CHAPTER XI
DOOMED
It was the day of trial. From dawn Cicely and Emlyn had seen peoplehurrying in and out of the gates of the Nunnery, and heard workmenmaking preparation in the guest-hall below their chamber. About eightone of the nuns brought them their breakfast. Her face was scared andwhite; she only spoke in whispers, looking behind her continually asthough 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! Godhelp you, my sisters; God help us all!" and she fled away.
Now for a moment Emlyn's heart failed her, since before such a tribunalwhat chance had they? The Abbot was their bitter enemy and accuser;the strange Prior, no doubt, one of his friends and kindred; while theecclesiastic spoken of as the "Old Bishop" was well known as perhaps thecruelest man in England, a scourge of heretics--that is, beforeheresy became the fashion--a hunter-out of witches and wizards, and atime-server to boot. But to Cicely she said nothing, for what was theuse, 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, kneltdown to pray. While she was still praying the door opened and aprocession appeared. First came two monks, then six armed men of theAbbot's guard, then the Prioress and three of her nuns. At the sight ofthe beautiful young woman kneeling at her prayers the guards, rough menthough they were, stopped, as if unwilling to disturb her, but one ofthe monks cried brutally--
"Seize the accursed hypocrite, and if she will not come, drag her withyou," at the same time stretching out his hand as though to grasp herarm.
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, thenuns, with bowed heads, following after. Presently they entered thelarge hall, but on its threshold were ordered to pause while way wasmade for them. Cicely never forgot the sight of it as it appeared thatday. The lofty, arched roof of rich chestnut-wood, set there hundreds ofyears before by hands that spared neither work nor timber, amongst thebeams of which the bright light of morning played so clearly that shecould see the spiders' webs, and in one of them a sleepy autumnwasp caught fast. The mob of people gathered to watch her publictrial--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, hersleeping child held in her arms! They were a packed audience and hadbeen prepared to condemn her--that she could see and hear, for did notsome of them point and frown, and set up a cry of "Witch!" as they hadbeen told to do? But it died away. The sight of her, the daughter of oneof their great men and the widow of another, standing in her innocentbeauty, the slumbering babe upon her breast, seemed to quell them, tillthe 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 themonkish secretaries; the hard-faced, hook-nosed "Old Bishop" in hisgorgeous robes and mitre, his crozier resting against the panellingbehind him, peering about him with beady eyes. The sullen, heavy-jawedPrior, from some distant county, on his left, clad in a simple blackgown 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 earscatching every word and murmur as he whispered something to the Bishopthat caused him to smile grimly. Lastly, placed already in the ropedspace and guarded by a soldier, poor old Bridget, the half-witted, whowas gabbling words to which no one paid any heed.
The path was clear now, and they were ordered to walk on. Half-wayup the hall something red attracted Cicely's attention, and, glancinground, 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 dreadedlest he should be betrayed and given over to some awful doom.
"Fear nothing," she whispered as she passed, and he heard her, orperhaps Emlyn's glance told him that he was safe. At least, a sign ofrelief broke from him.
Now they had entered the roped space, and stood there.
"Your name?" asked one of the secretaries, pointing to Cicely with thefeather of his quill.
"All know it, it is Cicely Harflete," she answered gently, whereon theclerk said roughly that she lied, and the old wrangle began again as tothe validity of her marriage, the Abbot maintaining that she was stillCicely Foterell, the mother of a base-born child.
Into this argument the Bishop entered with some zest, asking manyquestions, and seeming more or less to take her side, since, wherematters of religion were not concerned, he was a keen lawyer, and justenough. At length, however, he swept the thing away, remarking brutallythat if half he had heard were true, soon the name by which she had lastbeen called in life would not concern her, and bade the clerks write herdown as Cicely Harflete or Foterell.
Then Emlyn gave her name, and Sister Bridget's was written withoutquestion. Next the charge against them was read. It was long andtechnical, mixed up with Latin words and phrases, and all that Cicelymade out of it was that they were accused of many horrible crimes, andof having called up the devil and consorted with him in the shape ofa monster with horns and hoofs, and of her father's ghost. When itwas finished they were commanded to answer, and pleaded Not Guilty, orrather Cicely and Emlyn did, for Bridget broke into a long tale thatcould not be followed. She was ordered to be silent, after which no onetook 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 theywere stubborn witches, and some discipline of the sort might havesaved trouble. Again he asked if the witch's marks had been found onthem--that is, the spot where the devil had sealed their bodies,on which, as was well known, his chosen could feel no pain. He evensuggested that the trial should be adjourned until they had been prickedall over with a nail to find this spot, but ultimately gave up the pointto save time.
A last question was raised by the beetle-browed Prior, who submittedthat the infant ought also to be accused, since he, too, was said tohave consorted with the devil, having, according to the story, beenrescued from death by him and afterwards been carried in his arms andgiven to the nun Bridget, which was the only evidence against the saidBridget. If she was guilty, why, then, was the infant innocent? Oughtnot they to burn together, since a babe that had been nursed by the EvilOne was obviously damned?
The legal-minded Bishop found this argument interesting, but ultimatelydecided that it was safer to overrule it on account of the tender age ofthe criminal. He added that it did not matter, since doubtless the foulfiend would claim his own ere long.
Lastly, before the witnesses were called, Emlyn asked for an advocate todefend them, but the Bishop replied, with a chuckle, that it was quiteunnecessary, since already they had the best of all advocates--Satanhimself.
"True, my Lord," said Cicely, looking up, "we have the best of alladvocates, only you have mis-named him. The God of the innocent is ouradvocate, and in Him I trust."
"Blaspheme not, Sorceress," shouted the old man; and the evidencecommenced.
To follow it in detail is not necessary, and, indeed, would be long, forit took many hours. First of all Emlyn's early life was set out, muchbeing made of the fact that her mother was a gypsy who had committedsuicide and that her father had fallen under the ban of the Inquisition,an heretical work of his having been publicly burned. Then the Abbothimself gave evidence, since, where the charge was sorcery, no oneseemed to think it strange that the same man should both act as judgeand be the principal witness for the prosecution. He told of Cicely'swild words after the burning of Cranwell Towers, from which burning sheand her familiar, Emlyn, had evidently escaped by magic, without theaid of which it was plain they could not have lived. He told of Emlyn'sthreats to him af
ter she had looked into the bowl of water; of all thedreadful things that had been seen and done at Blossholme, which nodoubt these witches had brought about--here he was right--though howhe knew not. He told of the death of the midwife and of the appearancewhich she presented afterwards--a tale that caused his audience toshudder; and, lastly, he told of the vision of the ghost of Sir JohnFoterell holding converse with the two accused in the chapel of theNunnery, 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 crimeshad no right to cross-examine.
Then the Court adjourned for a while to eat, some food being brought forthe prisoners, who were forced to take it where they stood. Worsestill, Cicely was driven to nurse her child in the presence of all thataudience, who stared and gibed at her rudely, and were angry becauseEmlyn 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 wasentirely irrelevant, its volume was so great that at length the OldBishop grew weary, and said he would hear no more. Then the judgeswent on to put, first to Cicely and afterwards to Emlyn, a series ofquestions of a nature so abominable that after denying the first of themindignantly, they stood silent, refusing to answer--proof positive oftheir guilt, as the black-browed Prior remarked in triumph. Lastly,these hideous queries being exhausted, Cicely was asked if she hadanything to say.
"Somewhat," she answered; "but I am weary, and must be brief. I am nowitch; I do not know what it means. The Abbot of Blossholme, who sitsas my judge, is my grievous enemy. He claimed my father's lands--whichlands I believe he now holds--and cruelly murdered my said father byKing's Grave Mount in the forest as he was riding to London to makecomplaint of him and reveal his treachery to his Grace the King and hisCouncil----"
"It is a lie, witch," broke in the Abbot, but, taking no heed, Cicelywent on--
"Afterwards he and his hired soldiers attacked the house of my husband,Sir Christopher Harflete, and burnt it, slaying, or striving toslay--I know not which--my said husband, who has vanished away. Then heimprisoned me and my servant, Emlyn Stower, in this Nunnery, and stroveto force me to sign papers conveying all my own and my child's propertyto him. This I refused to do, and therefore it is that he puts me on mytrial, because, as I am told, those who are found guilty of witchcraftare stripped of all their possessions, which those take who are strongenough to keep them. Lastly, I deny the authority of this Court, andappeal to the King, who soon or late will hear my cry and avenge mywrongs, and maybe my murder, upon those who wrought them. Good peopleall, hear my words. I appeal to the King, and to him under God above Ientrust my cause, and, should I die, the guardianship of my orphan son,whom the Abbot sent his creature to murder--his vile creature, uponwhose head fell the Almighty's justice, as it will fall on yours, youslaughterers 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 herto sit on--and crouched there, still holding her child in her arms--apiteous sight indeed, which touched even the superstitious hearts of thecrowd who watched her.
Now this appeal of hers to the King seemed to scare the fierce OldBishop, 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, andshall direct it to be so entered upon the records. Of the execution ofthe sentence or the disposal of the property I wash my hands. See you toit."
"So spoke Pilate," broke in Cicely, lifting her head and looking him inthe eyes. Then she let it fall again, and was silent.
Now Emlyn opened her lips, and from them burst a fierce torrent ofwords.
"Do you know," she began, "who and what is this Spanish priest who sitsto judge us of witchcraft? Well, I will tell you. Years ago he fled fromSpain because of hideous crimes that he had committed there. Ask him ofIsabella the nun, who was my father's cousin, and her end and that ofher companions. Ask him of----"
At this point a monk, to whom the Abbot had whispered something, slippedbehind Emlyn and threw a cloth over her face. She tore it away with herstrong hands, and screamed out--
"He is a murderer, he is a traitor. He plots to kill the King. I canprove it, and that's why Foterell died--because he knew----"
The Abbot shouted something, and again the monk, a stout fellow namedAmbrose, got the cloth over her mouth. Once more she wrenched herselfloose, and, turning towards the people, called--
"Have I never a friend, who have befriended so many? Is there no man inBlossholme who will avenge me of this brute Ambrose? Aye, I see some."
Then this Ambrose, and others aiding him, fell upon her, striking heron the head and choking her, till at length she sank, half stunned andgasping, to the ground.
Now, after a hurried word or two with his colleagues, the Bishopsprang up, and as darkness gathered in the hall--for the sun hadset--pronounced the sentence of the Court.
First he declared the prisoners guilty of the foulest witchcraft. Nexthe excommunicated them with much ceremony, delivering their souls totheir master, Satan. Then, incidentally, he condemned their bodies tobe burnt, without specifying when, how, or by whom. Out of the gloom aclear 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 atlength it died down the Bishop, or it may have been the Abbot--for nonecould 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, orrather the sounds, were strange. The Bishop shrieking with rage uponthe bench, like a hen that has been caught upon her perch at night,the black-browed Prior bellowing like a bull, the populace surging andshouting this and that, the secretary calling for candles, and whenat length one was brought, making a little star of light in that hugegloom, 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 theforces which he had let loose; but the Abbot hallooed back--
"Burn the hag with the others," and the secretary wrote it down upon hisbrief.
Then the guards seized the three of them to lead them away, and thefrightened babe set up a thin, piercing wail, while the Bishop and hiscompanions, preceded by one of the monks bearing the candle--it was thatAmbrose who had choked Emlyn--marched in procession down the hall togain 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 lighthad vanished. There were screams, and sounds of fighting, and cries forhelp. These died away; the hall emptied by degrees, for it seemed thatnone 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 almostnaked, while by the Bishop was his crozier, broken in two, apparentlyacross his own head. Worse of all, the monk Ambrose leaned against apillar; his feet seemed to go forward but his face looked backward, forhis neck was twisted like that of a Michaelmas goose.
The Bishop looked about him and felt his hurts; then he called to hispeople--
"Bring me my cloak and a horse, for I have had enough of Blossholme andits wizardries. Settle your own matters henceforth, Abbot Maldon, for inthem I find no luck," and he glanced at his broken staff.
Thus ended the great trial of the Blossholme witches.