CHAPTER III
A WEDDING
About noon of the day after that upon which Sir John had come to hisdeath, Cicely Foterell sat at her meal in Shefton Hall. Not much of therough midwinter fare passed her lips, for she was ill at ease. The manshe loved had been dismissed from her because his fortunes were on thewane, and her father had gone upon a journey which she felt, rather thanknew, to be very dangerous. The great old hall was lonesome, also, for ayoung girl who had no comrades near. Sitting there in the big room, shebethought her how different it had been in her childhood, before somefoul sickness, of which she knew not the name or nature, had sweptaway her mother, her two brothers, and her sister all in a single week,leaving her untouched. Then there were merry voices about the housewhere now was silence, and she alone, with naught bout a spaniel dog forcompany. Also most of the men were away with the wains laden with theyear's clip of wool, which her father had held until the price hadheightened, nor in this snow would they be back for another week, orperhaps longer.
Oh! her heart was heavy as the winter clouds without, and young and fairas she might be, almost she wished that she had gone when her brotherswent, and found her peace.
To cheer her spirits she drank from a cup of spiced ale, that themanservant had placed beside her covered with a napkin, and was gladof its warmth and comfort. Just then the door opened, and herfoster-mother, Mrs. Stower, entered. She was still a handsome woman inher prime, for her husband had been carried off by a fever when she wasbut nineteen, and her baby with him, whereon she had been brought tothe Hall to nurse Cicely, whose mother was very ill after her birth.Moreover, she was tall and dark, with black and flashing eyes, for herfather had been a Spaniard of gentle birth, and, it was said, gypsyblood ran in her mother's veins.
There were but two people in the world for whom Emlyn Stowercared--Cicely, her foster-child, and a certain playmate of hers, oneThomas Bolle, now a lay-brother at the Abbey who had charge of thecattle. The tale was that in their early youth he had courted her, notagainst her will, and that when, after her parents' tragic deaths, as award 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 lowestdegree, being but a yeoman of good stock though of little learning.
Something in the woman's manner attracted Cicely's attention, and gave ahint of tragedy. She paused at the door, fumbling with its latch,which was not her way, then turned and stood upright against it, like apicture in its frame.
"What is it, Nurse?" asked Cicely in a shaken voice. "From your look youbear tidings."
Emlyn Stower walked forward, rested one hand upon the oak table andanswered--
"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 hisname."
"I know it, Emlyn; Thomas Bolle," she whispered back.
"A friend of mine," repeated the tall, dark woman, "told me that SirJohn Foterell, your sire, was murdered last night in the forest by agang 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 suchas they make there. Jeffrey Stokes was hunted, but escaped on to someship 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 hadseen too much and to linger here was certain death, if he lived, hewould return from over-seas with the papers when the times are safer. Heprayed 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 Londonand 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 brownhair with her strong hand. "These things are decreed of God, and donewith. Now you must look to yourself. Your father is gone, but oneremains."
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? Yournursing days are over. What did you tell me your father said to youbefore 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 itwould be thought strange indeed that at such a time I should visit a manin his own house. Send and tell him the tidings. I bide here to bury myfather, 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 theBlossholme lands under some trick of law. It was as to them that yourfather quarrelled with him the other night; and with the land goes yourwardship, as once mine went under this monk's charter. Before sunset theAbbot rides here with his men-at-arms to take them, and to set you forsafe-keeping in the Nunnery, where you will find a husband called HolyChurch."
"Name of God! is it so?" said Cicely, springing up; "and the most of themen are away! I cannot hold the Hall against that foreign Abbot and hishirelings, and an orphaned heiress is but a chattel to be sold. Oh!now I understand what my father meant. Order horses. I'll off toChristopher. Yet, stay, Nurse. What will he do with me? It may seemshameless, 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 waitand 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 cometo learn the meaning of these rumours, which will keep him still tillnightfall; and another to Cranwell Towers, that we may find food andlodging there. Quick, now, and get your cloak and hood. I have thejewels 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-girlmake a pack of some garments. Come now, come, for that Abbot is hungryand will be stirring. There is no time for talk."
The Lady of Blossholme Page 5