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!”