by Hilda Lewis
And, priest, standing there, we heard it, both of us—the sound among the trees. To me it seemed like laughter, sly, and ugly. But Philip took it as her answer and dropped to her knees, nodding and smiling her thanks.
As we went there came a sound of voices, good human voices, homely; and there, in a clearing, where in summer we would hold our esbats, we came upon Joan Willimott and Ellen Greene—and their familiars frisking about them. One was a rat, and the other an owl; but Pretty was not there.
I was glad of my gossips after the laughter in the woods; and we sat down all four, and talked. We chatted of this and that—how Patchett had lost his wife and child and might have saved them both; and Anthony Gill, also. And we talked about the death of the little lords; and how Tom Simpson went about vacant, the wits gone from him; and how he would go to bed at night and wake up full of bruises; and a mark upon his back the shape of a saddle. And we laughed and we joked, all of us; and Philip laughed loudest.
And, as we sat gossiping and joking, we heard the sound of footsteps, very slow; and a sound of bushes being put back.
We hushed our laughing; the familiars scrambled and scrabbled into hiding; we waited.
It was Margaret—Margaret walking, you might think, in her sleep, her white face all criss-crossed with briar scratches, and her arms also and her bare feet. She came to us and sat down and she said nothing; and then she lifted her head and she said—and it was still as though she slept, for there was neither tone nor colour to her voice—‘We have done enough. This thing I will not do.’
Philip turned her head quick as an adder to warn Meg to silence; but Ellen said, all coaxing, ‘What is it, child, you will not do?’ And took Meg by the hand.
‘Bewitch the lord and lady,’ she answered simple as a child. ‘They are to have no more children . . . ever. Ever,’ she said again. ‘That’s a long time.’
‘Time’s longer when you’re dead, hanged by the neck,’ Philip said.
Meg shook her head to left and right; her face swung white as a dead-nettle within the pale gold of her hair. ‘Oh no! I shall never come to the rope. I serve the Master.’
‘But how do you serve Him?’ Philip said, very sharp. ‘There are two sides to every bargain. And if you break your pact, why then it is broken! You were meant for the gallows, faithless and foolish as you are. And when one is meant for the gallows there is no escape. It is the rope; the rope—no other way! Oh, you may sit staring out of your fool’s eyes which shall stare wider when the rope drops! For what I say is true. Do you remember the great picture that is all little pictures and a wise word to each? There is one says, Born to be hanged you’ll never be drowned. And there is the little gallows in the corner to prove it.’
Meg’s hand went to her throat as if already she felt the rope and Philip laughed. ‘Come,’ she said, ‘we must go. There is work to be done. Good-day to you, friends,’ and her face was all smiles. But when we had gone a little way she stopped short and her face was dark. ‘Fool,’ she said to Meg, in that hissing way she had. ‘Fool! That’s a precious couple!’ And she jerked her head backwards. ‘And you must needs go blabbing. They would run to destroy you for the mere joy of it.’
Meg lifted her bewildered eyes. ‘But they are friends,’ she said. ‘Friends!’
Philip’s eyes met mine over Margaret’s head. ‘This fool has done more mischief than she knows! Well, we must get the work done while we may; then let them blab if they must. I trust—’ and she thrust her dark face into Meg’s, ‘that you will still call them friend when it comes to your hanging.’
Meg shrank a little and Philip said no more. It was only as we reached our house that she spoke again. ‘Spoil the spell we are about to cast—and I will kill you. If I have to confess once more to failure I will even it with the tale of your death.’ And she lifted her hands all crooked and stiff and brought them to Meg’s neck.
Meg said, shrinking against me, ‘You wrong me, sister. I had no hand in spoiling any spell.’
‘You are such a fool,’ Philip said, scornful. ‘You do not know the strength of your own power. When you sit there saying nothing, doing nothing, but willing the spell to fail—then it will fail. A spell is a strong thing; but the will is stronger.’
I pushed open the door; and, as we went inside, Philip gave Meg a sudden shove. ‘Get out—and stay out!’ she said. ‘Leave this to your betters.’ And she shut the door in Meg’s face.
‘You are not over-kind to your sister,’ I said.
‘Kinder than she deserves. If she confesses to the Master that she had no hand in this, she will escape with a whipping. But if she spoils this spell, also, why then, at the very least it is death; death by stoning. It is not a pretty sight.’
It was true and I said no more.
‘You talk of bewitching the lord and the lady,’ I said when I had barred the door and thrown a cloth upon the window, ‘but we have nothing—neither of hers nor his. How shall we bind the spell?’
She laughed at that. ‘Truly you grow old!’ she said. ‘When my lady, of her goodness—’ and she spat upon the word, ‘sent my sister away, she thought to sweeten the sour deed with a sweet gift. Have you forgotten the pillow, so soft? And the mattress my sister sleeps upon—’ she nodded towards the corner, ‘was my lady’s; and my lord’s also. What better could we have to bind them both?’
So I took the basin and blew up the fire; and she took a little knife and let out a handful of feathers from the pillow and a handful of wool from the mattress. And, with the same knife, I drew blood from my arm.
‘More,’ Philip cried, impatient at the thin trickle. She snatched the knife and drew it deeply across her own arm and laughed to see the blood gush.
Then we stirred the brew; and, priest, it was queer to see her standing there great with her godling, and bewitching another woman that she should conceive no more.
And, as we stirred, we said the Words of Power and then we sang; and these are the words.
Blast seed, curse womb,
Sink, sink into the tomb.
Weep, weep for daughters fair,
Weep yet more for son and heir.
Empty heart and empty hand,
Master, hear me where I stand.
Sink, sink into the tomb,
Blast seed, curse womb.”
Samuel Fleming, lifting a white face, sighed as though his heart must break.
“Why sigh now, priest?” she asked impatient. “The thing is done; and for the doing we have paid—all three of us.”
“But all your paying cannot undo it!” He shook his head, lifting empty hands and letting them fall again.
“I could not wish it undone, since it was paid for—and the price high enough. The price . . . we didn’t know it then; not Philip standing there in my darkened room, belly outthrust and smiling as she stirred; nor I, watching her. And yet, I was warned; but I didn’t know that, either. For, suddenly, fear fell upon me that what we asked was too heavy, too long, to be contained within the compass of a human spell. Witches may not usurp the power of Devil or God.
‘It is too much, too much,’ I told Philip; and it was as though someone else used my mouth. And then . . .” Joan Flower’s voice lifted thin and sweet,
“Blast seed, curse womb,
But not, Lord, unto the tomb.
In seven year, in seven year,
Give the lord his son and heir,
Let her see a daughter fair.
No longer empty heart and hand,
Master, hear me where I stand.
Ere they pass into the tomb,
Bless seed, ripen womb.”
She nodded brightly at the old man. “I found myself changing the spell before I knew what I was about. I was surprised . . . but not so surprised as Philip. She took a step towards me and lifted her hands above the steam of the basin threatening me as she had t
hreatened Meg. Her face and her hands were smeared with blood and her narrow eyes, full open now, blazed with anger. There was a feather, I remember, stuck crazily to her cheek. I was afraid of her; but I would not show it, not I. The girl was my daughter.
‘You are a fool and for this you deserve to die, Joan Flower!’ she said. It was the first time she had not called me mother. I knew—as she meant me to know—that if I crossed her in any way, she would show no more mercy to me than to Meg.
‘God!’ she cried out. But it was upon the Old God she called, the oldest of all gods. ‘That I must be compassed about with fools.’
‘You will use that word once too often!’ I told her. ‘This time it is you that are the fool. No spell can last for ever. Whether the time be long or whether it be short, there is always a limit; and that limit must be set. You should know that by now, my clever witch! Seven is a number of power; it binds the spell more closely. In seven years we shall cast it again.’
‘Not you!’ she cried out. ‘Not you! In seven years where will you be?’ And it was as though she cursed me to my death.
We whistled up Rutterkin and this time he was instant to our bidding. When he had risen and gone, Philip turned about and regarded me curiously. ‘It will not help you to backslide into goodness,’ she said. ‘Between two stools a man may fall and break his neck as surely as by the rope. And if you fall between heaven and hell—where are you then?’ It was a strange thing to say and she said it strangely. For come the seven years—and I am a ghost wandering between two worlds; and there was never a child of my lady. That day she saw my future clear; but her own future she did not see.”
“Nor yours,” Samuel Fleming said. “Not to its end. For the end is not yet. I think it will be remembered to you that you set a bound to a most wicked spell. But—” and he looked at her curiously, “why did you stop at seven years?”
“Was it not enough, priest?”
“It was enough. But the years are almost passed; and there is hope again. Why did you give them that hope?”
“I told you, priest; I was afraid.”
“I think it was pity stirring in your heart; I think it was, God, perhaps, whispering in your ear.”
“Then, priest, he whispered too late.”
“I wonder?” he said softly.
Chapter Fifteen
It was October now and the harvest safely gathered in. Samuel Fleming standing at the west door looked back towards the chancel where he had been kneeling to thank God for the good yield. This year no-one in Bottesford should go short of bread.
And, so standing, he fancied something moved down there before the altar. But the church was empty. He had found it empty. Yet, maybe, someone had slipped in while he prayed.
He screwed up his eyes to focus more clearly.
Yes, there was a woman down there. He knew whose head was lifted defying the high altar. He did not need she should turn her face. He knew her for what she was.
He made a step towards her. “Are you not afraid to set foot in God’s holy church?” he asked.
“Why should I be—since he allows it?”
He felt the stirring of hope that he might yet save her soul; he said nothing.
She came softly up the aisle, flitting pale between the dark pews; at the last row, near the door, she stopped, bent and touched a seat with her finger-tip. It was here she had sat, a humble worshipper, before she had sold herself; and here, after she had made her most wicked bargain, she had sat in ugly mockery, the wafer slyly hidden beneath her tongue. And now, now she was here again within his very church. How could a priest not hope to save her?
She sat down in her place; he could see the polished wood shining through the transparency of her body. She was dead . . . but she was more alive than some who came to worship in this place. He had the strongest desire to talk to her, in this holy place. Surely God’s spirit, he argued, must be strongest here. But God’s spirit is everywhere—and equal everywhere; He needs no especial net for the catching of souls. And Hester expected him; she fretted if he were delayed these days. And, besides, Cecilia would be riding down—with news, maybe, of Francis. Not for Hester nor for Cecilia would he abandon this lost soul. But Goody Fellowes would be waiting too; a poor sad creature and talking to him her only comfort. To show discourtesy to her was a thing he could not do.
“One might take your courtesy for softness,” Joan Flower said, at her old trick of reading his thought. “But it is a cold courtesy. For all your fine manners you would have sent me to the gallows. Well,” and she rose, shaking out her skirts as so often she had done in life, “if you will not stay here with me, then let us go together.”
Cecilia smiled her welcome when he came into the room; and, as always, at her sick and wasted look, his heart turned to water, remembering the pretty thing she had been a few short weeks ago. And, even while he bent to kiss her cheek, Hester said sharply for so gentle a creature and one zealous for his dignity, “Shut the door, Samuel. You have made the room cold as death.”
The little cat stretched out by the fire rose and arched his back and made as though to spit.
“Now that is a strange thing,” Hester said and she did not laugh. “You might almost think the little cat saw something. But I suppose the truth is that cold makes her vicious. I have seen it again and again. A sudden draught and she will attack anyone; myself, even. Come, puss, come.” She held out an inviting hand. But the cat stood arched and spitting still.
“Go, Cat, go!” He heard Joan Flower’s voice beside him; or imagined it, perhaps in the silence of his mind—for certainly no-one else had heard it.
The cat moved inch by unwilling inch towards Hester. Samuel shut the door; he came over to the fire and stood, hands behind his back, trying to warm his fingers at the blaze. Hester saw with alarm how thin the hand; the firelight seemed to shine through it.
He refused the canary since time pressed and anyhow it was over-sweet for his taste, staying for a moment to hear Cecilia’s news. And, indeed, a moment was sufficient since there was no word of Francis.
And all the time the thought of Joan Flower dogged at his heels. Until today he had not seen her for several weeks. He had been at Cottenham near Cambridge, which living he held also; and he had ridden more than once into Cambridge that he might refresh his eyes with the fine buildings and his mind with the fine talk. Yet all the time, delighting though he did in the company of old friends and through all the scholars’ talk of which he had starved, he had thought of Joan Flower and of the struggle between them.
The air of Cottenham had done him good, Cecilia said. But when he had made his excuses and gone, she looked sadly at Hester; and though she would not put the ugly thought into words, she said in her heart that the Rector was not long for this world.
He stepped along to the study and Joan Flower went with him. He could feel her cold at his back.
In the study the old woman waited. She rose and bobbed her curtsey and plunged into the long tale of her woes. They were slight enough and of her own making; but he listened with kindliness and sent her away comforted.
“I was wrong, perhaps,” Joan Flower said where she stood at the window. “Maybe your heart is gentler for my dying. But—” and she laughed a little, “you cannot expect that same miracle of me. It was I, after all, that died.”
He said nothing but went across and stood beside her at the casement. The trees held out black branches sharp and precise as though etched in acid. Only the great cedar still kept her summer gown; but she, too, stood dark and heavy against the evening sky.
“It is autumn already,” he said and sighed.
“Soon it will be winter,” she said.
He nodded. “By winter everything will be settled between us.”
“Who knows?” She shrugged. “You are a stiff-necked old man.” She came from the window and sat in the chair by his desk. “There i
s something about this chair draws me,” she said. And he remembered how, when she had stood before the justices, he had pitied her wild and haggard look and had bade her sit . . . this very chair; and it had stood exactly so, the light from the window shining into her face.
“So much misery up at the Castle!” She clasped her hands loosely upon her skirts. “The two little boys dead and buried; the little lady with her feigned fits; my lady sick and my lord also. And though they were loving and kind together so that he never lay one night from her bed, yet she did not conceive. But no-one thought to consider how all these evils had come about, and no-one suspected us. Oh, they had long called us witch down in the village, blaming us for this and for that; but that we dare lift our hands against so great a lord and lady never entered their heads. Strange . . . strange. And yet, after all, not so strange. The Master protected us . . . until his work was done.”
“You are wrong,” he told her. “Tongues wagged in plenty. But no-one dared, as yet, carry tales to my lord. He would not listen without proof, nor the lady, neither. And more; talebearers might well be punished for their pains. And I? I heard the tales, too; and I, too, could not believe them. Idle and licentious I knew you to be; but witches—never!”
She sat there white and smiling her wicked smile.
“And so were let to do our work in peace,” she said. “The days passed; day after quiet day. My lord went to London to attend the King, and my lady also; and, with them the young lady.
My lord and lady came home again; but the young lady was not with them. She thought no more of drawing all eyes with feigned sickness; she had drawn the eye of the one she desired—my lord Duke of Buckingham; drawn it in a way no honest woman could desire.”
Samuel Fleming sighed deeply. This, too, had been added to their burden. It was the first time he had seen Francis enraged or Cecilia bitter. Affliction they had taken from the hand of God; affliction from the hand of man they were not minded to take. If you do not repair my daughter’s honour, Francis had written to Buckingham, no greatness shall protect you from my justice. ■