by Hilda Lewis
“Then you cannot escape my tale and must hear it to the end. The priest lifted the cross but he carried it head-to-foot and the wafer was black; and the wine was hallowed with blood. For he had taken a young child—do you listen, priest of God?—a young unbaptized child that had been stolen for the sacrifice. And he had cut its throat with a knife of stone, very sharp. Some of the blood he had poured into the wine when he had baptized my girl; and some of it he used for the sacrifice, sprinkling it now upon her closed eyes and upon her smiling mouth and upon her breasts and upon her loins. And we stood in silence, our eyes upon the white girl all dabbled with blood upon the altar stone.
And, in the holy silence, the Master spoke.
‘For the wrong done to my servant that lies here, two infants have died by sacrifice—her own and that one whose blood now hallows the wine. For these two there must be payment. Two other children must die.’
We sat unmoving and there was no sound of our breathing.
‘The children that shall die,’ He cried out, ‘are children you know well—all of you know well!’ He bent to Margaret white and still and smeared with the blood of the sacrifice. ‘If you have aught to say against it, speak now.’
Then He put out his hand to her and she stood up from the stone and she said, ‘The children I know well. And it is a fair exchange. I, and she that bore the babe we have sacrificed this night, have wept. Now let her who bore the two we shall take, weep also!’ And the congregation, both men and women, cried out, It is just.”
Samuel Fleming said, low and bitter, “The wickedness . . . unspeakable! Do you not see? Even now do you not see?”
“You speak without reason, priest. The child of my child—flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone—was dead; dead to serve the Master. How should I grieve over my enemy’s child?”
He would have spoken then but no words came through the sickness in his throat. Only his eyes implored the mercy of silence. But there was no mercy in her. “You cannot stay me,” she said, as once before, “since your god allows it. Then the Master took Margaret by the hand and looked into her face. ‘It is hard to believe,’ he told her, ‘that you are that girl who wept before us all at our last Sabbath.’
Then we cried aloud and acclaimed the new witch and made her free of the coven. And the Master took her by the hand and with her He led the dance.
First we danced the dances of our holy rites—to make the corn grow high and heavy in the ear . . . and that is a leaping dance; and the dance to make the fruit abundant on the trees . . . and that is a round dance. And last we did the dance to make the cattle heavy with young and such women fertile as desire it . . . and that is a dance not fit for your ears. You may believe me, priest, that we witches do much good.”
He lifted his tired head. “It is your own corn you prosper, your own fruits, your own beasts; and the womb you bless is the womb of your own women. But what of those that offend you? Their corn is blighted; their fruit falls rotten and their cattle drop their young untimely. And the women. Their seed you blast before ever it come to birth; and their children you bewitch to a hateful death. That is your good, witch!”
She shrugged. “As to rights and wrongs, we could not expect to agree. When we had performed the dances of our rites, then we performed the dances of our pleasures; and, always we begin with Follow the Master. And as we came and went—leaping, skipping, bowing, bending, hopping, frisking, looping, zigzagging, curving—I caught sight of Margaret at the head of the line and I saw her face all flushed and rosy, the lips wet and red and held a little apart. But her eyes I could not see, for she moved as in a dream—and they were fast-shut.
When the dancing came to an end I did not look for my daughter . . . I did not need to look. So white a body the Master would not give up to another. And, knowing how she had lost her lover, and how no man had touched her since she had been put forth in disgrace, I was glad for her.
And when our delights came to their end, I rose up weary and looked about for my girl. I found her lying drowsy and smiling upon the altar stone; and I called up Rutterkin to carry her home.”
Chapter Eight
Samuel Fleming opened his eyes. She was standing there, the sunlight streaming through her body; he could see clear through her to the open window and the summer garden beyond.
“You are almost as much a shadow as I, myself!” she said laughing.
“Nonsense!” He spoke with a briskness he did not feel. “I shall be myself soon. A little more of this—and I shall be well again.” He held out a frail hand so that it was stained gold with sunshine.
“We must hope so, priest. For the struggle is hard; and whichever way it goes, it must, at last, come to an end.”
“There is but one end,” he said. “God always wins.”
“Say you so?” And she mocked a little. “Priest,” and she spoke again with that strange gentleness of hers, “you are frail and old; and until the battle is won there is no peace for you. Why must you torment yourself?”
“You know the answer; you told me yourself, have you forgotten? I played my part in your life; I must play it now you are dead. We are bound to each other, I think, until the end of time.”
“Yes, it is true. True and strange. A witch and a priest bound together until the end of time.”
“I shall be glad of your companionship,” he said. “And God will be glad, since He will bring it to pass.”
“You are courteous, priest. But you are wrong. It is not your god but my Master that will rejoice. Are you ready for my tale?”
“I am ready.”
“Margaret had changed since the night of the Sabbath. The sullen look had gone. There was an eagerness about her, a wild, lost look, so that as we walked, others would turn away and cross themselves. And no man, though he might lust after her, dared approach.
But she cared nothing for that now. She lived only for the next Sabbath. As for men—even at our esbats she would have had none of them, save that it was her duty. Had my lord Earl himself stooped, she would not have suffered his breath upon her cheek. Once the Master has taken a woman all men are clots of dung.
Her shoulder ached still where He had nipped it; but now the pain was all joy for his sake who had caused it. And when the pain was gone and nothing left but a blue crescent scar, it served to keep her memory sharp for revenge.
Yet she was no true witch, as I have said before; but a hot young woman troubled by the desires of the body. Had things fallen out otherwise any lusty man would have served her turn. For she had no firm principle of evil. And more; who has ever known a witch that did not cherish her familiar and gladly suckle it with her blood? But Meg could not abide hers. It came to her in the shape of a rat; and I have seen her shudder and shake when the thing put up its sharp snout and nuzzled her flesh.
Eager, restless; that was Meg these days. ‘The Master promised me my revenge,’ she would say over and over again; and each time I would answer, ‘Then he will keep his promise.’ And once, ‘What is the promise?’ I asked, trying her.
She said, ‘You know well. Two children in place of those . . .’ But for all her eagerness she stumbled and could go no further.
‘If you are too nice to name the matter, are you not too nice for revenge?’ I asked.
She began again. ‘Two children in place of those . . . to be sacrificed.’ And she was pale as bone.
‘And what revenge shall you take upon them?’ I asked.
She looked at me, dumb. I saw how she tried to speak but could not speak.
‘You shall have your revenge when you are fit. You are not yet fit since you cannot so much as name it. You will learn that the Master helps those that help themselves—and only those. Well, what revenge?’
She said then, very low, ‘The death of the two little boys.’
‘Which little boys?’ I asked.
‘You know. You know well!’ and her voice
came out without sound. And, when still I waited, said very low, ‘Lord Roos and Francis his brother.’
‘Search your heart,’ I warned her. ‘Even a witch may know tenderness; and they are fair children.’
‘I will have their death!’ she cried out. ‘Lord Roos has lived longer than the child I bore—five years longer. It is five years too long.’
‘And the babe?’ I said. ‘The little Francis?’
She held her white lips stiff. ‘Him, too. He has lived longer than the new-born child.’ And she turned her head away. Had a witch tears she would have shed them then.
She turned her face again, and it was all white and working. ‘I will have them both . . . both! Master, hear me!’
It was suddenly dark in the room. I could barely make out the Master where He stood wrapped about in a great cloak, black against the blackness. But I knew him by the coldness that came forth and I heard Margaret take in her breath.
He wasted no sweet word. ‘You have kept me waiting long; and long enough,’ he told her. ‘It is a thing I will not endure from any servant.’
‘Lord, forgive!’ she cried, all humble upon her knees and the wind of her trembling stirred the hem of my skirts. I knew that He would never look upon her with favour again. He is not like your pale god, priest. The Master hates a poor and humble spirit.”
“A humble spirit is not poor but rich,” Samuel Fleming said.
“Be that as it may, the Master has no use for the humble. He looked upon Margaret with dislike but she was too foolish to understand it. ‘Before you can work these children harm,’ he told her, ‘you must possess yourself of something that is theirs.’
‘But I have nothing, Lord, nothing at all. And I am forbid the Castle.’
‘Is there no-one to help you?’ He asked.
At once I took his meaning. It was my other girl he desired—Philippa. Meg was a fair enough piece of white flesh; but Philip was fit to be Queen of hell.
And when she did not understand but went on kneeling dolefully, He said, ‘There is your sister!’
‘No!’ Margaret cried out, sharp enough now and jealous. And that is another sign she was no true witch; for we witches grudge not the Master the lightest of his desires. And though we would die joyfully to lie in the place of that woman in whom He takes delight, yet we would serve her with all our heart, wishing her no ill since she brings joy to Him we worship.
‘No!’ she cried out again. ‘My sister is too young.’
‘Your sister is old as evil,’ he said, ‘and that’s as old as time.’ He turned his back on Meg and thrust his dark face towards me. ‘Woman,’ he said, ‘bring Me your daughter.’
‘Lord,’ I said, ‘I serve. But the girl is hard of heart; her will is iron.’
‘I will soften both.’ He turned again to Margaret where she knelt, head upon her knees; I could see the fall of her fair hair in the darkness. ‘When your sister comes freely to my service, you shall have your revenge,’ He said and so was gone; and the darkness and the cold went with Him; and the room was bright again and warm.
And now I could get no sense at all out of Meg. Wild and jealous, she could do nothing but tremble and rail. Could she have wept, she might have eased her heart, but all turned inward to bitterness; and this bitterness turned outward again and was writ upon her face.
I sent a message to Philip up at the Castle. I was sick, I said, and she must come at once. It was Berry of Langhorne took it. He was not willing—he had heard the tales about us; and, indeed, it was remembered against him at his own trial. I whistled up Rutterkin to follow him every step of the way—Rutterkin with his long, loping tread. It was the familiar that helped betray us, though the fault was not his. But there were those that swore they saw the white cat change into a man; a man leper-white, even to the hair, except where he was bedaubed with blood and his red, red eyes. That was a lie, priest. Rutterkin never took human shape; nor, when he went about my business, was there any blood upon him. For I did not let him suck upon me until the work was done, save twice, and never at this time. But tales go about poor witches and some of them are true; and some of them are half-true; but most of them are lies. And for half-truths and for lies we suffer more than for the truth; and many innocents also that never worked a spell, along with us.”
“You must bear those deaths upon your conscience, witch. But for you and your like they had never been condemned.”
“It is your conscience, priest, since you sat in judgment. It is for judges to find the truth. But this much was true—the little lady Catharine spied him and cried aloud at the pretty thing and would have taken him in her arms; but he reared himself and leaped and would have had her blood had she not fled screaming.
Philip did not trouble herself to come down that day although she believed me sick; and all night long Meg lay weeping and wailing until I feared the Master would put an end to her and her lamenting.
The next day brought Philip all smiles; heartless—a child who had done no wickedness as yet, but with evil all about her.
Margaret got up and went away.
‘My sister is jealous,’ Philip said and twirled upon her toes. ‘And yet she is fair and I am brown; and she is plump as a pigeon and I skinny as a rat; and she is comely and I am plain. But she has lost her man and mine I keep to the end of days. Or . . .’ and she twirled again, ‘until I tire of him.’
‘That one!’ I said. ‘That lout, that clumsy fool! My girl, my girl, if you must have a sweetheart I can find you a better.’
‘What better?’ she asked and stopped twirling. ‘What better than Tom Simpson with his good lands and his snug house? Perhaps you will give me to Sir George Manners? Or, maybe, to my lord Earl himself? Why not? It is easy enough to be rid of my lady; and I am just the one to take her place!’ she said, very wry; her work-soiled hands went up to her skinny breasts, the smile was crooked on her mouth.
‘You hold yourself too cheap. You may be greater than my lady,’ I told her. ‘Greater than any lady in the land, be it the Queen herself!’
She stopped twirling and came close, peering at me out of her narrow eyes.
‘I have a sweetheart for you,’ I said, ‘that will make you the envy of the world. If you would be Queen of the world, you have but to say so.’
‘Queen of the world!’ she laughed. ‘Oh my poor mother! Certainly it is the madhouse and the whip for you!’
‘Leave me out of this!’ I said. ‘Look into your heart. Are you set upon Tom Simpson?’
‘When I could be Queen of the world?’ she mocked. ‘But since that is a thing I cannot be, why then I will take Tom. I know well how to keep him faithful—which I could not do with a King.’ And she laughed again. ‘Oh,’ she cried, suddenly, ‘I am weary of my life at the Castle. My lady is turned against me. She says nothing. But I know it; and everyone knows it. There is not one who does not murmur behind my back . . . and sometimes it is not behind my back. Even the littlest, dirtiest scullion looks at me with lewd eyes and thinks his dirty thoughts. What better could I do than marry Tom?’
‘And will you marry the goody, too?’
‘I can deal with her,’ she said, her eyes hard as stone.
‘Girl, what is this talk of bedding with a ploughboy? Or . . .’ and I chose my words with care, ‘setting yourself against that old witch his mother?’
‘Witch?’ She took me up at once. ‘That is a word they use up at the Castle; but it isn’t of Goody Simpson they use it.’
‘Of me?’
She nodded.
‘Then they shall have good cause. It is time. It has long been time. Now listen. You must lay hands upon something that belongs to the little lord—some small thing that will not be missed; a scarf, or a kerchief, or a lock of his hair. Anything. Anything at all, so long as it is his.’
‘Why?’ she asked, sharp. She was no soft, stupid thing like Meg.
‘What is this talk of my little lord? We speak not of him but of a sweetheart. Are you going to catch him for me? Five years—it’s over-young.’ And she laughed.
‘Only a fool laughs too soon,’ I told her. ‘One thing hangs upon the other. You must wait for your sweetheart till the work is done.’
‘Not I!’ she said, very quick. ‘I have my sweetheart where I want him.’ She turned her thumb downward and pressed it upon the table. ‘As for the work, you have not told me what it is.’
‘To return evil for evil,’ I said. ‘To pay them well for your sister’s disgrace.’
She shrugged. ‘Meg is a fool; she deserves all she gets.’
‘We cannot be wise all the time,’ I said. ‘And who knows when your own turn will come?’
‘I can look to myself,’ she said.
We were silent while I cast about for another way of coming at her.
‘You have never seen the casting of a spell,’ I said at last. ‘It is a fine sight.’
Her eyes began to gleam within their narrow lids.
‘I plan to bewitch Lord Roos to his death,’ I said. ‘It is a spell that will take time to work. Before it is finished you shall see some rare fun.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘yes . . .’ and her lips smiled. Suddenly she said, very sharp, ‘The little lord is a pleasant child. Why should I return Meg’s evil upon this child I like?’
‘Leave Meg out of it,’ I said smooth. ‘You have your own slights to avenge . . . and may have more. Why should my lady grow cold towards you? Why should they slander you behind your back and to your very face? What ill have you done anyone . . . as yet?’
‘That is a point,’ she said, ‘and I must think upon it. As for this sweetheart you talk about, this sweetheart that is the envy of the world, he might well take some holding.’ She laughed; still she did not believe me. ‘But Tom is an honest fool that I can twist about my finger.’
It was no use speaking more of the matter then; so she returned to the Castle and she had promised nothing.