The Lady of Blossholme. H. Rider Haggard

be frightened. His smooth, olive-coloured cheeks sank in and went white, as though already he felt the cord about his throat. His jewelled hand shook, and he caught the arm of one of his chaplains and hung to it.

      “Man,” he hissed, “do you think that you can utter such false threats and go hence to ruin me, a consecrated abbot? I have dungeons here; I have power. It will be said that you attacked me, and that I did but strive to defend myself. Others can bring witness besides you, Sir John,” and he whispered some words in Latin or Spanish into the ear of one of his chaplains, whereon that priest turned to leave the room.

      “Now it seems that we are getting to business,” said Jeffrey Stokes, as, lying his hand upon the knife at his girdle, he slipped between the monk and the door.

      “That’s it, Jeffrey,” cried Sir John. “Stop the rat’s hole. Look you, Spaniard, I have a sword. Show me to your gate, or, by virtue of the King’s commission that I hold, I do instant justice on you as a traitor, and afterward answer for it if I win out.”

      The Abbot considered a moment, taking the measure of the fierce old knight before him. Then he said slowly—

      “Go as you came, in peace, O man of wrath and evil, but know that the curse of the Church shall follow you. I say that you stand near to ill.”

      Sir John looked at him. The anger went out of his face, and, instead, upon it appeared something strange—a breath of foresight, an inspiration, call it what you will.

      “By heaven and all its saints! I think you are right, Clement Maldon,” he muttered. “Beneath that black dress of yours you are a man like the rest of us, are you not? You have a heart, you have members, you have a brain to think with; you are a fiddle for God to play on, and however much your superstitions mask and alter it, out of those strings now and again will come some squeak of truth. Well, I am another fiddle, of a more honest sort, mayhap, though I do not lift two fingers of my right hand and say, ‘Benedicite, my son,’ and ‘Your sins are forgiven you’; and just now the God of both of us plays His tune in me, and I will tell you what it is. I stand near to death, but you stand not far from the gallows. I’ll die an honest man; you will die like a dog, false to everything, and afterwards let your beads and your masses and your saints help you if they can. We’ll talk it over when we meet again elsewhere. And now, my Lord Abbot, lead me to your gate, remembering that I follow with my sword. Jeffrey, set those carrion crow in front of you, and watch them well. My Lord Abbot, I am your servant; march!”

CHAPTER II

       Table of Contents

THE MURDER BY THE MERE

       Table of Contents

      For a while Sir John and his retainer rode in silence. Then he laughed loudly.

      “Jeffrey,” he called, “that was a near touch. Sir Priest was minded to stick his Spanish pick-tooth between our ribs, and shrive us afterwards, as we lay dying, to salve his conscience.”

      “Yes, master; only, being reasonable, he remembered that English swords have a longer reach, and that his bullies are in the Ford ale-house seeing the Old Year out, and so put it off. Master, I have always told you that old October of yours is too strong to drink at noon. It should be saved till bed-time.”

      “What do you mean, man?”

      “I mean that ale spoke yonder, not wisdom. You have showed your hand and played the fool.”

      “Who are you to teach me?” asked Sir John angrily. “I meant that he should hear the truth for once, the slimy traitor.”

      “Perhaps, perhaps; but these be bad days for Truth and those who court her. Was it needful to tell him that to-morrow you journey to London upon a certain errand?”

      “Why not? I’ll be there before him.”

      “Will you ever be there, master? The road runs past the Abbey, and that priest has good ruffians in his pay who can hold their tongues.”

      “Do you mean that he will waylay me? I say he dare not. Still, to please you, we will take the longer path through the forest.”

      “A rough one, master; but who goes with you on this business? Most of us are away with the wains, and others make holiday. There are but three serving-men at the hall, and you cannot leave the Lady Cicely without a guard, or take her with you through this cold. Remember there’s wealth yonder which some may need more even than your lands,” he added meaningly. “Wait a while, then, till your people return or you can call up your tenants, and go to London as one of your quality should, with twenty good men at your back.”

      “And so give our friend the Abbot time to get Cromwell’s ear, and through him that of the King. No, no; I ride to-morrow at the dawn with you, or, if you are afraid, without you, as I have done before and taken no harm.”

      “None shall say that Jeffrey Stokes is afraid of man or priest or devil,” answered the old soldier, colouring. “Your road has been good enough for me this thirty years, and it is good enough now. If I warned you it was not for my own sake, who care little what comes, but for yours and that of your house.”

      “I know it,” said Sir John more kindly. “Take not my words ill, my temper is up to-day. Thank the saints! here is the hall at last. Why! whose horse has passed the gates before us?”

      Jeffrey glanced at the tracks which the moonlight showed very clearly in the new-fallen snow.

      “Sir Christopher Harflete’s grey mare,” he said. “I know the shoeing and the round shape of the hoof. Doubtless he is visiting Mistress Cicely.”

      “Whom I have forbidden to him,” grumbled Sir John, swinging himself from the saddle.

      “Forbid him not,” answered Jeffrey, as he took his horse. “Christopher Harflete may yet be a good friend to a maid in need, and I think that need is nigh.”

      “Mind your business, knave,” shouted Sir John. “Am I to be set at naught in my own house by a chit of a girl and a gallant who would mend his broken fortunes?”

      “If you ask me, I think so,” replied the imperturbable Jeffrey, as he led away the horses.

      Sir John strode into the house by the backway, which opened on to the stable-yard. Taking the lantern that stood by the door, he went along galleries and upstairs to the sitting-chamber above the hall, which, since her mother’s death, his daughter had used as her own, for here he guessed that he would find her. Setting down the lantern upon the passage table, he pushed open the door, which was not latched, and entered.

      The room was large, and, being lighted only by the great fire that burned upon the hearth and two candles, all this end of it was hid in shadow. Near to the deep window-place the shadow ceased, however, and here, seated in a high-backed oak chair, with the light of the blazing fire falling full upon her, was Cicely Foterell, Sir John’s only surviving child. She was a tall and graceful maiden, blue-eyed, brown-haired, fair-skinned, with a round and child-like face which most people thought beautiful to look upon. Just now this face, that generally was so arch and cheerful, seemed somewhat troubled. For this there might be a reason, since, seated upon a stool at her side, was a young man talking to her earnestly.

      He was a stalwart young man, very broad about the shoulders, clean-cut in feature, with a long, straight nose, black hair, and merry black eyes. Also, as such a gallant should do, he appeared to be making love with much vigour and directness, for his face was upturned pleading with the girl, who leaned back in her chair answering him nothing. At this moment, indeed, his copious flow of words came to an end, perhaps from exhaustion, perhaps for other reasons, and was succeeded by a more effective method of attack. Suddenly sinking from