When about eight o'clock that morning the door was opened to allow anun to bring them their food, she saw a sight which filled her withamazement. Her own eyes, poor woman, were red with tears, for, like allin the Priory, she loved Cicely, whom as a child she had nursed on herknee, and with the other sisters had spent a sleepless night in prayerfor her, for Emlyn, and for Bridget, who was to be burned with them. Shehad expected to find the victims prostrate and perhaps senseless withfear, but behold! there they sat together in the window-place, dressedin their best garments and talking quietly. Indeed, as she entered oneof them--it was Cicely--laughed a little at something that the other hadsaid.
"Good-morning to you, Sister Mary," said Cicely. "Tell me now, has thePrioress returned?"
"Nay, nay, we know not where she is; no word has come from her. Well, atleast she will be spared a dreadful sight. Have you any message for herear? If so, give it swiftly ere the guard call me."
"I thank you," said Cicely; "but I think that I shall be the bearer ofmy own messages."
"What? Do you, then, mean that our Mother is dead? Must we suffer woeupon woe? Oh! who could have told you these sorrowful tidings?"
"No, sister, I think that she is alive and that I, yet living, shalltalk with her again."
Sister Mary looked bewildered, for how, she wondered, could closeprisoners know these things? Staring round to see that she was notobserved, she thrust two little packets into Cicely's hand.
"Wear these at the last, both of you," she whispered. "Whatever they saywe believe you innocent, and for your sake we have done a great crime.Yes, we have opened the reliquary and taken from it our most precioustreasure, a fragment of the cord that bound St. Catherine to the wheel,and divided it into three, one strand for each of you. Perhaps, if youare really guiltless, it will work a miracle. Perhaps the fire will notburn or the rain will extinguish it, or the Abbot may relent."
"That last would be the greatest miracle of all," broke in Emlyn, withgrim humour. "Still we thank you from our hearts and will wear therelics if they do not take them from us. Hark! they are calling you.Farewell, and all blessings be on your gentle heads."
Again the loud voices of the guards called, and Sister Mary turned andfled, wondering if these women were not witches, how it came about thatthey could be so brave, so different from poor Bridget, who wailed andmoaned in her cell below.
Cicely and Emlyn ate their food with good appetite, knowing that theywould need support that day, and when it was done sat themselves againby the window-place, through which they could see hundreds of people,mounted and on foot, passing up the slope that led to the green in frontof the Abbey, though this green they could not see because of a belt oftrees.
"Listen," said Emlyn presently. "It is hard to say, but it may be thatyour vision of the night was but a merciful dream, and, if so, within afew hours we shall be dead. Now I have the secret of the hiding-place ofthose jewels, which, without me, none can ever find; shall I pass it on,if I get the chance, to one whom I can trust? Some good soul--the nuns,perhaps--will surely shelter your boy, and he might need them in days tocome."
Cicely thought a while, then answered--
"Not so, Emlyn. I believe that God has spoken to me by His angel, as Hespoke to Peter in the prison. To do this would be to tempt God, showingthat we have no trust in Him. Let that secret lie where it is, in yourbreast."
"Great is your faith," said Emlyn, looking at her with admiration."Well, I will stand or fall by it, for I think there is enough for two."
The Convent bell chimed ten, and they heard a sound of feet and voicesbelow.
"They come for us," said Emlyn; "the burning is set for eleven, thatafter the sight folk may get away in comfort to their dinners. Nowsummon that great Faith of yours and hold him fast for both our sakes,since mine grows faint."
The door opened and through it came monks followed by guards, theofficer of whom bade them rise and follow. They obeyed without speaking,Cicely throwing her cloak about her shoulders.
"You'll be warm enough without that, Witch," said the man, with ahideous chuckle.
"Sir," she answered, "I shall need it to wrap my child in when we areparted. Give me the babe, Emlyn. There, now we are ready; nay, no needto lead us, we cannot escape and shall not vex you."
"God's truth, the girl has spirit!" muttered the officer to hiscompanions, but one of the priests shook his head and answered--
"Witchcraft! Satan will leave them presently."
A few more minutes and, for the first time during all those wearymonths, they passed the gate of the Priory. Here the third victim waswaiting to join them, poor, old, half-witted Bridget, clad in a kind ofsheet, for her habit had been stripped off. She was wild-eyed and hergrey locks hung loose about her shoulders, as she shook her ancient headand screamed prayers for mercy. Cicely shivered at the sight of her,which indeed was dreadful.
"Peace, good Bridget," she said as they passed, "being innocent, whathave you to fear?"
"The fire, the fire!" cried the poor creature. "I dread the fire."
Then they were led to their place in the procession and saw no more ofBridget for a while, although they could not escape the sound of herlamentations behind them.
It was a great procession. First went the monks and choristers, singinga melancholy Latin dirge. Then came the victims in the midst of a guardof twelve armed men, and after these the nuns who were forced to bepresent, while behind and about were all the folk for twenty milesround, a crowd without number. They crossed the footbridge, wherestood the Ford Inn for which the Flounder had bargained as the price ofmurder. They walked up the rise by the right of way, muddy now with theautumn rains, and through the belt of trees where Thomas Bolle's secretpassage had its exit, and so came at last to the green in front of thetowering Abbey portal.
Here a dreadful sight awaited them, for on this green were planted threefourteen-inch posts of new-felled oak six feet or more in height, suchas no fire would easily burn through, and around each of them a kindof bower of faggots open to the front. Moreover, to the posts hungnew wagon chains, and near by stood the village blacksmith and hisapprentice, who carried a hand anvil and a sledge hammer for the coldwelding of those chains.
At a distance from these stakes the procession was halted. Then out fromthe gate of the Abbey came the Abbot in his robes and mitre, preceded byacolytes and followed by more monks. He advanced to where the condemnedwomen stood and halted, while a friar stepped forward and read theirsentence to them, of which, being in Latin or in crabbed, legal words,they understood nothing at all. Then in sonorous tones he adjured themfor the sake of their sinful souls to make full confession of theirguilt, that they might receive pardon before they suffered in the fleshfor their hideous crime of sorcery.
To this invitation Cicely and Emlyn shook their heads, saying that beinginnocent of any sorceries they had nothing to confess. But old Bridgetgave another answer. She declared in a high, screaming voice that shewas a witch, as her mother and grandmother had been before her. Shedescribed, while the crowd listened with intense interest, how EmlynStower had introduced her to the devil, who was clad in red hose andlooked like a black boy with a hump on his back and a tuft of red hairhanging from his nose, also many unedifying details of her interviewswith this same fiend.
Asked what he said to her, she answered that he told her to bewitch theAbbot of Blossholme because he was such a holy man that God had needof him and he did too much good upon the earth. Also he prevented EmlynStower and Cicely Foterell from working his, the devil's, will, andenabled them to keep alive the baby who would be a great wizard. He toldher moreover that midwife Megges was an angel (here the crowd laughed)sent to kill the said infant, who really was his own child, as might beseen by its black eyebrows and cleft tongue, also its webbed feet, andthat he would appear in the shape of the ghost of Sir John Foterellto save it and give it to her, which he did, saying the Lord's Prayerbackwards, and that she must bring it up "in the faith of the Pentagon."
Thu
s the poor crazed thing raved on, while sentence by sentence a scribewrote down her gibberish, causing her at last to make her mark to it,all of which took a very long time. At the end she begged that she mightbe pardoned and not burnt, but this, she was informed, was impossible.Thereon she became enraged and asked why then had she been led to tellso many lies if after all she must burn, a question at which the crowdroared with laughter. On hearing this the priest, who was about toabsolve her, changed his mind and ordered her to be fastened to herstake, which was done by the blacksmith with the help of his apprenticeand his portable anvil.
Still, her "confession" was solemnly read over to Cicely and Emlyn, whowere asked whether, after hearing it, they still persisted in a denialof their guilt. By way of answer Cicely lifted the hood from her boy'sface and showed that his eyebrows were not black, but light-coloured.Also she bared his feet, passing her little finger between his toes, andasking them if they were webbed. Some of them answered, "No," but a monkroared, "What of that? Cannot Satan web and unweb?" Then he snatched theinfant from Cicely's arms and laid it down upon the stump of an oak thathad been placed there to receive it, crying out--
"Let this child live or die as God pleases."
Some brute who stood by aimed a blow at it with a stick, yelling, "Deathto the witch's brat!" but a big man, whom Emlyn recognized as one of oldSir John's tenants, caught the falling stick from his hand and dealt himsuch a clout with it that he fell like a stone, and went for the restof his life with but one eye and the nose flattened on the side of hisface. Thenceforward no one tried to harm the babe, who, as all know,because of what befell him on this day, went in after life by thenickname of Christopher Oak-stump.
The Abbot's men stepped forward to tie Cicely to her stake, but ere theylaid hands on her she took off her wool-lined cloak and threw it to theyeoman who had struck down the fellow with his own stick, saying--
"Friend, wrap my boy in this and guard him till I ask him from youagain."
"Aye, Lady," answered the great man, bending his knee; "I have servedthe grandsire and the sire, and so I'll serve the son," and throwingaside the stick he drew a sword and set himself in front of the oak bollwhere the infant lay. Nor did any venture to meddle with him, for theysaw other men of a like sort ranging themselves about him.
Now slowly enough the smith began to rivet the chain round Cicely.
"Man," she said to him, "I have seen you shoe many of my father's nags.Who could have thought that you would live to use your honest skill uponhis daughter!"
On hearing these words the fellow burst into tears, cast down his toolsand fled away, cursing the Abbot. His apprentice would have followed,but him they caught and forced to complete the task. Then Emlyn waschained up also, so that at length all was ready for the last terribleact of the drama.
Now the head executioner--he was the Abbey cook--placed some pinesplinters to light in a brazier that stood near by, and while waitingfor the word of command, remarked audibly to his mate that there was agood wind and that the witches would burn briskly.
The spectators were ordered back out of earshot, and went at last, someof them muttering sullenly to each other. For here the company couldnot be picked as it had been at the trial, and the Abbot noted anxiouslythat among them the victims had many friends. It was time the deed wasdone ere their smouldering love and pity flowed out into bloody tumult,he thought to himself. So, advancing quickly, he stood in front of Emlynand asked her in a low voice if she still refused to give up the secretof the jewels, seeing that there was yet time for him to command thatthey should die mercifully and not by the fire.
"Let the mistress judge, not the maid," answered Emlyn in a steadyvoice.
He turned and repeated the question to Cicely, who replied--
"Have I not told you--never. Get you behind me, O evil man, and go,repent your sins ere it be too late."
The Abbot stared at her, feeling that such constancy and courage werealmost superhuman. He had an acute, imaginative mind which could fancyhimself in like case and what his state would be. Though he was in suchhaste a great curiosity entered into him to know whence she drew herstrength, which even then he tried to satisfy.
"Are you mad or drugged, Cicely Foterell?" he asked. "Do you not knowhow fire will feel when it eats up that delicate flesh of yours?"
"I do not know and I shall never know," she answered quietly.
"Do you mean that you will die before it touches you, building on somepromise of your master, Satan?"
"Yes, I shall die before the fire touches me; but not here and now, andI build upon a promise from the Master of us all in heaven."
He laughed, a shrill, nervous laugh, and called out loud to the peoplearound--
"This witch says that she will not burn, for Heaven has promised it toher. Do you not, Witch?"
"Yes, I say so; bear witness to my words, good people all," repliedCicely in clear and ringing tones.
"Well, we'll see," shouted the Abbot. "Man, bring flame, and letHeaven--or hell--help her if it can!"
The cook-executioner blew at his brands, but he was nervous, or clumsy,and a minute or more went by before they flamed. At length one was fitfor the task, and unwillingly enough he stooped to lift it up.
Then it was that in the midst of the intense silence, for of all thatmultitude none seemed even to breathe, and old Bridget, who had fainted,cried no more, a bull's voice was heard beyond the brow of the hill,roaring--
"_In the King's name, stay! In the King's name, stay!_"
All turned to look, and there between the trees appeared a white horse,its sides streaked with blood, that staggered rather than gallopedtowards them, and on the horse a huge, red-bearded man, clad in mail andholding in his hand a woodman's axe.
"Fire the faggots!" shouted the Abbot, but the cook, who was not bynature brave, had already let fall his torch, which went out on the dampground.
By now the horse was rushing through them, treading them under foot.With great, convulsive bounds it reached the ring and, as the riderleapt from its back, rolled over and lay there panting, for its strengthwas done.
"It is Thomas Bolle!" exclaimed a voice, while the Abbot cried again--
"Fire the faggots! Fire the faggots!" and a soldier ran to fetch anotherbrand.
But Thomas was before him. Snatching up the brazier by its legs hesmote downwards with it so that the burning charcoal fell all about thesoldier and the iron cage remained fixed upon his head, shouting as hesmote--
"You sought fire--take it!"
The man rolled upon the ground screaming in pain and terror till someone dragged the cage off his head, leaving his face barred like agrilled herring. None took further heed of what became of him, for nowThomas Bolle stood in front of the stakes waving his great axe, andrepeating, "In the King's name, stay! In the King's name, stay!"
"What mean you, knave?" exclaimed the furious Abbot.
"What I say, Priest. One step nearer and I'll split your crown."
The Abbot fell back and Thomas went on--
"A Foterell! A Foterell! A Harflete! A Harflete! O ye who have eatentheir bread, come, scatter these faggots and save their flesh. Who'llstand with me against Maldon and his butchers?"
"I," answered voices, "and I, and I, and I!"
"And I too," hallooed the yeoman by the oak stump, "only I watchthe child. Nay, by God I'll bring it with me!" and, snatching up thescreaming babe under his left arm, he ran to him.
On came the others also, hurling the faggots this way and that.
"Break the chains," roared Bolle again, and somehow those strong handsdid it; indeed, the only hurt that Cicely took that day was from theirhacking at these chains. They were loose. Cicely snatched the child fromthe yeoman, who was glad enough to be rid of it, having other work todo, for now the Abbot's men-at-arms were coming on.
"Ring the women round," roared Bolle, "and strike home for Foterell,strike home for Harflete! Ah, priest's dog, in the King's name--this!"and the axe sank up to the haft into the br
east of the captain who hadtold Cicely that she would be warm enough that day without her cloak.
Then there began a great fight. The party of Foterell, of whom theremay have been a score, captained by Bolle, made a circle round the threegreen oak stakes, within which stood Cicely and Emlyn and old Bridget,still tied to her post, for no one had thought or found time to cut herloose. These were attacked by the Abbot's guard, thirty or more ofthem, urged on by Maldon himself, who was maddened by the rescue of hisvictims and full of fear lest Cicely's words should be fulfilled andshe herself set down henceforth, not as a witch, but as a prophetessfavoured by God.
On came the soldiers and were beaten back. Thrice they came on andthrice they were beaten back with loss, for Bolle's axe was terrible toface and, now that they had found a leader and their courage, the yeomanlads who stood with him were sturdy fighters. Also tumult broke outamong the hundreds who watched, some of them taking one side and somethe other, so that they fell upon each other with sticks and stonesand fists, even the women joining in the fray, biting and tearing likebagged cats. The scene was hideous and the sounds those of a sackedcity, for many were hurt and all gave tongue, while shrill and clearabove this hateful music rose the yells of Bridget, who had awakenedfrom her faint and imagined all was over and that she fathomed hell.
Thrice the attackers were rolled back, but of those who defended a thirdwere down, and now the Abbot took another counsel.
"Bring bows," he cried, "and shoot them, for they have none!" and menran off to do his bidding.
Then it was that Emlyn's wit came to their aid, for when Bolle shook hisred head and gasped out that he feared they were lost, since how couldthey fight against arrows, she answered--
"If so, why stand here to be spitted, fool? Come, let us cut our waythrough ere the shafts begin to fly, and take refuge among the trees orin the Nunnery."
"Women's counsel is good sometimes," said Bolle. "Form up, Foterells,and march."
"Nay," broke in Cicely, "loose Bridget first, lest they should burn herafter all; I'll not stir else."
So Bridget was hacked free, and together with the wounded men, of whomthere were several, dragged and supported thence. Then began a runningfight, but one in which they still held their own. Yet they would havebeen overwhelmed at last, for the women and the wounded hampered them,had not help come. For as they hewed their path towards the belt oftrees with the Abbot's fierce fellows, some of whom were French orSpanish, hanging on their flanks, suddenly, in the gap where the roadwayran, appeared a horse galloping and on it a woman, who clung to its manewith both hands, and after her many armed men.
"Look, Emlyn, look!" exclaimed Cicely. "Who is that?" for she could notbelieve her eyes.
"Who but Mother Matilda," answered Emlyn; "and by the saints, she is astrange sight!"
A strange sight she was indeed, for her hood was gone, her hair, thatwas ever so neat, flew loose, her robe was ruckled up about her knees,the rosary and crucifix she wore streamed on the air behind her and beatagainst her back, and her garb had burst open at the front; in short,never was holy, aged Prioress seen in such a state before. Down shecame on them like a whirlwind, for her frightened horse scented itsBlossholme stable, clinging grimly to her unaccustomed seat, and cryingas she sped--
"For God's love, stop this mad beast!"
Bolle caught it by the bridle and threw it to its haunches so that,its rider speeding on, flew over its head on to the broad breast of theyeoman who had watched the child, and there rested thankfully. For, asMother Matilda said afterwards with her gentle smile, never before didshe know what comfort there was to be found in man.
When at length she loosed her arms from about his neck the yeoman stoodher on her feet, saying that this was worse than the baby, and herwandering eyes fell upon Cicely.
"So I am in time! Oh! never more will I revile that horse," sheexclaimed, and sinking to her knees then and there she gasped out someprayer of thankfulness. Meanwhile, those who followed her had reinedup in front, and the Abbot's soldiers with the accompanying crowd hadhalted behind, not knowing what to make of these strangers, so thatBolle and his party with the women were now between the two.
From among the new-comers rode out a fat, coarse man, with a pompousair as of one who is accustomed to be obeyed, who inquired in a labouredvoice, for he was breathless from hard riding, what all this turmoilmeant.
"Ask the Abbot of Blossholme," said some one, "for it is his work."
"Abbot of Blossholme? That's the man I want," puffed the fat stranger."Appear, Abbot of Blossholme, and give account of these doings. And youfellows," he added to his escort, "range up and be ready, lest this saidpriest should prove contumacious."
Now the Abbot stepped forward with some of his monks and, looking thehorseman up and down, said--
"Who may it be that demands account so roughly of a consecrated Abbot?"
"A consecrated Abbot? A consecrated peacock, a tumultuous, turbulent,traitorous priest, a Spanish rogue ruffler who, I am told, keeps abouthim a band of bloody mercenaries to break the King's peace and slayloyal English folk. Well, consecrated Abbot, I'll tell you who I am. Iam Thomas Legh, his Grace's Visitor and Royal Commissioner to inspectthe Houses called religious, and I am come hither upon complaint made byyonder Prioress of Blossholme Nunnery, as to your dealings withcertain of his Highness's subjects whom, she says, you have accused ofwitchcraft for purposes of revenge and unlawful gain. That is who I am,my fine fowl of an Abbot."
Now when he heard this pompous speech the rage in Maldon's face wasreplaced by fear, for he knew of this Doctor Legh and his mission, andunderstood what Thomas Bolle had meant by his cry of, "In the King'sname!"