The Morning Star’s Manuscript: Why They Burned John Wycliffe’s Bones
I want you to visualize a scene. It is incredibly specific, and honestly, it is one of the most haunting moments in all of English history. Imagine the winter of 1428. The air is biting, the kind of cold that settles deep in your marrow. We are in Lutterworth, a small market town in Leicestershire. We’re standing in a graveyard—consecrated ground, the kind of place that is supposed to be a sanctuary of eternal rest. But on this particular day, it looks more like a construction site. There is a team of laborers with shovels digging into the frozen earth. Standing over them is a whole retinue of high-ranking church officials. Bishop Fleming is there, presiding over the operation, his eyes fixed on the dirt. They aren't digging a fresh grave, though. They are opening an old one. They are looking for a specific skeleton, a man who has been dead for 44 years. That is nearly two generations. By this point, the flesh is long gone, and the wooden coffin has probably rotted away into not...