by Hilda Lewis
Philip said, scornful and smiling, ‘The Master is well-served. Of all three, I, alone, am faithful.’
‘And you are still sure,’ I asked her, ‘that He will keep faith with us?’
‘Only if you keep faith with Him,’ she said.
‘And if we keep faith; and if prison and the rope come first, what taste shall we have for pleasure afterwards?’
‘Let not that concern you,’ she said. ‘You will not keep faith—neither you nor my sister.’ And then she said very bitter, ‘When the cart draws away and the rope drops and you with it; when the breath strangles in your broken neck and the eyes start from your head—then remember as your dying eyes turn upon Meg, that it was you with your fine speeches that brought her to the same death. As for me I shall not be there to remind you. I shall be sitting at the right hand of the Master.’
For a while we said nothing. I sat, sick with my fear, beaten down with my fear; and when I looked at Meg stretched upon the floor and the long shudders taking her from head to feet, I felt already some of the anguish of which Philip had spoken—when I should hang upon the rope remembering I had brought my daughter to this same pass. For what Philip had said about Meg and about me was true and I knew it; though I marvelled that she could bring her tongue to utter it.
Philip stood smiling upon us both; at me huddled in the chair, at Meg stretched along the floor. ‘It is a pity,’ she said all soft and smiling, ‘that you forswore the god whose son you adore for hanging upon the cross like any felon; though to my mind that is little worse than hanging upon a rope. Can you believe that one who lifted no finger to save his own son—and that son innocent—would stoop to save you who are not at all innocent? Can you be such a fool as to trust in him . . .’
‘. . . in whom the greater part of mankind trusts,’ I reminded her.
‘Whom the silly sheep follow—for he calls them sheep,’ she said, scornful. ‘The god of silly sheep will not save you, for you have taken yourself out of his hand. And if you deny the Master, He will not save you neither—for you will have taken yourself out of his hand, also.’
Her smiling eyes passed from me to where Meg lay asleep, her hand upon your cassock that hung upon a peg . . . where now it hangs. It was as though, in her sleep, she leant upon you for help. But you did not help her, priest. I sent my thanks that she should have this so small respite; but to whom I prayed I did not know.”
“Perhaps . . . to God?”
She shook her head. “Witches cannot pray to God; they have forgotten the way.”
Down the stone passage they heard the sound of feet; the door opened and Hester thrust in her head. She had put off her nightcap; and beneath fresh frills her still-dark hair fell in curls. “Have you slept a little?” she asked. “I see you have. But—Samuel! My candles!” And the rest of her followed. She wore her second-best silk and was trim as becomes a gentlewoman in the morning, from the ribands on her cap to the silver buckles on her shoes. “My best candles!” she said.
She stood on tip-toe and reached the lamp from its hook and lit it. She bent over and puffed out the candles, pinching the wick between finger and thumb lest they fill the room with their stink . . . and she did not see Joan Flower standing and watching in her dark corner.
Chapter Eighteen
Hester stayed while the flame lengthened and burned steady. And Samuel watched her, smiling.
“You are too careful,” he said. “I should think you a little miser if I did not know you better. There is no need to pinch and pare. We have enough to last us; yes, and a little to leave behind also.”
“The more we put by, the more there will be to leave. I think sometimes I should like to build a little school here, by the church. And I should like to teach in it, had I the time . . . and the gift; but since I have neither, why then I will save what I may so that others may build my little school. Or, if not a school, then a little house; or two houses maybe, or three, where old people—men or women, I care not which, since we are all God’s creatures—may sit in the doorway and sun themselves in the warm summer; and comfort old bones by their own hearth when winter comes.”
“Certainly we are all God’s creatures,” he said. “And though life is hard for those who are both poor and old, yet in general it presses harder upon women. And, besides, we have our charities for old men. So let your hospital be for the old women.” And he could not but wonder at the love between them so that, of her own accord, she had come so near his own thought on the matter.
“Well, I must think of it,” she said teasing. “I may alter my mind. Perhaps, after all, I should prefer . . .”
“A fine tomb?” he teased her in turn. “Like the one Francis has planned?”
“It is right Francis should have a very grand tomb,” she said gravely, pretending she had not noticed his teasing, “Francis is a very grand person. Besides, he is very rich; and certainly he will not be backward in his charities. But us it behoves to be careful, that when we are gone we may give back to God as much as we may.”
“You are right,” he said. “We will save the fine candles for fine company; and I will use the lamp when I sit alone. And indeed,” he wrinkled his nose, “the smell is company enough.”
“Thank you, Samuel,” Hester said. And then she said, a little anxious, “We should be careful; but not too careful. You keep the room too cold.”
“It is a very good fire,” he said, nodding towards the bright blaze.
“Why so it is!” she said. “And yet the room strikes chill. I must be getting old.”
“Nonsense!” he said. “You are nothing but a girl!”
She shook a reproving head; but she was pleased with his compliment all the same.
When she had gone, Joan Flower came from her corner and seated herself in the great carved chair. In the bright light she was almost transparent and he turned down the wick that he might see her better.
“You love her very much,” Joan Flower said.
He nodded. “She is my young sister.”
“Young? Why, she is brindled!”
“Still she is my young sister.”
“It must be good to be loved so,” Joan Flower said. “Not with the itching of the flesh but kindly, quietly, cherishing. No-one cared for me like that, ever.”
“John Flower?” he asked.
“According to his nature. Simple . . . as a beast.” She shuddered a little. “Had a man loved me ever, quietly, gently, I think I had not turned to base passions; nor away from God.”
“We lead the good life,” he said gently, “not because of the goodness of others but because of goodness within ourselves.”
“That may be,” she said, very drily, “but what others do to us may increase that goodness or lessen it.”
“But not kill it. There is always something that remains; a core of goodness, however small, that nothing can destroy.”
“You are right,” she said, suddenly humble. “Mistress Davenport has it; there goes a good woman. Had I that goodness—the smallest core—I had not ended thus, unhouselled.”
“I think there is some goodness left; or it would not be laid upon me to save your soul. So small a core—a speck; nothing more. Yet it will serve.”
“You are too persistent, priest. I do not want to be saved. I hanker still after the Master. Only in the sweet delights of hell shall I forget that day—the day they took my daughters and me.
How long we stayed imprisoned in this room I do not know. I had lost count of time. On the floor, holding still to your cassock, Margaret slept; but Philip wandered restless, touching a book with her finger-tip, or a picture or a chair.
At last we heard the sound of feet—quiet feet; but it shattered the silence as though all the weapons in the armoury at the Castle had fallen to the ground together. I turned about to face the door; it was ever my way to face trouble. Margaret opened her eye
s; fearful as I was for my own skin, I could yet pity the terror that leaped in her. She got to her feet and, like me, stood watching the door. But Philip went on looking at the book she held—and you would have sworn she read it; and she sang a little beneath her breath.
You came in then, priest, and two gentlemen with you, and a clerk also. One gentleman I did not know; but the other I knew well enough. It was Sir George Manners—and my heart all-but stopped its beat. I had taken him for his brother. They are much alike, except that the earl is sickly.”
“Thanks to you!” Samuel Fleming said.
She nodded, smiling.
“When I saw him I thought to myself, He at least should show us some mercy; he has good cause. Now there are no children to stand between him and a great inheritance—nor ever will be. Surely he will protect us.
He raised his head and looked at me; and there was loathing in his eyes. Loathing is worse than hatred, priest. Hatred is a human thing; but loathing is sick, unnatural. Whatever advantage he might draw out of this business, there would be no advantage for us.”
“And did you expect it, woman? The children—his brother’s children—bewitched to a cruel death; and that brother brought low in sickness?”
“You are too simple, priest, and blinded by your own goodness. Yes, I did expect it. Others in his place have paid great sums to do what we, unasked, unpaid, did for him. Nor would it have been at all strange if some pleasure did not lie deep hidden within his heart. And perhaps it did. For all of us—good and bad alike—are compounded of good and evil.”
“But the proportion is different,” he said, “and therein lies the difference between the man we call good and the man we call evil.”
She nodded, careless. “Sir George took his place in the middle of the table; you sat at his left and the other gentleman on the right. Meg stood there staring and unsteady on her feet; Philip laid down the book as though, any moment, she would take it up again; and still she smiled. As for myself, I stood, head low, lest they read my fear and my guilt.
Sir George opened his mouth; but he could not speak because of the loathing that was in him. We waited, all of us, while he took hold of himself and began again. It was to us he spoke; and the words he said were different from the words that simple people use; very hard to understand. And, harder still, because we were very much afraid. Even Philip, for all her smiling, was afraid.”
Samuel Fleming nodded, remembering that voice devoid of human warmth repeating the legal phrases; and how he himself had wondered what these women, ignorant and afraid, made of them.
Now he put his hand within the drawer that held his will and pulled out a copy of the charge, though he knew it well. God knows he had pored over it long and long enough!
“Joan Flower, widow of this parish of Bottesford in the county of Leicester, together with Margaret Flower and Philippa Flower your daughters, spinsters of this same parish, information has been laid against you and complaint made that in the year of grace sixteen hundred and twelve, by witchcraft and enchantments, by sorceries and devilish spells, you did all together contrive the death of Henry, Lord Roos, at Belvoir Castle in the county of Leicester; he being five years old and son and heir to the Earl of Rutland, so that after you had tormented him with divers fits and sicknesses, the said Lord Roos sickened and in the September of that same year, he died.
And it is also complained of you that he, being some six months dead, you did likewise torment Francis, Lord Roos, aged two years, son and heir to the Earl of Rutland of Belvoir Castle; so that in the March of the year of grace sixteen hundred and sixteen, he being five years old, too, sickened and died.
And you are further charged that during this time you did likewise torment with these same fits and sicknesses, their sister the Lady Catharine Manners, she being fourteen years of age.
And it has also been laid against you that even then you did not cease from your wickedness but tormented the noble lady their mother, the Countess of Rutland, together with the Earl her husband, so that they, too, fell sick of these same fits and for a long while continued.
And lastly you are charged that you cast abominable and filthy spells that this same Earl of Rutland and the lady his wife should have no more issue; and to this day they have had none.
Joan Flower, Margaret Flower and Philippa Flower, have you anything to say to all or any of these charges?
We did not answer,” Joan Flower nodded, her eye on the document. “Indeed, we could not; not even Philip. For the charge was very long and many words hard to understand. And while we stood turning them about in our mind, you, priest, spoke, using the words simple folk can understand.
‘You are accused all three of you of witchcraft. And that by wicked spells you brought about the death of Henry, Lord Roos and Francis his brother; and you are further accused of bewitching the Lady Catharine—although by God’s Grace not to her death. Also you are accused of bewitching my lord the Earl and the lady his wife so that they fell into a sickness from which they are not yet recovered. And, lastly, you are accused of bewitching them still further, that they may have no more children.
Now tell us, each of you, whether you are guilty or innocent of these charges—all, or any one of them.’
You looked at me, priest, and you waited for me to speak. I lifted my head and would have looked you full in the face but I could not. ‘We are not guilty,’ I said and my eyes were on the ground.
‘Speak for yourself alone,’ you said quite gently; but Sir George from his place in the great chair cried out, ‘You had best speak the truth at the beginning. For, if not, we have the means to make you!’
‘I am not guilty,’ I said.
‘Margaret Flower,’ he said next, ‘consider well of your answer. You have heard the charges. Are you guilty or not?’
Margaret, her face white and crumpled like cheesecloth, could not speak. Sir George waited as though he would wait till Doomsday. At last, a hand to her throat, she whispered, ‘I am not guilty of the charges.’
But Philip hardly waited for him to have done with Meg. She said, very bold, ‘I serve the Master whom I adore. I am now and forever his servant.’
‘Woman,’ Sir George said, ‘we ask you a plain question. Do you answer as plain. Philippa Flower, are you guilty of all—or any—of the charges?’
‘I acknowledge no guilt,’ she said. ‘I serve my Master as a good servant should.’
‘Who is your master?’ he asked her then.
‘My Master is the God,’ she told him.
‘And what is his name?’
‘Do you not know the name of God?’ she mocked him.
‘I ask you the name of your god, which is, I fancy, a very different thing from mine. And I ask you also—Are you a witch?’
She said, very steady, ‘My God is the Devil; and I am his witch.’
You groaned then, priest; but Sir George leaped in his seat, his hand upraised as though to strike; and the other gentleman touched him upon the arm. Sir George stood looking from left to right as though he knew not what he did standing there, and his arm fell and he sank down again. Then you spoke, priest, and you looked sick to death. ‘It has happened before that a man has confessed to crimes he never committed, being driven by a most wicked pride. So it may be with this woman.’
‘Why do we shilly-shally?’ Sir George cried out. ‘We have the testimony of the witnesses.’
‘Witnesses have sworn false before now,’ you said. ‘It is our duty to examine these women—whether to send them forward to the Assize or no; and it is a matter of life and death.’ Sir George made a movement of anger and the other gentleman spoke; and I remember his name now, it was Lord Willoughby from over at Eresby. ‘We are met to serve the cause of justice. Joan Flower,’ and he nodded at me, ‘we begin with you. Here is the Bible; take it in your right hand . . .’
‘Bible?’ Sir George cried
out very bitter, ‘what is the Bible to such as these?’
‘Still, it is the custom,’ Lord Willoughby said.
And, as I took the book in my hand, I knew quite certainly, that though the Master should save Philip, He had forsaken Margaret as He had forsaken me. And I knew that I must save myself—if I could. So I repeated the oath in the name of your god and since nothing happened—no fire either from heaven or hell to strike me down—I was resolved to lie myself into safety if it could be done; lie and lie and lie again.
‘I am innocent of every charge. I am no witch, worshipful lords, nor never was.’ I saw Meg’s face turn to me in sudden hope; I saw the face of Philip all twisted with her anger. I went steadily on.
‘I never in my whole life bespelled any living creature, neither for good nor evil; for witchcraft, be it white or black, is an abomination to God. Nor, indeed, could I have cast any spell seeing I know not the way, nor have I the power.
‘As for the little lords, how should I harm them that were such sweet little lords? No, sirs; I loved them; and I loved also the lady their mother that was a good lady to me and to my daughters. As for my lord Earl, I have not worked ill against him, nor yet thought ill against him, my life long; but as God hears me, have blessed him always for his goodness and . . .’
‘Woman,’ Sir George cut me off, very sharp, ‘beware how you forswear yourself. We have witnesses against you; and against your familiars, and against all your works.’
‘Sir,’ I said bold enough but my heart shook, ‘there is nothing any man can charge against us.’
‘Yet they have charged you,’ Sir George said and read out from the paper before him, ‘Ann Baker of Bottesford, Ellen Greene of Stathorne, Joan Willimott of Goodby; and there are other witnesses also.’
I almost died in my place. It was a thing I had not dreamed of. For, if they betrayed us, we should betray them—and they knew it. And why should they put their heads into the noose? Surely it was a trick to make us betray ourselves!