The Lady of Blossholme

by H. Rider Haggard

  CHAPTER VIII

  EMLYN CALLS HER MAN

  One by one the weeks passed over the heads of Cicely and Emlyn in theirprison, and brought them neither hope nor tidings. Indeed, although theycould not see its cords, they felt that the evil net which held them wasdrawing ever tighter. There were fear and pity as well as love in theeyes of Mother Matilda when she looked at Cicely, which she did only ifshe thought that no one observed her. The nuns also were afraid, thoughit was clear that they knew not of what. One evening Emlyn, finding thePrioress alone, sprang questions on her, asking what was in the wind,and why her lady, a free woman of full age, was detained there againsther will.

  The old nun's face grew secret. She answered that she did not know ofanything unusual, and that, as regarded the detention, she must obey thecommands of her spiritual superior.

  "Then," burst out Emlyn, "I tell you that you do so at your peril. Itell you that whether my lady lives or dies, there are those who willcall you to a strict account, aye, and those who will listen to theprayer of the helpless. Mother Matilda, England is not the land it waswhen as a girl they buried you in these mouldy walls. Where does God saythat you have the right to hold free women like felons in a jail? Tellme."

  "I cannot," moaned Mother Matilda, wringing her thin hands. "The rightis very hard to find, this place is strictly guarded, and whatever I maythink, I must do what I am bid, lest my soul should suffer."

  "Your soul! You cloistered women think always of your miserable souls,but of those of other folk, aye, and of their bodies too, nothing. Thenyou'll not help me?"

  "I cannot, I cannot, who am myself in bonds," she replied again.

  "So be it, Mother; then I'll help myself, and when I do, God help _you_all," and with a contemptuous shrug of her broad shoulders she walkedaway, leaving the poor old Prioress almost in tears.

  Emlyn's threats were bold as her own heart, but how could she executeeven a tenth of them? The right was on their side, indeed, but, asmany a captive has found in those and other days, right is no Joshua'strumpet to cause high walls to fall. Moreover, Cicely would not aid her.Now that her husband was dead she took interest in one thing only--hischild who was to be.

  For the rest she seemed to care nothing. Since she had no friends withwhom she could communicate, and her wealth, as she understood, had beentaken from her, what better place, she asked, could there be for thatchild to see the light than in this quiet Nunnery? When it was born andshe was well again she would consider other matters. Meanwhile she waslanguid, and why was Emlyn always prating to her of freedom? If she werefree, what should she do and whither should she go? The nuns were verykind to her; they loved her as she did them.

  So she talked on, and Emlyn, listening, did not dare to tell her thetruth: that here she feared for the life of her child, dreading lestthat news might bring about the death of both of them. So she let herbe, and fell back on her own wits.

  First she thought of escape, only to abandon the idea, for her mistresswas in no state to face its perils. Moreover, whither should they go?Then rescue came into her mind, but, alas! who would rescue them? Thegreat men in London, perhaps, as a matter of policy, but great men arehard to come at, even for the free. If she were free she might findmeans to make them listen, but she was not, nor could she leave her ladyat such a time. What remained, then? So to contrive that they should beset free.

  Perhaps it might be done at a price--that of Cicely's jewels, of whichshe alone knew the hiding-place, and with them a deed of indemnityagainst her persecutors. Emlyn was not minded to give either. Moreover,she guessed that it might be in vain. Once outside those walls, theyknew too much to be allowed to live. And yet within those walls Cicely'schild would not be allowed to live--the child that was heir to all.What, then, could loose them and make them safe?

  Terror, perhaps--such terror as that through which the Israelitesescaped from bondage. Oh! if she could but find a Moses to call down theplagues of Egypt upon this Pharaoh of an Abbot--those plagues with whichshe had threatened him--but although she believed that they would fall(why did she believe it? she wondered), she was as yet impotent tofulfil.

  Now Thomas Bolle! If only she could have words with that faithful ThomasBolle, the fierce and cunning man whom they thought foolish!

  This idea of Thomas Bolle took possession of Emlyn's mind--Thomas Bolle,who had loved her all his life, who would die to serve her. She strovein vain to get in touch with him. The old gardener was so deaf that hecould not, or would not, understand. The silly Bridget gave the letterthat she wrote to him to the Prioress by mistake, who burnt it beforeher eyes and said nothing. The monks who brought provisions to theNunnery were always received by three of the sisters, set to spy on eachother and on them, so that she could not come near to them alone. Thepriest who celebrated Mass was an old enemy of hers; with him she coulddo nothing, and no one else was allowed to approach the place exceptonce or twice the Abbot, who was closeted for hours with the Prioress,but spoke to her no more.

  Why, wondered Emlyn, should less than half-a-mile of space be such abarrier between her and Thomas Bolle? If he stood within twenty yards ofher she could make him understand; why not, then, when he stood withinfive hundred? This idea possessed her; these limitations of nature madeher mad. She refused to accept them. Night by night, lying broodingin her bed, while Cicely slept in peace at her side, she threw out herstrong soul towards the soul of her old lover, Thomas Bolle, commandinghim to listen, to obey, to come.

  At first nothing happened. Afterwards she had a vague sense of beinganswered; although she could not see or hear him, she felt his presence.Then one afternoon, looking from an upper dormer window, she saw ascuffle going on outside the gateway, and heard angry voices. ThomasBolle was trying to force his way in at the door, whence he was repelledby the Abbot's men who always watched there.

  In the evening she gathered the truth from the nuns, who did not knowthat she was listening to what they said. It seemed that Thomas, whomthey spoke of as a madman or as drunk, had tried to break into theNunnery. When he was asked what he wanted, he answered that he did notknow, but he must speak with Emlyn Stower. At this tidings she smiled toherself, for now she knew that he had heard her, and that in this way orin that he would obey her summons and come.

  Two days later Thomas came--thus.

  The September evening was fading into night, and Emlyn, leaving Cicelyresting on her bed, which now she often did for a while before thesupper-hour, had gone into the garden to enjoy the pleasant air. Thereshe walked until she wearied of its sameness, then entered the oldchapel by a side door and sat herself down to think in the chancel, notfar from a life-sized statue of the Virgin, in painted oak, which stoodhere because of its peculiarities, for the back half of it seemed to bebuilt into the masonry. Also the eye-sockets were empty, which suggestedto the observant Emlyn either that they had once held jewels or thatthis was no likeness of the holy Mother, but rather one of the blind St.Lucy.

  While Emlyn mused there quite alone--for at this hour none entered theplace, nor would until the next morning--she thought that sheheard strange noises, as of some one stirring, which came from theneighbourhood of the statue. Now many would have been scared anddeparted; but not so Emlyn, who only sat still and listened. Presently,without moving her head, she looked also. As it happened, the light ofthe setting sun, pouring through the west window, fell almost full uponthe figure, and by it she saw, or thought she saw, that the eye-socketswere no longer empty; there were eyes in them which moved and flashed.

  Now for a moment even Emlyn was frightened. Then she reasoned withherself, reflecting that a priest or one of the nuns was watching herfrom behind the statue, which they might do for as long as they pleased.Or perhaps this was a miracle, such as she had heard so much of butnever seen. Well, why should she fear spies or miracles? She wouldsit where she was and see what happened. Nor had she long to wait, forpresently a voice, a hoarse, manly voice, whispered--

  "Emlyn! Emlyn Stower!"

  "Yes
," she answered, also in a whisper. "Who speaks?"

  "Who do you think?" asked the voice, with a chuckle. "A devil, perhaps."

  "Well, if it be a friendly devil I don't know that I mind, who needcompany in this lone place. So appear, man or devil," answered Emlynstoutly. But in secret she crossed herself beneath her cape, forin those days folk believed in the appearance of devils for no goodpurposes.

  The statue began to creak, then opened like a door, though veryunwillingly, as though its hinges had been fixed for a long, long timeand rusted in the damp, which was indeed the case. Inside of it, like acorpse in an upright coffin, appeared a figure, a square, strong figure,clad in a tattered monk's robe, surmounted by a large head with fieryred hair and beetling brows, beneath which shone two wild grey eyes.Emlyn, whose heart had stood still--for, after all, Satan is awkwardcompany for a mortal woman--waited till it gave a jump in her breast andwent on again as usual. Then she said quietly--

  "What are you doing here, Thomas Bolle?"

  "That is what I want to know, Emlyn. Night and day for weeks you havebeen calling me, and so I came."

  "Yes, I have been calling you; but how did you come?"

  "By the old monk's road. They have forgotten it long ago, but mygrandfather told me of it when I was a boy, and at last a fox showed mewhere it ran. It's a dark road, and when first I tried it I thought Ishould be poisoned, but now the air is none so bad. It ran to the Abbeyonce, and may still, but my door and Mrs. Fox's is in the copse by thepark wall, where none would ever look for it. If you would like a cub toplay with, I will bring you one. Or perhaps you want something more thancubs," he added, with his cunning laugh.

  "Aye, Thomas, I want much more. Man," she said fiercely, "will you dowhat I tell you?"

  "That depends, Mistress Emlyn. Have I not done what you told me all mylife, and for no reward?"

  She moved across the chancel and sat herself down against him, pushingthe image door almost to and speaking to him through the crack.

  "If you have had no reward, Thomas," she said in a gentle voice, "whosefault was it? Not mine, I think. I loved you once when we were young,did I not? I would have given myself to you, body and soul, would I not?Well, who came between us and spoiled our lives?"

  "The monks," groaned Thomas; "the accursed monks, who married you toStower because he paid them."

  "Yes, the accursed monks. And now our youth has gone, and love--of thatsort--is behind us. I have been another man's wife, Thomas, who mighthave been yours. Think of it--your loving wife, the mother of yourchildren. And you--they have tamed you and made you their servant, theircattle-herd, the strong fellow to fetch and carry, the half-wit, as theycall you, who can still be trusted to run an errand and hold his tongue,the Abbey mule that does not dare to kick, the grieve of your own stolenlands--you, whose father was almost a gentleman. That's what they havedone for you, Thomas; and for me, the Church's ward--well, I will notspeak of it. Now, if you had your will, what would you do for them?"

  "Do for them? Do for them?" gasped Thomas, worked up to fury by thisrecital of his wrongs. "Why, if I dared I'd cut their throats, everyone, and grallock them like deer," and he ground his strong white teeth."But I am afraid. They have my soul, and month by month I must confess.You remember, Emlyn, I warned you when you and the lady would haveridden to London before the siege. Well, afterward--I must confessit--the Abbot heard it himself, and oh! sore, sore was my penance.Before I had done with it my ribs showed through my skin and my backwas like a red osier basket. There's only one thing I didn't tell them,because, after all, it is no sin to grub the earth off the face of acorpse."

  "Ah!" said Emlyn, looking at him. "You're not to be trusted. Well, Ithought as much. Good-bye, Thomas Bolle, you coward. I'll find me a manfor a friend, not a whimpering, priest-ridden hound who sets a Latinblessing which he does not understand above his honour. God in heaven!to think I should ever have loved such a thing. Oh! I am shamed, I amshamed. I'll go wash my hands. Shut your trap and get you gone down yourrat-run, Thomas Bolle, and, living or dead, never dare to speak tome again. Also forget not to tell your monks how I called you to myside--for that's witchcraft, you know, and I shall burn for it, and yoursoul gain benefit. God in heaven! to think that once you were ThomasBolle," and she made as though to go away.

  He stretched out his great arm and caught her by the robe, exclaiming--

  "What would you have me do, Emlyn? I can't bear your scorn. Take it offme or I go kill myself."

  "That's what you had best do. You'll find the devil a better master thana foreign abbot. Farewell for ever."

  "Nay, nay; what's your will? Soul or no soul, I'll work it."

  "Will you? Will you indeed? If so, stay a moment," and she ran down thechapel, bolting the doors; then returned to him, saying--

  "Now come forth, Thomas, and since you are once more a man, kiss me asyou used to do twenty years ago and more. You'll not confess to that,will you? There. Now, kneel before the altar here and swear an oath.Nay, listen to it before you swear, for it is wide."

  Emlyn said the oath to him. It was a great and terrible oath. Under ithe bound himself to be her slave and join himself with her in workingwoe to the monks of Blossholme, and especially to their Abbot, ClementMaldon, in payment of the wrongs that these had done to them both; inpayment for the murder of Sir John Foterell and of Christopher Harflete,and of the imprisonment and robbery of Cicely Harflete, the daughter ofthe one and the wife of the other. He bound himself to do those thingswhich she should tell him. He bound himself neither in the confessionalnor, should it come to that, on the bed of torture or the scaffold tobreathe a word of all their counsel. He prayed that if he did so hissoul might pay the price in everlasting torment, and of all these thingshe took Heaven to be his witness.

  "Now," said Emlyn, when she had finished setting out this fearful vow,"will you be a man and swear and thereby avenge the dead and save theinnocent from death; or will you who have my secret be a crawling monkand go back to Blossholme Abbey and betray me?"

  He thought a moment, rubbing his red head, for the thing frightened him,as well it might. The scales of the balance of his mind hung evenly, andEmlyn knew not which way they would turn. She saw, and put out all herwoman's strength. Resting her hand upon his shoulder, she leaned forwardand whispered into his ear.

  "Do you remember, Thomas, how first we told our young love that springday down in the copse by the water, and how sweet the daffodils bloomedabout our feet--the daffodils and the wood-lilies? Do you remember howwe swore ourselves each to each for all our lives, aye, and all thelives that were to come, and how for us two the earth was turned toheaven? And then--do you remember how that monk walked by--it was thisClement Maldon--and froze us with his cruel eyes, and said, 'What do youwith the witch's daughter? She is not for you.' And--oh! Thomas, Ican no more of it," and she broke down and sobbed, then added, "Swearnothing; get you gone and betray me, if you will. I'll bear you nomalice, even when I die for it, for after more than twenty years ofmonkcraft, how could I hope that you would still remain a man? Come,get you gone swiftly, ere they take us together, and your fair fame isbesmirched. Quick, now, and leave me and my lady and her unborn childto the doom Maldon brews for us. Alas! for the copse by the river; alas!for the withered lilies!"

  Thomas heard; the big blue veins stood out upon his forehead, his greatbreast heaved, his utterance choked. At length the words came in a thicktorrent.

  "I'll not go, dearie; I'll swear what you will, by your eyes and by yourlips, by the flowers on which we trod, by all the empty years of achingwoe and shame, by God upon His throne in heaven, and by the devil inhis fires in hell. Come, come," and he ran to the altar and clasped thecrucifix that stood there. "Say the words again, or any others that youwill, and I'll repeat them and take the oath, and may fiery worms eat meliving for ever and ever if I break a letter of it."

  With a little smile of triumph in her dark eyes Emlyn bent over thekneeling man and whispered--whispered through the gathering bloom, whilehe
whispered after her, and kissed the Rood in token.

  It was done, and they drew away from the altar back to the paintedsaint.

  "So you are a man after all," she said, laughing aloud. "Now, man--myman--who, if we live through this, shall be my husband if you will--yes,my husband, for I'll pay, and be proud of it--listen to my commands. Seeyou, I am Moses, and yonder in the Abbey sits Pharaoh with a hardenedheart, and you are the angel--the destroying angel with the sword of theplagues of Egypt. To-night there will be fire in the Abbey--such fire asfell on Cranwell Towers. Nay, nay, I know; the church will not burn, norall the great stone halls. But the dormitories, and the storehouses,and the hayricks, and the cattle-byres, they'll flame bravely after thistime of drought, and if the wains are ashes, how will they draw in theirharvest? Will you do it, my man?"

  "Surely. Have I not sworn?"

  "Then away to the work, and afterwards--to-morrow or next day--come backand make report. Just now I am much moved to solitary prayer, sowait till you see me here alone upon my knees. Stay! Wrap yourself ingrave-clothes, for then if you are seen they will think you are a ghost,such as they say haunt this place. Fear not, by then I will have morework for you. Have you mastered it?"

  He nodded his head. "All. All, especially your promise. Oh! I'll not dienow; I'll live to claim it."

  "Good. There's on account," and again she kissed him. "Go."

  He reeled in the intoxication of his joy; then said--

  "One word; my head swims; I forgot. Sir Christopher is not dead, orwasn't----"

  "What do you mean?" she almost hissed at him. "In Christ's name bequick; I hear voices without."

  "They buried another man for Christopher. I scraped him up and saw.Christopher was sent foreign, sore wounded, on the ship--pest! I haveforgotten its name--the same ship that took Jeffrey Stokes."

  "Blessings on your head for that tidings," exclaimed Emlyn, in astrange, low voice. "Away; they are coming to the door!"

  The wooden figure creaked to and stared at her blandly, as it had staredfor generations. For a moment Emlyn stood still, her hand upon herheart. Then she walked swiftly down the chapel, unlocked the door, andin the porch, just entering it, met the Prioress Matilda, another nun,and old Bridget, who was chattering.

  "Oh! it is you, Mistress Stower," said Mother Matilda, with evidentrelief. "Sister Bridget here swore that she heard a man talking in thechapel when she came to shut the outer window at sunset."

  "Did she?" answered Emlyn indifferently. "Then her luck's better thanmy own, who long for the sound of a man's voice in this home of babblingwomen. Nay, be not shocked, good Mother; I am no nun, and God did notcreate the world all female, or we should none of us be here. But, nowyou speak of it, I think there's something strange about that chapel.It is a place where some might fear to be alone, for twice when I kneltthere at my prayers I have heard odd sounds, and once, when there was nosun, a cold shadow fell upon me. Some ghost of the dead, I suppose, ofwhom so many lie about. Well, ghosts I never feared; and now I must awayto fetch my lady's supper, for she eats in her room to-night."

  When she had gone the Prioress shook her head and remarked in her gentlefashion--

  "A strange woman and a rough, but, my sisters, we must not judge herharshly, for she is of a different world to ours, and I fear has metwith sorrows there, such as we are protected from by our holy office."

  "Yes," answered the sister, "but I think also that she has met with theghost that haunts the chapel, of which there are many records, and thatonce I saw myself when I was a novice. The Prioress Matilda--I meanthe fourth of that name, she who was mixed up with Edward the Lame, themonk, and died suddenly after the----"

  "Peace, sister; let us have no scandal about that departed--woman, wholeft the earth two hundred years ago. Also, if her unquiet spirit stillhaunts the place, as many say, I know not why it should speak with thevoice of a man."

  "Perhaps it was the monk Edward's voice that Bridget heard," replied thesister, "for no doubt he still hangs about her skirts as he did in life,if all tales are true. Well, Mistress Emlyn says that she does not mindghosts, and I can well believe it, for she is a witch's daughter, andhas a strange look in her eyes. Did you ever see such bold eyes, Mother?However it may be, I hate ghosts, and rather would I pass a month onbread and water than be alone in that chapel at or after sundown. Myback creeps to think of it, for they say that the unhallowed babewalks too, and gibbers round the font seeking baptism--ugh!" and sheshuddered.

  "Peace, sister, peace to your goblin talk," said Mother Matilda again."Let us think of holier things lest the foul fiend draw near to us."