The Hanged Man

Chapter Fifteen

So rapt was I by this discovery, that it was several moments before I realized that I was allowing my quarry to escape. I set off immediately along the alleyway as fast as my legs would trot, in the direction of Corn Street.

Emerging into this busy thoroughfare, I stopped and looked about me.

The afternoon was well advanced by now, but it was not yet dusk and the street was still full of people. Close beside me, a draper's stall was stacked with rolls of cloth; blue, scarlet, green and purple cascaded from shelves lining the booth. The owner, seeing me pause, tried to interest me in his wares, offering me a fine Italian velvet at twenty shillings an ell. I shook my head, indicating with spread hands that my pockets were well and truly to let. The draper shrugged and turned to look for a more promising customer.

It seemed a hopeless task, trying to find the hooded man in such a crush of people, but suddenly I saw him.

He was on the opposite side of the street, standing in the opening of an alley which led to the church of All Hallows. He appeared to be deep in earnest conversation with another man dressed in a thick jacket and hose of grey homespun. As I watched, the two walked deeper into the shadows. There was something conspiratorial in their manner which intrigued me. I crossed the road, dodging between several carts piled high with goods and a lady's painted wagon. The savoury scents from a nearby cookshop wafted about my nostrils.

As it happened, the cook-shop stood close by All Hallows, on one corner of Corn Street and the alley. I stopped to buy myself a pie and, whilst doing so, was able to locate two shadowy forms sheltering in the porch of the church. Biting into my pie, I risked a swift, sidelong glance as I passed, but neither man noticed me, so intent were both on what they were discussing. A few paces further on, I stopped and sidled back again, keeping as close as I could to the church wall. Fortunately, not only was the side-street dark, but the light was also fading as the winter day moved towards mid-afternoon. The bright promise of the morning had not been fulfilled.

I crammed the last of the pie into my mouth and flattened myself against the outside of the porch. Although they were whispering, I could hear what the two men were saying quite distinctly. It needed only a minute or two before the mystery of the hooded man was made plain.

'If a man truly repents his sins, there is no need for confession. Absolution from a priest is a mockery and damnation.' I recognized at once the deep voice, with its slightly rasping tone, that I had heard in Jenny Hodge's cottage and at Mistress Walker's door. 'For every man shall be condemned by his own guilt and saved by his own merit. It is impossible for his wrongdoing to be forgiven by another, be he the anti-Christ himself.' I heard the second man shuffle his feet. 'If you mean His Holiness the Pope…' he was beginning, when he was interrupted.

'I tell you no man on this earth should be received as Pope! We should all live after the manner of the Greek Church, under our own laws! No true-born Englishman should be controlled from Rome. And what of priests who have themselves committed mortal sins? Are such men fit to administer the Sacrament? What a travesty is made of justice when they can shelter beneath the Church of Rome and their crimes go unpunished!'

'I have… thought on these things,' the man in grey homespun admitted after a moment's silence.

'Then join us,' the hooded man urged, 'at one of our meetings, when better men than I will expound our doctrine more fully. There is a cave in the great gorge, which cuts through the downs outside the city, where a number of us meet once a month on a Wednesday.'

'I'll think about it,' the second man promised, 'but it won't be easy getting away from my wife without her asking questions. She's not of my persuasion. A devout woman, always on her knees in church.'

'The righteous will find a way,' the hooded man assured him. 'Meantime, stay clear yourself. Remember the words of John Wycliffe. "Splendid buildings and gaudy decorations draw away the mind of the worshipper." '

There was another pause before the man in grey homespun murmured on a note of query, 'The changing of the bread and wine… This, too, troubles me.'

'It troubles many of us,' his mentor whispered back. 'Bread is bread and wine is wine. They cannot turn into flesh and blood because a priest utters a few words of consecration over them. The body of Christ may be present at the Eucharist, and may be present in you as well as the bread and wine, but that is different. The doctrine of transubstantiation confers upon priests the importance of powers which they do not in fact possess. Which no man possesses.'

I had heard enough, and decided that it was time I moved before they discovered my presence. I detached myself from the porch wall, slipped between the neighbouring houses into Cock Terrace, and from there made my way by St Nicholas Street and St Nicholas Back to the bridge. Instead of immediately crossing into Redcliffe, however, I leaned on the harbour wall, staring into the muddy depths of the Avon.

So, my hooded man was an itinerant Lollard preacher, travelling his allotted ground, gaining new converts where he could and holding secret meetings for those already of his persuasion. He may once himself have been a priest, but the Lollards set so little store by the priesthood and the laying on of hands that many of them are laymen.

I blamed myself for not having suspected the truth, for Bristol is a notorious hotbed of religious dissension. I do not know why this should be so, for it is still as true today as it was in times past; and also, again for reasons I do not understand, weaving communities throughout the kingdom have always been great followers of Wycliffe.

I had been watching the dark, melancholy flow of the river for some moments before the full meaning of my discovery struck me. Jerking upright with an exclamation which startled two young anglers further along the wall, I realized that both William Woodward and Edward Herepath must be of the heretical persuasion. Margaret Walker had assured me that her father was a pious man, but there had been that in her voice which had puzzled me.

Moreover, I had been convinced all along that she was guarding a secret, and now I knew what it was. I suspected that she had violently disapproved of William's beliefs, not because she was a good daughter of Holy Church, but because of the threat they posed to herself and Lillis. If the truth had been discovered, not only would William Woodward have been burned at the stake, had he not recanted, but suspicion might well have attached itself to his family. Alderman Weaver would have had little compunction in turning the women out of their cottage.

Many Lollards had been executed since the heresy first took root in the previous century, and among them had been men of note. The most famous had been Sir John Hardcastle, friend and companion of the great Harry of Monmouth himself, but that had not saved him. And his standing in the community would not save Edward Herepath if his beliefs ever became generally known. It might explain why he had allowed such licence to his brother; why a respectable man had cosseted and protected such a wild young reprobate as Robert Herepath seemed to have been. But if Robert had a hold over him, that would be the explanation.

I turned and made my way slowly back to the bridge.

On this occasion there were still plenty of people about, and a few patches of blue sky were visible between the gathering clouds. But there would be no frost tonight, and the air was less chill as the rain squalls swept up-river from the sea. I thought again of Edward Herepath, but this time of his connection with William Woodward. If they had met, as they undoubtedly must have done, during one of those secret meetings in the cave in the gorge, then they may well have struck up a friendship which had resulted in William being offered the job of rent collector.

If he had confided in Edward his dislike of weaving, his belief that he had been unfairly treated by the Weavers' Guild, the younger man may have felt an obligation to assist him when the opportunity arose. For in my experience, shared beliefs make stouter friends and firmer allies than any ties of blood.

I had learned something that afternoon which put me one step forward on the road to the truth, and I felt a momentary glow of satisfaction. But was it a step in the right direction? Did my discovery have anything to do with William Woodward's abduction and reappearance?

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.'

The blinding, joyous smile she gave me transformed her thin features, making her almost beautiful. I wondered how I could ever have thought her plain. Together, we replaced the Bible in the bottom of the chest, and started to pile the clothes on top. This time, the two women's dresses went in first, followed by the blanket, sheets and the old burel cloak. The shoes and hose came next, and finally the clothes worn by William Woodward. Lillis threw in the boots, and once again I noticed how they had been pushed out of shape because they had been crafted for a smaller person. But not that much smaller, or the seams of the drawers and shirt would have burst rather than being merely strained. I shook out the amber doublet once more, and it was then that I saw the faint, rust-coloured stains across the neck and shoulders.