“Look here, Andrew!” roared his offended patron, “and see thee what this sinful maid hath been doing. What penance deemest thou fit for such fault as this?” He handed the book to the friar. The friar sat up, rubbed his eyes, opened the book, and turned over two or three leaves.
“I cry your good worship mercy,” said he. “I knew not you were assaying to arouse me. I was dreaming of a kettle of furmety of Madge’s making.”
“I trow here is a pretty kettle of furmety of Madge’s making!” was the irate response.
“I conceive you not, good master,” said the friar. “The book is a good book enough, trow.”
“Thou art an ass!” was the civil answer. “Seest thou not that it is the translation of Scripture whereof the Lord Marnell spake, by Master John Wycliffe, the Lollard priest? Mindest thou not that which he said about Lollards?”
“An what if it be?” said the confessor, yawning. “I pin not my faith on my Lord Marnell’s sleeve, though it were made of slashed velvet. And I trow Madge hath been too well bred up to draw evil from the book. So let the damsel alone, good master, and give her book back. I trow it will never harm her.” Margery was exceedingly surprised at the turn which affairs were taking. The truth was, that Friar Andrew was very fond of her; he had been Sir Geoffrey’s chaplain before she was born, she had grown up under his eye, and she made, moreover, such a kettle of furmety as he declared no one else could make. Beside this, Andrew was a marvellous poor scholar; he could never read a book at sight, and required to spell it over two or three times before he could make out the meaning. He could read his mass-book, because he had done so for the last forty years, and could have gone through the service as easily without book as with it; though, had a different copy been given him, in which the pages did not commence with the same line, it would probably have perplexed him extremely. Thus, under these circumstances, his love for Margery, his love for furmety, and his utter ignorance, combined to dispose him to let her off easily.
Sir Geoffrey took the book from his chaplain with a sort of growl, and threw it into Margery’s lap.
“There! take it, damsel!” said he. “I account it Andrew’s business to take care of thy soul, and he saith it will not hurt thee. I mind it the less, as thou wilt shortly go to dwell with one who will see to thee in these matters, and will not let thee read Lollard books.”
The thread fell from Margery’s hand, and so did the distaff, which rolled over the floor with a clatter. She never heeded it. A terrible, indefinite dread had taken hold of her.
“Father! what mean you?” she stammered forth at last.