by Phil Rickman
‘The papists take a pagan well,’ Daunce said, ‘and claim it for the Virgin and nothing changes… because the practices of the Catholic Church, like those of the heathens, like those of the Druids, are founded upon magic and sorcery. You, of all people, should know that.’
Well, of course I knew that. Bishop Scory knew that. The Queen herself would acknowledge that high magic was a ceremonial gateway to knowledge.
And was a simpler magic so wrong for a place like this, the valley of the river of the god of light, dotted with ancient mounds, scattered with the remains of the violently killed? A place where a careful balance must needs be maintained?
‘I presume you know that Owain Glyndwr worshipped here before the battle,’ Daunce said. ‘In his desperate need for a great victory. But did he worship at the church? No, he burned it down. He worshipped here, at the pagan shrine. Glyndwr invoked the heathen goddess – the devil, in other words.’
I said nothing. Given Owain Glyndwr’s knowledge of magic and that he or Rhys Gethin appeared to have chosen this site for the conflict, I’d come to a not entirely dissimilar conclusion myself. But was disinclined to voice agreement with anything this man came out with.
‘Invoking the power of Satan,’ Daunce said, ‘and it was given to him. His name was exalted all over Europe. For a while – the devil’s favours last only so long. As you’re probably already finding out.’
I was feeling very cold now in my thin jerkin, with no hat, but felt that Daunce was not. That he was, in some twisted way, beginning finally to relish this encounter. He came closer to me, his coat hanging limp around him like damp and blackened leaves.
‘And they worship here yet. This so-called holy well dedicated to the Virgin Mary, who’s but a screen around the heathen goddess… is yet a shrine to evil. For I’ve seen— I have seen them anointing themselves here at night, in the heathen way.’
‘Who?’
‘If I’d gone close enough to see they would have set on me and killed me. God told me this. I’ve heard God’s voice in the night.’
‘How do you know it was God’s voice?’
‘You’d try and make me doubt it?’ His whole body shaking. ‘You’d make me out a madman?’
‘Father Daunce, you’re alone in a place you don’t understand and maybe never will. You’re prey to divers fears and fancies. You believe everyone’s your enemy—’
‘I’ve only one enemy, though he wears many faces, and I’m looking into one at this moment, asking myself is it a coincidence that England’s most famous sorcerer should arrive here… now? The adversary?’
I reeled back.
‘Adversary?’
‘Oh, I was warned in my prayers that one would come. I’d thought it was the demon inhabiting the boy. But it’s a subtler devil. A manifestation of one that’s been here for generations. Dee… ddu… black! All black as sin.’
His face was blanched and his lips were parched. I began to see where this was going.
‘Rector, you’re—’
‘Your grandfather… was he not Bedo Ddu, who filled the font with wine? No sacrilege worse than that at the baptism of a child, when all evil’s expelled.’
‘It was done in merriment, it—’
‘And the tainted wine flowed in the blood of your father, who went on to steal from the Church.’
Jesu, who’d told him that? What had I walked into?
‘But it found its full flowering…’ The rector folded his arms, as if sitting in judgement. ‘…in his heretical son…’
So close now I seemed to see a white light in his eyes.
‘… who stood trial for sorcery… and was saved by Satan in the guise of a papist monster who made him his chaplain.’
Bonner.
‘Are you yet a priest of the papist church, Dr Dee?’
He’d done his studies and found the most vulnerable part of my skin. There was nothing I could say that would not make this worse. How easy it must be to see everything in black and white. But there was no black here and no white. The mist would tell you this.
His finger came up.
‘Let not this place be tainted by your presence. Take yourself away from here while you can. Crawl back to your London lair. And when the Welshman’s sentenced, I’ll visit the sheriff and have charges of witchcraft brought against the monster and his sister, the Great Papist’s whore.’
What?
‘There’s no workable witchcraft law in this country,’ I said. ‘The Plant Mat case was only set in train because it was an accusation of murder by sorcery and two men were dead. There’s been no murder here. Only a mass slaughter a century and a half ago.’
A silence, then Daunce walked away, turning back to face me only when he reached the church wall.
‘I think,’ he said, ‘we both know better than that. And what lies in an ancient grave.’
I rose up, would have raced after him, grabbed him, maybe thrown him in the pool.
But what use would that do?
The balance was tipped against me. He knew about the mutilated man secretly buried by Stephen Price and Morgan the shepherd.
And he was mad enough to loose a witch-hunt upon Pilleth.
A weight of weariness came over me, and I sank to my knees in the mud.
XXXV
The Etiquette of Cursing
THE PRISONER SAYS, ‘They told me my name was Prys Gethin.’
He sounds bewildered, as if the name has no significance for him. The judge leans back in his oaken chair.
‘Who did?’
‘The gaolers at New Radnor Castle, my Lord. When they overpowered me and took me to New Radnor, kept telling me my name was Prys Gethin, they did. All the time Prys Gethin. Would not have it any other way.’
The court billows with whispers, which are only hushed when the pikes are lifted and Sir Christopher Legge turns his anvil head, under its triangular black hat, towards the prisoner.
‘So… you accept that you were the man taken to New Radnor Castle by the sheriff and constables.’
‘I do, my Lord, but—’
‘Enough! You have pleaded not guilty to the offences with which you are charged, and that’s all the court wishes to hear from you until the case against you has been heard. You will, therefore, be silent until then. Is that understood?’
The prisoner nods his head with, Dudley notes, conspicuous courtesy and a certain grace. The clever bastard. It could be that his real name is indeed Gwilym Davies, that he’s known only within Plant Mat as Prys Gethin. It ought to change nothing. He glances at Vaughan, who looks a touch apprehensive, as though wondering if there’s any way he might be blamed for this oversight.
* * *
Evan Lewis, the sheriff, is called to give evidence. He is a bulky, brown-haired man who, unsurprisingly, appears slightly in awe of the London court visited upon Presteigne.
Legge has before him the sheriff’s written account of what occurred when the farm workers, who had lain in wait for many a long night, finally surprised the band of cattle raiders.
‘And how did they know, Sheriff, that these cattle thieves were the brigands calling themselves Plant Mat?’
The eyes of Evan Lewis flicker from side to side with transparent uncertainty. Dudley casts his own gaze to the ceiling, despairing of the quality of men responsible for upholding the law in these distant counties. They just wait in line, these farmers, for their turn at being sheriff.
‘Perhaps,’ the judge says helpfully, ‘these brigands were known to boast about their activities in local taverns. Determined to perpetuate their… legend?’
‘Exac’ly, my Lord.’ The sheriff’s body sags in his gratitude. ‘That’s as I believe—’
‘Yet, in the end, only this one was apprehended. How many others escaped?’
‘Hard to say, my Lord. Could have been a dozen or more. But they were fortunate that the one made lame by a fall readily identified himself to them as the leader, Prys Gethin.’
‘How very g
enerous of him.’
‘My Lord, this was to open the way for a bargain. He said his fellows would pay handsomely for his release and if he was freed they could count on their land being safe from raids in the future. While if anything was to happen to him…’ The sheriff pauses and looks around the court. ‘…then every man who’d laid hands on him would be cursed to hell.’
A communal indrawing of breath in the courtroom. The judge holds up papers.
‘I have here statements taken down from four of the farm men which confirm what the sheriff has just told the court. I see no point in having each of them read out, but they are available for inspection, signed with the marks of the named individuals… whom I understand, Sheriff, were reluctant to appear before this court in person.’
‘My Lord. These are men who fear for their lives and their families.’
‘That they might be made targets of Plant Mat?’
Dudley smiles at Legge’s affected, faintly Gallic, pronunciation of the words – Plaunt Met.
‘And also they fear… his eye,’ the sheriff says, his cheeks turned a little pink.
Legge peers, in an exaggerated fashion, towards the prisoner’s dock. Laughter from the jury’s box. The prisoner looks down.
‘So,’ Legge says. ‘What was the response to this offer of a bargain?’
The sheriff straightens his back.
‘The landowners were summoned from their beds and would hear none of it, my Lord. No one should make deals with notorious thieves. They had him tied to a cart and taken to New Radnor. Calling in at my farm, where I was roused and, realising the importance of this arrest, sent at once for constables.’
‘And while you were waiting for the castle dungeons to be unlocked and prepared, I gather there was intercourse between the prisoner and the landowners, Thomas Harris and Hywel Griffiths?’
‘My Lord…’ Roger Vaughan comes hesitantly to his feet. ‘It’s, um… it’s pronounced Howell.’
‘What is?’
‘Hywel Griffiths, my Lord. Pronounced Howell. I just thought—’
‘Very useful, I’m sure, Master Vaughan,’ Legge says with venom. ‘Let us proceed.’
Vaughan sits down, eyes closing in embarrassment. Dudley smiles. Legge pretends to have lost the thread of his questioning and consults his papers, turning back a page.
‘How would you describe the nature of this intercourse between the prisoner and the owners of the cattle he’s accused of attempting to steal?’
‘Well… heated, my Lord. The prisoner, having failed to make a deal for his release, tried to escape and was restrained. It was then that he… uttered curses.’
‘Hmm.’ Legge pinching his sharp chin. ‘Consider, for a moment, your use of the word “curses”. In the heat of the moment, a man might shout abuse…?’
‘No, my Lord. This was delivered in what I can only describe as cold blood.’
‘You were witness to it.’
‘Indeed I was, my Lord. I saw and heard all of it, although – my Welsh having fallen away in recent years – I was not able to understand every word.’
‘You’re saying that the alleged curses were phrased in the language of the Welsh?’
‘They were. With finger pointed, under a full moon, which is said to give more power to—’
‘Yes, yes. I believe we shall shortly be hearing more expert testimony as to the, ah, etiquette of cursing. Was any of it delivered in the Queen’s English?’
‘Enough to convince me of the nature of it.’
‘Which was?’
‘That my neighbours, Thomas Harris and Hywel Griffiths would be dead before the new moon.’
‘And indeed there seems little doubt that both men… were.’
‘No doubt at all, my Lord.’
‘In ways… unexpected?’
‘One of a sudden fever.’
‘Hardly uncommon in itself, Sheriff.’
‘The other drowning when a sudden, ferocious wind smashed an old and narrow footbridge over the River Irfon as he was crossing it.’
‘You were not there at the time, I take it.’
‘I was not. However, I was summoned within hours, after the dead body was recovered from the river. My home is but a few miles away, see, and I can testify that this particular day was one of an unusual stillness. Not a breath of wind in the Radnor Forest.’
The judge nods, extracting a paper from the pile before him.
‘I also have a statement here, signed by the son of Master Hie-well Griffiths’ – flinging a cold glance at poor Vaughan – ‘giving testimony that he was at that time burning twiggery from a tree-felling not two fields distant from the point in the river where his father met his death and felt no hint of a breeze. Saying the smoke from his fire rose steadily throughout the morning.’
Strong evidence, Dudley thinks. In the absence of a specific Witchcraft Act, cases of causing injury or death by force of magic are become difficult to prove. Given her own interest in magic and alchemy, Bess might dither for years over this issue. Meanwhile, the power of malevolence conjured through focused thought and satanic ritual will go unchecked.
Dudley, who more than once has felt himself to be the target of a distant hatred made toxic by dark arts, is himself convinced that Prys Gethin, or whoever else he claims to be, does indeed have a stare of practised malignancy through that one eye.
And Dudley also knows that, where the use of magic is concerned, a sense of self-belief takes the practitioner more than halfway along the shadowed road. He stares hard at Prys Gethin.
Look up, you bastard, look up.
‘These two deaths,’ Sir Christopher Legge says. ‘How far apart were they, in time?’
The prisoner makes no move. His head is bowed, as if for the rope, as the sheriff replies.
‘My Lord, the fever struck the night before the collapse of the bridge.’
A hiss rushes round the old barn as if a cold river has been directed through it.
‘I think,’ the judge says over it, ‘that it is incumbent upon this court to learn more about the practice of witchcraft along this border. After our midday meal, I shall call the Lord Bishop of Hereford to give evidence. In the meantime, Sheriff, perhaps you might enlighten me as to the significance for this county, of the name Prys Gethin.’
XXXVI
In Dark Arts
JOHN SCORY has removed his mitre and wears a small hat of an academic kind. He takes the oath with a knowing half-smile. Legge consults his papers, then sits back in his big chair and looks up.
‘My Lord Bishop, you are, I believe, my last witness.’
Scory looks perturbed.
‘Not the last ever, I trust, Sir Christopher. One would hate to think the fear of a Welsh curse might drive you from the Bench.’
Legge scowls. Dudley grins. He rather likes Scory, a bishop in perhaps his last see who gives not a whit for anyone, least of all an ambitious judge from London.
The light in here has gloomed since midday, the banners fading into shadow, the old barn’s beams and pillars giving the court the illumination of a forest clearing.
The judge starts again.
‘You’ve been Bishop of Hereford since…?’
‘Last year.’
Legge frowns. He evidently thought it was longer.
‘But in that time,’ Scory tells him, ‘I’ve studied in some detail the religious beliefs and practices on the fringes of the diocese.’
‘By which you mean the area in which we now sit?’
‘And some regions further west.’
‘You’re saying that beliefs in this area may differ in some ways from the accepted faith of the land?’
‘Only in the way that faith might be interpreted,’ Scory says. ‘Wales and the Border country are not noted as areas of religious rebellion, but old beliefs die hard.’
Legge waits. Now Dudley begins to see where the judge is going with this. He’ll have the court presented with clear proof that Wales is yet riddled with wit
chcraft and that it’s entirely reasonable to suppose that a man like Prys Gethin was schooled in dark arts.
It should make for an entertaining hour or so. Dudley has eaten passably well in the Bull, drained a flagon of the innkeeper’s finest cider and then emerged to find the whore, Amy, waiting for him in the marketplace. Telling him that if he comes to her after court’s out, she may well be able to point him towards the man he seeks.
Perfect. With any luck they could be out of here on the morrow, with the Wigmore shewstone all packed away. He has the money… and the menace, if required, as it usually is.
‘Coming out here,’ Scory says, ‘was a rather bewildering experience for someone used to softer climes. I found things remarkably different from Chichester in the south-east, where I was bishop in… in earlier times. There, for most people, worship was seen primarily as essential preparation for the life which is to follow.’
‘And is it not, my Lord Bishop?’
A suitably pious consternation creasing Legge’s brow.
‘Oh, most certainly it is, my Lord,’ Scory says. ‘However, in the wilder country, worship and ritual are seen also as serving a practical purpose in the surviving of this life. Isolated country people depend far more than do we upon a relationship with the land and its elements… perceiving themselves closer to the, ah, spirits which – under God – maintain the fertility of crops and stock, and hold the seasons in place.’
Legge’s eyes close in upon the blade of his nose.
‘Spirits?’
‘Country people, inevitably, are closer to what you may prefer to think of as the elements of nature. Not as close as our ancestors might have been but closer than most city people can imagine. Few have not had some experience of natural powers which have raised them up or – more often – reduced them to fear for their livelihoods. And life itself.’
Scory pauses, casts his gaze around the rustic courtroom as though it were become his cathedral. The air is clouded in here now, but not dark enough for candles.
‘My point is that they are constantly aware of the fragility of their lives and why a balance must be found and held. And, in finding this balance, are oft-times inclined – by instinct – to mingle the rituals and liturgy of the modern Christian church with the time-honoured customs of the area. Which some may see as witchcraft, but these simple folk—’
