Hades Convicteth Thee of Thy Sins
There is a quiet knock on his door, an entreating persistence searching for him. It had been repeated many times, and became louder as the inquirer drew near, "Parson Cullen? Milord… Parson?"
It is mid-day; Parson has remained upstairs in his office with his thoughts flailing about, thinking of Anne, the raid, and brief contemplations of his disregarded duties of the day. He is standing at his window looking down over the River Thames, observing the daily life of his church's surroundings. Dock workers loading a ship, a horse-drawn cart passing by beneath his window, a mother and child walking leisurely to a destination unbeknownst.
Briefly he looks over his shoulder to the door, and then returns his gaze to the goings-on below. His beckoned reply is harsh and demanding, but quiet; "Master Davenport? Enter, come in! What tidings hath thee for me? What sayeth Mistress Davenport of Anne?"
Stepping into the room, Master Davenport looks upon the man for whom he has searched, saying, "Parson….milord…the physician hath been summoned, but it is not for good tidings. Goody Anne…mine Hester reports of so much blood, and thine own Anne is no longer awaken'd, yet her breathe is toiled. I was at hand at the threshold of the door. Her cries as she laboured were so weak, milord! Parson, she needeth the Sacrament, her Final Anointing; please, go to her; forgiveth her sins and garner her passage to Heaven!"
"And of the infant? What sayeth Mistress Davenport of the child?" Parson's inquiry is whispered and distant as he attempted to hide his distress. His gaze continued looking downward to the river as he received this news.
"A boy, milord. God hath given Goody Anne a boy to this life. Hester tells of him to be small but his cries are lively. My daughter tends to the child as we speak."
"I give you my thanks, Master Davenport. You are a good man to deliver this news; I will attend to Anne momentarily. I need only collect my Bible and ministrations for her Last Rites. Please, find my maidservant, Agnes. Send her to give notice to Anne's father posthaste."
"Of course, Parson. Master Caldwell will be sought immediately." Master Davenport bade his leave of the Parson and turned quickly to find Agnes.
Parson's avowal was true enough as he did need to collect his vestments and items of the Sacrament; however he really wanted a moment alone to bolster his emotions. He had administered the Final Anointing a few times in his pastoral calling, but this would be different. This was his Anne for whom he must perform the task. He would don a facade, not allowing his sorrow to be evident. Parson's burdens were great, but they must be borne by him alone. He would not allow anyone to comfort him; he was the provider of comfort for his parishioners, and he could not let them see his anguish, his pain. He would be thought of as a weak and inferior man.
Sighing heavily, he crossed the room to close the door. He would have no witness to his grief. He moved back to the window and lowered himself to his knees, head bowed and hands clasped to ready for prayer. In hushed whispers, he pled to God. "Dominus pascit me, et nihil mihi deerit; in pasucuis virentibus me collcoavit, super auuas quietis eduxit me. Animam meam refecit. Deduxit me super semitas iustitiae propter nomen suum. Nam et si ambulavero in Valle umbrae Mortis non timebo mala, quoniam Tu mecum es, virega Tua et baculus Tuus, ipsa me consolata sunt. Parasti in conspectu meo mensam adversus eos, qui tribulant me; impinguasti in oleo caput meum, et calix meus redundat. Etenim benignitas et misericordia subsequentur me omnibus diebus vitae meae, et inhabitabo in Domo Domini in longitudinem dierum. (The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of Death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.) Father, Who art in Heaven, hear my plea; Thy daughter, my Anne, wilt be with Thee today. I pray her soul is pleasing to Thee, and Thou dost accepteth her unto thine own realm. Thou hath granted me, thy devoted servant, a son; grant me also the courage, the knowledge and ability to raise him up to walk with Thee. I pray my son learns the ways of Thine path of righteousness. Lord, keep him safe from treachery and evil, from those who partake in wicked iniquities and harmful sin. In Jesus' Holy name I pray. Amen."
~oЖo~
The cry of a newborn babe and hushed whispers are all he heard as he approached the door. Adorned in his black cassock, Parson John gave pause before entry, to steel himself for what he knew lay beyond. He leaned heavily against the wall, his hands busying on the beads. He had been an observer to this before. He had been nearby as a parishioner drew their last breath. He had heard the rattle of death emanating from lungs that struggled to continue living. It was his duty to be present, to ensure the dying delivered their final confession and they received the Holy Communion that would usher them into the hands of God. Whilst he cared for their souls, he never gave much thought to the person. He was not a personable man. His was a duty, a calling, for a higher purpose. He was simply a means to prepare for a finality, an end to this worldly life. He was young, and Anne was a woman not many years out of childhood herself, yea, but still far too young to be on her deathbed. It was unfathomable to be in such a position as now. Again he bowed his head to offer a silent prayer, knowing he must enter to bid his farewell to his love, his Anne. Pulling in a deep breath, he crosses himself in finality; giving in, but not yet ready to let her go. A brief thought passes through that there will be a raid tonight. His ire will be sated. There will be flames and the one who accursed him to this misery will be made to suffer the consequences of their sins. The witch will burn until the vestige of her earthly body exists as no more than ashes to be carried on the wind. Her soul will be ushered into Hell this night.
As he pushes the door away, the room falls to a reverent silence. They know why he has come. They know what she means to him. He looks to each person in attendance, and then moves to a coffer near to the door to place down the satchel containing his Bible, Holy Water and the Sacraments. The infant is not at hand, and yet he hears the cry. Perhaps in a nearby room, but not here. He can enter no further, stilling his legs next to the coffer. His eyes fall to the bed, his matrimony bed, there in the corner opposite him. The mid-day rays of the sun are casted across her feet, the shadow of the window pane elongated across the bed. Blood. There is so much blood. There are linens gathered in a low basket, wet and mottled red amidst the white. On the wooden planked floor as well are puddles of water tinged in blood. Anne is covered, but attended by the physician. Also present are Mistress Davenport and her handmaiden.
The physician regards him with sorrowed eyes, "Parson, she hath not much life left in her. I beseecheth of thee, administer the Sacrament! As I hath administered to her body, so ye must see to her soul."
Anger flashed across his face, his jaw set and eyebrows knitted in rage, "BE GONE! Out with the lot of ye all! Leave me to her! I will no further abide instruction with regard to her soul! I knoweth of it enough and will heare no more!" Extending his arm to point at the door, Parson could withhold himself no longer, his outburst sudden and fraught with deep torment.
The physician lowered his head in reverence as he walked, wiping his blood-stained hands on a towel during the movement. He stopped in front of Parson to look up at him. Addressing him gently, he informed the new father, "The last request of Goody Anne would be that thy son doth bear the name of 'Carlisle'. She aforementioned that you would know of her reasons."
The women cowered at Parson's bellowed demand, quickly stepping to the threshold and relieved to be excused from the impending death within. Giving one last look over his shoulder to Goody Anne, the physician bade his leave of the room.
A quiet scrape of wood against wood—the door meeting its frame—indicated he was once again alone. Parson dragged his boot laden feet across the floor as he moved toward the bed. Anne was beautiful still, though her appearance was ashen with the pallor of her own life's end. Bending to his knees at her bedside, he gingerly took up her hand into his own, and with his other hand brushed a lock of hair from her cheek. He cared naught that his breeches and pastoral robe settled into the stained water on the floor.
"My dearest Anne, ye will be held in the embrace of our Lord God this day. Thy soul is goode; thee hath pleased our Lord and lived righteously. I aught rejoice in this, and yet I can not find it within me to be so exultant. With all certainty I hath been accursed, and ye are yet made to stand in my stead. I shall make haste to garner atonement. The witch who hath caste this upon ye...nay, upon me, shall be justly punished.
"Rest, my beloved. Know that thy son will be a goode boy, a goode man. He wilt be made to know thee, to honor thee and thy memory.
~oЖo~
The woman's screams could be heard from quite the distance, "I beseecheth of thee, do not do this! Please, milord! I am a Godly woman...thee hath been misled!
Her hair was grasped tightly in his hand, the lace cap which had previously covered her head now lay on the floor. Parson's face was flushed red in absolute rage. She was pushed violently against the far wall of her simple home. She knew better than to fight back; her hands clutched her skirts tightly as his other hand grasped her throat.
He leant in to her with his nose close to hers, screaming in return, "Quiet! Be silent, ye foul heathen! Thou hath forsaken thy Lord God, and He hath charged me with your dispatch thusly!" Looking back over his shoulder, Parson's eyes searched the room. Finding him, he orders, "Thomas, bind this witch and gag her well that no further curses may escape her lips! Her blasphemous practicings will no more plague London, for this is our task at hand!"
Parson John,and Deacons Thomas Lister and Henry Somers had battered in the door in their fervor to quash a perceived threat to the residents in the district. Their intent would not be swayed and it was the mission of the church to eliminate evil, both real and imaginary. The good people of London needed balance and leadership. Parson knew himself to be that leader, and took up the role with all dedication. If one must be delivered unto hell to spare the rest, he was emboldened with the authority of the church to do so. His deacons would provide no questions in this regard.
"Witch, ye hath been charged and found guilty in the practice of witchcraft! A Godly woman hath been murdered by thine own evil cursings! My beloved...my Anne, hath too early been expired, her soul unto Heaven yester-day! She suffer'd with the wickedness brought on by a curse. It can be of no other source!"
"Nay, milord, a thousand times..nay! T'is not true! I am a widow, not a witch!" The woman croaked out her pleading denial, knowing already she was wrongly doomed to die at the stake. Fear riddled her old features, afixing them into utter shock, grimacing at the knowledge of her impending death.
"Open!" Grabbing her by the cheeks with one hand, Thomas, a large man of portly but intimidating build, forced his fat fingers and thumb between her jaws to open her mouth, and shoved a large wad of sackcloth into it. He then wrapped her head with leather cording to hold the sackcloth in place. Parson then spun her about, pushing her face against the wall while Thomas began binding her wrists, then her arms. There was no grace or care in the manner of which she was handled. Parson's hand was still grasping her hair tightly, and the other hand pressed into her spine between her shoulder blades, his fingers digging mercilessly.
"Henry, take her to the cart, Thomas and I will join you shortly. We will eradicate any existence of this heathen! Thomas, gather her clothes, bed linens, knittings, and furniture. It will all burn with her to-day! Her life as anyone knew of it will be no more!"
By now a curious crowd of onlookers had collected outside the door. They had seen this before, they knew the morbidity of what was to come. And yet, the curiousity still drew them in, the violent end of one's life a new wrinkle in an otherwise uneventful day-to-day existence. It only occurred often enough to keep them interested, keep them coming time and again for the same event repeated for the same cause and end. Through her bindings and gag, the woman still screamed, cried, twisted and thrashed in Henry's grasp, still pled for mercy that would not be in the coming. Her feet dragged uselessly as he pulled her toward her fate. Epithets were heard from the crowd, "Be damned, witch!", "Burn her, burn her!", "Scourge her!", "Blasphemer!" Henry harshly threw her into the back of the cart and, as he was clear, rocks began raining down in her direction. All the while her muffled screeching was carried into the melee of voices and shouts. As she righted herself to sit up, a large stone hit squarely to her forehead. Blood trickled down her face--mixing with her tears—and blinding her. She screamed behind her gag with the unrelenting missles hitting her again and again. Her body was becoming battered at the cruel hands of her neighbors. In the days prior, they believed her to be as upstanding and righteous as themselves. All it took was an accusation from their religious leader for them to view her in a different light. Parson was their conduit, their voice, to God. Surely he would know a witch by God's guidance.
"Henry," yelled a man from the crowd, "doth thee need help ridding this wretch?"
"Aye", called Henry back to him, "I want three able men into this abode, assist Parson in collecting the things of her life, throw them upon her into the cart. They will burn with her!"
In less than a quarter of an hour, the woman's cries quieted to no more than wimpers. Her strength quickly sapped from the abuse she received, as well as her advanced age. She was no young maiden, having seen at least forty winters in her lifetime. As a simple woman of a peasant's background, she knew not her exact age. She was buried beneath the few possessions of her life, at least now protected from the pelting of rocks. She ached in her back, her head, her wrists and arms, her bosom and leg. Angry red welts riddled her skin from deadly accurate strikes, as well she was painted in her own blood from the open wounds. She tried not to move her leg, as a small dagger was lodged in her upper thigh, pinning her skirts to her body. Whenever an item from her home was cast into the cart and upon her body, she inhaled heavily through the pain.
Upon his appearance, a quiet lull came over the audience. Standing in the threshold to look outside, Parson called in a raised voice, "Masters Somer and Lister, this place of iniquities is emptied. I shall return to perform a blessing." Addressing the crowd, he continued, "It will be cleansed of all evil-doings, until then let it be known none are to enter here!"
Quickly, two men came forward, bringing boards and nails to ensure Parson's decree. The entry here would be sealed.
Parson and Thomas climbed to the horse-drawn cart, and Henry mounted his horse. Together, and with the crowd following closely behind, they made the short journey to continue the woman's torture.
As if to add humiliation to the torment, her funeral pyre was constructed in the public square only a few roads over from her home. She would have a public death this eve, taunted further into her demise. Erected in the centre of the large plaza was a post surrounded by timber and dried grasses.
"Thee!" Dismounting from the cart, Parson pointed to two young men, likely still in their young teen years, "Remove the heathen's belongings, carry it to the pyre."
Five more added their strength to the two young men, quickly emptying the cart and unburying the convicted woman.
The mid-afternoon sun was hot, unyeilding with few clouds to cover the blazing heat. Parson stood in the cart astride over the woman, his cloak oppressing him futher with perspiration beading down his neck. Looking down at her, he saw the terror and pain reflected in her eyes. Smirking cruelly, he tapped his foot on her thigh, the one with the dagger still embedded there. She yelped futilely, her throat raw from attempted utterances prior.
Turning his attention back to the crowd, Parson addressed them thusly, "Hark, Goodmen! To-day ye shall bear witness to punishment of a heretic, a criminal of most heinous ways!" Pointing downward to indicate the woman, he continued, "This woman...this witch, hath caused, by means of witchcraft and curses, the death of an upstanding woman in our society! Many of thee, including mine own self, were sentenced to sick beds for a time. Mine own goodwife Anne Cullen, suffer'd this sickness cast upon her whilst her belly carried our son! Further was she tormented by bearing this child too early! This is an act of treachery borne of hatred by this woman at my feet! Whilst she was faced by my accusations she admitted as much to these atrocities." The woman's eyes were panicked and enlarged; she began shaking her head vehemently denying these charges, but no one could see her laying down in the cart. "For these, and by order of the Holy Church, she hath been found guilty of murder and wilt be made to suffer for her deeds! Remove her to the post, but take care, she will perish by fire!"
Slowly, the four dozen or so in the crowd began chanting, "Burn her, burn her, burn her!" The cacophonous melee of shouts fed the violence-hungry onlookers. Fervor induced by desire to see a woman wrongly punished stirred the people into action, no longer wishing to simply be by-standers waiting for the main event. They pushed forward, placing hands on the cart sideboards. Removing one side of the cart sidewall, three men harshly grabbed her, one by both hands and the remaining two by each foot. The man closest to the dagger in her thigh twisted it viciously then removed it, causing her to renew her screams and lamenting tears.
Parson, his face twisted in such malignant hostility, stood by to watch. They knew what to do with her, they had done it before. She was dropped before the post, her hands now scratching in the dirt. Futilely, she tried to drag her body away. She felt the snap of her arm giving way to the weighted boot that now stood on that arm. Heaving,she began to gag, desperately trying to clear her mouth and nose of the vomit that blocked her breaths, nearly made impossible by the sackcloth still shoved in her mouth. She was a pitiful sight, but no one gave pity. Her face and arms were bruised, broken, cut, and bloodied. As well she was covered everywhere in dirt, perspiration and blood.
Abruptly, the men pulled her up and dragged her to the post. A clump of her hair remained in one man's hand as he withdrew from her. She felt the biting sting of the dagger slicing down her back, tearing at her frock. Her own dress and shift was cut from her, leaving her stone-battered torso naked before the crowd.
"Parson, her drawers?" Yielding the blade, the man inquired whether he should cut away her undergarment pants.
"Nay, leave them to her," Parson replied bitingly.
Cries of "flog her, flay her open'd!" were added to the entreatiments demanding her incineration.
Two men (two of the same that carried her to the post) again grabbed her by each wrist, wretched screeching emitted from her. They dragged her to face her abdomen and chest to the post. They tied her at the wrists first, then wrapping a loose cording around her neck and the post to secure her there, yet leave her back exposed.
Above the din, Parson called, "Thomas, retrieve the whip from the cart, and begin lashing her!"
Suddenly, the long thin cut on her back from the dagger was joined by more, the pain intense and unrelenting. The woman winced and cried out muffled screams with each strike and crack of the hooked metal teeth embedded in the whip cording.
Fat Thomas, breathing labouriously with sweat pouring down his cheek and into his beard, turned to Parson to ask, "How many, milord?"
"Tire ye, anon Goodman? Hath not it been 12 lashes only thusfar? Give over to another, this witch wilt be made to know the wrath of God firstly, then she wilt feel the fyre of Satan's domain!"
"Aye, milord Parson." Thomas stepped back, handing the whip to another man who then continued with the flagellation.
"Halt!" He called for the whipping to cease. Parson had lost count after thirty-three lashes, but knew it was much more than that—if not doubled in the amount. The whip changed hands twice more after Thomas, their arms tiring from the repeated motion of casting the whip. Her body, both front and back, was striped and ripped in bloodied cuts. The seat of her drawers were shredded and bloodstained. The whip had, on a few strikes, wrapped around her side and reached her abdomen. The woman hung by the loose cord, her head craned upward toward the sky and her knees given out long before. She was quiet, but crazed out of her mind by the pain her body endured. By now, her torture had carried on for three hours and a half more.
Parson's glee could not be contained, a sickening sneer was on his lips whilst a cackle erupted from his throat. Her possessions had been tossed aside in haste to reach her from the cart. "Help me, take these wretched things to the stake!" Quickly, the people nearest gathered the meager items of her life; her clothes, knittings, and a few pieces of furniture, and tossed them haphazardly around her feet. The funerary pyre would be seen from great distances.
Whilst the woman's abuse carried on, a few in the crowd made ready a small fire nearby from which the stake's blaze would be started. The Parson turned to this fire now, taking up a large tree branch ablaze in flames, and brought it to the woman's tindered stake. A small flame lapped at the grasses, then erupted into an inferno moments later. There was a lull in the noise surrounding the plaza, then as the blaze grew, so did the shouts of the crowd. The accused woman writhed as best she could, feeling the intense heat begin to bubble her skin. The drawers on her legs burned away quickly, exposing the rest of her body and fueling the fire. Her lungs seared in white hot heat and smoke stenched of burned hair, boiling blood and searing fat. Finally, her conscienceness gave way to blackness. The fire ultimately reached 10 metres high, and her body continued to cremate into the night.
A/N: The term 'Goody' is an abbreviation for Goodwife, a precursor to Miss or Missus (Mrs.) commonly used between the 14th and 18th centuries. 'Goodman' would have been the male version, though never abbreviated to 'Goody' as that was only female specific. "Master" and "Mistress" are also terms commonly used to refer to a married older person above the age of 25. There existed a societal hierarchy related to these designations, should you care to delve into further understanding. Google is your friend. ;)
Keep in mind that the language you read in this story, especially early on, is meant to seem somewhat archaic. I am not perfect, but do consider myself to be a proficient word smith and there are instances where the spelling is correct for the 17th century. Please don't expend the effort to tell me that I misspelled a word or used the wrong verbiage. The language is aged to reflect the setting.
Prayer and ecclesiastical services prior to the 1800's, particularly conducted by a person of the cloth, would normally be spoken in Latin. For the sake of this story, I'll try to keep the Latin to a minimum. I do not speak it, but the Latin written in this story is accurate to what I remember from living in Italy years ago; it is written in stone walls in all the ancient cities there. Like I said, Google is your (my) friend! I'll try to include the English translation in parentheses as well as a more personal prayer—where warranted—to allow a sense of understanding the emotion and/or setting as it unfolds. The first prayer in Latin is the 22nd Psalm of the Bible, King James Version. More recent translations call this out to be the 23rd Psalm.