Margery was thunderstruck. Slander had thrown its spear decked with ears. The charge of sedition often is framed as a sexual crime. “Sir,” she said, “I never had part of any man’s body in this world excepting John Kempe’s by whom I have borne fourteen children.”

“She does not mean with her heart what she says with her mouth!” The Mayor was so full of grievance he stepped from side to side like a boxer. The Lollards were gaining strength in his city. He was rich and uncomprehending, surprised that anyone would object to being mistreated by him. “Why do you dress in white? You have come to lure our wives from us and lead them off.”

Margery snorted. He was accusing her of being one of the Flagellant Albi who roamed from town to town whipping themselves. “You are not worthy to know why I wear white but if the court were cleared of laymen, I would tell the clerics as though in confession.”

Than the clerkys preyd the Meyr to gon down fro hem wyth the other pepyl. The Mayor’s voice grated with rage. “I will not let you go in spite of anything until you get a letter from my Lord Bishop of Lincoln—you are in his jurisdiction.”

Margery shouted, “I am no heretic.” She hid her hands under her mantle; she did not know how compelling she was—her certainty aroused Jesus.

The Abbot of Leicester looked more like God than Jesus’s father, with fierce circumflex eyebrows and fiery red eyes. He glared at Margery and asked with rich indignation, “Are you a Christian or a Jew, a woman or not?” Margery tilted her head as Jesus sang:

The kiss you gave me,

Burning and bold,

Ran off with two birds,

And flew to their tree,

To guard their nest

From the cold.

•

Her delight was startling because so inappropriate. She tipped her ear to contain his voice and felt the warm sensation of hearing that comes before orgasm.

What can I do but whisper this,

And beg you for another kiss?

She dropped to the floor, face churning, tears falling. A black-hooded church doctor declared, “It’s all her fancy; she has no sorrow.”

The Abbot snarled, “Be quiet!” The doctor shriveled as though to escape a blow. The Abbot asked Margery, “Why do you weep?” His face was lightning looking for ground.

“You will wish . . . some day . . . you wept . . . as sorely as I.”

“I hear you are a wicked woman.”

“I hear you are a wicked man. If you are as wicked as they say, you’ll never get to heaven.”

“Why you . . . what do people say?”

“Other people, Sir, can tell you.” She flushed with power on the infinite point she was making.

“She speaks against the Church,” the doctor complained. “She told me the worst story I ever heard.”