Two hours had gone by. The Abbot sat in the little room of a cottageat Cranwell that he had occupied during the siege of the Towers. It wasnear midnight, yet, weary as he was, he could not rest; indeed, had thenight been less foul and dark he would have spent the time in ridingback to Blossholme. His heart was ill at ease. Things had gone well withhim, it is true. Sir John Foterell was dead--slain by "outlawedmen;" Sir Christopher Harflete was dead--did not his body lie in theneat-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 theprecious gems and the wide lands he coveted would fall into his lapwithout further trouble. For, Cromwell being bribed, who would try tosnatch them from the powerful Abbot of Blossholme, and had he not atitle to them--of a sort?
And yet he was very ill at ease, for, as that voice had said--whosevoice was it? he wondered, somehow it seemed familiar--the blood ofthese people lay on his head; and there came into his mind the text ofHoly Writ which he had quoted to Christopher, that he who shed man'sblood by man should his blood be shed. Also, although he had paid theVicar-General to back him, monks were in no great favour at the EnglishCourt, and if this story travelled there, as it might, for even thestrengthless dead find friends, it was possible that questions would beasked, questions hard to answer. Before Heaven he could justify himselffor all that he had done, but before King Henry, who would usurp thepowers of the very Pope, if the truth should chance to reach the royalear--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 tookhold of him; he began to wonder how far in the eyes of God above the endjustifies the means. He opened the door of the place, and holding onto 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 hishand--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 doorand 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 itsmokes. There, what did I tell you? If this goes on we shall be hamsby to-morrow morning. Let it be, for, after all, we have seen enough offires to-night, and sit down to a cup of wine--nay, I forgot, you drinkbut water--well, then, to a bite of bread and meat."
"I thank you, my Lord Abbot," answered Martin, "but I may not touchflesh; this is Friday."
"Friday or no we have touched flesh--the flesh of men--up at the Towersyonder 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 rebelliousman 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 wasbrave, 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 waswho did but fight bravely when he was attacked. For without doubt themarriage is good, and whether he should have waited to ask your leaveto make it is a point that might be debated through every court inChristendom."
The Abbot frowned, not appreciating this open and judicial tone inmatters 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 Ibare 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 theintervals of munching at his bread. "You had a quarrel with Sir JohnFoterell about those lands which you say belong to the Abbey. God knowsthe right of it, for I understand no law; but he denied it, for didI not hear it yonder in your chamber at Blossholme? He denied it, andaccused you of treason enough to hang all Blossholme, of which againGod knows the truth. You threatened him in your anger, but he and hisservant were armed and won out, and next day the two of them rode forLondon with certain papers. Well, that night Sir John Foterell waskilled 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 ofour 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 itended otherwise--to my sorrow."
The monk put down his bread, for which he seemed to have no furtherappetite.
"A dreadful deed," he said, "for which one day you must answer to Godand man."
"For which we all must answer," corrected the Abbot, "down to the lastlay-brother and soldier--you as much as any of us, Brother, for were younot present at our quarrel?"
"So be it, Abbot. Being innocent, I am ready. But that is not the endof 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 yourward, flies to her affianced lover, Sir Christopher Harflete, and thatvery day is married to him by the parish priest in yonder church."
"It was no marriage. Due notice had not been given. Moreover, how couldmy 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 openmarriage 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 inMaldon sarcastically. "Well, what does it matter, seeing that death hasvoided it? Husband and wife, if such they were, are both dead; it isfinished."
"No; for now they lay their appeal in the Court of Heaven, to whichevery one of us is summoned; and Heaven can stir up its ministers onearth. Oh! I like it not, I like it not; and I mourn for those two, soloving, brave, and young. Their blood and that of many more is on ourhands--for what? A stretch of upland and of marsh which the King orothers may seize to-morrow."
The Abbot seemed to cower beneath the weight of these sad, earnestwords, and for a little while there was silence. Then he plucked upcourage, and said--
"I am glad that you remember that their blood is on your hands as wellas mine, since now, perhaps, you will keep them hidden."
He rose and walked to the door and the window to see that none werewithout, then returned and exclaimed fiercely--
"Fool, do you then think that these deeds were done to win a newestate? True it is that those lands are ours by right, and we need theirrevenues; but there is more behind. The whole Church of this realm isthreatened 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 kingcalled a son of Belial. His sins, I know, are many and black, like thoseof others--still, 'son of Belial!' Let his Highness hear it, and thatname alone is enough to hang you!"
"Well, then, angel of grace, if it suits you better. At the least we arethreatened. Against the law of God and man our blessed Queen, Catherineof 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 slowpoison; so they say and I believe. Also I have other tidings. Fisher andMore being murdered, Parliament next month will be moved to strike atthe lesser monasteries and steal their goods, and after them our turnwill come. But we will not bear it tamely, for ere this new year is outall England shall be ablaze, and I, Clement Maldon, I--I wil
l light thefire. Now you have the truth, Martin. Will you betray me, as that deadknight would have done?"
"Nay, my Lord Abbot, your secrets are safe with me. Am I not yourchaplain, and does not this wilful and rebellious King of ours work muchmischief against God and His servants? Yet I tell you that I like itnot, and cannot see the end. We English are a stiff-necked folk whom youof Spain do not understand and will never break, and Henry is strong andsubtle; moreover, his people love him."
"I knew that I could trust you, Martin, and the proof of it is that Ihave 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 ourside, as, seeing his blood and faith, he must be. He will avenge thewrongs of the Church and of his royal aunt. I, who know him, am hisagent here, and what I do is done at his bidding. But I must have moremoney than he finds me, and that is why I stirred in this matter of theShefton lands. Also the Lady Cicely had jewels of vast price, though Ifear 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 bribemen and buy arms, to defend that stronghold of Heaven, the Church. Whatmatters 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 yoursoul--aye, and on mine. I loved that girl, whom as a babe I held inmy arms, and even her rough father, I loved him for his honest heart,although he always mistrusted me, the Spaniard--and rightly. The knightHarflete, too, who lies yonder, he was of a brave breed, but not onewho would have served our turn. Well, they are gone, and for theseblood-sheddings we must find absolution."
"If we can."
"Oh! we can, we can. Already I have it in my pouch, under a seal youknow. And for our bodies, fear not. There is such a gale rising inEngland as will blow out this petty breeze. A question of rights,some arrows shot, a fire and lives lost--what of that when it agitatesbetwixt powers temporal and spiritual, and which of them shall hold thesceptre in this mighty Britain? Martin, I have a mission for you thatmay lead you to a bishopric ere all is done, for that's your mind andaim, and if you would put off your doubts and moodiness you've got thebrain to rule. That ship, the _Great Yarmouth_, which sailed for Spainsome days ago, has been beat back into the river, and should weighanchor again to-morrow morning. I have letters for the Spanish Court,and you shall take them with my verbal explanations, which I willgive you presently, for they would hang us, and may not be trustedto writing. She is bound for Seville, but you will follow the Emperorwherever he may be. You will go, won't you?" and he glanced at himsideways.
"I obey orders," answered Martin, "though I know little of Spaniards orof Spanish."
"In every town the Benedictines have a monastery, and in every monasteryinterpreters, and you shall be accredited to them all who are of thatgreat 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 helpdig his grave, for we will bury him at dawn. Now go, go, I tell you Imust write. Come back in an hour, and I will give you money for yourfaring, also my secret messages."
Brother Martin bowed and went.
"A dangerous man," muttered the Abbot, as the door closed on him; "toohonest for our game, and too much an Englishman. That native spiritpeeps 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 himthere a while. Now for my letters," and he sat down at the rude tableand 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 anhour.'"
"Aye, you said that, but I have good news for you that I thought youmight like to hear."
"Out with it, then, man. It's scarce now-a-days. Have they found thosejewels? No, how could they? the place still flares," and he glancedthrough the window-place. "What's the news?"
"Better than jewels. Christopher Harflete is not dead. While I waspraying over him he turned his head and muttered. I think he is onlystunned. You are skilled in medicine; come, look at him."
A minute later and the Abbot knelt over the senseless form ofChristopher where it lay on the filthy floor of the neat-house. By thelight of the lanterns with deft fingers he felt his wounded head, fromwhich the shattered casque had been removed, and afterwards his heartand pulse.
"The skull is cut, but not broken," he said. "My judgment is that thoughhe 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 willbe dead by morning, and perhaps he is better dead," and he looked atMartin.
"That would be murder indeed," answered the secretary. "Come, let usbear 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 ratheras one who has no choice.
Half-an-hour later, when the hurts of Christopher had been dressedwith ointment and bound up, and milk poured down his throat, which heswallowed although he was so senseless, the Abbot, looking at him, saidto 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 notso frightened; I do not purpose to inter him living. But there is a deadman lying in that shed, Andrew Woods, my servant, the Scotch soldierwhom Harflete slew. He has no friends here to claim him, and these twowere of much the same height and breadth. Shrouded in a blanket, nonewould know one body from the other, and it will be thought that Andrewwas buried with the rest. Let him be promoted in his death, and fill aknight'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?" askedMartin, staring at him.
"For a very good purpose, my friend. It is well that Sir ChristopherHarflete should seem to die, who, if he is known to be alive, haspowerful 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 oursick Brother Luiz, who, like myself, is of that country, and desires toreturn 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 ourBrotherhood will show him hospitality at Seville, notwithstanding hiscrimes, and by the time that he reaches England again, which may notbe for a long while, men will have forgotten all this fray in a greaterthat draws on. Nor will he be harmed, seeing that the lady whom hepretends to have married is dead beyond a doubt, as you can tell himshould 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 ina cold, hard voice. "That covered litter which was brought here for thewounded is in the next chamber. Wrap this man in blankets and a monk'srobe, and we will place him in it. Then let him be borne to Blossholmeas one of the dead by brethren who will ask no questions, and ere dawnon to the ship _Great Yarmouth_, if he still lives. It lies near thequay not half-a-mile from the Abbey gate. Be swift now, and help me. Iwill overtake you with the letters, and see that you are furnished withall things needful from our store. Also I must speak with the captainere he weighs anchor. Waste no more time in talking, but obey and besecret."
"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 busine
ss,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!"
The Lady of Blossholme Page 9