Here are some passages from book IV that might generate the title... Hint: heavy on the spoilers.
God Does Not Speak “Something troubles you?” “Yes. God does not speak to me.” Cranmer raises an eyebrow. “What do you expect His voice to sound like?” “I do not know. I have tried to be good. I have taken the sacraments, I have done good, but I accept that it is my faith, not my charity, that will justify me.” “Do you expect God’s voice to be thunderous? Insistent?” Strelley thinks on the question. “No.” “What could you hear that you would take to be God’s voice?” “I do not know. I want to know what it is that I should do.” “You find yourself on the horns of a dilemma. Might I ask the nature of it?” “There is a woman. She is very dear to me. I think of her almost to the exclusion of all else.” “But,” Cranmer says, “there is some impediment to your attachment.” “An impediment, Your Grace, might be overcome. Were I to follow where my heart leads me, I would commit a great and terrible crime. So you see my trouble.” “I do. Your love, if I may so describe it, is not merely difficult. It is proscribed.” From here... A True Believer or God's Work “Good morning,” Hellyons says, screwing his eyes up as looks at Strelley and thus into the rising sun. “You are awake.” “I do not sleep well.” “So it seems.” Hellyons looks at the sketch of the church. “You don’t go to church. And yet you draw it.” Strelley points in the direction of the church. “It’s what man does best.” Hellyons shrugs. “God’s work. Let us hope that this situation resolves itself, and God’s work can continue.” Strelley sets aside his sketch and looks at Hellyons for a few moments. “Are you a priest yourself?” “No. Just a true believer.” Strelley returns his attention to the play of light around the church tower. Hellyons stands about for several minutes, as though he is expecting Strelley to stop his drawing and converse. But Strelley ignores him, and after a little while, Hellyons gives up and goes back to the inn. Strelley frowns after him, then carries on with his sketch. The Mask You Hide Behind “Imagine,” de Winter is saying, “that every time you’re in church, you feel God judging you. He sees right into you. All the lies, the mask you hide behind, He sees through it.” “God forgives you. That’s the point, isn’t it?” Longshawe says. “He does. But he forgives sins for which we repent. Confess.” De Winter thumbs a cross that he wears around his neck. “You do not confess.” Longshawe narrows his eyes. “I do not. That is true. But this new way, the king’s way, Cranmer’s way… It does not require confession. It asks only that you commune with God, and listen for him. No priest to channel him.” “Yes,” de Winter says, “I understand it. You will reach salvation by faith alone. A comforting doctrine for those who do not want the trouble of attending Mass. Of praying. Of confessing.” Andrew Shepherd cuts in. “I do not see that God would put real power in the hands of the priests. They’re just men.” De Winter smiles. “That is true. But they act in the person of Christ himself.” “George,” Longshawe says, “do you not think that God, if He is so loving as we are told, would accept both your way of worship and the new way?” “You had best hope so!” De Winter laughs. “I fear God. I fear that He knows the truth, the things I hide at every moment from the world. Sins I have imagined but not committed, that are not of my own choice. Sins I fear even to speak aloud in Confession. Sins that I am not sure even He could forgive.” Longshawe and Shepherd both look at him, questioning. De Winter moves his focus from one to the other and back again. “Sins,” de Winter picks up, “that I shall not be revealing to you two.” There is a moment when all three seem to consider the seriousness of de Winter’s words. Then, Andrew Shepherd breaks the tension. “Must be something original, then. Or is it your father for whom you wish to atone?” He smiles. “Since you’re not going to inherit your father’s estate, why should you inherit his sins?” De Winter eyes him, frowning. “I don’t think that’s how it’s supposed to work.” “Isn’t that God’s decision?” Shepherd is absolutely in earnest, challenging his master’s doctrine, as dangerous as that might be for a servant. “God is love, is he not? Why should he hold you to a debt that your father, or his father, has acquired? Can you not repent of your own sins inwardly? Speak to God without the priest?” De Winter shakes his head. “I would recommend caution, Master Shepherd. These are words that might pass for exuberance among your friends, but they are not to be repeated at Beaulieu, in the hearing of Lady Mary or her household. Do you understand?” Candidate from here: Live, Love and Die Harper looks at him for a long time, eyes working across Strelley’s face. Strelley is perfectly still. Harper says, “I do not want this. I do not want to be the figurehead of a rebellion. Much less to displease my bishop. Less still to displease God.” “I have no words of comfort. Indeed, I seek your counsel.” “My counsel?” “Yes. When I speak of you, Father, it will be of a man of great loyalty and faith. So I seek your counsel, as I say.” “On what matter?” “The Lord has sent you a great trial, Father. I see that. I have had mine. And I fear that I have failed it.” “What form did this trial take?” “A woman. That I loved - love - as much as a man can. But I cannot be with her. Her station prevents it.” “Many of us have loved that which we cannot have.” “She would have had me, I think.” “Then you are a good man for not allowing it.” “I feel as though I could live another fifty years and never enjoy a day. Without her, life is purposeless.” “Your grief will lessen, in time.” “That is what Cranmer told me.” “You have spoken to the archbishop? Of this?” “That book,” Strelley says, gesturing vaguely, “is as much mine as it is his. I sought his counsel as well.” “Then mine is redundant.” “Not so. You are here. He is not. You are a man of the people.” Harper smiles again. “I thank you for your flattery. All I can say is that God does not punish us for our sins if we repent them.” “Which is the sin? To deny the love we both feel? Or to break the law?” “You are a man of great intelligence, Edward Strelley. Here you are, distant from this lady. You have found a reason to travel far away from her. Your conscience says you must not be together.” Harper’s mind catches up with the conversation. “You say that is your book as much as Cranmer’s?” “That is a little unfair on him. Some of it is mine. Most of it is his.” “Whatever the people think of it, it is beautiful. One day, the people of this nation will live, love and die by your words.” And this chunk suggests A Good Man. Or, perhaps She Will Be Great. But I don't like that second one enough. Strelley frowns. “I will survive, Gilbert. I will not throw away my life recklessly.” “I’m sure you will. I hope she was worth it.” As they walk, Strelley speaks, but without turning to look at Gilbert. “There will come a day when she will be called ‘great’. But, to me, she is comfort, joy, peace. Not glory. Not a princess. Just Elizabeth.” “But to everyone else…” “To everyone else, she is heir to the throne. She would, I think, give it all up. She said that to me, as I left her.” “But you told her ‘no’.” “I did. She has her life to live.” Gilbert puts a friendly hand on Strelley’s shoulder. “You are a good man, Edward Strelley.” And what about The Light Is Gone...? “What may I do for you, then?” Cranmer says. “What troubles our young princess?” Astley and Ascham look at each other. Cranmer watches them, and then decides to remove the doubt. “You are wondering how best to tell me that this girl who is second in line to the throne of England has fallen in love with a common servant,” he says, then he arches an eyebrow. “Yes, Mistress Astley, Master Ascham, I am aware of it. Not from her, or from any spy of mine. The common servant, if that he is, is a correspondent of mine. He is a rather gifted translator, in fact, and has helped me with the new book.” Astley leans forward. “She wishes him to return. From whatever exile he has chosen.” “Ah,” Cranmer says. “I wondered if we might face this. I will tell you two things. I do not know where he is, and I would counsel you to leave him be.” “For Elizabeth’s sake?” Ascham asks, a note of tenderness clear in his voice. “No. For his own sake. If Elizabeth asks for him, he will come. Without a moment’s hesitation, he will come. Because he is desperately, hopelessly in love with her. And his strength to keep himself away from her comes only from the fear that he will condemn her.” “But,” Astley says, “she is without hope. The light is gone from her eyes.” “As I said to this young man of whom you speak, time and faith will heal.” “It has been six months since last she saw him,” Astley answers, “and she has not got any better. I have never known anyone be more certain about her love.” “My Lady,” Cranmer says, “Elizabeth is sixteen. A girl. A princess, indeed. She has her whole life before her.” Ascham frowns at this. “She is as clever as any man I know. And wise beyond her years.” “Do you mean, Master Ascham,” Cranmer says, “that we should indulge this fantasy? I did not know that you were sentimental.” “He is not,” Astley intervenes. “He is doing his best to do right for Elizabeth. Keeping them apart is not making her happy.” “Bringing them together will not make her happy either.” Cranmer sits back in his chair. “And of the two choices, apart at least has the virtue of not making either of them guilty of treason.” I'm really not sure. But I'll get there! Leave a Reply. |
Andy RichardsonWhen to the sessions of sweet silent thought Archives
March 2022
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