CHAPTER VII
THE ABBOT'S OFFER
The Nunnery at Blossholme was a peaceful place, a long, grey-gabledhouse set under the shelter of a hill and surrounded by a high wall.Within this wall lay also the great garden--neglected enough--and thechapel, a building that still was beautiful in its decay.
Once, indeed, Blossholme Priory, which was older than the Abbey, hadbeen rich and famous. Its foundress in the time of the first Edward,a certain Lady Matilda, one of the Plantagenets, who retired from theworld after her husband had been killed in the Crusade, being childless,endowed it with all her lands. Other noble ladies who accompanied herthere, or sought its refuge in after days, had done likewise, so thatit grew in power and in wealth, till at its most prosperous time overtwenty nuns told their beads within its walls. Then the proud Abbey roseupon the opposing hill, and obtained some royal charter that the Popeconfirmed, under which the Priory of Blossholme was affiliated to theAbbey of Blossholme, and the Abbot of Blossholme became the spirituallord of its religious. From that day forward its fortunes began todecline, since under this pretext and that the abbots filched away itslands to swell their own estates.
So it came about that at the date of our history the total revenue ofthis Nunnery was but L130 a year of the money of the day, and even ofthis sum the Abbot took tithe and toll. Now in all the great house, thatonce had been so full, there dwelt but six nuns, one of whom was, infact, a servant, while an aged monk from the Abbey celebrated Mass inthe fair chapel where lay the bones of so many who had gone before. Alsoon certain feasts the Abbot himself attended, confessed the nuns, andgranted them absolution and his holy blessing. On these days, too, hewould examine their accounts, and if there were money in hand take ashare of it to serve his necessities, for which reason the Prioresslooked forward to his coming with little joy.
It was to this ancient home of peace that the distraught Cicely andher servant Emlyn were conveyed upon the morrow of the great burning.Indeed, Cicely knew it well enough already, since as a child duringthree years or more she had gone there daily to be taught by thePrioress Matilda, for every head of the Priory took this name in turn tothe honour of their foundress and in accordance with the provisionsof her will. Happy years they were, as these old nuns loved her in heryouth and innocence, and she, too, loved them every one. Now, by theworkings of fate, she was borne back to the same quiet room where shehad played and studied--a new-made wife, a new-made widow.
But of all this poor Cicely knew nothing till three weeks or more hadgone by, when at length her wandering brain cleared and she opened hereyes to the world again. At the moment she was alone, and lay lookingabout her. The place was familiar. She recognized the deep windows,the faded tapestries of Abraham cutting Isaac's throat with a butcher'sknife, and Jonah being shot into the very gateway of a castle where hisfamily awaited him, from the mouth of a gigantic carp with goggle eyes,for the simple artist had found his whale's model in a stewpond. Wellshe remembered those delightful pictures, and how often she had wonderedwhether Isaac could escape bleeding to death, or Jonah's wife, with theoutspread arms, withstand the sudden shock of her husband's unexpectedarrival out of the interior of the whale. There also was the splendidfireplace of wrought stone, and above it, cunningly carved in gildedoak, gleamed many coats-of-arms without crests, for they were those ofsundry noble prioresses.
Yes, this was certainly the great guest-chamber of the BlossholmePriory, which, since the nuns had now few guests and many placesin which to put them, had been given up to her, Sir John Foterell'sheiress, as her schoolroom. There she lay, thinking that she was a childagain, a happy, careless child, or that she dreamed, till presently thedoor opened and Mother Matilda appeared, followed by Emlyn, who bore atray, on which stood a silver bowl that smoked. There was no mistakingMother Matilda in her black Benedictine robe and her white whimple,wearing the great silver crucifix which was her badge of office, and thegolden ring with an emerald bezel whereon was cut St. Catherine beingbroken on the wheel--the ancient ring which every Prioress of Blossholmehad worn from the beginning. Moreover, who that had ever seen it couldforget her sweet, old, high-bred face, with the fine lips, the archednose, and the quick, kind grey eyes!
Cicely strove to rise and to do her reverence, as had been her customduring those childish years, only to find that she could not, for lo!she fell back heavily upon her pillow. Thereon Emlyn, setting down thetray with a clatter upon a table, ran to her, and putting her arms abouther, began to scold, as was her fashion, but in a very gentle voice;and Mother Matilda, kneeling by her bed, gave thanks to Jesus and Hisblessed saints--though why she thanked Him at first Cicely did notunderstand.
"Am I ill, reverend Mother?" she asked.
"Not now, daughter, but you were very ill," answered the Prioress in hersweet, low voice. "Now we think that God has healed you."
"How long have I been here?" she asked.
The Mother began to reckon, counting her beads, one for every day--forin such places time slips by--but long before she had finished Emlynreplied quickly--
"Cranwell Towers was burned three weeks yesternight."
Then Cicely remembered, and with a bitter groan turned her face to thewall, while the Mother reproached Emlyn, saying she had killed her.
"I think not," answered the nurse in a low voice. "I think she has thatwhich will not let her die"--a saying that puzzled the Prioress at thistime.
Emlyn was right. Cicely did not die. On the contrary, she grew strongand well in her body, though it was long before her mind recovered.Indeed, she glided about the place like a ghost in her black mourningrobe, for now she no longer doubted that Christopher was dead, and she,the wife of a week, widowed as well as orphaned.
Then in her utter desolation came comfort; a light broke on the darknessof her soul like the moon above a tortured midnight sea. She was nolonger quite alone; the murdered Christopher had left his image withher. If she lived a child would be born to him, and therefore she wouldsurely live. One evening, on her knees, she whispered her secret to thePrioress Matilda, whereat the old nun blushed like a girl, yet, after amoment's silent prayer, laid a thin hand upon her head in blessing.
"The Lord Abbot declares that your marriage was no true marriage, mydaughter, though why I do not understand, since the man was he whom yourheart chose, and you were wed to him by an ordained priest before God'saltar and in presence of the congregation."
"I care not what he says," answered Cicely in a stubborn voice. "If I amnot a true wife, then no woman ever was."
"Dear daughter," answered Mother Matilda, "it is not for us unlearnedwomen to question the wisdom of a holy Abbot who doubtless is inspiredfrom on high."
"If he is inspired it is not from on high, Mother. Would God or Hissaints teach him to murder my father and my husband, to seize myheritage, or to hold my person in this gentle prison? Such inspirationsdo not come from above, Mother."
"Hush! hush!" said the Prioress, glancing round her nervously; "yourwoes have crazed you. Besides, you have no proof. In this world thereare so many things that we cannot understand. Being an abbot, how couldhe do wrong, although to us his acts seem wrong? But let us not talkof these matters, of which, indeed, I only know from that rough-tonguedEmlyn of yours, who, I am told, was not afraid to curse him terribly.I was about to say that whatever may be the law of it, I hold yourmarriage good and true, and its issue, should such come to you, pureand holy, and night by night I will pray that it shall be crowned withHeaven's richest blessings."
"I thank you, dear Mother," answered Cicely, as she rose and left her.
When she had gone the Prioress rose also, and, with a troubled face,began to walk up and down the refectory, for it was here that they hadspoken together. Truly she could not understand, for unless all thesetales were false--and how could they be false?--this Abbot, whom herhigh-bred English nature had always mistrusted, this dark, able Spanishmonk was no saint, but a wicked villain? There must be some explanation.It was only that _she_ did not understand.
Soon the news spread throughout the Nunnery, and if the sisters hadloved Cicely before, now they loved her twice as well. Of the doubts asto the validity to her marriage, like their Prioress, they took no heed,for had it not been celebrated in a church? But that a child was tobe born among them--ah! that was a joyful thing, a thing that had nothappened for quite two hundred years, when, alas!--so said tradition andtheir records--there had been a dreadful scandal which to this daywas spoken of with bated breath. For be it known at once this Nunnery,whatever may or may not have been the case with some others, was one ofwhich no evil could be said.
Beneath their black robes, however, these old nuns were still as muchwomen as the mothers who bore them, and this news of a child stirredthem to the marrow. Among themselves in their hours of recreation theytalked of little else, and even their prayers were largely occupied withthis same matter. Indeed, poor, weak-witted, old Sister Bridget, whohitherto had been secretly looked down upon because she was the only oneof the seven who was not of gentle birth, now became very popular. ForSister Bridget in her youth had been married and borne two children,both of whom had been carried off by the smallpox after she was widowed,whereon, as her face was seamed by this same disease, so that she hadno hope of another husband, as her neighbours said, or because her heartwas broken, as she said, she entered into religion.
Now she constituted herself Cicely's chief attendant, and although thatlady was quite well and strong, persecuted her with advice and withnoxious mixtures which she brewed, till Emlyn, descending on her likea storm, hunted her from the room and cast her medicines through thewindow.
That these sisters should be thus interested in so small a matter wasnot, indeed, wonderful, seeing that if their lives had been secludedbefore, since the Lady Cicely came amongst them they were ten times moreso. Soon they discovered that she and her servant, Emlyn Stower, were,in fact, prisoners, which meant that they, her hostesses, were prisonersalso. None were allowed to enter the Nunnery save the silent old monkwho confessed them and celebrated the Mass, nor, by an order of theAbbot, were they suffered to go abroad upon any business whatsoever.
For the rest, as their only means of communication with those who dweltbeyond was the surly gardener, who was deaf and set there to spy onthem, little news ever reached them. They were almost dead to the world,which, had they known it, was busy enough just then with matters thatconcerned them and all other religious houses.
At length one day, when Cicely and Emlyn were seated in the gardenbeneath a flowering hawthorn-tree--for now June had come and with itwarm weather--of a sudden Sister Bridget hurried up saying that theAbbot of Blossholme desired their presence. At this tidings Cicelyturned faint, and Emlyn rated Bridget, asking if her few wits had lefther, or if she thought that name was so pleasant to her mistress thatshe should suddenly bawl it in her ear.
Thereon the poor old soul, who was not too strong-brained and muchafraid of Emlyn since she had thrown her medicines out of the window,began to weep, protesting that she had meant no harm, till Cicely,recovering, soothed her and sent her back to say that she would waitupon his lordship.
"Are you afraid of him, Mistress?" asked Emlyn, as they prepared tofollow.
"A little, Nurse. He has shown himself a man to be afraid of, has henot? My father and my husband are in his net, and will he spare the lastfish in the pool--a very narrow pool?" and she glanced at the high wallsabout her. "I fear lest he should take you from me, and wonder why hehas not done so already."
"Because my father was a Spaniard, and through him I know that whichwould ruin him with his friends, the Pope and the Emperor. Also, hebelieves that I have the evil eye, and dreads my curse. Still, one dayhe may try to murder me; who knows? Only then the secret of the jewelswill go with me, for that is mine alone; not yours even, for if you hadit they would squeeze it out of you. Meanwhile he will try to professyou a nun, but push him off with soft words. Say that you will think ofit after your child is born. Till then he can do nothing, and, if MotherMatilda's fresh tidings are true, by that time perchance there will beno more nuns in England."
Now very quietly and by the side door they were entering the oldreception-hall, that was only used for the entertainment of visitors andon other great occasions, and close to them saw the Abbot seated in hischair, while the Prioress stood before him, rendering her accounts.
"Whether you can spare it or no," they heard him say sharply, "I musthave the half-year's rent. The times are evil; we servants of the Lordare threatened by that adulterous king and his proud ministers, whoswear they will strip us to the shirt and turn us out to starve. I'mbut just from London, and, although our enemy Anne Boleyn has lost herwanton head, I tell you the danger is great. Money must be had to stirup rebellion, for who can arm without it, and but little comes fromSpain. I am in treaty to sell the Foterell lands for what they willfetch, but as yet can give no title. Either that stiff-necked girl mustsign a release, or she must profess, for otherwise, while she lives,some lawyer or relative might upset the sale. Is she yet prepared totake her first vows? If not, I shall hold you much to blame."
"Nay," answered the Prioress; "there are reasons. You have been away,and have not heard"--she hesitated and looked about her nervously,to see Cicely and Emlyn standing behind them. "What do you there,daughter?" she asked, with as much asperity as she ever showed.
"In truth I know not, Mother," answered Cicely. "Sister Bridget told usthat the Lord Abbot desired our presence."
"I bid her say that you were to wait him in my chamber," said thePrioress in a vexed voice.
"Well," broke in the Abbot, "it would seem that you have a fool for amessenger; if it is that pockmarked hag, her brain has been gone foryears. Ward Cicely, I greet you, though after the sorrows that havefallen on you, whereof by your leave we will not speak, since there isno use in stirring up such memories, I grieve to see you in that worldlygarb, who thought you would have changed it for a better. But ere youentered the holy Mother here spoke of some obstacle that stood betweenyou and God. What is it? Perchance my counsel may be of service. Notthis woman, as I trust," and he frowned at Emlyn, who at once answered,in her steady voice--
"Nay, my Lord Abbot, I stand not between her and God and His holiness,but between her and man and his iniquity. Still I can tell you of thatobstacle--which comes from God--if you so need."
Now the old Prioress, blushing to her white hair, bent forward andwhispered in the Abbot's ear words at which he sprang up as though awasp had stung him.
"Pest on it! it cannot be," he said. "Well, well, there it is, and mustbe swallowed with the rest. Pity, though," he added, with a sneer on hisdark face, "since many a year has gone by since these walls have seen abastard, and, as things are, that may pull them down about your ears."
"I know such brats are dangerous," interrupted Emlyn, looking Maldonfull in the eyes; "my father told me of a young monk in Spain--I forgethis name--who brought certain ladies to the torture in some such matter.But who talks of bastards in the case of Dame Cicely Harflete, widow ofSir Christopher Harflete, slain by the Abbot of Blossholme?"
"Silence, woman. Where there is no lawful marriage there can be nolawful child----"
"To take that lawful inheritance that it lawfully inherits. Say, my LordAbbot, did Sir Christopher make you his heir also?"
Then, before he could answer, Cicely, who had been silent all thiswhile, broke in--
"Heap what insults you will on me, my Lord Abbot, and having robbed meof my father, my husband, and my heart, rob me of my goods also, ifyou can. In my case it matters little. But slander not my child, if oneshould be born to me, nor dare to touch its rights. Think not that youcan break the mother as you broke the girl, for there you will find thatyou have a she-wolf by the ear."
He looked at her, they all looked at her, for in her eyes was somethingthat compelled theirs. Clement Maldon, who knew the world and how ashe-wolf can fight for its cub, read in them a warning which caused himto change his tone.
"Tut, tut,
daughter," he said; "what is the good of vapouring of a childthat is not and may never be? When it comes I will christen it, and wewill talk."
"When it comes you will not lay a finger on it. I'd rather that it wentunbaptized to its grave than marked with your cross of blood."
He waved his hand.
"There is another matter, or rather two, of which I must speak to you,my daughter. When do you take your first vows?"
"We will talk of it after my child is born. 'Tis a child of sin, yousay, and I am unrepentant, a wicked woman not fit to take a holy vow, towhich, moreover, you cannot force me," she replied, with bitter sarcasm.
Again he waved his hand, for the she-wolf showed her teeth.
"The second matter is," he went on, "that I need your signature to awriting. It is nothing but a form, and one I fear you cannot read,nor in faith can I," and with a somewhat doubtful smile he drew out acrabbed indenture and spread it before her on the table.
"What?" she laughed, brushing aside the parchment. "Have you rememberedthat yesterday I came of age, and am, therefore, no more your ward, ifsuch I ever was? You should have sold my inheritance more swiftly, fornow the title you can give is rotten as last year's apples, and I'llsign nothing. Bear witness, Mother Matilda, and you, Emlyn Stower,that I have signed and will sign nothing. Clement Maldon, Abbot ofBlossholme, I am a free woman of full age, even though, as you say, I ama wanton. Where is your right to chain up a wanton who is no religious?Unlock these gates and let me go."
Now he felt the wolf's fangs, and they were sharp.
"Whither would you go?" he asked.
"Whither but to the King, to lay my cause before him, as my father wouldhave done last Christmas-time."
It was a bold speech, but foolish. The she-wolf had loosed her hold togrowl--to growl at a hunter with a bloody sword.
"I think your father never reached his Grace with his sack offalsehoods; nor might you, Cicely Foterell. The times are rough,rebellion is in the air, and many wild men hunt the woods and roads. No,no; for your own sake you bide here in safety till----"
"Till you murder me. Oh! it is in your mind. Do you remember the angelwho spoke with me in the fire and told me my husband was not dead?"
"A lying spirit, then; no angel."
"I am not so sure," and again she passed her hand across her eyes, asshe had done in that dreadful dawn at Cranwell. "Well, I prayed to Godto help me, and last night that angel came again and spoke in my sleep.He told me to fear you not at all, my Lord Abbot; however sore my caseand however near my death might seem, since God had shaped a stone todrop upon your head. He showed it me; it was like an axe."
Now the old Prioress held up her hands and gasped in horror, but theAbbot leapt from his seat in rage--or was it fear?
"Wanton, you named yourself," he exclaimed; "but I name you witch also,who, if you had your deserts, should die the death of a witch by fire.Mother Matilda, I command you, on your oath, keep this witch fast andmake report to me of all her sorceries. It is not fitting that such aone should walk abroad to bring evil on the innocent. Witch and wanton,begone to your chamber!"
Cicely listened, then, without another word, broke into a littlescornful laugh, and, turning, left the room, followed by the Prioress.
But Emlyn did not go; she stayed behind, a smile on her dark, handsomeface.
"You've lost the throw, though all your dice were loaded," she saidboldly.
The Abbot turned on her and reviled her.
"Woman," he said, "if she is a witch, you're the familiar, and certainlyyou shall burn even though she escape. It is you who taught her how tocall up the devil."
"Then you had best keep me living, my Lord Abbot, that I may teach herhow to lay him. Nay, threaten not. Why, the rack might make me speak,and the birds of the air carry the matter!"
His face paled; then suddenly he asked--
"Where are those jewels? I need them. Give me the jewels and you shallgo free, and perchance your accursed mistress with you."
"I told you," she answered. "Sir John took them to London, and if theywere not found upon his body, then either he threw them away or JeffreyStokes carried them to wherever he has gone. Drag the mere, search theforest, find Jeffrey and ask him."
"You lie, woman. When you and your mistress fled from Shefton a servantthere saw you with the box that held those jewels in your hand."
"True, my Lord Abbot, but it no longer held them; only my mistress'slove-letters, which she would not leave behind."
"Then where is the box, and where are those letters?"
"We grew short of fuel in the siege, and burned both. When a woman hasher man she doesn't want his letters. Surely, Maldonado," she added,with meaning, "you should know that it is not always wise to keep oldletters. What, I wonder, would you give for some that I have seen andthat are _not_ burned?"
"Accursed spawn of Satan," hissed the Abbot, "how dare you flaunt methus? When Cicely was wed to Christopher she wore those very gems;I have it from those who saw her decked in them--the necklace on herbosom, the priceless rosebud pearls hanging from her ears."
"Oho! oho!" said Emlyn; "so you own that she was wed, the pure soul whombut now you called a wanton. Look you, Sir Abbot, we will fence nomore. She wore the jewels. Jeffrey took nothing hence save yourdeath-warrant."
"Then where are they?" he asked, striking his fist upon the table.
"Where? Why, where you'll never follow them--gone up to heaven in thefire. Thinking we might be robbed, I hid them behind a secret panel inher chamber, purposing to return for them later. Go, rake out the ashes;you might find a cracked diamond or two, but not the pearls; they fly infire. There, that's the truth at last, and much good may it do to you."
The Abbot groaned. Like most Spaniards he was emotional, and could nothelp it; his bitterness burst from his heart.
Emlyn laughed at him.
"See how the wise and mighty of this world overshoot themselves," shesaid. "Clement Maldonado, I have known you for some twenty years, andwhen I was called the Beauty of Blossholme, and the Abbot who wentbefore you made me the Church's ward, though I ever hated you, whohunted down my father, you had softer words for me than those you nameme by to-day. Well, I have watched you rise and I shall watch you fall,and I know your heart and its desires. Money is what you lust for andmust have, for otherwise how will you gain your end? It was thejewels that you needed, not the Shefton lands, which are worth littlenow-a-days, and will soon be worth less. Why, one of those pink pearlsplaced among the Jews would buy three parishes, with their halls thrownin. For the sake of those jewels you have brought death on some andmisery on some, and on your own soul damnation without end, though hadyou but been wise and consulted me--why, they, or some of them, mighthave been yours. Sir John was no fool; he would have parted with a pearlor two, of which he did not know the value, to end a feud againstthe Church and safeguard his title and his daughter. And now, in yourmadness, you've burnt them--burnt a king's ransom, or what might havepulled down a king. Oh! had you but guessed it, you'd have hacked offthe hand that put a torch to Cranwell Towers, for now the gold you needis lacking to you, and therefore all your grand schemes will fail, andyou'll be buried in their ruin, as you thought we were in Cranwell."
The Abbot, who had listened to this long and bitter speech in patience,groaned again.
"You are a clever woman," he said; "we understand each other, comingfrom the same blood. You know the case; what is your counsel to me now?"
"That which you will not take, being foredoomed for your sins. StillI'll give it honestly. Set the Lady Cicely free, restore her lands,confess your evil doings. Fly the kingdom before Cromwell turns onyou and Henry finds you out, taking with you all the gold that you cangather, and bribe the Emperor Charles to give you a bishopric in Granadaor elsewhere--not near Seville, for reasons that you know. So shall youlive honoured, and one day, after you have been dead a long while andmany things are forgotten, perchance be beatified as Saint Clement ofBlossholme."
The Abbot loo
ked at her reflectively.
"If I sought safety only and old age comforts your counsel might begood, but I play for higher stakes."
"You set your head against them," broke in Emlyn.
"Not so, woman, for in any case that head must win. If it stays upon myshoulders it will wear an archbishop's mitre, or a cardinal's hat, orperhaps something nobler yet; and if it parts from them, why, then aheavenly crown of glory."
"Your head? _Your_ head?" exclaimed Emlyn, with a contemptuous laugh.
"Why not?" he answered gravely. "You chance to know of some errors ofmy youth, but they are long ago repented of, and for such there isplentiful forgiveness," and he crossed himself. "Were it not so, whowould escape?"
Emlyn, who had been standing all this while, sat herself down, set herelbows on the table and rested her chin upon her clenched hands.
"True," she said, looking him in the eyes; "none of us would escape.But, Clement Maldon, how about the unrepented errors of your age? SirJohn Foterell, for instance; Sir Christopher Harflete, for instance;my Lady Cicely, for instance; to say nothing of black treason and a fewother matters?"
"Even were all these charges true, which I deny, they are no sins,seeing that they would have been done, every one of them, not for my ownsake, but for that of the Church, to overset her enemies, to rebuild hertottering walls, to secure her eternally in this realm."
"And to lift you, Clement Maldon, to the topmost pinnacle of her temple,whence Satan shows you all the kingdoms of the world, swearing that theyshall be yours."
Apparently the Abbot did not resent this bold speech; indeed, Emlyn'sapt illustration seemed to please him. Only he corrected her gently,saying--
"Not Satan, but Satan's Lord." Then he paused a while, looked round thechamber to see that the doors were shut and make sure that they werealone, and went on, "Emlyn Stower, you have great wits and courage--morethan any woman that I know. Also you have knowledge both of the worldand of what lies beyond it, being what superstitious fools call a witch,but I, a prophetess or a seer. These things come to you with your blood,I suppose, seeing that your mother was of a gypsy tribe and yourfather a high-bred Spanish gentleman, very learned and clever, though apestilent heretic, for which cause he fled for his life from Spain."
"To find his dark death in England. The Holy Inquisition is patent andhas a long arm. If I remember right, also it was this business of theheresy of my father that first brought you to Blossholme, where, afterhis vanishing and the public burning of that book of his, you so greatlyprospered."
"You are always right, Emlyn, and therefore I need not tell you furtherthat we had been old enemies in Spain, which is why I was chosen to hunthim down and how you come to know certain things."
She nodded, and he went on--
"So much for the heretic father--now for the gypsy mother. She died, byher own hand it is said, to escape the punishment of the law."
"No need to beat about the bush, Abbot; let's have truth between oldfriends. You mean, to escape being burnt by you as a witch, because shehad the letters which were not burned and threatened to use them--as Ido."
"Why rake up such tales, Emlyn?" he interposed blandly. "At least shedied, but not until she had taught you all she knew. The rest of thehistory is short. You fell in love with old yeoman Bolle's son, or saidyou did--that same great, silly Thomas who is now a lay-brother at theAbbey----"
"Or said I did," she repeated. "At least he fell in love with me, andperhaps I wished an honest man to protect me, who in those days wasyoung and fair. Moreover, he was not silly then. That came upon himafter he fell into _your_ hands. Oh! have done with it," she went on,in a voice of suppressed passion. "The witch's fair daughter was theChurch's ward, and you ruled the Abbot of that time, and he forced meinto marriage with old Peter Stower, as his third wife. I cursed him,and he died, as I warned him that he would, and I bore a child, andit died. Then with what was left to me I took refuge with Sir JohnFoterell, who ever was my friend, and became foster-mother to hisdaughter, the only creature, save one, that I have loved in this wide,wicked world. That's all the story; and now what more do you want of me,Clement Maldonado--evil-gifted one?"
"Emlyn, I want what I always wanted and you always refused--your help,your partnership. I mean the partnership of that brain of yours--thehelp of the knowledge that you have--no more. At Cranwell Towers youcalled down evil on me. Take off that ban, for I'll speak truth, itweighs heavy on my mind. Let us bury the past; let us clasp hands and befriends. You have the true vision. Do you remember that when you thoughtCicely dead, you said that her seed should rise up against me, and nowit seems that it will be so."
"What would you give me?" asked Emlyn curiously.
"I will give you wealth; I will give you what you love more--power, andrank too, if you wish it. The whole Church shall listen to you. What youdesire shall be done in this realm--yes, and across the world. I speakno lie; I pledge my soul on it, and the honour of those I serve, whichI have authority to do. In return all I ask of you is your wisdom--thatyou should read the future for me, that you should show me which way towalk."
"Nothing more?"
"Yes, two things--that you should find me those burned jewels and withthem the old letters that were not burned, and that this child of theLady Cicely shall not chance to live to take what you promised to it.Her life I give you, for a nun more or less can matter little."
"A noble offer, and in this case I am sure you will pay what _you_promise--should you live. But what if I refuse?"
"Then," answered the Abbot, dropping his fist upon the table, "thendeath for both of you--the witch's death, for I dare not let you go towork my ruin. Remember, I am master here, you are my prisoners. Few knowthat you live in this place, except a handful of weak-brained women whowill fear to speak--puppets that must dance when I pull the string--andI'll see that no soul shall come near these walls. Choose, then, betweendeath and all its terrors or life and all its hopes."
On the table there stood a wooden bowl filled with roses. Emlyn drew itto her, and taking the roses into her hands, threw them to the floor.Then she waited for the water to steady, saying--
"The riddle is hard; perhaps, if in truth I have such power, I shallfind its answer here." Presently, as he gazed at her, fascinated, shebreathed upon the water and stared into it for a long while. At lengthshe looked up, and said--
"Death or Life; that was the choice you gave me. Well, ClementMaldonado, on behalf of myself and the Lady Cicely, and her husband SirChristopher, and the child that shall be born, and of God who directsall these things, I choose--death."
There was a solemn silence. Then the Abbot rose, and said--
"Good! On your own head be it."
Again there was a silence, and, as she made no answer, he turned andwalked towards the door, leaving her still staring into the bowl.
"Good!" she repeated, as he laid his hand upon the latch. "I have toldyou that I choose death, but I have not told you whose death it is Ichoose. Play your game, my Lord Abbot, and I'll play mine, rememberingthat God holds the stakes. Meanwhile I confirm the words I spoke in myrage at Cranwell. Expect evil, for I see now that it shall fall on youand all with which you have to do."
Then with a sudden movement she upset the bowl upon the table andwatched him go.