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.