“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,