by Hilda Lewis
“Was it as simple as all that? Was there no anger in your heart, no loathing? Do not blind yourself with talk of compassion; there was little of it in your heart then.”
She was silent awhile; then she said, “You knew her well; a child given to dreaming and not knowing dream from truth. Her testimonies were not such as witches give but rather as a sick child might fancy; or one of your saints, perhaps, with their strange notions. She saw a hand reach down from the sky; a flash of fire leap from the ground. Is this stuff on which to hang a human soul?”
He said—and his body shook with sighing, “She confessed to a spirit; a good spirit, she said, in the shape of a white dog.”
“Oh priest, did you not know better? The girl wandered in her wits; she would stand or sit or come or go; and not know where she might be. And the dog her father gave her; and it was white. And it appeared good to her; and it was good to her, seeing it led her home. As for a spirit, I doubt she knew what such a thing might be. She had heard the word—Joan and Ellen often used it. And so she used it, also, thinking perhaps it was a word for animal. I think your God, for all his enduring mercy, will remember it against you.”
He lay there shivering with cold. She bent and picked up the quilt where it had fallen upon the floor. “You lack your quilt,” she said and put it about him. “Yet, lacking it you have still good bedcovers; yes, and a warm fire, likewise. Think then of them that lay shivering in your cold cells.”
A tear burst from under his closed lids, and then another; lay in dark spots upon the quilt’s brightness.
“You weep,” she said, “though all is past and we are dead—all, all dead. Think, instead, of them that lie even now in your cruel prisons waiting for what is yet to come.”
“I do not weep for justice done,” he told her. “I weep because I did justice without compassion.”
“It is something to weep for,” she conceded, “yes and to tremble at likewise. But—” she shrugged, “those that wait for death in your stinking cells have more cause to tremble and to weep.
For Meg and for Philip time was nigh spent. The day of their hanging was fixed. Mid-march; the eleventh day. It is a pity to die in March, priest. For March is the month of growing; and the air is sharp with the smell of life. New buds break; and there is the scent of violets; the earth shines purple through the wet green and the birds are singing fit to break your heart . . . and you going to your death. But then it is never a good time to die—especially by the rope—unless you are sure of your joy hereafter, as martyrs are. One might call Philip a martyr.”
“You blaspheme,” Samuel Fleming said; but he said it gently.
“I think not, priest. For Philip was steadfast in her faith and certain of her joys. It needs a martyr’s faith to be steadfast in your prisons.
I tell you, priest, once you are within—be you innocent or guilty—you had best say ay when the justices want ay, and no when they want no. For it is better to die quickly by the rope than to rot in the filth or to go crazy with the pains they put upon you.
You are a priest and you are a justice. You serve God and the King. But what do you know of the things that are done in the name of both? The King cares nothing; he is like any fine gentleman. But your god? Will not he enquire it of you one day?”
He said, “You are right, I am not fit to be a priest or a justice.”
“Yet,” she said, gentle in the face of his humility, “I think you will not find the way to heaven too hard. But time grows short.” She looked with something like compassion upon his thin body that scarcely lifted the bedcovers. “Soon the tale will be told and I shall come here no more.”
“Then I shall miss my friend,” he said and smiled a little.
“If priests were merry as well as good,” she told him, “there would not be, perhaps, so many witches. Philip was right, maybe, when she said ours is a joyous faith; and your crucified god cannot stand against it.”
“Did Margaret find it joyous? Or Philippa herself in the end? And you; how did you find it?”
Her eyes fell before his. “There were times I asked myself if there was nothing beyond junketing and coupling. There were times I thought upon the cleanness of heaven. But it was too late.”
“It is never too late.”
“Not though I have sold my soul?”
“It was not yours to sell. It was ransomed long and long ago. Margaret was right.”
“Do you not promise eternal damnation to those that traffic with the Devil?”
“There is always hope of repentance. I think you have always known it.”
“How should I know it? I had to die before we could talk face-to-face. Oh priest, you were too grand for me, hobnobbing with the gentry up at the Castle and not caring overmuch for the ignorant and the poor.”
He wanted to tell her that it was not true; that he loved all men alike—his brothers. But how should she believe him? She was wrong about the ignorant and the poor. He did love them, down to the poorest, the most ignorant. Yet it had never been easy for him to show them his heart. His scholarship, his tastes, his very priesthood, God forgive him, had stood between them.
“I am a bad priest,” he told her, humble.
“Not bad; but too fine. Had you been less fine you might have helped us more. Nor can I forgive you, quite, that you did not visit my girls in the prison. Certainly there were priests, but not you. Some of them were good men, maybe; but I never saw them. They carried themselves not like priests but like lickspittle servants of the law. They would not ask mercy on any man’s soul until that soul was shrivelled to a parched pea with their questions and their threats. Yes, even at the gallows, there they would stand; and though some poor soul might thirst for prayer as a sick man for water, still these gentry would be at their games. And once I have heard the hangman himself cry out, Away and torment them no more. Think shame to yourself! For these poor souls buy mercy with their death.”
Samuel Fleming groaned at that and she said, “It was just such a one that came to Margaret in the cell; a surly dog that yapped at her heels even to the gallows. Oh, why were you so fine, priest? It does not become a priest to be a fine gentleman and a great scholar but only to serve his God and to be merciful and gentle with rich and poor . . . and especially with the poor since the burden of life is heavy upon us.
And so the last night came. You are a good man, priest, a friend to your god. But if you knew you must die tomorrow—even though it were in the comfort of your bed and those you love about you and prayers for your passing—would you be so eager for the morning? And, would you not be a little afraid? Think then of them in the dark and stinking cell . . . a few small hours between them and a cruel death.
I stood always within my corner; and the smell of their pain struck upwards to my naked soul. All they suffered, I suffered. And more . . . more. I suffered with Margaret that must come to her death—and no hope of your god or of mine. And with Philip I suffered yet more—knowing what she did not know—that in the last agony she must find herself betrayed; and the betrayal for eternity. For the face that had kissed her face would be turned away as she struggled and span upon the rope.
But most of all I pitied Ann that suffered and knew not why. She would kneel by Meg until her frail bones ached, praying that God—your god, priest, remember that—would take away the black fear that hung all about her and that it would be bright morning again. And having prayed, she would take Meg by the hand and whisper how they two would go back to the cottage together and the white dog with them. And maybe, if they served Him well, God would give them a little baby to care for; and they would live happy for the rest of their lives.
But you hanged her instead, priest.”
Chapter Twenty-six
“You hanged her instead,” Joan Flower said and her ghost’s eyes stared into his. “I wish you had seen her, priest, the simple child, walking to the gallo
ws between the two old women that had brought her there . . . walking; and puzzled a little, and not knowing truly what was to come, but smelling trouble as the simple do; and all the time fear growing.
I think she was not full awake until she came to the gallows-piece and there the sight of the gallows awakened her fast enough! Oh priest, I wish you had been there to see how she stared and the eyes starting from her head; and how she looked this way and that and began to cry—which showed she was no witch; but the madness of your good folk blinded their eyes. And she would have turned to run but they put their hands upon her and lifted her into the cart. And she turned and twisted under their hands and she began to scream—the thin, high scream of a rabbit in the trap. And she called upon your god . . . and the sound of her crying might have made him weep; but he let them do it. And she cried upon her mother that was dead; and she would have leaped over the side of the cart but they held her fast; and they put the rope about her neck. She was, you may believe it, full awake there in the cart beneath the gallows and the rope about her neck.
And so she died, little Ann Baker with her nonsense about a great hand reaching from heaven—from heaven, mark you! She was innocent; but your law murdered her as surely as any witch by any spell. I think, priest, your god will remember it against those that did it.”
He covered his face with his hands. “We may not suffer a witch to live. So we are commanded.”
“She was no witch. And—who commands? Is it to be found in the sayings of your Lord Jesus? I think not. You will find it in the older Scriptures. When you hang a witch you obey the old God and not the new. Your god commanded you to mercy.
I deserved to die; and Margaret and Philip; and Joan and Ellen. But what we deserve, and what mercy is prepared to grant, are two different things. The plain truth, priest, is this. You are not worthy of your god any more than I was worthy of mine. You cannot reach to infinite good, nor I to infinite evil. For between these two, the poor human soul faints and loses its way.
But it is not of ourselves we should be thinking now but of those that were to die. They lay upon the filthy straw that no man had changed since they were thrust within; and upon it for nearly three months they had slept and eaten and relieved themselves. And this night, this last night, their bowels ran with their fear; and the stink of their fear—be not so nice, priest, since it was they, not you, that must endure it—was enough to make a man retch. You say, you good Christians, that a man should go clean before his Maker and therefore you pray at his passing. But, if the body be stained with filth, does the soul take no stain, no stain at all?
So there they lay sleepless throughout the long night hours that were all too short. Joan Willimott and Ellen Greene lay without hope and full of fears; though they had not as yet come before the judges the smell of death was in their nostrils. In the foul straw Meg knelt, and Ann knelt with her. Now and again, Ann—her simple thoughts running still upon the cottage and the dog and the baby—would smile and nod.
But nothing could quench the spirit of Philip. She sang her lewd songs and curled her hair with the little comb she kept within her bosom. And when Joan and Ellen nodded towards sleep, she would wake them, crying out one thing or the other.
And once she cried out, ‘You who are yet to face the judges know well what your end must be. You are as much condemned, and the rope about your neck, as we who must die in the morning. Do not think to count upon the mercy of men—even if it is promised you; no, not though the priest nor the great judge himself should promise it. For what that mercy is you already know. We have suffered as no woman should suffer. May those hands wither and rot!
You have but to stand strong through the short days to your trial; and after it, through the shorter hours before the walk to the gallows. And there the Master Himself will be waiting. And the rope shall fall from your necks; and He will carry you away in the sight of all your enemies; and they shall be confounded. Yes, you Joan Willimott and Ellen Greene that have denied Him. He will forgive your lies and your denials. You shall cast off your old tormented bodies and be forever lusty, taking your delight in love; and desire shall never fail. Yes, even you . . .’ Philip twirled about and stretched her finger towards the kneeling child so that Ann started and came from her prayers and stared with wide eyes. ‘You are stupid as a sick sheep; and what good He can get out of you I do not know. Yet He will save you also. So stands his word.’
Ann made no answer; the words that Philip spoke held no meaning for her; her eyes closed again above her folded hands. Her poor wits could never remember the words of prayer; but still she knelt. She was simple and she was innocent; and your god did not help her. Was he so merciful then that this one small thing he denied her?”
“Prayer is no small thing,” Samuel Fleming said; “especially when we are near our death.”
“You have all the answers, priest. This child stood at death’s open door and your god did not hold out his hand.”
“I believe He did . . . in his own way.”
“Let us hope so,” she said, very drily, “seeing how she died.
And so they knelt, those two, prayerless; and Ellen and Joan stared out of reddened, rheumy eyes. They themselves had knelt once; and I could see sweet memories flooding back to withered hearts . . . Churchgoing; clean, folded kerchief, clean, pressed gown. Easter and Harvest and Christmastide. Choir; words of the priest . . . and the sacrament. All these things they had thrown away; and what had they been given in return? Nothing. Nothing but fear and pain and the hatred of men; and, if not tomorrow, then the next day or the next, they must die a hideous death.
And they looked from Meg to Philip and back again.
‘Take your choice—if you can,’ Philip cried out. ‘But what choice have you? Do not think their righteous god will receive you; no, never think it! For you do not repent but are shaken with your coward’s fears. As for these—’ and she cast her spiteful glance at Ann and Meg, ‘they do not pray; they have no words; and though they wear their knees to the bone, the Christian god will not hear them. You would do well, poor fools, to take what rest you may. As for me, I am for my bed. It is the last time—thanks be to the Master!—I lie upon filth.’ And she curled up in the straw and was suddenly asleep.
Joan and Ellen stared down at her as though even in sleep she followed to spy upon them; then, saying no word one to the other, they crept towards Meg and knelt at her side like dumb beasts in that Manger—though not so innocent.
Pray they could not; yet the bent knees, the folded hands, the closed eyes brought a little comfort. Ann nodded where she knelt and Meg laid her gently in the straw; then they lay down all four, and slept.
Philip slept smiling; she lay upon her back, her arms clasped as though she embraced not her own breasts but a lover. Sometimes her body moved and trembled as in the act of love; and I heard her whisper, How should You let me hang. You that so love my body? And I understood how we may deceive ourselves with our longing and our dreaming.
The bitter March dawn stole in on the darkness. Philip sat up, stretching and throwing out her arms. And, now awake, she had no compassion upon them that snatched their moments of sleep but must wake them to their misery before need.”
“Before need? Was there nothing needed?” Samuel Fleming asked. “No prayer?”
“The question does not come well from you! Meg asked for a priest and Philip laughed out sharp and bitter. ‘You think their god will forgive you now you see fit to whine and crawl?’ she asked.
‘Their God is my God and Ann’s God,’ Meg said and held the child fast by the hand. ‘And who can measure the mercy of God?’
‘It is not the mercy of your god you will measure, but the length of the rope!’ Philip turned her back upon her sister and spoke to Joan and Ellen; their peaked, pale faces looked towards her in the dirty light.
‘Listen,’ she said, ‘for I have this last message for you. Last night the
Master came and lay with me; and He promised me once more that you should not suffer the death. You have but to magnify his name. But if you do not spit upon the name of the Christian god, then certainly you will hang by the neck and your tongue swell in your throat and your eyes grow upon stalks for the crows to pick. And before the breath is out of your carcasses the servants of the Master will tear your souls from the flesh and shovel them into the Fire.’
Ann began to tremble so that the teeth rattled in her head. Meg put an arm about her and spoke to Philip.
‘You have given the message of your Master; now I give you the message of mine. You are hard and you are stubborn; but if you will repent now, even at this last moment, He will listen and He will save.’
‘Fool!’ Philip cried out, ‘lying, dying fool! For me the glory and the bliss; for you the burning and the Pit.’ And she twisted on her heel. There was no doubt in her, nor any fear; only bitterness and anger that they had betrayed the Master.
And now there came the jingle of keys and the door swung open. The turnkey came in carrying a jug of crawling water and a basket of green bread. For though a prisoner must die for his sins, and though God may care for him, yet men do not. So he goes hungry and thirsty to his death.”
“Not hungry nor thirsty in the soul,” Samuel Fleming said.
“Meg went comforted to her death; but not by any kindness of man. ‘Sir,’ she said to the turnkey, ‘we are to die today. And since there is no hope but in God, I pray you, send us a priest.’ ”
Joan Flower was silent; then she said, “They brought her a priest. But it was not you. You had baptized her, but it was not you.” Her voice came out in a wail. “It was not you, Samuel Fleming, not you.”
He bowed his head at that.
“The priest that came . . .” she said and choked upon her anger.
“The priest that came?” he prompted gently.