements as the wind blew and snow danced across their faces, whispering stories of danger yet to come.
Wymondham
The morning sun broke through rags of gray cloud, though it did little to warm the cramped garret. George woke first, sitting up with a leisurely stretch as he formed the cloth into a makeshift dressing gown. He quickly located his beloved book, then with a strip of sunshine to read by, passed a pleasing hour in study and prayer.
Finally he pulled forth the victuals and roused Tom with a nudge. The two sat cross-legged in their sea of linen, first thanking God for the food before opening the little treasure trove.
“Father,” said George, “I thank thee that your servants’ needs are always met and thine lovingkindness never fails. We feast on the abundance of thine house. Now guide thine servants in ministry today. Let us be like Peter and John, whose boldness caused the people to marvel. Amen.”
The bits and pieces within the packet thrilled the two, for Bess had been generous.
“Herb tarts!” Tom exclaimed, holding up a small pastry with a promising smell of almond and currant.
“Here, now, crack open a boiled egg first. And have a bit of cheese and bread before thine sweetmeat.”
They made short work of their meal, leaving themselves a pease pudding, a bit of pottage, and another tart each for later. George grinned and shook his head.
“Bless that Bess! I was never more grateful for a crust as that, eh Tom?”
The boy patted his stomach with satisfaction. “Aye, far better than the days what begin empty-handed.”
George regarded his young proselyte, noting his pale skin—perhaps even more remarkable against the fierce spark in his eye. “I fear you’ve had too many of those empty times, young Tom. I pray better for ye, though promises I cannot make.”
Tom shrugged. As if in answer, he jumped up out of the warmth. “I just get on with it.”
And thus their day began. The two stowed the canvas and quickly donned their gear. Tom gestured below him, “I half expect she’ll have a constable waiting on us.”
“No, lad, not such as her. She’ll not want a man of any rank looking too close at the premises, eh?”
They made their way downstairs, ignoring the cold looks from the old woman and a boarder glaring at them over his porridge. She nudged him with a whisper, prepared already to deny the boys any further hospitality. Without hesitation, George slung open the door and they stepped out onto cobblestone still rimed with the night’s snow. It was time to press on for Wymondham.
With a fairer day and clearer roads, the journey passed in more amenable fashion. George even allowed a short mealtime, which they enjoyed as they perused the melting landscape from the shelter of a tree. Now without fear of damage, Tom wiped his fingers carefully and fished the small book from his pocket, unwrapping it’s ancient oilcloth cover.
He knew the words written upon the cover, as his time in the streets had forced him to read the signs and warnings posted about. George then opened the book gently and guided him in the reading of the title page. There was some command of the letters within, and at the end of the session both held a hope of a full understanding given time and studious attention.
And so with hearts lifted in hope and praise, they passed the remaining miles in good conversation and teaching, arriving soon enough at the home of Robert Constable. This believer had been persuaded to the faith by one of George’s dear friends, Richard Hubberthorn, currently imprisoned in Norwich castle.
Word had traveled ahead of them by horseback, and so it happened that in the central hall of Robert’s home were crammed dozens of curious souls eager to hear him. George was anxious for news of his friend, but with a brief prayer (not so much for words but for humility and restraint) he stepped into the hallway.
Three men waited separately in the front parlor, their collars stiff and black and their expressions tense with disapproval. Local authorities of the steeple house, no doubt, where Richard had earned his current accommodation by speaking Truth. These were Independents; radical Puritans not so far off in belief as the Quakers, having refused the beneficence of the tithe-mongers, but they backed Parliament in allowing the continued collections, and the mongers could be brutal to those who had but little to offer. But more to the point, the Puritans were not interested in debate.
On this day, the representatives of the church had not expected quite so much in the way of youthfulness. Even Hubberthorn was ten years older than Whitehead. They peered out through the half-open door like wary crows sizing up a crumb. George felt their gaze rake over his plain coat, the lack of buttons, the untrimmed hair. Their sneers needed no translation.
“That him?” one of them muttered, loud enough to sting. “The child preacher?”
“Aye,” the other snorted. “They grow ‘em younger every year—like fresh cabbages.”
George staid himself, though heat prickled up his neck. He did not see himself as a child, though they saw only a stripling with bare cheeks and a battered Bible. He said, to no one in particular (though all knew to whom he spoke), “Galatians two teaches that we are accepted of God, not of men. It matters not whether rulers or elders approve us.”
At this, Tom shrank behind him—half in awe, half in dread.
The Puritans stepped fully into the room, their shoulders broad with pharisaical authority. The tallest, his voluminous black cloak crusted with mud at the hem, addressed George with bored condescension.
“You mistake a passage about circumcision for license,” he said, “and forget the Scripture’s charge to honor your elders. Bow, boy.”
George lifted his chin, calm as a midwinter pond. “I bow to none but Christ, thou sons of Cain.”
A hush fell across the small house, the onlookers watching, breathless.
The minister’s brow twitched. “I? A son of Cain?”
George nodded. “Thou know nothing but envy and malice, which thee bring here to this house.”
“Hah!” The man laughed, but none laughed with him. Finally—“And would you then scorn thine elders? Thine betters?” He gave a snort of fury, addressing his fellows, “I will not be thee’d by this milk-toothed pup!”
George’s eyes flared, catching the lamplight. “I would scorn no man, but I stand in Truth. For Paul saith in Galatians two that a man is accepted of God, not of men, and that even those who seemed to be pillars added nothing to him. Therefore Truth bows to no bishop, no king, no priest or minister, nor any other who would set himself above the Light within.”
The priest’s lips curled. “Who ordained thee, then? Who gave thee leave to speak?”
“The same who sent Peter and John,” George answered, calm as a midwinter pond. “The Lord Christ, who said His Light shineth in every man that cometh into the world. I obey that Light and none else. For it is written, ‘We ought to obey God rather than men,’ and again, ‘Ye need not that any man teach you, for the anointing abideth in you.’”
A murmur rippled through the gathering, some fearful, some admiring. Tom clutched the little New Testament in his pocket as though it might anchor him to the floor. The tension in the room grew and none would have been surprised to see the priest strike George. But at the last he only turned away with a disgusted look upon his face and moved back to the door. Tom thought he saw a flicker of fear pass through the man’s eyes, as of one who knew he’d been bested, not by wit, but by truth itself.
“Preach to these thine fools if thou must,” the priest growled, his voice low, dangerous. He swept his gaze over the gathered faces, as though fixing them in memory for some later reckoning. “See what comes of rebellion.”
They left then, cloaks snapping; in their wake a hush that seemed even louder than their presence. The air itself seemed to shrink, as if afraid to move.
Tom’s hand still rested over the Bible in his pocket, his pulse thudding in his palm. Around him, several women clutched their shawls tighter; one man looked toward the door as though expecting soldiers.
George stood quietly, the lamplight soft on his face. When he spoke, his tone was steady, not loud, but it carried.
“Fear not them which kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul,” he said. “Our refuge is not in princes, nor in priests, but in the Lord who knoweth them that are His.”
The words settled over them like a covering, fragile but real. Someone exhaled loudly; another whispered, “Amen.”
George turned to look at his proselyte, and pitied the boy whose eyes were huge, reverent, terrified.
“You told him,” Tom whispered.
George nodded once, solemn. “Truth is not for sale, Tom. Not ever.”
The household gathered close, drawn by a power they could hardly name, as the young minister began to speak.
“I am a witness, having seen myself God’s Spirit at work among the people known as Children of the Light. Seeing them, I was induced to leave the parish priests, the ministers made by the will of man, having no divine authority from God, nor commission from Christ, to teach others; they being no good examples to the flock, by their pride and covetousness, contrary to Christ’s command.” He looked to Tom and nodded to acknowledge him. “We come to you, no longer servants who do not ken to the master’s business. We are friends of God according John the 15th chapter.”
Suddenly shy, the boy slipped quietly to a dark corner, keen ears tuned to every word. The new arrivals—many of them already convinced, some merely curious—drew close about George like iron filings to a lodestone. Tom, meanwhile, helped himself to the last morsels in the packet. If he were to judge by the bustling activity in the kitchen, there would be no lack of victuals at evening meal, though he had noticed the portions were small.
Yet even as he chewed, the thought gnawed at him, sharper than any crust of stale bread: a trial was coming. No chance of escaping it, no easy road around it. The knowledge settled on him with cold finality—somewhere out there, waiting in the near shadows, was a test beyond anything he had yet faced in his mean life on the streets of Cambridge. And as George’s voice rose above the hushed crowd, calm and certain, Tom could feel it—like a distant drumbeat—that their journey together was only beginning, and his youth could not save him from the suffering that would yet be visited upon him.
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