The Lady of Blossholme

  Produced by John Bickers; Dagny

  THE LADY OF BLOSSHOLME

  By H. Rider Haggard

  CHAPTER I

  SIR JOHN FOTERELL

  Who that has ever seen them can forget the ruins of Blossholme Abbey,set upon their mount between the great waters of the tidal estuary tothe north, the rich lands and grazing marshes that, backed with woods,border it east and south, and to the west by the rolling uplands,merging at last into purple moor, and, far away, the sombre eternalhills! Probably the scene has not changed very much since the days ofHenry VIII, when those things happened of which we have to tell, forhere no large town has arisen, nor have mines been dug or factoriesbuilt to affront the earth and defile the air with their hideousness andsmoke.

  The village of Blossholme we know has scarcely varied in its population,for the old records tell us this, and as there is no railway here itsaspect must be much the same. Houses built of the local grey stone donot readily fall down. The folk of that generation walked in and out ofthe doorways of many of them, although the roofs for the most part arenow covered with tiles or rough slates in place of reeds from the dike.The parish wells also, fitted with iron pumps that have superseded theold rollers and buckets, still serve the place with drinking-wateras they have done since the days of the first Edward, and perhaps forcenturies before.

  Although their use, if not their necessity, has passed away, not farfrom the Abbey gate the stocks and whipping-post, the latter arrangedwith three sets of iron loops fixed at different heights and of varyingdiameters to accommodate the wrists of man, woman, and child, may stillbe found in the middle of the Priests' Green. These stand, it will beremembered, under a quaint old roof supported on rough, oaken pillars,and surmounted by a weathercock which the monkish fancy has fashionedto the shape of the archangel blowing the last trump. His clarionor coach-horn, or whatever instrument of music it was he blew, hasvanished. The parish book records that in the time of George I a boybroke it off, melted it down, and was publicly flogged in consequence,the last time, apparently, that the whipping-post was used. But Gabrielstill twists about as manfully as he did when old Peter, the famoussmith, fashioned and set him up with his own hand in the last year ofKing Henry VIII, as it is said to commemorate the fact that on this spotstood the stakes to which Cicely Harflete, Lady of Blossholme, and herfoster-mother, Emlyn, were chained to be burned as witches.

  So it is with everything at Blossholme, a place that Time has touchedbut lightly. The fields, or many of them, bear the same names and remainidentical in their shape and outline. The old farmsteads and the fewhalls in which reside the gentry of the district, stand where theyalways stood. The glorious tower of the Abbey still points upwards tothe sky, although bells and roof are gone, while half-a-mile away theparish church that was there before it--having been rebuilt indeedupon Saxon foundations in the days of William Rufus--yet lies among itsancient elms. Farther on, situate upon the slope of a vale down whichruns a brook through meadows, is the stark ruin of the old Nunnery thatwas subservient to the proud Abbey on the hill, some of it now roofed inwith galvanised iron sheets and used as cow-sheds.

  It is of this Abbey and this Nunnery and of those who dwelt around themin a day bygone, and especially of that fair and persecuted woman whocame to be known as the Lady of Blossholme, that our story has to tell.

  It was dead winter in the year 1535--the 31st of December, indeed. OldSir John Foterell, a white-bearded, red-faced man of about sixty yearsof age, was seated before the log fire in the dining-hall of his greathouse at Shefton, spelling through a letter which had just been broughtto him from Blossholme Abbey. He mastered it at length, and when it wasdone any one who had been there to look might have seen a knight andgentleman of large estate in a rage remarkable even for the time of theeighth Henry. He dashed the document to the ground; he drank three cupsof strong ale, of which he had already had enough, in quick succession;he swore a number of the best oaths of the period, and finally, inthe most expressive language, he consigned the body of the Abbot ofBlossholme to the gallows and his soul to hell.

  "He claims my lands, does he?" he exclaimed, shaking his fist in thedirection of Blossholme. "What does the rogue say? That the abbotwho went before him parted with them to my grandfather for no goodconsideration, but under fear and threats. Now, writes he, thisSecretary Cromwell, whom they call Vicar-General, has declared that thesaid transfer was without the law, and that I must hand over the saidlands to the Abbey of Blossholme on or before Candlemas! What wasCromwell paid to sign that order with no inquiry made, I wonder?"

  Sir John poured out and drank a fourth cup of ale, then set to walkingup and down the hall. Presently he halted in front of the fire andaddressed it as though it were his enemy.

  "You are a clever fellow, Clement Maldon; they tell me that allSpaniards are, and you were taught your craft at Rome and sent here fora purpose. You began as nothing, and now you are Abbot of Blossholme,and, if the King had not faced the Pope, would be more. But you forgetyourself at times, for the Southern blood is hot, and when the wine isin, the truth is out. There were certain words you spoke not a yearago before me and other witnesses of which I will remind you presently.Perhaps when Secretary Cromwell learns them he will cancel his gift ofmy lands, and mayhap lift that plotting head of yours up higher. I'll goremind you of them."

  Sir John strode to the door and shouted; it would not be too much to saythat he bellowed like a bull. It opened after a while, and a serving-manappeared, a bow-legged, sturdy-looking fellow with a shock of blackhair.

  "Why are you not quicker, Jeffrey Stokes?" he asked. "Must I wait yourpleasure from noon to night?"

  "I came as fast as I could, master. Why, then, do you rate me?"

  "Would you argue with me, fellow? Do it again and I will have you tiedto a post and lashed."

  "Lash yourself, master, and let out the choler and good ale, which youneed to do," replied Jeffrey in his gruff voice. "There be some men whonever know when they are well served, and such are apt to come to illand lonely ends. What is your pleasure? I'll do it if I can, and if not,do it yourself."

  Sir John lifted his hand as though to strike him, then let it fallagain.

  "I like one who braves me to my teeth," he said more gently, "and thatwas ever your nature. Take it not ill, man; I was angered, and havecause to be."

  "The anger I see, but not the cause, though, as a monk came from theAbbey but now, perhaps I can hazard a guess."

  "Aye, that's it, that's it, Jeffrey. Hark; I ride to yondercrows'-nest, and at once. Saddle me a horse."

  "Good, master. I'll saddle two horses."

  "Two? I said one. Fool, can I ride a pair at once, like a mountebank?"

  "I know not, but you can ride one and I another. When the Abbot ofBlossholme visits Sir John Foterell of Shefton he comes with hawk onwrist, with chaplains and pages, and ten stout men-at-arms, of whom hekeeps more of late than a priest would seem to need about him. When SirJohn Foterell visits the Abbot of Blossholme, at least he should haveone serving-man at his back to hold his nag and bear him witness."

  Sir John looked at him shrewdly.

  "I called you fool," he said, "but you are none except in looks. Do asyou will, Jeffrey, but be swift. Stop. Where is my daughter?"

  "The Lady Cicely sits in her parlour. I saw her sweet face at the windowbut now staring out at the snow as though she thought to see a ghost init."

  "Um," grunted Sir John, "the ghost she thinks to see rides a grand greymare, stands over six feet high, has a jolly face, and a pair of armswell made for sword and shield, or to clip a girl in. Yet that ghostmust be laid, Jeffrey."

  "Pity if so, master. Moreover, you may find it hard. Ghost-laying is apriest's job, and when maids' waists ar
e willing, men's arms reach far."

  "Be off, sirrah," roared Sir John, and Jeffrey went.

  Ten minutes later they were riding for the Abbey, three miles away,and within half-an-hour Sir John was knocking, not gently, at its gate,while the monks within ran to and fro like startled ants, for the timeswere rough, and they were not sure who threatened them. When they knewtheir visitor at last they set to work to unbar the great doors and letdown the drawbridge, that had been hoist up at sunset.

  Presently Sir John stood in the Abbot's chamber, warming himself at thegreat fire, and behind him stood his serving-man, Jeffrey, carrying hislong cloak. It was a fine room, with a noble roof of carved chestnutwood and stone walls hung with costly tapestry, whereon were workedscenes from the Scriptures. The floor was hid with rich carpets made ofcoloured Eastern wools. The furniture also was rich and foreign-looking,being inlaid with ivory and silver, while on the table stood a goldencrucifix, a miracle of art, and upon an easel, so that the light from ahanging silver lamp fell on it, a life-sized picture of the Magdaleneby some great Italian painter, turning her beauteous eyes to heaven andbeating her fair breast.

  Sir John looked about him and sniffed.

  "Now, Jeffrey, would you think that you were in a monk's cell or in somegreat dame's bower? Hunt under the table, man; sure, you will find herlute and needlework. Whose portrait is that, think you?" and he pointedto the Magdalene.

  "A sinner turning saint, I think, master. Good company for laymen whenshe was sinner, and good for priests now that she is saint. For therest, I could snore well here after a cup of yon red wine," and hejerked his thumb towards a long-necked bottle on a sideboard. "Also,the fire burns bright, which is not to be wondered at, seeing that it ismade of dry oak from your Sticksley Wood."

  "How know you that, Jeffrey?" asked Sir John.

  "By the grain of it, master--by the grain of it. I have hewn too manya timber there not to know. There's that in the Sticksley clays whichmakes the rings grow wavy and darker at the heart. See there."

  Sir John looked, and swore an angry oath.

  "You are right, man; and now I come to think of it, when I was a littlelad my old grandsire bade me note this very thing about the Sticksleyoaks. These cursed monks waste my woods beneath my nose. My forester isa rogue. They have scared or bribed him, and he shall hang for it."

  "First prove the crime, master, which won't be easy; then talk ofhanging, which only kings and abbots, 'with right of gallows,' can do atwill. Ah! you speak truth," he added in a changed voice; "it is a lovelychamber, though not good enough for the holy man who dwells in it,since such a saint should have a silver shrine like him before the altaryonder, as doubtless he will do when ere long he is old bones," and,as though by chance, he trod upon his lord's foot, which was somewhatgouty.

  Round came Sir John like the Blossholme weathercock on a gusty day.

  "Clumsy toad!" he yelled, then paused, for there within the arras, thathad been lifted silently, stood a tall, tonsured figure clothed in richfurs, and behind him two other figures, also tonsured, in simple blackrobes. It was the Abbot with his chaplains.

  "Benedicite!" said the Abbot in his soft, foreign voice, lifting the twofingers of his right hand in blessing.

  "Good-day," answered Sir John, while his retainer bowed his head andcrossed himself. "Why do you steal upon a man like a thief in the night,holy Father?" he added irritably.

  "That is how we are told judgment shall come, my son," answered theAbbot, smiling; "and in truth there seems some need of it. We heard loudquarrelling and talk of hanging men. What is your argument?"

  "A hard one of oak," answered old Sir John sullenly. "My servant heresaid those logs upon your fire came from my Sticksley Wood, and Ianswered him that if so they were stolen, and my reeve should hang forit."

  "The worthy man is right, my son, and yet your forester deserves nopunishment. I bought our scanty store of firing from him, and, to telltruth, the count has not yet been paid. The money that should havedischarged it has gone to London, so I asked him to let it standuntil the summer rents come in. Blame him not, Sir John, if, out offriendship, knowing it was naught to you, he has not bared the nakednessof our poor house."

  "Is it the nakedness of your poor house"--and he glanced round thesumptuous chamber--"that caused you to send me this letter saying thatyou have Cromwell's writ to seize my lands?" asked Sir John, rushing athis grievance like a bull, and casting down the document upon the table;"or do you also mean to make payment for them--when your summer rentscome in?"

  "Nay, son. In that matter duty led me. For twenty years we have disputedof those estates which, as you know, your grandsire took from us ina time of trouble, thus cutting the Abbey lands in twain, against theprotest of him who was Abbot in those days. Therefore, at last I laidthe matter before the Vicar-General, who, I hear, has been pleased todecide the suit in favour of this Abbey."

  "To decide a suit of which the defendant had no notice!" exclaimed SirJohn. "My Lord Abbot, this is not justice; it is roguery that I willnever bear. Did you decide aught else, pray you?"

  "Since you ask it--something, my son. To save costs I laid before himthe sundry points at issue between us, and in sum this is the judgment:Your title to all your Blossholme lands and those contiguous, totallingeight thousand acres, is not voided, yet it is held to be tainted anddoubtful."

  "God's blood! Why?" asked Sir John.

  "My son, I will tell you," replied the Abbot gently. "Because withina hundred years they belonged to this Abbey by gift of the Crown, andthere is no record that the Crown consented to their alienation."

  "No record," exclaimed Sir John, "when I have the indentured deed in mystrong-box, signed by my great-grandfather and the Abbot Frank Ingham!No record, when my said forefather gave you other lands in place of themwhich you now hold? But go on, holy priest."

  "My son, I obey you. Your title, though pronounced so doubtful, is notutterly voided; yet it is held that you have all these lands as tenantof this Abbey, to which, should you die without issue, they willrelapse. Or should you die with issue under age, such issue will be wardto the Abbot of Blossholme for the time being, and failing him, that is,if there were no Abbot and no Abbey, of the Crown."

  Sir John listened, then sank back into a chair, while his face wentwhite as ashes.

  "Show me that judgment," he said slowly.

  "It is not yet engrossed, my son. Within ten days or so I hope----Butyou seem faint. The warmth of this room after the cold outer air,perhaps. Drink a cup of our poor wine," and at a motion of his handone of the chaplains stepped to the sideboard, filled a goblet from thelong-necked flask that stood there, and brought it to Sir John.

  He took it as one that knows not what he does, then suddenly threw thesilver cup and its contents into the fire, whence a chaplain recoveredit with the wood-tongs.

  "It seems that you priests are my heirs," said Sir John in a new, quietvoice, "or so you say; and, if that is so, my life is likely to beshort. I'll not drink your wine, lest it should be poisoned. Hearkennow, Sir Abbot. I believe little of this tale, though doubtless bybribes and other means you have done your best to harm me behind my backup yonder in London. Well, to-morrow at the dawn, come fair weather orcome foul, I ride through the snows to London, where I too have friends,and we will see, we will see. You are a clever man, Abbot Maldon, andI know that you need money, or its worth, to pay your men-at-arms andsatisfy the great costs at which you live--and there are our famousjewels--yes, yes, the old Crusader jewels. Therefore you have sought torob me, whom you ever hated, and perchance Cromwell has listened to yourtale. Perchance, fool priest," he added slowly, "he had it in his mindto fat this Church goose of yours with my meal before he wrings its neckand cooks it."

  At these words the Abbot started for the first time, and even the twoimpassive chaplains glanced at each other.

  "Ah! does that touch you?" asked Sir John Foterell. "Well, then, here iswhat shall make you smart. You think yourself in favour at the Court, doyou n
ot? because you took the oath of succession which braver men, likethe brethren of the Charterhouse, refused, and died for it. But youforget the words you said to me when the wine you love had a hold of youin my hall----"

  "Silence! For your own sake, silence, Sir John Foterell!" broke in theAbbot. "You go too far."

  "Not so far as you shall go, my Lord Abbot, ere I have done with you.Not so far as Tower Hill or Tyburn, thither to be hung and quartered asa traitor to his Grace. I tell you, you forget the words you spoke, butI will remind you of them. Did you not say to me when the guests hadgone, that King Henry was a heretic, a tyrant, and an infidel whom thePope would do well to excommunicate and depose? Did you not, when I ledyou on, ask me if I could not bring about a rising of the common peoplein these parts, among whom I have great power, and of those gentry whoknow and love me, to overthrow him, and in his place set up a certainCardinal Pole, and for the deed promise me the pardon and absolutionof the Pope, and much advancement in his name and that of the SpanishEmperor?"

  "Never," answered the Abbot.

  "And did I not," went on Sir John, taking no note of his denial, "didI not refuse to listen to you and tell you that your words weretraitorous, and that had they been spoken otherwhere than in my house,I, as in duty bound by my office, would make report of them? Aye, andhave you not from that hour striven to undo me, whom you fear?"

  "I deny it all," said the Abbot again. "These be but empty lies bred ofyour malice, Sir John Foterell."

  "Empty words, are they, my Lord Abbot! Well, I tell you that they areall written down and signed in due form. I tell you I had witnesses youknew naught of who heard them with their ears. Here stands one of thembehind my chair. Is it not so, Jeffrey?"

  "Aye, master," answered the serving-man. "I chanced to be in the littlechamber beyond the wainscot with others waiting to escort the Abbothome, and heard them all, and afterward I and they put our marks uponthe writing. As I am a Christian man that is so, though, master, this isnot the place that I should have chosen to speak of it, however much Imight be wronged."

  "It will serve my turn," said the enraged knight, "though it is truethat I will speak of it louder elsewhere, namely, before the King'sCouncil. To-morrow, my Lord Abbot, this paper and I go to London, andthen you shall learn how well it pays you to try to pluck a Foterell ofhis own."

  Now it was the Abbot's turn to be frightened. His smooth, olive-colouredcheeks sank in and went white, as though already he felt the cord abouthis throat. His jewelled hand shook, and he caught the arm of one of hischaplains and hung to it.

  "Man," he hissed, "do you think that you can utter such false threatsand go hence to ruin me, a consecrated abbot? I have dungeons here; Ihave power. It will be said that you attacked me, and that I did butstrive to defend myself. Others can bring witness besides you, SirJohn," and he whispered some words in Latin or Spanish into the ear ofone of his chaplains, whereon that priest turned to leave the room.

  "Now it seems that we are getting to business," said Jeffrey Stokes, as,lying his hand upon the knife at his girdle, he slipped between the monkand the door.

  "That's it, Jeffrey," cried Sir John. "Stop the rat's hole. Look you,Spaniard, I have a sword. Show me to your gate, or, by virtue of theKing's commission that I hold, I do instant justice on you as a traitor,and afterward answer for it if I win out."

  The Abbot considered a moment, taking the measure of the fierce oldknight before him. Then he said slowly--

  "Go as you came, in peace, O man of wrath and evil, but know that thecurse of the Church shall follow you. I say that you stand near to ill."

  Sir John looked at him. The anger went out of his face, and, instead,upon it appeared something strange--a breath of foresight, aninspiration, call it what you will.

  "By heaven and all its saints! I think you are right, Clement Maldon,"he muttered. "Beneath that black dress of yours you are a man like therest of us, are you not? You have a heart, you have members, you havea brain to think with; you are a fiddle for God to play on, and howevermuch your superstitions mask and alter it, out of those strings now andagain will come some squeak of truth. Well, I am another fiddle, of amore honest sort, mayhap, though I do not lift two fingers of my righthand and say, 'Benedicite, my son,' and 'Your sins are forgiven you';and just now the God of both of us plays His tune in me, and I will tellyou what it is. I stand near to death, but you stand not far from thegallows. I'll die an honest man; you will die like a dog, false toeverything, and afterwards let your beads and your masses and yoursaints help you if they can. We'll talk it over when we meet againelsewhere. And now, my Lord Abbot, lead me to your gate, rememberingthat I follow with my sword. Jeffrey, set those carrion crow in front ofyou, and watch them well. My Lord Abbot, I am your servant; march!"