It was the day of trial. From dawn Cicely and Emlyn had seen people hurrying in and out of the gates of the Nunnery, and heard workmen making preparation in the guest-hall below their chamber. About eight one of the nuns brought them their breakfast. Her face was scared and white; she only spoke in whispers, looking behind her continually as though she knew she was being watched.
Emlyn asked who their judges were, and she answered—
“The Abbot, a strange, black-faced Prior, and the Old Bishop. Oh! God help you, my sisters; God help us all!” and she fled away.
Now for a moment Emlyn’s heart failed her, since before such a tribunal what chance had they? The Abbot was their bitter enemy and accuser; the strange Prior, no doubt, one of his friends and kindred; while the ecclesiastic spoken of as the “Old Bishop” was well known as perhaps the cruelest man in England, a scourge of heretics—that is, before heresy became the fashion—a hunter-out of witches and wizards, and a time-server to boot. But to Cicely she said nothing, for what was the use, seeing that soon she would learn all?
They ate their food, knowing both of them that they would need strength. Then Cicely nursed her child, and, placing it in Emlyn’s arms, knelt down to pray. While she was still praying the door opened and a procession appeared. First came two monks, then six armed men of the Abbot’s guard, then the Prioress and three of her nuns. At the sight of the beautiful young woman kneeling at her prayers the guards, rough men though they were, stopped, as if unwilling to disturb her, but one of the monks cried brutally—
“Seize the accursed hypocrite, and if she will not come, drag her with you,” at the same time stretching out his hand as though to grasp her arm.
But Cicely rose and faced him, saying—
“Do not touch me; I follow. Emlyn, give me the child, and let us go.”
So they went in the midst of the armed men, the monks preceding, the nuns, with bowed heads, following after. Presently they entered the large hall, but on its threshold were ordered to pause while way was made for them. Cicely never forgot the sight of it as it appeared that day. The lofty, arched roof of rich chestnut-wood, set there hundreds of years before by hands that spared neither work nor timber, amongst the beams of which the bright light of morning played so clearly that she could see the spiders’ webs, and in one of them a sleepy autumn wasp caught fast. The mob of people gathered to watch her public trial—faces, many of them, that she had known from childhood.
How they stared at her as she stood there by the head of the steps, her sleeping child held in her arms! They were a packed audience and had been prepared to condemn her—that she could see and hear, for did not some of them point and frown, and set up a cry of “Witch!” as they had been told to do? But it died away. The sight of her, the daughter of one of their great men and the widow of another, standing in her innocent beauty, the slumbering babe upon her breast, seemed to quell them, till the hardest faces grew pitiful—full of resentment, too, some of them, but not against her.
Then the three judges on the bench behind the table, at which sat the monkish secretaries; the hard-faced, hook-nosed “Old Bishop” in his gorgeous robes and mitre, his crozier resting against the panelling behind him, peering about him with beady eyes. The sullen, heavy-jawed Prior, from some distant county, on his left, clad in a simple black gown with a girdle about his waist. And on the right Clement Maldon, Abbot of Blossholme and enemy of her house, suave, olive-faced, foreign-looking, his black, uneasy eyes observing all, his keen ears catching every word and murmur as he whispered something to the Bishop that caused him to smile grimly. Lastly, placed already in the roped space and guarded by a soldier, poor old Bridget, the half-witted, who was gabbling words to which no one paid any heed.
The path was clear now, and they were ordered to walk on. Half-way up the hall something red attracted Cicely’s attention, and, glancing round, she saw that it was the beard of Thomas Bolle. Their eyes met, and his were full of fear. In an instant she understood that he dreaded lest he should be betrayed and given over to some awful doom.
“Fear nothing,” she whispered as she passed, and he heard her, or perhaps Emlyn’s glance told him that he was safe. At least, a sign of relief broke from him.
Now they had entered the roped space, and stood there.
“Your name?” asked one of the secretaries, pointing to Cicely with the feather of his quill.
“All know it, it is Cicely Harflete,” she answered gently, whereon the clerk said roughly that she lied, and the old wrangle began again as to the validity of her marriage, the Abbot maintaining that she was still Cicely Foterell, the mother of a base-born child.
Into this argument the Bishop entered with some zest, asking many questions, and seeming more or less to take her side, since, where matters of religion were not concerned, he was a keen lawyer, and just enough. At length, however, he swept the thing away, remarking brutally that if half he had heard were true, soon the name by which she had last been called in life would not concern her, and bade the clerks write her down as Cicely Harflete or Foterell.
Then Emlyn gave her name, and Sister Bridget’s was written without question. Next the charge against them was read. It was long and technical, mixed up with Latin words and phrases, and all that Cicely made out of it was that they were accused of many horrible crimes, and of having called up the devil and consorted with him in the shape of a monster with horns and hoofs, and of her father’s ghost. When it was finished they were commanded to answer, and pleaded Not Guilty, or rather Cicely and Emlyn did, for Bridget broke into a long tale that could not be followed. She was ordered to be silent, after which no one took any more heed of what she said.
Now the Bishop asked whether these women had been put to the question, and when he was told No, said that it seemed a pity, as evidently they were stubborn witches, and some discipline of the sort might have saved trouble. Again he asked if the witch’s marks had been found on them—that is, the spot where the devil had sealed their bodies, on which, as was well known, his chosen could feel no pain. He even suggested that the trial should be adjourned until they had been pricked all over with a nail to find this spot, but ultimately gave up the point to save time.
A last question was raised by the beetle-browed Prior, who submitted that the infant ought also to be accused, since he, too, was said to have consorted with the devil, having, according to the story, been rescued from death by him and afterwards been carried in his arms and given to the nun Bridget, which was the only evidence against the said Bridget. If she was guilty, why, then, was the infant innocent? Ought not they to burn together, since a babe that had been nursed by the Evil One was obviously damned?
The legal-minded Bishop found this argument interesting, but ultimately decided that it was safer to overrule it on account of the tender age of the criminal. He added that it did not matter, since doubtless the foul fiend would claim his own ere long.
Lastly, before the witnesses were called, Emlyn asked for an advocate to defend them, but the Bishop replied, with a chuckle, that it was quite unnecessary, since already they had the best of all advocates—Satan himself.
“True, my Lord,” said Cicely, looking up, “we have the best of all advocates, only you have mis-named him. The God of the innocent is our advocate, and in Him I trust.”
“Blaspheme not, Sorceress,” shouted the old man; and the evidence commenced.
To follow it in detail is not necessary, and, indeed, would be long, for it took many hours. First of all Emlyn’s early life was set out, much being made of the fact that her mother was a gypsy who had committed suicide and that her father had fallen under the ban of the Inquisition, an heretical work of his having been publicly burned. Then the Abbot himself gave evidence, since, where the charge was sorcery, no one seemed to think it strange that the same man should both act as judge and be the principal witness for the prosecution. He told of Cicely’s wild words after the burning of Cranwell Towers, from which burning she and her familiar, Emlyn, had evidently escaped by magic, without the aid of which it was plain they could not have lived. He told of Emlyn’s threats to him after she had looked into the bowl of water; of all the dreadful things that had been seen and done at Blossholme, which no doubt these witches had brought about—here he was right—though how he knew not. He told of the death of the midwife and of the appearance which she presented afterwards—a tale that caused his audience to shudder; and, lastly, he told of the vision of the ghost of Sir John Foterell holding converse with the two accused in the chapel of the Nunnery, and its vanishing away.
When at length he had finished Emlyn asked leave to cross-examine him, but this was refused on the ground that persons accused of such crimes had no right to cross-examine.
Then the Court adjourned for a while to eat, some food being brought for the prisoners, who were forced to take it where they stood. Worse still, Cicely was driven to nurse her child in the presence of all that audience, who stared and gibed at her rudely, and were angry because Emlyn and some of the nuns stood round her to form a living screen.
When the judges returned the evidence went on. Though most of it was entirely irrelevant, its volume was so great that at length the Old Bishop grew weary, and said he would hear no more. Then the judges went on to put, first to Cicely and afterwards to Emlyn, a series of questions of a nature so abominable that after denying the first of them indignantly, they stood silent, refusing to answer—proof positive of their guilt, as the black-browed Prior remarked in triumph. Lastly, these hideous queries being exhausted, Cicely was asked if she had anything to say.
“Somewhat,” she answered; “but I am weary, and must be brief. I am no witch; I do not know what it means. The Abbot of Blossholme, who sits as my judge, is my grievous enemy. He claimed my father’s lands—which lands I believe he now holds—and cruelly murdered my said father by King’s Grave Mount in the forest as he was riding to London to make complaint of him and reveal his treachery to his Grace the King and his Council——”
“It is a lie, witch,” broke in the Abbot, but, taking no heed, Cicely went on—
“Afterwards he and his hired soldiers attacked the house of my husband, Sir Christopher Harflete, and burnt it, slaying, or striving to slay—I know not which—my said husband, who has vanished away. Then he imprisoned me and my servant, Emlyn Stower, in this Nunnery, and strove to force me to sign papers conveying all my own and my child’s property to him. This I refused to do, and therefore it is that he puts me on my trial, because, as I am told, those who are found guilty of witchcraft are stripped of all their possessions, which those take who are strong enough to keep them. Lastly, I deny the authority of this Court, and appeal to the King, who soon or late will hear my cry and avenge my wrongs, and maybe my murder, upon those who wrought them. Good people all, hear my words. I appeal to the King, and to him under God above I entrust my cause, and, should I die, the guardianship of my orphan son, whom the Abbot sent his creature to murder—his vile creature, upon whose head fell the Almighty’s justice, as it will fall on yours, you slaughterers of the innocent.”
So spoke Cicely, and, having spoken, worn out with fatigue and misery, sank to the floor—for all these hours there had been no stool for her to sit on—and crouched there, still holding her child in her arms—a piteous sight indeed, which touched even the superstitious hearts of the crowd who watched her.
Now this appeal of hers to the King seemed to scare the fierce Old Bishop, who turned and began to argue with the Abbot. Cicely, listening, caught some of his words, such as—
“On your head be it, then. I judge only of the cause ecclesiastic, and shall direct it to be so entered upon the records. Of the execution of the sentence or the disposal of the property I wash my hands. See you to it.”
“So spoke Pilate,” broke in Cicely, lifting her head and looking him in the eyes. Then she let it fall again, and was silent.
Now Emlyn opened her lips, and from them burst a fierce torrent of words.
“Do you know,” she began, “who and what is this Spanish priest who sits to judge us of witchcraft? Well, I will tell you. Years ago he fled from Spain because of hideous crimes that he had committed there. Ask him of Isabella the nun, who was my father’s cousin, and her end and that of her companions. Ask him of——”
At this point a monk, to whom the Abbot had whispered something, slipped behind Emlyn and threw a cloth over her face. She tore it away with her strong hands, and screamed out—
“He is a murderer, he is a traitor. He plots to kill the King. I can prove it, and that’s why Foterell died—because he knew——”
The Abbot shouted something, and again the monk, a stout fellow named Ambrose, got the cloth over her mouth. Once more she wrenched herself loose, and, turning towards the people, called—
“Have I never a friend, who have befriended so many? Is there no man in Blossholme who will avenge me of this brute Ambrose? Aye, I see some.”
Then this Ambrose, and others aiding him, fell upon her, striking her on the head and choking her, till at length she sank, half stunned and gasping, to the ground.
Now, after a hurried word or two with his colleagues, the Bishop sprang up, and as darkness gathered in the hall—for the sun had set—pronounced the sentence of the Court.
First he declared the prisoners guilty of the foulest witchcraft. Next he excommunicated them with much ceremony, delivering their souls to their master, Satan. Then, incidentally, he condemned their bodies to be burnt, without specifying when, how, or by whom. Out of the gloom a clear voice spoke, saying—
“You exceed your powers, Priest, and usurp those of the King. Beware!”
A tumult followed, in which some cried “Aye” and some “Nay,” and when at length it died down the Bishop, or it may have been the Abbot—for none could see who spoke—exclaimed—
“The Church guards her own rights; let the King see to his.”
“He will, he will,” answered the same voice. “The Pope is in his bag. Monks, your day is done.”
Again there was tumult, a very great tumult. In truth the scene, or rather the sounds, were strange. The Bishop shrieking with rage upon the bench, like a hen that has been caught upon her perch at night, the black-browed Prior bellowing like a bull, the populace surging and shouting this and that, the secretary calling for candles, and when at length one was brought, making a little star of light in that huge gloom, putting his hand to his mouth and roaring—
“What of this Bridget? Does she go free?”
The Bishop made no answer; it seemed as though he were frightened at the forces which he had let loose; but the Abbot hallooed back—
“Burn the hag with the others,” and the secretary wrote it down upon his brief.
Then the guards seized the three of them to lead them away, and the frightened babe set up a thin, piercing wail, while the Bishop and his companions, preceded by one of the monks bearing the candle—it was that Ambrose who had choked Emlyn—marched in procession down the hall to gain the great door.
Ere ever they reached it the candle was dashed from the hand of Ambrose, and a fearful tumult arose in the dense darkness, for now all light had vanished. There were screams, and sounds of fighting, and cries for help. These died away; the hall emptied by degrees, for it seemed that none wished to stay there. Torches were lit, and showed a strange scene.
The Bishop, the Abbot, and the foreign Prior lay here and there, buffeted, bleeding, their robes torn off them, so that they were almost naked, while by the Bishop was his crozier, broken in two, apparently across his own head. Worst of all, the monk Ambrose leaned against a pillar; his feet seemed to go forward but his face looked backward, for his neck was twisted like that of a Michaelmas goose.
The Bishop looked about him and felt his hurts; then he called to his people—
“Bring me my cloak and a horse, for I have had enough of Blossholme and its wizardries. Settle your own matters henceforth, Abbot Maldon, for in them I find no luck,” and he glanced at his broken staff.
Thus ended the great trial of the Blossholme witches.
Cicely had sunk to sleep at last, and Emlyn watched her, for, since there was nowhere else to put them, they were back in their own room, but guarded by armed men, lest they should escape. Of this, as Emlyn knew well, there was little chance, for even if they were once outside the Priory walls, how could they get away without friends to help, or food to eat, or horses to carry them? They would be run down within a mile. Moreover, there was the child, which Cicely would never leave, and, after all she had undergone, she herself was not fit to travel. Therefore it was that Emlyn sat sleepless, full of bitter wrath and fear, for she could see no hope. All was black as the night about them.
The door opened, and was shut and locked again. Then, from behind the curtain, appeared the tall figure of the Prioress, carrying a candle that made a star of light upon the shadows. As she stood there holding it up and looking about her, something came into Emlyn’s mind. Perhaps she would help, she who loved Cicely. Did she not look like a figure of hope, with her sweet face and her taper in the gloom? Emlyn advanced to meet her, her finger on her lips.
“She sleeps; wake her not,” she said. “Have you come to tell us that we burn to-morrow?”
“Nay, Emlyn; the Old Bishop has commanded that it shall not be for a week. He would have time to get across England first. Indeed, had it not been for the beating of him in the dark and the twisting of the neck of Brother Ambrose, I believe that he would not have suffered it at all, for fear of trouble afterwards. But now he is full of rage, and swears that he was set upon by evil spirits in the hall, and that those who loosed them shall not live. Emlyn,whokilled Father Ambrose? Was it men or——?”
“Men, I think, Mother. The devil does not twist necks except in monkish dreams. Is it wonderful that my lady—the greatest lady of all these parts and the most foully treated—should have friends left to her? Why, if they were not curs, ere now her people would have pulled that Abbey stone from stone and cut the throat of every man within its walls.”
“Emlyn,” said the Prioress again, “in the name of Jesus and on your soul, tell me true, is there witchcraft in all this business? And if not, what is its meaning?”
“As much witchcraft as dwells in your gentle heart; no more. A man did these things; I’ll not give you his name, lest it should be wrung from you. A man wore Foterell’s armour, and came here by a secret hole to take counsel with us in the chapel. A man burnt the Abbey dormers and the stacks, and harried the beasts with a goatskin on his head, and dragged the skull of drunken Andrew from his grave. Doubtless it was his hand also that twisted Ambrose’s neck because he struck me.”
The two women looked each other in the eyes.
“Ah!” said the Prioress. “I think I can guess now; but, Emlyn, you choose rough tools. Well, fear not; your secret is safe with me.” She paused a moment; then went on, “Oh! I am glad, who feared lest the Fiend’s finger was in it all, as, in truth, they believe. Now I see my path clear, and will follow it to the death. Yes, yes; I will save you all or die.”
“What path, Mother?”
“Emlyn, you have heard no tidings for these many months, but I have. Listen; there is much afoot. The King, or the Lord Cromwell, or both, make war upon the lesser Houses, dissolving them, seizing their goods, turning the religious out of them upon the world to starve. His Grace sends Royal Commissioners to visit them, and be judge and jury both. They were coming here, but I have friends and some fortune of my own, who was not born meanly or ill-dowered, and I found a way to buy them off. One of these Commissioners, Thomas Legh, as I heard only to-day, makes inquisition at the monastery of Bayfleet, in Yorkshire, some eighty miles away, of which my cousin, Alfred Stukley, whose letter reached me this morning, is the Prior. Emlyn, I’ll go to this rough man—for rough he is, they say. Old and feeble as I am, I’ll seek him out and offer up the ancient House I rule to save your life and Cicely’s—yes, and Bridget’s also.”
“You will go, Mother! Oh! God’s blessing be on you. But how will you go? They will never suffer it.”
The old nun drew herself up, and answered—
“Who has the right to say to the Prioress of Blossholme that she shall not travel whither she will? No Spanish Abbot, I think. Why, but now that proud priest’s servants would have forbidden me to enter your chamber in my own House, but I read them a lesson they will not forget. Also I have horses at my command, but it is true I need an escort, who am not too strong and little versed in the ways of the outside world, where I have scarcely strayed for many years. Now I have bethought me of that red-haired lay-brother, Thomas Bolle. I am told that though foolish, he is a valiant man whom few care to face; moreover, that he understands horses and knows all roads. Do you think, Emlyn Stower, that Thomas Bolle will be my companion on this journey, with leave from the Abbot, or without it?” and again she looked her in the eyes.
“He might, he might; he is a venturous man, or so I remember him in my youth,” answered Emlyn. “Moreover, his forefathers have served the Harfletes and the Foterells for generations in peace and war, and doubtless, therefore, he loves my lady yonder. But the trouble is to get at him.”
“No trouble at all, Emlyn; he is one of the watch outside the gate. But, woman, what token?”
Emlyn thought for a moment, then drew a ring off her finger in which was set a cornelian heart.
“Give him this,” she said, “and say that the wearer bade him follow the bearer to the death, for the sake of that wearer’s life and another’s. He is a simple soul, and if the Abbot does not catch him first I believe that he will go.”
Mother Matilda took the ring and set it on her own finger. Then she walked to where Cicely lay sleeping, looked at her and the boy upon her breast. Stretching out her thin hands, she called down the blessing and protection of Almighty God upon them both, then turned to depart.
Emlyn caught her by the robe.
“Stay,” she said. “You think I do not understand; but I do. You are giving up everything for us. Even if you live through it, this House, which has been your charge for many years, will be dissolved; your sheep will be scattered to starve in their toothless age; the fold that has sheltered them for four hundred years will become a home of wolves. I understand full well, and she”—pointing to the sleeping Cicely—“will understand also.”
“Say nothing to her,” murmured Mother Matilda; “I may fail.”
“You may fail, or you may succeed. If you fail and we burn, God shall reward you. If you succeed and we are saved, on her behalf I swear that you shall not suffer. There is wealth hidden away—wealth worth many priories; you and yours shall have your share of it, and that Commissioner shall not go lacking. Tell him that there is some small store to pay him for his trouble, and that the Abbot of Blossholme would rob him of it. Now, my Lady Margaret—for that, I think, used to be your name, and will be again when you have done with priests and nuns—bless me also and begone, and know that, living or dead, I hold you great and holy.”
So the Prioress blessed her ere she glided thence in her stately fashion, and the oaken door opened and shut behind her.
Three days later the Abbot visited them alone.
“Foul and accursed witches,” he said, “I come to tell you that next Monday at noon you burn upon the green in front of the Abbey gate, who, were it not for the mercy of the Church, should have been tortured also till you discovered your accomplices, of whom I think that you have many.”
“Show me the King’s warrant for this slaughter,” said Cicely.
“I will show you nothing save the stake, witch. Repent, repent, ere it be too late. Hell and its eternal fires yawn for you.”
“Do they yawn for my child also, my Lord Abbot?”
“Your brat will be taken from you ere you enter the flames and laid upon the ground, since it is baptized and too young to burn. If any have pity on it, good; if not, where it lies, there it will be buried.”
“So be it,” answered Cicely. “God gave it; God save it. In God I put my trust. Murderer, leave me to make my peace with Him,” and she turned and walked away.
Now the Abbot and Emlyn were face to face.
“Do we really burn on Monday?” she asked.
“Without doubt, unless faggots will not take fire. Yet,” he added slowly, “if certain jewels should chance to be found and handed over, the case might be remitted to another Court.”
“And the torment prolonged. My Lord Abbot, I fear that those jewels will never be found.”
“Well, then you burn—slowly, perhaps, for much rain has fallen of late and the wood is green. They say the death is dreadful.”
“Doubtless one day you will find it so, Clement Maldonado, here or hereafter. But of that we will talk together when all is done—of that and many other things. I mean before the Judgment-seat of God. Nay, nay, I do not threaten after your fashion—it shall be so. Meanwhile I ask the boon of a dying woman. There are two whom I would see—the Prioress Matilda, in whose charge I desire to leave a certain secret, and Thomas Bolle, a lay-brother in your Abbey, a man who once engaged himself to me in marriage. For your own sake, deny me not these favours.”
“They should be granted readily enough were it in my power, but it is not,” answered the Abbot, looking at her curiously, for he thought that to them she might tell what she had refused to him—the hiding-place of the jewels, which afterwards he could wring out.
“Why not, my Lord Abbot?”
“Because the Prioress has gone hence, secretly, upon some journey of her own, and Thomas Bolle has vanished away I know not where. If they, or either of them, return ere Monday you shall see them.”
“And if they do not return I shall see them afterwards,” replied Emlyn, with a shrug of her shoulders. “What does it matter? Fare you well till we meet at the fire, my Lord Abbot.”
On the Sunday—that is, the day before the burning—the Abbot came again.
“Three days ago,” he said, addressing them both, “I offered you a chance of life upon certain conditions, but, obstinate witches that you are, you refused to listen. Now I offer you the last boon in my power—not life, indeed; it is too late for that—but a merciful death. If you will give me what I seek, the executioner shall dispatch you both before the fire bites—never mind how. If not—well, as I have told you, there has been much rain, and they say the faggots are somewhat green.”
Cicely paled a little—who would not, even in those cruel days?—then asked—
“And what is it that you seek, or that we can give? A confession of our guilt, to cover up your crime in the eyes of the world? If so, you shall never have it, though we burn by inches.”
“Yes, I seek that, but for your own sakes, not for mine, since those who confess and repent may receive absolution. Also I seek more—the rich jewels which you have in hiding, that they may be used for the purposes of the Church.”
Then it was that Cicely showed the courage of her blood.
“Never, never!” she cried, turning on him with eyes ablaze. “Torture and slay me if you will, but my wealth you shall not thieve. I know not where these jewels are, but wherever they may be, there let them lie till my heirs find them, or they rot.”
The Abbot’s face grew very evil.
“Is that your last word, Cicely Foterell?” he asked.
She bowed her head, and he repeated the question to Emlyn, who answered—
“What my mistress says, I say.”
“So be it!” he exclaimed. “Doubtless you sorceresses put your trust in the devil. Well, we shall see if he will help you to-morrow.”
“God will help us,” replied Cicely in a quiet voice. “Remember my words when the time comes.”
Then he went.
It was an awful night. Let those who have followed this history think of the state of these two women, one of them still but a girl, who on the morrow, amidst the jeers and curses of superstitious men, were to suffer the cruelest of deaths for no crime at all, unless the traffickings of Emlyn with Thomas Bolle, in which Cicely had small share, could be held a crime. Well, thousands quite as blameless were called on to undergo that, and even worse fates in the days which some name good and old, the days of chivalry and gallant knights, when even little children were tormented and burned by holy and learned folk who feared a visible or at least a tangible devil and his works.
Doubtless their cruelty was that of terror. Doubtless, although he had other ends to gain which to him were sacred, the Abbot Maldon did believe that Cicely and Emlyn had practised horrible witchcraft; that they had conversed with Satan in order to revenge themselves upon him, and therefore were too foul to live. The “Old Bishop” believed it also, and so did the black-browed Prior and the most of the ignorant people who lived around and knew of the terrible things which had happened in Blossholme. Had not some of them actually seen the fiend with horns and hoofs and tail driving the Abbey cattle, and had not others met the ghost of Sir John Foterell, which doubtless was but that fiend in another shape? Oh, these women were guilty, without doubt they were guilty and deserved the stake! What did it matter if the husband and father of one of them had been murdered and the other had suffered grievous but forgotten wrongs? Compared to witchcraft murder was but a light and homely crime, one that would happen when men’s passions and needs were involved, quite a familiar thing.
It was an awful night. Sometimes Cicely slept a little, but the most of it she spent in prayer. The fierce Emlyn neither slept nor prayed, except once or twice that vengeance might fall upon the Abbot’s head, for her whole soul was up in arms and it galled her to think that she and her beloved mistress must die shamefully while their enemy lived on triumphant and in honour. Even the infant seemed nervous and disturbed, as though some instinct warned it of terror at hand, for although it was well enough, against its custom it woke continually and wailed.
“Emlyn,” said Cicely towards morning, but before the light had come, after at length she had soothed it to rest, “do you think that Mother Matilda will be able to help us?”
“No, no; put it from your mind, dearie. She is weak and old, the road is rough and long, and mayhap she has never reached the place. It was a great venture for her to try such a journey, and if she came there, why, perhaps the Commissioner man had gone, or perhaps he will not listen, or perhaps he cannot come. What would he care about the burning of two witches a hundred miles away, this leech who is sucking himself full upon the carcass of some fat monastery? No, no, never count on her.”
“At least she is brave and true, Emlyn, and has done her best, for which may Heaven’s blessing rest upon her always. Now, what of Thomas Bolle?”
“Nothing, except that he is a red-headed jackass that can bray but daren’t kick,” answered Emlyn viciously. “Never speak to me of Thomas Bolle. Had he been a man long ago he’d have broken the neck of that rogue Abbot instead of dressing himself up like a he-goat and hunting his cows.”
“If what they say is true he did break the neck of Father Ambrose,” replied Cicely, with a faint smile. “Perhaps he made a mistake in the dark.”
“If so it is like Thomas Bolle, who ever wished the right thing and did the wrong. Talk no more of him, since I would not meet my end in a bad spirit. Thomas Bolle, who lets us die for his elfish pranks! A pest on the half-witted cur, say I. And after I had kissed him too!”
Cicely wondered vaguely to what she referred, then, thinking it well not to inquire, said—
“Not so, a blessing on him, say I, who saved my child from that hateful hag.”
Then there was silence for a while, the matter of poor Thomas Bolle and his conduct being exhausted between them, who indeed were in no mood for argument about people whom they would never see again. At last Cicely spoke once more through the darkness—
“Emlyn, I will try to be brave; but once, do you remember, I burnt my hand as a child when I stole the sweetmeats from the cooling pot, and ah! it hurt me. I will try to die as those who went before me would have died, but if I should break down think not the less of me, for the spirit is willing though the flesh be weak.”
Emlyn ground her teeth in silence, and Cicely went on—
“But that is not the worst of it, Emlyn. A few minutes and it will be over and I shall sleep, as I think, to awake elsewhere. Only if Christopher should really live, how he will mourn when he learns——”
“I pray that he does,” broke in Emlyn, “for then ere long there will be a Spanish priest the less on earth and one the more in hell.”
“And the child, Emlyn, the child!” she went on in a trembling voice, not heeding the interruption. “What will become of my son, the heir to so much if he had his rights, and yet so friendless? They’ll murder him also, Emlyn, or let him die, which is the same thing, since how otherwise will they get title to his lands and goods?”
“If so, his troubles will be done and he will be better with you in heaven,” Emlyn answered, with a dry sob. “The boy and you in heaven midst the blessed saints, and the Abbot and I in hell settling our score there with the devil for company, that’s all I ask. There, there, I blaspheme, for injustice makes me mad; it clogs my heart and I throw it up in bitter words, for your sake, dear, and his, not my own. Child, you are good and gentle, to such as you the Ear of God is open. Call to him; ask for light, He will not refuse. Do you remember in the fire at the Towers, when we crouched in that vault and the walls crumbled overhead, you said you saw His angel bending over us and heard his speech. Call to Him, Cicely, and if He will not listen, hear me. I have a means of death about me. Ask not what it is, but if at the end I turn on you and strike, blame me not here or hereafter, for it will be love’s blow, my last service.”
It seemed as though Cicely did not understand those heavy words, at the least she took no heed of them.
“I’ll pray again,” she whispered, “though I fear that heaven’s doors are closed to me; no light comes through,” and she knelt down.
For long, long she prayed, till at length weariness overcame her, and Emlyn heard her breathing softly like one asleep.
“Let her sleep,” she murmured to herself. “Oh! if I were sure—she should never wake again to see the dawn. I have half a mind to do it, but there it is, I am not sure. If there is a God He will never suffer such a thing. I’d have paid the jewels, but what’s the use? They would have killed her all the same, for else where’s their title? No, my heart bids me wait.”
Cicely awoke.
“Emlyn,” she said in a low, thrilling voice, “do you hear me, Emlyn? That angel has been with me again. He spoke to me,” and she paused.
“Well, well, what did he say?”
“I don’t know, Emlyn,” she answered, confused; “it has gone from me. But, Emlyn, have no fear, all is well with us, and not only with us but with Christopher and the babe also. Oh, yes, with Christopher and the babe also,” and she let her fair head fall upon the couch and burst into a flood of happy tears. Then, rising, she took up the child and kissed it, laid herself down and slept sweetly.
Just then the dawn broke, a glorious dawn, and Emlyn held out her arms to it in an ecstasy of gratitude. For with that light her terror passed away as the darkness passed. She believed that God had spoken to Cicely and for a while her heart was at peace.
When about eight o’clock that morning the door was opened to allow a nun to bring them their food, she saw a sight which filled her with amazement. Her own eyes, poor woman, were red with tears, for, like all in the Priory, she loved Cicely, whom as a child she had nursed on her knee, and with the other sisters had spent a sleepless night in prayer for her, for Emlyn, and for Bridget, who was to be burned with them. She had expected to find the victims prostrate and perhaps senseless with fear, but behold! there they sat together in the window-place, dressed in their best garments and talking quietly. Indeed, as she entered one of them—it was Cicely—laughed a little at something that the other had said.
“Good-morning to you, Sister Mary,” said Cicely. “Tell me now, has the Prioress returned?”
“Nay, nay, we know not where she is; no word has come from her. Well, at least she will be spared a dreadful sight. Have you any message for her ear? If so, give it swiftly ere the guard call me.”
“I thank you,” said Cicely; “but I think that I shall be the bearer of my own messages.”
“What? Do you, then, mean that our Mother is dead? Must we suffer woe upon woe? Oh! who could have told you these sorrowful tidings?”
“No, sister, I think that she is alive and that I, yet living, shall talk with her again.”
Sister Mary looked bewildered, for how, she wondered, could close prisoners know these things? Staring round to see that she was not observed, she thrust two little packets into Cicely’s hand.
“Wear these at the last, both of you,” she whispered. “Whatever they say we believe you innocent, and for your sake we have done a great crime. Yes, we have opened the reliquary and taken from it our most precious treasure, a fragment of the cord that bound St. Catherine to the wheel, and divided it into three, one strand for each of you. Perhaps, if you are really guiltless, it will work a miracle. Perhaps the fire will not burn or the rain will extinguish it, or the Abbot may relent.”
“That last would be the greatest miracle of all,” broke in Emlyn, with grim humour. “Still we thank you from our hearts and will wear the relics if they do not take them from us. Hark! they are calling you. Farewell, and all blessings be on your gentle heads.”
Again the loud voices of the guards called, and Sister Mary turned and fled, wondering if these women were not witches, how it came about that they could be so brave, so different from poor Bridget, who wailed and moaned in her cell below.
Cicely and Emlyn ate their food with good appetite, knowing that they would need support that day, and when it was done sat themselves again by the window-place, through which they could see hundreds of people, mounted and on foot, passing up the slope that led to the green in front of the Abbey, though this green they could not see because of a belt of trees.
“Listen,” said Emlyn presently. “It is hard to say, but it may be that your vision of the night was but a merciful dream, and, if so, within a few hours we shall be dead. Now I have the secret of the hiding-place of those jewels, which, without me, none can ever find; shall I pass it on, if I get the chance, to one whom I can trust? Some good soul—the nuns, perhaps—will surely shelter your boy, and he might need them in days to come.”
Cicely thought a while, then answered—
“Not so, Emlyn. I believe that God has spoken to me by His angel, as He spoke to Peter in the prison. To do this would be to tempt God, showing that we have no trust in Him. Let that secret lie where it is, in your breast.”
“Great is your faith,” said Emlyn, looking at her with admiration. “Well, I will stand or fall by it, for I think there is enough for two.”
The Convent bell chimed ten, and they heard a sound of feet and voices below.
“They come for us,” said Emlyn; “the burning is set for eleven, that after the sight folk may get away in comfort to their dinners. Now summon that great Faith of yours and hold him fast for both our sakes, since mine grows faint.”
The door opened and through it came monks followed by guards, the officer of whom bade them rise and follow. They obeyed without speaking, Cicely throwing her cloak about her shoulders.
“You’ll be warm enough without that, Witch,” said the man, with a hideous chuckle.
“Sir,” she answered, “I shall need it to wrap my child in when we are parted. Give me the babe, Emlyn. There, now we are ready; nay, no need to lead us, we cannot escape and shall not vex you.”
“God’s truth, the girl has spirit!” muttered the officer to his companions, but one of the priests shook his head and answered—
“Witchcraft! Satan will leave them presently.”
A few more minutes and, for the first time during all those weary months, they passed the gate of the Priory. Here the third victim was waiting to join them, poor, old, half-witted Bridget, clad in a kind of sheet, for her habit had been stripped off. She was wild-eyed and her grey locks hung loose about her shoulders, as she shook her ancient head and screamed prayers for mercy. Cicely shivered at the sight of her, which indeed was dreadful.
“Peace, good Bridget,” she said as they passed, “being innocent, what have you to fear?”
“The fire, the fire!” cried the poor creature. “I dread the fire.”
Then they were led to their place in the procession and saw no more of Bridget for a while, although they could not escape the sound of her lamentations behind them.
It was a great procession. First went the monks and choristers, singing a melancholy Latin dirge. Then came the victims in the midst of a guard of twelve armed men, and after these the nuns who were forced to be present, while behind and about were all the folk for twenty miles round, a crowd without number. They crossed the footbridge, where stood the Ford Inn for which the Flounder had bargained as the price of murder. They walked up the rise by the right of way, muddy now with the autumn rains, and through the belt of trees where Thomas Bolle’s secret passage had its exit, and so came at last to the green in front of the towering Abbey portal.
Here a dreadful sight awaited them, for on this green were planted three fourteen-inch posts of new-felled oak six feet or more in height, such as no fire would easily burn through, and around each of them a kind of bower of faggots open to the front. Moreover, to the posts hung new wagon chains, and near by stood the village blacksmith and his apprentice, who carried a hand anvil and a sledge hammer for the cold welding of those chains.
At a distance from these stakes the procession was halted. Then out from the gate of the Abbey came the Abbot in his robes and mitre, preceded by acolytes and followed by more monks. He advanced to where the condemned women stood and halted, while a friar stepped forward and read their sentence to them, of which, being in Latin or in crabbed, legal words, they understood nothing at all. Then in sonorous tones he adjured them for the sake of their sinful souls to make full confession of their guilt, that they might receive pardon before they suffered in the flesh for their hideous crime of sorcery.
To this invitation Cicely and Emlyn shook their heads, saying that being innocent of any sorceries they had nothing to confess. But old Bridget gave another answer. She declared in a high, screaming voice that she was a witch, as her mother and grandmother had been before her. She described, while the crowd listened with intense interest, how Emlyn Stower had introduced her to the devil, who was clad in red hose and looked like a black boy with a hump on his back and a tuft of red hair hanging from his nose, also many unedifying details of her interviews with this same fiend.
Asked what he said to her, she answered that he told her to bewitch the Abbot of Blossholme because he was such a holy man that God had need of him and he did too much good upon the earth. Also he prevented Emlyn Stower and Cicely Foterell from working his, the devil’s, will, and enabled them to keep alive the baby who would be a great wizard. He told her moreover that midwife Megges was an angel (here the crowd laughed) sent to kill the said infant, who really was his own child, as might be seen by its black eyebrows and cleft tongue, also its webbed feet, and that he would appear in the shape of the ghost of Sir John Foterell to save it and give it to her, which he did, saying the Lord’s Prayer backwards, and that she must bring it up “in the faith of the Pentagon.”
Thus the poor crazed thing raved on, while sentence by sentence a scribe wrote down her gibberish, causing her at last to make her mark to it, all of which took a very long time. At the end she begged that she might be pardoned and not burnt, but this, she was informed, was impossible. Thereon she became enraged and asked why then had she been led to tell so many lies if after all she must burn, a question at which the crowd roared with laughter. On hearing this the priest, who was about to absolve her, changed his mind and ordered her to be fastened to her stake, which was done by the blacksmith with the help of his apprentice and his portable anvil.
Still, her “confession” was solemnly read over to Cicely and Emlyn, who were asked whether, after hearing it, they still persisted in a denial of their guilt. By way of answer Cicely lifted the hood from her boy’s face and showed that his eyebrows were not black, but light-coloured. Also she bared his feet, passing her little finger between his toes, and asking them if they were webbed. Some of them answered, “No,” but a monk roared, “What of that? Cannot Satan web and unweb?” Then he snatched the infant from Cicely’s arms and laid it down upon the stump of an oak that had been placed there to receive it, crying out—
“Let this child live or die as God pleases.”
Some brute who stood by aimed a blow at it with a stick, yelling, “Death to the witch’s brat!” but a big man, whom Emlyn recognized as one of old Sir John’s tenants, caught the falling stick from his hand and dealt him such a clout with it that he fell like a stone, and went for the rest of his life with but one eye and the nose flattened on the side of his face. Thenceforward no one tried to harm the babe, who, as all know, because of what befell him on this day, went in after life by the nickname of Christopher Oak-stump.
The Abbot’s men stepped forward to tie Cicely to her stake, but ere they laid hands on her she took off her wool-lined cloak and threw it to the yeoman who had struck down the fellow with his own stick, saying—
“Friend, wrap my boy in this and guard him till I ask him from you again.”
“Aye, Lady,” answered the great man, bending his knee; “I have served the grandsire and the sire, and so I’ll serve the son,” and throwing aside the stick he drew a sword and set himself in front of the oak boll where the infant lay. Nor did any venture to meddle with him, for they saw other men of a like sort ranging themselves about him.
Now slowly enough the smith began to rivet the chain round Cicely.
“Man,” she said to him, “I have seen you shoe many of my father’s nags. Who could have thought that you would live to use your honest skill upon his daughter!”
On hearing these words the fellow burst into tears, cast down his tools and fled away, cursing the Abbot. His apprentice would have followed, but him they caught and forced to complete the task. Then Emlyn was chained up also, so that at length all was ready for the last terrible act of the drama.
Now the head executioner—he was the Abbey cook—placed some pine splinters to light in a brazier that stood near by, and while waiting for the word of command, remarked audibly to his mate that there was a good wind and that the witches would burn briskly.
The spectators were ordered back out of earshot, and went at last, some of them muttering sullenly to each other. For here the company could not be picked as it had been at the trial, and the Abbot noted anxiously that among them the victims had many friends. It was time the deed was done ere their smouldering love and pity flowed out into bloody tumult, he thought to himself. So, advancing quickly, he stood in front of Emlyn and asked her in a low voice if she still refused to give up the secret of the jewels, seeing that there was yet time for him to command that they should die mercifully and not by the fire.
“Let the mistress judge, not the maid,” answered Emlyn in a steady voice.
He turned and repeated the question to Cicely, who replied—
“Have I not told you—never. Get you behind me, O evil man, and go, repent your sins ere it be too late.”
The Abbot stared at her, feeling that such constancy and courage were almost superhuman. He had an acute, imaginative mind which could fancy himself in like case and what his state would be. Though he was in such haste a great curiosity entered into him to know whence she drew her strength, which even then he tried to satisfy.
“Are you mad or drugged, Cicely Foterell?” he asked. “Do you not know how fire will feel when it eats up that delicate flesh of yours?”
“I do not know and I shall never know,” she answered quietly.
“Do you mean that you will die before it touches you, building on some promise of your master, Satan?”
“Yes, I shall die before the fire touches me; but not here and now, and I build upon a promise from the Master of us all in heaven.”
He laughed, a shrill, nervous laugh, and called out loud to the people around—
“This witch says that she will not burn, for Heaven has promised it to her. Do you not, Witch?”
“Yes, I say so; bear witness to my words, good people all,” replied Cicely in clear and ringing tones.
“Well, we’ll see,” shouted the Abbot. “Man, bring flame, and let Heaven—or hell—help her if it can!”
The cook-executioner blew at his brands, but he was nervous, or clumsy, and a minute or more went by before they flamed. At length one was fit for the task, and unwillingly enough he stooped to lift it up.
Then it was that in the midst of the intense silence, for of all that multitude none seemed even to breathe, and old Bridget, who had fainted, cried no more, a bull’s voice was heard beyond the brow of the hill, roaring—
“In the King’s name, stay! In the King’s name, stay!”
All turned to look, and there between the trees appeared a white horse, its sides streaked with blood, that staggered rather than galloped towards them, and on the horse a huge, red-bearded man, clad in mail and holding in his hand a woodman’s axe.
“Fire the faggots!” shouted the Abbot, but the cook, who was not by nature brave, had already let fall his torch, which went out on the damp ground.
By now the horse was rushing through them, treading them under foot. With great, convulsive bounds it reached the ring and, as the rider leapt from its back, rolled over and lay there panting, for its strength was done.
“It is Thomas Bolle!” exclaimed a voice, while the Abbot cried again—
“Fire the faggots! Fire the faggots!” and a soldier ran to fetch another brand.
But Thomas was before him. Snatching up the brazier by its legs he smote downwards with it so that the burning charcoal fell all about the soldier and the iron cage remained fixed upon his head, shouting as he smote—
“You sought fire—take it!”
The man rolled upon the ground screaming in pain and terror till some one dragged the cage off his head, leaving his face barred like a grilled herring. None took further heed of what became of him, for now Thomas Bolle stood in front of the stakes waving his great axe, and repeating, “In the King’s name, stay! In the King’s name, stay!”
“What mean you, knave?” exclaimed the furious Abbot.
“What I say, Priest. One step nearer and I’ll split your crown.”
The Abbot fell back and Thomas went on—
“A Foterell! A Foterell! A Harflete! A Harflete! O ye who have eaten their bread, come, scatter these faggots and save their flesh. Who’ll stand with me against Maldon and his butchers?”
“I,” answered voices, “and I, and I, and I!”
“And I too,” hallooed the yeoman by the oak stump, “only I watch the child. Nay, by God I’ll bring it with me!” and, snatching up the screaming babe under his left arm, he ran to him.
On came the others also, hurling the faggots this way and that.
“Break the chains,” roared Bolle again, and somehow those strong hands did it; indeed, the only hurt that Cicely took that day was from their hacking at these chains. They were loose. Cicely snatched the child from the yeoman, who was glad enough to be rid of it, having other work to do, for now the Abbot’s men-at-arms were coming on.
“Ring the women round,” roared Bolle, “and strike home for Foterell, strike home for Harflete! Ah, priest’s dog, in the King’s name—this!” and the axe sank up to the haft into the breast of the captain who had told Cicely that she would be warm enough that day without her cloak.
Then there began a great fight. The party of Foterell, of whom there may have been a score, captained by Bolle, made a circle round the three green oak stakes, within which stood Cicely and Emlyn and old Bridget, still tied to her post, for no one had thought or found time to cut her loose. These were attacked by the Abbot’s guard, thirty or more of them, urged on by Maldon himself, who was maddened by the rescue of his victims and full of fear lest Cicely’s words should be fulfilled and she herself set down henceforth, not as a witch, but as a prophetess favoured by God.
On came the soldiers and were beaten back. Thrice they came on and thrice they were beaten back with loss, for Bolle’s axe was terrible to face and, now that they had found a leader and their courage, the yeoman lads who stood with him were sturdy fighters. Also tumult broke out among the hundreds who watched, some of them taking one side and some the other, so that they fell upon each other with sticks and stones and fists, even the women joining in the fray, biting and tearing like bagged cats. The scene was hideous and the sounds those of a sacked city, for many were hurt and all gave tongue, while shrill and clear above this hateful music rose the yells of Bridget, who had awakened from her faint and imagined all was over and that she fathomed hell.
Thrice the attackers were rolled back, but of those who defended a third were down, and now the Abbot took another counsel.
“Bring bows,” he cried, “and shoot them, for they have none!” and men ran off to do his bidding.
Then it was that Emlyn’s wit came to their aid, for when Bolle shook his red head and gasped out that he feared they were lost, since how could they fight against arrows, she answered—
“If so, why stand here to be spitted, fool? Come, let us cut our way through ere the shafts begin to fly, and take refuge among the trees or in the Nunnery.”
“Women’s counsel is good sometimes,” said Bolle. “Form up, Foterells, and march.”
“Nay,” broke in Cicely, “loose Bridget first, lest they should burn her after all; I’ll not stir else.”
So Bridget was hacked free, and together with the wounded men, of whom there were several, dragged and supported thence. Then began a running fight, but one in which they still held their own. Yet they would have been overwhelmed at last, for the women and the wounded hampered them, had not help come. For as they hewed their path towards the belt of trees with the Abbot’s fierce fellows, some of whom were French or Spanish, hanging on their flanks, suddenly, in the gap where the roadway ran, appeared a horse galloping and on it a woman, who clung to its mane with both hands, and after her many armed men.
“Look, Emlyn, look!” exclaimed Cicely. “Who is that?” for she could not believe her eyes.
“Who but Mother Matilda,” answered Emlyn; “and by the saints, she is a strange sight!”
A strange sight she was indeed, for her hood was gone, her hair, that was ever so neat, flew loose, her robe was ruckled up about her knees, the rosary and crucifix she wore streamed on the air behind her and beat against her back, and her garb had burst open at the front; in short, never was holy, aged Prioress seen in such a state before. Down she came on them like a whirlwind, for her frightened horse scented its Blossholme stable, clinging grimly to her unaccustomed seat, and crying as she sped—
“For God’s love, stop this mad beast!”
Bolle caught it by the bridle and threw it to its haunches so that, its rider speeding on, flew over its head on to the broad breast of the yeoman who had watched the child, and there rested thankfully. For, as Mother Matilda said afterwards with her gentle smile, never before did she know what comfort there was to be found in man.
When at length she loosed her arms from about his neck the yeoman stood her on her feet, saying that this was worse than the baby, and her wandering eyes fell upon Cicely.
“So I am in time! Oh! never more will I revile that horse,” she exclaimed, and sinking to her knees then and there she gasped out some prayer of thankfulness. Meanwhile, those who followed her had reined up in front, and the Abbot’s soldiers with the accompanying crowd had halted behind, not knowing what to make of these strangers, so that Bolle and his party with the women were now between the two.
From among the new-comers rode out a fat, coarse man, with a pompous air as of one who is accustomed to be obeyed, who inquired in a laboured voice, for he was breathless from hard riding, what all this turmoil meant.
“Ask the Abbot of Blossholme,” said some one, “for it is his work.”
“Abbot of Blossholme? That’s the man I want,” puffed the fat stranger. “Appear, Abbot of Blossholme, and give account of these doings. And you fellows,” he added to his escort, “range up and be ready, lest this said priest should prove contumacious.”
Now the Abbot stepped forward with some of his monks and, looking the horseman up and down, said—
“Who may it be that demands account so roughly of a consecrated Abbot?”
“A consecrated Abbot? A consecrated peacock, a tumultuous, turbulent, traitorous priest, a Spanish rogue ruffler who, I am told, keeps about him a band of bloody mercenaries to break the King’s peace and slay loyal English folk. Well, consecrated Abbot, I’ll tell you who I am. I am Thomas Legh, his Grace’s Visitor and Royal Commissioner to inspect the Houses called religious, and I am come hither upon complaint made by yonder Prioress of Blossholme Nunnery, as to your dealings with certain of his Highness’s subjects whom, she says, you have accused of witchcraft for purposes of revenge and unlawful gain. That is who I am, my fine fowl of an Abbot.”
Now when he heard this pompous speech the rage in Maldon’s face was replaced by fear, for he knew of this Doctor Legh and his mission, and understood what Thomas Bolle had meant by his cry of, “In the King’s name!”