by Hilda Lewis
“Did it not, Sir Magistrate?”
He flinched. “I understand well enough that it is not a pretty place, and you could not expect it.”
She laughed; and he did not like the sound of her laughter. “Oh priest, priest, you hunt poor witches because you fancy we have bewitched some creature here and there . . . and maybe we have. But consider this. The creature we have bewitched dies in his own familiar bed; and about him are those who love him; and a surgeon perhaps; and certainly a priest. And there is weeping and there is praying to speed him on his way. But you, the righteous ones! You thrust us still living into the grave. For what are your prisons but an open grave where the flesh rots from bodies that are not yet cold? And that is no lie, priest, as you may see for yourself.
Your prisons are sinks of corruption and of foul cruelty. How could it be otherwise? Without a heart of stone your gaolers could not endure; their cruelty is armour against your cruelty. And, if they were not beasts, they themselves could not endure the filth. Before you condemn human flesh to such filth of body and spirit, you should know, priest, what it is you do. We were vile some of us; vile enough to die . . . but not vile enough to deserve your prisons; and some of us were not vile at all. Consider Ann Baker, her only sin a lack of wits. Your god cherishes fools—so we are told; but that was a fool he did not cherish.
But I run ahead of my tale. And in a measure, I am ungrateful, too. For it was through you that my daughters reached the gaol unhurt. Many a witch has had the skull laid bare, or an eye lost through a sharp stone, yes, and many an innocent, too. That, at least, you saved them. But, having brought them to the gaol and seen them handed over—your job was done.”
“I could not over-step my duty,” he said mildly.
“Had you no duty to those you had baptized?”
“They had put themselves beyond my ministry. There were prison chaplains, were there not?”
She laughed again, the same bitter laugh. “Yes, there were chaplains! My girls that were prisoners now, passed through the great gate and the porter locked it behind them; and even as they were driven across the courtyard, the filthy prison smell tainted the sweet air of heaven. But you, no doubt, found a warm fire in the house of a friend, or at the White Hart Inn; and there you sat warming your bones and drinking good wine until it was time to go to your good bed.
But what of them, priest? Did you ask yourself that?
They were hustled along, down a dark and filthy passage. They knew it was filthy in spite of the darkness because their bare feet slithered in the muck; and because of the stink. And now and again a rat would push its sharp nose beneath their skirts.
Philip went, steady enough; but Meg, poor wretch, could hardly put one foot before the other; and when she fell, and could not rise at once, the turnkey cried out, It is darker in hell, witch, and fetched her a blow across the head. And remember this, Sir Priest-Magistrate, they had not yet been judged.
The dreadful journey came to its dreadful end. He unlocked a door with a great key and he thrust them within; and I passed in with them.
Priest, I have lived poor all my life. I know the smell of a room where every crack is sealed against the cold; and I, like many another, have lain shivering in my bed for lack of covering. But that room! It was cold as death. And for the stench, there are no words; that is the plain truth—there are no words. The smell of dirty bodies shut in without air—that is no new thing. But, consider it, priest. Human bodies unable to relieve themselves save upon the filthy ground; bodies stinking with running sores, the smell of living flesh rotting in corruption.”
“And the human soul rotting in corruption?” he interrupted, his face all drawn in horror.
“There is no stench from the soul.”
“Is there not? To God? And should we not cleanse it at the expense of the body?”
“You should leave God out of this,” she said, surprising him. “For I doubt—even if it could be done—he would care for such a manner of cleansing. Priest, you tell us that hell is a place of terror; and I have seen you search for words that shall enough describe its pains. No need to look further than your nearest gaol; for crueller than God or Devil, is man to man.
There was one small grating high up and through it the cold wind whistled; but it could not drive away the stink. There was a rush candle burning in a dish upon a ledge; and I tell you, priest, there had better been no light at all to look upon the misery that crept and crawled and twisted upon the floor. Even you, priest, would be hard put to it to name it human.”
She closed her eyes as if she would, even now, shut out the sight.
“Grey faces . . . greyish-white . . . like maggots; or else scabbed red and blue. And hair matted and moulting like the pelt of a sick animal. And eyes raw and red, too weak to stand even the light of your farthing dip. And naked for the most part; greasy rags not covering enough for decency.”
Her voice dropped into silence. He had long forgotten his chocolate which stood now cold beneath its wrinkled skin. He looked at her, helpless, not knowing what to say. But still she waited, forcing him to speak, to make some defence of the justice he served, and of those who outraged the god whose servant he was. And when still he found no words, she said, smooth, “You will tell me again, no doubt, that prison is not meant to be a sweet place, seeing it is meant for punishment . . .
Punishment!” she cried in a dreadful voice. “Then be careful who it is you punish. What of those that are innocent, forced by fear and by pain to ‘confession’? And all the time those prison-priests of whom you spoke, winking at the torment and pressing with their questions, until the words are said that shall bring these innocents to a cruel death. Priest, the god you worship—did he see what I saw in the place—would go again upon the cross in despair of human cruelty . . . the cruelty of your good men.”
And now when he would have spoken she went steadily on.
“There they were, thrown one upon the other in the stinking cell—virgins and harlots, lewd men and children whose flesh had once been sweet and clean—rotting upon the filthy ground. And some were innocent and some were guilty but none of them—not one, priest—had been brought to trial. Is this your justice? Even the guilty—should he not know the charge against him and hear the judgment; and make his peace with whatever master he serves before he goes to his death?
And yet I tell you, priest, that some of these never came to trial at all but died first, rotting by inches—human flesh made, so you tell us, in the image of your god. Reconcile that with your conscience if you can! I doubt he will forgive you.
When the turnkey had thrust Meg and Philip into the stinking darkness, he waited to see if they had any money. But they had none; nor, if they had, would they have offered it, not knowing that money can buy sweeter air, sweeter company, even in such a place. And there’s your justice, priest! The innocent may rot in misery; but your guilty man with a guinea in his pocket may make himself comfortable enough, putting off his hanging from day to day. He may even—if he have sufficient guineas—escape the rope altogether. There is nothing like the rattle of guineas to deafen your turnkey’s ears; no, nor nothing so blinding as their glitter to make him wink his eye. And that, too, is your justice!
Philip stepped delicately, her head high. Filthy hands crooked as she passed. I heard the rending of her skirt; but she gave no sign. Margaret followed. Meg I think had the best of it—if best is a word to use of such a place. For she walked as in her sleep. When you looked through the window of her eye the soul was not within.
The walls were wet; and filthy like the floor; and creatures hung in webs or swung upon threads or crawled. I heard the crack of a beetle as Philip put out a foot; she ground it beneath her naked heel, glad to punish the creature for her misery.
So they stood together those two; and then, nature being too much for them, they slid upon the ground and rested one against the other as the
y had not done since childhood. Their god had deserted them.”
“Their god?” Samuel Fleming said quickly. “Is he no longer your god?”
“A slip of the tongue—and you need not smile, priest! Sometimes they dozed a little; but more often they were awake with hunger and with cold. And—if this offends you, priest, then shut your ears; but they had to endure it, as others still endure it—when they had to relieve themselves they did so then and there and shivered in the filth of their clothes.
It was a long time till morning. The dirty light stole through the bars; it picked out a face here and there. And they all looked evil; for put innocence among filth and you must expect it to take the stain.
Some faces I knew—and they were faces I had not expected to see so soon—but you justices do not waste time! Joan Willimott lay asleep against the wall and her face grey as the wall. And though she had turned traitor against us, I pitied her. And I saw Ellen Greene but I did not know her at first. In those few days she had fallen from a stout and cheerful body into a withered hag. Good fellowship we had known together, until that last gathering when she would not take my hand and had turned her back crying curses upon us because we had spoilt the Sabbath. And her I pitied also.
But most of all I pitied Ann Baker that was, as I have told you, no witch but a simpleton who believed in fairies, confusing them with the prophets of old—seeing a hand reach down from heaven, and a flash of fire; and not knowing whether these signs came from Jehovah or from your Christ or from the Devil.”
“She was at your unclean Sabbath,” he reminded her, grave.
“They carried her there. But she understood nothing. When she lit her candle she did not know why, copying the others; and so it was with the Kiss and with the dancing. But she, too, they forced to confession, sparing no secret of her child’s body. She was one they handled so cruelly that she said whatever they put into her mouth and went obedient to her death . . . and knew not why she died.”
She saw him pale at that.
“It hits you hard,” she said. “And so it should! A little girl yourself had baptized . . . and simple as you well know. But for all that they took her and they hanged her. Oh priest, priest, is it not time that the wickedness of man towards man should cease?”
“That comes well from you!” he said; but he could not cover the sickness in his eyes.
“I am a witch; but you are a man of God. Would you not expect a difference between us?”
“God forgive us all,” he said.
“You may well say that! It was just before Christmas when they took my girls away—the season of goodwill. But there was nothing of goodwill in the gaol, no, nor of common decency neither. And there they stayed until it was mid-March; March when the wind blows clean and the air is clear as your fine Venice glass. But they languished in the dark amongst the stink of rotting flesh.
It was late January when they came again before the magistrates. Gaol delivery was not till March. Delivery—a word to make saints laugh or devils weep. But though they had not come before their judges, their judges had not forgotten them. Your fellows were forever at them seeking to ferret out the secret places of their souls as already they had desecrated the secret places of their women’s bodies. Never shake your head at me, priest. You cannot be a justice and take no blame.
If you could see what I saw, priest. Day after day, hour after hour, midnight till morning, morning till midnight! And the questioners taking their turn, coming to their work fresh and rested, picking up where their fellows had stopped. But the prisoner . . . always the same prisoner. Eyes closing, head nodding; no rest; no rest at all. And always the questions—the questions to entrap; never the question to release.
Think of it, priest. You, and your like! Gentlemen, well-fed and warm, full with learning as with food. And those poor souls ignorant and frightened, helpless and hopeless. Is it any wonder they said, in the end, the thing that was death to say?”
“That was life to say; eternal life,” he said quickly; but for all that his face was puckered like a child about to weep. “For they confessed; and heaven received their souls.”
“There is no comfort for you that way—heaven may come too soon. You, priest, hope for heaven; yet still you find joy in a primrose and pleasure in your fine chocolate drink. And they; might not they, too, find joy in a primrose and pleasure in rough ale? But they were hustled brutally from this life to a shameful, cruel death. And some of them were young; and some of them—must I tell you again?—were innocent.”
He lifted his hands and let them fall again. “You do wrong to break my heart with your tale of innocence. Those that were hanged that March were guilty; all of them guilty, as you yourself admit and the evidence shows. For it was the same tale they told—your Margaret and Joan Willimott and Ellen Greene; yes and Ann Baker—all of them who feared to die. And more. Philippa, who did not fear the rope since she thought she would never come to it, she too told the same tale. All of them—the frightened and the fearless—telling the same tale, implicating each one the other, and everything fitting together like a mosaic. Let us have no more talk of innocence.”
“Let us leave it then, since it is a thing you cannot face. But, did you never ask yourself why they all told the same tale word for word, even little Ann? They told the same tale because they could tell no other. For the questions were always the same. And to them there were but two answers—the answers you wanted and the answers you did not want. When it was the answer you wanted, then you were satisfied. But when it was not the answer you wanted, though they spoke the truth, then they must recant with lies to stop the torment, so that they might go back again to the filthy cell and close their eyes in peace.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Gaol delivery! From such deliverance good Lord deliver us! Samuel Fleming said and laughed; and, still laughing, woke to the safety of his bed. He sat up shivering in spite of the warm spring. This last week he had not been well again, sleeping little; and that sleep forever haunted by Joan Flower and her tale.
It was not the hangings that distressed him; for so the wicked, repentant, come clean into heaven. It was the prisons that haunted him—the stinking holes where human creatures rot to their death, innocent and guilty alike, dying of gaol fever, of gangrene, of a consumption of the lungs before ever they come to trial.
He was a Justice of the Peace; Joan Flower had fastened that responsibility fair and square upon his shoulders, so that at night he lay remembering her words and seeing it all clear as a picture before him. Or else, fallen into uneasy sleep, he would awake laughing as now; or weeping perhaps, and his old heart pounding as though it must burst the frail envelope of flesh.
He had no more desire to sleep again. Bedgown about him, he stirred the ash into flame and put on fresh logs. He moved quietly lest Hester, a light sleeper, too, and worried about him, should come from her bed. He knelt for a moment warming his chilled hands, then went to the window and opened the curtains.
Dawn was warming the grey sky and he knelt in prayer; then, absorbed in thought, he forgot to rise again but remained staring out into the garden. Yet it was not the garden he saw; it was the stinking cell and the floor foul with the filth of the prisoners’ relieving.
No wonder they died off like flies—not only in Lincoln Gaol but in every prison in this sweet England. And, in his heart, he had known it this long while, though he had preferred not to know. Now, with Master John Stowe’s report under his hand, he could pretend no longer. In the last few years thousands of prisoners had died in their cells.
Yet he had hardly given the prisons a thought; he had kept his eye on the duty before him, judging to the best of his ability between innocence and guilt and shutting all else out. And, afterwards, he had dismissed the matter from his mind, never thinking to ask what became of the wretches he and his fellow justices had sentenced, or had sent forward to the Assize.
; And here he knelt in his clean warm room looking out upon his garden—upon the noble cedar and the lilacs in tight bud and the pale new shoots of roses. Every moment the light came stronger, warmer; but for them in the dark cell, the darkness, the dirt, the filth . . .
He turned from the window as though he could no longer bear the sweetness of the garden.
“Time runs out, priest!” And there she was standing by the hearth and lifting her hands to the blaze. Her own showed thin against the morning light. There was not much between his translucency and her own.
“I spoke of your prisons, priest—the cold and the wet, the dark and the filth, the vermin and the disease. And it is the lot of every prisoner, tried or untried—if he have no money—let his guilt be great or little; yes, even though he be thrust within for default of a small sum . . . or if he be innocent, priest.
But for witches there is contrived even greater cruelties. Do you know, priest, how one may tell a witch?”
He nodded. “By many ways. First and foremost by the Devil’s Mark; the spot where your master drew blood to sign the bond. And there are other marks; two perhaps or three, where you suckle your familiars. All these marks cannot be mistaken.”
“Can they not?” Her voice had its sorrowing sound as though since she could not weep with her eyes, she must weep with her voice. “Well, priest, since you are so wise, describe me these marks that cannot be mistaken.”
“A red mark,” he said thoughtful. “Or a raised mark; or a mark as big as a shilling . . .”
“Or a blue mark, or a sunken mark, or a mark no bigger than a pin’s head. Or a pimple or a ringworm or a fleabite,” she interrupted him. “Or any mark at all! It is easy enough to find some sort of mark anywhere—on your own body, maybe; or on Mistress Hester’s; or on my virtuous lady the countess. Shall we call the whole world witches and dangle them at the rope’s end?”
He shook his head. “The marks cannot be mistaken . . . and you know it. Where you suckle the familiar the place is wet still with blood. As for the place where the Devil has nipped you, it will not bleed, prick or cut it as you may. The place is dead.”