CHAPTER VIII
EMLYN CALLS HER MAN
One by one the weeks passed over the heads of Cicely and Emlyn in
their prison, and brought them neither hope nor tidings. Indeed,
although they could not see its cords, they felt that the evil net
which held them was drawing ever tighter. There were fear and pity as
well as love in the eyes of Mother Matilda when she looked at Cicely,
which she did only if she thought that no one observed her. The nuns
also were afraid, though it was clear that they knew not of what. One
evening Emlyn, finding the Prioress alone, sprang questions on her,
asking what was in the wind, and why her lady, a free woman of full
age, was detained there against her will.
The old nun's face grew secret. She answered that she did not know of
anything unusual, and that, as regarded the detention, she must obey
the commands of her spiritual superior.
"Then," burst out Emlyn, "I tell you that you do so at your peril. I
tell you that whether my lady lives or dies, there are those who will
call you to a strict account, aye, and those who will listen to the
prayer of the helpless. Mother Matilda, England is not the land it was
when as a girl they buried you in these mouldy walls. Where does God
say that you have the right to hold free women like felons in a jail?
Tell me."
"I cannot," moaned Mother Matilda, wringing her thin hands. "The right
is very hard to find, this place is strictly guarded, and whatever I
may think, I must do what I am bid, lest my soul should suffer."
"Your soul! You cloistered women think always of your miserable souls,
but of those of other folk, aye, and of their bodies too, nothing.
Then you'll not help me?"
"I cannot, I cannot, who am myself in bonds," she replied again.
"So be it, Mother; then I'll help myself, and when I do, God help
/you/ all," and with a contemptuous shrug of her broad shoulders she
walked away, leaving the poor old Prioress almost in tears.
Emlyn's threats were bold as her own heart, but how could she execute
even a tenth of them? The right was on their side, indeed, but, as
many a captive has found in those and other days, right is no Joshua's
trumpet to cause high walls to fall. Moreover, Cicely would not aid
her. Now that her husband was dead she took interest in one thing only
--his child who was to be.
For the rest she seemed to care nothing. Since she had no friends with
whom she could communicate, and her wealth, as she understood, had
been taken from her, what better place, she asked, could there be for
that child to see the light than in this quiet Nunnery? When it was
born and she was well again she would consider other matters.
Meanwhile she was languid, and why was Emlyn always prating to her of
freedom? If she were free, what should she do and whither should she
go? The nuns were very kind to her; they loved her as she did them.
So she talked on, and Emlyn, listening, did not dare to tell her the
truth: that here she feared for the life of her child, dreading lest
that news might bring about the death of both of them. So she let her
be, and fell back on her own wits.
First she thought of escape, only to abandon the idea, for her
mistress was in no state to face its perils. Moreover, whither should
they go? Then rescue came into her mind, but, alas! who would rescue
them? The great men in London, perhaps, as a matter of policy, but
great men are hard to come at, even for the free. If she were free she
might find means to make them listen, but she was not, nor could she
leave her lady at such a time. What remained, then? So to contrive
that they should be set free.
Perhaps it might be done at a price--that of Cicely's jewels, of which
she alone knew the hiding-place, and with them a deed of indemnity
against her persecutors. Emlyn was not minded to give either.
Moreover, she guessed that it might be in vain. Once outside those
walls, they knew too much to be allowed to live. And yet within those
walls Cicely's child would not be allowed to live--the child that was
heir to all. What, then, could loose them and make them safe?
Terror, perhaps--such terror as that through which the Israelites
escaped from bondage. Oh! if she could but find a Moses to call down
the plagues of Egypt upon this Pharaoh of an Abbot--those plagues with
which she had threatened him--but although she believed that they
would fall (why did she believe it? she wondered), she was as yet
impotent to fulfil.
Now Thomas Bolle! If only she could have words with that faithful
Thomas Bolle, the fierce and cunning man whom they thought foolish!
This idea of Thomas Bolle took possession of Emlyn's mind--Thomas
Bolle, who had loved her all his life, who would die to serve her. She
strove in vain to get in touch with him. The old gardener was so deaf
that he could not, or would not, understand. The silly Bridget gave
the letter that she wrote to him to the Prioress by mistake, who burnt
it before her eyes and said nothing. The monks who brought provisions
to the Nunnery were always received by three of the sisters, set to
spy on each other and on them, so that she could not come near to them
alone. The priest who celebrated Mass was an old enemy of hers; with
him she could do nothing, and no one else was allowed to approach the
place except once or twice the Abbot, who was closeted for hours with
the Prioress, but spoke to her no more.
Why, wondered Emlyn, should less than half-a-mile of space be such a
barrier between her and Thomas Bolle? If he stood within twenty yards
of her she could make him understand; why not, then, when he stood
within five hundred? This idea possessed her; these limitations of
nature made her mad. She refused to accept them. Night by night, lying
brooding in her bed, while Cicely slept in peace at her side, she
threw out her strong soul towards the soul of her old lover, Thomas
Bolle, commanding him to listen, to obey, to come.
At first nothing happened. Afterwards she had a vague sense of being
answered; although she could not see or hear him, she felt his
presence. Then one afternoon, looking from an upper dormer window, she
saw a scuffle going on outside the gateway, and heard angry voices.
Thomas Bolle was trying to force his way in at the door, whence he was
repelled by the Abbot's men who always watched there.
In the evening she gathered the truth from the nuns, who did not know
that she was listening to what they said. It seemed that Thomas, whom
they spoke of as a madman or as drunk, had tried to break into the
Nunnery. When he was asked what he wanted, he answered that he did not
know, but he must speak with Emlyn Stower. At this tidings she smiled
to herself, for now she knew that he had heard her, and that in this
way or in that he would obey her summons and come.
Two days later Thomas came--thus.
The September evening was fading into night, and Emlyn, leaving Cicely
resting on her bed, which now she often did for a while before the
supper-hour, had gone into the garden to enjoy the pleasant air. There
she walked until she wearied of its sameness, then entered the old
chapel by a side door and sat herself down to think in the chancel,
not far from a life-sized statue of the Virgin, in painted oak, which
stood here because of its peculiarities, for the back half of it
seemed to be built into the masonry. Also the eye-sockets were empty,
which suggested to the observant Emlyn either that they had once held
jewels or that this was no likeness of the holy Mother, but rather one
of the blind St. Lucy.
While Emlyn mused there quite alone--for at this hour none entered the
place, nor would until the next morning--she thought that she heard
strange noises, as of some one stirring, which came from the
neighbourhood of the statue. Now many would have been scared and
departed; but not so Emlyn, who only sat still and listened.
Presently, without moving her head, she looked also. As it happened,
the light of the setting sun, pouring through the west window, fell
almost full upon the figure, and by it she saw, or thought she saw,
that the eye-sockets were no longer empty; there were eyes in them
which moved and flashed.
Now for a moment even Emlyn was frightened. Then she reasoned with
herself, reflecting that a priest or one of the nuns was watching her
from behind the statue, which they might do for as long as they
pleased. Or perhaps this was a miracle, such as she had heard so much
of but never seen. Well, why should she fear spies or miracles? She
would sit where she was and see what happened. Nor had she long to
wait, for presently a voice, a hoarse, manly voice, whispered--
"Emlyn! Emlyn Stower!"
"Yes," she answered, also in a whisper. "Who speaks?"
"Who do you think?" asked the voice, with a chuckle. "A devil,
perhaps."
"Well, if it be a friendly devil I don't know that I mind, who need
company in this lone place. So appear, man or devil," answered Emlyn
stoutly. But in secret she crossed herself beneath her cape, for in
those days folk believed in the appearance of devils for no good
purposes.
The statue began to creak, then opened like a door, though very
unwillingly, as though its hinges had been fixed for a long, long time
and rusted in the damp, which was indeed the case. Inside of it, like
a corpse in an upright coffin, appeared a figure, a square, strong
figure, clad in a tattered monk's robe, surmounted by a large head
with fiery red hair and beetling brows, beneath which shone two wild
grey eyes. Emlyn, whose heart had stood still--for, after all, Satan
is awkward company for a mortal woman--waited till it gave a jump in
her breast and went on again as usual. Then she said quietly--
"What are you doing here, Thomas Bolle?"
"That is what I want to know, Emlyn. Night and day for weeks you have
been calling me, and so I came."
"Yes, I have been calling you; but how did you come?"
"By the old monk's road. They have forgotten it long ago, but my
grandfather told me of it when I was a boy, and at last a fox showed
me where it ran. It's a dark road, and when first I tried it I thought
I should be poisoned, but now the air is none so bad. It ran to the
Abbey once, and may still, but my door and Mrs. Fox's is in the copse
by the park wall, where none would ever look for it. If you would like
a cub to play with, I will bring you one. Or perhaps you want
something more than cubs," he added, with his cunning laugh.
"Aye, Thomas, I want much more. Man," she said fiercely, "will you do
what I tell you?"
"That depends, Mistress Emlyn. Have I not done what you told me all my
life, and for no reward?"
She moved across the chancel and sat herself down against him, pushing
the image door almost to and speaking to him through the crack.
"If you have had no reward, Thomas," she said in a gentle voice,
"whose fault was it? Not mine, I think. I loved you once when we were
young, did I not? I would have given myself to you, body and soul,
would I not? Well, who came between us and spoiled our lives?"
"The monks," groaned Thomas; "the accursed monks, who married you to
Stower because he paid them."
"Yes, the accursed monks. And now our youth has gone, and love--of
that sort--is behind us. I have been another man's wife, Thomas, who
might have been yours. Think of it--your loving wife, the mother of
your children. And you--they have tamed you and made you their
servant, their cattle-herd, the strong fellow to fetch and carry, the
half-wit, as they call you, who can still be trusted to run an errand
and hold his tongue, the Abbey mule that does not dare to kick, the
grieve of your own stolen lands--you, whose father was almost a
gentleman. That's what they have done for you, Thomas; and for me, the
Church's ward--well, I will not speak of it. Now, if you had your
will, what would you do for them?"
"Do for them? Do for them?" gasped Thomas, worked up to fury by this
recital of his wrongs. "Why, if I dared I'd cut their throats, every
one, and grallock them like deer," and he ground his strong white
teeth. "But I am afraid. They have my soul, and month by month I must
confess. You remember, Emlyn, I warned you when you and the lady would
have ridden to London before the siege. Well, afterward--I must
confess it--the Abbot heard it himself, and oh! sore, sore was my
penance. Before I had done with it my ribs showed through my skin and
my back was like a red osier basket. There's only one thing I didn't
tell them, because, after all, it is no sin to grub the earth off the
face of a corpse."
"Ah!" said Emlyn, looking at him. "You're not to be trusted. Well, I
thought as much. Good-bye, Thomas Bolle, you coward. I'll find me a
man for a friend, not a whimpering, priest-ridden hound who sets a
Latin blessing which he does not understand above his honour. God in
heaven! to think I should ever have loved such a thing. Oh! I am
shamed, I am shamed. I'll go wash my hands. Shut your trap and get you
gone down your rat-run, Thomas Bolle, and, living or dead, never dare
to speak to me again. Also forget not to tell your monks how I called
you to my side--for that's witchcraft, you know, and I shall burn for
it, and your soul gain benefit. God in heaven! to think that once you
were Thomas Bolle," and she made as though to go away.
He stretched out his great arm and caught her by the robe,
exclaiming--
"What would you have me do, Emlyn? I can't bear your scorn. Take it
off me or I go kill myself."
"That's what you had best do. You'll find the devil a better master
than a foreign abbot. Farewell for ever."
"Nay, nay; what's your will? Soul or no soul, I'll work it."
"Will you? Will you indeed? If so, stay a moment," and she ran down
the chapel, bolting the doors; then returned to him, saying--
"Now come forth, Thomas, and since you are once more a man, kiss me as
you used to do twenty years ago and more. You'll not confess to that,
will you? There. Now, kneel before the altar here and swear an oath.
Nay, listen to it before you swear, for it is wide."
Emlyn said the oath to him. It was a great and terrible oath. Under it
he bound himself to be her slave and join himself with her in working
woe to the monks of Blossholme, and especially to their Abbot, Clement
Maldon, in payment of the wrongs that these had done to them both; in
payment for the murder of Sir John Foterell and of Christopher
Harflete, and of the imprisonment and robbery of Cicely Harflete, the
daughter of the one and the wife of the other. He bound himself to do
those things which she should tell him. He bound himself neither in
the confessional nor, should it come to that, on the bed of torture or
the scaffold to breathe a word of all their counsel. He prayed that if
he did so his soul might pay the price in everlasting torment, and of
all these things he took Heaven to be his witness.
"Now," said Emlyn, when she had finished setting out this fearful vow,
"will you be a man and swear and thereby avenge the dead and save the
innocent from death; or will you who have my secret be a crawling monk
and go back to Blossholme Abbey and betray me?"
He thought a moment, rubbing his red head, for the thing frightened
him, as well it might. The scales of the balance of his mind hung
evenly, and Emlyn knew not which way they would turn. She saw, and put
out all her woman's strength. Resting her hand upon his shoulder, she
leaned forward and whispered into his ear.
"Do you remember, Thomas, how first we told our young love that spring
day down in the copse by the water, and how sweet the daffodils
bloomed about our feet--the daffodils and the wood-lilies? Do you
remember how we swore ourselves each to each for all our lives, aye,
and all the lives that were to come, and how for us two the earth was
turned to heaven? And then--do you remember how that monk walked by--
it was this Clement Maldon--and froze us with his cruel eyes, and
said, 'What do you with the witch's daughter? She is not for you.' And
--oh! Thomas, I can no more of it," and she broke down and sobbed,
then added, "Swear nothing; get you gone and betray me, if you will.
I'll bear you no malice, even when I die for it, for after more than
twenty years of monkcraft, how could I hope that you would still
remain a man? Come, get you gone swiftly, ere they take us together,
and your fair fame is besmirched. Quick, now, and leave me and my lady
and her unborn child to the doom Maldon brews for us. Alas! for the
copse by the river; alas! for the withered lilies!"
Thomas heard; the big blue veins stood out upon his forehead, his
great breast heaved, his utterance choked. At length the words came in
a thick torrent.
"I'll not go, dearie; I'll swear what you will, by your eyes and by
your lips, by the flowers on which we trod, by all the empty years of
aching woe and shame, by God upon His throne in heaven, and by the
devil in his fires in hell. Come, come," and he ran to the altar and
clasped the crucifix that stood there. "Say the words again, or any
others that you will, and I'll repeat them and take the oath, and may
fiery worms eat me living for ever and ever if I break a letter of
it."
With a little smile of triumph in her dark eyes Emlyn bent over the
kneeling man and whispered--whispered through the gathering bloom,
while he whispered after her, and kissed the Rood in token.
It was done, and they drew away from the altar back to the painted
saint.
"So you are a man after all," she said, laughing aloud. "Now, man--my
man--who, if we live through this, shall be my husband if you will--
yes, my husband, for I'll pay, and be proud of it--listen to my
commands. See you, I am Moses, and yonder in the Abbey sits Pharaoh
with a hardened heart, and you are the angel--the destroying angel
with the sword of the plagues of Egypt. To-night there will be fire in
the Abbey--such fire as fell on Cranwell Towers. Nay, nay, I know; the
church will not burn, nor all the great stone halls. But the
dormitories, and the storehouses, and the hayricks, and the cattle-
byres, they'll flame bravely after this time of drought, and if the
wains are ashes, how will they draw in their harvest? Will you do it,
my man?"
"Surely. Have I not sworn?"
"Then away to the work, and afterwards--to-morrow or next day--come
back and make report. Just now I am much moved to solitary prayer, so
wait till you see me here alone upon my knees. Stay! Wrap yourself in
grave-clothes, for then if you are seen they will think you are a
ghost, such as they say haunt this place. Fear not, by then I will
have more work for you. Have you mastered it?"
He nodded his head. "All. All, especially your promise. Oh! I'll not
die now; I'll live to claim it."
"Good. There's on account," and again she kissed him. "Go."
He reeled in the intoxication of his joy; then said--
"One word; my head swims; I forgot. Sir Christopher is not dead, or
wasn't----"
"What do you mean?" she almost hissed at him. "In Christ's name be
quick; I hear voices without."
"They buried another man for Christopher. I scraped him up and saw.
Christopher was sent foreign, sore wounded, on the ship--pest! I have
forgotten its name--the same ship that took Jeffrey Stokes."
"Blessings on your head for that tidings," exclaimed Emlyn, in a
strange, low voice. "Away; they are coming to the door!"
The wooden figure creaked to and stared at her blandly, as it had
stared for generations. For a moment Emlyn stood still, her hand upon
her heart. Then she walked swiftly down the chapel, unlocked the door,
and in the porch, just entering it, met the Prioress Matilda, another
nun, and old Bridget, who was chattering.
"Oh! it is you, Mistress Stower," said Mother Matilda, with evident
relief. "Sister Bridget here swore that she heard a man talking in the
chapel when she came to shut the outer window at sunset."
"Did she?" answered Emlyn indifferently. "Then her luck's better than
my own, who long for the sound of a man's voice in this home of
babbling women. Nay, be not shocked, good Mother; I am no nun, and God
did not create the world all female, or we should none of us be here.
But, now you speak of it, I think there's something strange about that
chapel. It is a place where some might fear to be alone, for twice
when I knelt there at my prayers I have heard odd sounds, and once,
when there was no sun, a cold shadow fell upon me. Some ghost of the
dead, I suppose, of whom so many lie about. Well, ghosts I never
feared; and now I must away to fetch my lady's supper, for she eats in
her room to-night."
When she had gone the Prioress shook her head and remarked in her
gentle fashion--
"A strange woman and a rough, but, my sisters, we must not judge her
harshly, for she is of a different world to ours, and I fear has met
with sorrows there, such as we are protected from by our holy office."
"Yes," answered the sister, "but I think also that she has met with
the ghost that haunts the chapel, of which there are many records, and
that once I saw myself when I was a novice. The Prioress Matilda--I
mean the fourth of that name, she who was mixed up with Edward the
Lame, the monk, and died suddenly after the----"
"Peace, sister; let us have no scandal about that departed--woman, who
left the earth two hundred years ago. Also, if her unquiet spirit
still haunts the place, as many say, I know not why it should speak
with the voice of a man."
"Perhaps it was the monk Edward's voice that Bridget heard," replied
the sister, "for no doubt he still hangs about her skirts as he did in
life, if all tales are true. Well, Mistress Emlyn says that she does
not mind ghosts, and I can well believe it, for she is a witch's
daughter, and has a strange look in her eyes. Did you ever see such
bold eyes, Mother? However it may be, I hate ghosts, and rather would
I pass a month on bread and water than be alone in that chapel at or
after sundown. My back creeps to think of it, for they say that the
unhallowed babe walks too, and gibbers round the font seeking baptism
--ugh!" and she shuddered.
"Peace, sister, peace to your goblin talk," said Mother Matilda again.
"Let us think of holier things lest the foul fiend draw near to us."
That night, about one in the morning, the foul fiend drew very near to
Blossholme, and he came in the shape of fire. Suddenly the nuns were
aroused from their beds by the sound of bells tolling wildly. Running
to the window-places, they saw great sheets of flame leaping from the
Abbey roofs. They threw open the casements and stared out terrified.
Sister Bridget was sent even to wake the deaf gardener and his wife,
who lived in the gateway, and command them to go forth and learn what
passed, and the meaning of the shouts they heard, for they feared that
Blossholme was attacked by some army.
A long while went by, and Bridget returned with a confused tale,
which, as it had been gathered by an imbecile from a deaf gardener,
was not easy to understand. Meanwhile the shoutings went on and the
fire at the Abbey burnt ever more fiercely, so that the nuns thought
that their last hour had come, and knelt down to pray at the casement.
Just then Cicely and Emlyn appeared among them, and stared at the
great fire.
Suddenly Cicely turned round, and, fixing her large blue eyes on
Emlyn, said, in the hearing of them all--
"The Abbey burns. Why, Nurse, they told me that you said it would be
so, yonder amid the ashes of Cranwell Towers. Surely you are
foresighted."
"Fire calls for fire," answered Emlyn grimly, and the nuns around
looked at her with doubtful eyes.
It was a very fierce fire, which appeared to have begun in the
dormitories, whence, even at that distance, they saw half-clad monks
escaping through the windows, some by means of bed-coverings tied
together and some by jumping, notwithstanding the height. Presently
the roof of the building fell in, sending up showers of glowing
embers, which lit upon the thatch of the farm byres and sheds, and
upon the ricks built and building in the stackyard, so that all these
caught also, and before dawn were utterly consumed.
One by one the watchers in the Nunnery wearied of the lamentable
sight, and muttering prayers, departed terrified to their beds. But
Emlyn sat on at the open casement till the rim of the splendid
September sun showed above the hills. There she sat, her head resting
on her hand, her strong face set like that of a statue. Only her dark
eyes, in which the flames were reflected, seemed to smile hardly.
"Thomas is a great tool," she muttered to herself at length, "and the
first cut has bitten to the bone. Well, there shall be worse to come.
You will live to beg Emlyn's mercy yet, Clement Maldonado."
