by Mervyn Wall
When he scrambled to his feet he found he was only twenty paces from the gates. A sea of horrified white faces stared out at him from between the wickerwork. The din of the bells was deafening, for the monks were ringing everything that they had got. As they watched the ragged, entirely black figure picking itself up off the road and come staggering towards the gates, they retreated precipitately, ringing their handbells like so many maniacs. Brother Patrick’s horror was such that he lost the use of his legs, and on the approach of the ooze- and slime-covered stranger, he pitched forward senseless. Father Crustaceous began a hymn in a thin, cracked treble; and those of the monks who were able to produce a sound from their throats, followed him in shrill falsettos. Quavering, the hymn rose and fell.
Fursey reached the gates and gripping the wickerwork desperately with his hands, he stared in, half-blinded with tears at the wide semi-circle of retreating monks and the prone body of Brother Patrick in the foreground.
“Let me in,” he cried. “I’m Fursey. Brother Fursey.”
The hymn stopped dead on a high note, but was immediately taken up with renewed vigour. If anything, the clangour of the handbells increased, and it was swollen by the pealing of the great bell of the monastery which Father Sampson had reached and was dragging at, as if he wanted to pull down the steeple. Again and again Fursey cried aloud for admittance, but on the semi-circle of white faces he could see only horror and hatred. Still holding fast to the wickerwork, he sank in a heap on the ground and buried his head, sobbing bitterly.
The singing and the rattling of the bells ceased suddenly as the Abbot Marcus strode out of the great church and forced his way through the crowd of monks.
“What’s the matter?” he demanded sternly.
“Fursey!” shouted a dozen voices.
The Abbot looked towards the gate; then his eyes fell on Brother Patrick, who had recovered consciousness, but had not enough strength in his arms to raise himself from the ground. In his efforts to rise the wretched lay-brother was scratching at the ground like a dog digging a hole.
“What’s wrong with Brother Patrick?” demanded the Abbot.
“Fright,” replied Father Leo.
“Some of you go and help him,” commanded the Abbot.
The monks looked at one another uncertainly, but under the Abbot’s fixed gaze two of the fathers stepped forward and advanced gingerly towards the gate. They lifted the prostrate lay-brother under the armpits and ran back quickly with him to the others, his feet trailing along the ground behind him. Father Sampson was with difficulty detached from the monastery bell-rope and instructed to practice his first aid on Brother Patrick.
The Abbot stood motionless gazing across the short intervening space to where Fursey lay slumped before the gate. A few of the older monks had crowded around the Abbot and were talking to him in urgent whispers.
“We all saw him! He flew over the hill and down the road on a broom. There it is, about twenty paces down the road, can’t you see it?”
For a long time the Abbot Marcus stood silent and like a statue, while the semi-circle of monks watched breathlessly. Then the Abbot moved. Brother Cook immediately burst from the crowd and flung himself at the Abbot’s feet.
“Don’t let him back,” he wailed. “Father Abbot, don’t let him back. If you let him back, there’ll be demons grinning at me from every corner of the kitchen.”
The Abbot paid no heed, but advancing slowly towards the gate, he began to pull back the wooden bolts. A murmur of horror arose from the monks. Marcus dragged the gate open and stepped out into the road. Fursey turned up a grimy, tear-stained face.
“Get up, Fursey,” commanded the Abbot.
Fursey struggled uncertainly to his feet.
“Come with me,” said the Abbot, and he led the way down the road to a grassy bank, on which he seated himself.
“You may sit down too, Fursey,” he said.
Fursey seated himself on a stone. Within the gates the horrified monks had fallen on their knees, and Father Crustaceous was leading the prayers ‘for the safety of our beloved father, the Abbot’.
“Now tell me everything,” commanded the Abbot. “Why have you left your wife?”
Fursey’s story took a long time. The shadow of approaching night deepened on The Pilgrims’ Way; a chill breeze moved among the rushes at the river’s edge and came stirring the long grasses by the roadside. From within the monastery gates the murmur of prayer arose and fell, and all the time the Abbot sat motionless looking into Fursey’s face as the story was slowly unfolded. Occasionally his eyes widened with surprise, but he spoke no word until Fursey had finished. Then he sighed.
“So it’s true,” he said, “that you flew over the hill on a broom. You admit that you’re a sorcerer?”
“Yes,” agreed Fursey. “I’m a sorcerer.”
For a long time nothing more was said. A rabbit emerged on the far side of the track, and stared hard at the two motionless figures before bolting again into its burrow.
At length the Abbot arose. He seemed stiff and tired.
“I can’t let you into the monastery,” he said, “but there’s a swineherd’s hut beside the river. You can sleep there for the night. In the morning we’ll talk further.”
Fursey thanked him profusely, and together they walked down to the hut by the river. When the swineherd was informed that Fursey was to pass the night in his hut, he manifested a marked disinclination to remain there himself. He volunteered to sleep out on the mountain if the monastery could not accommodate him, but the Abbot promised him a pallet within the gates, and assisted with his own hands in spreading the straw for Fursey’s bed. As he and the swineherd made ready to depart, Fursey from his couch in the straw suddenly seized the Abbot’s hand and kissed it. When the door closed behind them, he stretched himself on his warm, rustling bed, his face wet with happy tears.
CHAPTER VI
In the chill, unfriendly morning when the sky was yellowing in the east, the monk whom the Abbot had despatched to Cashel on his fleetest horse, arrived back at Clonmacnoise, jaded and travel-stained, at the head of a troop of armed men. The door of the swineherd’s hut was flung open, and Fursey was dragged out. He was thrown on his face, and his hands fastened behind his back with stout thongs. Fursey whimpered as he was pulled on to his feet and bundled into a high cart. The Abbot stood in the roadway, his face as if carved out of stone. Trembling, Fursey ventured to look at him.
“I must do my duty like every other man,” said the Abbot. “You have admitted that you are a sorcerer. Goodbye, Fursey.”
He turned and walked slowly back to the monastery while Fursey stood making little whimpering sounds as he watched the retreating figure. A soldier raised the butt of his spear and pushed Fursey on to the floor of the cart, where he lay in abject misery. The soldiers were more diffident about handling the broom. Four of them took it gingerly and quickly tied it to a second cart which had been provided for the purpose. Then the procession moved off rapidly, armed men riding before and behind.
It was a dreary journey, the cart jolting along the rocky road, mile after mile, while the sun arose, became enmeshed in patches of grey cloud and was finally lost in the overcast sky. The thin rain fell, wetting Fursey through and through. He lay prostrate on the floor of the cart, more a suffering animal than a man, more a dumb, lifeless thing than an animal. They paused about mid-day beneath some overhanging trees, the soldiers crouching for shelter from the rain while they ate ravenously their small ration of bread and stopped to drink at a wayside well. No one came to feed Fursey. They moved off again through the thin mist, the horses steaming, their riders cursing and yanking at the bits every time they stumbled. Mile after weary mile was left behind, and it was late in the evening when the exhausted cavalcade arrived at the northern gate of Cashel.
The torchlight shone on the ruddy faces of the guards as the wicker gates were dragged open, and the troop moved slowly between the cabins to draw rein finally before the cluster of
monastic huts which occupied a quarter of the area of the city. Fursey was hoisted from the cart; and as he was too stiff to walk, he was carried within the enclosure, down a flight of steps, and into a cave-like cell which had been excavated deep in the earth. He was flung on a crude pallet, where he lay motionless. His captors untied his limbs, and closing the door behind them, left him in darkness. Hour after hour he lay in his wet clothes shivering with cold and misery, until at last sleep came, and he slumbered fitfully.
On the following morning Bishop Flanagan breakfasted heartily on eels’ meat and stirabout, washed down by a flagon of black ale. Father Furiosus was early in attendance, and when he had kissed the Bishop’s ring, he wryly sipped the dregs of ale which the hospitable prelate poured into a cup for him. A slave was despatched to the Royal House with a message that the Bishop desired the presence of the King. Cormac lost no time, but came galloping in his chariot down the hill from his own house and up the hill to the Bishop’s Palace. Stable boys ran to hold the restive steeds and assist the monarch to alight. Cormac entered the Palace and the Bishop’s presence with all the dignity possible to a man only five feet in height. After the usual courtesies the three seated themselves, and the Bishop broached the matter in hand.
“I have given the affair much thought,” began the prelate, “and I have no doubt whatever but that we have in custody a wizard of the most subtle character imaginable. Father Furiosus and I have met this man before, and his seeming innocence is in the highest degree deceptive. For twenty years he has succeeded in deceiving the worthy monks at Clonmacnoise and in convincing them that he is a man of exemplary virtue. When I presided at his nuptials a few days ago, having a quick capacity I did vehemently suspect him, for I felt that such innocence and simplicity as he manifested were altogether out of the course of nature; but I allowed myself to be persuaded by the Abbot Marcus, whom this odious sorcerer appears to have thoroughly befooled. We have had ample evidence that the countryside is abounding fearfully in witches and wizards. They will have us all properly bedevilled unless we take immediate steps to thwart their direful and insupportable activities. I believe this man, Fursey, to be the Master and Prince of the satanic coven which operates in this neighbourhood. The good God has delivered him into our hands. Nothing remains but to torment him as grievously as can be devised, prior to burning him alive and scattering his ashes to the wind.”
King Cormac nodded sagaciously, but deemed it wise to say nothing until a question was addressed to him. Father Furiosus shifted his great bulk on his stool.
“Of course,” he said heavily, “the wretched man is entitled to a fair trial.”
“He’ll get it,” snapped the Bishop. “A fair trial and a quick burning, but first we must sift him as wheat: he must undergo the question, ordinary and extraordinary.”
“The matter of torture hardly arises,” observed the friar, “if he admits his guilt, as I understand he does.”
The Bishop’s underlip began to vibrate with a curious jerking motion as he sensed opposition.
“What about his accomplices in the monstrous and detestable art?” he asked with acrimony. “Only by the most prolonged and excruciating torments can we hope to wring from him the names of the members of his coven, so that we may utterly destroy the infernal regiment and prevent thousands of innocent people being carried away to their final confusion. Don’t you agree with me?” he asked, turning sharply to the King.
“Of course, my lord,” answered Cormac hurriedly.
“It needs thought,” retorted Furiosus obstinately, “but first of all one of us should visit him in his cell to ascertain from his own lips whether or not he is pleading guilty to the dire charges that are laid against him. Procedure in these matters has been fixed by centuries of traditional practice, and it would ill behove us to depart from what is usual. I know that your lordship would not wish to break with the established tradition of the Church.”
“Of course not,” said the Bishop hastily. “God forbid!”
“Then no doubt your lordship will wish to undertake the examination personally?”
The Bishop stirred uncomfortably. “Is it not the case,” he asked hesitantly, “that sorcerers, even when they are in custody, are sometimes dangerous to those that approach them?”
“Sorcerers are always dangerous,” replied Furiosus smoothly.
The Bishop’s eyes shifted nervously from the placid face of the friar to that of King Cormac.
“I imagine,” he said, “that the King, as representative of the civil arm, should undertake the holy duty of interviewing and questioning the prisoner.”
“I plead to be excused,” exclaimed the King. “I know nothing of witchcraft, or of how these people should be examined. Father Furiosus is experienced in these matters. He is licensed by the Synod of Kells to search for necromancers and conjurors. Surely it is but commonsense to let him conduct the proceedings, seeing that he has conducted many such examinations without hurt to himself.”
“Well, Furiosus?” said the Bishop.
“I will conduct the preliminary examination if your lordship wishes it,” replied the friar, “but only on one condition.”
“You presume to make conditions with me,” asked the Bishop hotly.
“I do,” rejoined Furiosus, pushing out his red, stubbly jowl determinedly. “I beg respectfully to remind you that I am licensed for this work by a Synod of the Church, and that I’m merely a visitor in your lordship’s diocese, and as such not subject to your lordship’s jurisdiction. If your lordship does not wish to make use of my services, I shall betake myself to another diocese where perhaps my work will be accorded greater appreciation.”
The Bishop bent a sour gaze on the sturdy friar.
“What is the condition on which you insist?” he enquired at last.
“I’m a man,” said Furiosus, “who is not accustomed to do things by halves. If I’m to conduct the preliminary examination of this man, I must have charge of the entire proceedings—his trial, torture and execution.”
For some moments the Bishop hesitated.
“Very well,” he agreed grudgingly.
“Order the prisoner to be conveyed here,” said Furiosus. “I’ll examine him in your presence and in the presence of the King.”
“But is not the proximity of a sorcerer dangerous in the extreme?” began the Bishop.
“Not when one knows how to handle him,” retorted the friar. “He should be led here with his hands tied and with an adequate armed guard.”
When Fursey was dragged out of his dank cell, he stood at first blinking in the light of day while the soldiers pinioned his hands behind his back. As they led him between the huts and up the incline to the Bishop’s Palace, he began to notice the motley groups of people in the streets and the unusual hubbub. A many-coloured stream of life was pouring into the settlement, for it had been noised far abroad that a master-sorcerer had been taken. As Fursey was led past, the crowds withdrew hastily into the shadows between the cabins, from which they watched him with livid faces. With sick apprehension he observed a file of men sedulously toiling up the incline bowed beneath bundles of brushwood, which they cast on a great pyre in the open space in front of the Bishop’s dwelling.
In the audience chamber King Cormac had taken a seat in that corner of the room furthest from the door through which the odious sorcerer was to be led, while Furiosus stood boldly in the centre with his hands on his hips. The Bishop sat on his gilded throne and fixed on Fursey a penetrating and animated eye. Cramp seized both of Fursey’s legs as he encountered the Bishop’s gaze, and he had to be supported by a soldier on either side.
“We have a repertoire of the most exquisite tortures,” began the Bishop in a hard metallic voice. “If you fail to answer our questions to our satisfaction, I’ll have you most strangely tormented until your blood and marrow spout forth in great abundance.”
The hinges of Fursey’s knees gave away, and he fell on the floor. The two soldiers dragged him to hi
s feet and held him in an upright position facing his lordship.
“Have you ever heard of the torture of the Pilliwinckes upon the fingers,” asked the prelate, “or the binding and wrenching of the head with cord?”
“My lord bishop,” remonstrated Father Furiosus. The Bishop was silent as the friar stepped up to the quaking Fursey.
“Wretched man,” thundered Furiosus, “you are accused of being one of a swarm of wizards and witches that infest this territory and hover abroad at night in the foul and murky air. You are accused of being a man of wonderfully evil and pernicious example, guilty of deeds foul, unheard of, and productive of ill. What have you to say to these accusations?”
Fursey returned the gaze of his questioner, but was unable to speak. He was experiencing an intense weakness in all his limbs, and a swooning sensation came over him. Father Furiosus retired a few paces to consult with the Bishop.
“It’s remarkable that he attempts no answer to these grave charges,” he said. “Most sorcerers are hot in denial. I do remember that the Abbot Marcus told us that this man was afflicted at one time with an impediment in his speech. Could that be the reason for this strange silence?”
“No,” replied the Bishop. “It’s perversity, or a ruse to defeat the ends of justice.”
King Cormac, who was becoming frightened in his corner of the room, crept forward to the foot of the Bishop’s throne so as to be near the others.
