by Hilda Lewis
“You must give up all hope from him—if hope be the word. He has forsaken you. Do not keep God waiting too long. You would do well to come to Him before it is too late.”
“Though his mercy endures for ever?” she asked quick and sly.
“You have scored a point,” he told her. “But be not puffed up about it. With God points do not always add up. He has his own divine arithmetic. And your spirit, your proud spirit, shall yet be broken.”
There was silence between them. Then, “How dark it is!” he said and felt in the pocket of his bedgown for his spectacles and polished them and settled them upon his nose. “These November days!”
“I think there is a storm to come,” she said.
For all the broadening day it grew darker in the room, and he reached up to light the candles in their sconces. The clear flames stretched upward; light began to spread in the room so that her pale face floated misty; and when the light was bright and steady he could hardly see her. She drifted into a niche between his book-shelves which the light could not quite illumine and the shadow gave her once more the illusion of substance.
“You doubt Philip’s desire to be in hell?” she said suddenly. “Why should she not desire it? Hell is a fine place—fair women and lusty men—very different from your cold heaven where there is neither marriage nor any sweet joy of the flesh. And the table is forever set and the wine forever poured, they say. And the soft bed forever waiting, they say that, too; and there . . .”
“They say, they say!” He interrupted, impatient. “Who are they that say, tempting your sick soul with vain imaginings? Listen now to what I say! I’ll tell you what it is, this hell you so ardently desire. It is the black pit of torment; it is forever dark night, for no sun ever shines. Yet there is a sort of light, also; and from such a light may God protect us! For it is a place of burning—of smoking brimstone and raging coals, where the soul fries to all eternity. And what eternity may mean you have already an inkling. And there you may turn in the flames, turn and burn. And the devils will prod you with their toasting forks and push you back, all writhing, into the fire.”
“You may know about heaven, priest—that is your province. But—hell? Why should I believe you rather than the Master?” She shook her dark head. “Yours is a tale to win timid souls; to catch them for your cold heaven where they will freeze to the end of time.” And she shivered in the warm room. “No, priest, if one way or another there is to be everlasting torment, let me, at least, be warm.”
He found himself smiling at this; indeed, he was hard put to it not to laugh outright. She said, very grave, “To be tormented by bitter cold is no laughing matter; the poor know that well.”
He recovered himself, saying gravely enough, “Who told you your tale of hell? It was the one you call Master . . . a Master that has broken faith with you. He is not to be believed, seeing that he is the arch-deceiver, the Prince of Lies.”
He saw the anger flame in her eyes. “It was I that broke the faith—how many times must I tell you? I denied Him, breaking the bond.”
And now they were silent in the quiet of the room with the steady-burning candles, remembering, both of them, that denial and the manner of her dying. She stood now so motionless in her shadowed place that, save for the coldness that streamed from her, it was hard to believe her there at all.
He sat head bowed on hand, remembering the day they took Joan Flower and her daughters. Never, as long as he had breath within him, could he forget it.
He had gone up to the Castle to bid his friends Godspeed; it was drawing towards Christmas and they were going, according to their custom, to wait upon the King at Whitehall.
“I have no joy in this journey,” Francis had said, “save to pray at the grave of my little son. But then—I leave my other son behind.”
“Do you not know,” he had asked Francis then, “that I pray for the children when I rise up in the morning and when I lie down at night?”
“I know,” Francis said.
“And if it will comfort you I will pray doubly for Henry while you are away.”
“Dear friend, do so,” Francis said. “It is a big grave for so little a child to lie alone.”
It was then that he noticed how ill Francis looked. He had known, of course, that they had suffered, both Francis and Cecilia, from those same fits that had killed the children. Yet he had not feared for Francis—Francis was a man and strong. He saw now how the sickness had wasted his friend’s strength. And even while his heart stood still with fear, Cecilia came in. And, eyes opened, he saw that she did not walk like the young woman she was, but with the slow care of old age.
“Should you not consult a physician when you are in London?” he asked gently, his heart shaken with fear for these dear friends.
“Master John is good enough!” Francis said. “We have been ill; but thanks be to God, we have shaken off the fits. Soon, by his mercy, we shall be strong again.” He took his wife’s hand and held it.
But soon he let it slip and stood up and wandered restless about the great room. Suddenly he stopped short and said, a little bitter, “We have taken our afflictions as from the hand of God. Our souls were glad to bear the burden—though the flesh was not always so willing—for why are we here if not to testify to his goodness? But now . . .” His thin hand went to his forehead, “I don’t know . . . I don’t know. There are tales; and I begin to ask myself whether our afflictions are truly from God or . . . from the Devil. It is a shocking thing to have to ask. But the time has come to ask it.”
“The tales,” Cecilia said, “oh, they are horrible!” and she covered her face with her hands.
“Do you believe them?” he asked, grieving that they who had borne their afflictions christianly should be driven to question them now.
She spread frail hands. “It is hard to know what to believe; yet I cannot, cannot believe them true. They are not good women, the Flowers; they are idle and very dissolute, but it is a long way thence to witchcraft. Drunkards and thieves and strumpets may yet have human hearts. And the children . . . so good, so sweet, so dear and so patient! It is hard to believe any human creature should torment them so.” Her voice broke. She recovered herself, spoke in a firmer tone. “These are, after all, women we know; women who have eaten our food, taken our wages, worked for us with their hands. How can such women be witches?”
“You may find a witch anywhere,” Francis said, “even in God’s holy church, wearing the robes of his sacred office.”
Still he himself had not answered. Rector of this dear parish, he wanted to believe with Cecilia that the known person—the member of one’s flock, of one’s own household—cannot be entirely strange, entirely evil. But he could not rest upon his desire. For, “Do you believe these terrible tales?” Cecilia asked him.
He said, very slow, “I have not believed them, because, God forgive me, I have not wanted to believe them. But now . . .”
“Now,” Francis said, “it is time to consider them.”
“But,” Cecilia said again with that sad, uncertain movement of the hands, “women who came to pray with us, to weep with us! It goes beyond reason; the mind refuses.”
“God will reveal all in his good time,” Francis told her gently.
After that, they had bidden each other Goodbye. “We shall be sad, missing you,” he had told them, standing by the carriage, his hand in that of Francis. “Come back soon.”
“As soon as may be,” Francis promised, grim. “Nothing but duty would carry me hence now. But we shall think much of the matter, as you may believe. And do you, Samuel, consider it, also.”
“It is well that we have time before us,” Cecilia said, lifting her worn face. “This concerns the lives of three women; it must not be dealt with in haste.”
“By the time the lord and the lady were home, I lay in my grave.” Joan Flower spoke softly from her shadowed
place so that he started, forgetting she was there.
“Yes, I lay in a dishonoured grave and my daughters lay in prison. You could have spared them much anguish, priest, by stringing them up without waiting for a trial. There was enough against them; why were they tormented to make them speak?”
“It was not torment but Christian charity. They were questioned that they might confess and save their souls.”
Her mocking laugh made nonsense of his answer.
“That morning!” she said. “Just before Christmas. And the snow deep; and the holly all green and red; and the children running about and screaming for joy in the crisp cold weather, their cheeks redder than any berry. But we sat indoors, we three; and we were silent. The tales that had been slow-gathering were fast-gathering now; and the words that had been whispered were shouted; and though the lord and lady had gone away meaning to leave all till their return, I knew in my heart that our time had come.
Meg trembled too; but whatever Philip thought in her heart she went about singing; yet it needed no quick ear to know her voice was flat without true tone.
As we sat there we heard the voices of mothers calling their children within. And now it was quieter than natural at such a time when the goodwife is busy within doors and the goodman without; and the children gathering green branches feel the festival in their blood.
It was well I had brought a stock of wood within, for this day I would not open the door to bring in wood, nor water, no, nor even to relieve myself. In the quiet house there was no sound from without or within, except Philip’s dreary singing that seemed the music of our fears. And my house seemed no longer strong enough to protect us; but a small thing—like a beehive, perhaps—that a man could lift and carry away. Then the bees will be shaken from it; and, if it be the wrong season, they must die. It seemed to me then that there was no safety within our house from the hands of men. And I was right . . . I was right.
Time dragged. Hour after hour. Endless. Nothing to do but sit and wait; listen and wait. And though I have never taken kindly to household tasks, liking better to gad about or sit within and dream, this day, dreaming was a terror and I would have welcomed any task.
And then, in the quiet, I heard a low murmur, like the humming of wasps, angry wasps . . . but there are no wasps in midwinter. I looked across at Meg. Lost in her own dark and fearful world, the outside world passed her by. Philip sat, looking neither to right nor left, her whole being set to listen. I wondered whether in that moment she, too, was afraid.
I did not know. We were lost, each one, in her own lonely world; and I thought, We worship together, sin together, feast together . . . but each must bear the judgment alone.
And now it was no longer a murmuring but a loud crying out—curses and threats and foul names. And out of the mess of ugly sound, one word rising clear.
Witch.
It fell upon my heart like a stone. And now, stones, too, began to fall. They ripped across my window; but horn is tougher than glass and the stones fell harmless. We heard feet tramp about the house . . . the little house that a man might lift with his hand. And all the time we heard the screaming of one word; that word I had once thought so proud a name; but now I knew it to be accursed.
Meg lifted her head. At the sight of her face I did then what I had thought never to do again—for she was a full woman. But she was frightened; and she was my child. I held out my arms and she came to me and put her head on my breast; and she slipped upon her knees and knelt, clipping me about the middle, her face hidden by the pale fall of her hair. Philip stood a little apart; her head was up but there was neither smile nor fear in her face.
Which of my girls to pity more, priest, I did not know—Margaret scared as an animal is scared, knife at throat; or Philip stiff with her pride, denying all fear.
Suddenly I heard battering at the back of the house; now they were attacking front and back alike. Billhooks and scythes were thrust through my windows; and stones followed them. I heard my door strain and groan against the weight of their bodies; I heard the crash as it gave way; and the room, the little room that was home and that I was never to see again—and I think I knew it even then—was full of faces; and each face hated us and wished us ill.”
“How many times had you wished others ill?” he asked, grave.
“But we were three—three only against three hundred.”
“You had set yourself against those with whom you dwelt. You should have known that one day they would set themselves against you; you should have known you must face their anger.”
“Yes, we faced it!” She nodded and sighed. “There they were, hate and violence blazing out of their eyes . . . the eyes of your good folk, priest.
They took us and they dragged us to the pond; and all the time they screamed out, Swim, Swim them! And we planted our feet and we would not budge; but all the same they dragged us inch by inch. Meg they had caught by the hair, the long fine hair; it was Peate’s wife that had it wound about her wrist. And Philip’s arm they twisted against her back; and they had torn her bodice so that her breast was bare; and me they pricked on with a goad. So they got us at last to the pond and the noise of their screaming filled the air.
It was Philip that saved us for that time, priest. She saved us with the sound of your name. They had already thrown Meg upon the ground and they were tying the ropes about her crosswise, thumb to great toe. She lay there and did not offer to struggle; she was like one already dead. And a pity it was she did not die.”
“Even though God saved her in the end?”
“Because God saved her in the end. What does a witch want with God?”
“You will be very glad of Him long before the end,” he told her.
She hunched an impatient shoulder.
“They put their hands upon Philip and upon me. The strength was out of me and I could not stand . . . I was no longer young, priest. But Philip. There was a different story! For she made no movement to resist but stood out-staring them; and they fell back and no man dared touch her.
‘The first one that lays a finger upon me shall die!’ she cried out and a woman laughed; and it was Peate’s wife. She came forward and lifted a hand to strike Philip in the face. And—we all saw it—it stayed there stiff in the air and she could not move it; she could not move it forward to strike; nor yet could she return it. Nor did she have the use of that arm, and has not, even today; and that is a thing you know well. So she stood there and she was afraid; she was very much afraid. And Philip turned a dark look full upon her and she fell to the ground and her face was twisted.
Then the others fell back a pace further. And Philip cried out, ‘Lead us to the priest and let him judge. He is a good man and he hates witches as much as you do. If you carry us to him we will not struggle against you nor work you any harm.’
Mother Simpson cried out, ‘God is the greater judge. Swim them!’
Philip said nothing. She pointed to the ground where Peate’s wife lay stiff with her blind and twisted face. They were afraid then, each man for himself; and they agreed to do as Philip said. So we struggled no longer—for what could we do among so many? And Philip whispered in my ear, ‘Have no fear. The Master will save us all.’ But she was wrong; wrong. It was her own quick wit that saved us for that one time; and the Master lifted no finger then . . . or afterwards.”
“And even then you did not stop to consider what sort of Master you served?” Samuel Fleming asked.
“Priest, you question like a child! I was in no state to consider anything. For the moment we were saved and I thanked my God with all my heart.
And what happened next you know well enough. For they brought us to you where you sat quiet within your room . . . this room,” she said as though in wonder. “And I thought, To be so safe! A man can seek no greater happiness.”
“Yet I was not happy,” he told her, gentle. “I had returned f
rom bidding those I loved, Farewell; and so sick they looked I thought it might be farewell indeed. And I returned to face the tales I had heard against you. The time was come for judgment. Judging is a lonely thing.”
“Being judged is lonelier. And how nearly we were not judged at all!” She put up a hand as though, even now, she felt blood upon her face. “I tell you, priest . . .”
A tap fell on the door. Hester in bedgown and nightcap came into the room.
“I saw your light,” she said. “You are early awake, Samuel; you would be the better for an hour or two in your bed. Well, now we are both wide awake I will go fetch you a hot drink. Yes, and you should have a fire, too.” Hand upon the door she stopped. “I could have sworn I heard voices. It is a habit that grows upon me. I had best beware.”
“Poor Mistress Davenport,” Joan Flower mocked.
“It is a shame to bewilder her so,” Samuel Fleming said.
“It will not be for long,” she promised, indifferent. “Let us be silent until she has brought you her hot drink and then we will consider more of the matter.”
Chapter Seventeen
Hester knelt by the grate; she raked the ashes and riddled them; picked out some small dry twigs and felt in her pocket for her tinderbox.
“I am ashamed to give you so much trouble,” her brother said.
“Trouble?” she was brisk. “I should have more trouble if you were laid up with a chill.” The dry wood was catching nicely and she picked up the bellows. “Besides, it will be a full hour before even Jennet is astir and she is always the first to rise.”
She picked up small pieces of sea-coal and laid them delicately, adjusting them a little so that they lay correctly and picked up the bellows again. The growing flames sent her nightcapped head bobbing upon wall and ceiling.
She watched him as, both hands about the silver tankard, he sipped at the mulled wine. Already there was more colour in his cheeks and his head nodded.