by Hilda Lewis
“But first she suffered a thousand torments, died a thousand deaths. It was Philip that had the best of it!”
“And did she have the best of it in the end? Not to be shaken from wickedness . . . and death waiting a few steps away. Is that so enviable?” Samuel Fleming sighed, remembering the girl and her boldness and her defiance and her mockery.
“When one has chosen, one should stick by the bargain.”
“Even though one was deceived in the bargain? Now that Philippa lies roasting upon coals till the end of time, does she find herself so fortunate, do you think?”
“You suppose hell to be a burning pit for those that deny your god. Why should not heaven be such a place for those that deny the Master?”
“There is no why,” he said, stern. “The thing is—as your unhappy girl must find. If ever a creature deserved the pains of hell, it is Philippa. When she was brought to us for examination we could feel, every justice there, the evil that came forth from her.”
“It is not for the King’s Justices to feel, nor yet to fancy,” she said, tart. “It is for them to use what wits your god—or the Devil—gave them, and come to a true judgment.”
“Her examination was just; every question fair, every answer weighed, every word sifted and compared with the testimony of those that had witnessed against her.”
“Yes,” she admitted grudging, “it was fair . . . as it turned out. But how easily it might not have been! For Philip was branded guilty and the rope set about her neck before ever she set foot in your court.”
“From her own mouth she was condemned,” he reminded her gently.
“She was steadfast always; her compass never wavered. But with Meg your task was not so easy. When they tormented her she confessed; and then, a little rested, denied it all. But my fine magistrates must have their evidence! They spared her no torment. But then you knew nothing of that—if we are to believe you!”
“Still I did not know; and you may believe me.”
“I believe you; but I do not forgive you. A justice should know what is done in the name of the law. Well, since you do not know, I will tell you.
They took my poor girl all bewildered with lack of sleep and with hunger and with fear, and they forced her cross-legged upon a narrow beam very high up. No need now to watch her lest she sleep. Should she nod she would fall and break her back. Now she must keep herself awake. And there she sat, trembling like a sick bird on her high and narrow perch.”
Samuel Fleming flung out bewildered hands. “Why did they do that?”
“You are too innocent, priest. It was to catch the familiar. It would come when all was still to suck upon her—so they thought. Eighteen hours perched high; and no relief from the cramps of her body and no sleep and no food. A wonder, indeed, she did not fall and break her neck upon the stone floor. And, once, priest, she stirred and stretched a foot; and they cried out, Do you stir, witch? And they took a thin cord and they bound it about her arms and about her breasts and about her feet; and they drew it so tight that the flesh rose either side of the cord. They had made a little hole in the floor so that her familiar might come at her. And they watched the long night through. And all the while she sat high up, bound hand and foot and no rest from the torment.
But you knew nothing of this, Sir Priest-Magistrate—under whose authority it was done. Yet you questioned her there in the courthouse of the prison when she had suffered a month of torment. You examined her twice—you and your friends. Any man’s eyes should tell him when a woman has been tormented. But, being a priest—and an old one—maybe you look no more upon women!”
He said, sorrowful, “I have failed as a priest as well as a justice; yes, and as a man, too. It was a wicked and cruel thing; and I accept the blame. And yet,” he raised his troubled head, “we are bound by our office to punish witchcraft. And we are bound, equally, to acquit those that are wrongfully accused. How are we to come at the truth?”
He fell to silence, head upon his breast, thinking upon the dilemma. He raised his head at last. “And did the familiar come?”
“It did not come. Did you expect it? Some kind soul suckled it for love of the Master. So there was no peace for my poor girl, not even when she had confessed all. Nor was there any peace for Joan and Ellen and the child. For cruelty is a madness in the heart; and neither rhyme nor reason can set its bounds. Only Philip they left alone. There was a power about her and they were afraid.
And so it went on. Day after day; night after night—the walking and the binding on the narrow beam. And always the questions. And when they had been answered once, twice, thrice, still it was not enough. For answers must be twisted and turned so that they form a net to ensnare others. Think of it, Sir Priest-Magistrate! Wise men, learned in the law, setting their wits against poor and simple women.”
“It is for justices and priests to look to the safety of the people. If witches suffer it is a thing they must accept.”
“You did not know then whether these were witches or no—they had not been judged. But, if they were, you had them safe enough! You had sent them forward to trial, was it not enough? No! You must still ferret out with your cruelty, doing the judge’s business for him, handing in your writings beforehand, moving his mind against them that could not write. Questions and answers, answers and questions . . . and the little persuasions to make them speak. Oh priest, there is none so cruel as your good man at his duty.
And so time dragged on until the great judges should come from London.
In the stinking prison my girls were enemies once more one to the other; the little kindness Philip had shown at first was turned to bitterness. They were near their death; and Meg knew it; she knew it as an animal knows, within the blood. But Philip feared nothing. Had your god himself appeared in all his glory and his angels about him, she would have spat in his face.
And still Meg wavered between God and the Devil. Surely she must trust the Master still! How could her life come to an end in this filthy place? But . . . how did those that served the Master come to his place at all? Suppose that for all his promises He was faithless? Then, much as she feared to die, she must fear what comes after, still more . . . the undying pains of hell.
And every day increased her fear. She would crouch there brooding, eyes dry and stony as an empty river-bed. Without sleep and without tears no man can live. For the one comforts the body, the other the soul.
It was late February now. Two months in the dark and stinking cell. Outside the air was sharp and clean; in sheltered places pale leaves of celandine were pushing through and buds of bright and naked coltsfoot which is a kindly herb. But the prisoners knew nothing of it. Within the cell they dozed in uneasy sleep; yet, even then, they could not forget their fears but would start and moan so that the place was full of the sound of their pain and the smell of their pain.
The watchers had stopped their torment. The great judges were already come from London; before them the confessions of the tormented lay written in a neat and clerkly hand.
From the narrow barred window, if you could climb to it, you could look out upon the courtyard. Snow had fallen thick and soft, covering the ugliness and the muck so that the world, for all its cruelty, was like a soul new-born to heaven.
In the dark cell the prisoners lay tossing and moaning in sleep. Only Philip lay quiet, smiling in her dreams.
Meg lay watching the high barred window and the little patch of night sky, pale and heavy with snow; she tried to fall into the uneasy dreaming that was all the sleep she knew. But still her eyes stared up at the pale sky. I could see how her thoughts twisted and turned; how fear beat upon her heart in hammerstrokes.
. . . Time passing, passing. Soon it will be tomorrow . . . I think it is already tomorrow and I must face the judges.
Deny? Confess? Deny? Confess? Deny? Confess?
Deny. Deny everything. Useless . . . useless.
They have betrayed me—Joan and Ellen and little Ann; and, above all Philip. They have betrayed me all four and the judge will hang me, hang me, hang me . . . and I can hope for nothing from the Master nor yet from God. Deny; and I betray the Master. Lie; and I take myself still further, if that be possible, from God.
Confess. All that’s left. There, perhaps a chance of God’s mercy—the last, the littlest chance. But . . . how mercy? I have put myself outside his forgiveness. Yet, pin my dying hope upon the Master? What promise has He ever kept?
Like a rat you may see driven between this pitchfork and that, so was she driven backwards and forwards between God and the Devil.
And as she lay there, she saw a spirit come forth out of the darkness and stand at her feet. Black against the blackness; yet she could see Him clear by the light that streamed from those terrible eyes. He wore an ape’s head to cover his glory; but she knew Him . . . she knew Him.
She cried out lifting her arms, ‘Master, take me from this place!’
‘Why, yes,’ He said.
‘Shall I move in the air and dance again in the place of the Sabbath?’
‘Yes,’ he said again and nodded his ape’s head. ‘You shall be taken from this place; you shall dance in the air. You shall dance; how you will dance!’
She dragged herself along the ground and lay, her lips upon his feet. ‘I am ready,’ she said.
‘I do not doubt it,’ He said smiling. ‘But the time is not now . . . it is not now.’
‘Tomorrow will be too late!’ She stared upwards with parched eyes. ‘Already the judges are here; the great judges from London—the King’s lord Judges.’
‘You fear these judges that are but men—and some of them my own servants. Do you not fear Me still more?’
She knelt staring and dumb. She shook before Him to the depths of her soul; yet He had promised to save her . . . and there was no-one else.
‘You are not worth saving—and only a fool would expect it,’ He said. ‘Witch, you have not been faithful. Even now you would make your peace with my Enemy—if you knew how! Why should I keep faith with you—except I am merciful. But my mercy does not endure for ever. Remember it. When you have proclaimed your love of Me, then I will save you—in my own way and in my own time. And it will not be now.’
She said, and her breath came out in a long sigh, ‘Then I am to hang?’
And still He said nothing; and still He smiled.
She cried out then, ‘Save me from the rope!’ and fell upon her face in the straw.
She lay there awhile and when she looked up He was gone.
She dragged herself to her knees and tried to pray; but her heart could not restore the lost words. When she would have besought the kindness of your god, offering herself to death as willingly as she could, if in the end she might be forgiven, one thought rose up, I have made my life a filthy thing. And against that thought all other thoughts stumbled and broke. There was no release for her soul’s torment.”
“I think there was,” Samuel Fleming said. “She had no words; yet she prayed and God heard her.”
Joan Flower nodded. “Even then, standing and watching, I knew God would save her—if she were constant. But constancy; it was a thing I had never known in her. And how would she fare rejected alike by God and the Devil? Yet that night, at least, she knelt till morning on the cold and filthy stone.
The dirty light crept through the high grating, picking out the poor wretches that lay upon the floor. Philip had slept well; but those others awoke weary, stretching cramped and twisted limbs, throwing back the unclean tangle of their hair. You could see how they opened puzzled eyes, not knowing, at first, what they did in this place . . . and then remembering . . . remembering.
You are a holy man, priest; and these had sold themselves to evil. Yet even you must have pitied them crawling like vermin in the straw, crawling back to the bitterness of living and the fear of dying.
But Meg did not stir; she went on kneeling. Nor did she stir when the key sounded in the lock and the door swung open.
The turnkey came in with his jug of dirty water and his basket of mouldy bread. ‘The judges are come!’ he cried out. ‘The Governor has presented the Calendar and your names stand first. The witnesses are ready; but what need of them since those things you confessed to the magistrates are witness enough against you? You would save us all time and trouble to plead your guilt. For, let things go as they may, you will sup with the Devil ere long.’
‘He will feed us better than you do!’ Philip said quick and impudent. ‘If we are to stand our trial today then let our bellies be full and our looks seemly.’
‘Hold your saucy tongue,’ he said and set down his burden.
‘It might be saucier . . . if I choose to wag it,’ she told him. ‘Gaoler, there is a tree stands upon a heath no great distance from this place—a stricken tree, naked summer and winter alike. And about it there is a ring where the grass is worn by dancing feet. I fancy you could tell my lords the judges something about that ring . . . and those that dance there.’
He turned green and did not speak; but his eyes shifted this way and that.
‘Men and women dance about that tree,’ she said thoughtful. ‘The judges might be glad to know the names of all that dance.’
If he had been green before, now he was pale as death; I saw how he tried to moisten his dry tongue. And she cried out, ‘Bring clean water and towels; and good food to comfort our bellies. Remember, in a little while, we face the judges.’
He turned and went without a word carrying his jug and his basket with him. Ellen Greene said, ‘I have not clapped eyes on him in my life. Does he dance at the Sabbath?’
Philip shrugged. ‘I know not and I care less; but he has a look of guilt upon him. Let him do as I bid and I will hold my tongue. If not he shall suffer, let him be guilty or not!’
Presently the fellow came back and there was fresh bread in the basket and beer and meat. ‘I will bring you the water when it is heated,’ he said and he dared not look Philip in the face. ‘And the food I have paid for out of my own pocket.’
She nodded without thanking him and he went humbly away.
Then the others came crowding about the food like flies, all except Meg who knelt apart. ‘You see,’ Philip said, ‘all we ask—the Master gives. His word stands sure.’
‘Not always,’ Joan Willimott said beneath her breath.
Philip sent her a look of contempt. ‘He gives us what we ask; and more. But He gives it in his own way. He expects us to help ourselves a little.’
‘Then why,’ Ellen Greene grumbled and mumbled over the food, ‘did you not ask for meat and drink before?’
‘The time was not ripe. The first turnkey was not one to frighten with threats. This is a new fellow, did you not notice? We have to watch men and women to get from them—under the Master—what we desire.’ Philip fell again to eating with good appetite, her sharp teeth tore into the bread and meat. She turned suddenly upon Joan Willimott. ‘Eat up the good food while you may,’ she said scornful. ‘No need to shiver and shake. The judges are but men when all is said; but our Master is the God.’
The gaoler returned with a jug of warm water and a clean cloth; he trembled still. Again she did not thank him, nor so much as look at him. He said, very humble now, ‘My lord judge has commanded the sheriff to open the court; to prepare a sufficient jury of life and death; and to present the prisoners. You will be called any moment now.’ Again she did not thank him nor so much as look at him. She pushed away the broken food and began to set herself to rights. I could see how her eyes closed in delight over so simple a thing, so dear a thing as clean water. She took a comb from her bosom and fell to straightening the tangles of her hair; and all the while she hummed to herself, and now and again she cast a look towards her sister. Meg, though she had come from her knees, did not eat but she dr
ank thirstily of the water. Now she lay back, eyes closed in her stained and swollen face, hair hanging dusty and tangled, and cared not at all how she looked . . . my pretty Meg!
Philip put back her comb and stood up fresh as though she had this moment come from the crisp air, so that the others stared with their dim eyes.
‘Listen,’ she cried, ‘all that be witches, whether of my coven or no. I have the Master’s orders for us all.’
Ellen Greene came forward dragging Ann by the hand; and Joan Willimott came also. And here and there, this one and that one pushed forward, some of them against their will, muttering as they came. And she waited until all were seated there at her feet. But Meg stayed still in her place and Philip made no sign towards her.
‘Listen well,’ she said and there was power all about her. ‘When you come before the judges you shall testify, each one of you, to the power of the Master and to his glory. You must remember every evil you have done in his name. And, when you have spoken of yourselves, then you must search in your mind for those you know to be witches—though they have not as yet been named. You must not keep one name back—not though it be your mother or your lover, or your child, even. And if there are not enough names for his glory, then you must find more, naming this one or that you know to be guiltless—and let their own god save them if he can! And this you shall do neither in hope to save your own skins, nor to spite any that has ill-used you, but only to magnify his name. For, do what we will, we are already judged and condemned of men; and there is no hope save in the Master. If we speak out for Him, then He will save us.’
Ellen Greene said very low, ‘I think we shall come to the rope,’ and she covered her eyes with her hand. ‘Had He meant to save us we had not ever been taken.’
‘Here is a fool that understands nothing,’ Philip said with rough good-humour. ‘This is his way to make his name a trumpet in the ears of men. If we had not been taken how could we testify to our faith? Testify. It is his command; and in the end He will save you.’