CHAPTER TEN

 

Fearing people is a dangerous trap; but to trust the Lord means safety.

(Proverbs 29:25)

 

Life in Scrooby took on a routine. Because we had arrived late in the planting season, our first winter was a little difficult. However, with the help of the community of believers, we managed to survive. In the spring, John began to farm the land adjoining our small cottage. The house itself was quaint and comfortable. The walls were very thick and glazed glass was inset into its tiny windows. The end of the cottage was towards the farm’s largest field and the front looked into a garden, in which stood a very ancient mulberry tree. Several outbuildings were situated at the end of the garden, a short distance from the front of the cottage.

As soon as we arrived, I planted my tulip bulbs along the front walk and by the time John began to sow, I had beautiful flowers to welcome our few visitors. I cleaned out the old, neglected garden, discovering some wild-growing herbs, which I cultivated. My time was taken up with raising our children and trying to make a home in this small, picturesque village. Market day was Thursday, and this was the time when we gathered news from around England. In June, we learned that the King had gotten tired of the Queen’s frequent trips to Tyburn to pray for the souls of Catholics martyred there and had ordered her retinue of priests, servants and other lackeys to pack up and return to France. It was said that the Queen was very vexed at her husband and was refusing to speak to him, preferring instead to relay messages through go-betweens.

Fall brought the harvest of John’s efforts and the selling of what the Lord (and the land) had provided. The money and provisions we gleaned from this would see us well through the coming winter. Fall was also the time when I harvested my garden and put up beans, cabbage, peas and other foodstuffs for the coming cold. My cottage boasted a large underground root cellar, which I filled to overflowing. There was a small group of Puritan believers in Scrooby, who had not migrated to America, and this provided us with the needed spiritual nourishment. John made certain that we had family devotions each morning and evening, so the children could learn the Gospel.

The days shortened, the cold descended, and two days after learning that William Laud had been proclaimed Archbishop of Canterbury in January, I learned that I was again pregnant. Henry was now four, Alexander was three and the twins were still being breast-fed at age two. I would need to wean them quickly to prepare for the coming addition to our growing family.

Spring came early in 1627, for which I would be eternally grateful. Henry and Alexander were nearly driving me insane, so anxious were they to get outside. Finally, on a windy day in mid-March, I allowed them to play in the front yard, while I tried to hang up laundry. The twins had just finished their weaning and I was beginning to show my pregnancy. The wind whipped my long skirts around my legs, constantly blowing the sheets out of my hands. The boys were having grand time chasing weeds tumbling through the yard, to the delight of the twins, who were toddling around my feet. It certainly was exasperating trying to keep track of four rambunctious children—and soon there would be five. Dear Lord Jesus, I prayed for the thousandth time, give me strength—and patience.

That year we had a bountiful harvest and on Friday, September 10th, after a long and arduous travail, I gave birth to Lydia, a wee slip of a babe, with flaming red hair and a brown birthmark on her right calf, which was shaped like a kidney bean. The midwife was very uneasy about the birthmark, but Henry promptly proclaimed her his sweetheart and carried her around constantly. Why he should become so attached to Lydia, when he had hardly shown any interest in Arthur or Mary, was a mystery to me. But I was grateful for his help.

In November, we learned that Parliament had tried to impeach the Duke of Buckingham for losing his force of 6,000 men in La Rochelle. The King quickly dissolved Parliament and sent their leaders to the Tower. John and I wondered then what the world was coming to when a King could behave so recklessly. Since coming to Scrooby, we hadn’t seen hide or hair of the King’s Guard, so we assumed that the Bishop (now the Archbishop) had turned his attention to other matters, which was fine with me. I had enough to occupy my mind without having to constantly worry whether my husband would be hauled off to the Tower. John made good on his promise in Leiden and had not taken to writing any more pamphlets that might call attention to us.

Even though our group of believers didn’t celebrate the holidays, the small hamlet of Scrooby went all out for Christmas. Great bon fires were lit on Christmas Eve, and singers paraded throughout the village and out into the countryside, gracing us all with their songs of the birth of our Lord Jesus Christ. I often, however, found myself humming carols from time to time, as I went about my daily chores. Life was good in Scrooby. I was beginning to believe that we were at last safe and secure.

 

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Early in April 1628, on a Thursday, I was busy making new prayer caps for me and the girls, when I heard John’s booming voice shouting.

“Sarah, Sarah, come see who’s arrived!”

Rising from my rocker in our bedroom, I hurried into the front room to find it filled to overflowing with our family: Sir Thomas, William, Agnes and their children, as well as John’s sisters, Mary and Elizabeth and young Thomas, who at seventeen, actually wasn’t young anymore, but had grown into quite a gentleman. I fondly remembered the small lad who had pummeled the captain of the King’s Guard all those years ago.

“What are you all doing here?” I gasped, looking around my small cottage and wondering where I was supposed to put all these people.

“Sarah, we had to leave,” said Agnes, coming to take my hands. “The Bishop threatened Sir Thomas and William with the Tower if they didn’t give John up to him.”

“I hope we haven’t surprised you too much, daughter,” Sir Thomas said, sheepishly.

“Oh, no, really, I, uh, just don’t know where I’m going to put everyone,” I stammered.

“It’s alright, Sarah,” John said, approaching my side. “We’ll find somewhere for them to live.”

“Live! You mean they’re staying?”

“Well, sister, we can’t very well go back home,” William said. “Father gave everything but one ship to Uncle Charles (that made the old lecher extremely happy), and we left everything behind that we couldn’t carry with us. We had no choice, but to come here until we decide what to do.”

“Don’t worry, Sarah,” John said. “There’s a couple of empty homesteads around here. I’ll talk to Mr. Sandys and see whether they can sharecrop like we do.”

Within a day, it was settled. Sir Thomas and his children would take up residence on a small farm down the road from us, and William and Agnes took over a farm on the other side of Scrooby, about two miles away. We saw Sir Thomas, Mary, Elizabeth and young Thomas frequently, and William and Agnes about once or twice a month at family gatherings, and at meeting on Sundays whenever they decided to attend.

The excitement simmered down, life again took on a routine, and time melted away. All during the year of 1628, King Charles kept dissolving Parliament, then recalling them for various causes. In December, the Duke of Buckingham was stabbed to death in Portsmouth as he was about to embark on a second expedition to aid the Huguenots besieged in La Rochelle. The assassin was John Felton, a junior officer who had been denied promotion. Mr. Felton was from the Downham Market area near Kings Lynn, but neither John nor William had ever met him.

I learned I was again pregnant in August. In early November of that year, Susanna was born to William and Agnes. The infant was very small—almost too small, for my tastes, but she gained weight quickly and before we knew it was a chubby toddler.