by Hilda Lewis
Justice! It was Francis himself that, in the end, repaired his daughter’s honour—to the tune of twenty thousand pounds down and eight thousand a year, together with lands and titles—and more to come.
“There are spots upon the honour of my lady the Duchess of Buckingham but they are well gilt!” Joan Flower nodded. “Well, and why not? Her father has the money—he needs it no longer for his sons. The death of the brothers brings this much good—it gilds the sister’s honour. My girls, being humble and poor, were sent away in disgrace; but the little lady, the little saucy lady is hung about with gold. My lady the Duchess! Who dare whisper she’s no better than the next one—she with her fine gowns all laced with gold and each gown enough to keep a family for a year; and her ropes of pearls big as peas looped about her neck and falling to the waist; and each pearl enough to buy salvation!”
“Tears, not pearls, buy salvation,” he said.
“Gold buys honour; why not pearls salvation?” she asked mocking. “I remember when she came home again; it was before she got her wedding-ring—they were chaffering still like hucksters over the price of her honour. She saw me standing in the dirt of the road—she in her fine habit of green velvet and the feather buckled into her great hat—and she all-but rode me down. For I would not curtsey to her, not I. Aha, I thought, my fine little lady, you have not yet got your grand crown—the price is not high enough! And I hated her with her proud spirit and the cleanness of her body that hid the dirt within. And I wished it were she that lay in her grave instead of her brothers.”
“Then you are unjuster than my lady countess against whose justice you cry out. She did but send your girls home again; you would have sent hers to the grave.”
“And still would! My girls did no worse than her girl; yet they were brought to shame and thence to their hanging; for poverty and disgrace and witchcraft are spun upon one thread. But that girl, bred soft, her every wish granted before uttered, was laden with honours to cover her dishonours; yes, and a handsome husband to boot. But she shall have little joy of him. No, priest, I do not curse—that day is long past. But, alive or dead, it needs no witchcraft to know that man’s heart.”
She saw the grief in his face and said gently, “The little lady will wed again and there will be happiness . . . but you will not see it.”
“Shall her father see it?”
She nodded.
“I am glad of that,” he said, thinking of Francis with his stricken face sailing lonely down some mythical river in faraway lands. Why did he not come home again? He was not yet too old to beget an heir!
“Soon the curse will be lifted,” Joan Flower said. “It was for seven year; for seven year only and they are all-but run.”
“In seven years,” he said, “the heart grows weary.” And he remembered how month after month had gone by; month after hopeless month. Cecilia’s physician, Master John Atkins, coming down to the Rectory to smoke a pipeful of tobacco had said more than once, They are still torn with grief for the boys and with anxiety for the girl; and they are weak, also, from their own sickness. But things are on the mend, you will see!
Well, he had seen; seen again the procession of empty months! But still he had thought, There will be children. Why not?
“We could have told them why not!” Joan Flower answered his thoughts. “Margaret, indeed, was so driven by remorse that had we not kept her fast beneath our eye, in spite of her fear of the Master, I think she would have gone to the Castle and told all.
But if the months were barren for my lady, Philip’s months came to a fruitful end. She was delivered of her godling; a thin, dark brat with eyes like her own, slitted and dark-shining. He was a strong child but she did not care for him overmuch; for she found no sign of the God upon him—neither budded horns, nor tiny tail nor little cloven feet. She had hoped to give birth to an undoubted godling; yet this seemed nothing but a common child. I would watch her dark unloving face bent to the child that stared up to her, dark and unloving as herself. But we tended him as though he were indeed a godling; for we planned to carry him to the next Sabbath and offer him to the Master.
It was the Roodmas meeting—Mayday; the best of all our meetings. Springtime, when the sap rises in man and beast and trees alike. But now we did not welcome it; not even Philip sour with disappointment over her godling. Margaret had done no service since our Candlemas festival, not even though the Master had punished her then with his terrible lovemaking. What would happen to her this time? I dared not think of it; and the girl, herself, went about cowed and dumb. I think she had lost her senses.”
“Perhaps she had found them again.”
“Not she, priest. She was always weak in the wits; and fear had turned what little she had. A fool!”
“God has mercy on fools.”
“But not the Master,” she said, grim.
“And so God gains.”
“He is welcome to his fools!”
“You have a hard heart.” He sighed. “As for this Sabbath of yours—you do not speak of yourself. What had you to offer?”
“The best I could; but it was not much.” She shook a rueful head. “Having dealt with the family at the Castle, what was left in a village like ours? The same small bewitchings—a pig in fits; beer sour in the vat or milk in the pail; the well run dry, or a child fallen sick. Little things . . .”
“Little things are the things by which we live . . . or die. When you make hard lives harder, then you snuff the breath in the old and in the very young and in those that are sick. Your little things are hard enough, witch!”
“They added up!” she agreed, careless. “And Philip’s list was long enough. And she had the child. But we did not know how the Master would accept it. If He declared it his own son, then Philip was certain of his favour and I should share it—the Devil has his own honour, priest. But if He accepted it for sacrifice, only, then she must reckon with favour withdrawn; and she and I must walk warily. But, whichever way it went, it could not help Margaret. Each witch must do her part . . . and she had done nothing.
I remember how we set off—Meg stupid with misery; Philip, the child in the crook of her arm, silent and guarded; myself troubled—all three of us oppressed with foreboding of danger.
Even the journey could not raise my spirits. The neighing of horses, the howls of bewitched creatures driven through the sky, the wild cries of witches urging their mounts in frenzy to reach the sacred place—none of these things could make me forget what might be awaiting us. And, priest, this time it was not so much for myself I feared, nor yet for Philip. It was for my fool I was afraid.
And, as we went, I looked sideways at her, wondering where she would find courage to endure the thing the Master must lay upon her. She had, poor wretch, suffered more than one death already, fearing this Sabbath and weighed down with her sorrows. Reins slack in her hands so that I must catch them lest she fall, she looked already dying.
And so we came at last to the field of the Sabbath, that place to which I could never hasten fast enough . . . but this time I thought myself there too soon. Frost had fallen, frost in May! The ground was hard beneath our feet and, in the cold spring night, stars sparkled like the jewels in my lady’s rings. We should have to dance hard, I thought, to keep the blood flowing in our veins.
We greeted our friends, Philip and I; but Meg stood aloof, her lips locked in misery. I fancied we were not greeted as warmly as heretofore. I caught the look Joan Willimott sent to Ellen Greene; I saw the sly way they took Ann Baker, each by a shoulder, and turned their backs on us; nor were they the only ones. But I saw little Ann Baker steal back and touch the infant’s cheek with her finger-tip; and though the others called sharply, bidding her come, she would not listen but stayed guarding the child.
For all she pretended to notice nothing, Philip whispered very bitter that they should be punished, every one! But even she could not suppose the Mast
er would punish the whole coven for her sake.
And now it was time to take our places. Philip lifted the child that was all naked beneath the cloth and set him beneath a tree; and Ann sat beside him and would not leave him for all Joan Willimott’s urging.
So there we stood alone. Priest, there is no lonelier thing than to be forsaken by the coven; for there is no mercy from the Master; and there is no hope anywhere, for we have turned our back upon God.
I sat down in my place and I dared not raise my eyes; but I knew by the chilling of my blood before ever the silence fell and the great trumpet sang, that the Master was amongst us. And when I lifted my head at last, there He stood upon the altar stone.
We rose then and linked hands for the Adoration. It was a comfort to stand again in the accustomed ring, as though the very rites must protect us. And I was glad to feel another’s hand in mine, even though it was an unwilling hand put there not in friendship but in ritual only.
The Adoration done, came the Kindling of the Lights. I lit my candle with a steady hand though the heart fainted within me. And now the line moved forward again for the Kiss. It was this above all that I feared; nor was my fear less when He turned about to take the homage with the high honour of his mouth. I knew that, at times, He would condescend to one here and there He desired to honour; but to the assembly of covens—never.
But now it seemed that the whole assembly was, indeed, to be saluted with honour. One by one the witches knelt and He bent his head. Philip stepped forward, still linked as is our way, and knelt, eyes closed in worship. She took the Kiss and rose and stepped to the left.
And now my own turn had come. But, even as I knelt, He turned about and presented his buttocks. It was the usual form of salute and every part of the God is sweet and sacred; but, kneeling there, I felt my humiliation.
I gave the Kiss and stepped aside; and once more He turned Himself about to take homage from my neighbour upon the mouth. And so the linked line passed before Him; and every witch, down to the youngest child, kissed Him upon the mouth. And so it came to Margaret, standing in the lowest place. And, as she knelt, her hand, as if it had not strength, dropped from that of the neighbour.
She knelt unlinked before the Master.
The power that ran through our linked hands broke. I heard, as though it were one breath, the breath of all indrawn with fear. For all must stand linked when the Kiss is given, that is our custom, priest, unless the Master Himself break it.
He made no sign.
She raised both arms upwards in supplication. The God stared unseeing; an image in stone.
He had refused the Kiss.
She fell forward upon the ground; and the others wheeling about to come again to their places, trod upon her where she lay. For so it is with witches. Whom the Master loves, we love; and whom He hates, we hate. So there she lay until each one sat in his place again . . . and no hand outstretched to help her, not even mine, priest; least of all mine.
We sat unspeaking and we sat unmoving. Then the Captain blew with his trumpet and commanded us to put out our lights. So we sat there in the darkness and no man could see his neighbour. But all could see the God sitting there in the light that streamed between the sacred horns.
And now it was time for each one to proclaim his work in the Master’s service. But, as the first of us made a movement to stand, He rose; and, in the silence, He spoke.
‘There is a sickness amongst us.’ And his head moved to where Margaret lay face hidden, upon the ground. ‘Such a sickness is infectious.’ And his eyes came to rest upon me, so that I trembled afresh. ‘And it is a sickness that ends in death. Not only the death of the body—for that should bring your soul to Me; but in the rejection of the soul itself. And, if you are damned of God and rejected by Me, where then shall you turn?’
He stopped speaking; and we sat crouched in upon ourselves for fear of this Sabbath where the old established order was broken and no man knew what would happen next.
And in the silence He spoke again.
‘I will hear no more tonight. Nor shall there be singing nor the dances of our sacred rites; nor feasting nor coupling, nor any holy joy. Go, all of you in fear; and chasten well your souls, lest I chasten you more grievously. I say unto you this only thing. I am the old God, of all gods the oldest. In that moment of time when I created the world, I set therein both evil and good, that every living soul might make its choice. Servants, choose well. Let no evil pass from my world lest you throw away your portion in Me and in the life to come where the delights of the flesh never fail and my faithful feast with Me to all eternity.
Eternity. It stretches above and below, and to right and left of this little earth of yours; and the earth is lost within it. Eternity is so vast that your little human mind cannot compass its meaning. Yet it is in the little moment of time you call life that you must choose. And so I say, Look how you choose; you choose for eternity.’
And when He had finished speaking we bowed our heads to the ground; then the Captain blew upon the trumpet once more; and when we raised our eyes again the God was gone; and there was nothing in the place where He had stood but the burnt earth whereon his feet had rested. So we stood up, all of us, and without any word, turned our faces towards home. Only, as we went, we three together, there followed after us bitter words, because we had broken up the fellowship of sweet sinning and the great revels of the Sabbath.”
Joan Flower’s voice dropped into silence; and, in the quiet room, Samuel Fleming said softly, “And was that all?”
“Was it not enough, priest?”
He shook his head. “There is a thing you have forgotten. The babe you had left naked beneath the shawl upon the cold ground.”
She shrugged. “We forgot it. How should we remember so slight a thing in the fear of that Sabbath?”
“Did not your Master stoop to the child?”
“No, priest. He left the Sabbath and it lay still upon the ground. Maybe the Captain took it up . . . maybe not. As for us we did not enquire; nor did we see it ever again.”
“And this is your Master that cherishes little ones!”
“Everything in season, priest.”
“My Master had not done so,” he said. “With Him the least of these little ones is first.”
Chapter Sixteen
Samuel Fleming had not slept all night for thinking of Joan Flower. Once he had believed that, being certain of her guilt, he would be content—a man can do no more than his duty. Now, in the dark of the morning and sleepless still, he knew that to do one’s duty is not enough; or that he had failed to do it fully. He had sought to destroy her body; but wickedness is not destroyed with the body, it harbours still with the soul . . . and her soul he had not saved.
In his bedgown, he paced the study.
A soul to be saved. Did it matter whether he spoke face-to-face with her unquiet ghost; or whether she was a dream born of his own doubts, his own remorse?
“Ghost or dream, does it matter, priest?” And she was there, picking the thoughts out of his brain and smiling her sly smile.
He came back to his chair and regarded her, thoughtful. She was subtle and she was swift; and she had the wisdom of the dead. It behoved him, whatever she was, to be wary. So now he left her question unanswered. “Yes, the Devil does, indeed, cite holy Scripture for his own purposes!” he said as once before.
“Meaning?” But his mind held no secret from her.
“It is God,” he reminded her, “who demands that we do not throw away our portion in Him nor let good perish from the face of the earth.”
“I think, priest, that your god cites the Devil for his purposes.”
Quite suddenly, forgetting the need for wariness, he lost his temper.
“Beware how you blaspheme, lost as you are between heaven and hell.” And then, ashamed of his quick tongue, said gently, “If God withd
raw his pity, what will become of you then?”
She did not answer; but in the early light that crept through the greenish glass of his casement, he saw her translucent body tremble like water. “Nearly two years since I died,” she said, “but I know it only because of the calendar upon your table. Season follows season; but the sun does not warm my unhouselled spirit, nor winter blow cold in the coldness where I wander. Two little years; but already they have spelt out the great word the Master named; already I have tasted of eternity where time is timeless. I am weary and frightened of eternity.”
“Yet you were promised eternal joy.”
She made a gesture of impatience. “We were to choose. We were to choose between the delights of hell and the cold spaces of heaven.”
“But you did choose! You chose hell. Why then does your Master shut you out? Why do you wander lost in eternity?”
“I did not choose. I drifted on the tide; and the tide rose and carried me away. It swept us apart, all three—me and the daughters born of my body who had lived together, worshipped together, sinned together. Me it swept into empty space; Philip it swept into hell where she desired to be . . .”
“I doubt she desires it now!” he said, very dry. “And Margaret?” And now he was gentle again; gentle but insistent. “What of Margaret?”
“You know that already,” she said, sullen. “In heaven, as I think. Where else? She does not wander with me; nor, since she repented with a full heart, could the Master receive her. Where then but in heaven?”
His grave face crumpled to a sudden smile, and the smile broke into a chuckle so that she lifted her astonished head. “Oh,” he said and wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes. “It is clear you believe in the mercy of God. We shall catch that soul of yours yet.”
“I pray someone may catch it!” And there was no smiling in her. “But I would rather it was the Devil.”