by Hilda Lewis
And Samuel Fleming remembered how the girl had answered impudent as ever, ‘You do me good service seeing that you send me to join Him who is my Master and my paramour.’ And then the voice of the judge, very sharp, ‘I trust you will think so when you join him.’ And she, quick upon his words, ‘Be very sure I shall!’
Quite suddenly her face had changed. ‘You shall never hang me,’ she had cried out all anger and spite. ‘He will not suffer my foot to be moved, no, nor one hair of my head to be plucked.’
Yes, he remembered her eyes and her mouth . . . the tongue flicking like a snake, a little red snake. And how they had sat, all of them, staring at her. There were some that had expected the Devil himself to appear and carry her off then and there . . .
“And so He would have done had He been honest!” Joan Flower’s voice chimed with his thoughts. “Priest, it was then I knew He would lift no finger. Had He meant to save her that was the time. What better moment to declare his power, to snatch her from beneath the noses of priests and magistrates; from beneath the great nose of my Lord Justice himself? Such a tale would have rung the length and breadth of Christendom, to confound scholar and simple alike. But she left the court like any other prisoner that is condemned to die—she that had been the Master’s love.
And so, priest, I saw one daughter bound for the gallows; and I knew that in a little while, the other must follow.
It was growing towards evening when they brought Meg again into the court—but morning or evening, it was all one in that dark place lit by the flickering candles.
Now there was a new charge against her—the murder of her own child. I need not tell you, priest, they had lost no time! Already the evidence was set down against her—signed and sealed; but she knew nothing of it.”
“Yet it was true,” Samuel Fleming reminded her.
“Yes, it was true. But it might have been false; that is a thing to remember. So there she stood, a poor ignorant creature, feeble with lack of sleep and with ill-treatment. I tell you, priest, she was scarce able to follow the charges, let alone reply to them . . . and there was no-one to help her.
Yet she who was never brave showed courage now. Cast off by God and by the Devil, yet she would speak the truth. She stood leaning against the bar and listened to the Clerk of Assize.
‘Margaret Flower, this morning, in this court, you heard the charges against you to which charges you pleaded not guilty. Those charges I will now repeat.’
She stood there, her eyes closed and the words passed over her head. Then he said, ‘There is now a further charge against you . . .’
She opened her eyes at that and I saw how she listened that she might understand.
‘. . . that you, not having the fear of God before your eyes . . .’
At that she nodded gently.
‘. . . and being seduced by the instigation of the Devil . . .’ and she nodded again, ‘did in the year of grace, sixteen hundred and twelve, against the peace of our sovereign lord the King, his crown and dignity, murder . . .’
She looked up at that, priest, she was puzzled by the word. Her hand went to her breast; she leaned more heavily against the bar.
‘. . . your new-born child. How say you, Margaret Flower, are you guilty or not of this most wicked crime?’
For a little space she stood silent and her eyes were closed. Then she lifted her head and spoke. And, priest, let me go to heaven or to hell, I shall remember the way she looked and the words she spoke. I shall never be free of them.
‘Being seduced by the Devil and forgetting God which is in heaven, I am guilty of all the charges save one. Of bewitching my lord earl and his lady I am innocent. I was not willing; and therefore my mother and my sister put me without the door; and they took the mattress and the pillow to work the spell, but I did not give it them.’ ”
Joan Flower’s voice trembled and dropped into silence. They sat there remembering, both of them, how there was no sound at all in the court; and then the small rustle of robes as the judge turned towards the jury.
‘The prisoner has pleaded guilty to every charge in the indictment against her but one. And though she is already condemned out of her own mouth, you must now consider that one charge she denies—that is the charge of bewitching the noble Earl of Rutland and the lady his wife that they may have no more children—and return the verdict that no man hereafter may question the justice of this court.’
And sitting together in this very room where Margaret had first opened her eyes to the light, they remembered both of them—the mother that bore her, and the priest that baptized her—how the jurors did not leave their places but looked and nodded one to the other; and how it needed no man to ask the verdict . . . and how all the time the prisoner stood there watching them. She did not tremble when the clerk asked the verdict; and at the word guilty she did not tremble.
It was only when the judge raised his head and looked at her to pronounce sentence, that she began to shake as with an ague.
‘Margaret Flower, you have pleaded guilty to all the charges in the indictment against you, except one; and on that charge, also, you have been found guilty. And I am amazed not only at your wickedness but at your foolishness, that you gave yourself to the Devil, body and soul, whereby you are damned to all eternity.’
And they remembered how she had nodded, gentle and patient, so that when the judge—the black square upon his head—pronounced the sentence, he spoke the ugly words quietly and, as it seemed, gently also. And when he had finished, he asked, ‘Have you anything to say why this sentence against you should not be carried out?’ And No, she had whispered, and again, No.
And then, her eyes upon the judge and trembling still she had spoken.
‘Lord, when a man comes to his hanging, then he is allowed to speak a few last words. Do me the grace to let me speak them now, for when I come to my death, fear will dry up my tongue.’
And those two, remembering together, could see it all as in a picture—small and faraway and very clear—she waiting and the judge nodding and the prisoner speaking.
‘It is just that I should die the death. For though I had no hand in bewitching the lord earl and his lady, yet I took my part in the death of the little boys on whose sweet souls may God have mercy; and, also, of bewitching the lady Catharine. But she was a sturdy child and we could not harm her.
All these things which I denied before, I now confess. And I confess, also, to the charge that, I am told, now stands against me. I agreed to the death of my little child. But we did not speak of murder; we spoke only of sacrifice. I was not clear at that time as to the difference.’
‘And you are clear upon the matter now?’ the judge asked.
‘Lord, I am clear.’
She stood silent for a little space and then she spoke again.
‘The Devil is a hateful and deceitful master. There is no end to his lying nor to his cruelty. And I do implore you, all Christian souls, not to throw away your part in God, but to take example by me that stand before you here, where the Devil has brought me and lifts no hand to save me. Nor would I receive my life at his hands, if I could, knowing what manner of spirit he is. Good people, if by my dying, I have saved one Christian soul from the net of the Devil, then my wicked life and my shameful death will not have been in vain.’
“And so, priest,” Joan Flower said and sighed, “she ran straight to the gallows.”
“To salvation,” he said.
“But the gallows came first. And . . . do you remember, priest, when they would have taken her away?”
He remembered; and it was a thing he would never forget his life long. For the gaoler had laid a hand upon her arm and she had turned to go, stumbling a little upon her feet. Then, she had stopped suddenly and turned herself about; and she had looked not at the judge, but at Francis who sat by him.
‘My lord earl,’ she had said, �
�you and your lady were ever good to me; and when she turned me from the Castle she had good cause. I have done you both so much evil I doubt you can forgive me, ever. But you are a merciful man and walk in the fear of God. So, if you cannot forgive me now before I am taken hence, if you could of your charity try to forgive me, then nod your head and I shall go to my death with a lighter heart.’
And Samuel Fleming remembered how, sitting in the court, he had prayed that Francis would show her this sign of grace. Yet, even while he prayed, he had doubted that any man could have enough of Christ within him to do as she asked.
Francis had made no sign; he had sat there like a man in stone. It was, Samuel knew, lest he break down and weep before them all, weep for his young children; and for the ruin of Cecilia’s life and his own.
The gaoler had touched her again but not unkindly now; and she had begun to follow with slow step. Then she had stopped again; and for the last time held out her hands—her chained hands—towards Francis. Perhaps it was the chains; or perhaps Francis remembered then that for all her bent body and her white hair, she was young. Maybe the punishment that had withered her youth, and the certain death to which she must go, had moved him. Francis had tried to speak and could not speak. And then, at the last, he had managed to nod and his lips had moved in token of forgiveness. She had bowed her head then, and curtseyed to him with her stiff and twisted limbs and had gone stumbling from the room.
Chapter Twenty-five
Samuel Fleming lifted his head. It was dark now in the deserted cottage and very cold. How had he come here? He remembered only walking along the road in the spring sunshine. Had he, indeed, followed that unquiet ghost, sat facing her through the lengthening hours? Or had he wandered in, unthinking, and fallen asleep? Whichever way it was, Hester would be troubled at his long absence.
He rose stretching his cramped limbs and shivering more than a little.
When he stepped out-of-doors he saw that the stars rode high and clear in the night sky; the budded branches of the elms were bespangled with jewels. It quieted his soul so that, for a moment, he forgot Joan Flower and her ugly tale.
But only for a moment.
“And so, priest, I saw both my children condemned to die.” Her voice wailed like the wind in the quiet night; he felt his cloak move as in a light breeze.
“Hanging is no pretty matter, priest, as you would know, if ever you saw one. But you are liker to keep your nose in a book than lift your eyes to a hanging. Yet you should go. And, if you have no stomach to see them turned off—those you have helped to their death—why then you may look upon the gallows later where still they twitch and dance upon air. And I would recommend you to look upon the face . . . and especially upon the eyes.
Oh priest, could I have cried to your god, why then I had cried; for in our anguish we cry for mercy where we must least expect it. And could I have cried to my god, why then I had cried, also; for we cry for mercy where no mercy dwells.
In the dark cell Philip was merry as a starling singing her lewd songs; but Margaret knelt apart, her whole being set upon finding the lost words of prayer. She would send her thoughts back to childhood, remembering her father and the way he had prayed with her; and she would beat upon her forehead with clenched fists as one knocks upon a closed door; and here she would find a word and there she would find a word—words long lost and now found again. She would sit for hours stringing them together now in this order, now in that, mouthing to hear how they might sound . . . lead . . . lead . . . lead us into temptation. Surely that was right! But—Lead us into temptation . . . ? She would shake her piteous head. One little word escaped her.”
Above its dark walls, the windows of the Rectory shone with light and he quickened his step. The garden gate stood open, and he saw the front door a rectangle of light; and, dark against it, the lamp high above her head—Hester.
“Samuel,” she called softly anxious. And again, “Samuel.”
“You must go,” Joan Flower said, “and I must come with you. For the thing between us must be finished one way or the other.” She put her hand upon him; it was the first time she had touched him and he trembled with cold so that he all-but fell.
Hester came running to meet him. “Where have you been?” she asked sharp; and yet tender, too. “I have called you this long time; yes, and we have searched for you as well. Come!”
He went obedient and followed her in.
. . . . .
He sat up in the warmth of his bed and he was trembling still; his hand about the tankard of hot ale shook and he was forced to set it down. His eyes went this way and that. Joan Flower was not there as she had promised. He was glad of it. He could not endure, at this moment, to go back over the whole thing—to the very end, until his heart broke. Still less did he desire to sleep; in sleep we are defenceless against our dreams.
His head nodded. He jerked himself awake. He was in his own room, thank God; his own bed. And yet, he was on the Bench along with Eresby and Pelham; and before them Joan Willimott kneeling. The bedroom and the courtroom were both there, like two drawings, superimposed the one above the other. And it was not strange but natural.
Willimott was kneeling and they could not get her to stand; and she was talking and they could not get her to stop.
Yes, sirs, I have a spirit and it is called Pretty. And it was breathed into my mouth by William Berry over at Langhorne . . .
“That was an ill thing she did!” And there was Joan Flower standing by his bed and whispering his own doubts. “She named one that was never mentioned in the matter before and she brought him to the gallows.”
He turned to Joan Flower; and all the time Joan Willimott knelt there and her lips moved.
“He was innocent.” Joan Flower nodded. “Such a spirit she had but he did not give it to her. When you hurt prisoners to make them speak or promise them favour, then you will always get false witness. It is not hard to understand. So she brought a good man to his death.”
Joan Willimott kneeling before them reached up and plucked him by the sleeve. He struggled to come back again to the warm room, the familiar room; but the fear in her eyes held him back.
I did no harm, sir. I never harmed anyone my life long. I did good, sir . . . I cured sick folk . . . not harm but good.
He turned and moaned in the bed.
“She was guilty.” Joan Flower’s voice quieted him. “I have seen her raise a storm by writing in the dust. She was a dirty soul; not worthy of your god or of mine. It was well you hanged her when you did, before she thought of more innocents to drag to the gallows along with her.”
He did not hear her. His eyes were on the wretched old woman with her palsied hands lifted towards him. She was still talking when they dragged her away on her knees.
Joan Flower bent to him in the bed. “She had no pity for anyone; not even for Ann—the child she brought to the rope.”
“The other one,” and his voice came out in a wail. “Ellen Greene, she is coming . . . she is coming. We must judge her; and I am broken with my doubts.”
“That is another for whom you need waste no tears,” Joan Flower said. “She was guilty. She betrayed those that served the Master; and she brought to their death innocent souls that served your god.”
“But for all that I wish the thing undone. Look at her where she weeps.”
“Those are not tears. She has a sickness of the eyes; she is all-but blind.”
“They are tears,” he said.
“Witches cannot weep.” Joan Flower’s voice came to him as he sat among the justices, the bright quilt crumpled still beneath his hand. “And she is a witch if ever there was one. Listen where she stands betraying her friends.”
The evil came from the Flowers; from the one that is dead, and from those that are to die. But most of all it came from Joan Willimott. She had other spirits, Master, besides the little lady. On
e was like to a kitten that could work no harm; but it was no kitten and it worked harm aplenty. And the other was like a mole but it was no mole. And they would jump upon her shoulders, the one black and the other white, and they would suck upon her ears. And she sent them forth to injure a man and his wife; and it was Anthony Gill and his wife; and they died both of them within the fortnight. But I never worked ill in all my life and I have no familiar and I am no witch . . . and . . .
And now they were taking her away; and though her place was empty, he could still hear her high, thin screaming and the retching of her sobs.
And now they were bringing in the child, the simple child. He could not look. Dear Christ, let him not look!
He turned and twisted from side to side. Joan Flower put out a hand and he was back again in his bed.
“It was Ann that suffered most,” Joan Flower said. “Ann that knew nothing and had no wit to lie. They would not let her alone; they were forever working upon this simple child that should have been one of your god’s lambs. I saw them at their cruel tricks. Let us hope your god keeps his account of what is done in his name. Once I saw her head pulled back sudden and sharp by the hair, so that I thought it must crack. But they were too clever for that! Break the neck! There was a time and a place for it. And once I saw a woman bring a sly coal between the tongs and drop it within the childish breasts. Here is one devilmark the more, the woman said and laughed . . . one of your good women, priest.
Oh priest, priest, could you not see when they brought her before you that this was a child and a simple one? And the things she testified were so foolish, it might have made an angel weep. Could you not see that this child was God’s fool rather than the Devil’s?”
“She consorted with witches,” Samuel Fleming said, sighing. “And her testimony though childish was damning. I am a priest. I could not save the body and so damn the soul.”