Not for five years have I touched her, O Christ!
The prison closed. The sky hung so still and hung so heavy! Lightning and thunder would be welcome, rising wind and splash of rain. Friday would be welcome. The bramble burned, the hindering, evil bramble, harmful to the sheep, vexful to the shepherd—“O Christ, is there hardness? But the field must be cleared of bramble. Aye, it is worse than bramble. Mandrake and hemlock and helebore, and the children are endangered!”
Montjoy saw Holy Well and the great picture, and that fine, fine reliquary of pure gold that rejoicing—Satan afar and all the mind in health—Brother Richard had wrought for the Rose, Montjoy bringing the gold. Yesterday Montjoy had gone to Silver Cross and to Holy Well. There had been pilgrims a hundred, and they kneeled, praying and singing. The day was fair as this was foul, and had bubbled and laughed that crystal well, sunlight into sunlight! They had cups of silver and of horn and of tree and of clay, and one by one they drank while the singing rose around. He, Montjoy, had seen a cripple fling away his crutch and stand and run, and a palsied man grow firm. “Who healeth them? Thou, thou, who truly didst appear to Brother Richard!”
Even now, in this oppressive day, under this dull sky, Montjoy felt again that exaltation. He looked around him and up to the lowering heaven. “Little, weak castle—murky roof of ignorance—yet is there clear power!”
The rain began to fall.
In the night-time, waking, he found horror with him, something cold, something forlorn and suspicious. It deepened. He left his great bed and Montjoy’s wife sleeping, put thick gown around him and went noiseless into the oratory opening from the great chamber, cold in the beams of a moon growing old. No peace! At the turn of the night, when afar he heard cock crow and his dogs bark, he determined that he would go that morning to confession to Father Edmund at Saint Ethelred’s. That was the sternest, the most dedicated, the most single of eye and will! To him he would confess everything that he would if he could save from her death the harlot and witch.
Morning came and all the castle took up busy and talkative life. Montjoy rode to Saint Ethelred’s. Father Edmund? Oh, aye! he would hear him, and Father Edmund thought. “Time that lords give over slothful and unwise confessors! Father Ambrosius hath forever done him hurt.”
Montjoy was long upon his knees. He accepted heavy penance, took shrift humbly, came forth from Saint Ethelred’s with a colourless face like a gem.
Riding back to the castle, when he came to prison street he turned his black horse and rode slowly by the dark prison. He had told Father Edmund all his thoughts and in the bale was the thought, “I will visit her there in that dungeon before Friday. Is not that Christian, O God, if my deepest heart that is now thine seems to bid me to go?” But Father Edmund had been greatly stern. “Satan wrestleth for thy deepest heart! Hear me now! It is forbidden! Go not to, speak not to that All-Evil! If thou dost she will draw thee with her into hell! Thou thinkest, ‘Once I was familiarly with her’, and cowardice and heartlessness now only to think and never to say, ‘God have mercy upon thee, poor soul!’ Son, son, that is devil’s bait! He will come and stand and ask thee, ‘Is it knightly?’ It is his wile, to clothe himself in light! As for the witch, she lacks not soul counsel! Since she was taken, each day have I preached to her. I will hold the cross before her chained to stake. She shall see it, lifted high, till flame takes eyes. But thou, my son, I lay it upon thee, leaving here, to ride by the prison, and to say as thou ridest. ‘Sin, I will no longer sin with thee, nor come into thy company!’ Say it!”