The Hanged Man

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It was a cold winter's day when I first met Lilis and her mother, Margaret Walker. Christmas of 1473 had come and gone. The Lord of Misrule had put aside his cap and bells for another year and the Boy Bishops had doffed their borrowed mitres. Although already January, traces of the previous month's snow were still to be found in sheltered places. The Earl of Oxford continued to be holed up on St Michael's Mount, slowly being starved into submission by the Cornish sheriff and his men and the Vigilant captains of the royal fleet. Whenever and wherever possible, people stayed warm and snug within doors to avoid the icy winds and the stinging rain which had made life miserable for the past few days.

As I wove my unsteady course along the deserted market-place, the great bulk of Bristol castle towered ahead of me, the donjon rearing its ugly face to peer malevolently across the intervening inner ward, which in its turn was rimmed by high, grim walls. My pack weighed with unaccustomed heaviness on my back, and my legs felt as though they were made of lead. In contrast, my head was so light it might have been stuffed with feathers, like the goose-feather mattress my mother had owned and been so proud of. My forehead burned to the touch, yet my hands and feet were cold as stone.

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