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