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Back Margery Kempe Save as PDF
Chapters (69)
  1. Cover
  2. Biographical Notes
  3. Title Page
  4. INTRODUCTION
  5. MARGERY KEMPE
  6. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  7. Dedication
  8. Front
  9. PART ONE
  10. 1
  11. 2
  12. 3
  13. 4
  14. 5
  15. 6
  16. 7
  17. 8
  18. 9
  19. 10
  20. 11
  21. 12
  22. 13
  23. 14
  24. 15
  25. 16
  26. PART TWO
  27. 17
  28. 18
  29. 19
  30. 20
  31. 21
  32. 22
  33. 23
  34. 24
  35. 25
  36. 26
  37. 27
  38. 28
  39. 29
  40. 30
  41. 31
  42. PART THREE
  43. 32
  44. 33
  45. 34
  46. 35
  47. 36
  48. 37
  49. 38
  50. 39
  51. 40
  52. 41
  53. 42
  54. 43
  55. 44
  56. 45
  57. 46
  58. PART FOUR
  59. 47
  60. 48
  61. 49
  62. 50
  63. 51
  64. 52
  65. 53
  66. 54
  67. 55
  68. 56
  69. MY MARGERY, MARGERY’S BOB

The yeomen led Margery and Thomas northward towards Beverly, where the Duke of Bedford was holding court. “For owr Lord hath sent for thee, & you art holdyn the grettest loller in al this cuntre, & we xal han an hundryd pownde for to bryng thee be-forn owr Lord.” She went unwillingly; there was plague in Beverly—would she die for no reason? Yet this actual threat of death was separate from the fear that always gnawed at her.

Larks, throstles, blackbirds, linnets, and cuckoos poured out music on every side. When Thomas pissed, he lifted his cock from the top by the scruff of its foreskin like a pup. The road was roughly paved with large stones and it cut across green billowing wolds. Blue-toothed women with their distaffs ran out of their houses crying, “Burn this heretic!” Margery felt the cool spray of their words. They had no scale to measure difference: Margery’s white mantle was a sexual crime, a revolution, a collapse of meaning.

Beavers still lived in the riverbanks, swatting the water with their tails. Two columns of smoke appeared static as though supporting the sky. People said, “Woman, give up this life, go and spin, card wool, and don’t endure so much shame and bitterness.”

Margery told stories to Thomas and to the yeomen who had arrested her: her faith in language exceeded theirs but the spectacle of that belief gave them the consolation of believing their own lives had value.

The yeomen were bald with pale blue eyes and red mustaches. One would die in 1421—a death in which one person dies for all—and the survivor would look at his friend’s corpse before mass. The heat that was his friend was still retreating. The yeoman was a little frightened of dead people, but the face did not turn brown or blue and when the yeoman met his friend’s cold hand for the last time there was no fear. He said, “We’re just the same body—and should I be afraid of myself?”

Later, his tears appeared so simply they surprised him. His body didn’t clench, there were no spasms. He just stepped outside and sat for a while so quietly that he could feel the tears well up and spill on their own as though they were part of the day along with the weedy yard and the yellow light falling on a retaining wall.

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