The Lady of Blossholme

THE LADY OF BLOSSHOLME

where I have scarcely strayed for many years. Now I have bethought me of that red-haired lay-brother, Thomas Bolle. I am told that though foolish, he is a valiant man whom few care to face; moreover, that he understands horses and knows all roads. Do you think, Emlyn Stower, that Thomas Bolle will be my companion on this journey, with leave from the Abbot, or without it?” and again she looked her in the eyes.

“He might, he might; he is a venturous man, or so I remember him in my youth,” answered Emlyn. “Moreover, his forefathers have served the Harfletes and the Foterells for generations in peace and war, and doubtless, therefore, he loves my lady yonder. But the trouble is to get at him.”

“No trouble at all, Emlyn; he is one of the watch outside the gate. But, woman, what token?”

Emlyn thought for a moment, then drew a ring off her finger in which was set a cornelian heart.

“Give him this,” she said, “and say that the wearer bade him follow the bearer to the death, for the sake of that wearer’s life and another’s. He is a simple soul, and if the Abbot does not catch him first I believe that he will go.”

Mother Matilda took the ring and set it on her own finger. Then she walked to where Cicely lay sleeping, looked at her and the boy upon her breast. Stretching out her thin hands, she called down the blessing and protection of Almighty God upon them both, then turned to depart.

Emlyn caught her by the robe.

“Stay,” she said. “You think I do not understand; but I do. You are giving up everything for us. Even if you live through it, this House, which has been your charge for many years, will be

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dissolved; your sheep will be scattered to starve in their toothless age; the fold that has sheltered them for four hundred years will become a home of wolves. I understand full well, and she” – pointing to the sleeping Cicely – “will understand also.”

“Say nothing to her,” murmured Mother Matilda; “I may fail.”

“You may fail, or you may succeed. If you fail and we burn, God shall reward you. If you succeed and we are saved, on her behalf I swear that you shall not suffer. There is wealth hidden away – wealth worth many priories; you and yours shall have your share of it, and that Commissioner shall not go lacking. Tell him that there is some small store to pay him for his trouble, and that the Abbot of Blossholme would rob him of it. Now, my Lady Margaret – for that, I think, used to be your name, and will be again when you have done with priests and nuns – bless me also and begone, and know that, living or dead, I hold you great and holy.”

So the Prioress blessed her ere she glided thence in her stately fashion, and the oaken door opened and shut behind her.

Three days later the Abbot visited them alone.

“Foul and accursed witches,” he said, “I come to tell you that next Monday at noon you burn upon the green in front of the Abbey gate, who, were it not for the mercy of the Church, should have been tortured also till you discovered your accomplices, of whom I think that you have many.”

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“Show me the King’s warrant for this slaughter,” said Cic-

ely.

“I will show you nothing save the stake, witch. Repent, repent, ere it be too late. Hell and its eternal fires yawn for you.”

“Do they yawn for my child also, my Lord Abbot?”

“Your brat will be taken from you ere you enter the flames and laid upon the ground, since it is baptized and too young to burn. If any have pity on it, good; if not, where it lies, there it will be buried.”

“So be it,” answered Cicely. “God gave it; God save it. In God I put my trust. Murderer, leave me to make my peace with Him,” and she turned and walked away.

Now the Abbot and Emlyn were face to face. “Do we really burn on Monday?” she asked.

“Without doubt, unless faggots will not take fire. Yet,” he added slowly, “if certain jewels should chance to be found and handed over, the case might be remitted to another Court.”

“And the torment prolonged. My Lord Abbot, I fear that those jewels will never be found.”

“Well, then you burn – slowly, perhaps, for much rain has fallen of late and the wood is green. They say the death is dreadful.”

“Doubtless one day you will find it so, Clement Maldonado, here or hereafter. But of that we will talk together when all is done – of that and many other things. I mean before the Judgment-seat of God. Nay, nay, I do not threaten after your fashion – it shall be so. Meanwhile I ask the boon of a dying woman. There are two whom I would see – the Prioress Matilda, in whose charge I desire to leave a certain secret, and

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Thomas Bolle, a lay-brother in your Abbey, a man who once engaged himself to me in marriage. For your own sake, deny me not these favours.”

“They should be granted readily enough were it in my power, but it is not,” answered the Abbot, looking at her curiously, for he thought that to them she might tell what she had refused to him – the hiding-place of the jewels, which afterwards he could wring out.

“Why not, my Lord Abbot?”

“Because the Prioress has gone hence, secretly, upon some journey of her own, and Thomas Bolle has vanished away I knew not where. If they, or either of them, return ere Monday you shall see them.”

“And if they do not return I shall see them afterwards,” replied Emlyn, with a shrug of her shoulders. “What does it matter? Fare you well till we meet at the fire, my Lord Abbot.”

On the Sunday – that is, the day before the burning – the Abbot came again.

“Three days ago,” he said, addressing them both, “I offered you a chance of life upon certain conditions, but, obstinate witches that you are, you refused to listen. Now I offer you the last boon in my power – not life, indeed; it is too late for that – but a merciful death. If you will give me what I seek, the executioner shall dispatch you both before the fire bites – never mind how. If not – well, as I have told you, there has been much rain, and they say the faggots are somewhat green.”

Cicely paled a little – who would not, even in those cruel days? – then asked –

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CHAPTER XII

THE STAKE

It was an awful night. Let those who have followed this history think of the state of these two women, one of them still but a girl, who on the morrow, amidst the jeers and curses of superstitious men, were to suffer the cruelest of deaths for no crime at all, unless the traffickings of Emlyn with Thomas Bolle, in which Cicely had small share, could be held a crime. Well, thousands quite as blameless were called on to undergo that, and even worse fates in the days which some name good and old, the days of chivalry and gallant knights, when even little children were tormented and burned by holy and learned folk who feared a visible or at least a tangible devil and his works.

Doubtless their cruelty was that of terror. Doubtless, although he had other ends to gain which to him were sacred, the Abbot Maldon did believe that Cicely and Emlyn had practised horrible witchcraft; that they had conversed with Satan in order to revenge themselves upon him, and therefore were too foul to live. The “Old Bishop” believed it also, and so did the black-browed Prior and the most of the ignorant people who lived around and knew of the terrible things

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which had happened in Blossholme. Had not some of them actually seen the fiend with horns and hoofs and tail driving the Abbey cattle, and had not others met the ghost of Sir John Foterell, which doubtless was but that fiend in another shape? Oh, these women were guilty, without doubt they were guilty and deserved the stake! What did it matter if the husband and father of one of them had been murdered and the other had suffered grievous but forgotten wrongs? Compared to witchcraft murder was but a light and homely crime, one that would happen when men’s passions and needs were involved, quite a familiar thing.

It was an awful night. Sometimes Cicely slept a little, but the most of it she spent in prayer. The fierce Emlyn neither slept nor prayed, except once or twice that vengeance might fall upon the Abbot’s head, for her whole soul was up in arms and it galled her to think that she and her beloved mistress must die shamefully while their enemy lived on triumphant and in honour. Even the infant seemed nervous and disturbed, as though some instinct warned it of terror at hand, for although it was well enough, against its custom it woke continually and wailed.

“Emlyn,” said Cicely towards morning, but before the light had come, after at length she had soothed it to rest, “do you think that Mother Matilda will be able to help us?”

“No, no; put it from your mind, dearie. She is weak and old, the road is rough and long, and mayhap she has never reached the place. It was a great venture for her to try such a journey, and if she came there, why, perhaps the Commissioner man had gone, or perhaps he will not listen, or perhaps he cannot

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come. What would he care about the burning of two witches a hundred miles away, this leech who is sucking himself full upon the carcass of some fat monastery? No, no, never count on her.”

“At least she is brave and true, Emlyn, and has done her best, for which may Heaven’s blessing rest upon her always. Now, what of Thomas Bolle?”

“Nothing, except that he is a red-headed jackass that can bray but daren’t kick,” answered Emlyn viciously. “Never speak to me of Thomas Bolle. Had he been a man long ago he’d have broken the neck of that rogue Abbot instead of dressing himself up like a he-goat and hunting his cows.”

“If what they say is true he did break the neck of Father Ambrose,” replied Cicely, with a faint smile. “Perhaps he made a mistake in the dark.”

“If so it is like Thomas Bolle, who ever wished the right thing and did the wrong. Talk no more of him, since I would not meet my end in a bad spirit. Thomas Bolle, who lets us die for his elfish pranks! A pest on the half-witted cur, say I. And after I had kissed him too!”

Cicely wondered vaguely to what she referred, then, thinking it well not to inquire, said –

“Not so, a blessing on him, say I, who saved my child from that hateful hag.”

Then there was silence for a while, the matter of poor Thomas Bolle and his conduct being exhausted between them, who indeed were in no mood for argument about people whom they would never see again. At last Cicely spoke once more through the darkness –

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“Emlyn, I will try to be brave; but once, do you remember, I burnt my hand as a child when I stole the sweetmeats from the cooling pot, and ah! it hurt me. I will try to die as those who went before me would have died, but if I should break down think not the less of me, for the spirit is willing though the flesh be weak.”

Emlyn ground her teeth in silence, and Cicely went on – “But that is not the worst of it, Emlyn. A few minutes and it

will be over and I shall sleep, as I think, to awake elsewhere. Only if Christopher should really live, how he will mourn when he learns”

“I pray that he does,” broke in Emlyn, “for then ere long there will be a Spanish priest the less on earth and one the more in hell.”

“And the child, Emlyn, the child!” she went on in a trembling voice, not heeding the interruption. “What will become of my son, the heir to so much if he had his rights, and yet so friendless? They’ll murder him also, Emlyn, or let him die, which is the same thing, since how otherwise will they get title to his lands and goods?”

“If so, his troubles will be done and he will be better with you in heaven,” Emlyn answered, with a dry sob. “The boy and you in heaven midst the blessed saints, and the Abbot and I in hell settling our score there with the devil for company, that’s all I ask. There, there, I blaspheme, for injustice makes me mad; it clogs my heart and I throw it up in bitter words, for your sake, dear, and his, not my own. Child, you are good and gentle, to such as you the Ear of God is open. Call to him; ask for light, He will not refuse. Do you remember in the fire

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at the Towers, when we crouched in that vault and the walls crumbled overhead, you said you saw His angel bending over us and heard his speech. Call to Him, Cicely, and if He will not listen, hear me. I have a means of death about me. Ask not what it is, but if at the end I turn on you and strike, blame me not here or hereafter, for it will be love’s blow, my last service.”

It seemed as though Cicely did not understand those heavy words, at the least she took no heed of them.

“I’ll pray again,” she whispered, “though I fear that heaven’s doors are closed to me; no light comes through,” and she knelt down.

For long, long she prayed, till at length weariness overcame her, and Emlyn heard her breathing softly like one asleep.

“Let her sleep,” she murmured to herself. “Oh! if I were sure – she should never wake again to see the dawn. I have half a mind to do it, but there it is, I am not sure. If there is a God He will never suffer such a thing. I’d have paid the jewels, but what’s the use? They would have killed her all the same, for else where’s their title? No, my heart bids me wait.”

Cicely awoke.

“Emlyn,” she said in a low, thrilling voice, “do you hear me, Emlyn? That angel has been with me again. He spoke to me,” and she paused.

“Well, well, what did he say?”

“I don’t know, Emlyn,” she answered, confused; “it has gone from me. But, Emlyn, have no fear, all is well with us, and not only with us but with Christopher and the babe also. Oh, yes, with Christopher and the babe also,” and she let her fair

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