by Mervyn Wall
“What would you like to eat?” she asked.
“Whatever you’re having yourself,” replied the ex-monk politely.
The Gray Mare stretched up her hand, and Fursey noticed for the first time a rope which hung from the rafters. Raising his eyes he saw that the end of it hung loosely over a beam in the roof. The Gray Mare jerked the rope three times, and to Fursey’s astonishment a flagon of ale, two loaves of bread and four pounds of choice beef slid down the rope, apparently from nowhere, and settled themselves in a neat pile on the table. While he was still gaping up at the rafters, thinking that it was a very inconvenient place to keep the larder, The Gray Mare arose and, going to a hole in the wall, took out a couple of wooden goblets, which she brought over to the table. She shook a family of red spiders out of one of them and placed it in front of Fursey. The spiders ran hell-for-leather over the table in all directions, but she recovered them without difficulty and carefully stowed them away in an old stocking that hung from a hook in the wall. Fursey realised with a sigh that he had lived so long in the cloister that he was quite unaccustomed to the ways of ordinary people, so he carefully suppressed any manifestation of surprise.
Before long they were eating and drinking merrily. Fursey thought she was the pleasantest person he had ever met. Women as they had existed in his imagination, and as he had seen them from afar, were creatures endowed with an evil comeliness in order to tempt men; but this amiable old lady was so hideous that she was not like a woman at all. He could converse easily with her and found it pleasant to do so, as conversation with a woman was a new experience for him. Never, he felt, had he met such kindliness and understanding in a human being. Before he had finished his first goblet of ale, he had told her of his incredible experiences in Clonmacnoise and his resultant misfortunes. She listened with the greatest interest, punctuating his monologue occasionally with a murmur of sympathy or with a violent sneeze.
“One of the things I wonder at most,” he said, “is the fact that while I was in Clonmacnoise I had the most awkward impediment in my speech; but now it’s gone, and I can speak with reasonable fluency.”
The Gray Mare nodded her head sagely.
“That’s easily accounted for,” she said. “The impediment was frightened out of you. You went through so much that it’s doubtful if anything can ever frighten you again.”
It made him uncomfortable, however, to hear her uttering harsh words about his late brethren in Clonmacnoise, as she did on hearing how he had been finally expelled from the monastery. He shifted uneasily on his stool, knowing that it was unlucky to speak ill of the clergy. In any case it was the demons who were to blame. In this strange world things like that just happen to a man; no one can help it. What else could the monks do but get rid of him? He was glad when she launched into a mumbling and toothless account of her own trials and sufferings.
He was appalled at human depravity when he heard of the bitter enmity which the sexton of the neighbouring churchyard bore her on account of such a small matter as a wandering goat. He crossed himself when she assured him that the sexton was undoubtedly a sorcerer. He could scarcely believe his ears when she told him how the wicked sexton had actually had the effrontery to denounce her to the authorities for crimes which he had himself committed. He became frightened when he heard how human beings had “walked” her up and down for three days and nights without sleep, how human beings had taken her and thrown her into the river, and how human beings, even when her innocence had been fully demonstrated, had nevertheless picked up stones to kill her. It frightened him to think of the kind of world it was in which he must in future live, and he longed to be back in the quiet and safety of the cloister. It was with an aching heart that he told himself that he must put Clonmacnoise forever out of his thoughts.
The Gray Mare was muttering to herself as she gathered a little pile of crumbs together with her skinny fingers.
“And you were really innocent all the time?” asked Fursey.
She shot a quick look at him.
“Didn’t you find me at the bottom of the river,” she replied gratingly. “Isn’t that sure proof that I’m not a witch?”
“Yes,” said Fursey. “I’ve always heard that that’s sure proof.”
She started up suddenly.
“The sexton,” she said. “He’ll be renewing his attack, and here I am wasting my time gabbling, instead of making preparations to meet him.”
She hurried over to the fire and began to stir a huge pot that hung over the embers. Then she lifted down a cobwebbed jar from the shelf and, taking from it a handful of amber grains, she threw them into the liquid, which began at once to bubble and spit angrily. Bending over the cauldron she began a low chant. At that moment there was a clatter of horses’ hooves on the track outside the door.
“Hallo there!” shouted a loud voice.
“Who’s that?” hissed the old woman.
Fursey went to the door and opened it. Three horsemen had reined their steeds on the road about fifty paces from the door. To his astonishment Fursey recognised the Abbot Marcus, who was being helped from his horse by a huge red-faced friar. On a bony nag sat an ecclesiastic in the dress of a bishop. He was gaunt and sallow, and he gazed at Fursey sourly. At a little distance stood a band of serving men loaded down with books of exorcism, bells and stoups of holy water. They were looking thoroughly frightened, as if they might take to their heels at any moment.
The first thought that came into Fursey’s mind was that the Abbot Marcus had come for him to take him back to Clonmacnoise. He ran down the road and flung himself on his knees at the Abbot’s feet. Marcus raised his hand and laid it gently on Fursey’s head in blessing. The ex-monk gripped the Abbot’s robe and gazed up at the grave face, lined with study. The far-away eyes that were bent on him were kind.
“You’re going to take me back?” said Fursey.
The Abbot turned away his face.
“Get up, Fursey,” he said.
Fursey rose to his feet and glanced from one to the other. The big friar was looking at him with great interest, but the Bishop’s eyes were as cold as ice, and a sneer was trembling about his mouth. Fursey instinctively knew that in the trio he had only one friend. He turned again to the Abbot Marcus.
“Father Abbot, are you not going to let me go back?”
The Abbot’s eyes shifted uncomfortably. “No,” he said at last.
Fursey stood an abject figure, looking from one to the other. Then he looked at the road and up at the wide sky. He saw everything blurred and dim through a film of tears.
“Come now, my man,” said the Bishop bitingly. “Weeping won’t help you. I am too good a judge of human nature not to know reality from fake.”
“Please, my lord bishop,” interposed the Abbot. “I’ve already explained to you the circumstances under which Fursey left Clonmacnoise. I made it clear that he was in no way to blame.”
“Where are the demons he was consorting with yesterday?” snapped the Bishop. “Let him tell us that.”
“They’re gone,” said Fursey.
“Gone where?” asked the Bishop quickly, as if to startle Fursey into an admission.
“I don’t know. They just disappeared.”
There was a moment’s silence, then Father Furiosus interposed.
“They’re certainly not here now,” he said mildly. “We’ve rung bells and sprinkled holy water over an area of two square miles. No demon could stand up to that.”
“Did you see any sign of an old woman?” asked the Bishop.
“Yes,” replied Fursey surprised. “I pulled an old woman out of the river, and brought her up here to the house. She’s in there now.”
He turned and pointed to the little cabin behind him.
“What did you do that for?” asked the Bishop sharply. “Why did you have to meddle?”
“Because,” interjected the Abbot with some heat in his voice, “it was what any Christian would be expected to do.”
“Eve
n if the object of his misplaced charity was a witch?” queried the Bishop.
“She’s not a witch,” said Father Furiosus with some exasperation. “God clearly demonstrated that she was innocent.”
The Bishop was silent, but he continued to watch Fursey with baleful eyes.
“Father Abbot,” pleaded Fursey, “let me go back with you to the monastery.”
“That is impossible,” said the Abbot with finality. “You must understand, my poor Fursey, that the gates of Clonmacnoise and every other religious settlement are closed against you. Be reasonable, Fursey. For nearly two weeks you have consorted with demons. For all we know you may have even formed friendships. No abbot could risk taking you in. These goblins that you know would be likely to return to renew the acquaintance. The fact that you appear to have recovered the free use of your speech and are in a position to challenge them, is no safeguard. That would be a small impediment to imps and demons of the wilier sort. In any case, if I took you back to Clonmacnoise, it’s very likely that the whole community would leave in a body.”
“I see,” said Fursey, hanging his head.
A sudden thought seemed to strike Bishop Flanagan.
“Where did you spend the night?” he asked sharply.
“In the cottage,” replied Fursey.
“With the Gray Mare?”
“With the old woman,” answered Fursey innocently.
A sharp intake of breath was heard from Father Furiosus. The thunderclouds gathered on the Bishop’s forehead.
“The two of you were alone?” he asked in tones of doom.
“Yes,” said Fursey haltingly.
“In my diocese!” said the Bishop in a horrified whisper. “An unmarried man and woman spend the night together in the one house without chaperon, and he stands there and has the effrontery to tell me so to my face! Do you know, my man,” he continued, his voice rising to a shout, “that what you have done is a reserved sin in this diocese? What do you think of such conduct, Father Furiosus?”
Furiosus had tightened his grip on his blackthorn, and he was looking at Fursey menacingly from beneath his ginger eyebrows.
“He must marry the woman,” said Furiosus.
“Of course he must,” replied the Bishop. “There’s no other way to avert the scandal.”
“Marry?” said Fursey faintly.
“And if he doesn’t,” continued the Bishop, “I’ll put a penance on him that will cripple him in this life and in the next.”
“Let us discuss this new turn of events,” said the Abbot. “Oblige us, Fursey, by stepping aside for a few moments.”
Fursey walked some paces down the road and leaned against a tree for support. Meanwhile the three ecclesiastics approached more closely to one another and conversed in grave whispers.
“It mightn’t be a bad idea at all,” said Abbot Marcus. “The plight of this wretched man weighs somewhat on my conscience, and I should like to see him fixed in life. No monastery will admit him, and as he hasn’t the wit to earn a living, he will certainly starve on the roadside unless something is done for him. Moreover,” he added thoughtfully, “you tell me that this woman, tho’ not a witch, is nevertheless a great sinner who never goes to Mass. Union with such a godly man as Fursey cannot but have a profound effect on her character. By good example he is very likely to win her back to God and Holy Church.”
Father Furiosus seemed impressed.
“Yes,” he said, “and you have told us that this Brother Fursey is a man of notable piety. He can, therefore, be trusted to report to the authorities should she at any time be tempted to engage in the black art.”
“This is all irrelevant,” said the Bishop hotly. “I would remind you that I am in authority in this diocese. The point is simply this—that the unfortunate woman has been compromised by this blackguard, and that wrong can only be righted by marriage. He must marry her. I insist.”
“There is no need to raise your voice,” said the Abbot coldly. “We are all agreed, tho’ perhaps for different reasons.”
He turned to where Fursey was leaning against the tree gaping vacantly out over the countryside, and called him by name, but Fursey did not appear to hear. He had been trying to assemble his thoughts so as to understand what was about to happen to him, but his mind insisted on remaining an obstinate and tumultuous blank. Father Furiosus went down the road and taking Fursey by the arm, led him back to where the others were standing.
“Now listen carefully, Fursey,” began the Abbot kindly. “We are all agreed that you must marry this lady. It is your duty, because by your incautious behaviour you have cast a reflection on her honour. From a material point of view you will be making a good match. She appears to have a tidy little property, and you will enjoy economic security for the rest of your life.”
“She has only a broken-down cabin and a goat,” replied Fursey bleakly.
The Abbot looked at him severely.
“I didn’t expect to find in one of my monks a sordid greed for material goods,” he replied.
“But I’m a monk,” said Fursey, his voice rising in an hysterical squeal. “I can’t marry.”
“Your vows are simple vows,” said the Abbot smoothly, “and it’s in my power to release you. I shall immediately do so; it would be most unfair to hold you to them.”
“But she is far from comely,” objected Fursey feebly.
“I’m surprised at you,” said the Abbot. “There will be all the less temptation to desires of the flesh.”
“It’s better to marry than to burn,” said the Bishop.
“But I don’t feel myself burning,” said Fursey.
“Don’t be impertinent,” said the Bishop. “It’s all settled.”
Fursey looked up appealingly at Abbot Marcus.
“What will I do?” he asked.
“Do as I say, marry her,” replied the Abbot, “and may God bless you both.”
Fursey bowed his head.
“Whatever you say, Father Abbot,” he muttered brokenly. “I suppose it’s for the best.”
“Now we must tell the woman,” said Furiosus.
There was a moment’s hesitation as none of the ecclesiastics was anxious to approach a cottage which had been held in such abominable repute. At last Father Furiosus went and called on The Gray Mare to come out. She had been watching the proceedings from the dark interior of her cottage inasfar as her defective eyesight would permit, and she now emerged hesitantly. She glanced to left and right as if considering flight, but Father Furiosus took her gently by the arm and began to lead her down the road, assuring her with a rough kindness that she had nothing to be afraid of. As she came hobbling towards them, the Bishop retreated a pace and made the sign of the cross in the dust of the road with the point of his pastoral staff. She stood before them, a frail bowed figure, making a smacking sound as she sucked at her toothless gums. She looked down at the cross traced in the dust, then up at the Bishop malevolently.
“Haven’t youse done enough to me?” she asked bitterly.
Father Furiosus hastened to explain that byegones were byegones and that they were all meeting on a friendly footing. He propounded the proposition to her. At first she was incredulous; but when she realised that he was in earnest, she was overcome by a fit of cackling. She threw a gamey eye across at the blushing Fursey.
“So the rascal wants to marry me,” she croaked. “He’s not a bad-looking fellow, with his white head and his young face.”
“I’m forty,” said Fursey, hoping dimly to dam her rising enthusiasm.
“Sure that’s only young,” she replied. “You’d be useful around the house, milking the goat and the like.”
“Well, what do you say?” enquired Abbot Marcus.
“It’s not what I’d call a romantic wooing,” she replied, “but I suppose we could do our courting afterwards. It will always keep.”
She gave Fursey a girlish nudge with her elbow. A wintry smile flickered across his face.
“Well, ar
e you agreed?” asked the Bishop impatiently.
“Yes,” said The Gray Mare. “I’ll try anything once.”
“Well, go down on your knees,” said the Bishop.
The Gray Mare was helped into the required position by Father Furiosus. She complained of her rheumatics, and requested him to stand by to help her up again. Two serving men were summoned to act as witnesses. The Gray Mare delayed the ceremony for some minutes by her insistence on combing her hair with her long, skinny fingers, and by her efforts to get it to curl over each ear. The Abbot formally released Fursey from his vows, stumbling occasionally over the words, for he was embarrassed by Fursey’s dumb, dog-like gaze that was rivetted all the time on his face. Then the Bishop approached and placing The Gray Mare’s lank claw in Fursey’s plump fist, he read through the marriage ceremony in clipped and hurried Latin. The little band of serving men had drawn near to watch the proceedings. A bird yelped an occasional note from the single rowan tree standing before The Gray Mare’s cabin; and the red sun, half below the distant slate-grey mountains, rolled his last laughing beams on the happy couple.
CHAPTER IV
Fursey and The Gray Mare stood on the road until the ecclesiastics and their followers were out of sight. As the beating of the horses’ hooves died away into the grey of the evening, Fursey shuddered, suddenly conscious of his desolation and loneliness. The Gray Mare was pensive as she took his arm and hobbled back with him to her cabin. When they entered the kitchen she wheezed once or twice like an old cat whose day is nearly done.
“There’ll be no time for love-making this evening,” she croaked.
Very much relieved, Fursey took a stool and seated himself as far away as possible from his bride. He wished he were alone and had time to think. In the monk’s habit he was still wearing, he had discovered a square hole from which a piece of cloth had been neatly cut, a piece of cloth very similar to the scrap of material he had seen earlier in the evening wrapped around the wax image on the table.