Three hours later in the red glow of the sunset Christopher Harflete,watching at his door, saw two women riding towards him across the snow,and knew them while they were yet far off.
"It is true, then," he said to Father Roger Necton, the old clergyman ofCranwell, whom he had summoned from the vicarage. "I thought that foolof a messenger must be drunk. What can have chanced, Father?"
"Death, I think, my son, for sure naught else would bring the LadyCicely here unaccompanied save by a waiting-woman. The question is--whatwill happen now?" and he glanced sideways at him.
"I know well if I can get my way," answered Christopher, with a merrylaugh. "Say now, Father, if it should so be that this lady were willing,could you marry us?"
"Without a doubt, my son, with the consent of the parents;" and again helooked at him.
"And if there were no parents?"
"Then with the consent of the guardian, the bride being under age."
"And if no guardian had been declared or admitted?"
"Then such a marriage duly solemnized, being a sacrament of the Church,would hold fast until the crack of doom unless the Pope annulled it,and, as you know, the Pope is out of favour in this realm on this verymatter of marriage. Let me explain the law to you, ecclesiastic andcivil----"
But Christopher was already running towards the gate, so the oldparson's lecture remained undelivered.
The two met in the snow, Emlyn Stower riding on ahead and leaving themtogether.
"What is it, sweetest?" he asked. "What is it?"
"Oh! Christopher," she answered, weeping, "my poor father isdead--murdered, or so says Emlyn."
"Murdered! By whom?"
"By the Abbot of Blossholme's soldiers--so says Emlyn, yonder in theforest last eve. And the Abbot is coming to Shefton to declare me hisward and thrust me into the Nunnery--that was Emlyn's tale. And so,although it is a strange thing to do, having none to protect me, I havefled to you--because Emlyn said I ought."
"She is a wise woman, Emlyn," broke in Christopher; "I always thoughtwell of her judgment. But did you only come to me because Emlyn toldyou?"
"Not altogether, Christopher. I came because I am distraught, and youare a better friend than none at all, and--where else should I go? Alsomy poor father with his last words to me, although he was so angry withyou, bade me seek your help if there were need--and--oh! Christopher, Icame because you swore you loved me, and, therefore, it seemed right.If I had gone to the Nunnery, although the Prioress, Mother Matilda, isgood, and my friend, who knows, she might not have let me out again, forthe Abbot is her master, and _not_ my friend. It is our lands he loves,and the famous jewels--Emlyn has them with her."
By now they were across the moat and at the steps of the house, so,without answering, Christopher lifted her tenderly from the saddle,pressing her to his breast as he did so, for that seemed his bestanswer. A groom came to lead away the horses, touching his bonnet, andstaring at them curiously; and, leaning on her lover's shoulder, Cicelypassed through the arched doorway of Cranwell Towers into the hall,where a great fire burned. Before this fire, warming his thin hands,stood Father Necton, engaged in eager conversation with Emlyn Stower. Asthe pair advanced this talk ceased, evidently because it was of them.
"Mistress Cicely," said the kindly-faced old man, speaking in a nervousfashion, "I fear that you visit us in sad case," and he paused, notknowing what to add.
"Yes, indeed," she answered, "if all I hear is true. They say thatmy father is killed by cruel men--I know not for certain why or bywhom--and that the Abbot of Blossholme comes to claim me as his ward andimmure me in Blossholme Priory, whither I would not go. I have fled hereto escape him, having no other refuge, though you may think ill of mefor this deed."
"Not I, my child. I should not speak against yonder Abbot, for he is mysuperior in the Church, though, mind you, I owe him no allegiance, sincethis benefice is not in his gift, nor am I a Benedictine. Therefore Iwill tell you the truth. I hold the man not honest. All is provenderthat comes to his maw; moreover, he is no Englishman, but a Spaniard,one sent here to work against the welfare of this realm; to suck itswealth, stir up rebellion, and make report of all that passes in it, forthe benefit of England's enemies."
"Yet he has friends at Court, or so said my father."
"Aye, aye, such folks have ever friends--their money buys them; thoughmayhap an ill day is at hand for him and his likes. Well, your poorfather is gone, God knows how, though I thought for long that would behis end, who ever spoke his mind, or more; and you with your wealth arethe morsel that tempts Maldon's appetite. And now what is to be done?This is a hard case. Would you refuge in some other Nunnery?"
"Nay," answered Cicely, glancing sideways at her lover.
"Then what's to be done?"
"Oh! I know not," she said, bursting into a fit of weeping. "How canI tell you, who am mazed with grief and doubt? I had but a singlefriend--my father, though at times he was a rough one. Yet he loved mein his way, and I have obeyed his last counsel;" and, all her couragegone, she sank into a chair and rocked herself to and fro, her headresting on her hands.
"That is not true," said Emlyn in her bold voice. "Am I who suckled youno friend, and is Father Necton here no friend, and is Sir Christopherno friend? Well, if you have lost your judgment, I have kept mine, andhere it is. Yonder, not two bowshots away, stands a church, and beforeme I see a priest and a pair who would serve for bride and bridegroom.Also we can rake up witnesses and a cup of wine to drink your health;and after that let the Abbot of Blossholme do his worst. What say you,Sir Christopher?"
"You know my mind, Nurse Emlyn; but what says Cicely? Oh! Cicely, whatsay _you_?" and he bent over her.
She raised herself, still weeping, and, throwing her arms about hisneck, laid her head upon his shoulder.
"I think it is the will of God," she whispered, "and why should I fightagainst it, who am His servant?--and yours, Chris."
"And now, Father, what say you?" asked Emlyn, pointing to the pair.
"I do not think there is much to say," answered the old clergyman,turning his head aside, "save that if it should please you to come tothe church in ten minutes' time you will find a candle on the altar, anda priest within the rails, and a clerk to hold the book. More we cannotdo at such short notice."
Then he paused for a while, and, hearing no dissent, walked down thehall and out of the door.
Emlyn took Cicely by the hand, led her to a room that was shown to them,and there made her ready for her bridal as best she might. She had nofine dress in which to clothe her, nor, indeed, would there have beentime to don it. But she combed out her beautiful brown hair, and,opening that box of Eastern jewels which were the great pride ofthe Foterells--being the rarest and the most ancient in all thecountryside--she decked her with them. On her broad brow she set acirclet from which hung sparkling diamonds that had been brought, thestory said, by her mother's ancestor, a Carfax, from the Holy Land,where once they were the peculiar treasure of a paynim queen, and uponher bosom a necklet of large pearls. Brooches and rings also she foundfor her breast and fingers, and for her waist a jewelled girdle witha golden clasp, while to her ears she hung the finest gems of all--twogreat pearls pink like the hawthorn-bloom when it begins to turn. Lastlyshe flung over her head a veil of lace most curiously wrought, and stoodback with pride to look at her.
Now Cicely, who all this while had been silent and unresisting, spokefor the first time, saying--
"How came this here, Nurse?"
"Your mother wore it at her bridal, and her mother too, so I have beentold. Also once before I wrapped it about you--when you were christened,sweet."
"Mayhap; but how came it here?"
"In the bosom of my robe. Not knowing when we should get home again, Ibrought it, thinking that perhaps one day you might marry, when it wouldbe useful. And now, strangely enough, the marriage has come."
"Emlyn, Emlyn, I believe that you planned all this business, whereof Godalone knows the end."
; "That is why He makes a beginning, dear, that His end may be fulfilledin due season."
"Aye, but what is that end? Mayhap this is my shroud you wrap about me.In truth, I feel as though death were near."
"He is ever that," replied Emlyn unconcernedly. "But so long as hedoesn't touch, what does it matter? Now hark you, sweetest, I'veSpanish and gypsy blood in me with which go gifts, and so I'll tell yousomething for your comfort. However oft he snatches, Death will not layhis bony hand on you for many a long year--not till you are well-nighas thin with age as he is. Oh! you'll have your troubles like all of us,worse than many, mayhap, but you are Luck's own child, who lived whenthe rest were taken, and you'll win through and take others on yourback, as a whale does barnacles. So snap your fingers at death, as Ido," and she suited the action to the word, "and be happy while you may,and when you're not happy, wait till your turn comes round again. Nowfollow me and, though your father is murdered, smile as you should insuch an hour, for what man wants a sad-faced bride?"
They walked down the broad oaken stairs into the hall where Christopherstood waiting for them. Glancing at him shyly, Cicely saw that he wasclad in mail beneath his cloak, and that his sword was girded at hisside, also that some men with him were armed. For a moment he stared ather glittering beauty confused, then said--
"Fear not this hint of war in love's own hour," and he touched hisshining armour. "Cicely, these nuptials are strange as they are happy,and some might try to break in upon them. Come now, my sweet lady;" andbowing before her he took her by the hand and led her from the house,Emlyn walking behind them and the men with torches going before andfollowing after.
Outside it was freezing sharply, so that the snow crunched beneath theirfeet. In the west the last red glow of sunset still lingered on thesteely sky, and over against it the great moon rose above the round edgeof the world. In the bushes of the garden, and the tall poplars thatbordered the moat, blackbirds and fieldfares chattered their winterevening song, while about the grey tower of the neighbouring church thedaws still wheeled.
The picture of that scene whereof at the time she seemed to take nonote, always remained fixed in the mind of Cicely: the cold expanse ofsnow, the inky trees, the hard sky, the lambent beams of the moon, thedull glow of the torches caught and reflected by her jewels and herlover's mail, the midwinter sound of birds, the barking of a distanthound, the black porch of the church that drew nearer, the little oblongmounds which hid the bones of hundreds who in their day had passed it asinfants, as bridegrooms and as brides, and at last as cold, white thingsthat had been men and women.
Now they were in the nave of the old fane where the cold struck themlike a sword. The dim lights of the torches showed them that, shortas had been the time, the news of this marvellous marriage had spreadabout, for at least a score of people were standing here and there inknots, or a few of them seated on the oak benches near the chancel. Allthese turned to stare at them eagerly as they walked towards the altarwhere stood the priest in his robes, and since his sight was dim, behindhim the old clerk with a stable-lantern held on high to enable him toread from his book.
They reached the carven rood-screen, and at a sign kneeled down. In aclear voice the clergyman began the service; presently, at another sign,the pair rose, advanced to the altar-rails and again knelt down. Themoonlight, flowing through the eastern window, fell full on both ofthem, turning them to cold, white statues, such as those that knelt inmarble upon the tomb at their side.
All through the holy office Cicely watched these statues with fascinatedeyes, and it seemed to her that they and the old crusaders, Harfletesof a long-past day who lay near by, were watching her with a wistful andkindly interest. She made certain answers, a ring that was somewhat toosmall was thrust upon her finger--all the rest of her life that ringhurt her at times, but she would have never it moved, and then someone was kissing her. At first she thought it must be her father, andremembering, nearly wept till she heard Christopher's voice calling herwife, and knew that she was wed.
Father Roger, the old clerk still holding the lantern behind him,writing something in a little vellum book, asking her the date ofher birth and her full name, which, as he had been present at herchristening, she thought strange. Then her husband signed the book,using the altar as a table, not very easily for he was no great scholar,and she signed also in her maiden name for the last time, and the priestsigned, and at his bidding Emlyn Stower, who could write well, signedtoo. Next, as though by an afterthought, Father Roger called several ofthe congregation, who rather unwillingly made their marks as witnesses.While they did so he explained to them that, as the circumstanceswere uncommon, it was well that there should be evidence, and thathe intended to send copies of this entry to sundry dignities, notforgetting the holy Father at Rome.
On learning this they appeared to be sorry that they had anything to dowith the matter, and one and all of them melted into the darkness of thenave and out of Cicely's mind.
So it was done at last.
Father Necton blew on his little book till the ink was dry, then hidit away in his robe. The old clerk, having pocketed a handsome fee fromChristopher, lit the pair down the nave to the porch, where he lockedthe oaken door behind them, extinguished his lantern and trudged offthrough the snow to the ale-house, there to discuss these nuptials andhot beer. Escorted by their torch-bearers Cicely and Christopher walkedsilently arm-in-arm back to the Towers, whither Emlyn, after embracingthe bride, had already gone on ahead. So having added one more ceremonyto its countless record, perhaps the strangest of them all, the ancientchurch behind them grew silent as the dead within its graves.
The Towers reached, the new-wed pair, with Father Roger and Emlyn, satdown to the best meal that could be prepared for them at such shortnotice; a very curious wedding feast. Still, though the company was sosmall it did not lack for heartiness, since the old clergyman proposedtheir health in a speech full of Latin words which they did notunderstand, and every member of the household who had assembled to hearhim drank to it in cups of wine. This done, the beautiful bride, nowblushing and now pale, was led away to the best chamber, which had beenhastily prepared for her. But Emlyn remained behind a while, for she hadwords to speak.
"Sir Christopher," she said, "you are fast wed to the sweetest lady thatever sun or moon shone on, and in that may hold yourself a lucky man.Yet such deep joys seldom come without their pain, and I think that thisis near at hand. There are those who will envy you your fortune, SirChristopher."
"Yet they cannot change it, Emlyn," he answered anxiously. "The knotthat was tied to-night may not be unloosed."
"Never," broke in Father Roger. "Though the suddenness and thecircumstances of it may be unusual, this marriage is a sacramentcelebrated in the face of the world with the full consent of bothparties and of the Holy Church. Moreover, before the dawn I'll send therecord of it to the bishop's registry and elsewhere, that it may not bequestioned in days to come, giving copies of the same to you and yourlady's foster-mother, who is her nearest friend at hand."
"It may not be loosed on earth or in heaven," replied Emlyn solemnly,"yet perchance the sword can cut it. Sir Christopher, I think that weshould all do well to travel as soon as may be."
"Not to-night, surely, Nurse!" he exclaimed.
"No, not to-night," she answered, with a faint smile. "Your wife has hada weary day, and could not. Moreover, preparation must be made which isimpossible at this hour. But to-morrow, if the roads are open to you,I think we should start for London, where she may make complaint of herfather's slaying and claim her heritage and the protection of the law."
"That is good counsel," said the vicar, and Christopher, with whom wordsseemed to be few, nodded his head.
"Meanwhile," went on Emlyn, "you have six men in this house and othersround it. Send out a messenger and summon them all here at dawn, biddingthem bring provision with them, and what bows and arms they have. Seta watch also, and after the Father and the messenger have gone, commandthat the drawbridge be
triced."
"What do you fear?" he asked, waking from his dream.
"I fear the Abbot of Blossholme and his hired ruffians, who reck littleof the laws, as the soul of dead Sir John knows now, or can use themas a cover to evil deeds. He'll not let such a prize slip between hisfingers if he can help it, and the times are turbulent."
"Alas! alas! it is true," said Father Roger, "and that Abbot is arelentless man who sticks at nothing, having much wealth and manyfriends both here and beyond the seas. Yet surely he would neverdare----"
"That we shall learn," interrupted Emlyn. "Meanwhile, Sir Christopher,rouse yourself and give the orders."
So Christopher summoned his men and spoke words to them at which theylooked very grave, but being true-hearted fellows who loved him, saidthey would do his bidding.
A while later, having written out a copy of the marriage lines andwitnessed it, Father Roger departed with the messenger. The drawbridgewas hoisted above the moat, the doors were barred, and a man set towatch in the gateway tower, while Christopher, forgetful of all else,even of the danger in which they were, sought the company of her whowaited for him.