The Devil's Rosary

by Seabury Quinn

  “I got some water from the bathroom and washed her poor, bruised face and bathed her wrists and temples. Then I found some fresh pajamas in her bag. Presently she waked, but didn’t seem to know me. She didn’t speak, she didn’t move, just lay there in a sort of waking stupor, staring, staring, and seeing nothing, and every now and then she’d moan so pitifully it wrung my heart to hear her.

  “After trying vainly to revive her for a time I managed to get her clothes on somehow and lugged her downstairs to the car. Nobody was awake at that hour; nobody saw us leave, and I didn’t know which way to turn. Bladenstown is strange to me, I didn’t know where to look for a doctor, and there was no one to ask. If I had found one, what could I have told him? How could I explain Rosemary’s condition on her wedding night? You don’t suppose he’d have believed me if I’d told him the truth, do you?

  “So I turned back toward Harrisonville and all the time, as I drove, something inside me seemed to say accusingly: ‘It’s your fault; it’s your fault; this is all your doing. You wouldn’t listen to Aunt Deborah; now see what you’ve brought on Rosemary!’

  “‘Your fault—your fault—your fault!’ the humming of my motor seemed to chuckle at me as I drove.

  “And it was. Too late I realized how terrible the curse on our family is, and what a dreadful ordeal I’d subjected Rosemary to. My heart was breaking when I reached her mother’s house, and I couldn’t find the words to tell her what had happened. I only knew I wanted to get away to crawl off somewhere like a wounded dog and die.

  “Then, as I left the Winnicott house and drove toward the center of the city, something seemed to go ‘snap’ inside my head, and the next I knew you gentlemen had me in hand.

  “So now you know why I can never see Rosemary again,” he finished. “If I yield to my heart’s pleadings and go to her I know I shan’t be strong enough to give her up, and rather than bring that thing on her again, I’ll let her—and you, and all the world—think what you will of me, and when she sues me for divorce I’ll not contest the action.

  “Now tell me I’m crazy!” he challenged. “Tell me this is all the result of some shock you can’t explain, and that I just imagined it. I don’t care what you say—I was there; I saw it, and I know.”

  “Assuredly you do, mon vieux,” de Grandin conceded, “nor do I think that you are crazy, though the good God knows you have admirable excuse if you were. Non, I believe you firmly, but your case is not so hopeless as it seems. Remember, Jules de Grandin is with you, and it shall go hard but I shall make a monkey of this so foul thing which had no more discretion than to thrust itself into your bridal chamber. Yes, pardieu, I promise it!”

  5

  “I’M SORRY FOR WHAT I said about that boy,” I confessed contritely as we left young Whitney’s house. “but appearances were certainly against him, and—”

  “Zut, no apologies, my friend!” de Grandin admonished. “I am glad you lost your temper, for your suspicions, unworthy as they were, did furnish me with the very accusations I needed to sting him from his silence and force from him the explanation which shall aid us in our task.”

  “Explanation?” I echoed. “I don’t see we’re much nearer an explanation than we were before. It’s true Walter’s story corroborates Rosemary’s but—”

  “But I damn think I see the glimmer of light ahead,” the Frenchman cut in with a smile. “Consider: Did not you catch the two small clues Monsieur Walter let drop?”

  “No, I can’t say I did,” I returned. “As far as I was concerned the whole business was an unrelated hodgepodge of horror, meaningless as the vagaries of a nightmare.”

  “What of the remarks made by the visitant concerning its having come to claim its rights?” he asked. “Or, by example, the odd manner in which it addressed the young Walter as Sir Guy? Does not that suggest something to you?”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “Eh bien, I should have known as much,” he returned resigned. “Come, if you have time, accompany me to New York. I think our friend, Dr. Jacoby, may be able to enlighten us somewhat.”

  “Who is he?”

  “The curator of mediaeval literature at the Musée Metropolitaine. Parbleu”—he gave a short chuckle—“that man he knows every bit of scandalous gossip in the world, provided it dates no later than the fifteenth century!”

  THE LONG SUMMER TWILIGHT was deepening into darkness as we entered the walnut-paneled, book-lined office of Dr. Armand Jacoby in the big graystone building facing Fifth Avenue.

  The learned doctor appeared anything but the profound savant he was, for he was excessively fat, almost entirely bald, and extremely untidy. His silk shirt, striped with alternate bands of purple and lavender, was open at the throat, his vivid green cravat was unknotted but still encircling his neck, and a thick layer of pipe-ashes besprinkled his gray-flannel trousers. “Hullo, de Grandin,” he boomed in a voice as big and round as his own kettlelike abdomen, “glad to see you. What’s on your mind? You must be in some sort of trouble, or you’d never have made the trip over in this infernal heat.”

  “Tiens, my friend,” the Frenchman answered with a grin, “your perception is as bounteous as your hair!” Then, sobering quickly, he added: “Do you, by any happy chance, know of a mediæval legend, well-authenticated or otherwise, wherein some knight, probably an Englishman, swore fealty to some demon of the underworld, or of the ancient heathen days, giving him le Droit du Seigneur?”

  “What was that?” I interrupted before Jacoby could reply.

  The doctor looked at me as a teacher might regard a singularly backward pupil, but his innate courtesy prompted his answer.

  “It was the right enjoyed by feudal lords over the persons and property of their people,” he told me. “In mediæval times society was divided into three main classes, the nobility, with which the clergy might be classed, the freemen, and the serfs or villeins. The freemen were mostly inhabitants of towns, occasionally they were the yeomanry or small farmers, while the serfs or villeins were the laborers who cultivated the land. One of the peculiarities of these poor creatures’ condition was they were in no circumstances allowed to move from the estate where they lived, and when the land was sold they passed with it, just like any fixture. The lord of the manor had practically unlimited power over his serfs; he might take all they possessed and he might imprison them at his pleasure, for good reason or for no reason. When they died, whatever miserable property they had been able to accumulate became his instead of passing to their children. Even the burghers and yeomen were under certain duties to their lord or seigneur. They had to pay him certain moneys on stated occasions, such as defraying the expenses of knighting his eldest son, marrying his eldest daughter, of bailing him out when he was captured by the enemy. These rights were properly grouped under the term Droit du Seigneur, but in later times the expression came to have a specialized meaning, and referred to the absolute right enjoyed by many barons of spending the first night of marriage with the bride of any of his liegemen, occupying the hymeneal chamber with the bride while the bridegroom cooled his heels outside the door. Because of this it is probable that a third of the commoners’ children in mediæval Europe had gentle blood in their veins, although, of course, their social status was that of their mothers and putative fathers. The French and German peasants and burghers submitted, but the English yeomen and townsmen put one over on the nobles when they devised a law of inheritance whereby estates descended to the youngest, instead of the eldest son. You’ll find it all in Blackstone’s Commentaries, if you care to take the time.”

  “But—”

  Dr. Jacoby waved my question aside with a waggle of his fat hand and turned directly to de Grandin. “It’s an interesting question you raise,” he said. “There are a dozen or more legends to that effect, and in Scotland and northern England there are several castles where the progeny of those demons who exercised their Droit du Seigneur are said to dwell in secret dungeons in a kind of limited immortality. There’s one
Scottish castle in particular where the head of the house is supposed to take the heir-apparent into his confidence upon his coming of age, tell him the story of the family scandal and give him the key to the dungeon where his half-man, half-demon relative is cooped up. No one but the head of the family and his heir are supposed to have these keys, and only they are permitted to see the monstrosity. There’s a pleasant little story of the French wife of the Scottish laird who let her curiosity get the better of her, abstracted the dungeon key from her husband’s dispatch case and went down to see for herself. They found her wandering about the cellar next morning, her hair snow-white and her mind a blank. She ended her days in a lunatic asylum.”

  “Very good,” de Grandin nodded. “But have you any memoranda of such a compact being made and carried out for several generations?”

  “H’m,” Dr. Jacoby caressed his fat chin with the fat thumb and forefinger of his wide, white hand. “No, I can’t say I have. Usually these stories are buried so deep under additional legends that it’s practically impossible to get at the root-legend, but—hey, wait a minute!” His big eyes lighted with enthusiasm behind the pebbles of his thick-lensed spectacles. “There is an old tale of that kind; Queberon, or Quampaire, or some such name was the man’s and the demon was called—” He paused, pondering a moment, then: “No, it’s no use, I can’t remember it; but if you’ll give me forty-eight hours I’ll dig it out for you.”

  “Oh, my supreme, my superb, my so magnificent Jacoby!” de Grandin answered. “Always are you to be depended on. Your offer is more than satisfactory, my old one, and I am certain you are on the right track, for the modernized style of the name I have in mind is Quimper.”

  “Humph, that’s not so modem,” Jacoby answered. “I shouldn’t be surprised if it’s the original patronymic.”

  6

  TWO DAYS LATER A thick envelope arrived for de Grandin, and my excitement was almost equal to his as he slit the flap and unfolded several sheets of closely-written foolscap.

  “The legend you spoke of,” Jacoby wrote, “is undoubtedly that of Sir Guy de Quimper—probably pronounced ‘Kam-pay’ and differently spelled in the eleventh century, since there was no recognized system of orthography in those days—who was supposed to have made a bargain with a North England demon in return for his deliverance during the battle of Ascalon. I’ve tried to modernize a monkish account of the deal: Perhaps you’ll learn what you wish from it, but I must remind you that those monks were never the ones to spoil a good story for the truth’s sake, and when sufficient facts were not forthcoming, they never hesitated to call on their imaginations.”

  “The warning was unnecessary,” de Grandin laughed, “but we shall see what Monsieur l’Historien has to say, none the less.”

  Pray ye for daughters, oh ye womenfolk of Quimper, and ask the Lord of His mercy and loving-kindness to grant ye bring no man-children into the world, for a surety there rests upon the house of Quimper, entailed on the male line, a curse the like of which was never known before, and, priedieu, may not be known again till the heavens be rolled up like a scroll and all the world stand mute before our God in His judgment seat.

  For behold, it was a filthy act wrought by Sir Guy of Quimper, and with his words of blasphemy he bound forever the men of all his line to suffer through their womenfolk a dole and drearihead most dreadful.

  It was upon the day when our good Lord Godfrey of Bouillon, most prowessed of our Christian knights, with Good Sir Tancred and their little host of true believers smote the Paynim horde upon the plains of Ascalon and scattered them like straw before the winter blast that Guy of Quimper and his men-at-arms rode forth to battle for the Holy Sepulcher. Anon the battle waxed full fierce, and though our good knights rode down the infidel as oxen tread the grain upon the threshing-floor, nathless Sir Guy and his companions were separated from the main host and one by one the Christian soldiers watered the field of battle with their blood.

  And now cometh such a press of Paynim warlings that Sir Guy is fairly unseated from his charger and hurled upon the earth, whereat nigh upon a hundred of the infidel were fain to do him injury, and but that the stoutness of his armor held them off were like to have slaughtered him.

  Thrice did he struggle to arise, and thrice his weight of foemen bore him down, until at last, being sore beset and fearing that his time was come, he called aloud upon St. George, saying: “Ho, good Messire St. George, thou patron of true knights of Britain, come hitherward and save thy servant who is worsted by these pestilent believers in the Antichrist!”

  But our good St. George answered not his prayer, nor was there any sign from heaven.

  Then my Sir Guy called right lustily upon St. Bride, St. Denis and St. Cuthbert, but the sainted ones heard not his prayer, for there were one and twenty thousand men embattled in the cause that day, and one man’s plaint might soothly go unheard.

  Sir Guy of Quimper lifted up his voice no more, but resigned himself to Paradise, but an infidel’s steel pierced through his visor bars, and he bethought him of the pleasant land of England which he should never see again and of the gentle lady whose tears and prayers were for his safety. Then did he swear a mighty oath and cry aloud: “If so be none will hear my prayer from heaven, then I renounce and cast them off, as they have cast off me, and to the Saxon godlings of my forebears I turn. Ho, ye gods and goddesses of eld, who vanished from fair England at the coming of the Cross, hear one in whose veins courses Saxon Blood, and deliver him from his plight. Name but your boon and ye shall have it, for I am most grievously afeared my hour draweth nigh, unless ye intervene.”

  And forthwith came a rustling o’er the plain, and from the welkin rode a shape which eye of man had not seen for many a hoary age. All nakedly it rode upon a naked horse, and at its heels came troops of hounds which ran like little pigs behind their dam, and in its hand it bore a short sword of ancient shape, the same the Saxon serfs brandished impotently against the chivalry of our good Duke of Normandy.

  “Who calls?” cried out the fearsome shape, “and what shall be the guerdon of my service?”

  “‘Tis Guy of Quimper calls,” Sir Guy made answer, “and I am sore beset. Do but deliver me from out the heathen’s hand and thy fee shall be whatsoe’er thou namest.”

  Then up there rose a monstrous wind as cold as bleak November’s, and on the wintry blast rode Dewer. Old Dewer the ghostly huntsman of the North, all followed by his troop of little dogs, and with his good sword he smote them right and left so that heads and heads fell everywhere and scarce a Paynim stayed to do him battle.

  And when the heathen host was fled Old Dewer unhorsed himself and leaned above Sir Guy and raised him up and set him on his feet. But so was his aspect and so ill-favored his face that Guy of Quimper was like to have fallen down again in a swoon at sight of it but that he thought him of his oath, and making a brave face spake forth: “Name now thy boon for by the eyes of Sainted Agnes, well and truly hast thou earned it.”

  Whereat Old Dewer laughed full frightfully and said: “Upon thy two knees now kneel, Sir Guy of Quimper, and claim me as thy overlord and name thyself my vassal liegeman, holding thy demesne as of fee from out my hand, upon condition that thy line shall give me seigneur’s rights upon their bridal night, and this accord shall bind thee and thy heirs male forever unless such time shall rise as a woman of thy house shall stare me in the face and bid me hence from out her bower, which time I trow shall not be soon.” Thereat he laughed again, and the joints of Sir Guy’s limbs were loosed and scarcely could he kneel erect before Old Dewer and place his hands between the monster’s at what time he spake the words of fealty.

  Thus came Sir Guy’s deliverance from the Turk, but at such costs of tears as might almost wash out that woeful wight his guilt. For on returning to his home Sir Guy found there a son whose name was likewise called Guy; and when his marriage banns were published some one and twenty years hence, and with singing and dancing and all glad minstrelsy the bride was put to bed, lo forth f
rom out the empty air came Dewer. Old Dewer of the North, and claimed his right of seigneury. And forth from out her bower came the bride upon the morn, her cheeks all stained with tears and her hair unloosed, and in her eyes the light of madness. Nor did she ever speak sane word again.

  And when the time was come that young Sir Guy’s junior brother was to wed, Old Dewer rode forth from out the North to claim his fee, and thus for generation unto generation came he forth whenever and wherever the wedding bells did chime for one who had but one small drop of Quimper’s blood within his veins. But the women molested he not, for it was not according to the compact that the female line be cursed.

  But those of Sir Guy’s line who knew the curse forbore to wed, and some went into Holy Church, and by their prayers and ceaseless lamentations sought surcease of the curse, and others remained virgin all their days, according to the counsel of their elders, thus cheating that old fiend whose name is Dewer, surnamed the Huntsman.

  And some there were who taught their brides the words of power which should win freedom from the curse, but when the time was come they all cried craven, for where beneath the star-jeweled canopy of heaven dwells a woman with resolution to stare Old Dewer in the face and bid him hie himself away?

  And so throughout the length of years Old Dewer cometh ever, and when the womenfolk would drive him from their chambers their tongues cleave to the roofs of their mouths and they are speechless while he works his evil will, and never yet has there been found a bride who can retain her senses when from his foul mouth Old Dewer presses kisses on her lips.

  Pray ye, for daughters, oh ye womenfolk of Quimper, and ask the Lord of His great mercy and loving-kindness to grant that ye bring no man-children into the world, for of a surety there rests upon the men of Quimper a curse the like of which was never known before.

  I may add that I consider the story entirely apocryphal. There seems no doubt that the Quimper family once existed in the north of England, and it is highly probable some representative of the house went to the Crusades, since practically every able-bodied man was drained from Europe during that prolonged period of hysteria. There are also semi-authentic data showing that one or more ladies of the house went mad, but whether their seizures dated from their wedding nights or not I can not say. The chances strongly favor the theory that the monkish chronicler seized upon the incidents of the brides’ insanity to point out a moral and adorn a tale, and for lack of an authentic one, provided the story from his own imagination. There was at one time a decided movement among the English peasantry toward the worship, or at least a half-affectionate tolerance, of the old Saxon gods and goddesses, and it may well be the old monk invented the tale of Sir Guy’s compact with Old Dewer in order to frighten off any who expressed an opinion that the old gods might not have been the demons the Christian priests were wont to paint them.