When Mr Bastian arrived at Canterbury a little after daybreak the next morning, he found, as he had expected, that while the message had been sent in the name of Cardinal Pole, it was really the Bishop of Dover who required his attendance. The Bishop wanted to talk with the parish priest concerning the accused persons from his parish. He read their names from a paper whereon he had them noted down—“John Fishcock, butcher; Nicholas White, ironmonger; Nicholas Pardue, cloth-worker; Alice Benden, gentlewoman; Barbara Final, widow, innkeeper; Sens Bradbridge, widow; Emmet Wilson, cloth-worker’s wife.”
“Touching Alice Benden,” said the Bishop, “I require no note at your hands; I have divers times spoken with her, and know her to be a right obstinate heretic, glorying in her errors. ’Tis the other concerning whom I would have some discourse with you. First, this John Fishcock, the butcher: is he like to be persuaded or no?”
“Methinks, nay, my Lord: yet am I not so full sure of him as of some other. The two Nicholases, trow, are surer of the twain. You should as soon shake an ancient oak as White; and Pardue, though he be a man of few words, is of stubborn conditions.”
“Those men of few words oft-times are thus. And how for the women, Brother? Barbara Final—what is she?”
“A pleasant, well-humoured, kindly fashion of woman; yet methinks not one to be readily moved.”
“Sens Bradbridge?”
“A poor creature—weakly, with few wits. I should say she were most like of any to recant, save that she hath so little wit, it were scarce to our credit if she so did.”
The Bishop laughed. “Emmet Wilson?”
“A plain woman, past middle age, of small learning, yet good wit by nature. You shall not move her, holy Father, or I mistake.”
“These heretics, what labour they give us!” said Dick of Dover, rather testily. “’Tis passing strange they cannot conform and have done with it, and be content to enjoy their lives and liberties in peace.”