CHAPTER V
WHAT PASSED AT CRANWELL
A week had gone by. For the first three days of that time little of notehad happened at Cranwell Towers; that is, no assault was delivered.Only Christopher and his dozen or so of house-servants and small tenantsdiscovered that they were quite surrounded. Once or twice some of themrode out a little way, to be hunted back again by a much superior force,which emerged from the copses near by or from cottages in the village,and even from the porch of the church. With these men they never cameto close quarters, so that no lives were lost. In a fashion this wasa disadvantage to them, since they lacked the excitement of actualfighting, the dread of which was ever present, but not its joy.
Meanwhile in other ways things went ill with them. Thus, first of alltheir beer gave out, and then such other cordials as they had, so thatthey were reduced to water to drink. Next their fuel became exhausted,for nearly all the stock of it was kept at the farmstead about a quarterof a mile away, and on the second day of the siege this stead was firedand burned with its contents, the cattle and horses being driven off,they knew not where.
So it came about at length they could keep only one fire, in thekitchen, and that but small, which in the end they were obliged to feedwith the doors of the outhouses, and even with the floorings torn out ofthe attics, in order that they might cook their food. Nor was theremuch of this; only a store of salt meat and some pickled pork and smokedbacon, together with a certain amount of oatmeal and flour, that theymade into cakes and bread.
On the fourth day, however, these gave out, so that they were reduced toa scanty diet of hung flesh, with a few apples by way of vegetables, andhot water to drink to warm them. At length, too, there was nothing moreto burn, and therefore they must eat their meat raw, and grew sick onit. Moreover, a cold thaw set in, and the house grew icy, so that theymoved about it with chattering teeth, and at night, ill-nurtured as theywere, could scarce keep the life in them beneath all the coverings whichthey had.
Ah! how long were those nights, with never a blaze upon the hearth or somuch as a candle to light them. At four o'clock the darkness came down,which did not lessen, for the moon grew low and the mists were thick,until day broke about seven on the following morning. And all this time,fearing attack, they must keep watch and ward through the gloom, so thateven sleep was denied them.
For a while they bore up bravely, even the tenants, though news wasshouted to these that their steads had been harried, and their wives andchildren hunted off to seek shelter where they might.
Cicely and Emlyn never murmured. Indeed, this new-made wife kept herdreadful honeymoon with a cheerful face, trudging through the blackhours around the circle of the moat at her husband's side, or fromwindow-place to window-place in the empty rooms, till at length theycast themselves down upon some bed to sleep a while, giving over thewatch to others. Only Emlyn never seemed to sleep. But at length theircompanions did begin to murmur.
One morning at the dawn, after a very bitter night, they waited uponChristopher and told him that they were willing to fight for his sakeand his lady's, but that, as there was no hope of help, they could nolonger freeze and starve; in short, that they must either escape fromthe house or surrender. He listened to them patiently, knowing thatwhat they said was true, and then consulted for a while with Cicely andEmlyn.
"Our case is desperate, dear wife. Now what shall we do, who have nochance of succour, since none know of our plight? Yield, or strive toescape through the darkness?"
"Not yield, I think," answered Cicely, choking back a sob. "If we yieldcertainly they will separate us, and that merciless Abbot will bring youto your death and me to a nunnery."
"That may happen in any case," muttered Christopher, turning his headaside. "But what say you, Nurse?"
"I say fight for it," answered Emlyn boldly. "It is certain that wecannot stay here, for, to be plain, Sir Christopher, there are someamong us whom I do not trust. What wonder? Their stomachs are empty,their hands are blue, their wives and children are they know not where,and the heavy curse of the Church hangs over them, all of which thingsmay be mended if they play you false. Let us take what horses remain andslip away at dead of night if we can; or if we cannot, then let us die,as many better folk have done before."
So they agreed to try their fortune, thinking that it was so bad itcould not be worse, and spent the rest of that day in getting readyas best they could. The seven horses still stood in the stable, andalthough they were stiff from want of exercise, had been hay-fed andwatered. On these they proposed to ride, but first they must tell thetruth to those who had stood by them. So about three o'clock of theafternoon Christopher called all the men together beneath the gatewayand sorrowfully set out his tale. Here, he showed them, they could bideno longer, and to surrender meant that his new-wed wife would soon bemade a widow. Therefore they must fly, taking with them as many as therewere horses for them to ride, if they cared to risk such a journey. Ifnot, he and the two women would go alone.
Now four of the stoutest-hearted of them, men who had served him andhis father for many years, stepped forward, saying that, evil as theseseemed to be, they would follow his fortunes to the last. He thankedthem shortly, whereon one of the others asked what they were to do, andif he proposed to desert them after leading them into this plight.
"God knows I would rather die," he replied, with a swelling heart; "but,my friends, consider the case. If I bide here, what of my wife? Alas! ithas come to this: that you must choose whether you will slip out with usand scatter in the woods, where I think you will not be followed, sinceyonder Abbot has no quarrel against you; or whether you will wait here,and to-morrow at the dawn, surrender. In either event you can say thatI compelled you to stand by us, and that you have shed no man's blood;also I will give you a writing."
So they talked together gloomily, and at last announced that when he andtheir lady went they would go also and get off as best they could. Butthere was a man among them, a small farmer named Jonathan Dicksey, whothought otherwise. This Jonathan, who held his land under Christopher,had been forced to this business of the defence of Cranwell Towerssomewhat against his will, namely, by the pressure of Christopher'slargest tenant, to whose daughter he was affianced. He was a sly youngman, and even during the siege, by means that need not be described, hehad contrived to convey a message to the Abbot of Blossholme, tellinghim that had it been in his power he would gladly be in any other place.Therefore, as he knew well, whatever had happened to others, his farmremained unharried. Now he determined to be out of a bad business assoon as he might, for Jonathan was one of those who liked to stand uponthe winning side.
Therefore, although he said "Aye, aye," more loudly than his comrades,as soon as the dusk had fallen, while the others were making ready thehorses and mounting guard, Jonathan thrust a ladder across the moat atthe back of the stable, and clambered along its rungs into the shelterof a cattle-shed in the meadow, and so away.
Half-an-hour later he stood before the Abbot in the cottage where he hadtaken up his quarters, having contrived to blunder among his people andbe captured. To him at first Jonathan would say nothing, but when atlength they threatened to take him out and hang him, to save his life,as he said, he found his tongue and told all.
"So, so," said the Abbot when he had finished. "Now God is good tous. We have these birds in our net, and I shall keep St. Hilary's atBlossholme after all. For your services, Master Dicksey, you shall be myreeve at Cranwell Towers when they are in my hands."
But here it may be said that in the end things went otherwise, since, sofar from getting the stewardship of Cranwell, when the truth came to beknown, Jonathan's maiden would have no more to do with him, and the folkin those parts sacked his farm and hunted him out of the country, sothat he was never heard of among them again.
Meanwhile, all being ready, Christopher at the Towers was closeted withCicely, taking his farewell of her in the dark, for no light was left tothem.
"This is a desperate venture," he
said to her, "nor can I tell how itwill end, or if ever I shall see your sweet face again. Yet, dearest, wehave been happy together for some few hours, and if I fall and you liveon I am sure that you will always remember me till, as we are taught,we meet again where no enemy has the power to torment us, and cold andhunger and darkness are not. Cicely, if that should be so and any childshould come to you, teach it to love the father whom it never saw."
Now she threw her arms about him and wept, and wept, and wept.
"If you die," she sobbed, "surely I will do so also, for although I ambut young I find this world a very evil place, and now that my father isgone, without you, husband, it would be a hell."
"Nay, nay," he answered; "live on while you may; for who knows? Oftenout of the worst comes the best. At least we have had our joy. Swear itnow, sweet."
"Aye, if you will swear it also, for I may be taken and you left. In thedark swords do not choose. Let us promise that we will both endure ourlives, together or separate, until God calls us."
So they swore there in the icy gloom, and sealed the oath with kisses.
Now the time was come at last, and they crept their way to the courtyardhand in hand, taking some comfort because the night was very favourableto their project. The snow had melted, and a great gale blew from thesou'-west, boisterous but not cold, which caused the tall elms thatstood about to screech and groan like things alive. In such a wind asthis they were sure that they would not be heard, nor could they be seenbeneath that murky, starless sky, while the rain which fell between thegusts would wash out the footprints of their horses.
They mounted silently, and with the four men--for by now all therest had gone--rode across the drawbridge, which had been lowered inpreparation for their flight. Three hundred yards or so away their roadran through an ancient marl-pit worked out generations before, in whichself-sown trees grew on either side of the path. As they drew near thisplace suddenly, in the silence of the night, a horse neighed ahead ofthem, and one of their beasts answered to the neigh.
"Halt!" whispered Cicely, whose ears were made sharp by fear. "I hearmen moving."
They pulled rein and listened. Yes; between the gusts of wind there wasa faint sound as of the clanking of armour. They strained their eyesin the darkness, but could see nothing. Again the horse neighed and wasanswered. One of their servants cursed the beast beneath his breath andstruck it savagely with the flat of his sword, whereon, being fresh,it took the bit between its teeth and bolted. Another minute and therearose a great clamour from the marl-pit in front of them--a noise ofshoutings, of sword-strokes, and then a heavy groan as from the lips ofa dying man.
"An ambush!" exclaimed Christopher.
"Can we get round?" asked Cicely, and there was terror in her voice.
"Nay," he answered, "the stream is in flood; we should be bogged. Hark!they charge us. Back to the Towers--there is no other way."
So they turned and fled, followed by shouts and the thunder of manyhorses galloping. In two minutes they were there and across thebridge--the women, Christopher, and the three men who were left.
"Up with the bridge!" cried Christopher, and they leapt from theirsaddles and fumbled for the cranks; too late, for already the Abbot'shorsemen pressed it down.
Then a fight began. The horses of the enemy shrank back from thetrembling bridge, so their riders, dismounting, rushed forward, to bemet by Christopher and his three remaining men, who in that narrowplace were as good as a hundred. Wild, random blows were struck in thedarkness, and, as it chanced, two of the Abbot's people fell, whereon adeep voice cried--
"Come back and wait for light."
When they had gone, dragging off their wounded with them, Christopherand his servants again strove to wind up the bridge, only to find thatit would not stir.
"Some traitor has fouled the chains," he said in the quiet voice ofdespair. "Cicely and Emlyn, get you into the house. I, and any who willbide with me, stay here to see this business out. When I am down, yieldyourself. Afterwards I think that the King will give you justice, if youcan come to him."
"I'll not go," she wailed; "I'll die with you."
"Nay, you shall go," he said, stamping his foot, and, as he spoke,an arrow hissed between them. "Emlyn, drag her hence ere she is shot.Swift, I say, swift, or God's curse and mine rest on you. Unclasp yourarms, wife; how can I fight while you hang about my neck? What! Must Istrike you? Then, there and there!"
She loosed her grasp, and, groaning, fell back upon the breast of Emlyn,who half led, half carried her across the courtyard, where their scaredhorses galloped loose.
"Whither go we?" sobbed Cicely.
"To the central tower," answered Emlyn; "it seems safest there."
To this tower, whence the place took its name, they groped their way.Unlike the rest of the house, which for the most part was of wood, itwas built of stone, being part of an older fabric dating from the Normandays. Slowly they stumbled up the steps till at length they reached theroof, for some instinct prompted them to find a spot whence theycould see, should the stars break out. Here, on this lofty perch, theycrouched them down and waited the end, whatever it might be--waited insilence.
A while passed--they never knew how long--till at length a sudden flameshot up above the roof of the kitchens at the rear, which the windcaught and blew on to the timbers of the main building, so thatpresently this began to blaze also. The house had been fired, by whomwas never known, though it was said that the traitor, Jonathan Dicksey,had returned and done it, either for a bribe or that his own sin mightbe forgotten in this great catastrophe.
"The house burns," said Emlyn in her quiet voice. "Now, if you wouldsave your life, follow me. Beneath this tower is a vault where no flamecan touch us."
But Cicely would not stir, for by the fierce and ever-growing light shecould see what passed beneath, and, as it chanced, the wind blew thesmoke away from them. There, beyond the drawbridge, were gathered theAbbey guards, and there in the gateway stood Christopher and his threemen with drawn swords, while in the courtyard the horses galloped madly,screaming in their fear. A soldier looked up and saw the two womenstanding on the top of the tower, then called out something to theAbbot, who sat on horseback near to him. He looked and saw also.
"Yield, Sir Christopher," he shouted; "the Lady Cicely burns. Yield,that we may save her."
Christopher turned and saw also. For a moment he hesitated, then wheeledround to run across the courtyard. Too late, for as he came the flamesburst through the main roof of the house, and the timber front of it,blazing furiously, fell outwards, blocking the doorway, so that theplace became a furnace into which none might enter and live.
Now a madness seemed to take hold of him. For a moment he stared up atthe figures of the two women standing high above the rolling smoke andwrapping flame. Then, with his three men, he charged with a roar intothe crowd of soldiers who had followed him into the courtyard, striving,it would seem, to cut his way to the Abbot, who lurked behind. It wasa dreadful sight, for he and those with him fought furiously, and manywent down. Presently, of the four only Christopher was left upon hisfeet. Swords and spears smote upon his armour, but he did not fall;it was those in front of him who fell. A great fellow with an axegot behind him and struck with all his might upon his helm. The sworddropped from Harflete's hand; slowly he turned about, looked upward,then stretched out his arms and fell heavily to earth.
The Abbot leapt from his horse and ran to him, kneeling at his side.
"Dead!" he cried, and began to shrive his passing soul, or so it seemed.
"Dead," repeated Emlyn, "and a gallant death!"
"Dead!" wailed Cicely, in so terrible a voice that all below heard it."Dead, dead!" and sank senseless on Emlyn's breast.
At that moment the rest of the roof fell in, hiding the tower in spoutsand veils of flame. Here they might not stay if they would live. Liftingher mistress in her strong arms, as she was wont to do when she waslittle, Emlyn found the head of the stair, so that when the wind blewthe s
moke aside for an instant, those below saw that both had vanished,as they thought withered in the fire.
"Now you can enter on the Shefton lands, Abbot," cried a voice from thedarkness of the gateway, though in the turmoil none knew who spoke; "butnot for all England would I bear that innocent blood!"
The Abbot's face turned ghastly, and though it was hot enough in thatcourtyard his teeth chattered.
"It is on the head of this woman-thief," he exclaimed with an effort,looking down on Christopher, who lay at his feet. "Take him up, thatinquest may be held on him, who died doing murder. Can none enter thehouse? His pocket full of gold to him who saves the Lady Cicely!"
"Can any enter hell and live?" answered the same voice out of thesmoke and gloom. "Seek her sweet soul in heaven, if you may come there,Abbot."
Then, with scared faces, they lifted up Christopher and the other deadand wounded and carried them away, leaving Cranwell Towers to burnitself to ashes, for so fierce was the heat that none could bide therelonger.