The Angel of the West Window Page 8

  Without warning he whirled round on Bartlett Greene, gave him a light tap with his toe and, like a panther pouncing, suddenly bellowed at him in a parade-ground voice:

  “Up!”

  Greene scarce raised an eyebrow. With a smile in his eyes he squinted up at the man who had ordered his body to be broken, drew a deep breath into his broad chest and roared back his mocking reply:

  “Too soon, o trumpeter of Judgment! The hour of the resurrection of the dead has not yet come. For lo! I am still alive!”

  “That I can see, thou abomination of Hell,” replied the Bishop in a remarkably gentle voice, full of priestly concern and contrasting both with the sense of his words and with his previous bellowing assault. And my Lord Bishop continued in the same mild tones:

  “Hear me, Greene: the Lord in His wisdom and His unfathomable compassion has provided that should you repent – and confess – your descent to the burning pitch of Hell may be postponed, perhaps even for all eternity. We will not cut short the time you have for repentance here on earth.”

  The only answer from Greene was a half-repressed, rumbling kind of laugh. I saw a spasm of fury cross Bonner’s face, but he had himself well under control. He stepped up to the miserable lump of maltreated flesh that was still twitching with silent laughter on the rotten straw and went on:

  “I can see you have the constitution of an ox, Greene. The search for the truth with the instruments of torture has merely twisted your body a little, when others would already have rendered up their stinking souls to Satan. I hope to God that our barber, or even the physician if need be, can patch you up again. You can trust in my mercy as you have come to know my severity: This very hour you can leave this sty together with –” the Bishop’s voice throbbed with a most cordial, persuasive purr – “your fellow sufferer here, good Doctor Dee, your intimate companion.”

  That was the first time the Bishop had taken the least notice of me. Now that he suddenly spoke my name I felt a shock run through me, as one who is rudely woken from some dream. For until that point it had seemed to me as if I was observing from a distance some flight of fancy, some play performed by the comedians that had nothing at all to do with my own fate. Now that was all over as the Bishop, gently but ruthlessly dragged me from my daydreaming onto the stage of this most cruel tragedy. If Greene confessed he knew me, I was lost!

  But scarce had the sudden horror at my precarious situation set my heart pounding and the blood throbbing in my veins than the imperturbable Greene turned his face towards me with incredible composure and growled:

  “A doctor? Here with me on this straw? – I thank thee for the honour, Brother Bishop. I thought thou hadst given me a tailor for company, one thou wouldst teach how fear makes the soul fly out at the breeches?”

  Greene’s insults were so unexpected that they wounded me in my old pride and I leapt up in real anger – none of which escaped the cold, observant eye of Bishop Bonner. But straightway I perceived honest Greene’s intent and was filled with a great calm, so that I played my part in the comedy with great aplomb and responded to my cues from Greene or the Bishop with an apt response.

  Although inwardly fuming that his panther’s leap had once more missed its prey, my Lord Bishop concealed his disappointment behind a snarling yawn that, indeed, recalled the baffled fury of a great cat.

  “You are sure, then, you do not know this man, neither in person nor by reputation, my dear Bartlett?” the Bishop went on in cajoling tones. But Greene merely replied in a surly mumble:

  “Would that I knew the chicked-livered poltroon, the milksop thou hast brought to my door, good Master Cuckoo. I would give much for my eyes to behold this whining cur precede me through thy flaming gate to Heaven – but that does not mean I will clutch any turd of a quacksalver to my bosom like thee, Cousin Bonner.”

  “Still thy blasphemous tongue, thou son of Belial!” – the Bishop finally lost control of his temper and screamed at Greene as a threatening clash of weapons came from outside the cell door. “Pitch and wood are too good for thee, thou first-born of Beelzebub! Thou shalt burn at the stake on lumps of sulphur so thou shalt have a foretaste of the pleasures that await thee in thy father’s house!” the Bishop shouted, livid with fury and grinding his teeth so that the words could scarce come out. But Bartlett Greene gave a peal of laughter and started to swing wildly back and forth on his broken limbs; the mere sight of it made me flinch in horror. “Thou’rt mistaken, Brother Bonner,” he brayed. “Sulphur is nothing to me. The French have a use for sulphur baths such as would not come amiss for thee, neither, coz – – but listen, my son: in the place where thou shalt come when thy time is up, mere sulphur is counted as musk oil, or as balm of Arabia!”

  “Confess, thou swine, thou demon,” Bishop Bonner flung back at him with a roar as of a lion; “confess that this John Dee is confederate in thy outlawry and murder or – – –”

  “– or?” echoed the mocking voice of Bartlett Greene.

  “The thumbscrews!” panted the Bishop, and warders and men-at-arms swarmed in. But Greene raised his racked body with a wild yell of laughter, proffered his right hand to the Bishop, then suddenly stuck the outstretched thumb between his teeth and bit it off at the root with one crunching snap of his mighty jaws and with a jeering cackle spat it into the horrified Bonner’s face, so that blood and spittle ran down from his cheeks onto his cassock. “There!” with a fearful shriek of laughter he roared, “there, screw that up your – – –” and a host of the most obscene imprecations cascaded over the Bishop, such that, even if my memory could retain the smallest part, yet my hand would refuse to write them down. In the main Greene was assuring the Lord Bishop, with the most loathesome promises, of the care and attention he would lavish on him from “the other side”, when he, Greene, had flown from the flames of the bonfire to the land beyond, that he called the “Green Land”. He would not tease or torment the Bishop with pitch or sulphur, oh no, he would repay evil with good and send to his “dearly beloved son” most sweet-smelling and irresistible she-devils, such as would make a Frenchman of any pope. And his every hour on earth should be spiced with the honey and gall of hell, for “on the other side” – – –

  “– on the other side, my lad,” – thus Greene finished his monstrous sermon – “shalt thou wail and gnash thy teeth in thy hell, and thy stench shall rise up to us from the mire, to us, the Princes of the Black Stone who are untouched by pain.”

  It would be impossible to describe the succession of dreadful thoughts, the stream of furious passions, or even the shadow of the horror that crossed Bishop Bonner’s broad face during this flood of curses. The powerful figure stood there as if rooted to the ground; behind him the rabble of mercenaries and turnkeys shrank into the darkest corners, for each and every one had a superstitious fear of the wall-eye, as if it were an evil eye that might put a curse on them for life.

  Finally Bishop Bonner roused himself and slowly wiped the sweat from his face with his silken sleeve. Then calmly, softly, but with a hot, hoarse voice, he said:

  “Think not thou canst teach me any new tune of the Arch-Deceiver, thou witch’s spawn. But thou remindst me to hasten, for such an evil demon should enjoy the light of Heaven’s sun no longer than is needful.”

  “Go thou”, was Greene’s brusque reply. “Take thy stench from my nose, carrion crow, the very air thou hast breathed needs purifying!”

  The Bishop gave an imperious wave and his henchmen rushed to grasp Greene. He, however, curled himself up into a ball, rolled over onto his broad back and stretched his bare foot towards them, at which they stumbled back. “See,” he shouted, “see the Silver Shoe that the great Mother Isaïs gave me. As long as I wear it I shall know neither fear nor pain. I have outgrown such childish frailty!” – – – I winced to see the foot had no toes; the naked stump looked like a crude metal shoe – the silver leprosy with its glittering crust had eaten them away. Greene was like the leper in the Bible of whom it is written: he was white as
shimmering snow. – – –

  “Plague! Leprosy!” shrieked the men-at-arms, throwing down their spears and rushing out of the doorway of the cell in mindless flight. The Lord Bishop stood there, his face yellowish-green with horror and repugnance, wavering between pride and fear, for even those learned in the art do count the silver leprosy the most contagious evil. Slowly the Bishop, who had come to slake his lust for violence on his miserable prisoners, retreated step by step before the approaching Greene who, thrusting his leprous foot forward, continued to spit out his scorn and blasphemy at the prince of the church. Bishop Bonner put a stop to it, though in no way that testified to his bravery; as he hurried to the door he gasped:

  “Even today this canker shall be consumed in seven-fold flames. And thou, thou accomplice of the lowest depths of hell” – the reference was to me – “thou shalt taste of the flames that free us from this beast, that thou mayest examine thy soul, perchance it can still be purified. It will be a merciful favour then if we hand thee over to the fire that burns for heretics.”

  That was the last blessing I received from the lips of the Bloody Bishop. I must admit that it gave rise to the most horrible fancies which sent me tumbling through chasms of fear and torment. It is said of the Lord Bishop that he has mastered the art of killing his victims three times: the first time with his smile, the second by his words and the third by the executioner; and truly, he subjected me to the most agonising martyrdom before the unbelievable miracle of my salvation saved me from the third death at the hand of that man. – – –

  Scarce was I alone with Bartlett Greene again than he broke the silence with a rumble of laughter and turned to me with an almost benevolent air:

  “Brother Dee, I can see your scalp crawling with fear, like a thousand fleas and ticks in your hair. But: as truly as I have done my utmost to free you from suspicion of association with me – good, I see that you do recognise it – just as truly can I say that you will escape from this trap alive; at most they will singe your beard a little when I am despatched to heaven. You must suffer it like a man.”

  Incredulous, I raised my weary head that was throbbing painfully with all the fear and anxiety I had been through. As so often happens when the soul is exhausted with an excess of excitement and calamity, I was suddenly indifferent to all around me, as if I was free of all care; I even laughed indulgently at the cowardly fear that had filled the Bishop and his henchmen at the sight of my cellmate’s “Silver Shoe” and, my defiant spirit aroused, I moved closer to the doomed giant.

  Greene remarked my intent and gave a strange grunt by which – with the sharpened ear shared suffering gives – I understood that the savage was moved by something that was, considering his utterly different nature, akin to human emotion.

  He cautiously felt inside his leather jerkin, which was all he had to cover his naked chest, and called to me:

  “Fear not to approach, Brother Dee; the gift of my gentle mistress is such that each man must earn it himself. I could not bequeath it to you, even if I would.”

  Once more his half-muffled laughter sent a chill down my spine. Then he went on:

  “So; I have played my part in denying the Romish priests the pleasure of discovering we make common cause. But I did it not for love of thee, my noble companion, but because that which I know and cannot change compelled me. For thou, Doctor Dee, art the royal youth of this age and to thee is promised the crown in the Green Land and the Mistress of the Three Kingdoms awaits thee.”

  These words from the mouth of a common outlaw struck me like a lightning bolt and I was hard put to it to keep my composure. Quickly my mind coupled the possible with the probable and at once it seemed to me I perceived the connection between Greene, a vagabond and necromancer, the witch of the moor of Uxbridge and Mascee.

  As if he could read my thoughts, Greene went on:

  “The weird sister of Uxbridge I know well, and the Tutor to the Czar of Muscovy, too. Beware him! He is a gambler; but thou, my Brother, shouldst rule of thy own design! The red and white globes, which thou threw out of thy window – – –”

  I laughed defiantly:

  “You are well informed, Greene; is Mascee, then, one of the Ravenheads?”

  “If I say ‘thou’rt wrong’ or if I say ‘it may be’ thou art none the wiser for it. But what I will tell thee is – – –” and the brigand detailed, by hour and minute, everything I had done in the night when the Bishop’s men had taken me and he described the very place where I had all my writings hidden, the place I dare not even confide to this diary. With a laugh, he told me things I had done which no man could know, as if he were me myself, or a spirit that had ever been about me.

  I could no longer keep back my astonishment and my secret horror of the mutilated leader of the brigands, the condemned man who laughingly commanded the most mysterious arts and powers; I stared at him and stammered, “You know no pain; you – so you say – enjoy the powerful aid of your mistress and goddess, that is named Black Isaïs, who can see the most secret doings of man, – how comes it then that you lie here in chains your limbs all torn and soon to be consumed by flames, and do not walk out through these walls by thy magical power?”

  Whilst I spoke Greene had taken from within his jerkin a small leathern purse which he held loosely in his hand so that it swung to and fro like a pendulum. He said with a laugh:

  “Did I not tell thee, Brother Dee, that my time is up according to our Law? As I consecrated the cats to the fire, so must I now consecrate myself to the fire, since today my years number three and thirty. Today I am still that Bartlett Greene whom they may torture, tear apart and burn, and it is that son of a priest and a whore that speaks to thee; but on the morrow I shall put that off and the Son of Man shall be the groom in the House of the Great Mother. Then shall the time of my reign be come, and all of you, Brother Dee, shall feel my rod as I rule in Eternal Life! – – – That thou shalt alway be mindful of these words and shalt follow my road, take this, my earthly wealth for thine inheritance – – –”

  The text of the diary has once more been deliberately damaged. It looks as if it was destroyed by John Dee’s own hand. But the nature of Bartlett Greene’s gift to him is clear from the first lines of the next passage preserved in the diary.

  (Scorch mark) – – – so that towards the fourth hour after noon all the torments that the Bloody Bishop could think up for his revenge had been made ready.

  When they had taken Bartlett Greene away and I, John Dee, had been alone for an half hour, I took out the gift yet again; it was nothing remarkable, a piece of black coal, about the size of my fist and polished in the form of a regular octahedron. I looked closely to see if there were not, according to the instructions of its former owner, images of present events in distant places to be seen on its gleaming faces, or even whether future happenings from my own life might appear as in a mirror. There was nothing of the like to be seen because, as I suppose, my soul was troubled, which Greene himself had said was detrimental to any such operation.

  Finally I caught the sound of the bolts being drawn back and quickly hid the mysterious coal in the innermost lining of my jerkin.

  Hardly had I done so than a troop of the Bishop’s heavily armed guards entered and my first thought was that they had come to execute me on the spot and without trial. But their purpose was otherwise; in order to break my obdurate spirit, I was to be taken to the fire to see Greene burn at the stake and be brought so close that that it would singe my beard. Perhaps Satan himself whispered in Bonner’s ear that Greene, in his mortal anguish, or I myself, confused by the terrible sight, might yet be brought to confess our complicity or some other deception. But he deceived only himself. I will not waste many words describing something that has been branded on my soul for life; I will briefly tell how the roasting of Bartlett Greene made a very different dish for the Bishop to swallow than the one he had pictured to himself in his desire to savour his victim’s torment.

  At the fifth hour
Greene mounted the pyre with such a spring in his step as if it were his bridal couch. And as the words appear under my quill, I am reminded of what he said to me, namely that he hoped this day to be the bridegroom of his Great Mother, by which blasphemous speech he doubtless meant his return to the bosom of his black mother, Isaïs.

  As they tied him to the stake he laughed aloud and called out to the Bishop, “Take care, priest, when I sing the Hymn of the Journey Home, that thou mind thy bald pate, for I am minded to sprinkle it with drops of pitch and fiery sulphur that thy brain shall burn until thou make thy own journey to Hell!”

  The bonfire had been constructed with cruel and devilish cunning, such as has never been seen before, nor, God willing, will ever be again in this vale of sorrow. It was a pile of damp, ill-burning elm logs with above it a stake to which they fastened Greene with iron clamps. Around this martyr’s pole hempen threads full of sulphur were twined from top to bottom and above the head of the victim hung a broad crown of pitch and sulphur.

  When the executioner pushed his torch into the pyre the first things to flare up, as if they were touchwood, were the sulphured threads which took the oily flames to the garland over the malefactor’s head so that drops of sulphur and pitch slowly began to rain down upon him.