The putrid fog had lingered through the night, remaining as a heavy blanket in the early dawn so that the streets were a slurry of mud and slime. Though June was nearly spent, the air stubbornly held an icy chill. Tom knew of no other sort of morning. Only the most ancient of elders recalled a time when winter kept to its own season.
He shuddered, his little hands pulling at a worn woolen cloth serving for a cloak as he shuffled along the edge of King’s Parade, noting how his bare feet squelched on the cold wet stones. His ears caught every sound as he moved from shadow to shadow, wary of the enemy. For more than the fear of a chilly death did he fear the bustle of the young scholars in their black robes. These were the eldest boys of good families and they seemed to take pleasure in adding to his torment, taking every chance to remind him of what he was not.
The bells of St Mary’s rang heavily across the thick sky, muffled and ominous. He tilted his head, working out what these tolls might mean. Were the boys off to chapel or back to classes? To know meant to avoid.
At eight years old, Tom Lightfoot had seen more grief than he thought was right for a boy: mother long dead and leaving no memory of herself behind, and a year ago his father taken by black lung. Since then he’d been shuffled to one or another work-house thinly disguised as an orphanage. He’d just escaped from the latest one near Thetford, before they could force him to join the other children in the mines.
Now with feet slick and mud-caked, he watched the square come alive with the presence of strangers. Two women moved with a quiet determination that made him stop and press against a barrel, his small frame shivering not only from the cold but from dread. He hated the spectacles that so many seemed to enjoy. He was right to sense something afoot, for their presence was bout the ignite a long series of woes suffered by the people known to themselves as the Children of Light, but to scoffers as the Quakers.
Mary Fisher, a woman of faith not yet thirty, and with a gaze that held fire easily interpreted as impertinence, was accompanied by one Elizabeth Williams, a woman who was older, steady, with graying hair tucked beneath a bonnet. They threaded their way through the crowd with a sense of purpose, seeming to listen to someone giving them direction although there was none to be seen at their side.
The air seemed to bend around them, fog curling past their skirts like smoke around a lantern. Tom crouched low to make himself invisible. His small heart thumped, loud in his chest, each step of the women over the stones seeming to echo like a drumbeat in his ears for he knew if they caught the attention of the boys, they would be the next amusement; tortured with slings of mud and arrows of derision.
The scholars on their side of the square clustered in stiff robes with great wide collars. They spoke amongst themselves in clipped, precise tones. He had trouble following their words, but the sense of authority, of hierarchy, struck him like cold iron. One, tall with a hawkish nose had been sermonizing about the “necessary guidance” they must provide “to an uneducated populace unable to discern the true will of the Lord.” Another nodded, adding that those who had not studied Scripture properly must be shown the way, else chaos would descend. Tom’s ears caught the words and sifted them into fragments: they spoke of uneducated people like himself, who could not understand beyond their station. Each phrase sounded like a verdict, like a bell toll for the common folk, and Tom pressed his face further into the folds of his blanket.
As the women approached the scholars crowed, for it was obvious from their attire that they belonged to a new sect, the “plain” folk who refused all adornment. Their heads were covered with simple white caps devoid of embroidery or trim. One of the young men asked loudly, “How many Gods do you suppose there are, oh wise Children of the Light?”
The younger woman responded with a voice clear but not loud, unwavering in its confidence. “But one. Yet thou hast many gods and are ignorant of the true God.” Tom’s chest tightened in awe.
The elder woman leaned closer to her companion, her own voice a steady counterpoint. “And those you have been speaking of who cannot read must not be left in ignorance. Our charge is to lift them toward Light, even if the world would see them in shadow.”
Tom did not understand all they said, but he understood enough: they spoke of hope, of defiance, of justice, in a language that warmed something deep within. The robed young men were in a fury, for none called them ‘thou’ except their mothers, and murmured among themselves in voices sharp and condescending, seeing not courage in the women but feminine folly. The boy’s small fists curled at his sides. If only he could speak, he would have shouted at them to hold their tongues, to listen.
A sudden clatter made him flinch, and indeed the gossip-hungry hawkers and shopkeepers seemed to take notice of a movement in their midst. The fog swirled and shifted, and for a moment, the world seemed overshadowed with dread. Tom’s ears strained as he made himself small behind his barrel, and just then there was a great metal clang as the iron end of a constable’s staff slammed hard against the stone path. Syllables of the scholars’ speech faded as those at the edge of the crowd gawked, vying to see what might happen next.
“Constable!” shouted the hawk-nosed teen. “These women are preaching in the square, in spite of laws against such yammering.” What laws these might be they hardly knew, but assumption is ninety percent of the game.
Another shouted, “Make a complaint to the mayor! Pickering will want to hear about this!”
The constable stepped forward, a storm brewing in his brows as he approached the two women. The crowd parted like a river, and Tom’s stomach twisted. He could see the sharp, pointing fingers of the learned young men who would enforce order, and now the leering officer charged with keeping the peace. “What’s this? Who are ye that ye come ‘ere to our peaceful town, eh?”
The elder woman stepped forward, “Our names…are written in the book of Life.”
“Wha?? Where ye from then? And where’d ye stay the night last?”
She would not bend, but responded only, “We are strangers. We know not where we huddled for a rest beside the road last night. Under a tree somewhere. But the Light has drawn us nigh.”
“The Light wants to know what’s yer husbands’ names is,” returned the constable, who grinned at the crowd appreciatively, as they were now tittering along with the scholars. “I warrant they’ll whip ye both if they have some sense.”
“We have no husband but Him whom we serve, Christ Jesus.”
With that he stepped forward and shoved the two, so that they nearly fell into the mud. “Right. Get on wi’ ye. To Pickering ye’ll go.”
Then like a circus the crowd followed the constable with his victims as he prodded them onward with his stave. Tom kept to the back, so that by the time they were in the mayor’s office he was obliged to listen beneath a window that was full of faces all agog. Luckily for him someone narrated what he supposed was being asked and answered.
“Aye, there he’s asked again who’s their husbands.”
A fellow shopkeeper chuckled. “Has she called the Mayor ‘thee’ yet? That’ll make him right angry, won’t it?”
And as if on cue there was a loud yell and a curse. Even Tom heard clearly the words from Pickering’s desk. “Whip them! Whip them until the blood runs down their bodies!”
Several people nearby stepped back in shock so that Tom could jump up to the window sill and catch a glimpse. The two women had crumpled down to their knees and seemed to be praying. He hoped Pickering might have pity now.
Instead he roared, “I need not your forgiveness! Get out of here both of you, and if I see you in Cambridge again I’ll see you die in prison!”
An official then cried out for the executioner, and soon the entire party was off again down the path to the gallows where a well-used whipping post waited. Guards tore the women’s cloaks away and tied them down, one to each side.
They held each other as they continued to pray. Yet it was not for themselves, Tom noticed, but that God might forgive the executioner. This only served to incite his fury to such an extent that his eyes burned like fire. The boy hid himself in the sea of cloaks around him, for he feared what might happen next.
The first crack of leather made him jump. He squeezed his eyes shut, but it was enough to mark him. Each whip across their backs was a thud in his chest, each prayerful word they uttered a cry through his bones. The fog, the mud, the bells—all blended into a haze of terror and awe. He dared not move. He dared not breathe. And yet he listened.
Through the haze, he imagined the rhythm of the lashes, the snap of cruelty. Then the exhalation of courage came…in the form of a song. To the surprise of the crowd, both women were singing:
“The Lord be blessed, the Lord be praised, who hath thus honored us and strengthened us thus to suffer for his Name’s sake.”
There was a hush amongst the townspeople except one or another uttered a word of surprise: “Blimey.” Tom’s mind was a flurry of thoughts and understanding. All in a moment, the cruelty of the world was revealed in full: power, authority, law, and the tiny resistance of the faithful. It was not the end of the torment, but each sound, each gasp, each sharp word burned into memory. Something in him knew this event would wind itself around his life and remain to the end of his days.
When it was done, the women were led away, their robes torn and stained with mud and blood. Tom crawled from his hiding place and followed as best he could, even now afraid of being seen. Yet he heard the women still speaking with steadfast calm, as if they had some support the rest of them could not see. The two encouraged all who would listen to fear God, not man. A gentlewoman called out, “They are madwomen! Look how they sing psalms instead of weeping.”
At this Elizabeth Williams stopped and said, “We are blessed to suffer for His name’s sake. And understand—this is but the beginning of the sufferings of the people of God.”
As they neared the city gate, Tom ran up along the wall to see them better as they passed through to the road beyond. The constable pushed the two roughly outside the gate and into the mud. He towered over them for a moment then stomped over to the guard. In a loud voice meant for all to hear, he explained the mayor’s commandment: the two were never to enter Cambridge again. He slammed his staff upon the ground in a forceful pronouncement and retreated back toward the city.
Tom now crouched at the top of the gate and watched from above as the women helped each other stand. He could see they were shaking as they stepped to the side of the road and straightened their torn clothes. Just then, a shadowy figure above the parapet opposite him threw down a bundle. Mary quickly stepped over and picked it up before the guard might notice. When the two lifted their faces in thanks, there was none to bless. They turned then and saw Tom, who gave them a shy wave before ducking down below the parapet.
Someone had helped them!
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