Bruised and sore as he was--and he was very sore--within little overan hour Abbot Maldon was back at the ruin of Cranwell Towers. It seemedstrange that he should go there, but in truth his uneasy heart wouldnot let him rest. His plans had succeeded only far too well. Sir JohnFoterell was dead--a crime, no doubt, but necessary, for had the knightlived to reach London with that evidence in his pocket, his own life andthose of many others might have paid the price of it, since who knowswhat truths may be twisted from a victim on the rack? Maldon had alwaysfeared the rack; it was a nightmare that haunted his sleep, although theambitious cunning of his nature and the cause he served with heart andsoul prompted him to put himself in continual danger of that fate.
In an unguarded moment, when his tongue was loosed with wine, he hadplaced himself in the power of Sir John Foterell, hoping to win him tothe side of Spain, and afterwards, forgetting it, made of him a dreadfulenemy. Therefore this enemy must die, for had he lived, not onlymight he himself have died in place of him, but all his plans for therebellion of the Church against the Crown must have come to nothing.Yes, yes, that deed was lawful, and pardon for it assured should thetruth become known. Till this morning he had hoped that it never wouldbe known, but now Jeffrey Stokes had escaped upon the ship _GreatYarmouth_.
Oh, if only he had seen him a minute earlier; if only something--couldit have been that impious knave, Jeffrey? he wondered--had not struckhim so violently in the back and hurled him to the boat, where he layalmost senseless till the vessel had glided from them down the river!Well, she was gone, and Jeffrey in her. He was but a common serving-man,after all, who, if he knew anything, would never have the wit to usehis knowledge, although it was true he had been wise enough to fly fromEngland.
No papers had been discovered upon Sir John's body, and no money.Without doubt the old knight had found time to pass them on to Jeffrey,who now fled the kingdom disguised as a sailor. Oh! what ill chance hadput him on board the same vessel with Sir Christopher Harflete?
Well, Sir Christopher would probably die; were Brother Martin a littleless of a fool he would certainly die, but the fact remained that thismonk, though able, in such matters _was_ a fool, with a conscience thatwould not suit itself to circumstances. If Christopher could be saved,Martin would save him, as he had already saved him in the shed, even ifhe handed him over to the Inquisition afterwards. Still, he might slipthrough his fingers or the vessel might be lost, as was devoutly to beprayed, and seemed not unlikely at this season of the year. Also, thefirst opportunity must be taken to send certain messages to Spain thatmight result in hampering the activities of Brother Martin, and of SirChristopher Harflete, if he lived to reach that land.
Meanwhile, reflected Maldon, other things had gone wrong. He had wishedto proclaim his wardship over Cicely and to immure her in a nunnerybecause of her great possessions, which he needed for the cause, but hehad not wished her death. Indeed, he was fond of the girl, whom he hadknown from a child, and her innocent blood was a weight that he illcould bear, he who at heart always shrank from the shedding of blood.Still, Heaven had killed her, not he, and the matter could not now bemended. Also, as she was dead, her inheritance would, he thought, fallinto his hands without further trouble, for he--a mitred Abbot with aseat among the Lords of the realm--had friends in London, who, for afee, could stifle inquiry into all this far-off business.
No, no, he must not be faint-hearted, who, after all, had much for whichto be thankful. Meanwhile the cause went on--that great cause of thethreatened Church to which he had devoted his life. Henry the hereticwould fall; the Spanish Emperor, whose spy he was and who loved himwell, would invade and take England. He would yet live to see the HolyInquisition at work at Westminster, and himself--yes, himself; had itnot been hinted to him?--enthroned at Canterbury, the Cardinal's red hathe coveted upon his head, and--oh, glorious thought!--perhaps afterwardswearing the triple crown at Rome.
The Lady of Blossholme Page 11