H. Rider Haggard

The Lady of Blossholme

Warsaw 2018

Contents

Chapter 1. Sir John Foterell

Chapter 2. The Murder By The Mere

Chapter 3. A Wedding

Chapter 4. The Abbot’s Oath

Chapter 5. What Passed At Cranwell

Chapter 6. Emlyn’s Curse

Chapter 7. The Abbot’s Offer

Chapter 8. Emlyn Calls Her Man

Chapter 9. The Blossholme Witchings

Chapter 10. Mother Megges And The Ghost

Chapter 11. Doomed

Chapter 12. The Stake

Chapter 13. The Messenger

Chapter 14. Jacob And The Jewels

Chapter 15. The Devil At Court

Chapter 16. The Voice In The Forest

Chapter 17. Between Doom And Honour

Chapter 18. Out Of The Shadows

CHAPTER 1

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 The parish wells also, fitted with iron pumps that have superseded the old rollers and buckets, still serve the place with drinking-water as they have done since the days of the first Edward, and perhaps for centuries before.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 slope 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 coloured 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.

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