[Roger the Chapman 03] - The Hanged Man (18 page)

We had passed beneath the arch of St John's Gate and turned right, along Bell Lane.

'We will use the back entrance,' Cicely decided. 'We'll take the basket directly to the kitchen, and Mistress Hardacre can then dispose of our plunder as she sees fit.' A dimple peeped as she glanced up at me, smiling. 'Master Chapman, I have imposed on you shamefully. There is no need for you to come any further. Leave us here and go your way.'

I shook my head. 'I shall accompany you to your gate,' I insisted. 'The back lane is stony, and in your present state of fatigue, you might well stumble and hurt yourself.'

She accepted my offer with gratitude, and we directed our feet along the narrow alleyway behind the Small Street gardens. We were a few paces from the third gate in the wall, when it opened and a figure emerged; a man's figure, shrouded in a heavy brown frieze cloak, tom and muddy about the hem, the hood pulled well forward across the face. I must have exclaimed, for his head turned briefly in our direction before he walked swiftly away from us towards the other end of the alley, which opened into Corn Street.

'Who was that?' Dame Freda demanded indignantly.

Cicely Ford was untroubled by the stranger. 'It will be one of Edward's supplicants. No one who comes to him is ever denied help. The net of his charity is cast wide. Master Chapman.' She took her hand from my arm.

'Thank you for your assistance. I shall remember you in my prayers. Come, Dame Freda, we must go in. Edward will be wondering what has happened to us. I stayed longer with the nuns than I meant to.'

With another grateful smile, she and her companion passed through the gate which I was holding open, and vanished inside. I closed the weighty, iron-studded, wooden leaf behind them and leaned against the wall, my heart thumping excitedly. The hooded man had at last provided me with another link, besides the obvious one of master and man, between Edward Herepath and William Woodward.

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.'