The Heresy of Dr Dee

XXXV

The Etiquette of Cursing





THE PRISONER SAYS,

‘They told me my name was Prys Gethin.’

He sounds bewildered, as if the name has no significance for him. The judge leans back in his oaken chair.

‘Who did?’

‘The gaolers at New Radnor Castle, my Lord. When they overpowered me and took me to New Radnor, kept telling me my name was Prys Gethin, they did. All the time Prys Gethin. Would not have it any other way.’

The court billows with whispers, which are only hushed when the pikes are lifted and Sir Christopher Legge turns his anvil head, under its triangular black hat, towards the prisoner.

‘So… you accept that you were the man taken to New Radnor Castle by the sheriff and constables.’

‘I do, my Lord, but—’

‘Enough! You have pleaded not guilty to the offences with which you are charged, and that’s all the court wishes to hear from you until the case against you has been heard. You will, therefore, be silent until then. Is that understood?’

The prisoner nods his head with, Dudley notes, conspicuous courtesy and a certain grace. The clever bastard. It could be that his real name is indeed Gwilym Davies, that he’s known only within Plant Mat as Prys Gethin. It ought to change nothing. He glances at Vaughan, who looks a touch apprehensive, as though wondering if there’s any way he might be blamed for this oversight.



Evan Lewis, the sheriff, is called to give evidence. He is a bulky, brown-haired man who, unsurprisingly, appears slightly in awe of the London court visited upon Presteigne.

Legge has before him the sheriff’s written account of what occurred when the farm workers, who had lain in wait for many a long night, finally surprised the band of cattle raiders.

‘And how did they know, Sheriff, that these cattle thieves were the brigands calling themselves Plant Mat?’

The eyes of Evan Lewis flicker from side to side with transparent uncertainty. Dudley casts his own gaze to the ceiling, despairing of the quality of men responsible for upholding the law in these distant counties. They just wait in line, these farmers, for their turn at being sheriff.

‘Perhaps,’ the judge says helpfully, ‘these brigands were known to boast about their activities in local taverns. Determined to perpetuate their… legend?’

‘Exac’ly, my Lord.’ The sheriff’s body sags in his gratitude. ‘That’s as I believe—’

‘Yet, in the end, only this one was apprehended. How many others escaped?’

‘Hard to say, my Lord. Could have been a dozen or more. But they were fortunate that the one made lame by a fall readily identified himself to them as the leader, Prys Gethin.’

‘How very generous of him.’

‘My Lord, this was to open the way for a bargain. He said his fellows would pay handsomely for his release and if he was freed they could count on their land being safe from raids in the future. While if anything was to happen to him…’ The sheriff pauses and looks around the court. ‘…then every man who’d laid hands on him would be cursed to hell.’

A communal indrawing of breath in the courtroom. The judge holds up papers.

‘I have here statements taken down from four of the farm men which confirm what the sheriff has just told the court. I see no point in having each of them read out, but they are available for inspection, signed with the marks of the named individuals… whom I understand, Sheriff, were reluctant to appear before this court in person.’

‘My Lord. These are men who fear for their lives and their families.’

‘That they might be made targets of Plant Mat?’

Dudley smiles at Legge’s affected, faintly Gallic, pronunciation of the words – Plaunt Met.

‘And also they fear… his eye,’ the sheriff says, his cheeks turned a little pink.

Legge peers, in an exaggerated fashion, towards the prisoner’s dock. Laughter from the jury’s box. The prisoner looks down.

‘So,’ Legge says. ‘What was the response to this offer of a bargain?’

The sheriff straightens his back.

‘The landowners were summoned from their beds and would hear none of it, my Lord. No one should make deals with notorious thieves. They had him tied to a cart and taken to New Radnor. Calling in at my farm, where I was roused and, realising the importance of this arrest, sent at once for constables.’

‘And while you were waiting for the castle dungeons to be unlocked and prepared, I gather there was intercourse between the prisoner and the landowners, Thomas Harris and Hywel Griffiths?’

‘My Lord…’ Roger Vaughan comes hesitantly to his feet. ‘It’s, um… it’s pronounced Howell.’

‘What is?’

‘Hywel Griffiths, my Lord. Pronounced Howell. I just thought—’

‘Very useful, I’m sure, Master Vaughan,’ Legge says with venom. ‘Let us proceed.’

Vaughan sits down, eyes closing in embarrassment. Dudley smiles. Legge pretends to have lost the thread of his questioning and consults his papers, turning back a page.

‘How would you describe the nature of this intercourse between the prisoner and the owners of the cattle he’s accused of attempting to steal?’

‘Well… heated, my Lord. The prisoner, having failed to make a deal for his release, tried to escape and was restrained. It was then that he… uttered curses.’

‘Hmm.’ Legge pinching his sharp chin. ‘Consider, for a moment, your use of the word “curses”. In the heat of the moment, a man might shout abuse…?’

‘No, my Lord. This was delivered in what I can only describe as cold blood.’

‘You were witness to it.’

‘Indeed I was, my Lord. I saw and heard all of it, although – my Welsh having fallen away in recent years – I was not able to understand every word.’

‘You’re saying that the alleged curses were phrased in the language of the Welsh?’

‘They were. With finger pointed, under a full moon, which is said to give more power to—’

‘Yes, yes. I believe we shall shortly be hearing more expert testimony as to the, ah, etiquette of cursing. Was any of it delivered in the Queen’s English?’

‘Enough to convince me of the nature of it.’

‘Which was?’

‘That my neighbours, Thomas Harris and Hywel Griffiths would be dead before the new moon.’

‘And indeed there seems little doubt that both men… were.’

‘No doubt at all, my Lord.’

‘In ways… unexpected?’

‘One of a sudden fever.’

‘Hardly uncommon in itself, Sheriff.’

‘The other drowning when a sudden, ferocious wind smashed an old and narrow footbridge over the River Irfon as he was crossing it.’

‘You were not there at the time, I take it.’

‘I was not. However, I was summoned within hours, after the dead body was recovered from the river. My home is but a few miles away, see, and I can testify that this particular day was one of an unusual stillness. Not a breath of wind in the Radnor Forest.’

The judge nods, extracting a paper from the pile before him.

‘I also have a statement here, signed by the son of Master Hie-well Griffiths’ – flinging a cold glance at poor Vaughan – ‘giving testimony that he was at that time burning twiggery from a tree-felling not two fields distant from the point in the river where his father met his death and felt no hint of a breeze. Saying the smoke from his fire rose steadily throughout the morning.’

Strong evidence, Dudley thinks. In the absence of a specific Witchcraft Act, cases of causing injury or death by force of magic are become difficult to prove. Given her own interest in magic and alchemy, Bess might dither for years over this issue. Meanwhile, the power of malevolence conjured through focused thought and satanic ritual will go unchecked.

Dudley, who more than once has felt himself to be the target of a distant hatred made toxic by dark arts, is himself convinced that Prys Gethin, or whoever else he claims to be, does indeed have a stare of practised malignancy through that one eye.

And Dudley also knows that, where the use of magic is concerned, a sense of self-belief takes the practitioner more than halfway along the shadowed road. He stares hard at Prys Gethin.

Look up, you bastard, look up.

‘These two deaths,’ Sir Christopher Legge says. ‘How far apart were they, in time?’

The prisoner makes no move. His head is bowed, as if for the rope, as the sheriff replies.

‘My Lord, the fever struck the night before the collapse of the bridge.’

A hiss rushes round the old barn as if a cold river has been directed through it.

‘I think,’ the judge says over it, ‘that it is incumbent upon this court to learn more about the practice of witchcraft along this border. After our midday meal, I shall call the Lord Bishop of Hereford to give evidence. In the meantime, Sheriff, perhaps you might enlighten me as to the significance for this county, of the name Prys Gethin.’