Kate Sedley: The Hanged Man

'What would have happened if he had?' It was the man's turn to shrug. 'The animals of the forest would've got 'ira. They say there's no wolves in these parts any more, nor've there been for hundreds of years. But I say I've seen 'era slinkin' in and out the trees.' The woman nodded solemnly in agreement, as did Hamar. Gwyn Gwynson went on: 'An' I've seen corpses what've been gnawed to the bone. You can't tell I that's not the work o' wolves.'

I asked, 'If the stranger had been killed and his body found by someone in authority, would the sheriff have pursued the matter?' My words were met with a blank stare. 'Would the sheriff have sent men to ask questions about the death?'

All three adults shook their heads. Hamar explained, 'There are footpads and thieves in the forest. Such deaths are too common to waste much time on.'

'So! If Gwyn here had not stumbled across my woman's grandfather-' how strange those words sounded to my ears — 'he would have vanished without trace?'

"Tis possible,' Hamar confirmed.

'For there were nothing on him to tell us who he might be,' added Gwyn. He inquired eagerly: "E got 'ome, then, the old man? Did 'e 'ave any notion where 'e'd been?' I nodded, and shook my head almost simultaneously.

'Yes, he got home, but he always insisted he'd been captured by slavers and taken to Ireland.'

"E were babblin" of that when 'e were 'ere. Does it make any sense to you, Master?'

'Perhaps,' I answered, unwilling to commit myself and provoke further questioning. I changed the subject. 'Is there much heresy, here in the forest?'

I had been deliberately abrupt, hoping to shock my audience into some kind of admission, even if it were only by the expressions on their faces. In this I was successful, for although they all vigorously denied it, as I had guessed they would, I saw the fleeting glances of alarm which passed between them. I tried to make light of the matter, 'I only ask, because a man in Gloucester told me that, last year, three Lollard preachers had been apprehended this side of the Severn. And many more, he thought, had remained uncaught. The heresy, it seems, is taking root in Wales.'

'We don't meddle in other people's business,' Hamar told me shortly, and rose to his feet, indicating that I should do the same. Our visit was over, and it was I who had brought it to a close by my interest in something which did not concern me. I had broken their golden rule that curiosity was the unforgivable sin. As long as I confined my inquiries to a subject which did concern me, because it pertained to my woman, they would afford me every courtesy and answer my questions to the best of their ability; but once I touched on so personal a matter as the religious beliefs of any of their number, then they saw no reason to humour me further. Good-nights were exchanged and my thanks coldly received by Gwyn and his family, but although I was sad at having to take my leave on such a sour note, I nevertheless could not regret my action, for I had gained my answer. I followed Hamar back to his cottage and rolled into bed, knowing that he would expect my departure first thing on the morrow, as soon as it was light.

My homeward journey took me only two days, for I had not refilled my pack and therefore had nothing to sell and no diversions to make. The day I left the miners' settlement was a Sunday, and I might, I suppose, have returned to St Oswald's Priory and waited there until the following day to make my purchases in Gloucester docks and market. But I had only one thought in mind by that time; to get home to Bristol as fast as I could and confront the person who had tried to murder William Woodward. And there was also a certain excitement at the prospect of seeing Lillis again; an excitement which, four weeks ago, I would not have allowed to be possible.

I spent my second night on the road in the hayloft of a farm, and by rising while it was still dark and pushing southwards with my longest stride, I saw the walls of Bristol below me by mid-morning. I passed beneath the Frome Gate to find the town in a bustle and a holiday air pervading the streets. It was only then, to my shame, I remembered that it was Candlemas, the Day of the Purification of Our Lady, when Christ was presented by her to the elders in the temple. On this second day of February, the mayor and all the members of the City Guilds would walk in procession through the streets with their lighted candles. The great houses would be decorated with tapestries and streamers and all would be gladness and light.

But the Lollards would keep away on some pretext or another; those who worshipped secretly would plead illness, no doubt, or the illness of a child; for what other excuse would be deemed sufficient? I guessed that there would be a lot of sickness this day amongst the weavers of Redcliffe, for Lollards did not believe in the symbolic representation by candleshine of Our Lord as the Light of the World, or the Light to Enlighten the Gentiles. And, as I made my way beneath St John's Arch and up Broad Street, I recalled guiltily having once given ear to a man who told me that Candlemas was nothing more than the old Roman custom of burning candles to the pagan goddess Februa, the mother of Mars, to ward off evil spirits. Furtively, I crossed myself and hurried on.

At the top of Broad Street, however, I paused, suddenly recalling something Margaret Walker had said, turned to my right and then to my right again, which brought me into the narrow alley behind the Small Street houses. I walked slowly along its length until I was almost in Bell Lane. At the third gate from the end, I stopped and, lifting the latch, stepped softly into Edward Herepath's garden.

Fortunately there was no one about, and I was able to look around me. I regarded the small stone outbuilding thoughtfully, but then let my gaze roam over the rest of the plot. Eventually I found what I was seeking, but had not hoped to find. Indeed, I had not expected to discover anything at all; but there, in a comer, no doubt seeded from the great marsh, was a cluster of tall, purple-spotted stems, which in summer would blossom with white flowers.

As quietly as I had entered, I withdrew, closing the gate carefully behind me. My sense of elation grew with this seeming confirmation of yet another of my suspicions. As I proceeded on my way, I was cheered even further by the cessation of normal work and the festive preparations going on everywhere around me. People were in holiday mood and, in spite of the chill and miserable weather, called friendly greetings from almost every comer. Even across the bridge, there was a feeling of expectation.

Spinning-wheels and looms were silent.

I entered Margaret Walker's cottage with a sense of arriving home. Nothing had changed, and I felt as though I had never been absent. Margaret was stirring the contents of a pot simmering over the fire, and there was a loaf of hot bread on the table, just brought fresh from the baker's oven by Lillis who, still wearing her cloak, was struggling to remove her pattens. Both women looked towards the door as I came in, and there was a moment's disbelieving silence. Then Lillis gave a cry and threw herself into my arms.

'You have come back!' she exclaimed, clinging to me fiercely and sobbing.

'I promised I would,' I answered. 'Didn't you trust my word?'

'We didn't know what to think.' Margaret spoke sombrely, and there was a note of accusation in her voice which made me regard her questioningly. 'Lillis,' she said 'is with child.'

Lillis lifted her head from my chest. 'Mother!' she protested. 'Not now.'

'He has to know sometime,' Margaret answered implacably. 'The sooner the better.' Her eyes met mine. 'You'll have to marry her. I'll not have folk round here calling her a wanton.'

'I've come back to do so,' I said, 'although I didn't know about the child.' Yet even as I spoke, I was aware of a sinking of the heart and a depression of the spirit.