Rain was falling heavily when the Abbot, with his escort of two monksand half-a-dozen men-at-arms, rode up to Cranwell. The house was now buta smoking heap of ashes, mingled with charred beams and burnt clay, inthe midst of which, scarcely visible through the clouds of steamcaused by the falling rain, rose the grim old Norman tower, for on itsstonework the flames had beat vainly.
"Why have we come here?" asked one of the monks, surveying the dismalscene with a shudder.
"To seek the bodies of the Lady Cicely and her woman, and give themChristian burial," answered the Abbot.
"After bringing them to a most unchristian death," muttered the monk tohimself, then added aloud, "You were ever charitable, my Lord Abbot, andthough she defied you, such is that noble lady's due. As for the nurseEmlyn, she was a witch, and did but come to the end that she deserved,if she be really dead."
"What mean you?" asked the Abbot sharply.
"I mean that, being a witch, the fire may have turned from her."
"Pray God, then, that it turned from her mistress also! But it cannotbe. Only a fiend could have lived in the heat of that furnace; look,even the tower is gutted."
"No, it cannot be," answered the monk; "so, since we shall never findthem, let us chant the Burial Office over this great grave of theirs andbegone--the sooner the better, for yon place has a haunted look."
"Not till we have searched out their bones, which must be beneath thetower yonder, whereon we saw them last," replied the Abbot, adding ina low voice, "Remember, Brother, the Lady Cicely had jewels of greatprice, which, if they were wrapped in leather, the fire may have spared,and these are among our heritage. At Shefton they cannot be found;therefore they must be here, and the seeking of them is no task forcommon folk. That is why I hurried hither so fast. Do you understand?"
The monk nodded his head. Having dismounted, they gave their horses tothe serving-men and began to make an examination of the ruin, the Abbotleaning on his inferior's arm, for he was in great pain from the blowin the back that Jeffrey had administered with his sea-boot, and thebruises which he had received in falling to the boat.
First they passed under the gatehouse, which still stood, only to findthat the courtyard beyond was so choked with smouldering rubbish thatthey could make no entry--for it will be remembered that the house hadfallen outwards. Here, however, lying by the carcass of a horse, theyfound the body of one of the men whom Christopher had killed in his laststand, and caused it to be borne out. Then, followed by their people,leaving the dead man in the gateway, they walked round the ruin, keepingon the inner side of the moat, till they came to the little pleasauncegarden at its back.
"Look," said the monk in a frightened voice, pointing to some scorchedbushes that had been a bower.
The Abbot did so, but for a while could see nothing because of thewreaths of steam. Presently a puff of wind blew these aside, and there,standing hand in hand, he beheld the figures of two women. His menbeheld them also, and called aloud that these were the ghosts of Cicelyand Emlyn. As they spoke the figures, still hand in hand, began to walktowards them, and they saw that they were Cicely and Emlyn indeed, butin the flesh, quite unharmed.
For a moment there was deep silence; then the Abbot asked--
"Whence come you, Mistress Cicely?"
"Out of the fire," she answered in a small, cold voice.
"Out of the fire! How did you live through the fire?"
"God sent His angel to save us," she answered, again in that smallvoice.
"A miracle," muttered the monk; "a true miracle!"
"Or mayhap Emlyn Stower's witchcraft," exclaimed one of the men behind;and Maldon started at his words.
"Lead me to my husband, my Lord Abbot, lest, thinking me dead, his heartshould break," said Cicely.
Now again there was silence so deep that they could hear the patter ofevery drop of falling rain. Twice the Abbot strove to speak, but couldnot, but at the third effort his words came.
"The man you call your husband, but who was not your husband, but yourravisher, was slain in the fray last night, Cicely Foterell."
She stood quite quiet for a while, as though considering his words, thensaid, in the same unnatural voice--
"You lie, my Lord Abbot. You were ever a liar, like your father thedevil, for the angel told me so in the midst of the fire. Also he toldme that, though I seemed to see him fall, Christopher is alive upon theearth--yes, and other things, many other things;" and she passed herhand before her eyes and held it there, as though to shut out the sightof her enemy's face.
Now the Abbot trembled in his terror, he who knew that he lied, thoughat that time none else there knew it. It was as though suddenly he hadbeen haled before the Judgment-seat where all secrets must be bared.
"Some evil spirit has entered into you," he said huskily.
She dropped her hand, pointing at him.
"Nay, nay; I never knew but one evil spirit, and he stands before me."
"Cicely," he went on, "cease your blaspheming. Alas! that I must tell ityou. Sir Christopher Harflete is dead and buried in yonder churchyard."
"What! So soon, and all uncoffined, he who was a noble knight? Thenyou buried him living, and, living, in a day to come he shall rise upagainst you. Hear my words, all. Christopher Harflete shall rise upliving and give testimony against this devil in a monk's robe, andafterwards--afterwards--" and she laughed shrilly, then suddenly felldown and lay still.
Now Emlyn, the dark and handsome, as became her Spanish, or perhapsgypsy blood, who all this while had stood silent, her arms folded uponher high bosom, leaned down and looked at her. Then she straightenedherself, and her face was like the face of a beautiful fiend.
"She is dead!" she screamed. "My dove is dead. She whom these breastsnursed, the greatest lady of all the wolds and all the vales, the Ladyof Blossholme, of Cranwell and of Shefton, in whose veins ran the bloodof mighty nobles, aye, and of old kings, is dead, murdered by a beggarlyforeign monk, who not ten days gone butchered her father also yonder byKing's Grave--yonder by the mere. Oh! the arrow in his throat! the arrowin his throat! I cursed the hand that shot it, and to-day that hand isblue beneath the mould. So, too, I curse you, Maldonado, evil-giftedone, Abbot consecrated by Satan, you and all your herd of butchers!" andshe broke into the stream of Spanish imprecations whereof the Abbot knewthe meaning well.
Presently Emlyn paused and looked behind her at the smouldering ruins.
"This house is burned," she cried; "well, mark Emlyn's words: even soshall your house burn, while your monks run squeaking like rats from aflaming rick. You have stolen the lands; they shall be taken from you,and yours also, every acre of them. Not enough shall be left to bury youin, for, priest, you'll need no burial. The fowls of the air shall buryyou, and that's the nearest you will ever get to heaven--in their filthycrops. Murderer, if Christopher Harflete is dead, yet he shall live, ashis lady swore, for his seed shall rise up against you. Oh! I forgot;how can it, how can it, seeing that she is dead with him, and theirbridal coverlet has become a pall woven by the black monks? Yet itshall, it shall. Christopher Harflete's seed shall sit where the Abbotsof Blossholme sat, and from father to son tell the tale of the lastof them--the Spaniard who plotted against England's king and overshothimself."
Her rage veered like a hurricane wind. Forgetting the Abbot, she turnedupon the monk at his side and cursed him. Then she cursed the hiredmen-at-arms, those present and those absent, many by name, andlastly--greatest crime of all--she cursed the Pope and the King ofSpain, and called to God in heaven and Henry of England upon earth toavenge her Lady Cicely's wrongings, and the murder of Sir John Foterell,and the murder of Christopher Harflete, on each and all of them,individually and separately.
So fierce and fearful was her onslaught that all who heard her werereduced to utter silence. The Abbot and the monk leaned against eachother, the soldiers crossed themselves and muttered prayers, while oneof them, running up, fell upon his knees and assured her that he hadhad nothing to do with all this busi
ness, having only returned from ajourney last night, and been called thither that morning.
Emlyn, who had paused from lack of breath, listened to him, and said--
"Then I take the curse off you and yours, John Athey. Now lift upmy lady and bear her to the church, for there we will lay her out asbecomes her rank; though not with her jewels, her great and pricelessjewels, for which she was hunted like a doe. She must lie without herjewels; her pearls and coronet, and rings, her stomacher and neckletsof bright gems, that were worth so much more than those beggarlyacres--those that once a Sultan's woman wore. They are lost, thoughperhaps yonder Abbot has found them. Sir John Foterell bore them toLondon for safe keeping, and good Sir John is dead; footpads set on himin the forest, and an arrow shot from behind pierced his throat. Thosewho killed him have the jewels, and the dead bride must lie withoutthem, adorned in the naked beauty that God gave to her. Lift her, JohnAthey, and you monks, set up your funeral chant; we'll to the church.The bride who knelt before the altar shall lie there before thealtar--Clement Maldonado's last offering to God. First the father, thenthe husband, and now the wife--the sweet, new-made wife!"
So she raved on, while they stood before her dumb-founded, and the manlifted up Cicely. Then suddenly this same Cicely, whom all thought dead,opened her eyes and struggled from his arms to her feet.
"See," screamed Emlyn; "did I not tell you that Harflete's seed shouldlive to be avenged upon all your tribe, and she stands there who willbear it? Now where shall we shelter till England hears this tale?Cranwell is down, though it shall rise again, and Shefton is stolen.Where shall we shelter?"
"Thrust away that woman," said the Abbot in a hoarse voice, "for herwitchcrafts poison the air. Set the Lady Cicely on a horse and bear herto our Nunnery of Blossholme, where she shall be tended."
The men advanced to do his bidding, though very doubtfully. But Emlyn,hearing his words, ran to the Abbot and whispered something in his earin a foreign tongue that caused him to cross himself and stagger backfrom her.
"I have changed my mind," he said to the servants. "MistressEmlyn reminds me that between her and her lady there is the tie offoster-motherhood. They may not be separated as yet. Take them bothto the Nunnery, where they shall dwell, and as for this woman's words,forget them, for she was mad with fear and grief, and knew not what shesaid. May God and His saints forgive her, as I do."