CHAPTER XI
DOOMED
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. Worse 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, /who/ killed 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 knew 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.
