“Who makes all this tumult?” shouted the Commissioner. “Why do I see blood and wounds and dead men? And how were you about to handle these women, one of whom by her mien is of no low degree?” and he stared at Cicely.
“The tumult,” answered the Abbot, “was caused by yonder fool, Thomas Bolle, a lay-brother of my monastery, who rushed among us armed and shouting ‘In the King’s name, stay.’”
“Then why did you not stay, Sir Abbot? Is the King’s name one to be mocked at? Know that I sent on the man.”
“He had no warrant, Sir Commissioner, unless his bull’s voice and great axe are a warrant, and I did not stay because we were doing justice upon the three foulest witches in the realm.”
“Doing justice? Whose justice and what justice? Say, had you a warrant for your justice? If so, show it me.”
“These witches have been condemned by a Court Ecclesiastic, the judges being a bishop, a prior and myself, and in pursuance of that judgment were about to suffer for their sins by fire,” replied Maldon.
“A Court Ecclesiastic!” roared Dr. Legh. “Can Courts Ecclesiastic, then, toast free English folk to death? If you would not stand your trial for attempted murder, show me your warrant signed by his Grace the King, or by his Justices of Assize. What! You do not answer. Have you none? I thought as much. Oho, Clement Maldon, you hang-faced Spanish dog, learn that eyes have been on you for long, and now it seems that you would usurp the King’s prerogative besides——” and he checked himself, then went on, “Seize that priest, and keep him fast while I make inquiry of this business.”
Now some of the Commissioner’s guard surrounded Maldon, nor did his own men venture to interfere with them, for they had enough of fighting and were frightened by this talk about the King’s warrant.
Then the Commissioner turned to Cicely, and said—
“You are Sir John Foterell’s only child, are you not, who allege yourself to be wife to Sir Christopher Harflete, or so says yonder Prioress? Now, what was about to happen to you, and why?”
“Sir,” answered Cicely, “I and my waiting-woman and the old sister, Bridget, were condemned to die by fire at those stakes upon a charge of sorcery. Although it is true,” she added, “that I knew we should not perish thus.”
“How did you know that, Lady? By all tokens your bodies and hot flame were near enough together,” and he glanced towards the stakes and the scattered faggots.
“Sir, I knew it because of a vision that God sent to me in my sleep last night.”
“Aye, she swore that at the stake,” exclaimed a voice, “and we thought her mad.”
“Now can you deny that she is a witch?” broke in Maldon. “If she were not one of Satan’s own, how could she see visions and prophesy her own deliverance?”
“If visions and prophecies are proof of witchcraft, then, Priest, all Holy Writ is but a seething pot of sorcery,” answered Legh. “Then the Blessed Virgin and St. Elizabeth were witches, and Paul and John should have been burnt as wizards. Continue, Lady, leaving out your dreams until a more convenient time.”
“Sir,” went on Cicely, “we have worked no sorcery, and my crime is that I will not name my child a bastard and sign away my lands and goods to yonder Abbot, the murderer of my father and perhaps of my husband. Oh! listen, listen, you and all folk here, and briefly as I may I will tell my tale. Have I your leave to speak?”
The Commissioner nodded, and she set out her story from the beginning, so sweetly, so simply and with such truth and earnestness, that the concourse of people packed close about her, hung upon her every word, and even Dr. Legh’s coarse face softened as he heard. For the half of an hour or more she spoke, telling of her father’s death, of her flight and marriage, of the burning of Cranwell Towers, and her widowing, if such it were; of her imprisonment in the Priory and the Abbot’s dealings with her and Emlyn; of the birth of her child and its attempted murder by the midwife, his creature; of their trial and condemnation, they being innocent, and of all they had endured that day.
“If you are innocent,” shouted a priest as she paused for breath, “what was that Thing dressed in the livery of Satan which worked evil at Blossholme? Did we not see it with our eyes?”
Just then some one uttered an exclamation and pointed to the shadow of the trees where a strange form was moving. Another moment and it came out into the light. One more and all that multitude scattered like frightened sheep, rushing this way and that; yes, even the horses took the bits between their teeth and bolted. For there, visible to all, Satan himself strolled towards them. On his head were horns, behind his back hung down a tail, his body was shaggy like a beast’s, and his face hideous and of many colours, while in his hand he held a pronged fork with a long handle. This way and that rushed the throng, only the Commissioner, who had dismounted, stood still, perhaps because he was too afraid to stir, and with him the women and some of the nuns, including the Prioress, who fell upon their knees and began to utter prayers.
On came the dreadful thing till it reached the King’s Visitor, bowing to him and bellowing like a bull, then very deliberately untied some strings and let its horrid garb fall off, revealing the person of Thomas Bolle!
“What means this mummery, knave?” gasped Dr. Legh.
“Mummery do you call it, sir?” answered Thomas with a grin. “Well, if so, ‘tis on the faith of such mummery that priests burn women in merry England. Come, good people, come,” he roared in his great voice, “come, see Satan in the flesh. Here are his horns,” and he held them up, “once they grew upon the head of Widow Johnson’s billy-goat. Here’s his tail, many a fly has it flicked off the belly of an Abbey cow. Here’s his ugly mug, begotten of parchment and the paint-box. Here’s his dreadful fork that drives the damned to some hotter corner; it has been death to whole stones of eels down in the marsh-fleet yonder. I have some hell-fire too among the bag of tricks; you’ll make the best of brimstone and a little oil dried out upon the hearth. Come, see the devil all complete and naught to pay.”
Back trooped the crowd a little fearfully, taking the properties which he held, and handling them, till first one and then all of them began to laugh.
“Laugh not,” shouted Bolle. “Is it a matter of laughter that noble ladies and others whose lives are as dear to some,” and he glanced at Emlyn, “should grill like herrings because a poor fool walks about clad in skins to keep out the cold and frighten villains? Hark you, I played this trick. I am Beelzebub, also the ghost of Sir John Foterell. I entered the Priory chapel by a passage that I know, and saved yonder babe from murder and scared the murderess down to hell; yes, from the sham devil to the true. Why did I do it? Well, to protect the innocent and scourge the wicked in his pride. But the wicked seized the innocent and the innocent said nothing, fearing lest I should suffer with them, and——O God, you know the rest!
“It was a near thing, a very near thing, but I’m not the half-wit I’ve feigned to be for years. Moreover, I had a good horse and a heavy axe, and there are still true hearts round Blossholme; the dead men that lie yonder show it. Heaven has still its angels on the earth, though they wear strange shapes. There stands one of them, and there another,” and he pointed first to the fat and pompous Visitor, and next to the dishevelled Prioress, adding: “And now, Sir Commissioner, for all that I have done in the cause of justice I ask pardon of you who wear the King’s grace and majesty as I wore old Nick’s horns and hoofs, since otherwise the Abbot and his hired butchers, who hold themselves masters of King and people, will murder me for this as they have done by better men. Therefore pardon, your Mightiness, pardon,” and he kneeled down before him.
“You have it, Bolle; in the King’s name you have it,” replied Legh, who was more flattered by the titles and attributes poured upon him by the cunning Thomas than a closer consideration might have warranted. “For all that you have done, or left undone, I, the Commissioner of his Grace, declare that you shall go scot free and that no action criminal or civil shall lie against you, and this my secretary shall give to you in writing. Now, good fellow, rise, but steal Satan’s plumes no more lest you should feel his claws and beak, for he is an ill fowl to mock. Bring hither that Spaniard Maldon. I have somewhat to say to him.”
Now they looked this way and that, but no Abbot could they see. The guards swore that they had never taken eye off him, even when they all ran before the devil, yet certainly he was gone.
“The knave has given us the slip,” bellowed the Commissioner, who was purple with rage. “Search for him! Seize him, for which my command shall be your warrant. Draw the wood. I’ll to the Abbey, where perchance the fox has gone to earth. Five golden crowns to the man who nets the slimy traitor.”
Now every one, burning with zeal to show their loyalty and to win the crowns, scattered on the search, so that presently the three “witches,” Thomas Bolle, Mother Matilda, and the nuns, were left standing almost alone and staring at each other and the dead and wounded men who lay about.
“Let us to the Priory,” said Mother Matilda, “for by the sun I judge that it is time for evening prayer, and there seem to be none to hinder us.”
Thomas went to her horse, which grazed close at hand, and led it up.
“Nay, good friend,” she exclaimed, with energy, “while I live no more of that evil beast for me. Henceforth I’ll walk till I am carried. Keep it, Thomas, as a gift; it is bought and paid for. Sister, your arm.”
“Have I done well, Emlyn?” Bolle asked, as he tightened the girths.
“I don’t know,” she answered, looking at him sideways. “You played the cur at first, leaving us to burn for your sins, but afterwards, well, you found the wits you say you never lost. Also your manners mended, and yonder captain knave learned that you can handle an axe, so we’ll say no more about it, lad, for doubtless that Abbot and his spies were sore task-masters and broke your spirit with their penances and talk of hell to come. Here, lift my lady on to this horse, for she is spent, and let me lean upon your shoulder, Thomas. It’s weary work standing at a stake.”
Cicely’s recollections of the remainder of that day were always shadowy and tangled. She remembered a prayer of thanksgiving in which she took small part with her lips, she whose heart was one great thanksgiving. She remembered the good sister who had given them the relics of St. Catherine assuring her, as she received them back with care, that these and these alone had worked the miracle and saved their lives. She remembered eating food and straining her boy to her breast, and then she remembered no more till she woke to see the morning sun streaming into that same room whence on the previous day they had been led out to suffer the most horrible of deaths.
Yes, she woke, and see, near by was Emlyn making ready her garments, as she had done these many years, and at her side lay the boy crowing in the sunlight and waving his little arms, the blessed boy who knew not the terrors he had passed. At first she thought that she had dreamed a very evil dream, till by degrees all the truth came back to her, and she shivered at its memory, yes, even as the weight of it rolled off her heart she shivered and whitened like an aspen in the wind. Then she rose and thanked God for His mercies, which were great.
Oh, if the strength of that horse of Thomas Bolle’s had failed one short five minutes sooner, she, in whom the red blood still ran so healthily, would have been but a handful of charred bones. Or if her faith had left her so that she had yielded to the Abbot and shortened all his talk at the place of burning, then Bolle would have come too late. But it proved sufficient to her need, and for this also truly she should be thankful to its Giver.
After they had eaten, a message came to them from the Prioress, who desired to see them in her chamber. Thither they went, rejoiced to find that they were no longer prisoners but had liberty to come and go, and found her seated in a tall chair, for she was too stiff to walk. Cicely ran to her, knelt down and kissed her, and she laid her left hand upon her head in blessing, for the right was cut with the chafing of the reins.
“Surely, Cicely,” she said, smiling, “it is I who should kneel to you, were I in any state to do so. For now I have heard all the tale, and it seems that we have a prophetess among us, one favoured with visions from on high, which visions have been most marvellously fulfilled.”
“That is so, Mother,” she answered briefly, for this was a matter of which she would never talk at length, either then or thereafter, “but the fulfilment came through you.”
“My daughter, I was but the minister, you were the chosen seer, still let the holy business lie a while. Perhaps you will tell me of it afterwards, and meantime the world and its affairs press us hard. Your deliverance has been bought at no small cost, my daughter, for know that yonder coarse and ungodly man, the King’s Visitor, told me as we rode that this Nunnery must be dissolved, its house and revenues seized, and I and my sisters turned out to starve in our old age. Indeed, to bring him here at all I was forced to petition that it might be so in a writing that I signed. See, then, how great is my love for you, dear Cicely.”
“Mother,” she answered, “it cannot be, it shall not be.”
“Alas! child, how will you prevent it? These Visitors, and those who commission them, are hungry folk. I hear they take the lands and goods of poor religious such as we are, and if these are fortunate, give one or two of them a little pittance to get bread. Once I had moneys of my own, but I spent them to buy back the Valley Farm which the Abbot had seized, and of late to satisfy his extortions,” and she wept a little.
“Mother, listen. I have wealth hidden away, I know not where exactly, but Emlyn knows. It is my very own, the Carfax jewels that came to me from my mother. It was because of these that we were brought to the stake, since the Abbot offered us life in return for them, and when it was too late to save us, a more merciful death than that by fire. But I forbade Emlyn to yield the secret; something in my heart told me to do so, now I know why. Mother, the price of those gems shall buy back your lands, and mayhap buy also permission from his Grace the King for the continuance of your house, where you and yours shall worship as those who went before you have done for many generations. I swear it in my own name and in that of my child and of my husband also—if he lives.”
“Your husband if he lives might need this wealth, sweet Cicely.”
“Then, Mother, except to save his life, or liberty or honour, I tell you I will refuse it to him, who, when he learns what you have done for me and our son, would give it you and all else he has besides—nay, would pay it as an honourable debt.”
“Well, Cicely, in God’s name and my own I thank you, and we’ll see, we’ll see! Only be advised, lest Dr. Legh should learn of this treasure. But where is it, Emlyn? Fear not to tell me who can be secret, for it is well that more than one should know, and I think that your danger is past.”
“Yes, speak, Emlyn,” said Cicely, “for though I never asked before, fearing my own weakness, I am curious. None can hear us here.”
“Then, Mistress, I will tell you. You remember that on the day of the burning of Cranwell we sought refuge on the central tower, whence I carried you senseless to the vault. Now in that vault we lay all night, and while you swooned I searched with my fingers till I found a stone that time and damp had loosened, behind which was a hollow. In that hollow I hid the jewels that I carried wrapt in silk in the bosom of my robe. Then I filled up the hole with dust scraped from the floor, and replaced the stone, wedging it tight with bits of mortar. It is the third stone counting from the eastern angle in the second course above the floor line. There I set them, and there doubtless they lie to this day, for unless the tower is pulled down to its foundations none will ever find them in that masonry.”
At this moment there came a knocking on the door. When it was opened by Emlyn a nun entered, saying that the King’s Visitor demanded to speak with the Prioress.
“Show him here since I cannot come to him,” said Mother Matilda, “and you, Cicely and Emlyn, bide with me, for in such company it is well to have witnesses.”
A minute later Dr. Legh appeared accompanied by his secretaries, gorgeously attired and puffing from the stairs.
“To business, to business,” he said, scarcely stopping to acknowledge the greetings of the Prioress. “Your convent is sequestrated upon your own petition, Madam, therefore I need not stop to make the usual inquiries, and indeed I will admit that from all I hear it has a good repute, for none allege scandal against you, perhaps because you are all too old for such follies. Produce now your deeds, your terrier of lands and your rent-rolls, that I may take them over in due form and dissolve the sisterhood.”
“I will send for them, Sir,” answered the Prioress humbly; “but, meanwhile, tell us what we poor religious are to do? I am turned sixty years of age, and have dwelt in this house for forty of them; none of my sisters are young, and some of them are older than myself. Whither shall we go?”
“Into the world, Madam, which you will find a fine, large place. Cease snuffling prayers and from all vulgar superstitions—by the way, forget not to hand over any reliquaries of value, or any papistical emblems in precious metals that you may possess, including images, of which my secretaries will take account—and go out into the world. Marry there if you can find husbands, follow useful trades there. Do what you will there, and thank the King who frees you from the incumbrance of silly vows and from the circle of a convent’s walls.”
“To give us liberty to starve outside of them. Sir, do you understand your work? For hundreds of years we have sat at Blossholme, and during all those generations have prayed to God for the souls of men and ministered to their bodies. We have done no harm to any creature, and what wealth came to us from the earth or from the benefactions of the pious we have dispensed with a liberal hand, taking nothing for ourselves. The poor by multitudes have fed at our gates, their sick we have nursed, their children we have taught; often we have gone hungry that they might be full. Now you drive us forth in our age to perish. If that is the will of God, so be it, but what must chance to England’s poor?”
“That is England’s business, Madam, and the poor’s. Meanwhile I have told you that I have no time to waste, since I must away to London to make report concerning this Abbot of yours, a veritable rogue, of whose villainous plots I have discovered many things. I pray you send a messenger to bid them hurry with the deeds.”
Just then a nun entered bearing a tray, on which were cakes and wine. Emlyn took it from her, and pouring the wine into cups offered them to the Visitor and his secretaries.
“Good wine,” he said, after he had drunk, “a very generous wine. You nuns know the best in liquor; be careful, I pray you, to include it in your inventory. Why, woman, are you not one of those whom that Abbot would have burnt? Yes, and there is your mistress, Dame Foterell, or Dame Harflete, with whom I desire a word.”
“I am at your service, Sir,” said Cicely.
“Well, Madam, you and your servant have escaped the stake to which, as near as I can judge, you were sentenced upon no evidence at all. Still, you were condemned by a competent ecclesiastical Court, and under that condemnation you must therefore remain until or unless the King pardons you. My judgment is, then, that you stay here awaiting his command.”
“But, Sir,” said Cicely, “if the good nuns who have befriended me are to be driven forth, how can I dwell on in their house alone? Yet you say I must not leave it, and indeed if I could, whither should I go? My husband’s hall is burnt, my own the Abbot holds. Moreover, if I bide here, in this way or in that he will have my life.”
“The knave has fled away,” said Dr. Legh, rubbing his fat chin.
“Aye, but he will come back again, or his people will, and, Sir, you know these Spaniards are good haters, and I have defied him long. Oh, Sir, I crave the protection of the King for my child’s sake and my own, and for Emlyn Stower also.”
The Commissioner went on rubbing his chin.
“You can give much evidence against this Maldon, can you not?” he asked at length.
“Aye,” broke in Emlyn, “enough to hang him ten times over, and so can I.”
“And you have large estates which he has seized, have you not?”
“I have, Sir, who am of no mean birth and station.”
“Lady,” he said, with more deference in his voice, “step aside with me, I would speak with you privately,” and he walked to the window, where she followed him. “Now tell me, what was the value of these properties of yours?”
“I know not rightly, Sir, but I have heard my father say about £300 a year.”
His manner became more deferential still, since for those days such wealth was great.
“Indeed, my Lady. A large sum, a very comfortable fortune if you can get it back. Now I will be frank with you. The King’s Commissioners are not well paid and their costs are great. If I so arrange your matters that you come to your own again and that the judgment of witchcraft pronounced against you and your servant is annulled, will you promise to pay me one year’s rent of these estates to meet the various expenses I must incur on your behalf?”
Now it was Cicely’s turn to think.
“Surely,” she answered at length, “if you will add a condition—that these good sisters shall be left undisturbed in their Nunnery.”
He shook his fat head.
“It is not possible now. The thing is too public. Why, the Lord Cromwell would say I had been bribed, and I might lose my office.”
“Well, then,” went on Cicely, “if you will promise that one year of grace shall be given to them to make arrangements for their future.”
“That I can do,” he answered, nodding, “on the ground that they are of blameless life, and have protected you from the King’s enemy. But this is an uncertain world; I must ask you to sign an indenture, and its form will be that you acknowledge to have received from me a loan of £300 to be repaid with interest when you recover your estates.”
“Draw it up and I will sign, Sir.”
“Good, Madam; and now that we may get this business through, you will accompany me to London, where you will be safe from harm. We’ll not ride to-day, but to-morrow morning at the light.”
“Then my servant Emlyn must come also, Sir, to help me with the babe, and Thomas Bolle too, for he can prove that the witchcraft upon which we were condemned was but his trickery.”
“Yes, yes; but the costs of travel for so many will be great. Have you, perchance, any money?”
“Yes, Sir, about £50 in gold that is sewn up in one of Emlyn’s robes.”
“Ah! A sufficient sum. Too much indeed to be risked upon your persons in these rough times. You will let me take charge of half of it for you?”
“With pleasure, Sir, trusting you as I do. Keep to your bargain and I will keep to mine.”
“Good. When Thomas Legh is fairly dealt with, Thomas Legh deals fairly, no man can say otherwise. This afternoon I will bring the deed, and you’ll give me that £25 in charge.”
Then, followed by Cicely, he returned to where the Prioress sat, and said—
“Mother Matilda, for so I understand you are called in religion, the Lady Harflete has been pleading with me for you, and because you have dealt so well by her I have promised in the King’s name that you and your nuns shall live on here undisturbed for one year from this day, after which you must yield up peaceable possession to his Majesty, whom I will beg that you shall be pensioned.”
“I thank you, Sir,” the Prioress answered. “When one is old a year of grace is much, and in a year many things may happen—for instance, my death.”
“Thank me not—a plain man who but follows after justice and duty. The documents for your signature shall be ready this afternoon, and by the way, the Lady Harflete and her servant, also that stout, shrewd fellow, Thomas Bolle, ride with me to London to-morrow. She will explain all. At three of the clock I wait upon you.”
The Visitor and his secretaries bustled out of the room as pompously as they had entered, and when they had gone Cicely explained to Mother Matilda and Emlyn what had passed.
“I think that you have done wisely,” said the Prioress, when she had listened. “That man is a shark, but better give him your little finger than your whole body. Certainly, you have bargained well for us, for what may not happen in a year? Also, dear Cicely, you will be safer in London than at Blossholme, since with the great sum of £300 to gain that Commissioner will watch you like the apple of his eye and push your cause.”
“Unless some one promises him the greater sum of £1000 to scotch it,” interrupted Emlyn. “Well, there was but one road to take, and paper promises are little, though I grudge the good £25 in gold. Meanwhile, Mother, we have much to make ready. I pray you send some one to find Thomas Bolle, who will not be far away, for since we are no longer prisoners I wish to go out walking with him on an errand of my own that perchance you can guess. Wealth may be useful in London town for all our sakes. Also horses and a packbeast must be got, and other things.”
In due course Thomas Bolle was found fast asleep in a neighbour’s house, for after his adventures and triumph he had drunk hard and rested long. When she discovered the truth Emlyn rated him well, calling him a beer-tub and not a man, and many other hard names, till at last she provoked him to answer, that had it not been for the said beer-tub she would be but ash-dust this day. Thereon she turned the talk and told them their needs, and that he must ride with them to London. To this he replied that good horses should be saddled by the dawn, for he knew where to lay hands on them, since some were left in the Abbot’s stables that wanted exercise; further, that he would be glad to leave Blossholme for a while, where he had made enemies on the yesterday, whose friends yet lay wounded or unburied. After this Emlyn whispered something in his ear, to which he nodded assent, saying that he would bustle round and be ready.
That afternoon Emlyn went out riding with Thomas Bolle, who was fully armed, as she said, to try two of the horses that should carry them on the morrow, and it was late when she returned out of the dark night.
“Have you got them?” asked Cicely, when they were together in their room.
“Aye,” she answered, “every one; but some stones have fallen, and it was hard to win an entrance to that vault. Indeed, had it not been for Thomas Bolle, who has the strength of a bull, I could never have done it. Moreover, the Abbot has been there before us and dug over every inch of the floor. But the fool never thought of the wall, so all’s well. I’ll sew half of them into my petticoat and half into yours, to share the risk. In case of thieves, the money that hungry Visitor has left to us, for I paid him over half when you signed the deeds, we will carry openly in pouches upon our girdles. They’ll not search further. Oh, I forgot, I’ve something more besides the jewels, here it is,” and she produced a packet from her bosom and laid it on the table.
“What’s this?” asked Cicely, looking suspiciously at the worn sail-cloth in which it was wrapped.
“How can I tell? Cut it and see. All I know is that when I stood at the Nunnery door as Thomas led away the horses, a man crept on me out of the rain swathed in a great cloak and asked if I were not Emlyn Stower. I said Yea, whereon he thrust this into my hand, bidding me not fail to give it to the Lady Harflete, and was gone.”
“It has an over-seas look about it,” murmured Cicely, as with eager, trembling fingers she cut the stitches. At length they were undone and a sealed inner wrapping also, revealing, amongst other documents, a little packet of parchments covered with crabbed, unreadable writing, on the back of which, however, they could decipher the names of Shefton and Blossholme by reason of the larger letters in which they were engrossed. Also there was a writing in the scrawling hand of Sir John Foterell, and at the foot of it his name and, amongst others, those of Father Necton and of Jeffrey Stokes. Cicely stared at the deeds, then said—
“Emlyn, I know these parchments. They are those that my father took with him when he rode for London to disprove the Abbot’s claim, and with them the evidence of the traitorous words he spoke last year at Shefton. Yes, this inner wrapping is my own; I took it from the store of worn linen in the passage-cupboard. But how come they here?”
Emlyn made no answer, only lifted the wrappings and shook them, whereon a strip of paper that they had not seen fell to the table.
“This may tell us,” she said. “Read, if you can; it has words on its inner side.”
Cicely snatched at it, and as the writing was clear and clerkly, read with ease save for the chokings of her throat. It ran—
“My Lady Harflete,
“These are the papers that Jeffrey Stokes saved when your father fell. They were given for safekeeping to the writer of these words, far away across the sea, and he hands them on unopened. Your husband lives and is well again, also Jeffrey Stokes, and though they have been hindered on their journey, doubtless he will find his way back to England, whither, believing you to be dead, as I did, he has not hurried. There are reasons why I, his friend and yours, cannot see you or write more, since my duty calls me hence. When it is finished I will seek you out if I still live. If not, wait in peace until your joy finds you, as I think it will.
“One who loves your lord well, and for his sake you also.”
Cicely laid down the paper and burst into a flood of weeping.
“Oh, cruel, cruel!” she sobbed, “to tell so much and yet so little. Nay, what an ungrateful wretch am I, since Christopher truly lives, and I also live to learn it, I, whom he deems dead.”
“By my soul,” said Emlyn, when she had calmed her, “that cloaked man is a prince of messengers. Oh, had I but known what he bore I’d have had all the story, if I must cling to him like Potiphar’s wife to Joseph. Well, well, Joseph got away and half a herring is better than no fish, also this is good herring. Moreover, you have got the deeds when you most wanted them and what is better, a written testimony that will bring the traitor Maldon to the scaffold.”
Cicely’s journey to London was strange enough to her, who never before had travelled farther than fifty miles from her home, and but once as a child spent a month in a town when visiting an aunt at Lincoln. She went in ease, it is true, for Commissioner Legh did not love hard travelling, and for this reason they started late and halted early, either at some good inn, if in those days any such places could be called good, or perhaps in a monastery where he claimed of the best that the frightened monks had to offer. Indeed, as she observed, his treatment of these poor folk was cruel, for he blustered and threatened and inquired, accusing them of crimes that they had not committed, and finally, although he had no mission to them at the time, extracted great gifts, saying that if these were not forthcoming he would make a note and return later. Also he got hold of tale-bearers, and wrote down all their scandalous and lying stories told against those whose bread they ate.
Thus, long before they saw Charing Cross, Cicely came to hate this proud, avaricious and overbearing man, who hid a savage nature under a cloak of virtue, and whilst serving his own ends, mouthed great words about God and the King. Still, she who was schooled in adversity, learned to hide her heart, fearing to make an enemy of one who could ruin her, and forced Emlyn, much against her will, to do the same. Moreover, there were worse things than that since, being beautiful, some of his companions talked to her in a way she could not misunderstand, till at length Thomas Bolle, coming on one of them, thrashed him as he had never been thrashed before, after which there was trouble that was only appeased by a gift.
Yet on the whole things went well. No one molested the King’s Visitor or those with him, the autumn weather held fine, the baby boy kept his health, and the country through which they passed was new to her and full of interest.
At last one evening they rode from Barnet into the great city, which she thought a most marvellous place, who had never seen such a multitude of houses or of men running to and fro about their business up and down the narrow streets that at night were lit with lamps. Now there had been a great discussion where they were to lodge, Dr. Legh saying that he knew of a house suitable to them. But Emlyn would not hear of this place, where she was sure they would be robbed, for the wealth that they carried secretly in jewels bore heavily on her mind. Remembering a cousin of her mother’s of the name of Smith, a goldsmith, who till within a year or two before was alive and dwelling in Cheapside, she said that they would seek him out.
Thither then they rode, guided by one of the Visitor’s clerks, not he whom Bolle had beaten, but another, and at last, after some search, found a dingy house in a court and over it a sign on which were painted three balls and the name of Jacob Smith. Emlyn dismounted and, the door being open, entered, to be greeted by an old, white-bearded man with horn spectacles thrust up over his forehead and dark eyes like her own, since the same gypsy blood ran strong in both of them.
What passed between them Cicely did not hear, but presently the old man came out with Emlyn, and looked her and Bolle up and down sharply for a long while as though to take their measures. At length he said that he understood from his cousin, whom he now saw for the first time for over thirty years, that the two of them and their man desired lodgings, which, as he had empty rooms, he would be pleased to give them if they would pay the price.
Cicely asked how much this might be, and on his naming a sum, ten silver shillings a week for the three of them and their horses, that would be stabled close by, told Emlyn to pay him a pound on account. This he took, biting the gold to see that it was good, but bidding them in to inspect the rooms before he pouched it. They did so, and finding them clean and commodious if somewhat dark, closed the bargain with him, after which they dismissed the clerk to take their address to Dr. Legh, who had promised to advise them so soon as he could put their business forward.
When he was gone and Thomas Bolle, conducted by Smith’s apprentice, had led off the three horses and the packbeast, the old man changed his manner, and conducting them into a parlour at the back of his shop, sent his housekeeper, a middle-aged woman with a pleasant face, to make ready food for them while he produced cordials from squat Dutch bottles which he made them drink. Indeed he was all kindness to them, being, as he explained, rejoiced to see one of his own blood, for he had no relations living, his wife and their two children having died in one of the London sicknesses. Also he was Blossholme born, though he had left that place fifty years before, and had known Cicely’s grandfather and played with her father when he was a boy. So he plied them with question after question, some of which they thought it wise not to answer, for he was a merry and talkative old man.
“Aha!” he said, “you would prove me before you trust me, and who can blame you in this naughty world? But perhaps I know more about you all than you think, since in this trade my business is to learn many things. For instance, I have heard that there was a great trying of witches down at Blossholme lately, whereat a certain Abbot came off worst, also that the famous Carfax jewels had been lost, which vexed the said holy Abbot. They were jewels indeed, or so I have heard, for among them were two pink pearls worth a king’s ransom—or so I have heard. Great pity that they should be lost, since my Lady there would own them otherwise, and much should I have liked, who am a little man in that trade, to set my old eyes upon them. Well, well, perhaps I shall, perhaps I shall yet, for that which is lost is sometimes found again. Now here comes your dinner; eat, eat, we’ll talk afterwards.”
This was the first of many pleasant meals which they shared with their host, Jacob Smith. Soon Emlyn found from inquiries that she made among his neighbours without seeming to do so, that this cousin of hers bore an excellent name and was trusted by all.
“Then why should we not trust him also?” asked Cicely, “who must find friends and put faith in some one.”
“Even with the jewels, Mistress?”
“Even with the jewels, for such things are his business, and they would be safer in his strong chest than tacked into our garments, where the thought of them haunts me night and day.”
“Let us wait a while,” said Emlyn, “for once they were in that box how do we know if we should get them out again?”
On the morrow of this talk the Visitor Legh came to see them, and had no cheerful tale to tell. According to him the Lord Cromwell declared that as the Abbot of Blossholme claimed these Shefton estates, the King stood, or would soon stand, in the shoes of the said Abbot of Blossholme, and therefore the King claimed them and could not surrender them. Moreover, money was so wanted at Court just then, and here Legh looked hard at them, “that there could be no talk of parting with anything of value except in return for a consideration,” and he looked at them harder still.
“And how can my Lady give that,” broke in Emlyn sharply, for she feared lest Cicely should commit herself. “To-day she is but a homeless pauper, save for a few pounds in gold, and even if she should come to her own again, as your Worship knows, her first year’s profits are all promised.”
“Ah!” said the Doctor sadly, “doubtless the case is hard. Only,” he added, with cunning emphasis, “a tale has just reached me that the Lady Harflete has wealth hidden away which came to her from her mother; trinkets of value and such things.”
Now Cicely coloured, for the man’s little eyes pierced her like gimlets, and her powers of deceit were very small. But this was not so with Emlyn, who, as she said, could play thief to catch a thief.
“Listen, Sir,” she said, with a secret air, “you have heard true. There were some things of value—why should we hide it from you, our good friend? But, alas! that greedy rogue, the Abbot of Blossholme, has them. He has stripped my poor Lady as bare as a fowl for roasting. Get them back from him, Sir, and on her behalf I say she’ll give you half of them, will you not, my Lady?”
“Surely,” said Cicely. “The Doctor, to whom we owe so much, will be most welcome to the half of any movables of mine that he can recover from the Abbot Maldon,” and she paused, for the fib stuck in her throat. Moreover, she knew herself to be the colour of a peony.
Happily the Commissioner did not notice her blushes, or if he did, he put them down to grief and anger.
“The Abbot Maldon,” he grumbled, “always the Abbot Maldon. Oh! what a wicked thief must be that high-stomached Spaniard who does not scruple first to make orphans and then to rob them? A black-hearted traitor, too. Do you know that at this moment he stirs up rebellion in the north? Well, I’ll see him on the rack before I have done. Have you a list of those movables, Madam?”
Cicely said no, and Emlyn added that one should be made from memory.
“Good; I’ll see you again to-morrow or the next day, and meanwhile fear not, I’ll be as active in your business as a cat after a sparrow. Oh, my rat of a Spanish Abbot, you wait till I get my claws into your fat back. Farewell, my Lady Harflete, farewell. Mistress Stower, I must away to deal with other priests almost as wicked,” and he departed, still muttering objurgations on the Abbot.
“Now, I think the time has come to trust Jacob Smith,” said Emlyn, when the door closed behind him, “for he may be honest, whereas this Doctor is certainly a villain; also, the man has heard something and suspects us. Ah! there you are, Cousin Smith, come in, if you please, since we desire to talk with you for a minute. Come in, and be so good as to lock the door behind you.”
Five minutes later all the jewels, whereof not one was wanting, lay on the table before old Jacob, who stared at them with round eyes.
“The Carfax gems,” he muttered, “the Carfax gems of which I have so often heard; those that the old Crusader brought from the East, having sacked them from a Sultan; from the East, where they talk of them still. A sultan’s wealth, unless, indeed, they came straight from the New Jerusalem and were an angel’s gauds. And do you say that you two women have carried these priceless things tacked in your cloaks, which, as I have seen, you throw down here and there and leave behind you? Oh, fools, fools, even among women incomparable fools! Fellow-travellers with Dr. Legh also, who would rob a baby of its bauble.”
“Fools or no,” exclaimed Emlyn tartly, “we have got them safe enough after they have run some risks, as I pray that you may keep them, Cousin Smith.”
Old Jacob threw a cloth over the gems, and slowly transferred them to his pocket.
“This is an upper floor,” he explained, “and the door is locked, yet some one might put a ladder up to the window. Were I in the street I should know by the glitter in the light that there were precious things here. Stay, they are not safe in my pocket even for an hour,” and going to the wall he did something to a panel in the wainscot causing it to open and reveal a space behind it where lay sundry wrapped-up parcels, among which he placed, not all, but a portion of the gems. Then he went to other panels that opened likewise, showing more parcels, and in the holes behind these he distributed the rest of the treasure.
“There, foolish women,” he said, “since you have trusted me, I will trust you. You have seen my big strong-boxes in my office, and doubtless thought I keep all my little wares there. Well, so does every thief in London, for they have searched them twice and gained some store of pewter; I remember that some of it was discovered again in the King’s household. But behind these panels all is safe, though no woman would ever have thought of a device so simple and so sure.”
For a moment Emlyn could find no answer, perhaps because of her indignation, but Cicely asked sweetly—
“Do you ever have fires in London, Master Smith? It seems to me that I have heard of such things, and then—in a hurry, you know——”
Smith thrust up his horned spectacles and looked at her in mild astonishment.
“To think,” he said, “that I should live to learn wisdom out of the mouth of babes and sucklers——”
“Sucklings,” suggested Cicely.
“Sucklers or sucklings, it means the same thing—women,” he replied testily; then added, with a chuckle, “Well, well, my Lady, you are right. You have caught out Jacob at his own game. I never thought of fire, though it is true we had one next door last year, when I ran out with my bed and forgot all about the gold and stones. I’ll have new hiding-places made in the masonry of the cellar, where no fire would hurt. Ah! you women would never have thought of that, who carry treasure sewn up in a nightshift.”
Now Emlyn could bear it no longer.
“And how would you have us carry it, Cousin Smith?” she asked indignantly. “Tied about our necks, or hanging from our heels? Well do I remember my mother telling me that you were always a simple youth, and that your saint must have been a very strong one who brought you safe to London and showed you how to earn a living there, or else that you had married a woman of excellent intelligence—though it is plain now she has long been dead. Well, well,” she added, with a laugh, “cling to your man’s vanities, you son of a woman, and since you are so clever, give us of your wisdom, for we need it. But first let me tell you that I have rescued those very jewels from a fire, and by hiding them in masonry in a vault.”
“It is the fashion of the female to wrangle when she has the worst of the case,” said Jacob, with a twinkle in his eye. “So, daughter of man, set out your trouble. Perchance the wisdom that I have inherited from my mothers straight back to Eve may help that which your mothers lacked. Now, have you done with jests. I listen, if it pleases you to tell me.”
So, having first invoked the curse of Heaven on him if ever he should breathe a word, Emlyn, with the help of Cicely, repeated the whole matter from the beginning, and the candles were lighted ere ever her tale was done. All this while Jacob Smith sat opposite to them, saying little, save now and again to ask a shrewd question. At length, when they had finished, he exclaimed—
“Truly women are fools!”
“We have heard that before, Master Smith,” replied Cicely; “but this time—why?”
“Not to have unbosomed to me before, which would have saved you a week of time, although, as it happens, I knew more of your story than you chose to tell, and therefore the days have not been altogether wasted. Well, to be brief, this Dr. Legh is a ravenous rogue.”
“O Solomon, to have discovered that!” exclaimed Emlyn.
“One whose only aim is to line his nest with your feathers, some of which you have promised him, as, indeed, you were right to do. Now he has got wind of these jewels, which is not wonderful, seeing that such things cannot be hid. If you buried them in a coffin, six foot underground, still they would shine through the solid earth and declare themselves. This is his plan—to strip you of everything ere his master, Cromwell, gets a hold of you; and if you go to him empty-handed, what chance has your suit with Vicar-General Cromwell, the hungriest shark of all—save one?”
“We understand,” said Emlyn; “but what is your plan, Cousin Smith?”
“Mine? I don’t know that I have one. Still, here is that which might do. Though I seem so small and humble, I am remembered at Court—when money is wanted, and just now much money is wanted, for soon they will be in arms in Yorkshire—and therefore I am much remembered. Now, if you care to give Dr. Legh the go-by and leave your cause to me, perhaps I might serve you as cheaply as another.”
“At what charge?” blurted out Emlyn.
The old man turned on her indignantly, asking—
“Cousin, how have I defrauded you or your mistress, that you should insult me to my face? Go to! you do not trust me. Go to, with your jewels, and seek some other helper!” and he went to the panelling as though to collect them again.
“Nay, nay, Master Smith,” said Cicely, catching him by the arm; “be not angry with Emlyn. Remember that of late we have learned in a hard school, with Abbot Maldon and Dr. Legh for masters. At least I trust you, so forsake me not, who have no other to whom to turn in all my troubles, which are many,” and as she spoke the great tears that had gathered in her blue eyes fell upon the child’s face, and woke him, so that she must turn aside to quiet him, which she was glad to do.
“Grieve not,” said the kind-hearted old man, in distress; “’tis I should grieve, whose brutal words have made you weep. Moreover, Emlyn is right; even foolish women should not trust the first Jack with whom they take a lodging. Still, since you swear that you do in your kindness, I’ll try to show myself not all unworthy, my Lady Harflete. Now, what is it you want from the King? Justice on the Abbot? That you’ll get for nothing, if his Grace can give it, for this same Abbot stirs up rebellion against him. No need, therefore, to set out his past misdeeds. A clean title to your large inheritance, which the Abbot claims? That will be more difficult, since the King claims through him. At best, money must be paid for it. A declaration that your marriage is good and your boy born in lawful wedlock? Not so hard, but will cost something. The annulment of the sentence of witchcraft on you both? Easy, for the Abbot passed it. Is there aught more?”
“Yes, Master Smith; the good nuns who befriended me—I would save their house and lands to them. Those jewels are pledged to do it, if it can be done.”
“A matter of money, Lady—a mere matter of money. You will have to buy the property, that is all. Now, let us see what it will cost, if fortune goes with me,” and he took pen and paper and began to write down figures.
Finally he rose, sighing and shaking his head. “Two thousand pounds,” he groaned; “a vast sum, but I can’t lessen it by a shilling—there are so many to be bought. Yes; £1000 in gifts and £1000 as loan to his Majesty, who does not repay.”
“Two thousand pounds!” exclaimed Cicely in dismay; “oh! how shall I find so much, whose first year’s rents are already pledged?”
“Know you the worth of those jewels?” asked Jacob, looking at her.
“Nay; the half of that, perhaps.”
“Let us say double that, and then right cheap.”
“Well, if so,” replied Cicely, with a gasp, “where shall we sell them? Who has so much money?”
“I’ll try to find it, or what is needful. Now, Cousin Emlyn,” he added sarcastically, “you see where my profit lies. I buy the gems at half their value, and the rest I keep.”
“In your own words: go to!” said Emlyn, “and keep your gibes until we have more leisure.”
The old man thought a while, and said—
“It grows late, but the evening is pleasant, and I think I need some air. That crack-brained, red-haired fellow of yours will watch you while I am gone, and for mercy’s sake be careful with those candles. Nay, nay; you must have no fire, you must go cold. After what you said to me, I can think of naught but fire. It is for this night only. By to-morrow evening I’ll prepare a place where Abbot Maldon himself might sit unscorched in the midst of hell. But till then make out with clothes. I have some furs in pledge that I will send up to you. It is your own fault, and in my youth we did not need a fire on an autumn day. No more, no more,” and he was gone, nor did they see him again that night.
On the following morning, as they sat at their breakfast, Jacob Smith appeared, and began to talk of many things, such as the badness of the weather—for it rained—the toughness of the ham, which he said was not to be compared to those they cured at Blossholme in his youth, and the likeness of the baby boy to his mother.
“Indeed, no,” broke in Cicely, who felt that he was playing with them; “he is his father’s self; there is no look of me in him.”
“Oh!” answered Jacob; “well, I’ll give my judgment when I see the father. By the way, let me read that note again which the cloaked man brought to Emlyn.”
Cicely gave it to him, and he studied it carefully; then said, in an indifferent voice—
“The other day I saw a list of Christian captives said to have been recovered from the Turks by the Emperor Charles at Tunis, and among them was one ‘Huflit,’ described as an English señor, and his servant. I wonder now——”
Cicely sprang upon him.
“Oh! cruel wretch,” she said, “to have known this so long and not to have told me!”
“Peace, Lady,” he said, retreating before her; “I only learned it at eleven of the clock last night, when you were fast asleep. Yesterday is not this same day, and therefore ’tis the other day, is it not?”
“Surely you might have woke me. But, swift, where is he now?”
“How can I know? Not here, at least. But the writing said——”
“Well, what did the writing say?”
“I am trying to think—my memory fails me at times; perhaps you will find the same thing when you have my years, should it please Heaven——”
“Oh! that it might please Heaven to make you speak! What said the writing?”
“Ah! I have it now. It said, in a note appended amidst other news, for—did I tell you this was a letter from his Grace’s ambassador in Spain? and, oh! his is the vilest scrawl to read. Nay, hurry me not—it said that this ‘Sir Huflit’—the ambassador has put a query against his name—and his servant—yes, yes, I am sure it said his servant too—well, that they both of them, being angry at the treatment they had met with from the infidel Turks—no, I forgot to add there were three of them, one a priest, who did otherwise. Well, as I said, being angry, they stopped there to serve with the Spaniards against the Turks till the end of that campaign. There, that is all.”
“How little is your all!” exclaimed Cicely. “Yet, ‘tis something. Oh! why should a married man stop across the seas to be revenged on poor ignorant Turks?”
“Why should he not?” interrupted Emlyn, “when he deems himself a widower, as does your lord?”
“Yes, I forgot; he thinks me dead, who doubtless himself will be dead, if he is not so already, seeing that those wicked, murderous Turks will kill him,” and she began to weep.
“I should have added,” said Jacob hastily, “that in a second letter, of later date, the ambassador declares that the Emperor’s war against the Turks is finished for this season, and that the Englishmen who were with him fought with great honour and were all escaped unharmed, though this time he gives no names.”
“All escaped! If my husband were dead, who could not die meanly or without fame, how could he say that they were all escaped? Nay, nay; he lives, though who knows if he will return? Perchance he will wander off elsewhere, or stay and wed again.”
“Impossible,” said old Jacob, bowing to her; “having called you wife—impossible.”
“Impossible,” echoed Emlyn, “having such a score to settle with yonder Maldon! A man may forget his love, especially if he deems her buried. But as he stayed foreign to fight the Turk, who wronged him, so he’ll come home to fight the Abbot, who ruined him and slew his bride.”
There followed a silence, which the goldsmith, who felt it somewhat painful, hastened to break, saying—
“Yes, doubtless he will come home; for aught we know he may be here already. But meanwhile we also have our score against this Abbot, a bad one, though think not for his sake that all Abbots are bad, for I have known some who might be counted angels upon earth, and, having gone to martyrdom, doubtless to-day are angels in heaven. Now, my Lady, I will tell you what I have done, hoping that it will please you better than it does me. Last night I saw the Lord Cromwell, with whom I have many dealings, at his house in Austin Friars, and told him the case, of which, as I thought, that false villain Legh had said nothing to him, purposing to pick the plums out of the pudding ere he handed on the suet to his master. He read your deeds and hunted up some petition from the Abbot, with which he compared them; then made a note of my demands and asked straight out—How much?
“I told him £1000 on loan to the King, which would not be asked for back again, the said loan to be discharged by the grant to me—that is, to you—of all the Abbey lands, in addition to your own, when the said Abbey lands are sequestered, as they will be shortly. To this he agreed, on behalf of his Grace, who needs money much, but inquired as to himself. I replied £500 for him and his jackals, including Dr. Legh, of which no account would be asked. He told me it was not enough, for after the jackals had their pickings nothing would be left for him but the bones; I, who asked so much, must offer more, and he made as though to dismiss me. At the door I turned and said I had a wonderful pink pearl that he, who loved jewels, might like to see—a pink pearl worth many abbeys. He said, ‘Show it;’ and, oh! he gloated over it like a maid over her first love-letter. ‘If there were two of these, now!’ he whispered.
“‘Two, my Lord!’ I answered; ‘there’s no fellow to that pearl in the whole world,’ though it is true that as I said the words, the setting of its twin, that was pinned to my inner shirt, pricked me sorely, as if in anger. Then I took it up again, and for the second time began to bow myself out.
“‘Jacob,’ he said, ‘you are an old friend, and I’ll stretch my duty for you. Leave the pearl—his Grace needs that £1000 so sorely that I must keep it against my will,’ and he put out his hand to take it, only to find that I had covered it with my own.
“‘First the writing, then its price, my Lord. Here is a memorandum of it set out fair, to save you trouble, if it pleases you to sign.’
“He read it through, then, taking a pen, scored out the clause as regards acquittal of the witchcraft, which, he said, must be looked into by the King in person or by his officers, but all the rest he signed, undertaking to hand over the proper deeds under the great seal and royal hand upon payment of £1000. Being able to do no better, I said that would serve, and left him your pearl, he promising, on his part, to move his Majesty to receive you, which I doubt not he will do quickly for the sake of the £1000. Have I done well?”
“Indeed, yes,” exclaimed Cicely. “Who else could have done half so well——?”
As the words left her lips there came a loud knocking at the door of the house, and Jacob ran down to open it. Presently he returned with a messenger in a splendid coat, who bowed to Cicely and asked if she were the Lady Harflete. On her replying that such was her name, he said that he bore to her the command of his Grace the King to attend upon him at three o’clock of that afternoon at his Palace of Whitehall, together with Emlyn Stower and Thomas Bolle, there to make answer to his Majesty concerning a certain charge of witchcraft that had been laid against her and them, which summons she would neglect at her peril.
“Sir, I will be there,” answered Cicely; “but tell me, do I come as a prisoner?”
“Nay,” replied the herald, “since Master Jacob Smith, in whom his Grace has trust, has consented to be answerable for you.”
“And for the £1000,” muttered Jacob, as, with many salutations, he showed the royal messenger to the door, not neglecting to thrust a gold piece into his hand that he waved behind him in farewell.