The Hanged Man

The glow faded and died, leaving me feeling suddenly careworn. My powers of deduction were failing me.

The bell was ringing for Vespers as I passed St Thomas's Church and I went in to stand among the rest of the people thronging the nave. I realized that I had not been to mass for several days, and the omission worried me. I was too lax, I told myself severely, at the same time wondering why I was suffering this attack of conscience. Was I bothered by the conversation I had overheard? Did I find myself in secret agreement with many of the Lollards' arguments? I crossed myself hurriedly, but was unable to rid my mind of heretical thoughts.

Transubstantiation or consubstantiation, who was right? And were there older powers even than Christianity that struggled to make themselves felt? Often, walking through silent stretches of forest, particularly the oak and beech woods of our Saxon forebears, I have been aware of an alien presence: Robin Goodfellow, perhaps, or Hodekin the wood sprite, or the most terrible spirit of all, the Green Man.

Margaret Walker was just finishing her afternoon's spinning when I entered the cottage, but there was still no sign of Lillis. 'You'll be wanting your supper,' she said. 'You look tired out.'

I took off my cloak, propped my cudgel in a comer, and sat down on a stool close to the fire, spreading my hands to the blaze. I said nothing for a while, watching her coil the spun yarn into a basket and pile the raw wool into another. This latter had already been dyed red, a colour for which Bristol cloth is famous: 'red raddle' I had heard Mistress Walker call it, and she had explained that the dye was found, running like veins, through rocks.

When she had finished her task, she straightened her back and regarded me, hands on hips. 'You're very silent. You're not still holding what happened at dinner-time against me? I'm sorry if I was cross, but we all get out of sorts sometime.'

I raised my head and looked her full in the eyes. 'The hooded man, who was a friend of your father's, is a Lollard preacher. Master Woodward was of the same persuasion.'

I did not pose it as a question, I was too sure of my ground for that, but she treated it as one. 'No, of course he wasn't! How can you ask such a thing?'

'He's not asking, Mother.' There was a sudden blast of cold air, and Lillis stood on the threshold. She came further into the room, closing the door behind her, and stooped to take off her pattens. Her cloak she tossed on to the table. 'Yes,' she said to me, 'my grandfather was a follower of John Wycliffe.'

'In God's name, girl!' Margaret Walker seized her daughter's arm. 'Don't you realize how dangerous it is to admit such a thing? And you!' she added fiercely, turning her eyes in my direction. 'Making such accusations! Supposing it had been someone other than Lillis who just came in? They could have heard you as well as she did. Do you want to get us turned out of this cottage?'

'I'm sorry,' I said, 'but I must know the truth. It may have something to do with your father's disappearance.'

'Nonsense! How could it?'

I shrugged. 'I don't know that yet, but I told you at the start, I needed to know everything about Master Woodward.'

Lillis tossed her head. She had freed her hair from its silken bows and let it loose in a jet black mane. 'I would have told you,' she assured me scornfully. 'Besides, so many of the weavers are Lollards, there's no need to be afraid.'

'And many aren't,' her mother retorted. 'And there are those who wish us harm. One whisper of your grandfather's heresy and they would carry the tale straight to the alderman. If you wish to be turned homeless on to the streets, I don't.'

I intervened quickly before Lillis could reply. 'You have no cause to fear me,' I said quietly. 'You know I would never hurt you. But in fact, you need say nothing. I know that Lillis is telling the truth.' I suddenly remembered something. 'There was a book, hidden among the things in the chest. When you showed me what your father was wearing when he returned home, I saw the edges protruding among the clothes. A velvet binding and some edges of vellum.' I had an idea now what that book might be.

Margaret Walker would have protested again, but Lillis demanded the key and unlocked the chest. She tossed the concealing garments out on to the floor and turned towards me, the folio clutched between both hands. Her mother groaned in despair and covered her face with spread fingers. Lillis laid the book carefully on the table in front of me, then stood back to admire it, her head tilted a little to one side.

And indeed, it was still beautiful, even though the covers were rubbed and worn almost through in places, the gilt clasps and tassels badly tarnished, and many of the silk studs, which decorated the front, missing. The leaves were made of the finest vellum, and the script was most carefully done. I opened it at random and read a few lines from the Gospel according to Saint John. And although I had already guessed it to be a Lollard Bible, it nevertheless came as a shock to read the words in English instead of Latin; to have immediate understanding, rather than experience that delay necessary with translation. And the sayings of Our Lord sprang from the page marvellously fresh and vibrant, no sentence deleted at the discretion of a priest, no passage omitted because it was too contentious, or, more importantly, because it was ambiguous and might be understood two ways. I could see at once why the Church was so anxious to suppress the reading of the Scriptures in English, for every man and woman in the land could then make his or her own interpretations of Christ's word.

I kept these thoughts to myself, however, merely asking, 'How did Master Woodward come by this book?' Margaret Walker uncovered her face, relieved, I think, that I had not recoiled in horror or threatened such heresy with exposure to the authorities. My smile must have encouraged her further, for she even managed one herself.

'I don't know,' she answered, 'but someone must have given it to him. It's a gentleman's book, as you can see. Father could never have afforded anything so beautiful himself.'

I nodded, sure that I knew the donor. 'Was Master Woodward able to read?' I asked.

'None of us can read,' Lillis put in, drawing up a stool beside mine. 'But I should like to learn my letters if someone would teach me.' She gave me a challenging stare.

'No, Father couldn't read,' Mistress Walker confirmed, 'but the preacher would read the book to him whenever he called.'

'He took it with him to Bell Lane?'

'Yes. I brought it back here when I thought him dead. I know I should have got rid of it, but I couldn't. I hid it in that chest, and I was glad, afterwards, that I did, for it gave him some peace and comfort in his dying days when his poor brain was addled from the beating he had taken.'

'And when he was really dead, you still could not bring yourself to dispose of it to one of your Lollard neighbours, such as Burl Hodge?'

Margaret immediately laid a finger to her lips and bade me hush. 'We know these things, but never mention them aloud.'

'You have never felt tempted by the heresy yourself?.' I asked, and she shook her head vigorously.

'Let other fools jeopardize their lives. Indeed, I have been unforgivably stupid to keep that book. I shall rid myself of it as soon as I can.'

Yet, with sudden insight, I knew that she wouldn't. In spite of the fact that it was a danger to her, she would go on concealing it at the bottom of the chest because it had meant so much to her father. It was in that moment that I first realized the strong, fierce loyalty both mother and daughter had for those they loved. On an impulse, I turned and took Lillis's hand. 'I'll teach you your letters,' I promised, 'when we have time.'