



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 to
the 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 eternal
hills! Probably the scene has not changed very much since the days of
Henry VIII, when those things happened of which we have to tell, for
here no large town has arisen, nor have mines been dug or factories
built to affront the earth and defile the air with their hideousness and
smoke.

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 its
aspect must be much the same. Houses built of the local grey stone do
not readily fall down. The folk of that generation walked in and out of
the doorways of many of them, although the roofs for the most part are
now covered with tiles or rough slates in place of reeds from the dike.
The parish wells also, fitted with iron pumps that have superseded the
old rollers and buckets, still serve the place with drinking-water
as they have done since the days of the first Edward, and perhaps for
centuries before.

Although their use, if not their necessity, has passed away, not far
from the Abbey gate the stocks and whipping-post, the latter arranged
with three sets of iron loops fixed at different heights and of varying
diameters to accommodate the wrists of man, woman, and child, may still
be found in the middle of the Priests' Green. These stand, it will be
remembered, under a quaint old roof supported on rough, oaken pillars,
and surmounted by a weathercock which the monkish fancy has fashioned
to the shape of the archangel blowing the last trump. His clarion
or coach-horn, or whatever instrument of music it was he blew, has
vanished. The parish book records that in the time of George I a boy
broke it off, melted it down, and was publicly flogged in consequence,
the last time, apparently, that the whipping-post was used. But Gabriel
still twists about as manfully as he did when old Peter, the famous
smith, fashioned and set him up with his own hand in the last year of
King Henry VIII, as it is said to commemorate the fact that on this spot
stood the stakes to which Cicely Harflete, Lady of Blossholme, and her
foster-mother, Emlyn, were chained to be burned as witches.

So it is with everything at Blossholme, a place that Time has touched
but lightly. The fields, or many of them, bear the same names and remain
identical in their shape and outline. The old farmsteads and the few
halls in which reside the gentry of the district, stand where they
always stood. The glorious tower of the Abbey still points upwards to
the sky, although bells and roof are gone, while half-a-mile away the
parish church that was there before it--having been rebuilt indeed
upon Saxon foundations in the days of William Rufus--yet lies among its
ancient elms. Farther on, situate upon the <DW72> of a vale down which
runs a brook through meadows, is the stark ruin of the old Nunnery that
was subservient to the proud Abbey on the hill, some of it now roofed in
with galvanised iron sheets and used as cow-sheds.

It is of this Abbey and this Nunnery and of those who dwelt around them
in a day bygone, and especially of that fair and persecuted woman who
came 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. Old
Sir John Foterell, a white-bearded, red-faced man of about sixty years
of age, was seated before the log fire in the dining-hall of his great
house at Shefton, spelling through a letter which had just been brought
to him from Blossholme Abbey. He mastered it at length, and when it was
done any one who had been there to look might have seen a knight and
gentleman of large estate in a rage remarkable even for the time of the
eighth Henry. He dashed the document to the ground; he drank three cups
of 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, in
the most expressive language, he consigned the body of the Abbot of
Blossholme to the gallows and his soul to hell.

"He claims my lands, does he?" he exclaimed, shaking his fist in the
direction of Blossholme. "What does the rogue say? That the abbot
who went before him parted with them to my grandfather for no good
consideration, but under fear and threats. Now, writes he, this
Secretary Cromwell, whom they call Vicar-General, has declared that the
said transfer was without the law, and that I must hand over the said
lands to the Abbey of Blossholme on or before Candlemas! What was
Cromwell 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 walking
up and down the hall. Presently he halted in front of the fire and
addressed it as though it were his enemy.

"You are a clever fellow, Clement Maldon; they tell me that all
Spaniards are, and you were taught your craft at Rome and sent here for
a 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 forget
yourself at times, for the Southern blood is hot, and when the wine is
in, the truth is out. There were certain words you spoke not a year
ago before me and other witnesses of which I will remind you presently.
Perhaps when Secretary Cromwell learns them he will cancel his gift of
my lands, and mayhap lift that plotting head of yours up higher. I'll go
remind you of them."

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

"Why are you not quicker, Jeffrey Stokes?" he asked. "Must I wait your
pleasure 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 tied
to a post and lashed."

"Lash yourself, master, and let out the choler and good ale, which you
need to do," replied Jeffrey in his gruff voice. "There be some men who
never know when they are well served, and such are apt to come to ill
and 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 fall
again.

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

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

"Aye, that's it, that's it, Jeffrey. Hark; I ride to yonder
crows'-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 of
Blossholme visits Sir John Foterell of Shefton he comes with hawk on
wrist, with chaplains and pages, and ten stout men-at-arms, of whom he
keeps more of late than a priest would seem to need about him. When Sir
John Foterell visits the Abbot of Blossholme, at least he should have
one 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 as
you will, Jeffrey, but be swift. Stop. Where is my daughter?"

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

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

"Pity if so, master. Moreover, you may find it hard. Ghost-laying is a
priest's job, and when maids' waists are 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 times
were rough, and they were not sure who threatened them. When they knew
their visitor at last they set to work to unbar the great doors and let
down the drawbridge, that had been hoist up at sunset.

Presently Sir John stood in the Abbot's chamber, warming himself at the
great fire, and behind him stood his serving-man, Jeffrey, carrying his
long cloak. It was a fine room, with a noble roof of carved chestnut
wood and stone walls hung with costly tapestry, whereon were worked
scenes from the Scriptures. The floor was hid with rich carpets made of
 Eastern wools. The furniture also was rich and foreign-looking,
being inlaid with ivory and silver, while on the table stood a golden
crucifix, a miracle of art, and upon an easel, so that the light from a
hanging silver lamp fell on it, a life-sized picture of the Magdalene
by some great Italian painter, turning her beauteous eyes to heaven and
beating 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 some
great dame's bower? Hunt under the table, man; sure, you will find her
lute and needlework. Whose portrait is that, think you?" and he pointed
to the Magdalene.

"A sinner turning saint, I think, master. Good company for laymen when
she was sinner, and good for priests now that she is saint. For the
rest, I could snore well here after a cup of yon red wine," and he
jerked 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 is
made 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 many
a timber there not to know. There's that in the Sticksley clays which
makes 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 little
lad my old grandsire bade me note this very thing about the Sticksley
oaks. These cursed monks waste my woods beneath my nose. My forester is
a 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 of
hanging, which only kings and abbots, 'with right of gallows,' can do at
will. Ah! you speak truth," he added in a changed voice; "it is a lovely
chamber, 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 altar
yonder, 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 somewhat
gouty.

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

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

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

"Good-day," answered Sir John, while his retainer bowed his head and
crossed 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 the
Abbot, smiling; "and in truth there seems some need of it. We heard loud
quarrelling and talk of hanging men. What is your argument?"

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

"The worthy man is right, my son, and yet your forester deserves no
punishment. I bought our scanty store of firing from him, and, to tell
truth, the count has not yet been paid. The money that should have
discharged it has gone to London, so I asked him to let it stand
until the summer rents come in. Blame him not, Sir John, if, out of
friendship, knowing it was naught to you, he has not bared the nakedness
of our poor house."

"Is it the nakedness of your poor house"--and he glanced round the
sumptuous chamber--"that caused you to send me this letter saying that
you have Cromwell's writ to seize my lands?" asked Sir John, rushing at
his 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 rents
come in?"

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

"To decide a suit of which the defendant had no notice!" exclaimed Sir
John. "My Lord Abbot, this is not justice; it is roguery that I will
never bear. Did you decide aught else, pray you?"

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

"God's blood! Why?" asked Sir John.

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

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

"My son, I obey you. Your title, though pronounced so doubtful, is not
utterly voided; yet it is held that you have all these lands as tenant
of this Abbey, to which, should you die without issue, they will
relapse. Or should you die with issue under age, such issue will be ward
to 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 went
white as ashes.

"Show me that judgment," he said slowly.

"It is not yet engrossed, my son. Within ten days or so I hope----But
you 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 hand
one of the chaplains stepped to the sideboard, filled a goblet from the
long-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 the
silver cup and its contents into the fire, whence a chaplain recovered
it with the wood-tongs.

"It seems that you priests are my heirs," said Sir John in a new, quiet
voice, "or so you say; and, if that is so, my life is likely to be
short. I'll not drink your wine, lest it should be poisoned. Hearken
now, Sir Abbot. I believe little of this tale, though doubtless by
bribes and other means you have done your best to harm me behind my back
up yonder in London. Well, to-morrow at the dawn, come fair weather or
come 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, and
I know that you need money