The steady ring of John's axe echoed across the valley as another length of ash split cleanly upon the chopping block.

Evening was drawing in.

Before the shadows reached the cottage, the Rushworth family would arrive.

John Hargreaves drove the axe cleanly through another length of ash.

The log split neatly in two.

He stooped, gathered the pieces and added them to the stack beside the cottage wall.

The steady work occupied his hands.

Not his mind.

Behind him, the cottage door creaked open.

Mrs Hargreaves stepped onto the threshold, wiping her hands upon her apron.

“They’ll not be long now.”

John rested both hands upon the shaft of the axe and looked towards the lane.

“For all we know, they’ve changed their minds.”

Mrs Hargreaves shook her head.

“Nay. Margery is not one to speak lightly.”

John said nothing.

Inside the cottage, Agnes laid another wooden bowl upon the scrubbed table, then smoothed the linen cloth beneath it.

Everything had been set in place.

Still she searched for something else to do.

The pottage simmered above the fire.

A little salted meat had been added for the guests.

Her mother had insisted.

Agnes glanced towards the cauldron.

The smell should have comforted her.

It did not.

“Agnes.”

She looked up.

“Wear thy blue kirtle.”

“It’ll only smell of smoke before the night is done.”

“Even so.”

Agnes disappeared behind the sleeping curtain without another word.

Mrs Hargreaves watched her go.

The lass had scarcely spoken since losing her place at the manor.

That troubled her more than tears ever could.

Outside, John lifted the axe once more.

The blade had scarcely begun its downward stroke when voices drifted across the field.

He stopped.

Four figures had appeared upon the lane.

Margery Rushworth walked ahead.

Thomas followed beside her.

William came after them carrying a cloth-wrapped loaf beneath one arm.

A young woman walked with them.

John frowned.

“Who’s that with them?”

Mrs Hargreaves shaded her eyes against the lowering sun.

“I couldn’t say.”

John lowered the axe against the chopping block.

“We’ll soon find out.”

He brushed sawdust from his hands and walked towards the gate.

“Good even, Margery.”

“And to thee, John.”

Margery smiled warmly.

“I trust we’re not too early.”

“Nay.”

John pushed the gate wider.

“Thou’rt welcome.”

Thomas removed his cap.

William quickly did the same.

John nodded to them both.

“Good even, Thomas.”

“Good even, William.”

William grinned.

“I’ve been promised ale.”

John laughed.

“Then someone has told thee true.”

“It certainly weren’t Thomas.”

Thomas gave him a sideways look.

Mrs Hargreaves stepped forward and took Margery’s hands.

“Good even, Margery, and welcome to thee all.”

Her eyes moved towards the young woman beside her.

“I don’t believe we’ve met.”

Margery smiled.

“Nay. This is my cousin Mary. She’s come over from Oxenhope.”

Mary dipped her head.

“Good even.”

“And to thee,” Mrs Hargreaves replied. “Thou’rt most welcome beneath our roof.”

She stepped aside and opened the door.

“Come in, all of thee. We’ll wet thy thirst and fill thy belly before the night’s done.”

John waited while they entered, keeping one hand upon the door to give them room.

“The wife has added meat to the pottage especially for this evening,” he said proudly.

“Agnes brought it home from the manor yesterday.”

The words escaped before he could stop them.

A brief silence followed.

Mrs Hargreaves glanced towards him.

Agnes heard it too.

She kept her eyes lowered and busied herself with the leather jacks.

Margery said nothing.

She simply laid a hand briefly upon Mrs Hargreaves’ arm before looking around the cottage.

The rushes upon the floor were fresh.

The table had been scrubbed clean.

Bundles of herbs hung drying from the rafters.

The hearth glowed warmly beneath the chimney.

At the foot of John and Margaret’s bed stood the great oak dowry chest.

Margery’s gaze lingered upon it.

Mrs Hargreaves noticed.

“Agnes has helped fill that since she were a little girl.”

Agnes looked away.

Every folded cloth.

Every stitched linen sheet.

Every small household thing placed carefully inside.

All of it had waited for a day she wished would never come.

Margery looked back at Mrs Hargreaves.

“Thou keep’st a fine house, Margaret.”

Mrs Hargreaves smiled faintly.

“We do what we can.”

“Nay,” said Margery. “Thee does more than that.”

John cleared his throat.

“Sit, sit. The pottage won’t improve by waiting.”

They gathered around the table.

John sat near the hearth.

Margery took the place opposite Mrs Hargreaves.

William settled beside Thomas and immediately looked towards the food.

Cousin Mary folded her hands neatly in her lap.

Agnes moved between them with the ale.

She poured first for Margery.

Then Mary.

Then William.

When she reached Thomas, he looked up.

Only for a moment.

She looked down too quickly and the ale splashed against the side of the jack, spilling across the table.

Her face flushed.

John laughed loudly, kinder than his words sounded.

“Careful, lass. That’s one of thy mother’s better batches.”

Mrs Hargreaves gave him a look.

John pretended not to see it.

Thomas reached for the jack.

“Ta.”

His voice came too softly.

Agnes did not hear.

He coughed.

“Ta, Mistress Agnes.”

This time she heard.

She nodded and moved away, still blushing.

William leaned slightly towards his brother.

Thomas did not look at him.

“Mind thy own business.”

William grinned.

“I’m trying.”

Mrs Hargreaves ladled pottage into the bowls.

John watched carefully.

“Make sure Thomas gets some of that meat.”

Mrs Hargreaves rolled her eyes just enough for Agnes to see.

Agnes almost smiled.

That small almost-smile eased something in the room.

They bowed their heads while Thomas said grace.

John listened carefully to the words.

He knew he must soon learn words of his own.

Harder words.

Words that would be spoken before the whole parish.

When the prayer ended, the others murmured amen.

John said it a heartbeat late.

For a while they ate and spoke of ordinary things.

The weather.

The planting.

The price of oats.

A lame ewe near Marsh Lane.

The coming harvest.

William spoke often enough to make up for Thomas, who seemed more interested in his bowl than the people around him.

At least he pretended to be.

Margery had brought sweet bread wrapped in linen, and when Mrs Hargreaves set it upon the table, William looked at it as though the Lord himself had sent it.

“That looks a fine thing.”

“It is not for thee alone,” Margery said.

“I never said it were.”

“No. Thy face did.”

Even John laughed.

Agnes stood to fetch more ale.

As she passed, Thomas rose awkwardly.

“Agnes.”

It came out too sharply.

Everyone looked at him.

He swallowed.

From behind his back he brought a small posy of spring flowers.

They had been carried too long.

One stem had bent.

Another had lost half its petals.

Thomas held them out.

“These are for thee.”

Agnes stared at them.

No one had ever brought her flowers before.

Not like this.

She reached for them carefully.

“They’re lovely.”

“They were better before William sat on them.”

William opened his mouth.

Margery silenced him with a look.

Mrs Hargreaves took the flowers gently from Agnes.

“We’ll put them in water and dry them tomorrow.”

Agnes said nothing, but she watched the flowers as her mother carried them to the shelf.

For a time the evening softened.

Thomas asked John about the chimney because he could think of nothing else to ask.

John explained how long it had taken to build.

How much stone had been needed.

How the smoke had filled the cottage before it was done.

Thomas listened more closely than the matter required.

Agnes knew he was nervous.

That knowledge comforted her.

At length the bowls were emptied.

The sweet bread was cut and shared.

More ale was poured.

The fire settled lower upon the hearth.

Then John placed his hands flat upon the table.

The room quietened.

“Agnes.”

She looked up.

“Take Thomas outside. Show him the garden. The night air will do thee both good.”

Agnes stiffened.

Cousin Mary rose at once.

“I’ll walk with them.”

John nodded.

“Aye.”

William reached for another piece of sweet bread.

John glanced at him.

“Thee can stay.”

William stopped chewing.

No one explained why.

Agnes lifted one of the small oil lamps from beside the hearth and opened the door.

Thomas followed her.

Cousin Mary walked behind them.

The door closed.

For a few moments nobody inside the cottage spoke.

Outside, the evening air had cooled.

Agnes walked ahead, holding the lamp low.

Thomas followed, careful not to tread upon the edge of her skirt.

Cousin Mary kept several paces behind them, admiring the vegetable patch with an interest neither of them believed.

Agnes noticed.

“So this is the garden.”

Thomas looked over the rows of beans and onions.

“Aye.”

There was silence.

Then Agnes said,

“It is not much to look at.”

“It grows food.”

“That is what gardens are meant to do.”

Thomas smiled.

“Aye. I suppose it is.”

For the first time that evening, Agnes smiled back.

Only a little.

But enough.

Behind them, Cousin Mary paused beside the wattle fence and looked deliberately towards the hills.

Thomas lowered his voice.

“I think she means not to listen.”

Agnes glanced over her shoulder.

“I think she means us to think so.”

Thomas laughed softly.

The sound surprised her.

She had not expected him to laugh like that.

Not kindly.

Not nervously.

Not with her.

They walked a little further along the edge of the holding.

For a while neither spoke.

Then Thomas said,

“I were sorry to hear about the manor.”

Agnes stopped.

The lamp trembled slightly in her hand.

“Folk talk quickly.”

“Aye.”

“And what do they say?”

Thomas looked towards the darkening fields.

“Too much.”

That answer pleased her more than any longer one might have done.

“I did nowt wrong.”

“I know.”

She looked at him properly then.

“How?”

“Because my mother says thee did nowt wrong.”

Agnes almost laughed.

“And that is enough?”

“For most things.”

The wind moved softly through the grass.

From inside the cottage came the low murmur of voices.

Agnes glanced towards the door.

“They’re speaking of us.”

“Aye.”

“Does that not trouble thee?”

Thomas thought about it.

“It might.”

“Might?”

“I haven’t yet decided.”

Agnes held the lamp a little higher.

“And if they decide for thee?”

Thomas looked at her.

“Then I would still have to decide what sort of man I mean to be.”

She did not answer.

Behind them, Cousin Mary cleared her throat just loudly enough to remind them she existed.

Inside the cottage, John stared at the closed door long after Agnes had gone.

At last Margery folded her hands upon the table.

"John, before we speak of Thomas and Agnes... there is something I must ask."

John met her gaze.

"The vicar."

Margery nodded.

"Aye."

Mrs Hargreaves looked from one to the other.

"What has the vicar to do with this?"

John stared into the fire for a long moment.

Then he answered quietly.

"I've already seen him."

Mrs Hargreaves frowned.

"Seen him?"

"In secret."

She looked at him in astonishment.

"When?"

"The day after the steward took the prayer book."

"You never told me."

"I told no one."

Silence settled over the cottage.

At length Margery spoke.

"What did he say?"

John rubbed his hands slowly together.

"He told me there is but one way to end the questions."

"And?"

John lifted his eyes.

The only sound was the fire settling upon the hearth.

Mrs Hargreaves scarcely recognised the man sitting opposite her.

"John..."

"I had hoped thee would never have to know."

Margery’s voice softened.

“What did he say?”

John rubbed his thumb along the edge of the table.

“He says there is but one way to quiet the questions.”

No one moved.

“He says I must stand before the congregation.”

Mrs Hargreaves’ face paled.

John continued.

“I must confess that I have offended God and the King’s laws by absenting myself from divine service.”

William looked down at the table.

Margery said nothing.

John swallowed.

“I must renounce Rome before them all.”

Mrs Hargreaves closed her eyes.

“And promise, from henceforth, to attend church and obey the King’s statutes.”

The fire cracked softly.

Outside, Agnes laughed at something Thomas had said.

The sound drifted faintly through the door.

John looked towards it.

Mrs Hargreaves whispered,

“Can thee do it?”

For a long time he gave no answer.

Then he said,

“If it means she may walk through this village without folk whispering behind her back…”

The words failed him.

Margery lowered her eyes.

No father should have to choose between his faith and his child.

Yet here he sat.

Choosing.

Mrs Hargreaves wiped at her cheek with the heel of her hand.

“I thought thy silence meant stubbornness.”

John shook his head.

“My silence meant I was afraid.”

That was harder for him to say than all the rest.

Margery reached across the table and placed her hand over Mrs Hargreaves’.

“We cannot mend all that has been done.”

John looked at her.

“But perhaps we may yet keep worse from coming.”

“Aye.”

John sat straighter.

“Then we speak of Agnes.”

Margery nodded.

“And Thomas.”

John glanced towards William.

“Thee understands this is family business?”

William nodded.

“For once, I’ll hold my tongue.”

“That would be a miracle,” said Margery.

The words eased the room just enough.

For a while they spoke of the practical matters that every marriage required. There were no impediments between Thomas and Agnes, no former promises, nor any reason the banns should not be called. At length the conversation turned to the dowry.

John stood and crossed to the dowry chest.

He lifted the lid.

The hinges gave a soft groan.

For a moment he did not reach inside.

Mrs Hargreaves watched him.

So did Margery.

At last John removed a small leather purse.

The coins inside gave a dull clink.

He returned to the table and set it down between them.

“It is not much.”

Margery did not touch it.

John pushed it gently towards her.

“It is all I can spare.”

“John…”

“It is for Agnes.”

That ended the matter.

Margery looked at the purse as though it were heavier than coin.

Then she drew it towards her.

“She will not be treated poorly beneath my roof.”

John nodded.

“She is strong-willed.”

“So is Thomas.”

“She has known fear.”

“So has he.”

“She is my only child.”

Margery’s expression softened.

“I know.”

John looked towards the door.

“Then thee knows what I am placing in thy hands.”

Margery held his gaze.

“Aye.”

Mrs Hargreaves could bear no more.

She stood and went to the hearth, though there was nothing there needing her attention.

William watched the purse disappear beneath his mother’s shawl.

For once, he said nothing.

Outside, Agnes and Thomas had reached the far edge of the garden.

The last of the light had faded behind the hills, and the cottage windows glowed behind them.

Agnes looked towards the fields.

“Do thee wish to marry?”

Thomas followed her gaze.

“I had not thought much on it.”

“That is not an answer.”

“Nay.”

He smiled faintly.

“I suppose it is not.”

Agnes waited.

At length he said,

“I thought first of keeping the holding. Then of helping Mother. Then of harvest. Then winter. Then the next day after that.”

“That sounds a small life.”

“It is the one I know.”

Agnes nodded.

“I know small lives too.”

Thomas looked at her.

“Do thee hate the thought of it?”

She did not pretend to misunderstand.

“I hate that it is being chosen for me.”

“Aye.”

“But I do not know if I hate thee.”

Thomas considered that.

“It is a start.”

Despite herself, Agnes laughed.

Cousin Mary turned.

“Shall we go back before they think we’ve run away?”

Agnes looked towards the cottage.

“They know we have not.”

Thomas offered the lamp to her more securely.

“All the same.”

They walked back in silence.

Not comfortable silence.

Not yet.

But not as strange as before.

When they entered, the adults looked up.

Agnes noticed at once that something had changed.

Her mother’s eyes were red.

John sat very still.

Margery’s face was calm, but her hand rested protectively near her shawl.

William looked at Thomas and raised his eyebrows.

Thomas ignored him.

John stood.

“Thomas.”

“Aye?”

“Thee may call again, if thee wishes.”

Agnes looked at her father.

Then at Thomas.

Thomas removed his cap.

“I would like that.”

John nodded once.

Nothing more was said.

Nothing needed saying.

Mrs Hargreaves brought the flowers from the shelf and placed them in Agnes’ hands.

“See they’re kept safe.”

Agnes looked down at the bent stems.

“I will.”

The evening ended with quiet farewells.

Margery took both of Mrs Hargreaves’ hands.

Mary thanked them for their kindness.

William praised the ale twice, which pleased John more than he let on.

Thomas lingered near the doorway.

“Good even, Mistress Agnes.”

“Good even, Thomas.”

He stepped outside.

The Rushworths gathered upon the lane beneath the rising moon.

John stood in the doorway with Mrs Hargreaves beside him.

Agnes remained just behind them, the small posy held carefully in both hands.

They watched the figures move away into the deepening dark.

For the first time in many days, the cottage felt less burdened by fear.

Not free of it.

Never that.

But less alone beneath it.

John looked towards the lane until the Rushworths disappeared beyond the wall.

Then he turned back inside.

Upon the table, the bowls still waited to be washed.

The fire still needed tending.

The flowers still needed water.

Life, as ever, had work enough.

Yet something had shifted.

The future had entered the cottage.

And when it left, it carried John Hargreaves’ last spare coin beneath Margery Rushworth’s shawl.

John watched until the last figure disappeared beyond the stone wall.

Satisfied, he closed the cottage door.

Had he watched a little longer, he might have seen two shadows step quietly from the trees.

History continues...

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- XIX -

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