MOTHER MEGGES AND THE GHOST
Flounder Megges, with all the paraphernalia of her trade, was
established as nurse to Cicely at the Nunnery. This establishment, it is
true, had not been easy since Emlyn, who knew something of the woman’s
repute, and suspected more, resisted it with all her strength, but here
the Prioress intervened in her gentle way. She herself, she explained,
did not like this person, who looked so odd, drank so much beer and
talked so fast. Yet she had made inquiries and found that she was
extraordinarily skilled in matters of that nature. Indeed, it was said
that she had succeeded in cases that were wonderfully difficult which
the leech had abandoned as hopeless, though of course there had been
other cases where she had not succeeded. But these, she was informed,
were generally those of poor people who did not pay her well. Now in
this instance her pay would be ample, for she, Mother Matilda, had
promised her a splendid fee out of her private store, and for the rest,
since no man doctor might enter there, who else was competent? Not she
or the other nuns, for none of them had been married save old Bridget,
who was silly and had long ago forgotten all such things. Not Emlyn
even, who was but a girl when her own child was born, and since then had
been otherwise employed. Therefore there was no choice.
To this reasoning Emlyn agreed perforce, though she mistrusted her of
the fat wretch, whose appearance poor Cicely also disliked. Still, for
very fear Emlyn was humble and civil to her, for if she were not,
who could know if she would put out all her skill upon behalf of her
mistress? Therefore she did her bidding like a slave, and spiced her
beer and made her bed and even listened to her foul jests and talk
unmurmuringly.
The business was over at length, and the child, a noble boy, born into
the world. Had not the Flounder produced it in triumph laid upon a
little basket covered with a lamb-skin, and had not Emlyn and Mother
Matilda and all the nuns kissed and blessed it? Had it not also, for
fear of accident (such was the fatherly forethought of the Abbot), been
baptized at once by a priest who was waiting, under the names of John
Christopher Foterell, John after its grandfather and Christopher after
its father, with Foterell for a surname, since the Abbot would not allow
that it should be called Harflete, being, as he averred, base-born?
So this child was born, and Mother Megges swore that of all the two
hundred and three that she had issued into the world it was the finest,
nine and a half pounds in weight at the very least. Also, as its voice
and movements testified, it was lusty and like to live, for did not the
Flounder, in sight of all the wondering nuns, hold it up hanging by its
hands to her two fat forefingers, and afterwards drink a whole quart of
spiced ale to its health and long life?
But if the babe was like to live, Cicely was like to die. Indeed, she
was very, very ill, and perhaps would have passed away had it not been
for a device of Emlyn’s. For when she was at her worst and the Flounder,
shaking her head and saying that she could do no more, had departed to
her eternal ale and a nap, Emlyn crept up and took her mistress’s cold
hand.
“Darling,” she said, “hear me,” but Cicely did not stir. “Darling,” she
repeated, “hear me, I have news for you of your husband.”
Cicely’s white face turned a little on the pillow and her blue eyes
opened.
“Of my husband?” she whispered. “Why, he is gone, as I soon shall be.
What news of him?”
“That he is not gone, that he lives, or so I believe, though heretofore
I have hid it from you.”
The head was lifted for a moment, and the eyes stared at her with
wondering joy.
“Do you trick me, Nurse? Nay, you would never do that. Give me the milk,
I want it now. I’ll listen. I promise you I’ll not die till you have
told me. If Christopher lives why should I die who only hoped to find
him?”
So Emlyn whispered all she knew. It was not much, only that Christopher
had not been buried in the grave where he was said to be buried, and
that he had been taken wounded aboard the ship _Great Yarmouth_, of the
fate of which ship fortunately she had heard nothing. Still, slight as
they might be, to Cicely these tidings were a magic medicine, for did
they not mean the rebirth of hope, hope that for nine long months had
been dead and buried with Christopher? From that moment she began to
mend.
When the Flounder, having slept off her drink, returned to the sick-bed,
she stared at her amazed and muttered something about witchcraft, she
who had been sure that she would die, as in those days so many women did
who fell into hands like hers. Indeed, she was bitterly disappointed,
knowing that this death was desired by her employer, who now after all
might let the Ford Inn to another. Moreover, the child was no waster,
but one who was set for life. Well, that at least she could mend, and if
it were done quickly the shock might kill the mother. Yet the thing
was not so easy as it looked, for there were many loving eyes upon that
babe.
When she wished to take it to her bed at night Emlyn forbade her
fiercely, and on being appealed to, the Prioress, who knew the
creature’s drunken habits and had heard rumours of the fate of the Smith
infant and others, gave orders that it was not to be. So, since the
mother was too weak to have it with her, the boy was laid in a little
cot at her side. And always day and night one or more of the sweet-faced
nuns stood at the head of that cot watching as might a guardian angel.
Also it took only Nature’s food since from the first Cicely would nurse
it, so that she could not mix any drug with its milk that would cause it
to sleep itself away.
So the days went on, bringing black wrath, despair almost, to the heart
of Mother Megges, till at length there came the chance she sought. One
fine evening, when the nuns were gathered at vespers, but as it happened
not in the chapel, because since the tale of the hauntings they shunned
the place after high noon, Cicely, whose strength was returning to her,
asked Emlyn to change her garments and remake her bed. Meanwhile, the
babe was given to Sister Bridget, who doted on it, with instructions to
take it to walk in the garden for a time, since the rain had passed off
and the afternoon was now very soft and pleasant. So she went, and there
presently was met by the Flounder, who was supposed to be asleep, but
had followed her, a person of whom the half-witted Bridget was much
afraid.
“What are you doing with my babe, old fool?” she screeched at her,
thrusting her fat face to within an inch of the nun’s. “You’ll let it
fall and I shall be blamed. Give me the angel or I will twist your nose
for you. Give it me, I say, and get you gone.”
In her fear and flurry old Bridget obeyed and departed at a run. Then,
recovering herself a little, or drawn by some instinct, she returned,
hid herself in a clump of lilac bushes and watched.
Presently she saw the Flounder, after glancing about to make sure that
she was alone, enter the chapel, carrying the child, and heard her
bolt the door after her. Now Bridget, as she said afterwards, grew very
frightened, she knew not why, and, acting on impulse, ran to the chancel
window and, climbing on to a wheelbarrow that stood there, looked
through it. This is what she saw.
Mother Megges was kneeling in the chancel, as she thought at first,
to say her prayers, till she perceived, for a ray from the setting sun
showed it all, that on the paving before her lay the infant and that
this she-devil was thrusting her thick forefinger down its throat, for
already it grew black in the face, and as she thrust muttering savagely.
So horror-struck was Bridget that she could neither move nor cry.
Then, while she stood petrified, suddenly there appeared the figure of
a man in rusty armour. The Flounder looked up, saw him and, withdrawing
her finger from the mouth of the child, let out yell after yell. The
man, who said nothing, drew a sword and lifted it, whereon the murderess
screamed--
“The ghost! The ghost! Spare me, Sir John, I am poor and he paid me.
Spare me for Christ’s sake!” and so saying, she rolled on to the floor
in a fit, and there turned and twisted until she lay still.
Then the man, or the ghost of a man, having looked at her, sheathed
his sword and lifting up the babe, which now drew its breath again and
cried, marched with it down the aisle. The next thing of which Bridget
became aware was that he stood before her, the infant in his arms,
holding it out to her. His face she could not see, for the vizor was
down, but he spoke in a hollow voice, saying--
“This gift from Heaven to the Lady Harflete. Bid her fear nothing, for
one devil I have garnered and the others are ripe for reaping.”
Bridget took the child and sank down on to the ground, and at that
moment the nuns, alarmed by the awful yells, rushed through the side
door, headed by Mother Matilda. They too saw the figure, and knew the
Foterell cognizance upon its helm and shield. But it waited not to speak
to them, only passed behind some trees and vanished.
Their first care was for the infant, which they thought the man was
stealing; then, after they were sure that it had taken no real hurt,
they questioned old Bridget, but could get nothing from her, for all she
did was to gibber and point first to the barrow and next to the chancel
window. At length Mother Matilda understood and, climbing on to the
barrow, looked through the window as Bridget had done. She looked, she
saw, and fell back fainting.
An hour had gone by. The child, unhurt save for a little bruising of
its tender mouth, was asleep upon its mother’s breast. Bridget, having
recovered, at length had told all her tale to every one of them save
Cicely, who as yet knew nothing, for she and Emlyn did not hear the
screams, their rooms being on the other side of the building. The Abbot
had been sent for, and, accompanied by monks, arrived in the midst of
a thunder-storm and pouring rain. He, too, had heard the tale, heard it
with a pale face while his monks crossed themselves. At length he asked
of the woman Megges. They replied that living or dead she was, as they
supposed, still in the chapel, which none of them had dared to enter.
“Come, let us see,” said the Abbot, and they went there to find the door
locked as Bridget had said.
Smiths were sent for and broke it in while all stood in the pouring
rain and watched. It was open at last, and they entered with torches
and tapers, for now the darkness was dense, the Abbot leading them. They
came to the chancel, where something lay upon the floor, and held down
the torches to look. Then they saw that which caused them all to turn
and fly, calling on the saints to protect them. In her life Mother
Megges had not been lovely, but in the death that had overtaken her----!
It was morning. The Lord Abbot and his monks were assembled in the
guest-chamber, and opposite to them were the Lady Prioress and her nuns,
and with them Emlyn.
“Witchcraft!” shouted the Abbot, smiting his fist upon the table, “black
witchcraft! Satan himself and his foulest demons walk the countryside
and have their home in this Nunnery. Last night they manifested
themselves----”
“By saving a babe from a cruel death and bringing a hateful murderess to
doom,” broke in Emlyn.
“Silence, Sorceress,” shouted the Abbot. “Get thee behind me, Satan. I
know you and your familiars,” and he glared at the Prioress.
“What may you mean, my Lord Abbot?” asked Mother Matilda, bridling up.
“My sisters and I do not understand. Emlyn Stower is right. Do you
call that witchcraft which works so good an end? The ghost of Sir John
Foterell appeared here--we admit it who saw that ghost. But what did
the spirit do? It slew the hellish woman whom you sent among us and it
rescued the blessed babe when her finger was down its throat to choke
out its pure life. If that be witchcraft I stand by it. Tell us what did
the wretch mean when she cried out to the spirit to spare her because
she was poor and had been bribed for her iniquity? Who bribed her, my
Lord Abbot? None in this house, I’ll swear. And who changed Sir John
Foterell from flesh to spirit? Why is he a ghost to-day?”
“Am I here to answer riddles, woman, and who are you that you dare put
such questions to me? I depose you, I set your house under ban. The
judgment of the Church shall be pronounced against you all. Dare not to
leave your doors until the Court is composed to try you. Think not you
shall escape. Your English land is sick and heresy stalks abroad; but,”
he added slowly, “fire can still bite and there is store of faggots in
the woods. Prepare your souls for judgment. Now I go.”
“Do as it pleases you,” answered the enraged Mother Matilda. “When you
set out your case we will answer it; but, meanwhile, we pray that you
take what is left of your dead hireling with you, for we find her ill
company and here she shall have no burial. My Lord Abbot, the charter of
this Nunnery is from the monarch of England, whatever authority you and
those that went before you have usurped. It was granted by the first
Edward, and the appointment of every prioress since his day has been
signed by the sovereign and no other. I hold mine under the manual of
the eighth Henry. You cannot depose me, for I appeal from the Abbot to
the King. Fare you well, my Lord,” and, followed by her little train of
aged nuns, she swept from the room like an offended queen.
After the terrible death of the child-murderess and the restoration of
her babe to her unharmed, Cicely’s recovery was swift. Within a week
she was up and walking, and within ten days as strong, or stronger, than
ever she had been. Nothing more had been heard of the Abbot, and though
all knew that danger threatened them from this quarter they were content
to enjoy the present hour of peace and wait till it was at hand.
But in Cicely’s awakened mind there arose a keen desire to learn more
of what her nurse had hinted to her when she lay upon the very edge of
death. Day by day she plied Emlyn with questions till at length she
knew all; namely, that the tidings came from Thomas Bolle, and that he,
dressed in her father’s armour, was the ghost who had saved her boy from
death. Now nothing would serve her but that she must see Thomas herself,
as she said, to thank him, though truly, as Emlyn knew well, to draw
from his own lips every detail and circumstance that she could gather
concerning Christopher.
For a while Emlyn held out against her, for she knew the dangers of such
a meeting; but in the end, being able to refuse her lady nothing, she
gave way.
At length at the appointed hour of sunset Emlyn and Cicely stood in
the chapel, whither the latter told the nuns she wished to go to return
thanks for her deliverance from many dangers. They knelt before the
altar, and while they made pretence to pray there heard knocks, which
were the signal of the presence of Thomas Bolle. Emlyn answered them
with other knocks, which told that all was safe, whereon the wooden
image turned and Thomas appeared, dressed as before in Sir John
Foterell’s armour. So like did he seem to her dead father in this
familiar mail that for a moment Cicely thought it must be he, and her
knees trembled until he knelt before her, kissing her hand, asking after
her health and that of the infant and whether she were satisfied with
his service.
“Indeed and indeed yes,” she answered; “and oh, friend! all that I have
henceforth is yours should I ever have anything again, who am but a
prisoned beggar. Meanwhile, my blessing and that of Heaven rest upon
you, you gallant man.”
“Thank me not, Lady,” answered the honest Thomas. “To speak truth it was
Emlyn whom I served, for though monks parted us we have been friends for
many a year. As for the matter of the child and that spawn of hell, the
Flounder, be grateful to God, not to me, for it was by mere chance that
I came here that evening, which I had not intended to do. I was going
about my business with the cattle when something seemed to tell me to
arm and come. It was as though a hand pushed me, and the rest you know,
and so I think by now does Mother Megges,” he added grimly.
“Yes, yes, Thomas; and in truth I do thank God, Whose finger I see in
all this business, as I thank you, His instrument. But there are
other things whereof Emlyn has spoken to me. She said--ah! she said my
husband, whom I thought slain and buried, in truth was only wounded and
not buried, but shipped over-sea. Tell me that story, friend, omitting
nothing, but swiftly for our time is short. I thirst to hear it from
your own lips.”
So in his slow, wandering way he told her, word by word, all that he
had seen, all that he had learned, and the sum of it was that Sir
Christopher had been shipped abroad upon the _Great Yarmouth_, sorely
wounded but not dead, and that with him had sailed Jeffrey Stokes and
the monk Martin.
“That’s ten months gone,” said Cicely. “Has naught been heard of this
ship? By now she should be home again.”
Thomas hesitated, then answered--
“No tidings came of her from Spain. Then, although I said nothing of it
even to Emlyn, she was reported lost with all hands at sea. Then came
another story----”
“Ah! that other story?”
“Lady, two of her crew reached the Wash. I did not see them, and they
have shipped again for Marseilles in France. But I spoke with a shepherd
who is half-brother to one of them, and he told me that from him he
learned that the _Great Yarmouth_ was set upon by two Turkish pirates
and captured after a brave fight in which the captain Goody and others
were killed. This man and his comrade escaped in a boat and drifted
to and fro till they were picked up by a homeward-bound caravel which
landed them at Hull. That’s all I know--save one thing.”
“One thing! Oh, what thing, Thomas? That my husband is dead?”
“Nay, nay, the very opposite, that he is alive, or was, for these men
saw him and Jeffrey Stokes and Martin the priest, no craven as I know,
fighting like devils till the Turks overwhelmed them by numbers, and,
having bound their hands, carried them all three unwounded on board one
of their ships, wishing doubtless to make slaves of such brave fellows.”
Now, although Emlyn would have stopped her, still Cicely plied him with
questions, which he answered as best he could, till suddenly a sound
caught his ear.
“Look at the window!” he exclaimed.
They looked, and saw a sight that froze their blood, for there staring
at them through the glass was the dark face of the Abbot, and with it
other faces.
“Betray me not, or I shall burn,” he whispered. “Say only that I came
to haunt you,” and silently as a shadow he glided to his niche and was
gone.
“What now, Emlyn?”
“One thing only--Thomas must be saved. A bold face and stand to it. Is
it our fault if your father’s ghost should haunt this chapel? Remember,
your father’s ghost, no other. Ah! here they come.”
As she spoke the door was thrown wide, and through it came the Abbot
and his rout of attendants. Within two paces of the women they halted,
hanging together like bees, for they were afraid, while a voice cried,
“Seize the witches!”
Cicely’s terror passed from her and she faced them boldly.
“What would you with us, my Lord Abbot?” she asked.
“We would know, Sorceress, what shape was that which spoke with you but
now, and whither has it gone?”
“The same that saved my child and called the Sword of God down upon the
murderess. It wore my father’s armour, but its face I did not see. It
has gone whence it came, but where that is I know not. Discover if you
can.”
“Woman, you trifle with us. What said the Thing?”
“It spoke of the slaughter of Sir John Foterell by King’s Grave Mount
and of those who wrought it,” and she looked at him steadily until his
eyes fell before hers.
“What else?”
“It told me that my husband is not dead. Neither did you bury him as you
put about, but shipped him hence to Spain, whence it prophesied he will
return again to be revenged upon you. It told me that he was captured by
the infidel Moors, and with him Jeffrey Stokes, my father’s servant, and
the priest Martin, your secretary. Then it looked up and vanished, or
seemed to vanish, though perhaps it is among us now.”
“Aye,” answered the Abbot, “Satan, with whom you hold converse, is
always among us. Cicely Foterell and Emlyn Stower, you are foul witches,
self-confessed. The world has borne your sorceries too long, and you
shall answer for them before God and man, as I, the Lord Abbot of
Blossholme, have right and authority to make you do. Seize these witches
and let them be kept fast in their chamber till I constitute the Court
Ecclesiastic for their trial.”
So they took hold of Cicely and Emlyn and led them to the Nunnery. As
they crossed the garden they were met by Mother Matilda and the nuns,
who, for a second time within a month, ran out to see what was the
tumult in the chapel.
“What is it now, Cicely?” asked the Prioress.
“Now we are witches, Mother,” she answered, with a sad smile.
“Aye,” broke in Emlyn, “and the charge is that the ghost of the murdered
Sir John Foterell was seen speaking to us.”
“Why, why?” exclaimed the Prioress. “If the spirit of a woman’s father
appears to her is she therefore to be declared a witch? Then is poor
Sister Bridget a witch also, for this same spirit brought the child to
her?”
“Aye,” said the Abbot, “I had forgotten her. She is another of the crew,
let her be seized and shut up also. Greatly do I hope, when it comes to
the hour of trial, that there may not be found to be more of them,” and
he glanced at the poor nuns with menace in his eye.
So Cicely and Emlyn were shut within their room and strictly guarded
by monks, but otherwise not ill-treated. Indeed, save for their
confinement, there was little change in their condition. The child was
allowed to be with Cicely, the nuns were allowed to visit her.
Only over both of them hung the shadow of great trouble. They were
aware, and it seemed to them purposely suffered to be aware, that
they were about to be tried for their lives upon monstrous and obscene
charges; namely, that they had consorted with a dim and awful creature
called the Enemy of Mankind, whom, it was supposed, human beings had
power to call to their counsel and assistance. To them who knew well
that this being was Thomas Bolle, the thing seemed absurd. Yet it could
not be denied that the said Thomas at Emlyn’s instigation had worked
much evil on the monks of Blossholme, paying them, or rather their
Abbot, back in his own coin.
Yet what was to be done? To tell the facts would be to condemn Thomas
to some fearful fate which even then they would be called upon to share,
although possibly they might be cleared of the charge of witchcraft.
Emlyn set the matter before Cicely, urging neither one side nor the
other, and waited her judgment. It was swift and decisive.
“This is a coil that we cannot untangle,” said Cicely. “Let us betray
no one, but put our trust in God. I am sure,” she added, “that God will
help us as He did when Mother Megges would have murdered my boy. I shall
not attempt to defend myself by wronging others. I leave everything to
Him.”
“Strange things have happened to many who trusted in God; to that the
whole evil world bears witness,” said Emlyn doubtfully.
“May be,” answered Cicely in her quiet fashion, “perhaps because they
did not trust enough or rightly. At least there lies my path and I will
walk in it--to the fire if need be.”
“There is some seed of greatness in you; to what will it grow, I
wonder?” replied Emlyn, with a shrug of her shoulders.
On the morrow this faith of Cicely’s was put to a sharp test. The Abbot
came and spoke with Emlyn apart. This was the burden of his song--
“Give me those jewels and all may yet be well with you and your
mistress, vile witches though you are. If not, you burn.”
As before she denied all knowledge of them.
“Find me the jewels or you burn,” he answered. “Would you pay your lives
for a few miserable gems?”
Now Emlyn weakened, not for her own sake, and said she would speak with
her mistress.
He bade her do so.
“I thought that those jewels were burned, Emlyn, do you then know where
they are?” asked Cicely.
“Aye, I have said nothing of it to you, but I know. Speak the word and I
give them up to save you.”
Cicely thought a while and kissed her child, which she held in her arms,
then laughed aloud and answered--
“Not so. That Abbot shall never be richer for any gem of mine. I have
told you in what I trust, and it is not jewels. Whether I burn or
whether I am saved, he shall not have them.”
“Good,” said Emlyn, “that is my mind also, I only spoke for your sake,”
and she went out and told the Abbot.
He came into Cicely’s chamber and raged at them. He said that they
should be excommunicated, then tortured and then burned; but Cicely,
whom he had thought to frighten, never winced.
“If so, so let it be,” she replied, “and I will bear all as best I can.
I know nothing of these jewels, but if they still exist they are mine,
not yours, and I am innocent of any witchcraft. Do your work, for I am
sure that the end shall be far other than you think.”
“What!” said the Abbot, “has the foul fiend been with you again that you
talk thus certainly? Well, Sorceress, soon you will sing another tune,”
and he went to the door and summoned the Prioress.
“Put these women upon bread and water,” he said, “and prepare them for
the rack, that they may discover their accomplices.”
Mother Matilda set her gentle face, and answered--
“It shall not be done in this Nunnery, my Lord Abbot. I know the law,
and you have no such power. Moreover, if you move them hence, who are my
guests, I appeal to the King, and meanwhile raise the country on you.”
“Said I not that they had accomplices?” sneered the Abbot, and went his
way.
But of the torture no more was heard, for that appeal to the King had an
ill sound in his ears.