by Mervyn Wall
“It was a hard measure,” muttered the Bishop. “God’s hand was heavy on mankind the day that He created woman.”
“Are you afflicted much by the antics of women in this neighbourhood?” enquired Furiosus politely.
“The situation was bad when I came here first,” said the Bishop, “but I cleaned up the city pretty quickly. Why, it was actually the practice of merchants to display articles of women’s underwear on their stalls during the monthly fairs, to the grave detriment of morals.”
“That was bad,” said the friar. “Some of these merchants have no care that such garments powerfully affect youth, giving rise to unmentionable thoughts and desires.”
“Exactly,” said the Bishop. “However, I organised the pious, God-fearing women of the settlement. They went in a body to the merchants and threatened to withdraw their custom unless such raiment was kept under cover and not displayed before the gaze of men.”
“Excellent,” said the friar.
“Love-making was also rife, but the threat of ecclesiastical censure generally proved sufficient.”
“I find a blackthorn stick and a stout arm most effective,” said Father Furiosus diffidently; “but then I am not favoured with your lordship’s eloquence and your powers of excommunication.”
“In extreme cases of failure to conform, in this as in other things, I have recourse to the civil authority, who deprives the offender of his livelihood,” replied the Bishop. “I’m proud to say that there isn’t in all the land a cleaner or more God-fearing diocese than this.”
“I can well believe you,” said the friar.
The two men of God sat for a little while in silence. The friar’s gaze wandered around the room. Beneath one of the benches lay a couple of beads from a necklace, and in the centre of the floor were the broken fragments of a comb on which the Bishop had trodden in his striding to and fro. It was a pleasant three-walled room. The fourth side was open to a tiny garden of grass and half-a-dozen apple trees. The room was built facing south so that full advantage might be taken of the sunlight, with which it was now agreeably flooded. The furniture was simple, a few benches and stools. There were no hangings to be injured by rain or rough weather. It was only when the skies were mild that the room was used at all. The friar noticed these things and listened dreamily to the birds that hopped from branch to branch of the apple trees, letting fall their little tuneful notes and whistlings. A wagtail fluttered through the air and alighted at the Bishop’s feet.
“Birds,” said the Bishop suddenly.
“Yes, your lordship,” said Father Furiosus, arousing himself from his thoughts.
“Next to women,” said Bishop Flanagan, “there is nothing more productive of evil than birds.”
“Indeed,” said the friar, rather surprised. “I’m rather fond of them.”
Bishop Flanagan bent a disapproving gaze upon his companion. “Then you are wrong,” he said roughly. “Birds are inciters to laziness and easy living. They work not, neither do they spin. Their silly singing is a distraction to good men at their prayers and meditations. The very waywardness of birds is an encouragement to man to take pleasure in the deceitful beauty of this world instead of fastening his gaze upon his heavenly home. I’m surprised at you, Father Furiosus. I tell you we can never be too much on our guard against these things that appeal to our senses. Besotted poets are always bleating about birds and bird-song. Isn’t that enough?”
“I suppose you’re right,” agreed the friar grudgingly.
“Of course I’m right,” replied the Bishop severely. “I’ve had every tree around my palace cut down. Until I did so, I had no peace from their incessant chirruping.”
The wagtail took a little run of half-a-dozen steps, wagged his tail up and down for a second or two, then raised it almost vertically, disclosing to the Bishop’s gaze a little feathered backside. He cocked his eye as if to see how the Bishop was taking it, before fluttering away into the trees.
Bishop Flanagan’s face grew red. “Did you see that?” he said savagely. “Deliberate disrespect for a Prince of the Church! Maybe now you’ll believe in the depravity of birds.”
Before Father Furiosus could think of an answer King Cormac entered the room. Now that he was clothed in his royal robes of saffron and blue he appeared to greater advantage. The golden circlet of Cashel environed his bald head, and he carried himself with greater assurance, almost as if he and the Bishop were equals. He was not a tall man: in fact he was stumpy; but he was broad-shouldered and sturdy, and he held himself well for his age. One hand rested on the handle of a short iron sword strapped to his side, while the other played in and out of his immense snowy beard. Sometimes he fingered the silky tip at waist level; at other times, when he fondled his chin, his hand and arm were lost to sight as far as the elbow.
“God save all here,” said the King courteously.
“God save you kindly,” answered the two ecclesiastics.
Cormac dropped on one knee and kissed the Bishop’s ring.
“When we met previously this morning,” said the Bishop, “the occasion did not seem to me suitable for the formal introduction of Father Furiosus, who, as a scarifier of conjurors and demons, is at the summit of his profession.”
Cormac withdrew his hand from his beard and held it out to the friar, who gripped it in his huge freckled fist.
“It’s an honour,” murmured the King; and going to the door he clapped his hands. Four slaves entered at once, bearing three foaming pots of mead and a reserve basin lest anyone should crave a second helping. The Bishop and the friar immediately addressed themselves to the consumption of this delectable beverage. By the time each had emptied his second pot the conversation had become general. The final arrangements for the witch-dipping, which was the business that had brought the Bishop to the Royal House, were speedily disposed of. Father Furiosus related as an item of gossip how in the recent war in the east the King of Hungary had put into the field a battalion of vampires recruited in his Transylvanian dominions. They had wrought great havoc among the Byzantine troops in the mountainous Danube country, until the Emperor formed a special shock brigade armed with small wooden crosses, sharpened stakes and mallets; and sent them into battle with a baggage train composed exclusively of cartloads of garlic. The opposing forces had at first experienced difficulty in making contact with one another, by reason of the marked disinclination of the Imperial troops to fight otherwise than by day, while the unholy legions of Hungary only came out at night. But, God be praised, the warriors of the Christian Emperor had at last prevailed, due to their superior mobility; the vampire soldiery being much encumbered in their forays by the necessity of bringing their coffins with them, in which to bivouac between sunrise and sunset.
The King nodded his head sagely. “Mobility is of the first importance in mountain warfare,” he said. “By the way,” he continued, turning to the Bishop, “has your lordship heard this strange rumour of the motley company that has been seen on the northern road, and which appears to be coming towards Cashel?”
“I have not,” said the Bishop, somewhat nettled that anyone should have news before himself.
“They say that a collection of grotesque animals such as have never before been seen in these parts, is on its way hither. It seems to be some sort of gigantic circus. It is led by a gentleman in black, probably the ringmaster, and by a man in the habit of a monk who proceeds with the aid of crutches.”
“The habit of a monk!” ejaculated Father Furiosus. “Surely your informant is mistaken. Probably the gentleman referred to is of foreign extraction; and his alien clothing has given rise to the error. No doubt he is the capitalist who finances the undertaking. I have seen such menageries at the great fair at Tara.”
“Circuses are a great occasion of sin,” said the Bishop. “Does rumour report whether there are women travelling with this gang of mountebanks?”
The King coughed diffidently and looked as if he wished he hadn’t introduced the subject
.
“Well, yes,” he said hesitantly. “In fact, my informant stated that they were present in large numbers.”
“You’re holding something back,” said Bishop Flanagan sternly.
“I don’t wish to offend your lordship’s ears,” said Cormac, looking rather frightened, “but it’s said that many of the women in the troop are insufficiently clad considering the rigours of this climate; in fact, that many of them have no apparent clothing at all.”
There was silence except for the loud beating of the King’s heart. Then the Bishop threw himself back in his chair.
“Stuff and nonsense!” he said. “Who told you that fantastic story?”
“A travelling gipsy woman who came around to the back-door this morning to beg for a bite of bread. She insisted that she had seen the concourse herself.”
“A woman!” Father Furiosus laughed suddenly and relaxed his giant limbs. “I never knew a lying story that was not traceable to a woman. King Cormac, I’m afraid you’re a very gullible man. You’ll find that there’s nothing more than a band of tinkers with a dancing bear and, maybe, a couple of performing dogs.”
“No doubt, no doubt,” said the King, much relieved at the easing of the tension.
Bishop Flanagan permitted himself a rasping laugh as he bent over to pour the dregs of the mead from the basin into his mug.
“The very idea!” he said. “Women without clothes in my diocese!”
* * *
It was late in the afternoon when a solemn procession of monks and laymen left Cashel by the northern gate and moved slowly along the road towards the bend in the River Suir two miles beyond the town. At the point where the river curved there was a deep pool only a stone’s throw from the hut in which The Gray Mare was said to have practised her dark sorceries. The procession was headed by a column of hooded monks walking two by two and chanting hymns of the most doleful character imaginable. The funereal responses to each sombre anthem filled everyone with mournful thoughts of dissolution and doom. The very birds stopped their play-acting in the trees and huddled together to watch the gloomy train of humans who moved slowly forward as if fatalistically impelled, trampling with unnoticing, indifferent feet the wild pansies and primroses and all the tiny flowering things on the grassy edges of the track. The general body of clergy followed, red-faced, burly men with an occasional gaunt ascetic among them. Close behind came the canons of the Chapter, rotund and mostly out of breath. Father Furiosus walked alone, his blackthorn under his arm, seemingly impatient of the slow pace of the procession. Then, preceded by a choir of youthful ecclesiastics singing “Ecce Sacerdos Magnus,” came the Bishop, distributing blessings every few yards to the onlookers left and right. A high cart followed, in which sat the notorious Gray Mare, tied hand and foot. The cart was surrounded by twenty-six marching soldiers, the entire armed forces of Cashel. Behind it rode King Cormac in his war chariot; and a long line of similar chariots followed, bearing the great men of his kingdom, famous warriors, rich landowners and the two members of his Civil Service. A large concourse of persons of low birth came after, out-of-step and quite incapable of keeping in rank. The procession tailed off in a horde of children and barking dogs.
The Gray Mare, a very old, spent and decrepit hag, perched high in her cart, seemed to be experiencing a certain feminine pleasure from the fact that she was the centre of attention. She leered at nearly every group of onlookers standing by the roadside, and shouted a greeting, addressing them all as acquaintances, which might perhaps have been excused in her as she was very nearly blind. Those whom she hailed did not at all appreciate her friendliness, but crossed themselves hurriedly and hastened to explain to one another that they had never seen her before in their lives. It was thought very ill of her to display levity in the course of a religious ceremony of such antiquity and importance. It was contrary to all custom: witches and conjurors in such a situation invariably comported themselves with the greatest seriousness. Old men shook their heads. It was a great mistake, they said, not to have put her to the torture. It would have induced in her a frame of mind more in keeping with the occasion. And accompanied by the clangour of the handbells carried by the clergy and the lugubrious chanting of the monks, Church and State in awful solemnity wound their way in a long, thin serpent under the fresh green of the trees, along the stony track, and across the Maytime fields, while the object of it all sat high above them, grinning and cackling half-wittedly, and to all appearance having the time of her life.
The spot appointed for the witch-dipping was at a point where the river curved forming a tranquil backwater. There was an open field capable of accommodating a large number of spectators. The proximity of the thatched cabin where The Gray Mare had lived made the spot selected for her trial peculiarly appropriate. The fields rose from the river’s edge to a low line of hill, so that from this point the road ascended and crept over the summit about two hundred yards away, where it was lost to sight.
A crowd of countrypeople had already assembled along the river bank, and as the procession wound into the field, they fell on their knees, bowing their heads to receive the Bishop’s blessing. When he had passed, they sprang to their feet and greeted The Gray Mare’s cart with catcalls and a shower of sods and stones, most of which struck the surrounding soldiery. When the two horses drawing King Cormac’s chariot cantered into the field with the gallant monarch standing erect, his white beard streaming behind him in the breeze, a great shout of welcome went up. While the monks and secular clergy formed themselves into two squares facing one another, a high chair covered with purple and cloth of gold was placed in the centre to accommodate the person of the Bishop. He seated himself, and the canons of the Chapter draped themselves in a semi-circle behind him. A small chair had been set up for the King, and he took his seat surrounded by the officials of his household, his secretary, the commander of his armed forces, the master of the kitchen and the royal doorkeeper. Four slaves stood in readiness to run messages. Some paces away sat the Civil Service on two small stools which they had had the forethought to bring with them. The landowners and the few warriors who had survived the wars of the reign, stood alongside. The general public was kept at a respectful distance, and six of the soldiers guarding The Gray Mare were detached to keep them in order with the butts of their spears. The Gray Mare herself, now that she found herself at the water’s edge, seemed to have lost a great deal of her light-heartedness. She sat on the grass muttering to herself and rubbing her wrists and ankles, which had been untied by direction of Father Furiosus. The friar had been authorised to conduct the proceedings in virtue of his long experience of such matters and as a graceful compliment to him as a visitor to the city.
The ceremony began with prayer, at the conclusion of which Bishop Flanagan imparted his blessing to all. Then the elder of the Civil Service arose and read the indictment from a series of wax tablets. These were passed up to him as required by his junior from a heavy box in which they were neatly filed. The Gray Mare was asked whether she pleaded Guilty or Not Guilty, but no answer was forthcoming as she had impiously fallen asleep during the prayers with which the ceremony had opened. All efforts to awake her proved unavailing, and Father Furiosus explained that it was in no way to be deemed obstinacy and held against her, but was no doubt due to the fact that she had not been permitted to sleep during the previous three days and nights while the judicial examination was in progress. A sigh of relief arose from the crowd, who had feared for a moment that she was already dead, thus cheating them of their entertainment. Father Furiosus directed that a plea of Not Guilty should be entered; the Civil Service sharpened a fine stake of wood with his hunting knife and made the entry in a neat hand on a fresh wax tablet. A short argument developed at this point: the Bishop intervening to urge that the silence of the accused should be construed as an admission of her guilt, that the dipping should be abandoned as unnecessary, and The Gray Mare carried back immediately to the town for judicial burning. The Bishop’s sugges
tion found great favour with the crowd, who expressed their agreement at the top of their voices until most of them were hoarse, but Father Furiosus was able to quote numerous passages from the Fathers to prove that his procedure was correct. The Bishop sat back in his chair, an unusual flush in his sallow face. The friar then addressed the crowd and indicated that he would break the back of the next man or woman who impiously interrupted the proceedings. He returned to his place and bowed to Bishop Flanagan, who with a slight movement of his hand directed that the ceremony should continue. The friar, thereupon, delivered an oration on the damnable nature of witchcraft, pointing out that it was laid down by Moses that no witch should be permitted to live. He underlined his discourse with numerous quotations from the Scriptures and from the Fathers of the Church proving the existence of witches and setting out the proper methods for their disposal. He concluded by explaining clearly the nature of the present proceedings, and reminded his audience in forceful words that The Gray Mare was not yet a proven witch. She was merely undergoing trial. They had adopted a sure method of ascertaining whether or not she was guilty, a method proved on countless occasions, a method never known to fail. If, when thrown into the water, the water rejected her; that is, if she floated, it was certain proof that she was a witch, and she would be handed over for burning to the secular arm, as the Church itself never polluted its hands with blood. If, on the other hand, she visibly and truly sank, it was proof of her innocence; and she would be released to return to her home without a stain on her character. The friar concluded his peroration with a stern command to the crowd to maintain order and not become excited. His speech made a powerful impression, and the atmosphere was tense as he turned to supervise the final proceeding.
