CHAPTER VI
EMLYN'S CURSE
Just before the wild dawn broke on the morrow of the burning of theTowers, a corpse, roughly shrouded, was borne from the village into thechurchyard of Cranwell, where a shallow grave had been dug for its lasthome.
"Whom do we bury in such haste?" asked the tall Thomas Bolle, who haddelved the grave alone in the dark, for his orders were urgent, and thesexton was fled away from these tumults.
"That man of blood, Sir Christopher Harflete, who has caused us so muchloss," said the old monk who had been bidden to perform the office, asthe clergyman, Father Necton, had gone also, fearing the vengeance ofthe Abbot for his part in the marriage of Cicely. "A sad story, a verysad story. Wedded by night, and now buried by night, both of them,one in the flame and one in the earth. Truly, O God, Thy judgmentsare wonderful, and woe to those who lift hands against Thine anointedministers!"
"Very wonderful," answered Bolle, as, standing in the grave, he tookthe head of the body and laid it down between his straddled feet; "sowonderful that a plain man wonders what will be the wondrous end ofthem, also why this noble young knight has grown so wondrously lighterthan he used to be. Trouble and hunger in those burnt Towers, I suppose.Why did they not set him in the vault with his ancestors? It would havesaved me a lonely job among the ghosts that haunt this place. What doyou say, Father? Because the stone is cemented down and the entrancebricked up, and there is no mason to be found? Then why not have waitedtill one could be fetched? Oh, it is wonderful, all wonderful. But whoam I that I should dare to ask questions? When the Lord Abbot orders,the lay-brother obeys, for he also is wonderful--a wonderful abbot.
"There, he is tidy now--straight on his back and his feet pointing tothe east, at least I hope so, for I could take no good bearings in thedark; and the whole wonderful story comes to its wonderful end. So giveme your hand out of this hole, Father, and say your prayers over thesinful body of this wicked fellow who dared to marry the maid he loved,and to let out the souls of certain holy monks, or rather of their hiredrufflers, for monks don't fight, because they wished to separate thosewhom God--I mean the devil--had joined together, and to add theirtemporalities to the estate of Mother Church."
Then the old priest, who was shivering with cold, and understood littleof this dark talk, began to mumble his ritual, skipping those partsof it which he could not remember. So another grain was planted in thecornfields of death and immortality, though when and where it shouldgrow and what it should bear he neither knew nor cared, who wished toescape from fears and fightings back to his accustomed cell.
It was done, and he and the bearers departed, beating their way againstthe rough, raw wind, and leaving Thomas Bolle to fill in the grave,which, so long as they were in sight, or rather hearing, he did withmuch vigour. When they were gone, however, he descended into the holeunder pretence of trampling the loose soil, and there, to be out of thewind, sat himself down upon the feet of the corpse and waited, full ofreflections.
"Sir Christopher dead," he muttered to himself. "I knew his grandfatherwhen I was a lad, and my grandfather told me that he knew hisgrandfather's great-grandfather--say three hundred years of them--andnow I sit on the cold toes of the last of the lot, butchered like a madox in his own yard by a Spanish priest and his hirelings, to win hiswife's goods. Oh! yes, it is wonderful, all very wonderful; and the LadyCicely dead, burnt like a common witch. And Emlyn dead--Emlyn, whom Ihave hugged many a time in this very churchyard, before they whipped herinto marrying that fat old grieve and made a monk of me.
"Well, I had her first kiss, and, by the saints! how she cursed oldStower all the way down yonder path. I stood behind that tree and heardher. She said he would die soon, and he did, and his brat with him. Shesaid she would dance on his grave, and she did; I saw her do it in themoonlight the night after he was buried; dressed in white she danced onhis grave! She always kept her promises, did Emlyn. That's her blood.If her mother had not been a gypsy witch, she wouldn't have married aSpaniard when every man in the place was after her for her beautifuleyes. Emlyn is a witch too, or was, for they say she is dead; but Ican't think it, she isn't the sort that dies. Still, she must be dead,and that's good for my soul. Oh! miserable man, what are you thinking?Get behind me, Satan, if you can find room. A grave is no place for you,Satan, but I wish you were in it with me, Emlyn. You _must_ have been awitch, since, after you, I could never fancy any other woman, which isagainst nature, for all's fish that comes to a man's net. Evidently awitch of the worst sort, but, my darling, witch or no I wish you weren'tdead, and I'll break that Abbot's neck for you yet, if it costs me mysoul. Oh! Emlyn, my darling, my darling, do you remember how we kissedin the copse by the river? Never was there a woman who could love likeyou."
So he moaned on, rocking himself to and fro on the legs of the corpse,till at length a wild ray from the red, risen sun crept into thedarksome hole, lighting first of all upon a mouldering skull which Bollehad thrown back among the soil. He rose up and pitched it out with aword that should not have passed the lips of a lay-brother, even as suchthoughts should not have passed his mind. Then he set himself to a taskwhich he had planned in the intervals of his amorous meditations--asomewhat grizzly task.
Drawing his knife from its sheath, he cut the rough stitching of thegrave-clothes, and, with numb hands, dragged them away from the body'shead.
The light went out behind a cloud, but, not to waste time, he began tofeel the face.
"Sir Christopher's nose wasn't broken," he muttered to himself, "unlessit were in that last fray, and then the bone would be loose, and this isstiff. No, no, he had a very pretty nose."
The light came again, and Thomas peered down at the dead face beneathhim; then suddenly burst into a hoarse laugh.
"By all the saints! here's another of our Spaniard's tricks. It isdrunken Andrew the Scotchman, turned into a dead English knight.Christopher killed him, and now he is Christopher. But where'sChristopher?"
He thought a little while, then, jumping out of the grave, began to fillit in with all his might.
"You're Christopher," he said; "well, stop Christopher until I can proveyou're Andrew. Good-bye, Sir Andrew Christopher; I am off to seek yourbetters. If you are dead, who may not be alive? Emlyn herself, perhaps,after this. Oh, the devil is playing a merry game round old CranwellTowers to-night, and Thomas Bolle will take a hand in it."
He was right. The devil was playing a merry game. At least, so thoughtothers beside Thomas. For instance, that misguided but honest bigot,Martin, as he contemplated the still senseless form of Christopher, who,re-christened Brother Luiz, had been safely conveyed aboard the _GreatYarmouth_, and now, whether dead or living, which he was not sure, layin the little cabin that had been allotted to the two of them. Almostdid Martin, as he looked at him and shook his bald head, seem to smellbrimstone in that close place, which, as he knew well, was the fiend'sfavourite scent.
The captain also, a sour-faced mariner with a squint, known in Dunwich,whence he hailed, as Miser Goody, because of his earnestness in pursuingwealth and his skill in hoarding it, seemed to feel the unhallowedinfluence of his Satanic Majesty. So far everything had gone wrong uponthis voyage, which already had been delayed six weeks, that is, till thevery worst period of the year, while he waited for certain mysteriousletters and cargo which his owners said he must carry to Seville. Thenhe had sailed out of the river with a fair wind, only to be beaten backby fearful weather that nearly sank the ship.
Item: six of his best men had deserted because they feared a trip toSpain at that season, and he had been obliged to take others at hazard.Among them was a broad-shouldered, black-bearded fellow clad in aleather jerkin, with spurs upon his heels--bloody spurs--that he seemedto have found no time to take off. This hard rider came aboard ina skiff after the anchor was up, and, having cast the skiff adrift,offered good money for a passage to Spain or any other foreign port, andpaid it down upon the nail. He, Goody, had taken the money, though witha doubtful heart, and given a receipt to
the name of Charles Smith,asking no questions, since for this gold he need not account to theowners. Afterwards also the man, having put off his spurs and soldier'sjerkin, set himself to work among the crew, some of whom seemed to knowhim, and in the storm that followed showed that he was stout-hearted anduseful, though not a skilled sailor.
Still, he mistrusted him of Charles Smith, and his bloody spurs, andhad he not been so short-handed and taken the knave's broad pieces wouldhave liked to set him ashore again when they were driven back into theriver, especially as he heard that there had been man-slaying aboutBlossholme, and that Sir John Foterell lay slaughtered in the forest.Perhaps this Charles Smith had murdered him. Well, if so, it was noaffair of his, and he could not spare a hand.
Now, when at length the weather had moderated, just as he was haulingup his anchor, comes the Abbot of Blossholme, on whose will he had beenbidden to wait, with a lean-faced monk and another passenger, said to bea sick religious, wrapped up in blankets and to all appearance dead.
Why, wondered that astute mariner Goody, should a sick monk wearharness, for he felt it through the blankets as he helped him up theladder, although monk's shoes were stuck upon his feet. And why, as hesaw when the covering slipped aside for a moment, was his crown bound upwith bloody cloths?
Indeed, he ventured to question the Abbot as to this mysterious matterwhile his Lordship was paying the passage money in his cabin, only toget a very sharp answer.
"Were you not commanded to obey me in all things, Captain Goody, anddoes obedience lie in prying out my business? Another word and I willreport you to those in Spain who know how to deal with mischief-makers.If you would see Dunwich again, hold your peace."
"Your pardon, my Lord Abbot," said Goody; "but things go so upon thisship that I grow afraid. That is an ill voyage upon which one liftsanchor twice in the same port."
"You will not make them go better, captain, by seeking to nose out myaffairs and those of the Church. Do you desire that I should lay itscurse upon you?"
"Nay, your Reverence, I desire that you should take the curse off,"answered Goody, who was very superstitious. "Do that and I'll carrya dozen sick priests to Spain, even though they choose to wear chainshirts--for penance."
The Abbot smiled, then, lifting his hand, pronounced some wordsin Latin, which, as he did not understand them, Goody found verycomforting. As they passed his lips the _Great Yarmouth_ began to move,for the sailors were hoisting up her anchor.
"As I do not accompany you on this voyage, fare you well," he said. "Thesaints go with you, as shall my prayers. Since you will not pass theGibraltar Straits, where I hear many infidel pirates lurk, given goodweather your voyage should be safe and easy. Again farewell. I commendBrother Martin and our sick friend to your keeping, and shall askaccount of them when we meet again."
I pray it may not be this side of hell, for I do not like that SpanishAbbot and his passengers, dead or living, thought Goody to himself, ashe bowed him from the cabin.
A minute later the Abbot, after a few earnest, hurried words withMartin, began to descend the ladder to the boat, that, manned by his ownpeople, was already being drawn slowly through the water. As he did sohe glanced back, and, in the clinging mist of dawn, which was almost asdense as wool, caught sight of the face of a man who had been ordered tohold the ladder, and knew it for that of Jeffrey Stokes, who had escapedfrom the slaying of Sir John--escaped with the damning papers that hadcost his master's life. Yes, Jeffrey Stokes, no other. His lips shapedthemselves to call out something, but before ever a syllable had passedthem an accident happened.
To the Abbot it seemed as though the whole ship had struck him violentlybehind--so violently that he was propelled headfirst among the rowers inthe boat, and lay there hurt and breathless.
"What is it?" called the captain, who heard the noise.
"The Abbot slipped, or the ladder slipped, I know not which," answeredJeffrey gruffly, staring at the toe of his sea-boot. "At least he issafe enough in the boat now," and, turning, he vanished aft into themist, muttering to himself--
"A very good kick, though a little high. Yet I wish it had been offanother kind of ladder. That murdering rogue would look well with a roperound his neck. Still I dared do no more and it served to stop his lyingmouth before he betrayed me. Oh, my poor master, my poor old master!"
The Lady of Blossholme Page 10