Then Sir John’s rage flared up again like fire when fresh fuel is thrown on ashes.  He cursed Hugh and Grey Dick; he cursed his daughter; he even cursed Acour and asked for the second time how it came about that he who had brought all this trouble on him was given the evil name of traitor.

“I know not,” answered Sir Edmund fiercely, and laying his hand upon his sword, “but this I know, that you or any man will do well not to repeat it if you value life.”

“Do you threaten me?” asked Sir John.  “Because, if so, you will do well to begone out of this house of shame and woe lest you be borne out feet first.  Nay, nay, I forgot,” he added slowly, clasping his head in his hands, “you are my daughter’s affianced, are you not, and will give her high place and many famous titles, and her son shall be called Clavering, that the old name may not die but be great in England, in France, and in Italy.  You must bide to marry her, lest that cuckoo, Hugh de Cressi, that cuckoo with the sharp bill, should creep into my nest.  I’ll not be worsted by a stripling clad in merchant’s cloth who slew my only son.  Take not my words ill, noble Noyon, for I am overdone with grief for the past and fear for the future.  You must bide to marry her by fair means or by foul.  Draw her from the sanctuary and marry her whether she say you yea or nay.  You have my leave, noble Noyon,” and so speaking he swayed and fell prone upon the floor.

At first they thought that he was dead.  But the chaplain, Nicholas, who was a leech, bled him, and he came to himself again, although he still wandered in his talk and lay abed.

Then Acour and Nicholas took counsel together.

“What is to be done?” said Sir Edmund, “for I am on fire for this maid, and all her scorn and hate do but fan my flame.  Moreover, she is now very rich, for that old hot-head cannot live long.  His violent humours will kill him, and, as you know, Father, although I have great possessions, my costs are large and I have still greater debts.  Lastly, shall de Noyon and his knights be worsted by a wool-merchant’s younger son, a mere ’prentice lad, and his henchman, a common archer of the fens?  Show me how to get her, Nicholas, and I’ll make an abbot of you yet.  This sanctuary, now? will it hold?  If we stormed the place and took her, would the Holy Father give us absolution, do you think?”

“No, my lord,” answered the fox-faced Nicholas.  “The Church is great because the Church is one, and what the priest does the Pope upholds, especially when that priest is no mean man.  This holy monk, Sir Andrew Arnold, has reputation throughout Europe, and, though he seems so humble, because of his wisdom is in the counsel of many great men whose fathers or grandfathers were guided by him long ago.  Commit what crime you will, dip yourself to the lips in blood, and you may find forgiveness, but touch not an ancient and acknowledged sanctuary of the Church, since for this offence there will be none.”