by Hilda Lewis
‘The end. What end? The rope’s end!’ Ellen began to sob the tearless, racking sobs of witches.
All this while Ann Baker had sat silent; and now, though she neither moved nor spoke, the salt tears poured down her face. That was enough to show she was no witch had anyone the desire to save her. But no-one had the desire.
‘Stop your whining,’ Philip said, and her eyes did not soften though Ann was but a child. ‘I have this message for you all. You shall come to the rope but the rope shall not come to you. All who believe on Him shall live.’
Ann raised her wet face, and like the child she was, smiled through her tears.
‘We shall be condemned,’ Philip said, ‘each one of us.’ Her eyes turned towards Ann. ‘Even you, for all your tears. And, afterwards, in two days or three we shall be carried to the gallows piece. But we shall not hang; not one of us that keeps faith. We shall be carried away and images hang in our place. But we shall be riding through the sky to the everlasting Sabbath.’
‘Why does the Master leave images in our place?’ Ann asked with the terrible simplicity of the simpleton that, in spite of himself, has hit upon the truth. ‘Why does He not take us away in the sight of all the people and leave the gallows empty? That would be a greater sign of his glory.’
‘Do you seek to teach the Master?’ Philip said and made a step towards the child. But Meg came suddenly from her thoughts and stood up quickly and put herself before Ann. Philip fixed bitter eyes upon Meg; Meg, very steady, stared back. So they faced each other, those two. Then, arm about the child, Meg spoke.
‘We shall die, all of us. And we deserve to die—except this child who does not deserve it. But God, I think, is too far away to wipe her tears. Ellen is right; our end is the rope. Had the one we have called Master meant to save us, we had never come to this place. But He has left us to shame and to fear; to filth and to cruelty. There is neither truth nor kindness in him . . .’
It was then that Philip struck her full upon the mouth and Meg fell forward upon the straw.
The others sat crouched in their places for fear of Philip; but Ann bent down and put her thin arms about Meg and helped her to rise, saying in that simple way of hers, echoing perhaps what she had heard and not understanding fully what she said, ‘God will see our tears and He will wipe them away. There is no kindness anywhere but in God; there is no hope anywhere but in God.’
And so they knelt, those two, to pray together.”
Chapter Twenty-three
“Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings, yes and of the simple, too, hath He ordained truth,” Samuel Fleming said.
“Yet they took her, this simpleton, and they hanged her,” Joan Flower reminded him.
He leaned his face against his hand and groaned. And so leaning, remembered. . . . The courtroom of Lincoln Gaol and the judge in his great robes, Sir Henry Hobert, the great Chief Justice himself, come to see with his own eyes this nest of vipers the quiet countryside had so shockingly produced.
“Witches were two-a-penny, you might say,” Joan Flower spoke, mocking. “Yet here was the great judge himself! But then this was no bewitching of common folk. Would you not say his anger was the hotter because the prisoners had dared to lift their hand against the great?”
“There is always anger in decent folk against those that have dealings with the Devil.” He parried the question.
“You have not answered me, priest.”
And, since she still waited, he said, “Certainly the anger was more because those that were murdered were little and good, yes and noble, too. Yes,” he said again, very firm, “and because their father matched the greatness of his name. He had done nothing but good to the whole countryside. Do you pretend,” he asked suddenly sharp, “that justice was not done?”
“Justice was done.”
There was silence now—he white in his chair, the untasted coffee pushed to one side; she translucent, mocking.
“Justice was done,” she said again. “But how easily it might not have been done! Had my girls not been witches, had they been innocent like Ann Baker, still they would have hanged . . . as she did. The court was set upon their death; you cannot deny it.”
He could not deny it. Behind closed eyes, he could see it now, see the small dark courtroom; the guttering candles drawing up what little air there was, and sending it in waves of stinking tallow up to the low roof. Only before the canopied seat wax candles burned steady and sweet, lighting the dark face of the judge and the sick face of Francis sitting by him—Francis come in his two-fold capacity—Lord Lieutenant of the county, and father of the dead children. Yes, Francis had a twofold responsibility to see justice done.
And then the voice of the Clerk of Assize. Bring forth the prisoner; and then a silence; and, in the silence, Margaret Flower leaning upon the bar.
In that first moment he had not known her. He had thought, at first, there was some mistake. And yet it was but two months since she had stood before him at her questioning. She’d been a little grey in the face; thin, perhaps. But for all that she’d appeared to be well enough. He had not concerned himself unduly with her looks. His concern had been all for justice—the way she had taken the questions, the way she had answered them.
Two short months. Now, it was hard to guess at her age—dirty, dishevelled, peering about her, the poor light of the courtroom too bright for her dim eyes. The pretty young thing she had been! Suppose she is innocent—and we have done this to her! He sickened at the thought; almost he prayed she might be guilty, remembered with relief her own confessions and was ashamed that he had pitied the blemish to her body rather than the blemish to her soul. But, curiously, even that was little comfort.
When they read the charge against her, she seemed not to understand clinging there upon the bar as if without it she must fall and peering out of her dim and troubled eyes.
If she were guilty, though he hated her crimes, he must pity her still. For what had she got from her wicked bargain? Nothing. Nothing but misery and fear and a most hateful death.
But the children. Their death had been even more hateful. And what of the curse she had put upon Francis and Cecilia? And what of the whole countryside in terror because of her and her mother and her sister? And looking at her spoiled and broken youth, he was able to thrust down pity in his heart. Let her stand where all might see the reward of them that make their Devil’s Pact.
Again he found himself wishing they could use simpler language; for though she knew well enough the charges against her she was ignorant and forgetful and she looked sick.
“Margaret Flower, spinster of the parish of Bottesford in the county of Leicester, you stand here charged with murder by witchcraft, whereby you, together with your mother Joan Flower now deceased, and with Philippa Flower your sister, spinster, both of this same parish of Bottesford did, at divers times in the year of grace . . .”
The indictment thundered on, the damning damnable indictment, beating about her head; her poor wits must long be scattered beneath the impact.
“And lastly you are charged that you, together with your mother and sister, did, with abominable and devilish practices, bewitch the noble Earl of Rutland and the lady his wife, that they should have no more issue; since which time they have had no more issue. . . .”
At that he saw the poor creature, almost imperceptibly, shake her head. So she had understood!
“All these things, according to the indictment, you maliciously and feloniously did against the peace of our sovereign lord the King, his crown and dignity . . .”
And what, he had found himself wondering, did she make of that? . . . the King, his crown and dignity . . . What had it to do with her?
“Margaret Flower, how say you, are you guilty or not guilty of all or any of these charges?”
Sitting now in the warm safety of his room, his familiar things about him, he was taken ag
ain with pity for the lost creature standing there, her lips moving . . . and no sound.
“My poor Meg,” Joan Flower said softly. “She was not one of your great sinners, for all her pact with the Devil. Nor was she one of the company of martyrs. There in the cell she had meant to confess, had longed unspeakably to confess, to cry aloud her sins against God and to throw herself upon his mercy. Now she was afraid. The strange language she could not understand and which was so terribly important for her to understand; the room, over-bright to her poor eyes, crowded with those that wished her ill—ill she knew well she had deserved; the terrible figure of the lord judge of life and death. All these things made yet more fearful the danger in which she stood.
She did not know what to do nor whom to beseech—the Master or your god. She turned blindly to God—your god, priest—the god she had forsaken. If these terrible people would only believe her lies and let her go free, she would serve him—if he would let her—for ever and ever.”
“That is no way,” Samuel Fleming told her gently, “to bargain with God, to ask Him to condone our wickedness and lies.”
“What did she know of God?” Joan Flower asked.
His lips moved. Mea culpa, he said and knocked against his breast.
“Priest,” she said, “never blame yourself! You tried to teach her but she would not learn. And, besides, at this moment she was not capable of reason. She was like an animal mad to be free . . . and no way to freedom save by lying. And all the time the court waited; and again the clerk asked her, Are you guilty or not guilty?
No, she whispered. No. And they asked her to speak louder since they could not hear. And she shook her head from side to side; and the hair that was gold so short a time ago was white . . . it was white. And No, she cried out, No, no, no!
And then, do you remember, priest, a gentleman stood up in the court and it was one of the magistrates; and he said, ‘My lord, she has confessed already. And it is written down and a copy lies even now under your hand. She has confessed before us all that examined her; before Master Samuel Fleming and before Sir George Manners and before Lord Willoughby of Eresby and Sir William Pelham; and they are in this court to say so.’
But still she shook her pitiful head; and she put up a hand to her throat but no words came.
Then the judge said, ‘Yet now she pleads not guilty to the indictment. Master Sheriff, you must return a jury of worthy gentlemen of understanding, to pass between our sovereign lord the King’s Majesty and the prisoner at the Bar that stands upon her life and death.’
And so the jury was sworn. And as she stood, her head moved from side to side and she shook so that she must have fallen had not the officer laid hold of her. Then, since you cannot force the dumb to speak nor hang a witch until she be found guilty, my lord judge ordered them to take her away and bring her again later; and to call the next prisoner.
And so they brought Philip into the court. Two daughters, priest, to come to the rope! Even the heart of a ghost might break at that! Sisters born of the same womb and in the same place—but how different! Meg; the blood in her body was thin and flat as vinegar; but in Philip it ran rich and bright as good wine.
She showed no fear; her look was gay and wanton, so that men stared at such a fashion of witch; and I saw Tom Simpson cover his eyes with his hands.
When they had finished reading the charges, she standing and smiling the while, she turned towards my lord judge and fixed him with a wicked eye, so that strong as he was, and wise as he was, and safe in his high seat, he could not look at her but must turn away his head.
And when the clerk asked, ‘Are you guilty or not guilty?’ she threw back her head and cried out, ‘I am a witch. And all you have heard is true.’
Then the lord judge said, ‘Do you know, woman, what you say? For if you plead guilty I must find you so. And I must pronounce the sentence of which you know.’
She nodded. ‘I know. And I know this, too. Were I to deny my Master, still you would hang me. So I should lose not only my life here but life in the world to come. Therefore I trust in the Master and glorify his name.’
Then my lord judge said, ‘Prisoner at the Bar, consider well. Do you plead guilty or not guilty?’ And again she smiled and she said, ‘The things with which I am charged are true. If that is to be guilty, why then I am guilty!’ So my lord sent away the jury and he said, ‘It now remains for me to pass sentence against you.’
Then they brought the black scarf and they laid it upon his head and he said the words that are uglier than any witch’s curse and which, you would think, might blister a man’s tongue. And he said it as though it were too heavy for him so that when he had finished his voice came out in a great sigh. But Philip did not sigh.”
They were silent both of them, remembering the girl standing there and smiling her wicked smile. Joan Flower said—and her voice came out in echo of that long-ago sigh—“The officer touched her arm to take her away but my lord judge spoke again.
‘Do not think to escape the consequences of your crimes, for that is beyond any man to alter . . .’
‘But not beyond the Master,’ she told him.
He took no notice but went on speaking. ‘If you will help the court by witnessing against the others, so that we may come at the truth, you may gain remission from God.’
‘I desire no remission from your god. But I will speak that I may magnify the Master.’
And, do you remember, priest, how, when they would have put the Book into her hands she pushed it away, crying out, ‘I would swear, rather, in the name of the Master. He will not fail to punish if I do aught amiss.’
The judge told her that without the Book her testimony would not stand; so she took the Book and she repeated the oath; and there were many that wondered the Book did not burst into flame and she shrivel to a cinder.
Then the judge said, ‘Bearing in mind the oath you have sworn, you may speak freely.’
She folded her hands together as though she were a child and innocent—she that was neither.
‘We are witches, my sister and I; and my mother was a witch also and she brought us into the coven. We made the pact and we bear the Mark. We went to the Sabbaths and we worshipped the Master. As for my sister, they said the Black Mass, and her naked body was the altar.’
At that there was a hush throughout the court, do you remember, priest? And in the quiet Philip’s voice rang true as a bell. ‘My sister and I know very well how to cast spells; and she took her part in every spell we put upon the Earl and his family. Indeed, it was for her sake we moved in the matter at all.’ ”
Samuel Fleming nodded, remembering the girl standing there proud with her evil; and the stern face of the judge; and the sick face of Francis within his shadowing hand. And he remembered the judge had tried to speak and could not speak, so hard it was for him to look upon her without disgust—Sir Henry Hobert, the Chief Justice of England, well-inured to the wickedness of men.
Joan Flower said softly, “Yet it was not for spitefulness Philip testified. It was that Margaret must be condemned so that she might be snatched from the gallows and her soul not escape the hands of the Master. There was a great stillness in the room and into the stillness the judge spoke. ‘We have heard enough. For what this prisoner testified before us, Margaret Flower has already confessed—except only that she took her part in bewitching the Earl of Rutland and the lady his wife. And though, like every prisoner that smells the rope, she now recants, yet the confession was signed with her mark.’ And again he tapped upon the paper beneath his hand.
Philip said, very quick, ‘There is a thing you have not heard. My sister made human sacrifice before the Master. Sir, she slew her own child.’
There was a hissing then went about the court but the judge only said, ‘It is not in the indictment.’
‘Then you may add it now,’ she said, impudent. ‘My sister was big wit
h child; she had it out of Peate or Master Vavasour—or another, maybe; who knows? It was for that reason my lady turned her away. It was a child she did not want; she was glad to sacrifice it to the Master.’
‘By what means?’
‘She held it out and my mother drove a silver pin through to the brain. I was not there but my mother told me. And Ellen Greene will tell you and Joan Willimott, also. They were both at the Sabbath when it was done.’
Then the judge said slow and thoughtful, ‘It is right that every wickedness witches do should be brought out into the daylight. For there are still folk here and there who because they would be merciful do not inform against witches. But if these same folk understood the evil these creatures do, they would save their mercy for those innocents that have been bewitched and destroyed.’ He turned to the clerk and said, ‘Let the murder of the infant stand a while. If there are witnesses as the prisoner says, then you must add that, also, to the indictment.’ ”
Joan Flower looked full at Samuel Fleming. “Suppose the charges against Meg had not been hanging matters! Is it just that a crime which is a hanging matter be added to the charge and the prisoner not know of it until he come into the court?”
“It is not just,” he said slow and troubled. “I have not considered it before, for it is the law. It is the law; but it is not just.”
Joan Flower nodded. “My lord judge turned again to Philip. ‘What did they do with the child they had murdered?’
‘Sacrifice is not murder, lord; you must strike that word from the page. But all the same I will tell you what they did with the child. They let the blood flow into a basin; and they boiled the flesh that the fat might run; and when that was done they ground the bones. From the fat we make our ointments, and from the powder our charms.’
I could see how the judge swallowed in his throat and could not speak for disgust. Such niceness, priest, seeing how many he himself had sent to an ugly death!