“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