The Captive Bride (10 page)

Bedford was not noted for much, but its jail was the equal of any in England for a town that size. It sat beside the small river that touched the edge of town, a large two-story structure—three, counting the lower floor. The third floor held the rooms for Paul Cobb, the jailer, and his family. The first floor had one small compartment immediately inside the door, and was separated from the rest of the space by solid iron bars. The lower floor, or basement, was used for prisoners as well, but it was so damp, being on practically the same level as the river, that only when the first floor was filled was it used.

Fortunately, the number of prisoners had been low since the beginning of winter, so the twenty or so prisoners were kept in the more comfortable section of the prison. “Comfortable” was a relative term, since there was no fire of any sort to take the chill off the prisoners. They wore all the clothing
they could get, and moved around like huge, fat bears in the confined space of their common cell.

Two single windows set high in the wall let in light and air as well as snow and rain, and one set of double windows— heavily barred, of course—was set low enough in the wall so that by standing on tiptoe or on one of the few rough benches a prisoner could get a view of town—or from the other side, a view of the river.

In early fall, this was pleasant enough, and there was keen competition for the space. But during the winter the freezing winds piled sleet and snow several inches deep inside the cell. Everyone slept in every thread they could put on, and under all the bedclothes they could lay hands on. The bare stone floor, covered by a few wisps of straw, grew more evil-smelling day by day.

Paul Cobb, a thick-set, balding man, came down the stairs at Lydia's call, and as he opened the door, he growled, “Ye'd best be sayin' a word to thot hoosband ‘o yours, Lydia Winslow.” He pulled the massive door open and added as Lydia stepped through, “He had quite a row with old Jamison last night! I had to step in and keep him from wipin' up the floor wif the old man! Ye'd best have a word with him, I thinks.” He shut the door and called out, “Winslow, here's yer wife— maybe she can talk some sense into yer head!”

Lydia caught sight of Matthew at once, but he made no move to come to her. He was standing at one of the windows, staring moodily out at the brown river that purled around the town, and after one glance at her, he turned his back.

John Bunyan caught Matthew's action with one quick glance and tried to cover it by approaching her quickly, saying, “Well, well, what have we here? Do I smell beef soup?” He began busily helping her set the small table, keeping up a steady line of small talk. “Elizabeth didn't come? Oh, well, tomorrow, then—my, look at this fresh bread, Matthew!” He broke the loaf open and smelled it eagerly. “Ah! Now
that's
the way bread should be baked, I tell you! And look at this cheese? Where have you been hiding that, I ask you?”

Lydia let him busy himself with the food, and she stepped over to where Matthew was staring stolidly out the window. She took his arm and stood there, saying nothing until he finally turned and said, “Bloody cold today!”

“Yes. I'll bring another blanket tomorrow—or maybe I can bring it later today.”

“No matter,” he shrugged. “We'll be out of this hole the day after the trial.”

Bunyan looked up sharply at that, then shrugged and went back to slicing the bread and cheese. “Come and have a bite of this, Matthew,” he said cheerily.

“I'm not hungry.”

“Oh, you have to eat!” Lydia urged, and she pulled at his arm, forcing him to approach the table. “I put some thyme in this broth—just the way you like it.” She ladeled out some of the hot stew into his bowl and set it in front of him. He shrugged, took up a spoon and began to eat indifferently.

Bunyan ignored that, and bowed his head. “Thank you, gracious God, for this good food, in the name of our precious Savior. Amen.”

Matthew had the grace to look embarrassed, then grinned and said, “I'm losing all my manners in this place. Pardon me, John.”

Bunyan smiled and gave him a clap on the shoulder. Then he looked across the room and said quietly, “Maybe you ought to ask Mr. Jamison to have a bit of this fine stew, eh, my boy?”

Matthew gave him a sharp look, anger suddenly scoring his face. “That old buzzard? He's lucky I didn't pound him into the floor last night!”

Bunyan rebuked him at once, saying, “Matthew, he's old and alone in the world. You're young and strong and you have friends. Can't you be a little charitable?”

Matthew bit his lip, then got up and put some stew into
an extra bowl. He walked over to where a very tall old man sat hunched up against the wall, his face buried in his arms.

“Here, Jamison,” he said, “have a bit of this good stew. It'll warm you up.”

The old man looked up, and when he saw who it was, he spat on the floor and buried his face again.

“Well, that's what you get for being a Christian in this place!” Matthew snapped as he came back and sat down. “Can't blame the old man much. I'm about to go batty in this place! Be glad when the trial is over and we can get out of here. When will the trial come, John?”

“No way of telling. I'm hoping Justice Twisten will schedule it in a week or two, but he's vindictive enough to stretch it out till the crack of doom.” He bit his lip and shook his head. “I want to be there when Elizabeth has her baby. The first baby is always harder on the mother, I think.” He gave a shake of his heavy shoulders, rose and smiled. “I'll let you two have a little privacy, such as there is.”

“Have some of this cheese, Matthew,” Lydia urged as Bunyan moved across the room to speak to Jamison. “You're so thin!”

He took a piece of the cheese, bit into it and chewed slowly. “I can't stand this place much longer, Lydia.” He spoke quietly, but there was a thick despair in his tone and she was appalled at the hollow look in his face, the fear that leaped out of his eyes.

“It's a time of testing,” she whispered softly. Putting her arm around him, she moved as close to him as the narrow bench would permit. She yearned to draw his head to her breast and comfort him as she did the smallest Bunyan child, but it would have been improper in view of the prisoners. “We're going to get through this, you and I. Remember the scripture, ‘Whom the Lord loveth, he chasteneth'? This will make our marriage stronger than ever!”

He stared at her as if she were speaking a language foreign to him; then a shiver ran through his thin frame. “I could
stand anything, Lydia, I think—except these walls.” He gave a look that was almost wild at the massive stones that hemmed them in, and again a violent tremor shook his shoulders and she tightened her hold. “It's not the cold or the stench of this place, though God knows it's miserable enough! It's not even being cut off from
you.
Oh, God, I could be happy in poverty—even in sickness, I think—if only I didn't have to be caged up like a dog!”

His voice rose higher so that several of the prisoners looked their way, and Lydia gave him a sudden hard grasp and said fiercely, “I know! I know, dearest! But it's only for a little while!” She hesitated, then drew his head down so that her lips were close to his ear and whispered something so softly that he missed it.

“What's that? I can't hear you.”

She pulled his head yet closer, and her breath was warm and soft as she murmured with gladness in her voice, “You must be brave, Husband, because you're going to have a family!”

He sat there stock-still, as though he had not heard her, then slowly he turned and looked down into her eyes, which were brimming with tears—tears of joy.

“A—baby?”

“Yes!”

He moved his lips but no sound came; only his eyes reflected his deep shock. Finally he smiled wanly, put his arm around her and kissed her, ignoring the guffaws from several of the prisoners. “A son!” he said, and there was more life in his voice than she had heard in weeks.

“Or a daughter.”

“Of course—it could be a girl!” He sat there, and despite the abysmal surroundings—the stench and the frigid blasts of air that cut to the bone, the stares of the ragged prisoners and the gray, blank walls—Lydia's heart sang, for it was the time she'd prayed for. Never during their short marriage had she felt in perfect harmony with Matthew—not until now. They had laughed much and their minds were equal, and no
couple, she was sure, could have been more fulfilled by the vibrant love they had shared.

But she had always known there was a part of him she had not been able to enter—just as there was a part of her she longed to have him know, but he could not find it. Deep down she was aware that it was their walk with God—that private place, like a deeply hidden grotto where the spirit leaves the noisy world and meets with the living Lord—it was that element which she had not been able to share with Matthew. And deep within there was the lurking fear that the two of them, for all their bonds of body and mind, were strangers. Matthew lacked something, and while she dreaded being judgmental, she sensed a shallowness in his walk with God that kept them apart.

But this moment had been one of total intimacy of spirit, and her heart cried out for him as he sat there holding her.
This is marriage,
she thought happily.

But then he suddenly gave a start, looked around the cell with wild eyes, and when he turned to face her, there was something distraught in his eyes—a fear that was mastering the joy that had flashed out when he had heard of her condition.

“I've got to get out of here, Lydia!” he gasped, and with a moan he put his head in his hands. “How can I live with you having a baby—while I'm cooped up like a dog?”

She put her arm around him and whispered fiercely, “We are God's children, dearest—He will never forsake us!”

But it was as if she had not spoken, for he sat there with his face buried in his arms, and nothing she could say would bring him out of it.

Finally she arose and said, “I must go to Elizabeth. She's having a difficult time with this baby.”

Matthew raised his head and looked at Bunyan. Suddenly he motioned for the preacher to come, and Bunyan rose and stepped to where they stood. “John, Lydia is going to have a child!”

Bunyan's broad face beamed and he said heartily, “Is she now? Well, that's fine—fine!”

“No—not with me in prison! And Elizabeth—she's having a hard time, Lydia says. John, we've got to get out of this place!”

Bunyan asked quietly, “Elizabeth is worse?”

“She's not well, I'm afraid.”

He stood there, a strong shape in the gray light that filtered feebly through the high window. His form seemed to be made of the same material as the walls—enduring, tough, and impervious to time or hard wear. But his face was not so, for as the light caught it, though his eyes, hidden in the hollow sockets of his face, evidenced deep pain, his features held such an expression of pain and sorrow that Lydia wanted to weep.

Matthew stood there waiting for his reply, but when it came, it was not what he expected.

“We must be faithful to God, my boy. ‘He that loveth husband or wife more than me is not worthy to be my disciple.' Those are hard words, but our Savior speaks. You and I can bear the suffering to our own bodies, and Satan knows this well enough! He will not attack us there, but where we are weak. And that is—that is our wives and our little ones!”

Matthew stared at him, then shook his head. “He that does not provide for his own is worse than a heathen,” he quoted. “Does God expect us to let our loved ones suffer, those whom we've vowed to protect?”

“He is the Father of the fatherless, and we must be faithful to His word. He will care for Elizabeth and my little ones—and He will take care of your dear wife and the little one to come.”

Matthew stared at him, then turned with a bitter light in his blue eyes. “God is unfair!” he said through clenched teeth, then wheeled and stalked stiff-legged to the window he'd occupied earlier, staring out at the gray river that rolled heavily by the prison.

“He'll be better,” Bunyan whispered to Lydia as she stood
there with tears in her eyes. “He's young in the faith, and I was no stronger at his age. Pray! Pray for him!”

Lydia was so full of fear she could not answer, but finally said, “Yes, John, I'll take care of Elizabeth—perhaps she'll be strong enough to come tomorrow.”

She went home, walking slowly with her head down, impervious to the icy bite of the wind. A deadly spirit of fear more potent than winter's blast was sweeping through her heart, and the tears that she could not contain rolled down her pale cheeks.

She tried to pray, but the words would not come. So she walked beside the cold river, the dead brown grasses of summer breaking beneath her feet, and her heart rose up to God. She did not know what it was that she brought to God, but as the urgent cries of her soul ascended, somehow the presence of God came down, and the fear that had pierced her fled and she knew a peace in her spirit such as she had never known!

For many days this was her strength. Day after day rolled by, turning into weeks, then months, and there was no trial. Everything in her world was shaken. Elizabeth grew worse, so much worse that Lydia moved into the Bunyan house and with Mary's help did all the housework. She was a comfort to Elizabeth, spending hours reading the Word of God, and the children came to look on her as a second mother.

She made the short journey to the jail daily, for the state did not furnish food for the prisoners. This made the chore even more demanding, for neither she nor John Bunyan could bear to see those prisoners who had no family nor friends starve; therefore, she brought as much extra food as she could.

Matthew's condition worsened almost daily. He lost weight at such an alarming rate that she feared for his life. His lungs were affected by the biting cold, and he developed a cough that disturbed them all. But even worse was the awful depression that gripped him. He spoke little, and seemed not to hear what she said most of the time.