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The Lady of Blossholme

by H. Rider Haggard · English · Gutenberg #3813 · 529,543 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Lady of Blossholme

Author: H. Rider Haggard


        
Release date: April 13, 2006 [eBook #3813]
                Most recently updated: October 15, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3813

Credits: John Bickers, Dagny and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LADY OF BLOSSHOLME ***




THE LADY OF BLOSSHOLME

By H. Rider Haggard




CHAPTER I
SIR JOHN FOTERELL


Who that has ever seen them can forget the ruins of Blossholme Abbey,
set upon their mount between the great waters of the tidal estuary to
the north, the rich lands and grazing marshes that, backed with woods,
border it east and south, and to the west by the rolling uplands,
merging at last into purple moor, and, far away, the sombre eternal
hills! Probably the scene has not changed very much since the days of
Henry VIII, when those things happened of which we have to tell, for
here no large town has arisen, nor have mines been dug or factories
built to affront the earth and defile the air with their hideousness and
smoke.

The village of Blossholme we know has scarcely varied in its population,
for the old records tell us this, and as there is no railway here its
aspect must be much the same. Houses built of the local grey stone do
not readily fall down. The folk of that generation walked in and out of
the doorways of many of them, although the roofs for the most part are
now covered with tiles or rough slates in place of reeds from the dike.
The parish wells also, fitted with iron pumps that have superseded the
old rollers and buckets, still serve the place with drinking-water
as they have done since the days of the first Edward, and perhaps for
centuries before.

Although their use, if not their necessity, has passed away, not far
from the Abbey gate the stocks and whipping-post, the latter arranged
with three sets of iron loops fixed at different heights and of varying
diameters to accommodate the wrists of man, woman, and child, may still
be found in the middle of the Priests’ Green. These stand, it will be
remembered, under a quaint old roof supported on rough, oaken pillars,
and surmounted by a weathercock which the monkish fancy has fashioned
to the shape of the archangel blowing the last trump. His clarion
or coach-horn, or whatever instrument of music it was he blew, has
vanished. The parish book records that in the time of George I a boy
broke it off, melted it down, and was publicly flogged in consequence,
the last time, apparently, that the whipping-post was used. But Gabriel
still twists about as manfully as he did when old Peter, the famous
smith, fashioned and set him up with his own hand in the last year of
King Henry VIII, as it is said to commemorate the fact that on this spot
stood the stakes to which Cicely Harflete, Lady of Blossholme, and her
foster-mother, Emlyn, were chained to be burned as witches.

So it is with everything at Blossholme, a place that Time has touched
but lightly. The fields, or many of them, bear the same names and remain
identical in their shape and outline. The old farmsteads and the few
halls in which reside the gentry of the district, stand where they
always stood. The glorious tower of the Abbey still points upwards to
the sky, although bells and roof are gone, while half-a-mile away the
parish church that was there before it--having been rebuilt indeed
upon Saxon foundations in the days of William Rufus--yet lies among its
ancient elms. Farther on, situate upon the slope of a vale down which
runs a brook through meadows, is the stark ruin of the old Nunnery that
was subservient to the proud Abbey on the hill, some of it now roofed in
with galvanised iron sheets and used as cow-sheds.

It is of this Abbey and this Nunnery and of those who dwelt around them
in a day bygone, and especially of that fair and persecuted woman who
came to be known as the Lady of Blossholme, that our story has to tell.



It was dead winter in the year 1535--the 31st of December, indeed. Old
Sir John Foterell, a white-bearded, red-faced man of about sixty years
of age, was seated before the log fire in the dining-hall of his great
house at Shefton, spelling through a letter which had just been brought
to him from Blossholme Abbey. He mastered it at length, and when it was
done any one who had been there to look might have seen a knight and
gentleman of large estate in a rage remarkable even for the time of the
eighth Henry. He dashed the document to the ground; he drank three cups
of strong ale, of which he had already had enough, in quick succession;
he swore a number of the best oaths of the period, and finally, in
the most expressive language, he consigned the body of the Abbot of
Blossholme to the gallows and his soul to hell.

“He claims my lands, does he?” he exclaimed, shaking his fist in the
direction of Blossholme. “What does the rogue say? That the abbot
who went before him parted with them to my grandfather for no good
consideration, but under fear and threats. Now, writes he, this
Secretary Cromwell, whom they call Vicar-General, has declared that the
said transfer was without the law, and that I must hand over the said
lands to the Abbey of Blossholme on or before Candlemas! What was
Cromwell paid to sign that order with no inquiry made, I wonder?”

Sir John poured out and drank a fourth cup of ale, then set to walking
up and down the hall. Presently he halted in front of the fire and
addressed it as though it were his enemy.

“You are a clever fellow, Clement Maldon; they tell me that all
Spaniards are, and you were taught your craft at Rome and sent here for
a purpose. You began as nothing, and now you are Abbot of Blossholme,
and, if the King had not faced the Pope, would be more. But you forget
yourself at times, for the Southern blood is hot, and when the wine is
in, the truth is out. There were certain words you spoke not a year
ago before me and other witnesses of which I will remind you presently.
Perhaps when Secretary Cromwell learns them he will cancel his gift of
my lands, and mayhap lift that plotting head of yours up higher. I’ll go
remind you of them.”

Sir John strode to the door and shouted; it would not be too much to say
that he bellowed like a bull. It opened after a while, and a serving-man
appeared, a bow-legged, sturdy-looking fellow with a shock of black
hair.

“Why are you not quicker, Jeffrey Stokes?” he asked. “Must I wait your
pleasure from noon to night?”

“I came as fast as I could, master. Why, then, do you rate me?”

“Would you argue with me, fellow? Do it again and I will have you tied
to a post and lashed.”

“Lash yourself, master, and let out the choler and good ale, which you
need to do,” replied Jeffrey in his gruff voice. “There be some men who
never know when they are well served, and such are apt to come to ill
and lonely ends. What is your pleasure? I’ll do it if I can, and if not,
do it yourself.”

Sir John lifted his hand as though to strike him, then let it fall
again.

“I like one who braves me to my teeth,” he said more gently, “and that
was ever your nature. Take it not ill, man; I was angered, and have
cause to be.”

“The anger I see, but not the cause, though, as a monk came from the
Abbey but now, perhaps I can hazard a guess.”

“Aye, that’s it, that’s it, Jeffrey. Hark; I ride to yonder
crows’-nest, and at once. Saddle me a horse.”

“Good, master. I’ll saddle two horses.”

“Two? I said one. Fool, can I ride a pair at once, like a mountebank?”

“I know not, but you can ride one and I another. When the Abbot of
Blossholme visits Sir John Foterell of Shefton he comes with hawk on
wrist, with chaplains and pages, and ten stout men-at-arms, of whom he
keeps more of late than a priest would seem to need about him. When Sir
John Foterell visits the Abbot of Blossholme, at least he should have
one serving-man at his back to hold his nag and bear him witness.”

Sir John looked at him shrewdly.

“I called you fool,” he said, “but you are none except in looks. Do as
you will, Jeffrey, but be swift. Stop. Where is my daughter?”

“The Lady Cicely sits in her parlour. I saw her sweet face at the window
but now staring out at the snow as though she thought to see a ghost in
it.”

“Um,” grunted Sir John, “the ghost she thinks to see rides a grand grey
mare, stands over six feet high, has a jolly face, and a pair of arms
well made for sword and shield, or to clip a girl in. Yet that ghost
must be laid, Jeffrey.”

“Pity if so, master. Moreover, you may find it hard. Ghost-laying is a
priest’s job, and when maids’ waists are willing, men’s arms reach far.”

“Be off, sirrah,” roared Sir John, and Jeffrey went.

Ten minutes later they were riding for the Abbey, three miles away,
and within half-an-hour Sir John was knocking, not gently, at its gate,
while the monks within ran to and fro like startled ants, for the times
were rough, and they were not sure who threatened them. When they knew
their visitor at last they set to work to unbar the great doors and let
down the drawbridge, that had been hoist up at sunset.

Presently Sir John stood in the Abbot’s chamber, warming himself at the
great fire, and behind him stood his serving-man, Jeffrey, carrying his
long cloak. It was a fine room, with a noble roof of carved chestnut
wood and stone walls hung with costly tapestry, whereon were worked
scenes from the Scriptures. The floor was hid with rich carpets made of
coloured Eastern wools. The furniture also was rich and foreign-looking,
being inlaid with ivory and silver, while on the table stood a golden
crucifix, a miracle of art, and upon an easel, so that the light from a
hanging silver lamp fell on it, a life-sized picture of the Magdalene
by some great Italian painter, turning her beauteous eyes to heaven and
beating her fair breast.

Sir John looked about him and sniffed.

“Now, Jeffrey, would you think that you were in a monk’s cell or in some
great dame’s bower? Hunt under the table, man; sure, you will find her
lute and needlework. Whose portrait is that, think you?” and he pointed
to the Magdalene.

“A sinner turning saint, I think, master. Good company for laymen when
she was sinner, and good for priests now that she is saint. For the
rest, I could snore well here after a cup of yon red wine,” and he
jerked his thumb towards a long-necked bottle on a sideboard. “Also,
the fire burns bright, which is not to be wondered at, seeing that it is
made of dry oak from your Sticksley Wood.”

“How know you that, Jeffrey?” asked Sir John.

“By the grain of it, master--by the grain of it. I have hewn too many
a timber there not to know. There’s that in the Sticksley clays which
makes the rings grow wavy and darker at the heart. See there.”

Sir John looked, and swore an angry oath.

“You are right, man; and now I come to think of it, when I was a little
lad my old grandsire bade me note this very thing about the Sticksley
oaks. These cursed monks waste my woods beneath my nose. My forester is
a rogue. They have scared or bribed him, and he shall hang for it.”

“First prove the crime, master, which won’t be easy; then talk of
hanging, which only kings and abbots, ‘with right of gallows,’ can do at
will. Ah! you speak truth,” he added in a changed voice; “it is a lovely
chamber, though not good enough for the holy man who dwells in it,
since such a saint should have a silver shrine like him before the altar
yonder, as doubtless he will do when ere long he is old bones,” and,
as though by chance, he trod upon his lord’s foot, which was somewhat
gouty.

Round came Sir John like the Blossholme weathercock on a gusty day.

“Clumsy toad!” he yelled, then paused, for there within the arras, that
had been lifted silently, stood a tall, tonsured figure clothed in rich
furs, and behind him two other figures, also tonsured, in simple black
robes. It was the Abbot with his chaplains.

“Benedicite!” said the Abbot in his soft, foreign voice, lifting the two
fingers of his right hand in blessing.

“Good-day,” answered Sir John, while his retainer bowed his head and
crossed himself. “Why do you steal upon a man like a thief in the night,
holy Father?” he added irritably.

“That is how we are told judgment shall come, my son,” answered the
Abbot, smiling; “and in truth there seems some need of it. We heard loud
quarrelling and talk of hanging men. What is your argument?”

“A hard one of oak,” answered old Sir John sullenly. “My servant here
said those logs upon your fire came from my Sticksley Wood, and I
answered him that if so they were stolen, and my reeve should hang for
it.”

“The worthy man is right, my son, and yet your forester deserves no
punishment. I bought our scanty store of firing from him, and, to tell
truth, the count has not yet been paid. The money that should have
discharged it has gone to London, so I asked him to let it stand
until the summer rents come in. Blame him not, Sir John, if, out of
friendship, knowing it was naught to you, he has not bared the nakedness
of our poor house.”

“Is it the nakedness of your poor house”--and he glanced round the
sumptuous chamber--“that caused you to send me this letter saying that
you have Cromwell’s writ to seize my lands?” asked Sir John, rushing at
his grievance like a bull, and casting down the document upon the table;
“or do you also mean to make payment for them--when your summer rents
come in?”

“Nay, son. In that matter duty led me. For twenty years we have disputed
of those estates which, as you know, your grandsire took from us in
a time of trouble, thus cutting the Abbey lands in twain, against the
protest of him who was Abbot in those days. Therefore, at last I laid
the matter before the Vicar-General, who, I hear, has been pleased to
decide the suit in favour of this Abbey.”

“To decide a suit of which the defendant had no notice!” exclaimed Sir
John. “My Lord Abbot, this is not justice; it is roguery that I will
never bear. Did you decide aught else, pray you?”

“Since you ask it--something, my son. To save costs I laid before him
the sundry points at issue between us, and in sum this is the judgment:
Your title to all your Blossholme lands and those contiguous, totalling
eight thousand acres, is not voided, yet it is held to be tainted and
doubtful.”

“God’s blood! Why?” asked Sir John.

“My son, I will tell you,” replied the Abbot gently. “Because within
a hundred years they belonged to this Abbey by gift of the Crown, and
there is no record that the Crown consented to their alienation.”

“No record,” exclaimed Sir John, “when I have the indentured deed in my
strong-box, signed by my great-grandfather and the Abbot Frank Ingham!
No record, when my said forefather gave you other lands in place of them
which you now hold? But go on, holy priest.”

“My son, I obey you. Your title, though pronounced so doubtful, is not
utterly voided; yet it is held that you have all these lands as tenant
of this Abbey, to which, should you die without issue, they will
relapse. Or should you die with issue under age, such issue will be ward
to the Abbot of Blossholme for the time being, and failing him, that is,
if there were no Abbot and no Abbey, of the Crown.”

Sir John listened, then sank back into a chair, while his face went
white as ashes.

“Show me that judgment,” he said slowly.

“It is not yet engrossed, my son. Within ten days or so I hope----But
you seem faint. The warmth of this room after the cold outer air,
perhaps. Drink a cup of our poor wine,” and at a motion of his hand
one of the chaplains stepped to the sideboard, filled a goblet from the
long-necked flask that stood there, and brought it to Sir John.

He took it as one that knows not what he does, then suddenly threw the
silver cup and its contents into the fire, whence a chaplain recovered
it with the wood-tongs.

“It seems that you priests are my heirs,” said Sir John in a new, quiet
voice, “or so you say; and, if that is so, my life is likely to be
short. I’ll not drink your wine, lest it should be poisoned. Hearken
now, Sir Abbot. I believe little of this tale, though doubtless by
bribes and other means you have done your best to harm me behind my back
up yonder in London. Well, to-morrow at the dawn, come fair weather or
come foul, I ride through the snows to London, where I too have friends,
and we will see, we will see. You are a clever man, Abbot Maldon, and
I know that you need money, or its worth, to pay your men-at-arms and
satisfy the great costs at which you live--and there are our famous
jewels--yes, yes, the old Crusader jewels. Therefore you have sought to
rob me, whom you ever hated, and perchance Cromwell has listened to your
tale. Perchance, fool priest,” he added slowly, “he had it in his mind
to fat this Church goose of yours with my meal before he wrings its neck
and cooks it.”

At these words the Abbot started for the first time, and even the two
impassive chaplains glanced at each other.

“Ah! does that touch you?” asked Sir John Foterell. “Well, then, here is
what shall make you smart. You think yourself in favour at the Court, do
you not? because you took the oath of succession which braver men, like
the brethren of the Charterhouse, refused, and died for it. But you
forget the words you said to me when the wine you love had a hold of you
in my hall----”

“Silence! For your own sake, silence, Sir John Foterell!” broke in the
Abbot. “You go too far.”

“Not so far as you shall go, my Lord Abbot, ere I have done with you.
Not so far as Tower Hill or Tyburn, thither to be hung and quartered as
a traitor to his Grace. I tell you, you forget the words you spoke, but
I will remind you of them. Did you not say to me when the guests had
gone, that King Henry was a heretic, a tyrant, and an infidel whom the
Pope would do well to excommunicate and depose? Did you not, when I led
you on, ask me if I could not bring about a rising of the common people
in these parts, among whom I have great power, and of those gentry who
know and love me, to overthrow him, and in his place set up a certain
Cardinal Pole, and for the deed promise me the pardon and absolution
of the Pope, and much advancement in his name and that of the Spanish
Emperor?”

“Never,” answered the Abbot.

“And did I not,” went on Sir John, taking no note of his denial, “did
I not refuse to listen to you and tell you that your words were
traitorous, and that had they been spoken otherwhere than in my house,
I, as in duty bound by my office, would make report of them? Aye, and
have you not from that hour striven to undo me, whom you fear?”

“I deny it all,” said the Abbot again. “These be but empty lies bred of
your malice, Sir John Foterell.”

“Empty words, are they, my Lord Abbot! Well, I tell you that they are
all written down and signed in due form. I tell you I had witnesses you
knew naught of who heard them with their ears. Here stands one of them
behind my chair. Is it not so, Jeffrey?”

“Aye, master,” answered the serving-man. “I chanced to be in the little
chamber beyond the wainscot with others waiting to escort the Abbot
home, and heard them all, and afterward I and they put our marks upon
the writing. As I am a Christian man that is so, though, master, this is
not the place that I should have chosen to speak of it, however much I
might be wronged.”

“It will serve my turn,” said the enraged knight, “though it is true
that I will speak of it louder elsewhere, namely, before the King’s
Council. To-morrow, my Lord Abbot, this paper and I go to London, and
then you shall learn how well it pays you to try to pluck a Foterell of
his own.”

Now it was the Abbot’s turn to be frightened. His smooth, olive-coloured
cheeks sank in and went white, as though already he felt the cord about
his throat. His jewelled hand shook, and he caught the arm of one of his
chaplains and hung to it.

“Man,” he hissed, “do you think that you can utter such false threats
and go hence to ruin me, a consecrated abbot? I have dungeons here; I
have power. It will be said that you attacked me, and that I did but
strive to defend myself. Others can bring witness besides you, Sir
John,” and he whispered some words in Latin or Spanish into the ear of
one of his chaplains, whereon that priest turned to leave the room.

“Now it seems that we are getting to business,” said Jeffrey Stokes, as,
laying his hand upon the knife at his girdle, he slipped between the monk
and the door.

“That’s it, Jeffrey,” cried Sir John. “Stop the rat’s hole. Look you,
Spaniard, I have a sword. Show me to your gate, or, by virtue of the
King’s commission that I hold, I do instant justice on you as a traitor,
and afterward answer for it if I win out.”

The Abbot considered a moment, taking the measure of the fierce old
knight before him. Then he said slowly--

“Go as you came, in peace, O man of wrath and evil, but know that the
curse of the Church shall follow you. I say that you stand near to ill.”

Sir John looked at him. The anger went out of his face, and, instead,
upon it appeared something strange--a breath of foresight, an
inspiration, call it what you will.

“By heaven and all its saints! I think you are right, Clement Maldon,”
 he muttered. “Beneath that black dress of yours you are a man like the
rest of us, are you not? You have a heart, you have members, you have
a brain to think with; you are a fiddle for God to play on, and however
much your superstitions mask and alter it, out of those strings now and
again will come some squeak of truth. Well, I am another fiddle, of a
more honest sort, mayhap, though I do not lift two fingers of my right
hand and say, ‘Benedicite, my son,’ and ‘Your sins are forgiven you’;
and just now the God of both of us plays His tune in me, and I will tell
you what it is. I stand near to death, but you stand not far from the
gallows. I’ll die an honest man; you will die like a dog, false to
everything, and afterwards let your beads and your masses and your
saints help you if they can. We’ll talk it over when we meet again
elsewhere. And now, my Lord Abbot, lead me to your gate, remembering
that I follow with my sword. Jeffrey, set those carrion crow in front of
you, and watch them well. My Lord Abbot, I am your servant; march!”




CHAPTER II
THE MURDER BY THE MERE


For a while Sir John and his retainer rode in silence. Then he laughed
loudly.

“Jeffrey,” he called, “that was a near touch. Sir Priest was minded to
stick his Spanish pick-tooth between our ribs, and shrive us afterwards,
as we lay dying, to salve his conscience.”

“Yes, master; only, being reasonable, he remembered that English swords
have a longer reach, and that his bullies are in the Ford ale-house
seeing the Old Year out, and so put it off. Master, I have always told
you that old October of yours is too strong to drink at noon. It should
be saved till bed-time.”

“What do you mean, man?”

“I mean that ale spoke yonder, not wisdom. You have showed your hand and
played the fool.”

“Who are you to teach me?” asked Sir John angrily. “I meant that he
should hear the truth for once, the slimy traitor.”

“Perhaps, perhaps; but these be bad days for Truth and those who court
her. Was it needful to tell him that to-morrow you journey to London
upon a certain errand?”

“Why not? I’ll be there before him.”

“Will you ever be there, master? The road runs past the Abbey, and that
priest has good ruffians in his pay who can hold their tongues.”

“Do you mean that he will waylay me? I say he dare not. Still, to please
you, we will take the longer path through the forest.”

“A rough one, master; but who goes with you on this business? Most of
us are away with the wains, and others make holiday. There are but three
serving-men at the hall, and you cannot leave the Lady Cicely without a
guard, or take her with you through this cold. Remember there’s
wealth yonder which some may need more even than your lands,” he added
meaningly. “Wait a while, then, till your people return or you can call
up your tenants, and go to London as one of your quality should, with
twenty good men at your back.”

“And so give our friend the Abbot time to get Cromwell’s ear, and
through him that of the King. No, no; I ride to-morrow at the dawn with
you, or, if you are afraid, without you, as I have done before and taken
no harm.”

“None shall say that Jeffrey Stokes is afraid of man or priest or
devil,” answered the old soldier, colouring. “Your road has been good
enough for me this thirty years, and it is good enough now. If I warned
you it was not for my own sake, who care little what comes, but for
yours and that of your house.”

“I know it,” said Sir John more kindly. “Take not my words ill, my
temper is up to-day. Thank the saints! here is the hall at last. Why!
whose horse has passed the gates before us?”

Jeffrey glanced at the tracks which the moonlight showed very clearly in
the new-fallen snow.

“Sir Christopher Harflete’s grey mare,” he said. “I know the shoeing and
the round shape of the hoof. Doubtless he is visiting Mistress Cicely.”

“Whom I have forbidden to him,” grumbled Sir John, swinging himself from
the saddle.

“Forbid him not,” answered Jeffrey, as he took his horse. “Christopher
Harflete may yet be a good friend to a maid in need, and I think that
need is nigh.”

“Mind your business, knave,” shouted Sir John. “Am I to be set at naught
in my own house by a chit of a girl and a gallant who would mend his
broken fortunes?”

“If you ask me, I think so,” replied the imperturbable Jeffrey, as he
led away the horses.

Sir John strode into the house by the backway, which opened on to the
stable-yard. Taking the lantern that stood by the door, he went along
galleries and upstairs to the sitting-chamber above the hall, which,
since her mother’s death, his daughter had used as her own, for here
he guessed that he would find her. Setting down the lantern upon the
passage table, he pushed open the door, which was not latched, and
entered.

The room was large, and, being lighted only by the great fire that
burned upon the hearth and two candles, all this end of it was hid in
shadow. Near to the deep window-place the shadow ceased, however, and
here, seated in a high-backed oak chair, with the light of the blazing
fire falling full upon her, was Cicely Foterell, Sir John’s only
surviving child. She was a tall and graceful maiden, blue-eyed,
brown-haired, fair-skinned, with a round and child-like face which
most people thought beautiful to look upon. Just now this face, that
generally was so arch and cheerful, seemed somewhat troubled. For this
there might be a reason, since, seated upon a stool at her side, was a
young man talking to her earnestly.

He was a stalwart young man, very broad about the shoulders, clean-cut
in feature, with a long, straight nose, black hair, and merry black
eyes. Also, as such a gallant should do, he appeared to be making love
with much vigour and directness, for his face was upturned pleading with
the girl, who leaned back in her chair answering him nothing. At this
moment, indeed, his copious flow of words came to an end, perhaps from
exhaustion, perhaps for other reasons, and was succeeded by a more
effective method of attack. Suddenly sinking from the stool to his
knees, he took the unresisting hand of Cicely and kissed it several
times; then, emboldened by his success, threw his long arms about her,
and before Sir John, choked with indignation, could find words to stop
him, drew her towards him and treated her red lips as he had treated her
fingers. This rude proceeding seemed to break the spell that bound her,
for she pushed back the chair and, escaping from his grasp, rose, saying
in a broken voice----

“Oh! Christopher, dear Christopher, this is most wrong.”

“May be,” he answered. “So long as you love me I care not what it is.”

“That you have known these two years, Christopher. I love you well,
but, alas! my father will have none of you. Get you hence now, ere
he returns, or we both shall pay for it, and I, perhaps, be sent to a
nunnery where no man may come.”

“Nay, sweet, I am here to ask his consent to my suit----”

Then at last Sir John broke out.

“To ask my consent to your suit, you dishonest knave!” he roared from
the darkness; whereat Cicely sank back into her chair looking as though
she would faint, and the strong Christopher staggered like a man pierced
by an arrow. “First to take my girl and hug her before my very eyes, and
then, when the mischief is done, to ask my consent to your suit!” and he
rushed at them like a charging bull.

Cicely rose to fly, then, seeing no escape, took refuge in her lover’s
arms. Her infuriated father seized the first part of her that came to
his hand, which chanced to be one of her long brown plaits of hair, and
tugged at it till she cried out with pain, purposing to tear her away,
at which sight and sound Christopher lost his temper also.

“Leave go of the maid, sir,” he said in a low, fierce voice, “or, by
God! I’ll make you.”

“Leave go of the maid?” gasped Sir John. “Why, who holds her tightest,
you or I? Do you leave go of her.”

“Yes, yes, Christopher,” she whispered, “ere I am pulled in two.”

Then he obeyed, lifting her into the chair, but her father still kept
his hold of the brown tress.

“Now, Sir Christopher,” he said, “I am minded to put my sword through
you.”

“And pierce your daughter’s heart as well as mine. Well, do it if you
will, and when we are dead and you are childless, weep yourself and go
to the grave.”

“Oh! father, father,” broke in Cicely, who knew the old man’s temper,
and feared the worst, “in justice and in pity, listen to me. All my
heart is Christopher’s, and has been from a child. With him I shall have
happiness, without him black despair; and that is his case too, or so
he swears. Why, then, should you part us? Is he not a proper man and of
good lineage, and name unstained? Until of late did you not ever favour
him much and let us be together day by day? And now, when it is too
late, you deny him. Oh! why, why?”

“You know why well enough, girl. Because I have chosen another husband
for you. The Lord Despard is taken with your baby face, and would marry
you. But this morning I had it under his own hand.”

“The Lord Despard?” gasped Cicely. “Why, he only buried his second
wife last month! Father, he is as old as you are, and drunken, and has
grandchildren of well-nigh my age. I would obey you in all things, but
never will I go to him alive.”

“And never shall he live to take you,” muttered Christopher.

“What matter his years, daughter? He is a sound man, and has no son,
and should one be born to him, his will be the greatest heritage within
three shires. Moreover, I need his friendship, who have bitter enemies.
But enough of this. Get you gone, Christopher, before worse befall you.”

“So be it, sir, I will go; but first, as an honest man and my father’s
friend, and, as I thought, my own, answer me one question. Why have you
changed your tune to me of late? Am I not the same Christopher Harflete
I was a year or two ago? And have I done aught to lower me in the
world’s eye or in yours?”

“No, lad,” answered the old knight bluntly; “but since you will have it,
here it is. Within that year or two your uncle whose heir you were has
married and bred a son, and now you are but a gentleman of good name,
and little to float it on. That big house of yours must go to the
hammer, Christopher. You’ll never stow a bride in it.”

“Ah! I thought as much. Christopher Harflete with the promise of the
Lesborough lands was one man; Christopher Harflete without them is
another--in your eyes. Yet, sir, I hold you foolish. I love your
daughter and she loves me, and those lands and more may come back, or
I, who am no fool, will win others. Soon there will be plenty going up
there at Court, where I am known. Further, I tell you this: I believe
that I shall marry Cicely, and earlier than you think, and I would have
had your blessing with her.”

“What! Will you steal the girl away?” asked Sir John furiously.

“By no means, sir. But this is a strange world of ours, in which from
hour to hour top becomes bottom, and bottom top, and there--I think I
shall marry her. At least I am sure that Despard the sot never will,
for I’ll kill him first, if I hang for it. Sir, sir, surely you will not
throw your pearl upon that muckheap. Better crush it beneath your heel
at once. Look, and say you cannot do it,” and he pointed to the pathetic
figure of Cicely, who stood by them with clasped hands, panting breast,
and a face of agony.

The old knight glanced at her out of the corners of his eyes, and saw
something that moved him to pity, for at bottom his heart was honest,
and though he treated her so roughly, as was the fashion of the times,
he loved his daughter more than all the world.

“Who are you, that would teach me my duty to my bone and blood?” he
grumbled. Then he thought a while, and added, “Hear me, now, Christopher
Harflete. To-morrow at the dawn I ride to London with Jeffrey Stokes on
a somewhat risky business.”

“What business, sir?”

“If you would know--that of a quarrel with yonder Spanish rogue of an
Abbot, who claims the best part of my lands, and has poisoned the ear
of that upstart, the Vicar-General Cromwell. I go to take the deeds and
prove him a liar and a traitor also, which Cromwell does not know. Now,
is my nest safe from you while I am away? Give me your word, and I’ll
believe you, for at least you are an honest gentleman, and if you have
poached a kiss or two, that may be forgiven. Others have done the same
before you were born. Give me your word, or I must drag the girl through
the snows to London at my heels.”

“You have it, sir,” answered Christopher. “If she needs my company she
must come for it to Cranwell Towers, for I’ll not seek hers while you
are away.”

“Good. Then one gift for another. I’ll not answer my Lord of Despard’s
letter till I get back again--not to please you, but because I hate
writing. It is a labour to me, and I have no time to spare to-night.
Now, have a cup of drink and be off with you. Love-making is thirsty
work.”

“Aye, gladly, sir, but hear me, hear me. Ride not to London with such
slight attendance after a quarrel with Abbot Maldon. Let me wait on you.
Although my fortunes be so low I can bring a man or two--six or eight,
indeed--while yours are away with the wains.”

“Never, Christopher. My own hand has guarded my head these sixty years,
and can do so still. Also,” he added, with a flash of insight, “as you
say, the journey is dangerous, and who knows? If aught went wrong, you
might be wanted nearer home. Christopher, you shall never have my girl;
she’s not for you. Yet, perhaps, if need were, you would strike a blow
for her even if it made you excommunicate. Get hence, wench. Why do you
stand there gaping on us, like an owl in sunlight? And remember, if
I catch you at more such tricks, you’ll spend your days mumbling at
prayers in a nunnery, and much good may they do you.”

“At least I should find peace there, and gentle words,” answered Cicely
with spirit, for she knew her father, and the worst of her fear had
departed. “Only, sir, I did not know that you wished to swell the wealth
of the Abbots of Blossholme.”

“Swell their wealth!” roared her father. “Nay, I’ll stretch their necks.
Get you to your chamber, and send up Jeffrey with the liquor.”

Then, having no choice, Cicely curtseyed, first to her father and next
to Christopher, to whom she sent a message with her eyes that she
dared not utter with her lips, and so vanished into the shadows, where
presently she was heard stumbling against some article of furniture.

“Show the maid a light, Christopher,” said Sir John, who, lost in his
own thoughts, was now gazing into the fire.

Seizing one of the two candles, Christopher sprang after her like a
hound after a hare, and presently the pair of them passed through the
door and down the long passage beyond. At a turn in it they halted, and
once more, without word spoken, she found her way into those long arms.

“You will not forget me, even if we must part?” sobbed Cicely.

“Nay, sweet,” he answered. “Moreover, keep a brave heart; we do not part
for long, for God has given us to each other. Your father does not mean
all he says, and his temper, which has been stirred to-day, will soften.
If not, we must look to ourselves. I keep a swift horse or two, Cicely.
Could you ride one if need were?”

“I have ever loved riding,” she said meaningly.

“Good. Then you shall never go to that fat hog’s sty, for I’ll stick him
first. And I have friends both in Scotland and in France. Which like you
best?”

“They say the air of France is softer. Now, away from me, or one will
come to seek us,” and they tore themselves apart.

“Emlyn, your foster-mother, is to be trusted,” he said rapidly; “also
she loves me well. If there be need, let me hear of you through her.”

“Aye,” she answered, “without fail,” and glided from him like a ghost.

“Have you been waiting to see the moon rise?” asked Sir John, glancing
at Christopher from beneath his shaggy eyebrows as he returned.

“Nay, sir, but the passages in this old house of yours are most wondrous
long, and I took a wrong turn in threading them.”

“Oh!” said Sir John. “Well, you have a talent for wrong turns, and
such partings are hard. Now, do you understand that this is the last of
them?”

“I understand that you may say so, sir.”

“And that I mean it, too, I hope. Listen, Christopher,” he added, with
earnestness, but in a kindly voice. “Believe me, I like you well, and
would not give you pain, or the maid yonder, if I could help it. Yet I
have no choice. I am threatened on all sides by priest and king, and you
have lost your heritage. She is the only jewel that I can pawn, and for
your own safety’s sake and her children’s sake, must marry well. Yonder
Despard will not live long, he drinks too hard; and then your day may
come, if you still care for his leavings--perhaps in two years, perhaps
in less, for she will soon see him out. Now, let us talk no more of
the matter, but if aught befalls me, be a friend to her. Here comes the
liquor--drink it up and be off. Though I seem rough with you, my hope is
that you may quaff many another cup at Shefton.”



It was seven o’clock of the next morning, and Sir John, having eaten
his breakfast, was girding on his sword--for Jeffrey had already gone
to fetch the horses--when the door opened and his daughter entered the
great hall, candle in hand, wrapped in a fur cloak, over which her long
hair fell. Glancing at her, Sir John noted that her eyes were wide and
frightened.

“What is it now, girl?” he asked. “You’ll take your death of cold among
these draughts.”

“Oh! father,” she said, kissing him, “I came to bid you farewell,
and--and--to pray you not to start.”

“Not to start? And why?”

“Because, father, I have dreamed a bad dream. At first last night I
could not sleep, and when at length I did I dreamed that dream thrice,”
 and she paused.

“Go on, Cicely; I am not afraid of dreams, which are but
foolishness--coming from the stomach.”

“Mayhap; yet, father, it was so plain and clear I can scarcely bear to
tell it to you. I stood in a dark place amidst black things that I knew
to be trees. Then the red dawn broke upon the snow, and I saw a little
pool with brown rushes frozen in its ice. And there--there, at the edge
of the pool, by a pollard willow with one white limb, you lay, your bare
sword in your hand and an arrow in your neck, shot from behind, while in
the trunk of the willow were other arrows, and lying near you two slain.
Then cloaked men came as though to carry them away, and I awoke. I say I
dreamed it thrice.”

“A jolly good morrow indeed,” said Sir John, turning a shade paler. “And
now, daughter, what do you make of this business?”

“I? Oh! I make that you should stop at home and send some one else to do
your business. Sir Christopher, for instance.”

“Why, then I should baulk your dream, which is either true or false.
If true, I have no choice, it must be fulfilled; if false, why should I
heed it? Cicely, I am a plain man and take no note of such fancies. Yet
I have enemies, and it may well chance that my day is done. If so, use
your mother wit, girl; beware of Maldon, look to yourself, and as for
your mother’s jewels, hide them,” and he turned to go.

She clasped him by the arm.

“In that sad case what should I do, father?” she asked eagerly.

He stopped and stared at her up and down.

“I see that you believe in your dream,” he said, “and therefore,
although it shall not stay a Foterell, I begin to believe in it too. In
that case you have a lover whom I have forbid to you. Yet he is a man
after my own heart, who would deal well by you. If I die, my game is
played. Set your own anew, sweet Cicely, and set it soon, ere that Abbot
is at your heels. Rough as I may have been, remember me with kindness,
and God’s blessing and mine be on you. Hark! Jeffrey calls, and if they
stand, the horses will take cold. There, fare you well. Fear not for me,
I wear a chain shirt beneath my cloak. Get back to bed and warm you,”
 and he kissed her on the brow, thrust her from him and was gone.

Thus did Cicely and her father part--for ever.



All that day Sir John and Jeffrey, his serving-man, trotted forward
through the snow--that is, when they were not obliged to walk because
of the depth of the drifts. Their plan was to reach a certain farm in a
glade of the woodland within two hours of sundown, and sleep there, for
they had taken the forest path, leaving again for the Fens and Cambridge
at the dawn. This, however, proved not possible because of the exceeding
badness of the road. So it came about that when the darkness closed in
on them a little before five o’clock, bringing with it a cold,
moaning wind and a scurry of snow, they were obliged to shelter in a
faggot-built woodman’s hut, waiting for the moon to appear among the
clouds. Here they fed the horses with corn that they had brought with
them, and themselves also from their store of dried meat and barley
cakes, which Jeffrey carried on his shoulder in a bag. It was a poor
meal eaten thus in the darkness, but served to stay their stomachs and
pass away the time.

At length a ray of light pierced the doorway of the hut.

“She’s up,” said Sir John, “let us be going ere the nags grow stiff.”

Making no answer, Jeffrey slipped the bits back into the horses’ mouths
and led them out. Now the full moon had appeared like a great white eye
between two black banks of cloud and turned the world to silver. It was
a dreary scene on which she shone; a dazzling plain of snow, broken by
patches of hawthorns, and here and there by the gaunt shape of a pollard
oak, since this being the outskirt of the forest, folk came hither to
lop the tops of the trees for firing. A hundred and fifty yards away
or so, at the crest of a slope, was a round-shaped hill, made, not by
Nature, but by man. None knew what that hill might be, but tradition
said that once, hundreds or thousands of years before, a big battle
had been fought around it in which a king was killed, and that his
victorious army had raised this mound above his bones to be a memorial
for ever.

The story was indeed that, being a sea-king, they had built a boat or
dragged it thither from the river shore and set him in it with all the
slain for rowers; also that he might be seen at nights seated on his
horse in armour, and staring about him, as when he directed the battle.
At least it is true that the mount was called King’s Grave, and that
people feared to pass it after sundown.

As Jeffrey Stokes was holding his master’s stirrup for him to mount,
he uttered an exclamation and pointed. Following the line of his
outstretched hand, in the clear moonlight Sir John saw a man, who sat,
still as any statue, upon a horse on the very point of King’s Grave.
He appeared to be covered with a long cloak, but above it his helmet
glittered like silver. Next moment a fringe of black cloud hid the face
of the moon, and when it passed away the man and horse were gone.

“What did that fellow there?” asked Sir John.

“Fellow?” answered Jeffrey in a shaken voice, “I saw none. That was the
Ghost of the Grave. My grandfather met him ere he came to his end in the
forest, none know how, for the wolves, of which there were plenty in
his day, picked his bones clean, and so have many others for hundreds of
years; always just before their doom. He is an ill fowl, that Ghost
of the Grave, and those who clap eyes on him do wisely to turn their
horses’ heads homewards, as I would to-night if I had my way, master.”

“What use, Jeffrey? If the sight of him means death, death will come.
Moreover, I believe nothing of the tale. Your ghost was some forest
reeve or herdsman.”

“A forest reeve or herdsman who wanders about in a steel helm on a fine
horse in snow-time when there are no trees to cut or cattle to mind!
Well, have it as you will, master; only God save me from such reeves and
herdmen, for I think they hail from hell.”

“Then he was a spy watching whither we go,” answered Sir John angrily.

“If so, who sent him? The Abbot of Blossholme? In that case I would
sooner meet the devil, for this means mischief. I say that we had better
ride back to Shefton.”

“Then do so, Jeffrey, if you are scared, and I will go on alone, who,
being on an honest business, fear not Satan or an abbot, either.”

“Nay, master. Many a year ago, when we were younger, I stood by you on
Flodden Field when Sir Edward, Christopher Harflete’s father, was killed
at our side, and those red-bearded Scotch bare-breeks pressed us hard,
yet I never itched to turn my back, even after that great fellow with an
axe got you down, and we thought that all was lost. Then shall I do
so now?--though it is true that I fear yon goblin more than all the
Highlanders beyond the Tweed. Ride on; man can die but once, and for my
part I care not when it comes, who have little to lose in an ill world.”

So without more words they started forward, peering about them as they
went. Soon the forest thickened, and the track they followed wound its
way round great trunks of primeval oaks, or the edges of bog-holes, or
through brakes of thorns. Hard enough it was to find it at times, since
the snow made it one with the bordering ground, and the gloom of the
oaks was great. But Jeffrey was a woodman born, and from his childhood
had known the shape of every tree in that waste, so that they held
safely to their road. Well would it have been for them if they had not!

They came to a place where three other tracks crossed that which they
rode upon, and here Jeffrey Stokes, who was ahead, held up his hand.

“What is it?” asked Sir John.

“It is the marks of ten or a dozen shod horses passed within two hours,
since the last snow fell. And who be they, I wonder?”

“Doubtless travellers like ourselves. Ride on, man; that farm is not a
mile ahead.”

Then Jeffrey broke out.

“Master, I like it not,” he said. “Battle-horses have gone by here, not
chapmen’s or farmers’ nags, and I think I know their breed. I say that
we had best turn about if we would not walk into some snare.”

“Turn you, then,” grumbled Sir John indifferently. “I am cold and weary,
and seek my rest.”

“Pray God that you may not find it when you are colder,” muttered
Jeffrey, spurring his horse.

They went on through the dead winter silence, that was broken only by
the hoots of a flitting owl hungry for the food that it could not find,
and the swish of the feet of a galloping fox as it looped past them
through the snow. Presently they came to an open place ringed in by
forest, so wet that only marsh-trees would grow there. To their right
lay a little ice-covered mere, with sere, brown reeds standing here and
there upon its face, and at the end of it a group of stark pollarded
willows, whereof the tops had been cut for poles by those who dwelt in
the forest farm near by. Sir John looked at the place and shivered a
little--perhaps because the frost bit him. Or was it that he remembered
his daughter’s dream, which told of such a spot? At any rate, he set his
teeth, and his right hand sought the hilt of his sword. His weary horse
sniffed the air and neighed, and the neigh was answered from close at
hand.

“Thank the saints! we are nearer to that farm than I thought,” said Sir
John.

As he spoke the words a number of men appeared galloping down on them
from out of the shelter of a thorn-brake, and the moonlight shone on the
bared weapons in their hands.

“Thieves!” shouted Sir John. “At them now, Jeffrey, and win through to
the farm.”

The man hesitated, for he saw that their foes were many and no common
robbers, but his master drew his sword and spurred his beast, so he
must do likewise. In twenty seconds they were among them, and some one
commanded them to yield. Sir John rushed at the fellow, and, rising in
his stirrups, cut him down. He fell all of a heap and lay still in the
snow, which grew crimson about him. One came at Jeffrey, who turned his
horse so that the blow missed, then took his weight upon the point of
his sword, so that this man, too, fell down and lay in the snow, moving
feebly.

The rest, thinking this greeting too warm for them, swung round and
vanished again among the thorns.

“Now ride for it,” said Jeffrey.

“I cannot,” answered Sir John. “One of those knaves has hurt my mare,”
 and he pointed to blood that ran from a great gash in the beast’s
foreleg, which it held up piteously.

“Take mine,” said Jeffrey; “I’ll dodge them afoot.”

“Never, man! To the willows; we will hold our own there;” and, springing
from the wounded beast, which tried to hobble after them, but could not,
for its sinews were cut, he ran to the shelter of the trees, followed by
Jeffrey on his horse.

“Who are these rogues?” he asked.

“The Abbot’s men-at-arms,” answered Jeffrey. “I saw the face of him I
spitted.”

Now Sir John’s jaw dropped.

“Then we are sped, friend, for they dare not let us go. Cicely dreams
well.”

As he spoke an arrow whistled by them.

“Jeffrey,” he went on, “I have papers on me that should not be lost,
for with them might go my girl’s heritage. Take them,” and he thrust
a packet into his hand, “and this purse also. There’s plenty in it.
Away--anywhere, and lie hid out of reach a while, or they’ll still your
tongue. Then I charge you on your soul, come back with help and hang
that knave Abbot--for your Lady’s sake, Jeffrey. She’ll reward you, and
so will God above.”

The man thrust away purse and deeds in some deep pocket.

“How can I leave you to be butchered?” he muttered, grinding his teeth.

As the words left his lips he heard his master utter a gurgling sound,
and saw that an arrow, shot from behind, had pierced him through the
throat; saw, too, he who was skilled in war, that the wound was mortal.
Then he hesitated no longer.

“Christ rest you!” he said. “I’ll do your bidding or die;” and, turning
his horse, he drove the rowels into its sides, causing it to bound away
like a deer.

For a moment the stricken Sir John watched him go. Then he ran out of
his cover, shaking his sword above his head--ran into the open moonlight
to draw the arrows. They came fast enough, but ere ever he fell, for
that steel shirt of his was strong, Jeffrey, lying low on his horse’s
neck, was safe away, and though the murderers followed hard they never
caught him.

Nor, though they searched for days, could they find him at Shefton or
elsewhere, for Jeffrey, who knew that all roads were blocked, and who
dared not venture home, doubling like a hare across country, had won
down to the water, where a ship lay foreign bound, and by dawn was on
the sea.




CHAPTER III
A WEDDING


About noon of the day after that upon which Sir John had come to his
death, Cicely Foterell sat at her meal in Shefton Hall. Not much of the
rough midwinter fare passed her lips, for she was ill at ease. The man
she loved had been dismissed from her because his fortunes were on the
wane, and her father had gone upon a journey which she felt, rather than
knew, to be very dangerous. The great old hall was lonesome, also, for a
young girl who had no comrades near. Sitting there in the big room, she
bethought her how different it had been in her childhood, before some
foul sickness, of which she knew not the name or nature, had swept
away her mother, her two brothers, and her sister all in a single week,
leaving her untouched. Then there were merry voices about the house
where now was silence, and she alone, with naught but a spaniel dog for
company. Also most of the men were away with the wains laden with the
year’s clip of wool, which her father had held until the price had
heightened, nor in this snow would they be back for another week, or
perhaps longer.

Oh! her heart was heavy as the winter clouds without, and young and fair
as she might be, almost she wished that she had gone when her brothers
went, and found her peace.

To cheer her spirits she drank from a cup of spiced ale, that the
manservant had placed beside her covered with a napkin, and was glad
of its warmth and comfort. Just then the door opened, and her
foster-mother, Mrs. Stower, entered. She was still a handsome woman in
her prime, for her husband had been carried off by a fever when she was
but nineteen, and her baby with him, whereon she had been brought to
the Hall to nurse Cicely, whose mother was very ill after her birth.
Moreover, she was tall and dark, with black and flashing eyes, for her
father had been a Spaniard of gentle birth, and, it was said, gypsy
blood ran in her mother’s veins.

There were but two people in the world for whom Emlyn Stower
cared--Cicely, her foster-child, and a certain playmate of hers, one
Thomas Bolle, now a lay-brother at the Abbey who had charge of the
cattle. The tale was that in their early youth he had courted her, not
against her will, and that when, after her parents’ tragic deaths, as a
ward of the former Abbot of Blossholme, she was married to her husband,
not with her will, this Thomas put on the robe of a monk of the lowest
degree, being but a yeoman of good stock though of little learning.

Something in the woman’s manner attracted Cicely’s attention, and gave a
hint of tragedy. She paused at the door, fumbling with its latch,
which was not her way, then turned and stood upright against it, like a
picture in its frame.

“What is it, Nurse?” asked Cicely in a shaken voice. “From your look you
bear tidings.”

Emlyn Stower walked forward, rested one hand upon the oak table and
answered--

“Aye, evil tidings if they be true. Prepare your heart, my sweet.”

“Quick with them, Emlyn,” gasped Cicely. “Who is dead? Christopher?”

She shook her head, and Cicely sighed in relief, adding--

“Who, then? Oh! was that dream true?”

“Aye, dear; you are an orphan.”

The girl’s head fell forward. Then she lifted it, and asked--

“Who told you? Give me all the truth or I shall die.”

“A friend of mine who has to do with the Abbey yonder; ask not his
name.”

“I know it, Emlyn; Thomas Bolle,” she whispered back.

“A friend of mine,” repeated the tall, dark woman, “told me that Sir
John Foterell, your sire, was murdered last night in the forest by a
gang of armed men, of whom he slew two.”

“From the Abbey?” queried Cicely in the same whisper.

“Who knows? I think it. They say that the arrow in his throat was such
as they make there. Jeffrey Stokes was hunted, but escaped on to some
ship that had her anchor up.”

“I’ll have his life for it, the coward!” exclaimed Cicely.

“Blame him not yet. He met another friend of mine, and sent a message.
It was that he did but obey his master’s last orders, and, as he had
seen too much and to linger here was certain death, if he lived, he
would return from over-seas with the papers when the times are safer. He
prayed that you would not doubt him.”

“The papers! What papers, Emlyn?”

She shrugged her broad shoulders.

“How should I know? Doubtless some that your father was taking to London
and did not desire to lose. His iron chest stands open in his chamber.”

Now poor Cicely remembered that her father had spoken of certain “deeds”
 which he must take with him, and began to sob.

“Weep not, darling,” said her foster-mother, smoothing Cicely’s brown
hair with her strong hand. “These things are decreed of God, and done
with. Now you must look to yourself. Your father is gone, but one
remains.”

Cicely lifted her tear-stained face.

“Yes, I have you,” she said.

“Me!” she answered, with a quick smile. “Nay, of what use am I? Your
nursing days are over. What did you tell me your father said to you
before he rode--about Sir Christopher? Hush! there’s no time to talk;
you must away to Cranwell Towers.”

“Why?” asked Cicely. “He cannot bring my father back to life, and it
would be thought strange indeed that at such a time I should visit a man
in his own house. Send and tell him the tidings. I bide here to bury my
father, and,” she added proudly, “to avenge him.”

“If so, sweet, you bide here to be buried yourself in yonder Nunnery.
Hark, I have not told you all my news. The Abbot Maldon claims the
Blossholme lands under some trick of law. It was as to them that your
father quarrelled with him the other night; and with the land goes your
wardship, as once mine went under this monk’s charter. Before sunset the
Abbot rides here with his men-at-arms to take them, and to set you for
safe-keeping in the Nunnery, where you will find a husband called Holy
Church.”

“Name of God! is it so?” said Cicely, springing up; “and the most of the
men are away! I cannot hold the Hall against that foreign Abbot and his
hirelings, and an orphaned heiress is but a chattel to be sold. Oh!
now I understand what my father meant. Order horses. I’ll off to
Christopher. Yet, stay, Nurse. What will he do with me? It may seem
shameless, and will vex him.”

“I think he will marry you. I think to-night you will be a wife. If not,
I’ll know the reason why,” she added viciously.

“A wife! To-night!” exclaimed the girl, turning crimson to her hair.
“And my father but just dead! How can it be?”

“We’ll talk of that with Harflete. Mayhap, like you, he’ll wish to wait
and ask the banns, or to lay the case before a London lawyer. Meanwhile,
I have ordered horses and sent a message to the Abbot to say you come
to learn the meaning of these rumours, which will keep him still till
nightfall; and another to Cranwell Towers, that we may find food and
lodging there. Quick, now, and get your cloak and hood. I have the
jewels in their case, for Maldon seeks them more even than your lands,
and with them all the money I can find. Also I have bid the sewing-girl
make a pack of some garments. Come now, come, for that Abbot is hungry
and will be stirring. There is no time for talk.”



Three hours later in the red glow of the sunset Christopher Harflete,
watching at his door, saw two women riding towards him across the snow,
and knew them while they were yet far off.

“It is true, then,” he said to Father Roger Necton, the old clergyman of
Cranwell, whom he had summoned from the vicarage. “I thought that fool
of a messenger must be drunk. What can have chanced, Father?”

“Death, I think, my son, for sure naught else would bring the Lady
Cicely here unaccompanied save by a waiting-woman. The question is--what
will happen now?” and he glanced sideways at him.

“I know well if I can get my way,” answered Christopher, with a merry
laugh. “Say now, Father, if it should so be that this lady were willing,
could you marry us?”

“Without a doubt, my son, with the consent of the parents;” and again he
looked at him.

“And if there were no parents?”

“Then with the consent of the guardian, the bride being under age.”

“And if no guardian had been declared or admitted?”

“Then such a marriage duly solemnized, being a sacrament of the Church,
would hold fast until the crack of doom unless the Pope annulled it,
and, as you know, the Pope is out of favour in this realm on this very
matter of marriage. Let me explain the law to you, ecclesiastic and
civil----”

But Christopher was already running towards the gate, so the old
parson’s lecture remained undelivered.

The two met in the snow, Emlyn Stower riding on ahead and leaving them
together.

“What is it, sweetest?” he asked. “What is it?”

“Oh! Christopher,” she answered, weeping, “my poor father is
dead--murdered, or so says Emlyn.”

“Murdered! By whom?”

“By the Abbot of Blossholme’s soldiers--so says Emlyn, yonder in the
forest last eve. And the Abbot is coming to Shefton to declare me his
ward and thrust me into the Nunnery--that was Emlyn’s tale. And so,
although it is a strange thing to do, having none to protect me, I have
fled to you--because Emlyn said I ought.”

“She is a wise woman, Emlyn,” broke in Christopher; “I always thought
well of her judgment. But did you only come to me because Emlyn told
you?”

“Not altogether, Christopher. I came because I am distraught, and you
are a better friend than none at all, and--where else should I go? Also
my poor father with his last words to me, although he was so angry with
you, bade me seek your help if there were need--and--oh! Christopher, I
came because you swore you loved me, and, therefore, it seemed right.
If I had gone to the Nunnery, although the Prioress, Mother Matilda, is
good, and my friend, who knows, she might not have let me out again, for
the Abbot is her master, and _not_ my friend. It is our lands he loves,
and the famous jewels--Emlyn has them with her.”

By now they were across the moat and at the steps of the house, so,
without answering, Christopher lifted her tenderly from the saddle,
pressing her to his breast as he did so, for that seemed his best
answer. A groom came to lead away the horses, touching his bonnet, and
staring at them curiously; and, leaning on her lover’s shoulder, Cicely
passed through the arched doorway of Cranwell Towers into the hall,
where a great fire burned. Before this fire, warming his thin hands,
stood Father Necton, engaged in eager conversation with Emlyn Stower. As
the pair advanced this talk ceased, evidently because it was of them.

“Mistress Cicely,” said the kindly-faced old man, speaking in a nervous
fashion, “I fear that you visit us in sad case,” and he paused, not
knowing what to add.

“Yes, indeed,” she answered, “if all I hear is true. They say that
my father is killed by cruel men--I know not for certain why or by
whom--and that the Abbot of Blossholme comes to claim me as his ward and
immure me in Blossholme Priory, whither I would not go. I have fled here
to escape him, having no other refuge, though you may think ill of me
for this deed.”

“Not I, my child. I should not speak against yonder Abbot, for he is my
superior in the Church, though, mind you, I owe him no allegiance, since
this benefice is not in his gift, nor am I a Benedictine. Therefore I
will tell you the truth. I hold the man not honest. All is provender
that comes to his maw; moreover, he is no Englishman, but a Spaniard,
one sent here to work against the welfare of this realm; to suck its
wealth, stir up rebellion, and make report of all that passes in it, for
the benefit of England’s enemies.”

“Yet he has friends at Court, or so said my father.”

“Aye, aye, such folks have ever friends--their money buys them; though
mayhap an ill day is at hand for him and his likes. Well, your poor
father is gone, God knows how, though I thought for long that would be
his end, who ever spoke his mind, or more; and you with your wealth are
the morsel that tempts Maldon’s appetite. And now what is to be done?
This is a hard case. Would you refuge in some other Nunnery?”

“Nay,” answered Cicely, glancing sideways at her lover.

“Then what’s to be done?”

“Oh! I know not,” she said, bursting into a fit of weeping. “How can
I tell you, who am mazed with grief and doubt? I had but a single
friend--my father, though at times he was a rough one. Yet he loved me
in his way, and I have obeyed his last counsel;” and, all her courage
gone, she sank into a chair and rocked herself to and fro, her head
resting on her hands.

“That is not true,” said Emlyn in her bold voice. “Am I who suckled you
no friend, and is Father Necton here no friend, and is Sir Christopher
no friend? Well, if you have lost your judgment, I have kept mine, and
here it is. Yonder, not two bowshots away, stands a church, and before
me I see a priest and a pair who would serve for bride and bridegroom.
Also we can rake up witnesses and a cup of wine to drink your health;
and after that let the Abbot of Blossholme do his worst. What say you,
Sir Christopher?”

“You know my mind, Nurse Emlyn; but what says Cicely? Oh! Cicely, what
say _you_?” and he bent over her.

She raised herself, still weeping, and, throwing her arms about his
neck, laid her head upon his shoulder.

“I think it is the will of God,” she whispered, “and why should I fight
against it, who am His servant?--and yours, Chris.”

“And now, Father, what say you?” asked Emlyn, pointing to the pair.

“I do not think there is much to say,” answered the old clergyman,
turning his head aside, “save that if it should please you to come to
the church in ten minutes’ time you will find a candle on the altar, and
a priest within the rails, and a clerk to hold the book. More we cannot
do at such short notice.”

Then he paused for a while, and, hearing no dissent, walked down the
hall and out of the door.

Emlyn took Cicely by the hand, led her to a room that was shown to them,
and there made her ready for her bridal as best she might. She had no
fine dress in which to clothe her, nor, indeed, would there have been
time to don it. But she combed out her beautiful brown hair, and,
opening that box of Eastern jewels which were the great pride of
the Foterells--being the rarest and the most ancient in all the
countryside--she decked her with them. On her broad brow she set a
circlet from which hung sparkling diamonds that had been brought, the
story said, by her mother’s ancestor, a Carfax, from the Holy Land,
where once they were the peculiar treasure of a paynim queen, and upon
her bosom a necklet of large pearls. Brooches and rings also she found
for her breast and fingers, and for her waist a jewelled girdle with
a golden clasp, while to her ears she hung the finest gems of all--two
great pearls pink like the hawthorn-bloom when it begins to turn. Lastly
she flung over her head a veil of lace most curiously wrought, and stood
back with pride to look at her.

Now Cicely, who all this while had been silent and unresisting, spoke
for the first time, saying--

“How came this here, Nurse?”

“Your mother wore it at her bridal, and her mother too, so I have been
told. Also once before I wrapped it about you--when you were christened,
sweet.”

“Mayhap; but how came it here?”

“In the bosom of my robe. Not knowing when we should get home again, I
brought it, thinking that perhaps one day you might marry, when it would
be useful. And now, strangely enough, the marriage has come.”

“Emlyn, Emlyn, I believe that you planned all this business, whereof God
alone knows the end.”

“That is why He makes a beginning, dear, that His end may be fulfilled
in due season.”

“Aye, but what is that end? Mayhap this is my shroud you wrap about me.
In truth, I feel as though death were near.”

“He is ever that,” replied Emlyn unconcernedly. “But so long as he
doesn’t touch, what does it matter? Now hark you, sweetest, I’ve
Spanish and gypsy blood in me with which go gifts, and so I’ll tell you
something for your comfort. However oft he snatches, Death will not lay
his bony hand on you for many a long year--not till you are well-nigh
as thin with age as he is. Oh! you’ll have your troubles like all of us,
worse than many, mayhap, but you are Luck’s own child, who lived when
the rest were taken, and you’ll win through and take others on your
back, as a whale does barnacles. So snap your fingers at death, as I
do,” and she suited the action to the word, “and be happy while you may,
and when you’re not happy, wait till your turn comes round again. Now
follow me and, though your father is murdered, smile as you should in
such an hour, for what man wants a sad-faced bride?”

They walked down the broad oaken stairs into the hall where Christopher
stood waiting for them. Glancing at him shyly, Cicely saw that he was
clad in mail beneath his cloak, and that his sword was girded at his
side, also that some men with him were armed. For a moment he stared at
her glittering beauty confused, then said--

“Fear not this hint of war in love’s own hour,” and he touched his
shining armour. “Cicely, these nuptials are strange as they are happy,
and some might try to break in upon them. Come now, my sweet lady;” and
bowing before her he took her by the hand and led her from the house,
Emlyn walking behind them and the men with torches going before and
following after.

Outside it was freezing sharply, so that the snow crunched beneath their
feet. In the west the last red glow of sunset still lingered on the
steely sky, and over against it the great moon rose above the round edge
of the world. In the bushes of the garden, and the tall poplars that
bordered the moat, blackbirds and fieldfares chattered their winter
evening song, while about the grey tower of the neighbouring church the
daws still wheeled.

The picture of that scene whereof at the time she seemed to take no
note, always remained fixed in the mind of Cicely: the cold expanse of
snow, the inky trees, the hard sky, the lambent beams of the moon, the
dull glow of the torches caught and reflected by her jewels and her
lover’s mail, the midwinter sound of birds, the barking of a distant
hound, the black porch of the church that drew nearer, the little oblong
mounds which hid the bones of hundreds who in their day had passed it as
infants, as bridegrooms and as brides, and at last as cold, white things
that had been men and women.

Now they were in the nave of the old fane where the cold struck them
like a sword. The dim lights of the torches showed them that, short
as had been the time, the news of this marvellous marriage had spread
about, for at least a score of people were standing here and there in
knots, or a few of them seated on the oak benches near the chancel. All
these turned to stare at them eagerly as they walked towards the altar
where stood the priest in his robes, and since his sight was dim, behind
him the old clerk with a stable-lantern held on high to enable him to
read from his book.

They reached the carven rood-screen, and at a sign kneeled down. In a
clear voice the clergyman began the service; presently, at another sign,
the pair rose, advanced to the altar-rails and again knelt down. The
moonlight, flowing through the eastern window, fell full on both of
them, turning them to cold, white statues, such as those that knelt in
marble upon the tomb at their side.

All through the holy office Cicely watched these statues with fascinated
eyes, and it seemed to her that they and the old crusaders, Harfletes
of a long-past day who lay near by, were watching her with a wistful and
kindly interest. She made certain answers, a ring that was somewhat too
small was thrust upon her finger--all the rest of her life that ring
hurt her at times, but she would never have it moved, and then some
one was kissing her. At first she thought it must be her father, and
remembering, nearly wept till she heard Christopher’s voice calling her
wife, and knew that she was wed.

Father Roger, the old clerk still holding the lantern behind him,
writing something in a little vellum book, asking her the date of
her birth and her full name, which, as he had been present at her
christening, she thought strange. Then her husband signed the book,
using the altar as a table, not very easily for he was no great scholar,
and she signed also in her maiden name for the last time, and the priest
signed, and at his bidding Emlyn Stower, who could write well, signed
too. Next, as though by an afterthought, Father Roger called several of
the congregation, who rather unwillingly made their marks as witnesses.
While they did so he explained to them that, as the circumstances
were uncommon, it was well that there should be evidence, and that
he intended to send copies of this entry to sundry dignities, not
forgetting the holy Father at Rome.

On learning this they appeared to be sorry that they had anything to do
with the matter, and one and all of them melted into the darkness of the
nave and out of Cicely’s mind.

So it was done at last.

Father Necton blew on his little book till the ink was dry, then hid
it away in his robe. The old clerk, having pocketed a handsome fee from
Christopher, lit the pair down the nave to the porch, where he locked
the oaken door behind them, extinguished his lantern and trudged off
through the snow to the ale-house, there to discuss these nuptials and
hot beer. Escorted by their torch-bearers Cicely and Christopher walked
silently arm-in-arm back to the Towers, whither Emlyn, after embracing
the bride, had already gone on ahead. So having added one more ceremony
to its countless record, perhaps the strangest of them all, the ancient
church behind them grew silent as the dead within its graves.

The Towers reached, the new-wed pair, with Father Roger and Emlyn, sat
down to the best meal that could be prepared for them at such short
notice; a very curious wedding feast. Still, though the company was so
small it did not lack for heartiness, since the old clergyman proposed
their health in a speech full of Latin words which they did not
understand, and every member of the household who had assembled to hear
him drank to it in cups of wine. This done, the beautiful bride, now
blushing and now pale, was led away to the best chamber, which had been
hastily prepared for her. But Emlyn remained behind a while, for she had
words to speak.

“Sir Christopher,” she said, “you are fast wed to the sweetest lady that
ever sun or moon shone on, and in that may hold yourself a lucky man.
Yet such deep joys seldom come without their pain, and I think that this
is near at hand. There are those who will envy you your fortune, Sir
Christopher.”

“Yet they cannot change it, Emlyn,” he answered anxiously. “The knot
that was tied to-night may not be unloosed.”

“Never,” broke in Father Roger. “Though the suddenness and the
circumstances of it may be unusual, this marriage is a sacrament
celebrated in the face of the world with the full consent of both
parties and of the Holy Church. Moreover, before the dawn I’ll send the
record of it to the bishop’s registry and elsewhere, that it may not be
questioned in days to come, giving copies of the same to you and your
lady’s foster-mother, who is her nearest friend at hand.”

“It may not be loosed on earth or in heaven,” replied Emlyn solemnly,
“yet perchance the sword can cut it. Sir Christopher, I think that we
should all do well to travel as soon as may be.”

“Not to-night, surely, Nurse!” he exclaimed.

“No, not to-night,” she answered, with a faint smile. “Your wife has had
a weary day, and could not. Moreover, preparation must be made which is
impossible at this hour. But to-morrow, if the roads are open to you,
I think we should start for London, where she may make complaint of her
father’s slaying and claim her heritage and the protection of the law.”

“That is good counsel,” said the vicar, and Christopher, with whom words
seemed to be few, nodded his head.

“Meanwhile,” went on Emlyn, “you have six men in this house and others
round it. Send out a messenger and summon them all here at dawn, bidding
them bring provision with them, and what bows and arms they have. Set
a watch also, and after the Father and the messenger have gone, command
that the drawbridge be triced.”

“What do you fear?” he asked, waking from his dream.

“I fear the Abbot of Blossholme and his hired ruffians, who reck little
of the laws, as the soul of dead Sir John knows now, or can use them
as a cover to evil deeds. He’ll not let such a prize slip between his
fingers if he can help it, and the times are turbulent.”

“Alas! alas! it is true,” said Father Roger, “and that Abbot is a
relentless man who sticks at nothing, having much wealth and many
friends both here and beyond the seas. Yet surely he would never
dare----”

“That we shall learn,” interrupted Emlyn. “Meanwhile, Sir Christopher,
rouse yourself and give the orders.”

So Christopher summoned his men and spoke words to them at which they
looked very grave, but being true-hearted fellows who loved him, said
they would do his bidding.

A while later, having written out a copy of the marriage lines and
witnessed it, Father Roger departed with the messenger. The drawbridge
was hoisted above the moat, the doors were barred, and a man set to
watch in the gateway tower, while Christopher, forgetful of all else,
even of the danger in which they were, sought the company of her who
waited for him.




CHAPTER IV
THE ABBOT’S OATH


On the following morning, shortly after it was light, Christopher was
called from his chamber by Emlyn, who gave him a letter.

“Whence came this?” he asked, turning it over suspiciously.

“A messenger has brought it from Blossholme Abbey,” she answered.

“Wife Cicely,” he called through the door, “come hither if you will.”

Presently she appeared, looking quaint and lovely in her long fur cloak,
and, having embraced her foster-mother, asked what was the matter.

“This, my darling,” he answered, handing her the paper. “I never loved
book-learnings over-much, and this morn I seem to hate them; read, you
who are more scholarly.”

“I mistrust me of that great seal; it bodes us no good, Chris,” she
replied doubtfully, and paling a little.

“The message within is no medlar to soften by keeping,” said Emlyn.
“Give it me. I was schooled in a nunnery, and can read their scrawls.”

So, nothing loth, Cicely handed her the paper, which she took in her
strong fingers, broke the seal, snapped the silk, unfolded, and read. It
ran thus--


“To Sir Christopher Harflete, to Mistress Cicely Foterell, to Emlyn
Stower, the waiting-woman, and to all others whom it may concern.

“I, Clement Maldon, Abbot of Blossholme, having heard of the death of
Sir John Foterell, Knt., at the cruel hands of the forest thieves
and outlaws, sent last night to serve the declaration of my wardship,
according to my prerogative established by law and custom, over the
person and property of you, Cicely, his only child surviving. My
messengers returned saying that you had fled from your home of Shefton
Hall. They said further that it was rumoured that you had ridden with
your foster-mother, Emlyn Stower, to Cranwell Towers, the house of Sir
Christopher Harflete. If this be so, for the sake of your good name it
is needful that you should remove from such company at once, as there
is talk about you and the said Sir Christopher Harflete. I purpose,
therefore, God permitting me, to ride this day to Cranwell Towers, and
if you be there, as your lawful guardian and ghostly father, to command
you, being an infant under age, to accompany me thence to the Nunnery
of Blossholme. There I have determined, in the exercise of my authority,
you shall abide until a fitting husband is found for you, unless,
indeed, God should move your heart to remain within its walls as one of
the brides of Christ.

“Clement, Abbot.”


Now when the reading of this letter was finished, the three of them
stood a little while staring at each other, knowing well that it meant
trouble for them all, till Cicely said--

“Bring me ink and paper, Nurse. I will answer this Abbot.”

So they were brought, and Cicely wrote in her round, girlish hand--


“My Lord Abbot,

“In answer to your letter, I would have you know that as my noble father
(whose cruel death must be inquired of and avenged) bade me with his
last words, I, fearing that a like fate would overtake me at the hands
of his murderers, did, as you suppose, seek refuge at this house. Here,
yesterday, I was married in the face of God and man in the church of
Cranwell, as you may learn from the paper sent herewith. It is not,
therefore, needful that you should seek a husband for me, since my dear
lord, Sir Christopher Harflete, and I are one till death do part us. Nor
do I admit that now, or at any time, you had or have right of wardship
over my person or the lands and goods which I hold and inherit.

“Your humble servant,

“Cicely Harflete.”


This letter Cicely copied out fair and sealed, and presently it was
given to the Abbot’s messenger, who placed it in his pouch and rode off
as fast as the snow would let him.

They watched him go from a window.

“Now,” said Christopher, turning to his wife, “I think, dear, we shall
do well to ride also as soon as may be. Yonder Abbot is sharp-set, and I
doubt whether letters will satisfy his appetite.”

“I think so also,” said Emlyn. “Make ready and eat, both of you. I go to
see that the horses are saddled.”

An hour later everything was prepared. Three horses stood before the
door, and with them an escort of four mounted men, who were all having
arms and beasts to ride that Christopher could gather at such short
notice, though others of his tenants and servants had already assembled
at the Towers in answer to his summons, to the number of twelve, indeed.
Without the snow was falling fast, and although she tried to look brave
and happy, Cicely shivered a little as she saw it through the open door.

“We go on a strange honeymoon, my sweet,” said Christopher uneasily.

“What matter, so long as we go together?” she answered in a gay voice
that yet seemed to ring untrue, “although,” she added, with a little
choke of the throat, “I would that we could have stayed here until I had
found and buried my father. It haunts me to think of him lying somewhere
in the snows like a perished ox.”

“It is his murderers that I wish to bury,” exclaimed Christopher; “and,
by God’s name, I swear I’ll do it ere all is done. Think not, dear, that
I forget your griefs because I do not speak much of them, but bridals
and buryings are strange company. So while we may, let us take what
joy we can, since the ill that goes before ofttimes follows after also.
Come, let us mount and away to London to find friends and justice.”

Then, having spoken a few words to his house-people, he lifted Cicely to
her horse, and they rode out into the softly-falling snow, thinking that
they had seen their last of the Towers for many a day. But this was not
to be. For as they passed along the Blossholme highway, purposing to
leave the Abbey on their left, when they were about three miles from
Cranwell, suddenly a tall fellow, who wore a great sheepskin coat with
a monk’s hood to it and carried a thick staff in his hand, burst through
the fence and stood in front of them.

“Who are you?” asked Christopher, laying his hand upon his sword.

“You’d know me well enough if my hood were back,” he answered in a deep
voice; “but if you want my name, it’s Thomas Bolle, cattle-reeve to the
Abbey yonder.”

“Your voice proves you,” said Christopher, laughing. “And now what is
your business, lay-brother Bolle?”

“To get up a bunch of yearling steers that have been running on the
forest-edge, living, like the rest of us, on what they can find, as the
weather is coming on hard enough to starve them. That’s my business, Sir
Christopher. But as I see an old friend of mine there,” and he nodded
towards Emlyn, who was watching him from her horse, “with your leave
I’ll ask her if she has any confession to make, since she seems to be on
a dangerous journey.”

Now Christopher made as though he would push on, for he was in no mood
to chat with cattle-reeves. But Emlyn, who had been eyeing the man,
called out--

“Come here, Thomas, and I will answer you myself, who always have a few
sins to spare for a priest’s wallet, and need a blessing or two to warm
me.”

He strode forward, and, taking her horse by the bridle, led it a little
way apart, and as soon as they were out of earshot fell into an eager
conversation with its rider. A minute or so later Cicely, looking
round--for they had ridden forward at a slow pace--saw Thomas Bolle
leap through the other fence of the roadway and vanish at a run into the
falling snow, while Emlyn spurred her horse after them.

“Stop,” she said to Christopher; “I have tidings for you. The Abbot,
with all his men-at-arms and servants, to the number of forty or more,
waits for us under shelter of Blossholme Grove yonder, purposing to take
the Lady Cicely by force. Some spy has told him of this journey.”

“I see no one,” said Christopher, staring at the Grove, which lay below
them about a quarter of a mile away, for they were on the top of a rise.
“Still, the matter is not hard to prove,” and he called to the two best
mounted of his men and bade them ride forward and make report if any
lurked behind that wood.

So the men went off, while they remained where they were, silent, but
anxious enough. Ten minutes or so later, before they could see them, for
the snow was now falling quickly, they heard the sound of many horses
galloping. Then the two men appeared, calling out as they came--

“The Abbot and all his folk are after us. Back to Cranwell, ere you be
taken!”

Christopher thought for a moment, then, remembering that with but four
men and cumbered by two women it was not possible to cut his way through
so great a force, and admonished by that sound of advancing hoofs, he
gave a sudden order. They turned about, and not too soon, for as they
did so, scarce two hundred yards away, the first of the Abbot’s horsemen
appeared plunging towards them up the slope. Then the race began, and
well for them was it that their horses were good and fresh, since before
ever they came in sight of Cranwell Towers the pursuers were not ninety
yards behind. But here on the flat their beasts, scenting home, answered
nobly to whip and spur, and drew ahead a little. Moreover, those who
watched within the house saw them, and ran to the drawbridge. When they
were within fifty yards of the moat Cicely’s horse stumbled, slipped,
and fell, throwing her into the snow, then recovered itself and galloped
on alone. Christopher reined up alongside of her, and, as she rose,
frightened but unharmed, put out his long arm, and, lifting her to the
saddle in front of him, plunged forward, while those behind shouted
“Yield!”

Under this double burden his horse went but slowly. Still they reached
the bridge before any could lay hands upon them, and thundered over it.

“Wind up,” shouted Christopher, and all there, even the womenfolk, laid
hands upon the cranks. The bridge began to rise, but now five or six of
the Abbot’s folk, dismounting, sprang at it, catching the end of it with
their hands when it was about six feet in the air, and holding on so
that it could not be lifted, but remained, moving neither up nor down.

“Leave go, you knaves,” shouted Christopher; but by way of answer one
of them, with the help of his fellows, scrambled on to the end of the
bridge, and stood there, hanging to the chains.

Then Christopher snatched a bow from the hand of a serving-man, and the
arrow being already on the string, again shouted--

“Get off at your peril!”

In answer the man called out something about the commands of the Lord
Abbot.

Christopher, looking past him, saw that others of the company had
dismounted and were running towards the bridge. If they reached it he
knew well that the game was played. So he hesitated no longer, but,
aiming swiftly, drew and loosed the bow. At that distance he could
not miss. The arrow struck the man where his steel cap joined the mail
beneath, and pierced him through the throat, so that he fell back dead.
The others, scared by his fate, loosed their hold, so that now the
bridge, relieved of the weight upon it, instantly rose up beyond their
reach, and presently came home and was made fast.

As they afterwards discovered, this man, it may here be said, was a
captain of the Abbot’s guard. Moreover, it was he who had shot the arrow
that killed Sir John Foterell some forty hours before, striking him
through the throat, as it was fated that he himself should be struck.
Thus, then, one of that good knight’s murderers reaped his just reward.

Now the men ran back out of range, for they feared more arrows, while
Christopher watched them go in silence. Cicely, who stood by his side,
her hands held before her face to shut out the sight of death, let them
fall suddenly, and, turning to her husband, said, as she pointed to the
corpse that lay upon the blood-stained snow of the roadway--

“How many more will follow him, I wonder? I think that is but the first
throw of a long game, husband.”

“Nay, sweet,” he answered, “the second; the first was cast two nights
gone by King’s Grave Mount in the forest yonder, and blood ever calls
for blood.”

“Aye,” she answered, “blood calls for blood.” Then, remembering that
she was orphaned and what sort of a honeymoon hers was like to be, she
turned and sought her chamber, weeping.

Now, while Christopher still stood irresolute, for he was oppressed by
the sense of this man-slaying, and knew not what he should do next, he
saw three men separate from the knot of soldiers and ride towards
the Towers, one of whom held a white cloth above his head in token
of parley. Then Christopher went up into the little gateway turret,
followed by Emlyn, who crouched down behind the brick battlement, so
that she could see and hear without being seen. Having reached the
further side of the moat, he who held the white cloth threw back the
hood of his long cape, and they saw that it was the Abbot of Blossholme
himself, also that his dark eyes flashed and that his olive-hued face
was almost white with rage.

“Why do you hunt me across my own park and come knocking so rudely at my
doors, my Lord Abbot?” asked Christopher, leaning on the parapet of the
gateway.

“Why do you work murder on my servant, Christopher Harflete?” answered
the Abbot, pointing to the dead man in the snow. “Know you not that
whoso sheds blood, by man shall his blood be shed, and that under our
ancient charters, here I have the right to execute justice on you, as,
by God’s holy Name, I swear that I will do?” he added in a choked voice.

“Aye,” repeated Christopher reflectively, “by man shall his blood be
shed. Perhaps that is why this fellow died. Tell me, Abbot, was he not
one of those who rode by moonlight round King’s Grave lately, and there
chanced to meet Sir John Foterell?”

The shot was a random one, yet it seemed that it went home; at least,
the Abbot’s jaw dropped, and some words that were on his lips never
passed them.

“I know naught of the meaning of your talk,” he said presently in a
quieter voice, “or of how my late friend and neighbour, Sir John--may
God rest his soul--came to his end. Yet it is of him, or rather of his,
that we must speak. It seems that you have stolen his daughter, a woman
under age, and by pretence of a false marriage, as I fear, brought her
to shame--a crime even fouler than this murder.”

“Nay, by means of a true marriage I have brought her to such small
honour as may be the share of Christopher Harflete’s lawful wife. If
there be any virtue in the rites of Holy Church, then God’s own hand has
bound us fast as man can be tied to woman, and death is the only pope
who can loose that knot.”

“Death!” repeated the Abbot in a slow voice, looking up at him very
curiously. For a little while he was silent, then went on, “Well, his
court is always open, and he has many shrewd and instant messengers,
such as this,” and he pointed to the arrow in the neck of the slain
soldier. “Yet I am a man of peace, and although you have murdered my
servant, I would settle our cause more gently if I may. Listen now,
Sir Christopher; here is my offer. Yield up to me the person of Cicely
Foterell----”

“Of Cicely Harflete,” interrupted Christopher.

“Of Cicely Foterell, and I swear to you that no violence shall be
done to her, nor shall she be given to a husband till the King or his
Vicar-General, or whatever court he may appoint, has passed judgment in
this matter and declared this mock marriage of yours null and void.”

“What!” broke in Christopher scoffingly; “does the Abbot of Blossholme
announce that the powers temporal of this realm have right of divorce?
Ere now I have heard him argue differently, and so have others, when the
case of Queen Catherine was in question.”

The Abbot bit his lip, but continued, taking no heed--

“Nor will I lay any complaint against you as to the death of my servant
here, for which otherwise you should hang. That I will write down as
an accident, and, further, compensate his family. Now you have my
offer--answer.”

“And what if I refuse this same generous offer to surrender her whom I
hold dearer than a thousand lives?”

“Then, by virtue of my rights and authority, I will take her by force,
Christopher Harflete, and if harm should happen to come to you, now or
hereafter, on your own head be it.”

At this Christopher’s rage broke out.

“Do you dare to threaten me, a loyal Englishman, you false priest and
foreign traitor,” he shouted, “whom all men know to be in the pay of
Spain, and using the cover of a monk’s dress to plot against the land on
which you fatten like a horse-leech? Why was John Foterell murdered in
the forest two nights gone? You won’t answer? Then I will. Because
he rode to Court to prove the truth about you and your treachery, and
therefore you butchered him. Why do you claim my wife as your ward?
Because you wish to steal her lands and goods to feed your plots and
luxury. You think you have bought friends at Court, and that for money’s
sake those in power there will turn a blind eye to your crimes. So it
may be for a while; but wait, wait. All eyes are not blind yonder, nor
all ears deaf. That head of yours shall yet be lifted higher than you
think--so high that it sticks upon the top of Blossholme Towers, a
warning to all who would sell England to her enemies. John Foterell lies
dead with your knave’s arrow in his throat, but Jeffrey Stokes is away
with the writings. And now do your worst, Clement Maldon. If you want my
wife, come take her.”

The Abbot listened, listened intently, drinking in every ominous word.
His swarthy face went white with fear, then turned black with rage. The
veins upon his forehead gathered into knots; even from that distance
Christopher could see them. He looked so evil that his countenance
became twisted and ridiculous, and Christopher, noting it, burst into
one of his hearty laughs.

The Abbot, who was not accustomed to mockery, whispered something to the
two men who were with him, whereon they lifted the crossbows which they
carried and pulled trigger. One quarel went wide and hit the wall of the
house behind, where it stuck fast in the joints of the stud-work. But
the other, better aimed, smote Christopher above the heart, causing him
to stagger, but being shot from below and turned by the mail he wore
glanced upwards over his left shoulder. The men, seeing that he was
unhurt, pulled their horses round and galloped off, but Christopher,
setting another arrow to the string of the bow he carried, drew it to
his ear, covering the Abbot.

“Loose, and make an end of him,” muttered Emlyn from her shelter behind
the parapet. But Christopher thought a moment, then cried--

“Stay a while, Sir Abbot; I have more to say to you.”

He took no heed who was also turning about.

“Stay!” thundered Christopher, “or I will kill that fine nag of yours;”
 then, as the Abbot still dragged upon the reins, he let the arrow fly.
The aim was true enough. Right through the arch of the neck it sped,
cutting the cord between the bones, so that the poor beast reared
straight up and fell in a heap, tumbling its rider off into the snow.

“Now, Clement Maldon,” cried Christopher, “will you listen, or will you
bide with your horse and servant and hear no more till Judgment Day? If
you do not guess it, learn that I have practised archery from my youth.
Should you doubt, hold up your hand and I’ll send a shaft between your
fingers.”

The Abbot, who was shaken but unhurt, rose slowly and stood there, the
dead horse on one side and the dead man on the other.

“Speak,” he said in a muffled voice.

“My Lord Abbot,” went on Christopher, “a minute ago you tried to murder
me, and, had not my mail been good, would have succeeded. Now your life
is in my hand, for, as you have seen, I do not miss. Those servants
of yours are coming to your help. Call to them to halt, or----” and he
lifted the bow.

The Abbot obeyed, and the men, understanding, stayed where they were, at
a distance, but within earshot.

“You have a crucifix upon your breast,” continued Christopher. “Take it
in your right hand now and swear an oath.”

Again the Abbot obeyed.

“Swear thus,” he said, Emlyn, who was crouched beneath the parapet,
prompting him from time to time; “I, Clement Maldon, Abbot of
Blossholme, in the presence of Almighty God in heaven, and of
Christopher Harflete and others upon earth,” and he jerked his head
backwards towards the windows of the house, where all therein were
gathered, listening, “make oath upon the symbol of the Rood. I swear
that I abandon all claim of wardship over the body of Cicely Harflete,
born Cicely Foterell, the lawful wife of Christopher Harflete, and
all claim to the lands and goods that she may possess, or that were
possessed by her father, John Foterell, Knight, or by her mother, Dame
Foterell, deceased. I swear that I will raise no suit in any court,
spiritual or temporal, of this or other realms against the said Cicely
Harflete or against the said Christopher Harflete, her husband, nor seek
to work injury to their bodies or their souls, or to the bodies or the
souls of any who cling to them, and that henceforth they may live and
die in peace from me or any whom I control. Set your lips to the Rood
and swear thus now, Clement Maldon.”

The Abbot hearkened, and so great was his rage, for he had no meek
heart, that he seemed to swell like an angry toad.

“Who gave you authority to administer oaths to me?” he asked at length.
“I’ll not swear,” and he cast the crucifix down upon the snow.

“Then I’ll shoot,” answered Christopher. “Come, pick up that cross.”

But Maldon stood silent, his arms folded on his breast. Christopher
aimed and loosed, and so great was his skill--for there were few archers
in England like to him--that the arrow pierced Maldon’s fur cap and
carried it away without touching the shaven head beneath.

“The next shall be two inches lower,” he said, as he set another on the
string. “I waste no more good shafts.”

Then, very slowly, to save his life, which he loved well enough, Maldon
bent down, and, lifting the crucifix from the snow, held it to his lips
and kissed it, muttering--

“I swear.” But the oath he swore was very different to that which
Christopher had repeated to him, for, like a hunted fox, he knew how to
meet guile with guile.

“Now that I, a consecrated abbot, deeming it right that I should live on
to fulfil my work on earth, have done your bidding, have I leave to go
about my business, Christopher Harflete?” he asked, with bitter irony.

“Why not?” asked Christopher. “Only be pleased henceforth not to meddle
with me and my business. To-morrow I wish to ride to London with my
lady, and we do not seek your company on the road.”

Then, having found his cap, the Abbot turned and walked back towards his
own men, drawing the arrow from it as he went, and presently all of them
rode away over the rise towards Blossholme.

“Now that is well finished, and I have an oath that he will scarcely
dare to break,” said Christopher presently. “What say you, Nurse?”

“I say that you are even a bigger simpleton than I took you to be,”
 answered Emlyn angrily, as she rose and stretched herself, for her limbs
were cramped. “The oath, pshaw! By now he is absolved from it as given
under fear. Did you not hear me whisper to you to put an arrow through
his heart, instead of playing boy’s pranks with his cap?”

“I did not wish to kill an abbot, Nurse.”

“Foolish man, what is the difference in such a matter between him and
one of his servants? Moreover, he will only say that you tried to slay
him, and missed, and produce the cap and arrow in evidence against you.
Well, my talk serves nothing to mend a bad matter, and soon you will
hear it straighter from himself. Go now and make your house ready for
attack, and never dare to set a foot without its doors, for death waits
you there.”

Emlyn was right. Within three hours an unarmed monk trudged up to
Cranwell Towers through the falling snow and cast across the moat a
letter that was tied to a stone. Then he nailed a writing to one of the
oak posts of the outer gate, and, without a word, departed as he had
come. In the presence of Christopher and Cicely, Emlyn opened and read
this second letter, as she had read the first. It was short, and ran--


“Take notice, Sir Christopher Harflete, and all others whom it may
concern, that the oath which I, Clement Maldon, Abbot of Blossholme,
swore to you this day, is utterly void and of none effect, having been
wrung from me under the threat of instant death. Take notice, further,
that a report of the murder which you have done has been forwarded to
the King’s grace and to the Sheriff and other officers of this county,
and that by virtue of my rights and authority, ecclesiastical and civil,
I shall proceed to possess myself of the person of Cicely Foterell, my
ward, and of the lands and other property held by her father, Sir John
Foterell, deceased, upon the former of which I have already entered on
her behalf, and by exercise of such force as may be needful to seize
you, Christopher Harflete, and to hand you over to justice. Further, by
means of notice sent herewith, I warn all that cling to you and abet
you in your crimes that they will do so at the peril of their souls and
bodies.

“Clement Maldon, Abbot of Blossholme.”




CHAPTER V
WHAT PASSED AT CRANWELL


A week had gone by. For the first three days of that time little of note
had happened at Cranwell Towers; that is, no assault was delivered.
Only Christopher and his dozen or so of house-servants and small tenants
discovered that they were quite surrounded. Once or twice some of them
rode out a little way, to be hunted back again by a much superior force,
which emerged from the copses near by or from cottages in the village,
and even from the porch of the church. With these men they never came
to close quarters, so that no lives were lost. In a fashion this was
a disadvantage to them, since they lacked the excitement of actual
fighting, the dread of which was ever present, but not its joy.

Meanwhile in other ways things went ill with them. Thus, first of all
their beer gave out, and then such other cordials as they had, so that
they were reduced to water to drink. Next their fuel became exhausted,
for nearly all the stock of it was kept at the farmstead about a quarter
of a mile away, and on the second day of the siege this stead was fired
and burned with its contents, the cattle and horses being driven off,
they knew not where.

So it came about at length they could keep only one fire, in the
kitchen, and that but small, which in the end they were obliged to feed
with the doors of the outhouses, and even with the floorings torn out of
the attics, in order that they might cook their food. Nor was there
much of this; only a store of salt meat and some pickled pork and smoked
bacon, together with a certain amount of oatmeal and flour, that they
made into cakes and bread.

On the fourth day, however, these gave out, so that they were reduced to
a scanty diet of hung flesh, with a few apples by way of vegetables, and
hot water to drink to warm them. At length, too, there was nothing more
to burn, and therefore they must eat their meat raw, and grew sick on
it. Moreover, a cold thaw set in, and the house grew icy, so that they
moved about it with chattering teeth, and at night, ill-nurtured as they
were, could scarce keep the life in them beneath all the coverings which
they had.

Ah! how long were those nights, with never a blaze upon the hearth or so
much as a candle to light them. At four o’clock the darkness came down,
which did not lessen, for the moon grew low and the mists were thick,
until day broke about seven on the following morning. And all this time,
fearing attack, they must keep watch and ward through the gloom, so that
even sleep was denied them.

For a while they bore up bravely, even the tenants, though news was
shouted to these that their steads had been harried, and their wives and
children hunted off to seek shelter where they might.

Cicely and Emlyn never murmured. Indeed, this new-made wife kept her
dreadful honeymoon with a cheerful face, trudging through the black
hours around the circle of the moat at her husband’s side, or from
window-place to window-place in the empty rooms, till at length they
cast themselves down upon some bed to sleep a while, giving over the
watch to others. Only Emlyn never seemed to sleep. But at length their
companions did begin to murmur.

One morning at the dawn, after a very bitter night, they waited upon
Christopher and told him that they were willing to fight for his sake
and his lady’s, but that, as there was no hope of help, they could no
longer freeze and starve; in short, that they must either escape from
the house or surrender. He listened to them patiently, knowing that
what they said was true, and then consulted for a while with Cicely and
Emlyn.

“Our case is desperate, dear wife. Now what shall we do, who have no
chance of succour, since none know of our plight? Yield, or strive to
escape through the darkness?”

“Not yield, I think,” answered Cicely, choking back a sob. “If we yield
certainly they will separate us, and that merciless Abbot will bring you
to your death and me to a nunnery.”

“That may happen in any case,” muttered Christopher, turning his head
aside. “But what say you, Nurse?”

“I say fight for it,” answered Emlyn boldly. “It is certain that we
cannot stay here, for, to be plain, Sir Christopher, there are some
among us whom I do not trust. What wonder? Their stomachs are empty,
their hands are blue, their wives and children are they know not where,
and the heavy curse of the Church hangs over them, all of which things
may be mended if they play you false. Let us take what horses remain and
slip away at dead of night if we can; or if we cannot, then let us die,
as many better folk have done before.”

So they agreed to try their fortune, thinking that it was so bad it
could not be worse, and spent the rest of that day in getting ready
as best they could. The seven horses still stood in the stable, and
although they were stiff from want of exercise, had been hay-fed and
watered. On these they proposed to ride, but first they must tell the
truth to those who had stood by them. So about three o’clock of the
afternoon Christopher called all the men together beneath the gateway
and sorrowfully set out his tale. Here, he showed them, they could bide
no longer, and to surrender meant that his new-wed wife would soon be
made a widow. Therefore they must fly, taking with them as many as there
were horses for them to ride, if they cared to risk such a journey. If
not, he and the two women would go alone.

Now four of the stoutest-hearted of them, men who had served him and
his father for many years, stepped forward, saying that, evil as these
seemed to be, they would follow his fortunes to the last. He thanked
them shortly, whereon one of the others asked what they were to do, and
if he proposed to desert them after leading them into this plight.

“God knows I would rather die,” he replied, with a swelling heart; “but,
my friends, consider the case. If I bide here, what of my wife? Alas! it
has come to this: that you must choose whether you will slip out with us
and scatter in the woods, where I think you will not be followed, since
yonder Abbot has no quarrel against you; or whether you will wait here,
and to-morrow at the dawn, surrender. In either event you can say that
I compelled you to stand by us, and that you have shed no man’s blood;
also I will give you a writing.”

So they talked together gloomily, and at last announced that when he and
their lady went they would go also and get off as best they could. But
there was a man among them, a small farmer named Jonathan Dicksey, who
thought otherwise. This Jonathan, who held his land under Christopher,
had been forced to this business of the defence of Cranwell Towers
somewhat against his will, namely, by the pressure of Christopher’s
largest tenant, to whose daughter he was affianced. He was a sly young
man, and even during the siege, by means that need not be described, he
had contrived to convey a message to the Abbot of Blossholme, telling
him that had it been in his power he would gladly be in any other place.
Therefore, as he knew well, whatever had happened to others, his farm
remained unharried. Now he determined to be out of a bad business as
soon as he might, for Jonathan was one of those who liked to stand upon
the winning side.

Therefore, although he said “Aye, aye,” more loudly than his comrades,
as soon as the dusk had fallen, while the others were making ready the
horses and mounting guard, Jonathan thrust a ladder across the moat at
the back of the stable, and clambered along its rungs into the shelter
of a cattle-shed in the meadow, and so away.

Half-an-hour later he stood before the Abbot in the cottage where he had
taken up his quarters, having contrived to blunder among his people and
be captured. To him at first Jonathan would say nothing, but when at
length they threatened to take him out and hang him, to save his life,
as he said, he found his tongue and told all.

“So, so,” said the Abbot when he had finished. “Now God is good to
us. We have these birds in our net, and I shall keep St. Hilary’s at
Blossholme after all. For your services, Master Dicksey, you shall be my
reeve at Cranwell Towers when they are in my hands.”

But here it may be said that in the end things went otherwise, since, so
far from getting the stewardship of Cranwell, when the truth came to be
known, Jonathan’s maiden would have no more to do with him, and the folk
in those parts sacked his farm and hunted him out of the country, so
that he was never heard of among them again.

Meanwhile, all being ready, Christopher at the Towers was closeted with
Cicely, taking his farewell of her in the dark, for no light was left to
them.

“This is a desperate venture,” he said to her, “nor can I tell how it
will end, or if ever I shall see your sweet face again. Yet, dearest, we
have been happy together for some few hours, and if I fall and you live
on I am sure that you will always remember me till, as we are taught,
we meet again where no enemy has the power to torment us, and cold and
hunger and darkness are not. Cicely, if that should be so and any child
should come to you, teach it to love the father whom it never saw.”

Now she threw her arms about him and wept, and wept, and wept.

“If you die,” she sobbed, “surely I will do so also, for although I am
but young I find this world a very evil place, and now that my father is
gone, without you, husband, it would be a hell.”

“Nay, nay,” he answered; “live on while you may; for who knows? Often
out of the worst comes the best. At least we have had our joy. Swear it
now, sweet.”

“Aye, if you will swear it also, for I may be taken and you left. In the
dark swords do not choose. Let us promise that we will both endure our
lives, together or separate, until God calls us.”

So they swore there in the icy gloom, and sealed the oath with kisses.

Now the time was come at last, and they crept their way to the courtyard
hand in hand, taking some comfort because the night was very favourable
to their project. The snow had melted, and a great gale blew from the
sou’-west, boisterous but not cold, which caused the tall elms that
stood about to screech and groan like things alive. In such a wind as
this they were sure that they would not be heard, nor could they be seen
beneath that murky, starless sky, while the rain which fell between the
gusts would wash out the footprints of their horses.

They mounted silently, and with the four men--for by now all the
rest had gone--rode across the drawbridge, which had been lowered in
preparation for their flight. Three hundred yards or so away their road
ran through an ancient marl-pit worked out generations before, in which
self-sown trees grew on either side of the path. As they drew near this
place suddenly, in the silence of the night, a horse neighed ahead of
them, and one of their beasts answered to the neigh.

“Halt!” whispered Cicely, whose ears were made sharp by fear. “I hear
men moving.”

They pulled rein and listened. Yes; between the gusts of wind there was
a faint sound as of the clanking of armour. They strained their eyes
in the darkness, but could see nothing. Again the horse neighed and was
answered. One of their servants cursed the beast beneath his breath and
struck it savagely with the flat of his sword, whereon, being fresh,
it took the bit between its teeth and bolted. Another minute and there
arose a great clamour from the marl-pit in front of them--a noise of
shoutings, of sword-strokes, and then a heavy groan as from the lips of
a dying man.

“An ambush!” exclaimed Christopher.

“Can we get round?” asked Cicely, and there was terror in her voice.

“Nay,” he answered, “the stream is in flood; we should be bogged. Hark!
they charge us. Back to the Towers--there is no other way.”

So they turned and fled, followed by shouts and the thunder of many
horses galloping. In two minutes they were there and across the
bridge--the women, Christopher, and the three men who were left.

“Up with the bridge!” cried Christopher, and they leapt from their
saddles and fumbled for the cranks; too late, for already the Abbot’s
horsemen pressed it down.

Then a fight began. The horses of the enemy shrank back from the
trembling bridge, so their riders, dismounting, rushed forward, to be
met by Christopher and his three remaining men, who in that narrow
place were as good as a hundred. Wild, random blows were struck in the
darkness, and, as it chanced, two of the Abbot’s people fell, whereon a
deep voice cried--

“Come back and wait for light.”

When they had gone, dragging off their wounded with them, Christopher
and his servants again strove to wind up the bridge, only to find that
it would not stir.

“Some traitor has fouled the chains,” he said in the quiet voice of
despair. “Cicely and Emlyn, get you into the house. I, and any who will
bide with me, stay here to see this business out. When I am down, yield
yourself. Afterwards I think that the King will give you justice, if you
can come to him.”

“I’ll not go,” she wailed; “I’ll die with you.”

“Nay, you shall go,” he said, stamping his foot, and, as he spoke,
an arrow hissed between them. “Emlyn, drag her hence ere she is shot.
Swift, I say, swift, or God’s curse and mine rest on you. Unclasp your
arms, wife; how can I fight while you hang about my neck? What! Must I
strike you? Then, there and there!”

She loosed her grasp, and, groaning, fell back upon the breast of Emlyn,
who half led, half carried her across the courtyard, where their scared
horses galloped loose.

“Whither go we?” sobbed Cicely.

“To the central tower,” answered Emlyn; “it seems safest there.”

To this tower, whence the place took its name, they groped their way.
Unlike the rest of the house, which for the most part was of wood, it
was built of stone, being part of an older fabric dating from the Norman
days. Slowly they stumbled up the steps till at length they reached the
roof, for some instinct prompted them to find a spot whence they
could see, should the stars break out. Here, on this lofty perch, they
crouched them down and waited the end, whatever it might be--waited in
silence.

A while passed--they never knew how long--till at length a sudden flame
shot up above the roof of the kitchens at the rear, which the wind
caught and blew on to the timbers of the main building, so that
presently this began to blaze also. The house had been fired, by whom
was never known, though it was said that the traitor, Jonathan Dicksey,
had returned and done it, either for a bribe or that his own sin might
be forgotten in this great catastrophe.

“The house burns,” said Emlyn in her quiet voice. “Now, if you would
save your life, follow me. Beneath this tower is a vault where no flame
can touch us.”

But Cicely would not stir, for by the fierce and ever-growing light she
could see what passed beneath, and, as it chanced, the wind blew the
smoke away from them. There, beyond the drawbridge, were gathered the
Abbey guards, and there in the gateway stood Christopher and his three
men with drawn swords, while in the courtyard the horses galloped madly,
screaming in their fear. A soldier looked up and saw the two women
standing on the top of the tower, then called out something to the
Abbot, who sat on horseback near to him. He looked and saw also.

“Yield, Sir Christopher,” he shouted; “the Lady Cicely burns. Yield,
that we may save her.”

Christopher turned and saw also. For a moment he hesitated, then wheeled
round to run across the courtyard. Too late, for as he came the flames
burst through the main roof of the house, and the timber front of it,
blazing furiously, fell outwards, blocking the doorway, so that the
place became a furnace into which none might enter and live.

Now a madness seemed to take hold of him. For a moment he stared up at
the figures of the two women standing high above the rolling smoke and
wrapping flame. Then, with his three men, he charged with a roar into
the crowd of soldiers who had followed him into the courtyard, striving,
it would seem, to cut his way to the Abbot, who lurked behind. It was
a dreadful sight, for he and those with him fought furiously, and many
went down. Presently, of the four only Christopher was left upon his
feet. Swords and spears smote upon his armour, but he did not fall;
it was those in front of him who fell. A great fellow with an axe
got behind him and struck with all his might upon his helm. The sword
dropped from Harflete’s hand; slowly he turned about, looked upward,
then stretched out his arms and fell heavily to earth.

The Abbot leapt from his horse and ran to him, kneeling at his side.

“Dead!” he cried, and began to shrive his passing soul, or so it seemed.

“Dead,” repeated Emlyn, “and a gallant death!”

“Dead!” wailed Cicely, in so terrible a voice that all below heard it.
“Dead, dead!” and sank senseless on Emlyn’s breast.

At that moment the rest of the roof fell in, hiding the tower in spouts
and veils of flame. Here they might not stay if they would live. Lifting
her mistress in her strong arms, as she was wont to do when she was
little, Emlyn found the head of the stair, so that when the wind blew
the smoke aside for an instant, those below saw that both had vanished,
as they thought withered in the fire.

“Now you can enter on the Shefton lands, Abbot,” cried a voice from the
darkness of the gateway, though in the turmoil none knew who spoke; “but
not for all England would I bear that innocent blood!”

The Abbot’s face turned ghastly, and though it was hot enough in that
courtyard his teeth chattered.

“It is on the head of this woman-thief,” he exclaimed with an effort,
looking down on Christopher, who lay at his feet. “Take him up, that
inquest may be held on him, who died doing murder. Can none enter the
house? His pocket full of gold to him who saves the Lady Cicely!”

“Can any enter hell and live?” answered the same voice out of the
smoke and gloom. “Seek her sweet soul in heaven, if you may come there,
Abbot.”

Then, with scared faces, they lifted up Christopher and the other dead
and wounded and carried them away, leaving Cranwell Towers to burn
itself to ashes, for so fierce was the heat that none could bide there
longer.



Two hours had gone by. The Abbot sat in the little room of a cottage
at Cranwell that he had occupied during the siege of the Towers. It was
near midnight, yet, weary as he was, he could not rest; indeed, had the
night been less foul and dark he would have spent the time in riding
back to Blossholme. His heart was ill at ease. Things had gone well with
him, it is true. Sir John Foterell was dead--slain by “outlawed
men;” Sir Christopher Harflete was dead--did not his body lie in the
neat-house yonder? Cicely, daughter of the one and wife to the other,
was dead also, burned in the fire at the Towers, so that doubtless the
precious gems and the wide lands he coveted would fall into his lap
without further trouble. For, Cromwell being bribed, who would try to
snatch them from the powerful Abbot of Blossholme, and had he not a
title to them--of a sort?

And yet he was very ill at ease, for, as that voice had said--whose
voice was it? he wondered, somehow it seemed familiar--the blood of
these people lay on his head; and there came into his mind the text of
Holy Writ which he had quoted to Christopher, that he who shed man’s
blood by man should his blood be shed. Also, although he had paid the
Vicar-General to back him, monks were in no great favour at the English
Court, and if this story travelled there, as it might, for even the
strengthless dead find friends, it was possible that questions would be
asked, questions hard to answer. Before Heaven he could justify himself
for all that he had done, but before King Henry, who would usurp the
powers of the very Pope, if the truth should chance to reach the royal
ear--ah! that was another matter.

The room was cold after the heat of that great fire; his Southern blood,
which had been warm enough, grew chill; loneliness and depression took
hold of him; he began to wonder how far in the eyes of God above the end
justifies the means. He opened the door of the place, and holding on
to it lest the rough, wintry gale should tear it from its frail hinges,
shouted aloud for Brother Martin, one of his chaplains.

Presently Martin arrived, emerging from the cattleshed, a lantern in his
hand--a tall, thin man, with perplexed and melancholy eyes, long nose,
and a clever face--and, bowing, asked his superior’s pleasure.

“My pleasure, Brother,” answered the Abbot, “is that you shut the door
and keep out the wind, for this accursed climate is killing me. Yes,
make up the fire if you can, but the wood is too wet to burn; also it
smokes. There, what did I tell you? If this goes on we shall be hams
by to-morrow morning. Let it be, for, after all, we have seen enough of
fires to-night, and sit down to a cup of wine--nay, I forgot, you drink
but water--well, then, to a bite of bread and meat.”

“I thank you, my Lord Abbot,” answered Martin, “but I may not touch
flesh; this is Friday.”

“Friday or no we have touched flesh--the flesh of men--up at the Towers
yonder this night,” answered the Abbot, with an uneasy laugh. “Still,
obey your conscience, Brother, and eat bread. Soon it will be midnight,
and the meat can follow.”

The lean monk bowed, and, taking a hunch of bread, began to bite at it,
for he was almost starving.

“Have you come from watching by the body of that bloody and rebellious
man who has worked us so much harm and loss?” asked the Abbot presently.

The secretary nodded, then swallowing a crust, said--

“Aye, I have been praying over him and the others. At least he was
brave, and it must be hard to see one’s new-wed wife burn like a witch.
Also, now that I come to study the matter, I know not what his sin was
who did but fight bravely when he was attacked. For without doubt the
marriage is good, and whether he should have waited to ask your leave
to make it is a point that might be debated through every court in
Christendom.”

The Abbot frowned, not appreciating this open and judicial tone in
matters that touched him so nearly.

“You have honoured me of late by choosing me as one of your confessors,
though I think you do not tell me everything, my Lord Abbot; therefore I
bare my mind to you,” continued Brother Martin apologetically.

“Speak on then, man. What do you mean?”

“I mean that I do not like this business,” he answered slowly, in the
intervals of munching at his bread. “You had a quarrel with Sir John
Foterell about those lands which you say belong to the Abbey. God knows
the right of it, for I understand no law; but he denied it, for did
I not hear it yonder in your chamber at Blossholme? He denied it, and
accused you of treason enough to hang all Blossholme, of which again
God knows the truth. You threatened him in your anger, but he and his
servant were armed and won out, and next day the two of them rode for
London with certain papers. Well, that night Sir John Foterell was
killed in the forest, though his servant Stokes escaped with the papers.
Now, who killed him?”

The Abbot looked at him, then seemed to take a sudden resolution.

“Our people, those men-at-arms whom I have gathered for the defence of
our House and the Church. My orders to them were to seize him living,
but the old English bull would not yield, and fought so fiercely that it
ended otherwise--to my sorrow.”

The monk put down his bread, for which he seemed to have no further
appetite.

“A dreadful deed,” he said, “for which one day you must answer to God
and man.”

“For which we all must answer,” corrected the Abbot, “down to the last
lay-brother and soldier--you as much as any of us, Brother, for were you
not present at our quarrel?”

“So be it, Abbot. Being innocent, I am ready. But that is not the end
of it. The Lady Cicely, on hearing of this murder--nay, be not wrath,
I know no other name for it--and learning that you claimed her as your
ward, flies to her affianced lover, Sir Christopher Harflete, and that
very day is married to him by the parish priest in yonder church.”

“It was no marriage. Due notice had not been given. Moreover, how could
my ward be wed without my leave?”

“She had not been served with notice of your wardship, if such exists,
or so she declared,” replied Martin in his quiet, obstinate voice.
“I think that there is no court in Europe which would void this open
marriage when it learned that the parties lived a while as man and wife,
and were so received by those about them--no, not the Pope himself.”

“He who says that he is no lawyer still sets out the law,” broke in
Maldon sarcastically. “Well, what does it matter, seeing that death has
voided it? Husband and wife, if such they were, are both dead; it is
finished.”

“No; for now they lay their appeal in the Court of Heaven, to which
every one of us is summoned; and Heaven can stir up its ministers on
earth. Oh! I like it not, I like it not; and I mourn for those two, so
loving, brave, and young. Their blood and that of many more is on our
hands--for what? A stretch of upland and of marsh which the King or
others may seize to-morrow.”

The Abbot seemed to cower beneath the weight of these sad, earnest
words, and for a little while there was silence. Then he plucked up
courage, and said--

“I am glad that you remember that their blood is on your hands as well
as mine, since now, perhaps, you will keep them hidden.”

He rose and walked to the door and the window to see that none were
without, then returned and exclaimed fiercely--

“Fool, do you then think that these deeds were done to win a new
estate? True it is that those lands are ours by right, and we need their
revenues; but there is more behind. The whole Church of this realm is
threatened by that accursed son of Belial who sits upon the throne. Why,
what is it now, man?”

“Only that I am an Englishman, and love not to hear England’s king
called a son of Belial. His sins, I know, are many and black, like those
of others--still, ‘son of Belial!’ Let his Highness hear it, and that
name alone is enough to hang you!”

“Well, then, angel of grace, if it suits you better. At the least we are
threatened. Against the law of God and man our blessed Queen, Catherine
of Spain, is thrust away in favour of the slut who fills her place.
Even now I have tidings from Kimbolton that she lies dying there of slow
poison; so they say and I believe. Also I have other tidings. Fisher and
More being murdered, Parliament next month will be moved to strike at
the lesser monasteries and steal their goods, and after them our turn
will come. But we will not bear it tamely, for ere this new year is out
all England shall be ablaze, and I, Clement Maldon, I--I will light the
fire. Now you have the truth, Martin. Will you betray me, as that dead
knight would have done?”

“Nay, my Lord Abbot, your secrets are safe with me. Am I not your
chaplain, and does not this wilful and rebellious King of ours work much
mischief against God and His servants? Yet I tell you that I like it
not, and cannot see the end. We English are a stiff-necked folk whom you
of Spain do not understand and will never break, and Henry is strong and
subtle; moreover, his people love him.”

“I knew that I could trust you, Martin, and the proof of it is that I
have spoken to you so openly,” went on Maldon in a gentler voice. “Well,
you shall hear all. The great Emperor of Germany and Spain is on our
side, as, seeing his blood and faith, he must be. He will avenge the
wrongs of the Church and of his royal aunt. I, who know him, am his
agent here, and what I do is done at his bidding. But I must have more
money than he finds me, and that is why I stirred in this matter of the
Shefton lands. Also the Lady Cicely had jewels of vast price, though I
fear greatly lest they should have been lost in the fire this night.”

“Filthy lucre--the root of all evil,” muttered Brother Martin.

“Aye, and of all good. Money, money--I must have more money to bribe
men and buy arms, to defend that stronghold of Heaven, the Church. What
matters it if lives are lost so that the immortal Church holds her own?
Let them go. My friend, you are fearful; these deaths weigh upon your
soul--aye, and on mine. I loved that girl, whom as a babe I held in
my arms, and even her rough father, I loved him for his honest heart,
although he always mistrusted me, the Spaniard--and rightly. The knight
Harflete, too, who lies yonder, he was of a brave breed, but not one
who would have served our turn. Well, they are gone, and for these
blood-sheddings we must find absolution.”

“If we can.”

“Oh! we can, we can. Already I have it in my pouch, under a seal you
know. And for our bodies, fear not. There is such a gale rising in
England as will blow out this petty breeze. A question of rights,
some arrows shot, a fire and lives lost--what of that when it agitates
betwixt powers temporal and spiritual, and which of them shall hold the
sceptre in this mighty Britain? Martin, I have a mission for you that
may lead you to a bishopric ere all is done, for that’s your mind and
aim, and if you would put off your doubts and moodiness you’ve got the
brain to rule. That ship, the _Great Yarmouth_, which sailed for Spain
some days ago, has been beat back into the river, and should weigh
anchor again to-morrow morning. I have letters for the Spanish Court,
and you shall take them with my verbal explanations, which I will
give you presently, for they would hang us, and may not be trusted
to writing. She is bound for Seville, but you will follow the Emperor
wherever he may be. You will go, won’t you?” and he glanced at him
sideways.

“I obey orders,” answered Martin, “though I know little of Spaniards or
of Spanish.”

“In every town the Benedictines have a monastery, and in every monastery
interpreters, and you shall be accredited to them all who are of that
great Brotherhood. Well, ‘tis settled. Go, make ready as best you can;
I must write. Stay; the sooner this Harflete is under ground the better.
Bid that sturdy fellow, Bolle, find the sexton of the church and help
dig his grave, for we will bury him at dawn. Now go, go, I tell you I
must write. Come back in an hour, and I will give you money for your
faring, also my secret messages.”

Brother Martin bowed and went.

“A dangerous man,” muttered the Abbot, as the door closed on him; “too
honest for our game, and too much an Englishman. That native spirit
peeps beneath his cowl; a monk should have no country and no kin. Well,
he will learn a trick or two in Spain, and I’ll make sure they keep him
there a while. Now for my letters,” and he sat down at the rude table
and began to write.

Half-an-hour later the door opened and Martin entered.

“What is it now?” asked the Abbot testily. “I said, ‘Come back in an
hour.’”

“Aye, you said that, but I have good news for you that I thought you
might like to hear.”

“Out with it, then, man. It’s scarce now-a-days. Have they found those
jewels? No, how could they? the place still flares,” and he glanced
through the window-place. “What’s the news?”

“Better than jewels. Christopher Harflete is not dead. While I was
praying over him he turned his head and muttered. I think he is only
stunned. You are skilled in medicine; come, look at him.”

A minute later and the Abbot knelt over the senseless form of
Christopher where it lay on the filthy floor of the neat-house. By the
light of the lanterns with deft fingers he felt his wounded head, from
which the shattered casque had been removed, and afterwards his heart
and pulse.

“The skull is cut, but not broken,” he said. “My judgment is that though
he may lie unsensed for days, if fed and tended this man will live,
being so young and strong. But if left alone in this cold place he will
be dead by morning, and perhaps he is better dead,” and he looked at
Martin.

“That would be murder indeed,” answered the secretary. “Come, let us
bear him to the fire and pour milk down his throat. We may save him yet.
Lift you his feet and I will take his head.”

The Abbot did so, not very willingly, as it seemed to Martin, but rather
as one who has no choice.

Half-an-hour later, when the hurts of Christopher had been dressed
with ointment and bound up, and milk poured down his throat, which he
swallowed although he was so senseless, the Abbot, looking at him, said
to Martin--

“You gave orders for this Harflete’s burial, did you not?”

The monk nodded.

“Then have you told any that he needs no grave at present?”

“No one except yourself.”

The Abbot thought a while, rubbing his shaven chin.

“I think the funeral should go forward,” he said presently. “Look not
so frightened; I do not purpose to inter him living. But there is a dead
man lying in that shed, Andrew Woods, my servant, the Scotch soldier
whom Harflete slew. He has no friends here to claim him, and these two
were of much the same height and breadth. Shrouded in a blanket, none
would know one body from the other, and it will be thought that Andrew
was buried with the rest. Let him be promoted in his death, and fill a
knight’s grave.”

“To what purpose would you play so unholy a trick, which must, moreover,
be discovered in a day, seeing that Sir Christopher lives?” asked
Martin, staring at him.

“For a very good purpose, my friend. It is well that Sir Christopher
Harflete should seem to die, who, if he is known to be alive, has
powerful kin in the south who will bring much trouble on us.”

“Do you mean----? If so, before God I will have no hand in it.”

“I said--seem to die. Where are your wits to-night?” answered the Abbot,
with irritation. “Sir Christopher travels with you to Spain as our
sick Brother Luiz, who, like myself, is of that country, and desires to
return there, as we know, but is too ill to do so. You will nurse him,
and on the ship he will die or recover, as God wills. If he recovers our
Brotherhood will show him hospitality at Seville, notwithstanding his
crimes, and by the time that he reaches England again, which may not
be for a long while, men will have forgotten all this fray in a greater
that draws on. Nor will he be harmed, seeing that the lady whom he
pretends to have married is dead beyond a doubt, as you can tell him
should he find his understanding.”

“A strange game,” muttered Martin.

“Strange or no, it is my game which I must play. Therefore question not,
but be obedient, and silent also, on your oath,” replied the Abbot in
a cold, hard voice. “That covered litter which was brought here for the
wounded is in the next chamber. Wrap this man in blankets and a monk’s
robe, and we will place him in it. Then let him be borne to Blossholme
as one of the dead by brethren who will ask no questions, and ere dawn
on to the ship _Great Yarmouth_, if he still lives. It lies near the
quay not half-a-mile from the Abbey gate. Be swift now, and help me. I
will overtake you with the letters, and see that you are furnished with
all things needful from our store. Also I must speak with the captain
ere he weighs anchor. Waste no more time in talking, but obey and be
secret.”

“I obey, and I will be secret, as is my duty,” answered Brother Martin,
bowing his head humbly. “But what will be the end of all this business,
God and His angels know alone. I say that I like it not.”

“A _very_ dangerous man,” muttered the Abbot, as he watched Martin go.
“He also must bide a while in Spain; a long while. I’ll see to it!”




CHAPTER VI
EMLYN’S CURSE


Just before the wild dawn broke on the morrow of the burning of the
Towers, a corpse, roughly shrouded, was borne from the village into the
churchyard of Cranwell, where a shallow grave had been dug for its last
home.

“Whom do we bury in such haste?” asked the tall Thomas Bolle, who had
delved the grave alone in the dark, for his orders were urgent, and the
sexton was fled away from these tumults.

“That man of blood, Sir Christopher Harflete, who has caused us so much
loss,” said the old monk who had been bidden to perform the office, as
the clergyman, Father Necton, had gone also, fearing the vengeance of
the Abbot for his part in the marriage of Cicely. “A sad story, a very
sad story. Wedded by night, and now buried by night, both of them,
one in the flame and one in the earth. Truly, O God, Thy judgments
are wonderful, and woe to those who lift hands against Thine anointed
ministers!”

“Very wonderful,” answered Bolle, as, standing in the grave, he took
the head of the body and laid it down between his straddled feet; “so
wonderful that a plain man wonders what will be the wondrous end of
them, also why this noble young knight has grown so wondrously lighter
than he used to be. Trouble and hunger in those burnt Towers, I suppose.
Why did they not set him in the vault with his ancestors? It would have
saved me a lonely job among the ghosts that haunt this place. What do
you say, Father? Because the stone is cemented down and the entrance
bricked up, and there is no mason to be found? Then why not have waited
till one could be fetched? Oh, it is wonderful, all wonderful. But who
am I that I should dare to ask questions? When the Lord Abbot orders,
the lay-brother obeys, for he also is wonderful--a wonderful abbot.

“There, he is tidy now--straight on his back and his feet pointing to
the east, at least I hope so, for I could take no good bearings in the
dark; and the whole wonderful story comes to its wonderful end. So give
me your hand out of this hole, Father, and say your prayers over the
sinful body of this wicked fellow who dared to marry the maid he loved,
and to let out the souls of certain holy monks, or rather of their hired
rufflers, for monks don’t fight, because they wished to separate those
whom God--I mean the devil--had joined together, and to add their
temporalities to the estate of Mother Church.”

Then the old priest, who was shivering with cold, and understood little
of this dark talk, began to mumble his ritual, skipping those parts
of it which he could not remember. So another grain was planted in the
cornfields of death and immortality, though when and where it should
grow and what it should bear he neither knew nor cared, who wished to
escape from fears and fightings back to his accustomed cell.

It was done, and he and the bearers departed, beating their way against
the rough, raw wind, and leaving Thomas Bolle to fill in the grave,
which, so long as they were in sight, or rather hearing, he did with
much vigour. When they were gone, however, he descended into the hole
under pretence of trampling the loose soil, and there, to be out of the
wind, sat himself down upon the feet of the corpse and waited, full of
reflections.

“Sir Christopher dead,” he muttered to himself. “I knew his grandfather
when I was a lad, and my grandfather told me that he knew his
grandfather’s great-grandfather--say three hundred years of them--and
now I sit on the cold toes of the last of the lot, butchered like a mad
ox in his own yard by a Spanish priest and his hirelings, to win his
wife’s goods. Oh! yes, it is wonderful, all very wonderful; and the Lady
Cicely dead, burnt like a common witch. And Emlyn dead--Emlyn, whom I
have hugged many a time in this very churchyard, before they whipped her
into marrying that fat old grieve and made a monk of me.

“Well, I had her first kiss, and, by the saints! how she cursed old
Stower all the way down yonder path. I stood behind that tree and heard
her. She said he would die soon, and he did, and his brat with him. She
said she would dance on his grave, and she did; I saw her do it in the
moonlight the night after he was buried; dressed in white she danced on
his grave! She always kept her promises, did Emlyn. That’s her blood.
If her mother had not been a gypsy witch, she wouldn’t have married a
Spaniard when every man in the place was after her for her beautiful
eyes. Emlyn is a witch too, or was, for they say she is dead; but I
can’t think it, she isn’t the sort that dies. Still, she must be dead,
and that’s good for my soul. Oh! miserable man, what are you thinking?
Get behind me, Satan, if you can find room. A grave is no place for you,
Satan, but I wish you were in it with me, Emlyn. You _must_ have been a
witch, since, after you, I could never fancy any other woman, which is
against nature, for all’s fish that comes to a man’s net. Evidently a
witch of the worst sort, but, my darling, witch or no I wish you weren’t
dead, and I’ll break that Abbot’s neck for you yet, if it costs me my
soul. Oh! Emlyn, my darling, my darling, do you remember how we kissed
in the copse by the river? Never was there a woman who could love like
you.”

So he moaned on, rocking himself to and fro on the legs of the corpse,
till at length a wild ray from the red, risen sun crept into the
darksome hole, lighting first of all upon a mouldering skull which Bolle
had thrown back among the soil. He rose up and pitched it out with a
word that should not have passed the lips of a lay-brother, even as such
thoughts should not have passed his mind. Then he set himself to a task
which he had planned in the intervals of his amorous meditations--a
somewhat grizzly task.

Drawing his knife from its sheath, he cut the rough stitching of the
grave-clothes, and, with numb hands, dragged them away from the body’s
head.

The light went out behind a cloud, but, not to waste time, he began to
feel the face.

“Sir Christopher’s nose wasn’t broken,” he muttered to himself, “unless
it were in that last fray, and then the bone would be loose, and this is
stiff. No, no, he had a very pretty nose.”

The light came again, and Thomas peered down at the dead face beneath
him; then suddenly burst into a hoarse laugh.

“By all the saints! here’s another of our Spaniard’s tricks. It is
drunken Andrew the Scotchman, turned into a dead English knight.
Christopher killed him, and now he is Christopher. But where’s
Christopher?”

He thought a little while, then, jumping out of the grave, began to fill
it in with all his might.

“You’re Christopher,” he said; “well, stop Christopher until I can prove
you’re Andrew. Good-bye, Sir Andrew Christopher; I am off to seek your
betters. If you are dead, who may not be alive? Emlyn herself, perhaps,
after this. Oh, the devil is playing a merry game round old Cranwell
Towers to-night, and Thomas Bolle will take a hand in it.”

He was right. The devil was playing a merry game. At least, so thought
others beside Thomas. For instance, that misguided but honest bigot,
Martin, as he contemplated the still senseless form of Christopher, who,
re-christened Brother Luiz, had been safely conveyed aboard the _Great
Yarmouth_, and now, whether dead or living, which he was not sure, lay
in the little cabin that had been allotted to the two of them. Almost
did Martin, as he looked at him and shook his bald head, seem to smell
brimstone in that close place, which, as he knew well, was the fiend’s
favourite scent.

The captain also, a sour-faced mariner with a squint, known in Dunwich,
whence he hailed, as Miser Goody, because of his earnestness in pursuing
wealth and his skill in hoarding it, seemed to feel the unhallowed
influence of his Satanic Majesty. So far everything had gone wrong upon
this voyage, which already had been delayed six weeks, that is, till the
very worst period of the year, while he waited for certain mysterious
letters and cargo which his owners said he must carry to Seville. Then
he had sailed out of the river with a fair wind, only to be beaten back
by fearful weather that nearly sank the ship.

Item: six of his best men had deserted because they feared a trip to
Spain at that season, and he had been obliged to take others at hazard.
Among them was a broad-shouldered, black-bearded fellow clad in a
leather jerkin, with spurs upon his heels--bloody spurs--that he seemed
to have found no time to take off. This hard rider came aboard in
a skiff after the anchor was up, and, having cast the skiff adrift,
offered good money for a passage to Spain or any other foreign port, and
paid it down upon the nail. He, Goody, had taken the money, though with
a doubtful heart, and given a receipt to the name of Charles Smith,
asking no questions, since for this gold he need not account to the
owners. Afterwards also the man, having put off his spurs and soldier’s
jerkin, set himself to work among the crew, some of whom seemed to know
him, and in the storm that followed showed that he was stout-hearted and
useful, though not a skilled sailor.

Still, he mistrusted him of Charles Smith, and his bloody spurs, and
had he not been so short-handed and taken the knave’s broad pieces would
have liked to set him ashore again when they were driven back into the
river, especially as he heard that there had been man-slaying about
Blossholme, and that Sir John Foterell lay slaughtered in the forest.
Perhaps this Charles Smith had murdered him. Well, if so, it was no
affair of his, and he could not spare a hand.

Now, when at length the weather had moderated, just as he was hauling
up his anchor, comes the Abbot of Blossholme, on whose will he had been
bidden to wait, with a lean-faced monk and another passenger, said to be
a sick religious, wrapped up in blankets and to all appearance dead.

Why, wondered that astute mariner Goody, should a sick monk wear
harness, for he felt it through the blankets as he helped him up the
ladder, although monk’s shoes were stuck upon his feet. And why, as he
saw when the covering slipped aside for a moment, was his crown bound up
with bloody cloths?

Indeed, he ventured to question the Abbot as to this mysterious matter
while his Lordship was paying the passage money in his cabin, only to
get a very sharp answer.

“Were you not commanded to obey me in all things, Captain Goody, and
does obedience lie in prying out my business? Another word and I will
report you to those in Spain who know how to deal with mischief-makers.
If you would see Dunwich again, hold your peace.”

“Your pardon, my Lord Abbot,” said Goody; “but things go so upon this
ship that I grow afraid. That is an ill voyage upon which one lifts
anchor twice in the same port.”

“You will not make them go better, captain, by seeking to nose out my
affairs and those of the Church. Do you desire that I should lay its
curse upon you?”

“Nay, your Reverence, I desire that you should take the curse off,”
 answered Goody, who was very superstitious. “Do that and I’ll carry
a dozen sick priests to Spain, even though they choose to wear chain
shirts--for penance.”

The Abbot smiled, then, lifting his hand, pronounced some words
in Latin, which, as he did not understand them, Goody found very
comforting. As they passed his lips the _Great Yarmouth_ began to move,
for the sailors were hoisting up her anchor.

“As I do not accompany you on this voyage, fare you well,” he said. “The
saints go with you, as shall my prayers. Since you will not pass the
Gibraltar Straits, where I hear many infidel pirates lurk, given good
weather your voyage should be safe and easy. Again farewell. I commend
Brother Martin and our sick friend to your keeping, and shall ask
account of them when we meet again.”

I pray it may not be this side of hell, for I do not like that Spanish
Abbot and his passengers, dead or living, thought Goody to himself, as
he bowed him from the cabin.

A minute later the Abbot, after a few earnest, hurried words with
Martin, began to descend the ladder to the boat, that, manned by his own
people, was already being drawn slowly through the water. As he did so
he glanced back, and, in the clinging mist of dawn, which was almost as
dense as wool, caught sight of the face of a man who had been ordered to
hold the ladder, and knew it for that of Jeffrey Stokes, who had escaped
from the slaying of Sir John--escaped with the damning papers that had
cost his master’s life. Yes, Jeffrey Stokes, no other. His lips shaped
themselves to call out something, but before ever a syllable had passed
them an accident happened.

To the Abbot it seemed as though the whole ship had struck him violently
behind--so violently that he was propelled headfirst among the rowers in
the boat, and lay there hurt and breathless.

“What is it?” called the captain, who heard the noise.

“The Abbot slipped, or the ladder slipped, I know not which,” answered
Jeffrey gruffly, staring at the toe of his sea-boot. “At least he is
safe enough in the boat now,” and, turning, he vanished aft into the
mist, muttering to himself--

“A very good kick, though a little high. Yet I wish it had been off
another kind of ladder. That murdering rogue would look well with a rope
round his neck. Still I dared do no more and it served to stop his lying
mouth before he betrayed me. Oh, my poor master, my poor old master!”



Bruised and sore as he was--and he was very sore--within little over
an hour Abbot Maldon was back at the ruin of Cranwell Towers. It seemed
strange that he should go there, but in truth his uneasy heart would
not let him rest. His plans had succeeded only far too well. Sir John
Foterell was dead--a crime, no doubt, but necessary, for had the knight
lived to reach London with that evidence in his pocket, his own life and
those of many others might have paid the price of it, since who knows
what truths may be twisted from a victim on the rack? Maldon had always
feared the rack; it was a nightmare that haunted his sleep, although the
ambitious cunning of his nature and the cause he served with heart and
soul prompted him to put himself in continual danger of that fate.

In an unguarded moment, when his tongue was loosed with wine, he had
placed himself in the power of Sir John Foterell, hoping to win him to
the side of Spain, and afterwards, forgetting it, made of him a dreadful
enemy. Therefore this enemy must die, for had he lived, not only
might he himself have died in place of him, but all his plans for the
rebellion of the Church against the Crown must have come to nothing.
Yes, yes, that deed was lawful, and pardon for it assured should the
truth become known. Till this morning he had hoped that it never would
be known, but now Jeffrey Stokes had escaped upon the ship _Great
Yarmouth_.

Oh, if only he had seen him a minute earlier; if only something--could
it have been that impious knave, Jeffrey? he wondered--had not struck
him so violently in the back and hurled him to the boat, where he lay
almost senseless till the vessel had glided from them down the river!
Well, she was gone, and Jeffrey in her. He was but a common serving-man,
after all, who, if he knew anything, would never have the wit to use
his knowledge, although it was true he had been wise enough to fly from
England.

No papers had been discovered upon Sir John’s body, and no money.
Without doubt the old knight had found time to pass them on to Jeffrey,
who now fled the kingdom disguised as a sailor. Oh! what ill chance had
put him on board the same vessel with Sir Christopher Harflete?

Well, Sir Christopher would probably die; were Brother Martin a little
less of a fool he would certainly die, but the fact remained that this
monk, though able, in such matters _was_ a fool, with a conscience that
would not suit itself to circumstances. If Christopher could be saved,
Martin would save him, as he had already saved him in the shed, even if
he handed him over to the Inquisition afterwards. Still, he might slip
through his fingers or the vessel might be lost, as was devoutly to be
prayed, and seemed not unlikely at this season of the year. Also, the
first opportunity must be taken to send certain messages to Spain that
might result in hampering the activities of Brother Martin, and of Sir
Christopher Harflete, if he lived to reach that land.

Meanwhile, reflected Maldon, other things had gone wrong. He had wished
to proclaim his wardship over Cicely and to immure her in a nunnery
because of her great possessions, which he needed for the cause, but he
had not wished her death. Indeed, he was fond of the girl, whom he had
known from a child, and her innocent blood was a weight that he ill
could bear, he who at heart always shrank from the shedding of blood.
Still, Heaven had killed her, not he, and the matter could not now be
mended. Also, as she was dead, her inheritance would, he thought, fall
into his hands without further trouble, for he--a mitred Abbot with a
seat among the Lords of the realm--had friends in London, who, for a
fee, could stifle inquiry into all this far-off business.

No, no, he must not be faint-hearted, who, after all, had much for which
to be thankful. Meanwhile the cause went on--that great cause of the
threatened Church to which he had devoted his life. Henry the heretic
would fall; the Spanish Emperor, whose spy he was and who loved him
well, would invade and take England. He would yet live to see the Holy
Inquisition at work at Westminster, and himself--yes, himself; had it
not been hinted to him?--enthroned at Canterbury, the Cardinal’s red hat
he coveted upon his head, and--oh, glorious thought!--perhaps afterwards
wearing the triple crown at Rome.



Rain was falling heavily when the Abbot, with his escort of two monks
and half-a-dozen men-at-arms, rode up to Cranwell. The house was now but
a smoking heap of ashes, mingled with charred beams and burnt clay, in
the midst of which, scarcely visible through the clouds of steam
caused by the falling rain, rose the grim old Norman tower, for on its
stonework the flames had beat vainly.

“Why have we come here?” asked one of the monks, surveying the dismal
scene with a shudder.

“To seek the bodies of the Lady Cicely and her woman, and give them
Christian burial,” answered the Abbot.

“After bringing them to a most unchristian death,” muttered the monk to
himself, then added aloud, “You were ever charitable, my Lord Abbot, and
though she defied you, such is that noble lady’s due. As for the nurse
Emlyn, she was a witch, and did but come to the end that she deserved,
if she be really dead.”

“What mean you?” asked the Abbot sharply.

“I mean that, being a witch, the fire may have turned from her.”

“Pray God, then, that it turned from her mistress also! But it cannot
be. Only a fiend could have lived in the heat of that furnace; look,
even the tower is gutted.”

“No, it cannot be,” answered the monk; “so, since we shall never find
them, let us chant the Burial Office over this great grave of theirs and
begone--the sooner the better, for yon place has a haunted look.”

“Not till we have searched out their bones, which must be beneath the
tower yonder, whereon we saw them last,” replied the Abbot, adding in
a low voice, “Remember, Brother, the Lady Cicely had jewels of great
price, which, if they were wrapped in leather, the fire may have spared,
and these are among our heritage. At Shefton they cannot be found;
therefore they must be here, and the seeking of them is no task for
common folk. That is why I hurried hither so fast. Do you understand?”

The monk nodded his head. Having dismounted, they gave their horses to
the serving-men and began to make an examination of the ruin, the Abbot
leaning on his inferior’s arm, for he was in great pain from the blow
in the back that Jeffrey had administered with his sea-boot, and the
bruises which he had received in falling to the boat.

First they passed under the gatehouse, which still stood, only to find
that the courtyard beyond was so choked with smouldering rubbish that
they could make no entry--for it will be remembered that the house had
fallen outwards. Here, however, lying by the carcass of a horse, they
found the body of one of the men whom Christopher had killed in his last
stand, and caused it to be borne out. Then, followed by their people,
leaving the dead man in the gateway, they walked round the ruin, keeping
on the inner side of the moat, till they came to the little pleasaunce
garden at its back.

“Look,” said the monk in a frightened voice, pointing to some scorched
bushes that had been a bower.

The Abbot did so, but for a while could see nothing because of the
wreaths of steam. Presently a puff of wind blew these aside, and there,
standing hand in hand, he beheld the figures of two women. His men
beheld them also, and called aloud that these were the ghosts of Cicely
and Emlyn. As they spoke the figures, still hand in hand, began to walk
towards them, and they saw that they were Cicely and Emlyn indeed, but
in the flesh, quite unharmed.

For a moment there was deep silence; then the Abbot asked--

“Whence come you, Mistress Cicely?”

“Out of the fire,” she answered in a small, cold voice.

“Out of the fire! How did you live through the fire?”

“God sent His angel to save us,” she answered, again in that small
voice.

“A miracle,” muttered the monk; “a true miracle!”

“Or mayhap Emlyn Stower’s witchcraft,” exclaimed one of the men behind;
and Maldon started at his words.

“Lead me to my husband, my Lord Abbot, lest, thinking me dead, his heart
should break,” said Cicely.

Now again there was silence so deep that they could hear the patter of
every drop of falling rain. Twice the Abbot strove to speak, but could
not, but at the third effort his words came.

“The man you call your husband, but who was not your husband, but your
ravisher, was slain in the fray last night, Cicely Foterell.”

She stood quite quiet for a while, as though considering his words, then
said, in the same unnatural voice--

“You lie, my Lord Abbot. You were ever a liar, like your father the
devil, for the angel told me so in the midst of the fire. Also he told
me that, though I seemed to see him fall, Christopher is alive upon the
earth--yes, and other things, many other things;” and she passed her
hand before her eyes and held it there, as though to shut out the sight
of her enemy’s face.

Now the Abbot trembled in his terror, he who knew that he lied, though
at that time none else there knew it. It was as though suddenly he had
been haled before the Judgment-seat where all secrets must be bared.

“Some evil spirit has entered into you,” he said huskily.

She dropped her hand, pointing at him.

“Nay, nay; I never knew but one evil spirit, and he stands before me.”

“Cicely,” he went on, “cease your blaspheming. Alas! that I must tell it
you. Sir Christopher Harflete is dead and buried in yonder churchyard.”

“What! So soon, and all uncoffined, he who was a noble knight? Then
you buried him living, and, living, in a day to come he shall rise up
against you. Hear my words, all. Christopher Harflete shall rise up
living and give testimony against this devil in a monk’s robe, and
afterwards--afterwards--” and she laughed shrilly, then suddenly fell
down and lay still.

Now Emlyn, the dark and handsome, as became her Spanish, or perhaps
gypsy blood, who all this while had stood silent, her arms folded upon
her high bosom, leaned down and looked at her. Then she straightened
herself, and her face was like the face of a beautiful fiend.

“She is dead!” she screamed. “My dove is dead. She whom these breasts
nursed, the greatest lady of all the wolds and all the vales, the Lady
of Blossholme, of Cranwell and of Shefton, in whose veins ran the blood
of mighty nobles, aye, and of old kings, is dead, murdered by a beggarly
foreign monk, who not ten days gone butchered her father also yonder by
King’s Grave--yonder by the mere. Oh! the arrow in his throat! the arrow
in his throat! I cursed the hand that shot it, and to-day that hand is
blue beneath the mould. So, too, I curse you, Maldonado, evil-gifted
one, Abbot consecrated by Satan, you and all your herd of butchers!” and
she broke into the stream of Spanish imprecations whereof the Abbot knew
the meaning well.

Presently Emlyn paused and looked behind her at the smouldering ruins.

“This house is burned,” she cried; “well, mark Emlyn’s words: even so
shall your house burn, while your monks run squeaking like rats from a
flaming rick. You have stolen the lands; they shall be taken from you,
and yours also, every acre of them. Not enough shall be left to bury you
in, for, priest, you’ll need no burial. The fowls of the air shall bury
you, and that’s the nearest you will ever get to heaven--in their filthy
crops. Murderer, if Christopher Harflete is dead, yet he shall live, as
his lady swore, for his seed shall rise up against you. Oh! I forgot;
how can it, how can it, seeing that she is dead with him, and their
bridal coverlet has become a pall woven by the black monks? Yet it
shall, it shall. Christopher Harflete’s seed shall sit where the Abbots
of Blossholme sat, and from father to son tell the tale of the last
of them--the Spaniard who plotted against England’s king and overshot
himself.”

Her rage veered like a hurricane wind. Forgetting the Abbot, she turned
upon the monk at his side and cursed him. Then she cursed the hired
men-at-arms, those present and those absent, many by name, and
lastly--greatest crime of all--she cursed the Pope and the King of
Spain, and called to God in heaven and Henry of England upon earth to
avenge her Lady Cicely’s wrongings, and the murder of Sir John Foterell,
and the murder of Christopher Harflete, on each and all of them,
individually and separately.

So fierce and fearful was her onslaught that all who heard her were
reduced to utter silence. The Abbot and the monk leaned against each
other, the soldiers crossed themselves and muttered prayers, while one
of them, running up, fell upon his knees and assured her that he had
had nothing to do with all this business, having only returned from a
journey last night, and been called thither that morning.

Emlyn, who had paused from lack of breath, listened to him, and said--

“Then I take the curse off you and yours, John Athey. Now lift up
my lady and bear her to the church, for there we will lay her out as
becomes her rank; though not with her jewels, her great and priceless
jewels, for which she was hunted like a doe. She must lie without her
jewels; her pearls and coronet, and rings, her stomacher and necklets
of bright gems, that were worth so much more than those beggarly
acres--those that once a Sultan’s woman wore. They are lost, though
perhaps yonder Abbot has found them. Sir John Foterell bore them to
London for safe keeping, and good Sir John is dead; footpads set on him
in the forest, and an arrow shot from behind pierced his throat. Those
who killed him have the jewels, and the dead bride must lie without
them, adorned in the naked beauty that God gave to her. Lift her, John
Athey, and you monks, set up your funeral chant; we’ll to the church.
The bride who knelt before the altar shall lie there before the
altar--Clement Maldonado’s last offering to God. First the father, then
the husband, and now the wife--the sweet, new-made wife!”

So she raved on, while they stood before her dumb-founded, and the man
lifted up Cicely. Then suddenly this same Cicely, whom all thought dead,
opened her eyes and struggled from his arms to her feet.

“See,” screamed Emlyn; “did I not tell you that Harflete’s seed should
live to be avenged upon all your tribe, and she stands there who will
bear it? Now where shall we shelter till England hears this tale?
Cranwell is down, though it shall rise again, and Shefton is stolen.
Where shall we shelter?”

“Thrust away that woman,” said the Abbot in a hoarse voice, “for her
witchcrafts poison the air. Set the Lady Cicely on a horse and bear her
to our Nunnery of Blossholme, where she shall be tended.”

The men advanced to do his bidding, though very doubtfully. But Emlyn,
hearing his words, ran to the Abbot and whispered something in his ear
in a foreign tongue that caused him to cross himself and stagger back
from her.

“I have changed my mind,” he said to the servants. “Mistress
Emlyn reminds me that between her and her lady there is the tie of
foster-motherhood. They may not be separated as yet. Take them both
to the Nunnery, where they shall dwell, and as for this woman’s words,
forget them, for she was mad with fear and grief, and knew not what she
said. May God and His saints forgive her, as I do.”




CHAPTER VII
THE ABBOT’S OFFER


The Nunnery at Blossholme was a peaceful place, a long, grey-gabled
house set under the shelter of a hill and surrounded by a high wall.
Within this wall lay also the great garden--neglected enough--and the
chapel, a building that still was beautiful in its decay.

Once, indeed, Blossholme Priory, which was older than the Abbey, had
been rich and famous. Its foundress in the time of the first Edward,
a certain Lady Matilda, one of the Plantagenets, who retired from the
world after her husband had been killed in the Crusade, being childless,
endowed it with all her lands. Other noble ladies who accompanied her
there, or sought its refuge in after days, had done likewise, so that
it grew in power and in wealth, till at its most prosperous time over
twenty nuns told their beads within its walls. Then the proud Abbey rose
upon the opposing hill, and obtained some royal charter that the Pope
confirmed, under which the Priory of Blossholme was affiliated to the
Abbey of Blossholme, and the Abbot of Blossholme became the spiritual
lord of its religious. From that day forward its fortunes began to
decline, since under this pretext and that the abbots filched away its
lands to swell their own estates.

So it came about that at the date of our history the total revenue of
this Nunnery was but £130 a year of the money of the day, and even of
this sum the Abbot took tithe and toll. Now in all the great house, that
once had been so full, there dwelt but six nuns, one of whom was, in
fact, a servant, while an aged monk from the Abbey celebrated Mass in
the fair chapel where lay the bones of so many who had gone before. Also
on certain feasts the Abbot himself attended, confessed the nuns, and
granted them absolution and his holy blessing. On these days, too, he
would examine their accounts, and if there were money in hand take a
share of it to serve his necessities, for which reason the Prioress
looked forward to his coming with little joy.

It was to this ancient home of peace that the distraught Cicely and
her servant Emlyn were conveyed upon the morrow of the great burning.
Indeed, Cicely knew it well enough already, since as a child during
three years or more she had gone there daily to be taught by the
Prioress Matilda, for every head of the Priory took this name in turn to
the honour of their foundress and in accordance with the provisions
of her will. Happy years they were, as these old nuns loved her in her
youth and innocence, and she, too, loved them every one. Now, by the
workings of fate, she was borne back to the same quiet room where she
had played and studied--a new-made wife, a new-made widow.

But of all this poor Cicely knew nothing till three weeks or more had
gone by, when at length her wandering brain cleared and she opened her
eyes to the world again. At the moment she was alone, and lay looking
about her. The place was familiar. She recognized the deep windows,
the faded tapestries of Abraham cutting Isaac’s throat with a butcher’s
knife, and Jonah being shot into the very gateway of a castle where his
family awaited him, from the mouth of a gigantic carp with goggle eyes,
for the simple artist had found his whale’s model in a stewpond. Well
she remembered those delightful pictures, and how often she had wondered
whether Isaac could escape bleeding to death, or Jonah’s wife, with the
outspread arms, withstand the sudden shock of her husband’s unexpected
arrival out of the interior of the whale. There also was the splendid
fireplace of wrought stone, and above it, cunningly carved in gilded
oak, gleamed many coats-of-arms without crests, for they were those of
sundry noble prioresses.

Yes, this was certainly the great guest-chamber of the Blossholme
Priory, which, since the nuns had now few guests and many places
in which to put them, had been given up to her, Sir John Foterell’s
heiress, as her schoolroom. There she lay, thinking that she was a child
again, a happy, careless child, or that she dreamed, till presently the
door opened and Mother Matilda appeared, followed by Emlyn, who bore a
tray, on which stood a silver bowl that smoked. There was no mistaking
Mother Matilda in her black Benedictine robe and her white wimple,
wearing the great silver crucifix which was her badge of office, and the
golden ring with an emerald bezel whereon was cut St. Catherine being
broken on the wheel--the ancient ring which every Prioress of Blossholme
had worn from the beginning. Moreover, who that had ever seen it could
forget her sweet, old, high-bred face, with the fine lips, the arched
nose, and the quick, kind grey eyes!

Cicely strove to rise and to do her reverence, as had been her custom
during those childish years, only to find that she could not, for lo!
she fell back heavily upon her pillow. Thereon Emlyn, setting down the
tray with a clatter upon a table, ran to her, and putting her arms about
her, began to scold, as was her fashion, but in a very gentle voice;
and Mother Matilda, kneeling by her bed, gave thanks to Jesus and His
blessed saints--though why she thanked Him at first Cicely did not
understand.

“Am I ill, reverend Mother?” she asked.

“Not now, daughter, but you were very ill,” answered the Prioress in her
sweet, low voice. “Now we think that God has healed you.”

“How long have I been here?” she asked.

The Mother began to reckon, counting her beads, one for every day--for
in such places time slips by--but long before she had finished Emlyn
replied quickly--

“Cranwell Towers was burned three weeks yesternight.”

Then Cicely remembered, and with a bitter groan turned her face to the
wall, while the Mother reproached Emlyn, saying she had killed her.

“I think not,” answered the nurse in a low voice. “I think she has that
which will not let her die”--a saying that puzzled the Prioress at this
time.

Emlyn was right. Cicely did not die. On the contrary, she grew strong
and well in her body, though it was long before her mind recovered.
Indeed, she glided about the place like a ghost in her black mourning
robe, for now she no longer doubted that Christopher was dead, and she,
the wife of a week, widowed as well as orphaned.

Then in her utter desolation came comfort; a light broke on the darkness
of her soul like the moon above a tortured midnight sea. She was no
longer quite alone; the murdered Christopher had left his image with
her. If she lived a child would be born to him, and therefore she would
surely live. One evening, on her knees, she whispered her secret to the
Prioress Matilda, whereat the old nun blushed like a girl, yet, after a
moment’s silent prayer, laid a thin hand upon her head in blessing.

“The Lord Abbot declares that your marriage was no true marriage, my
daughter, though why I do not understand, since the man was he whom your
heart chose, and you were wed to him by an ordained priest before God’s
altar and in presence of the congregation.”

“I care not what he says,” answered Cicely in a stubborn voice. “If I am
not a true wife, then no woman ever was.”

“Dear daughter,” answered Mother Matilda, “it is not for us unlearned
women to question the wisdom of a holy Abbot who doubtless is inspired
from on high.”

“If he is inspired it is not from on high, Mother. Would God or His
saints teach him to murder my father and my husband, to seize my
heritage, or to hold my person in this gentle prison? Such inspirations
do not come from above, Mother.”

“Hush! hush!” said the Prioress, glancing round her nervously; “your
woes have crazed you. Besides, you have no proof. In this world there
are so many things that we cannot understand. Being an abbot, how could
he do wrong, although to us his acts seem wrong? But let us not talk
of these matters, of which, indeed, I only know from that rough-tongued
Emlyn of yours, who, I am told, was not afraid to curse him terribly.
I was about to say that whatever may be the law of it, I hold your
marriage good and true, and its issue, should such come to you, pure
and holy, and night by night I will pray that it shall be crowned with
Heaven’s richest blessings.”

“I thank you, dear Mother,” answered Cicely, as she rose and left her.

When she had gone the Prioress rose also, and, with a troubled face,
began to walk up and down the refectory, for it was here that they had
spoken together. Truly she could not understand, for unless all these
tales were false--and how could they be false?--this Abbot, whom her
high-bred English nature had always mistrusted, this dark, able Spanish
monk was no saint, but a wicked villain. There must be some explanation.
It was only that _she_ did not understand.

Soon the news spread throughout the Nunnery, and if the sisters had
loved Cicely before, now they loved her twice as well. Of the doubts as
to the validity to her marriage, like their Prioress, they took no heed,
for had it not been celebrated in a church? But that a child was to
be born among them--ah! that was a joyful thing, a thing that had not
happened for quite two hundred years, when, alas!--so said tradition and
their records--there had been a dreadful scandal which to this day
was spoken of with bated breath. For be it known at once this Nunnery,
whatever may or may not have been the case with some others, was one of
which no evil could be said.

Beneath their black robes, however, these old nuns were still as much
women as the mothers who bore them, and this news of a child stirred
them to the marrow. Among themselves in their hours of recreation they
talked of little else, and even their prayers were largely occupied with
this same matter. Indeed, poor, weak-witted, old Sister Bridget, who
hitherto had been secretly looked down upon because she was the only one
of the seven who was not of gentle birth, now became very popular. For
Sister Bridget in her youth had been married and borne two children,
both of whom had been carried off by the smallpox after she was widowed,
whereon, as her face was seamed by this same disease, so that she had
no hope of another husband, as her neighbours said, or because her heart
was broken, as she said, she entered into religion.

Now she constituted herself Cicely’s chief attendant, and although that
lady was quite well and strong, persecuted her with advice and with
noxious mixtures which she brewed, till Emlyn, descending on her like
a storm, hunted her from the room and cast her medicines through the
window.

That these sisters should be thus interested in so small a matter was
not, indeed, wonderful, seeing that if their lives had been secluded
before, since the Lady Cicely came amongst them they were ten times more
so. Soon they discovered that she and her servant, Emlyn Stower, were,
in fact, prisoners, which meant that they, her hostesses, were prisoners
also. None were allowed to enter the Nunnery save the silent old monk
who confessed them and celebrated the Mass, nor, by an order of the
Abbot, were they suffered to go abroad upon any business whatsoever.

For the rest, as their only means of communication with those who dwelt
beyond was the surly gardener, who was deaf and set there to spy on
them, little news ever reached them. They were almost dead to the world,
which, had they known it, was busy enough just then with matters that
concerned them and all other religious houses.

At length one day, when Cicely and Emlyn were seated in the garden
beneath a flowering hawthorn-tree--for now June had come and with it
warm weather--of a sudden Sister Bridget hurried up saying that the
Abbot of Blossholme desired their presence. At this tidings Cicely
turned faint, and Emlyn rated Bridget, asking if her few wits had left
her, or if she thought that name was so pleasant to her mistress that
she should suddenly bawl it in her ear.

Thereon the poor old soul, who was not too strong-brained and much
afraid of Emlyn since she had thrown her medicines out of the window,
began to weep, protesting that she had meant no harm, till Cicely,
recovering, soothed her and sent her back to say that she would wait
upon his lordship.

“Are you afraid of him, Mistress?” asked Emlyn, as they prepared to
follow.

“A little, Nurse. He has shown himself a man to be afraid of, has he
not? My father and my husband are in his net, and will he spare the last
fish in the pool--a very narrow pool?” and she glanced at the high walls
about her. “I fear lest he should take you from me, and wonder why he
has not done so already.”

“Because my father was a Spaniard, and through him I know that which
would ruin him with his friends, the Pope and the Emperor. Also, he
believes that I have the evil eye, and dreads my curse. Still, one day
he may try to murder me; who knows? Only then the secret of the jewels
will go with me, for that is mine alone; not yours even, for if you had
it they would squeeze it out of you. Meanwhile he will try to profess
you a nun, but push him off with soft words. Say that you will think of
it after your child is born. Till then he can do nothing, and, if Mother
Matilda’s fresh tidings are true, by that time perchance there will be
no more nuns in England.”

Now very quietly and by the side door they were entering the old
reception-hall, that was only used for the entertainment of visitors and
on other great occasions, and close to them saw the Abbot seated in his
chair, while the Prioress stood before him, rendering her accounts.

“Whether you can spare it or no,” they heard him say sharply, “I must
have the half-year’s rent. The times are evil; we servants of the Lord
are threatened by that adulterous king and his proud ministers, who
swear they will strip us to the shirt and turn us out to starve. I’m
but just from London, and, although our enemy Anne Boleyn has lost her
wanton head, I tell you the danger is great. Money must be had to stir
up rebellion, for who can arm without it, and but little comes from
Spain. I am in treaty to sell the Foterell lands for what they will
fetch, but as yet can give no title. Either that stiff-necked girl must
sign a release, or she must profess, for otherwise, while she lives,
some lawyer or relative might upset the sale. Is she yet prepared to
take her first vows? If not, I shall hold you much to blame.”

“Nay,” answered the Prioress; “there are reasons. You have been away,
and have not heard”--she hesitated and looked about her nervously,
to see Cicely and Emlyn standing behind them. “What do you there,
daughter?” she asked, with as much asperity as she ever showed.

“In truth I know not, Mother,” answered Cicely. “Sister Bridget told us
that the Lord Abbot desired our presence.”

“I bid her say that you were to wait him in my chamber,” said the
Prioress in a vexed voice.

“Well,” broke in the Abbot, “it would seem that you have a fool for a
messenger; if it is that pockmarked hag, her brain has been gone for
years. Ward Cicely, I greet you, though after the sorrows that have
fallen on you, whereof by your leave we will not speak, since there is
no use in stirring up such memories, I grieve to see you in that worldly
garb, who thought you would have changed it for a better. But ere you
entered the holy Mother here spoke of some obstacle that stood between
you and God. What is it? Perchance my counsel may be of service. Not
this woman, as I trust,” and he frowned at Emlyn, who at once answered,
in her steady voice--

“Nay, my Lord Abbot, I stand not between her and God and His holiness,
but between her and man and his iniquity. Still I can tell you of that
obstacle--which comes from God--if you so need.”

Now the old Prioress, blushing to her white hair, bent forward and
whispered in the Abbot’s ear words at which he sprang up as though a
wasp had stung him.

“Pest on it! it cannot be,” he said. “Well, well, there it is, and must
be swallowed with the rest. Pity, though,” he added, with a sneer on his
dark face, “since many a year has gone by since these walls have seen a
bastard, and, as things are, that may pull them down about your ears.”

“I know such brats are dangerous,” interrupted Emlyn, looking Maldon
full in the eyes; “my father told me of a young monk in Spain--I forget
his name--who brought certain ladies to the torture in some such matter.
But who talks of bastards in the case of Dame Cicely Harflete, widow of
Sir Christopher Harflete, slain by the Abbot of Blossholme?”

“Silence, woman. Where there is no lawful marriage there can be no
lawful child----”

“To take that lawful inheritance that it lawfully inherits. Say, my Lord
Abbot, did Sir Christopher make you his heir also?”

Then, before he could answer, Cicely, who had been silent all this
while, broke in--

“Heap what insults you will on me, my Lord Abbot, and having robbed me
of my father, my husband, and my heart, rob me of my goods also, if
you can. In my case it matters little. But slander not my child, if one
should be born to me, nor dare to touch its rights. Think not that you
can break the mother as you broke the girl, for there you will find that
you have a she-wolf by the ear.”

He looked at her, they all looked at her, for in her eyes was something
that compelled theirs. Clement Maldon, who knew the world and how a
she-wolf can fight for its cub, read in them a warning which caused him
to change his tone.

“Tut, tut, daughter,” he said; “what is the good of vapouring of a child
that is not and may never be? When it comes I will christen it, and we
will talk.”

“When it comes you will not lay a finger on it. I’d rather that it went
unbaptized to its grave than marked with your cross of blood.”

He waved his hand.

“There is another matter, or rather two, of which I must speak to you,
my daughter. When do you take your first vows?”

“We will talk of it after my child is born. ‘Tis a child of sin, you
say, and I am unrepentant, a wicked woman not fit to take a holy vow, to
which, moreover, you cannot force me,” she replied, with bitter sarcasm.

Again he waved his hand, for the she-wolf showed her teeth.

“The second matter is,” he went on, “that I need your signature to a
writing. It is nothing but a form, and one I fear you cannot read,
nor in faith can I,” and with a somewhat doubtful smile he drew out a
crabbed indenture and spread it before her on the table.

“What?” she laughed, brushing aside the parchment. “Have you remembered
that yesterday I came of age, and am, therefore, no more your ward, if
such I ever was? You should have sold my inheritance more swiftly, for
now the title you can give is rotten as last year’s apples, and I’ll
sign nothing. Bear witness, Mother Matilda, and you, Emlyn Stower,
that I have signed and will sign nothing. Clement Maldon, Abbot of
Blossholme, I am a free woman of full age, even though, as you say, I am
a wanton. Where is your right to chain up a wanton who is no religious?
Unlock these gates and let me go.”

Now he felt the wolf’s fangs, and they were sharp.

“Whither would you go?” he asked.

“Whither but to the King, to lay my cause before him, as my father would
have done last Christmas-time.”

It was a bold speech, but foolish. The she-wolf had loosed her hold to
growl--to growl at a hunter with a bloody sword.

“I think your father never reached his Grace with his sack of
falsehoods; nor might you, Cicely Foterell. The times are rough,
rebellion is in the air, and many wild men hunt the woods and roads. No,
no; for your own sake you bide here in safety till----”

“Till you murder me. Oh! it is in your mind. Do you remember the angel
who spoke with me in the fire and told me my husband was not dead?”

“A lying spirit, then; no angel.”

“I am not so sure,” and again she passed her hand across her eyes, as
she had done in that dreadful dawn at Cranwell. “Well, I prayed to God
to help me, and last night that angel came again and spoke in my sleep.
He told me to fear you not at all, my Lord Abbot; however sore my case
and however near my death might seem, since God had shaped a stone to
drop upon your head. He showed it me; it was like an axe.”

Now the old Prioress held up her hands and gasped in horror, but the
Abbot leapt from his seat in rage--or was it fear?

“Wanton, you named yourself,” he exclaimed; “but I name you witch also,
who, if you had your deserts, should die the death of a witch by fire.
Mother Matilda, I command you, on your oath, keep this witch fast and
make report to me of all her sorceries. It is not fitting that such a
one should walk abroad to bring evil on the innocent. Witch and wanton,
begone to your chamber!”

Cicely listened, then, without another word, broke into a little
scornful laugh, and, turning, left the room, followed by the Prioress.

But Emlyn did not go; she stayed behind, a smile on her dark, handsome
face.

“You’ve lost the throw, though all your dice were loaded,” she said
boldly.

The Abbot turned on her and reviled her.

“Woman,” he said, “if she is a witch, you’re the familiar, and certainly
you shall burn even though she escape. It is you who taught her how to
call up the devil.”

“Then you had best keep me living, my Lord Abbot, that I may teach her
how to lay him. Nay, threaten not. Why, the rack might make me speak,
and the birds of the air carry the matter!”

His face paled; then suddenly he asked--

“Where are those jewels? I need them. Give me the jewels and you shall
go free, and perchance your accursed mistress with you.”

“I told you,” she answered. “Sir John took them to London, and if they
were not found upon his body, then either he threw them away or Jeffrey
Stokes carried them to wherever he has gone. Drag the mere, search the
forest, find Jeffrey and ask him.”

“You lie, woman. When you and your mistress fled from Shefton a servant
there saw you with the box that held those jewels in your hand.”

“True, my Lord Abbot, but it no longer held them; only my mistress’s
love-letters, which she would not leave behind.”

“Then where is the box, and where are those letters?”

“We grew short of fuel in the siege, and burned both. When a woman has
her man she doesn’t want his letters. Surely, Maldonado,” she added,
with meaning, “you should know that it is not always wise to keep old
letters. What, I wonder, would you give for some that I have seen and
that are _not_ burned?”

“Accursed spawn of Satan,” hissed the Abbot, “how dare you flaunt me
thus? When Cicely was wed to Christopher she wore those very gems;
I have it from those who saw her decked in them--the necklace on her
bosom, the priceless rosebud pearls hanging from her ears.”

“Oho! oho!” said Emlyn; “so you own that she was wed, the pure soul whom
but now you called a wanton. Look you, Sir Abbot, we will fence no
more. She wore the jewels. Jeffrey took nothing hence save your
death-warrant.”

“Then where are they?” he asked, striking his fist upon the table.

“Where? Why, where you’ll never follow them--gone up to heaven in the
fire. Thinking we might be robbed, I hid them behind a secret panel in
her chamber, purposing to return for them later. Go, rake out the ashes;
you might find a cracked diamond or two, but not the pearls; they fly in
fire. There, that’s the truth at last, and much good may it do to you.”

The Abbot groaned. Like most Spaniards he was emotional, and could not
help it; his bitterness burst from his heart.

Emlyn laughed at him.

“See how the wise and mighty of this world overshoot themselves,” she
said. “Clement Maldonado, I have known you for some twenty years, and
when I was called the Beauty of Blossholme, and the Abbot who went
before you made me the Church’s ward, though I ever hated you, who
hunted down my father, you had softer words for me than those you name
me by to-day. Well, I have watched you rise and I shall watch you fall,
and I know your heart and its desires. Money is what you lust for and
must have, for otherwise how will you gain your end? It was the
jewels that you needed, not the Shefton lands, which are worth little
now-a-days, and will soon be worth less. Why, one of those pink pearls
placed among the Jews would buy three parishes, with their halls thrown
in. For the sake of those jewels you have brought death on some and
misery on some, and on your own soul damnation without end, though had
you but been wise and consulted me--why, they, or some of them, might
have been yours. Sir John was no fool; he would have parted with a pearl
or two, of which he did not know the value, to end a feud against
the Church and safeguard his title and his daughter. And now, in your
madness, you’ve burnt them--burnt a king’s ransom, or what might have
pulled down a king. Oh! had you but guessed it, you’d have hacked off
the hand that put a torch to Cranwell Towers, for now the gold you need
is lacking to you, and therefore all your grand schemes will fail, and
you’ll be buried in their ruin, as you thought we were in Cranwell.”

The Abbot, who had listened to this long and bitter speech in patience,
groaned again.

“You are a clever woman,” he said; “we understand each other, coming
from the same blood. You know the case; what is your counsel to me now?”

“That which you will not take, being foredoomed for your sins. Still
I’ll give it honestly. Set the Lady Cicely free, restore her lands,
confess your evil doings. Fly the kingdom before Cromwell turns on
you and Henry finds you out, taking with you all the gold that you can
gather, and bribe the Emperor Charles to give you a bishopric in Granada
or elsewhere--not near Seville, for reasons that you know. So shall you
live honoured, and one day, after you have been dead a long while and
many things are forgotten, perchance be beatified as Saint Clement of
Blossholme.”

The Abbot looked at her reflectively.

“If I sought safety only and old age comforts your counsel might be
good, but I play for higher stakes.”

“You set your head against them,” broke in Emlyn.

“Not so, woman, for in any case that head must win. If it stays upon my
shoulders it will wear an archbishop’s mitre, or a cardinal’s hat, or
perhaps something nobler yet; and if it parts from them, why, then a
heavenly crown of glory.”

“Your head? _Your_ head?” exclaimed Emlyn, with a contemptuous laugh.

“Why not?” he answered gravely. “You chance to know of some errors of
my youth, but they are long ago repented of, and for such there is
plentiful forgiveness,” and he crossed himself. “Were it not so, who
would escape?”

Emlyn, who had been standing all this while, sat herself down, set her
elbows on the table and rested her chin upon her clenched hands.

“True,” she said, looking him in the eyes; “none of us would escape.
But, Clement Maldon, how about the unrepented errors of your age? Sir
John Foterell, for instance; Sir Christopher Harflete, for instance;
my Lady Cicely, for instance; to say nothing of black treason and a few
other matters?”

“Even were all these charges true, which I deny, they are no sins,
seeing that they would have been done, every one of them, not for my own
sake, but for that of the Church, to overset her enemies, to rebuild her
tottering walls, to secure her eternally in this realm.”

“And to lift you, Clement Maldon, to the topmost pinnacle of her temple,
whence Satan shows you all the kingdoms of the world, swearing that they
shall be yours.”

Apparently the Abbot did not resent this bold speech; indeed, Emlyn’s
apt illustration seemed to please him. Only he corrected her gently,
saying--

“Not Satan, but Satan’s Lord.” Then he paused a while, looked round the
chamber to see that the doors were shut and make sure that they were
alone, and went on, “Emlyn Stower, you have great wits and courage--more
than any woman that I know. Also you have knowledge both of the world
and of what lies beyond it, being what superstitious fools call a witch,
but I, a prophetess or a seer. These things come to you with your blood,
I suppose, seeing that your mother was of a gypsy tribe and your
father a high-bred Spanish gentleman, very learned and clever, though a
pestilent heretic, for which cause he fled for his life from Spain.”

“To find his dark death in England. The Holy Inquisition is patent and
has a long arm. If I remember right, also it was this business of the
heresy of my father that first brought you to Blossholme, where, after
his vanishing and the public burning of that book of his, you so greatly
prospered.”

“You are always right, Emlyn, and therefore I need not tell you further
that we had been old enemies in Spain, which is why I was chosen to hunt
him down and how you come to know certain things.”

She nodded, and he went on--

“So much for the heretic father--now for the gypsy mother. She died, by
her own hand it is said, to escape the punishment of the law.”

“No need to beat about the bush, Abbot; let’s have truth between old
friends. You mean, to escape being burnt by you as a witch, because she
had the letters which were not burned and threatened to use them--as I
do.”

“Why rake up such tales, Emlyn?” he interposed blandly. “At least she
died, but not until she had taught you all she knew. The rest of the
history is short. You fell in love with old yeoman Bolle’s son, or said
you did--that same great, silly Thomas who is now a lay-brother at the
Abbey----”

“Or said I did,” she repeated. “At least he fell in love with me, and
perhaps I wished an honest man to protect me, who in those days was
young and fair. Moreover, he was not silly then. That came upon him
after he fell into _your_ hands. Oh! have done with it,” she went on,
in a voice of suppressed passion. “The witch’s fair daughter was the
Church’s ward, and you ruled the Abbot of that time, and he forced me
into marriage with old Peter Stower, as his third wife. I cursed him,
and he died, as I warned him that he would, and I bore a child, and
it died. Then with what was left to me I took refuge with Sir John
Foterell, who ever was my friend, and became foster-mother to his
daughter, the only creature, save one, that I have loved in this wide,
wicked world. That’s all the story; and now what more do you want of me,
Clement Maldonado--evil-gifted one?”

“Emlyn, I want what I always wanted and you always refused--your help,
your partnership. I mean the partnership of that brain of yours--the
help of the knowledge that you have--no more. At Cranwell Towers you
called down evil on me. Take off that ban, for I’ll speak truth, it
weighs heavy on my mind. Let us bury the past; let us clasp hands and be
friends. You have the true vision. Do you remember that when you thought
Cicely dead, you said that her seed should rise up against me, and now
it seems that it will be so.”

“What would you give me?” asked Emlyn curiously.

“I will give you wealth; I will give you what you love more--power, and
rank too, if you wish it. The whole Church shall listen to you. What you
desire shall be done in this realm--yes, and across the world. I speak
no lie; I pledge my soul on it, and the honour of those I serve, which
I have authority to do. In return all I ask of you is your wisdom--that
you should read the future for me, that you should show me which way to
walk.”

“Nothing more?”

“Yes, two things--that you should find me those burned jewels and with
them the old letters that were not burned, and that this child of the
Lady Cicely shall not chance to live to take what you promised to it.
Her life I give you, for a nun more or less can matter little.”

“A noble offer, and in this case I am sure you will pay what _you_
promise--should you live. But what if I refuse?”

“Then,” answered the Abbot, dropping his fist upon the table, “then
death for both of you--the witch’s death, for I dare not let you go to
work my ruin. Remember, I am master here, you are my prisoners. Few know
that you live in this place, except a handful of weak-brained women who
will fear to speak--puppets that must dance when I pull the string--and
I’ll see that no soul shall come near these walls. Choose, then, between
death and all its terrors or life and all its hopes.”

On the table there stood a wooden bowl filled with roses. Emlyn drew it
to her, and taking the roses into her hands, threw them to the floor.
Then she waited for the water to steady, saying--

“The riddle is hard; perhaps, if in truth I have such power, I shall
find its answer here.” Presently, as he gazed at her, fascinated, she
breathed upon the water and stared into it for a long while. At length
she looked up, and said--

“Death or Life; that was the choice you gave me. Well, Clement
Maldonado, on behalf of myself and the Lady Cicely, and her husband Sir
Christopher, and the child that shall be born, and of God who directs
all these things, I choose--death.”

There was a solemn silence. Then the Abbot rose, and said--

“Good! On your own head be it.”

Again there was a silence, and, as she made no answer, he turned and
walked towards the door, leaving her still staring into the bowl.

“Good!” she repeated, as he laid his hand upon the latch. “I have told
you that I choose death, but I have not told you whose death it is I
choose. Play your game, my Lord Abbot, and I’ll play mine, remembering
that God holds the stakes. Meanwhile I confirm the words I spoke 

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