Thus it was that Cicely who lost her love in fire, in fire found himonce again.
For Christopher was not dead as at first they feared. They carried himto the Priory, and there Emlyn, having felt his heart and found that itstill beat, though faintly, sent Mother Matilda to fetch some of thatPortugal wine of hers which Commissioner Legh had praised. Spoonful byspoonful she poured it down his throat, till at length he opened hiseyes, though only to shut them again in natural sleep, for the wine hadtaken a hold of his starved body and weakened brain. For hour after hourCicely sat by him, only rising from time to time to watch the burning ofthe great Abbey church, as once she had watched that of its dormers andfarm-steading.
About three in the morning the lead ceased to pour down in a silverymolten shower, its roofs fell in, and by dawn it was nothing but afire-blackened shell much as it remains to-day. Just before daybreakEmlyn came to her, saying--
"There is one who would speak with you."
"I cannot see him," she answered, "I bide by my husband."
"Yet you should," said Emlyn, "since but for him you would now haveno husband. The monk Martin, who held off the murderers, is dying anddesires to bid you farewell."
Then Cicely went to find the man still conscious, but fading away withthe flow of his own blood, which could not be stayed by any skill theyhad.
"I have come to thank you," she murmured, who knew not what else to say.
"Thank me not," he answered faintly, pausing often between his words,"who did but strive to repay part of a great debt. Last winter I sharedin awful sin, in obedience, not to my heart, but to my vows. I who wasset to watch the body of your husband found that he lived, and by myhelp he was borne away upon a ship. That ship was taken by the Infidels,and afterwards he and I and Jeffrey served together upon their galleys.There I fell sick, and your husband nursed me back to life. It was I whobrought you the deeds and wrote the letter which I gave to Emlyn Stower.My vows still held me fast, and I did no more. This night I broke theirbonds, for when I heard the order given that he should be slain I randown before the murderers and fought my best, forgetting that I was apriest, till at length you came. Let this atone my crimes against myCountry, my King and you that I died for my friend at last, as I am gladto do who find this world--too difficult."
"I will tell him if he lives," sobbed Cicely.
He opened his eyes, which had shut, and answered--
"Oh, he'll live, he'll live. You have had many troubles, but, save forthe creep of age and death, they are over. I can see and know."
Again he shut his eyes and the watchers thought that all was done, tillof a sudden once more he opened them and added in broken tones--
"The Abbot--show him mercy--if you can. He is wicked and cruel, but Ihave been his confessor and know his heart. He strove for a good end--byan evil road. Queen Catherine was the King's lawful wife. To seize themonasteries is shameless theft. Also his blood is not English; he seesotherwise, and serves the Pope as I do, and Spain, as I do not. As Ihave helped you, help him. Judge not, that ye be not judged. Promise!"and he raised himself a little on the bed and looked at her earnestly.
"I promise," answered Cicely, and as she spoke Martin smiled. Then hisface turned quite grey, all the light went out of his eyes and a momentlater Emlyn threw a linen cloth over his head. It was finished.
Cicely returned to Christopher to find him sitting up in bed drinking abowl of broth.
"Oh, my husband, my husband," she said, casting her arms about him. Thenshe took her son and laid him upon his father's breast.
Three days had gone by and Christopher and Cicely were walking in theshrubbery of Shefton Hall. By now, although still weak, he was almostrecovered, whose only sickness had been grief and famine, for whichjoy and plenty are wonderful medicines. It was evening, a pleasant andbeautiful early winter evening just fading into night. Seated on a benchhe had been telling her his adventures, and they were a moving taleworthy, as Cicely wrote afterwards in a letter to old Jacob Smith thatis still extant in her fine, quaint handwriting, to be recorded in abook, though this it would seem was never done.
He told her of the great fight on the ship _Great Yarmouth_, when theywere taken by the two Turkish pirates, and of how bravely Father Martinbore himself. Afterwards when they came to the galleys, by good fortuneMartin, Jeffrey and he served on the same bench. Then Martin fell sickof some Southern fever, and being in port at Tunis at the time, wherethey could get fruit, they nursed him back to life and strength. Fourmonths later the Emperor Charles attacked Tunis, and when it fell,through God's mercy, they were rescued with the other Christian slaves,after which Martin returned to England taking old Sir John's writings tobe delivered to his next heir, for they all believed Cicely to be dead.
But Christopher and Jeffrey, having nothing to seek at home, stayed tofight with the Spaniards against the Turks, who had oppressed them sosorely. When that war was over they made their way back to England,not knowing where else to go and having a score to settle against theSpanish Abbot of Blossholme, and--well, she knew the rest.
Aye, answered Cicely, she knew it and never would forget it, but itwas chill for him sitting on that bench, he must come in. Christopherlaughed at her, and answered--
"Sweetheart, if you could have seen the bench on which it was my lotto sit yonder off the coast of Africa, but new recovered from the woundwhich I had of Maldon's men at Cranwell Towers, you would not be anxiousfor me here. There for six long months chained to Jeffrey and to FatherMartin, for it pleased those heathen devils to keep the three of ustogether, perhaps that they might watch us better, through the hot daysthat scorched us, and the chill, wet nights, we laboured at our oars,while infidel overseers ran up and down the boards and thrashed us withtheir whips of hide. Yes," he added slowly, "they thrashed us as thoughwe were oxen in a yoke. You have seen the scars upon my back."
"Oh, God! to think of it," she murmured; "you, a noble Englishman,beaten by those savage wretches like a brute? How did you bear it,Christopher?"
"I know not, Wife. I think that had it not been for that angel in man'sform, the priest Martin--peace be to his noble soul--that angel whothrice at least has saved my life, I should have dashed out my brainsagainst the thwarts, or starved myself to death, or provoked the Moorsto kill me; I, who, thinking you dead, had no hope to live for. ButMartin taught me otherwise; he preached patience and submission,saying that I did not suffer for nothing--of his own miseries he neverspoke--and that he was sure that fearful as was my lot, all thingsworked together for good to me."
"And therefore it was that you lived on, Husband? Oh! I'll build ashrine to that saint Martin."
"Not altogether, dear. I'll tell you true; I lived forvengeance--vengeance on Clement Maldon, the man, or the devil, whowrought me all this ill, and, being yet young, made me old with griefand pain," and he pointed to his scarred forehead and the hair above,that was now grizzled with white, "and vengeance, too, upon thoseworshippers of Mohammed, my masters. Yes; though Martin reproved mewhen I made confession to him, I think it was for that I lived, and thesaints know," he added grimly, "afterwards at the sack, and elsewhere,I took it on the Turks. Oh! you should have seen the last meeting ofJeffrey and myself with the captain of that galley and his officers whohad so often beaten us. No, I am glad you did not see it, for it wasfierce and bloody; even the hard-hearted Spaniards stared."
He paused, and perhaps to change the current of his mind--for during allhis after-life, when Christopher brooded on these things he grew gloomyfor hours, and even days--Cicely said hurriedly--
"I wonder what has chanced to our enemy, the Abbot. The search has beenclose, the roads are watched, and we know that he had none with him, forall his foreign soldiers are slain or taken. I think he must be dead inthe fire, Christopher."
He shook his head.
"A devil does not die in fire. He is away somewhere, to plot freshmurders--perhaps our own and our boy's. Oh!" he added savagely, "tillmy hands are about his throat and my dagger is in his he
art there's nopeace for me, who have a score to pay and you both to guard."
Cicely knew not what to answer; indeed, when this mood was on him itwas hard to reason with Christopher, who had suffered so fearfully, and,like herself, been saved but by a miracle or the mandate of Heaven.
Of a sudden a hush fell upon the place. The blackbirds ceased theirwinter chatter in the laurels; it grew so still that they heard a deadleaf drop to the ground. The night was at hand. One last red ray fromthe set sun struck across the frosty sky and was reflected to the earth.In the light of that ray Christopher's trained eyes caught the gleam ofsomething white that moved in the shadow of the beech tree where theysat. Like a tiger he sprang at it, and the next moment haled out a man.
"Look," he said, twisting the head of his captive so that the glow fellon it. "Look; I have the snake. Ah! Wife, you saw nothing, but I sawhim, and here he is at last--at last!"
"The Abbot!" gasped Cicely.
The Abbot it was indeed, but oh! how changed. His plump, olive-colouredcountenance had shrunk to that of a skeleton still covered by yellowskin, in which the dark eyes rolled bloodshot and unnaturally large.His tonsure and jaws showed a growth of stubbly grey hair, his frame hadbecome weak and small, his soft and delicate hands resembled those of awoman dead of some wasting disease, and, like his garments, were cloggedwith dirt. The mail shirt he wore hung loose upon him; one of his shoeswas gone, and the toes peeped through his stockinged foot. He was but aliving misery.
"Deliver your arms," growled Christopher, shaking him as a terriershakes a rat, "or you die. Do you yield? Answer!"
"How can he," broke in Cicely, "when you have him by the throat?"
Christopher loosed his grip of the man's windpipe, and instead seizedhis wrists, whereon the Abbot drew a great breath, for he was almostchoked, and fell to his knees, in weakness, not in supplication.
"I came to you for mercy," he said presently, "but, having overheardyour talk, know that I can hope for none. Indeed, why should I, whoshowed none, and whose great cause seems dead, that cause for which Ifought and lived? Let me die with it. I ask no more. Still, you are agentleman, and therefore I beg a favour of you. Do not hand me over tobe drawn, hanged and quartered by your brute-king. Kill me now. You cansay that I attacked you, and that you did it in self-defence. I have noarms, but you may set a dagger in my hand."
Christopher looked down at the poor creature huddled at his feet andlaughed.
"Who would believe me?" he asked; "though, indeed, who would question,seeing that your life is forfeit to me or any who can take it? Yet thatis a matter of which the King's Justices shall judge."
Maldon shivered. "Drawn, hanged and quartered," he repeated beneathhis breath. "Drawn, hanged and quartered as a traitor to one I neverserved!"
"Why not?" asked Christopher. "You have played a cruel game, and lost."
He made no answer; indeed, it was Cicely who spoke, saying--
"How came you in such a case? We thought you fled."
"Lady," he answered, "I've starved for three days and nights in a holein the ground like an earthed-up fox; a culvert in your garden hid me.At last I crept out to see the light and die, and heard you talking,and thought that I would ask for mercy, since mortal extremity has nohonour."
"Mercy!" said Cicely. "Of your treasons I say nothing, for you are notEnglish, and serve your own king, who years ago sent you here to plotagainst England. But look on this man, my husband. Did he not starvefor three days and nights in your strong dungeon ere you came thither tomassacre him? Did you not strive to burn him in his Hall, and ship himwounded across the seas to doom? Did you not send your assassin to killmy babe, who stood between you and the wealth you needed for your plots,and bind me, the mother, to the stake--a food for fire? Did you notshoot down my father in the wood, fearing lest he should prove youtraitor, and after rob me of my heritage? Did you not compel your monksto work evil and bring some of them to their deaths? Oh! have done! Wormdressed up as God's priest, how can you writhe there and ask for mercy?"
"I said I _came_ to seek for mercy because the agony of sleepless hungerdrove me, who _now_ seek only death. Insult not the fallen, CicelyFoterell, but take the vengeance that is your due, and kill," repliedthe Abbot, looking up at her with his hollow eyes, adding, with a laughthat sounded like a groan, "Come, Sir Christopher; you have got a sword,and it is time you went to supper. The air is cold; your wife--if suchshe be--said it but now."
"Cicely," said Christopher, "go to the Hall and summon Jeffrey Stokes.Emlyn will know where to find him."
"Emlyn!" groaned the Abbot. "Give me not over to Emlyn. She'd tortureme."
"Nay," said Christopher, "this is not Blossholme Abbey; though what maychance in London I know not. Go now, Wife."
But Cicely did not stir; she only stared at the wretched creature at herfeet.
"I bid you go," repeated Christopher.
"And I'll not obey," she answered. "Do you remember what I promisedMartin ere he died?"
"Martin dead! Is Martin, who saved your husband, dead?" exclaimed theAbbot, lifting his face and letting it fall again. "Happy Martin, to bedead."
"I was not there, and I am not bound by your promises, Cicely."
"But I am, and you and I are one. I vowed mercy to this man if he shouldfall into our power, and mercy he shall have."
"Then you spare him to destroy us. The wheels go round quick in England,Wife."
"So be it. What I vowed, I vowed. With God be the rest. He has watchedus well heretofore, and I think," she added, with one of her bursts oftriumphant faith, "will do so to the end. Abbot Maldon, sinful, fallenAbbot Maldon, you are as you were made, and Martin, the saint, said thatthere is good in your heart, though you have shown none of it to me ormine. Now, look you; yonder is a wooden summer-house, thatched and warm.Get you there, and I'll send you food and wine and new clothing by onewho will not talk; also a pass to Lincoln. By to-morrow's dawn you willbe refreshed, and then you will find a good horse tied to yonder tree,and so away to sanctuary at Lincoln, and, if aught of ill befalls youafterwards, know it is not our doing, but that of some other enemy, orof God, with Whom I pray you make your peace. May He forgive you, asI do, Who knows all hearts, which I do not. Now, farewell. Nay, saynothing. There is nothing to be said. Come, Christopher, for this onceyou obey me, not I you."
So they went, and the wretched man raised himself upon his hands andlooked after them, but what passed in his heart at that moment none willever learn.