BALDA THE WITCH
THE days passed leisurely up at the castle, naught of vast import to
mark their flight. June was now in, the month of roses, with long sunny
days, with nights of brief duration.
Isabel, finding time hang somewhat heavy on her hands, turned yet closer
attention to our Jester. Her interest in him had not waned; I am by no
means sure that it had not increased. Recognizing his homage, she yet
felt there was that in him which eluded her. Seeking to discover it she
found herself baffled. While tantalizing it yet spurred her to further
interest. Musing on the thought in her idle hours the desire to discover
that which eluded her became somewhat of an obsession. She carried it
with her throughout the day, took it to her couch as bedfellow.
Her women in these days found her ill to please. The dowager of them,
one time in sort her nurse, now an old dame who seldom left her own
chamber, never the castle, prescribed _tisanes_ for her health, noxious
concoctions of which the chief ingredient was the liquid from stewed
rosemary, a mightily unpleasant herb to the palate. Mary would have her
walk abroad, try fresh designs for her embroidery; and for my part I
find her simple prescription wholesome. Leonora frankly saw mere
ill-temper in her peevishness. Monica said rosaries for her, and truly
prayer may take effect where all else fails. Brigid, very observant,
said little, offered no remedies, but none the less she thought a good
deal, fancied at one moment her thoughts were to some purpose, the next
was none so sure of it. And then the clue came to her hand.
I know not how Isabel’s mind began to turn upon the wise woman, so
reputed, who dwelt in a mud-walled hovel in a distant combe among the
moors. Perchance she happened at this time to catch some whisper of her
from an over-credulous serving-wench; perchance the knowledge of the old
crone’s whereabouts had been with her before this, and now recurred
fresh to her mind. Certain it is that Isabel, brooding, saw possibility
of aid in that quarter. The notion was unquestionably prompted by
foolishness, probably by something more evil. Once presented it
conjoined with her former thought, not to leave. This, too, was a
thought which might be brought to deed. Seeing this Isabel was ready to
act. It was not her way to dally when she saw possibility before her.
* * * * *
One night sleep forsook Brigid’s couch. Lying wide-eyed and wakeful an
oppression fell upon her, not wholly of evil, yet something of that
brand. Whispering an _Ave_ she sought to free herself from it, yet to no
purpose. _Paternosters_, the Sign of the Cross alike availed her naught.
Moved by a sudden impulse she rose from her bed, went to the window.
Below her lay the garden bathed in quiet light. Beyond the shadow close
beneath her window she could see clearly the expanse of turf, the gravel
paths, the flower beds, all softly illumined in the moon-rays. Very
still she watched, believing there was something about to happen, yet
unknowing what it might be. At what exact moment a figure emerged from
the shadow below her window Brigid knew not; suddenly she saw it,
dark-robed, standing on the turf. For the space of a heart’s beat the
thought of some earth-bound spirit, some poor wandering ghost flashed to
her mind, caused her a second’s tremor. Yet a tremor succeeded verily by
a greater shock. The figure turned, glanced momentarily towards the
windows of the castle. Brigid saw the face clearly outlined in the
moonlight, saw, too, in the movement one fearful of detection.
Swift as lightning she turned towards the room, threw garments upon
herself with never a thought to their careful donning, slipped down the
stairs and out into the soft June night. Here the garden lay silent,
slumbering, no hint of restless figure to disturb its peace. Some might
have believed themselves dreaming, illusioned, yet Brigid was very sure
of her wakefulness, her sanity. Her mind brought quick to bear on
possibilities she bethought her of the wicket gate beyond the lime
trees, which led to the tiny copse fringing at that part the parkland.
It would afford cover to one desirous of crossing the park unperceived
by any watcher from the castle.
Brigid entered the copse. Here it was nearly dark, the moon-rays
struggling fitfully through the thick-leaved branches overhead.
Hastening, yet warily, fearful of coming too close upon the pursued and
thereby discovering her pursuit, she made her way along the path, her
ears alert to catch the sound of snapped twig ahead. Fearing imprudence
she somewhat overdid her care, since, reaching the edge of the copse,
she saw the figure far across the parkland, vanishing up the distant
rise.
Brigid caught up her dress, sped forward hot-footed. Two thoughts were
in her mind as she ran; one, that had she been closer on the scent there
had been danger of the figure turning, and thereby detecting her in the
open space of park, the trees being set wide apart; the other, that,
should the pursued attain to the cross-roads up yonder before she once
more gained sight of her, the scent would be truly lost, pursuit
well-nigh hopeless, since of the end of this midnight roaming she had no
inkling. This latter thought in mind she called the saints to her aid,
and sped the faster. Though sound of wind and limb she was breathless as
she breasted the top of the rise, had perforce to pause a moment’s
space; then she was on again, this time along a road. Turning a bend of
it some hundred yards or so from the crossways, she saw the figure ahead
of her, and thereupon put up a fervent thanksgiving. Slacking speed on
the instant she crept cautiously along in the shadow of the hedge,
keeping to the rough grass close below it, fearful lest the sound of her
footfall should betray her pursuit.
At the cross-roads the figure turned to the left, Brigid following
warily enough. The pace now giving time for reflection other than of
mere pursuit, she fell to marvelling what this mad ramble portended. Had
she not observed the half-scared glance towards the Castle she might
have deemed Isabel sleep-walking, but having seen it this chance notion
was dismissed with no second thought. There was purpose in this journey,
and that a very definite one. But what purpose? Brigid cudgelled her
brains to no end. A less clean mind than hers might have seen some
dishonourable meeting ahead. Of such she had no thought. Frankly puzzled
she found no solution of the riddle. Of what aid she might be in the
matter afoot she thought not then any more than she had thought at the
outset. Possibly at first curiosity had pricked her to the pursuit,
though to my thinking it was chiefly some unconscious instinct of
protection.
Presently the road divided, leftwards descending in a gentle decline, to
the right branching in a rough track across the moorland. Isabel turned
to the right. Dodging in the shadow of gorse bushes Brigid followed her.
Verily must the matter on hand be of great moment. For no mere wild
goose chase could Isabel be pursuing this desolate path at night.
Dawning fatigue in a degree dulling interest Brigid began to experience
some slight tremor at the loneliness to which she had come. The moorland
stretched before her and on either hand, a vast undulating space broken
by gorse bushes, distantly fringed by woods lying like dark patches in
the moonlight. Once, far to the right, she caught a glimpse of moving
antlers, where a herd of deer roamed among the heather. Awe at the
silence and stillness clutched at her heart. Again she cried upon the
saints. If you will believe me, Brigid gave them scant rest that night.
Topping a rise Isabel began to descend. Here the descent was steep, fell
swiftly to a combe bottomed by a small copse. By the quickened pace of
her Brigid believed she saw her journey’s end in sight. Her own heart
beat faster; fatigue in part forgotten, interest stirred anew.
At the bottom of the combe she saw a light, steady in the shadow under
the hillside. Where there is a light there must needs be some creature
to kindle the light; this was Brigid’s judging. Yet who should dwell in
that lonely place? And why, greater matter for surmise, should Isabel
seek the dweller there? That she did seek him or her was very certain,
since unfaltering she made her way towards the light. It came, Brigid
now marked, from a mud hovel; the flame gleamed yellow through an
aperture in the wall.
Isabel went up to the door, knocked. Brigid crouched breathless in the
shadow of a bush. On the instant the flame was extinguished. The
aperture sank back into the darkness of the wall. Brigid caught the
murmur of Isabel’s voice speaking. The door was opened cautiously. In
the space she saw a woman’s figure, bent, the head thrust forward. The
moonlight falling on her face showed her of great age. The toothless
mouth trembled and mumbled; the bleary eyes peered upwards from deep
sockets; scant white locks fell across them. There came to her ear a
further low murmur of words. Next Isabel entered the hovel; the door was
shut.
Brigid sprang to her feet, the riddle well-nigh answered. Witchery of
some sort Isabel had come to seek, white or black, it mattered little.
White, it turned black in the fingering; black, it changed to very
filth. Here she read the meaning of the oppression which had fallen upon
her, which had held her wakeful.
“St. Brigid to her aid and mine,” she whispered, making for the window,
peering cautiously within. To make her presence known, to attempt
persuasion in the matter, would be worse than fruitless; that she well
knew. She had not served Isabel three years for nothing.
Her chin level with the window ledge, her eyes sought the interior of
the hovel. In the dim glow of a peat fire she saw the room; a bare place
enough, mud-floored, full of cobwebs and the thick scent of peat smoke.
This scent and others more unwholesome caused a very vile odour. In one
corner was a heap of heather and dried skins; across another, suspended
by a frayed rope, hung a tattered curtain. A table, a bench, a chair on
which sat Isabel, a stool for the hag, made up the furniture of the
place.
The two were sitting by the hearth; Isabel upright, distaste very much
in her bearing; the hag crouching towards the fire, holding claw-like
hands to the warmth, muttering the while. Presently the muttering gave
place to words.
“Greed, greed,” came the mumbled speech. “Thou hast much; what more dost
thou desire?”
“That which eludes me.” The sound of the even, familiar voice in the
vile-smelling place caused Brigid’s heart to beat anew.
Balda the Witch laughed, a very mirthless sound, harsh as the scraping
of iron on flint.
“Wait, then,” she mumbled, straightening herself on the stool.
In the horrid silence Brigid stared towards the motionless figures,
breath suspended. Her will beating back the horror that was creeping
over her, she assured herself that this was foolishness in the guise of
evil; yet the assurance brought her no vast solace. Further she told
herself, being sane and healthy of mind, that it was the excitement of
the midnight journey, the silence around her, which had wrought her
nerves to a pitch of imagination, caused her to fancy darkness other
than mere shadow lurking in the corners. Yet, for all that, she found
herself whispering, “_Scuto circumdabit te veritas ejus: non timebis a
timore nocturno_.”
For a space the silence endured, how long she knew not, having ceased to
be aware of the passing moments. Then on a sudden came a sibilant
murmur, seemingly from so great a distance that it was with fresh horror
she realized it issued from one of the motionless figures by the hearth.
“That which thou dost desire is above thee. Yet must thou stoop to
obtain it. Thus, and thus only canst thou grasp it, to wrest it from the
Power where it lies.” The voice stopped. A moment’s silence followed on
the words. Then once more came the voice, rising like a cry forced from
an unwilling throat. “Yet who, with impunity, shall war with God? I,
even I, Balda the Witch, say to thee, Beware.”
Once more the silence fell. Brigid clutched the window ledge with
shaking hands.
“This is all foolishness to the verge of madness,” she whispered. A
certain loyalty to Isabel, and, I fancy, terror lest the mere mention of
her dread should draw it nearer, constrained her use of a harsher
phrase.
Balda’s figure relaxed from its rigid pose. Bending once more towards
the fire she fell again to mumbling.
“Art frighted?” She stretched out one skinny claw, laid it on Isabel’s
wrist. “Good; I feel no tremor. Pride and desire should carry thee far
along the road I have traversed. The hand is moist and cool. There is no
fear here such as kneels quaking at the window.” On the words she
turned, pointing a palsied finger. Her red-rimmed eyes, deep in their
sockets, looked straight at Brigid.
Had Brigid but known how nigh on empty of sight were those bleared
terrible eyes, she had ducked below the window on the instant, made for
the copse, and so escaped. Knowing it not, and seeing full accusation
and discovery in the pointing finger, she knelt on, startled, turned to
stone by the swiftness of the happening.
A moment at a loss for Balda’s meaning Isabel still gazed at the fire,
then realizing, she turned, saw the white wide-eyed face at the window.
“Brigid!” she cried, her voice on a harsh note of anger.
Isabel went straight to the door. Without she confronted Brigid risen
from her knees. The two faced each other in the moonlight.
“Spy,” said Isabel; that and no more.
Brigid, chin raised, uttered no word. She looked very straight at
Isabel, who cared not to meet her eyes. There was certainly no shame in
them.
Balda the Witch peered from the doorway. Well-nigh devoid of sight she
scented the mental atmosphere, found that in the one woman ill-suited to
her liking. Momentarily her spirit cowered. Muttering an oath she
withdrew, slammed the door.
“Shall we return?” said Isabel silkily.
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