The Lady's Slipper by Deborah Swift Page B

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