The Lancashire Witches by William Harrison Ainsworth

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The abbot made no reply, for Braddyll's allusion conjured up a sombre
train of thought within his breast, awakening apprehensions which he
could neither account for, nor shake off. Meanwhile, the cavalcade
slowly approached the north-east gateway of the abbey--passing through
crowds of kneeling and sorrowing bystanders;--but so deeply was the
abbot engrossed by the one dread idea that possessed him, that he saw
them not, and scarce heard their woful lamentations. All at once the
cavalcade stopped, and the sheriff rode on to the gate, in the opening
of which some ceremony was observed. Then it was that Paslew raised his
eyes, and beheld standing before him a tall man, with a woman beside him
bearing an infant in her arms. The eyes of the pair were fixed upon him
with vindictive exultation. He would have averted his gaze, but an
irresistible fascination withheld him.

"Thou seest all is prepared," said Demdike, coming close up the mule on
which Paslew was mounted, and pointing to the gigantic gallows, looming
above the abbey walls; "wilt them now accede to my request?" And then he
added, significantly--"on the same terms as before."

The abbot understood his meaning well. Life and freedom were offered him
by a being, whose power to accomplish his promise he did not doubt. The
struggle was hard; but he resisted the temptation, and answered
firmly,--

"No."

"Then die the felon death thou meritest," cried Bess, fiercely; "and I
will glut mine eyes with the spectacle."

Incensed beyond endurance, the abbot looked sternly at her, and raised
his hand in denunciation. The action and the look were so appalling,
that the affrighted woman would have fled if her husband had not
restrained her.

"By the holy patriarchs and prophets; by the prelates and confessors; by
the doctors of the church; by the holy abbots, monks, and eremites, who
dwelt in solitudes, in mountains, and in caverns; by the holy saints and
martyrs, who suffered torture and death for their faith, I curse thee,
witch!" cried Paslew. "May the malediction of Heaven and all its hosts
alight on the head of thy infant--"

"Oh! holy abbot," shrieked Bess, breaking from her husband, and flinging
herself at Paslew's feet, "curse me, if thou wilt, but spare my innocent
child. Save it, and we will save thee."

"Avoid thee, wretched and impious woman," rejoined the abbot; "I have
pronounced the dread anathema, and it cannot be recalled. Look at the
dripping garments of thy child. In blood has it been baptised, and
through blood-stained paths shall its course be taken."

"Ha!" shrieked Bess, noticing for the first time the ensanguined
condition of the infant's attire. "Cuthbert's blood--oh!"

"Listen to me, wicked woman," pursued the abbot, as if filled with a
prophetic spirit. "Thy child's life shall be long--beyond the ordinary
term of woman--but it shall be a life of woe and ill."

"Oh! stay him--stay him; or I shall die!" cried Bess.

But the wizard could not speak. A greater power than his own apparently
overmastered him.

"Children shall she have," continued the abbot, "and children's
children, but they shall be a race doomed and accursed--a brood of
adders, that the world shall flee from and crush. A thing accursed, and
shunned by her fellows, shall thy daughter be--evil reputed and evil
doing. No hand to help her--no lip to bless her--life a burden; and
death--long, long in coming--finding her in a dismal dungeon. Now,
depart from me, and trouble me no more."

Bess made a motion as if she would go, and then turning, partly round,
dropped heavily on the ground. Demdike caught the child ere she fell.

"Thou hast killed her!" he cried to the abbot.

"A stronger voice than mine hath spoken, if it be so," rejoined Paslew.
"_Fuge miserrime, fuge malefice, quia judex adest iratus_."

At this moment the trumpet again sounded, and the cavalcade being put in
motion, the abbot and his fellow-captives passed through the gate.

Dismounting from their mules within the court, before the chapter-house,
the captive ecclesiastics, preceded by the sheriff were led to the
principal chamber of the structure, where the Earl of Derby awaited
them, seated in the Gothic carved oak chair, formerly occupied by the
Abbots of Whalley on the occasions of conferences or elections. The earl
was surrounded by his officers, and the chamber was filled with armed
men. The abbot slowly advanced towards the earl. His deportment was
dignified and firm, even majestic. The exaltation of spirit, occasioned
by the interview with Demdike and his wife, had passed away, and was
succeeded by a profound calm. The hue of his cheek was livid, but
otherwise he seemed wholly unmoved.

The ceremony of delivering up the bodies of the prisoners to the earl
was gone through by the sheriff, and their sentences were then read
aloud by a clerk. After this the earl, who had hitherto remained
covered, took off his cap, and in a solemn voice spoke:--

"John Paslew, somewhile Abbot of Whalley, but now an attainted and
condemned felon, and John Eastgate and William Haydocke, formerly
brethren of the same monastery, and confederates with him in crime, ye
have heard your doom. To-morrow you shall die the ignominious death of
traitors; but the king in his mercy, having regard not so much to the
heinous nature of your offences towards his sovereign majesty as to the
sacred offices you once held, and of which you have been shamefully
deprived, is graciously pleased to remit that part of your sentence,
whereby ye are condemned to be quartered alive, willing that the hearts
which conceived so much malice and violence against him should cease to
beat within your own bosoms, and that the arms which were raised in
rebellion against him should be interred in one common grave with the
trunks to which they belong."

"God save the high and puissant king, Henry the Eighth, and free him
from all traitors!" cried the clerk.

"We humbly thank his majesty for his clemency," said the abbot, amid the
profound silence that ensued; "and I pray you, my good lord, when you
shall write to the king concerning us, to say to his majesty that we
died penitent of many and grave offences, amongst the which is chiefly
that of having taken up arms unlawfully against him, but that we did so
solely with the view of freeing his highness from evil counsellors, and
of re-establishing our holy church, for the which we would willingly
die, if our death might in anywise profit it."

"Amen!" exclaimed Father Eastgate, who stood with his hands crossed upon
his breast, close behind Paslew. "The abbot hath uttered my sentiments."

"He hath not uttered mine," cried Father Haydocke. "I ask no grace from
the bloody Herodias, and will accept none. What I have done I would do
again, were the past to return--nay, I would do more--I would find a way
to reach the tyrant's heart, and thus free our church from its worst
enemy, and the land from a ruthless oppressor."

"Remove him," said the earl; "the vile traitor shall be dealt with as he
merits. For you," he added, as the order was obeyed, and addressing the
other prisoners, "and especially you, John Paslew, who have shown some
compunction for your crimes, and to prove to you that the king is not
the ruthless tyrant he hath been just represented, I hereby in his name
promise you any boon, which you may ask consistently with your
situation. What favour would you have shown you?"

The abbot reflected for a moment.

"Speak thou, John Eastgate," said the Earl of Derby, seeing that the
abbot was occupied in thought.

"If I may proffer a request, my lord," replied the monk, "it is that our
poor distraught brother, William Haydocke, be spared the quartering
block. He meant not what he said."

"Well, be it as thou wilt," replied the earl, bending his brows, "though
he ill deserves such grace. Now, John Paslew, what wouldst thou?"

Thus addressed, the abbot looked up.

"I would have made the same request as my brother, John Eastgate, if he
had not anticipated me, my lord," said Paslew; "but since his petition
is granted, I would, on my own part, entreat that mass be said for us in
the convent church. Many of the brethren are without the abbey, and, if
permitted, will assist at its performance."

"I know not if I shall not incur the king's displeasure in assenting,"
replied the Earl of Derby, after a little reflection; "but I will hazard
it. Mass for the dead shall be said in the church at midnight, and all
the brethren who choose to come thither shall be permitted to assist at
it. They will attend, I doubt not, for it will be the last time the
rites of the Romish Church will be performed in those Walls. They shall
have all required for the ceremonial."

"Heaven's blessings on you, my lord," said the abbot.

"But first pledge me your sacred word," said the earl, "by the holy
office you once held, and by the saints in whom you trust, that this
concession shall not be made the means of any attempt at flight."

"I swear it," replied the abbot, earnestly.

"And I also swear it," added Father Eastgate.

"Enough," said the earl. "I will give the requisite orders. Notice of
the celebration of mass at midnight shall be proclaimed without the
abbey. Now remove the prisoners."

Upon this the captive ecclesiastics were led forth. Father Eastgate was
taken to a strong room in the lower part of the chapter-house, where all
acts of discipline had been performed by the monks, and where the
knotted lash, the spiked girdle, and the hair shirt had once hung; while
the abbot was conveyed to his old chamber, which had been prepared for
his reception, and there left alone.

CHAPTER V.--THE MIDNIGHT MASS.

Dolefully sounds the All Souls' bell from the tower of the convent
church. The bell is one of five, and has obtained the name because it is
tolled only for those about to pass away from life. Now it rings the
knell of three souls to depart on the morrow. Brightly illumined is the
fane, within which no taper hath gleamed since the old worship ceased,
showing that preparations are made for the last service. The organ, dumb
so long, breathes a low prelude. Sad is it to hear that knell--sad to
view those gloriously-dyed panes--and to think why the one rings and the
other is lighted up.

Word having gone forth of the midnight mass, all the ejected brethren
flock to the abbey. Some have toiled through miry and scarce passable
roads. Others have come down from the hills, and forded deep streams at
the hazard of life, rather than go round by the far-off bridge, and
arrive too late. Others, who conceive themselves in peril from the share
they have taken in the late insurrection, quit their secure retreats,
and expose themselves to capture. It may be a snare laid for them, but
they run the risk. Others, coming from a yet greater distance, beholding
the illuminated church from afar, and catching the sound of the bell
tolling at intervals, hurry on, and reach the gate breathless and
wellnigh exhausted. But no questions are asked. All who present
themselves in ecclesiastical habits are permitted to enter, and take
part in the procession forming in the cloister, or proceed at once to
the church, if they prefer it.

Dolefully sounds the bell. Barefooted brethren meet together,
sorrowfully salute each other, and form in a long line in the great area
of the cloisters. At their head are six monks bearing tall lighted
candles. After them come the quiristers, and then one carrying the Host,
between the incense-bearers. Next comes a youth holding the bell. Next
are placed the dignitaries of the church, the prior ranking first, and
the others standing two and two according to their degrees. Near the
entrance of the refectory, which occupies the whole south side of the
quadrangle, stand a band of halberdiers, whose torches cast a ruddy
glare on the opposite tower and buttresses of the convent church,
revealing the statues not yet plucked from their niches, the crosses on
the pinnacles, and the gilt image of Saint Gregory de Northbury, still
holding its place over the porch. Another band are stationed near the
mouth of the vaulted passage, under the chapter-house and vestry, whose
grey, irregular walls, pierced by numberless richly ornamented windows,
and surmounted by small turrets, form a beautiful boundary on the right;
while a third party are planted on the left, in the open space, beneath
the dormitory, the torchlight flashing ruddily upon the hoary pillars
and groined arches sustaining the vast structure above them.

Dolefully sounds the bell. And the ghostly procession thrice tracks the
four ambulatories of the cloisters, solemnly chanting a requiem for the
dead.

Dolefully sounds the bell. And at its summons all the old retainers of
the abbot press to the gate, and sue for admittance, but in vain. They,
therefore, mount the neighbouring hill commanding the abbey, and as the
solemn sounds float faintly by, and glimpses are caught of the
white-robed brethren gliding along the cloisters, and rendered
phantom-like by the torchlight, the beholders half imagine it must be a
company of sprites, and that the departed monks have been permitted for
an hour to assume their old forms, and revisit their old haunts.

Dolefully sounds the bell. And two biers, covered with palls, are borne
slowly towards the church, followed by a tall monk.

The clock was on the stroke of twelve. The procession having drawn up
within the court in front of the abbot's lodging, the prisoners were
brought forth, and at sight of the abbot the whole of the monks fell on
their knees. A touching sight was it to see those reverend men prostrate
before their ancient superior,--he condemned to die, and they deprived
of their monastic home,--and the officer had not the heart to interfere.
Deeply affected, Paslew advanced to the prior, and raising him,
affectionately embraced him. After this, he addressed some words of
comfort to the others, who arose as he enjoined them, and at a signal
from the officer, the procession set out for the church, singing the
"_Placebo_." The abbot and his fellow captives brought up the rear, with
a guard on either side of them. All Souls' bell tolled dolefully the
while.

Meanwhile an officer entered the great hall, where the Earl of Derby was
feasting with his retainers, and informed him that the hour appointed
for the ceremonial was close at hand. The earl arose and went to the
church attended by Braddyll and Assheton. He entered by the western
porch, and, proceeding to the choir, seated himself in the
magnificently-carved stall formerly used by Paslew, and placed where it
stood, a hundred years before, by John Eccles, ninth abbot.

Midnight struck. The great door of the church swung open, and the organ
pealed forth the "_De profundis_." The aisles were filled with armed
men, but a clear space was left for the procession, which presently
entered in the same order as before, and moved slowly along the
transept. Those who came first thought it a dream, so strange was it to
find themselves once again in the old accustomed church. The good prior
melted into tears.

At length the abbot came. To him the whole scene appeared like a vision.
The lights streaming from the altar--the incense loading the air--the
deep diapasons rolling overhead--the well-known faces of the
brethren--the familiar aspect of the sacred edifice--all these filled
him with emotions too painful almost for endurance. It was the last time
he should visit this holy place--the last time he should hear those
solemn sounds--the last time he should behold those familiar
objects--ay, the last! Death could have no pang like this! And with
heart wellnigh bursting, and limbs scarcely serving their office, he
tottered on.

Another trial awaited him, and one for which he was wholly unprepared.
As he drew near the chancel, he looked down an opening on the right,
which seemed purposely preserved by the guard. Why were those tapers
burning in the side chapel? What was within it? He looked again, and
beheld two uncovered biers. On one lay the body of a woman. He started.
In the beautiful, but fierce features of the dead, he beheld the witch,
Bess Demdike. She was gone to her account before him. The malediction he
had pronounced upon her child had killed her.

Appalled, he turned to the other bier, and recognised Cuthbert Ashbead.
He shuddered, but comforted himself that he was at least guiltless of
his death; though he had a strange feeling that the poor forester had in
some way perished for him.

But his attention was diverted towards a tall monk in the Cistertian
habit, standing between the bodies, with the cowl drawn over his face.
As Paslew gazed at him, the monk slowly raised his hood, and partially
disclosed features that smote the abbot as if he had beheld a spectre.
Could it be? Could fancy cheat him thus? He looked again. The monk was
still standing there, but the cowl had dropped over his face. Striving
to shake off the horror that possessed him, the abbot staggered forward,
and reaching the presbytery, sank upon his knees.

The ceremonial then commenced. The solemn requiem was sung by the choir;
and three yet living heard the hymn for the repose of their souls.
Always deeply impressive, the service was unusually so on this sad
occasion, and the melodious voices of the singers never sounded so
mournfully sweet as then--the demeanour of the prior never seemed so
dignified, nor his accents so touching and solemn. The sternest hearts
were softened.

But the abbot found it impossible to fix his attention on the service.
The lights at the altar burnt dimly in his eyes--the loud antiphon and
the supplicatory prayer fell upon a listless ear. His whole life was
passing in review before him. He saw himself as he was when he first
professed his faith, and felt the zeal and holy aspirations that filled
him then. Years flew by at a glance, and he found himself sub-deacon;
the sub-deacon became deacon; and the deacon, sub-prior, and the end of
his ambition seemed plain before him. But he had a rival; his fears told
him a superior in zeal and learning: one who, though many years younger
than he, had risen so rapidly in favour with the ecclesiastical
authorities, that he threatened to outstrip him, even now, when the goal
was full in view. The darkest passage of his life approached: a crime
which should cast a deep shadow over the whole of his brilliant
after-career. He would have shunned its contemplation, if he could. In
vain. It stood out more palpably than all the rest. His rival was no
longer in his path. How he was removed the abbot did not dare to think.
But he was gone for ever, unless the tall monk were he!

Unable to endure this terrible retrospect, Paslew strove to bend his
thoughts on other things. The choir was singing the "_Dies Irae_," and
their voices thundered forth:--

Rex tremendae majestatis,
Qui salvandos salvas gratis,
Salva me, fons pietatis!

Fain would the abbot have closed his ears, and, hoping to stifle the
remorseful pangs that seized upon his very vitals with the sharpness of
serpents' teeth, he strove to dwell upon the frequent and severe acts of
penance he had performed. But he now found that his penitence had never
been sincere and efficacious. This one damning sin obscured all his good
actions; and he felt if he died unconfessed, and with the weight of
guilt upon his soul, he should perish everlastingly. Again he fled from
the torment of retrospection, and again heard the choir thundering
forth--

Lacrymosa dies illa,
Qua resurget ex favilla
Judicandus homo reus.
Huic ergo parce, Deus!
Pie Jesu Domine!
Dona eis requiem.

"Amen!" exclaimed the abbot. And bowing his head to the ground, he
earnestly repeated--

"Pie Jesu Domine!
Dona eis requiem."

Then he looked up, and resolved to ask for a confessor, and unburthen
his soul without delay.

The offertory and post-communion were over; the "_requiescant in
pace_"--awful words addressed to living ears--were pronounced; and the
mass was ended.

All prepared to depart. The prior descended from the altar to embrace
and take leave of the abbot; and at the same time the Earl of Derby came
from the stall.

"Has all been done to your satisfaction, John Paslew?" demanded the
earl, as he drew near.

"All, my good lord," replied the abbot, lowly inclining his head; "and I
pray you think me not importunate, if I prefer one other request. I
would fain have a confessor visit me, that I may lay bare my inmost
heart to him, and receive absolution."

"I have already anticipated the request," replied the earl, "and have
provided a priest for you. He shall attend you, within an hour, in your
own chamber. You will have ample time between this and daybreak, to
settle your accounts with Heaven, should they be ever so weighty."

"I trust so, my lord," replied Paslew; "but a whole life is scarcely
long enough for repentance, much less a few short hours. But in regard
to the confessor," he continued, filled with misgiving by the earl's
manner, "I should be glad to be shriven by Father Christopher Smith,
late prior of the abbey."

"It may not be," replied the earl, sternly and decidedly. "You will find
all you can require in him I shall send."

The abbot sighed, seeing that remonstrance was useless.

"One further question I would address to you, my lord," he said, "and
that refers to the place of my interment. Beneath our feet lie buried
all my predecessors--Abbots of Whalley. Here lies John Eccles, for whom
was carved the stall in which your lordship hath sat, and from which I
have been dethroned. Here rests the learned John Lyndelay, fifth abbot;
and beside him his immediate predecessor, Robert de Topcliffe, who, two
hundred and thirty years ago, on the festival of Saint Gregory, our
canonised abbot, commenced the erection of the sacred edifice above us.
At that epoch were here enshrined the remains of the saintly Gregory,
and here were also brought the bodies of Helias de Workesley and John de
Belfield, both prelates of piety and wisdom. You may read the names
where you stand, my lord. You may count the graves of all the abbots.
They are sixteen in number. There is one grave yet unoccupied--one stone
yet unfurnished with an effigy in brass."

"Well!" said the Earl of Derby.

"When I sat in that stall, my lord," pursued Paslew, pointing to the
abbot's chair; "when I was head of this church, it was my thought to
rest here among my brother abbots."

"You have forfeited the right," replied the earl, sternly. "All the
abbots, whose dust is crumbling beneath us, died in the odour of
sanctity; loyal to their sovereigns, and true to their country, whereas
you will die an attainted felon and rebel. You can have no place amongst
them. Concern not yourself further in the matter. I will find a fitting
grave for you,--perchance at the foot of the gallows."

And, turning abruptly away, he gave the signal for general departure.

Ere the clock in the church tower had tolled one, the lights were
extinguished, and of the priestly train who had recently thronged the
fane, all were gone, like a troop of ghosts evoked at midnight by
necromantic skill, and then suddenly dismissed. Deep silence again
brooded in the aisles; hushed was the organ; mute the melodious choir.
The only light penetrating the convent church proceeded from the moon,
whose rays, shining through the painted windows, fell upon the graves of
the old abbots in the presbytery, and on the two biers within the
adjoining chapel, whose stark burthens they quickened into fearful
semblance of life.

CHAPTER VI.--TETER ET FORTIS CARCER.

Left alone, and unable to pray, the abbot strove to dissipate his
agitation of spirit by walking to and fro within his chamber; and while
thus occupied, he was interrupted by a guard, who told him that the
priest sent by the Earl of Derby was without, and immediately afterwards
the confessor was ushered in. It was the tall monk, who had been
standing between the biers, and his features were still shrouded by his
cowl. At sight of him, Paslew sank upon a seat and buried his face in
his hands. The monk offered him no consolation, but waited in silence
till he should again look up. At last Paslew took courage and spoke.

"Who, and what are you?" he demanded.

"A brother of the same order as yourself," replied the monk, in deep and
thrilling accents, but without raising his hood; "and I am come to hear
your confession by command of the Earl of Derby."

"Are you of this abbey?" asked Paslew, tremblingly.

"I was," replied the monk, in a stern tone; "but the monastery is
dissolved, and all the brethren ejected."

"Your name?" cried Paslew.

"I am not come here to answer questions, but to hear a confession,"
rejoined the monk. "Bethink you of the awful situation in which you are
placed, and that before many hours you must answer for the sins you have
committed. You have yet time for repentance, if you delay it not."