by Mervyn Wall
“Did you ever see such a grim and ill-favoured fellow?” whispered the King in awestricken tones, as he gazed at the unfortunate Fursey’s moonlike face. “He has a fierce and horrid visage. I can smell the brimstone off him.”
“Indeed, he is ill-looking, dark and hideous,” answered the Bishop, “but I wouldn’t expect anything else. Please continue your examination, Father Furiosus.”
The friar turned to confront Fursey once more, but it was obvious that the latter had lost consciousness. The friar seemed puzzled, and he contemplated the sorcerer for some time without speaking while the two soldiers, with beads of sweat on their foreheads, supported Fursey by the armpits. His head hung forward on his chest, and his legs were stretched out left and right with the heels resting on the floor.
“Has he had food since he was brought to Cashel?” asked Furiosus suddenly.
“No,” replied one of the soldiers.
“Return him to his cell,” commanded the friar, “and keep him fed until he’s wanted again.”
The two soldiers dragged Fursey out, his heels rattling across the floor. When the door had been closed, the Bishop could no longer contain his exasperation.
“Is he not to be tortured?” he burst out. “Not even a taste of the Peine Forte et Dure?”
“No,” answered the friar shortly.
“Why not?” snarled the Bishop.
“Because I’m in charge,” replied Furiosus fiercely.
The Bishop from his high throne watched venomously as the friar strode thoughtfully up and down the floor. At length the prelate spoke again, this time mildly and in carefully modulated tones.
“But is there to be no torture at all, not even a turn on the wheel? After all, we have to find his accomplices.”
Father Furiosus stopped in his walk.
“My lord bishop,” he said, “forgive me if I have been short in my answers, but this is a case of considerable complexity and one that requires judicious consideration. I suspect that the trial will show Fursey’s sorcery to have been of a very subtle quality. I admit that I don’t yet quite understand his style of villainy. We cannot proceed with the trial until the arrival from Clonmacnoise of the Abbot Marcus and of any other witnesses who may wish to testify. When Fursey has been found guilty, then will be the time for the application of the best available tortures with the object of securing the names of his confederates. If he pleads guilty and penitently names his accomplices in the Black Art, there will be no need for torture at all: we may proceed straight to the burning. If, however, he should obstinately insist on his innocence, torture will of course be necessary until he admits himself guilty of those crimes with which he is charged. So contain yourself in patience; and please trust my experience in these matters, which is considerable.”
Bishop Flanagan made no answer, but gathering his robes about him, left the room.
Meanwhile Fursey had been revived by the action of the fresh air and by a bucket of water emptied over him by the soldiers, who had grown tired of carrying him; and he was proceeding feebly back to his cell. His guards untied his hands, and leaving him a pitcher of water and a crust they withdrew, fastening the door behind them. Fursey groped in the darkness until he found the pitcher. He raised it shakily and took a long draught. Then, cupping the crust in his hand he succeeded in smashing it against the stone that served him as bolster, and for some time the cell echoed to the grinding of the pieces between his teeth. When he had finished his meal he rolled himself on to his pallet and lay with his face pressed against the wall, listening dolefully to the scampering of the rats across the floor.
A few days later a distinguished stranger arrived at the southern gate of Cashel. He was dark in complexion and was dressed in an expensive sable robe, which proclaimed him a person to whom every consideration was due. When asked his name and condition, he replied that he was Apollyon, a prince of the Byzantine Empire, and that as a traveller in these parts he had been commissioned by the Emperor at Constantinople to convey the Emperor’s greetings to his noble brothers, the King and Bishop of Cashel, together with sundry gifts. The dark stranger was attended by a numerous retinue, all heavily veiled, as was apparently the custom in the distant country from which they had come. The stranger’s courtliness and affability won for him the good opinion of all, and this was by no means diminished when it was learned that the ox-cart in his train was loaded with boxes of gold and precious stones, the gifts of the Emperor to his good friends in Cashel. What a pity, everyone said, that such a noble and gracious gentleman should have that slight limp.
Father Furiosus watched with disapproval as two lines of porters carried the boxes of gold into the houses of the beaming King and the delighted Bishop, but a moment later the courtly stranger approached him leading on a leash a high-stepping dog of very superior pedigree.
“The special gift of the Emperor to Father Furiosus,” said Apollyon with a courtly bow. “The Emperor is very well acquainted with the noble work you are doing in suppressing the hateful passion of love in this land, and he bade me present you with this sagacious animal to assist you in your labours. He is called a ‘pointer’ and is trained by huntsmen to spot game. With a little further direction from you he will be an invaluable ally to you in your rambles along the roads of Ireland. He will ‘point’ the lovers in the ditches and doorways from a distance of thirty paces, and enable you to deal with many whom you would otherwise have missed. No, do not thank me. The Emperor graciously added that when you have cleaned up the holy land of Ireland, he would be pleased to welcome you to the Byzantine Empire, where the relations between the sexes are not all that His Imperial Majesty would wish.”
The friar’s ill-humour immediately vanished and, having thanked the stranger profusely, he led the graceful hound around to the back of the palace, where he secured for it a comfortable habitation and a bed of clean straw. After a sumptuous dinner in the stranger’s honour the Bishop conducted his guests to the sun-room, where reclining gracefully in intricately carved chairs, they engaged in genteel conversation. It was not long until the capture of the notorious sorcerer, Fursey, came to be mentioned.
“The trial is fixed for tomorrow,” said Bishop Flanagan, “and will be conducted before the Canons of the Chapter, who will be his judges.”
The Prince of the Byzantine Empire immediately smote his forehead and apologised for his forgetfulness. The Emperor had especially charged him with the duty of conveying valuable gifts to the Canons of the Chapter of Cashel, who, the Emperor had been informed, were the finest and stoutest body of ecclesiastics in Christendom. Further boxes of gold were unloaded from the ox-cart and carried to the apartments of the joyful churchmen. Meanwhile in the sun-room of the Bishop’s Palace the mead and ale flowed freely. Furiosus regaled the company with story after story of mighty tussles with the forces of evil, of shifty demons battered into submission, and of noonday devils encountered by the roadside sitting on stiles, and wrestled with during an entire afternoon.
The Bishop made from the corner of his mouth subtle ecclesiastical jokes with a strong dogmatic flavour. King Cormac plunged into a rambling account of one of his campaigns, but fell asleep in his chair before he had it finished, his head drooping forward on his chest and his beard covering his knees like a white apron. But the Byzantine prince outshone everyone with the brilliance of his wit and the charm of his conversation, so that at times his hearers were filled with a dazed delight. It was when the joyousness and good-feeling of the company were at their height, that the dark stranger made his strange request.
“When I was a younger man,” he said, “I practised law, and I have appeared in cases which resulted in the happy burning of as many as twenty sorcerers at a time on the banks of the Bosphorus. It would intrigue me greatly if you would allow me to enter this case and conduct the defence of this wretched man Fursey. It can do no harm: from what you tell me he is as good as ashes and cinders already; but the clash of two legal systems and methods of procedure, that of you
r mighty Kingdom of Cashel and that of the Byzantine Empire, cannot but be in the highest degree instructive to us both.”
The Bishop put down his ale mug suddenly and regarded Apollyon with narrowing eyes.
“The man is capable of conducting his own defence,” he asserted suspiciously. “He is the slyest sorcerer imaginable.”
“I don’t for a moment presume to think,” replied Apollyon, “that I shall be able to influence the verdict of your court. The Canons of your Chapter are obviously estimable men who are determined to see justice done, but a legal tussle with the famous Father Furiosus would afford me the greatest intellectual pleasure, as well as providing me with something of which I can boast at some future date to my children’s children. What do you say, Father?”
The friar met the stranger’s eye gladly.
“I think it’s an excellent idea,” he said. “There’s nothing I like better than a fight, mental or physical. And I have every confidence in my ability to bend back the sophistries practised in Byzantine argument and tie them into knots.”
“I must withhold my approval—” began the Bishop.
“I don’t care who approves,” roared the friar, banging his ale-mug on the arm of his chair. “I’m in charge of this case. I appoint Prince Apollyon counsel for the defence.”
The Bishop did not reply, but sat vulpine in his great chair. He drank no more that night.
On the following morning Apollyon craved permission to pay a visit to his client before the trial began. Permission was courteously accorded, and the guards conducted him to the cell, and rolled Fursey off his pallet on to the floor, so that the foreign gentleman could see him with convenience. At Apollyon’s request they closed the door and left lawyer and client alone.
“Don’t you know me?” queried the Prince eagerly.
Fursey had been so many days in darkness that he could see as well as a cat. He took one look at the stranger’s face and emitted a hollow groan.
“So you’ve come for me,” he said. “Aren’t you a little premature? I’m not burnt yet.”
“Come now, Fursey,” answered the Devil, “get up off the floor before the rats eat you.”
Fursey struggled up and sat on the edge of his pallet, sunk in the profoundest melancholy. He thought of the flames of Hell and of the flames of the pyre that was shortly to consume him, and he couldn’t make up his mind which he disliked most. The Devil took his limp hand and shook it warmly.
“How are you, my dear friend?” he asked.
“You find me in a deep despair,” answered Fursey.
“Come now, where’s your courage?”
“Please don’t make jokes,” replied Fursey. “I’m shortly to be incinerated, and I cannot truthfully say that I regard the prospect with equanimity.”
“But while there’s life there’s hope,” urged the Devil.
“I’m glad you think so,” replied Fursey gloomily. “Will you please go away and leave me to be burnt in peace.”
The Devil appeared to be deeply moved. He seated himself on the pallet and took Fursey’s arm impulsively.
“Have confidence in me,” he said earnestly. “I will never desert you.”
Fursey glanced up at him, and seemed to become even more depressed.
“It looks as if that’s the way it’s going to be,” he answered huskily.
The Devil shook his head reprovingly. “I don’t know how a man of your intelligence allowed himself to be caught,” he said. “Why didn’t you order your familiar to thicken and obscure the air about you? By his familiar’s workmanship upon the atmosphere a wizard may remain unespied.”
“It’s a long story,” answered Fursey. “Anyway, my familiar is no good. He’s always thinking of himself. He suffers from a raging thirst.”
“Hm!” said the Devil. He was silent for a while; then he cocked a sympathetic eye at Fursey’s honest visage. “I suppose you know,” he said, “that your trial is due to commence at noon.”
“What!” ejaculated Fursey, “as soon as that!”
“They have assembled an imposing battery of witnesses,” continued the Prince of Darkness, “not that it makes much difference. I never knew a man or a woman tried for sorcery who didn’t end by going up in smoke.”
“You needn’t keep harping on it,” replied Fursey irritably.
“Trust me,” said the Devil, “I have been commissioned with your defence.”
“Oh my God!” said Fursey, and he spoke no more.
“You may wonder,” continued Satan, “why I concern myself on your behalf at all. Well, firstly, I feel myself in your debt for the hospitality, unwilling though it was, which you extended to myself and the boys in your cell at Clonmacnoise. Secondly, I have a strong personal affection for yourself. Thirdly, I have every hope that now that you have become a wizard, you will view in a more favourable light that little business proposition of mine relative to the sale of your soul. Fourthly and lastly, I’m determined to get the better of these clerical jugglers. I’m particularly down on his lordship the Bishop Flanagan. I’m going to harry that man exceedingly before I leave this city. Mark my words,” added the Devil darkly, “when that man finishes his career in this world and gets to Hell, the first thing he’ll do is found a Vigilance Society. He’ll have us all properly pestered with complaints about the nudity of the damned and the like, as if anyone could expect clothing to survive in that temperature. He’ll still be trying to alter the machinery of creation, like he does in this world.”
The Devil brooded darkly for a few moments. “As if Hell wasn’t bad enough already,” he muttered. “As it is, I’m bored stiff most of the time. But come, Fursey, why are you so sunk in gloom? Be not moved to fear. The hour of battle is at hand; and the victory is not to the strong, but to the crafty.”
Fursey did not answer, so the Devil arose with a sigh, patted him kindly on the shoulder and took his leave.
It was high noon. In the Chapter House the Canons had assembled, rotund men with placid, proud faces. The Civil Service sat on their two little stools, their filing cabinets of wax tablets piled about them, the younger Civil Service looking demure and shabby, the older pompous and self-important. King Cormac sat in his chair, his beard freshly brushed and powdered, and his chubby face screwed up into an expression of extreme sagacity. To one side stood Prince Apollyon, unassuming, courtly and civilised; while over against him the stalwart Furiosus had taken his stand, clutching his blackthorn stick as if he suspected that someone present might presume to contradict him. On a bench against the wall amongst those who were to testify, sat the Abbot Marcus, his face gentle and meditative. Beside him sat Cuthbert, the sexton of Kilcock Churchyard, his eyes turned up to Heaven and his lips moving in silent prayer to the great edification of all. Three monks were present from Clonmacnoise, Father Crustaceous, Father Placidus and Father Sampson, their folded arms expressing their determination to do their duty. The broom on which Fursey had made his ill-fated journey was clamped to a table in the centre of the hall. Beside it lay a goat’s horns and a long dun beard, while at the other end of the table was a board on which were stretched the bedraggled corpses of four ducks. At the far end of the room there was an interesting display of wheels, thumbscrews, charcoal braziers and other instruments which might be required by the counsel for the prosecution; and alongside was a comfortable couch for the convenience of the prisoner and his questioners. Two sallow gentlemen in holy orders presided over that part of the arrangements. Bishop Flanagan sat remote from everyone, high up on his great mauve, gold and purple throne, his chin resting on his hand, his gaunt, ascetic face intent.
A shudder of expectancy passed through the assembly as the doors were thrown open, and the entire armed forces of Cashel in a solid phalanx marched into the room. In obedience to a ringing command four soldiers stepped smartly to one side, and it was seen that Fursey was in the midst loaded down to the ground with chains. Two blacksmiths came forward and riveted the hanging pieces of chain to the floor wit
h iron spikes. Although it was generally believed that a sorcerer was bereft of his powers while in the hands of lawful authority, it was thought wise in the present instance, in view of the fearsome reputation of the prisoner, to forestall any attempt on his part to escape by flying through the smoke-hole in the roof.
The moment he entered the hall Fursey’s eyes fastened themselves on the array of peculiar instruments at the far end of the room. The two hard-featured clerics who presided there, returned his gaze impassively.
“How do you feel?” whispered the Prince of the Byzantine Empire.
“I wish I was elsewhere,” muttered Fursey, without turning his head.
The reading of the indictment passed unheard by Fursey, and it was only when he was ordered to plead guilty or not guilty that he managed to tear away his eyes from the array of instruments and look at his questioner. His gaze wandered from the full-blooded face of the friar across to the smug faces of the Canons, then up to the lean visage of the Bishop. He shuddered; then his eye fell on the row of witnesses, and he recognised Abbot Marcus. The Abbot had his face averted and was looking at the floor.
“Guilty,” said Fursey.
Father Furiosus shot out a huge fist covered with ginger down. His forefinger snapped out and pointed straight at Fursey.
“You admit that you are a sorcerer?”
“Yes. I’m a sorcerer.”
“I object,” interjected the Byzantine Prince.
“Sit down,” said the friar, “you can’t object at this stage.”
“Why not?” queried Apollyon determinedly.
“Because the prosecution does not accept the prisoner’s plea,” replied the friar. “His guilt must be proved. Witnesses have come here at great trouble and expense, and they can’t be sent home again after a trial lasting only six minutes. Anyway, the accused is entitled to a fair trial.”
Apollyon appeared to meditate for some moments, then he sat down without a word.
“If the accused should be found not guilty after the evidence has been considered,” conceded the friar, “we will start again at the beginning and accept his plea of guilty. First witness.”