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The parish wells also, fitted with iron pumps that have superseded the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 in my
rage at Cranwell. Expect evil, for I see now that it shall fall on you
and all with which you have to do.”

Then with a sudden movement she upset the bowl upon the table and
watched him go.




CHAPTER VIII
EMLYN CALLS HER MAN


One by one the weeks passed over the heads of Cicely and Emlyn in their
prison, and brought them neither hope nor tidings. Indeed, although they
could not see its cords, they felt that the evil net which held them was
drawing ever tighter. There were fear and pity as well as love in the
eyes of Mother Matilda when she looked at Cicely, which she did only if
she thought that no one observed her. The nuns also were afraid, though
it was clear that they knew not of what. One evening Emlyn, finding the
Prioress alone, sprang questions on her, asking what was in the wind,
and why her lady, a free woman of full age, was detained there against
her will.

The old nun’s face grew secret. She answered that she did not know of
anything unusual, and that, as regarded the detention, she must obey the
commands of her spiritual superior.

“Then,” burst out Emlyn, “I tell you that you do so at your peril. I
tell you that whether my lady lives or dies, there are those who will
call you to a strict account, aye, and those who will listen to the
prayer of the helpless. Mother Matilda, England is not the land it was
when as a girl they buried you in these mouldy walls. Where does God say
that you have the right to hold free women like felons in a jail? Tell
me.”

“I cannot,” moaned Mother Matilda, wringing her thin hands. “The right
is very hard to find, this place is strictly guarded, and whatever I may
think, I must do what I am bid, lest my soul should suffer.”

“Your soul! You cloistered women think always of your miserable souls,
but of those of other folk, aye, and of their bodies too, nothing. Then
you’ll not help me?”

“I cannot, I cannot, who am myself in bonds,” she replied again.

“So be it, Mother; then I’ll help myself, and when I do, God help _you_
all,” and with a contemptuous shrug of her broad shoulders she walked
away, leaving the poor old Prioress almost in tears.

Emlyn’s threats were bold as her own heart, but how could she execute
even a tenth of them? The right was on their side, indeed, but, as
many a captive has found in those and other days, right is no Joshua’s
trumpet to cause high walls to fall. Moreover, Cicely would not aid her.
Now that her husband was dead she took interest in one thing only--his
child who was to be.

For the rest she seemed to care nothing. Since she had no friends with
whom she could communicate, and her wealth, as she understood, had been
taken from her, what better place, she asked, could there be for that
child to see the light than in this quiet Nunnery? When it was born and
she was well again she would consider other matters. Meanwhile she was
languid, and why was Emlyn always prating to her of freedom? If she were
free, what should she do and whither should she go? The nuns were very
kind to her; they loved her as she did them.

So she talked on, and Emlyn, listening, did not dare to tell her the
truth: that here she feared for the life of her child, dreading lest
that news might bring about the death of both of them. So she let her
be, and fell back on her own wits.

First she thought of escape, only to abandon the idea, for her mistress
was in no state to face its perils. Moreover, whither should they go?
Then rescue came into her mind, but, alas! who would rescue them? The
great men in London, perhaps, as a matter of policy, but great men are
hard to come at, even for the free. If she were free she might find
means to make them listen, but she was not, nor could she leave her lady
at such a time. What remained, then? So to contrive that they should be
set free.

Perhaps it might be done at a price--that of Cicely’s jewels, of which
she alone knew the hiding-place, and with them a deed of indemnity
against her persecutors. Emlyn was not minded to give either. Moreover,
she guessed that it might be in vain. Once outside those walls, they
knew too much to be allowed to live. And yet within those walls Cicely’s
child would not be allowed to live--the child that was heir to all.
What, then, could loose them and make them safe?

Terror, perhaps--such terror as that through which the Israelites
escaped from bondage. Oh! if she could but find a Moses to call down the
plagues of Egypt upon this Pharaoh of an Abbot--those plagues with which
she had threatened him--but although she believed that they would fall
(why did she believe it? she wondered), she was as yet impotent to
fulfil.

Now Thomas Bolle! If only she could have words with that faithful Thomas
Bolle, the fierce and cunning man whom they thought foolish!

This idea of Thomas Bolle took possession of Emlyn’s mind--Thomas Bolle,
who had loved her all his life, who would die to serve her. She strove
in vain to get in touch with him. The old gardener was so deaf that he
could not, or would not, understand. The silly Bridget gave the letter
that she wrote to him to the Prioress by mistake, who burnt it before
her eyes and said nothing. The monks who brought provisions to the
Nunnery were always received by three of the sisters, set to spy on each
other and on them, so that she could not come near to them alone. The
priest who celebrated Mass was an old enemy of hers; with him she could
do nothing, and no one else was allowed to approach the place except
once or twice the Abbot, who was closeted for hours with the Prioress,
but spoke to her no more.

Why, wondered Emlyn, should less than half-a-mile of space be such a
barrier between her and Thomas Bolle? If he stood within twenty yards of
her she could make him understand; why not, then, when he stood within
five hundred? This idea possessed her; these limitations of nature made
her mad. She refused to accept them. Night by night, lying brooding
in her bed, while Cicely slept in peace at her side, she threw out her
strong soul towards the soul of her old lover, Thomas Bolle, commanding
him to listen, to obey, to come.

At first nothing happened. Afterwards she had a vague sense of being
answered; although she could not see or hear him, she felt his presence.
Then one afternoon, looking from an upper dormer window, she saw a
scuffle going on outside the gateway, and heard angry voices. Thomas
Bolle was trying to force his way in at the door, whence he was repelled
by the Abbot’s men who always watched there.

In the evening she gathered the truth from the nuns, who did not know
that she was listening to what they said. It seemed that Thomas, whom
they spoke of as a madman or as drunk, had tried to break into the
Nunnery. When he was asked what he wanted, he answered that he did not
know, but he must speak with Emlyn Stower. At this tidings she smiled to
herself, for now she knew that he had heard her, and that in this way or
in that he would obey her summons and come.

Two days later Thomas came--thus.

The September evening was fading into night, and Emlyn, leaving Cicely
resting on her bed, which now she often did for a while before the
supper-hour, had gone into the garden to enjoy the pleasant air. There
she walked until she wearied of its sameness, then entered the old
chapel by a side door and sat herself down to think in the chancel, not
far from a life-sized statue of the Virgin, in painted oak, which stood
here because of its peculiarities, for the back half of it seemed to be
built into the masonry. Also the eye-sockets were empty, which suggested
to the observant Emlyn either that they had once held jewels or that
this was no likeness of the holy Mother, but rather one of the blind St.
Lucy.

While Emlyn mused there quite alone--for at this hour none entered the
place, nor would until the next morning--she thought that she
heard strange noises, as of some one stirring, which came from the
neighbourhood of the statue. Now many would have been scared and
departed; but not so Emlyn, who only sat still and listened. Presently,
without moving her head, she looked also. As it happened, the light of
the setting sun, pouring through the west window, fell almost full upon
the figure, and by it she saw, or thought she saw, that the eye-sockets
were no longer empty; there were eyes in them which moved and flashed.

Now for a moment even Emlyn was frightened. Then she reasoned with
herself, reflecting that a priest or one of the nuns was watching her
from behind the statue, which they might do for as long as they pleased.
Or perhaps this was a miracle, such as she had heard so much of but
never seen. Well, why should she fear spies or miracles? She would
sit where she was and see what happened. Nor had she long to wait, for
presently a voice, a hoarse, manly voice, whispered--

“Emlyn! Emlyn Stower!”

“Yes,” she answered, also in a whisper. “Who speaks?”

“Who do you think?” asked the voice, with a chuckle. “A devil, perhaps.”

“Well, if it be a friendly devil I don’t know that I mind, who need
company in this lone place. So appear, man or devil,” answered Emlyn
stoutly. But in secret she crossed herself beneath her cape, for
in those days folk believed in the appearance of devils for no good
purposes.

The statue began to creak, then opened like a door, though very
unwillingly, as though its hinges had been fixed for a long, long time
and rusted in the damp, which was indeed the case. Inside of it, like a
corpse in an upright coffin, appeared a figure, a square, strong figure,
clad in a tattered monk’s robe, surmounted by a large head with fiery
red hair and beetling brows, beneath which shone two wild grey eyes.
Emlyn, whose heart had stood still--for, after all, Satan is awkward
company for a mortal woman--waited till it gave a jump in her breast and
went on again as usual. Then she said quietly--

“What are you doing here, Thomas Bolle?”

“That is what I want to know, Emlyn. Night and day for weeks you have
been calling me, and so I came.”

“Yes, I have been calling you; but how did you come?”

“By the old monk’s road. They have forgotten it long ago, but my
grandfather told me of it when I was a boy, and at last a fox showed me
where it ran. It’s a dark road, and when first I tried it I thought I
should be poisoned, but now the air is none so bad. It ran to the Abbey
once, and may still, but my door and Mrs. Fox’s is in the copse by the
park wall, where none would ever look for it. If you would like a cub to
play with, I will bring you one. Or perhaps you want something more than
cubs,” he added, with his cunning laugh.

“Aye, Thomas, I want much more. Man,” she said fiercely, “will you do
what I tell you?”

“That depends, Mistress Emlyn. Have I not done what you told me all my
life, and for no reward?”

She moved across the chancel and sat herself down against him, pushing
the image door almost to and speaking to him through the crack.

“If you have had no reward, Thomas,” she said in a gentle voice, “whose
fault was it? Not mine, I think. I loved you once when we were young,
did I not? I would have given myself to you, body and soul, would I not?
Well, who came between us and spoiled our lives?”

“The monks,” groaned Thomas; “the accursed monks, who married you to
Stower because he paid them.”

“Yes, the accursed monks. And now our youth has gone, and love--of that
sort--is behind us. I have been another man’s wife, Thomas, who might
have been yours. Think of it--your loving wife, the mother of your
children. And you--they have tamed you and made you their servant, their
cattle-herd, the strong fellow to fetch and carry, the half-wit, as they
call you, who can still be trusted to run an errand and hold his tongue,
the Abbey mule that does not dare to kick, the grieve of your own stolen
lands--you, whose father was almost a gentleman. That’s what they have
done for you, Thomas; and for me, the Church’s ward--well, I will not
speak of it. Now, if you had your will, what would you do for them?”

“Do for them? Do for them?” gasped Thomas, worked up to fury by this
recital of his wrongs. “Why, if I dared I’d cut their throats, every
one, and grallock them like deer,” and he ground his strong white teeth.
“But I am afraid. They have my soul, and month by month I must confess.
You remember, Emlyn, I warned you when you and the lady would have
ridden to London before the siege. Well, afterward--I must confess
it--the Abbot heard it himself, and oh! sore, sore was my penance.
Before I had done with it my ribs showed through my skin and my back
was like a red osier basket. There’s only one thing I didn’t tell them,
because, after all, it is no sin to grub the earth off the face of a
corpse.”

“Ah!” said Emlyn, looking at him. “You’re not to be trusted. Well, I
thought as much. Good-bye, Thomas Bolle, you coward. I’ll find me a man
for a friend, not a whimpering, priest-ridden hound who sets a Latin
blessing which he does not understand above his honour. God in heaven!
to think I should ever have loved such a thing. Oh! I am shamed, I am
shamed. I’ll go wash my hands. Shut your trap and get you gone down your
rat-run, Thomas Bolle, and, living or dead, never dare to speak to
me again. Also forget not to tell your monks how I called you to my
side--for that’s witchcraft, you know, and I shall burn for it, and your
soul gain benefit. God in heaven! to think that once you were Thomas
Bolle,” and she made as though to go away.

He stretched out his great arm and caught her by the robe, exclaiming--

“What would you have me do, Emlyn? I can’t bear your scorn. Take it off
me or I go kill myself.”

“That’s what you had best do. You’ll find the devil a better master than
a foreign abbot. Farewell for ever.”

“Nay, nay; what’s your will? Soul or no soul, I’ll work it.”

“Will you? Will you indeed? If so, stay a moment,” and she ran down the
chapel, bolting the doors; then returned to him, saying--

“Now come forth, Thomas, and since you are once more a man, kiss me as
you used to do twenty years ago and more. You’ll not confess to that,
will you? There. Now, kneel before the altar here and swear an oath.
Nay, listen to it before you swear, for it is wide.”

Emlyn said the oath to him. It was a great and terrible oath. Under it
he bound himself to be her slave and join himself with her in working
woe to the monks of Blossholme, and especially to their Abbot, Clement
Maldon, in payment of the wrongs that these had done to them both; in
payment for the murder of Sir John Foterell and of Christopher Harflete,
and of the imprisonment and robbery of Cicely Harflete, the daughter of
the one and the wife of the other. He bound himself to do those things
which she should tell him. He bound himself neither in the confessional
nor, should it come to that, on the bed of torture or the scaffold to
breathe a word of all their counsel. He prayed that if he did so his
soul might pay the price in everlasting torment, and of all these things
he took Heaven to be his witness.

“Now,” said Emlyn, when she had finished setting out this fearful vow,
“will you be a man and swear and thereby avenge the dead and save the
innocent from death; or will you who have my secret be a crawling monk
and go back to Blossholme Abbey and betray me?”

He thought a moment, rubbing his red head, for the thing frightened him,
as well it might. The scales of the balance of his mind hung evenly, and
Emlyn knew not which way they would turn. She saw, and put out all her
woman’s strength. Resting her hand upon his shoulder, she leaned forward
and whispered into his ear.

“Do you remember, Thomas, how first we told our young love that spring
day down in the copse by the water, and how sweet the daffodils bloomed
about our feet--the daffodils and the wood-lilies? Do you remember how
we swore ourselves each to each for all our lives, aye, and all the
lives that were to come, and how for us two the earth was turned to
heaven? And then--do you remember how that monk walked by--it was this
Clement Maldon--and froze us with his cruel eyes, and said, ‘What do you
with the witch’s daughter? She is not for you.’ And--oh! Thomas, I
can no more of it,” and she broke down and sobbed, then added, “Swear
nothing; get you gone and betray me, if you will. I’ll bear you no
malice, even when I die for it, for after more than twenty years of
monkcraft, how could I hope that you would still remain a man? Come,
get you gone swiftly, ere they take us together, and your fair fame is
besmirched. Quick, now, and leave me and my lady and her unborn child
to the doom Maldon brews for us. Alas! for the copse by the river; alas!
for the withered lilies!”

Thomas heard; the big blue veins stood out upon his forehead, his great
breast heaved, his utterance choked. At length the words came in a thick
torrent.

“I’ll not go, dearie; I’ll swear what you will, by your eyes and by your
lips, by the flowers on which we trod, by all the empty years of aching
woe and shame, by God upon His throne in heaven, and by the devil in
his fires in hell. Come, come,” and he ran to the altar and clasped the
crucifix that stood there. “Say the words again, or any others that you
will, and I’ll repeat them and take the oath, and may fiery worms eat me
living for ever and ever if I break a letter of it.”

With a little smile of triumph in her dark eyes Emlyn bent over the
kneeling man and whispered--whispered through the gathering bloom, while
he whispered after her, and kissed the Rood in token.

It was done, and they drew away from the altar back to the painted
saint.

“So you are a man after all,” she said, laughing aloud. “Now, man--my
man--who, if we live through this, shall be my husband if you will--yes,
my husband, for I’ll pay, and be proud of it--listen to my commands. See
you, I am Moses, and yonder in the Abbey sits Pharaoh with a hardened
heart, and you are the angel--the destroying angel with the sword of the
plagues of Egypt. To-night there will be fire in the Abbey--such fire as
fell on Cranwell Towers. Nay, nay, I know; the church will not burn, nor
all the great stone halls. But the dormitories, and the storehouses,
and the hayricks, and the cattle-byres, they’ll flame bravely after this
time of drought, and if the wains are ashes, how will they draw in their
harvest? Will you do it, my man?”

“Surely. Have I not sworn?”

“Then away to the work, and afterwards--to-morrow or next day--come back
and make report. Just now I am much moved to solitary prayer, so
wait till you see me here alone upon my knees. Stay! Wrap yourself in
grave-clothes, for then if you are seen they will think you are a ghost,
such as they say haunt this place. Fear not, by then I will have more
work for you. Have you mastered it?”

He nodded his head. “All. All, especially your promise. Oh! I’ll not die
now; I’ll live to claim it.”

“Good. There’s on account,” and again she kissed him. “Go.”

He reeled in the intoxication of his joy; then said--

“One word; my head swims; I forgot. Sir Christopher is not dead, or
wasn’t----”

“What do you mean?” she almost hissed at him. “In Christ’s name be
quick; I hear voices without.”

“They buried another man for Christopher. I scraped him up and saw.
Christopher was sent foreign, sore wounded, on the ship--pest! I have
forgotten its name--the same ship that took Jeffrey Stokes.”

“Blessings on your head for that tidings,” exclaimed Emlyn, in a
strange, low voice. “Away; they are coming to the door!”

The wooden figure creaked to and stared at her blandly, as it had stared
for generations. For a moment Emlyn stood still, her hand upon her
heart. Then she walked swiftly down the chapel, unlocked the door, and
in the porch, just entering it, met the Prioress Matilda, another nun,
and old Bridget, who was chattering.

“Oh! it is you, Mistress Stower,” said Mother Matilda, with evident
relief. “Sister Bridget here swore that she heard a man talking in the
chapel when she came to shut the outer window at sunset.”

“Did she?” answered Emlyn indifferently. “Then her luck’s better than
my own, who long for the sound of a man’s voice in this home of babbling
women. Nay, be not shocked, good Mother; I am no nun, and God did not
create the world all female, or we should none of us be here. But, now
you speak of it, I think there’s something strange about that chapel.
It is a place where some might fear to be alone, for twice when I knelt
there at my prayers I have heard odd sounds, and once, when there was no
sun, a cold shadow fell upon me. Some ghost of the dead, I suppose, of
whom so many lie about. Well, ghosts I never feared; and now I must away
to fetch my lady’s supper, for she eats in her room to-night.”

When she had gone the Prioress shook her head and remarked in her gentle
fashion--

“A strange woman and a rough, but, my sisters, we must not judge her
harshly, for she is of a different world to ours, and I fear has met
with sorrows there, such as we are protected from by our holy office.”

“Yes,” answered the sister, “but I think also that she has met with the
ghost that haunts the chapel, of which there are many records, and that
once I saw myself when I was a novice. The Prioress Matilda--I mean
the fourth of that name, she who was mixed up with Edward the Lame, the
monk, and died suddenly after the----”

“Peace, sister; let us have no scandal about that departed--woman, who
left the earth two hundred years ago. Also, if her unquiet spirit still
haunts the place, as many say, I know not why it should speak with the
voice of a man.”

“Perhaps it was the monk Edward’s voice that Bridget heard,” replied the
sister, “for no doubt he still hangs about her skirts as he did in life,
if all tales are true. Well, Mistress Emlyn says that she does not mind
ghosts, and I can well believe it, for she is a witch’s daughter, and
has a strange look in her eyes. Did you ever see such bold eyes, Mother?
However it may be, I hate ghosts, and rather would I pass a month on
bread and water than be alone in that chapel at or after sundown. My
back creeps to think of it, for they say that the unhallowed babe
walks too, and gibbers round the font seeking baptism--ugh!” and she
shuddered.

“Peace, sister, peace to your goblin talk,” said Mother Matilda again.
“Let us think of holier things lest the foul fiend draw near to us.”



That night, about one in the morning, the foul fiend drew very near to
Blossholme, and he came in the shape of fire. Suddenly the nuns were
aroused from their beds by the sound of bells tolling wildly. Running to
the window-places, they saw great sheets of flame leaping from the Abbey
roofs. They threw open the casements and stared out terrified. Sister
Bridget was sent even to wake the deaf gardener and his wife, who lived
in the gateway, and command them to go forth and learn what passed, and
the meaning of the shouts they heard, for they feared that Blossholme
was attacked by some army.

A long while went by, and Bridget returned with a confused tale, which,
as it had been gathered by an imbecile from a deaf gardener, was not
easy to understand. Meanwhile the shoutings went on and the fire at the
Abbey burnt ever more fiercely, so that the nuns thought that their last
hour had come, and knelt down to pray at the casement.

Just then Cicely and Emlyn appeared among them, and stared at the great
fire.

Suddenly Cicely turned round, and, fixing her large blue eyes on Emlyn,
said, in the hearing of them all--

“The Abbey burns. Why, Nurse, they told me that you said it would be so,
yonder amid the ashes of Cranwell Towers. Surely you are foresighted.”

“Fire calls for fire,” answered Emlyn grimly, and the nuns around looked
at her with doubtful eyes.

It was a very fierce fire, which appeared to have begun in the
dormitories, whence, even at that distance, they saw half-clad monks
escaping through the windows, some by means of bed-coverings tied
together and some by jumping, notwithstanding the height. Presently
the roof of the building fell in, sending up showers of glowing embers,
which lit upon the thatch of the farm byres and sheds, and upon the
ricks built and building in the stackyard, so that all these caught
also, and before dawn were utterly consumed.

One by one the watchers in the Nunnery wearied of the lamentable sight,
and muttering prayers, departed terrified to their beds. But Emlyn
sat on at the open casement till the rim of the splendid September sun
showed above the hills. There she sat, her head resting on her hand, her
strong face set like that of a statue. Only her dark eyes, in which the
flames were reflected, seemed to smile hardly.

“Thomas is a great tool,” she muttered to herself at length, “and the
first cut has bitten to the bone. Well, there shall be worse to come.
You will live to beg Emlyn’s mercy yet, Clement Maldonado.”




CHAPTER IX
THE BLOSSHOLME WITCHINGS


On the afternoon of that day the Abbot came again to visit the Nunnery,
and sent for Cicely and Emlyn. They found him alone in the guest-hall,
walking up and down its length with a troubled face.

“Cicely Foterell,” he said, without any form of greeting, “when last
we met you refused to sign the deed which I brought with me. Well, it
matters nothing, for that purchaser has gone back upon his bargain.”

“Saying that he liked not the title?” suggested Cicely.

“Aye; though who taught you of titles and the ins and outs of law? But
what need to ask----?” and he glowered at Emlyn. “Well, let it pass, for
now I have a paper with me that you _must_ sign. Read it if you will. It
is harmless--only an instruction to the tenants of the lands your
father held to pay their rents to me this Michaelmas, as warden of that
property.”

“Do they refuse, then, seeing that you hold it all, my Lord Abbot?”

“Aye, some one has been at work among them, and the stubborn churls will
not without instruction under your hand and seal. The farms your father
worked himself I have reaped, but last night every grain of corn and
every fleece of wool were burned in the fire.”

“Then I pray you keep account of them, my Lord, that you may pay me
their value when we come to settle our score, seeing that I never gave
you leave to shear my sheep and harvest my corn.”

“You are pleased to be saucy, girl,” he replied, biting his lip. “I have
no time to bandy words--sign, and do you witness, Emlyn Stower.”

Cicely took the document, glanced at it, then slowly tore it into four
pieces and threw it to the floor.

“Rob me and my unborn child if you can and will, at least I’ll be no
thief’s partner,” she said quietly. “Now, if you want my name, go forge
it, for I sign nothing.”

The Abbot’s face grew very evil.

“Do you remember, woman,” he asked, “that here you are in my power? Do
you not know that rebellious sinners such as you are can be shut in a
dark dungeon and fed on the bread and water of affliction and beaten
with the rods of penance? Will you do my bidding, or shall these things
fall on you?”

Cicely’s beautiful face flushed up, and for a moment her blue eyes
filled with the tears of shame and terror. Then they cleared again, and
she looked at him boldly and answered--

“I know that a murderer can be a torturer also. Why should not he who
butchered the father scourge the daughter too? But I know also that
there is a God who protects the innocent, though sometimes He is slow
to lift His hand, and to Him I appeal, my Lord Abbot. I know, moreover,
that I am Foterell and Carfax, and that no man or woman of my blood has
ever yet yielded to fear or pain. I sign nothing,” and, turning, she
left the room.

Now the Abbot and Emlyn were alone. Suddenly, before she could speak,
for her tongue was tied with rage, he began to rate and curse her and
to threaten horrible things against her and her mistress, such things as
only a cruel Spaniard could imagine. At length he paused for breath, and
she broke in--

“Peace, wicked man, lest the roof fall on you, for I am sure that every
cruel word you speak shall become a snake to strike you. Will you not
take warning by what befell you last night, or must there be more such
lessons?”

“Oho!” he answered; “so you know of that, do you? As I thought, your
witchcraft was at work there.”

“How can I help knowing what the whole sky blazoned? The fat monks of
Blossholme must draw their girdles tight this winter. Those stolen lands
bring no luck, it seems, and John Foterell’s blood has turned to fire.
Be warned, I say, be warned. Nay, I’ll hear no more of your foul tongue.
Lay a finger on that poor lady if you dare, and pay the price,” and she
too turned and went.

Ere he left the Nunnery the Abbot had an interview with Mother Matilda.

Cicely must be disciplined, he said; gently at first, afterwards with
roughness, even to scourging, if need were--for her soul’s sake. Also
her servant Emlyn must be kept away from her--for her soul’s sake, since
without doubt she was a dangerous witch. Also, when the time of the
birth of the child came on, he would send a wise woman to wait upon her,
one who was accustomed to such cases--for her body’s sake and that of
her child. In the midst of the great trouble that had fallen upon them
through the terrible fire at the Abbey, which had cost them such fearful
loss, to say nothing of the lives of two of the servants and others
burned and maimed, he had not much time to talk of such small things;
but did she understand?

Then it was that Mother Matilda, the meek and gentle, brought pain and
astonishment to the heart of the Lord Abbot, her spiritual superior.

She did not understand in the least. Such discipline as he suggested,
whatever might be her faults and frailty, was, she declared with vigour,
entirely unsuited to the case of the Lady Cicely, who, in her opinion,
had suffered much for a small cause, and who, moreover, was about to
become a mother, and therefore should be treated with every gentleness.
For her part, she washed her hands of the whole business, and rather
than enforce such commands would lay the case before the Vicar-General
in London, who, she understood, was ready to look into such matters.
Or at least she would set the Lady Harflete and her servant outside the
gates and call upon the charitable to assist them. Of course, however,
if his Lordship chose to send a skilled woman to wait upon her in her
trouble, she could have no objection, provided that this woman were a
person of good repute. But in the circumstances it was idle to talk to
her of bread and water and dark cells and scourgings. Such things
should never happen while she was Prioress. Before they did, she and
her sisters would walk out of the Nunnery and leave the King’s Courts to
judge of the matter.

Now the state of the Abbot was very like to that of a terrier dog which,
being accustomed to worry and torment a certain ewe-sheep, comes upon
the same after it has lambed and finds a new creature--one that, instead
of running in affright, turns upon it and, with head and hood and all
its weight of mutton, butts, and leaps, and tramples. Then what chance
has that dog against the terrible and unsuspected fury of the sheep,
born, as it thought, for it to tear? Then what can it do but run,
panting and discomfited, to its kennel? So it was with the Abbot at the
onslaught of Mother Matilda in the defence of her lamb--Cicely. With
Emlyn he had been prepared to exchange bite for bite--but Mother
Matilda! his own pet quarry. It was too much. He could only go away,
cursing all women and their infinite variety, on which no man might
build. Who would have thought it of Mother Matilda, of all people on the
earth!

So it came to pass that at the Nunnery, notwithstanding these terrible
threats, things went on much as they had done before, since the times
were such that even an all-powerful and remote Lord Abbot, with “right
of gallows,” could not drive matters to an extremity. Cicely was not
shut into the dungeon and fed on bread and water, much less was she
scourged. Nor was she separated from her nurse Emlyn, although it is
true that the Prioress reproved her for her resistance to established
authority, and when she had finished her lecture, kissed and blessed
her, and called her “her sweet child, her dove and joy.”

But if there was sameness at the Nunnery, at the Abbey there was
constant change and excitement. Only three days after the fire the great
flock of eight hundred lambs rushed one night over the Red Cliff on the
fell, where, as all shepherds in that country know, there is a sheer
drop of forty feet. Never was lamb’s flesh so cheap in Blossholme and
the country round as on the morrow of that night, while every hind
within ten miles could have a winter coat for the skinning. Moreover,
it was said and sworn to by the shepherds that the devil himself, with
horns and hoofs, and mounted on a jackass, had been seen driving the
same lambs.

Next the ghost of Sir John Foterell appeared, clad in armour, sometimes
mounted and sometimes afoot, but always at night-time. First this
dreadful spirit was perceived walking in the gardens of Shefton Hall,
where it met the Abbot’s caretaker--for the place was now shut up--as he
went to set a springe for hares. He was a man advanced in years, yet few
horses ever covered the distance between Shefton and Blossholme Abbey
more quickly than he did that night.

Nor would he or any other return to his charge, so that henceforth
Shefton was left as a dwelling for the ghost, which, as all might see
from time to time, shone in the window-places like a candle. Moreover,
the said ghost travelled far and wide, for on dark, windy nights it
knocked upon the doors of those that in its lifetime had been its
tenants, and in a hollow voice declared that it had been murdered by
the Abbot of Blossholme and his underlings, who held its daughter in
durance, and, under threats of unearthly vengeance, commanded all men to
bring him to justice, and to pay him neither fees nor homage.

So much terror did this ghost cause that Thomas Bolle, the swift of
foot, was set to watch for it, and returned announcing that he had seen
it and that it called him by his name, whereon he, being a bold fellow
and believing that it was but a man, sent an arrow straight through it,
at which it laughed and forthwith vanished away. More; in proof of these
things he led the Abbot and his monks to the very place, and showed them
where he had stood and where the ghost stood--yes, and the arrow, of
which all the feathers had been mysteriously burnt off and the wood
seared as though by fire, sunk deep into a tree beyond. Then, as
this thing had become a scandal and a dread, the Abbot, in his robes,
solemnly laid the ghost, Thomas Bolle showing him exactly where it had
passed.

This spirit being well and truly laid (like a foundation-stone), the
Abbot and his monks returned homeward through the wood, but as they went
a dreadful voice, which all recognized as that of Sir John Foterell,
called these words from the shadows of an impenetrable thicket--for now
the night was falling--

“Clement Maldonado, Abbot of Blossholme, I, whom thou didst murder,
summon thee to meet me within a year before the throne of God.”

Thereon all fled; yes, even the Abbot fled, or rather, as he said, his
horse did, Thomas Bolle, who had lagged behind, outrunning them every
one and getting home the first, saying _Aves_ as he went.

After this, although the whole countryside hunted for it, Sir John’s
ghost was seen no more. Doubtless its work was done; but the Abbot
explained matters differently. Other and worse things were seen,
however.

One moonlight night a disturbance was heard among the cows, that
bellowed and rushed about the field into which they had been turned
after milking. Thinking that dogs had got amongst them, the herd and
a watchman--for now no man would stir alone after sunset at
Blossholme--went to see what was happening, and presently fell down half
dead with fright. For there, leaning over the gate and laughing at them,
was the foul fiend himself--the fiend with horns and tail, and in his
hand an instrument like a pitchfork.

How the pair got home again, they never knew, but this is certain, that
after that night no one could milk those cows; moreover, some of them
slipped their calves, and became so wild that they must be slaughtered.

Next came rumours that even the Nunnery itself was haunted, especially
the chapel. Here voices were heard talking, and Emlyn Stower, who was
praying there, came out vowing that she had seen a ball of fire which
rolled up and down the aisle, and in the centre of it a man’s head, that
seemed to try to talk to her, but could not.

Into this matter inquiry was held by the Abbot himself, who asked Emlyn
if she knew the face that was in the ball of fire. She answered that she
thought so. It seemed very like to one of his own guards, named Andrew
Woods, or more commonly Drunken Andrew, a Scotchman whom Sir Christopher
Harflete was said to have killed on the night of the great burning. At
least his Lordship would remember that this Andrew had a broken nose,
and so had the head in the fire, but, as it appeared to have changed a
great deal since death, she could not be quite certain. All she was sure
of was that it seemed to be trying to give her some message.

Now, recalling the trick that had been played with the said Andrew’s
body, the Abbot was silent. Only he asked shrewdly, if Emlyn had seen so
terrible a thing there, how it came about that she was not afraid to
be alone in the chapel, which he was informed she frequented much. She
answered, with a laugh, that it was men she dreaded, not spirits, good
or ill.

“No,” he exclaimed, with a burst of rage, “you do not dread them, woman,
because you are a witch, and summon them; nor shall we be free from
these wizardries until the fire has you and your company.”

“If so,” replied Emlyn coolly, “I will ask dead Andrew for his message
to you next time we meet, unless he chooses to deliver it to you
himself.”

So they parted, but that very night there happened the worst thing of
all. It was about one in the morning when the Abbot, whose window was
set open, was wakened by a voice that spoke with a Scotch accent and
repeatedly called him by his name, summoning him to look out and see.
He and others rose and looked, but could see nothing, for the night was
very dark and rain fell. When the dawn came, however, their search
was rewarded, for there, set upon a pinnacle of the Abbey church, and
staring straight into the window of his Lordship’s sleeping-room, from
which it was but a few yards distant, was the dreadful head of Andrew
Woods!

Furiously the Abbot asked who had done this horrible thing, but the
monks, who were sure that it was the same being that had bewitched the
cows, only shrugged their shoulders, and suggested that the grave of
Andrew should be opened to see if he had lost his head. This was done at
length, although, for his own reasons, the Abbot forbade it, talking of
the violation of the dead.

Well, the grave was opened when Maldon was away on one of his mysterious
journeys, and lo! no Andrew was there, but only a beam of oakwood
stuffed out with straw to the shape of a man and sewn up in a blanket.
For the real Andrew, or rather what was left of him, lay, it may be
remembered, in another grave that was supposed to be filled by Sir
Christopher Harflete.

From this day forward the whole countryside for fifty miles round rang
with the tales of what were known as the Blossholme witchings, of which
a proof was still to be seen by all men in the withered head of Andrew
perched upon its pinnacle, whence none could be found to remove it
for love or money. Only it was noted that the Abbot changed his
sleeping-chamber, after which, except for a sickness which struck the
monks--it was thought from the drinking of sour beer--these bedevilments
were abated.

Indeed, at that time men had other things to think of, since the air was
thick with rumours of impending change. The King threatened the Church,
and the Church prepared to resist the King. There was talk of the
suppression of the monasteries--some, in fact, had already been
suppressed--and more talk of a rising of the faithful in the shires of
York and Lincoln; high matters which called Abbot Maldon much away from
home.

One day he returned weary, but satisfied, from a long journey, and
amongst the news that awaited him found a message from the Prioress,
over which he pondered while he ate his food. Also there was a letter
from Spain, which he studied eagerly.

Some nine months had passed since the ship _Great Yarmouth_ sailed, and
during this time all that had been heard of her was that she had never
reached Seville, so that, like every one else, the Abbot believed she
had foundered in the deep seas. This was a sad event which he had
borne with resignation, seeing that, although it meant the loss of his
letters, which were of importance, she had aboard of her several persons
whom he wished to see no more, especially Sir Christopher Harflete and
Sir John Foterell’s serving-man, Jeffrey Stokes, who was said to
carry with him certain inconvenient documents. Even his secretary
and chaplain, Brother Martin, could be spared, being, Maldon felt, a
character better suited to heaven than to an earth where the best of men
must be prepared sometimes to compromise with conscience.

In short, the vanishing of the _Great Yarmouth_ was the wise decree of
a far-seeing Providence, that had removed certain stumbling-blocks
from his feet, which of late had been forced to travel over a rough and
thorny road. For the dead tell no tales, although it was true that the
ghost of Sir John Foterell and the grinning head of Drunken Andrew
on his pinnacle seemed to be instances to the contrary. Christopher
Harflete and Jeffrey Stokes at the bottom of the Bay of Biscay could
bring no awkward charges, and left him none to deal with save an
imprisoned and forgotten girl and an unborn child.

Now things were changed again, however, for the Spanish letter in his
hand told him that the _Great Yarmouth_ had not sunk, since two members
of her crew who escaped--how, it was not said--declared that she had
been captured by Turkish or other infidel pirates and taken away through
the Straits of Gibraltar to some place unknown. Therefore, if he had
survived the voyage, Christopher Harflete might still be living, and so
might Jeffrey Stokes and Brother Martin. Yet this was not likely,
for probably they would have perished in the fight, being hot-headed
Englishmen, all three of them, or at the best have been committed to the
Turkish galleys, whence not one man in a thousand ever returned.

On the whole, then, he had little cause to fear them, who were dead,
or as good as dead, especially in the midst of so many more pressing
dangers. All he had to fear, all that stood between him, or rather the
Church, and a very rich inheritance was the girl in the Nunnery and an
unborn child, and--yes, Emlyn Stower. Well, he was sure that the child
would not live, and probably the mother would not live. As for Emlyn, as
she deserved, she would be burned for a witch, ere long too, now that
he had time to see to it, and, if she survived her sickness, although he
grieved for her, Cicely, her accomplice, should justly accompany her to
the stake. Meanwhile, as Mother Matilda’s message told him, this matter
of the child was urgent.

The Abbot called a monk who was waiting on him and bade him send word
to a woman known as Goody Megges, bidding her come at once. Within ten
minutes she entered, having, as she explained, been warned to be close
at hand.

This Goody Megges, who had some local repute as a “wise woman,” was a
person of about fifty years of age, remarkable for her enormous size, a
flat face with small oblong eyes and a little, twisted mouth, which had
caused her to be nicknamed “the Flounder.” She greeted the Abbot with
much reverence, curtseying till he thought she would fall backwards, and
having received his fatherly blessing, sank into a chair, that seemed to
vanish beneath her bulk.

“You will wonder why I summon you here, friend, since this is no place
for the services of those of your trade,” began the Abbot, with a smile.

“Oh, no, my Lord,” answered the woman; “I’ve heard it is to wait upon
Sir Christopher Harflete’s wife in her trouble.”

“I wish that I could call her by the honoured name of wife,” said the
Abbot, with a sigh. “But a mock-marriage does not make a wife, Mistress
Megges, and, alas! the poor babe, if ever it should be born, will be but
a bastard, marked from its birth with the brand of shame.”

Now, the Flounder, who was no fool, began to take her cue.

“It is sad, very sad, your Holiness--no, that’s wrong; but never mind,
it will be right before all’s done, and a good omen, I say, coming so
sudden and chancy--your Lordship, I mean--not but what there’s lots
of the sort about here, as is generally the case round a--I mean
everywhere. Moreover, they generally grow up bad and ungrateful, as I
know well from my own three--not but what, of course, I was married
fast enough. Well, what I was going to say was, that when things is so,
sometimes it is a true blessing if the little innocents should go off at
the first, and so be spared the finger of shame and the sniff of scorn,”
 and she paused.

“Yes, Mistress Megges, or at least in such a case it is not for us to
rail at the decree of Heaven--provided, of course, that the infant has
lived long enough to be baptized,” he added hastily.

“No, your Eminence, no. That’s just what I said to that Smith girl last
spring, when, being a heavy sleeper, I happened to overlie her brat and
woke up to find it flat and blue. When she saw it she took on, bellowing
like a heifer that has lost its first calf, and I said to her, ‘Mary,
this isn’t me; it’s Heaven. Mary, you should be very thankful, since my
burden has rid you of your burden, and you can bury such a tiny one for
next to nothing. Mary, cry a little if you like, for that’s natural with
the first, but don’t come here flying in the face of Heaven with your
railings, and gates, and posts--especially the rails, for Heaven hates
‘em.’”

“Ah!” asked the Abbot, with mild interest, “and pray what did Mary do
then?”

“Do, the graceless wench? Why, she said, ‘Is it rails you’re talking of,
you pig-smothering old sow? Then here’s a rail for you,’ and she pulled
the top bar off my own fence--for we were talking by the door--oak it
was, and three by two--and knocked me flat--here’s the scar of it on my
head--singing out, ‘Is that enough, or will you have the gate and the
posts too?’ Oh! If there’s one thing I hate, it is railing, ‘specially
if made of hard oak and held edgeways.”

So the wicked old hag babbled on, after her hideous fashion, while the
Abbot stared at the ceiling.

“Enough of these sad stories of vice and violence. Such mischances will
happen, and of course you were not to blame. Now, good Mistress Megges,
will you undertake this case, which cannot be left to ignorant nuns?
Though times are hard here, since of late many losses have fallen on our
house, your skill shall be well paid.”

The woman shuffled her big feet and stared at the floor, then looked up
suddenly with a glance that seemed to bore to his heart like a bradawl,
and asked--

“And if perchance the blessed babe should fly to heaven through my
fingers, as in my time I have known dozens of them do, should I still
get that pay?”

“Then,” the Abbot answered, with a smile--a somewhat sickly smile--“then
I think, mistress, you should have double pay, to console you for your
sorrow and for any doubts that might be thrown upon your skill.”

“Now that’s noble trading,” she replied, with an evil leer, “such as
one might hope for from an Abbot. But, my Lord, they say the Nunnery is
haunted, and I can’t face ghosts. Man or woman, with rails or without
‘em, Mother Flounder doesn’t mind, but ghosts--no! Also Mistress Stower
is a witch, and might lay a curse on me; and those nuns are full of
crinks and cranks, and can pray an honest soul to death.”

“Come, come, my time is short. What is it you want, woman? Out with it.”

“The inn there at the ford--your Lordship, will need a tenant next
month. It’s a good paying house for those who know how to keep their
mouths shut and to look the other way, and through vile scandal and evil
slanderers, such as the Smith girl, my business isn’t what it was. Now
if I could have it without rent for the first two years, till I had time
to work up the trade----”

The Abbot, who could bear no more of the creature, rose from his chair
and said sharply--

“I will remember. Yes, I will promise. Go now; the reverend Mother
is advised of your coming. And report to me night and morning of the
progress of the case. Why, woman, what are you doing?” for she had
suddenly slid to her knees and grasped his robes with her thick, filthy
hands.

“Absolution, holy Lordship; I ask absolution and blessing--_pax
Meggiscum_, and the rest of it.”

“Absolution? There is nothing to absolve.”

“Oh! yes, my Lord, there is plenty, though I am wondering who will
absolve _you_ for your half. Also there are rows of little angels that
sometimes won’t let me sleep, and that’s why I can’t stomach ghosts. I’d
rather sup in winter on cold small ale and half-cooked pork than face
even a still-born ghost.”

“Begone!” said the Abbot, in such a voice that she scrambled to her feet
and went, unblessed and unabsolved.

When the door had closed behind her he went to the window and flung it
wide, although the night was foul.

“By all the saints!” he muttered, “that beastly murderess poisons the
air. Why, I wonder, does God allow such filthy things to live? Cannot
she ply her hell-trade less grossly? Oh! Clement Maldonado, how low are
you sunk that you must use tools like these, and on such a business. And
yet there is no other way. Not for myself, but for the Church, O Lord!
The great plot thickens, and all men clamour to me, its head and spring,
for money. Give me money, and within six months Yorkshire and the North
will be up, and within a year Henry the Anti-Christ will be dead and
the Princess Mary fast upon the throne, with the Emperor and the Pope
for watchdogs. That stiff-necked Cicely must die and her babe must die,
and then I’ll twist the secret of the jewels out of the witch, Emlyn--on
the rack, if need be. Those jewels--I’ve seen them so often; why, they
would feed an army; but while Cicely or her brat lives where is my claim
to them? So, alas! they must die, but oh! the hag is right. Who shall
give me absolution for a deed I hate? Not for me, not for me, O my
Patron, but for the Church!” and flinging himself to the floor before
the holy image of his chosen Saint, he rested his head upon its feet and
wept.




CHAPTER X
MOTHER MEGGES AND THE GHOST


Flounder Megges, with all the paraphernalia of her trade, was
established as nurse to Cicely at the Nunnery. This establishment, it is
true, had not been easy since Emlyn, who knew something of the woman’s
repute, and suspected more, resisted it with all her strength, but here
the Prioress intervened in her gentle way. She herself, she explained,
did not like this person, who looked so odd, drank so much beer and
talked so fast. Yet she had made inquiries and found that she was
extraordinarily skilled in matters of that nature. Indeed, it was said
that she had succeeded in cases that were wonderfully difficult which
the leech had abandoned as hopeless, though of course there had been
other cases where she had not succeeded. But these, she was informed,
were generally those of poor people who did not pay her well. Now in
this instance her pay would be ample, for she, Mother Matilda, had
promised her a splendid fee out of her private store, and for the rest,
since no man doctor might enter there, who else was competent? Not she
or the other nuns, for none of them had been married save old Bridget,
who was silly and had long ago forgotten all such things. Not Emlyn
even, who was but a girl when her own child was born, and since then had
been otherwise employed. Therefore there was no choice.

To this reasoning Emlyn agreed perforce, though she mistrusted her of
the fat wretch, whose appearance poor Cicely also disliked. Still, for
very fear Emlyn was humble and civil to her, for if she were not,
who could know if she would put out all her skill upon behalf of her
mistress? Therefore she did her bidding like a slave, and spiced her
beer and made her bed and even listened to her foul jests and talk
unmurmuringly.



The business was over at length, and the child, a noble boy, born into
the world. Had not the Flounder produced it in triumph laid upon a
little basket covered with a lamb-skin, and had not Emlyn and Mother
Matilda and all the nuns kissed and blessed it? Had it not also, for
fear of accident (such was the fatherly forethought of the Abbot), been
baptized at once by a priest who was waiting, under the names of John
Christopher Foterell, John after its grandfather and Christopher after
its father, with Foterell for a surname, since the Abbot would not allow
that it should be called Harflete, being, as he averred, base-born?

So this child was born, and Mother Megges swore that of all the two
hundred and three that she had issued into the world it was the finest,
nine and a half pounds in weight at the very least. Also, as its voice
and movements testified, it was lusty and like to live, for did not the
Flounder, in sight of all the wondering nuns, hold it up hanging by its
hands to her two fat forefingers, and afterwards drink a whole quart of
spiced ale to its health and long life?

But if the babe was like to live, Cicely was like to die. Indeed, she
was very, very ill, and perhaps would have passed away had it not been
for a device of Emlyn’s. For when she was at her worst and the Flounder,
shaking her head and saying that she could do no more, had departed to
her eternal ale and a nap, Emlyn crept up and took her mistress’s cold
hand.

“Darling,” she said, “hear me,” but Cicely did not stir. “Darling,” she
repeated, “hear me, I have news for you of your husband.”

Cicely’s white face turned a little on the pillow and her blue eyes
opened.

“Of my husband?” she whispered. “Why, he is gone, as I soon shall be.
What news of him?”

“That he is not gone, that he lives, or so I believe, though heretofore
I have hid it from you.”

The head was lifted for a moment, and the eyes stared at her with
wondering joy.

“Do you trick me, Nurse? Nay, you would never do that. Give me the milk,
I want it now. I’ll listen. I promise you I’ll not die till you have
told me. If Christopher lives why should I die who only hoped to find
him?”

So Emlyn whispered all she knew. It was not much, only that Christopher
had not been buried in the grave where he was said to be buried, and
that he had been taken wounded aboard the ship _Great Yarmouth_, of the
fate of which ship fortunately she had heard nothing. Still, slight as
they might be, to Cicely these tidings were a magic medicine, for did
they not mean the rebirth of hope, hope that for nine long months had
been dead and buried with Christopher? From that moment she began to
mend.

When the Flounder, having slept off her drink, returned to the sick-bed,
she stared at her amazed and muttered something about witchcraft, she
who had been sure that she would die, as in those days so many women did
who fell into hands like hers. Indeed, she was bitterly disappointed,
knowing that this death was desired by her employer, who now after all
might let the Ford Inn to another. Moreover, the child was no waster,
but one who was set for life. Well, that at least she could mend, and if
it were done quickly the shock might kill the mother. Yet the thing
was not so easy as it looked, for there were many loving eyes upon that
babe.

When she wished to take it to her bed at night Emlyn forbade her
fiercely, and on being appealed to, the Prioress, who knew the
creature’s drunken habits and had heard rumours of the fate of the Smith
infant and others, gave orders that it was not to be. So, since the
mother was too weak to have it with her, the boy was laid in a little
cot at her side. And always day and night one or more of the sweet-faced
nuns stood at the head of that cot watching as might a guardian angel.
Also it took only Nature’s food since from the first Cicely would nurse
it, so that she could not mix any drug with its milk that would cause it
to sleep itself away.

So the days went on, bringing black wrath, despair almost, to the heart
of Mother Megges, till at length there came the chance she sought. One
fine evening, when the nuns were gathered at vespers, but as it happened
not in the chapel, because since the tale of the hauntings they shunned
the place after high noon, Cicely, whose strength was returning to her,
asked Emlyn to change her garments and remake her bed. Meanwhile, the
babe was given to Sister Bridget, who doted on it, with instructions to
take it to walk in the garden for a time, since the rain had passed off
and the afternoon was now very soft and pleasant. So she went, and there
presently was met by the Flounder, who was supposed to be asleep, but
had followed her, a person of whom the half-witted Bridget was much
afraid.

“What are you doing with my babe, old fool?” she screeched at her,
thrusting her fat face to within an inch of the nun’s. “You’ll let it
fall and I shall be blamed. Give me the angel or I will twist your nose
for you. Give it me, I say, and get you gone.”

In her fear and flurry old Bridget obeyed and departed at a run. Then,
recovering herself a little, or drawn by some instinct, she returned,
hid herself in a clump of lilac bushes and watched.

Presently she saw the Flounder, after glancing about to make sure that
she was alone, enter the chapel, carrying the child, and heard her
bolt the door after her. Now Bridget, as she said afterwards, grew very
frightened, she knew not why, and, acting on impulse, ran to the chancel
window and, climbing on to a wheelbarrow that stood there, looked
through it. This is what she saw.

Mother Megges was kneeling in the chancel, as she thought at first,
to say her prayers, till she perceived, for a ray from the setting sun
showed it all, that on the paving before her lay the infant and that
this she-devil was thrusting her thick forefinger down its throat, for
already it grew black in the face, and as she thrust muttering savagely.
So horror-struck was Bridget that she could neither move nor cry.

Then, while she stood petrified, suddenly there appeared the figure of
a man in rusty armour. The Flounder looked up, saw him and, withdrawing
her finger from the mouth of the child, let out yell after yell. The
man, who said nothing, drew a sword and lifted it, whereon the murderess
screamed--

“The ghost! The ghost! Spare me, Sir John, I am poor and he paid me.
Spare me for Christ’s sake!” and so saying, she rolled on to the floor
in a fit, and there turned and twisted until she lay still.

Then the man, or the ghost of a man, having looked at her, sheathed
his sword and lifting up the babe, which now drew its breath again and
cried, marched with it down the aisle. The next thing of which Bridget
became aware was that he stood before her, the infant in his arms,
holding it out to her. His face she could not see, for the vizor was
down, but he spoke in a hollow voice, saying--

“This gift from Heaven to the Lady Harflete. Bid her fear nothing, for
one devil I have garnered and the others are ripe for reaping.”

Bridget took the child and sank down on to the ground, and at that
moment the nuns, alarmed by the awful yells, rushed through the side
door, headed by Mother Matilda. They too saw the figure, and knew the
Foterell cognizance upon its helm and shield. But it waited not to speak
to them, only passed behind some trees and vanished.

Their first care was for the infant, which they thought the man was
stealing; then, after they were sure that it had taken no real hurt,
they questioned old Bridget, but could get nothing from her, for all she
did was to gibber and point first to the barrow and next to the chancel
window. At length Mother Matilda understood and, climbing on to the
barrow, looked through the window as Bridget had done. She looked, she
saw, and fell back fainting.



An hour had gone by. The child, unhurt save for a little bruising of
its tender mouth, was asleep upon its mother’s breast. Bridget, having
recovered, at length had told all her tale to every one of them save
Cicely, who as yet knew nothing, for she and Emlyn did not hear the
screams, their rooms being on the other side of the building. The Abbot
had been sent for, and, accompanied by monks, arrived in the midst of
a thunder-storm and pouring rain. He, too, had heard the tale, heard it
with a pale face while his monks crossed themselves. At length he asked
of the woman Megges. They replied that living or dead she was, as they
supposed, still in the chapel, which none of them had dared to enter.

“Come, let us see,” said the Abbot, and they went there to find the door
locked as Bridget had said.

Smiths were sent for and broke it in while all stood in the pouring
rain and watched. It was open at last, and they entered with torches
and tapers, for now the darkness was dense, the Abbot leading them. They
came to the chancel, where something lay upon the floor, and held down
the torches to look. Then they saw that which caused them all to turn
and fly, calling on the saints to protect them. In her life Mother
Megges had not been lovely, but in the death that had overtaken her----!



It was morning. The Lord Abbot and his monks were assembled in the
guest-chamber, and opposite to them were the Lady Prioress and her nuns,
and with them Emlyn.

“Witchcraft!” shouted the Abbot, smiting his fist upon the table, “black
witchcraft! Satan himself and his foulest demons walk the countryside
and have their home in this Nunnery. Last night they manifested
themselves----”

“By saving a babe from a cruel death and bringing a hateful murderess to
doom,” broke in Emlyn.

“Silence, Sorceress,” shouted the Abbot. “Get thee behind me, Satan. I
know you and your familiars,” and he glared at the Prioress.

“What may you mean, my Lord Abbot?” asked Mother Matilda, bridling up.
“My sisters and I do not understand. Emlyn Stower is right. Do you
call that witchcraft which works so good an end? The ghost of Sir John
Foterell appeared here--we admit it who saw that ghost. But what did
the spirit do? It slew the hellish woman whom you sent among us and it
rescued the blessed babe when her finger was down its throat to choke
out its pure life. If that be witchcraft I stand by it. Tell us what did
the wretch mean when she cried out to the spirit to spare her because
she was poor and had been bribed for her iniquity? Who bribed her, my
Lord Abbot? None in this house, I’ll swear. And who changed Sir John
Foterell from flesh to spirit? Why is he a ghost to-day?”

“Am I here to answer riddles, woman, and who are you that you dare put
such questions to me? I depose you, I set your house under ban. The
judgment of the Church shall be pronounced against you all. Dare not to
leave your doors until the Court is composed to try you. Think not you
shall escape. Your English land is sick and heresy stalks abroad; but,”
 he added slowly, “fire can still bite and there is store of faggots in
the woods. Prepare your souls for judgment. Now I go.”

“Do as it pleases you,” answered the enraged Mother Matilda. “When you
set out your case we will answer it; but, meanwhile, we pray that you
take what is left of your dead hireling with you, for we find her ill
company and here she shall have no burial. My Lord Abbot, the charter of
this Nunnery is from the monarch of England, whatever authority you and
those that went before you have usurped. It was granted by the first
Edward, and the appointment of every prioress since his day has been
signed by the sovereign and no other. I hold mine under the manual of
the eighth Henry. You cannot depose me, for I appeal from the Abbot to
the King. Fare you well, my Lord,” and, followed by her little train of
aged nuns, she swept from the room like an offended queen.

After the terrible death of the child-murderess and the restoration of
her babe to her unharmed, Cicely’s recovery was swift. Within a week
she was up and walking, and within ten days as strong, or stronger, than
ever she had been. Nothing more had been heard of the Abbot, and though
all knew that danger threatened them from this quarter they were content
to enjoy the present hour of peace and wait till it was at hand.

But in Cicely’s awakened mind there arose a keen desire to learn more
of what her nurse had hinted to her when she lay upon the very edge of
death. Day by day she plied Emlyn with questions till at length she
knew all; namely, that the tidings came from Thomas Bolle, and that he,
dressed in her father’s armour, was the ghost who had saved her boy from
death. Now nothing would serve her but that she must see Thomas herself,
as she said, to thank him, though truly, as Emlyn knew well, to draw
from his own lips every detail and circumstance that she could gather
concerning Christopher.

For a while Emlyn held out against her, for she knew the dangers of such
a meeting; but in the end, being able to refuse her lady nothing, she
gave way.

At length at the appointed hour of sunset Emlyn and Cicely stood in
the chapel, whither the latter told the nuns she wished to go to return
thanks for her deliverance from many dangers. They knelt before the
altar, and while they made pretence to pray there heard knocks, which
were the signal of the presence of Thomas Bolle. Emlyn answered them
with other knocks, which told that all was safe, whereon the wooden
image turned and Thomas appeared, dressed as before in Sir John
Foterell’s armour. So like did he seem to her dead father in this
familiar mail that for a moment Cicely thought it must be he, and her
knees trembled until he knelt before her, kissing her hand, asking after
her health and that of the infant and whether she were satisfied with
his service.

“Indeed and indeed yes,” she answered; “and oh, friend! all that I have
henceforth is yours should I ever have anything again, who am but a
prisoned beggar. Meanwhile, my blessing and that of Heaven rest upon
you, you gallant man.”

“Thank me not, Lady,” answered the honest Thomas. “To speak truth it was
Emlyn whom I served, for though monks parted us we have been friends for
many a year. As for the matter of the child and that spawn of hell, the
Flounder, be grateful to God, not to me, for it was by mere chance that
I came here that evening, which I had not intended to do. I was going
about my business with the cattle when something seemed to tell me to
arm and come. It was as though a hand pushed me, and the rest you know,
and so I think by now does Mother Megges,” he added grimly.

“Yes, yes, Thomas; and in truth I do thank God, Whose finger I see in
all this business, as I thank you, His instrument. But there are
other things whereof Emlyn has spoken to me. She said--ah! she said my
husband, whom I thought slain and buried, in truth was only wounded and
not buried, but shipped over-sea. Tell me that story, friend, omitting
nothing, but swiftly for our time is short. I thirst to hear it from
your own lips.”

So in his slow, wandering way he told her, word by word, all that he
had seen, all that he had learned, and the sum of it was that Sir
Christopher had been shipped abroad upon the _Great Yarmouth_, sorely
wounded but not dead, and that with him had sailed Jeffrey Stokes and
the monk Martin.

“That’s ten months gone,” said Cicely. “Has naught been heard of this
ship? By now she should be home again.”

Thomas hesitated, then answered--

“No tidings came of her from Spain. Then, although I said nothing of it
even to Emlyn, she was reported lost with all hands at sea. Then came
another story----”

“Ah! that other story?”

“Lady, two of her crew reached the Wash. I did not see them, and they
have shipped again for Marseilles in France. But I spoke with a shepherd
who is half-brother to one of them, and he told me that from him he
learned that the _Great Yarmouth_ was set upon by two Turkish pirates
and captured after a brave fight in which the captain Goody and others
were killed. This man and his comrade escaped in a boat and drifted
to and fro till they were picked up by a homeward-bound caravel which
landed them at Hull. That’s all I know--save one thing.”

“One thing! Oh, what thing, Thomas? That my husband is dead?”

“Nay, nay, the very opposite, that he is alive, or was, for these men
saw him and Jeffrey Stokes and Martin the priest, no craven as I know,
fighting like devils till the Turks overwhelmed them by numbers, and,
having bound their hands, carried them all three unwounded on board one
of their ships, wishing doubtless to make slaves of such brave fellows.”

Now, although Emlyn would have stopped her, still Cicely plied him with
questions, which he answered as best he could, till suddenly a sound
caught his ear.

“Look at the window!” he exclaimed.

They looked, and saw a sight that froze their blood, for there staring
at them through the glass was the dark face of the Abbot, and with it
other faces.

“Betray me not, or I shall burn,” he whispered. “Say only that I came
to haunt you,” and silently as a shadow he glided to his niche and was
gone.

“What now, Emlyn?”

“One thing only--Thomas must be saved. A bold face and stand to it. Is
it our fault if your father’s ghost should haunt this chapel? Remember,
your father’s ghost, no other. Ah! here they come.”

As she spoke the door was thrown wide, and through it came the Abbot
and his rout of attendants. Within two paces of the women they halted,
hanging together like bees, for they were afraid, while a voice cried,
“Seize the witches!”

Cicely’s terror passed from her and she faced them boldly.

“What would you with us, my Lord Abbot?” she asked.

“We would know, Sorceress, what shape was that which spoke with you but
now, and whither has it gone?”

“The same that saved my child and called the Sword of God down upon the
murderess. It wore my father’s armour, but its face I did not see. It
has gone whence it came, but where that is I know not. Discover if you
can.”

“Woman, you trifle with us. What said the Thing?”

“It spoke of the slaughter of Sir John Foterell by King’s Grave Mount
and of those who wrought it,” and she looked at him steadily until his
eyes fell before hers.

“What else?”

“It told me that my husband is not dead. Neither did you bury him as you
put about, but shipped him hence to Spain, whence it prophesied he will
return again to be revenged upon you. It told me that he was captured by
the infidel Moors, and with him Jeffrey Stokes, my father’s servant, and
the priest Martin, your secretary. Then it looked up and vanished, or
seemed to vanish, though perhaps it is among us now.”

“Aye,” answered the Abbot, “Satan, with whom you hold converse, is
always among us. Cicely Foterell and Emlyn Stower, you are foul witches,
self-confessed. The world has borne your sorceries too long, and you
shall answer for them before God and man, as I, the Lord Abbot of
Blossholme, have right and authority to make you do. Seize these witches
and let them be kept fast in their chamber till I constitute the Court
Ecclesiastic for their trial.”

So they took hold of Cicely and Emlyn and led them to the Nunnery. As
they crossed the garden they were met by Mother Matilda and the nuns,
who, for a second time within a month, ran out to see what was the
tumult in the chapel.

“What is it now, Cicely?” asked the Prioress.

“Now we are witches, Mother,” she answered, with a sad smile.

“Aye,” broke in Emlyn, “and the charge is that the ghost of the murdered
Sir John Foterell was seen speaking to us.”

“Why, why?” exclaimed the Prioress. “If the spirit of a woman’s father
appears to her is she therefore to be declared a witch? Then is poor
Sister Bridget a witch also, for this same spirit brought the child to
her?”

“Aye,” said the Abbot, “I had forgotten her. She is another of the crew,
let her be seized and shut up also. Greatly do I hope, when it comes to
the hour of trial, that there may not be found to be more of them,” and
he glanced at the poor nuns with menace in his eye.

So Cicely and Emlyn were shut within their room and strictly guarded
by monks, but otherwise not ill-treated. Indeed, save for their
confinement, there was little change in their condition. The child was
allowed to be with Cicely, the nuns were allowed to visit her.

Only over both of them hung the shadow of great trouble. They were
aware, and it seemed to them purposely suffered to be aware, that
they were about to be tried for their lives upon monstrous and obscene
charges; namely, that they had consorted with a dim and awful creature
called the Enemy of Mankind, whom, it was supposed, human beings had
power to call to their counsel and assistance. To them who knew well
that this being was Thomas Bolle, the thing seemed absurd. Yet it could
not be denied that the said Thomas at Emlyn’s instigation had worked
much evil on the monks of Blossholme, paying them, or rather their
Abbot, back in his own coin.

Yet what was to be done? To tell the facts would be to condemn Thomas
to some fearful fate which even then they would be called upon to share,
although possibly they might be cleared of the charge of witchcraft.

Emlyn set the matter before Cicely, urging neither one side nor the
other, and waited her judgment. It was swift and decisive.

“This is a coil that we cannot untangle,” said Cicely. “Let us betray
no one, but put our trust in God. I am sure,” she added, “that God will
help us as He did when Mother Megges would have murdered my boy. I shall
not attempt to defend myself by wronging others. I leave everything to
Him.”

“Strange things have happened to many who trusted in God; to that the
whole evil world bears witness,” said Emlyn doubtfully.

“May be,” answered Cicely in her quiet fashion, “perhaps because they
did not trust enough or rightly. At least there lies my path and I will
walk in it--to the fire if need be.”

“There is some seed of greatness in you; to what will it grow, I
wonder?” replied Emlyn, with a shrug of her shoulders.

On the morrow this faith of Cicely’s was put to a sharp test. The Abbot
came and spoke with Emlyn apart. This was the burden of his song--

“Give me those jewels and all may yet be well with you and your
mistress, vile witches though you are. If not, you burn.”

As before she denied all knowledge of them.

“Find me the jewels or you burn,” he answered. “Would you pay your lives
for a few miserable gems?”

Now Emlyn weakened, not for her own sake, and said she would speak with
her mistress.

He bade her do so.

“I thought that those jewels were burned, Emlyn, do you then know where
they are?” asked Cicely.

“Aye, I have said nothing of it to you, but I know. Speak the word and I
give them up to save you.”

Cicely thought a while and kissed her child, which she held in her arms,
then laughed aloud and answered--

“Not so. That Abbot shall never be richer for any gem of mine. I have
told you in what I trust, and it is not jewels. Whether I burn or
whether I am saved, he shall not have them.”

“Good,” said Emlyn, “that is my mind also, I only spoke for your sake,”
 and she went out and told the Abbot.

He came into Cicely’s chamber and raged at them. He said that they
should be excommunicated, then tortured and then burned; but Cicely,
whom he had thought to frighten, never winced.

“If so, so let it be,” she replied, “and I will bear all as best I can.
I know nothing of these jewels, but if they still exist they are mine,
not yours, and I am innocent of any witchcraft. Do your work, for I am
sure that the end shall be far other than you think.”

“What!” said the Abbot, “has the foul fiend been with you again that you
talk thus certainly? Well, Sorceress, soon you will sing another tune,”
 and he went to the door and summoned the Prioress.

“Put these women upon bread and water,” he said, “and prepare them for
the rack, that they may discover their accomplices.”

Mother Matilda set her gentle face, and answered--

“It shall not be done in this Nunnery, my Lord Abbot. I know the law,
and you have no such power. Moreover, if you move them hence, who are my
guests, I appeal to the King, and meanwhile raise the country on you.”

“Said I not that they had accomplices?” sneered the Abbot, and went his
way.

But of the torture no more was heard, for that appeal to the King had an
ill sound in his ears.




CHAPTER XI
DOOMED


It was the day of trial. From dawn Cicely and Emlyn had seen people
hurrying in and out of the gates of the Nunnery, and heard workmen
making preparation in the guest-hall below their chamber. About eight
one of the nuns brought them their breakfast. Her face was scared and
white; she only spoke in whispers, looking behind her continually as
though she knew she was being watched.

Emlyn asked who their judges were, and she answered--

“The Abbot, a strange, black-faced Prior, and the Old Bishop. Oh! God
help you, my sisters; God help us all!” and she fled away.

Now for a moment Emlyn’s heart failed her, since before such a tribunal
what chance had they? The Abbot was their bitter enemy and accuser;
the strange Prior, no doubt, one of his friends and kindred; while the
ecclesiastic spoken of as the “Old Bishop” was well known as perhaps the
cruelest man in England, a scourge of heretics--that is, before
heresy became the fashion--a hunter-out of witches and wizards, and a
time-server to boot. But to Cicely she said nothing, for what was the
use, seeing that soon she would learn all?

They ate their food, knowing both of them that they would need strength.
Then Cicely nursed her child, and, placing it in Emlyn’s arms, knelt
down to pray. While she was still praying the door opened and a
procession appeared. First came two monks, then six armed men of the
Abbot’s guard, then the Prioress and three of her nuns. At the sight of
the beautiful young woman kneeling at her prayers the guards, rough men
though they were, stopped, as if unwilling to disturb her, but one of
the monks cried brutally--

“Seize the accursed hypocrite, and if she will not come, drag her with
you,” at the same time stretching out his hand as though to grasp her
arm.

But Cicely rose and faced him, saying--

“Do not touch me; I follow. Emlyn, give me the child, and let us go.”

So they went in the midst of the armed men, the monks preceding, the
nuns, with bowed heads, following after. Presently they entered the
large hall, but on its threshold were ordered to pause while way was
made for them. Cicely never forgot the sight of it as it appeared that
day. The lofty, arched roof of rich chestnut-wood, set there hundreds of
years before by hands that spared neither work nor timber, amongst the
beams of which the bright light of morning played so clearly that she
could see the spiders’ webs, and in one of them a sleepy autumn
wasp caught fast. The mob of people gathered to watch her public
trial--faces, many of them, that she had known from childhood.

How they stared at her as she stood there by the head of the steps, her
sleeping child held in her arms! They were a packed audience and had
been prepared to condemn her--that she could see and hear, for did not
some of them point and frown, and set up a cry of “Witch!” as they had
been told to do? But it died away. The sight of her, the daughter of one
of their great men and the widow of another, standing in her innocent
beauty, the slumbering babe upon her breast, seemed to quell them, till
the hardest faces grew pitiful--full of resentment, too, some of them,
but not against her.

Then the three judges on the bench behind the table, at which sat the
monkish secretaries; the hard-faced, hook-nosed “Old Bishop” in his
gorgeous robes and mitre, his crozier resting against the panelling
behind him, peering about him with beady eyes. The sullen, heavy-jawed
Prior, from some distant county, on his left, clad in a simple black
gown with a girdle about his waist. And on the right Clement Maldon,
Abbot of Blossholme and enemy of her house, suave, olive-faced,
foreign-looking, his black, uneasy eyes observing all, his keen ears
catching every word and murmur as he whispered something to the Bishop
that caused him to smile grimly. Lastly, placed already in the roped
space and guarded by a soldier, poor old Bridget, the half-witted, who
was gabbling words to which no one paid any heed.

The path was clear now, and they were ordered to walk on. Half-way
up the hall something red attracted Cicely’s attention, and, glancing
round, she saw that it was the beard of Thomas Bolle. Their eyes met,
and his were full of fear. In an instant she understood that he dreaded
lest he should be betrayed and given over to some awful doom.

“Fear nothing,” she whispered as she passed, and he heard her, or
perhaps Emlyn’s glance told him that he was safe. At least, a sign of
relief broke from him.

Now they had entered the roped space, and stood there.

“Your name?” asked one of the secretaries, pointing to Cicely with the
feather of his quill.

“All know it, it is Cicely Harflete,” she answered gently, whereon the
clerk said roughly that she lied, and the old wrangle began again as to
the validity of her marriage, the Abbot maintaining that she was still
Cicely Foterell, the mother of a base-born child.

Into this argument the Bishop entered with some zest, asking many
questions, and seeming more or less to take her side, since, where
matters of religion were not concerned, he was a keen lawyer, and just
enough. At length, however, he swept the thing away, remarking brutally
that if half he had heard were true, soon the name by which she had last
been called in life would not concern her, and bade the clerks write her
down as Cicely Harflete or Foterell.

Then Emlyn gave her name, and Sister Bridget’s was written without
question. Next the charge against them was read. It was long and
technical, mixed up with Latin words and phrases, and all that Cicely
made out of it was that they were accused of many horrible crimes, and
of having called up the devil and consorted with him in the shape of
a monster with horns and hoofs, and of her father’s ghost. When it
was finished they were commanded to answer, and pleaded Not Guilty, or
rather Cicely and Emlyn did, for Bridget broke into a long tale that
could not be followed. She was ordered to be silent, after which no one
took any more heed of what she said.

Now the Bishop asked whether these women had been put to the question,
and when he was told No, said that it seemed a pity, as evidently they
were stubborn witches, and some discipline of the sort might have
saved trouble. Again he asked if the witch’s marks had been found on
them--that is, the spot where the devil had sealed their bodies,
on which, as was well known, his chosen could feel no pain. He even
suggested that the trial should be adjourned until they had been pricked
all over with a nail to find this spot, but ultimately gave up the point
to save time.

A last question was raised by the beetle-browed Prior, who submitted
that the infant ought also to be accused, since he, too, was said to
have consorted with the devil, having, according to the story, been
rescued from death by him and afterwards been carried in his arms and
given to the nun Bridget, which was the only evidence against the said
Bridget. If she was guilty, why, then, was the infant innocent? Ought
not they to burn together, since a babe that had been nursed by the Evil
One was obviously damned?

The legal-minded Bishop found this argument interesting, but ultimately
decided that it was safer to overrule it on account of the tender age of
the criminal. He added that it did not matter, since doubtless the foul
fiend would claim his own ere long.

Lastly, before the witnesses were called, Emlyn asked for an advocate to
defend them, but the Bishop replied, with a chuckle, that it was quite
unnecessary, since already they had the best of all advocates--Satan
himself.

“True, my Lord,” said Cicely, looking up, “we have the best of all
advocates, only you have mis-named him. The God of the innocent is our
advocate, and in Him I trust.”

“Blaspheme not, Sorceress,” shouted the old man; and the evidence
commenced.

To follow it in detail is not necessary, and, indeed, would be long, for
it took many hours. First of all Emlyn’s early life was set out, much
being made of the fact that her mother was a gypsy who had committed
suicide and that her father had fallen under the ban of the Inquisition,
an heretical work of his having been publicly burned. Then the Abbot
himself gave evidence, since, where the charge was sorcery, no one
seemed to think it strange that the same man should both act as judge
and be the principal witness for the prosecution. He told of Cicely’s
wild words after the burning of Cranwell Towers, from which burning she
and her familiar, Emlyn, had evidently escaped by magic, without the
aid of which it was plain they could not have lived. He told of Emlyn’s
threats to him after she had looked into the bowl of water; of all the
dreadful things that had been seen and done at Blossholme, which no
doubt these witches had brought about--here he was right--though how
he knew not. He told of the death of the midwife and of the appearance
which she presented afterwards--a tale that caused his audience to
shudder; and, lastly, he told of the vision of the ghost of Sir John
Foterell holding converse with the two accused in the chapel of the
Nunnery, and its vanishing away.

When at length he had finished Emlyn asked leave to cross-examine him,
but this was refused on the ground that persons accused of such crimes
had no right to cross-examine.

Then the Court adjourned for a while to eat, some food being brought for
the prisoners, who were forced to take it where they stood. Worse
still, Cicely was driven to nurse her child in the presence of all that
audience, who stared and gibed at her rudely, and were angry because
Emlyn and some of the nuns stood round her to form a living screen.

When the judges returned the evidence went on. Though most of it was
entirely irrelevant, its volume was so great that at length the Old
Bishop grew weary, and said he would hear no more. Then the judges
went on to put, first to Cicely and afterwards to Emlyn, a series of
questions of a nature so abominable that after denying the first of them
indignantly, they stood silent, refusing to answer--proof positive of
their guilt, as the black-browed Prior remarked in triumph. Lastly,
these hideous queries being exhausted, Cicely was asked if she had
anything to say.

“Somewhat,” she answered; “but I am weary, and must be brief. I am no
witch; I do not know what it means. The Abbot of Blossholme, who sits
as my judge, is my grievous enemy. He claimed my father’s lands--which
lands I believe he now holds--and cruelly murdered my said father by
King’s Grave Mount in the forest as he was riding to London to make
complaint of him and reveal his treachery to his Grace the King and his
Council----”

“It is a lie, witch,” broke in the Abbot, but, taking no heed, Cicely
went on--

“Afterwards he and his hired soldiers attacked the house of my husband,
Sir Christopher Harflete, and burnt it, slaying, or striving to
slay--I know not which--my said husband, who has vanished away. Then he
imprisoned me and my servant, Emlyn Stower, in this Nunnery, and strove
to force me to sign papers conveying all my own and my child’s property
to him. This I refused to do, and therefore it is that he puts me on my
trial, because, as I am told, those who are found guilty of witchcraft
are stripped of all their possessions, which those take who are strong
enough to keep them. Lastly, I deny the authority of this Court, and
appeal to the King, who soon or late will hear my cry and avenge my
wrongs, and maybe my murder, upon those who wrought them. Good people
all, hear my words. I appeal to the King, and to him under God above I
entrust my cause, and, should I die, the guardianship of my orphan son,
whom the Abbot sent his creature to murder--his vile creature, upon
whose head fell the Almighty’s justice, as it will fall on yours, you
slaughterers of the innocent.”

So spoke Cicely, and, having spoken, worn out with fatigue and misery,
sank to the floor--for all these hours there had been no stool for her
to sit on--and crouched there, still holding her child in her arms--a
piteous sight indeed, which touched even the superstitious hearts of the
crowd who watched her.

Now this appeal of hers to the King seemed to scare the fierce Old
Bishop, who turned and began to argue with the Abbot. Cicely, listening,
caught some of his words, such as--

“On your head be it, then. I judge only of the cause ecclesiastic, and
shall direct it to be so entered upon the records. Of the execution of
the sentence or the disposal of the property I wash my hands. See you to
it.”

“So spoke Pilate,” broke in Cicely, lifting her head and looking him in
the eyes. Then she let it fall again, and was silent.

Now Emlyn opened her lips, and from them burst a fierce torrent of
words.

“Do you know,” she began, “who and what is this Spanish priest who sits
to judge us of witchcraft? Well, I will tell you. Years ago he fled from
Spain because of hideous crimes that he had committed there. Ask him of
Isabella the nun, who was my father’s cousin, and her end and that of
her companions. Ask him of----”

At this point a monk, to whom the Abbot had whispered something, slipped
behind Emlyn and threw a cloth over her face. She tore it away with her
strong hands, and screamed out--

“He is a murderer, he is a traitor. He plots to kill the King. I can
prove it, and that’s why Foterell died--because he knew----”

The Abbot shouted something, and again the monk, a stout fellow named
Ambrose, got the cloth over her mouth. Once more she wrenched herself
loose, and, turning towards the people, called--

“Have I never a friend, who have befriended so many? Is there no man in
Blossholme who will avenge me of this brute Ambrose? Aye, I see some.”

Then this Ambrose, and others aiding him, fell upon her, striking her
on the head and choking her, till at length she sank, half stunned and
gasping, to the ground.

Now, after a hurried word or two with his colleagues, the Bishop
sprang up, and as darkness gathered in the hall--for the sun had
set--pronounced the sentence of the Court.

First he declared the prisoners guilty of the foulest witchcraft. Next
he excommunicated them with much ceremony, delivering their souls to
their master, Satan. Then, incidentally, he condemned their bodies to
be burnt, without specifying when, how, or by whom. Out of the gloom a
clear voice spoke, saying--

“You exceed your powers, Priest, and usurp those of the King. Beware!”

A tumult followed, in which some cried “Aye” and some “Nay,” and when at
length it died down the Bishop, or it may have been the Abbot--for none
could see who spoke--exclaimed--

“The Church guards her own rights; let the King see to his.”

“He will, he will,” answered the same voice. “The Pope is in his bag.
Monks, your day is done.”

Again there was tumult, a very great tumult. In truth the scene, or
rather the sounds, were strange. The Bishop shrieking with rage upon
the bench, like a hen that has been caught upon her perch at night,
the black-browed Prior bellowing like a bull, the populace surging and
shouting this and that, the secretary calling for candles, and when
at length one was brought, making a little star of light in that huge
gloom, putting his hand to his mouth and roaring--

“What of this Bridget? Does she go free?”

The Bishop made no answer; it seemed as though he were frightened at the
forces which he had let loose; but the Abbot hallooed back--

“Burn the hag with the others,” and the secretary wrote it down upon his
brief.

Then the guards seized the three of them to lead them away, and the
frightened babe set up a thin, piercing wail, while the Bishop and his
companions, preceded by one of the monks bearing the candle--it was that
Ambrose who had choked Emlyn--marched in procession down the hall to
gain the great door.

Ere ever they reached it the candle was dashed from the hand of Ambrose,
and a fearful tumult arose in the dense darkness, for now all light
had vanished. There were screams, and sounds of fighting, and cries for
help. These died away; the hall emptied by degrees, for it seemed that
none wished to stay there. Torches were lit, and showed a strange scene.

The Bishop, the Abbot, and the foreign Prior lay here and there,
buffeted, bleeding, their robes torn off them, so that they were almost
naked, while by the Bishop was his crozier, broken in two, apparently
across his own head. Worst of all, the monk Ambrose leaned against a
pillar; his feet seemed to go forward but his face looked backward, for
his neck was twisted like that of a Michaelmas goose.

The Bishop looked about him and felt his hurts; then he called to his
people--

“Bring me my cloak and a horse, for I have had enough of Blossholme and
its wizardries. Settle your own matters henceforth, Abbot Maldon, for in
them I find no luck,” and he glanced at his broken staff.

Thus ended the great trial of the Blossholme witches.



Cicely had sunk to sleep at last, and Emlyn watched her, for, since
there was nowhere else to put them, they were back in their own room,
but guarded by armed men, lest they should escape. Of this, as Emlyn
knew well, there was little chance, for even if they were once outside
the Priory walls, how could they get away without friends to help, or
food to eat, or horses to carry them? They would be run down within a
mile. Moreover, there was the child, which Cicely would never leave,
and, after all she had undergone, she herself was not fit to travel.
Therefore it was that Emlyn sat sleepless, full of bitter wrath and
fear, for she could see no hope. All was black as the night about them.

The door opened, and was shut and locked again. Then, from behind the
curtain, appeared the tall figure of the Prioress, carrying a candle
that made a star of light upon the shadows. As she stood there holding
it up and looking about her, something came into Emlyn’s mind. Perhaps
she would help, she who loved Cicely. Did she not look like a figure of
hope, with her sweet face and her taper in the gloom? Emlyn advanced to
meet her, her finger on her lips.

“She sleeps; wake her not,” she said. “Have you come to tell us that we
burn to-morrow?”

“Nay, Emlyn; the Old Bishop has commanded that it shall not be for a
week. He would have time to get across England first. Indeed, had it not
been for the beating of him in the dark and the twisting of the neck of
Brother Ambrose, I believe that he would not have suffered it at all,
for fear of trouble afterwards. But now he is full of rage, and swears
that he was set upon by evil spirits in the hall, and that those who
loosed them shall not live. Emlyn, _who_ killed Father Ambrose? Was it
men or----?”

“Men, I think, Mother. The devil does not twist necks except in monkish
dreams. Is it wonderful that my lady--the greatest lady of all these
parts and the most foully treated--should have friends left to her? Why,
if they were not curs, ere now her people would have pulled that Abbey
stone from stone and cut the throat of every man within its walls.”

“Emlyn,” said the Prioress again, “in the name of Jesus and on your
soul, tell me true, is there witchcraft in all this business? And if
not, what is its meaning?”

“As much witchcraft as dwells in your gentle heart; no more. A man did
these things; I’ll not give you his name, lest it should be wrung from
you. A man wore Foterell’s armour, and came here by a secret hole to
take counsel with us in the chapel. A man burnt the Abbey dormers and
the stacks, and harried the beasts with a goatskin on his head, and
dragged the skull of drunken Andrew from his grave. Doubtless it was his
hand also that twisted Ambrose’s neck because he struck me.”

The two women looked each other in the eyes.

“Ah!” said the Prioress. “I think I can guess now; but, Emlyn, you
choose rough tools. Well, fear not; your secret is safe with me.” She
paused a moment; then went on, “Oh! I am glad, who feared lest the
Fiend’s finger was in it all, as, in truth, they believe. Now I see my
path clear, and will follow it to the death. Yes, yes; I will save you
all or die.”

“What path, Mother?”

“Emlyn, you have heard no tidings for these many months, but I have.
Listen; there is much afoot. The King, or the Lord Cromwell, or both,
make war upon the lesser Houses, dissolving them, seizing their goods,
turning the religious out of them upon the world to starve. His Grace
sends Royal Commissioners to visit them, and be judge and jury both.
They were coming here, but I have friends and some fortune of my own,
who was not born meanly or ill-dowered, and I found a way to buy them
off. One of these Commissioners, Thomas Legh, as I heard only to-day,
makes inquisition at the monastery of Bayfleet, in Yorkshire, some
eighty miles away, of which my cousin, Alfred Stukley, whose letter
reached me this morning, is the Prior. Emlyn, I’ll go to this rough
man--for rough he is, they say. Old and feeble as I am, I’ll seek
him out and offer up the ancient House I rule to save your life and
Cicely’s--yes, and Bridget’s also.”

“You will go, Mother! Oh! God’s blessing be on you. But how will you go?
They will never suffer it.”

The old nun drew herself up, and answered--

“Who has the right to say to the Prioress of Blossholme that she shall
not travel whither she will? No Spanish Abbot, I think. Why, but now
that proud priest’s servants would have forbidden me to enter your
chamber in my own House, but I read them a lesson they will not forget.
Also I have horses at my command, but it is true I need an escort, who
am not too strong and little versed in the ways of the outside world,
where I have scarcely strayed for many years. Now I have bethought me
of that red-haired lay-brother, Thomas Bolle. I am told that though
foolish, he is a valiant man whom few care to face; moreover, that he
understands horses and knows all roads. Do you think, Emlyn Stower, that
Thomas Bolle will be my companion on this journey, with leave from the
Abbot, or without it?” and again she looked her in the eyes.

“He might, he might; he is a venturous man, or so I remember him in
my youth,” answered Emlyn. “Moreover, his forefathers have served
the Harfletes and the Foterells for generations in peace and war, and
doubtless, therefore, he loves my lady yonder. But the trouble is to get
at him.”

“No trouble at all, Emlyn; he is one of the watch outside the gate. But,
woman, what token?”

Emlyn thought for a moment, then drew a ring off her finger in which was
set a cornelian heart.

“Give him this,” she said, “and say that the wearer bade him follow the
bearer to the death, for the sake of that wearer’s life and another’s.
He is a simple soul, and if the Abbot does not catch him first I believe
that he will go.”

Mother Matilda took the ring and set it on her own finger. Then she
walked to where Cicely lay sleeping, looked at her and the boy upon her
breast. Stretching out her thin hands, she called down the blessing and
protection of Almighty God upon them both, then turned to depart.

Emlyn caught her by the robe.

“Stay,” she said. “You think I do not understand; but I do. You are
giving up everything for us. Even if you live through it, this House,
which has been your charge for many years, will be dissolved; your sheep
will be scattered to starve in their toothless age; the fold that has
sheltered them for four hundred years will become a home of wolves. I
understand full well, and she”--pointing to the sleeping Cicely--“will
understand also.”

“Say nothing to her,” murmured Mother Matilda; “I may fail.”

“You may fail, or you may succeed. If you fail and we burn, God shall
reward you. If you succeed and we are saved, on her behalf I swear that
you shall not suffer. There is wealth hidden away--wealth worth
many priories; you and yours shall have your share of it, and that
Commissioner shall not go lacking. Tell him that there is some small
store to pay him for his trouble, and that the Abbot of Blossholme would
rob him of it. Now, my Lady Margaret--for that, I think, used to be your
name, and will be again when you have done with priests and nuns--bless
me also and begone, and know that, living or dead, I hold you great and
holy.”

So the Prioress blessed her ere she glided thence in her stately
fashion, and the oaken door opened and shut behind her.



Three days later the Abbot visited them alone.

“Foul and accursed witches,” he said, “I come to tell you that next
Monday at noon you burn upon the green in front of the Abbey gate, who,
were it not for the mercy of the Church, should have been tortured also
till you discovered your accomplices, of whom I think that you have
many.”

“Show me the King’s warrant for this slaughter,” said Cicely.

“I will show you nothing save the stake, witch. Repent, repent, ere it
be too late. Hell and its eternal fires yawn for you.”

“Do they yawn for my child also, my Lord Abbot?”

“Your brat will be taken from you ere you enter the flames and laid upon
the ground, since it is baptized and too young to burn. If any have pity
on it, good; if not, where it lies, there it will be buried.”

“So be it,” answered Cicely. “God gave it; God save it. In God I put my
trust. Murderer, leave me to make my peace with Him,” and she turned and
walked away.

Now the Abbot and Emlyn were face to face.

“Do we really burn on Monday?” she asked.

“Without doubt, unless faggots will not take fire. Yet,” he added
slowly, “if certain jewels should chance to be found and handed over,
the case might be remitted to another Court.”

“And the torment prolonged. My Lord Abbot, I fear that those jewels will
never be found.”

“Well, then you burn--slowly, perhaps, for much rain has fallen of late
and the wood is green. They say the death is dreadful.”

“Doubtless one day you will find it so, Clement Maldonado, here or
hereafter. But of that we will talk together when all is done--of that
and many other things. I mean before the Judgment-seat of God. Nay, nay,
I do not threaten after your fashion--it shall be so. Meanwhile I ask
the boon of a dying woman. There are two whom I would see--the Prioress
Matilda, in whose charge I desire to leave a certain secret, and Thomas
Bolle, a lay-brother in your Abbey, a man who once engaged himself to me
in marriage. For your own sake, deny me not these favours.”

“They should be granted readily enough were it in my power, but it is
not,” answered the Abbot, looking at her curiously, for he thought that
to them she might tell what she had refused to him--the hiding-place of
the jewels, which afterwards he could wring out.

“Why not, my Lord Abbot?”

“Because the Prioress has gone hence, secretly, upon some journey of her
own, and Thomas Bolle has vanished away I know not where. If they, or
either of them, return ere Monday you shall see them.”

“And if they do not return I shall see them afterwards,” replied Emlyn,
with a shrug of her shoulders. “What does it matter? Fare you well till
we meet at the fire, my Lord Abbot.”



On the Sunday--that is, the day before the burning--the Abbot came
again.

“Three days ago,” he said, addressing them both, “I offered you a chance
of life upon certain conditions, but, obstinate witches that you are,
you refused to listen. Now I offer you the last boon in my power--not
life, indeed; it is too late for that--but a merciful death. If you will
give me what I seek, the executioner shall dispatch you both before the
fire bites--never mind how. If not--well, as I have told you, there has
been much rain, and they say the faggots are somewhat green.”

Cicely paled a little--who would not, even in those cruel days?--then
asked--

“And what is it that you seek, or that we can give? A confession of our
guilt, to cover up your crime in the eyes of the world? If so, you shall
never have it, though we burn by inches.”

“Yes, I seek that, but for your own sakes, not for mine, since those who
confess and repent may receive absolution. Also I seek more--the rich
jewels which you have in hiding, that they may be used for the purposes
of the Church.”

Then it was that Cicely showed the courage of her blood.

“Never, never!” she cried, turning on him with eyes ablaze. “Torture
and slay me if you will, but my wealth you shall not thieve. I know not
where these jewels are, but wherever they may be, there let them lie
till my heirs find them, or they rot.”

The Abbot’s face grew very evil.

“Is that your last word, Cicely Foterell?” he asked.

She bowed her head, and he repeated the question to Emlyn, who
answered--

“What my mistress says, I say.”

“So be it!” he exclaimed. “Doubtless you sorceresses put your trust in
the devil. Well, we shall see if he will help you to-morrow.”

“God will help us,” replied Cicely in a quiet voice. “Remember my words
when the time comes.”

Then he went.




CHAPTER XII
THE STAKE


It was an awful night. Let those who have followed this history think of
the state of these two women, one of them still but a girl, who on the
morrow, amidst the jeers and curses of superstitious men, were to suffer
the cruelest of deaths for no crime at all, unless the traffickings of
Emlyn with Thomas Bolle, in which Cicely had small share, could be held
a crime. Well, thousands quite as blameless were called on to undergo
that, and even worse fates in the days which some name good and old,
the days of chivalry and gallant knights, when even little children were
tormented and burned by holy and learned folk who feared a visible or at
least a tangible devil and his works.

Doubtless their cruelty was that of terror. Doubtless, although he
had other ends to gain which to him were sacred, the Abbot Maldon did
believe that Cicely and Emlyn had practised horrible witchcraft; that
they had conversed with Satan in order to revenge themselves upon him,
and therefore were too foul to live. The “Old Bishop” believed it also,
and so did the black-browed Prior and the most of the ignorant people
who lived around and knew of the terrible things which had happened in
Blossholme. Had not some of them actually seen the fiend with horns
and hoofs and tail driving the Abbey cattle, and had not others met
the ghost of Sir John Foterell, which doubtless was but that fiend in
another shape? Oh, these women were guilty, without doubt they were
guilty and deserved the stake! What did it matter if the husband and
father of one of them had been murdered and the other had suffered
grievous but forgotten wrongs? Compared to witchcraft murder was but a
light and homely crime, one that would happen when men’s passions and
needs were involved, quite a familiar thing.

It was an awful night. Sometimes Cicely slept a little, but the most
of it she spent in prayer. The fierce Emlyn neither slept nor prayed,
except once or twice that vengeance might fall upon the Abbot’s head,
for her whole soul was up in arms and it galled her to think that she
and her beloved mistress must die shamefully while their enemy lived on
triumphant and in honour. Even the infant seemed nervous and disturbed,
as though some instinct warned it of terror at hand, for although it was
well enough, against its custom it woke continually and wailed.

“Emlyn,” said Cicely towards morning, but before the light had come,
after at length she had soothed it to rest, “do you think that Mother
Matilda will be able to help us?”

“No, no; put it from your mind, dearie. She is weak and old, the road
is rough and long, and mayhap she has never reached the place. It was a
great venture for her to try such a journey, and if she came there, why,
perhaps the Commissioner man had gone, or perhaps he will not listen,
or perhaps he cannot come. What would he care about the burning of two
witches a hundred miles away, this leech who is sucking himself full
upon the carcass of some fat monastery? No, no, never count on her.”

“At least she is brave and true, Emlyn, and has done her best, for which
may Heaven’s blessing rest upon her always. Now, what of Thomas Bolle?”

“Nothing, except that he is a red-headed jackass that can bray but
daren’t kick,” answered Emlyn viciously. “Never speak to me of Thomas
Bolle. Had he been a man long ago he’d have broken the neck of that
rogue Abbot instead of dressing himself up like a he-goat and hunting
his cows.”

“If what they say is true he did break the neck of Father Ambrose,”
 replied Cicely, with a faint smile. “Perhaps he made a mistake in the
dark.”

“If so it is like Thomas Bolle, who ever wished the right thing and did
the wrong. Talk no more of him, since I would not meet my end in a bad
spirit. Thomas Bolle, who lets us die for his elfish pranks! A pest on
the half-witted cur, say I. And after I had kissed him too!”

Cicely wondered vaguely to what she referred, then, thinking it well not
to inquire, said--

“Not so, a blessing on him, say I, who saved my child from that hateful
hag.”

Then there was silence for a while, the matter of poor Thomas Bolle and
his conduct being exhausted between them, who indeed were in no mood for
argument about people whom they would never see again. At last Cicely
spoke once more through the darkness--

“Emlyn, I will try to be brave; but once, do you remember, I burnt my
hand as a child when I stole the sweetmeats from the cooling pot, and
ah! it hurt me. I will try to die as those who went before me would
have died, but if I should break down think not the less of me, for the
spirit is willing though the flesh be weak.”

Emlyn ground her teeth in silence, and Cicely went on--

“But that is not the worst of it, Emlyn. A few minutes and it will
be over and I shall sleep, as I think, to awake elsewhere. Only if
Christopher should really live, how he will mourn when he learns----”

“I pray that he does,” broke in Emlyn, “for then ere long there will be
a Spanish priest the less on earth and one the more in hell.”

“And the child, Emlyn, the child!” she went on in a trembling voice, not
heeding the interruption. “What will become of my son, the heir to so
much if he had his rights, and yet so friendless? They’ll murder
him also, Emlyn, or let him die, which is the same thing, since how
otherwise will they get title to his lands and goods?”

“If so, his troubles will be done and he will be better with you in
heaven,” Emlyn answered, with a dry sob. “The boy and you in heaven
midst the blessed saints, and the Abbot and I in hell settling our score
there with the devil for company, that’s all I ask. There, there, I
blaspheme, for injustice makes me mad; it clogs my heart and I throw it
up in bitter words, for your sake, dear, and his, not my own. Child, you
are good and gentle, to such as you the Ear of God is open. Call to him;
ask for light, He will not refuse. Do you remember in the fire at the
Towers, when we crouched in that vault and the walls crumbled overhead,
you said you saw His angel bending over us and heard his speech. Call to
Him, Cicely, and if He will not listen, hear me. I have a means of
death about me. Ask not what it is, but if at the end I turn on you and
strike, blame me not here or hereafter, for it will be love’s blow, my
last service.”

It seemed as though Cicely did not understand those heavy words, at the
least she took no heed of them.

“I’ll pray again,” she whispered, “though I fear that heaven’s doors are
closed to me; no light comes through,” and she knelt down.

For long, long she prayed, till at length weariness overcame her, and
Emlyn heard her breathing softly like one asleep.

“Let her sleep,” she murmured to herself. “Oh! if I were sure--she
should never wake again to see the dawn. I have half a mind to do it,
but there it is, I am not sure. If there is a God He will never suffer
such a thing. I’d have paid the jewels, but what’s the use? They would
have killed her all the same, for else where’s their title? No, my heart
bids me wait.”



Cicely awoke.

“Emlyn,” she said in a low, thrilling voice, “do you hear me, Emlyn?
That angel has been with me again. He spoke to me,” and she paused.

“Well, well, what did he say?”

“I don’t know, Emlyn,” she answered, confused; “it has gone from me.
But, Emlyn, have no fear, all is well with us, and not only with us but
with Christopher and the babe also. Oh, yes, with Christopher and the
babe also,” and she let her fair head fall upon the couch and burst into
a flood of happy tears. Then, rising, she took up the child and kissed
it, laid herself down and slept sweetly.

Just then the dawn broke, a glorious dawn, and Emlyn held out her arms
to it in an ecstasy of gratitude. For with that light her terror passed
away as the darkness passed. She believed that God had spoken to Cicely
and for a while her heart was at peace.



When about eight o’clock that morning the door was opened to allow a
nun to bring them their food, she saw a sight which filled her with
amazement. Her own eyes, poor woman, were red with tears, for, like all
in the Priory, she loved Cicely, whom as a child she had nursed on her
knee, and with the other sisters had spent a sleepless night in prayer
for her, for Emlyn, and for Bridget, who was to be burned with them. She
had expected to find the victims prostrate and perhaps senseless with
fear, but behold! there they sat together in the window-place, dressed
in their best garments and talking quietly. Indeed, as she entered one
of them--it was Cicely--laughed a little at something that the other had
said.

“Good-morning to you, Sister Mary,” said Cicely. “Tell me now, has the
Prioress returned?”

“Nay, nay, we know not where she is; no word has come from her. Well, at
least she will be spared a dreadful sight. Have you any message for her
ear? If so, give it swiftly ere the guard call me.”

“I thank you,” said Cicely; “but I think that I shall be the bearer of
my own messages.”

“What? Do you, then, mean that our Mother is dead? Must we suffer woe
upon woe? Oh! who could have told you these sorrowful tidings?”

“No, sister, I think that she is alive and that I, yet living, shall
talk with her again.”

Sister Mary looked bewildered, for how, she wondered, could close
prisoners know these things? Staring round to see that she was not
observed, she thrust two little packets into Cicely’s hand.

“Wear these at the last, both of you,” she whispered. “Whatever they say
we believe you innocent, and for your sake we have done a great crime.
Yes, we have opened the reliquary and taken from it our most precious
treasure, a fragment of the cord that bound St. Catherine to the wheel,
and divided it into three, one strand for each of you. Perhaps, if you
are really guiltless, it will work a miracle. Perhaps the fire will not
burn or the rain will extinguish it, or the Abbot may relent.”

“That last would be the greatest miracle of all,” broke in Emlyn, with
grim humour. “Still we thank you from our hearts and will wear the
relics if they do not take them from us. Hark! they are calling you.
Farewell, and all blessings be on your gentle heads.”

Again the loud voices of the guards called, and Sister Mary turned and
fled, wondering if these women were not witches, how it came about that
they could be so brave, so different from poor Bridget, who wailed and
moaned in her cell below.

Cicely and Emlyn ate their food with good appetite, knowing that they
would need support that day, and when it was done sat themselves again
by the window-place, through which they could see hundreds of people,
mounted and on foot, passing up the slope that led to the green in front
of the Abbey, though this green they could not see because of a belt of
trees.

“Listen,” said Emlyn presently. “It is hard to say, but it may be that
your vision of the night was but a merciful dream, and, if so, within a
few hours we shall be dead. Now I have the secret of the hiding-place of
those jewels, which, without me, none can ever find; shall I pass it on,
if I get the chance, to one whom I can trust? Some good soul--the nuns,
perhaps--will surely shelter your boy, and he might need them in days to
come.”

Cicely thought a while, then answered--

“Not so, Emlyn. I believe that God has spoken to me by His angel, as He
spoke to Peter in the prison. To do this would be to tempt God, showing
that we have no trust in Him. Let that secret lie where it is, in your
breast.”

“Great is your faith,” said Emlyn, looking at her with admiration.
“Well, I will stand or fall by it, for I think there is enough for two.”

The Convent bell chimed ten, and they heard a sound of feet and voices
below.

“They come for us,” said Emlyn; “the burning is set for eleven, that
after the sight folk may get away in comfort to their dinners. Now
summon that great Faith of yours and hold him fast for both our sakes,
since mine grows faint.”

The door opened and through it came monks followed by guards, the
officer of whom bade them rise and follow. They obeyed without speaking,
Cicely throwing her cloak about her shoulders.

“You’ll be warm enough without that, Witch,” said the man, with a
hideous chuckle.

“Sir,” she answered, “I shall need it to wrap my child in when we are
parted. Give me the babe, Emlyn. There, now we are ready; nay, no need
to lead us, we cannot escape and shall not vex you.”

“God’s truth, the girl has spirit!” muttered the officer to his
companions, but one of the priests shook his head and answered--

“Witchcraft! Satan will leave them presently.”

A few more minutes and, for the first time during all those weary
months, they passed the gate of the Priory. Here the third victim was
waiting to join them, poor, old, half-witted Bridget, clad in a kind of
sheet, for her habit had been stripped off. She was wild-eyed and her
grey locks hung loose about her shoulders, as she shook her ancient head
and screamed prayers for mercy. Cicely shivered at the sight of her,
which indeed was dreadful.

“Peace, good Bridget,” she said as they passed, “being innocent, what
have you to fear?”

“The fire, the fire!” cried the poor creature. “I dread the fire.”

Then they were led to their place in the procession and saw no more of
Bridget for a while, although they could not escape the sound of her
lamentations behind them.

It was a great procession. First went the monks and choristers, singing
a melancholy Latin dirge. Then came the victims in the midst of a guard
of twelve armed men, and after these the nuns who were forced to be
present, while behind and about were all the folk for twenty miles
round, a crowd without number. They crossed the footbridge, where
stood the Ford Inn for which the Flounder had bargained as the price of
murder. They walked up the rise by the right of way, muddy now with the
autumn rains, and through the belt of trees where Thomas Bolle’s secret
passage had its exit, and so came at last to the green in front of the
towering Abbey portal.

Here a dreadful sight awaited them, for on this green were planted three
fourteen-inch posts of new-felled oak six feet or more in height, such
as no fire would easily burn through, and around each of them a kind
of bower of faggots open to the front. Moreover, to the posts hung
new wagon chains, and near by stood the village blacksmith and his
apprentice, who carried a hand anvil and a sledge hammer for the cold
welding of those chains.

At a distance from these stakes the procession was halted. Then out from
the gate of the Abbey came the Abbot in his robes and mitre, preceded by
acolytes and followed by more monks. He advanced to where the condemned
women stood and halted, while a friar stepped forward and read their
sentence to them, of which, being in Latin or in crabbed, legal words,
they understood nothing at all. Then in sonorous tones he adjured them
for the sake of their sinful souls to make full confession of their
guilt, that they might receive pardon before they suffered in the flesh
for their hideous crime of sorcery.

To this invitation Cicely and Emlyn shook their heads, saying that being
innocent of any sorceries they had nothing to confess. But old Bridget
gave another answer. She declared in a high, screaming voice that she
was a witch, as her mother and grandmother had been before her. She
described, while the crowd listened with intense interest, how Emlyn
Stower had introduced her to the devil, who was clad in red hose and
looked like a black boy with a hump on his back and a tuft of red hair
hanging from his nose, also many unedifying details of her interviews
with this same fiend.

Asked what he said to her, she answered that he told her to bewitch the
Abbot of Blossholme because he was such a holy man that God had need
of him and he did too much good upon the earth. Also he prevented Emlyn
Stower and Cicely Foterell from working his, the devil’s, will, and
enabled them to keep alive the baby who would be a great wizard. He told
her moreover that midwife Megges was an angel (here the crowd laughed)
sent to kill the said infant, who really was his own child, as might be
seen by its black eyebrows and cleft tongue, also its webbed feet, and
that he would appear in the shape of the ghost of Sir John Foterell
to save it and give it to her, which he did, saying the Lord’s Prayer
backwards, and that she must bring it up “in the faith of the Pentagon.”

Thus the poor crazed thing raved on, while sentence by sentence a scribe
wrote down her gibberish, causing her at last to make her mark to it,
all of which took a very long time. At the end she begged that she might
be pardoned and not burnt, but this, she was informed, was impossible.
Thereon she became enraged and asked why then had she been led to tell
so many lies if after all she must burn, a question at which the crowd
roared with laughter. On hearing this the priest, who was about to
absolve her, changed his mind and ordered her to be fastened to her
stake, which was done by the blacksmith with the help of his apprentice
and his portable anvil.

Still, her “confession” was solemnly read over to Cicely and Emlyn, who
were asked whether, after hearing it, they still persisted in a denial
of their guilt. By way of answer Cicely lifted the hood from her boy’s
face and showed that his eyebrows were not black, but light-coloured.
Also she bared his feet, passing her little finger between his toes, and
asking them if they were webbed. Some of them answered, “No,” but a monk
roared, “What of that? Cannot Satan web and unweb?” Then he snatched the
infant from Cicely’s arms and laid it down upon the stump of an oak that
had been placed there to receive it, crying out--

“Let this child live or die as God pleases.”

Some brute who stood by aimed a blow at it with a stick, yelling, “Death
to the witch’s brat!” but a big man, whom Emlyn recognized as one of old
Sir John’s tenants, caught the falling stick from his hand and dealt him
such a clout with it that he fell like a stone, and went for the rest
of his life with but one eye and the nose flattened on the side of his
face. Thenceforward no one tried to harm the babe, who, as all know,
because of what befell him on this day, went in after life by the
nickname of Christopher Oak-stump.

The Abbot’s men stepped forward to tie Cicely to her stake, but ere they
laid hands on her she took off her wool-lined cloak and threw it to the
yeoman who had struck down the fellow with his own stick, saying--

“Friend, wrap my boy in this and guard him till I ask him from you
again.”

“Aye, Lady,” answered the great man, bending his knee; “I have served
the grandsire and the sire, and so I’ll serve the son,” and throwing
aside the stick he drew a sword and set himself in front of the oak boll
where the infant lay. Nor did any venture to meddle with him, for they
saw other men of a like sort ranging themselves about him.

Now slowly enough the smith began to rivet the chain round Cicely.

“Man,” she said to him, “I have seen you shoe many of my father’s nags.
Who could have thought that you would live to use your honest skill upon
his daughter!”

On hearing these words the fellow burst into tears, cast down his tools
and fled away, cursing the Abbot. His apprentice would have followed,
but him they caught and forced to complete the task. Then Emlyn was
chained up also, so that at length all was ready for the last terrible
act of the drama.

Now the head executioner--he was the Abbey cook--placed some pine
splinters to light in a brazier that stood near by, and while waiting
for the word of command, remarked audibly to his mate that there was a
good wind and that the witches would burn briskly.

The spectators were ordered back out of earshot, and went at last, some
of them muttering sullenly to each other. For here the company could
not be picked as it had been at the trial, and the Abbot noted anxiously
that among them the victims had many friends. It was time the deed was
done ere their smouldering love and pity flowed out into bloody tumult,
he thought to himself. So, advancing quickly, he stood in front of Emlyn
and asked her in a low voice if she still refused to give up the secret
of the jewels, seeing that there was yet time for him to command that
they should die mercifully and not by the fire.

“Let the mistress judge, not the maid,” answered Emlyn in a steady
voice.

He turned and repeated the question to Cicely, who replied--

“Have I not told you--never. Get you behind me, O evil man, and go,
repent your sins ere it be too late.”

The Abbot stared at her, feeling that such constancy and courage were
almost superhuman. He had an acute, imaginative mind which could fancy
himself in like case and what his state would be. Though he was in such
haste a great curiosity entered into him to know whence she drew her
strength, which even then he tried to satisfy.

“Are you mad or drugged, Cicely Foterell?” he asked. “Do you not know
how fire will feel when it eats up that delicate flesh of yours?”

“I do not know and I shall never know,” she answered quietly.

“Do you mean that you will die before it touches you, building on some
promise of your master, Satan?”

“Yes, I shall die before the fire touches me; but not here and now, and
I build upon a promise from the Master of us all in heaven.”

He laughed, a shrill, nervous laugh, and called out loud to the people
around--

“This witch says that she will not burn, for Heaven has promised it to
her. Do you not, Witch?”

“Yes, I say so; bear witness to my words, good people all,” replied
Cicely in clear and ringing tones.

“Well, we’ll see,” shouted the Abbot. “Man, bring flame, and let
Heaven--or hell--help her if it can!”

The cook-executioner blew at his brands, but he was nervous, or clumsy,
and a minute or more went by before they flamed. At length one was fit
for the task, and unwillingly enough he stooped to lift it up.

Then it was that in the midst of the intense silence, for of all that
multitude none seemed even to breathe, and old Bridget, who had fainted,
cried no more, a bull’s voice was heard beyond the brow of the hill,
roaring--

“_In the King’s name, stay! In the King’s name, stay!_”

All turned to look, and there between the trees appeared a white horse,
its sides streaked with blood, that staggered rather than galloped
towards them, and on the horse a huge, red-bearded man, clad in mail and
holding in his hand a woodman’s axe.

“Fire the faggots!” shouted the Abbot, but the cook, who was not by
nature brave, had already let fall his torch, which went out on the damp
ground.

By now the horse was rushing through them, treading them under foot.
With great, convulsive bounds it reached the ring and, as the rider
leapt from its back, rolled over and lay there panting, for its strength
was done.

“It is Thomas Bolle!” exclaimed a voice, while the Abbot cried again--

“Fire the faggots! Fire the faggots!” and a soldier ran to fetch another
brand.

But Thomas was before him. Snatching up the brazier by its legs he
smote downwards with it so that the burning charcoal fell all about the
soldier and the iron cage remained fixed upon his head, shouting as he
smote--

“You sought fire--take it!”

The man rolled upon the ground screaming in pain and terror till some
one dragged the cage off his head, leaving his face barred like a
grilled herring. None took further heed of what became of him, for now
Thomas Bolle stood in front of the stakes waving his great axe, and
repeating, “In the King’s name, stay! In the King’s name, stay!”

“What mean you, knave?” exclaimed the furious Abbot.

“What I say, Priest. One step nearer and I’ll split your crown.”

The Abbot fell back and Thomas went on--

“A Foterell! A Foterell! A Harflete! A Harflete! O ye who have eaten
their bread, come, scatter these faggots and save their flesh. Who’ll
stand with me against Maldon and his butchers?”

“I,” answered voices, “and I, and I, and I!”

“And I too,” hallooed the yeoman by the oak stump, “only I watch
the child. Nay, by God I’ll bring it with me!” and, snatching up the
screaming babe under his left arm, he ran to him.

On came the others also, hurling the faggots this way and that.

“Break the chains,” roared Bolle again, and somehow those strong hands
did it; indeed, the only hurt that Cicely took that day was from their
hacking at these chains. They were loose. Cicely snatched the child from
the yeoman, who was glad enough to be rid of it, having other work to
do, for now the Abbot’s men-at-arms were coming on.

“Ring the women round,” roared Bolle, “and strike home for Foterell,
strike home for Harflete! Ah, priest’s dog, in the King’s name--this!”
 and the axe sank up to the haft into the breast of the captain who had
told Cicely that she would be warm enough that day without her cloak.

Then there began a great fight. The party of Foterell, of whom there
may have been a score, captained by Bolle, made a circle round the three
green oak stakes, within which stood Cicely and Emlyn and old Bridget,
still tied to her post, for no one had thought or found time to cut her
loose. These were attacked by the Abbot’s guard, thirty or more of
them, urged on by Maldon himself, who was maddened by the rescue of his
victims and full of fear lest Cicely’s words should be fulfilled and
she herself set down henceforth, not as a witch, but as a prophetess
favoured by God.

On came the soldiers and were beaten back. Thrice they came on and
thrice they were beaten back with loss, for Bolle’s axe was terrible to
face and, now that they had found a leader and their courage, the yeoman
lads who stood with him were sturdy fighters. Also tumult broke out
among the hundreds who watched, some of them taking one side and some
the other, so that they fell upon each other with sticks and stones
and fists, even the women joining in the fray, biting and tearing like
bagged cats. The scene was hideous and the sounds those of a sacked
city, for many were hurt and all gave tongue, while shrill and clear
above this hateful music rose the yells of Bridget, who had awakened
from her faint and imagined all was over and that she fathomed hell.

Thrice the attackers were rolled back, but of those who defended a third
were down, and now the Abbot took another counsel.

“Bring bows,” he cried, “and shoot them, for they have none!” and men
ran off to do his bidding.

Then it was that Emlyn’s wit came to their aid, for when Bolle shook his
red head and gasped out that he feared they were lost, since how could
they fight against arrows, she answered--

“If so, why stand here to be spitted, fool? Come, let us cut our way
through ere the shafts begin to fly, and take refuge among the trees or
in the Nunnery.”

“Women’s counsel is good sometimes,” said Bolle. “Form up, Foterells,
and march.”

“Nay,” broke in Cicely, “loose Bridget first, lest they should burn her
after all; I’ll not stir else.”

So Bridget was hacked free, and together with the wounded men, of whom
there were several, dragged and supported thence. Then began a running
fight, but one in which they still held their own. Yet they would have
been overwhelmed at last, for the women and the wounded hampered them,
had not help come. For as they hewed their path towards the belt of
trees with the Abbot’s fierce fellows, some of whom were French or
Spanish, hanging on their flanks, suddenly, in the gap where the roadway
ran, appeared a horse galloping and on it a woman, who clung to its mane
with both hands, and after her many armed men.

“Look, Emlyn, look!” exclaimed Cicely. “Who is that?” for she could not
believe her eyes.

“Who but Mother Matilda,” answered Emlyn; “and by the saints, she is a
strange sight!”

A strange sight she was indeed, for her hood was gone, her hair, that
was ever so neat, flew loose, her robe was ruckled up about her knees,
the rosary and crucifix she wore streamed on the air behind her and beat
against her back, and her garb had burst open at the front; in short,
never was holy, aged Prioress seen in such a state before. Down she
came on them like a whirlwind, for her frightened horse scented its
Blossholme stable, clinging grimly to her unaccustomed seat, and crying
as she sped--

“For God’s love, stop this mad beast!”

Bolle caught it by the bridle and threw it to its haunches so that,
its rider speeding on, flew over its head on to the broad breast of the
yeoman who had watched the child, and there rested thankfully. For, as
Mother Matilda said afterwards with her gentle smile, never before did
she know what comfort there was to be found in man.

When at length she loosed her arms from about his neck the yeoman stood
her on her feet, saying that this was worse than the baby, and her
wandering eyes fell upon Cicely.

“So I am in time! Oh! never more will I revile that horse,” she
exclaimed, and sinking to her knees then and there she gasped out some
prayer of thankfulness. Meanwhile, those who followed her had reined
up in front, and the Abbot’s soldiers with the accompanying crowd had
halted behind, not knowing what to make of these strangers, so that
Bolle and his party with the women were now between the two.

From among the new-comers rode out a fat, coarse man, with a pompous
air as of one who is accustomed to be obeyed, who inquired in a laboured
voice, for he was breathless from hard riding, what all this turmoil
meant.

“Ask the Abbot of Blossholme,” said some one, “for it is his work.”

“Abbot of Blossholme? That’s the man I want,” puffed the fat stranger.
“Appear, Abbot of Blossholme, and give account of these doings. And you
fellows,” he added to his escort, “range up and be ready, lest this said
priest should prove contumacious.”

Now the Abbot stepped forward with some of his monks and, looking the
horseman up and down, said--

“Who may it be that demands account so roughly of a consecrated Abbot?”

“A consecrated Abbot? A consecrated peacock, a tumultuous, turbulent,
traitorous priest, a Spanish rogue ruffler who, I am told, keeps about
him a band of bloody mercenaries to break the King’s peace and slay
loyal English folk. Well, consecrated Abbot, I’ll tell you who I am. I
am Thomas Legh, his Grace’s Visitor and Royal Commissioner to inspect
the Houses called religious, and I am come hither upon complaint made by
yonder Prioress of Blossholme Nunnery, as to your dealings with
certain of his Highness’s subjects whom, she says, you have accused of
witchcraft for purposes of revenge and unlawful gain. That is who I am,
my fine fowl of an Abbot.”

Now when he heard this pompous speech the rage in Maldon’s face was
replaced by fear, for he knew of this Doctor Legh and his mission, and
understood what Thomas Bolle had meant by his cry of, “In the King’s
name!”




CHAPTER XIII
THE MESSENGER


“Who makes all this tumult?” shouted the Commissioner. “Why do I see
blood and wounds and dead men? And how were you about to handle these
women, one of whom by her mien is of no low degree?” and he stared at
Cicely.

“The tumult,” answered the Abbot, “was caused by yonder fool, Thomas
Bolle, a lay-brother of my monastery, who rushed among us armed and
shouting ‘In the King’s name, stay.’”

“Then why did you not stay, Sir Abbot? Is the King’s name one to be
mocked at? Know that I sent on the man.”

“He had no warrant, Sir Commissioner, unless his bull’s voice and great
axe are a warrant, and I did not stay because we were doing justice upon
the three foulest witches in the realm.”

“Doing justice? Whose justice and what justice? Say, had you a warrant
for your justice? If so, show it me.”

“These witches have been condemned by a Court Ecclesiastic, the judges
being a bishop, a prior and myself, and in pursuance of that judgment
were about to suffer for their sins by fire,” replied Maldon.

“A Court Ecclesiastic!” roared Dr. Legh. “Can Courts Ecclesiastic, then,
toast free English folk to death? If you would not stand your trial for
attempted murder, show me your warrant signed by his Grace the King,
or by his Justices of Assize. What! You do not answer. Have you none? I
thought as much. Oho, Clement Maldon, you hang-faced Spanish dog, learn
that eyes have been on you for long, and now it seems that you would
usurp the King’s prerogative besides----” and he checked himself, then
went on, “Seize that priest, and keep him fast while I make inquiry of
this business.”

Now some of the Commissioner’s guard surrounded Maldon, nor did his own
men venture to interfere with them, for they had enough of fighting and
were frightened by this talk about the King’s warrant.

Then the Commissioner turned to Cicely, and said--

“You are Sir John Foterell’s only child, are you not, who allege
yourself to be wife to Sir Christopher Harflete, or so says yonder
Prioress? Now, what was about to happen to you, and why?”

“Sir,” answered Cicely, “I and my waiting-woman and the old sister,
Bridget, were condemned to die by fire at those stakes upon a charge
of sorcery. Although it is true,” she added, “that I knew we should not
perish thus.”

“How did you know that, Lady? By all tokens your bodies and hot flame
were near enough together,” and he glanced towards the stakes and the
scattered faggots.

“Sir, I knew it because of a vision that God sent to me in my sleep last
night.”

“Aye, she swore that at the stake,” exclaimed a voice, “and we thought
her mad.”

“Now can you deny that she is a witch?” broke in Maldon. “If she were
not one of Satan’s own, how could she see visions and prophesy her own
deliverance?”

“If visions and prophecies are proof of witchcraft, then, Priest, all
Holy Writ is but a seething pot of sorcery,” answered Legh. “Then the
Blessed Virgin and St. Elizabeth were witches, and Paul and John should
have been burnt as wizards. Continue, Lady, leaving out your dreams
until a more convenient time.”

“Sir,” went on Cicely, “we have worked no sorcery, and my crime is that
I will not name my child a bastard and sign away my lands and goods to
yonder Abbot, the murderer of my father and perhaps of my husband. Oh!
listen, listen, you and all folk here, and briefly as I may I will tell
my tale. Have I your leave to speak?”

The Commissioner nodded, and she set out her story from the beginning,
so sweetly, so simply and with such truth and earnestness, that the
concourse of people packed close about her, hung upon her every word,
and even Dr. Legh’s coarse face softened as he heard. For the half of an
hour or more she spoke, telling of her father’s death, of her flight and
marriage, of the burning of Cranwell Towers, and her widowing, if such
it were; of her imprisonment in the Priory and the Abbot’s dealings with
her and Emlyn; of the birth of her child and its attempted murder by
the midwife, his creature; of their trial and condemnation, they being
innocent, and of all they had endured that day.

“If you are innocent,” shouted a priest as she paused for breath, “what
was that Thing dressed in the livery of Satan which worked evil at
Blossholme? Did we not see it with our eyes?”

Just then some one uttered an exclamation and pointed to the shadow of
the trees where a strange form was moving. Another moment and it came
out into the light. One more and all that multitude scattered like
frightened sheep, rushing this way and that; yes, even the horses took
the bits between their teeth and bolted. For there, visible to all,
Satan himself strolled towards them. On his head were horns, behind his
back hung down a tail, his body was shaggy like a beast’s, and his face
hideous and of many colours, while in his hand he held a pronged fork
with a long handle. This way and that rushed the throng, only the
Commissioner, who had dismounted, stood still, perhaps because he
was too afraid to stir, and with him the women and some of the nuns,
including the Prioress, who fell upon their knees and began to utter
prayers.

On came the dreadful thing till it reached the King’s Visitor, bowing
to him and bellowing like a bull, then very deliberately untied some
strings and let its horrid garb fall off, revealing the person of Thomas
Bolle!

“What means this mummery, knave?” gasped Dr. Legh.

“Mummery do you call it, sir?” answered Thomas with a grin. “Well, if
so, ‘tis on the faith of such mummery that priests burn women in merry
England. Come, good people, come,” he roared in his great voice, “come,
see Satan in the flesh. Here are his horns,” and he held them up, “once
they grew upon the head of Widow Johnson’s billy-goat. Here’s his tail,
many a fly has it flicked off the belly of an Abbey cow. Here’s his ugly
mug, begotten of parchment and the paint-box. Here’s his dreadful fork
that drives the damned to some hotter corner; it has been death to whole
stones of eels down in the marsh-fleet yonder. I have some hell-fire too
among the bag of tricks; you’ll make the best of brimstone and a little
oil dried out upon the hearth. Come, see the devil all complete and
naught to pay.”

Back trooped the crowd a little fearfully, taking the properties which
he held, and handling them, till first one and then all of them began to
laugh.

“Laugh not,” shouted Bolle. “Is it a matter of laughter that noble
ladies and others whose lives are as dear to some,” and he glanced at
Emlyn, “should grill like herrings because a poor fool walks about clad
in skins to keep out the cold and frighten villains? Hark you, I played
this trick. I am Beelzebub, also the ghost of Sir John Foterell. I
entered the Priory chapel by a passage that I know, and saved yonder
babe from murder and scared the murderess down to hell; yes, from the
sham devil to the true. Why did I do it? Well, to protect the innocent
and scourge the wicked in his pride. But the wicked seized the innocent
and the innocent said nothing, fearing lest I should suffer with them,
and----O God, you know the rest!

“It was a near thing, a very near thing, but I’m not the half-wit I’ve
feigned to be for years. Moreover, I had a good horse and a heavy axe,
and there are still true hearts round Blossholme; the dead men that lie
yonder show it. Heaven has still its angels on the earth, though they
wear strange shapes. There stands one of them, and there another,”
 and he pointed first to the fat and pompous Visitor, and next to the
dishevelled Prioress, adding: “And now, Sir Commissioner, for all that
I have done in the cause of justice I ask pardon of you who wear the
King’s grace and majesty as I wore old Nick’s horns and hoofs, since
otherwise the Abbot and his hired butchers, who hold themselves masters
of King and people, will murder me for this as they have done by better
men. Therefore pardon, your Mightiness, pardon,” and he kneeled down
before him.

“You have it, Bolle; in the King’s name you have it,” replied Legh, who
was more flattered by the titles and attributes poured upon him by the
cunning Thomas than a closer consideration might have warranted. “For
all that you have done, or left undone, I, the Commissioner of his
Grace, declare that you shall go scot free and that no action criminal
or civil shall lie against you, and this my secretary shall give to you
in writing. Now, good fellow, rise, but steal Satan’s plumes no more
lest you should feel his claws and beak, for he is an ill fowl to mock.
Bring hither that Spaniard Maldon. I have somewhat to say to him.”

Now they looked this way and that, but no Abbot could they see. The
guards swore that they had never taken eye off him, even when they all
ran before the devil, yet certainly he was gone.

“The knave has given us the slip,” bellowed the Commissioner, who was
purple with rage. “Search for him! Seize him, for which my command shall
be your warrant. Draw the wood. I’ll to the Abbey, where perchance the
fox has gone to earth. Five golden crowns to the man who nets the slimy
traitor.”

Now every one, burning with zeal to show their loyalty and to win the
crowns, scattered on the search, so that presently the three “witches,”
 Thomas Bolle, Mother Matilda, and the nuns, were left standing almost
alone and staring at each other and the dead and wounded men who lay
about.

“Let us to the Priory,” said Mother Matilda, “for by the sun I judge
that it is time for evening prayer, and there seem to be none to hinder
us.”

Thomas went to her horse, which grazed close at hand, and led it up.

“Nay, good friend,” she exclaimed, with energy, “while I live no more of
that evil beast for me. Henceforth I’ll walk till I am carried. Keep it,
Thomas, as a gift; it is bought and paid for. Sister, your arm.”

“Have I done well, Emlyn?” Bolle asked, as he tightened the girths.

“I don’t know,” she answered, looking at him sideways. “You played the
cur at first, leaving us to burn for your sins, but afterwards, well,
you found the wits you say you never lost. Also your manners mended, and
yonder captain knave learned that you can handle an axe, so we’ll say
no more about it, lad, for doubtless that Abbot and his spies were sore
task-masters and broke your spirit with their penances and talk of hell
to come. Here, lift my lady on to this horse, for she is spent, and
let me lean upon your shoulder, Thomas. It’s weary work standing at a
stake.”



Cicely’s recollections of the remainder of that day were always shadowy
and tangled. She remembered a prayer of thanksgiving in which she took
small part with her lips, she whose heart was one great thanksgiving.
She remembered the good sister who had given them the relics of St.
Catherine assuring her, as she received them back with care, that
these and these alone had worked the miracle and saved their lives. She
remembered eating food and straining her boy to her breast, and then she
remembered no more till she woke to see the morning sun streaming into
that same room whence on the previous day they had been led out to
suffer the most horrible of deaths.

Yes, she woke, and see, near by was Emlyn making ready her garments, as
she had done these many years, and at her side lay the boy crowing in
the sunlight and waving his little arms, the blessed boy who knew not
the terrors he had passed. At first she thought that she had dreamed a
very evil dream, till by degrees all the truth came back to her, and
she shivered at its memory, yes, even as the weight of it rolled off her
heart she shivered and whitened like an aspen in the wind. Then she rose
and thanked God for His mercies, which were great.

Oh, if the strength of that horse of Thomas Bolle’s had failed one short
five minutes sooner, she, in whom the red blood still ran so healthily,
would have been but a handful of charred bones. Or if her faith had left
her so that she had yielded to the Abbot and shortened all his talk at
the place of burning, then Bolle would have come too late. But it proved
sufficient to her need, and for this also truly she should be thankful
to its Giver.

After they had eaten, a message came to them from the Prioress, who
desired to see them in her chamber. Thither they went, rejoiced to find
that they were no longer prisoners but had liberty to come and go, and
found her seated in a tall chair, for she was too stiff to walk. Cicely
ran to her, knelt down and kissed her, and she laid her left hand upon
her head in blessing, for the right was cut with the chafing of the
reins.

“Surely, Cicely,” she said, smiling, “it is I who should kneel to you,
were I in any state to do so. For now I have heard all the tale, and it
seems that we have a prophetess among us, one favoured with visions from
on high, which visions have been most marvellously fulfilled.”

“That is so, Mother,” she answered briefly, for this was a matter of
which she would never talk at length, either then or thereafter, “but
the fulfilment came through you.”

“My daughter, I was but the minister, you were the chosen seer, still
let the holy business lie a while. Perhaps you will tell me of it
afterwards, and meantime the world and its affairs press us hard. Your
deliverance has been bought at no small cost, my daughter, for know that
yonder coarse and ungodly man, the King’s Visitor, told me as we rode
that this Nunnery must be dissolved, its house and revenues seized, and
I and my sisters turned out to starve in our old age. Indeed, to bring
him here at all I was forced to petition that it might be so in a
writing that I signed. See, then, how great is my love for you, dear
Cicely.”

“Mother,” she answered, “it cannot be, it shall not be.”

“Alas! child, how will you prevent it? These Visitors, and those who
commission them, are hungry folk. I hear they take the lands and goods
of poor religious such as we are, and if these are fortunate, give one
or two of them a little pittance to get bread. Once I had moneys of my
own, but I spent them to buy back the Valley Farm which the Abbot had
seized, and of late to satisfy his extortions,” and she wept a little.

“Mother, listen. I have wealth hidden away, I know not where exactly,
but Emlyn knows. It is my very own, the Carfax jewels that came to me
from my mother. It was because of these that we were brought to the
stake, since the Abbot offered us life in return for them, and when it
was too late to save us, a more merciful death than that by fire. But I
forbade Emlyn to yield the secret; something in my heart told me to do
so, now I know why. Mother, the price of those gems shall buy back your
lands, and mayhap buy also permission from his Grace the King for the
continuance of your house, where you and yours shall worship as those
who went before you have done for many generations. I swear it in my own
name and in that of my child and of my husband also--if he lives.”

“Your husband if he lives might need this wealth, sweet Cicely.”

“Then, Mother, except to save his life, or liberty or honour, I tell you
I will refuse it to him, who, when he learns what you have done for me
and our son, would give it you and all else he has besides--nay, would
pay it as an honourable debt.”

“Well, Cicely, in God’s name and my own I thank you, and we’ll see,
we’ll see! Only be advised, lest Dr. Legh should learn of this treasure.
But where is it, Emlyn? Fear not to tell me who can be secret, for it
is well that more than one should know, and I think that your danger is
past.”

“Yes, speak, Emlyn,” said Cicely, “for though I never asked before,
fearing my own weakness, I am curious. None can hear us here.”

“Then, Mistress, I will tell you. You remember that on the day of the
burning of Cranwell we sought refuge on the central tower, whence I
carried you senseless to the vault. Now in that vault we lay all night,
and while you swooned I searched with my fingers till I found a stone
that time and damp had loosened, behind which was a hollow. In that
hollow I hid the jewels that I carried wrapt in silk in the bosom of my
robe. Then I filled up the hole with dust scraped from the floor, and
replaced the stone, wedging it tight with bits of mortar. It is the
third stone counting from the eastern angle in the second course above
the floor line. There I set them, and there doubtless they lie to this
day, for unless the tower is pulled down to its foundations none will
ever find them in that masonry.”

At this moment there came a knocking on the door. When it was opened by
Emlyn a nun entered, saying that the King’s Visitor demanded to speak
with the Prioress.

“Show him here since I cannot come to him,” said Mother Matilda, “and
you, Cicely and Emlyn, bide with me, for in such company it is well to
have witnesses.”

A minute later Dr. Legh appeared accompanied by his secretaries,
gorgeously attired and puffing from the stairs.

“To business, to business,” he said, scarcely stopping to acknowledge
the greetings of the Prioress. “Your convent is sequestrated upon
your own petition, Madam, therefore I need not stop to make the usual
inquiries, and indeed I will admit that from all I hear it has a good
repute, for none allege scandal against you, perhaps because you are all
too old for such follies. Produce now your deeds, your terrier of lands
and your rent-rolls, that I may take them over in due form and dissolve
the sisterhood.”

“I will send for them, Sir,” answered the Prioress humbly; “but,
meanwhile, tell us what we poor religious are to do? I am turned sixty
years of age, and have dwelt in this house for forty of them; none of my
sisters are young, and some of them are older than myself. Whither shall
we go?”

“Into the world, Madam, which you will find a fine, large place. Cease
snuffling prayers and from all vulgar superstitions--by the way, forget
not to hand over any reliquaries of value, or any papistical emblems
in precious metals that you may possess, including images, of which my
secretaries will take account--and go out into the world. Marry there
if you can find husbands, follow useful trades there. Do what you will
there, and thank the King who frees you from the incumbrance of silly
vows and from the circle of a convent’s walls.”

“To give us liberty to starve outside of them. Sir, do you understand
your work? For hundreds of years we have sat at Blossholme, and during
all those generations have prayed to God for the souls of men and
ministered to their bodies. We have done no harm to any creature, and
what wealth came to us from the earth or from the benefactions of
the pious we have dispensed with a liberal hand, taking nothing for
ourselves. The poor by multitudes have fed at our gates, their sick we
have nursed, their children we have taught; often we have gone hungry
that they might be full. Now you drive us forth in our age to perish.
If that is the will of God, so be it, but what must chance to England’s
poor?”

“That is England’s business, Madam, and the poor’s. Meanwhile I have
told you that I have no time to waste, since I must away to London to
make report concerning this Abbot of yours, a veritable rogue, of
whose villainous plots I have discovered many things. I pray you send a
messenger to bid them hurry with the deeds.”

Just then a nun entered bearing a tray, on which were cakes and wine.
Emlyn took it from her, and pouring the wine into cups offered them to
the Visitor and his secretaries.

“Good wine,” he said, after he had drunk, “a very generous wine. You
nuns know the best in liquor; be careful, I pray you, to include it in
your inventory. Why, woman, are you not one of those whom that Abbot
would have burnt? Yes, and there is your mistress, Dame Foterell, or
Dame Harflete, with whom I desire a word.”

“I am at your service, Sir,” said Cicely.

“Well, Madam, you and your servant have escaped the stake to which, as
near as I can judge, you were sentenced upon no evidence at all. Still,
you were condemned by a competent ecclesiastical Court, and under that
condemnation you must therefore remain until or unless the King pardons
you. My judgment is, then, that you stay here awaiting his command.”

“But, Sir,” said Cicely, “if the good nuns who have befriended me are to
be driven forth, how can I dwell on in their house alone? Yet you say
I must not leave it, and indeed if I could, whither should I go? My
husband’s hall is burnt, my own the Abbot holds. Moreover, if I bide
here, in this way or in that he will have my life.”

“The knave has fled away,” said Dr. Legh, rubbing his fat chin.

“Aye, but he will come back again, or his people will, and, Sir, you
know these Spaniards are good haters, and I have defied him long. Oh,
Sir, I crave the protection of the King for my child’s sake and my own,
and for Emlyn Stower also.”

The Commissioner went on rubbing his chin.

“You can give much evidence against this Maldon, can you not?” he asked
at length.

“Aye,” broke in Emlyn, “enough to hang him ten times over, and so can
I.”

“And you have large estates which he has seized, have you not?”

“I have, Sir, who am of no mean birth and station.”

“Lady,” he said, with more deference in his voice, “step aside with me,
I would speak with you privately,” and he walked to the window, where
she followed him. “Now tell me, what was the value of these properties
of yours?”

“I know not rightly, Sir, but I have heard my father say about £300 a
year.”

His manner became more deferential still, since for those days such
wealth was great.

“Indeed, my Lady. A large sum, a very comfortable fortune if you can get
it back. Now I will be frank with you. The King’s Commissioners are not
well paid and their costs are great. If I so arrange your matters
that you come to your own again and that the judgment of witchcraft
pronounced against you and your servant is annulled, will you promise to
pay me one year’s rent of these estates to meet the various expenses I
must incur on your behalf?”

Now it was Cicely’s turn to think.

“Surely,” she answered at length, “if you will add a condition--that
these good sisters shall be left undisturbed in their Nunnery.”

He shook his fat head.

“It is not possible now. The thing is too public. Why, the Lord Cromwell
would say I had been bribed, and I might lose my office.”

“Well, then,” went on Cicely, “if you will promise that one year of
grace shall be given to them to make arrangements for their future.”

“That I can do,” he answered, nodding, “on the ground that they are of
blameless life, and have protected you from the King’s enemy. But this
is an uncertain world; I must ask you to sign an indenture, and its form
will be that you acknowledge to have received from me a loan of £300 to
be repaid with interest when you recover your estates.”

“Draw it up and I will sign, Sir.”

“Good, Madam; and now that we may get this business through, you will
accompany me to London, where you will be safe from harm. We’ll not ride
to-day, but to-morrow morning at the light.”

“Then my servant Emlyn must come also, Sir, to help me with the babe,
and Thomas Bolle too, for he can prove that the witchcraft upon which we
were condemned was but his trickery.”

“Yes, yes; but the costs of travel for so many will be great. Have you,
perchance, any money?”

“Yes, Sir, about £50 in gold that is sewn up in one of Emlyn’s robes.”

“Ah! A sufficient sum. Too much indeed to be risked upon your persons in
these rough times. You will let me take charge of half of it for you?”

“With pleasure, Sir, trusting you as I do. Keep to your bargain and I
will keep to mine.”

“Good. When Thomas Legh is fairly dealt with, Thomas Legh deals fairly,
no man can say otherwise. This afternoon I will bring the deed, and
you’ll give me that £25 in charge.”

Then, followed by Cicely, he returned to where the Prioress sat, and
said--

“Mother Matilda, for so I understand you are called in religion, the
Lady Harflete has been pleading with me for you, and because you have
dealt so well by her I have promised in the King’s name that you and
your nuns shall live on here undisturbed for one year from this day,
after which you must yield up peaceable possession to his Majesty, whom
I will beg that you shall be pensioned.”

“I thank you, Sir,” the Prioress answered. “When one is old a year of
grace is much, and in a year many things may happen--for instance, my
death.”

“Thank me not--a plain man who but follows after justice and duty. The
documents for your signature shall be ready this afternoon, and by the
way, the Lady Harflete and her servant, also that stout, shrewd fellow,
Thomas Bolle, ride with me to London to-morrow. She will explain all. At
three of the clock I wait upon you.”

The Visitor and his secretaries bustled out of the room as pompously
as they had entered, and when they had gone Cicely explained to Mother
Matilda and Emlyn what had passed.

“I think that you have done wisely,” said the Prioress, when she had
listened. “That man is a shark, but better give him your little finger
than your whole body. Certainly, you have bargained well for us, for
what may not happen in a year? Also, dear Cicely, you will be safer in
London than at Blossholme, since with the great sum of £300 to gain
that Commissioner will watch you like the apple of his eye and push your
cause.”

“Unless some one promises him the greater sum of £1000 to scotch it,”
 interrupted Emlyn. “Well, there was but one road to take, and paper
promises are little, though I grudge the good £25 in gold. Meanwhile,
Mother, we have much to make ready. I pray you send some one to find
Thomas Bolle, who will not be far away, for since we are no longer
prisoners I wish to go out walking with him on an errand of my own that
perchance you can guess. Wealth may be useful in London town for all our
sakes. Also horses and a packbeast must be got, and other things.”



In due course Thomas Bolle was found fast asleep in a neighbour’s house,
for after his adventures and triumph he had drunk hard and rested
long. When she discovered the truth Emlyn rated him well, calling him
a beer-tub and not a man, and many other hard names, till at last she
provoked him to answer, that had it not been for the said beer-tub she
would be but ash-dust this day. Thereon she turned the talk and told
them their needs, and that he must ride with them to London. To this
he replied that good horses should be saddled by the dawn, for he knew
where to lay hands on them, since some were left in the Abbot’s stables
that wanted exercise; further, that he would be glad to leave Blossholme
for a while, where he had made enemies on the yesterday, whose friends
yet lay wounded or unburied. After this Emlyn whispered something in his
ear, to which he nodded assent, saying that he would bustle round and be
ready.

That afternoon Emlyn went out riding with Thomas Bolle, who was fully
armed, as she said, to try two of the horses that should carry them on
the morrow, and it was late when she returned out of the dark night.

“Have you got them?” asked Cicely, when they were together in their
room.

“Aye,” she answered, “every one; but some stones have fallen, and it
was hard to win an entrance to that vault. Indeed, had it not been for
Thomas Bolle, who has the strength of a bull, I could never have done
it. Moreover, the Abbot has been there before us and dug over every inch
of the floor. But the fool never thought of the wall, so all’s well.
I’ll sew half of them into my petticoat and half into yours, to share
the risk. In case of thieves, the money that hungry Visitor has left to
us, for I paid him over half when you signed the deeds, we will carry
openly in pouches upon our girdles. They’ll not search further. Oh, I
forgot, I’ve something more besides the jewels, here it is,” and she
produced a packet from her bosom and laid it on the table.

“What’s this?” asked Cicely, looking suspiciously at the worn sail-cloth
in which it was wrapped.

“How can I tell? Cut it and see. All I know is that when I stood at the
Nunnery door as Thomas led away the horses, a man crept on me out of the
rain swathed in a great cloak and asked if I were not Emlyn Stower. I
said Yea, whereon he thrust this into my hand, bidding me not fail to
give it to the Lady Harflete, and was gone.”

“It has an over-seas look about it,” murmured Cicely, as with eager,
trembling fingers she cut the stitches. At length they were undone and a
sealed inner wrapping also, revealing, amongst other documents, a little
packet of parchments covered with crabbed, unreadable writing, on the
back of which, however, they could decipher the names of Shefton and
Blossholme by reason of the larger letters in which they were engrossed.
Also there was a writing in the scrawling hand of Sir John Foterell, and
at the foot of it his name and, amongst others, those of Father Necton
and of Jeffrey Stokes. Cicely stared at the deeds, then said--

“Emlyn, I know these parchments. They are those that my father took with
him when he rode for London to disprove the Abbot’s claim, and with them
the evidence of the traitorous words he spoke last year at Shefton. Yes,
this inner wrapping is my own; I took it from the store of worn linen in
the passage-cupboard. But how come they here?”

Emlyn made no answer, only lifted the wrappings and shook them, whereon
a strip of paper that they had not seen fell to the table.

“This may tell us,” she said. “Read, if you can; it has words on its
inner side.”

Cicely snatched at it, and as the writing was clear and clerkly, read
with ease save for the chokings of her throat. It ran--


“My Lady Harflete,

“These are the papers that Jeffrey Stokes saved when your father fell.
They were given for safekeeping to the writer of these words, far away
across the sea, and he hands them on unopened. Your husband lives and is
well again, also Jeffrey Stokes, and though they have been hindered on
their journey, doubtless he will find his way back to England, whither,
believing you to be dead, as I did, he has not hurried. There are
reasons why I, his friend and yours, cannot see you or write more, since
my duty calls me hence. When it is finished I will seek you out if I
still live. If not, wait in peace until your joy finds you, as I think
it will.

“One who loves your lord well, and for his sake you also.”


Cicely laid down the paper and burst into a flood of weeping.

“Oh, cruel, cruel!” she sobbed, “to tell so much and yet so little. Nay,
what an ungrateful wretch am I, since Christopher truly lives, and I
also live to learn it, I, whom he deems dead.”

“By my soul,” said Emlyn, when she had calmed her, “that cloaked man is
a prince of messengers. Oh, had I but known what he bore I’d have had
all the story, if I must cling to him like Potiphar’s wife to Joseph.
Well, well, Joseph got away and half a herring is better than no fish,
also this is good herring. Moreover, you have got the deeds when you
most wanted them and what is better, a written testimony that will bring
the traitor Maldon to the scaffold.”




CHAPTER XIV
JACOB AND THE JEWELS


Cicely’s journey to London was strange enough to her, who never before
had travelled farther than fifty miles from her home, and but once as a
child spent a month in a town when visiting an aunt at Lincoln. She went
in ease, it is true, for Commissioner Legh did not love hard travelling,
and for this reason they started late and halted early, either at some
good inn, if in those days any such places could be called good, or
perhaps in a monastery where he claimed of the best that the frightened
monks had to offer. Indeed, as she observed, his treatment of these poor
folk was cruel, for he blustered and threatened and inquired, accusing
them of crimes that they had not committed, and finally, although he had
no mission to them at the time, extracted great gifts, saying that if
these were not forthcoming he would make a note and return later. Also
he got hold of tale-bearers, and wrote down all their scandalous and
lying stories told against those whose bread they ate.

Thus, long before they saw Charing Cross, Cicely came to hate this
proud, avaricious and overbearing man, who hid a savage nature under a
cloak of virtue, and whilst serving his own ends, mouthed great words
about God and the King. Still, she who was schooled in adversity,
learned to hide her heart, fearing to make an enemy of one who could
ruin her, and forced Emlyn, much against her will, to do the same.
Moreover, there were worse things than that since, being beautiful, some
of his companions talked to her in a way she could not misunderstand,
till at length Thomas Bolle, coming on one of them, thrashed him as he
had never been thrashed before, after which there was trouble that was
only appeased by a gift.

Yet on the whole things went well. No one molested the King’s Visitor
or those with him, the autumn weather held fine, the baby boy kept his
health, and the country through which they passed was new to her and
full of interest.

At last one evening they rode from Barnet into the great city, which she
thought a most marvellous place, who had never seen such a multitude of
houses or of men running to and fro about their business up and down the
narrow streets that at night were lit with lamps. Now there had been a
great discussion where they were to lodge, Dr. Legh saying that he knew
of a house suitable to them. But Emlyn would not hear of this place,
where she was sure they would be robbed, for the wealth that they
carried secretly in jewels bore heavily on her mind. Remembering a
cousin of her mother’s of the name of Smith, a goldsmith, who till
within a year or two before was alive and dwelling in Cheapside, she
said that they would seek him out.

Thither then they rode, guided by one of the Visitor’s clerks, not he
whom Bolle had beaten, but another, and at last, after some search,
found a dingy house in a court and over it a sign on which were painted
three balls and the name of Jacob Smith. Emlyn dismounted and, the door
being open, entered, to be greeted by an old, white-bearded man with
horn spectacles thrust up over his forehead and dark eyes like her own,
since the same gypsy blood ran strong in both of them.

What passed between them Cicely did not hear, but presently the old man
came out with Emlyn, and looked her and Bolle up and down sharply for a
long while as though to take their measures. At length he said that he
understood from his cousin, whom he now saw for the first time for
over thirty years, that the two of them and their man desired lodgings,
which, as he had empty rooms, he would be pleased to give them if they
would pay the price.

Cicely asked how much this might be, and on his naming a sum, ten silver
shillings a week for the three of them and their horses, that would
be stabled close by, told Emlyn to pay him a pound on account. This he
took, biting the gold to see that it was good, but bidding them in to
inspect the rooms before he pouched it. They did so, and finding them
clean and commodious if somewhat dark, closed the bargain with him,
after which they dismissed the clerk to take their address to Dr. Legh,
who had promised to advise them so soon as he could put their business
forward.

When he was gone and Thomas Bolle, conducted by Smith’s apprentice,
had led off the three horses and the packbeast, the old man changed his
manner, and conducting them into a parlour at the back of his shop, sent
his housekeeper, a middle-aged woman with a pleasant face, to make ready
food for them while he produced cordials from squat Dutch bottles which
he made them drink. Indeed he was all kindness to them, being, as he
explained, rejoiced to see one of his own blood, for he had no relations
living, his wife and their two children having died in one of the London
sicknesses. Also he was Blossholme born, though he had left that place
fifty years before, and had known Cicely’s grandfather and played with
her father when he was a boy. So he plied them with question after
question, some of which they thought it wise not to answer, for he was a
merry and talkative old man.

“Aha!” he said, “you would prove me before you trust me, and who can
blame you in this naughty world? But perhaps I know more about you all
than you think, since in this trade my business is to learn many things.
For instance, I have heard that there was a great trying of witches down
at Blossholme lately, whereat a certain Abbot came off worst, also that
the famous Carfax jewels had been lost, which vexed the said holy Abbot.
They were jewels indeed, or so I have heard, for among them were two
pink pearls worth a king’s ransom--or so I have heard. Great pity that
they should be lost, since my Lady there would own them otherwise, and
much should I have liked, who am a little man in that trade, to set my
old eyes upon them. Well, well, perhaps I shall, perhaps I shall yet,
for that which is lost is sometimes found again. Now here comes your
dinner; eat, eat, we’ll talk afterwards.”

This was the first of many pleasant meals which they shared with their
host, Jacob Smith. Soon Emlyn found from inquiries that she made among
his neighbours without seeming to do so, that this cousin of hers bore
an excellent name and was trusted by all.

“Then why should we not trust him also?” asked Cicely, “who must find
friends and put faith in some one.”

“Even with the jewels, Mistress?”

“Even with the jewels, for such things are his business, and they would
be safer in his strong chest than tacked into our garments, where the
thought of them haunts me night and day.”

“Let us wait a while,” said Emlyn, “for once they were in that box how
do we know if we should get them out again?”

On the morrow of this talk the Visitor Legh came to see them, and had no
cheerful tale to tell. According to him the Lord Cromwell declared
that as the Abbot of Blossholme claimed these Shefton estates, the
King stood, or would soon stand, in the shoes of the said Abbot of
Blossholme, and therefore the King claimed them and could not surrender
them. Moreover, money was so wanted at Court just then, and here
Legh looked hard at them, “that there could be no talk of parting with
anything of value except in return for a consideration,” and he looked
at them harder still.

“And how can my Lady give that,” broke in Emlyn sharply, for she feared
lest Cicely should commit herself. “To-day she is but a homeless pauper,
save for a few pounds in gold, and even if she should come to her
own again, as your Worship knows, her first year’s profits are all
promised.”

“Ah!” said the Doctor sadly, “doubtless the case is hard. Only,” he
added, with cunning emphasis, “a tale has just reached me that the
Lady Harflete has wealth hidden away which came to her from her mother;
trinkets of value and such things.”

Now Cicely coloured, for the man’s little eyes pierced her like
gimlets, and her powers of deceit were very small. But this was not so
with Emlyn, who, as she said, could play thief to catch a thief.

“Listen, Sir,” she said, with a secret air, “you have heard true. There
were some things of value--why should we hide it from you, our good
friend? But, alas! that greedy rogue, the Abbot of Blossholme, has them.
He has stripped my poor Lady as bare as a fowl for roasting. Get them
back from him, Sir, and on her behalf I say she’ll give you half of
them, will you not, my Lady?”

“Surely,” said Cicely. “The Doctor, to whom we owe so much, will be most
welcome to the half of any movables of mine that he can recover from
the Abbot Maldon,” and she paused, for the fib stuck in her throat.
Moreover, she knew herself to be the colour of a peony.

Happily the Commissioner did not notice her blushes, or if he did, he
put them down to grief and anger.

“The Abbot Maldon,” he grumbled, “always the Abbot Maldon. Oh! what a
wicked thief must be that high-stomached Spaniard who does not scruple
first to make orphans and then to rob them? A black-hearted traitor,
too. Do you know that at this moment he stirs up rebellion in the north?
Well, I’ll see him on the rack before I have done. Have you a list of
those movables, Madam?”

Cicely said no, and Emlyn added that one should be made from memory.

“Good; I’ll see you again to-morrow or the next day, and meanwhile fear
not, I’ll be as active in your business as a cat after a sparrow. Oh, my
rat of a Spanish Abbot, you wait till I get my claws into your fat back.
Farewell, my Lady Harflete, farewell. Mistress Stower, I must away
to deal with other priests almost as wicked,” and he departed, still
muttering objurgations on the Abbot.

“Now, I think the time has come to trust Jacob Smith,” said Emlyn, when
the door closed behind him, “for he may be honest, whereas this Doctor
is certainly a villain; also, the man has heard something and suspects
us. Ah! there you are, Cousin Smith, come in, if you please, since we
desire to talk with you for a minute. Come in, and be so good as to lock
the door behind you.”

Five minutes later all the jewels, whereof not one was wanting, lay on
the table before old Jacob, who stared at them with round eyes.

“The Carfax gems,” he muttered, “the Carfax gems of which I have so
often heard; those that the old Crusader brought from the East, having
sacked them from a Sultan; from the East, where they talk of them still.
A sultan’s wealth, unless, indeed, they came straight from the New
Jerusalem and were an angel’s gauds. And do you say that you two women
have carried these priceless things tacked in your cloaks, which, as
I have seen, you throw down here and there and leave behind you? Oh,
fools, fools, even among women incomparable fools! Fellow-travellers
with Dr. Legh also, who would rob a baby of its bauble.”

“Fools or no,” exclaimed Emlyn tartly, “we have got them safe enough
after they have run some risks, as I pray that you may keep them, Cousin
Smith.”

Old Jacob threw a cloth over the gems, and slowly transferred them to
his pocket.

“This is an upper floor,” he explained, “and the door is locked, yet
some one might put a ladder up to the window. Were I in the street I
should know by the glitter in the light that there were precious things
here. Stay, they are not safe in my pocket even for an hour,” and going
to the wall he did something to a panel in the wainscot causing it to
open and reveal a space behind it where lay sundry wrapped-up parcels,
among which he placed, not all, but a portion of the gems. Then he went
to other panels that opened likewise, showing more parcels, and in the
holes behind these he distributed the rest of the treasure.

“There, foolish women,” he said, “since you have trusted me, I will
trust you. You have seen my big strong-boxes in my office, and doubtless
thought I keep all my little wares there. Well, so does every thief
in London, for they have searched them twice and gained some store of
pewter; I remember that some of it was discovered again in the King’s
household. But behind these panels all is safe, though no woman would
ever have thought of a device so simple and so sure.”

For a moment Emlyn could find no answer, perhaps because of her
indignation, but Cicely asked sweetly--

“Do you ever have fires in London, Master Smith? It seems to me that I
have heard of such things, and then--in a hurry, you know----”

Smith thrust up his horned spectacles and looked at her in mild
astonishment.

“To think,” he said, “that I should live to learn wisdom out of the
mouth of babes and sucklers----”

“Sucklings,” suggested Cicely.

“Sucklers or sucklings, it means the same thing--women,” he replied
testily; then added, with a chuckle, “Well, well, my Lady, you are
right. You have caught out Jacob at his own game. I never thought of
fire, though it is true we had one next door last year, when I ran out
with my bed and forgot all about the gold and stones. I’ll have new
hiding-places made in the masonry of the cellar, where no fire would
hurt. Ah! you women would never have thought of that, who carry treasure
sewn up in a nightshift.”

Now Emlyn could bear it no longer.

“And how would you have us carry it, Cousin Smith?” she asked
indignantly. “Tied about our necks, or hanging from our heels? Well do
I remember my mother telling me that you were always a simple youth, and
that your saint must have been a very strong one who brought you safe to
London and showed you how to earn a living there, or else that you had
married a woman of excellent intelligence--though it is plain now she
has long been dead. Well, well,” she added, with a laugh, “cling to your
man’s vanities, you son of a woman, and since you are so clever, give
us of your wisdom, for we need it. But first let me tell you that I have
rescued those very jewels from a fire, and by hiding them in masonry in
a vault.”

“It is the fashion of the female to wrangle when she has the worst of
the case,” said Jacob, with a twinkle in his eye. “So, daughter of man,
set out your trouble. Perchance the wisdom that I have inherited from
my mothers straight back to Eve may help that which your mothers lacked.
Now, have you done with jests. I listen, if it pleases you to tell me.”

So, having first invoked the curse of Heaven on him if ever he should
breathe a word, Emlyn, with the help of Cicely, repeated the whole
matter from the beginning, and the candles were lighted ere ever her
tale was done. All this while Jacob Smith sat opposite to them, saying
little, save now and again to ask a shrewd question. At length, when
they had finished, he exclaimed--

“Truly women are fools!”

“We have heard that before, Master Smith,” replied Cicely; “but this
time--why?”

“Not to have unbosomed to me before, which would have saved you a week
of time, although, as it happens, I knew more of your story than you
chose to tell, and therefore the days have not been altogether wasted.
Well, to be brief, this Dr. Legh is a ravenous rogue.”

“O Solomon, to have discovered that!” exclaimed Emlyn.

“One whose only aim is to line his nest with your feathers, some of
which you have promised him, as, indeed, you were right to do. Now he
has got wind of these jewels, which is not wonderful, seeing that
such things cannot be hid. If you buried them in a coffin, six foot
underground, still they would shine through the solid earth and declare
themselves. This is his plan--to strip you of everything ere his master,
Cromwell, gets a hold of you; and if you go to him empty-handed, what
chance has your suit with Vicar-General Cromwell, the hungriest shark of
all--save one?”

“We understand,” said Emlyn; “but what is your plan, Cousin Smith?”

“Mine? I don’t know that I have one. Still, here is that which might do.
Though I seem so small and humble, I am remembered at Court--when money
is wanted, and just now much money is wanted, for soon they will be in
arms in Yorkshire--and therefore I am much remembered. Now, if you care
to give Dr. Legh the go-by and leave your cause to me, perhaps I might
serve you as cheaply as another.”

“At what charge?” blurted out Emlyn.

The old man turned on her indignantly, asking--

“Cousin, how have I defrauded you or your mistress, that you should
insult me to my face? Go to! you do not trust me. Go to, with your
jewels, and seek some other helper!” and he went to the panelling as
though to collect them again.

“Nay, nay, Master Smith,” said Cicely, catching him by the arm; “be
not angry with Emlyn. Remember that of late we have learned in a hard
school, with Abbot Maldon and Dr. Legh for masters. At least I trust
you, so forsake me not, who have no other to whom to turn in all my
troubles, which are many,” and as she spoke the great tears that had
gathered in her blue eyes fell upon the child’s face, and woke him, so
that she must turn aside to quiet him, which she was glad to do.

“Grieve not,” said the kind-hearted old man, in distress; “’tis I should
grieve, whose brutal words have made you weep. Moreover, Emlyn is right;
even foolish women should not trust the first Jack with whom they take
a lodging. Still, since you swear that you do in your kindness, I’ll try
to show myself not all unworthy, my Lady Harflete. Now, what is it you
want from the King? Justice on the Abbot? That you’ll get for nothing,
if his Grace can give it, for this same Abbot stirs up rebellion against
him. No need, therefore, to set out his past misdeeds. A clean title
to your large inheritance, which the Abbot claims? That will be more
difficult, since the King claims through him. At best, money must be
paid for it. A declaration that your marriage is good and your boy born
in lawful wedlock? Not so hard, but will cost something. The annulment
of the sentence of witchcraft on you both? Easy, for the Abbot passed
it. Is there aught more?”

“Yes, Master Smith; the good nuns who befriended me--I would save their
house and lands to them. Those jewels are pledged to do it, if it can be
done.”

“A matter of money, Lady--a mere matter of money. You will have to buy
the property, that is all. Now, let us see what it will cost, if
fortune goes with me,” and he took pen and paper and began to write down
figures.

Finally he rose, sighing and shaking his head. “Two thousand pounds,” he
groaned; “a vast sum, but I can’t lessen it by a shilling--there are so
many to be bought. Yes; £1000 in gifts and £1000 as loan to his Majesty,
who does not repay.”

“Two thousand pounds!” exclaimed Cicely in dismay; “oh! how shall I find
so much, whose first year’s rents are already pledged?”

“Know you the worth of those jewels?” asked Jacob, looking at her.

“Nay; the half of that, perhaps.”

“Let us say double that, and then right cheap.”

“Well, if so,” replied Cicely, with a gasp, “where shall we sell them?
Who has so much money?”

“I’ll try to find it, or what is needful. Now, Cousin Emlyn,” he added
sarcastically, “you see where my profit lies. I buy the gems at half
their value, and the rest I keep.”

“In your own words: go to!” said Emlyn, “and keep your gibes until we
have more leisure.”

The old man thought a while, and said--

“It grows late, but the evening is pleasant, and I think I need some
air. That crack-brained, red-haired fellow of yours will watch you while
I am gone, and for mercy’s sake be careful with those candles. Nay, nay;
you must have no fire, you must go cold. After what you said to me, I
can think of naught but fire. It is for this night only. By to-morrow
evening I’ll prepare a place where Abbot Maldon himself might sit
unscorched in the midst of hell. But till then make out with clothes.
I have some furs in pledge that I will send up to you. It is your own
fault, and in my youth we did not need a fire on an autumn day. No more,
no more,” and he was gone, nor did they see him again that night.

On the following morning, as they sat at their breakfast, Jacob Smith
appeared, and began to talk of many things, such as the badness of the
weather--for it rained--the toughness of the ham, which he said was not
to be compared to those they cured at Blossholme in his youth, and the
likeness of the baby boy to his mother.

“Indeed, no,” broke in Cicely, who felt that he was playing with them;
“he is his father’s self; there is no look of me in him.”

“Oh!” answered Jacob; “well, I’ll give my judgment when I see the
father. By the way, let me read that note again which the cloaked man
brought to Emlyn.”

Cicely gave it to him, and he studied it carefully; then said, in an
indifferent voice--

“The other day I saw a list of Christian captives said to have been
recovered from the Turks by the Emperor Charles at Tunis, and among
them was one ‘Huflit,’ described as an English señor, and his servant. I
wonder now----”

Cicely sprang upon him.

“Oh! cruel wretch,” she said, “to have known this so long and not to
have told me!”

“Peace, Lady,” he said, retreating before her; “I only learned it at
eleven of the clock last night, when you were fast asleep. Yesterday is
not this same day, and therefore ’tis the other day, is it not?”

“Surely you might have woke me. But, swift, where is he now?”

“How can I know? Not here, at least. But the writing said----”

“Well, what did the writing say?”

“I am trying to think--my memory fails me at times; perhaps you will
find the same thing when you have my years, should it please Heaven----”

“Oh! that it might please Heaven to make you speak! What said the
writing?”

“Ah! I have it now. It said, in a note appended amidst other news,
for--did I tell you this was a letter from his Grace’s ambassador in
Spain? and, oh! his is the vilest scrawl to read. Nay, hurry me not--it
said that this ‘Sir Huflit’--the ambassador has put a query against
his name--and his servant--yes, yes, I am sure it said his servant
too--well, that they both of them, being angry at the treatment they had
met with from the infidel Turks--no, I forgot to add there were three
of them, one a priest, who did otherwise. Well, as I said, being angry,
they stopped there to serve with the Spaniards against the Turks till
the end of that campaign. There, that is all.”

“How little is your all!” exclaimed Cicely. “Yet, ‘tis something. Oh!
why should a married man stop across the seas to be revenged on poor
ignorant Turks?”

“Why should he not?” interrupted Emlyn, “when he deems himself a
widower, as does your lord?”

“Yes, I forgot; he thinks me dead, who doubtless himself will be dead,
if he is not so already, seeing that those wicked, murderous Turks will
kill him,” and she began to weep.

“I should have added,” said Jacob hastily, “that in a second letter, of
later date, the ambassador declares that the Emperor’s war against the
Turks is finished for this season, and that the Englishmen who were with
him fought with great honour and were all escaped unharmed, though this
time he gives no names.”

“All escaped! If my husband were dead, who could not die meanly or
without fame, how could he say that they were all escaped? Nay, nay; he
lives, though who knows if he will return? Perchance he will wander off
elsewhere, or stay and wed again.”

“Impossible,” said old Jacob, bowing to her; “having called you
wife--impossible.”

“Impossible,” echoed Emlyn, “having such a score to settle with yonder
Maldon! A man may forget his love, especially if he deems her buried.
But as he stayed foreign to fight the Turk, who wronged him, so he’ll
come home to fight the Abbot, who ruined him and slew his bride.”

There followed a silence, which the goldsmith, who felt it somewhat
painful, hastened to break, saying--

“Yes, doubtless he will come home; for aught we know he may be here
already. But meanwhile we also have our score against this Abbot, a bad
one, though think not for his sake that all Abbots are bad, for I have
known some who might be counted angels upon earth, and, having gone to
martyrdom, doubtless to-day are angels in heaven. Now, my Lady, I will
tell you what I have done, hoping that it will please you better than
it does me. Last night I saw the Lord Cromwell, with whom I have many
dealings, at his house in Austin Friars, and told him the case, of
which, as I thought, that false villain Legh had said nothing to him,
purposing to pick the plums out of the pudding ere he handed on the suet
to his master. He read your deeds and hunted up some petition from the
Abbot, with which he compared them; then made a note of my demands and
asked straight out--How much?

“I told him £1000 on loan to the King, which would not be asked for back
again, the said loan to be discharged by the grant to me--that is, to
you--of all the Abbey lands, in addition to your own, when the said
Abbey lands are sequestered, as they will be shortly. To this he
agreed, on behalf of his Grace, who needs money much, but inquired as to
himself. I replied £500 for him and his jackals, including Dr. Legh, of
which no account would be asked. He told me it was not enough, for after
the jackals had their pickings nothing would be left for him but the
bones; I, who asked so much, must offer more, and he made as though to
dismiss me. At the door I turned and said I had a wonderful pink pearl
that he, who loved jewels, might like to see--a pink pearl worth many
abbeys. He said, ‘Show it;’ and, oh! he gloated over it like a maid over
her first love-letter. ‘If there were two of these, now!’ he whispered.

“‘Two, my Lord!’ I answered; ‘there’s no fellow to that pearl in the
whole world,’ though it is true that as I said the words, the setting of
its twin, that was pinned to my inner shirt, pricked me sorely, as if
in anger. Then I took it up again, and for the second time began to bow
myself out.

“‘Jacob,’ he said, ‘you are an old friend, and I’ll stretch my duty for
you. Leave the pearl--his Grace needs that £1000 so sorely that I must
keep it against my will,’ and he put out his hand to take it, only to
find that I had covered it with my own.

“‘First the writing, then its price, my Lord. Here is a memorandum of it
set out fair, to save you trouble, if it pleases you to sign.’

“He read it through, then, taking a pen, scored out the clause as
regards acquittal of the witchcraft, which, he said, must be looked into
by the King in person or by his officers, but all the rest he signed,
undertaking to hand over the proper deeds under the great seal and royal
hand upon payment of £1000. Being able to do no better, I said that
would serve, and left him your pearl, he promising, on his part, to move
his Majesty to receive you, which I doubt not he will do quickly for the
sake of the £1000. Have I done well?”

“Indeed, yes,” exclaimed Cicely. “Who else could have done half so
well----?”

As the words left her lips there came a loud knocking at the door of
the house, and Jacob ran down to open it. Presently he returned with a
messenger in a splendid coat, who bowed to Cicely and asked if she were
the Lady Harflete. On her replying that such was her name, he said that
he bore to her the command of his Grace the King to attend upon him at
three o’clock of that afternoon at his Palace of Whitehall, together
with Emlyn Stower and Thomas Bolle, there to make answer to his Majesty
concerning a certain charge of witchcraft that had been laid against her
and them, which summons she would neglect at her peril.

“Sir, I will be there,” answered Cicely; “but tell me, do I come as a
prisoner?”

“Nay,” replied the herald, “since Master Jacob Smith, in whom his Grace
has trust, has consented to be answerable for you.”

“And for the £1000,” muttered Jacob, as, with many salutations, he
showed the royal messenger to the door, not neglecting to thrust a gold
piece into his hand that he waved behind him in farewell.




CHAPTER XV
THE DEVIL AT COURT


It was half-past two of the clock when Cicely, who carried her boy in
her arms, accompanied by Emlyn, Thomas Bolle and Jacob Smith, found
herself in the great courtyard of the Palace of Whitehall. The place was
full of people waiting there upon one business or another, through whom
messengers and armed men thrust their way continually, crying, “Way!
In the King’s name, way!” So great was the press, indeed, that for some
time even Jacob could command no attention, till at length he caught
sight of the herald who had visited his house in the morning, and
beckoned to him.

“I was looking for you, Master Smith, and for the Lady Harflete,” the
man said, bowing to her. “You have an appointment with his Grace, have
you not? but God knows if it can be kept. The ante-chambers are full of
folk bringing news about the rebellion in the north, and of great lords
and councillors who wait for commands or money, most of them for money.
In short the King has given order that all appointments are cancelled;
he can see no one to-day. The Lord Cromwell told me so himself.”

Jacob took a golden angel from his pouch and began to play with it
between his fingers.

“I understand, noble herald,” he said. “Still, do you think that you
could find me a messenger to the Lord Cromwell? If so, this trifle----”

“I’ll try, Master Smith,” he answered, stretching out his hand for the
piece of money. “But what is the message?”

“Oh, say that Pink Pearl would learn from his Lordship where he can lay
hands upon £1000 without interest.”

“A strange message, to which I will hazard an answer--nowhere,” said the
herald, “yet I’ll find some one to deliver it. Step within this archway
and wait out of the rain. Fear not, I will be back presently.”

They did as he bid them, gladly enough, for it had begun to drizzle and
Cicely was afraid lest her boy, with whom London did not agree too well,
should take cold. Here, then, they stood amusing themselves in watching
the motley throng that came and went. Bolle, to whom the scene was
strange, gaped at them with his mouth open; Emlyn took note of every one
with her quick eyes, while old Jacob Smith whispered tales concerning
individuals as they passed, most of which were little to their credit.

As for Cicely, soon her thoughts were far away. She knew that she was at
a crisis of her fortune; that if things went well with her this day she
might look to be avenged upon her enemies, and to spend the rest of
her life in wealth and honour. But it was not of such matters that
she dreamed, whose heart was set on Christopher, without whom naught
availed. Where was he, she wondered. If Jacob’s tale were true, after
passing many dangers, but a little while ago he lived and had his
health. Yet in those times death came quickly, leaping like the
lightning from unexpected clouds or even out of a clear sky, and who
could say? Besides, he believed her gone, and that being so would be
careless of himself, or perchance, worst thought of all, would take some
other wife, as was but right and natural. Oh! then indeed----

At this moment a sound of altercation woke her to the world again, and
she looked up to see that Thomas Bolle was bringing trouble on them.
A coarse fat lout with a fiery and a knotted nose, being somewhat in
liquor, had amused himself by making mock of his country looks and red
hair, and asking whether they used him for a scarecrow in his native
fields.

Thomas bore it for a while, only answering with another question:
whether he, the fat fellow, hired out his nose to London housewives to
light their fires. The man, feeling that the laugh was against him,
and noticing the child in Cicely’s arms pointed it out to his friends,
inquiring whether they did not think it was exactly like its dad. Then
Thomas’s rage burnt up, although the jest was silly and aimless enough.

“You low, London gutter-hound!” he exclaimed; “I’ll learn you to insult
the Lady Harflete with your ribald japes,” and stretching out his big
fist he seized his enemy’s purple nose in a grip of iron and began to
twist it till the sot roared with pain. Thereon guards ran up and would
have arrested Bolle for breaking the peace in the King’s palace. Indeed,
arrested he must have been, notwithstanding all Jacob Smith could do
to save him, had not at that moment a man appeared at whose coming the
crowd that had gathered, separated, bowing; a man of middle age with a
quick, clever face, who wore rich clothes and a fur-trimmed velvet cap
and gown.

Cicely knew him at once for Cromwell, the greatest man in England after
the King, and marked him well, knowing that he held her fate and that
of her child in the hollow of his hand. She noted the thin-lipped mouth,
small as a woman’s, the sharp nose, the little brownish eyes set close
together and surrounded by wrinkled skin that gave them a cunning look,
and noting was afraid. Before her stood a man who, though at present he
seemed to be her friend, if he chanced to become her enemy, as once he
had been bribed to be her father’s, would show her no more pity than the
spider shows a fly.

Indeed she was right, for many were the flies that had been snared and
sucked in the web of Cromwell, who, in his full tide of power and pomp,
forgot the fate of his master, Wolsey, in his day a greater spider
still.

“What passes here?” Cromwell said in a sharp voice. “Men, is this the
place to brawl beneath his Grace’s very windows? Ah! Master Smith, is it
you? Explain.”

“My Lord,” answered Jacob, bowing, “this is Lady Harflete’s servant
and he is not to blame. That fat knave insulted her and, being
quick-tempered, her man, Bolle, wrang his nose.”

“I see that he wrang it. Look, he is wringing it still. Friend Bolle,
leave go, or presently you will have in your hand that which is of no
value to you. Guard, take this beer-tub and hold his head beneath the
pump for five minutes by the clock to wash him, and if he comes back
again set him in the stocks. Nay, no words, fellow, you are well served.
Master Smith, follow me with your party.”

Again the crowd parted as they walked after Cromwell to a side door that
was near at hand, to find themselves alone with him in a small chamber.
Here he stopped and, turning, surveyed them all narrowly, especially
Cicely.

“I suppose, Master Smith,” he said, pointing to Bolle, who was wiping
his hands clean with the rushes from the floor, “this is the man that
you told me played the devil yonder at Blossholme. Well, he can play
the fool also. In another minute there would have been a tumult and you
would have lost your chance of seeing his Grace, for months perhaps,
since he has determined to ride from London to-morrow morning
northwards, though it is true he may change his mind ere then. This
rebellion troubles him much, and were it not for the loan you promise,
when loans are needed, small hope would you have had of audience. Now
come quickly and be careful that you do not cross the King’s temper, for
it is tetchy to-day. Indeed, had it not been for the Queen, who is with
him and minded to see this Lady Harflete, that they would have burnt as
a witch, you must have waited till a more convenient season which may
never come. Stay, what is in that great sack you carry, Bolle?”

“The devil’s livery, may it please your Lordship.”

“The devil’s livery, many wear that in London. Still, bring the gear, it
may make his Grace laugh, and if so I’ll give you a gold piece, who have
had enough of oaths and scoldings, aye,” he added, with a sour grin,
“and of blows too. Now follow me into the Presence, and speak only when
you are spoken to, nor dare to answer if he rates you.”

They went from the room down a passage and through another door, where
the guards on duty looked suspiciously at Bolle and his sack, but at a
word from Cromwell let them through into a large room in which a
fire burned upon the hearth. At the end of this room stood a huge,
proud-looking man with a flat and cruel face, broad as an ox’s skull, as
Thomas Bolle said afterwards, who was dressed in some rich, sombre stuff
and wore a velvet cap upon his head. He held a parchment in his hand,
and before him on the other side of an oak table sat an officer of state
in a black robe, who wrote upon another parchment, whereof there were
many scattered about on the table and the floor.

“Knave,” shouted the King, for they guessed that it was he, “you have
cast up these figures wrong. Oh, that it should be my lot to be served
by none but fools!”

“Pardon, your Grace,” said the secretary in a trembling voice, “thrice
have I checked them.”

“Would you gainsay me, you lying lawyer,” bellowed the King again. “I
tell you they must be wrong, since otherwise the sum is short by £1100
of that which I was promised. Where are the £1100? You must have stolen
them, thief.”

“I steal, oh, your Grace, I steal!”

“Aye, why not, since your betters do. Only you are clumsy, you lack
skill. Ask my Lord Cromwell there to give you lessons. He learned under
the best of masters, and is a merchant by trade to boot. Oh, get you
gone and take your scribblings with you.”

The poor officer hastened to avail himself of this invitation. Hurriedly
collecting his parchments he bowed himself from the presence of his
irate Sovereign. At the door, about twelve feet away, however, he
turned.

“My gracious Liege,” he began, “the casting of the count is right. Upon
my honour as a Christian soul I can look your Majesty in the face with
truth in my eye----”

Now on the table there was a massive inkstand made from the horn of a
ram mounted with silver feet. This Henry seized and hurled with all
his strength. The aim was good, for the heavy horn struck the wretched
scribe upon the nose so that the ink squirted all over his face, and
felled him to the floor.

“Now there is more in your eye than truth,” shouted the King. “Be off,
ere the stool follows the inkpot.”

Two ladies who stood by the fire talking together and taking no heed,
for to such rude scenes they seemed to be accustomed, looked up and
laughed a little, then went on talking, while Cromwell smiled and
shrugged his shoulders. Then in the midst of the silence which followed
Thomas Bolle, who had been watching open-mouthed, ejaculated in his
great voice--

“A bull’s eye! A noble bull! Myself cannot throw straighter.”

“Silence, fool,” hissed Emlyn.

“Who spoke?” asked the king, looking towards them sharply.

“Please, my Liege, it was I, Thomas Bolle.”

“Thomas Bolle! Can you sling a stone, Thomas Bolle, whoever you may be?”

“Aye, Sire, but not better than you, I think. That was a gallant shot.”

“Thomas Bolle, you are right. Seeing the hurry and the unhandiness of
the missile, it was excellent. Let the knave stand up again and I’ll bet
you a gold noble to a brass nail that you’ll not do as well within an
inch. Why, the fellow’s gone! Will you try on my Lord Cromwell? Nay,
this is no time for fooling. What’s your business, Thomas Bolle, and who
are those women with you?”

Now Cromwell stepped forward, and with cringing gestures began to
explain something to the King in a low voice. Meanwhile, the two ladies
became suddenly interested in Cicely, and one of them, a pale but pretty
woman, splendidly dressed, stepped forward to her, saying--

“Are you the Lady Harflete of whom we have heard, she who was to have
been burnt as a witch? Yes? And is that your child? Oh! what a beautiful
child. A boy, I’ll swear. Come to me, sweet, and in after years you can
tell that a queen has nursed you,” and she stretched out her arms.

As good fortune would have it the child was awake, and attracted by the
Queen’s pleasant voice, or perhaps by the necklace of bright gems
that she wore, he held out his little hands towards her and went quite
contentedly to her breast. Jane Seymour, for it was she, began to fondle
him with delight, then, followed by her lady, ran to the King, saying--

“See, Harry, see what a beautiful boy, and how he loves me. God send us
such a son as this!”

The King glanced at the child, then answered--

“Aye, he would do well enow. Well, it rests with you, Jane. Nurse him,
nurse him, perhaps the sex is catching. I and all England would see you
brought to bed of that sickness, Sweet. What said you, Cromwell?”

The great minister went on with his explanations, till the King,
wearying of him, called out--

“Come here, Master Smith.”

Jacob advanced, bowing, and stood still.

“Now, Master Smith, the Lord Cromwell tells me that if I sign these
papers, you, on behalf of the Lady Harflete, will loan me £1000 without
interest, which as it chances I need. Where, then, is this £1000?--for
I will have no promises, not even from you, who are known to keep them,
Master Smith.”

Jacob thrust his hand beneath his robe, and from various inner pockets
drew out bags of gold, which he set in a row upon the table.

“Here they are, your Grace,” he said quietly. “If you should wish for
them they can be weighed and counted.”

“God’s truth! I think I had better keep them, lest some accident should
happen to you on the way home, Master Smith. You might fall into the
Thames and sink.”

“Your Grace is right, the parchments will be lighter to carry, even,” he
added meaningly, “with your Highness’s name added.”

“I can’t sign,” said the King doubtfully, “all the ink is spilt.”

Jacob produced a small ink-horn, which like most merchants of the day he
carried hung to his girdle, drew out the stopper and with a bow set it
on the table.

“In truth you are a good man of business, Master Smith, too good for
a mere king. Such readiness makes me pause. Perhaps we had better meet
again at a more leisured season.”

Jacob bowed once more, and stretching out his hand slowly lifted the
first of the bags of gold as though to replace it in his pocket.

“Cromwell, come hither,” said the King, whereon Jacob, as though in
forgetfulness, laid the bag back upon the table.

“Repeat the heads of this matter, Cromwell.”

“My Liege, the Lady Harflete seeks justice on the Spaniard Maldon,
Abbot of Blossholme, who is said to have murdered her father, Sir John
Foterell, and her husband, Sir Christopher Harflete, though rumour has
it that the latter escaped his clutches and is now in Spain. Item:
the said Abbot has seized the lands which this Dame Cicely should have
inherited from her father, and demands their restitution.”

“By God’s wounds! justice she shall have and for nothing if we can give
it her,” answered the King, letting his heavy fist fall upon the table.
“No need to waste time in setting out her wrongs. Why, ‘tis the same
Spanish knave Maldon who stirs up all this hell’s broth in the north.
Well, he shall boil in his own pot, for against him our score is long.
What more?”

“A declaration, Sire, of the validity of the marriage between
Christopher Harflete and Cicely Foterell, which without doubt is good
and lawful although the Abbot disputes it for his own ends; and an
indemnity for the deaths of certain men who fell when the said Abbot
attacked and burnt the house of the said Christopher Harflete.”

“It should have been granted the more readily if Maldon had fallen also,
but let that pass. What more?”

“The promise, your Grace, of the lands of the Abbey of Blossholme and of
the Priory of Blossholme in consideration of the loan of £1000 advanced
to your Grace by the agent of Cicely Harflete, Jacob Smith.”

“A large demand, my Lord. Have these lands been valued?”

“Aye, Sire, by your Commissioner, who reports it doubtful if with all
their tenements and timber they would fetch £1000 in gold.”

“Our Commissioner? A fig for his valuing, doubtless he has been bribed.
Still, if we repay the money we can hold the land, and since this Dame
Harflete and her husband have suffered sorely at the hands of Maldon and
his armed ruffians, why, let it pass also. Now, is that all? I weary of
so much talk.”

“But one thing more, your Grace,” put in Cromwell hastily, for Henry was
already rising from his chair. “Dame Cicely Harflete, her servant, Emlyn
Stower, and a certain crazed old nun were condemned of sorcery by a
Court Ecclesiastic whereof the Abbot Maldon was a member, the said Abbot
alleging that they had bewitched him and his goods.”

“Then he was pleader and judge in one?”

“That is so, your Grace. Already without the royal warrant they were
bound to the stake for burning, the said Maldon having usurped the
prerogative of the Crown, when your Commissioner, Legh, arrived and
loosed them, but not without fighting, for certain men were killed and
wounded. Now they humbly crave your Majesty’s royal pardon for their
share in this man-slaying, if any, as also does Thomas Bolle yonder, who
seems to have done the slaying----”

“Well can I believe it,” muttered the King.

“And a declaration of the invalidity of their trial and condemning, and
of their innocence of the foul charge laid against them.”

“Innocence!” exclaimed Henry, growing impatient and fixing on the last
point. “How do we know they were innocent, though it is true that if
Dame Harflete is a witch she is the prettiest that ever we have heard of
or seen. You ask too much, after your fashion, Cromwell.”

“I crave your Grace’s patience for one short minute. There is a man here
who can prove that they were innocent; yonder red-haired Bolle.”

“What? He who praised our shooting? Well, Bolle, since you are so good a
sportsman, we will listen to you. Prove and be brief.”

“Now all is finished,” murmured Emlyn to Cicely, “for assuredly fool
Thomas will land us in the mire.”

“Your Grace,” said Bolle in his big voice, “I obey in four words--I was
the devil.”

“The devil you were, Thomas Bolle. Now, your meaning?”

“Your Grace, Blossholme was haunted, I haunted it.”

“How could you do otherwise if you lived there?”

“I’ll show your Grace,” and without more ado, to the horror of Cicely,
Thomas tumbled from his sack all his hellish garb and set to work to
clothe himself. In a minute, for he was practised at the game, the
hideous mask was on his head, and with it the horns and skin of the
widow’s billy-goat; the tail and painted hides were tied about him, and
in his hand he waved the eel spear, short-handled now. Thus arrayed he
capered before the astonished King and Queen, shaking the tail that had
a wire in it and clattering his hoofs upon the floor.

“Oh, good devil! Most excellent devil!” exclaimed his Majesty, clapping
his hands. “If I had met thee I’d have run like a hare. Stay, Jane, peep
you through yonder door and tell me who are gathered there.”

The Queen obeyed and, returned, said--

“There be a bishop and a priest, I cannot see which, for it grows dark,
with chaplains and sundry of the lords of Council waiting audience.”

“Good. Then we’ll try the devil on these devil-tamers. Friend Satan,
go you to that door, slip through it softly and rush upon them roaring,
driving them through this chamber so that we may see which of them will
be bold enough to try to lay you. Dost understand, Beelzebub?”

Thomas nodded his horns and departed silently as a cat.

“Now open the door and stand on one side,” said the King.

Cromwell obeyed, nor had they long to wait. Presently from the hall
beyond there rose a most fearful clamour. Then through the door shot the
bishop panting, after him came lords, chaplains, and secretaries, and
last of all the priest, who, being very fat and hampered by his gown,
could not run so fast, although at his back Satan leapt and bellowed.
No heed did they take of the King’s Majesty or of aught else, whose only
thought was flight as they tore down the chamber to the farther door.

“Oh, noble, noble!” hallooed the King, who was shaking with laughter.
“Give him your fork, devil, give him your fork,” and having the royal
command Bolle obeyed with zeal.

In thirty seconds it was all over; the rout had come and gone,
only Thomas in his hideous attire stood bowing before the King, who
exclaimed--

“I thank thee, Thomas Bolle, thou hast made me laugh as I have not
laughed for years. Little wonder that thy mistress was condemned for
witchcraft. Now,” he added, changing his tone, “off with that mummery,
and, Cromwell, go, catch one of those fools and tell them the truth ere
tales fly round the palace. Jane, cease from merriment, there is a time
for all things. Come hither, Lady Harflete, I would speak with you.”

Cicely approached and curtseyed, leaving her boy in the Queen’s arms,
where he had gone to sleep, for she did not seem minded to part with
him.

“You are asking much of us,” he said suddenly, searching her with a
shrewd glance, “relying, doubtless, on your wrongs, which are deep, or
your face, which is sweet, or both. Well, these things move Kings mayhap
more than others, also I knew old Sir John, your father, a loyal man and
a brave, he fought well at Flodden; and young Harflete, your husband, if
he still lives, had a good name like his forebears. Moreover your enemy,
Maldon, is ours, a treacherous foreign snake such as England hates, for
he would set her beneath the heel of Spain.

“Now, Dame Harflete, doubtless when you go hence you will bear away
strange stories of King Harry and his doings. You will say he plays the
fool, pelting his servants with inkpots when he is wrath, as God knows
he has often cause to be, and scaring his bishops with sham Satans, as
after all why should he not since it is a dull world? You’ll say, too,
that he takes his teaching from his ministers, and signs what these lay
before him with small search as to the truth or falsity. Well, that’s
the lot of monarchs who have but one man’s brain and one man’s time;
who needs must trust their slaves until these become their masters, and
there is naught left,” here his face grew fierce, “save to kill them,
and find more and worse. New servants, new wives,” and he glanced at
Jane, who was not listening, “new friends, false, false, all three of
them, new foes, and at the last old Death to round it off. Such has been
the lot of kings from David down, and such I think it shall always be.”

He paused a while, brooding heavily, then looked up and went on, “I know
not why I should speak thus to a chit like you, except it be, that
young though you are, you also have known trouble and the feel of a sick
heart. Well, well, I have heard more of you and your affairs than you
might think, and I forget nothing--that’s my gift. Dame Harflete, you
are richer than you have been advised to say, and I repeat you ask much
of me. Justice is your due from your Sovereign, and you shall have it;
but these wide Abbey lands, this Priory of Blossholme, whose nuns have
befriended you and whom you desire to save, this embracing pardon for
others who had shed blood, this cancelling outside of the form of law of
a sentence passed by a Court duly constituted, if unjust, all in return
for a loan of a pitiful £1000? You huckster well, Lady Harflete,
one would think that your father had been a chapman, not rough John
Foterell, you who can drive so shrewd a bargain with your King’s
necessities.”

“Sire, Sire,” broke in Cicely in confusion, “I have no more, my lands
are wasted by Abbot Maldon, my husband’s hall is burnt by his soldiers,
my first year’s rents, if ever I should receive them, are promised----”

“To whom?”

She hesitated.

“To whom?” he thundered. “Answer, Madam.”

“To your Royal Commissioner, Dr. Legh.”

“Ah! I thought as much, though when he spoke of you he did not tell it,
the snuffling rogue.”

“The jewels that came to me from my mother are in pawn for that £1000,
and I have no more.”

“A palpable lie, Dame Harflete, for if so, how have you paid Cromwell?
He did not bring you here for nothing.”

“Oh, my Liege, my Liege,” said Cicely, sinking to her knees, “ask not a
helpless woman to betray those who have befriended her in her most sore
and honest need. I said I have nothing, unless those gems are worth more
than I know.”

“And I believe you, Dame Harflete. We have plucked you bare between us,
have we not? Still, perchance, you will be no loser in the end. Now,
Master Smith, there, does not work for love alone.”

“Sire,” said Jacob, “that is true, I copy my masters. I have this lady’s
jewels in pledge, and I hope to make a profit on them. Still, Sire,
there is among them a pink pearl of great beauty that it might please
the Queen to wear. Here it is,” and he laid it upon the table.

“Oh, what a lovely thing,” said Jane; “never have I seen its like.”

“Then study it well, Wife, for you look your last upon it. When we
cannot pay our soldiers to keep our crown upon our head, and preserve
the liberties of England against the Spaniard and the Pope of Rome, it
is no time to give you gems that I have not bought. Take that gaud and
sell it, Master Smith, for whatever it will fetch among the Jews, and
add the price to the £1000, lessened by one tenth for your trouble. Now,
Dame Harflete, you have bought the favour of your King, for whoever
else may, I’ll not lie. Ah! here comes Cromwell. My Lord, you have been
long.”

“Your Grace, yonder priest is in a fit from fright, and thinks himself
in hell. I had to tarry with him till the doctor came.”

“Doubtless he’ll get better now that you are gone. Poor man, if a sham
devil frights him so, what will he do at last? Now, Cromwell, I have
made examination of this business and I will sign your papers, all of
them. Dame Harflete here tells me how hard you have worked for her, all
for nothing, Cromwell, and that pleases me, who at times have wondered
how you grew so rich, as your learner, Wolsey, did before you. _He_ took
bribes, Cromwell!”

“My Liege,” he answered in a low voice, “this case was cruel, it moved
my pity----”

“As it has ours, leaving us the richer by £1000 and the price of a
pearl. There, five, are they all signed? Take them, Master Smith, as the
Lady Harflete is your client, and study them to-night. If aught be wrong
or omitted, you have our royal word that we will set it straight. This
is our command--note it, Cromwell--that all things be done quickly
as occasion shall arise to give effect to these precepts, pardons and
patents which you, Cromwell, shall countersign ere they leave this room.
Also, that no further fee, secret or declared, shall be taken from
the Lady Harflete, whom henceforth, in token of our special favour, we
create and name the Lady of Blossholme, from her husband or her child,
as to any of these matters, and that Commissioner Legh, on receipt
thereof, shall pay into our treasury any sum or sums that Dame Harflete
may have promised to him. Write it down, my Lord Cromwell, and see that
our words are carried out, lest it be the worse for you.”

The Vicar-General hastened to obey, for there was something in the
King’s eye that frightened him. Meanwhile the Queen, after she had seen
the coveted pearl disappear into Jacob’s pocket, thrust back the child
into Cicely’s arms, and without any word of adieu or reverence to the
King, followed by her lady, departed from the room, slamming the door
behind her.

“Her Grace is cross because that gem--your gem, Lady Harflete--was
refused to her,” said Henry, then added in an angry growl, “‘Fore God!
does she dare to play off her tempers upon me, and so soon, when I am
troubled about big matters? Oho! Jane Seymour is the Queen to-day, and
she’d let the world know it. Well, what makes a queen? A king’s fancy
and a crown of gold, which the hand that set it on can take off again,
head and all, if it stick too tight. And then where’s your queen? Pest
upon women and the whims that make us seek their company! Dame Harflete,
you’d not treat your lord so, would you? You have never been to Court, I
think, or I should have known your eyes again. Well, perhaps it is well
for you, and that’s why you are gentle and loving.”

“If I am gentle, Sire, it is trouble that has gentled me, who have
suffered so much, and know not even now whether after one week of
marriage I am wife or widow.”

“Widow? Should that be so, come to me and I will find you another and a
nobler spouse. With your face and possessions it will not be difficult.
Nay, do not weep, for your sake I trust that this lucky man may live to
comfort you and serve his King. At least he’ll be no Spaniard’s tool and
Pope’s plotter.”

“Well will he serve your Grace if God gives him the chance, as my
murdered father did.”

“We know it, Lady. Cromwell, will you never have finished with those
writings? The Council waits us, and so does supper, and a word or two
with her Grace ere bedtime. You, Thomas Bolle, you are no fool and can
hold a sword; tell me, shall I go up north to fight the rebels, or bide
here and let others do it?”

“Bide here, your Grace,” answered Thomas promptly. “‘Twixt Wash and
Humber is a wild land in winter and arrows fly about there like ducks at
night, none knowing whence they come. Also your Grace is over-heavy for
a horse on forest roads and moorland, and if aught should chance, why,
they’d laugh in Spain and Rome, or nearer, and who would rule England
with a girl child on its throne?” and he stared hard at Cromwell’s back.

“Truth at last, and out of the lips of a red-haired bumpkin,” muttered
the King, also staring at the unconscious Cromwell, who was engaged on
his writing and either feigned deafness or did not hear. “Thomas Bolle,
I said that you were no fool, although some may have thought you so, is
there aught you would have in payment for your counsel--save money, for
that we have none?”

“Aye, Sire, freedom from my oath as a lay-brother of the Abbey of
Blossholme, and leave to marry.”

“To marry whom?”

“Her, Sire,” and he pointed to Emlyn.

“What! The other handsome witch? See you not that she has a temper? Nay,
woman, be silent, it is written in your face. Well, take your freedom
and her with it, but, Thomas Bolle, why did you not ask otherwise when
the chance came your way? I thought better of you. Like the rest of us,
you are but a fool after all. Farewell to you, Fool Thomas, and to you
also, my fair Lady of Blossholme.”




CHAPTER XVI
THE VOICE IN THE FOREST


The four were back safe in their lodging in Cheapside, whither, after
the deeds had been sealed, three soldiers escorted them by command.

“Have we done well, have we done well?” asked Jacob, rubbing his hands.

“It would seem so, Master Smith,” replied Cicely, “thanks to you; that
is, if all the King said is really in those writings.”

“It is there sure enough,” said Jacob; “for know, that with the aid of
a lawyer and three scriveners, I drafted them myself in the Lord
Cromwell’s office this morning, and oh, I drew them wide. Hard, hard we
worked with no time for dinner, and that was why I was ten minutes late
by the clock, for which Emlyn here chided me so sharply. Still, I’ll
read them through again, and if aught is left out we will have it
righted, though these are the same parchments, for I set a secret mark
upon them.”

“Nay, nay,” said Cicely, “leave well alone. His Grace’s mood may change,
or the Queen--that matter of the pearl.”

“Ah, the pearl, it grieved me to part with that beautiful pearl. But
there was no way out, it must be sold and the money handed over, our
honour is on it. Had I refused, who knows? Yes, we may thank God, for
if the most of your jewels are gone, the wide Abbey lands have come and
other things. Nothing is forgot. Bolle is unfrocked and may wed; Cousin
Stower has got a husband----”

Then Emlyn, who until now had been strangely silent, burst out in
wrath----

“Am I, then, a beast that I should be given to this man like a heriot
at yonder King’s bidding?” she exclaimed, pointing with her finger at
Bolle, who stood in the corner. “Who gave you the right, Thomas, to
demand me in marriage?”

“Well, since you ask me, Emlyn, it was you yourself; once, many years
ago, down in the mead by the water, and more lately in the chapel of
Blossholme Priory before I began to play the devil.”

“Play the devil! Aye, you have played the devil with me. There in the
King’s presence I must stand for an hour or more while all talked and
never let a word slip between my lips, and at last hear myself called by
his Grace a woman of temper and you a fool for wishing to marry me. Oh,
if ever we do marry, I’ll prove his words.”

“Then perhaps, Emlyn, we who have got on a long while apart, had best
stay so,” answered Thomas calmly. “Yet, why you should fret because you
must keep your tongue in its case for an hour, or because I asked leave
to marry you in all honour, I do not know. I have worked my best for
you and your mistress at some hazard, and things have not gone so ill,
seeing that now we are quit of blame and in a fair way to peace and
comfort. If you are not content, why then, the King was right, and I’m
a fool, and so good-bye, I’ll trouble you no more in fair weather or
in foul. I have leave to marry, and there are other women in the world
should I need one.”

“Tread on their tails and even worms will turn,” soliloquized Jacob,
while Emlyn burst into tears.

Cicely ran to console her, and Bolle made as though he would leave the
room.

Just then there came a great knocking on the street door, and the sound
of a voice crying--

“In the King’s name! In the King’s name, open!”

“That’s Commissioner Legh,” said Thomas. “I learned the cry from him,
and it is a good one at a pinch, as some of you may remember.”

Emlyn dried her tears with her sleeve; Cicely sat down and Jacob
shovelled the parchments into his big pockets. Then in burst the
Commissioner, to whom some one had opened.

“What’s this I hear?” he cried, addressing Cicely, his face as red as a
turkey cock’s. “That you have been working behind my back; that you have
told falsehoods of me to his Grace, who called me knave and thief; that
I am commanded to pay my fees into the Treasury? Oh, ungrateful wench,
would to God that I had let you burn ere you disgraced me thus.”

“If you bring so much heat into my poor house, learned Doctor, surely
all of us will soon burn,” said Jacob suavely. “The Lady Harflete said
nothing that his Highness did not force her to say, as I know who was
present, and among so many pickings cannot you spare a single dole?
Come, come, drink a cup of wine and be calm.”

But Dr. Legh, who had already drunk several cups of wine, would not be
calm. He reviled first one of them and then the other, but especially
Emlyn, whom he conceived to be the cause of all his woes, till at length
he called her by a very ill name. Then came forward Thomas Bolle, who
all this while had been standing in the corner, and took him by the
neck.

“In the King’s name!” he said, “nay, complain not, ‘tis your own cry
and I have warrant for it,” and he knocked Legh’s head against the
door-post. “In the King’s name, get out of this,” and he gave him such a
kick as never Royal Commissioner had felt before, shooting him down the
passage. “For the third time in the King’s name!” and he hurled him
out in a heap into the courtyard. “Begone, and know if ever I see your
pudding face again, in the King’s name, I’ll break your neck!”

Thus did Visitor Legh depart out of the life of Cicely, though in due
course she paid him her first year’s rent, nor ever asked who took the
benefit.

“Thomas,” said Emlyn, when he returned smiling at the memory of that
farewell kick, “the King was right, I am quick-tempered at times, no ill
thing for it has helped me more than once. Forget, and so will I,”
 and she gave him her hand, which he kissed, then went to see about the
supper.

While they ate, which they did heartily who needed food, there came
another knock.

“Go, Thomas,” said Jacob, “and say we see none to-night.”

So Thomas went and they heard talk. Then he re-entered followed by a
cloaked man, saying--

“Here is a visitor whom I dare not deny,” whereon they all rose,
thinking in their folly that it was the King himself, and not one almost
as mighty in England for a while--the Lord Cromwell.

“Pardon me,” said Cromwell, bowing in his courteous manner, “and if you
will, let me be seated with you, and give me a bite and a sup, for I
need them, who have been hard-worked to-day.”

So he sat down among them, and ate and drank, talking pleasantly of
many things, and telling them that the King had changed his mind at the
Council, as he thought, because of the words of Thomas Bolle, which he
believed had stuck there, and would not go north to fight the rebels
after all, but would send the Duke of Norfolk and other lords. Then when
he had done he pushed away his cup and platter, looked at his hosts and
said--

“Now to business. My Lady Harflete, fortune has been your friend this
day, for all you asked has been granted to you, which, as his Grace’s
temper has been of late, is a wondrous thing. Moreover, I thank you that
you did not answer a certain question as to myself which I learn he put
to you urgently.”

“My Lord,” said Cicely, “you have befriended me. Still, had he pressed
me further, God knows. Commissioner Legh did not thank me to-night,” and
she told him of the visit they had just received, and of its ending.

“A rough man and a greedy, who doubtless henceforth will be your enemy,”
 replied Cromwell. “Still you were not to blame, for who can reason with
a bull in his own yard? Well, while I have power I’ll not forget your
faithfulness, though in truth, my Lady of Blossholme, I sit upon a
slippery height, and beneath waits a gulf that has swallowed some as
great, and greater. Therefore I will not deny it, I lay by while I may,
not knowing who will gather.”

He brooded a while, then went on, with a sigh--

“The times are uncertain; thus, you who have the promise of wealth may
yet die a beggar. The lands of Blossholme Abbey, on which you hold a
bond that will never be redeemed, are not yet in the King’s hands to
give. A black storm is bursting in the north and, I say this in secret,
the fury of it may sweep Henry from the throne. If it should be so, away
with you to any land where you are not known, for then after this day’s
work here a rope will be your only heritage. More, this Queen, unlike
Anne who is gone, is a friend to the party of the Church, and though she
affects to care little for such things, is bitter about that pearl, and
therefore against you, its owner. Have you no jewel left that you could
spare which I might take to her? As for the pearl itself, which Master
Smith here swore to me was not to be found in the whole world when he
showed me its fellow, it must be sold as the King commanded,” and he
looked at Jacob somewhat sourly.

Now Cicely spoke with Jacob, who went away and returned presently with
a brooch in which was set a large white diamond surrounded by five small
rubies.

“Take her this with my duty, my Lord,” said Cicely.

“I will, I will. Oh! fear not, it shall reach her for my own sake as
well as yours. You are a wise giver, Lady Harflete, who know when and
where to cast your bread upon the waters. And now I have a gift for you
that perchance will please you more than gems. Your husband, Christopher
Harflete, accompanied by a servant, has landed in the north safe and
well.”

“Oh, my Lord,” she cried, “then where is he now?”

“Alas! the rest of the tale is not so pleasing, for as he journeyed,
from Hull I think, he was taken prisoner by the rebels, who have him
fast at Lincoln, wishing to make him, whose name is of account, one of
their company. But he being a wise and loyal man, contrived to send a
letter to the King’s captain in those parts, which has reached me this
night. Here it is, do you know the writing?”

“Aye, aye,” gasped Cicely, staring at the scrawl that was ill writ and
worse spelt, for Christopher was no scholar.

“Then I’ll read it to you, and afterwards certify a copy to multiply the
evidence.”


“To the Captain of the King’s Forces outside Lincoln.

“This to give notice to you, his Grace, and his ministers and all
others, that we, Christopher Harflete, Knight, and Jeffrey Stokes,
his servant, when journeying from the seaport whither we had come from
Spain, were taken by rebels in arms against the King and brought here
to Lincoln. These men would win me to their party because the name of
Harflete is still strong and known. So violent were they that we have
taken some kind of oath. Yet this writing advises you that so I only
did to save my life, having no heart that way who am a loyal man and
understand little of their quarrel. Life, in sooth, is of small value to
me who have lost wife, lands and all. Yet ere I die I would be avenged
upon the murderous Abbot of Blossholme, and therefore I seek to keep my
breath in me and to escape.

“I learn that the said Abbot is afoot with a great following within
fifty miles of here. Pray God he does not get his claws in me again, but
if so, say to the King, that Harflete died faithful.

“Christopher Harflete.

“Jeffrey Stokes, X his mark.”

“My Lord,” said Cicely, “what shall I do, my Lord?”

“There is naught to be done, save trust in God and hope for the best.
Doubtless he will escape, and at least his Grace shall see this letter
to-morrow morning and send orders to help him if may be. Copy it, Master
Smith.”

Jacob took the letter and began to write swiftly, while Cromwell
thought.

“Listen,” he said presently. “Round Blossholme there are no rebels, all
of that colour have drawn off north. Now Foterell and Harflete are good
names yonder, cannot you journey thither and raise a company?”

“Aye, aye, that I can do,” broke in Bolle. “In a week I will have a
hundred men at my back. Give commission and money to my Lady there and
name me captain and you’ll see.”

“The commission and the captaincy under the privy signet shall be at
this house by nine of the clock to-morrow,” answered Cromwell. “The
money you must find, for there is none outside the coffers of Jacob
Smith. Yet pause, Lady Harflete, there is risk and here you are safe.”

“I know the risk,” she answered, “but what do I care for risks who have
taken so many, when my husband is yonder and I may serve him?”

“An excellent spirit, let us trust that it comes from on high,” remarked
Cromwell; but old Jacob, as he wrote _vera copia_ for his Lordship’s
signature at the foot of the transcript of Christopher’s letter, shook
his head sadly.

In another minute Cromwell had signed without troubling to compare the
two, and with some gentle words of farewell was gone, having bigger
matters waiting his attention.

Cicely never saw him again, indeed with the exception of Jacob Smith
she never saw any of those folk again, including the King, who had been
concerned in this crisis of her life. Yet, notwithstanding his cunning
and his extortion, she grieved for Cromwell when some four years later
the Duke of Suffolk and the Earl of Southampton rudely tore the Garter
and his other decorations off his person and he was haled from the
Council to the Tower, and thence after abject supplications for mercy,
to perish a criminal upon the block. At least he had served her well,
for he kept all his promises to the letter. One of his last acts also
was to send her back the pink pearl which he had received as a bribe
from Jacob Smith, with a message to the effect that he was sure it would
become her more than it had him, and that he hoped it would bring her a
better fortune.



When Cromwell had gone Jacob turned to Cicely and inquired if she were
leaving his house upon the morrow.

“Have I not said so?” she asked, with impatience. “Knowing what I know
how could I stay in London? Why do you ask?”

“Because I must balance our account. I think you owe me a matter of
twenty marks for rent and board. Also it is probable that we shall need
money for our journey, and this day has left me somewhat bare of coin.”

“Our journey?” said Cicely. “Do you, then, accompany us, Master Smith?”

“With your leave I think so, Lady. Times are bad here, I have no
shilling left to lend, yet if I do not lend I shall never be forgiven.
Also I need a holiday, and ere I die would once again see Blossholme,
where I was born, should we live to reach it. But if we start to-morrow
I have much to do this night. For instance, your jewels which I hold in
pawn must be set in a place of safety; also these deeds, whereof copies
should be made, and that pearl must be left in trusty hands for sale. So
at what hour do we ride on this mad errand?”

“At eleven of the clock,” answered Cicely, “if the King’s safe-conduct
and commission have come by then.”

“So be it. Then I bid you good-night. Come with me, worthy Bolle, for
there’ll be no sleep for us. I go to call my clerks and you must go to
the stable. Lady Harflete and you, Cousin Emlyn, get you to bed.”

On the following morning Cicely rose with the dawn, nor was she sorry to
do so, who had spent but a troubled night. For long sleep would not come
to her, and when it did at length, she was tossed upon a sea of
dreams, dreams of the King, who threatened her with his great voice; of
Cromwell, who took everything she had down to her cloak; of Commissioner
Legh, who dragged her back to the stake because he had lost his bribe.

But most of all she dreamed of Christopher, her beloved husband, who was
so near and yet as far away as he had ever been, a prisoner in the hands
of the rebels; her husband who deemed her dead.

From all these phantasies she awoke weeping and oppressed by fears.
Could it be that when at length the cup of joy was so near her lips fate
waited to dash it down again? She knew not, who had naught but faith to
lean on, that faith which in the past had served her well. Meanwhile,
she was sure that if Christopher lived he would make his way to Cranwell
or to Blossholme, and, whatever the risk, thither she would go also as
fast as horses could carry her.

Hurry as they would, midday was an hour gone ere they rode out of
Cheapside. There was so much to do, and even then things were left
undone. The four of them travelled humbly clad, giving out that they
were a party of merchant folk returning to Cambridge after a visit to
London as to an inheritance in which they were interested, especially
Cicely, who posed as a widow named Johnson. This was their story, which
they varied from time to time according to circumstances. In some ways
their minds were more at ease than when they travelled to the great
city, for now at least they were clear of the horrid company of
Commissioner Legh and his people, nor were they haunted by the knowledge
that they had about them jewels of great price. All these jewels were
left behind in safe keeping, as were also the writings under the King’s
hand and seal, of which they only took attested copies, and with them
the commission that Cromwell had duly sent to Cicely addressed to her
husband and herself, and Bolle’s certificate of captaincy. These they
hid in their boots or the linings of their vests, together with such
money as was necessary for the costs of travel.

Thus riding hard, for their horses were good and fresh, they came
unmolested to Cambridge on the night of the second day and slept there.
Beyond Cambridge, they were told, the country was so disturbed that
it would not be safe for them to journey. But just when they were in
despair, for even Bolle said that they must not go on, a troop of the
King’s horse arrived on their way to join the Duke of Norfolk wherever
he might lie in Lincolnshire.

To their captain, one Jeffreys, Jacob showed the King’s commission,
revealing who they were. Seeing that it commanded all his Grace’s
officers and servants to do them service, this Captain Jeffreys said
that he would give them escort until their roads separated. So next day
they went on again. The company was not pleasant, for the men, of whom
there were about a hundred, proved rough fellows, still, having been
warned that he who insulted or laid a finger on them should be hanged,
they did them no harm. It was well, indeed, that they had their
protection, for they found the country through which they passed up in
arms, and were more than once threatened by mobs of peasants, led by
priests, who would have attacked them had they dared.

For two days they travelled thus with Captain Jeffreys, coming on the
evening of the second to Peterborough, where they found lodgings at an
inn. When they rose the next morning, however, it was to discover that
Jeffreys and his men had already gone, leaving a message to say that he
had received urgent orders to push on to Lincoln.

Now once more they told their old tale, declaring that they were
citizens of Boston, and having learned that the Fens were peaceful,
perhaps because so few people lived in them, started forward by
themselves under the guidance of Bolle, who had often journeyed through
that country, buying or selling cattle for the monks. An ill land was
it to travel in also in that wet autumn, seeing that in many places the
floods were out and the tracks were like a quagmire. The first night
they spent in a marshman’s hut, listening to the pouring rain and
fearing fever and ague, especially for the boy. The next day, by good
fortune, they reached higher land and slept at a tavern.

Here they were visited by rude men, who, being of the party of
rebellion, sought to know their business. For a while things were
dangerous, but Bolle, who could talk their own dialect, showed that
they were scarcely to be feared who travelled with two women and a babe,
adding that he was a lay-brother of Blossholme Abbey disguised as a
serving-man for dread of the King’s party. Jacob Smith also called for
ale and drank with them to the success of the Pilgrimage of Grace, as
their revolt was named.

In this way they disarmed suspicion with one tale and another.
Moreover, they heard that as yet the country round Blossholme remained
undisturbed, although it was said that the Abbot had fortified the Abbey
and stored it with provisions. He himself was with the leaders of the
revolt in the neighbourhood of Lincoln, but he had done this that he
might have a strong place to fall back on.

So in the end the men went away full of strong beer, and that danger
passed by.

Next morning they started forward early, hoping to reach Blossholme by
sunset though the days were shortening much. This, however, was not
to be, for as it chanced they were badly bogged in a quagmire that lay
about two miles off their inn, and when at length they scrambled out had
to ride many miles round to escape the swamp. So it happened that it
was already well on in the afternoon when they came to that stretch of
forest in which the Abbot had murdered Sir John Foterell. Following the
woodland road, towards sunset they passed the mere where he had fallen.
Weary as she was, Cicely looked at the spot and found it familiar.

“I know this place,” she said. “Where have I seen it? Oh, in the ill
dream I had on that day I lost my father.”

“That is not wonderful,” answered Emlyn, who rode beside her carrying
the child, “seeing that Thomas says it was just here they butchered him.
Look, yonder lie the bones of Meg, his mare; I know them by her black
mane.”

“Aye, Lady,” broke in Bolle, “and there he lies also where he fell; they
buried him with never a Christian prayer,” and he pointed to a little
careless mound between two willows.

“Jesus, have mercy on his soul!” said Cicely, crossing herself. “Now, if
I live, I swear that I will move his bones to the chancel of Blossholme
church and build a fair monument to his memory.”

This, as all visitors to the place know, she did, for that monument
remains to this day, representing the old knight lying in the snow, with
the arrow in his throat, between the two murderers whom he slew, while
round the corner of the tomb Jeffrey Stokes gallops away.

While Cicely stared back at this desolate grave, muttering a prayer for
the departed, Thomas Bolle heard something which caused him to prick his
ears.

“What is it?” asked Jacob Smith, who saw the change in his face.

“Horses galloping--many horses, master,” he answered; “yes, and riders
on them. Listen.”

They did so, and now they also heard the thud of horse’s hoofs and the
shouts of men.

“Quick, quick,” said Bolle, “follow me. I know where we may hide,” and
he led them off to a dense thicket of thorn and beech scrub which grew
about two hundred yards away under a group of oaks at a place where four
tracks crossed. Owing to the beech leaves, which, when the trees are
young, as every gardener knows, cling to the twigs through autumn and
winter, this place was very close, and hid them completely.

Scarcely had they taken up their stand there, when, in the red light
of the sunset, they saw a strange sight. Along, not that road they had
followed, but another, which led round the farther side of King’s Grave
Mount, now seen and now hidden by the forest trees, a tall man in armour
mounted on a grey horse, accompanied by another man in a leathern jerkin
mounted on a black horse, galloped towards them, whilst, at a distance
of not more than a hundred yards behind them, appeared a motley mob of
pursuers.

“Escaped prisoners being run down,” muttered Bolle, but Cicely took no
heed. There was something about the appearance of the rider of the grey
horse that seemed to draw her heart out of her.

She leaned forward on her beast’s neck, staring with all her eyes. Now
the two men were almost opposite the thicket, and the man in mail turned
his face to his companion and called cheerily--

“We gain! We’ll slip them yet, Jeffrey.”

Cicely saw the face.

“Christopher!” she cried; “_Christopher!_”

Another moment and they had swept past, but Christopher--for it was
he--had caught the sound of that remembered voice. With eyes made quick
by love and fear she saw him pulling on his rein. She heard him shout
to Jeffrey, and Jeffrey shout back to him in tones of remonstrance.
They halted confusedly in the open space beyond. He tried to turn, then
perceived his pursuers drawing nearer, and, when they were already at
his heels, with an exclamation, pulled round again to gallop away. Too
late! Up the slope they sped for another hundred yards or so. Now they
were surrounded, and now, at the crest of it, they fought, for swords
flashed in the red light. The pursuers closed in on them like hounds on
an outrun fox. They went down--they vanished.

Cicely strove to gallop after them, for she was crazed, but the others
held her back.

At length there was silence, and Thomas Bolle, dismounting, crept out to
look. Ten minutes later he returned.

“All have gone,” he said.

“Oh! he is dead!” wailed Cicely. “This fatal place has robbed me of
father and of husband.”

“I think not,” answered Bolle. “I see no bloodstains, nor any signs of
a man being carried. He went living on his horse. Still, would to Heaven
that women could learn when to keep silent!”




CHAPTER XVII
BETWEEN DOOM AND HONOUR


The day was about to break when at last, utterly worn out in body and
mind, Cicely and her party rode their stumbling horses up to the gates
of Blossholme Priory.

“Pray God the nuns are still here,” said Emlyn, who held the child, “for
if they have been driven out and my mistress must go farther, I think
that she will die. Knock hard, Thomas, that old gardener is deaf as a
wall.”

Bolle obeyed with good will, till presently the grille in the door was
opened and a trembling woman’s voice asked who was there.

“That’s Mother Matilda,” said Emlyn, and slipping from her horse, she
ran to the bars and began to talk to her through them. Then other nuns
came, and between them they opened one of the large gates, for the
gardener either could not or would not be aroused, and passed through it
into the courtyard where, when it was understood that Cicely had really
come again, there was a great welcoming. But now she could hardly speak,
so they made her swallow a bowl of milk and took her to her old room,
where sleep of some kind overcame her. When she awoke it was nine of the
clock. Emlyn, looking little the worse, was already up and stood talking
with Mother Matilda.

“Oh!” cried Cicely, as memory came back to her, “has aught been heard of
my husband?”

They shook their heads, and the Prioress said--

“First you must eat, Sweet, and then we will tell you all we know, which
is little.”

So she ate who needed food sadly, and while Emlyn helped her to dress
herself, hearkened to the news. It was of no great account, only
confirming that which they had learnt from the Fenmen; that the Abbey
was fortified and guarded by strange soldiers, rebellious men from the
north or foreigners, and the Abbot supposed to be away.

Bolle, who had been out, reported also that a man he met declared that
he had heard a troop of horsemen pass through the village in the night,
but of this no proof was forthcoming, since if they had done so the
heavy rain that was still falling had washed out all traces of them.
Moreover, in those times people were always moving to and fro in the
dark, and none could know if this troop had anything to do with the band
they had seen in the forest, which might have gone some other way.

When Cicely was ready they went downstairs, and in Mother Matilda’s
private room found Jacob Smith and Thomas Bolle awaiting them.

“Lady Harflete,” said Jacob, with the air of a man who has no time to
lose, “things stand thus. As yet none know that you are here, for we
have the gardener and his wife under ward. But as soon as they learn
it at the Abbey there will be risk of an attack, and this place is not
defensible. Now at your hall of Shefton it is otherwise, for there
it seems is a deep moat with a drawbridge and the rest. To Shefton,
therefore, you must go at once, unobserved if may be. Indeed, Thomas has
been there already, and spoken to certain of your tenants whom he can
trust, who are now hard at work preparing and victualling the place,
and passing on the word to others. By nightfall he hopes to have thirty
strong men to defend it, and within three days a hundred, when your
commission and his captaincy are made known. Come, then, for there is no
time to tarry and the horses are saddled.”

So Cicely kissed Mother Matilda, who blessed and thanked her for all she
had done, or tried to do on behalf of the sisterhood, and within five
minutes once more they were on the backs of their weary beasts and
riding through the rain to Shefton, which happily was but three
miles away. Keeping under the lee of the woods they left the Priory
unobserved, for in that wet few were stirring, and the sentinels at
the Abbey, if there were any, had taken shelter in the guard-house. So
thankfully enough they came unmolested to walled and wooded Shefton,
which Cicely had last seen when she fled thence to Cranwell on the
day of her marriage, oh, years and years ago, or so it seemed to her
tormented heart.

It was a strange and a sad home-coming, she thought, as they rode over
the drawbridge and through the sodden and weed-smothered pleasaunce to
the familiar door. Yet it might have been worse, for the tenants whom
Bolle had warned had not been idle. For two hours past and more a dozen
willing women had swept and cleaned; the fires had been lit, and there
was plenteous food of a sort in the kitchen and the store-room.

Moreover, in all the big hall were gathered about a score of her people,
who welcomed her by raising their bonnets and even tried to cheer. To
these at once Jacob read the King’s commission, showing them the signet
and the seal, and that other commission which named Thomas Bolle a
captain with wide powers, the sight and hearing of which writings seemed
to put a great heart into them who so long had lacked a leader and the
support of authority. One and all they swore to stand by the King and
their lady, Cicely Harflete, and her lord, Sir Christopher, or if he
were dead, his child. Then about half of them took horse and rode off,
this way and that, to gather men in the King’s name, while the rest
stayed to guard the Hall and work at its defences.

By sunset men were riding up from all sides, some of them driving carts
loaded with provisions, arms and fodder, or sheep and beasts that could
be killed for sustenance, while as they came Jacob enrolled their names
upon a paper and by virtue of his commission Thomas Bolle swore them in.
Indeed that night they had forty men quartered there, and the promise of
many more.

By now, however, the secret was out, for the story had gone round and
the smoke from the Shefton chimneys told its own tale. First a single
spy appeared on the opposite rise, watching. Then he galloped away, to
return an hour later with ten armed and mounted men, one of whom carried
a banner on which were embroidered the emblems of the Pilgrimage
of Grace. These men rode to within a hundred paces of Shefton Hall,
apparently with the object of attacking it, then seeing that the
drawbridge was up and that archers with bent bows stood on either side,
halted and sent forward one of their number with a white flag to parley.

“Who holds Shefton,” shouted this man, “and for what cause?”

“The Lady Harflete, its owner, and Captain Thomas Bolle, for the cause
of the King,” called old Jacob Smith back to him.

“By what warrant?” asked the man. “The Abbot of Blossholme is lord of
Shefton, and Thomas Bolle is but a lay-brother of his monastery.”

“By warrant of the King’s Grace,” said Jacob, and then and there at the
top of his voice he read to him the Royal Commission, which when the
envoy had heard, he went back to consult with his companions. For a
while they hesitated, apparently still meditating attack, but in the end
rode away and were seen no more.

Bolle wished to follow and fall on them with such men as he had, but the
cautious Jacob Smith forbade it, fearing lest he should tumble into
some ambush and be killed or captured with his people, leaving the place
defenceless.

So the afternoon went by, and ere evening closed in they had so much
strength that there was no more cause for fear of an attack from the
Abbey, whose garrison they learned amounted to not over fifty men and a
few monks, for most of these had fled.

That night Cicely with Emlyn and old Jacob were seated in the long upper
room where her father, Sir John Foterell, had once surprised Christopher
paying his court to her, when Bolle entered, followed by a man with a
hang-dog look who was wrapped in a sheepskin coat which seemed to become
him very ill.

“Who is this, friend?” asked Jacob.

“An old companion of mine, your worship, a monk of Blossholme who is
weary of Grace and its pilgrimages, and seeks the King’s comfort and
pardon, which I have made bold to promise to him.”

“Good,” said Jacob, “I’ll enter his name, and if he remains faithful
your promise shall be kept. But why do you bring him here?”

“Because he bears tidings.”

Now something in Bolle’s voice caused Cicely, who was brooding apart, to
look up sharply and say--

“Speak, and be swift.”

“My Lady,” began the man in a slow voice, “I, who am named Basil in
religion, have fled the Abbey because, although a monk, I am true to
the King, and moreover have suffered much from the Abbot, who has just
returned raging, having met with some reverse out Lincoln way, I know
not what. My news is that your lord, Sir Christopher Harflete, and his
servant Jeffrey Stokes are prisoners in the Abbey dungeons, whither they
were brought last night by a company of the rebels who had captured them
and afterwards rode on.”

“Prisoners!” exclaimed Cicely. “Then he is not dead or wounded? At least
he is whole and safe?”

“Aye, my Lady, whole and safe as a mouse in the paws of a cat before it
is eaten.”

The blood left Cicely’s cheeks. In her mind’s eye she saw Abbot Maldon
turned into a great cat with a monk’s head and patting Christopher with
his claws.

“My fault, my fault!” she said in a heavy voice. “Oh, if I had not
called him he would have escaped. Would that I had been stricken dumb!”

“I don’t think so,” answered Brother Basil. “There were others watching
for him ahead who, when he was taken, went away and that is how you came
to get through so neatly. At least there he lies, and if you would save
him, you had best gather what strength you can and strike at once.”

“Does he know that I live?” asked Cicely.

“How can I tell, Lady? The Abbey dungeons are no good place for
news. Yet the monk who took him his food this morning said that Sir
Christopher told him that he had been undone by some ghost which called
to him with the voice of his dead wife as he rode near King’s Grave
Mount.”

Now when Cicely heard this she rose and left the room accompanied by
Emlyn, for she could bear no more.

But Jacob Smith and Bolle remained questioning the man closely upon many
matters, and, having learned all he could tell them, sent him away under
guard and sat there till midnight consulting and making up their plans
with the farmers and yeomen whom they called to them from time to time.

Next morning early they sought out Cicely and told her that to them it
seemed wise that the Abbey should be attacked without delay.

“But my husband lies there,” she answered in distress, “and then they
will kill him.”

“So I fear they may if we do not attack,” replied Jacob. “Moreover,
Lady, to tell the truth, there are other things to be thought of. For
instance, the King’s cause and honour, which we are bound to forward,
and the lives and goods of all those who through us have declared
themselves for him. If we lie idle Abbot Maldon will send messengers to
the north and within a few days bring down thousands upon us, against
whom we cannot hope to stand. Indeed, it is probable that he has
already sent. But if they hear that the Abbey has fallen the rebels will
scarcely come for revenge alone. Lastly, if we sit with folded hands,
our own people may grow cold with doubts and fears and melt away, who
now are hot as fire.”

“If it must be, so let it be. In God’s hands I leave his life,” said
Cicely in a heavy voice.



That day the King’s men, under the captaincy of Bolle, advanced and
invested the Abbey, setting their camp in Blossholme village. Cicely,
who would not be left behind, came with them and once more took up her
quarters in the Priory, which on a formal summons opened its gates to
her, its only guard, the deaf gardener, surrendering at discretion. He
was set to work as a camp servant, and never in his life did he labour
so hard before, since Emlyn, who owed him many a grudge, saw to it that
he did not lack for tasks that were mean and heavy.

Now that day Thomas and others spied out the Abbey and returned shaking
their heads, for without cannon--and as yet they had none--the great
building of hewn stone seemed almost impregnable. At but one spot indeed
was attack possible, from the back where once stood the dormers and farm
steadings which Emlyn had egged on Thomas to burn. These had been built
up to the inner edge of the moat, making, as it were, part of the Abbey
wall, but the fierce fire had so cracked and crumbled their masonry that
several rods of it had fallen forward into the water.

For purposes of defence the gap this formed was now closed by a double
palisade of stout stakes, filled in with faggots, the charred beams
of the old buildings and other rubbish. Yet to carry this palisade,
protected as it was by the broad and deep moat and commanded from the
windows and the corner tower, was more than they dared try, since if it
could be done at all it would certainly cost them very many lives. One
thing they had learned, however, from the monk Basil and others, that in
the Abbey there was but small store of food to feed so many: three days’
supply, said Basil, and none put it at over four.

That evening, then, they held another council, at which it was
determined to starve the place out and only attempt an onslaught if
their spies reported to them that the rebels were marching to its
relief.

“But,” urged Cicely, “then my lord and Jeffrey Stokes will starve also,”
 whereon they went away sadly, saying there was no choice, seeing that
they were but two men and the lives of many lay at stake.

The siege began, just such a siege as Cicely had suffered at Cranwell
Towers. The first day the garrison of the Abbey scoffed at them from the
walls. The second day they scoffed no longer, noting that the force of
the besiegers increased, which it did hourly. The third day suddenly
they let down the drawbridge and poured out on to it as though for a
sortie, but when they perceived the scores of Bolle’s men waiting bow
in hand and arrow on string, changed their minds and drew the bridge up
again.

“They grow hungry and desperate,” said the shrewd Jacob. “Soon we shall
have some message from them.”

He was right, since just before sunset a postern gate was opened and a
man, holding a white flag above his head, was seen swimming across the
moat. He scrambled out on the farther side, shook himself like a dog,
and advanced slowly to where Bolle and the women stood upon the Abbey
green out of arrow-shot from the walls. Indeed, Cicely, who was weak
with dread and wretchedness, leaned against the oaken stake that
had never been removed, to which once she was tied to be burned for
witchcraft.

“Who is that man?” said Emlyn to her.

Cicely scanned the gaunt, bearded figure who walked haltingly like one
that is sick.

“I know not--yes, yes, he puts me in mind of Jeffrey Stokes!”

“Jeffrey it is and no other,” said Emlyn, nodding her head. “Now what
news does he bear, I wonder?”

Cicely made no reply, only clung to her stake and waited, with just such
a heart as once she had waited there while the Abbey cook blew up his
brands to fire her faggots. Jeffrey was opposite to her now; his sunken
eyes fell upon her, and at the sight his bearded chin dropped, making
his face look even more long and hollow than it had before.

“Ah!” he said, speaking to himself, “many wars and journeyings, months
in an infidel galley, three days with not enough food to feed a rat and
a bath in November water! Well, such things, to say nothing of a worse,
turn men’s brains. Yet to think that I should live to see a daylight
ghost in homely Blossholme, who never met with one before.”

Still staring he shook the water from his beard, then added,
“Lay-brother or Captain Thomas Bolle, whichever you may be now-a-days,
if you’re not a ghost also, give me a quart of strong ale and a loaf of
bread, for I’m empty as a gutted herring, and floating heavenward, so to
speak, who would stick upon this scurvy earth.”

“Jeffrey, Jeffrey,” broke in Cicely, “what news of your master? Emlyn,
tell him that we still live. He does not understand.”

“Oh, you still live, do you?” he added slowly. “So the fire could not
burn you after all, or Emlyn either. Well, then, there’s hope for
every one, and perhaps hunger and Abbot Maldon’s knives cannot kill
Christopher Harflete.”

“He lives, then, and is well?”

“He lives and is as well as a man may be after a three days’ fast in a
black dungeon that is somewhat damp. Here’s a writing on the matter for
the captain of this company,” and, taking a letter from the folds of the
white flag in which it had been fastened, he handed it to Bolle, who, as
he could not read, passed it on to Jacob Smith. Just then a lad brought
the ale for which Jeffrey had asked, and with it a platter of cold meat
and bread, on which he fell like a famished hound, drinking in great
gulps and devouring the food almost without chewing it.

“By the saints, you are starved, Jeffrey,” said a yeoman who stood by.
“Come with me and shift those wet clothes of yours, or you will take
harm,” and he led him off, still eating, to a tent that stood near by.

Meanwhile, Jacob, having studied the letter with bent and anxious brows,
read it aloud. It ran thus--


“To the Captain of the King’s men, from Clement, Abbot of Blossholme.

“By what warrant I know not you besiege us here, threatening this Abbey
and its Religious with fire and sword. I am told that Cicely Foterell
is your leader. Say, then, to that escaped witch that I hold the man
she calls her husband, and who is the father of her base-born child,
a prisoner. Unless this night she disperses her troop and sends me a
writing signed and witnessed, promising indemnity on behalf of the King
for me and those with me for all that we may have done against him and
his laws, or privately against her, and freedom to go where we will
without pursuit or hindrance or loss of land or chattels, know that
to-morrow at the dawn we put to death Christopher Harflete, Knight, in
punishment of the murders and other crimes that he has committed against
us, and in proof thereof his body shall be hung from the Abbey tower. If
otherwise we will leave him unharmed here where you shall find him after
we have gone. For the rest, ask his servant, Jeffrey Stokes, whom we
send to you with this letter.

“Clement, Abbot.”


Jacob finished reading and a silence fell upon all who listened.

“Let us go to some private place and consider this matter,” said Emlyn.

“Nay,” broke in Cicely, “it is I, who in my lord’s absence, hold the
King’s commission and I will be heard. Thomas Bolle, first send a man
under flag to the Abbot, saying, that if aught of harm befalls Sir
Christopher Harflete I’ll put every living soul within the Abbey walls
to death by sword or rope, and stand answerable for it to the King.
Set it in writing, Master Smith, and send with it copy of the King’s
commission for my warrant. At once, let it be done at once.”

So they went to a cottage near by, which Bolle used as a guard-house,
where this stern message was written down, copied out fair, signed by
Cicely and by Bolle, as captain, with Jacob Smith for witness. This
paper, together with a copy of the King’s commissions, Cicely with her
own hand gave to a bold and trusty man, charged to ask an answer, who
departed, carrying the white flag and wearing a steel shirt beneath his
doublet, for fear of treachery.

When he had gone they sent for Jeffrey, who arrived clad in dry garments
and still eating, for his hunger was that of a wolf.

“Tell us all,” said Cicely.

“It will be a long story if I begin at the beginning, Lady. When your
worshipful father, Sir John, and I rode away from Shefton on the day of
his murder----”

“Nay, nay,” interrupted Cicely, “that may stand, we have no time. My
lord and you escaped from Lincoln, did you not, and, as we saw, were
taken in the forest?”

“Aye, Lady. Some tricksy spirit called out with your voice and he heard
and pulled rein, and so they came on to us and overwhelmed us, though
without hurt as it chanced. Then they brought us to the Abbey and thrust
us into that accursed dungeon, where, save for a little bread and water,
we have starved for three days in the dark. That is all the tale.”

“How, then, did you come out, Jeffrey?”

“Thus, my Lady. Something over an hour ago a monk and three guards
unlocked the dungeon door. While we blinked at his lantern, like owls
in the sunlight, the monk said that the Abbot purposed to send me to the
camp of the King’s party to offer Christopher Harflete’s life against
the lives of all of them. He told him, Harflete, also, that he had
brought ink and paper and that if he wished to save himself he would do
well to write a letter praying that this offer might be accepted, since
otherwise he would certainly die at dawn.”

“And what said my husband?” asked Cicely, leaning forward.

“What said he? Why, he laughed in their faces and told them that first
he would cut off his hand. On this they haled me out of the dungeon
roughly enough, for I would have stayed there with him to the end. But
as the door closed he shouted after me, ‘Tell the King’s officers to
burn this rats’ nest and take no heed of Christopher Harflete, who
desires to die!’”

“Why does he desire to die?” asked Cicely again.

“Because he thinks his wife dead, Mistress, as I did, and believes that
in the forest he heard her voice calling him to join her.”

“Oh God! oh God!” moaned Cicely; “I shall be his death.”

“Not so,” answered Jeffrey. “Do you know so little of Christopher
Harflete that you think he would sell the King’s cause to gain his own
life? Why, if you yourself came and pleaded with him he would thrust you
away, saying, ‘Get thee behind me, Satan!’”

“I believe it, and I am proud,” muttered Cicely. “If need be, let
Harflete die, we’ll keep his honour and our own lest he should live to
curse us. Go on.”

“Well, they led me to the Abbot, who gave me that letter which you have,
and bade me take it and tell the case to whoever commanded here. Then he
lifted up his hand and, laying it on the crucifix about his neck, swore
that this was no idle threat, but that unless his terms were taken,
Harflete should hang from the tower top at to-morrow’s dawn, adding,
though I knew not what he meant, ‘I think you’ll find one yonder who
will listen to that reasoning.’ Now he was dismissing me when a soldier
said--

“‘Is it wise to free this Stokes? You forget, my Lord Abbot, that he
is alleged to have witnessed a certain slaying yonder in the forest and
will bear evidence.’ ‘Aye,’ answered Maldon, ‘I had forgotten who in
this press remembered only that no other man would be believed. Still,
perhaps it would be best to choose a different messenger and to silence
this fellow at once. Write down that Jeffrey Stokes, a prisoner, strove
to escape and was killed by the guards in self-defence. Take him hence
and let me hear no more.’

“Now my blood went cold, although I strove to look as careless as a man
may on an empty stomach after three days in the dark, and cursed him
prettily in Spanish to his face. Then, as they were haling me off,
Brother Martin--do you remember him? he was our companion in some
troubles over-seas--stepped forward out of the shadow and said, ‘Of what
use is it, Abbot, to stain your soul with so foul a murder? Since John
Foterell died the King has many things to lay to your account, and any
one of them will hang you. Should you fall into his hands, he’ll not
hark back to Foterell’s death, if, indeed, you were to blame in that
matter.’

“‘You speak roughly, Brother,’ answered the Abbot; ‘and acts of war are
not murder, though perchance afterwards you might say they were, to
save your own skin, or others might. Well, if so, there’s wisdom in your
words. Touch not the man. Give him the letter and thrust him into the
moat to swim it. His lies can make no odds in the count against us.’

“Well, they did so, and I came here, as you saw, to find you living,
and now I understand why Maldon thought that Harflete’s life is worth so
much,” and, having done his tale, once more Jeffrey began to eat.

Cicely looked at him, they all looked at him--this gaunt, fierce man
who, after many other sorrows and strivings, had spent three days in a
black dungeon with the rats, fed upon water and a few fingers of black
bread. Yes; with the crawling rats and another man so dear to one of
them, who still sat in that horrid hole, waiting to be hung like a felon
at the dawn. The silence, with only Jeffrey’s munching to break it, grew
painful, so that all were glad when the door opened and the messenger
whom they had sent to the Abbey appeared. He was breathless, having run
fast, and somewhat disturbed, perhaps because two arrows were sticking
in his back, or rather in his jerkin, for the mail beneath had stopped
them.

“Speak,” said old Jacob Smith; “what is your answer?”

“Look behind me, master, and you will find it,” replied the man. “They
set a ladder across the moat and a board on that, over which a priest
tripped to take my writing. I waited a while, till presently I heard a
voice hail me from the gateway tower, and, looking up, saw Abbot Maldon
standing there, with a face like that of a black devil.

“‘Hark you, knave,’ he said to me, ‘get you gone to the witch,
Cicely Foterell, and to the recreant monk, Bolle, whom I curse and
excommunicate from the fellowship of Holy Church, and tell them to watch
for the first light of dawn, for by it, somewhat high up, they’ll see
Christopher Harflete hanging black against the morning sky!’

“On hearing this I lost my caution, and hallooed back--

“‘If so, ere to-morrow’s nightfall you shall keep him company, every
one of you, black against the evening sky, except those who go to be
quartered at Tower Hill and Tyburn.’ Then I ran and they shot at me,
hitting once or twice, but, though old, the mail was good, and here am
I, unhurt except for bruises.”



A while later Cicely, Jacob Smith, Thomas Bolle, Jeffrey Stokes, and
Emlyn Stower sat together taking counsel--very earnest counsel, for the
case was desperate. Plan after plan was brought forward and set aside
for this reason or for that, till at length they stared at each other
emptily.

“Emlyn,” exclaimed Cicely at last, “in past days you were wont to be
full of comfortable words; have you never a one in this extreme?” for
all the while Emlyn had sat silent.

“Thomas,” said Emlyn, looking up, “do you remember when we were children
where we used to catch the big carp in the Abbey moat?”

“Aye, woman,” he answered; “but what time is this for fishing stories of
many years ago? As I was saying, of that tunnel underground there is no
hope. Beyond the grove it is utterly caved in and blocked--I’ve tried
it. If we had a week, perhaps----”

“Let her be,” broke in Jacob; “she has something to tell us.”

“And do you remember,” went on Emlyn, “that you told me that there
the carp were so big and fat because just at this place ‘neath the
drawbridge the Abbey sewer--the big Abbey sewer down which all foul
things are poured--empties itself into the moat, and that therefore I
would eat none of those fish, even in Lent?”

“Aye, I remember. What of it?”

“Thomas, did I hear you say that the powder you sent for had come?”

“Yes, an hour ago; six kegs, by the carrier’s van, of a hundredweight
each. Not so much as we hoped for, but something, though, as the cannon
has not come--for the King’s folk had none--it is of no use.”

“A dark night, a ladder with a plank on it, a brick arched drain, two
hundredweight, or better still, four of powder set beneath the gate,
a slow-match and a brave man to fire it--taken together with God’s
blessing, these things might do much,” mused Emlyn, as though to
herself.

Now at length they took her point.

“They’d be listening like a cat for a mouse,” said Bolle.

“I think the wind rises,” she answered; “I hear it in the trees. I think
presently it will blow a gale. Also, lanterns might be shown at the back
where the breach is, and men might shout there, as though preparing to
attack. That would draw them off. Meanwhile Jeffrey Stokes and I would
try our luck with the ladder and the kegs of powder--he to roll and I
to fire when the time came, for being, as you have heard, a witch, I
understand how to humour brimstone.”



Ten minutes later, and their plans were fixed. Two hours later, and,
in the midst of a raving gale, hidden by the pitchy darkness and the
towering screen of the lifted drawbridge, Emlyn and the strong Jeffrey
rolled the kegs of powder over planks laid across the moat, into the
mouth of the big drain and twenty feet down it, till they lay under the
gateway towers! Then, lying there in the stinking filth, they drew the
spigots out of holes that they had made in them, and in their place set
the slow-matches. Jeffrey struck a flint, blew the tinder to a glow, and
handed it to Emlyn.

“Now get you gone,” she said; “I follow. At this job one is better than
two.”

A minute later she joined him on the farther bank of the moat. “Run!”
 she said. “Run for your life; there’s death behind!”

He obeyed, but Emlyn turned and screamed, till, hearing her through the
gale, all the guard hurried up the towers, flashing lanterns, to see
what passed.

“_Storm! storm!_” she cried. “_Up with the ladders! For the King and
Harflete! Storm! storm!_”

Then she too turned and fled.




CHAPTER XVIII
OUT OF THE SHADOWS


Through the black night sudden and red there shot a sheet of fire
illumining all things as lightning does. Above the roaring of the gale
there echoed a dull and heavy noise like to that of muffled thunder.
Then after a moment’s pause and silence the sky rained stones, and with
them the limbs of men.

“The gateway’s gone,” shouted a great voice, it was that of Bolle. “Out
with the ladders!”

Men who were waiting ran up with them and thrust them, four in all,
athwart the moat. By the planks that were lashed along their staves
they scrambled across and over the piles of shattered masonry into the
courtyard beyond where none waited them, for all who watched here were
dead or maimed.

“Light the lanterns,” shouted Bolle again, “for it will be dark in
yonder,” and a man who followed with a torch obeyed him.

Then they rushed across the courtyard to the door of the refectory,
which stood open. Here in the wide, high-roofed hall they met the mass
of Maldon’s people pouring back from the faggoted breach, where they had
been gathered, expecting attack, some of them also bearing lanterns. For
a moment the two parties stood staring at each other; then followed
a wild and savage scene. With shouts and oaths and battle-cries they
fought furiously. The massive, oaken tables were overthrown, by the red
flicker of the pole-borne lanterns men grappled and fell and slew
each other upon the floor. A priest struck down a yeoman with a brazen
crucifix, and next moment himself was brained with its broken shaft.

“For God and Grace!” shouted some; “For the King and Harflete!” answered
others.

“Keep line! Keep line!” roared Bolle, “and sweep them out.”

The lanterns were dashed down and extinguished till but one remained,
a red and wavering star. Hoarse voices shouted for light, for none knew
friend from foe. It came; some one had fired the tapestries and the
blaze ran up them to the roof. Then fearing lest they should be roasted,
the Abbot’s folk gave way and fled to the farther door, followed by
their foes. Here it was that most of them fell, for they jammed in the
doorway and were cut down there or on the stair beyond.

While Bolle still plied his axe fiercely, some one caught his arm and
screamed into his ear--

“Let be! Let be! The wretch is sped.”

In his red wrath he turned to strike the speaker, and saw by the flare
that it was Cicely.

“What do you here?” he cried. “Get gone.”

“Fool,” she answered in a low, fierce voice, “I seek my husband. Show me
the path ere it be too late, you know it alone. Come, Jeffrey Stokes, a
lantern, a lantern!”

Jeffrey appeared, sword in one hand and lantern in the other, and with
him Emlyn, who also held a sword which she had plucked from a fallen
man, Emlyn still foul with the filth of the sewer and the mud of the
moat.

“I may not leave,” muttered Thomas Bolle. “I seek Maldon.”

“On to the dungeons,” shrieked Emlyn, “or I will stab you. I heard them
give word to kill Harflete.”

Then he snatched the light from Jeffrey’s hand, and crying “Follow me,”
 rushed along a passage till they came to an open door and beyond it to
stairs. They descended the stairs and passed other passages which ran
underground, till a sudden turn to the right brought them to a little
walled-in place with a vaulted roof. Two torches flared in iron holders
in the masonry, and by the light of them they saw a strange and fearful
sight.

At the end of the open place a heavy, nail-studded door stood wide,
revealing a cell, or rather a little cave beyond--those who are curious
can see it to this day. Fastened by a chain to the wall of this dungeon
was a man, who held in his hand a three-legged stool and tugged at his
chain like a maddened beast. In front of him, holding the doorway, stood
a tall, lank priest, his robe tucked up into his girdle. He was wounded,
for blood poured from his shaven crown and he plied a great sword with
both hands, striking savagely at four men who tried to cut him down. As
Bolle and his party appeared, one of these men fell beneath the priest’s
blows, and another took his place, shouting--

“Out of the way, traitor. We would kill Harflete, not you.”

“We die or live together, murderers,” answered the priest in a thick,
gasping voice.

At this moment one of them, it was he who had spoken, heard the sound
of the rescuers’ footsteps and glanced back. In an instant he turned and
was running past them like a hare. As he went the light from the lantern
fell upon his face, and Emlyn knew it for that of the Abbot. She struck
at him with the sword she held, but the steel glanced from his mail. He
also struck, but at the lantern, dashing it to the ground.

“Seize him,” screamed Emlyn. “Seize Maldon, Jeffrey,” and at the words
Stokes bounded away, only to return presently, having lost him in the
dark passages. Then with a roar Bolle leaped upon the two remaining
men-at-arms as they faced about, and very soon between his axe and
the sword of the priest behind, they sank to the ground and died still
fighting, who knew they had no hope of quarter.

It was over and done and dreadful silence fell upon the place, the
silence of the dead broken only by the heavy breathing of those who
remained alive. There the wounded monk leaned against the door-post, his
red sword drooping to the floor. There Harflete, the stool still lifted,
rested his weight against the chain and peered forward in amazement,
swaying as though from weakness. And lastly there lay the three slain
men, one of whom still moved a little.

Cicely crept forward; over the dead she went and past the priest till
she stood face to face with the prisoner.

“Come nearer and I will dash out your brains,” he said in a hoarse
voice, for such light as there was came from behind her whom he thought
to be but another of the murderers.

Then at length she found her voice.

“Christopher!” she cried, “Christopher!”

He hearkened, and the stool fell from his hand.

“The Voice again,” he muttered. “Well, ‘tis time. Tarry a while, Wife, I
come, I come!” and he fell back against the wall shutting his eyes.

She leapt to him, and throwing her arms about him kissed his lips, his
poor, bloodless lips. The shut eyes opened.

“Death might be worse,” he said, “but so I knew that we would meet.”

Now Emlyn, seeing some change in his face, snatched one of the torches
from its iron and ran forward, holding it so that the light fell full on
Cicely.

“Oh, Christopher,” she cried, “I am no ghost, but your living wife.”

He heard, he stared, he stared again, then lifted his thin hand and
stroked her hair.

“Oh God,” he exclaimed, “the dead live!” and down he fell in a heap at
her feet.

They thrust Cicely aside, Cicely who stood there shivering, she who
thought he had gone again and this time for ever. With difficulty they
broke the chain whereby he had been held like a kennelled hound, and
bore him, still senseless, up the long passages, Bolle going ahead
as guard and Jeffrey Stokes following after. Behind them came Emlyn
supporting the wounded monk Martin, for it was he and no other who had
saved the life of Christopher.

As they went up towards the stairs they heard a roaring noise.

“Fire!” said Cicely, who knew that sound well, and next instant the
light of it burst upon them and its smoke wrapped them round. The Abbey
was ablaze, and its wide hall in front looked like the mouth of hell.

“Did I not prophesy that it would be so--yonder at Cranwell burning?”
 asked Emlyn, with a fierce laugh.

“Follow me!” shouted Bolle. “Be swift now ere the roof falls and traps
us.”

On they went desperately, leaving the hall on their left, and well for
them was it that Thomas knew the way. One little chamber through which
they passed had already caught, for flakes of fire fell among them from
above and here the smoke was very thick. They were through it, who even
a minute later could never have walked that path and lived. They were
through it and out into the open air by the cloister door, which those
who fled before them had left wide. They reached the moat just where the
breach had been mended with faggots, and mounting on them Bolle shouted
till one of his own men heard him and dropped the bow that he had raised
to shoot him as a rebel. Then planks and ladders were brought, and at
last they escaped from danger and the intolerable heat.



Thus it was that Cicely who lost her love in fire, in fire found him
once again.

For Christopher was not dead as at first they feared. They carried him
to the Priory, and there Emlyn, having felt his heart and found that it
still beat, though faintly, sent Mother Matilda to fetch some of that
Portugal wine of hers which Commissioner Legh had praised. Spoonful by
spoonful she poured it down his throat, till at length he opened his
eyes, though only to shut them again in natural sleep, for the wine had
taken a hold of his starved body and weakened brain. For hour after hour
Cicely sat by him, only rising from time to time to watch the burning of
the great Abbey church, as once she had watched that of its dormers and
farm-steading.

About three in the morning the lead ceased to pour down in a silvery
molten shower, its roofs fell in, and by dawn it was nothing but a
fire-blackened shell much as it remains to-day. Just before daybreak
Emlyn came to her, saying--

“There is one who would speak with you.”

“I cannot see him,” she answered, “I bide by my husband.”

“Yet you should,” said Emlyn, “since but for him you would now have
no husband. The monk Martin, who held off the murderers, is dying and
desires to bid you farewell.”

Then Cicely went to find the man still conscious, but fading away with
the flow of his own blood, which could not be stayed by any skill they
had.

“I have come to thank you,” she murmured, who knew not what else to say.

“Thank me not,” he answered faintly, pausing often between his words,
“who did but strive to repay part of a great debt. Last winter I shared
in awful sin, in obedience, not to my heart, but to my vows. I who was
set to watch the body of your husband found that he lived, and by my
help he was borne away upon a ship. That ship was taken by the Infidels,
and afterwards he and I and Jeffrey served together upon their galleys.
There I fell sick, and your husband nursed me back to life. It was I who
brought you the deeds and wrote the letter which I gave to Emlyn Stower.
My vows still held me fast, and I did no more. This night I broke their
bonds, for when I heard the order given that he should be slain I ran
down before the murderers and fought my best, forgetting that I was a
priest, till at length you came. Let this atone my crimes against my
Country, my King and you that I died for my friend at last, as I am glad
to do who find this world--too difficult.”

“I will tell him if he lives,” sobbed Cicely.

He opened his eyes, which had shut, and answered--

“Oh, he’ll live, he’ll live. You have had many troubles, but, save for
the creep of age and death, they are over. I can see and know.”

Again he shut his eyes and the watchers thought that all was done, till
of a sudden once more he opened them and added in broken tones--

“The Abbot--show him mercy--if you can. He is wicked and cruel, but I
have been his confessor and know his heart. He strove for a good end--by
an evil road. Queen Catherine was the King’s lawful wife. To seize the
monasteries is shameless theft. Also his blood is not English; he sees
otherwise, and serves the Pope as I do, and Spain, as I do not. As I
have helped you, help him. Judge not, that ye be not judged. Promise!”
 and he raised himself a little on the bed and looked at her earnestly.

“I promise,” answered Cicely, and as she spoke Martin smiled. Then his
face turned quite grey, all the light went out of his eyes and a moment
later Emlyn threw a linen cloth over his head. It was finished.

Cicely returned to Christopher to find him sitting up in bed drinking a
bowl of broth.

“Oh, my husband, my husband,” she said, casting her arms about him. Then
she took her son and laid him upon his father’s breast.


Three days had gone by and Christopher and Cicely were walking in the
shrubbery of Shefton Hall. By now, although still weak, he was almost
recovered, whose only sickness had been grief and famine, for which
joy and plenty are wonderful medicines. It was evening, a pleasant and
beautiful early winter evening just fading into night. Seated on a bench
he had been telling her his adventures, and they were a moving tale
worthy, as Cicely wrote afterwards in a letter to old Jacob Smith that
is still extant in her fine, quaint handwriting, to be recorded in a
book, though this it would seem was never done.

He told her of the great fight on the ship _Great Yarmouth_, when they
were taken by the two Turkish pirates, and of how bravely Father Martin
bore himself. Afterwards when they came to the galleys, by good fortune
Martin, Jeffrey and he served on the same bench. Then Martin fell sick
of some Southern fever, and being in port at Tunis at the time, where
they could get fruit, they nursed him back to life and strength. Four
months later the Emperor Charles attacked Tunis, and when it fell,
through God’s mercy, they were rescued with the other Christian slaves,
after which Martin returned to England taking old Sir John’s writings to
be delivered to his next heir, for they all believed Cicely to be dead.

But Christopher and Jeffrey, having nothing to seek at home, stayed to
fight with the Spaniards against the Turks, who had oppressed them so
sorely. When that war was over they made their way back to England,
not knowing where else to go and having a score to settle against the
Spanish Abbot of Blossholme, and--well, she knew the rest.

Aye, answered Cicely, she knew it and never would forget it, but it
was chill for him sitting on that bench, he must come in. Christopher
laughed at her, and answered--

“Sweetheart, if you could have seen the bench on which it was my lot
to sit yonder off the coast of Africa, but new recovered from the wound
which I had of Maldon’s men at Cranwell Towers, you would not be anxious
for me here. There for six long months chained to Jeffrey and to Father
Martin, for it pleased those heathen devils to keep the three of us
together, perhaps that they might watch us better, through the hot days
that scorched us, and the chill, wet nights, we laboured at our oars,
while infidel overseers ran up and down the boards and thrashed us with
their whips of hide. Yes,” he added slowly, “they thrashed us as though
we were oxen in a yoke. You have seen the scars upon my back.”

“Oh, God! to think of it,” she murmured; “you, a noble Englishman,
beaten by those savage wretches like a brute? How did you bear it,
Christopher?”

“I know not, Wife. I think that had it not been for that angel in man’s
form, the priest Martin--peace be to his noble soul--that angel who
thrice at least has saved my life, I should have dashed out my brains
against the thwarts, or starved myself to death, or provoked the Moors
to kill me; I, who, thinking you dead, had no hope to live for. But
Martin taught me otherwise; he preached patience and submission,
saying that I did not suffer for nothing--of his own miseries he never
spoke--and that he was sure that fearful as was my lot, all things
worked together for good to me.”

“And therefore it was that you lived on, Husband? Oh! I’ll build a
shrine to that saint Martin.”

“Not altogether, dear. I’ll tell you true; I lived for
vengeance--vengeance on Clement Maldon, the man, or the devil, who
wrought me all this ill, and, being yet young, made me old with grief
and pain,” and he pointed to his scarred forehead and the hair above,
that was now grizzled with white, “and vengeance, too, upon those
worshippers of Mohammed, my masters. Yes; though Martin reproved me
when I made confession to him, I think it was for that I lived, and the
saints know,” he added grimly, “afterwards at the sack, and elsewhere,
I took it on the Turks. Oh! you should have seen the last meeting of
Jeffrey and myself with the captain of that galley and his officers who
had so often beaten us. No, I am glad you did not see it, for it was
fierce and bloody; even the hard-hearted Spaniards stared.”

He paused, and perhaps to change the current of his mind--for during all
his after-life, when Christopher brooded on these things he grew gloomy
for hours, and even days--Cicely said hurriedly--

“I wonder what has chanced to our enemy, the Abbot. The search has been
close, the roads are watched, and we know that he had none with him, for
all his foreign soldiers are slain or taken. I think he must be dead in
the fire, Christopher.”

He shook his head.

“A devil does not die in fire. He is away somewhere, to plot fresh
murders--perhaps our own and our boy’s. Oh!” he added savagely, “till
my hands are about his throat and my dagger is in his heart there’s no
peace for me, who have a score to pay and you both to guard.”

Cicely knew not what to answer; indeed, when this mood was on him it
was hard to reason with Christopher, who had suffered so fearfully, and,
like herself, been saved but by a miracle or the mandate of Heaven.

Of a sudden a hush fell upon the place. The blackbirds ceased their
winter chatter in the laurels; it grew so still that they heard a dead
leaf drop to the ground. The night was at hand. One last red ray from
the set sun struck across the frosty sky and was reflected to the earth.
In the light of that ray Christopher’s trained eyes caught the gleam of
something white that moved in the shadow of the beech tree where they
sat. Like a tiger he sprang at it, and the next moment haled out a man.

“Look,” he said, twisting the head of his captive so that the glow fell
on it. “Look; I have the snake. Ah! Wife, you saw nothing, but I saw
him, and here he is at last--at last!”

“The Abbot!” gasped Cicely.

The Abbot it was indeed, but oh! how changed. His plump, olive-coloured
countenance had shrunk to that of a skeleton still covered by yellow
skin, in which the dark eyes rolled bloodshot and unnaturally large.
His tonsure and jaws showed a growth of stubbly grey hair, his frame had
become weak and small, his soft and delicate hands resembled those of a
woman dead of some wasting disease, and, like his garments, were clogged
with dirt. The mail shirt he wore hung loose upon him; one of his shoes
was gone, and the toes peeped through his stockinged foot. He was but a
living misery.

“Deliver your arms,” growled Christopher, shaking him as a terrier
shakes a rat, “or you die. Do you yield? Answer!”

“How can he,” broke in Cicely, “when you have him by the throat?”

Christopher loosed his grip of the man’s windpipe, and instead seized
his wrists, whereon the Abbot drew a great breath, for he was almost
choked, and fell to his knees, in weakness, not in supplication.

“I came to you for mercy,” he said presently, “but, having overheard
your talk, know that I can hope for none. Indeed, why should I, who
showed none, and whose great cause seems dead, that cause for which I
fought and lived? Let me die with it. I ask no more. Still, you are a
gentleman, and therefore I beg a favour of you. Do not hand me over to
be drawn, hanged and quartered by your brute-king. Kill me now. You can
say that I attacked you, and that you did it in self-defence. I have no
arms, but you may set a dagger in my hand.”

Christopher looked down at the poor creature huddled at his feet and
laughed.

“Who would believe me?” he asked; “though, indeed, who would question,
seeing that your life is forfeit to me or any who can take it? Yet that
is a matter of which the King’s Justices shall judge.”

Maldon shivered. “Drawn, hanged and quartered,” he repeated beneath
his breath. “Drawn, hanged and quartered as a traitor to one I never
served!”

“Why not?” asked Christopher. “You have played a cruel game, and lost.”

He made no answer; indeed, it was Cicely who spoke, saying--

“How came you in such a case? We thought you fled.”

“Lady,” he answered, “I’ve starved for three days and nights in a hole
in the ground like an earthed-up fox; a culvert in your garden hid me.
At last I crept out to see the light and die, and heard you talking,
and thought that I would ask for mercy, since mortal extremity has no
honour.”

“Mercy!” said Cicely. “Of your treasons I say nothing, for you are not
English, and serve your own king, who years ago sent you here to plot
against England. But look on this man, my husband. Did he not starve
for three days and nights in your strong dungeon ere you came thither to
massacre him? Did you not strive to burn him in his Hall, and ship him
wounded across the seas to doom? Did you not send your assassin to kill
my babe, who stood between you and the wealth you needed for your plots,
and bind me, the mother, to the stake--a food for fire? Did you not
shoot down my father in the wood, fearing lest he should prove you
traitor, and after rob me of my heritage? Did you not compel your monks
to work evil and bring some of them to their deaths? Oh! have done! Worm
dressed up as God’s priest, how can you writhe there and ask for mercy?”

“I said I _came_ to seek for mercy because the agony of sleepless hunger
drove me, who _now_ seek only death. Insult not the fallen, Cicely
Foterell, but take the vengeance that is your due, and kill,” replied
the Abbot, looking up at her with his hollow eyes, adding, with a laugh
that sounded like a groan, “Come, Sir Christopher; you have got a sword,
and it is time you went to supper. The air is cold; your wife--if such
she be--said it but now.”

“Cicely,” said Christopher, “go to the Hall and summon Jeffrey Stokes.
Emlyn will know where to find him.”

“Emlyn!” groaned the Abbot. “Give me not over to Emlyn. She’d torture
me.”

“Nay,” said Christopher, “this is not Blossholme Abbey; though what may
chance in London I know not. Go now, Wife.”

But Cicely did not stir; she only stared at the wretched creature at her
feet.

“I bid you go,” repeated Christopher.

“And I’ll not obey,” she answered. “Do you remember what I promised
Martin ere he died?”

“Martin dead! Is Martin, who saved your husband, dead?” exclaimed the
Abbot, lifting his face and letting it fall again. “Happy Martin, to be
dead.”

“I was not there, and I am not bound by your promises, Cicely.”

“But I am, and you and I are one. I vowed mercy to this man if he should
fall into our power, and mercy he shall have.”

“Then you spare him to destroy us. The wheels go round quick in England,
Wife.”

“So be it. What I vowed, I vowed. With God be the rest. He has watched
us well heretofore, and I think,” she added, with one of her bursts of
triumphant faith, “will do so to the end. Abbot Maldon, sinful, fallen
Abbot Maldon, you are as you were made, and Martin, the saint, said that
there is good in your heart, though you have shown none of it to me or
mine. Now, look you; yonder is a wooden summer-house, thatched and warm.
Get you there, and I’ll send you food and wine and new clothing by one
who will not talk; also a pass to Lincoln. By to-morrow’s dawn you will
be refreshed, and then you will find a good horse tied to yonder tree,
and so away to sanctuary at Lincoln, and, if aught of ill befalls you
afterwards, know it is not our doing, but that of some other enemy, or
of God, with Whom I pray you make your peace. May He forgive you, as
I do, Who knows all hearts, which I do not. Now, farewell. Nay, say
nothing. There is nothing to be said. Come, Christopher, for this once
you obey me, not I you.”

So they went, and the wretched man raised himself upon his hands and
looked after them, but what passed in his heart at that moment none will
ever learn.



Some months had gone by and Blossholme, with all the country round,
was once more at peace. The tide of trouble had rolled away northward,
whence came rumours of renewed rebellion. Abbot Maldon had been seen
no more, and for a while it was believed that although he never took
sanctuary at Lincoln, he had done a wiser thing and fled to Spain. Then
Emlyn, who heard everything, got news that this was not so, but that
he was foremost among those who stirred up sedition and war along the
Scottish border.

“I can well believe it,” said Cicely. “The sow must to its wallowing in
the mire. Nature made him a plotter, and he will follow his heart to the
end.”

“Ere long he may find it hard to follow his head,” answered Emlyn
grimly. “Oh, to think that you had that wolf caged and turned him loose
again to prey on England and on us!”

“I did but show mercy to the fallen, Nurse.”

“Mercy? I call it madness. Why, when Jeffrey and Thomas heard of it I
thought they would burst with rage, especially Jeffrey, who loved your
father well and loved not the infidel galleys,” answered the fierce
Emlyn.

“Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord,” murmured Cicely in a
gentle voice.

“The Lord also said that whoso sheddeth man’s blood by man shall his
blood be shed. Why, I’ve heard this Maldon quote it to your husband at
Cranwell Towers.”

“So will it be, Emlyn, if so it is to be, only let others shed that
cruel blood. I would not have it on my hands or on those of any of my
house, for after all he is an ordained priest of my own faith. Moreover,
I had promised. Still, talk not of the matter lest it should bring
trouble on us all, who had no right to loose him. Also these are ill
thoughts for your wedding day. Go, deck yourself in those fine clothes
which Jacob Smith has sent from London, since the clergyman will be
at Blossholme church by four, and I think that Thomas has waited long
enough for you.”

Emlyn smiled a little, and shrugged her broad shoulders, muttering
something that would have angered Thomas if he could have heard it,
as Cicely went off to join Christopher, who called to her from another
room.

She found him adding up figures on paper, a very different Christopher
to the broken man they had rescued from the dungeon, though still much
aged by the terrors of the past year and just now looking rueful.

“See, Sweet,” he said, “we should give a marriage portion to Emlyn, who
has earned it if ever woman did, but where it is to come from I know
not. Those Abbey lands Jacob Smith bought from the King are not yours
yet, nor Henry’s either, though doubtless he will have them soon.
Neither have any rents been paid to you from your own estates, and when
they come they are promised up in London, while the Abbot’s razor has
shaved my own poor parsimony bare as a churchyard skull. Also Mother
Matilda and her nuns must be kept till we can endow them with their
lands again. One day we, or our boy yonder, may be rich, but till it
comes there are hard times for all of us.”

“Not so hard as some we have known, Husband,” she answered, laughing,
“for at least we are free and have food to eat, and for the rest we will
borrow from Jacob Smith on the jewels that remain over. Indeed, I have
written to him and he will not refuse.”

“Aye, but how about Thomas and Emlyn?”

“They must do as their betters do. Though there is little stock on it,
Thomas has the Manor Farm at low rent, which he may pay when he can,
while Jacob put a present in the pocket of Emlyn’s wedding dress. What’s
more, I think he will make her his heir, and if so she will be rich
indeed, so rich that I shall have to curtsey to her. Now, go make ready
for this marriage, and as you have no fine doublet, bid Jeffrey put on
your mail, for you look best in that, or so at least I think, who to my
mind look best in anything you chance to wear.”

Then while he demurred, saying that there was now no need to bear arms
in Blossholme, also that Jeffrey was away settling himself as landlord
of the Ford Inn, the same that the Abbot had once promised to Flounder
Megges, she kissed him, and seizing her boy, who lay crowing in the
sunlight, danced with him from the room. For oh, Cicely’s heart was
merry.



There were many folk at the marriage of Emlyn Stower and Thomas Bolle,
for of late Blossholme had been but a sorry place, and this wedding came
to it like the breath of spring to the woods and meads around, a hint
of happiness after the miseries of winter. The story of the pair had got
about also. How they had been pledged in youth and separated by scheming
men for their own purposes. How Emlyn had been married off against her
will to an aged partner whom she hated, and Thomas, who was set down as
a fool, forced to serve the monastery as a lay-brother, a strong hind
skilled in the management of cattle and such matters, but half crazy, as
indeed it had suited him to feign himself to be.

People knew the end of the thing also; that Emlyn had cursed the Abbot,
and that her curse had been fulfilled. That Thomas Bolle had shaken off
his superstitious fears and risen up against him and at last been given
the commission of the King, and, as his Grace’s officer, shown himself
no fool but a man of mettle who had taken the Abbey by storm and
rescued Sir Christopher Harflete from its dungeons. Emlyn also, like her
mistress, had been bound to the stake as a witch, and saved from burning
by this same Thomas, who with her had been concerned in many remarkable
events whereof the countryside was full of tales, true or false. Now at
last after all these adventures they came together to be wed, and who
was there for ten miles round that would not see it done?

The monks being gone Father Roger Necton, the old vicar of Cranwell, he
who had united Christopher and his wife Cicely in strange circumstances,
and for that deed been obliged to fly for his life when the last Abbot
of Blossholme burned Cranwell Towers, came to tie the knot before his
great congregation. Notwithstanding that they were both of middle
age, Emlyn in her grand gown and the brawny, red-haired Thomas in his
yeoman’s garb of green, such as he had worn when he wooed her many years
before he put on the monk’s russet robe, made a fine and handsome pair
at the altar. Or so folk thought, though some friend of the monks,
remembering Bolle’s devil’s livery and Emlyn’s repute as a sorceress,
cried out from the shadow that Satan was marrying a witch, and for his
pains got his head broken by Jeffrey Stokes.

So the white-haired and gentle Father Necton, having first read the
King’s order releasing Thomas from his vows, tied them fast according to
the ancient rites and blessed them both. At length it was finished, and
the pair walked from the old church to the Manor Farm, where they were
to dwell, followed, as was the custom, by a company of their friends
and well-wishers. As they went they passed through a little stretch of
woodland by the stream, where on this spring day the wild daffodils and
lilies of the valley were abloom making sweet the air. Here Emlyn paused
a moment and said to her husband, Captain Bolle--

“Do you remember this place?”

“Aye, Wife,” he answered, “it was here that we plighted our troth in
youth, and looked up to see Maldon passing us just beyond that same oak,
and felt the shadow of him strike cold to our hearts. You spoke of it
yonder in the Priory chapel when I came up by the secret way, and its
memory made me mad.”

“Yes, Thomas, I spoke of it,” answered Emlyn in a rich and gentle
voice, a new voice to him. “Well, now let its memory make you happy, as,
notwithstanding all my faults, I will if I can,” and swiftly she bent
towards him and kissed him, adding, “Come on, Husband, they press behind
us and I hope that we have done with perils and plottings.”

“Amen,” answered Bolle, and as he spoke certain strange men who wore
the King’s colours and carried a long ladder went by them at a distance.
Wondering what was their business at Blossholme, the pair passed through
the last of the woodland and reached the rise whence they could see the
gaunt skeleton of the burnt-out Abbey that appeared within fifty paces
of them. At this they paused to look, and presently were joined there
by Christopher and Cicely, Mother Matilda and her good nuns, Jeffrey
Stokes, and others. The place seemed grim and desolate in the evening
light, and all of them stood staring at it filled with their separate
thoughts.

“What is that?” said Cicely, with a start, pointing to a round black
object new set over the ruin of the gateway tower.

Just then a red ray from the sunset struck upon the thing.

It was the severed head of Clement Maldon the Spaniard.