The Lady Of Blossholme

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"So will it be, Emlyn, if so it is to be, only let others shed that
cruel blood. I would not have it on my hands or on those of any of my
house, for after all he is an ordained priest of my own faith. Moreover,
I had promised. Still, talk not of the matter lest it should bring
trouble on us all, who had no right to loose him. Also these are ill
thoughts for your wedding day. Go, deck yourself in those fine clothes
which Jacob Smith has sent from London, since the clergyman will be
at Blossholme church by four, and I think that Thomas has waited long
enough for you."

Emlyn smiled a little, and shrugged her broad shoulders, muttering
something that would have angered Thomas if he could have heard it,
as Cicely went off to join Christopher, who called to her from another
room.

She found him adding up figures on paper, a very different Christopher
to the broken man they had rescued from the dungeon, though still much
aged by the terrors of the past year and just now looking rueful.

"See, Sweet," he said, "we should give a marriage portion to Emlyn, who
has earned it if ever woman did, but where it is to come from I know
not. Those Abbey lands Jacob Smith bought from the King are not yours
yet, nor Henry's either, though doubtless he will have them soon.
Neither have any rents been paid to you from your own estates, and when
they come they are promised up in London, while the Abbot's razor has
shaved my own poor parsimony bare as a churchyard skull. Also Mother
Matilda and her nuns must be kept till we can endow them with their
lands again. One day we, or our boy yonder, may be rich, but till it
comes there are hard times for all of us."

"Not so hard as some we have known, Husband," she answered, laughing,
"for at least we are free and have food to eat, and for the rest we will
borrow from Jacob Smith on the jewels that remain over. Indeed, I have
written to him and he will not refuse."

"Aye, but how about Thomas and Emlyn?"

"They must do as their betters do. Though there is little stock on it,
Thomas has the Manor Farm at low rent, which he may pay when he can,
while Jacob put a present in the pocket of Emlyn's wedding dress. What's
more, I think he will make her his heir, and if so she will be rich
indeed, so rich that I shall have to curtsey to her. Now, go make ready
for this marriage, and as you have no fine doublet, bid Jeffrey put on
your mail, for you look best in that, or so at least I think, who to my
mind look best in anything you chance to wear."

Then while he demurred, saying that there was now no need to bear arms
in Blossholme, also that Jeffrey was away settling himself as landlord
of the Ford Inn, the same that the Abbot had once promised to Flounder
Megges, she kissed him, and seizing her boy, who lay crowing in the
sunlight, danced with him from the room. For oh, Cicely's heart was
merry.



There were many folk at the marriage of Emlyn Stower and Thomas Bolle,
for of late Blossholme had been but a sorry place, and this wedding came
to it like the breath of spring to the woods and meads around, a hint
of happiness after the miseries of winter. The story of the pair had got
about also. How they had been pledged in youth and separated by scheming
men for their own purposes. How Emlyn had been married off against her
will to an aged partner whom she hated, and Thomas, who was set down as
a fool, forced to serve the monastery as a lay-brother, a strong hind
skilled in the management of cattle and such matters, but half crazy, as
indeed it had suited him to feign himself to be.

People knew the end of the thing also; that Emlyn had cursed the Abbot,
and that her curse had been fulfilled. That Thomas Bolle had shaken off
his superstitious fears and risen up against him and at last been given
the commission of the King, and, as his Grace's officer, shown himself
no fool but a man of mettle who had taken the Abbey by storm and
rescued Sir Christopher Harflete from its dungeons. Emlyn also, like her
mistress, had been bound to the stake as a witch, and saved from burning
by this same Thomas, who with her had been concerned in many remarkable
events whereof the countryside was full of tales, true or false. Now at
last after all these adventures they came together to be wed, and who
was there for ten miles round that would not see it done?

The monks being gone Father Roger Necton, the old vicar of Cranwell, he
who had united Christopher and his wife Cicely in strange circumstances,
and for that deed been obliged to fly for his life when the last Abbot
of Blossholme burned Cranwell Towers, came to tie the knot before his
great congregation. Notwithstanding that they were both of middle
age, Emlyn in her grand gown and the brawny, red-haired Thomas in his
yeoman's garb of green, such as he had worn when he wooed her many years
before he put on the monk's russet robe, made a fine and handsome pair
at the altar. Or so folk thought, though some friend of the monks,
remembering Bolle's devil's livery and Emlyn's repute as a sorceress,
cried out from the shadow that Satan was marrying a witch, and for his
pains got his head broken by Jeffrey Stokes.

So the white-haired and gentle Father Necton, having first read the
King's order releasing Thomas from his vows, tied them fast according to
the ancient rites and blessed them both. At length it was finished, and
the pair walked from the old church to the Manor Farm, where they were
to dwell, followed, as was the custom, by a company of their friends
and well-wishers. As they went they passed through a little stretch of
woodland by the stream, where on this spring day the wild daffodils and
lilies of the valley were abloom making sweet the air. Here Emlyn paused
a moment and said to her husband, Captain Bolle--

"Do you remember this place?"

"Aye, Wife," he answered, "it was here that we plighted our troth in
youth, and looked up to see Maldon passing us just beyond that same oak,
and felt the shadow of him strike cold to our hearts. You spoke of it
yonder in the Priory chapel when I came up by the secret way, and its
memory made me mad."

"Yes, Thomas, I spoke of it," answered Emlyn in a rich and gentle
voice, a new voice to him. "Well, now let its memory make you happy, as,
notwithstanding all my faults, I will if I can," and swiftly she bent
towards him and kissed him, adding, "Come on, Husband, they press behind
us and I hope that we have done with perils and plottings."

"Amen," answered Bolle, and as he spoke certain strange men who wore
the King's colours and carried a long ladder went by them at a distance.
Wondering what was their business at Blossholme, the pair passed through
the last of the woodland and reached the rise whence they could see the
gaunt skeleton of the burnt-out Abbey that appeared within fifty paces
of them. At this they paused to look, and presently were joined there
by Christopher and Cicely, Mother Matilda and her good nuns, Jeffrey
Stokes, and others. The place seemed grim and desolate in the evening
light, and all of them stood staring at it filled with their separate
thoughts.

"What is that?" said Cicely, with a start, pointing to a round black
object new set over the ruin of the gateway tower.

Just then a red ray from the sunset struck upon the thing.

It was the severed head of Clement Maldon the Spaniard.