The Lady's Slipper (9 page)

‘Good morning, Richard,’ Benjamin said.

The two young ploughmen, Joseph Taylor and his brother Benjamin, were early. Richard had them wait in the house whilst he finished washing at the pump outside the kitchen door.

He ushered them into the cottage and bade them sit. He saw them eyeing the neat piles of books and papers on the table, the wheel-backed chair by the window with its feather cushion, the pipe rack and its collection of wooden and clay pipes on the mantel.

The young men stood uncomfortably, obviously unwilling to sit down. Despite his changed life the farm lads still insisted on deferring to him as if he were a gentleman. They probably thought he had a servant, for the carved oak cupboard used for keeping the winter supply of flatbreads was polished to a high sheen, but Richard enjoyed polishing–he liked to keep busy, keep his house tidy, and his Sunday boots clean and lined up next to the door.

After washing he put on his work boots and picked up a tied cloth bundle from the table.

‘Bread and cheese–enough for us all.’

The boys grinned shyly. When Richard was ready they put the horse in the traces and drove up to Lingfell Hall. The wagon always caused a bit of a stir as there were few in the country. Most still travelled on horseback, the lanes and tracks too narrow or rough for a cart’s cumbersome wheels. Joseph and Benjamin were delighted to be in the cart with Richard driving up front. It was breezy and the horse was fresh, pulling smoothly up the hill, hooves clopping in the puddles, tail swishing.

At the Hall there was a ramshackle crowd–some on horseback, some on donkeys, some with packhorses and goods in case there was time for trade after the meeting. Dorothy stood in the yard, handing out nettle beer and making sure everyone had a place in the assorted carts and traps that were already queuing down the drive. People were leaning out and calling to their friends. Blankets were settled over knees, and hats tied down more firmly, ready for the journey to Lancaster.

George Fox had been released from prison yesterday, and the rumour was that he was to talk on the hill above Lancaster town. No building would be big enough to house the throng, and anyway Fox did not believe in churches–he called them ‘steeple-houses’, claiming that God could not be confined to a building, and that churches were no more special than any other house.

The cavalcade set off, all the motley conveyances following one after the other down the narrow gritstone lanes. Fortunately the weather was fine but dull and the rain held off–no one wanted a drenching on such a long journey. In places the road was rough or boggy and horses had to be led round potholes lest the carts overturn.

With so many of them, it was a four-hour journey to Lancaster. After the small grey wood and clay houses of the village, Lancaster seemed imposing. As they crossed the packbridge over the River Loyne, they saw tall warehouses on the quay, a masted merchant ship and barges loading bales of cloth alongside. Stone houses squatted at the bottom of the town with the twin landmarks of St Mary’s Church and the ramparts of the castle above. Skirting the town, they came at last to Gant’s Field. Lancaster had been an impressive sight, but not as impressive as the field full of horses and traps, and the sight of hundreds of other Friends, moving up the hill, all dressed in muted colours like autumn leaves. From a distance it looked like the whole hill was alive, its skin rippling like a horse’s flank.

Richard and his companions got down from the wagon, leaving it at a tethering post, and joined the upward-moving crowd.

A woman next to him smiled. ‘Where are you from?’

‘Lingfell Hall,’ he said. ‘There’s a good few of us have come together.’

‘I’m all the way from Sedbergh,’ she said. ‘My name’s Hannah, and this is my husband, Jack.’

Jack smiled. ‘I hope there won’t be any trouble today. Such a big crowd is bound to attract attention.’

‘Surely not,’ said Hannah. ‘Though what happens is in the hands of the Lord.’

Richard kept silent. Sometimes he doubted that everything was the Lord’s doing, and that people had no responsibility themselves for their foolishness. These doubts disturbed him, lest they be heretical, so he kept them to himself.

They were all a little breathless from the climb, so conversation naturally slowed as they reached the top. There, they had a fine view of the surrounding landscape–the town in the distance, with the wide silver river flowing out towards the bay, and the fields with their dots of sheep and cattle. More and more people approached up the hill. On the top an open trap had been dragged up to act as a sort of makeshift platform. The crowds settled down on blankets or sacks on the ground. Quite a few seekers had carried pails or baskets which were used upturned as seats, and others carried planks of wood for benches to keep their backsides off the wet ground. Richard and Jack stood behind, letting the ladies pass through to the front. At last some people got up onto the platform, and Richard was surprised when a woman addressed the assembled crowd.

‘Friends!’ she called out. The crowd fell silent, listening. ‘It is good to see so many of you make the journey here, and I know you have come to hear George Fox speak. But he asks that we wait on the word of God as usual. He asks that we fall silent and listen, and if moved by the power of the Spirit, any one of you is welcome to come up here and witness.’

She glanced to the man standing off to the side of the platform, and he nodded his agreement.

‘That’s him,’ Jack said, ‘that’s George Fox.’

Hannah turned to look back at Richard. ‘They let him out of gaol, but he wants to clear his name, so he is taking himself to London to be tried. Fancy that! Of course he is innocent of all their trumped-up charges.’ She pointed over to the side of the wagon. ‘Those others with him are accompanying him on the journey, God be praised.’ Hannah turned back to the platform.

Richard looked at George Fox with interest. He appeared quite ordinary, a tired middle-aged man in a shapeless grey topcoat and scuffed boots. Richard had expected to see someone with a bit more presence, perhaps with something arresting in the eyes or a bit of an air about him. This man was a disappointment. Still, he closed his eyes a moment, hearing the small sounds of the rustling of the ladies’ skirts and whipping of the ribbons on their bonnets. In the distance a horse neighed. After a few minutes Richard opened his eyes, taking in the stillness of the crowd, now twelve deep, many with their faces turned up towards the sky, some with their palms raised, their faces trusting and expectant as if waiting for rain.

He marvelled–they were for all the world like living statues. Each person was so much an individual and not merely part of the crowd, like the man next to him still wearing his farrier’s apron, his cap clasped to his chest, his ruddy face perspiring slightly. That woman in front–her shoulders were rising and falling with her breath, her hands closed into tight fists of concentration. There were hundreds here, all of them silent and respectful, waiting. Without warning, a peace descended on him, heavy and deep as January snow.

Something inside him cracked, and he felt a fizzing sensation at his temples. Heat flooded over his face and his legs seemed to turn to goosefeathers. He found himself repeating in his head the words, ‘I am here, I am here.’ He wasn’t sure if he was addressing God, or George Fox, or the crowd in general. Or whether it was God’s words addressing him. He just kept repeating the words, ‘I am here.’

When it was finished, the crowd were still standing waiting. Richard swallowed hard, in the thrall of an unknown emotion, fearing he might blubber like a child. So he remained silent, standing red-faced and wondering. The men had their hats in their hands–it looked strange to see so many men hatless, he thought. Something had happened to him, of that he was absolutely sure. A shaking affected his knees. He looked around again at the other faces, still waiting as before, and watched in a daze as George Fox got up to speak.

In that moment George Fox looked out over the crowd, and it seemed to Richard that he looked directly at him. He remained motionless, drinking in George Fox’s words. Afterwards it was as if he had been listening from the centre of his chest, and not from his ears at all. He heard the words and he knew that George Fox spoke the truth. Strangely, though, he couldn’t seem to fathom exactly what had been said, only that Fox had said that apostles of Jesus exist today, here in this crowd–that the spirit in those men, so many lifetimes ago, is the identical spirit that lives here, now, in these men.

He wondered if any of the apostles had felt like this, and if they had, whether they understood it. Then a spasm of fear fell over him. He didn’t want to be an apostle. He had thought the Quakers a solid, kindly people, mild-mannered and fair in business. But strange feelings and sensations were welling up in him and he did not know what would happen next, for he was in the grip of something, possibly in the grip of God, and was both elated and terrified.

When George Fox stood down and the crowd erupted in a spontaneous cheer, Richard cheered along with them. Hannah turned to him, an ecstatic look on her face, then she ripped her hat from her head and began to push her way through the crowd to the platform.

‘The Spirit is on her,’ cried one man, almost lifting her through the crowd.

‘Make way, make way!’ said others as she forged her way through. Finally she was hoisted onto the platform where she spoke loudly and fervently, an outpouring of tumbled words. It was a strange language the likes of which Richard had never heard before–it wasn’t Latin or Greek, or French, or like anything he had ever heard. To him it sounded like nonsense words, but Hannah continued the torrent of strange syllables, ‘Rorshamo, atzimol gulam shivolim, paarth hosamalkum…’

Jack looked pleased and proud. ‘She has the gift of speaking in tongues,’ he said.

On the platform Hannah’s head was thrown back, her blonde hair blowing in horsetail strands over her face and mouth. Under her half-closed lids, her eyes slid from side to side. She clutched her shawl with her fingers, and swayed as if caught on a rolling ship. The crowd watched quietly, barely moving, until her speech seemed to be reaching a crescendo, her lips white with spittle. Near the platform some of the crowd started to join in with cries of ‘Praise the Lord!’ Finally, with a strangled half-cry she collapsed backwards, where she was caught in the arms of two gentlemen of Fox’s party, who fanned her face and helped her bodily off the platform. Jack and Richard hurried forward through the crowd to assist her. When they arrived she was sitting shakily on an upturned bucket, being given a flask of water. Close up her face was pink, the scars from a childhood pox standing out white against her cheeks.

‘I saw an angel,’ she said breathlessly to the little crowd that had gathered around her. ‘He had armour and a lance and was all aflame! Look at me, I am trembling.’

The old woman bending over her patted her hand. ‘Hush, dear, don’t thee fret. Thou hast been a vessel for the Spirit. Let us give thanks to the Lord for sending us this sign.’ She sank to her knees on the grass to pray, as did Jack. Richard followed their example. He gave his thanks, but was not sure whether he was praying for Hannah or himself. They stayed there, heads bowed, whilst Hannah continued to tremble and pray under her breath.

When Richard finished, his attention was taken with Fox talking with two of the men who had caught Hannah when she fell. He knew he was staring but could not help himself. One of the men with Fox gestured over to Hannah, and Fox looked over to them. Catching sight of Richard’s eyes fixed upon him, Fox smiled at him. Richard hurriedly lowered his head. The smile was a simple friendly act. There was no hint that anything unusual had happened. Richard was confused. He ran his hand around his neck, feeling the clammy skin and the ragged pulse of the blood beating in his veins.

He stood up and stretched his legs. He walked about, feeling his boots sink into the soft mud. He felt better then, his knees stopped shaking and the breeze against his face was fresh and chill. Fox and his party made their way down the hill. Hannah and Jack were still at the centre of a small crowd, while Hannah described her vision again.

Richard looked around for the others from the Hall, and saw that some traders had set up at the edge of the field and the crowd was gathering there. Now that Fox had finished speaking and was on his way, a market was springing up, with wares from all over Lancashire. He knew the trade would be brisk, as Quakers were renowned for their fair dealings and level measures–a bushel was a bushel, and a peck a peck, no matter who was buying. Richard set off towards the huddle, wishing he had thought to bring some of his goods, but glad too that he was unencumbered by his trade for at least one day.

He found his fellow travellers and they ate together, supplementing the bread and cheese with a lamb pie they bought from a wandering pieman, and some greengages from someone’s pocket. As he was eating he saw a familiar figure approaching. It was Dorothy. They all stood up and Richard brushed the crumbs from his coat.

‘Well, Richard!’ She rubbed her gloved hands together. ‘He was splendid! It is the first time thou hast heard him speak, is it not?’

Richard nodded.

‘Didst thou like the way he spoke? Did it move thee?’

Richard found himself unable to answer this question directly. He needed more time to think, to make sense of it all in his head.

‘There was a young woman near me speaking in tongues,’ he said, by way of a diversion. ‘I’ve never seen anything like that before.’

‘I saw. It was certainly extraordinary. But when George Fox speaks, thou canst be sure the presence of the Lord is with us, and when people feel the touch of the Lord for themselves, then sometimes surprising things can happen.’

She was looking at him as if to weigh him up, so that he felt himself turn away to the two young men behind him.

‘Did you enjoy the meeting?’ he asked them. They started to reply, but Dorothy ignored them and placed her hand on Richard’s shoulder, turning him so she could look into his face.