by Hilda Lewis
And all the time his voice went on sharp and clear but I missed the beginning of the testimony being all confused in my mind.
‘. . . and Joan Willimott declares that when she went into your house she saw your familiar spirit; and it was in the shape of a white cat. And when it had sucked you beneath the right ear it made as though to suck upon her but she beat it off.
‘And Ellen Greene says that you told her the Earl had dealt badly with you; and though at this time you could not have your will of him, you had espied his elder son and had stricken him to the heart and that you had sent a white spirit to do it, which spirit was in the shape of a cat which you call Rutterkin; and this spirit, Ellen Greene also saw.
‘And the witness Ann Baker says that meeting with you in the wood, you raked up some earth and spat upon it and worked it with your finger and put the stuff into your pocket. And you said since you could not hurt the Earl himself, you would speed his second son who is now dead.
‘And these testimonies are not of enemies but of your known friends.’
‘Sir,’ I said, ‘Ann Baker is simple, being short in the wits and this all Bottesford knows; and the Reverend Rector knows it also. As for Joan Willimott and Ellen Greene, those are good ones to believe! They are witches if ever there was one! For Joan Willimott, she has a familiar called Pretty and it is very swift and cunning. And it was she that coaxed Ellen Greene to the Devil, as many a time she has boasted. And it was Joan Willimott that bewitched the wife of Anthony Gill over at Stathorne after she had quarrelled with him; and the goodwife vomited pins and needles and so died. And she bewitched their child also and . . .’
‘It is not Joan Willimott we consider now,’ Lord Willoughby said, ‘it is you we are questioning; you, Joan Flower.’ But I saw how the clerk that sat by wrote down my words against Joan Willimott and I was glad. For, if I must come by my death, she that had informed against me should come with me.
‘You say that Joan Willimott lies,’ Sir George said sudden and sharp. ‘Why should she testify against you, being innocent and her friend?’
‘Sir, it was because when the tales went about her—that she was a witch, I would no longer be friends.’
He frowned down upon his papers. ‘She was with you in your house, it is but a week ago.’
‘No, lord,’ I said. And why should my word not stand against hers?
‘If she was a witch and you knew it; and if you were none,’ Sir George said, ‘why did you not name her to the justices as is your duty, laid down in the acts of our lord the King?’
‘Sir, what do I know of the law? And, besides, I did not know at that time whether the tales were false or true.’
Then, priest, you spoke; and though you were gentle, it was you I feared most. For your heart was not set on revenge but on declaring the name of your god and rooting out wickedness for his sake. ‘Joan Flower, you did not know the tales to be true; and now you do know it. When did you discover the truth? And how?’
It was a question I did not expect and I could not answer it. ‘Joan Willimott . . .’ I began.
‘Joan Flower,’ you interrupted, ‘must we warn you again that it is you, not Joan Willimott, that are the business of this court.’
‘Sir,’ I said, ‘I am a simple woman and not quick to answer. But I am innocent and so I declare to my last breath. You have known me, priest, for many years and you have baptized my daughters—which is a sign that we are Christian folk. And, though, to my shame, I come not often into church, it is a fault I share with many. For if all those who come not into church be named witch, why then you must hang the greater part of this country—gentle and simple alike.’
I saw Lord Willoughby’s hand go up to hide a smile and I went on boldly, ‘As for the tales that go about me—who knows what will kindle hatred in a wicked heart?’
‘But God knows,’ I said, and now I had grown bold, indeed. ‘And He will make it plain. You know—all of your worships know—that bread, which is the blessed body of our Lord, will not pass into the body of a witch but will stick within the gullet; nor can it by any means be dislodged. And so it will choke her. Bring me the blessed wafer and let God judge.’ ”
“Were you not afraid of your blasphemy?” Samuel Fleming asked her now.
“I was afraid of nothing but the rope. And, besides, I had held the blessed wafer upon my tongue more than once. Witches prize such holy things; for when they have been desecrated we use them for our deadliest spells. And once, priest, I had come to church to steal a wafer; and feeling your eye upon me I swallowed it . . . and no harm befell me. The saying was an old nonsense and I knew it. But you did not know it; and the others did not know it.
But you, priest, cried out, ‘I will not have the holy wafer upon her tongue. If she be a witch then it is desecration. I will be no party to it.’
Then I said, ‘Sirs, try me with bread; for bread and holy wafer are one. Bread, also—save it has been first blessed to the Devil’s service—will not pass through the bowels of a witch; and this all Christians know. Try me then and see.’
‘I will have no tricks,’ Sir George Manners said. ‘There are other ways to discover a witch. There are . . .’ and he fixed me with cruel eyes, ‘witchmarks. Let her be searched.’
I saw your eyes, priest, and you were not willing—you were ever delicate in your dealings. You leaned across and asked the others to consider my request. At first they would not listen; then you said, ‘If God settles this thing here and now, then we are spared much misery.’
‘But the children were not spared,’ Sir George said.
‘Shall we leave that to God?’ you asked, priest. ‘Now we seek out justice and not revenge.’ And Lord Willoughby agreed; and you were two to one. So you went to the door that no-one should come in and you called for bread; and, since you are a merciful man, you commanded it should be well-buttered.
So there you sat; and there I and my daughters stood. And we waited—all of us—while they brought the bread. And, so standing, I asked myself what I could hope to gain from this. For though I swallowed the bread without choking, Sir George certainly, and Lord Willoughby, perhaps, would not accept it—a sign of innocence. Still it was a chance. What did you hope from it, priest?”
“A sign from God, perhaps. Or perhaps a little respite—time to consider this horrible thing. I am as good a justice as any man, I hope; and my heart as strong to search out evil to punish it. That is the duty of any man; especially if he be a Justice of the Peace and a priest of God, likewise. I knew in my heart that you were guilty; yet how gladly would I have been proved wrong. You, Joan Flower, that I had known as a young woman . . .”
“A pretty young woman,” she reminded him, smiling out of sly eyes.
“You cannot forget that, though your body lies in the grave,” he said.
“Nor can you, priest; or so it seems.”
“As for your daughters, I had—as you reminded us—baptized them both. You had done much amiss, all three. You had lived lewdly; you had stolen; you had been a grievous vexation to your neighbours. And for those things you deserved punishment. But witchcraft. That was a thing I desired to leave with God. So when you offered to prove your innocence with bread—with bread that is so common and so sacred—I was glad. It would take, perhaps, the hateful burden from me.”
“As it did, priest. And so we waited. And yet, I suppose the time was not long. Behind your table you justices sat very still. You, priest, I remember, held your head between your hands.
Philip stared at me with her wicked smile. It was as though she cried aloud, Do you hope to save yourself by so cheap a trick? You have betrayed the Master. Now He will betray you. But there was still hope in Meg’s pale eyes. She knew how often we two had eaten our daily bread and it had gone down smooth as butter for all we had forgotten to bless it in the Devil’s name . . .”
At his puzzled look she laughed a
loud. “Do you not say your Grace before Meat, priest? So with us—or should be. And, especially it is so with water—which you use for baptism; and for bread—which you use for sacrament. These two things we are commanded to bless in the Devil’s name lest they choke us. Yet at times I had both eaten and drunk and forgot the blessing . . . and no harm done. So to ask for bread there in your room seemed no great risk.
I stood there and I was very tired. I was not young and I was very frightened and my body craved for rest. My legs began to shake under me. But not one of you fine gentlemen thought to let me sit down.”
“There is no sitting for a prisoner in any court,” Samuel Fleming said. “Yet . . . I wish we had given you a chair.”
“I thought it must be growing towards dusk; I couldn’t see very well. I could just make out you three justices dark and unmoving behind the table; and the figures of Meg and Philip; but I was not sure which was which. That troubled me a little . . . not seeing; because outside the sky was white; the sort of low, white sky you get on a winter afternoon. The white sky hurt my eyes; it was like a sharp knife running round my head. And then, suddenly, I felt it in my head, inside my head. I bit on my lips to keep myself crying out with pain. But worse than the pain, even, was the worry because of the two lights. I knew it was daylight because of the white sky. I knew it was night because of the darkness . . . night without candles. I said to myself, I am frightened and I am hungry. Soon the bread-and-butter will come; and it will go down into my empty belly and I shall be well again. And then they will let me go home.
It was dusk in the room and it was dusk in the garden; I couldn’t see the white sky any longer. It was dark everywhere. And, in the darkness, I heard a voice say—and I think it was your voice, priest, Here is the bread.
And I reached out my hand.”
Chapter Nineteen
“I reached out my hand. I felt the smooth scrubbed edge of the wooden platter. I took up the bread. And all the time I wondered that you had not lit the candles and I must find my way in the darkness.”
“It was full daylight,” he told her gently.
“I know that . . . now. You were standing by me and I could just make out the whiteness of your face. I think you were praying. Were you praying?”
“Yes, I was praying.”
“For . . . me, priest?”
“For you and for all lost souls.”
“My legs were shaking so that I could scarcely stand. My head felt as though it had been cut to the bone; and I knew what the dumb beast feels when they slaughter him. I caught hold of the table to steady myself and I heard the voice of Sir George Manners come through my darkness, ‘Stand up straight, woman. For now you stand face-to-face with God.’ But I dared not leave the safety of the table. With my left hand I held on still; and with the right I lifted the bread-and-butter and I put it between my lips.
And suddenly there was a roaring in my ears; and, in the blackness, wheels of fire went turning; and lightning zigzagged and darted. And I heard a voice speaking—a strange voice, thick and strangled and slow. Master! the voice said; and I did not know it for my own. And after the voice—a whimper; like a little dog when it is whipped; not human. And that voice, too, I did not know for my own. I put out my two hands—whether to the Master or to the little whipped dog I do not know; to the dog, perhaps, since I have always loved small creatures. I put out my hands and I fell down into the darkness. . . .”
She looked at Samuel Fleming’s face in the lamplight; there were tears in the old man’s eyes.
“You fell into the darkness,” he said. “And your face was twisted and your eyes were blind and your mouth dropped. Sir George leaped to his feet and stood looking down at you. ‘God has spoken,’ he said; but there was no triumph in him. ‘The matter is out of our hands. There is a case to answer.’
And even while he spoke I looked down at your body, and I thought, A stroke . . . natural, perhaps. An old woman, tired and frightened. And then I thought, Even so, still God has answered; He does not need to speak in miracles.
‘They had best go to Lincoln,’ Willoughby said. ‘If we grant them bail the people will tear them to pieces.’
‘Or their Master the Devil carry them away, which God forbid!’ George Manners said. ‘They shall hang. When I think of the children—Henry and little Francis—I could string the creatures up with my own hands. Dear God, we are too merciful in this country of ours. We should do as they do elsewhere . . . burn.’ And then, priest, you said a strange thing,” Joan Flower said softly. “‘Does that prevent witchcraft elsewhere? And does it save souls?’ ‘But it hurts the body,’ Sir George said. Priest, I heard it all; not with my earthly ears, for I was deaf as well as blind. But I heard with the ears of my soul that had slipped a little way from my body.
My body lay twitching and whimpering; my soul, half-released as though upon a chain, might a little wander. I stood beside you, priest, and looked down at the ugly thing that was yet myself . . . the blue face, the starting eyes, the twisted jaw; and I prayed the Master that I might never return into it.
You said, priest, ‘If they are for Lincoln I will have the cart made ready. Take the two young women; but not this one. She would die on the way. I think she is dying already.’
‘No cheating of the gallows,’ Sir George Manners said; and there was no pity in him.
‘Leave her or take her,’ you told him, priest, ‘still she will cheat the gallows.’
‘I am with Manners in this,’ Lord Willoughby said. ‘This may well be a trick of the Devil to cheat us all. I have heard of such things.’ Then, priest, since it was two to your one, you nodded and you all went out, together with the clerk that was with you. And the door closed and the key turned in the lock. And you left the silence behind you.
Philip on the one side and Margaret on the other stared down at me where I lay twitching and whimpering; yet my body felt nothing; nothing at all. Nor was there any fear in me for what might come; nor any joy because I had cheated the gallows. Nor was there any hope of being forgiven by the Master nor any thought of God; nor any pity for my daughters who, through me, must come to the rope. My soul, priest, was too-new free to feel anything. It hung like a sickly bud upon a frail stalk; and that stalk was joined to my body like a newborn child to its mother.
Meg’s face stared with horror; she could not take her eyes from me. Philip stared, too; though she no longer smiled I knew the satisfaction in her. ‘You see,’ she told Meg, ‘what comes of denying the Master?’ And she stirred me with her foot. ‘And death by the rope is yet more horrible. But that need not concern you. You will never come to it—if you are faithful. But, if you deny Him, nothing can save you. So you see you must cry out the truth in a loud voice.’
‘Yes,’ Meg said, ‘yes . . . but they will make me speak and I shall betray Him. I am not brave like you . . . I am not brave at all.’
‘You will need to be brave and brave, indeed, to deny the Master,’ Philip said. ‘You know well what they will do to you. You will suffer at the hands of the searchers, and at the hands of the tormentors, and at the hands of the hangman. And when all these have done with you—you will suffer at the hands of the Master. In case you have forgotten, let me remind you what will happen.
First the searchers. They will search your body for the Devil’s Mark; and they will search also for the place where you suckle your spirit. They will part every hair. No crack or crevice will be free of their eyes. And when they have found the marks, they will be at you to make you speak. They will torment you in a hundred ways—starve you, walk you, keep you from sleep—until you can bear it no more and you will tell them the truth. So you see, it is best to tell it at the first.’
Margaret went on staring down at me. You would have thought she did not hear . . . save that her hands crept up to her ears. The voice of Philip went on steady, unhurrying as water forcing its way through a crack.
‘Of the hangman and what he will do to you, I need not speak. You have heard for yourself how the breath strangles and the throat chokes and the lungs burst; you have seen the burst eyeballs swim in blood and the blue face and the broken neck. You have seen a hanged man before, yes and smelt him, too!
And then, your earthly torment being over at last—and it will seem eternity until you face eternity itself—you will crawl at the feet of the Master but He will not look at you. He knows better how to punish than any earthly man . . . and it is a punishment that will go on for ever. What you may suffer here will be a feast and a brief one, by the side of it.’
I lay there, my blind eyes staring and seeing nothing; but the eyes of my soul, my soul that was all-but free, saw all. The cord between my soul and my body was growing thinner, growing longer, stretching itself out; soon it must snap and I be free.
Free to what? I didn’t know. Had I known I might have agonized to keep within the body, preferring human shame and human torment to the loneliness of the void between heaven and hell.
The fire had burnt low. In the hearth a log crumbled and fell. A small noise, priest, and my body did not heed it. But the cord that held the soul quivered like a bowstring and all-but snapped; for the almost naked soul was not accustomed as yet to the noises of the world.
The wood turned to ash; the winter twilight crept into the room. My soul began to shiver. But it was not with cold; I had done with human warmth, human cold for ever. And it was not with fear of the body; I had done with that, also. Nor did I pity as yet those two that stood on either side. Yet I felt fear—their fear—striking against the naked soul.
And still it went on . . . the room dark and growing darker; and the room cold and growing colder. And those two, their faces colourless as the snow outside; even Philip had lost some of her courage now. Cold and hungry and frightened and alone; prison in front of them and death ahead of them. And on the floor, for company, the dying, twisted thing that had been their mother.