by Hilda Lewis
“And where do you find such a mark?” And now she was grave indeed.
“Anywhere, anywhere at all. Upon the left eye or the left ear or upon the neck—the left side; or upon the left breast, or . . .”
“. . . or in those parts you are too nice to mention! Or not at all! Priest, consider this. Though a woman be old, still it is hurtful to have strange hands rifling the secrets of her body. And if they are cruel hands, and if they are lustful hands then the thing is an offence to my God and to your god alike. But how if the witch is no witch at all? And how if she be a virgin like Ann Baker? Oh priest, I have stood by and I have seen; yes, and I have heard, too!
There was that man from Scotland, that righteous man, so zealous to discover witches; not for the sake of righteousness but for the jingle of the fee in his pocket. A witch—a guinea. It is handsome payment, you must own. The tale I will tell you now, I had from my mother; she was there when the thing happened. It was in a town named for a saint, St. Peter, I think; but I cannot rightly remember.”
“Peterborough?” he asked.
She nodded. “Maybe you have heard the tale?”
He shook his head.
“In this town there was a young maid that had never made a bond with the Master, nor practised witchcraft, nor known a man. A virgin and virtuous.
Now this maid was informed against for witchcraft. And who should inform against her but my fine gentleman from Scotland smelling yet another guinea for his pocket. So they thrust her into prison—just such a prison of which we have been speaking—along with those that would have taught her any sin in the calendar had she been minded to learn; but she was not minded. And though they would not let her sleep and were forever tormenting her with their questions, she confessed nothing. And though they searched the secrets of her virgin body, they found nothing. And there she lay until she came to trial.
And at this trial still she would confess to nothing; nor was there man, woman or child to testify against her. So this fine gentleman, afraid for his shining guinea, cried out, ‘Let us search her before all the people; they shall stand for witness.’ And he seized her petticoats and threw them above her head. And there she stood, naked from the waist downwards—a young maid, modest and virtuous.
Then he drew a pin from his lappet and drove it into her flesh and flung down her petticoats and cried out, ‘Witch, you have something within you that belongs to me!’
But she in her shame and her anguish had felt nothing. So he cried out—this man, this virtuous snatcher of guineas, ‘The place is dead where the Devil nipped her. Good people, she is a witch!’
Now, priest, this maid was not only innocent, she was comely, too. And a captain that was in the court—or the judge himself, maybe; my mother being ignorant would not know—taken by her face rather than by her virtue, cried out, ‘This is no witch. Sir Witchfinder, you must try again.’
And so this grabber of guineas was forced to try again. He drove his pin into the same place; and the blood welled and she cried out. And so she was cleared of the charge and went free. But, priest, mark this! Had she not been so fair a maid, she would have hanged. So much for your witchmark, and so much for your justice!”
“Yet justice is done . . . for the most part.” And it was as though he pleaded with her.
“That is not enough when it comes to hanging! You may be sure, priest, that for every true witch that is hanged, one innocent goes to his death. Well, then, since your witchmark is not always a true test, what are your other signs?”
“The familiars,” he said.
“Oh priest, priest!” And again there was a wailing in her voice. “Do you talk of familiars? Have you forgot the question that troubled you not long since—the forlorn women and the creatures they cherish in their loneliness? And have you forgot your own sister and her cat—a little white cat not very different from Rutterkin that helped to hang me? And your sister, having no child, feeds her little cat with sweet milk and she talks to it as though it were a child; and she takes it to her bed and grieves that it will not stay curled against her pillow but chooses to wander the dark night. And, but the other day, it scratched, impatient as young cats are, and it would have sucked her blood. And if it had dug deep enough, or if it had bitten with its sharp teeth, why then, she, too, might have borne the witch’s mark!
Priest, there are true Devil’s Marks and we witches carry them. But there are other marks the innocent carry and for these they may well be hanged. So much for your familiars, and so much for witchmark! On what then will you hang witches?”
“On their own confession,” he said, more shaken than he cared to admit.
She made a gesture of impatience. “Some of us will confess to anything . . . if you hurt us enough. Ann Baker was one. I saw her arms; and her back, too, where they had torn away the clothes. You would have been hard put to it, priest, to find the Devil’s Mark—had there been one to find—in that mess of prison scabs and bruises and open places clotted with dark blood.
The wounds she bore as best she might—quiet for the most part; but whimpering now and then very softly. What she could not endure was lack of sleep. For when their blows could no longer keep her awake, two women came—good women, priest, very virtuous. And they took this child beneath the arm—one each side—and they walked her. Walking the prisoner. Have you heard the words before, Sir Magistrate? Witches know them well. Though the eyes close with weariness and the limbs move no more, still we must walk . . . walk. And, if we sleep even as we walk, why then we are awakened—and not gently, neither.
And so it was with this young child.
On the third night of the walking she burst out wailing like an infant; so they told her to listen and then she should sleep. So she listened; and when they wanted her to nod, then she nodded like a mad thing; and when they wanted her to deny, then her sick face flew from side to side. And they brought her a pen and she made her mark; and she went off to sleep the pen still in her hand—the pen that had signed her life away and the lives of others.
And when they brought her to trial, they read over her ‘confession’ and still she nodded. Any right man could see that she nodded with sleep and not with understanding. Priest, think upon it! This young, poor thing, simple and friendless; and set against her—the law; all its strength and its power, from your brutish turnkey to your fine gentlemen, your Eresbys and your Manners, yes and you and your earl thrown in for good weight. Priest, are you not ashamed?
I think she was not full awake until they walked her to the gallows; and then, the fresh air blowing upon her face awakened her . . . yes, then she awakened fast enough.
Priest, I run ahead of my tale. But it was to tell you what you should know yourself—what those places are like to which you condemn those that offend you. And now I go back to my daughters and their first night in the gaol.
That night they were left in peace—if peace you can call it, with the weeping and the crying out in nightmare dreaming, and the stinks and the bitter cold. There was no sleep for either of them. They sat leaning one against the other like sisters, for the first time in years taking comfort each in the other.
Meg was for denying everything. But Philip would have none of it. ‘Our mother denied the Master,’ she said, ‘and she died horribly.’
‘If I could weep,’ Meg said, very bitter, ‘I would weep for her. But I have no tears, so I curse her instead because she has brought us down to the pit.’
There is anguish of the naked ghost, priest, that no man can understand until he be out of the body. And such anguish I knew then. It is an anguish sharper than the anguish of dying; than the desolation of being lost between heaven and hell.”
“Greater than that?”
“Greater than that. For it falls without warning upon the naked soul; and the soul takes at once the full measure, the full pain. And it is an anguish that grows never less but burns like poiso
n within the soul.
Philip said, ‘You blame our mother now, in this fearful place; but you will not blame her when we stand before the Master and He takes us by the hand.’
‘You He will take.’ Meg’s body shook with the strain of weeping denied. ‘But not me; never me.’
‘He will welcome all the faithful,’ Philip said and there was a warning in her voice.
‘But I am not faithful,’ Meg’s voice came in a wail so that those who had a little forgotten their troubles, woke to the sound and hissed out in anger. ‘I am faithful neither to my God in hell, nor to the god in heaven.’
‘You cannot be faithful to the god in heaven since you have abjured him,’ Philip told her, scornful. ‘Be faithful then to the God of hell.’
‘Faithfulness is not in me,’ Meg said very sorrowful, ‘and it is too late. It was already too late when the Master made his Mark and drew my blood. It was too late, I think, even at that moment the priest held me at the font. All my life I have not hated good nor loved evil with a whole heart. What must I do now?’ She clutched at Philip’s skirt. ‘What must I do?’
‘You no longer have any choice,’ Philip said quick and sharp. ‘You made it long ago; to that the Master’s Mark bears witness. Do not think to win the god of heaven, you have sinned against him beyond his pardon—not only by witchcraft and by murder; but most of all by renouncing the sacrifice of his blood.’
‘His mercy endures for ever,’ Meg said very low.
‘For ever is a long time—and you have little or none. Your glass is almost run, unless the Master save you. And, if you are not faithful, why should He?’
Meg said nothing to that. She sat there upon the filthy floor and her pale hair fell about her face.
‘I have been thinking,’ she said at last, ‘that the priest held me at the font and put the holy mark . . .’
‘It is not that mark will count!’ Philip said, and her smile was cruel.
‘. . . and put the holy mark here,’ Meg repeated obstinate and slow, and touched her forehead, ‘then he gave my soul to God. I gave my soul to the Master; but it was not mine to give. Christ had already redeemed it with his blood.’
At that name, at that thought, anger shook Philip; and fear, also. If this soul slipped through the Master’s fingers, then she, herself, grovelling at his feet must acknowledge failure and bear the pains—she that was the Master’s paramour. She showed neither anger nor fear. ‘That is a great nonsense,’ she said and laughed so loud that once more the sleepers wakened from their pitiful, needed sleeping.
‘Yet still what I say is true.’ Meg nodded. ‘I know it. It is as though someone stood by my side and whispered in my ear . . . the priest, maybe, who baptized me.’ ”
“I had been praying for you all,” Samuel Fleming said, and there was a sweetness in his eyes, a hope. “And most of all I prayed for Margaret that looked a lost soul. I do not mean lost to the Devil; that, of course; but adrift . . . no compass.”
“As I am,” Joan Flower said.
“I pray for you, also,” he told her. “If you will, you shall come to the same place as Margaret at the last.”
“I care not which place it may be as long as I may find rest at last,” she said petulant.
“You shall never rest until you do care . . . and greatly care,” he told her, very grave.
She shrugged and took up her tale.
“Philip said, ‘Do not deceive yourself! Your soul is firmly lodged with the Master, never doubt it, nor rob yourself of those joys that shall yet be yours. It is the Master that is merciful and no other. Do not believe that you will ever win to heaven; or, if you could, that you would be satisfied with its cold, chaste joys.’
Meg did not answer. Too long she had turned like a weathercock from this side to that; now she had set her lost soul on heaven. She would endure such pains as your god thought fit to lay upon her, so she could win there at the last.
After that they sat in silence, and, from my corner, I watched them and knew the thoughts of their minds.
At last Philip whispered in the stinking darkness, ‘Do not hope to save yourself by denial. They will torment you to make you speak. And should your body stand firm against the pain—which I much doubt—your wits will never stand against the Justices. Something, in spite of yourself, you must admit; and I will tell the rest. And even without me, enough has been said already; Joan Willimott has testified and Ellen Greene; and Ann Baker, here.’ And she stirred the child with a cold bare foot, so that Ann awoke and whimpered and went back to her sleeping. ‘You cannot escape, never think it. When we go to hell we take you with us.’
Meg said, ‘I will not deny my part. I no longer wish to deny it. I will keep nothing back. I will confess all . . . all.’
Philip said, very quick, ‘There are two ways of confessing. You may speak the selfsame words, yet the confessions may be different as heaven from hell. For you may confess to the glory of the Master; or you may confess to his shame and the glory of the Christian god. The first way brings you life both here and in the world to come, together with all that heart can desire or flesh enjoy, according to the promise of the Master. The second brings you bitter death and shuts you from the forgiveness of both the Master and the god of heaven.’
Meg’s cold hand went to her forehead as though to smooth out her troubled thoughts.
‘Sister,’ Philip said. ‘We are bound to confess the Master; to confess Him with pride and with adoration. So we enlarge his kingdom here upon earth. It was the bond. If you confess his glory, then, for all you are a fool and a coward, He will forgive you and receive you into the mercy of his everlasting joy.’
And when Meg made no answer but went on staring into the darkness, Philip went on, pitiless, ‘If you confess, abjuring the Master’s service and repenting those things you have done in his name, He will never forgive you. He will cast you upon living coal; or else He will throw you into the uttermost freezing space of hell.’
And still Meg made no answer. She let her head drop upon her breast and pretended that she slept. But I could see how her thoughts ran. If she testified against the Master, crying out in repentance for the things she had done in his name, then, perhaps, at long last, the god in whose name she had been baptized would forgive her.
I went over and stood by her and sent out my ghostly will towards her. God will not forgive; he will reject you. And the Master will not forgive; He will reject you. You will wander to all eternity in the cold white loneliness of the lost. It is a loneliness beyond all enduring. It is worse, believe me, oh believe me, than any torment you can imagine. Will you throw away for this the sweet companionship of hell?
And the sweet companionship of heaven? her poor bewildered spirit answered mine.
You will never attain to it, my soul answered hers.”
Samuel Fleming sighed so that his frail body shook. “Had I known. Had I but known!”
“What then?” she mocked. “Would you have trusted yourself among the stinks and fevers of a prison cell? Not you, priest, not you! You left it to the ordinary who tormented her with false hope of pardon—both King and God; and when he had got what he wanted, took away the hope he had given. Had it been left to him—or to you, priest—she had gone hopeless to her hanging.”
“And I might have strengthened her!” Samuel Fleming said very low.
“God Himself strengthened her,” Joan Flower told him. “As for yourself, you could not play priest as well as magistrate. Here is a thing I have thought in my wanderings. Your god is capable of winning his own. He needs no man’s help—not even his priest’s.”
“It is true,” he said. “Therefore no net is strong enough to hold the soul that would escape to Him. Remember your thought. Remember it.”
He lifted shining eyes. The spring sunshine fell about his head as it might be a halo; the ghost stood staring. Up from the wide
staircase came the jingle of pots and pans; the cheerful smell of bacon; and a pleasant aromatic smell she could not name.
“Coffee,” he said. “One of God’s little miracles. Francis sent it from the Amazon.” He sniffed delightedly. “How wide the world grows.”
“Or small,” she said quickly.
“That is a profound thought,” he told her. “For here is the Amazon upon my doorstep; or its gifts, at least, upon my table. You would have made a philosopher,” he said and threw back his head and laughed so that the halo shivered and broke.
“Why, you are only a man after all,” she said, peevish at his laughing at her.
“And what did you think I was?”
“I had begun to think you a saint . . . almost.”
Chapter Twenty-two
“I had begun to think you a saint . . . almost.” She sighed.
“How you were mistaken!” He echoed her sigh.
“I wonder?” She spread her hands. “One is wrong about so many things. A lifetime is not enough to learn.”
“We are given another life that we may go on learning.”
“After death one learns most of all!” She nodded, sombre. “When I was alive I thought it was your good man that is steadfast; I know now it is not so. It is your wicked man that does not waver; your good man trembles like a compass before it finds the north.”
“But the compass points true; and, in the end, good men return to God who is their Home. But, good or bad, we are but human. There is not one that does not waver before the course is set. And afterwards; afterwards also.”
“Philip did not waver,” Joan Flower said. “But Meg shifted to this side and that and did not know what to do. It is folk like Meg that suffer most. For when the day comes there is no compass to tell them which way to turn.”
“Yet Margaret was told; and she was saved,” he reminded her.