The Captive Bride (4 page)

The coach stopped in front of a tavern with a large red lion on a sign, and they got out. “Let's have something to eat before we get you settled.” Edward gave orders concerning their trunks, and they went inside the Red Lion where they were met by a snaggle-toothed man with a white apron tied
around his prodigious stomach. “Mr. Winslow! Yer back again ter see us?”

“Just a brief visit for me, Williams, but my nephew here will be staying in your town for a time. Now, can you feed us?”

The question insulted the innkeeper and he sniffed, saying, “And did yer ever go hungry in the Red Lion, sir?”

“No, indeed not, Williams!” Master Winslow laughed, and the two sat down at a huge oak trestle table and talked until the meal was brought. After the ship's diet, the fresh meat and vegetables set before them were delicious. They were wolfing down portions of cold beef, chunks of fresh bread larded with fresh yellow butter, and boiled potatoes when a man entered the inn.

“Mr. Winslow, welcome back to Bedford!” He was only of average height, but held himself so straight that he seemed tall. His hair was brown, coming down low on his forehead, and his thick brows shaded intelligent brown eyes that held a quizzical look. He moved his head with quick, sharp movements that matched his words, a curious jerking as if his neck were caught in a tight collar and he was attempting to free it.

“Well, it's good to see you, Pastor.” Winslow rose and the two gripped hands. “This is my nephew, Matthew—my brother Gilbert's son, from America.” He watched as the two men shook hands, and added, “This is Pastor John Gifford, Matthew. You'll be a member of his congregation while you're here.”

“I'm pleased to meet you, Pastor.” Matthew liked the sharp-featured preacher at once and added, “I trust not to be an additional burden to your cares.”

“Oh, I expect young men to be troublesome!” Gifford's eyes twinkled and he gave a slight wink at both men. “When I was your age I was studying for the gallows—but I trust you're a more settled young man than I was.”

“Nay, that's past praying for, Pastor Gifford!” Edward laughed. “Fast horses, pretty women, and a duel now and then to put a little spice in the day—that's our boy!”

“Now, Uncle Edward!”

“All in jest, my boy!” Winslow laughed, holding up a hand. “Matthew will be living with Asa Goodman, an apprentice, to learn some of the world of business.” He glanced out the door then added, “It's getting a little late, by the way. Will you walk with us as we go to Mr. Goodman's Pastor?”

“I can fill you in with the news on the way,” Gifford agreed. The three men left the Red Lion and threaded their way through the maze of cottages in the dying light of the sun. Matthew listened as Gifford spoke somewhat gloomily of political conditions. When the pastor mentioned the possibility of the restoration of Charles to the throne, Edward broke in quickly, “It's coming, Pastor. We may as well get ready for tribulation.”

They turned down a dirt lane and Gifford hailed a man sitting in front of a low-roofed cottage. “Ho, John, here's someone for you to meet!”

As the three men approached, the man arose, releasing the small children he had been holding in his lap. He was a tall, portly man, perhaps thirty years of age, Matthew judged, with broad shoulders and a full, round face. His eyes were not large, but had a penetrating quality, and Matthew felt that he was being carefully weighed in the balances as the large man gave him a direct stare.

“John, this is Matthew Winslow, Edward's nephew. Edward, this is Mr. John Bunyan—one of our more promising lights among the ministry.”

“Why, I'll deny that, Mr. Winslow!” Bunyan said looking at Edward, a smile touching his full wide lips beneath a reddish moustache. “I'm just a tinker with a longing to speak of Christ.” Bunyan had one of those clear tenor voices that carry over long distances without losing any clarity, and there was some sort of magnetism in the man, Matthew saw—a quality he had observed in Governor John Bradford of Plymouth. It had nothing to do with attractiveness, for neither man was particularly well favored. Neither was it a
quality of voice, for though both men spoke clearly, they did not thunder as some men felt compelled to do to exert their authority. Whatever it was, Matthew knew that both men had that indefinable quality of leadership; men would listen to them and be led by them.

“John's become quite a traveler since you left, Edward,” Gifford said. “He's been preaching all over the country—and with very good response.”

The praise bothered Bunyan and he shifted uncomfortably. “Well, if Charles comes back as king, we'll none of us be doing much preaching, will we now?”

“Too true, John,” Edward said heavily. “He'll clamp down on our churches—especially men like Pastor Gifford here.”

“Perhaps you could come to America, Pastor Gifford,” Matthew suggested. “And you, too, Mr. Bunyan.”

“We can't
all
leave England!” Gifford snapped. His quick eyes flashed fire and he jerked his head in a series of quick motions as he added, “I was on the Royalist side in the war against the Crown—but this time it'll be different.”

“There'll be no new war, Gifford,” Edward said at once with a shake of his head. “The English
want
a king—demand one, in fact. And no matter what Charles promises—and I've heard that he's promised no revenge against those who executed his father—there's a host in France who fled the country one jump ahead of Cromwell. And it's
their
turn now, mark my words!”

There was a sense of gloom in the older men that galled Matthew, but he said nothing. He had come to England to find an escape from the boredom and monotony of Plymouth, and it appeared as if he was jumping into a very hot fire. Excitement and adventure were on the horizon, and these friends of his uncle spoke as if Doomsday had been announced!

“Well, you must come with me on some of my preaching engagements, Mr. Winslow.” Bunyan interrupted Matthew's thoughts with a nod and a wide smile. “You won't hear much
in the way of a preacher, but you'll see some very fine countryside and meet some choice saints.”

“I will indeed, Mr. Bunyan,” Matthew answered.

“Come, we must go,” Edward urged. “Good night, Mr. Bunyan.”

As the three men walked away, Gifford stated, “He's a rare one, John Bunyan. Born to preach!”

“Aye, I'm sure he is,” Edward agreed. “But he'd better stick to mending pots and pans if Charles comes back.”

“John? He'll not do that!” Pastor Gifford shook his head and indicated a house set off in a clump of towering yew trees. “There's Asa Goodman's house.” He was silent until they reached the steps, then added quietly, “No, Bunyan is just the sort of man that the Royalists will hunt down. He's a man the people listen to. He's got a gift of moving people—just what the King will be dead set against!”

Winslow knocked on the door, and it was answered at once by a short man with weak eyes who peered at them suspiciously, then as he recognized them, cried out, “Why, it's
you,
Mr. Winslow. Come in! Come in!”

The three men entered, and Matthew made the acquaintance of Asa Goodman, his wife, Ruth, and their two daughters, Chastity and Faith, ages sixteen and eighteen respectively. He was shown to his room, a small one on the second floor, containing little other than a bed, a desk and a washstand. As they came down, he saw his uncle making for the door, but he stopped long enough to say, “I must make another call, Matthew. Mr. Goodman will lay out your duties.” He left with Pastor Gifford, and Matthew spent the next hour explaining to Ruth Goodman that he had just eaten and could not hold another bite.

As he sat at the table, sandwiched between Chastity and Faith, he told them about America, but had great difficulty convincing them that elephants were really not a danger to the population. All the family had been reading travel books, and they hung on his every word as he told them of the Indians;
the girls were especially avid for blood-curdling stories about their savagery. Matthew knew of none, but they were so pitifully anxious that he invented several to satisfy them.

He escaped to his room as early as possible; removing a small book from his pocket, he sat down at the desk and dipped a pen into an ink bottle, then began writing:

But Matthew was, in fact, terribly bored after the excitement of living in a new land wore off—which was about one month. Bedford was, he admitted ruefully, much the same as Plymouth. He soon learned his duties with Asa Goodman, and since his uncle had left for London two days after depositing him in the small village, there was no one to talk to. Oh, Goodman was not a hard driver, but he had no thought of anything except business. Pastor Gifford was a man of wit, but he was a busy man, ranging far in his pastoral duties. He enjoyed the meetings on Sunday, thinking Gifford the best
preacher he'd heard, by far, but the days grew long and the nights grew lonely.

He wrote a bitter note in his journal:

The day after this plaintive prayer, Matthew sought out John Bunyan in desperation. “Take me with you next week when you go to preach!”

Bunyan gave him an understanding look, then nodded. “Bored with it, are you, Mr. Winslow? Well, it's a small village. Nothing exciting now. Let's see, I go to Elstow next Sabbath. It's my old home, and there's a goodly congregation with no real pastor. Would you like to go there?”

“Yes! Tell me the time and the place, and I'm your man, Bunyan!”

The tall tinker laughed and punched Winslow on the arm, “Well, you might be a help. Can you sing?”

“I'll do my best,” Matthew grinned. “Anything for a little variety.”

“Be here at dawn next Sabbath, lad,” Bunyan nodded. “And be in much prayer for the service, you mind?”

That was on Thursday, and it was with a spirit of release that Matthew met Bunyan as first light began to bathe the little village. “Come now, we go long shanks!” Bunyan said with a smile, and the two set out at a fast pace for Elstow, which lay only eight miles from Bedford. As they walked, Bunyan spoke quickly, sharing with the younger man some of his early history. He had been a terrible sinner as a young man, had served in Cromwell's Model Army, and after the war had been converted to Christ by John Gifford's preaching, then had begun preaching himself a few years earlier.

The sun was bright as the two men entered the small village of Elstow, and Bunyan greeted everyone they met, leading Matthew to a large barn-like structure on the north side of town. To Matthew's surprise, the place was full. He found himself a seat on one of the backless benches, and for the next three hours, listened spellbound to this mender of pots preach the most powerful sermon he'd ever heard in his life!

It was a strange sermon, and at first he could not tell why it seemed so different. Finally he realized that it was the strange quality of imagination that linked the Scriptures and the message together. Bunyan had the gift of the storyteller, and he employed it in a masterful manner, yet so simply that even the small children that sat there through it all must have understood it.

And it was when he spoke of Jesus—mostly as “the Man”— that Matthew was most moved, for Bunyan had such a love for Jesus Christ that it communicated itself to his hearers. Matthew had never heard such poetic figures, and such plain devotion in a preacher!

He was carried away with it, and when Bunyan called a halt at noon, he moved forward to stand with him. Twisting his head to look at the preacher he felt his foot step on a soft object, then heard a faint cry of pain.

“Oh—pardon me!”

Then he found himself looking into the eyes of the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen!

She was not tall, her black curls not reaching far above his shoulders, and the tear-filled eyes so black that the pupil could hardly be discerned. She bit her lower lip, and swayed helplessly, so that he took her arm without a thought, saying, “Oh, what a clumsy oaf I am! Here, let me help you to a chair.”

“It's ... all right.” Her voice was low and husky and there was a trace of an accent which seemed to Matthew quite charming. She tentatively tried her foot, winced, then said, “Perhaps I'd better sit down.”

“Let me help you!” As Matthew guided her through the crowd, he could not help noticing that in spite of the drab gray gown she wore, she had a splendid figure. He helped her ease herself down onto a bench, then stood there feeling like a fool. “I say, can I get you anything?”