by Hilda Lewis
‘Poison?’ he asked her at last.
She shook her head; the dark tails of her hair flew from left to right. ‘Not from the fat and not from the bones. Our poisons we distil from herbs.’
‘What do you do with your accursed ointments?’
‘We anoint ourselves that we may fly.’
‘Do you take upon your sinful bodies the glory of the angels?’
‘Yes, lord. The angels of darkness.’
‘How do you concoct your foul grease?’
‘The fat of the stillborn is best, for that is the purest; and we can also use the fat of the new-born. But when we have not enough of one or the other, then we make do with what we may. We prefer infants unsoiled by baptism; but beggars cannot be choosers and we take them from the churchyard.’
There was a shudder ran through the room at that; do you remember, priest?”
“I remember.” He would not ever forget it—the girl standing upright at the Bar where so many poor creatures had trembled . . . and the air of triumph all about her.
“And so she stood there, priest, smiling out of her slanted eyes and out of her slanted mouth and telling . . . but not telling all.
‘This fat we mix with henbane and with cinquefoil; and we thicken it with white fine flour. Then we drop into it aconite and deadly nightshade and after that, batsblood. But do not think, lord, to make this ointment for yourself!’ She sent him a mocking glance. ‘You would fall to the ground and you would break your neck; and what would good folk do lacking so righteous a judge? For there are things we use but I will not tell them; nor how they must be gathered nor when.’
‘You have told us enough,’ he said again, and he shuddered. ‘The fat of the unborn; the fat of murdered babes; the fat of little children clawed from a Christian grave.’
She stood there smiling and nodding.
‘You have told us,’ the judge said, ‘that you distil deadly poisons. Have you ever given poison through the mouth?’
‘Why yes,’ she said. ‘But not often. Poisons are hard to make—ingredients difficult to come by. But we gave some to the second child—to little Francis. A pinch; a pinch, that was all. It was to finish matters. He had to die. It was a pity to let him suffer. He was a nice child.’
Then, priest, there was a hubbub if you like! Men and women leaping to their feet and crying out and shaking their fists and the judge sitting there and his mouth moving and not a word to be heard.”
“I remember,” Samuel Fleming said and looked her in the eyes. “I remember the face of Francis, my friend . . . and how I dared not look at him again.”
“Then, priest, the officer knocked with his staff upon the floor; knocked again and again but they would not be still until the judge lifted his hand for silence.”
And there, in the quiet of the Rector’s bedchamber, it was as though they heard him speak.
I can take the prisoner no further at this time. Take her away. She shall be sent for again.
Joan Flower chuckled. “Old as he was and seasoned as he was, my girl was too much for him. And when they would have laid hands upon her she stiffened herself and they could not move her until she had finished speaking.
‘I serve the Master who is the old God; I honour and glorify Him. And, Judge, know this! All over this country—as over all countries of Christendom—in castle and in cottage, there are witches who hate your Christ and work the will of the old God. And day by day our number grows. For ours is a joyous faith, with music and dancing and the rites of love. And your sad faith can never stand against it. Kill me if you can! For every witch you kill, ten others will start up in her place.’ ”
They looked at each other, Joan Flower and Samuel Fleming, remembering how the judge had raised his hand more than once to stop her; and how he had let it fall, listening as though she had bewitched him too. And when she had made an end of speaking, ‘Are you not afraid to die in your wickedness?’ the judge had asked.
And they remembered how she had laughed aloud at that; and her laughter had rung true. ‘For all your fine speeches and for all your fine laws, for all your gaolers and your gallows, you cannot harm me—save by the will of the Master. And that you should hang me is not his will. He has allowed you to cast me into prison, that He may the more show his power—your stinking prison, where men and women rot in the name of your righteous laws and your righteous god. It is no clean death they come to but a filthy one. And they do not come to trial, many of them, but rot in the darkness until they are dead—Christian folk, good folk some of them, made in the image of your god . . . and your god allows it. As for me, my Master will not suffer you to touch a hair of my head that am his paramour and have borne his child.’
And, sitting there in the comfort of his room, Samuel Fleming remembered one more thing, a thing so shocking, that even now the memory turned him sick. ‘The woman is mad,’ the judge had whispered bending towards Francis; and she, hearing the breath of his whisper in the stillness of the court, had turned at the door and cried out, ‘Not I, lord. But you. You and all good men who condemned your god to the agony of the cross.’
“Would you say she was wrong?” Joan Flower asked, sly.
“I despair,” he said and covered his eyes. “I shall never win your soul.”
“Do not be too sure,” she said. And when he lifted his surprised head the room was empty. He rose, a little stiff, and went to the window. It was full morning now; and from the budding plum tree a starling mocked him with what might have been the sound of her laughter.
Chapter Twenty-four
And, standing there, he heard in the quiet house the clack of Hester’s pattens down the stone passage. Her head turbanned in a flowered kerchief came round the door. In the afternoon she would be as fine as my lady countess herself; but in the morning she was satisfied to turn her hand to any small thing. The rest of her person followed, looped petticoats, wooden pattens and all.
“Why!” And she looked with reproach at the untouched cup. “Did you not care for the coffee? Well, well, it is cold and you cannot drink it now. Besides it is time to set your chamber to rights; the study has been ready this long while.”
“I will walk in the garden,” he said.
“Do not walk too long,” she advised. “I shall have a posset for you at ten.”
He nodded his thanks.
“Do not forget your hat and cloak. You grow forgetful . . . a little.” And then, lest she had seemed to criticize, said gently, “Dear Samuel, do not wander too far.” He promised to remember and dropped a light kiss upon her cheek.
He came out into the spring sunshine and felt his sluggish blood run livelier for it. He stepped out with something of his old briskness and walked without thinking, so it seemed, for his feet led him out of the garden and down the little street and along to the patch of trees where the empty house stood.
The blind windows gaped and grass grew among the thatch. The door stood ajar as though inviting him. He pushed it open; and the sunlight came in with him.
It was neat and clean within; and he was not surprised to see Joan Flower sitting there by the hearth. He went over and sat down on the rough stool no-one had thought worthwhile to carry away.
“Both my girls were born in this place,” she said when they were sitting one each side of the empty hearth. “In one place they were born; and in one place they died.
They had carried Meg back to the dark cell and there she lay and did not know that even now, Philip was standing her trial. She knew nothing, not even whether it was night or day. For now that she had denied everything the tormentors were at her again. Her poor body, you would have thought, could take no more punishment. Even you, priest, had you seen her, must have said she had suffered enough.”
“There is no suffering too great to save a soul,” he said; but his answer came slowly.
“Might not great suff
ering break a soul?” she asked.
He sent her a startled look. How had she known his innermost thought, a thought so hesitant he had hardly recognized it himself?
“It might well be so!” she said and nodded. “You have a good heart and would hurt neither man nor beast for wantonness; yet you think it right to torment these poor creatures. Surely you Christians are over-fond of suffering!”
“But she was saved,” and it was almost as though he comforted himself. “God showed his mercy.”
“That does not excuse the cruelty of men,” she said and again he started; she had uttered his own secret, scarce-realized thought. “When a man is given licence to hurt his fellows, even the good man becomes corrupt; and the desire to save souls becomes the desire to hurt bodies.”
“It is true and it is hateful,” he said. “But who shall question the ways of God? She called to Him and He saved her.”
“Priest,” she cried out very sharp, “had my girl been innocent, still she would have suffered those same torments. Must I tell you again and again?”
“Still you must leave it to God. For you cannot leave it to the Devil.”
She shrugged and took up her tale.
“Meg lay there deaf and blind when Philip came back to the cell. She stared, impudent, at your officers that still stood about Meg, ready with fresh torments to make her speak. ‘You had best leave her in peace,’ she said, insolent. ‘And you would do well to wash her face and comb her hair. At any moment she will be called; and how will it look for you?’
The turnkey nodded at that; and he and your tormentors went out together.
Philip made a dancing step in the dark cell and only the crowded bodies stopped her short. She was gay as a thrush. She had been condemned to die but it did not touch her at all—she did not believe she would ever hang by the neck. She had enjoyed her trial. She had stood there, all eyes upon her; she had spoken freely to the judge and he had let her speak. And she had drawn the rope so tight about her sister’s neck that Meg must call upon the Master to unloose it.
The excitement in her blood would not let her rest. She was to be asked yet more questions; and she could not wait for the moment to return to the court. But the judge was at his mutton; and, you, too, no doubt, priest, with the other magistrates; all of you sitting very comfortable together in The White Hart.
Philip cheerfully munched at the mouldy bread and drank the stale water—for the first turnkey was back again, and all the time she kept going over and over within herself the things she would say. Her eyes were bright and the blood was in her cheeks; and the others, seeing this, began to hope a little . . . all except Meg who slept in the dirt of the floor.
Within the hour the turnkey came again and bade her go with him into the court. You would have thought her bound for the Sabbath the way she followed all eager to be there.
‘Philippa Flower,’ the clerk cautioned her, ‘you must be sworn again. My lord is about to ask you some questions.’ She took the Book in her hand and again the judge warned her, ‘The answers you shall give cannot help you in any way; for you have been judged and sentenced according to the law; and soon you must face your Maker. But upon the words you shall speak may hang the life of others—and hang, indeed; this you know. Therefore consider well before you speak. Was your sister Margaret concerned in the death of the children of the Earl of Rutland?’
‘Lord,’ she said, ‘we were concerned equally.’
‘Was she concerned to bewitch the Earl and his lady so that they should have no more children?’
‘We were concerned equally,’ she said again. ‘All three.’
‘Would you like to consider again of your answer?’ he asked, very grave.
‘I am sworn to the truth,’ she reminded him. ‘My sister was as hot about the business as I was. And what could you expect? We were two poor girls that had lost their sweethearts.’ She turned about and fixed Tom Simpson with a wicked eye so that he trembled white as any bone and all-but slid to the floor. ‘He was a poor thing,’ she said smiling, ‘and not worth grieving for.’
There was a titter ran through the room at that. But the judge did not smile.
‘This is no playhouse,’ he said, ‘but a court of life and death. Therefore search your mind well before you let your tongue wag. Do not doubt that I am set to uncover the truth about the bewitching of the lord and his lady. Tell us what you did when you cast the spell that they should have no more issue. Neither add nor take away but tell it step by step, word for word.’ Priest, what did it matter? There was enough against Meg already to hang her three times over.”
“It was that wise men might consider the spell—whether it might be broken while yet there was time.”
She nodded. “That is plain commonsense. ‘When you cast a spell,’ Philip began; but he interrupted her very stern. ‘Speak only for yourself.’
She sent him a smile—the wicked smile poor Tom knew too well. She began again. ‘When we cast a spell we must have something belonging to the one we are to bewitch. We had such a thing; my lady gave it when she cast off my sister. It was the mattress upon which my lady countess had lain together with my lord. It belonged to them both . . . we could not have done better. We unripped the mattress and we took out the wool . . .’
‘Whom do you mean by we?’ the judge asked.
‘My mother, my sister and myself; all three, as I have said.’ ”
“So she lied!” Samuel Fleming said.
“Of course! Philip was not there to save Meg’s body but to save her soul for the Master—if it could be done.”
“It could not be done,” he said.
“No,” she sighed, “no!” She brightened again. “Do you remember, priest, how every face was turned towards my girl?”
“I remember one face . . . one face, only.”
She nodded. “The face of my lord earl. His hand sheltered it; but for all that I saw it clear. Cankered . . . withered. And do you remember the quiet in the court—silence as for a queen? And, into the silence, Philip’s voice clear as a sharp little knife telling them everything. How we had set the kettle upon the fire and cast into it the feathers and the wool together with our own blood; and how we had stirred the mixture turn and turn about and how we had recited the words.
‘Repeat the words, witch!’ the judge commanded. And she, hands folded as though to pray, began,
Blast seed, curse womb . . .
There was a sudden, sharp, noise; a chair went screaming backwards. My lord earl could endure it no more.
Philip gave no sign; she stood still as though in prayer; only her voice rose a little that it might go with him,
Blast seed, curse womb,
Sink, sink into the tomb.
Weep, weep for daughters fair,
Weep yet more for son and heir.
Empty heart and empty hand,
Master, hear me where I stand.
Sink, sink into the tomb,
Blast seed, curse womb.
She finished and there was no sound in the room. It was, priest, as though she had cast a spell to bewitch you all.
At last the judge spoke and his voice came out like that of a sick man. ‘Such evil. The mind cannot take in the half of it.’
‘What your hand finds to do, do it with your might,’ Philip said in no way abashed. ‘So it stands in your scriptures. And it is a true saying. My mother was half-hearted in this business and so she came to an evil end. She would have set a term of years to the lady’s barrenness. Seven years. Seven years!’ she said again and she laughed.
‘And do you not consider seven years sufficient?’ the judge asked, very drily.
‘Why, no!’ she said at once. ‘The lady had robbed us of our sweethearts for ever!’
‘In seven years will the curse be lifted?’ the judge asked her then.
‘No,
lord,’ she said and laughed. ‘We held fast, my sister and I, against our mother and we prevailed!’ ”
Samuel Fleming covered his face with his hands.
“Priest,” Joan Flower said, gently, “she lied. The term was set. I have told you before. Seven years. Not more. Not less.”
“But we believed her,” he said and groaned. “Francis and Cecilia believed her . . . I think there will be no more children.”
“That was why she lied.”
“She deserved to die,” he said, remembering the stricken faces turned towards the smiling girl. It was as though they, not she, had been condemned to die.
“I thought the judge would never speak,” Joan Flower said. “But he spoke . . . he spoke.”
And sitting there one each side of the empty hearth they remembered both of them the waiting stillness of the court and the judge speaking at last, his voice coming out on the breath of his sighing.
‘Such wickedness in the course of a long life, I have never, by God’s Grace, heard before; and, by that same Grace, trust never to hear again. I am amazed not only at your wickedness and at your cruelty; but that you have willingly given your soul to the Devil to damn it for everlasting.
The noble Earl of Rutland has suffered grievous loss at your hands. But he has borne it with a most Christian patience, believing that it had pleased God to inflict on him such a fashion of visitation. But now it has pleased God to disclose the matter in his own good time.
You stand here, a witch by your own confession; and you have been sentenced to the only punishment I can inflict—death by hanging. Alas, that I cannot send you to the fire as they do in countries more zealous than our own. If it were in my power to add to your punishment by burning I would do it. For, if in your own flesh you might feel a little of that agony you have inflicted upon others—and those others innocent of all malice towards you or anyone—then you might at the last repent; though I much doubt it, seeing how you have borne yourself here in this court with lewdness and with laughter. Your sentence I have already pronounced; and nothing remains for me to say but God have mercy upon your soul.’