Brian wearied Heaven with prayers; he had Masses innumerable said on their behalf; he gave alms to all the churches of Wallingford for the poor; he made benefactions to Reading Abbey and the neighbouring religious houses; he helped to enrich the newly-built church of Cholsey, built upon the ruins of the edifice the Danes had burnt. But still Heaven was obdurate, the boys did not recover, and he had to part with the delight of his eyes.
And then ensued a sudden collapse of faith. He ceased to pray. God heard not prayer: perhaps there was no God; and he ceased from his good deeds, gave no alms, neglected Divine service, and became a sceptic in heart—secretly, however, for whatever a man might think in his heart in those days of ecclesiastical power, the doughtiest baron would hesitate to avow scepticism; men would condone, as, alas, many do now, an irreligious life, full of deeds of evil, if only the evil-doer professed to believe in the dominant Creed.
When a man ceases to believe in God, he generally comes to believe in the Devil. Men must have a belief of some sort; so in our day, men who find Christianity too difficult, take to table turning, and like phenomena, and practise necromancy of a mild description.
So it was then. Ceasing to believe in God, Brian Fitz-Count believed in witches.
The intense hatred of witchcraft, begotten of dread, which kindled the blazing funeral pyres of myriads of people, both guilty—at least in intention—and innocent of the black art, had not yet attained its height.
Pope Innocent had not yet pronounced his fatal decree. The witch inquisitors had not yet started on their peregrinations, Hopkins had yet to be born, and so the poor crazed nun who had done no one any harm, whom wise men thought mad, and foolish ones inspired, was allowed to burrow at Cwichelm's Hlawe.
And many folk resorted to her, to make inquiries about lost property, lost kinsfolk, the present and the future. Amongst others, a seneschal of Wallingford, who had lost a valuable signet ring belonging to his lord.
"On your return to the castle seize by the throat the first man you meet after you pass the portals. He will have the ring."
And the first man the seneschal met was a menial employed to sweep and scour the halls; him without fear he seized by the throat. "Give me the ring thou hast found," and lo, the affrighted servitor, trembling, drew it forth and restored it.