THE BLOSSHOLME WITCHINGS
On the afternoon of that day the Abbot came again to visit the Nunnery,
and sent for Cicely and Emlyn. They found him alone in the guest-hall,
walking up and down its length with a troubled face.
“Cicely Foterell,” he said, without any form of greeting, “when last
we met you refused to sign the deed which I brought with me. Well, it
matters nothing, for that purchaser has gone back upon his bargain.”
“Saying that he liked not the title?” suggested Cicely.
“Aye; though who taught you of titles and the ins and outs of law? But
what need to ask----?” and he glowered at Emlyn. “Well, let it pass, for
now I have a paper with me that you _must_ sign. Read it if you will. It
is harmless--only an instruction to the tenants of the lands your
father held to pay their rents to me this Michaelmas, as warden of that
property.”
“Do they refuse, then, seeing that you hold it all, my Lord Abbot?”
“Aye, some one has been at work among them, and the stubborn churls will
not without instruction under your hand and seal. The farms your father
worked himself I have reaped, but last night every grain of corn and
every fleece of wool were burned in the fire.”
“Then I pray you keep account of them, my Lord, that you may pay me
their value when we come to settle our score, seeing that I never gave
you leave to shear my sheep and harvest my corn.”
“You are pleased to be saucy, girl,” he replied, biting his lip. “I have
no time to bandy words--sign, and do you witness, Emlyn Stower.”
Cicely took the document, glanced at it, then slowly tore it into four
pieces and threw it to the floor.
“Rob me and my unborn child if you can and will, at least I’ll be no
thief’s partner,” she said quietly. “Now, if you want my name, go forge
it, for I sign nothing.”
The Abbot’s face grew very evil.
“Do you remember, woman,” he asked, “that here you are in my power? Do
you not know that rebellious sinners such as you are can be shut in a
dark dungeon and fed on the bread and water of affliction and beaten
with the rods of penance? Will you do my bidding, or shall these things
fall on you?”
Cicely’s beautiful face flushed up, and for a moment her blue eyes
filled with the tears of shame and terror. Then they cleared again, and
she looked at him boldly and answered--
“I know that a murderer can be a torturer also. Why should not he who
butchered the father scourge the daughter too? But I know also that
there is a God who protects the innocent, though sometimes He is slow
to lift His hand, and to Him I appeal, my Lord Abbot. I know, moreover,
that I am Foterell and Carfax, and that no man or woman of my blood has
ever yet yielded to fear or pain. I sign nothing,” and, turning, she
left the room.
Now the Abbot and Emlyn were alone. Suddenly, before she could speak,
for her tongue was tied with rage, he began to rate and curse her and
to threaten horrible things against her and her mistress, such things as
only a cruel Spaniard could imagine. At length he paused for breath, and
she broke in--
“Peace, wicked man, lest the roof fall on you, for I am sure that every
cruel word you speak shall become a snake to strike you. Will you not
take warning by what befell you last night, or must there be more such
lessons?”
“Oho!” he answered; “so you know of that, do you? As I thought, your
witchcraft was at work there.”
“How can I help knowing what the whole sky blazoned? The fat monks of
Blossholme must draw their girdles tight this winter. Those stolen lands
bring no luck, it seems, and John Foterell’s blood has turned to fire.
Be warned, I say, be warned. Nay, I’ll hear no more of your foul tongue.
Lay a finger on that poor lady if you dare, and pay the price,” and she
too turned and went.
Ere he left the Nunnery the Abbot had an interview with Mother Matilda.
Cicely must be disciplined, he said; gently at first, afterwards with
roughness, even to scourging, if need were--for her soul’s sake. Also
her servant Emlyn must be kept away from her--for her soul’s sake, since
without doubt she was a dangerous witch. Also, when the time of the
birth of the child came on, he would send a wise woman to wait upon her,
one who was accustomed to such cases--for her body’s sake and that of
her child. In the midst of the great trouble that had fallen upon them
through the terrible fire at the Abbey, which had cost them such fearful
loss, to say nothing of the lives of two of the servants and others
burned and maimed, he had not much time to talk of such small things;
but did she understand?
Then it was that Mother Matilda, the meek and gentle, brought pain and
astonishment to the heart of the Lord Abbot, her spiritual superior.
She did not understand in the least. Such discipline as he suggested,
whatever might be her faults and frailty, was, she declared with vigour,
entirely unsuited to the case of the Lady Cicely, who, in her opinion,
had suffered much for a small cause, and who, moreover, was about to
become a mother, and therefore should be treated with every gentleness.
For her part, she washed her hands of the whole business, and rather
than enforce such commands would lay the case before the Vicar-General
in London, who, she understood, was ready to look into such matters.
Or at least she would set the Lady Harflete and her servant outside the
gates and call upon the charitable to assist them. Of course, however,
if his Lordship chose to send a skilled woman to wait upon her in her
trouble, she could have no objection, provided that this woman were a
person of good repute. But in the circumstances it was idle to talk to
her of bread and water and dark cells and scourgings. Such things
should never happen while she was Prioress. Before they did, she and
her sisters would walk out of the Nunnery and leave the King’s Courts to
judge of the matter.
Now the state of the Abbot was very like to that of a terrier dog which,
being accustomed to worry and torment a certain ewe-sheep, comes upon
the same after it has lambed and finds a new creature--one that, instead
of running in affright, turns upon it and, with head and hood and all
its weight of mutton, butts, and leaps, and tramples. Then what chance
has that dog against the terrible and unsuspected fury of the sheep,
born, as it thought, for it to tear? Then what can it do but run,
panting and discomfited, to its kennel? So it was with the Abbot at the
onslaught of Mother Matilda in the defence of her lamb--Cicely. With
Emlyn he had been prepared to exchange bite for bite--but Mother
Matilda! his own pet quarry. It was too much. He could only go away,
cursing all women and their infinite variety, on which no man might
build. Who would have thought it of Mother Matilda, of all people on the
earth!
So it came to pass that at the Nunnery, notwithstanding these terrible
threats, things went on much as they had done before, since the times
were such that even an all-powerful and remote Lord Abbot, with “right
of gallows,” could not drive matters to an extremity. Cicely was not
shut into the dungeon and fed on bread and water, much less was she
scourged. Nor was she separated from her nurse Emlyn, although it is
true that the Prioress reproved her for her resistance to established
authority, and when she had finished her lecture, kissed and blessed
her, and called her “her sweet child, her dove and joy.”
But if there was sameness at the Nunnery, at the Abbey there was
constant change and excitement. Only three days after the fire the great
flock of eight hundred lambs rushed one night over the Red Cliff on the
fell, where, as all shepherds in that country know, there is a sheer
drop of forty feet. Never was lamb’s flesh so cheap in Blossholme and
the country round as on the morrow of that night, while every hind
within ten miles could have a winter coat for the skinning. Moreover,
it was said and sworn to by the shepherds that the devil himself, with
horns and hoofs, and mounted on a jackass, had been seen driving the
same lambs.
Next the ghost of Sir John Foterell appeared, clad in armour, sometimes
mounted and sometimes afoot, but always at night-time. First this
dreadful spirit was perceived walking in the gardens of Shefton Hall,
where it met the Abbot’s caretaker--for the place was now shut up--as he
went to set a springe for hares. He was a man advanced in years, yet few
horses ever covered the distance between Shefton and Blossholme Abbey
more quickly than he did that night.
Nor would he or any other return to his charge, so that henceforth
Shefton was left as a dwelling for the ghost, which, as all might see
from time to time, shone in the window-places like a candle. Moreover,
the said ghost travelled far and wide, for on dark, windy nights it
knocked upon the doors of those that in its lifetime had been its
tenants, and in a hollow voice declared that it had been murdered by
the Abbot of Blossholme and his underlings, who held its daughter in
durance, and, under threats of unearthly vengeance, commanded all men to
bring him to justice, and to pay him neither fees nor homage.
So much terror did this ghost cause that Thomas Bolle, the swift of
foot, was set to watch for it, and returned announcing that he had seen
it and that it called him by his name, whereon he, being a bold fellow
and believing that it was but a man, sent an arrow straight through it,
at which it laughed and forthwith vanished away. More; in proof of these
things he led the Abbot and his monks to the very place, and showed them
where he had stood and where the ghost stood--yes, and the arrow, of
which all the feathers had been mysteriously burnt off and the wood
seared as though by fire, sunk deep into a tree beyond. Then, as
this thing had become a scandal and a dread, the Abbot, in his robes,
solemnly laid the ghost, Thomas Bolle showing him exactly where it had
passed.
This spirit being well and truly laid (like a foundation-stone), the
Abbot and his monks returned homeward through the wood, but as they went
a dreadful voice, which all recognized as that of Sir John Foterell,
called these words from the shadows of an impenetrable thicket--for now
the night was falling--
“Clement Maldonado, Abbot of Blossholme, I, whom thou didst murder,
summon thee to meet me within a year before the throne of God.”
Thereon all fled; yes, even the Abbot fled, or rather, as he said, his
horse did, Thomas Bolle, who had lagged behind, outrunning them every
one and getting home the first, saying _Aves_ as he went.
After this, although the whole countryside hunted for it, Sir John’s
ghost was seen no more. Doubtless its work was done; but the Abbot
explained matters differently. Other and worse things were seen,
however.
One moonlight night a disturbance was heard among the cows, that
bellowed and rushed about the field into which they had been turned
after milking. Thinking that dogs had got amongst them, the herd and
a watchman--for now no man would stir alone after sunset at
Blossholme--went to see what was happening, and presently fell down half
dead with fright. For there, leaning over the gate and laughing at them,
was the foul fiend himself--the fiend with horns and tail, and in his
hand an instrument like a pitchfork.
How the pair got home again, they never knew, but this is certain, that
after that night no one could milk those cows; moreover, some of them
slipped their calves, and became so wild that they must be slaughtered.
Next came rumours that even the Nunnery itself was haunted, especially
the chapel. Here voices were heard talking, and Emlyn Stower, who was
praying there, came out vowing that she had seen a ball of fire which
rolled up and down the aisle, and in the centre of it a man’s head, that
seemed to try to talk to her, but could not.
Into this matter inquiry was held by the Abbot himself, who asked Emlyn
if she knew the face that was in the ball of fire. She answered that she
thought so. It seemed very like to one of his own guards, named Andrew
Woods, or more commonly Drunken Andrew, a Scotchman whom Sir Christopher
Harflete was said to have killed on the night of the great burning. At
least his Lordship would remember that this Andrew had a broken nose,
and so had the head in the fire, but, as it appeared to have changed a
great deal since death, she could not be quite certain. All she was sure
of was that it seemed to be trying to give her some message.
Now, recalling the trick that had been played with the said Andrew’s
body, the Abbot was silent. Only he asked shrewdly, if Emlyn had seen so
terrible a thing there, how it came about that she was not afraid to
be alone in the chapel, which he was informed she frequented much. She
answered, with a laugh, that it was men she dreaded, not spirits, good
or ill.
“No,” he exclaimed, with a burst of rage, “you do not dread them, woman,
because you are a witch, and summon them; nor shall we be free from
these wizardries until the fire has you and your company.”
“If so,” replied Emlyn coolly, “I will ask dead Andrew for his message
to you next time we meet, unless he chooses to deliver it to you
himself.”
So they parted, but that very night there happened the worst thing of
all. It was about one in the morning when the Abbot, whose window was
set open, was wakened by a voice that spoke with a Scotch accent and
repeatedly called him by his name, summoning him to look out and see.
He and others rose and looked, but could see nothing, for the night was
very dark and rain fell. When the dawn came, however, their search
was rewarded, for there, set upon a pinnacle of the Abbey church, and
staring straight into the window of his Lordship’s sleeping-room, from
which it was but a few yards distant, was the dreadful head of Andrew
Woods!
Furiously the Abbot asked who had done this horrible thing, but the
monks, who were sure that it was the same being that had bewitched the
cows, only shrugged their shoulders, and suggested that the grave of
Andrew should be opened to see if he had lost his head. This was done at
length, although, for his own reasons, the Abbot forbade it, talking of
the violation of the dead.
Well, the grave was opened when Maldon was away on one of his mysterious
journeys, and lo! no Andrew was there, but only a beam of oakwood
stuffed out with straw to the shape of a man and sewn up in a blanket.
For the real Andrew, or rather what was left of him, lay, it may be
remembered, in another grave that was supposed to be filled by Sir
Christopher Harflete.
From this day forward the whole countryside for fifty miles round rang
with the tales of what were known as the Blossholme witchings, of which
a proof was still to be seen by all men in the withered head of Andrew
perched upon its pinnacle, whence none could be found to remove it
for love or money. Only it was noted that the Abbot changed his
sleeping-chamber, after which, except for a sickness which struck the
monks--it was thought from the drinking of sour beer--these bedevilments
were abated.
Indeed, at that time men had other things to think of, since the air was
thick with rumours of impending change. The King threatened the Church,
and the Church prepared to resist the King. There was talk of the
suppression of the monasteries--some, in fact, had already been
suppressed--and more talk of a rising of the faithful in the shires of
York and Lincoln; high matters which called Abbot Maldon much away from
home.
One day he returned weary, but satisfied, from a long journey, and
amongst the news that awaited him found a message from the Prioress,
over which he pondered while he ate his food. Also there was a letter
from Spain, which he studied eagerly.
Some nine months had passed since the ship _Great Yarmouth_ sailed, and
during this time all that had been heard of her was that she had never
reached Seville, so that, like every one else, the Abbot believed she
had foundered in the deep seas. This was a sad event which he had
borne with resignation, seeing that, although it meant the loss of his
letters, which were of importance, she had aboard of her several persons
whom he wished to see no more, especially Sir Christopher Harflete and
Sir John Foterell’s serving-man, Jeffrey Stokes, who was said to
carry with him certain inconvenient documents. Even his secretary
and chaplain, Brother Martin, could be spared, being, Maldon felt, a
character better suited to heaven than to an earth where the best of men
must be prepared sometimes to compromise with conscience.
In short, the vanishing of the _Great Yarmouth_ was the wise decree of
a far-seeing Providence, that had removed certain stumbling-blocks
from his feet, which of late had been forced to travel over a rough and
thorny road. For the dead tell no tales, although it was true that the
ghost of Sir John Foterell and the grinning head of Drunken Andrew
on his pinnacle seemed to be instances to the contrary. Christopher
Harflete and Jeffrey Stokes at the bottom of the Bay of Biscay could
bring no awkward charges, and left him none to deal with save an
imprisoned and forgotten girl and an unborn child.
Now things were changed again, however, for the Spanish letter in his
hand told him that the _Great Yarmouth_ had not sunk, since two members
of her crew who escaped--how, it was not said--declared that she had
been captured by Turkish or other infidel pirates and taken away through
the Straits of Gibraltar to some place unknown. Therefore, if he had
survived the voyage, Christopher Harflete might still be living, and so
might Jeffrey Stokes and Brother Martin. Yet this was not likely,
for probably they would have perished in the fight, being hot-headed
Englishmen, all three of them, or at the best have been committed to the
Turkish galleys, whence not one man in a thousand ever returned.
On the whole, then, he had little cause to fear them, who were dead,
or as good as dead, especially in the midst of so many more pressing
dangers. All he had to fear, all that stood between him, or rather the
Church, and a very rich inheritance was the girl in the Nunnery and an
unborn child, and--yes, Emlyn Stower. Well, he was sure that the child
would not live, and probably the mother would not live. As for Emlyn, as
she deserved, she would be burned for a witch, ere long too, now that
he had time to see to it, and, if she survived her sickness, although he
grieved for her, Cicely, her accomplice, should justly accompany her to
the stake. Meanwhile, as Mother Matilda’s message told him, this matter
of the child was urgent.
The Abbot called a monk who was waiting on him and bade him send word
to a woman known as Goody Megges, bidding her come at once. Within ten
minutes she entered, having, as she explained, been warned to be close
at hand.
This Goody Megges, who had some local repute as a “wise woman,” was a
person of about fifty years of age, remarkable for her enormous size, a
flat face with small oblong eyes and a little, twisted mouth, which had
caused her to be nicknamed “the Flounder.” She greeted the Abbot with
much reverence, curtseying till he thought she would fall backwards, and
having received his fatherly blessing, sank into a chair, that seemed to
vanish beneath her bulk.
“You will wonder why I summon you here, friend, since this is no place
for the services of those of your trade,” began the Abbot, with a smile.
“Oh, no, my Lord,” answered the woman; “I’ve heard it is to wait upon
Sir Christopher Harflete’s wife in her trouble.”
“I wish that I could call her by the honoured name of wife,” said the
Abbot, with a sigh. “But a mock-marriage does not make a wife, Mistress
Megges, and, alas! the poor babe, if ever it should be born, will be but
a bastard, marked from its birth with the brand of shame.”
Now, the Flounder, who was no fool, began to take her cue.
“It is sad, very sad, your Holiness--no, that’s wrong; but never mind,
it will be right before all’s done, and a good omen, I say, coming so
sudden and chancy--your Lordship, I mean--not but what there’s lots
of the sort about here, as is generally the case round a--I mean
everywhere. Moreover, they generally grow up bad and ungrateful, as I
know well from my own three--not but what, of course, I was married
fast enough. Well, what I was going to say was, that when things is so,
sometimes it is a true blessing if the little innocents should go off at
the first, and so be spared the finger of shame and the sniff of scorn,”
and she paused.
“Yes, Mistress Megges, or at least in such a case it is not for us to
rail at the decree of Heaven--provided, of course, that the infant has
lived long enough to be baptized,” he added hastily.
“No, your Eminence, no. That’s just what I said to that Smith girl last
spring, when, being a heavy sleeper, I happened to overlie her brat and
woke up to find it flat and blue. When she saw it she took on, bellowing
like a heifer that has lost its first calf, and I said to her, ‘Mary,
this isn’t me; it’s Heaven. Mary, you should be very thankful, since my
burden has rid you of your burden, and you can bury such a tiny one for
next to nothing. Mary, cry a little if you like, for that’s natural with
the first, but don’t come here flying in the face of Heaven with your
railings, and gates, and posts--especially the rails, for Heaven hates
‘em.’”
“Ah!” asked the Abbot, with mild interest, “and pray what did Mary do
then?”
“Do, the graceless wench? Why, she said, ‘Is it rails you’re talking of,
you pig-smothering old sow? Then here’s a rail for you,’ and she pulled
the top bar off my own fence--for we were talking by the door--oak it
was, and three by two--and knocked me flat--here’s the scar of it on my
head--singing out, ‘Is that enough, or will you have the gate and the
posts too?’ Oh! If there’s one thing I hate, it is railing, ‘specially
if made of hard oak and held edgeways.”
So the wicked old hag babbled on, after her hideous fashion, while the
Abbot stared at the ceiling.
“Enough of these sad stories of vice and violence. Such mischances will
happen, and of course you were not to blame. Now, good Mistress Megges,
will you undertake this case, which cannot be left to ignorant nuns?
Though times are hard here, since of late many losses have fallen on our
house, your skill shall be well paid.”
The woman shuffled her big feet and stared at the floor, then looked up
suddenly with a glance that seemed to bore to his heart like a bradawl,
and asked--
“And if perchance the blessed babe should fly to heaven through my
fingers, as in my time I have known dozens of them do, should I still
get that pay?”
“Then,” the Abbot answered, with a smile--a somewhat sickly smile--“then
I think, mistress, you should have double pay, to console you for your
sorrow and for any doubts that might be thrown upon your skill.”
“Now that’s noble trading,” she replied, with an evil leer, “such as
one might hope for from an Abbot. But, my Lord, they say the Nunnery is
haunted, and I can’t face ghosts. Man or woman, with rails or without
‘em, Mother Flounder doesn’t mind, but ghosts--no! Also Mistress Stower
is a witch, and might lay a curse on me; and those nuns are full of
crinks and cranks, and can pray an honest soul to death.”
“Come, come, my time is short. What is it you want, woman? Out with it.”
“The inn there at the ford--your Lordship, will need a tenant next
month. It’s a good paying house for those who know how to keep their
mouths shut and to look the other way, and through vile scandal and evil
slanderers, such as the Smith girl, my business isn’t what it was. Now
if I could have it without rent for the first two years, till I had time
to work up the trade----”
The Abbot, who could bear no more of the creature, rose from his chair
and said sharply--
“I will remember. Yes, I will promise. Go now; the reverend Mother
is advised of your coming. And report to me night and morning of the
progress of the case. Why, woman, what are you doing?” for she had
suddenly slid to her knees and grasped his robes with her thick, filthy
hands.
“Absolution, holy Lordship; I ask absolution and blessing--_pax
Meggiscum_, and the rest of it.”
“Absolution? There is nothing to absolve.”
“Oh! yes, my Lord, there is plenty, though I am wondering who will
absolve _you_ for your half. Also there are rows of little angels that
sometimes won’t let me sleep, and that’s why I can’t stomach ghosts. I’d
rather sup in winter on cold small ale and half-cooked pork than face
even a still-born ghost.”
“Begone!” said the Abbot, in such a voice that she scrambled to her feet
and went, unblessed and unabsolved.
When the door had closed behind her he went to the window and flung it
wide, although the night was foul.
“By all the saints!” he muttered, “that beastly murderess poisons the
air. Why, I wonder, does God allow such filthy things to live? Cannot
she ply her hell-trade less grossly? Oh! Clement Maldonado, how low are
you sunk that you must use tools like these, and on such a business. And
yet there is no other way. Not for myself, but for the Church, O Lord!
The great plot thickens, and all men clamour to me, its head and spring,
for money. Give me money, and within six months Yorkshire and the North
will be up, and within a year Henry the Anti-Christ will be dead and
the Princess Mary fast upon the throne, with the Emperor and the Pope
for watchdogs. That stiff-necked Cicely must die and her babe must die,
and then I’ll twist the secret of the jewels out of the witch, Emlyn--on
the rack, if need be. Those jewels--I’ve seen them so often; why, they
would feed an army; but while Cicely or her brat lives where is my claim
to them? So, alas! they must die, but oh! the hag is right. Who shall
give me absolution for a deed I hate? Not for me, not for me, O my
Patron, but for the Church!” and flinging himself to the floor before
the holy image of his chosen Saint, he rested his head upon its feet and
wept.