by Mervyn Wall
“With favourable results?” asked the friar, whose professional interest was aroused.
“Yes,” said the Bishop with satisfaction. “After three days’ application of the best available monkish tortures, they agreed to admit anything. Further proof of their guilt was afforded by the fact that no sooner had they been apprehended by the King’s men, than the enchanted cats ceased to trouble the royal repose.”
Father Furiosus nodded approvingly. “It’s a well-known fact,” he said, “attested by all the Fathers of the Church, that when the officers of justice lay their hands upon a sorcerer, he is at that moment bereft of his execrable powers.”
“Unfortunately,” said the Bishop, “the two conjurors and the ventriloquist, having been crippled in the course of the judicial examination, had to be carried to the stake. The burning was a colourful ceremony, but I should have wished that they could have walked.”
“It’s more impressive certainly,” agreed the friar.
The Bishop’s face darkened, and his underlip twitched alarmingly.
“But evil powers did not cease to trouble us,” he said. “Not long afterwards, the city was subjected to a plague of fleas whose inordinate fierceness and voracity far exceeded the experience of the oldest inhabitant. They appeared to make a particular set on me and on the canons of the Chapter; and this impiety, together with their exceeding briskness in evading capture, convinced me that their activities were not of nature, but proceeded from the damned art of witchcraft.”
Father Furiosus nodded gravely while the Bishop scratched his buttock reminiscently.
“I had two mathematicians burnt,” continued the Bishop, “but it did little to abate this strange and grievous vexation. Next, an army of mice started to march up and down the streets of the town in an orderly company without stragglers. You can imagine our alarm, for we knew that such an extraordinary purposeful march could not but presage evil. Such persistent persecution, we felt, could only be the result of spells of peculiar malignancy. We were concerting further measures when once more the King was struck at, this time through the medium of enchanted beer. His secretary set down in writing an exact record of the King’s experiences, and it is at present in my possession. King Cormac one evening after supper innocently consumed six quarts of a particularly delectable ale, and was at once filled with vague and disagreeable sensations. He sat for a long while gnawing his beard while his terrified servants hurried over to my palace in search of spiritual aid. When I arrived with my book of exorcisms the unfortunate man had begun to laugh and frolic, and was shouting the most villainous and the lewdest language that ever man heard. Under exhortation his sportiveness abated; he sunk down in a swoon of gladness and lay a great while like as he had been dead. His limbs being rendered unserviceable by the malignant potency of the spell, he had to be carried to his couch by six servitors, where he lay unconscious while a choir of monks in the corner of the room chanted throughout the night the psalm, ‘Ad Deum cum tribubarer.’ Under this treatment he recovered towards morning; but marvellous to relate, remembered nought of his frenzy.”
Father Furiosus shook his head gravely. “Faith,” he said, “is the best buckler against such invasions. Is King Cormac perhaps a man in his mode of life indifferent to heavenly things, and careless of the well-being of the Church? Does he contribute regularly to the support of his pastors?”
“Indeed, yes,” said the Bishop, “he is a faithful son of the Church, who never fails to enrich with a tithe of one-third of the spoils of war the abbeys and religious settlements of his kingdom, so that they have grown to an exceeding sleekness, reflecting the highest credit on him.”
“He seems to be a right and proper prince,” said Furiosus meditatively. “It would appear that we must look elsewhere for the cause of these stubborn manifestations. I am not inclined to believe that they proceed from the malice of demons: firstly, because they are not in character; and secondly, because I have information that all the demons in Hell are at present at Clonmacnoise, where some weeks ago they succeeded in penetrating the defences raised by the prayers of the Blessed Kieran, and where they are exercising every species of wile and violence to win the good monks from their duty. Are there any other ventriloquists, mathematicians, acrobats, charmers or reciters of poetry in the neighbourhood? If you wish I will institute an inquisition of likely persons. As you know, I am licensed by the Synod of Kells to search for conjurors.”
“No,” said the Bishop, who had been waiting impatiently for the friar to have done, “they have all fled. But,” and the Bishop’s underlip vibrated with satisfaction, “I believe I have in custody the fons et origo of this dismal and abhorred business.”
“Indeed,” said the friar, somewhat crestfallen.
“Yes,” said Bishop Flanagan, “four days ago the sexton of Kilcock Churchyard, a worthy fellow, came to me and laid information denouncing as a witch an impoverished hag of advanced age, known locally as The Gray Mare, who resides within a stone’s throw of the sexton’s house. He had frequently seen her at night out on the hillside struggling with a cat; and recently, while he was watching her over the fence which separates their land, her body changed, horns appeared on her head, and she went on all fours like an animal. He has also, he avers, seen her changed into a horse and walking on her hindlegs; but it was not until last week that his suspicions were really aroused by the sight of her astride a broomstick, on which she ambled and galloped through the air, flying by his house with such velocity that the wind of her passing did raise much of the thatch from his roof.”
“Hm,” said Father Furiosus, “it has all the signs of a bad case of sorcery. I trust there is no reason to suspect that the sexton in laying the charge was actuated by malice?”
“Well,” admitted the Bishop somewhat reluctantly, “I understand that there is some dispute between the two, something about a boundary fence and a trespassing goat; but the sexton is a worthy man, and he was very positive in his accusations.”
“How did you proceed?”
“We seized the witch and formally accused her of being a companion of hellhounds, a caller and a conjuror of wicked and damned spirits.”
“How did she react to these charges?”
“She at once lodged a countercharge against the sexton, accusing him of being a damnifying sorcerer himself; but, at his own request, his legs were examined by the canons of the Chapter, and his knees being found horny with frequent praying, he was immediately acquitted.”
“Yes,” said the friar, stroking his red jowl thoughtfully, “things look bad for this woman you call The Gray Mare. Did you put her to the torture?”
“No,” said the Bishop regretfully. “She is old and frail, so that we were in fear lest she should die before the day appointed for her burning. We did, however, walk her up and down for three days in the approved manner, thus depriving her of sleep and rest; and in relays we continuously questioned her, but it was of little avail. Under this treatment she admits everything we suggest, but no sooner is she permitted to sit down than she speedily retracts it all. Indeed, she is a witch full of craftiness and wile.” The Bishop’s eye gleamed fanatically, and his voice became shrill. The friar watched the jerking underlip fascinated.
“But we will tie her to a strong stake of faggots,” said the Bishop, his voice rising almost to a scream, “and we will burn her, as is right; and from her mouth will be seen to issue a swarm of sorceries and lies and other hideous devilries.”
Father Furiosus waited respectfully for the Bishop’s anger to abate before he again spoke.
“When is the burning?” he asked.
The Bishop’s face darkened.
“I regret to say that the date is not yet fixed. Some of the canons of the Chapter, quite foolishly it seems to me, still entertain doubt as to her guilt. They seem to be not altogether convinced of the sexton’s bona fides on account of the dispute about the trespassing goat. So I have reluctantly consented that one more trial be made of her. We are goin
g to swim her this afternoon in a pool in the River Suir two miles from the town.”
“An excellent test approved by every writer on the subject,” said the friar, rubbing his large red fists with satisfaction. “If the water rejects her; that is, if she floats, it is sure proof that she is a witch. If she sinks, God has plainly manifested that she is innocent.”
“You wouldn’t be so punctilious about the fine points of the matter,” said the Bishop sourly, “if you had been subjected to the attentions of a myriad of enchanted fleas of a dexterity and agility altogether out of the course of nature. However, here we are at the house of the noble Cormac Silkenbeard.”
The Bishop knocked at the door with his pastoral staff. It was opened at once by a serving boy whose face fell at sight of the churchman.
“Is your royal master within?” enquired Bishop Flanagan.
The youth did not reply, but seemed to be experiencing the liveliest consternation.
The Bishop gave him a sharp look and pushed by him into the royal kitchen. Father Furiosus followed.
It was a spacious room furnished with several spits and a shining array of bronze vessels; but what riveted the friar’s gaze was the extraordinary sight of an aged gentleman, apparently naked, sitting bolt upright in a species of ornamental bath set in the centre of the earthen floor. The tub was so short that the old gentleman had of necessity his knees drawn up to his chin. An immense silky grey beard concealed most of his person. He was chortling, evidently in huge enjoyment of a stream of warm water which a servingman poured from a watering-can on to his bald head. His back was to the door, so that the first indication he had of the presence of visitors was when the Bishop accosted him with a voice of thunder.
“What is this I see?” demanded Bishop Flanagan, “in the Royal House of Cashel, a scene reminiscent of the worst excesses of the Roman Empire!”
The serving-men retreated hurriedly from the room, and a blush of shame could be seen creeping down the back of the monarch.
“Get out of that at once,” commanded the Bishop harshly.
“I can’t,” said the King feebly. “I’m jammed. It’s rather short, and I do have to be lifted out.”
“This is a grievous sight,” continued the Bishop harshly. “I bring to visit you a stranger, a powerful man of God. I tell him the King of Cashel is a man of beautiful thoughts and pregnant principles, and what does he see in the Royal House—every evidence of lax, unrestrained and vicious living.”
The King’s hand shook as he made a weak attempt to spread his beard so as to cover as much of his naked chest as possible.
“Where did you get that device of the devil?” demanded the Bishop.
“It was sold to me by a travelling salesman from the Eastern World,” replied the monarch humbly. “He had a fine share of talk, and he tempted me by urging that all the best people in the Byzantine Empire have them installed.”
“Yes,” thundered the Bishop. “And where is the Byzantine Empire now? Rotten with heresies! You didn’t think of that?”
“No,” replied Cormac, “I didn’t think of that. I’m only a poor king,” he added plaintively, “broken with the years and surrounded by damnifying witches trying to bring about my final undoing.”
“The first thing is to remove you from that slough of sin,” said Bishop Flanagan. “Father Furiosus, maybe you can be of use here.”
“Certainly,” said the sturdy friar, rolling back his sleeves. He grasped Cormac under the armpits and lifted him without difficulty from the bath. He held the king in the air for a few moments expecting him to stretch out his legs and stand, but Cormac kept his knees up to his chin, his legs still cramped by the sudden fright induced by the arrival of the Bishop. The friar placed him gently in a sitting position on the floor. Bishop Flanagan kept his eyes modestly averted until a towel had been draped around the monarch.
“I cannot understand,” commented the Bishop, “how a man of your upbringing, education and position can be unaware of the heinousness of such conduct. It was in the effeminate steam of the bath-house that the strength and resolution of Rome evaporated, leaving her a prey to the barbarian. God has made the human body to exude natural oils and vapours, and you would defy the divine economy and undo His work by impiously washing them off. I tremble for your immortal soul, Cormac. Indeed, I do not know if anything less than excommunication will meet the case.”
At the sound of the dread word King Cormac was gripped by a fit of trembling.
“I confess my sin,” he said abjectly. “Perhaps a small offering to the Church, maybe two bullocks——?”
“Forgiveness is not a commodity that can be bought,” replied the Bishop haughtily. “Nor is it wise for a sinner to be niggardly with God.”
The King groaned. “Four bullocks,” he suggested. “They will be driven over to your stockade before sundown.”
“Well,” said Bishop Flanagan,” I don’t wish to be hard on you, particularly as you have recently been subjected to operations of a magical character far from pleasant. I shall send over the absolution when the four bullocks are delivered. You must surrender the bath, of course, that we may burn it with due ceremony.”
“I am most willing to follow any course your Holiness indicates,” replied King Cormac humbly. “May I now be permitted to resume my clothing? This earthen floor is grievously chilly and unfriendly to the buttocks.”
“Yes,” said Bishop Flanagan, “and when that office is performed, you may join us in the sun-room.”
The Bishop led the way from the kitchen, down a passage, and through several spacious apartments. He and Furiosus met nobody. This very much surprised the friar, who had expected to see the entire personnel thronging around the Bishop to receive his blessing and to beg the favour of kissing the good man’s hand; but instead, Furiosus was conscious of gently closing doors and dim footfalls, as if the inmates were most anxious to keep out of sight. There was silence in every corner of the Royal House, but it was not the silence of a deserted place; it was the tingling stillness in which one feels that behind every door human beings are standing motionless, almost afraid to breathe. Father Furiosus shook his red mane angrily. He was a straightforward, downright man; and these fancies disturbed him.
On the floor of the sun-room sat two of King Cormac’s daughters. The younger was stringing a set of multi-coloured beads, and the stones, jasper, amethyst and cornelian, lay heaped in her lap. Her sister had let down her hair. It was of the colour of gorse and lay tumbled in brilliant profusion over her shoulders. Squatting back daintily on her slender haunches, she was combing it with long, rhythmic strokes. Bishop Flanagan started on seeing the two girls, and instinctively averted his eyes; but Father Furiosus, who had as much sense of beauty as one of the royal bullocks that was shortly to change its allegiance, stared stolidly at the spectacle.
An important feminine conversation was in progress.
“You glanced at him,” giggled the girl who was stringing the beads.
“I did not,” replied her sister, tossing back her yellow head.
“I tell you I saw you. You glanced across when you thought he wasn’t looking.”
“And I tell you again that I didn’t.”
The dialogue lost itself in a series of titters, which terminated abruptly when Golden Head, glancing around, caught sight of the Bishop and the friar standing in the doorway. Her face grew scarlet. She dropped the comb and, springing to her feet, bundled her hair into a silken cap, which she hurriedly pulled down over her ears. Her sister, no less alarmed, grabbed her handful of stones, dropping one or two in her haste; and rose to her feet. They curtsied deeply as Bishop Flanagan walked into the room. He gave them a curt nod, and then seemed to lose himself in thought until an irregular lump of amethyst gave him a purple wink from the floor. He touched it with his foot.
“You’ve dropped one of your baubles,” he said harshly.
The girl stooped hastily to pick it up, and she and her sister slipped unobtrusively from the
room. The Bishop took four paces across to the wall and then turned to gaze gravely at Father Furiosus.
“This is serious,” he said at length.
The friar looked at him enquiringly.
The Bishop’s eyes had narrowed, and his Adam’s apple was in motion in his throat.
“You heard what they were talking about?” he asked darkly.
“No,” replied the friar.
“Men!” said the Bishop. He seated himself carefully, keeping his eyes fixed on Father Furiosus, who sat down too and waited for enlightenment.
Bishop Flanagan’s brow was furrowed, and his face had the set expression of a shepherd who discerns in a thicket the grey snout of a wolf. His grip tightened on his pastoral staff. He rose to his feet again and began to walk to and fro.
“I must talk to their father,” he said weightedly. “It’s high time those girls were married or in a cloister. The eldest is seventeen.”
Father Furiosus grappled with the problem.
“Do you think they’d make good nuns?” he asked at length.
“I do not,” said the Bishop. “Marriage is the only thing for it. Fortunately, I know of several elderly, stolid farmers with some share of the world’s goods. I’ll make a list of four or five, and the girls can have their choice. Women are feather-brained creatures and are apt to make difficulties unless they are allowed the exercise of a choice. I’m sure I don’t know why, but it’s an undeniable fact.”
Furiosus sat back lost in admiration of his companion’s organising ability.
The Bishop gave vent to a long-drawn sigh.
“Did it ever occur to you to wonder why God created women?” he asked. “It’s the one thing that tempts me at times to doubt His infinite goodness and wisdom.”
The friar shrugged his shoulders and exhaled noisily to demonstrate that this was a problem far beyond his limited perceptions.
“It’s a thing that I’ve long since given up trying to understand,” he replied. “I assume with a blind faith that they are in the world for the trial and affliction of man, that his entry into another sphere may be the more glorious for the temptations that he has successfully withstood in this.”